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Elpie · 08-12-2012, 04:57 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

Deep in the farthest reaches of the multiverse—or the greater multiverse metropolitan area, though it may in fact be a different zip code from the multiverse per se—there lies a suburb. The charm of the neighborhood lies in the fact that it very evidently used to be very nice, and now has fallen into sufficient disrepair that the property value has hit a reasonable nadir. The windows are broken but not boarded, the dogs are stray but not rabid, the people are old but not dead.

Within this suburb there is a duplex. Its address is [a number inconceivable through mortal mathematics]. The resident of [a number inconceivable through mortal mathematics]-A is not pertinent to this story. The resident of [a number inconceivable through mortal mathematics]-B is a being of unimaginable power known only as the Coach.

[[So, this is a Grand Battle, a writing-focused roleplay for eight people (plus me, I guess) where anyone can enter any type of character (except a Hussnasty or anything else based on a licensed property). Long story short, you make a character profile using the sheet provided below, and if I like it, I’ll have the Coach (who is my character, sort of) drop your character into a battle to the death, and then you write for them. Easy as that.]]

The Coach—you can see him now, walking out to his mailbox in a bathrobe—doesn’t look like much. He’s balding, middle-aged, a tad overweight, and keeps looking around like he thinks everyone else in the neighborhood somehow knows that he plans on starting drinking at eleven A.M. this morning. You can’t blame the Coach. His physical manifestation to mortal eyes is a product of his emotional state, and he’s been going through some rough times (haven’t we all?)

The coach discovers with mixed feelings that he has received no mail this morning. He picks up the local newspaper and scans it over as he waddles back to the door. The news is nothing that the Coach, both cynical and prescient, doesn’t know already. Obituaries. Crime. Social and moral deterioration. Climate change at the multiversal level. The word jumble for today reads YENPORT, YEVPORT, and RISPADE. “Rich Richer, Poor Poorer.” He takes it all in at a glance, then flips to the job listings.

MODELS NEEDED: We need women ages 18-29 to pretend to be very excited about laundry detergent. Openness to tasteful nudes a must. $500 cash.

The Council Of First Contact Ambassadors wants YOU! to participate in a high-risk joint business venture on the sunny isle of New Frontier! In the interest of fairness, we regret that we will not be accepting applications from omnipotent immortals.

THE REALTOR is looking for skilled interns to help convert a former orphanage/schoolhouse into a luxury condiminium! We are authorized to offer college credit and living wages only. Exposure to lead paint a possibility.

“Nothing,” grumbles the Coach out loud, using his complete and total mastery over spacetime to banish the newspaper into the void. In truth, he is already resigned to his fate. Even if there had been something, there was no way it would be enough to give him the three hundred thousand dollars he needs!

[[The focus of a Grand Battle is writing and collaboration. “Writing” means you won’t be operating under any specific set of rules other than what the story demands. Whenever you think it’s your turn to write, you can make a post ranging anywhere from, say, thirty-two to nine thousand words (probably somewhere logarithmically in the middle there) that tells the next part of the story.

“Collaboration” means that, while you’re ultimately responsible for your own character, you’ll be writing for everyone else’s character, too. Even though this is nominally a competition, your success is largely measured by your ability to cooperate

When I feel like the story’s heading towards some sort of climax, I’ll privately take opinions on whose writing has been the worst or has improved the least or who’s contributed the least to the story. That writer then has to write one final “deathpost” killing off their character and wrapping up the story for that round, and then I’ll shuffle off the characters to a different setting and the new round will begin. The battle ends when one character remains.]]

The Coach reenters his duplex and, engrossed in his thoughts, nearly sits on the orphan child who has taken a seat in his armchair. “Hey, watch it!” complains the child, scrappily.

The Coach gives something between a shriek of alarm and an exasperated moan and considers this new arrival, at the same time surreptitiously teleporting the various open liquor containers strewn about his living room into the recycling bin. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says finally. The Coach avoids eye contact. He doesn’t want to face this boy, this orphan child who had once depended on him, a living testament to his failure. Instead he finds himself examining the kid’s tattered rags, the three-day buildup of dirt on his face, the hungry look in his ribs. “How’d you get in here?” he demands when the child makes no response to his earlier declaration.

The boy giggles. “Haha! Silly Coach. Walls can’t stop us.”

Seven other orphans appear—some melting through the wall, others crashing through it headfirst, some simply teleporting into being. The Coach’s heart swells with pride and regret. These are—were—among his favorite students. In his hubris, he has taken to thinking of them as the children he could never have.

“What are you kids doing here?” he asks grimly, repairing the wall with a mere thought.

“It’s time for class, Coach!” says one child, a girl no more than five years old.

The Coach shakes his head. “Don’t you kids understand? There is no ‘class’ anymore. Not unless I can somehow get together the three hundred thousand dollars I need to buy the orphanage back from the Realtor!”

[[A couple things to take note of:

The general etiquette in a Grand Battle is to announce your intention to write a post with a post simply saying, “RESERVE,” immediately before you start writing, or maybe slightly after. This prevents everyone from writing over each other. You’re expected to honor other people’s reserves—if a reserve is up for a problematically long time and the writer is showing no signs of progress on the post, talk to me, and I might give you the go-ahead to post.

The IRC channel #grandbattle on irc.esper.net (the same server as #pesterchum or #mspafa or what have you) is usually pretty active and full of nerds who spend all day critiquing profiles or planning out future events in battles. It’s generally the best way to keep in contact with your fellow writers, but private messages on the fora also work.

In my experience with these sorts of things, there are two sorts of rounds that cause problems and slow up the battle. Sometimes you’ll get a round that drags on too long and is punctuated by infrequent posts basically to the effect of “the characters talked about stuff while walking towards a vague destination or just sitting around waiting for something to happen.” Keep in mind that if you write a post that ends with everything exactly the same as it started, you’re not really doing your job as a collaborator, even if you’re writing really well. Even if you’re stuck in a rut where you’re not in a position to write a plot-heavy post, make sure to include some sort of inciting incident at the end—have the characters meet up with someone else, arrive at their destination, pull out a gun and start indiscriminately shooting each other, whatever it takes to give some sort of narrative momentum.

On the other side of the coin, you get posts where everyone has lots of ideas, but the ideas that don’t really connect, and the story becomes too complicated for the writers to wrap up coherently. Sometimes the problem is overambition. You want to let everyone introduce all the concepts they think are best, but about halfway through a round, it’s best to stop introducing new things and start boiling what you have down into one or two central conflicts. You might have to leave a fun idea or two by the wayside, but it’s worth it for a better opportunity to set up for a climax and eventually move on to the next round.]]

”We can’t give up now, Coach!” insists one of the orphans. “We had a great idea for how we can get that money!”

“Now, kids, I appreciate your attitude,” sighs the Coach, “But money doesn’t grow on trees.” To demonstrate, the Coach waves his arm and a tree begins to grow in the middle of his living room. There is clearly no money growing on it, just some apples. He dispels the tree. “And even if it did, you’d need a whole orchard.”

“You are a fool to underestimate us, Coach,” intones an adorable little girl. “You need to see this awesome show first!”

The girl pulls a VHS tape out of the deepest reaches of the abyss. It is labeled “LAST THING STANDING—ROUND ONE.” She ejects a tape labeled “THE BIG GAME” from the Coach’s VCR, puts in LAST THING STANDING and hits play.

The TV blares to life. A garishly-dressed Announcer is addressing the camera. Eight strange beings are visible over his shoulder. ”WELCOME BACK TO LAST THING STANDING! WE’VE JUST TALLIED THE VOTE FOR THE FINAL EIGHT,” the Announcer shouts at the screen.

“It’s easy,” explains an orphan. “All we need is a camera, eight gladiators with unique skills from across the multiverse, and somewhere to put them. This guy threw this together in, like, two weeks and it’s already made, like, eleven billion hundred dollars. I was thinking we could call ours the Three Hundred Thousand Dollar FIGHT-A-THON.”

The Coach sits and stares at the screen. “This might actually work,” he exclaims. “You kids are geniuses!”

“Technically the term is ‘limited omniscience,’” corrects one orphan.

“Alright.” The Coach takes a deep breath. “Alright. We need to work fast. I need each of you kids to go out amongst all of Creation and find one contestant apiece, okay? I’ll work on the set.” The kids oblige, warping and smashing and skateboarding their way out of the duplex the same way they came in.

The Coach holds back a tear. “I’m so proud of you kids,” he sniffs.

Signup Sheet:

Username: Literally your username. I know, it’s right there to the left, but having it repeated on the profile is useful for administrative purposes or tradition or something.
Name: Your character’s name.
Species: Or “Race,” if your character is biologically compatible with what we would consider a human but still distinct enough that you need another term for it.
Gender: Not “Sex,” so if your character doesn’t have all the girl parts but you’re still going to be referring to her as “her” in your posts, you can just say “female.”
Color: The idea is that every character has a unique text color so as to highlight the parts of various posts that pertain to various characters. Plus, it’s pretty. The Coach’s is Darkblue, so don’t take anything too close to that.

Description: One of the meatier sections. This is mostly a physical description, but it also helps to write a bit on your character’s personality and motives—enough to serve as a reference to other writers who plan on using your character.

Equipment/Abilities: Don’t worry too much about being over- or under-powered. If you have to jump through narrative hoops to provide a challenge for your character, that’s a problem. If you have to jump through narrative hoops for your character to do anything useful, that’s a problem. But in the middle there, there’s a lot of wiggle room.

Backstory: A lot of people try to use this section as a sort of “writing sample” and write out this whole extended biography to try and impress the host. I’d rather you didn’t. Just give any information the other writers will need to know in order to write your character.

Signups will close on midnight EST on the night of Friday, August 24th. If you've never been in a Grand Battle before, you're basically guaranteed to get in, so don't be shy. The battle proper will begin shortly thereafter.

The Line-Up:

Eberron—Ironjaw—#P1914? Profile
Flummox— Felus—#7676C8—Profile
~ATH—Warden of the Sixth Ring—#100020—Profile
Hobbesy—Dr. Franz von Schuster—#6D1C05—Profile
Linkzeldi—Thize—#FF33FF—Profile DEAD
Pharmacy—Guillemet—#02FFFF on #004080—Profile
SeventeenthSquid—Eriz Col-Myel—#566799—Profile
Thunderjolt—Axys—#336600—Profile COLLATERAL
SRA--Cockfighter Brawlmite--#800080--Profile

Dragon Fogel · 08-12-2012, 04:59 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

Username: Dragon Fogel
Name: Damse
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Text Color: A nice olive green, or #556B2F

Biography:

Damse was the most beautiful woman in the world and also the strongest. Suitors came from all over the land to the kingdom of Tress just to catch a glimpse of her beauty and they generally got a good smack in the face as a bonus.

Eventually, Manelaus the Manly came to Tress and sought to win Damse's heart. He failed, but the fact that he was goddamn rich won Damse's father over and the patriarchial system took care of the rest. And so they were to be wed in the unlikely event that Damse didn't flatten him first.

But it was not to be. And not for Damse's intervention, sadly. For the wicked and handsome Prince Detroit, driven by Damse's beauty, told her many stories of his wonderful city in between pleadings not to be hit in the face. And she thought it sounded perfect, mostly for the fact that it had very high walls to keep people out, and so she left with him. But only because he was the only one who knew the way. Otherwise she would have just knocked him out and taken his ship.

Manelaus was angered by the theft of his bride-to-be, and gathered an army of the bravest warriors to take the city of Troit and reclaim Damse. Not that anyone ever asked her if that was what she wanted. They fought their way to the city gates, but could not force them opened. Then one among their number, Smartius the Cunning, came up with a plan: building a hollow wooden horse and hiding their soldiers inside it. They built the horse, and then Damse, now as tired of Troit and its prince as she had been of Tress and her husband-to-be, smashed down the doors and started fighting her way through Manelaus' army, humiliating such legendary warriors as Mightius the Mighty, Swiftius the Swift, and Glassjaw the Invincible. Not to mention her fiance Manelaus. After that, she grabbed Sailus the Sailor by the throat and demanded he sail her far away from either kingdom, and from there embarked on a series of exciting journeys.

Narra the Storyteller scowled as she read through her book. "Pran!" she shouted at her husband. "Have you been interfering with my stories again?"
Pran the Trickster simply smiled.
"All I did was make her the strongest woman in the world," he replied. "The rest was the book writing in itself as the story unfolded."
"You've ruined everything!" Narra shouted. "This story was going to be my masterpiece! And it was going to lead into so many others! But now instead of a sixteen-year journey home, Smartius just sits on the shores of Troit for a while nursing his wounds, and then goes home to have his wife yell at him."
"That sounds like quite a time-saver," Pran replied.
"Shut up! Look, now Damse is ruining everything. She frightened King Truthus with a warning to respect pedestrians when he tried to run her off the road."
"That seems like sound advice to me," Pran said with a grin.
"But now when he comes across his estranged son Oectipus, he'll just let him pass instead of provoking him to murder! And then Oectipus won't go on to marry his own mother and then gouge out his own eyes! And that's just the start of all the problems Damse's caused!"
"I don't see what you're so upset about, my dear," Pran replied. "I think it's more interesting this way."
Narra was unimpressed.
"Do you even realize what you've done?"
"I just gave her incredible strength," he said calmly. "What she did with it was up to her."
Narra glared at her husband for three whole minutes, then sighed.
"Much as I hate to admit you're right," she grumbled. "This is Damse's fault. And that means she has to be punished."
The Storyteller opened up her book, and groaned.
"Oh, come on! Now she's broken Mightius' back just as I was about to send him on his seven labors! The nerve of that girl! How dare she harm that man before I can inflict my punishment on him!"
Pran looked confused.
"Wait. I thought you liked him?"
"No, I hate him until he completes the impossible tasks I set before him, then I have a change of heart and treat him as my own son. But there's no way I can do that to him with those wounds! Curse you, Damse!"
There was a thunderclap.
"Ah... did you just literally curse her?"
"Oh!" Narra said, excitedly. "No, I didn't, but now that you mention it, that's a good idea." She snapped her fingers, and Damse appeared before them.
"Oh, gods," Damse groaned.
"That's right! I am the Goddess Narra, the Storyteller!" Narra shouted. "And you have angered me, Damse the Beautiful. I gave you the gift of ultimate beauty..."
"...which I never asked for..." Damse muttered, rolling her eyes.
"...and instead of simply being kidnapped and fought over and then rescued, you had to go and defeat everyone on both sides of the war! Do you realize what that's done to all the stories I had planned?"
Damse shrugged.
"So what? They were all jerks. What else was I going to do? I mean, I was strong enough to take them."
"That was my gift, by the way," Pran whispered to her. "You're welcome."
"You stay out of this, Pran!" Narra shouted. "You've caused enough trouble!" She directed her glare back at Damse. "Now, as for you. Since you've disrupted my stories so much, I think I'll take that power away from you."
Narra started writing in her book.

And so Narra placed Damse, the strongest and most beautiful woman in the world, under a curse. If she tried to change a story by force, her strength would leave her.

Narra paused.
"Oh, dash it. I need to have a condition for ending the curse. It's not a proper story without that!" She thought hard, and then smiled. "Oh, wait! I know the perfect one."

As Damse had prevented Mightius from even starting his Seven Labors, she was to take on the impossible tasks herself. If she could complete the tasks, then she would be free.

"There!" Narra said, satisfied. Damse and Pran looked puzzled.
"So what exactly did you do?" Damse asked. Narra sighed, and read back what she had just written. Damse shrugged in response.
"Well, all right then. What's the first of these impossible labors?"
Narra was dumbstruck. She hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Give me a moment while I look them up," she lied. She buried her face in the book as she tried to think something up. And then a passage began to write itself.

And so the Coach sent the children out into the multiverse to find contestants. Eight fighters were chosen, taken them from their own worlds, and brought back to the Coach. They were to be entered in the battle to the death known as the $300,000 Fight-A-Thon.
One of these eight combatants was Damse, the strongest and most beautiful woman of her world...

Narra looked up. Damse was gone.
"Oh. I suppose it doesn't particularly matter now." She put the book back. "Well, that's gone and worked itself out nicely, hasn't it?"
"If you say so, dear," Pran replied noncommitally.
"Good, good. I do believe I'll go for a walk and see how my other stories are doing without her getting in the way."
Pran didn't say a word as the Storyteller walked out, leaving her book behind.
Once she was gone, Pran picked up the book and started flipping through it.

Round One:

Description: The first thing anyone notices about Damse is how stunningly beautiful she is. The second thing they notice is generally how angry she gets when they tell her this.

Damse has short blond hair, and wears a white chiton and sandals. She also has a fairly muscular build for a woman, but not to excess. She's about six feet tall.

Damse is quick to anger when someone is hitting on her, but she's generally pretty calm otherwise. She's also rather bitter about Narra's curse keeping her violent urges in check most of the time; as a result, if she gets an opportunity to actually fight someone or something, she'll probably make the most of it.

Abilities: Damse has incredible strength and beauty, and is a skilled fighter. Unfortunately, her strength is rather constrained by the fact that she can't use it to defy the "story"; what this means will vary from round to round, though it's pretty much a constant that she won't be allowed to fight back if she's kidnapped.

In addition, if Damse were to complete the Seven Labors set for her, then she would be lifted of her curse and able to act freely. Of course, as the Labors would all be from her world, this is clearly not going to be a factor in the battle at all.

Solaris · 08-12-2012, 05:06 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

Username: Champion Steve Allstar
Name: THE DRIVE (Formerly known as Dylan Houle)
Gender: MAN
Species: PRO WRESTLER
Color: #BF0000
Description: THE DRIVE has a blonde mullet, shades, and an absolutely RIPPED bod. He's shirtless, showin off his multiple tattoos, ranging from a dragon holding a dinosaur in a choke-hold to a bright white, "TUBULAR". He's got some blazing red spandex with stripes and flames (they make him go faster) and black shoes. In a word, he ROCKS. Some people think that he's out of style, spouting dead catch phrases and outdated idiosyncrasies, like speaking in third person. Sure, the kind of things he does are the kind of reminiscent of a time long past but he still has got the warrior spirit, and the ability to show it off. He's always ready and willing to FIGHT in the RING, only to him, the RING is anywhere. He's currently got it out for modern culture, and if you so much as mention an X-Box he will throw down right then and there. He'll probably make a show of it too.

Equipment/Abilities: As a Professional Wrestler, THE DRIVE has the usual strength and technique needed to both wrestle and to act like he does (though he's a bit rusty on the latter). He's a master at improvised weaponry, if he can carry it, he can fight with it. In fact, if you can name a "power" that wrestlers have, then it is very likely that he has it. Some even say that he has a field that surrounds him, one that seems to take any encouragement or positive re-enforcement and converts it in pure physical prowess.

He's also got a boombox that always appears at the start of each round to play some rocking tunes. And I mean always.

Backstory: Dylan "The Drive" Houle was once a regular wrestler. You know how it is, face heel turns, fighting the undead, super star match ups, rivals fighting together to face a greater evil, all of that stuff. His career took a turn one October night, when his opponent, Sanzo El Grieva, accidentally wrecked his brain with a ladder, giving Dylan a nasty concussion and hospitalizing him for some time.

Sanzo would later find out that he essentially killed Dylan Houle. When he woke up in the hospital, the first words out of his mouth weren't a "what happened", or a "how long have I been out", but a growl as he announced to no one in particular that "Sanzo El Grieva is gunna get some of this and some of this, when I see him again!" No one in the hospital had ever seen apologetic "Get Well Soon" flowers used so... violently.

No one really knew what caused The Drive's reality shift, obviously the brain damage was what led him to his delusions, but it seemed to be a bit more profound than that. He didn't just think that all of the ridiculous wrestling scripts were real, and that he really did have the appropriate powers, he actually did! Some say that the ladder that he was hit with was possessed by the spirit of wrestling, others say that Sanzo El Grieva caused it with his Hispanic voodoo, and some others believe that it was something that Dylan Houle was always capable of...

Obviously with all of the rumors and stories going around about the injured wrestler, there wasn't any way that The Wrestling Federation was just going to count THE DRIVE out. THE DRIVE's matches were some of the most watched in tWF history, with THE DRIVE, doing all kinds of unprecedented stunts, such as entering the ring by driving a monster truck from underground and holding Bill Gates hostage. As the world, and more importantly, the world of wrestling changed, he moved from ring to ring, company to company, but his spirit never changed. It was thought that he would be a staple of professional wrestling forever, until he suddenly disappeared...

SpoilerShow

MaxieSatan · 08-12-2012, 05:09 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.

Username: MrGuy
Name: Nathan Parker, "The Gipsy"
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Color: #9C661F

Description: Nathan Parker is a somewhat thin man with a farmer's tan. He has a mess of blond hair hastily packed into a brown Stetson hat. He wears a brown jacket, gray boots, and an unobtrusive belt.

Nathan tries his best to be friendly and pleasant, but in the weeks leading up to the battle he has become increasingly uncomfortable and paranoid. He considers himself extremely indebted to his deck of cards, and draws a few whenever he's unsure what his next course of action should be.

Equipment/Abilities: A revolver and eleven bullets, a knife, and a deck of tarot cards.

Backstory: Nathan Parker, a young farmhand, finds a man lynched in the middle of the desert, a deck of cards at his feet; five of them, placed on the ground, show the story of his life, ending with the farmhand himself picking up the deck. Confused and a bit scared, but also curious, he takes them.

Years later, Nathan hears that [i]Los Siete

Gatr · 08-12-2012, 05:54 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH.

Username: Garuru
Name: Warden of the 6th Ring, or Warden for short.
Race: Demonic Clock
Gender: None (male pronouns)
Color: #100200

Biography: ... tick tock tick tock tick tock CLANG tick tock tick tock CRASH tick tock tick AAAAtockAAAHHtickHHHHhhhhtock tick tock...

An ancient light bulb lit up, indicating the end of another flawless torture session. The sinner was swiftly brought back to his quarters, the blood was cleaned up, and the next sinner was brought in, without even a second's delay. The special nature of this sinner required an extended session, so Warden made the adjustments to himself. Cogs whirred in reverse, his face detached, and was attached to a larger cog. He rotated once, smoothly, and was satisfied with his maintenance. The delay was made up for by his clockwork servants, who were busily strapping in the victim. A ring echoed across the infernal mausoleum, followed immediately by the shrieking and squalling of the sinner, kept in time by the rhythmatic ticking. No time was wasted. None at all.

The sinners kept coming in and out, until it got to the point where even he needed a rest, for some upkeep. The fires dimmed, indicating nighttime for all. Only one hour was alloted, and each prisoner's shackles were firmly tightened. Following routine inspections, he retreated back to his room, where he busily started writing up files on each of the sinners and how their sessions went. His appendages were working at maximum efficiency, but then again, they always were. He only had 13 minutes to document 860 prisoners, but this was easily covered for by having each arm do 25% of each paper, allowing an efficiency rate of 98%.

Following this, he quickly zoomed back to the maintenance room, where he finally allowed his ceaseless ticking a rest. An alternate clock was set up to continue ticking even after he loses consciousness. Clockwork imps busily rushed in, oiled his mechanisms, adjusted what needed to be, and polished his frightening face. While his body rested, he allowed his thoughts to wander.

The flow of sinners has dropped down an alarming 10% in the last month. Efficiency ratings of other demon lords have dropped at least 15%. Clerical errors are up 5%.

A nagging sense of something wrong disturbed him. It was an organic feeling. Gradually, his long-repressed organic side simmered up, and blurred his mathematical thinking.

Something is going on in Inferno. All these statistics can't be right. Furthermore, that woman I punished seemed totally innocent. Could my orders be wrong? Could... Lucifer be wrong?

A jolt shook his entire system, as he realized what he was thinking. He was a blasphemer! If Lucifer ever found out, he would be punished! Quickly, he attempted to regress his organic thoughts, and think only of mathematics and efficiency.

To compensate for lack of sinners, session time can be extended by 45 seconds. Maintenance time can be extended by 5 minutes, to further repair self's body from the increased workload.

The bell rang, and his body automatically resumed work.

Description: He is a clock, yes, but in the loosest sense of the word. What he actually looks like is a floating mechanical conglomeration of thousands of cogs and gears, with one gigantic gear serving as a face. This gear has a skull design, and at its chin is an arrow that indicates the current time. His mechanisms are constantly moving to a specific tick-tock. He is very well-oiled, and his face has been polished to the maximum amount of frightfulness. At the moment, he has four claw-like hands that are connected by more cogs.

He used to be an ordinary demon lord, with a name and a fiery temper. He would be the first in a wave of modernization that Lucifer brought about. In this wave, his soul was placed inside of a clock, and his memory was erased. His personality was mostly erased, but not his sentience. Lucifer wanted him to be capable of making decisions for himself. However, sentience and personality are not so easily separated. His personality still exists, though it is oppressed out of fear of what Lucifer would do to him if he broke character.

Warden's personality appears a bit straightforward, due to him being a robot, but he does have a sentience that comes with being a demon. He rarely ever explores his sentience, but whenever he did, he found his performance decreasing. Thus, Lucifer took note, and made sure that he was recalibrated for maximum efficiency. Naturally, nothing was wrong with him to begin with, but he did place efficiency above everything else. He neither relishes in nor abhors torturing sinners. It is simply a job, one that he takes very seriously.

He is intelligent and calculating, always running through a plan over and over before actually instigating it. He is rather careful, but not in a way that would compromise his work. His one flaw may be that he has never had to deal with things going wrong before, so he might take that sort of incident terribly.

Items/Abilities: Warden has the ability of unerringly keeping track of time. He can also read an entity's individual resonance in the flow of time, which simply means seeing the target's entire lifespan, in terms of time. So, he can see exactly when a person was born, when they died, if applicable, and other notable events. Much like looking at a timeline. If he was ever inclined to, he could possibly use his demonic powers to mess up their resonance, slowing down time or speeding it up for them. However, it badly disrupts efficiency when people have different flows of time, so he will not resort to such measures unless he was desperate.

Unfortunately, he did not carry any of his torture instruments with him, but with his intellect, he is capable of turning nearly any situation into the most torturous one possible. He will only torture those who deserve it, but he might exaggerate upon whether a person is truly deserving of eternal torment.

**Schazer** · 08-13-2012, 11:14 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

Username: Sqazer
Name: Evan Errata
Species: Her great-great-grandfather on her dad's dad's dad's side was a god, but she's otherwise human.
Gender: Female
Color: Afterparty-Afterthoughty Ash-Azure Du Jour

Description: Madame Errata is five-and-quarter feet of robustly built and gracefully weathered low-fantasy-world Romani equivalent. Her face doesn't reveal anything specific in her mongrel heritage, having a complexion closer to old leather boots than any of the races of Erph specific. Wispy white hair, most of which stays tucked under a swarthe of headscarves, regularscarves, and blankets. Having lived to see through several generations of commoners, she's commonly regarded as a folk figure - essentially ageless. In reality, she's somewhere in her seventies - which is basically the same thing, to someone who can't read and half their siblings died of diseases before they could walk. She dodders along on a cane when she's not sitting at the reins of her wagon, though it's questionable whether that's for need or for image. She can smoke out a cathedral, drink you under the table, and remembers so many stories about the days of yore in the places of yonder, that they could've walked from yonder to here since the yore before she's done telling them all. Madame Errata's got as much patience as a businesswoman needs for idiots and overtly personable strangers. She likes animals and children though, and has often looked after one for a stint when they turn up for no good reason.

Equipment/Abilities: Madame Errata has a wagon, hitched to a big hairy lunk of a quadruped with whiskers where its eyes should be and a beak like a turtle. The lunk is called Planchet, resembles a cow-sized bear in shape and size, and is deaf to anything but Madame Errata's voice. He eats garbage, gains extra energy through photosynthesis, and has a saddle on his head. The wagon has "Evan Errata's Travelling Wares" written on the side in deft, cursive brush-strokes; the "Evan" has a piece of paper pinned neatly over it with "Mdme." written on it. The wagon's contents vary from season to season, depending on where Madame Errata is travelling to and from, but are invariably well-stocked with tea, tobacco, dried meat, pots, pans, rope, cloth, spices, non-perishable foods, semi-perishable foods, some sort of live animal or three, and all sorts of other things you can sell to people.

The wagon also carries a large trunk, usually hidden under some sacking. The trunk is a conduit for the last vestiges of her great-great-grandfather's divine abilities - put simply, things turn up in it.

The trunk's contents are the bulk of what keeps her in business, but she's also a rather good storyteller. She doesn't actually need her cane to walk on; it's just useful to have on hand as a very nasty blunt weapon.

Backstory: Once upon a five generations ago, the schemes of a god called Canis Days finally came to fruition. The specifics aren't important; the crux of it was that all the gods fell to earth in the guise of mortal men. (Except for Canis, god of Atrophy, who had been banished from the home of the gods to Erph around the time he'd first crafted his plans for revenge.) The gods, still able to access much of their divine power, tried to maintain normality - they found a mountain, got Lux Brumalis to level it, and all climbed to the top and decided who would lead the pantheon into this new dark age.

A formerly-inoffensive, affable and retiring god called Errata took the position. As the God of Things Which Are Lost and The Odd Places In Which Such Things Turn Up, he was oddly suited to lead the directionless gaggle of super-powered beings. He wasn't a very good leader, and he was an even worse leader of a research group, so the pantheon was forced to concede they'd be stuck this way until the end of their now-natural lifespans. Some of the gods refused to integrate into human society, and died alone up in mountainside caves. Others (like Lux) took it in the completely wrong direction, charged off raging and rampaging, and were cut down a fair amount sooner. Others (like Errata) insinuated themselves all right, but despite the constant sleeping around that came with vagrant lifestyles, all of them only had one child each.

Errata's son, like most everything else in Errata's life, just turned up one day. His mother had named him Evan, and Errata figured it a good a name as any. Evan Errata (The above Evan Errata's great-grandfather on her father's father's side) had been a vagrant much like Errata the god, making good money from people who wanted missing things un-missed. He didn't have his father's ability to find lost love, but Errata (the god) was nonetheless impressed. Still, he was head of the pantheon (if only in name), and Errata taught his only son the man called Evan the story of how he'd fallen to earth, with all the other gods. The two parted, and Evan Errata married far away from his homeland and had a single son. Errata the god set off on a journey that took the rest of his life, looking for the missing gods and their demigod progeny.

Evan Errata (the grandfather of Madame Errata), the hemidemigod whose father could find lost things, couldn't even do that - he could, however, look at an object and know if it was missing, and that was enough to make his way in the world as a reputable merchant (or at least one smart enough about stolen goods to not be considered disreputable). When his father died (a mere four months after his mother passed), Evan returned - two years later, as the migrations of his travelling salesman life allowed - to his father's house. He found the long-missing key to the demigod's chest, and found inside all manner of treasure from all over the globe thought lost forever. Evan Errata the Second should've died a rich man, but instead he died a made man, forgotten on a river's shore when he failed to cross a flood.

His wagon and the miraculous chest were found in time by another man - by divine fortune, by Evan Errata's estranged son. It's not as outlandish a chain of events as it sounds, for the descendants of a god of lost things. This Evan Errata hadn't known his father growing up, and clearly hadn't known his mother well enough either to miss her for too long when the wanderlust caught him. This man was Boris Boswell, a name he knew full well didn't suit a man of business like the likes of "Evan Errata". He took his father's name, his father's wagon, and the magical chest with the bones of his great-grandfather in a compartment at the base.

It wasn't until his daughter searched the depths of the chest he found out about that little shocker, though. The young Madame Errata, unlike the rest of her divine lineage, was born on the wagon and never showed any plans of leaving it. Things did grow strained between her and her father after her mother died, but she did (eventually) promise to have her father buried beside the only woman he needed.

Six years or so down the line, she did just that, then set off with the family wagon under her own tutelage. To keep the property-grubbing misogynist scoundrels of capital cities off her tail, she changed her name to something male enough on paper. Once she was old and wrinkly enough that everyone called her "Madame" anyway, it by and large became a moot point. Evan's been trotting around the continent since, making a very casual hobby of learning her great-great grandfather's deal. She's met a few divine grandchildren, with a range of rather diluted powers (the last she met was the great-grandson of Australis, God of the South - he could basically conjure a nice day wherever he went provided he didn't wander too far north), not that there's any interest beyond the academic - she's far too old to pass on whatever god-powers she's inherited to a hypothetical child.

GBCE · 08-13-2012, 07:48 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Flummox.

Username: Flummox

Name: Felus

Gender: Whatever he wants to be

Color: [color=#09E9EC8]#9E9EC8[/color]

Description: Felus is a cat of a magnificent shade of blue. His eyes are constantly alight with a green fire and constantly skewed into an expression of disdain. His legs, tail, and neck are about three times the length of a normal cat’s, but despite this he moves with extraordinary grace.

Felus is the former God of Cats. He has set out on a quest to free his people from the temptation of human domestication, but because he is no longer a god, cats are not required by divine law to follow him – but since he’s pretty charismatic, that is usually not a problem.

His power is based off of myths and legends. They say that he has infinitely sharp claws and teeth strong enough to bite through iron, that he can climb the sheerest surfaces, etc. While he had Godhood, all of these were true, but as his followers deserted him for the humans, the myths began to drop off and disappear.

He is a being of dignity, and he has his standards. Though he knows most of the human languages, he refuses to speak them unless it is absolutely necessary. His dogma is that it is far better to die than to become one with the humans – and he sees human interaction as a symbol of submission.

Biography:
“I demand an audience with Hominus,” Felus sat before the gigantic form of the Human God in his most regal pose and curled his tail around his legs.

Hominus’ toe began to undulate and flow, as a drop of water will, until it was vaguely the shape of a human female.

“He is busy attending to other things,” said the flesh, slowly developing fingers and toes. “I am his emissary. I will do.”

Felus bristled. “I have never been treated with such disrespect! I, Lord of Cats, demand an audience with Hominus himself!”

The emissary’s eye popped into existence. She seemed unperturbed by Felus’ outrage.

“What matters do you wish to discuss?”

“You can tell Hominus that he…”

He trailed off, distracted by the sudden appearance of hair on the emissary.

“He what?” she crossed her arms.

Felus drew himself up to his full height – not much, but very tall for a cat. “That he must stop appropriating my subjects!”

She shrugged. “It is our nature to domesticate animals.” Her arm grew spots and a miniature cow formed from her hand.

“The cow is ours,” she said. The uncannily replicated figure separated itself from her wrist and began to browse on the clouds.

“The dog is part of us as well.” The bovine swirled and flowed into a canine form.

“Soon you will be ours too.”

“No!” Felus’ eyes flared with a green fire as a swipe of his claw tore the emissary into a cloud of ash.

“Hominus!” he howled. Hominus’ ankle swelled and began to become a human form. Another emissary. He ripped it to shreds before it could sever itself from the body.

“Hominus!” He shredded emissaries left and right. “I demand to speak with you in person!”

Suddenly the emissaries stopped forming. A gigantic head rested its chin on the clouds before Felus.

“I am here,” he boomed, his voice speaking with the voices of thousands. The distant rumble of thunder could be heard from deep inside his throat.

“Stop this madness at once!” Felus clawed at the ground. Hominus chuckled.

“Already, you grow weak. Look at how tiny you are! Your followers are deserting you, Felus.”

“No! You assimilate them, you absorb them!”

“I play fair, Felus. I offer them food, water, security. The choice is their own.” Hominus was grinning.

“Tempter, then! Satan! Is that not what your own people would say?!”

“Humans have many religions. Though the truth is not among them, I can still draw from their legends. You, on the other hand, well.”

“Let my people go, bastard!” He stood up on his back legs, snarling.

“You’ll be mine, Felus, you’ll see.”

“The lions, the tigers, jaguars! Still they are free!”

“They are dying, Felus, and you know it.”

“They only die because you kill them! You will face the consequences!” He landed a strike on Hominus’ nose, leaving four red and bleeding slashes. Hominus reared up quickly, shouting, head lost to view far above. Felus turned tail to run.

“Come back here! You’ll pay for that!” He lunged, but Felus jumped aside, Hominus falling on his face. His bulk made the clouds shake and it began to rain on the world below.

“I go to rally my followers, rescue those who have been tempted!” He began to approach a hole in the clouds.

“You would forsake your godhood?” said Hominus, slowly standing up, seeing what Felus was doing.

“Anything but wait here for my doom! We’ll meet again, Hominus!” He leapt through the breach in the heavens, graceful as ever.

GBCE · 08-13-2012, 08:38 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

Username: Pharmacy

Name: Guillemet

Gender: Female (Yes, I know)

Race: Dragon

Colour: I’LL SHOW THEM! I’LL SHOW THEM ALL!

Description: If there was some bizarre evolutionary trend dealing with mythical lizardbeasts and pop-cultured scientists, Guillemet is a strong contender for being a missing link between the two, but who knows really. Science is never a clean field what with all the experimental variables and uncertainties. Like science, Guillemet's look is uncertain. She may be either a dragon with a human head or a human with a dragon's body. Hard to see which description is more accurate, but either one definitely has a pair of goggles hanging from the neck.

Despite her monstrous appearance and incredibly short temper (never a good combination), Guillemet is fairly cordial and warms up quickly to others, especially if they pertain to science. Her love for science transcends beyond mere eccentricity and extending into a full-blown lifestyle. She lives science. She breathes science. She even occasionally eats science (although that tends to be expensive). As a result, she has a vile fascination with taboos, a severe lack of manners (and personal space), and most of all, a propensity for experimentation - and not the legal or ethical kind. But hey, anything in the name of progress. Right?

Items/Abilities: Guillemet is a dragon. She can do many things her mythical brethren can do, namely exist, fly, and terrorize the local populace. Despite being only a lousy nine feet in height, she carries a ridiculous amount of scientific equipment around with her - so ridiculous in fact, she has absolutely no idea what is exactly in her inventory. Oh well, more fun that way, really.

Like others of her kind, she has a breath weapon. At will, she can spray a cone of what is essentially vaporized singularity. Any objects enveloped by this pseudoscientific mist will be enhanced, accelerating in efficiency and complexity until it is suddenly Too Good To Be Real and spontaneously gets destroyed - usually crumbling to junk, melting to acid, struck by lightning, or her favorite - simply just explodes. As much as she would very much like to do it forever, her breath weapon is very much limited by her endurance and other variables.

Guillemet is also a draconic polymath - specializing in physics, biology, chemistry, and so forth. Not only she is able to dig up scientific facts like one does trivia in a bar, she is also able to apply this knowledge to reality - although not necessarily for proper use, of course.

Biography: Dragons are a bit of an enigma considering they were served as merely antagonists and knowing more tends to ruin the mystique of things. However, these mighty creatures usually hang out in the gloomy caverns of possible death or castles pretentiously perched on cliffs so it was kind of an unpleasant surprise to the populace when a dragon decided to make a city her home.

Guillemet is born in some indeterminate place of superclustered urbanism.She is still fairly young, being equivalent to a teenager in human span. Like teenagers, she is antagonistic to the adults of her species - especially over certain customs. As established practice goes in draconic society, a citizen must go find an opponent and die by his hands. That is the rule of that world and always been ever since.

Obviously, she does not want that - that would only shackle her to the adult monotony of tradition. Plus, she would die - which is bad, of course. She has no idea how to go around avoiding her eventual demise, but she is very determined to avoid that fate no matter how much it takes.

GBCE · 08-16-2012, 09:23 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by ThunderJolt.

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.

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.

Backstory: 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.

GBCE · 08-17-2012, 11:24 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by eberron.

Username: Eberron
Name: Ironjaw
Sex: Male
Race: Human/Shark genetic hybrid
Color: [color=#P4914]#P4914[/color]

Description: Ironjaw is a human who genetics were mixed with shark DNA, causing him to develop a large muscle mass in his arms and legs as well as many shark features including a large tail, a dorsal fin and a very large, razor toothed lined mouth. He has been left bitter and rage filled towards other living creatures while holding normal humans with extreme hatred.

Items/Abilities: Ironjaw perfers the use of his muscles over anything involving technology. If a foe is proving to be strong enough to withstand his powerful punches, he will resort to using his massive jaw to rip apart his prey.

While he rarely uses it, Ironjaw does carry a plasma rifle he claimed off a lab guard who got in his way. He only resorts to using the rifle when facing someone who he either cannot punch out or eat.

Biography: Ironjaw's real name was long forgotten but he still remembers the day of his "birth". As a slave in his island nation, Ironjaw was among the many forced into a genetic experiment called for to create super soldiers for the nations many wars. Ironjaw could only watch as his fellow slaves were injected with various syrums, some dieing on the spot, others becoming true horrors as the DNA mixure combined poorly with the human DNA and still others becoming hybrids of man and animal.

Ironjaw's fear grew as he too was injected, then felt his fear turn to pure pain as the shark DNA bonded with his own and caused his body to rapidly sprout a tail and fin while widening his mouth to fit the dozens of new teeth he was growing. As the scientist moved in to attach a control collar to him, Ironjaw felt something beyond his pain and anger. He felt a sudden burst of intelect. The scientist, he realized, had failed to account for the shark natural intelect.

Thinking fast, Ironjaw bit off the scientist head and tossed the body into a nearby computer bank. The resulting explosion was enough for the remaining slaves and uncollared hybrid to rally under Ironjaw and overtake the lab. The ragtag group managed to hold the lab for nearly a week before the army, armed with the hybrid soldiers from other labs, stormed the building and captured or killed every rebel they found.

Except for one. When the main lab was finally reached, it was empty. Not a trace of Ironjaw could be found. He had simply disappered.

GBCE · 08-21-2012, 07:26 PM

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.

An important stage in Echo's military life was it's end. Echo was given a surprise mandatory psyche evaluation after an argument with his superiors over how his squad-mates remains would be de-constructed rather than honoured with burial or memorial services. During this Echo failed several stages, being diagnosed with PTSD, contempt for his fellow man, insubordination, racism against all humans and was marked down as being unfit for duty. Echo took this poorly to say the least. While there were safeguards in his bodies programming stopping him from defecting, turning against his fellow man or going AWOL Echo somehow managed to break out from a military base armed with enough oh his gear to last him through several skirmishes against dragons. As a result, his mind has suffered from the strain and suffers from a condition similar to a computer virus. His abilities are steadily decreasing while his mind slowly degrades. He has no knowledge of how to fix this or what it will steadily cause, but he chose to root out dragons before it became too late.

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: 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.

After escaping from the military he built a memorial from the remains of a dragon nest he destroyed years ago.
In their bones he carved the names of his fallen squad-mates, 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.

GBCE · 08-24-2012, 01:35 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by linkzeldi.

Signup Sheet:

Username: Linkzeldi
Name: Thize
Species: ABNORMAL HUMAN BEING, QUITE POSSIBLY A MUTANT, DEFINITELY NOT A TROLL, NO SERIOUSLY DON’T CALL HIM ONE OTHERWISE YOU’LL BE SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES.
Gender: MALE
Color: Bright. Ass. Pink.

Description:
Whose this douchebag?

Standing six foot even tall, on two legs which end in webbed feet, and a slender build, jagged in its edges, all topped off by a head wearing a messy haircut, with gills protruding from the sides of high sloped cheekbones, Thize casts a remarkable figure. Though most of these remarks would be considered derogatory towards him, as, for as alien as he looks, Thize is nothing more than a mutant human. Like in X Men. Except less cool because he doesn’t have two opposing forces constantly at war with each other at how to deal with the non-mutated most of the human population. The closest equivalent Thize has to that is a bunch of comic book nerds who walk by his beach front property occasionally and ask if he’s aquaman. Which he is not. Of course all of this tangent belongs more in backstory than a physical description of his appearance, but whoever is jotting this all down seems to be too lazy to organize her ideas into any recognizable form. Right, character description. Thize has the skin tone of a sunbather who has cooked all day in the sun, a light red nearly bordering on pink. In contrast, most of the clothing he wears is some form of blue and gold. He likes bold colors, because Thize himself is a bold person. You sort of have to be in his condition, otherwise those comic book nerds constantly taunting you to tease the whales would have gotten you down by now. But not Thize. He is completely one hundred percent confident in himself. And the reason he avoids pink like the plague despite the coloring of his skin has nothing to with any lost sense of self worth due to his mutations. None at all. Really he’s kind of a free spirit. He tries not to be bogged down by the day to day trappings and let the current carry him from place to place. Despite not being all that cool with his mutations, he takes a lot of life inspiration from fish and the like. He can be as vicious as a shark in one moment, and then as friendly as a dolphin, with an ego as massive as a whale to boot. (What do you mean only one of those was actually a fish?). He’s a bit loud too. Though that’s hardly fish inspired, because it is hard to be loud underwater, unless technically you’re a whale and you sing, but whales aren’t fish so that comparison won’t fly anymore. His hair is cobalt black, and because swimming all too often doesn’t leave time for proper haircare, especially with long hair, Thize is in constant combat with his own wild child hair to try to reap some dignity from his preferred style. A battle he is eternally destined to lose. Not that he will admit it. Thize is totally convinced his hair is cool, and not too long or stupidly styled in any way. His eyes are pink like his skin. His horns too, though those are more of a corally form of pink, than the bright red of his skin and eyes. He can’t really explain the horns either, one day he felt a bump in his head and then they grew there. But that’s more background detail, this is upfront character detail. Though small tidbits of his personality have been littered throughout this descrption, the most important thing to remember is, Thize is a jerk. He may be a likable jerk, an understandable jerk, a funny jerk at times even, but that never stops his jerkiness rating from crashing through the roof. He’s also stubborn to the point of stupidity. Some part of him, in the back of his mind sunk in a pool of denial knows that most of what he assumes is the universe actively trying to prove him wrong is just misfortune caused by his own actions. Not that he would ever admit this. He doesn’t admit a lot of things. He does like Fish Puns though. He would admit to that any time.

Equipment/Abilities: He can swim like a fish (Or mammal apparently if you want to drag dolphins into this comparison) and breathe in air or underwater, but unlike the aquaman he is so callously compared too, he can neither talk to whales, nor manipulate water in any form. He can however, create and manipulate the flight path of special bubbles he makes by… by… well he was never clear in the details during his interview with us, but it seems to be some type of science power that resulted in the wake of his mutation. These bubbles form in his hands, and sometimes he just blows them straight from his mouth. They’re as dense as he wants them to be, and fly around in the direction he wills as long as his hands are free. Just like that though, they are pretty harmless. You’d get a better effect throwing dodge balls at an opponent. The real trick is the stuff he hides in those bubbles. When the opponent is lucky, it’s just some form of cheap but flashy explosive, because man does this guy like to show off. The rest of the time he’ll pack a nasty surprise waiting for whoever is on the other end of the bubble when it pops. Which is most likely the opponent because once again, he can control where the bubbles go, though sometimes he hits himself with his own bubbles because, you know between you and me, not that bright of a guy.

Backstory:
During the interview, our fishy friend seemed, somewhat fidgety when tied to a chair and forced to stay put on dry land. Most would consider our methods a bit extreme, but Mr. Thize was the man who had called us out to his little swamp fortress thing in the first place, so he must have been prepared for anything from our hard hitting news crew. Also, he owns a swamp fortress, it was to put on a serious face all throughout without cracking up in laughs at the cliché of it all. The first thing to be noticed about Thize is his love for the water. If it isn’t his constant barraging of fish puns, it’s the way he seems on land. Just. Out of place. It’s the only good way of describing it. When asked where his love of the water first started, the mutant had this to reply.
“Love? It’s more like, a life. As a kid there was never much to do in the swamp front property my dad had secured because ‘It’s such a steal son, there will be no teenagers to bug us out in the middle of nowhere, and the land is perfect for the price we’re getting,’ he never did mention the price, but I assume it was abysmally low. We never had much money back then anyway. A nice house built on shoddy land must have been a godsend. So yeah, for somebody as great as me, stuck in the middle of a boring old lake, swamp, whatever, there was nowhere to go but the water. So I swam. A lot.”
“Isn’t your current condition a result of swimming too much in irradiated water”
“You know, most of the time, being too cool to get out of the water after the neighboring nuclear plant dumps a bunch of toxins in your lake would result in boring old cancer. I’m too awesome for that, so instead I just got a bunch of super powers. Like in the comic books, where messing with deadly chemicals sometimes results in things besides horrible mutations when you’re a main character.”
“So you consider yourself the main character.”
“Whose else is there really.”
“And a mutant.”
“Yes. You don’t know how many times I’ve been called an alien or an altantean. It’s really frigging annoying. Look I was just a normal kid who swam around in some funky chemicals, and then got turned into this. There’s nothing magical about it at all. Nothing fishy either.”
At that point, he was laughing so ferociously at his own pun, the newsteam decided to stop filming the interview for the preservation of everybody’s sanity. And also because that guy smelled like irradiated fish. Which is like normal fish stank, but worse.

Elpie · 08-24-2012, 02:40 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

Signups close in twenty-four hours, just FYI.

I love you all.

Stovie · 08-24-2012, 04:52 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Hobbesy.

Username: Hobbesy
Name: Dr. Schuster. Franz von Schuster.
Species: Human, of Tatarstian nationality. Family origin could best be traced to Germanic in origin.
Gender: Male
Color: COMMUNIST RED, or #6d1c05. I'm open to using other colors though if need be, as I have quite a pallete!

Description: Dr. Franz Von Schuster fights to defend the will of the people, and the right of the glorious Tatarstian Confederacy! He has been trained in the most advanced engineering sciences known to Tatarstia, and has dabbled extensively in finding better use of the vile xenos machinery left from the invaders during the Great Oppression. As with most Tatarstians, his resolve is that of steel, unwavering in the face of danger!

To be honest, though, the good doctor really isn't much to shake a stick at! Tatarstian engineers have a high casualty rate due to serving as tankoviks in the Tatarstian military arm. Due to this he is only 25 years of age. Like most of his comrades in arms, he has a thing for running into battle loudly swearing in Neo-Russian only to be sent back at the moment the enemy begins to return fire. On the bright side however, his trials in the hallways between reality have kept him fit in his absence from real space. His cowardly attributes served him well in hiding from the unspeakable horrors which roam the realm. The solitude and constant pressure to survive have taken a serious toll on the doctor's mind. While he hasn't exactly gone crazy yet, the horrors he has witnessed have led to him becoming desensitized to most unspeakable terrible secrets of space.

There was little need to eat in the void strangely, as time in it made no sense. What seemed to be an eternity while he was trapped in it could have in other realities been all of four hours. Because of this his build hasn't suffered much, and he remains a mostly average human. His height is around 5.8 feet, and his weight is around 160 pounds. His appearance concerning clothing is no different than most Tatarstian tankoviks. His torso is covered by a Laurel green military jacket, along with an undershirt underneath it. Around his neck a light cotton keffiyeh is being worn. His BDU pants are of a Steel blue color, and the military boots they tuck into are of course black.

Equipment/Abilities: In addition to his skills as an mechanical engineer, the doctor has a full compliment of handheld tools to work with which were taken with him to the void. These include a wrench, and a small plasma cutter! The only true weapon he has other than his hands is a standard issue Tatarstian revolver, which fires a 7.62 caliber round.

Backstory: Dr. Franz Von Schuster is a bit of an oddity when it comes to Tatarstians, which becomes immediately obvious the very moment you hear his name. Most Tatarstians would have a ridiculously Russian name such as Ivan Ivanovitch Ivanovsky. The line of lineage Dr. Schuster comes from, however, is one of the few who chose to become a part of the Tatarstian Confederacy to escape the terrible oppression of other governments in space! He excelled quickly in his young age, as most who choose to do, in his education to become what the Tatarstians refer to as an engineer. In reality being a Tatarstian engineer isn't much more than being a smarter conscript who knows how to drive a tank as well as fix it, but the doctor was a small step above the rest. He was able to demonstrate knowledge of reverse engineering alien technology. This gained him a high position in the engineering ranks, as the Tatarstians would frequently strap alien technology to their weapons in the name of science.

As fate would have, though, this would also be his undoing. While hitting a glowing alien machine with a wrench is normally a bad idea, it is usually a doubly bad idea to do so while you're the character of a story. Dr. Schuster found himself transported to a realm best described as a hallway between the realities of the multiverse. A breeding ground of horror, the hallway makes host to the most vile creatures to ever be birthed onto the astral plane, serving as their home until they decide to step through a door into reality. For what seemed like an eternity Dr. Schuster was forced to hide from these Eldritch beasts. That was until he was summoned for gladiatoral combat.

GBCE · 08-24-2012, 06:49 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SeventeenthSquid.

Username: SeventeenthSquid
Name: Eriz Col-Myel
Species: Human, though slight physiological changes are present due to centuries of gene conditioning.
Gender: Female.
Color: The color of her armor.

Description: Though one couldn't tell it by looking at her, Eriz is, in fact, a human. It is difficult to ascertain this at a first glance because she stands at 2.47 meters in height, weighs in at a hefty 773.24 kg and has six arms. Most of that, however, can be attributed to the enormous suit of masterfully-built power armor that she wears at all times. She is a member of the civilization known to other humans of the planet Orexies as a "Warrior;" in her native tongue, a Sauthai. To a Sauthai, one's armor is not merely a tool for war, it is an extension of their own being, a manifestation of the warrior's heart: to remove a Sauthai's armor and expose their face is the greatest dishonor one could ever inflict. The armor, Sauthorn, is removed only in private or in the presence of another Sauthai that one has sworn their life to in marriage.

Eriz's Sauthorn was built by her father, a master armorsmith known throughout all of Orexies for his skill at constructing the smoothest-running, most efficient powered armors of any of the Sauthai. He considers his daughter's suit to be his finest work; quite high praise, coming from the armorsmith responsible for the Curots Juggernaut's Sauthorn which could smash through a Jelian tank with a single punch or the legendary Black General's armor, famous for stopping a Kyretian railgun aimed straight for his heart. Eriz' Sauthorn is not as outwardly remarkable as those famous pieces of wargear but it is startlingly well-built; throughout its short four years of service it has never once needed more than routine maintenance. Its blued-steel exterior is engraved with countless minute carvings, some purely decorative such as the vines and flowers that wrap across her chest and some more meaningful like the family history that scrolls across her shoulders. Sauthai tradition dictates that one must paint and engrave new symbols on one's armor as achievements are earned; Eriz, at only 17 Orexien years of age (22.3 solar) has yet to add much to the original ornamentation other than the markings of an armorer's apprentice and two dispute bands, showing her victory in two honor-battles to settle minor disputes. Inside its chassis, however, hides one of the most interesting and important parts of the Sauthorn; its Kezi, or war spirit. A Kezi is a program designed to aid the user of the device it resides in; though common in vehicles and weapons, the most sophisticated Kezi by far reside in Sauthorn suits. Eriz's Kezi goes by the name Telt and is a particularly advanced Kezi, capable of approximately imitating a sentient personality while perfectly coordinating the systems in her Sauthorn.

The Sauthorn is roughly humanoid in appearance, having two arms emerging from its broad shoulders and standing on two clawed, piston-driven legs. Each of these limbs is far stronger than those of a human, able to lift heavy weights, strike with enormous force or propel Eriz across the ground or through the air at high speeds and heights. Four thinner, spidery, many-jointed limbs extend from her shoulders, giving her extra hands capable of reaching anywhere around her body for when her two large primary arms aren't maneuverable enough. Each ends in a modular socket, usually fitted with a multifingered insectile hand but often swapped for tools and other devices necessary for her armoring trade, which she was learning from her father. Racks along her upper back hold extra hands and tools as well as various sundry supplies necessary to work on Sauthorn armor, including her own. Her face is obscured by a large mirrored black dome, its surface made of an extremely durable transparent alloy. Behind it is her face, something that nobody save her own parents have ever seen. On the outer surface of the dome is a symbol that is essentially her "face" to other Sauthai; they recognize her at a glance by it. To a non-Sauthai, the symbol is essentially meaningless.

Eriz is, first and foremost, a Sauthai: she was raised to know that war comes first over all priorities. As such, she has trained extensively for combat since she was old enough to hold a weapon. Unfortunately, she was never particularly good at combat, much to her own shame. Though passably skilled and certainly far superior to an untrained combatant, most of her fellow students surpassed her easily and she was regularly beaten bloody in brutal Sauthai training fights. Instead, she preferred to study in her father's shop, sitting on his enormous shoulder as he worked on one of his many beautiful creations. She is a much better engineer than soldier, already matching the talents of many accomplished armorers even at such a young age. Though she has yet to construct a Sauthorn on her own from scratch, she assists her father in his shop and has rebuilt countless battle-damaged arms and legs, oftentimes even improving on their original design. Eriz is bright, quick to catch new concepts and has exceptional spacial awareness. She studies hard at her trade, seeking to live up to her father's legacy and to do her people honor by building the greatest machines she can. Her relative failure in combat, however, haunts her, driving her to work fanatically to improve her skills in other areas.

When Eriz fell through the rift in space, everything changed for her. Suddenly, everything she cared about was gone; her father, her home, her people. She faces her greatest challenge yet alone, terrified and unsupported on alien soil and surrounded by creatures she could barely even dream of.

Equipment/Abilities: Her Sauthorn gives her strength, speed and stamina far beyond what a normal human would be capable of. Its heavily armored exterior, built for combat, also provides a great deal of protection for her fragile body. She carries with her a full set of field tools, capable of repairing and maintaining her Sauthorn as well as possibly fabricating various simple devices from available raw materials. Telt's mainframe contains many blueprints and designs for various devices, some of which she could construct in the field. She also has a small laser weapon that can attach to one of her auxiliary arms, capable of emitting a laser that can, if held on a target, inflict severe burns and even melt through metal. Many of her tools could also double as weapons, such as her welding and cutting torches or hydraulic clamps. Her only other true weapon is the enormous warhammer she carries. It was given to her by her father along with her Sauthorn to mark her passage into adulthood, as all Sauthai carry a symbolic and ceremonial melee weapon for use in dispute battles with other Sauthai. Though not really intended for use in serious combat, it is nonetheless built within the Sauthai mindset: ready for war at any time. Its durable metal shaft can telescope between 1 and 2 meters in length, allowing her to wield it with one or two hands effectively and its huge brick-shaped alloy head is massively heavy to the point of making the hammer impossible for an unarmored human to wield. She is trained in its use, though she mainly just swings it in huge sweeping arcs until her target yields.

Backstory: Born to a master armorsmith and a career pilot, Eriz was raised on the Kaulhar Shelf, far from the majority of Sauthai civilization. She was only four years old when the Jelian Sixth Company breached the Sauthai war-host at Nexen's Folly and her hometown of Urim was blown to rubble by Jelian bombers. Her mother was killed flying a fighter at Nexen's Folly and her father fled the town hours before its destruction, holding a terrified little girl who cried for her mother. They moved farther from the border, away from the active fighting to the city of Nalahai. Here Eriz spent her childhood, before she recieved her Sauthorn. Sauthai children wear jumpsuits and masks at all times, ensuring their bodies remain covered until they stop growing and can be fitted for a Sauthorn. Though she often came out on the bottom of training fights, she excelled under her father's tutelage at armorsmithing, striving to some day match his skills. Her childhood passed without incident, and she was gifted with her magnificent Sauthorn at the age of 14. Afterwards, a full adult at last, she could officially become her father's apprentice and she spent her days locked in his shop studying and building with a near-mad intensity, desperate to prove to the people she felt she had dissapointed that she was worthy of being a Sauthai.

It is likely that she would have met or even surpassed her father's skill if given the time. Of course, fate had other plans. Shortly after her 17th birthday she was given her greatest honor: to construct a Sauthorn from scratch, just as her father had for so many decades. If she succeeded and the armor was up to Sauthai standards (which are ruthlessly high), she would become a full armorer. Her dream, it seemed, was finally within her reach.

Fate laughed in the face of her dreams.

On a walk outside the city, looking for inspiration in nature, Eriz came across something unlike anything she had ever seen. It seemed to shimmer and glow with an impossible radiance. It seemed to fold and twist in ways that shouldn't be possible. It was, she knew, an impossibility. Its impossible nature made it irresistible. She had to inspect it closer.

It pulled her through.

Granolaman · 08-25-2012, 01:46 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by granolaman.

Username: Granolaman

Name: Ch’k Thraa

Gender: Bug lady (not a ladybug)

Race: Some kind of grasshoppery mantis person

Color: Chitin brown

Description: For a seven foot arthropod she’s not bad looking. Bug eyes, antennae, tribal paint, mandibles that can somehow pronounce v and m sounds; you know, typical bug barbarian face. Her race has six limbs: four dexterous arms and two powerful legs. This sweet package is then all wrapped up in a tough chitin exoskeleton, and a leather weapons belt. Her only other discernible feature is a softly glowing rune on the back of her shoulder.

Ch’k Thraa herself is everything you could ask for in a light hearted barbarian. She enjoys the thrill of the fight and will eagerly throw herself into the fray. While maybe a little boastful, she maintains a policy of good sportsmanship in victory and probably defeat too if it ever occurred. She’s not the brightest torchbug in the jar, but her good heart and strong forward kick have earned her the respect and admiration of her tribe mates.

Equipment/Abilities: Ch’k Thraa is a natural hatched fighter, and the strongest of her brood. Her massive thighs can launch her into the air or kick a body through a wall depending on the situation. She can also get up to a pretty good speed if out in the open, though maneuverability leaves something to be desired. Her clawed appendages also grant her a limited amount of wall climbing.

She can fight with all four of her arms independently, but she prefers to wield her two heavy pronged spears either singularly or dual wielded.

Ch’k is also the recent recipient of a death curse. For the next twenty-four hours, fate has it out for her. Whether this curse manifests itself as bad-luck happenstance, or a slow crawl of small events and reactions culminating in one fatal swing depends on the environment. The constant round shift of the grand battle will disrupt the curse though, perhaps even enough for her to escape her demise.

Bio: For what it’s worth, Ch’k Thraa was a great politician. Sure, fighting rivals to the death in single combat is a poor excuse for a political system by anyone else’s standards (not violent enough!), but it’s what the barbarians had, and she was good at it. What’s more, everyone else knew she was good at it too. Good enough to inherit the tribe even.

By law, any warrior princess who seeks to claim the throne must pass the Hundred Spear Trial. One hundred victories must be won in one hundred duels before the challenger could offer herself to the tribe. Ch’k Thraa was only at ninety-six, but already the warriors were regarding her as queen in all but name.

Members of her queensbrood grew resentful. Her sisters were envious of her rising popularity and prowess, and plotted to remove her from their path to queendom. They could not match her strength in combat, nor could they hope to win the tribe’s love away from her, so their plots turned to assassination. Coin was exchanged, a sorcerer was summoned, and at the end of her ninety-seventh duel, Ch’k Thraa almost felt a warm pat on her back amongst her crowd of congratulators.

The curse was placed, and the conspirators watched with bated breath. A moment later their anticipation turned to confusion. Did they buy the wrong spell? Did someone foresee their plan? The crowd parted, but where Ch’k Thraa had been celebrating, only dirt and wind remained.

Ixcaliber · 08-25-2012, 09:12 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

Username: Ixcaliber
Name: Sparkklechix
Gender: Five females
Font colour: Pink (specifically #EC008C)
Species: Girl Band
Description: The chix are a fictionalised version of the popular girl band Sparkklechix. Their personalities and behaviour bares little resemblance to how their real life counterparts behave; their lives are a constant up-beat oversaccharine series of antics and wacky adventures as depicted in the Sparkklechix TV series, the Sparkklechix comics and coming soon Sparkklechix on Ice. They face many adversities upon an almost daily basis but they can make it through anything if they stick together.

Sara is the sexy one and is the most popular member of the band. She has long black hair and tends to wear low cut t-shirts and jeans. She is self-confident and as the de facto leader of the group she often helps sort out the problems of the other girls.

Mindy is the pretty one. She has long blonde hair that is usually done up in pigtails. She wears cute dresses, generally in pink and is quite shy around boys. She tends to get a crush on any boy that hangs around them for any length of time. She is something of a diva; she likes to have everything just how she likes and can throw a strop when things don't go to plan.

Zafira is the gothy one. She has short and spiky black hair, a peirced lip and eyebrow and a multitude of tattoo. She wears leather, spiked bracelets, stilettos, black chokers and always plenty of dark makeup. She has something of a prickly personality and is probably the most outwardly violent of the group. She is a bit of a rebel but ultimately she means well.

Debbie is the other one. Nobody really cares that much about her. Her hair is mousy brown, she wears glasses and a cardigan. She doesn't really fit in with the group and people often wonder how her real life counterpart made the cut. She is the most logical and intelligent of the group. Her insight into matters is more often than not ignored.

And last, but not least, except in the eyes of the other members, is Atasha. She's pretty much the token black chick and was forced upon the band by their management, in the series she is their cousin from exotic Penge. She has all the attitude and then some. She is very fashion conscious and sassy and she don't let nobody tell her what to do.

Abilities: Their reality is that of a childrens sitcom/musical. Once an episode they will burst into a song and everyone will know the moves and will join in with them. These tightly choreographed impromptu dance numbers have got them out of many a sticky situation. If they put their minds to it they can accomplish anything.

Biography: The girls have known each other since they were kids when they all went to school together. They always had all kinds of crazy adventures but it wasn't until their college days that they realised they had a gift for singing. They formed a band and in that moment a sensation was born.

Nowadays they share an apartment in Bridgend and get involved in all kinds of shenanigans. Though they constantly bicker and fall out, they always make up and time and time again they prove that together they can get through anything.

Once Debbie tried to introduce the chix to the internet. However the experience was sort of ruined when they found this creepy fanfic about being taken to be in a battle to the death. They all agree it was pretty absurd, people don't just get taken to be in battles to the death.

Elpie · 08-25-2012, 04:07 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

The storage unit was as large as the Coach could afford, and then the inside made larger than the outside by some strenuous remodeling, so that it was the size of a small warehouse. A single strip of fluorescent lighting illuminated the Coach himself, the eight orphans accompanying him, and their eight guests. The Coach sat his camcorder on a stool and took a quick note of the focus, then stood in front of it.

“Um... hello,” he said. “Welcome to the Three Hundred Thousand Dollar Fight-A-Thon. I’m the Coach. I run a home for troubled children here in town, and some of my kids and I—“

“Hi!” interjected one of the children.

“Shush, T.J.,” warned the Coach. “Your turn to talk comes later. Ahem. Some of my kids and I thought we could start up one of these battles as a fundraiser. So, for those of you watching at home... your donations are appreciated. Thank you. Now,” he said excitedly, turning back to the orphans, “Let’s give our viewers a taste of what they’re in for, okay? Time for show and tell.”

“Show and tell!” whooped the orphans.

“Ron, you’re first,” announced the Coach, picking up the camcorder.

Ron stepped in front of the camera, dragging his contestant by the ear. “My show-and-tell, um, thing today is called [color=#P1914]Ironjaw[/color],” he projected in what might be referred to as an “outdoor voice.” “Ironjaw is the coolest because he is both a shark and a human. He loves fighting. Thank you.”

The other orphans clapped as Ron departed the stage. “Thank you, Ron, that was very nice,” said the Coach. “Flo, you’re next.”

Flo, the littlest girl among all the orphans, hid out of sight of the camera and shook her head nervously.

“Awww, come on, Flo, don’t be shy,” encouraged the Coach.

Flo clamped her hands in front of her face.

The Coach walked over to the girl. “You know, I get nervous in public too, Flo.”

“You do?” whispered the girl.

“I sure do. And you know what I do to help me relax?”

Flo shook her head.

“I imagine the audince without skin.” The Coach explained. “Stripped of all lies and pretense. I imagine them as disgusting masses of meat, dying of shock and exposure.”

Flo giggled.

“You want to try it?”

Flo thought for a long while, then nodded.

“Okay, you go up there and show them who’s boss.”

Flo stepped in front of the camera holding a disgruntled-looking cat. “Hi,” she said. “This is Felus. ...He’s a kitty.” And then she ran offscreen.

“That was very good,” said the Coach, patting the girl on the head. “Gary, you wanna give it a try?”

Gary adjusted his glasses and walked in front of the camera. “This is Warden, of the Sixth Ring,” he declared in a smugly nasal drone. “He’s a demonic lord whose soul was placed inside a clock. Now he tortures bullies and criminals.”

“And nerds,” interrupted another orphan.

“Shut up, Calvin,” sneered Gary.

“Be nice, kids,” warned the Coach. “Just because we’re sending these contestants to their deaths doesn’t mean we have to be mean to each other, too. Gary, please continue.”

“I was done anyway,” sniffed Gary, storming offstage.

“Alright that’s fine, you did very well. Calvin, since you’re so chatty, why don’t you go next?”

“Why don’t I?” repeated the tallest orphan, a rough-looking kid in a baseball cap. He threw an ordinary-looking man in front of the camera. “I don’t know what this guy’s name is,” Calvin confessed proudly. “I found him in the hall.” He stuck his tongue out and ran away.

The Coach sighed. “We’ll talk later, Hogan. Linc, is your contestant ready?”

“Yep!” Linc rode in front of the camera on his signature skateboard, his contestant floating behind him submissively. “Hey, this is Thize,” he declared boldly. “He’s a mutant fish guy. Kinda like Ron’s mutant shark guy, but with bubble powers that make him better.”

“Nuh-uh!” shouted Ron.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out which one’s better during the fight, okay kids?” mediated the Coach.

“When am I gonna get to go?” demanded a girl.

“Well, how about now, Farrah?”

“That works!” Farrah led her contestant, a giant human-headed dragon, in front of the camera. “Okay, this is Guillemet. She’s better than all the other characters because she is a girl.”

“My character’s a girl too!” complained another girl.

“Yeah, but mine’s a dragon,” retorted Farrah.

“Mine isn’t a dragon,” confesssed the other.

“What have I said about interruptions, kids?” demanded the Coach. “Remember, a lot of people are going to see this, so you should be on your best behavior. T.J., you’re next.”

T.J. hopped on-stage accompanied by... something. “Hey hey hey everybody!” he yelled. “This is my contestant Axys! He’s, um, he’s a monkey lion humanoid-ish thing. He’s awesome. Look at him! Isn’t he the coolest?”

“A shark can beat a lion easy,” grumbled Ron.

“In the water, maybe,” T.J. stage-whispered in the other kid’s direction.

“Tina, you’re last,” barked the Coach impatiently. “Bring us home.”

“Okay.” Tina shoved T.J. aside and pointed towards a heavily armored woman. “This is Eriz,” she proclaimed. “And she can never die because nothing can get through her armor, not even a dragon. Or a shark. Or especially bubbles.”

“Your constestant can’t have armor!” complained Linc. “That’s cheating!”

Tina looked up at the coach nervously. “Is that cheating, Coach?”

“No, kids, armor isn’t cheating,” reassured the Coach.

“Really?” Linc clutched his skateboard angrily. “Man, I should have gotten a character with armor, then!”

“Okay, okay, settle down,” said the Coach. “That’s it for show-and-tell. Don’t you want to get this thing started?”

A general cheer of assent went out among the orphans.

“Alright, then, get all the battlers together.” The children set about tossing their semi-catatonic charges into a single area within the camera’s field of view. “Okay, contestants, are you listening? You eight have been specially chosen for this fight, so... you’re gonna want to start killing each other. Last person alive gets to go home, and might also get some money if we exceed our fundraising goal. Does that seem fair?”

None of the assembled freaks and oddities had anything to say to the contrary.

“Good! Now, for the time being, you’re gonna be fighting in this storage unit I rented out.” The Coach panned the camera around the bare walls of the room. “Technically I’m not supposed to keep anything alive in here, but hopefully by the time one of you dies I’ll have found a better venue. Until then, try not to make too much of a ruckus. And especially don’t leave the storage unit. Trust me, there’s nothing out there but more storage units, and we don’t want to be messing around with other people’s property, do we?” He chuckled nervously. “Okay, you’ll find yourselves regaining control of your bodies in a little bit. Have at it, and have fun.”

The Coach snapped a finger, and the battlers all floated to different coenrs of the storage unit. Then he and his orphans all held hands in a human chain and walked out of the storage unit, closing the door behind them. Within a few moments, the battlers came to their senses.

SpoilerShow

GBCE · 08-25-2012, 08:15 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

Earlier

The dragon struggled violently in the lattice of plastic and rope. Limbs thrashing, teeth snapping, and there was this unmistakable smell of ozone in the air. She screeched and swore unpleasantly – understandably upset about the lack of independent movement. Yet, despite her best efforts, she still could not break free.

The freakishly human head of the beast swung to her captor. She was captured by a little girl. A LITTLE GIRL with rosy cheeks, a nice smile and a dress. It was a strange dress. At a glance, it looked like tiny nondescript daisies but at closer inspection, they were moving Mandelbrots. They were hypnotizing, like her adorableness and she was incredibly adorable and OH HOW THE CREATURE HATED HER.

“LITTLE GIRL,” the bestial visage snarled, wisp of glowing vapor seething through her teeth. Somewhere in her brain, the creature chided herself for falling into such an OBVIOUS TRAP set up by a LITTLE GIRL. UGH. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME.”

"Oh," the little girl just smiled. The gesture escalated her adorableness so much that somewhere in an distant universe, celestial seniors of a particular nursing home just spontaneously went daaaaaaawww and OH HOW THE CREATURED HATED THAT. “Something.”

“COULDN’T YOU BE A LITTLE MORE OBVIOUS I SWEAR YOU WILL PAY I SWEAR I WILL HAVE YOUR MRRF MFF MRRF” Guillemet suddenly found her mouth tastefully bounded by a powder-pink ribbon and had nothing more to say.

Now

“DAMMIT.”

The obscenity echoed infinitely – reverberating with the ceiling, the walls, and the many, many boxes in this plane of reality. Apparently sound resonates far in this storage room, a defiance of conventional physics and most definitely something of scientific importance. Not that Guillemet cared if her singular-word profanity travelled far of course; she was too busy doing personal anger management. The draconic school of hard knocks, if you may.

“GODDAMMIT.” A high-velocity tail crushed an innocent cardboard box, pulverizing the contents within – probably china from the sound of it. “GODDAMMIT.” An envelope-sized package impacted with the wall. The spilled contents were something that would cause remarkable venoconstriction in a man’s face. “GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.” Guillemet was very aware that she was using the same malediction over and over again, not really representative of her usual verbosity – or originality even, but she was SO angry. That was totally an excuse.

The therapy lasted approximately three minutes and did not help at all. Guillemet was left with a massacre of various containers, various junk she cared not to identify, and oh, a smoldering sort of embarrassment. Despite her showcase of acrimony and smoldering contempt for everything in general, she somehow, just somehow, got this niggling thought that she was not making a good impression on anyone in general.

With that epiphany, she slowly climbed to the top of the mess she made and placidly began to preen herself, ridding her spines of paper scraps, broken electronics, and the occasional incomprehensible skin-flick. She needed to calm down. And think. Channel all her negative feelings into something productive – at least that was what her former therapist’s advice is. She had not heard from him for a while. Probably because he’s dead.

Okay, there was this little girl (LITTLE GIRL). Disgustingly cute, bite-sized, a snack, but not important. Yes, she got her into this situation, but what was significantly more important that she was following somebody – just like in those movies. Somebody clearly more important that her. It was an educated guess. A short in the dark flimsily supported by the few movies she watched, but she had faith in it.

Who was that Boss? In fact, Guillemet was probably sure she had met him before. The past few minuteshad been a catatonic swarm of memories. She knew some man – babbling bits and pieces, about some very unimportant participants in some unimportant video. What was the video about? It was lost in the squabbles of the children, but she knew. She just vaguely knew who the man behind the scene was. What was his name anyway. Cooch? Couch?

Oh.

Guillemet let out an unholy screech as she vaulted up into the air. The miscellaneous containers rapidly smudged into blur as she collided violently with the ceiling with a mighty clang. Bits of dust and cobwebs floated down, gently placing themselves in the especially hard-to-reach spaces – a hell for any custodian or team of custodians lording over this place, but did Guillemet honestly care? With a swift beat of her wings (knocking over a few badminton rackets in the process), she torpedoed over the shelves, the furniture, whatever. She had a Coach to meet and take a bite out of. Coming to think of it, what he’d taste like. Well, she would soon know.

If she could get out of this place of course.

GBCE · 08-25-2012, 09:58 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by ThunderJolt.

SpoilerShow

As soon as he was able to move again, Axys growled in frustration. "Stupid kid, I'm not a play-toy!"

He silently made a mental note to cut the kid down right on the spot if he even dared try something like that again. But now there was the bigger mystery. What exactly was this... battle? How did he and the others get here? That one man had said something else - that it was time to start killing. Hm, killing... Now that was something Axys liked to hear. So that's what I'm here for, huh? I like this already... He grinned a sinister smile and began laughing to himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by numerous shoutings of various curses from somewhere else on the other side of the warehouse, most notably "DAMMIT!" followed by the piercing shriek of a mad dragon flailing through the air and anticlimactically slamming into the ceiling with an audible CLANG.

"Wow... what an idiot," Axys remarked. He almost couldn't believe he would have to be fighting someone stupid enough to throw themself into the ceiling like that. He figured now would be the time to find his first opponent, or really, victim, hoping they were a little brighter than the one who slammed into the ceiling... He looked around. He was in a corner of the warehouse, close to the wall with the door that the Coach had closed with his earlier departure. Small stacks of dusty old boxes here and there, no stack more than four or five boxes tall. A few steps forward, and he found himself bumping a large stack of boxes with one of his blade-arms. The stack collapsed, various contents spilling from their cardboard prisons, completely uncared for by the culprit responsible for the mess. Ugh. The blade-arms were incredibly useful, but that didn't change the fact that they sometimes just sort of... got in the way, you know?

There. He spotted someone. Some sort of robot-like armor with several extra limbs. He rushed off to meet his new target.

GBCE · 08-25-2012, 11:01 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Flummox.

What was this? Was it a game? You didn’t play games with the former God of Cats. And Felus was most certainly not a kitty. Kitties were groveling, subservient things that no longer deserved the title of cat. Domesticated. He hissed and spit on one of the crates. All these years, he’d been fighting for liberation. To prevent his people from becoming playthings for humans. And now he himself was a plaything? The ultimate blow. If this was a game, then he was going to play by his own rules.

He climbed onto one of the crates and yowled mournfully, meaning something like, “I am lonely.” To start this off, he was going to need followers. Clambering higher on the stack of boxes, he searched the expanses of the warehouse for movement. Nothing. His ears swiveled, searching for a sound, a return call…

There was a faint echo of, <font color="#02FFFF">“Dammit!” A human language… Felus bared his teeth. His eyes probed the sprawling mess of crates. Of course he could pinpoint the owner of the voice through the direction of the sound. But that would be heedlessly dangerous. He had no idea what he was up against here. And he would need subjects. He yowled again, this time noticing how the sound echoed through the vast room. Nothing. No return calls. No specks leaping from crate to crate in his peripheral vision.

He yowled again and again, clambering yet higher. Each time he felt certain that he would see cats swarming to him by the dozens. Just over this crate, he said to himself. There will be someone just over this crate. Each time he proved himself wrong.

“I am lonely,” he called.

“Lonely,” the echoes called back, mocking.

There were no more crates to climb. He looked up and saw only blank white ceiling. He looked around and all he saw were endless rows of crates. In the far, far distance he imagined that he saw something hit the ceiling. A grey speck scrambled over the crates, heading in the opposite direction. There were no cats here.

He truly was lonely.
</font>

Stovie · 08-25-2012, 11:24 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Hobbesy.

Dr. Schuster was generally not the first person to consider acting without much prior thought to his actions. Normally this would keep him alive long enough to see another day of life. Of course, Dr. Schuster couldn't exactly say whether or not he had yet to experience the end of a day in his current location. What he did know, however, is that this would have to be the first time he had spotted another human. Was it another ruse by the demons of this realm to suck out his mortal soul, or would he finally have a companion in this hellish landscape? Clearly it couldn't be the first option, his possible first friend to be made here seemed to be looking for something, and was actually being dangerous active! Clearly there was no option here, Schuster would have to save this fool's life.

Bracing himself for the jump out of cover, the good doctor made the effort to leap onto the fellow in front of him and quickly retreat back. He didn't move an inch. The other human turned around, and it was then that Dr. Schuster realized it was not just another person, but a scraggly looking child.

With a smug look on his face, the child opened his dumb, capitalist aligned mouth. <font color="darkblue">"I knew you'd try to do that, you stupid mortals are all the same."

Franz von Schuster was not pleased, and attempted to retort. "Chyort! Shto za huy-ck you doing? What is this?" Suddenly it dawned on him that the end of what he just said did not actually make sense, and he didn't remember what the first bit meant. This only managed to upset him more, but fortunately after that things went black.

Suddenly reality came rushing back to him headlong. Dr. Schuster found himself standing in a warehouse, surrounded by nondescript cardboard boxes. The sound of a creature screaming in the distance came echoing all around, but between the distance and language barrier, there was nothing to be made of it. Very faintly memories came of being told to fight to the death, but for all intents and purposes the situation was still very unclear.

The only thing worth doing seemed to sit down and rest, and there was certainly plenty of room for that! Sitting down against a box labelled "XMAS PLATES," Franz began to check his gear. Surprisingly it was still all there, and even better everything seemed to have been fixed and fueled! The cutting torch had a full tank of gas, while in the cylinder of the revolver six new brass rounds sat ready to be fired.

The momentary lapse of silence was interrupted by the far off sound of crates falling over and metal screeching. Franz predictably jumped up at the sound of this, drawing his revolver into an aiming position while scanning his surroundings. It soon became clear though that this would likely be what he should come to expect. Without returning the revolver to its holster Schuster returned to his previous spot. The doctor let out a sigh, for even though this world would be less prone to mind fucking him than his last, he couldn't remember who or what exactly he was supposed to fight to the death. It would appear that fate still had it out for him, and the odds were probably stacked so that he would not be able to run and hide.</font>

Gatr · 08-26-2012, 01:42 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH.

The ticking and screeching continued onwards throughout what would be night if it existed in Inferno. As it were, Warden had not received permission to take a break, so he simply worked further. He was experimenting with a classic torture instrument, one that he had rarely used. It was called a rack, and it seemed to work by slowly pulling the sinner's limbs apart. The screams were slow to come at first, but they eventually crescendoed into a beautiful display of agony. He made sure to note this, and compare it with other instruments, citing references from the Inferno of long ago. A crevasse appeared in the victim's torso, however, and he was forced to slacken the cables, or risk losing his sinner to the chaotic flow of souls. As he prepared the next equipment, he felt a presence enter the torture room - a forbidden presence. He did not allow this to interrupt him, but his voice nevertheless boomed across the room, heard by all.

"You are not allowed to come in here. Please remove your presence and wait for maintenance time. The waiting room can be found 3 doors down the hall."

"Apologies, Warden, but I have to take you somewhere. Hope you don't mind."

Warden said nothing for the next few moments, and his body did nothing as well. A small part of him panicked at the loss of efficiency, but he decided getting rid of this intruder would be far easier on him in the long run. Finally, he stuck a knife into the unfortunate sinner's eye, as a rather out-of-character jolt of frustration shook him. Visceral liquid sprayed on him, and the shrieks soared to a new high. He took the mechanical approximation of a deep breath, and finally turned around. His gruesome face ceaselessly rotated, to a smooth tick-tock motion.

"I cannot leave this room. Do as I say and remove yourself to the waiting room or face punishment for heresy."

"Oh boy. Right. Well, if you're not going to come peacefully, I'm afraid I have to take you by force."

All of time froze. And so it was that this child, this heretic, this sinner, took him away from his rightful place.

---------------------------------

Warden's face was the only thing left moving, a mild ticking being his only lifeline to sanity. Everything in his body had stopped, as he tried to make sense of the situation. He was removed from his rightful place. He was expected to battle others to the death. He was to be made into a slave to this false god, the Coach, for naught but entertainment and money. Greed at its worst. Truly, this Coach was a sinner of the highest caliber. One gear resumed rotation, and the rest followed suit. A flare of fury rose up, bringing his arm slamming into the nearby pile of boxes. Everything clattered down, and he was pelted with candles. His body ignored every bump, but his mind quivered a bit, as a familiar feeling of heresy arose inside of him.

No, no, no! Getting angry is the worst thing I can do here. It is ... counterproductive. Must calm down. Must not incur Lucifer's wrath. Must...

He lost himself again. Desperate to rationalize this situation, he concluded this must be a test Lucifer bestowed upon him. Yes. Clearly he was expected to take in everybody here, especially the Coach, as sinners. He began ticking again, and came up with a plan, one that would surely work. As he did so, a gold figure ran in front of him. It was a creature he had never seen before, but as it passed, he got a very strong sensation of sin. This creature's resonance arose to his mind, and the most profound knot in his timeline was one of mass murder. Unrequited slaughter, with absolutely no remorse. His name rose to his memory unbidden, from the introductions. Axys.

He created a mental file for this foul creature, and made to apprehend him. One of his arms picked up a few of the candles. Slowly burning to death would be the best thing to do to Axys at the moment. His fur would smoulder. His skin would melt. Surely he would scream, begging for mercy. But he would not deliver mercy. He moved forward with surprising speed, chasing after Axys.

GBCE · 08-26-2012, 02:34 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by linkzeldi.

In his half state of consciousness, Thize dreamed he was a bubble. It was a pleasant dream. The rare sort of peaceful dream that managed to calm somebody even as loud and hoteheaded as Thize was. But the dream ended. Suddenly too. Pop. His dream burst into a thousand gooey peaces and he was awake, with the words 'Kill Eachother' vaguely echoing in his ears. He knew where he was, but in his post dream haze he had forgotten the in between. There was a kid. One of the non rude ones who were respectful of his mutant condition. And by that Thize meant he was seen as a crazy fish guy, instead of a ripoff of aqualad. Still rude per se, but it was definitely an imrpovement over the lot he normally got. The attention from the kid was just enough to butter up Thize and serve him deep fried. Which was a fishy way of saying he got hooked on this kid. Which was a fishy way of saying, he could have been talked into anything. Even jumping in chummed water with a bunch of hungry sharks swimming around, baring their teeth. Thize blinked with realization. That is exactly what he had agreed too. Memories swarmed his mind into his mind like a broken floodgate. It took him a few moments of silent considering to decipher anything, and when he finally had, there was only one thing to be said.

"Bubbles can totally beat armor. And what the fuck, how do you manage to get two ocean guys in the same competition. Obviously I gotta kill him first, because there can only be one."

Thize had never actually seen the Highlander movie franchise. It was just a quote he had picked up from those nerds who liked to tease him and repeated because; it sounds cool. The fish guy took a breath, his gills shaking with the effort. He really hoped that he would live long enough to make it to an actual stadium. One that might have water. No what was that thought. Weakness. Doubt. Thize had none of the time for that. None of it. Of course he was going to make it to the next stage, and even to the end. Because he was the best. Simple as that. Bubbles are so cool, that he had to have a coolkid with a skateboard scout him out. If it had been anybody else, they wouldn'tve been able to stand the glow from his glorious mutant visage. His pink mutant visage. Thize let out his breath all at once, making more noise than he would like. He realized just this once that stroaking his ego would get him nowhere in this situation. He would have to commit to the one plan he hated the most. Staying out of the spotlight.

There were certain advantages to being a fish albeit a mutant one, and a prime example of this was getting all the cool senses that fish have and humans don't. And the bubbles too. The bubbles were so cool. Thize's favorite sense of all was perfect for poorly lit environments, such as the one he had been brought to. There was a risk definitely, but some part of Thize knew that his ears were much more sensitive than a dragon's, or a shark's, or a time eating demon or something else, Gah this cast lineup was so crazy. He took a few shallow breaths, and on each exhale blew a little pink bubble into existence, until there were ten in all. One for each tip of his fingers. For all his mutations, at least Thize had ten normal human fingers. His toes though, those were another story. One final breath, and he gently set the bubbles aloft in the air. Then it was a matter of tiny adjustments in the curvature of his fingers, as if he were conducting a miniature orchestra for the krill.

This went on for no longer than a few seconds. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Then both hands balled into shaking fists. The bubbles which had been floating and spreading themselves out within the enclosure all simultaneously popped. It was a tiny noise. Minute. One would have to have the ears of an elephant to even hope of detecting it. But Thize could care less for the sounds of ten bubbles individually popping.

He was listening for the echoes as sound behaved naturally and spread through the room, bounding and bouncing off of every solid object it could.

Sonar.

Except this was the air, and not underwater. So it felt different. Blurry. Thize closed his eyes to try to focus in on a better picture. Stepping back further into the shadows as he listened.

GBCE · 08-26-2012, 02:39 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SeventeenthSquid.

The strange stupor that had subdued her moments earlier slowly dissipating from her mind, Eriz took in her surroundings. Where was she? She had the vaguest memory of someone, something taking her huge gauntleted hand and leading her through a place of warping and twisting color. Another brief flash of memory, standing in a circle of strange figures and... human children? Unarmored, plain-clothed human children, their fleshy, pale faces staring at her as one introduced her to its fellows... what was her name? Tiny? Tella? Eriz couldn't remember. What really mattered was what the man had said:

"You eight have been specially chosen for this fight, so... you’re gonna want to start killing each other. Last person alive gets to go home, and might also get some money if we exceed our fundraising goal. Does that seem fair?"

She remembered that part with unnatural clarity. And she did not like what she remembered. She did not like it at all. She could feel a crushing hopelessness settling heavy on her shoulders, crawling up her spine. Sweat beaded up on her forehead under the dark exterior of her face-dome. What was she fighting? She could barely remember what they looked like, or their names. A lion? What even is a lion? Sharks? She'd heard of those. They used to live on Old Earth, before the Exodus. Or something. Her mind was running faster and faster as she tried to recall details of the creatures she had seen when suddenly a horrifying shout pierced the air.

“DAMMIT!”

What was that? She suddenly moved, for the first time since she had been freed from the Coach's grip. She noticed, for the first time since her capture, that her hammer was still firmly clasped in one mechanical hand. She shifted it into a two-handed grip and slowly turned, taking in the whole room. It was large and had a very high ceiling, but stack upon stack of crates, boxes and various debris kept her from getting a clear view of whatever made the sound. She took a few steps back, bumping into a stack of crates. They shifted ominously but didn't fall. Pieces of broken machinery littered the floor around her, their purposes unknown.

She had no idea what to do. Panic was worming its way through her skull. Distant yowling, its sound totally unfamiliar to her but sounding like an animal in pain, floated through the building. She gripped her hammer tighter, mechanical fingers clamping down on its grip-textured haft.

Whatever was out there, she was sure it was coming for her. They had to fight, right? The Coach had said so. That means they'll be coming to fight her! Her Sauthai heritage reared in the back of her mind. If they seek to fight, she could almost hear her father saying, you must fight back. Harder.

She didn't want to fight anyone. She wanted to go home, and see her father, and tell her about her horrible nightmare. He would understand.

"My lady," came a sudden, cool voice. Eriz jumped two feet off the ground, her massive hydraulic legs propelling her into the air, before she realized it was only Telt who had spoken. "My lady," it repeated, "your adrenaline levels are exceedingly high. Your heart rate is far past a healthy norm. I'm sensing a great deal of fear."

"Telt," she replied, "can you tell me where we are?" She continued to back into the corner, eyes still sweeping around the room. There was very little to see, only endless boxes and crates. Nothing to see, that is, until a huge creature leapt through the air and collided with the ceiling. Telt's reply was lost in the resounding clang. Eriz scrambled with an aux-arm to retrieve the small laser weapon she carried from its slot on her shoulder racks, disconnecting the original hand. It took her a few moments to realize that Telt was still trying to talk to her.

"My lady," it said, "our sensors can discern little about our surroundings. Atmospheric composition seems to be similar to Orexies norm. Gravity is slightly heavier, approximately equal to one Earth gravity." The archaic measurement was still in service, even on a planet so far from Earth as Orexies. "Wherever we are, it is not on Orexies."

Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT! Eriz wanted to scream just as the strange flying beast had screamed, but she knew enough about combat to know that you shouldn't give your position away in such a stupid manner. She needed to think. Seven entities were trapped in here with her, and they all wanted her dead. Or did they? Maybe they were just pulled into this place like she was, and maybe they wanted out just as badly as she had! Maybe they could escape if they worked together. Maybe she could make it out of this place alive!

Telt interrupted her reverie with a single word, mostly meaningless on the surface but coded so deeply in her Sauthai upbringing that it brought an immediate response.

"Contact!"

Bright colors flashed on the interior of her face-dome, indicating movement off to the side. She spun, hammer held in both hands ready to swing, laser tracking over her shoulder. A blur of golden fur, a flash of light on metal. One of the things she had seen in the children's horrible menagerie. And it was coming straight for her, leaping over boxes and stacks of debris as it rapidly closed the distance. She backed up. She didn't want to fight this thing, she had no idea what it could do to her! She needed a way out! But stacks of crates, ten, twenty feet tall, loomed all around her. There was no way she could climb on them; she was far too heavy. As she glanced frantically around, a desperate plan occurred to her.

Holding her hammer in both hands, she swung it as hard as she could at a tottering mound of boxes in between her and the onrushing creature. The massive power of the swing demolished several, throwing a cloud of what appeared to be socks into the air. With the lower crate gone, the massive stack, already precariously balanced, came crashing down in a swirling cloud of dust, footwear and... children's art? She couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it more than adequately blocked the creature's path. For now. She turned in the opposite direction and started crashing through the debris that blocked her path, hammer swinging.