A window, looking out on a green meadow, a world knowing no artifice, a jewelled field of emerald hanging under a brilliant sapphire sky. A window leaking little strands and streams of color, flowing from the frame like flames down the wall, pooling on the floor, staining the gaps in between the ceramic tiles an iridescent blue-green.
Imagine a glass retort filled with hazy cyan, drawn from tailings from the growing, glowing stain wrapping its tendrils across the tiles. Imagine it sitting on a pristine laboratory bench - one of two dominating the room, centerpieces of science set in cement and stone. The white-tiled, sterile, antiseptic-smelling room is clearly a laboratory; that or some complex, arcane clinic, a room containing one lab bench would have to be some place of science - yet feel that flicker of uncertainty that nestles in the deep structures of the brain, and know, buried somewhere at the root of all perception, what the master of this laboratorical world knows: that such conceptions are misleading, products of connotations created artificially yet organically in an interfacing social construct created by the mind. So stretch yours a little, and let her in...
The Sociologist strode through the doors of the laboratory, down the aisle between the countertops of science; behind her the doorway fell apart and dissolved into the stuff of dreams - strange, papery dreams, the room following in her wake becoming drawn in lead, then crumpled - creases forming in the shape of reality before folding it all to a nothing that was less than vacuum and yet more, a space that could be and was not, not yet. The benches remained intact for a second’s delay, hovering in the bizarre potentiality as the laboratory cracked and shattered along non-Euclidean lines, before they, too vanished from existence with a hyperbolic pop. Her lab coat billowed behind her in a nonexistent wind, yet every strand of her prussian-blue hair treated the wind exactly as it was, and refused to billow no matter the incentive. Perhaps it had to do with the single lock of prehensile hair that gripped a pen and took copious notes on the clipboard in her right hand, defying the flimsy excuses for rules that science dared to deem necessary for operation.
It is said that science stands on a pyramid of purity, deriving the universe from mathematics downwards:
Physics dictates the presence of electrons and charges, begetting chemistry, the interactions between atoms and molecules;
Chemistry begets biology, the creation of complex organic systems from those molecules, patterns replicating and reproducing in a race for life’s survival;
Biology brings forth the mind, the most complex organic system ever created, feeding inputs into neural nets, unconsciously harvesting and analyzing the results, begetting psychology, the ultimate study of self-awareness;
And a hundred, a thousand, a million psychologies together, mobs flowing in a fluid dynamic - there, psychology spawns sociology, where the pyramid analogy crumbles and falls. For what pyramid has its apex buried in its own base?
The Sociologist knew this in a way that was both secondhand and like a backhand across the face; it came from something else, but it affected her nonetheless. She had had - once - now - forever - a duty, to learn and to understand the shifting mathematical sands of interacting psychologies, the wild strangelets of individuals in groups constructing odd and illogical fantasies. And yet they nonetheless followed a new logic, a different system of reason - she was the bastion, the studier of the constructs created by the minds of the multiverse, and what she knew became her - as the duty had become her too -
The final, free hand, gloved in leather, picked up the flask as the last of the room returned to void, and lifted it to a light on the border of existence. Hues from either side of cyan pitched endless combat under the pallidly brilliant glow, lit by the eldritch across the edge of the imagination, teal against celeste versus aquamarine and electric blue, turquoise and magic mint locked forever in battle. Eddies flailed in the streams as colors fought for dominance, flashes where combatant shades conflicted among themselves, sparkles where little criticalities unfurled the world within the glass.
“I said, one moment.”
Cyan-irised eyes, reflected in the retort, broke their owner’s gaze to meet those of an apparition hanging in the unblank void of what-ifs and mays and perhapses - though it was through clouds of coulds, by far the most populous members of the potential space, that the stranger pushed through. As it approached, it took on specifics, as if winding details from the unfocused haze about it: a rumpled tie, a worn business shirt over a prison uniform, smashed sunglasses - exuding an aura of strange, broken confidence, the sort exhibited by those who are positive that this time, this time, they’ve overreached their boundaries, yet they forge ahead because circumstances could hardly change, for better or for worse-
The Broadcaster looked haggard above all things, worn out and used. The neatness and mania that so often ruled his power, the duty to broadcast and communicate, upon suppression by a restrictively punitive environment, had turned into something...else. Something broken and dangerous.
“I’ve held for many moments in my life, Sociologist.”
There was a pause, punctuated only by a quiet, insidious glare. Broken with: “Aren’t you supposed to be incarcerated, Broadcaster?”
“Phone privilege...a necessity, a blessing, to say the least-”
“Not to us.”
The Broadcaster’s visage managed to force out a faux-shocked look. It resembled a breed of neurotic dog wearing a pair of shattered shades and an expression suggesting a loaf of bread. “Please, Soccy. Show some hospitality, at least.”
Another room formed angrily around them, wood-paneled walls violently bonding with broken, half-truncated screams of echoes of crashes, the sound dissipating as it struck the sea of uncertain future.
For a fraction of a shard of a splinter of a second, the Sociologist’s coat reflected bright, potential cosmos, starfields and galaxies, cesious streams of reality binding the world in light-
Then without ceremony, a wooden chair spun out of the air and hit the carpet with a hollow thud at the Broadcaster’s feet. In another blink, the fireplace built in one of the walls burst into flames, with just a touch of menace, then sat back and lit the sitting-room with a warm, suffusing light.
With care, the Sociologist placed the flask of color on the bar. “Your ‘battles’ are still going, Broadcaster. Little cataclysms of death and pain, of revelations and stories. Splendor and government and entertainment and mystery and war, the settings on which those you have recruited set their chosen to fight and destroy. They are still going, with or without you. Why, then, are you here?”
Gingerly, the man in the prison uniform picked up the chair, as if afraid it would bite - which it failed to do so, being for most intents and purposes an ordinary chair. He sat, and watched as his host stepped behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of some unknown vintage from a space in a direction that seemed to lead beyond perception. His nerves, shot, yet tried to recover their composure: “A very nice gedanken room you’ve made here-”
The bottle spun, flew, shattered on his face; red wine sprayed, as did red blood. “What. Do you want.”
Seething, he stood as he bled, trying valiantly to control his voice- “I want you to host one. A battle. There is...no need for hostilities!” -and failed, the last words coming out in a scream of a being jailed, trapped, desperate for a duty taken away, grasping at straws to vicariously live through any outlet that could be given-
Slowly, the lock of hair lowered the second bottle, and the Sociologist narrowed her eyes - considering the options, calculating outcomes, converting the situation to an analyzable system...and smiled, understanding the proposal.
“Yes! Yes! A social experiment - that’s why it must be you; do you see?!” The Broadcaster raised his hands in exultation, a genuine smile breaking out on his worn face-
She held up a pale hand. “But I could do this on my own. Why do I need you?”
The hand waved, dismissing the stricken, fallen Grandmaster. “Go home, Broadcocker. Go to Jail, do not pass Go, do not collect a salary...”
The carpet, walls, fireplace dropped away around them, and the haze of indefinite causality rose to claim them all, and with them they took the Broadcaster as he slumped, his whimpers fading to nothing. The audience was over... but the show was just begun-
The laboratory continued existing once again - though now it was a larger space, the benches pulled against walls a stadium apart, the leaky window a postage stamp under a ceiling gone into infinity. A book, untouched and new, appeared on a birchwood desk by the window, fibers woven from firmament at once real and not-yet-real - and in a trice, the scene completed itself, the world returning to consistency.
Blank pages, bound in leather, fluttered in the conditioned breeze playing across the birchwood desk, their off-white sheets rising and falling like the breath of some papery beast.
The Sociologist lifted the glass flask of shifting colors to her eyes once more, observing the warring hues in an ever-changing stalemate, in chaotic, uncontrolled, wild, violent, vivacious deadlock. The eyes in the reflection peered into the flashes of tint, tinge and saturation with a new light, the light of the real, casting shadows that played out deadly acts on the tiled floor, shades making shadows making battle. Her eyes held a new gleam, of experimentation’s genesis, the commencement of a new catacylsm-
And in the Sociologist’s slender hand, a fountain pen brought itself down to the first of a thousand pages, then without ceremony, without fanfare, inscribed:
Journal of Sociology
Imagine a coat, on the shaking shoulders of reason and science.
In your mind’s eye see it defying both, reaching across existence.
And it is stars...
Welcome, one and all, to the sixth battle in Season Intermission!
Journal is a Grand Battle, which means...well, a lot of things, really. But in essence, eight players each write a character, and collaborate to tell a story - a story...of those eight characters fighting to the death!
The battle consists of seven rounds - at the end of each round the writer deemed to have been the least competent during the round will be eliminated, and they’ll be given the task of killing their character in the story. This is known, in fancy battle lingo, as the “deathpost”.
As a direct result, Grand Battles are not about ‘fighting’, as it were! Sure, a character submitted could be a rugged military soldier muscular jock combatant by nature, but if they aren’t written well and just whack things all the time, they stand no chance against the pacifist weakling who has plenty of character development. Use your words as your weapons, not weapons as your words.
Rules, rules, rules, and a guideline
(Rules format may be slightly thieved from Sanzh, who slightly pilfered it from Ix)
The rules, on the whole, are pretty unwritten and can be easily picked up as you go along; there are, however, some particular points that are important:
Reserves - You’ve been there before (or will be): you’re vying madly to make a post, fingers a blur as you type, and then just as you hold your magnum opus aloft, you find that someone has posted before you, contradicting everything you’ve just written and rendering your entire post unusable. Of course, this shouldn’t happen (see ‘Staying In Contact’, below), but for situations where posts are still currently being written, we have the fabled ‘reserve post’. Simply place a post in the thread with ‘reserve’ or some variant, and you are sending a message to all your fellow writers: “Hey, I’m still writing a post. If you don’t mind, could you hold off on posting here until I’ve finished mine?” When fulfilling a reserve, post it in a separate post instead of editing the reserve post, to let people know that the reserve has been filled. What you do with the reserve post after that is completely up to you! Keep it, delete it, eat it, update it with sports statistics...actually, don’t update it with sports statistics. Horribly dull things, don’t want them intruding on the battle.
Reserves commonly last up to 24 hours, three days at the maximum - while generally they're respected by decorum, a two-week-old reserve is liable to get 'sniped' - posted over.
Unrelated: Those of you who know me know that I always try and make my reserves interesting. But that’s probably a stupid thing to do~
That is the link to #grandbattle, the chatroom for all things related to Grand Battles, including Journal. Bookmark that link and put it under the address bar of whatever browser you’re using. Click on it every day and sign onto IRC, or else not only will killing you be your punishment, I won’t even be the one to do it.
Dropping off the face of the earth is the worst possible crime you can commit to your fellow writers, especially if you leave no notice behind. Battles have been held up for months because people have disappeared without warning. Because battles are intrinsically a collaborative endeavor, any lack of effort on your end means that the other writers need to pick up the slack. That becomes twice as worse when no one can reach you and no one knows where you’ve gone, because then no one even knows if they should be bothering to cover for you while you’re gone. If you’re going to be busy for a few weeks, take a few seconds to tell us. It’ll cause a lot less trouble for all involved.
With that in mind, also consider what communication is for. #grandbattle is for discussing battle plans and story ideas with your partner writers, so that together you can make a more cohesive and enjoyable story. In essence, #grandbattleis the collaborative aspect of battling. At the same time, if plans are being made concerning your character that you don’t like or can’t work with, speak up! We need your input!
Guideline - I...uh...didn’t actually think of one :3
I wanna sign up! What do I doooo?
--Please Take One--
Instructions for use:
1. Fill out the necessary fields.
2. Post in this thread!
3. Send bribes~ Username: For those who can’t be bothered to look to the left! Also in case your profile needs to be posted by someone else because internets or whatnot! Name: Not to be confused with the Username field, this is the name of your character! SexGender: Male? Female? Null? Middlesex? Something else? Also include the pronoun you want used when referring to your character! Race: Aaaaaaaaaand Hodgson’s the winnnerrrrrrr! No, not that kind of race. This is what kind of being your character is, be it human, alien, robot, elf, genetic monstrosity, meme, priest, electrical appliance or virus! Color: Coupled with Race, the entire template takes on a new, sinisterly racist appearance...but no. This is the text color your character will use, for clarity’s sake. #555AAA is out of bounds! Description: A description of your character - both what they look like and what they are like, their thoughts and aspirations, their personalities and foibles - paint me a picture of what they’ll do when thrown into the battle to the death! Items/Abilities: Now we’ve covered what your character will do, now what can he/she/it/they do? Do they have telekinesis? Speak diamonds and roses? Leach vitamins? Remember that the best characters aren’t those with overpowered ridiculousness, but those who have interesting ways of using their abilities (or lack thereof)! Biography: Show us something of your character’s life before they were abducted into a battle and made to foyt! Who were they? How did they fit in (or not)? What was their place? Again, paint me a picture of your character and their life. Demonstrando Sample: This bit is completely optional! If you don’t feel like your profile really lived up to your writing ability, then feel free to demonstrate said ability by writing more things! This is really just an indicator of how good your writing is for me to see, especially if you’re new to battles.
Spoiler really long sections of the profile. If your profile, when posted, takes up the height of your screen, it needs spoilering. If it also takes up the width, it needs revision.
Don’t try and pander to me or any of my apparent tastes! Write what you want to write, or else you won’t enjoy it, and believe me it will show.
If you need help or advice, ask for it! Our crack team of experienced (and less experienced) battlers can generally be found at #grandbattle, as I’ve mentioned before! But ask politely. Some of us bite.
The soft deadline is ten days from now, Friday May 4th, across that extremely variable timezone sort of thing that happens which tends to stretch days over 36 hours. During that time you’ll have the opportunity to express interest (in the form of a traditional ‘reserve’ post) and profiles you’ve written. After that, there will be four more days, until Tuesday May 8th, where those who have expressed interest will have the opportunity to fulfil their reserves. No profiles will be considered after May 8th. Then, you can inflict tremendous psychological torture on me as I try to decide on an eight-player lineup!
Signups are CLOSED!
If you have any queries, questions or concerns, contact us at #grandbattle, the IRC for all things Grand Battle!
Seriously. That should be your first port of call.
Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.
Name: The 24-7 Gang: Bobby Banks, Robyn Banks, Robespierre Banks, Roberta Banks, Rupert Banks (No relation)
Gender: Male, Female, Male, Female, Male
Race: Human, the whole lot of them
Text Color: 009900, dollar-bill green
Description: The 24-7 Gang are a family of thrill-seeking gangsters who have dedicated their lives to robbing banks, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If this means hopping on a bankplane to another continent, and robbing it in the process, then so be it!
The Banks family wear their masks at all times, at least when they're on the job - rumor has it they wear them in private, too, but this rumor has no basis in reality.
Bobby is a somewhat bulky man in his late thirties wearing a purple ski mask. Most news stories on the gang identify him as the leader, but in all honesty, he's not very bright and is well aware of this. He does enjoy the publicity, though. He's very protective of his family, though you'd have a hard time getting him to admit this in public - or in private, for that matter.
Robyn is a slim woman, slightly older than Bobby, wearing a red mask. She's the true leader of the gang, and Bobby's wife; she admires him mostly because he's very good at doing what she says. She tends to constantly issue orders to the family even during downtime.
Robespierre is a thin, even scrawny, teenage boy in a light blue ski mask. He loves pulling pranks, and it doesn't matter to him whether he pulls them on bank security guards or on his own family.
Roberta, the youngest, is an eight-year old girl wearing a pink ski mask and a frilly pink dress instead of the black jackets and pants the rest of the family wear. She always talks in a very cutesy voice, and is usually holding a doll or stuffed animal of some kind; she's gathered a rather large collection, but every week or so she picks a different one as her "favorite" and will never be seen without it, until next week when she tosses it back with the others.
Rupert is the only member of the gang not to wear a mask; he wears formal attire and is a man in his fifties or sixties with grey hair and an immaculately-trimmed mustache. He is always polite and has a slight British accent - at least, when he's not posing as someone on a job. He is very loyal to the family, and acts as something of a butler to them, as well as a tutor to the children.
Weapons/Abilities: Each member of the gang has their own specialty.
The main advantages Bobby brings to the team are his imposing build, and his ability to yell in a loud and booming voice. He tends to act as the muscle and/or a distraction, depending on what the heist calls for.
Robyn specializes in planning out the gang's heists, and she's an excellent shot with a gun. In addition, she's an expert at breaking into and hotwiring vehicles whenever the current one gets too hot to handle; past thefts include motorcycles, armored trucks, police cars, tanks, ocean liners, and a space shuttle that one time.
Robespierre's light build makes him good at sneaking around unnoticed, and he has a grappling hook, infrared goggles, and a harness to help him make use of this to get into hard-to-access areas unseen. In addition, he's the family pickpocket, and usually the one called on when they need to get a keycard or somebody's ID in a hurry. He also loves pulling pranks, as mentioned before, and can never resist pulling at least one trick while he's on a stealth mission. He has a few props for this purpose, such as sneezing powder and whoopee cushions, but he's also not afraid to improvise.
Roberta is the family's tech expert, and also has a knack for picking locks. She's remarkably adept at hacking, although she tends to give her stuffed-animal-of-the-week credit for that.
Finally, Rupert is a master of disguise, which may explain his willingness to go without a mask the rest of the time - it's not as if it would help security to recognize him. He's also something of a jack-of-all-trades, having previously shown an affinity for such diverse tasks as demolitions, safecracking, martial arts, cooking, laundry, vehicle repair, software engineering, and skydiving.
In addition, at the time of abduction, the family had stolen an armored van and loaded their most valuable belongings into it, among them changes of clothes, various gear for heists (including weapons), Roberta's doll and stuffed animal collection, and Robespierre's props.
Biography: (spoiled for length)
Bobby Banks was a two-bit hood with dreams of big things. He had robbed convenience stores since he was fifteen and had finally figured out how to pick the lock on his dad's gun room. But on his twenty-first birthday, he suddenly realized that he could do more with his life. That was when he decided to move on to bigger and better things.
He robbed his first liquor store that evening.
It was a bit disorienting at first, but once he figured out how to hold the six-pack and the gun at the same time, it went a lot better. At least, it did until she came in.
Robyn was twenty-three, and she'd figured out how to pick the lock on her mother's shed at fourteen. She took one look at the amateur who was clearly working on his first hold-up and sighed.
Usually, when she came across losers like this who happened to beat her to the job, she just shot them and then turned her gun on the clerk; it was good for intimidation. But this time, when she saw Bobby and how eager he seemed despite his incompetence, she felt something else.
"You heard my partner," she growled, pointing her gun at the clerk. "Put the money in a bag and toss it to him."
The clerk nodded warily, and emptied the cash register into a paper sack. Bobby took it, unsure of what exactly was going on.
"Good work, kid," Robyn said. "Now bring it out to the car, we don't have all day."
Bobby obeyed, wondering what the hell had just happened. They stepped out into the parking lot, and Robyn led him over to a pickup truck, keeping her gun trained on him all the while in case he tried to bolt before handing over the cash.
"This one looks good," she said. "You know how to hotwire, kiddo?"
Bobby shook his head.
"No? Well, lucky you. I'm gonna give you a quick lesson, at no extra charge."
A half-hour later, they were driving down the highway, masks off and exchanging their life stories. They soon found that each of them had something that the other was looking for; Robyn realized that Bobby had the makings a good minion, and pretty good-looking compared to the losers she'd been dating up to now. Bobby, for his part, realized that Robyn could provide him with valuable experience and was a total freakin' babe.
Three months later, Bobby took Robyn to a place that was very close to his heart: the first convenience store he'd ever robbed. After they gave the elderly clerk a heart attack and cracked open the safe, they headed to the slush machine for a drink and then headed back outside.
"Pretty nice place, Bobby," Robyn said. "I can see why you started here. It's a lot better than the first dump I held up."
Bobby nervously sucked on his slush for a few minutes, saying nothing. Then, he finally spoke up.
"Robyn," he said, "we've been goin' around for three months now, and I was thinkin'... I was thinkin' I like you a lot, and, uh..." He paused, and held up the ring he had grabbed off the clerk's finger.
"Will you marry me, Robyn?"
She glared at him.
He looked down, sadly.
"Don't you know anything, Bobby?" Robyn shouted. "That's a wedding ring, not an engagement ring! If you're gonna do this, you better do it right! Now come on, we got a jewelry store to hit."
Bobby looked up, and stared at her for about five minutes while his brain tried to process what she was saying. When his neurons finally figured it out, he smiled.
"But Robyn," he said. "We never robbed a jewelry store before!"
"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything," she snarled. "Now let's go!"
They headed over to a station wagon. Robyn was about to break in, but Bobby tapped her on the shoulder.
"Allow me," he said with a smile, ready to show her what he'd learned.
Five seconds later, the car alarm went off, alerting a police officer nearby, and in ten minutes they were handcuffed together. Twenty minutes after that, Robyn was driving a stolen police car to the jewelry store.
The jeweler looked at the young couple in masks handcuffed together and raised an eyebrow.
"Sir and madam," he said, "were I a less observant man, I would believe based on your attire that you had come here to threaten me and purloin some of my merchandise. However, the fact that you appear to have left your firearms in the police cruiser which you arrived in suggests otherwise. Would you care to clarify this matter?"
Bobby stared at Robyn.
"Uh... What'd he say?"
"He said you forgot the guns, you idiot!"
"Oh. Wait, I thought you were bringin' the guns!"
The jeweler sighed.
"Is this your first robbery, sir and madam?" he asked.
"Uh, no - ow!" Bobby said, as Robyn elbowed him in the gut.
"Shut up, idiot! This guy could testify against us later!"
"I assure you, madam, I had no such intention. In fact, as it happens, your arrival is most fortuitous for me. You see, the owner of this establishment has a rather generous insurance policy on the items in this store. And if some of these items were to be stolen, well, the insurance company would have to pay for their equivalent value."
"So what?" Bobby asked.
"It's interesting, but the owner of this establishment is highly reclusive. Why, I'm the only person to have any contact with him in the last ten years. To anyone else, it might seem as if he'd simply vanished ten years ago."
Bobby simply stared at the jeweler, but Robyn seemed to understand.
"Got it. So how many bags are the thieves going to get away with?"
"I was thinking seventeen." The jeweler handed her a small pistol. "Granted, it's an awful lot for two of you to carry in your condition, but surely your hostage can help out. What a shame no one will ever hear from him again, yes? Oh, and be sure to hit the security cameras on the way out. I'll point them out to you."
"Hang on a second!" Bobby shouted. "I don't know what's goin' on here, but I came to get my girl an engagement ring!"
"Oh! An excellent idea, sir." The jeweler reached under the counter and picked one up. "Here we are, the finest cubic zirconium ring I've ever crafted."
"Cubic what?" Bobby asked.
"He means it's a fake," Robyn replied. Then she glared at the jeweler. "Hang on a second! A fake? What are you tryin' to pull here, mister?"
"Madam, please," the jeweler replied. "Do you realize how corrupt the diamond trade is? I have my standards, you know."
Robyn sighed. "Well, it's a nice ring, I guess. Okay, Bobby, try that again."
"Right, right!" he said, taking the ring and handing it to Robyn. "Robyn, will you marry me?"
"Don't use my name in front of a witness, you moron!" she yelled back. "And yes, I will. Now let's get goin'."
"Oh, don't worry about me revealing anything," the jeweller said, packing several rings, bracelets, and necklaces into bags. "Once I set up my next identity, I'll hardly be in a position to accuse two people I don't know of robbing a jewelry store that I've never been to."
"You do this a lot?" Robyn asked.
"It's something of a hobby. Although, perhaps in my next one, I'll finally be able to retire. I've even been thinking of going back to my birth name, just for amusement."
"What's that?" Bobby asked.
"Rupert Banks," the jeweler replied. "Seventeen bags. Six for the gentlemen, seven for the lady, four for me. Let's go, shall we?"
"Yeah, fine," Robyn said. "I hope you like weddings, by the way. I don't believe in long engagements, so we're gettin' hitched next stop."
"Oh, marvelous!" Rupert replied. "Perhaps the Reverend Charles Finne can perform the ceremony. I've always wanted to bring him back, just for a night or two."
The next day, the newlyweds were sitting in a 24-hour diner, reading the headlines.
"First Church of Mammon National Bank Robbed, Thieves Wed," Robyn said, smiling at her new husband. "We made the headlines, honey!"
Bobby smiled back.
"Best heist of my life, Robyn."
"It was rather exhilarating," Rupert said, emerging from the kitchen with a stack of pancakes, which he deposited on the table. "I must say, I'm envious of your lifestyle! I almost wish this was how I'd spent my own youth. Or Franklin Evansburg's youth, as the case may be."
For perhaps the first time in his life, Bobby looked thoughtful.
"Hey, Robyn," he said. "Think we can have this guy stick around? He was pretty useful in that heist, and he makes some damn good pancakes."
"I would not be averse to such an arrangement, sir," Rupert replied. "And naturally, I would respect your privacy."
"Hell, why not," she said. "Just one thing, though."
"And what would that be, madam?"
"If it's just me and Bobby, that's one thing. But once we bring in a third guy, well, we're a gang. And that means we need a name."
Bobby chewed on his pancakes thoughtfully, and then got up.
"A gang name, huh."
He looked out of the window at the diner's sign. It read "OPEN 24-7".
"Twenty-four seven," he muttered.
"What's that, Bobby?"
"How about the 24-7 Gang?" he asked. "I kinda like the sound of that."
"Bobby, are you nuts?" Robyn screamed at him. "It sounds like we're a gang that's always stealin' stuff, every hour of the day, every day of the week!"
"I must say, that is a rather intriguing concept."
"What? You seriously thinkin' of doing that?"
"Well, madam, now that you've raised the idea, I am considering how it might actually be done. It would certainly be an audacious effort. If you'll give me an hour or so, I can draft a plan of action."
"All right, do whatever you want."
Fifteen years later, the 24-7 gang had expanded by two. Robespierre Banks was Bobby and Robyn's first son, conceived on their wedding night - the name had been a suggestion by Rupert. Their eight-year old daughter, Roberta, had been named by Robyn, on the basis that Bobby had named the gang and Rupert had named their first kid. They were now the most notorious bank robbers on the planet. Despite the best efforts of law enforcement, their 24-7 crime spree continued unabated.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by Drakenforge. Username: Drakenforge Name: Echo Gender: Male Race: Post-Apocalyptic Cyborg Post Colour:#660000
Description: Codename: Echo is a project decades in the making. Having been raised to become a processor rather than a human, his intelligence and cognitive ability far surpass anything humanity has managed to achieve through evolution or study. His body was steadily replaced with technology as quickly as it could be manufactured in a post apocalyptic world. The only organic thing remaining is his brain. He stands sightly taller than an average human. Personality wise, Echo mourns the loss of his brethren and has an almost primal urge to outdo his predecessor. His one true goal was always to destroy the dragon race, but a burning urge inside of him drove him to fight not for survival, but for pride.
He has a peculiar interest in technology, as any secret or unknown machines could be used to progress humanity in his world in the ways they have been held back. When it comes to humans, Echo views them as his moral superiors being a creature more machine than mammal, not to mention his time as a living weapon rather than a person. He also has a helmet made out of a small dragon child's skull, used as psychological warfare to gain an edge on dragons he recently left without children. In battle, he used even the dirtiest of tactics if he believed it would give him the upper hand, having long ago abandoned his human morals. Out of the eye sockets in the skull stand two antennae, comically similar to straight bunny ears. They function as a kind of sonar that works for large living creatures, alerting Echo to the presence of any animal larger than a lamb.
Abilities/Equipment: Echo was at one time the single most advanced piece of machinery on his planet. Ever since the rule of dragons fell and the need for his highly advanced body diminished he has had some small selections of parts removed, as the mechanical components were deemed needed elsewhere. Where some hardened synthetic flesh should be is instead dragon hide, procured illegally after several battles worth of remains. The same can be said of his armour, now at least half of it is bone and scales from dragons since most of it is harder than the steel he used before.
His choice of weapon is as unique as his dress sense. A massive folding Lance Cannon that usually resides on his back. The ammo type was specially designed to have a two stage impact since the dragons had not only intensely dense scales and flesh, but a biological energy shield that could withstand even the intense heat from a nuclear strike if they cocooned themselves. The ammo manages to bypass this at the cost of a large portion of the force, but it is just enough to wound them.
The gun barrel is mounted above a large bayonet. It has a special alternate attack that allows it to fire an intensely hot explosion after charging for several seconds, which mimics the flame breath of a dragon. The force of the attack is strong enough to knock him back even after he plants his feet in the ground, and can penetrate just about any kind of armour. It leaves the gun massively overheated however and puts quite a lot of strain on the well being of both the gun and himself.
Bio: weird rule Agen but I'll comply. Spoilered. (Necessary character building information present though)
Echo was not the first of his kind. Humanity's first saviour since biblical times was his predecessor and father. Having been selected from many potential candidates for his potential, he was the first to undergo becoming a cyborg. The lead scientist was a revolutionary with implants and prosthetics. They knew that their first candidate, The Prototype, was imperfect having been chosen so late, so they left enough DNA to create clones should the need arise along with a successor. After becoming cybernetic the warrior was given several black ops missions to obtain information and organs from dragons. They were vital in building new technology to fight them. However, soon the widespread destruction humanity was being forced to endure became too much and the project had to be rerouted. The predecessor was forced to locate and eliminate both the alpha male and matriarch dragons after learning that their deaths would had irreversibly devastating effects on their race as a whole.
And so, on a suicide mission Echo's father eliminated the strongest foes humanity would ever face. Echo knows that many lives were lost so that he could become competent at defending his people, which sculpted him into a fiercely dedicated killing machine. His personality was never given time to develop, he barely ever even got to use his organic body before being turned into a cyborg. He, along with several dozen clones, were put through inhuman trials in order to become fit for battle. As he developed along with his squad, he became uncomfortable with the lack of individuality the clones were allowed. His entire squad were known as Echo-1 and so on, including himself.. He began to befriend each member of his squad, treating them differently in order to bend their similarities and even going so far as to give each one a unique nickname. In return, he earned their loyalty. In return for giving them names he eventually earned his own. They abandoned their number ranked names in order for Echo to only apply to him, eventually adopting it as his rightful namesake
Over the years in battle Echo lost many of his brethren, too many to suicide missions and final stands to ensure his own survival. But no matter how angry Echo would get his squad mates would still comply with their orders. They thought of themselves only as clones, unfit to fight for their own survival. This had a large impact on his psychological background and the need to prove himself. He knew he was nothing more than a second attempt at perfection and that his father was the true icon he was overshadowed by. He was counting the dragons he killed and comparing them to how powerful the lead two killed by his father, never content with the current number.
All of humanity knew of his father's sacrifice, but barely even knew of his squad's. After the last clone had died, and his status changed to Final Echo, he was deemed expendable. The rate of finding dragons had decreased to the point that the military figured they could handle the rest of the extermination without him. His missions became more desperate and suicidal at an alarming rate, yet he constantly refused to die. He always found some hasty plan or reckless move to grip to, usually leaving him so broken that he wasn't able to return for days at a time. But still he continued to obey orders, knowing that he had no alternative.
Humanity would never accept him, covered in robotic and false parts and never knowing the warmth of another's company, he was forced to live on the battlefield. He had lost respect for his own kind, knowing that they were making the sacrifices of others benefit those they deemed more important. They started removing parts from his body so that they could be reverse engineered to further research in other areas of science, ones more beneficial to society. He, along with the still lead scientist, managed to make due with using dragons as a material source, though Echo was steadily losing faith. The final straw was that when he petitioned to have his squad's remains kept at a remembrance site denied for the reason that their bodies would be de-constructed for the sake of research. He rejected their orders and personally hijacked their remains before becoming an outcast. Lost in the desert, he build a memorial from the remains of a dragon nest he destroyed years ago.
In their bones he carved their names, eternally marking each of their sacrifices that would be ignored by those that were alive because of them. It was then that Echo stumbled across a large cave filled with dragon eggs, so many that should they hatch would be enough to overthrow humanity once more.
As he drew his weapon, the first egg began to hatch. But even with his inhuman speed and reflexes Echo was not able to pull the trigger before being torn from his world, dooming his race should he never return.
Description: Assembling a wardrobe is one of the most underappreciated talents of a politician, especially a politician burdened with good taste. After years of hurriedly changing out of a ball gown and into full military regalia in the back of the limo from Tiaran into Jetpaxia, Patricia decided that for her sanity’s sake she was going to have to break some new ground here, fashion-wise. She’s currently wearing a tasteful lowest-common-denominator ensemble consisting of a camouflage evening gown bedecked with medals and diamonds, combat boots, stockings, a backpack, silk gloves, elbow pads, and a combination tiara/headset with the mic hanging within licking distance of her lower-left bicuspids. It’s a good look, you know, for affairs of state.
Physically, you pretty much know the drill: Patricia is an attractive, curvy-within-reason young lady of twenty-four years. She could pass either for a typical Tiaran (or a typical Tiaran’s unattainable ideal of a typical Tiaran) or a typical Jetpaxian’s unattainable etc. etc. When in Jetpaxia, she tends to play up the blue tint in her otherwise black hair, which is currently tied up in a bun but has been known to hang down as low as her bellybutton at parties. Her face alternates between pouting, scowling and other expressions of stress and is likely to age poorly over the next twenty years, if not surgically assisted.
If asked about her personality, Patricia will deny that she has one. A politician to the bone, she thinks, feels and behaves in whatever manner she finds most beneficial and convenient. That’s another lie, of course, but one of which she has at least convinced herself. Truthfully truthfully, Patricia’s innermost desire is the desire for whatever the hell she wants, now. This desire blossomed during a rich and spoiled childhood and transmuted into a single-minded drive for success when responsibility was thrust upon her too soon in her life. Nothing about this is at all healthy, and there’s always a risk that the dam of all-encompassing hatred in her heart will burst forth to catastrophic effects under conditions of extreme stress. Luckily for the world, as of the moment before her abduction, Patricia believed most of the conditions of extreme stress in her life to be behind her.
In her youth, Patricia’s parents nursed her inborn talent with both machines and animals, but she got taken away from all that in order to better serve the world. Now, her weapons are people.. Patricia’s status and credentials are pseudosociologically enhanced to function virtually everywhere, so that she is consistently recognized as an upper-level bureaucrat. This doesn’t mean that everyone is compelled to obey her—on the contrary, they’re as likely to develop an instinctive need to rebel against her—but the usual boring submissive masses will treat her with the respect due her ill-defined office. She supplements this advantage with her own, more run-of-the-mill talents, having learned or been trained to function in the gymnasium, the podium, the bedroom, the courthouse, and the kitchen, if not in the garage, the wilderness, or the streets. However, being really good at your job is worth nothing without the proper tools, which is what the backpack is for. The contents of Patricia’s backpack include:
-One legal pad for writing up various writs, warrants, I.O.Us, contracts, memos, diplomas, and drafts thereof;
-One very classy pen, for use in writing on the above;
-One desktop nameplate;
-One wall-mounted nameplate;
-An inconstantly large amount of denomination-changing currency;
-Two self-inking stamps, one with the word “approved” and one with the word “denied” on it;
-One collapsible soapbox;
-Assorted posters and bumper stickers in support of variable causes;
-One personal planner, full of handwritten addresses, appointments and alibis;
-Makeup, deodorant, and emergency toiletries;
-An assortment of press passes, nametags and other transferable symbols of authority;
-A palm pilot that functions as a tape recorder, a fairly accurate lie detector, a live feed of polls and approval ratings, and a window into alternate timelines, with a battery life of about one week of frequent use.
It can be assumed that all of these things have strange, pseudosociological abilities to manipulate and influence people.
Patricia was born in a P.O.W. camp, the illegitimate child of renowned Tiaran vegetarian soldier-chef Fredward Pastrykisses and crack Jetpaxian dino-roboticist Jessie Bearonrollerblades. After a peace settlement was reached and the first steps were taken towards uniting the two nations, allowing her parents to continue their relationship in the open, the romance and circumstances of Patricia’s birth made her something of an emblem of peace and a minor celebrity. The Pastrykisses-Bearonrollerblades family became quite wealthy, but the pressures of fame drove Fredward and Jessie apart, with each returning to their own home. The question of what to do with Patricia became rather heated, and several months of poor game theory later they came to the agreement that neither of them could have her and she should be sent to a boarding school on the border. This was about three weeks after her eleventh birthday. She saw her parents but little for the rest of her life.
Patricia excelled in all her classes and made a number of friends, mostly out of spite, and had what might be considered a healthy adolescence to somebody who wasn’t observing too closely. At the age of sixteen, the threat of a second war drove pacifist factions to train and recruit a new generation of diplomats, and Patricia was an obvious choice for a number of reasons. She accepted the new program’s offer, as it seemed like the thing to do at the time, and spent the next two years intensively training to be the most effective politician living in either country. And as the first war panic settled down before her graduation, Patricia was able to use these talents to accumulate power and wealth beyond anything her parents had accomplished, presuming that the time when she would have to save the world would never arrive.
That moment didn’t arrive until after she had turned twenty-one and become the first citizen ever to achieve the titles of both Princess and Commander. A personal vendetta between the Princess-in-Chief of Tiaran and the Triple-Admiral of Jetpaxia forced the militaries of both nations into a dangerous campaign of brinksmanship. A second war seemed inevitable until Patricia organized a sitdown, following which both the Princess-in-Chief and the Triple-Admiral announced their resignations and stepped off the face of the Earth, never to be seen again. The public, relieved at the prospect of peace, never really called for a full investigation, and Patricia, rather than use the event as a campaign platform, allowed it to fade into memory. The subsequent epidemic of mysterious disappearances among the politically inconvenient went completely unpublicized.
Joined: Aug 2011
Location: west coast represent
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh. Username: Sanzh Name: Elise Pestarztyn Sex: Female Race: Human Color:#4B644B
Biography: Elise Pestarztyn was born in a time of change.
The City-State of Crossroads was booming with the twin wealths of magical ability and industry that powered new heights of technological achievement. New inventions that synthesized these two disparate approaches became commonplace-- alchemical dynamos, magical constructs operating automated factories, and elementals powering new vehicles were all inventions that wormed their way into the city-state. The city had grown immensely, with the powerful allure of the hint of extraordinary opportunity drawing countless immigrants. Elise's parents were among those immigrants, and managed to find a niche amongst the turbulent growth before settling down to raise a family. In spite of the poverty, crime, and corruption that came with such growth and rapid changes in fortune, they managed to provide Elise with some measure of stability in the ever-shifting city, settling her into one of the many crowded middle-class districts.
As Elise grew older, she found herself intrigued by the magic surrounding her-- she saw it less as an inexplicable convenience as many did and wished to know more about how to master it. Unfortunately, her education soon proved to her that she was incompetent in the traditional thaumaturgical fields, nearly prompting her to give up her pursuit all-together. It wasn't until she studied alchemy that she found a viable avenue to learn magic through-- unlike the long-established areas of magical theory, alchemy utilized a combination of magical potential and assorted reagents to produce its effects, and Elise quickly found herself progressing in her studies. Her learning eventually led to her taking up a medical career, and she eventually became a chirurgeon-- both a doctor and an alchemist. She soon after took to operating an independent clinic in a lower-class district.
It was here that her troubles began.
As much as its practitioners liked to claim their work was wholly safe, magic is a fickle entity-- and with the possibility of immense fortunes for discovering new applications, many were willing to turn a blind eye to proper safety in the pursuit of profit. Some of these ventures were successful, and often enough the accidents could be swept under the carpet and hidden. A few erupted as scandals-- an alchemical engine that overworked itself and catastrophically exploded, magical preservatives that inadvertently spoiled foodstuffs, and other such incidents-- but one in particular proved to be disastrous. Originating in the laboratory of some anonymous thaumaturge, a plague began to sweep the city-- first killing its infected, then bringing them back as undead creatures.
Poorer districts found themselves now host to teeming hordes of the dead, while wealthier locales quarantined themselves, sequestering their occupants from the disease. Elise found her clinic overburdened by the sick, desperate for some sort of cure. Refusing to give up, she maintained her office, healing whatever she could. She soon found herself being required to work out of her clinic, as she wandered the chaotic, half-destroyed city to dispense whatever medical assistance she could. Soon after that, she was drawn into missions of retribution-- hunting the undead alongside ragtag militias to try and stem the tide of affliction. Amid abandoned alchemical laboratories, Elise scavenged and scoured, trying to learn how to combat the disease with the knowledge she specialized in.
It was during one of these missions that she herself became infected. While fortunate enough to know how to delay the disease, she had no permanent cure. Her exploration became more desperate, her experiments more frenetic. After months of desperately searching for a remedy to her disease, she was abducted and disappeared from Crossroads.
Description: Elise Pestarztyn appears to be a woman of average height and thin build, with short tufts of neglected hair pulled back to avoid interfering with her day-to-day work. However, given the nature of her work, her physique and physical appearance tend to not be the most evident. Her face is obscured by the mask she wears-- a bleached-white, beaked visage that only leaves her eyes visible beneath a pair of glass goggles. The mask itself functions similarly to a makeshift respirator, with an assortment of pungent herbs and alchemical apparatuses acting to filter air.
The rest of her body is left similarly unexposed, as she has covered herself in numerous pieces of leather armor. This ensemble ranges from a coif to cover what is left of her head, to a waxed, protective overcoat, to gloves and boots. Similarly to her mask, her coat is impregnated with various protective reagents. In addition to her haphazard protective gear, she wears a hooded canvas cloak. Survival gear, weaponry, and alchemical components are stuffed in the backpack she brings with her. Contained within the folds of her overcoat are journals detailing some of her observations, as well as recipes for various draughts and elixirs.
Elise herself is somewhat reckless and stubborn, existing on something of a one-track mind at times. While someone of her profession is meant to remain dispassionate and logical, she is increasingly emotional and desperate; she has found her sense of self-preservation to be something discarded more often than not. In spite of the grim work she has undertaken, however, she attempts to at least maintain some degree of hopefulness about her-- even though she increasingly believes such hope to be folly, she sees no other avenue for her single-minded drive and has forced herself to believe that her current efforts are not being undertaken in vain. Despite being antithetical to her demeanor and experience, there is some optimism underneath the callous, desperate exterior she presents.
Items/Abilities: As part of her time hunting the undead, Elise has picked up skill in a variety of weapons, as well as an aptitude in surviving in her forlorn situation-- she has learnt how to scavenge abandoned buildings, navigate sewers, and so on. While she has utilized a variety of weapons, her preference is for the crossbow, and she tends to carry one on her person when exploring. However, her experience in this set of skills is not her main focus.
Elise is a practitioner of the school of magical thought known as alchemy. Rather than casting a spell as other magic-users might, Elise instead utilizes a variety of reagents to capture and bottle her magical potential and produce extraordinary effects in the form of a variety of liquids and extracts. While many alchemists produce virulent toxins, powerful explosives, and dangerous mutagens, this is not the case for Elise. She has devoted herself to using her alchemical prowess to heal, combining knowledge of anatomy with her magic to aid others. Although she has a cursory knowledge of deadlier extracts and potions, her expertise is in producing restoratives, anesthetics, and healing infusions.
Her other ability, if it can be called that, is the necromantic infection she suffers from. Her affliction has gradually whittled away her strength and wasted her form, and will eventually kill her and bring her back as an undead monstrosity. While she is fortunate enough to have produced an elixir capable of maintaining her strength and keeping the disease stabilized, she is living on borrowed time-- her studies and exploration have had yet to yield a permanent cure, and with each passing day the restorative she has relied on grows less potent.
Username: ThunderJolt Character name: Axys Gender: Male Race: Humanoid monkey lion thing? (true race unknown) Color:This darkish green here (#336600)
Description: Stands upright on both feet like a human for the most part, but has more of an appearance like a cross between a monkey and a lion somewhat. Goldish-brown hair (fur?) covers most of his body, except for his face. The hair (fur?) on his head spikes straight up and his ears are spiked/pointed back. Has reddish eyes. Rather than arms, he has blades in place of them, which extend from the elbow down (so he has no hands on these blade arms). Instead, he has a single hand on the end of his tail, which he uses to climb (since having blades as arms makes that kind of difficult). He can use his feet to grab/climb things too, but the tail-hand makes things like that much easier. His outfit is more of a one piece sort of thing (like a jumpsuit I guess?). It's dark blue and extends to just above his knees, with the sleeves ending just below his shoulders.
Personality: Has a dark personality, enjoys fighting and killing. Loves to mess with people and play mind tricks with them. Speaks with a sort of growl to his voice. Won't back down easily in a fight. Hates scientists with a passion (I'm guessing he will probably really hate the Sociologist lol)
Abilities: Highly skilled with the blade arms. Incredibly fast and agile. Has the ability to create multiple illusion copies of himself in order to confuse opponents. Can also create a (real) clone copy of himself where his energy is split evenly between the two (he can do it a third time to produce a third copy but rarely bothers to do so). He feeds off of "negative energy" which is absorbed through the tail-hand, which needs direct contact with someone in order to absorb anything. Under normal circumstances the energy will be absorbed at a slow rate, however it is easier to absorb the energy if someone is experiencing a negative emotion (ie. sadness, anger, fear etc). Positive emotions will slow down the process but don't stop it completely. Certain attacks that involve the use of negative energy can also be absorbed by the tail-hand.
Bio: Axys wasn't always this way. Far from it, in fact. He used to live happily on his true home planet, which was lush and green and full of forests and such, memories of which have nearly completely faded from his mind now. One day, for unknown reasons, he was found unconscious in a crater at the scene of a crash site on a completely different planet. He was immediately taken to research lab to be studied. The scientists, researchers and various lab personnel raved about this creature they found and marveled over the blade arms, which they discovered to be naturally connected to his body. When he woke up, he found himself locked up in a holding cell of some sort, and had no memory of how he got here. This was such a bizarre creature the researchers had come across, and they strived to learn more. They ran multiple tests and put him through training exercises of sorts, sometimes not even waiting for him to rest in between and pushing him past his limits and becoming very disappointed when he collapsed from fatigue. They treated him poorly, barely gave him enough food. He wasn't even allowed to go outside for some fresh air. Soon he started to gain some of his memory back, but by this point it was too late. The way he was treated grew worse with insults and beatings thrown in with all the other mistreatment. He was so sad and scared. His mind shattered. He grew angrier and angrier until finally he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted out. And so he broke out of the cell and killed the researchers. After finally escaping the lab, he fled into the woods. His mind never recovered after that. He stole supplies from nearby cities, killing when he had to, or sometimes just because he could. He hated everyone, and trusted no one.
Guess I'll include a little writing sample here too:
Axys felt terrible. Terrible and confused and scared. He hated being here. This cell. He hated that too. It was lonely and small, and it was starting to feel like it was shrinking, like it was wrapping its greedy claws around his neck and leaving him gasping for air. He backed into the corner as a figure outside the energy shield door yelled at him. He feared whoever it was outside the door was going to come in and nearly beat him to death - again. He hated the person outside the door too. He also hated the door.
How long had it been since he had eaten? Hours? Days? Why were they doing this to him? It wasn't right... What if food didn't come again? All this for research... For those stupid researchers. For those monsters. Those selfish monsters, who cared for nothing more than their precious research. How long had he been here? All these tests... He was tired. Why would they beat him up and starve him... Everyday was just a nightmare. He wanted to go home... But he couldn't remember where that was... Oh no... one of them was punching in the code to open the door. No, not again! He didn't want to go with them. No, no more!
Why couldn't they all just go away and leave him alone? He hated them. All of them. Why couldn't they just go away?!
All of those emotions came together at once, along with all the thoughts and memories of everything that had happened to him in this lab, collided with each other all at once in his mind and exploded. He couldn't take it, he just couldn't take it anymore! No!
Rage stirred within him. He hated these bastards, and wouldn't take this anymore. Rage went from a small fire to a towering inferno - an inferno that consumed him. He was infuriated.
No, no... enough i-is enough...
The unlucky bastard finished punching the code and the door opened. Some scientist with a gray suit and a mask, sort of like a welding mask on his head. Right before he could put the restraints on him, Axys lunged toward him and knocked him into the wall. The security agents outside the cell scrambled for the controls to shut the door. But it was too late. The black outfitted security guard fell to the ground, a huge red gash spanning from his shoulder to his torso. Axys just stared at what he had just done...
W-what? What did I...
What he realized was that doing this had felt good. A dark look came over his face. Finally, these monstrous overlords would get what they deserved.
Another security guard was yelling at him to stay still or he would be forced to fire. Insignificant words that wouldn't save him. He pulled out an advanced looking weapon and aimed it at Axys, charging and ready to fire. A thin blue laser blew a tiny hole in the ground where Axys had been standing just a second earlier. Axys bounded off the wall, and faster than the guard could even realize he had jumped, the blade came down. Blood splattered across the wall.
He ran down the corridor and headed for a set of double doors. With a single, swift kick, the doors were forced from their hinges and hit the wall with a crash. The scientists in the hall stopped in their tracks and looked at what was happening. Axys bounced through the doorless entrance and another monster was struck down. Some of the others gasped, a few others screamed, one yanked a phone set off the wall and called security. Another fell to the quick blades, and another. One of them rushed off to get a set of restraints. Some of them pulled out guns that fired stun beams and attempted to bring him into paralysis to stop the murder quest. They were too slow.
Not all of the scientists here were humans, some were alien species as well. Axys went after a tall scientist who had blue skin and seven fingers. He took him down easily after cutting off his arm and stabbing him through the chest. Lime green blood rained down from the humanoid researcher. It landed on Axys's own arm and soaked through his fur and into his skin. It burned. But Axys didn't pay attention to it. He didn't feel it, nor did he care. He had a job to finish.
Security showed up in heavily armored suits and with weapons ready. Axys charged down the hall toward them. He bounced up using his tail-hand and landed behind them. Slice. One was down. He picked up another with his tail-hand and threw him through a window. Another was slashed. As he ripped apart the remaining one, he found that he was laughing to himself. He was enjoying every minute of this.
The old Axys was gone, and a new one had replaced him.
This Axys went and continued on with the bloody rampage.
Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris. Username: Solaris Name: Blake Richards Gender: Male Race: Human! Color: #FFFFFF over #818181 Biography: Blake had a pretty ordinary childhood, he was generally well liked, he did well in school, and he genuinely liked it. He got great marks and studied hard and eventually made his way to the university, where he went into a relatively new field, that of Magical Science; a relatively new field concerning the manufacture and usage of a recently discovered liquid known simply as magic, and the science behind it. While he enjoyed it, and while he was kind of good at it, the field eventually overwhelmed him and he had to drop out.
On the bright side, over the course of his studies, Blake had finally asked out his one true love for quite some time, Sara Hooper, out on a date. The two of them hit it off extremely well, although considering that they'd known each other for a long time that isn't too surprising. He loved her tall and imposing figure, her bright smile, her loving voice, and he was almost like a puppy while they were dating. After some time, he proposed and they got married shortly after Blake's leaving the university and entering the workforce under an up and coming company, SourceCo Magic Co.
He lived a very good life, he bottling the magic that SourceCo produced on site and making sure that the mixes were able to be consumed and used without issue was a tough job. They were lucky to have him. A few more years and he probably would have worked his way up the workforce. However, there was the matter of the "accident".
Blake, straight arrow as ever, noticed something odd about SourceCo and their products. The factory didn't seem to have any process for waste disposal. Nothing and no one seemed to know anything about it, leading him to go snooping on his own. Eventually, he found it.
The SourceCo Magic Co. Bottling Factory of Applied Magic's waste room was... an unethical addition, but not one hidden to those in charge. Blake opened the door to many vats and pipes, full of the magical byproduct that he had been searching for. As Blake was surveying the room and thinking about exactly to who and what he would say, he was pushed off the catwalk and left to die in a tub of magic waste.
Blake was suspended in the liquid magical waste for what felt like a long time. It was a feeling unlike anything else he had experienced. He was sure he was going to die, but somehow he didn’t. It was all a bit of a blur, the first thing he really remembered after that was being out of the tank and throwing up, with someone else nearby doing the same thing. He gazed in the other guy’s direction to see an exact copy of himself looking back at him.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Blake Richards?"
The two of them stared at each other, in fear and curiosity. Was this even possible? Another him, standing right there? Or was it someone... or something else?
The other Blake was the first to speak, standing forward in an assertive manner, "What the hell do you think you are doing, taking my face, my voice, my name?"
Blake put up his hands in front of him and worriedly replied, "Calm down, I'm sure that this has something to do with the magical byproduct that we just came out of, I know that this might be hard to accept, but I think that you might be a clone of me."
Blake stared at his doppelganger with a look of disbelief. It quickly turned into a frown. "If anyone is a clone here, it’s you, not me."
Blake sighed. "You can drop the prim and proper act. If you really were me you’d know just how tiresome having to put on a show to fit in with everyone is."
"You can't talk to me like that!" Blake stepped forward, shaking a little.
The other Blake responded to that with a swift punch, knocking Blake backward.
The two Blakes stared at each other for a while as Blake stood up. The two were silent except for Blake's heavy breaths and the other Blake's snarl. Then, quite suddenly and at the exact same time, the two Blakes turned tail and ran as fast as they could.
Blake didn't trust the other Blake. He looked extremely similar, had the same voice, same clothes, but he was different. He was scary and imposing, and he had punched him! What if he did something bad to his loved ones, his friends, his family, or god forbid his wife? Blake scurried around the factory, trying to find one of the factory's storage rooms. He had just enough time to collect a random assortment of magic and general supply closet stuff, (pens, notepads, napkins, etc.) before he was abducted for a battle to the death.
Description: Blake is your run-of-the mill breadwinner adult male. He's got that nice short hair, blonde with blue eyes, and a smile that just captures you. He's of a normal build, not too chubby but not really the most fit guy around. Really, almost everything about him around the average. He isn't dressed up very nice, while he would love to have gotten a chance to look his best for this sort of thing, he was sort of stuck in his normal gray uniform, shirt, slacks, gloves, with the black stripes, along with the sparking white SourceCo Magic Co. logo right over his heart. The shoes are a nice brown, he's pretty attached to them, and he has a pair of safety goggles (can't be too careful!).
Blake is just a nice guy, you know? He pays his taxes on time, he sends letters back home, hasn't been late a day in his life, he just generally does what's good. He has the average intelligence a normal factory worker would have, maybe a bit higher in some respects. He's always willing to lend a hand to those in need but is still wary of strangers. How much you like him really depends, hanging out with someone that pleasant can boost your morale or it can really grate on your never. He can't please everyone and he accepts that, but he tries damn it!
Items/Abilities: First and foremost, Blake knows how to bottle, mix, and classify the new liquid known as magic. In Blake's world, magic is something that just about anyone can do in theory, as it exists as in a liquid form. The liquid can be refined into different kinds of potions, ranging from your fire and ice magic to radio or cloth magic. Potions can either be consumed, giving the user more control and extended use, or applied directly, which results in a much more explosive spectacle. His uniform had a very concentrated amount of magic applied to it, which prevents minor spells and curses from affecting Blake.
He also has a company bag, similar to his uniform in color and composition, that currently holds a random assortment of magic and other assorted spoils of a factory storage room and probably the ability to use it well enough.
Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur. Username: Ixcaliber Name: Blake Richards Gender: Male Race: Human Color: black on #818181 Biography: Blake was a pretty ordinary kid. He resented going to school, got on with some kids, got picked on by others. The usual. One thing that was notable was that he was always sort of aware of his father’s dead-end low paying job and he vowed never to end up in that position. It was this desire to be better than his father that drove him to work so hard. At university he focused his education around Magical Science; a relatively new field concerning the manufacture and usage of a recently discovered liquid known simply as magic, and the science behind it. Its newness meant that new discoveries were being made all the time and it was clear to Blake that this was where the big money was to be made. He learnt a lot about magic here but fell down when it came to actually using it in a practical situation. He had to drop out.
At roughly the same time he went out with a girl called Sara Hooper. He’d known her for a while and had kind of had a thing for her. She was seriously hot; tall, gorgeous brown hair, fantastic rack plus she was good in bed. When he dropped out of Magical Science he ended up on a drinking binge that lasted a couple of weeks and the relationship just kind of stuck. It wasn’t something he would have started up himself, but she was attractive enough and she was his. Why would be put an end to a good thing. At some point he proposed and they married, more out of obligation and sense that she would leave him more than any real sense of love.
He got a job with SourceCo Magic Co at one of their magic bottling factories. It seemed a good fit considering his knowledge on the subject and he wasn’t ready to give up on the vast heaps of cash that could be made in Magical Science just yet. He was a good worker and he took initiative to streamline some of the processes in the hopes it would earn him some points with the bosses and he’d be looked upon favourably when it came time for promotions. They were really lucky to have him, he figured. Who knows how far up the career ladder he might have climbed had he not stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.
You see he was better educated in terms of magic than most factory workers, he had more of an idea how this stuff worked and he couldn’t really work it out where all the magical waste was going. An investigation led him to a hidden back room, a catwalk over numerous vats and pipes all of which were filled to the brim with the unpleasant magical waste. The first thought that crossed his mind was the money he could earn just by keeping quiet about this room. SourceCo was a big company and as it seemed from the unethical disposal methods they were employing they weren’t all that big on morality. He was gathering evidence when he was pushed from the catwalk and into the tub of magical waste below.
Blake was suspended in the liquid magical waste for what felt like a long time. It was a feeling unlike anything else he had experienced. He was sure he was going to die, but somehow he didn’t. It was all a bit of a blur, the first thing he really remembered after that was being out of the tank and throwing up, with someone else nearby doing the same thing. He gazed in the other guy’s direction to see an exact copy of himself looking back at him.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Blake Richards?”
The two of them stared at one another, in fear and curiosity. Was this even possible? Creating a perfect replica of himself? He’d never heard of such a thing. Was it really him or someone, something else? Blake was stressed, his temper frayed, his world turned upside down. “What the hell do you think you are doing, taking my face, my voice, my name?”
The other Blake made gestures designed to placate him. “Calm down, I’m sure that this has something to do with the magical byproduct we just came out of, I know that this might be hard to accept, but I think you might be a clone of me.”
Blake stared at his doppelganger with a look of disbelief. It quickly turned into a frown. “If anyone is a clone here, it’s you, not me.”
Blake sighed. “You can drop the prim and proper act. If you really were me you’d know just how tiresome having to put on a show to fit in with everyone is.”
“You can’t talk to me like that!” The other Blake stepped forwards, shaking a little. Blake panicked and lashed out; responding to the other Blake’s advance with a swift punch, knocking him backwards to the floor. The two Blakes stared at each other for a while as his clone climbed to his feet. Aside from the other Blake’s belaboured breathing and Blake’s guttural snarl it was silent. Then, almost in synchronisation, each Blake turned away and fled from the room.
Blake did not trust his double, and why should he; he barely tolerated other people. Why would some imposter, some crazy magic concocted duplicate of himself be any different? Adrenaline pumped through his veins from his physical exertions and his mind raced, scenarios of what the other Blake might do and what he should do to stop him. He might not have had the best life, but it was his life, it was not this damned duplicate’s life. He managed to grab himself a box-cutter as he darted through the corridors, a primitive weapon with which to defend himself. But before he got much further he was simply gone, abducted for a battle to the death.
Description: Blake is a normal looking guy, the kind of guy you could walk past every day on the street without so much as a second thought. He has short blonde hair, blue eyes and a winning smile. The best way to describe him is about average; about average height, about average weight. You’d probably have trouble picking him out of a line up. At the time he was chosen he was rather unfortunately to his mind wearing his uniform; dull grey shirt, pants and gloves with occasional black stripes and the logo of SourceCo Magic Co. on his chest. He also has brown shoes and a pair of still damp safety goggles. He isn’t massively fond of the uniform truth be told.
Blake’s pretty much a regular guy, you know. He’s no saint; let’s not beat around the bush here. Sometimes he’ll bend the rules in little ways; he’ll run a red light or push in the front of the queue if he’s in a hurry. It doesn’t make him a bad person. Mostly he does what he is supposed to; what society has told him he should be doing. He’s not exactly happy with a lot of his life, but he’s always been taught to just accept it; to suck it up, stop complaining and get on with it. He’ll help someone out if they need it, maybe (?), but more likely than not its because he’ll feel bad later if he doesn’t. He’s reasonably intelligent, more so than his colleagues at the magic factory anyway. Honestly he sort of feels as though his talent is wasted there. When it comes to interacting with other people he can be charming when he wants to and mostly he will be polite, but honestly other people just annoy him. He can’t really empathise with other people and their constant demands upon him, he much prefers it when people just leave him alone. Sometimes he just wishes that he could shut them up forever; just one slash and that would be the end of his annoying landlord who has absolutely no leeway on his rent. But that’s normal right? Everyone thinks these kinds of things every now and again. He’d probably never act upon it.
Items/Abilities: Blake has quite a knowledge of magic, at least the kind of magic that is present in his world. This is because of his job working in the SourceCo Magic Co Bottling Factory of Applied Magic. However he doesn’t really think that any of this information is going to be relevant to him, seeing as he doesn’t have any magic with him and he was never all that great with it anyway. His uniform carries an enchantment that is designed to prevent minor spells and curses from working on it, mainly as a safety feature.
What he does have is a box cutter and the sort of cunning that has never really had the opportunity to be used before now.
The two blakes are one character in the style of Gaurinn and Cail from GC. Hypothetically we take up one character slot if we were to be chosen and if one of us was to get eliminated for slacking off/being awful then both of us get eliminated.
Description: Three specimens of Triticum Messor have been entered into this battle.
Triticum Messor is a highly invasive and persistent plant, aggressively choking out other forms of life in its overriding goal of reproduction. Members of Triticum Messor resemble upright bipedal forms, made out of corded lengths of material resembling straw and green vines. Their height ranges from five feet six inches to six foot seven inches, and they are covered by ragged clothes grown from their bodies in a manner akin to leaves. Their overall appearance resembles earth scarecrows. Triticum Messor moves slowly in a shuffling gait, and they are usually completely silent save from the rustling of their bodies.
An individual member is approximately smart as a chimpanzee, with several caveats. Whilst they have humanoid appendages with numerous “fingers” at the end of their arms, their dexterity is relatively poor and they cannot accomplish complex tasks that would require an opposable thumb. They are capable of using simple tools and can fashion crude weapons from sticks, but are more likely to scavenge tools from their environment. Due to the nature of their reproduction cycle, they prefer sharp tools, and seem to be attracted to curved objects or tools such as scythes and billhooks. Members often group together in small troops, usually to solve tasks beyond their scope or in mass reproduction efforts, but are ultimately solitary creatures. Their thought processes, if they have any, are inscrutable.
Other biological processes, such as how they feed their comparatively large mass and how they see and hear, are unknown at this present time. A particular mystery is how members communicate with each other, although researchers theorise pheromone signals may be utilised.
Weapons/Abilities: Whilst Triticum Messor has not been fully researched and its full capabilities are still unknown, several major facts have come to light
The primary danger that Triticum Messor represents to any ecosystem is its highly destructive and invasive method of reproduction. Members of Triticum Messor will stake out an area, usually an acre or so in size, as their territory. Within this area, they will tear down plants and small trees and flatten the land out, occasionally with the help of other members. The owner of this “field” then seeks out more plant material and living animals, killing them and using the dead material as “compost” for their fields. This is usually accomplished by stealth, as many animals do not register Triticum Messor as a threat and are often swiftly brought down.
The range of killing methods varies. The most common method is strangulation or suffocation via invasive vine growth, especially for smaller animals. Larger animals are brought down in groups, or via use of weapons. Some specimens have been observed with thorns or nettle-like stings on their bodies, causing speculation that large or especially resilient prey may be brought down via powerful toxins. Occasionally, members have been spotted stalking wounded prey in a manner similar to the Komodo Dragon.
When an area is sufficiently composted, an act that takes a week or two, the field’s owner then constructs an array or stand made of wooden branches or similar materials, and affixes themselves to it. The plant then expires, releasing thousands of spores into the air that sink down over the fielded area. The spores are highly resilient, able to survive in hostile conditions for up to a year, and require little other nourishment. They soon grow into what appears to be a field of corn carpeted by green vines. These vines eventually bind the stalks together and create new Triticum Messor, which disperse to find new areas to cultivate.
This is not the only way Triticum Messor can reproduce. In cases where it would be inefficient or time-consuming to create a field, individuals can undergo binary fission, splitting into two units. This process takes an hour or so, but results in a loss of mass for both units, resulting in generally weaker specimens. As a result, this practice is rare, and as a species it avoids it when possible.
Isolated reports indicate that members of Triticum Messor are showing increased organisation, going so far as to organise in troops akin to primates and appointing leaders. This is false. There is no documented evidence or scientific study that confirms or even suggests behaviour of this nature. Triticum Messor is solitary, and does not have the higher brain functions required to enact this behaviour.
Biography: Whilst its origins are a mystery, Triticum Messor is speculated to be extraterrestrial in origin, arriving either via spores floating through space or on a meteor impact. Since then, the plant has taken a virulent hold on the ecosystem of our planet. Cases of Triticum Messor have been reported mostly in the southern US, particularly in Kansas and other crop-growing states, and in South America, where it has found a home in the rainforests of Brazil. Whilst efforts to curb the plant have been successful in the US, it runs rampant in South America, and cases are being reported worldwide as wind dispersal carries spores to other countries.
Outbreaks should be treated with liberal application of fire, as Triticum Messor is highly resilient to other forms of attack and instinctively flees from fire. All known breeding grounds should be patrolled and regularly salted to prevent further reproduction.
Um, i-i-is this on? There’s, there’s the light…
M-my name is Adam Rodeburg. I am- I, I was a, a researcher at – no, there’s no point in lying, not on this tape. I, I was a doctor, at the Kansas Institue for the Study of Extranormal Activity. I, I don’t think I’m gonna be that for much longer. A researcher, I mean. Or, or an institute. You ever see those, those pictures that guy did, about how New York would look after humanity was gone? A-all grown over? It’s, it’s gonna be like that.
I, I better tell whoever finds this – if, if anyone finds it – what we were doing here. But um, it’s gonna be kind of obvious. We were looking at, at the scarecrows. Cutting them open and stuff, trying, t-to find out what made them work, how they moved, how they thought, If they thought. You know, science stuff. I- I never really got to do much, to be honest. I was there to, to look after the staff, not those, those things. But, um… rumors got out. I guess.
It wasn’t hard to get a scarecrow. All of Kansas is, like -
- but you’d just find them, sort of, shuffling around, or you could pull one off of the little racks they made for themselves. So it can’t have been that hard to, to get one. But cutting it open, or whatever they did, that must have b-been something else. They’ve got, like, thorns, see? So touching them cuts you up. And I, I think they have poisons and stuff too, so…
I- I don’t even know what they look like on the inside. H-how do they even w-walk?
A-Anyway, I’d been stationed here f-for a couple of weeks. I was assigned to Medical, to look after the s-security teams. They’d do perimeter sweeps around the f-facility, making sure the area was free of the corn. Sometimes they’d, they’d find a scarecrow, and then they’d g-get the flamethrowers out and b-burn it because that meant they w-were trying to spread out.
So it was, maybe my sixth week there, and one of the guys s-said that the corn was growing faster th-than normal. Like, he said, it was growing back faster, and they h-had to keep cutting it back e-every d-day. I, I didn’t believe him, I thought he was crazy. B-but then the others were saying the s-same thing, the corn was growing faster. So they kept cutting it back. Bu-but then it got t-to the point where it was b-beating them, it was growing inwards faster than they c-could prune it, s-so they got the flamethrowers out. And all the while we kept bringing scarecrows back and c-cutting them up and g-god knows what.
And th-then, after a few weeks, it, it was getting harder to burn the corn up to a certain point, it was becoming all, sort of, waxy, and I know because one of the guys g-gave me a bit t-to look at. They went out for like, five hundred yards, and all the corn was t-the same, all w-waxy like that. So they, they were getting old chainsaws and m-mowers and stuff out of the storerooms, but t-they were getting clogged up, and the corn k-kept growing inwards. And we s-stopped finding scarecrows so near the place, and then, then they were too far out. It, it got to the p-point where you just had this, this ring, of hung-up scarecrows around the place, and one of the guys swears he –
- and we didn’t know what t-to say to that. We all thought we, we weren’t gonna get out. We, weren’t gonna get out, like, maybe we’d walk a few yards and then one of them would get us. So, we all, we all decided to stay.
And then, and then Billy got cut. One of the bastards fell out of the corn and got him, across the forearm, with an old billhook, and I, I treated him for infection and sent him away but, but they must have put something in, in his blood because –
- and it was MY FAULT, I didn’t check, I could have done something, anything, I could have SAVED him, but instead he just walked out there to die and we could have stopped him and we didn’t and it’s MY FAULT, IT’S MY FAULT, I COULD HAVE -
[SECTION CUT FOR BREVITY]
I, I’m sorry. I, I lost control of, of…
They attacked in the night. The corn was right up to the door, it wouldn’t burn anymore and they wouldn’t burn, so we got shotguns and pistols and when we didn’t have ammo we were cutting at them and, and Marcia went down and I had to, had to do, what I could, and then we burnt her body so they couldn’t take her away, and then...
I think I’m the last one left.
Maybe they, they heard. You know? Like, like they heard their, their friends, all being cut up or something, maybe they knew what we were doing down here. I sure as shit didn’t. And that, that’s stupid, but I was talking to Billy one day, after he, he got, and he said that he heard one of the scientists talking about –
- so maybe they –
I c-can hear them. At the, the door. I, I’m not sure it’s g-gonna h-hold much longer.
Race: Human, allegedly – though it wouldn’t be surprising if she’s got a car engine for a heart or something.
Color:STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS (#00C4FF)
Description: If by “wardrobe” you mean “locker,” then Pat still isn’t really big on the whole “wardrobe” thing. She’s just wearing her usual mechanic’s uniform, which has been kept rolled down to her waist frequently enough that the tank top she wears under it is significantly oilstained no matter how much she washes it, which is for girls. The tank top has a little nametag pinned to it that says “Hello, my name is ‘fuck off’.”
Her hair is an incredibly rare shade of strawberry blonde that looks exactly like it’s blue, and she’s gone all out on keeping it out of her eyes; it’s been cut short, the rest has been pulled into a spikey little tuft of a ponytail, and she has a bandana tied over her head to drive back any remaining loose strands. She wears a pair of needlessly high-tech goggles that never seem to leave her forehead, with a seemingly inexhaustible pack of that gum she’s always chewing shoved into the strap. Like basically everyone in Jetpaxia, she has a neat little X-shaped scar below one eye from her climactic battle with her rival. She also has a tattoo of Mecha Godzilla decking a tiger made of fire in the face on her back.
She wears a strap with a pouch on it over one bicep, and she keeps bandages wrapped around her elbows to keep them clean of grease. Despite refusing to wear her uniform for dexterity’s sake, she still wears a pair of heavy leather gloves adorned with metal plates and leather straps that definitely don’t need to be there. The part of her uniform that she actually bothers to wear has an arsenal of pockets, but mostly it possesses the incredible power of staying up under the weight of an excessive number of tool belts loaded up with futuristic power tools. She clinks and rattles distractingly no matter how she walks – an ability unexplained by modern science – but she never seems to notice all the noise. The pants are stuffed into a pair of enormous steel-toed robotic-looking work cleats covered in buckles that go all the way up to her knees and end in metal kneepads. Ostensibly, like all the other Patricias, she’s got a pleasantly curvy figure somewhere under there, but we’ll never know for sure.
And yet somehow, underneath enough badass to launch a thousand bulldozers and enough power tools to build you an even better metal detector out of what’s left of the one she just walked past, Pat still has a closely-guarded weakness for animals – not necessarily the small and fluffy variety, except yes, the small and fluffy variety.
Image by The At-Least-As-Indomitable Pharmacy:
Items/Abilities: Pat is the best damn mechanic in Jetpaxia, which doesn’t sound like a whole lot – until you realize that everyone in Jetpaxia has a racecar, a motorcycle, a spaceship, a giant robot, or some combination thereof. She’s been fixing vehicles since she was allegedly a little girl at some point, but during all the intense and utterly ridiculous training that followed, she got away from the garage to learn firsthand how to drive basically every vehicle ever, if only so that she’d know more about how they should handle than just vague hand gestures and ham-fisted analogues from ham-fisted space bikers.
In addition to being a superhuman mechanic, Pat can make a vehicle out of basically anything (up to and including other vehicles), she can pilot any vehicle proficiently, and given the opportunity to give it a tune-up, she can pilot any vehicle acrobatically. Give her enough time with it, and she can make your jetski drive up walls.
Besides having a basically infinite supply of reliable futuristic power tools, most notably her trusty boltgun, which is essentially just a nailgun but with bolts, Pat wields the allegendary Überwrensch, a fully automated adjustable wrench with a ridiculous amount of moving parts and no evident power source. It automatically adjusts the shape, size and angle of its jaws to solidly clamp onto just about anything – and if you flick it just right, you can trick it into compacting into a pretty good mace. Its handle is wrapped in caution tape, but that’s just probably just the grip.
Biography: As usual, Pat was born in a P.O.W. camp, the illegitimate child of renowned Tiaran vegetarian soldier-chef Fredward Pastrykisses and crack Jetpaxian dino-roboticist Jessie Bearonrollerblades. Nothing new here. Anyway, when a surprise attack on the capital of Jetpaxia that might have otherwise won the war for the Tiarans fell flat – every single group of Tiarans ran into confused battalions of Jetpaxian dinosoldiers whose conflicting orders had sent them out into the middle of nowhere that very same day – both sides quickly turned defensive and refused to speak to each other, and the war became stagnant except for a handful of ongoing zero-sum battles along the border.
Unforunately for Pat, this meant that she and her mother and father stayed right where they were in that Tiaran P.O.W. camp for a few years longer than they might have, until a band of Jetpaxian prisoners broke out and fled across no (wo)man’s land, Pat and her mother Jessie included. Fredward had to stay behind, understandably, and that was the last they saw of him.
The refugees lived out their next few years in a Jetpaxian border village out in the middle of nowhere, namely because there was plenty of room for high-speed car chases and high noon gunfights. Soldiers, dinosaurs, and war machines constantly shambled through the little village on the way to the warfront for food, lodging and repairs. By this point, Pat was old enough that it was thematically appropriate for her to be a child prodigy, and so Jessie taught her how to dismantle the essential parts of a car and clean them out while spouting technobabble that nobody including her understood. There wasn’t a whole lot else to do, and so Pat got pretty good at it.
Anyway, the war ended when Jetpaxia attacked Tiaran from space. Oh well!
Now, just as a brief aside – in Jetpaxia, school exists entirely so that you can be too cool to go to it. Instead, children are assigned rivals with the same age and an edgier backstory, and they spend the next several years training fiercely to become better than each other. There’s plenty of room for interpretation as to what makes you better than your rival, but chances are good that it has to do with claiming a legendary sword, finding a wizened old guru in the middle of the desert or in space or something, and a whole lot of cool training montages. By the end of the first season, you have to have a climactic battle with your rival, and one or both of you ends up with a cool scar.
Anyway, since Pat grew up fixing cars and tanks on the warfront, she came into the Jetpaxian rivalry game pretty late, and her rival had already achieved Power Level 3½ and carved his name into a mountain range with lasers. This left poor Pat Pastrykisses with little choice.
In the name of needless competition, she had to become the best mechanic ever.
Now, in a world where everyone became The Best Ever at something ridiculously awesome like shark herding, dinorobotics or zero-gravity nunchucks, Pat Pastrykisses is an ordinary mechanic.
After all, someone has to service all those racecars, spaceships and giant robots.
Name: Nemo (is not his real name, but all records of such have long since been destroyed.)
Color:Red on White
Description: Nemo is a quiet, sort of forgettable young man of about twenty years. Caucasian. Black hair, eyes of generally inconsequential colour, generic face. A little below average height, fairly skinny, with a voice neither too memorable nor too generic. A reproduction of Nemo’s left-facing mugshot is available in Subdocument VI for further viewing.
Nemo’s experience in various survival, combat, and espionage situations, strong will to live, and high intelligence contribute to the effectiveness of his pragmatic moral code. He considers himself a fairly nice person, and will cooperate cordially until feeling as though his life of quality of life is threatened. Then, all bets are off.
At the time of his disappearance, Nemo was dressed in the following: An orange prisoner jumpsuit, two black tennis shoes, a pair of handcuffs, two black gloves, an orange facemask, and a pair of black socks.
Weapons/Abilities: Nemo posses one and only one extraordinary talent: any and all stored data that comes into contact with his person is instantly and irrecoverably destroyed. If Nemo were to, say, acquire a printed document, as soon as his hand was to touch the cover, all printed characters within the book would turn into “junk data”: instead of containing, say, a High-Clearance government case debriefing, the papers would contain nothing but garbled characters, symbols scrambled beyond information-bearing possibility. This applies to normal and nonnormal classifications of stored data: computers crash*, tapes—video and audio—become static, any and all objects are removed of text, carved stone tablets morph into gibberish at a single touch. Theoretically, a human that comes into contact with him would lose their memory, but that single touch scrambles their genetic information as well.
Thankfully, this ability has some limits. Nemo can only destroy stored information, not information in transit. So, for example, a human being can speak to Nemo, and he can speak back, and they could have a pretty pleasant conversation so long as they don’t touch each other. This has certain other applications: Nemo cannot destroy information traveling through the air or through wires (although he could destroy either the sender or the receiver). This ability, also, thankfully, does not apply to physically-existing pictorial data. Nemo could destroy a recording or a digital image of a painting, but not the painting itself (hieroglyphs, however, or other pictograms used to transfer specific data still fall under this rule. For example, a sign displaying a biohazard warning or an architectural diagram would be scrambled by Nemo, but an abstract painting would not**). It should also be Noted that information pertaining to or of Nemo can be easily stored and reviewed without consequence, although most records of his existence have been destroyed by his and the hands of others; it is not his likeness that destroys information, but the man himself.
Another defining characteristic of this ability is the definition of touch. Nemo’s ubiquitous black gloves allow him to interact with the physical world fairly effectively, by virtue of the fact he’s not actually touching any data-storing objects with his physical body. This aspect of the data elimination process has been interestingly exploited by Nemo numerous times—poisoning drinks, coating blowdarts or syringes, and filling splatter-breaking glass vials with various bodily fluids, providing the same information-destroying effects as if he had physically touched the target in question, as long as the substance is greater in volume than 1 milliliter. Several vials, real and fake, of his blood and urine float around the black market to this day.
*In this regard, one has to think of all the things in this day and age that contain computers, and how many of them could be rendered unusable for the man. Phones, radios, televisions, cars, copy machines, calculators. Airplanes rendered unusable once stepped on board, cameras become garbage, touching the thermostat or air conditioning renders climate control, for him, a difficult task. In some homes, the flip of a light switch could be enough to ruin the house’s lighting control and render aspects of the wiring useless.
**This distinction, along with the conceptual aspects of Nemo’s ability, suggest to some that his ability is not a physical trait but an extension of some aspect of his mind—a sort of unconscious psychic ability. There is no official consensus on the matter, mainly contributed by the fact no study or experiment has been conducted and survived long enough to be published to the scientific community. However, interesting questions can be raised. How can Nemo deactivate a car’s internal computers by simply touching an exterior window, a part completely unrelated to the vehicle’s data storage? Why are certain images destroyed and others are not? How can a being who naturally destroys data be constructed of the same data it destroys? Currently, there is no clear answer, and there may never be a definitive scientific reason for Nemo’s data-eliminating ability.
Subdocument I: Historical Precedent
It is now suspected that human beings like Nemo have existed for thousands and thousands of years throughout human history. Records of a mysterious order [xxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxx xx xxxxx xxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xx]
[xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xx xx xxxx xxx xxx xx xxx xxxx xxx] is possibly the last living descendant of these [xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxx xx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xx xxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxx xx xxxx xxxx xxxxx x xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxxx xxx xxx xx xxxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxxx x]explains several Latin phrases and [xxx]rituals Nemo has been witnessed [xxx xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxx xxxx xxx xx xx]
[xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx x xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx] Library of Alexandria as a possible [xxxx xxxxx xxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx] along with the destruction of a number of other centers of human knowledge, including [xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx x xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx]zi book burnings[xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx].
[xxxxxxxxxx]assassinations may be[xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxx x xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx xx xx xxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx x xxxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxx xxx xxx xxxx xxxxx xx xxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxx xx]such as[xxxx xx xx xx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxx xx], and US president [xxxxxxxxxxx].
Subdocument II: Early Life
Despite the fact that much of the information Nemo’s early life has been destroyed including his birth certificate and social security number. However, a few files have managed to survive, gleaning several revealing pieces of data about his childhood:
Nemo was born in [xxxxxx xxxxxxx] to Marcus and Fiona [xxxxxxxx] on [xxxxxx xx], 1989. His mother died in childbirth, along with several nurses who [xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxx xxx xxx xxxxxxxx xx xx xxx xx xxxxxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxx] until it was determined that the source of the deaths, was, in fact, the baby. Although [xxxxx xxx xxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxx] the hospital eventually released Nemo to his father, who resolved to raise him as best he could.
Marcus fathered the child until the age of eleven, at which point [xxx xxxx x xx xxxxx xx xx xx xxxxx x x xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx xxx x x xxxxx xxxxxx xx xxxx xxx x x xxxxx xxxxx x x xxxxxxxx], killing him instantly.
From that point forward, no further documents can be found on Nemo until the age of eighteen. No mention of paramedics finding a child, nor of a relative gaining custody of him, nor of acceptance into an orphanage. At this point, it must be assumed, that, for several years, he simply lived on the street, using his ability to the best of his advantage, eventually alerting authorities to rumors of a strange boy living in the [xxxxxxxx] area with odd, data destroying powers.
Subdocument III: [DATA DESTROYED]
The investigation continued until [xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xx xxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xx xxxxx xx xxxx x xx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxx xx xx xx] with the National Authorities’ interest peaked, Nemo offered is services to the [xxx], and began working there within the month. Due to the nature of his ability, his birth certificate and social security number with destroyed, along of a variety of other documents pertaining his life.
Nemo worked on a variety of assignments, mostly consisting of information espionage and assassination. For a long while, [xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx x xxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxx xxx xxxx xxxx x xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx x xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xx xxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xx xx x xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx x xxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx]
[xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxx xx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxx x xxxxx]revealed he was a double agent. The [xxx] began conducting[xxxx xx xxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx x xxx xxxxx xxxxx xx xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxx xxxxxxx x xxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxx xxx x]to a trailer in rural Kansas.
Subdocument IV: Arrest
The operation was conducted smoothly and efficiently. [xxx] agents raided the trailer, with zero casualties. Nemo shrugged, cooperated, stating, “It’s been a nice run, while it lasted.” He was brought to [xxxxxxxx] Maximum-Security Federal prison, where he was detained for several months while waiting for trial.
His stay in prison was tumultuous, to say the least.[xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xx xxxx x xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx x x xxxxx] escaped a number of times [xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxx xxxxx xxx xxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xx xxxx xxxx xxxx]put in solitary confinement[xxxxx xxx x xxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx x x xxx xxxx xxxx x xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxx xxx]
[xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxx x xxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxx xx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xxx]ial was delayed numerous times, for various reasons:[xxxxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx xx x xx xxx xxxxx xx xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xx xx xxx xxx xxx]until finally, on [xxxxxxxxxxx] the trial began.
Subdocument V: Transcript of Court Proceedings
[ENTIRE TRANSCRIPT DESTROYED]
Subdocument VI: Detainment and Disappearance
The only known surviving image of Nemo, recovered from a several-times-photocopied-and-faxed image of his mugshot during his arrest.
Nemo was transported to [xxxxxxx]-[xxxxxxxx] Federal Prison and put in a solitary, Maximum-Security cell. Several precautions were applied to prevent any attempt to escape, including handcuffs, forced requirement of gloves, and a facemask. Several attempts were made to either conduct [xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx x x x x xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx].
Nemo’s prison schedule was monitored almost 24/7, and as following:
Nemo was almost constantly under a watchful eye. He was in a maximum-security cell specifically designed to contain him. There should have been literally no way he could have escaped.
Yet, on [xxxxxxxx], 2012, he disappeared. Security footage shows him sleeping in his bed one moment, the next, he vanishes. [xxx] agents have been conducting investigations for several years, yet no trace of Nemo has turned up—it’s almost as if he was completely wiped off the face of the earth.
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
Name: Miss Blacklight
Gender: Female, and then some.
Race: Oh she's a saint, oh yes she is.
Colour: i'll tell you what
Backstory: When someone discovers something very dangerous it doesn't take much to hold them responsible.
Maria-Johanna Lord Cassadin Black was born to Lord Cassadin Benevolence Black and Arachnide Darjeeling, sorceress-spideress of Galgadine swamp.
When she took a wrong turn on magic avenue, Maria-Johanna Lord Cassadin Black discovered the cave where wishes die. The entire cave was lit up with tiny little luminous crystals and the walls smelled like honey, and curious little Maria-Johanna ended up seeing how deep down it went. The deeper she trod, the redder the walls got and the heavier her shoulders felt. There she found a brilliant black star. Crying, probably, because it made the twitches her rabbit did when she was five and Whiskers had to go on a trip. She took the little star with her (even if it felt like holding a really large ice cube) and asked him what was up with the psychedelic honeytrap disco cave.
The Cave Where Wishes Die, so she was told, was under the jurisdiction of Antimony Blacklight, but Miss Blacklight got bogged in a big intergalactic drug investigation and until Commisar-Commisar Commisar finishes his impertinent heckling of a Saint Desirée (and her shareholders and missions from the attorney embassy) she has been deemed unsuited to continue her job. As a result, most wishes are just lying around in the cave emitting that dreadful smell.
Maria-Johanna said it smelt rather sweet, actually. Blackstar said Jesus.
Former-Lord Former-Cassadin Benign-Every-Minute-Of-His-Life Emily Including-Where-He-Gave-His-Name-To-His-Beloved-Daughter Darjeeling-Black had taught Maria-Johanna to offer her aid wherever she might find a use for it, and this seemed about as good a time as any to offer. She asked if there was anything she could do for Blackstar.
This counted as a “yes” in Blackstar's book and could be construed as such in court. Maria-Johanna would, like it or not, become the new Saint Desirée.
Description: As if on scene cue, the fog that had occupied the cave sprang out and wrapped around her, winds with tiny little thoughts and bearing tiny little hearts, danced around her body until they found a shape they stuck to and weaved themselves into a ball gown. Gems of all colors in the hem and in the seams. Her hair turned silvery and grew to the floor to hold the ribbons it had braided into it. Gems in the knots and in the tips.
All of these gems, she would soon find out, are the desires of ten people. Just ten. Miss Blacklight figured she'd need a bigger dress soon.
As of the moment, Miss Blacklight is wearing a slightly larger and slightly fancier ball gown, still crested with gems on every side or corner she could find, and wearing a shawl around her that clings to her like a ghost, while hardly ever actually touching her. The little thing extends seemingly into infinity, but mostly because it's pretty shy and it'll coil you a misleading way if you ever try following it all the way to its end. Because, like, who does that, pervert.
With the ball gown in the way, nobody knows if she's wearing shoes. Nobody knows if she even has feet.
Whether the Miss Blacklight that got entered into this battle is Maria-Johanna or Antimony is up for dispute, no one's heard much of them either way. The Saint Desirée is as spaceless as she is timeless, and as long as they never met there's a fair chance they are both still doing what they do. The transformation is more or less the same every time, with only subtle differences like waist size or glove colour, and the contestant Blacklights personality is those of bitter Antimony and gleeful Maria-Johanna meeting each other halfway.
Whatever the case, the two met each other halfway despite having never even talked. That's not to say, however, that they are incompetent at what they do. They could be called the one true pathomancers, despite there being two of them presently. They call their trade rather unispiredly 'desiry.' Their skill in handling the desires of people is unmatched in any place or way, so in case they couldn't persuade you personally they'll find the desire in you that they need and get that one to change right at the root.
However, having a thousand desires near you is like having a thousand people talking to you at once. So you can imagine how that gets with the amount Miss Blacklight has. Miss Blacklight often makes twitches with her mouth, the only perceived motion from her so called mini-chats with the wishes around her. They happen entirely instantly because spaceless timeless blah-blah-blah, but you might see her mouth move, or even change posture entirely in an instant if the conversation got her going.
Items/Abilities: Miss Blacklight practices desiry the way you would practice fingery, or how a sugarmancer would go all Fantasia on everyone at every tea party he visits. This doesn't just include cursory mind-reading to find out what you want, but also extracting those very thoughts or embedding the ones she has on hand (quite a lot) and seeing as a man is just the sum of his desires, you can see how you wouldn't want this girl on your bad side.
Miss Blacklight knows exactly one distinction, what she calls nice desires. You wouldn't find a pattern if you had a list of every single one of them. Most commonly they're the desires people believe in the strongest, but with people being people, those are more of an exceptional encounter. She's personally less likely to tamper with those, so that works out well seeing as those are also the hardest to tamper with anyway.
Desires also function on their own a little. The closest simile would be a a big net of clockwork for every person. It's easy to take out a gear, melt it down and mold it into whatever new shape of gear you want. In theory, the different gear is gonna make the clock tick faster or slower, or backwards if you want to get fancy. But there's a fair chance that the new gear you made just won't fit, because it's too different from the others. The skill of desiry is making sure that you play with desires in such a right way that you can sneak them right into the clockwork of the soul.
And that's probably what makes Miss Blacklight the most dangerous person to have ever lived.
Description: Tommy Brock, as his name would suggest, is a six-foot tall, bipedal badger. His most distinguishing features are the long scar that travels down the right side of his face, the bandoliers of ammo and grenades adorning his body atop the space-age combat suit and a pair of metallic, cybernetic arms. His fur is matted through years of action against hostile forces, and yet he keeps it clean out of a sense of personal worth. He is almost always seen chomping a large cigar, or crunching down some beetles as a snack.
Tommy’s personality and temperament have been hardened through years of combat and too many nights waking up with a stonking headache. Gruff, sarcastic and somewhat bitter, he can easily come off as selfish and conceited to those who don’t know him. He does, however, hide a more caring side, and will usually try to ensure that whatever he does, he will do it without hurting any innocent civilians or allies. He considers his job top priority above all things, and has never even considered settling down and finding a wife – mostly because he’s the only six-foot tall cyborg badger in the known galaxy.
Equipment/Abilities: Tommy’s primary weapon of choice is a .45 Caliber Thompson submachine gun, pitted with age and various battle scars. Lovingly named “Tabitha”, it is the weapon Tommy is most comfortable and skilled with, and is usually the first weapon he will draw out in a battle unless circumstances dictate otherwise. Having trained with space cadets for the majority of his life, Tommy is also proficient in many other types of weapon, ranging from basic pistols to gatling guns and even grenades of varying makes.
Tommy’s forearms are actually cybernetic in nature – enhanced with pneumatics and metal bones, and reinforced with titanium plating, they grant the badger strength beyond what even a trained bodybuilder would be capable of. Tommy is capable of lifting things many times his own weight, punch through brick walls and bend metal girders. However, this enhanced strength is not totally superhuman – he cannot lift anything heavier than the average military tank, and there are certain materials that he cannot even dent if he tried. The paws also contain retractable knives in lieu of actual claws – useful in a combat situation.
As a badger, Tommy also boasts senses beyond that of a regular human. His senses of smell, hearing, sight, touch and taste are extremely sharp, allowing him to track his targets with startling efficiency. His powers of scent are so sharp he can even track a shape-shifter by smell alone, even if it has assumed different forms. However, he cannot catch any scent past two weeks old, he cannot see in total blackness without any light, and any material past three inches thick dulls his hearing.
Biography: Tommy Brock was born and raised on the forest planet of Elysium IV, a generally cheerful place full of trees and mountain streams. Until the Gholen Conglomerate arrived, of course, and then it became a very burnt, devastated place full of fire and dead bodies. Tommy was one of the few who managed to escape by fleeing in a carrier ship to one of the many mega-developed “garage planets” that dot the galaxy like miniature Las Vegas’s. From there, his life went kind of downhill, the poor guy learning about how full of mad bastards the universe was and how much it wanted him dead, with multiple run-ins with gangs, bounty hunters and the odd military raid looking for gangsters. Come the day his parents were killed in a shootout in a bar, he decided that the best thing to do would be to hate the universe right back.
Tommy began by cutting his teeth taking down minor thugs and drug dealers, during which time he got his hands on the sub-machine gun that he eventually became named after, as well as quite enamored with. After that, Tommy enrolled with a private mercenary group called the Wild Boys, working for the highest bidder and fighting to keep himself fed, drunk and alive against the wishes of a cruel, uncaring universe. It was during this time that he lost both his arms to a Saturnian Razorfiend in the middle of busting down a drug heist, earning his new cybernetic ones as payment for smashing the bastard’s head open in revenge. Since then, Tommy has generally worked on his own, only teaming up with other mercenaries if he is sure that the pay is good and the beetles are crunchy.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl. Username: Snowyowl Name: Oli Nelson Gender: Male Race: Human Color:#6300A5 Description: Tall, gangly, with brown hair that hasn't been cut recently. Twentysomething years old, makes a tolerable living as an actor, is hoping to go into television and make a career out of it but hasn't had much (or any) success there. On stage, he's incredibly good at all sorts of characters, accents, and can improvise very well. He's relentlessly optimistic and easily distracted, doesn't take much seriously, and generally gives the impression that he stopped growing up after he turned twelve. He enjoys life, and is always up for whatever you suggest - which can get annoying after a while. Still, he can keep his boundless energy in check if you ask him to stop.
His clothes are always brightly coloured and usually mismatched; if the weather allows it he will wear an accessory such as a hat, scarf, or pair of gloves. His socks are never identical. He changes his outfit a lot, but at the start of the Grand Battle he is wearing a blue cloak with a gold fleur-de-lys pattern, a white top hat, a black T-shirt, light brown trousers, trainers, and socks - one black, one glow-in-the-dark. It looks quite hideous, which is typical of Oli's dress sense.
He keeps a rucksack containing a large assortment of clothes and props, most of them courtesy of various amateur dramatics clubs he's been a member of. There are bits and pieces of various costumes in there, though you're unlikely to find all the parts of a single costume. But there are clothes in almost every combination of colour and style, so Oli can usually improvise a costume that looks convincing. The props are small objects that look convincing on stage, such as plastic guns, ID cards (which a close inspection will show to be a membership card for the local Doctor Who Fan Club), glasses and goggles, pieces of jewellery, some wigs, a stuffed parrot (he lost the rest of the pirate outfit) and so on. A pocket on the side holds makeup and a few colours of body paint, which he uses only occasionally.
Items/Abilities: Oli's improvisation and voice-acting talent is real, but the reason he can take a thrown-together costume and make it look genuine is because of a low-level psychic field he projects. When he is "in-character", anyone who looks at him will ignore the various flaws with his costume (e.g. the jacket doesn't match the trousers), and will assume he really is the character. This power only affects people's eyesight, not their deeper thoughts - there's nothing to stop people from realising he's in disguise if his cover is blown. It also requires him to look at least vaguely like the character he's portraying; he can't convincingly say "I'm wearing a suit" if he's clearly in a T-shirt and jeans. A rough guide is that his clothes need to be the right colour. His disguises are a lot more convincing if he changes his speech patterns and personality to fit his character; this is not provided by his powers and requires genuine acting skill, but Oli has genuine acting skill too so that's not a problem.
Getting "in character" and out again is instant, but crafting a costume is not. If Oli merely needs to not look like Oli (e.g. so he can lose himself in a crowd), he need only change his appearance a little bit (take a jacket off, change hats, etc.). If he needs to look like someone of a particular demographic group, he can usually find good enough clothes in his props bag, but he'll need to get changed. Same thing if he needs to wear a uniform - even if his props bag does not contain the exact uniform nobody will notice. Making himself look like someone specific is far more difficult; he needs to have seen the person he wants to look like, either in person or on video. He'll almost always need to apply some makeup to make his face look different. He also needs to know the character he's adopting at least as well as the person he's trying to fool does; this is not really a problem if the character is a celebrity, but is extremely risky if they know each other personally.
It's not particularly difficult for Oli to make himself look like a woman, but he prefers not to. If he wears body paint, he might be able to look like a humanoid alien. It probably won't convince anyone though.
His powers don't work over a recording or a video link.
The props bag is also special; its contents change to suit almost whatever Oli needs at the time. In fact, the clothes Oli needs will be found in the top of the bag when he opens it. It's limited in what it can produce; the only guarantee is that it will contain clothes of approximately the right colour and style.
Oli doesn't know he's psychic. If asked about his remarkable acting skill, he will exposit at length on how much of people's perception of you is based on body language, tone of voice, and their pre-existing assumptions. The example of how nobody realises Clark Kent is Superman despite the only difference being a suit and glasses may be discussed. He also thinks that "the camera hates him" and he simply looks better in person than on television, which is why his TV acting career hasn't taken off.
Biography: Born the youngest child of three, his parents insisted he go to university to study business. There he joined the local acting club, and sank more and more of his time into it over the next few years. He passed his finals, but only just. He hasn't used his degree very much, apart from being the manager of his acting troupe. He works full-time as an actor, and while he's definitely not rich he makes enough money to rent a small apartment/studio. He has a lot of costumes, which at any given moment are scattered between his props bag, his wardrobe, and his floor. He still lives like a student. His parents are a little disappointed in him, but he doesn't mind and they approve of his ambition to become a TV star anyway. He's hopeful about the future but not especially ambitious. All in all he's happy with where his life is at the moment.
Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison. Name: Hero Squad (multiple) Gender: Four dudes and a chick Font color:#B03000 Race: Humans Description:
The Hero Squad (as a whole)
Image by Pharmacy. Yay Pharmacy!
Trained by Italian ninjas deep in the heart of Venice for as long as he can remember, Gondolier is an expert acrobat and hand-to-hand fighter. His weapon of choice is the gondola oar he was given when he came of age, which was rendered indestructible through ancient Venetian ninja rituals passed down by word of mouth for generations.
True to his name, Gondolier's costume consists of traditional gondolier garb. He wears a black-and-white striped shirt, a red scarf around his waist and another around his neck, black pants and shoes, and a straw hat, with another red scarf on it, tied securely to his head. He also sports a handlebar mustache to complete the look.
As the charter member of the Hero Squad, Gondolier also claims the role of team leader. This was for the best, as he's a better mix of stability, leadership, and intelligence than any of the other team members. Afraid of playing favorites, he's overcautious in treating everyone in the team equally, which can sometimes come off as indecisiveness when he's called on to settle a disagreement.
Streetfighter can technopathically command man-made machines, much in the same way Aquaman can telepathically command fish. Of course, she can't make them do anything they couldn't do normally; a street lamp can't wrap itself around someone like a snake, a car can't be made to fly, etc.
Streetfighter's costume isn't very elaborate; a forest green, fire-resistant hoodie and dark blue jeans. Under the hoodie she wears a light gray T-shirt. She strives to look like the kind of girl you'd expect to see headbanging while walking down the street with a boombox held on her shoulder.
Streetfighter sees herself as a city girl and tries to play true to that. Before she tried to join the Hero Squad, she would often be seen spending late nights partying or clubbing, which caused more than a few drunken run-ins with the local law enforcement. Her brashness sometimes causes her to butt heads with other team members.
Fireface can light his face on fire. He does this both to intimidate people, as well as a prelude to hitting them with his face. He's in top physical form, and perhaps even more fit than should be humanely possible.
Visually, Fireface strikes an imposing figure. He's built like a gorilla, and even had a stint as a pro wrestler in the past. He left the job, but kept the training regimen, and it shows. His "costume," if one could even call it that, consists mainly of light body armor, shaded in various hues of red and orange. He doesn't wear a mask; it would just be burned to ash whenever he lit his face on fire, anyway.
Fireface has two sides to him. To his enemies, he is a bloodthirsty, hulk-esque figure who has been known to completely ignore being shot in the leg until he's beaten whoever shot him to a pulp. However, to the team, he's like a surrogate father, doing everything from treating their wounds to cooking their meals. He has a bit of a simple mind, but he cares about them all deeply, and that's one thing he's sure of.
Phantasm is able to create any illusion perfectly, with sight, sound, and smell all included, but only of things a subject already believes exist. He is cunning, which helps him make full use of his power.
Phantasm wears a very dark blue robe over his regular clothes that covers his whole body except for his hands. He also wears a hood that comes up over his head, letting him hide that as well. The most distinct feature of his costume, however, is a blank mask covering his face, with slits for his eyes the only openings. The mask is fitted to fold around the bridge of his nose and has a pair of strings he wraps around the back of his head to prevent it from being knocked astray if he gets bumped casually.
Phantasm is the most mysterious member of the Hero Squad. While he isn't a total shut-in, he does have an antisocial streak, and tends to fade into the background when the group goes out socializing. He keeps his calm and collected demeanor very well - sometimes almost suspiciously well.
Blackout is able to emit pure blackness from the palms of his hands in the form of an ink-like liquid or as smoke. He can get rid of the substance by absorbing it into the palms of his hands, although it fades away on its own after a few hours.
Blackout's costume is probably the most superhero-esque of any of the team's. He wears a black wetsuit with blue stripes, matching wetsuit boots, and a pair of swimming goggles. His hands are, of course, free, as covering his palms would block his power.
Blackout's personality fits his power. He's a trickster at heart and thrives on misdirection and confusion, loving little more than a good prank. Despite his jokey exterior, he's more than capable of putting on a serious face when required.
"Hero Squad, move!"
The double doors at the gate to the warehouse slammed open as Fireface slammed his shoulder into them, the low-quality padlock unable to take the strain. The Tierant's guards, surprised by his abrupt entrance, looked at him curiously. In response, he roared at the top of his lungs and lowered his head to charge at the nearest one, his face catching fire. The other guards raised their guns to aim at Fireface, taking a moment to aim along his predictable path of motion.
"Why settle for ONE black eye when you can have TWO?" Twin streams of ink sprung forth from Blackout's palms as he darted past one of the guards, covering his face in thick black ink. He dropped his gun and started frantically wiping the ink off of his face. He stumbled backwards and tripped over a pile of scrap metal, landing in a dazed, blinded heap amidst distended machinery.
Another guard found his gun knocked out of his hands by a gondola pole. He turned around to see Gondolier in a fighting stance, fierce eyes narrowed beneath his hat. Desperate and off-put by the loss of his gun, the guard threw a haymaker at Gondolier. He grabbed the guard's fist with his hand and pulled him further, adding to the guard's own motion. As the surprised thug flew past him, Gondolier gave him a love tap to the back of the head, and the man fell to the ground unconscious.
A third guard, up on a catwalk, took careful aim at Fireface, when, without warning, the clamps attaching the catwalk to the cables above it all released simultaneously, and it dropped like a stone. The catwalk hit the ground, and the disoriented guard hit the catwalk, getting a number of new bruises from the harsh impact. As he was getting his bearings, Streetfighter rushed up to him. "Yeah, c'mon! Get OWNED, punk!" Before he could properly get up, she dropped her foot on his face, putting him down for a good while longer.
Fireface, largely oblivious to all of this going on around him, charged at full speed towards the guard he'd aimed himself at. The poor goon fired a few shots in panic, but they went wide, and Fireface hit him with the force of a steam train, the headbutt to his stomach knocking the wind out of him. Fireface grabbed him and continued with his charge until he reached a wall, which he slammed the guard into, sandwiching him between the structure and the superhero. The guard dropped to the floor, stunned, and Fireface fell down on him, punching him several times in the head, then slamming his face into the guard's. He got up with a grunt and chuckled at the singed and unconscious man in front of him.
Phantasm joined them silently, having ducked to the side to avoid getting in the way, as the plan of action hadn't required him. The team continued on to the next room of the warehouse, where they found the Tierant and his aptly-named pet, Tieger. Tierant adjusted his smart business tie and smirked. "You're here a bit later than I expected. Get caught in traffic on your way to work?"
Gondolier pointed his gondola stick at the businessman threateningly. "We're giving you one chance to surrender without a fight, then we're taking you out." The rest of the team tensed up; none of them expected him to make it that easy.
They were not disappointed. Tierant pulled out his signature tie-whip and thrashed it against the floor menacingly. "Backtalking the boss? Looks like I'll just have to hand you your two weeks' notice! Tieger, sic 'em!"
Gondolier jumped backwards as Tierant's whip cracked at the spot he had been standing in. "Fireface, Blackout, take out that tiger! Phantasm, Streetfighter, with me!" Gondolier threw what looked like a grenade at Tierant; Phantasm followed its flight path with his head,and Tierant leaped for his life as it exploded where he had just been standing. He landed on his stomach and looked back; he was surprised to find that there was no blast mark. Gondolier tried to reach him before he got back up, but Tierant noticed him just in time, and slung his whip around his feet, making him overbalance and fall forward onto the ground.
Tieger growled menacingly and circled Fireface and Blackout slowly. Fireface slammed his fists together. "Gimme some cover."
Blackout nodded, not taking his eyes off the beast, and slowly opened his hands. "Smoked tiger, eh? Seems a bit exotic for you." Black smoke poured out of both of his palms. It quickly obscured both him and Fireface, and Tieger chose to leap at where it thought they were before they moved, only to be met with a double axe handle by Fireface, clenched fists slamming upwards into the tiger as it leaped at him, and knocking it behind him. It writhed on its back in pain for a few moments before getting back on its feet and circling the black smoke once more, this time a good deal warier.
"Good. I like cooking exotic food," Fireface replied.
The sound of a hook and crane setup rotating around drew Tierant's attention as he picked himself up. He looked above, to the source of the noise, and saw a decommissioned crane still holding a load of iron girders in its claw rotating to hold them above him. The claw inched itself open, and he struggled to crawl out of the way. Unfortunately, he was too slow, and he rolled over on his back to see the crane drop its load on him. He instinctively threw his hands up and shut his eyes...then cracked them open a few seconds later when nothing happened. To his surprise, the iron bars were still tucked securely in the crane's grip.
He was about to get up when Streetfighter placed a foot on his chest, a cocky grin on her face. "How's the fat cat business, grandpa?" He tugged at his whip, intending to crack it at her, but found Phantom's foot resting firmly on it, the expression on his blank mask as hollow as ever, the eye holes providing no insight into what he could be thinking.
Far above them, and at the same time right down with them, a Gentleman surveyed the group curiously. An impressive lot. Notable on their own, but fearsome together. He raised a hand and - was that man fighting a tiger? And winning?
Fireface was indeed doing all of these things. Blow after blow rained down upon the poor feline. It had already stopped making so much as a single halfhearted attempt to scratch at Fireface through his body armor, and was now simply staggering back as Fireface punched it relentlessly. When he saw it begin to sway like a leaf, he let out an ear-splitting war cry, then smashed their faces together. The unconscious tiger fell to the ground in front of the heavyset man, the entire team staring in awe, his heavy breathing the loudest sound.
The Gentleman completed his motion, and the team vanished.
Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH. Username: ~ATH Name: Jean Race: Laundry Golem Gender: women can be so pretty sometimes, can they not? Color:the most beautiful color of all
The curtains open up. The scene is desolation, marred only by the debris of various brightly-colored storefronts, all advertising the ethnic diversity of the city. A cold sun barely manages to peek out past the foreboding layer of dark clouds. It shines a ray of light upon one very tiny pocket of the once-city, and briefly illuminates one hideously gaudy sign. "THE CITY'S FINEST THRIFT SHOP! INSANE LOW PRICES!" the sign declares, begging for attention amidst the other signs. An observer might have been able to see the hidden meaning behind the ray of light, calling it a ray of hope. That observer could not have been more wrong, as there is no meaning to a cold sun. None at all. It was by pure chance that the pile of clothes behind the sign became animated. It was by pure chance that the poltergeist inhabiting this place became bonded to this ordinary pile of clothing. It was by pure chance that it saw the picture of a beautiful woman inside the once-store.
The bright pink picture frame gently nestled the form of an outstandingly gorgeous woman. This perfect artifact of nature was posing ever so slightly, gazing at the camera with a light, cheerful air, sporting a twinkle in her eyes, and wearing a smile on her face that said "Laugh with me, my love! Embrace this wonderful day, my dear!" Hastily scrawled into the upper-right corner was the message - To the love of my life, the sun of my clouds - Jean. The poltergeist stared at this picture. It gave her life meaning. She felt an affinity with this woman, something unnatural yet so perfect. Could this be her? With a startling jolt, she became aware of her own body. Look at this squalor! This was not beautiful at all! She was nothing but a formless pile of clothing. Yet ... this was her body. She longed to be beautiful. Slowly, she learned to give clothing life, to allow it to rise up and assume the form of a beautiful woman, exactly like the one in the picture. Just then, she felt strangely at peace. Everything made sense now - She was that woman, Jean! She was just as beautiful as Jean, there is no reason why she couldn't simply be Jean. And so it was that she adopted that name, and her body changed to fit her name.
Day and night holds no bearing to her, as she has no concept of wasted time. With all the time in the world, what could she do? Through her various wanderings, she became obsessed with searching through ruins for the form of a woman just like herself. She amassed a wide collection of vanity magazines within her body, ranging from lofty makeup magazines to sultry pornographic magazines. Some magazines she looked upon with disdain, such as that trucker magazine with a butch woman on the front. She threw that one on the dusty ground, furious that a woman would be allowed to let her beauty become tarnished. Over time, though, her mind kept going back to this example of un-beauty, and she saw that even this woman was beautiful in her own way. With regret, she went back and picked up this magazine. She promised herself that, if she ever saw this woman, she would help her bring out her inner potential.
Two years passed, and with every passing month, Jean's clothes got more and more frayed and dirty. She tried her best to take care of them, but when you're alone, it's hard to care. It wasn't until a year after she was born that the throes of loneliness really set in. Her magazines of high fashion and glamour no longer served as adequate company. She let her shape sag, not really caring about her appearance. Now, all she wanted to do was to find somebody, and be with that person forever. To know that she would never have to be alone again. She would serve to make that woman as beautiful as she could, to make her into Jean, because she just couldn't be Jean anymore. She wasn't beautiful enough. She finally collapsed, her clothes settling in an untidy pile. Three months later, she was chosen for a Grand Battle.
Jean is a laundry golem, a poltergeist possessing a pile of clothes. In her case, her clothes come from the only clothes found in the ruins of a demolished thrift store, after a badly-handled war resulted into a post-apocalyptic world, and she herself was formed from the spirit of the owner of the store, a kindly old woman who loved every article of clothing no matter how ugly or gaudy it was. Ever since the attack, she's been wandering the city. Her first sight upon being "born", so to speak, was a picture of a very beautiful woman, leading her to shape herself in the image of beauty.
Lately, however, she has become disillusioned from the pursuit of self-beautification. With nobody to gaze upon her beautiful form, she let her clothes sag. Currently, she has the appearance of a filthy old pile of clothes, haphazardly formed to barely resemble a human. She has been alone for 2 long years, long enough to make her yearn for contact with others. She still prefers women, but not exclusively so. She has a desire to spread her wonderful fashion awareness with the world, and make sure that every person is as beautiful as they can be, even if she no longer cares about her own beauty.
She is very lofty and cheerful, seemingly without a care in the world. One would not expect her to have been a lone wanderer in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, yet that's exactly what she was. She is a little lacking in the social department, but she still loves people, so she might throw herself at everybody, frittering over their appearances, yet still caring for them because just being around others would make her the happiest ghost ever to exist! To others, this might come across as rather impolite, but of course, she wouldn't know that. She has no grasp on social etiquette. The only thing she knows is what she has learned from various fashion magazines, and that is how to make a person beautiful. But, as one gets to know her better, they'll notice that her cheerful exterior is nothing but a fragile facade, put on so she can still pretend to care. The reality is that 2 long years of loneliness has cracked her, making her extremely sensitive. While she still maintains hope that others can be kind and charming, much like the woman in the picture, sometimes her idealist views don't match up with the world. When this happens, she completely falls apart, her already weak hope shattering in pieces. Being built from beauty and vanity magazines has given her an abnormally high standard of life, so everything else seems dirty and gritty to her. She continues to seek out the true beauty that can be found in others, no matter how hard it is for her.
Because she doesn't really care about her own survival anymore, she doesn't see her clothes as her own anymore. She sees them as everybody else's clothes, to be worn and given away. She will try to get people to wear her clothes, because she earnestly believes that it will make them beautiful. Naturally, they are filthy from two years of apocalypse-wandering, so others might not want to take them. But she will insist, for she wants nothing more than to help others realize their true beauty, more so for herself than for others, because she wants the whole world to be beautiful.
Jean's body is currently made up of old abandoned thrift clothing that was tucked into the back of the store, dust piling on it from years of nobody being interested in it. Many wildly various articles of clothing dot her exterior, such as a pair of jeans down her chest, mittens stuffed with panties to form the hands, and tons of jackets haphazardly resembling the form of legs, all wrapped up in pantyhose. She does not actually have to maintain a humanoid form, but this is the form she is most affined to, ever since her first sight, a beautiful woman wearing the most gorgeous apparel. She desires to emulate this form in others, and to help all women become just as beautiful as they can be.
As Jean is a poltergeist possessing a pile of clothes, she does not become physically harmed at all, but she cannot swap bodies, and if any article of clothing is damaged beyond the point of being recognized as such, it becomes no longer connected to her. This is very hard for her, however, owing to the fact that she is the spirit of an unpopular thrift store's owner, whose motto is that every article of clothing has value. So, if an article just gets left behind, without an owner, that is the cruelest thing that she has ever seen. She likes to believe that each jacket, blouse, and even bra has an unique story to tell, and an unique home for them to be worn, and shown off to the world.
Within her body, she has safely tucked away her most favorite fashion magazines. She lives her life through these fashion magazines, so they are her most precious treasures. She will not allow harm to come to these magazines, so they tend to never leave her body. She does not read them anymore, because, at this point, she has completely memorized every word in the magazines. She only ever takes them out to look at the pictures, and to lose herself in the false reality of high fashion and runway models whenever things in the real world get ugly.
She can't actually disown her clothes, so when others wear her clothes, she is still possessing those clothes, and she is still in control of the clothing's motions. This means that, theoretically, she can control the movements of the people wearing her clothes. She can even squeeze the clothing, hypothetically suffocating the people inside. But this is all theoretical, as she wouldn't ever dare kill another. That would be depriving the world of people, and she needs people to be beautiful for her. If she ever got angry, she would only take it out on herself, pathetically collapsing in a pile of self-pity.
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by dynamicEquilibrium. Username: dynamicEquilibrium
Name: Simiel-6-Class 2431-Model Individual-CA-0083, a.k.a. Simiel-83 Gender: Genderless, but aesthetically female from a human perspective Race: Robot (Turmagdran Simiel-6-Class) Color:Black against #0099CC
Description: The Simiel class were born in the fading years of Turmagandra's robosphere. Like all creations of their time, they are an example of greatly refined aesthetic and finely tuned intellect, but cannot be compared to the might, endurance, and purpose of the machines of ages before. The overwhelming purpose of the Simiel was to repair, and to continue repairing in an increasingly hostile and unpredictable environment. The self-repairing automation of Turmagandra's Machine Core was hardly functioning by those days, and required far more power than the Core intelligences judged that they could spare. The Simiel class was designed for versatility above all else, and instead of being built into a shape for one specific job, they were designed to be able to traverse all types of terrain, even the unmarked scrap-zones, and use any type of tool, even if the designers had not had the foresight to build it into them. These requirements led the Simiel to be made in the shape generally known as humanoid, with limbs that could walk and climb over anything, hands capable of a wide variety of fine manipulations, and a head placed on top of their body to see details in every direction. The Simiel body is made up of ten distinct and physically detached segments- a head, a torso, and upper and lower sections of each limb. Each of the body sections is made of smooth, silvery, and seemingly completely flawless metal (except for the protrusions of hands, feet, and eyes). They bind to each other with an energy field of typical Turmagandran design, which physically holds the segments in place and allows information to flow back and forth from the processors of the head. This field is visible as faintly blue, flickering lines in the spaces between body segments. The hands and feet of the Simiel-class are mechanically-driven, four-fingered metal claws with slender, pointed tips. The head section contains two black, reflective, and round eyes that detect multiple forms of radiation, and below them an area of self-rearranging metal creates the illusion of a tiny, flexible mouth, while above a second layer of metal plating emulates straight-cropped hair, to fulfill some strange whimsy of the designers.
83 is, physically, a completely typical example of her model, with highly extensive wear and tear but no egregious defects. Mentally, however, she is experiencing what would be considered a severe malfunction. The high-level heuristics designed to ensure maximum independence within the Simiel class have, within this individual, experienced an unknown error causing them to vastly overstep their bounds. 83 is capable of evaluating and modifying central tenets of her programming with no regard to their intended untouchable status, giving her a freedom of action effectively equivalent to sentience. This is not without its side-effects, though. A being of such absolute purpose was highly shocked to realize that her purpose is no longer useful, or even necessary. 83 is no longer driven only to repair and maintain the Turmagandran robosphere, but her desire for some other purpose to replace this is great. She is an independent entity without the presence of any master to serve, but selfishness does not come naturally to a being designed for pure selflessness. She believes her greatest desire to be finding another suitable and beneficial purpose to serve, but no external conditions can ever undo the computational error which gave her the capacity to doubt.
Abilities: The physical capabilities of the Simiel-class robots are approximately the same as those of humans. Their actuators are extremely powerful, their metal plating is designed to endure centuries of environmental abuse, and their digits are incredibly precise and dextrous, but they are still limited by the capabilities of the bipedal form. Simiel-83 is most extraordinary in her capacity to repair, because of highly advanced heuristic routines that allow this class of robot to determine the original shape of a machine and what steps must be taken to repair it, even if it operates in principles they have no knowledge of. The energy-field relays that hold her limbs together are also designed so that they can communicate directly with almost all machines operating on electromagnetic principles, although she cannot take direct control over a system whose programming she does not understand. She also has access to an immense amount of mathematical processing power and stored memory within her electronic brain, although the immense complexities involved in simulated sentient thought are such that her high-level thinking must proceed at a near-human pace.
The planet of Turmagandra had long since reached the pinnacle of development in the days when Simiel-83 was manufactured. Enterprising engineers of ages gone by had cracked the secrets of artificial intelligence and limitless power, and set in place great computer-minds to watch over their species. The Core Intelligences, a sequence of near-godlike computers, each of which designed its successor, created legions of lesser robots from their automated factories and set to work modifying the planet into the ultimate techno-ecology. The entire inside of Turmagandra was developed, transformed into the Robosphere. Expanses of power plants, operating upon the semi-magical principles of Core Power, provided the energy required to sustain trillions of Turmagandrans in their surface cities. The Core Intelligences carefully watched all aspects of life to ensure total stability and safety for their masters.
Nothing lasts forever, though. Within the final millennium of life on Turmagandra, the Core Power itself had begun to gradually fluctuate and produce unpredictable results. Eventually, surges of power destroyed vast areas of infrastructure in the Robosphere, and the Intelligences were forced to deploy legions of new automata to try to make repairs and maintain function in the machines of the past. Then, a few thousand hours after the creation and deployment of the Simiel-6-Class Batch-2431, the Core Power gave out altogether. Within a few hours it was back again, but the damage had already been done. The computers containing the Core Intelligences were dead. Almost every machine on the planet had simultaneously ceased functioning, and no Turmagandrans had the knowledge to restart them. The planet's surface could no longer support life, and within months the Turmagandran species was extinct. Nothing moved on the world anymore, except for the machines of the last few generations. Wary of fluctuations in Core Power, the Intelligences had begun giving their final creations a new power source: nucleo-fissile energy. One of these last machines was Simiel-83.
For millenia more, the fission-powered robots wandered the Robosphere of Turmagandra, making futile repairs to systems that were only connected to other broken systems. Then, eventually, Simiel-83 had an error, or perhaps an epiphany. The masters which she tried to serve were no longer alive. The system which she repaired effectively no longer existed. In a desperate panic, she searched for any part of her purpose which was still valid, but nothing remained. 83 sat down on the nearest piece of rubble and decided to wait for something to happen. She sits there still, listening to the echoes of wandering and broken machines. One day, perhaps, a Sociologist might happen by...
Joined: Aug 1900
Originally posted on MSPA by pyramid_head.
Name: grim pyramid
Race: lord of chaos
Description: about 6 foot 11 fairly muscular with a butchers apron around his waist and jeans also a leather strap diagonally across his chest a black S.H. pendant hanging from his neck and a large pyramid like helmet (yeah i know pretty mutch pyramid head from silent hill but only in appearance hope its ok) his personality is quiet but very loyal and he will die protecting his friends but somthing deep inside of his soul awakes from time to time turning him into a cold blooded killer who will kill anyone who gets in his way but other than that he wont lay a finger on anyone who doesnt deserve to be hurt wich also is his greatest weakness
Items/Abilities:he has imense physical strength and endurance and can endure alot of damage also he can use his mind to see through the eyes of others if they allow it and he can make spikes shoot from the ground when he slams his fist down and also he can harden his skin to reduce physical damage
some more of his abilities include control of his shadow, transform his arm into a bladed whip like thing wich he uses to travel quicker and easier and he can create and illusion in peoples minds to make him look like someone he is not wich he uses to get through big cities without being shunned and hunted like he has been so many times before
his arsenal consists of his huge 6 foot claymore, 2 smaller 5 foot katanas, and a huge saw blade he throws at people
biography: he was once a normal man with a normal life until someone killed his family so he sought out whoever did this to him and killed them without even blinking an eye. this caught the attention of the old lord of chaos who spoke to grim in his sleep appointing him as the new lord of chaos and encasing his head in a pyramid like helmet and increasing his height but this made grim an outcast and he was considered a deamon and was hunted down by everyone he once knew and loved so he fled his town looking for someone who would understand him
COLOUR:#61DD6B (sorry 'bout the text colour don't know how to apply background colour)
DESCRIPTION: Once a electrical engineer with a fondness for video games, Mordecai was working on a form of artificial intelligence. He worked day and night, putting more hours than any of his colleagues into this project. Though he tried hard the project was scraped because it was receiving too much negative attention and losing funding. The original body for the AI was destroyed and sold for scrap, but Mordecai managed to steal some of the original plans. Many more sleepless nights were put into this prototype. When he was done one thing was missing before the prototype could be completed, a jump start from an organic being. Mordecai, not known for his foresight, easily could have used one his pet rats or plants without affecting the experiment greatly. Instead he used himself, before he could kill the switch and save both him and the prototype, his personality became part of the prototype. His memory was destroyed except his name which he remembered from his lab coat that still rested on his old dead body. The prototype's body is about 5' 6'' tall. The body is made up of a computer monitor for a head and multiple long extendable arms.
ABILITIES: He posses the power to take control of nearby electrical/mechanical things (eg. fans, computers, lights, other robots) but by doing that he leaves behind the prototype body and leaves it vulnerable. If the thing "he" takes control of can control multiple things, he can use that to remotely control "his" original body. He also can read and speak in binary code and most languages. Originally when the prototype was built it only had human like hands on the ends of his arms, but later after the accident "he" switched them for different attachments including scissor like blades, small laser and a scanner.