DEATHGAME 9000 [S!3] Round Two: Interplanetary Circus

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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“Gentlemen,” a voice coldly intoned, “I bid you to venture out into the multiverse and find for me eight suitable candidates; eight veritable paragons of power or skill. Bring them to me wherein I shall inter them into the most awful, most brutal battle ever designed; a battle… for their very lives!”

If the owner of the voice in question had expected awed whispers or an audible gasp, he was to be disappointed by the stony silence it received. He clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes as he attempted to stare down his irritatingly inert gentlemen. After a full minute of non-responsiveness he balked.

“Curse you wretched automata!” He cried. “I’ll have you melted down for scrap metal and then, then I’ll hurl the entire scrapyard into the burning depths of the nearest star, you hear me?!”

A continued lack of response caused The Incompetent to angrily stride towards his nearest creation and land a kick upon its shin. This was immediately followed by a short vocalisation of pain and the disinclination to step the foot in question back upon the floor. He hopped over to a chair and sat himself down. When the pain had eventually subsided he turned his attention back to his gentlemen; he sighed. Things just never seemed to go his way. Take for example his grandmaster status; it had only come about as the freak result of an experiment to produce a infinite supply of cheesits. And while it was far from the most catastrophic mistake he had ever made, it still irritated him that no matter how he thought about that experiment he could never quite explain just how this had happened. He suspected that his new neon orange skin colour was a direct result of the whatever it was that had happened.

With a multitude of new powers and little to no idea how to actually use them, it was not long before he became aware of the Grandmaster community at large, or put another way, it was not long before the Grandmaster community became aware of him. He was not exactly welcomed into the fold with open arms, and unless he was managing to accidentally fuck up something they were invested in they deigned to more or less ignore him. But he was not going to let a little thing like a collective unwillingness to interact with him get in the way of what seemed like a most interesting pastime; he sought to host a battle of his very own.

His first attempt at doing so had been so disastrous that no sentient being had ever expressed an interest of being one of his Gentlemen again. This had been something of a problem. Eventually he had hit upon the idea that he was, at this specific point in time trying to make work; robot gentlemen. His first batch, based on his own design, were at the very least mobile. Unfortunately for him, and for the potential battler they had gathered, they had a propensity to unexpectedly and catastrophically explode. After a number of setbacks he was eventually forced to admit that he needed help. A grandmaster by the name of The Machinist had been reluctant to part with the schematics for his own gentlemen, and when I say reluctant I mean The Incompetent had to steal them. Even so most of the construction and design of the Gentlemen who now stood before him had been guesswork due to an accidental spillage of coffee ruining the bulk of the blueprints.

The Incompetent having collected his thoughts gathered up his tools and made a few modifications to the mechanical gentlemen. It was not without a considerable amount of persistence that he was able to coax them into something resembling working order. Eventually they stood assembled before him, ready to receive their orders.

“Gentlemen,” he intoned as melodramatically as he could, “you are tasked with going out into the multiverse, into it’s vast and uncharted depths, and finding me eight of the most powerful or most interesting beings in all of existence. Bring them to me so that they might fight the most gruelling, the most treacherous battle ever devised… DEATHGAME 9000!”

It was at the end of this burst of theatricality that he became rather embarrassingly aware that they had all already left. He adjusted his glasses and glanced around the empty room, as if to ascertain that nobody had seen that.

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SpoilerSO WHAT IS THIS?
This is a Grand Battle. It is a collaborative writing contest wherein eight characters are forced into a battle to the death. It consists of seven rounds with one character being eliminated at the end of each round. Though it seems to suggest otherwise these battles are not really about fighting or who has the most powerful character. They are judged upon who is the best writer, and while some fighting is inevitable in a battle to the death, the thing I find more interesting is interaction between characters that would never normally meet, in locations they would never normally get a chance to go.

Here are some potentially helpful links:

• Season Intermission Organization Thread – Planning information for the rest of the battles in this season.
• Grand Battles Introduction/Planning Thread – Though it is primarily focused around a different continuity than the one featured in this season, the basic information it has on Grand Battles should still be relevant.
• Grand Battle Wiki

RULES AND SHIT
Standard Grand Battle rules apply;

• Do not kill off other competitors (unless I guess it is deathpost time and you have been authorised to kill off a character on someone else’s behalf).
• Do not inflict major injuries on other competitors unless you have spoken to them beforehand and they have agreed to what you want to do.
• Good co-operation is essential. Don't go around fucking up other people's plans just because, but on the other hand don't plan too rigidly that it makes it difficult for other people to do things.
• If you are writing a post you think will take some time you can post a reserve, during which nobody else should be writing for the battle so as to prevent conflicts. Strictly speaking these reserves last twenty four hours, after this people may hold off for a while after that, out of courtesy but if they wanted to post they could do so. If you’re going to take a long time on a reserve and you really don’t want people to post over it, the best way is probably to stay in touch with the other players; make it clear you are working on it and it is coming along and you will probably get some leeway.

HOW THIS IS JUDGED
As I mentioned before this is contest is all about writing well. At a very basic level this constitutes correct grammar and all that kind of thing (though that said I would prefer to see an interesting character with slightly dodgy grammar than a boring character with perfect grammar). Once you have that down it is mainly about a) making and developing an interesting character and b) interacting with and writing for other characters.

APPLICATIONS
I’m keeping applications open for a week. There may be a little wiggle room allowed for the fulfilment of reserves but broadly speaking this is open for a week. This is probably the only part of this entire block of writing anyone has actually read. Here’s the profile.

Username: Your username. Included here because it doesn’t feel like a grand battle profile without it.
Name: Your character’s name. What do we call them?
Sex: Male or female? Or more likely both, neither or undecided.
Race: If your character is of a non-standard race please feel free to include a description of their race in general.
Colour: Choose a text colour for your character. You can if you want go for a background colour as well. Do try to bear in mind that text colours serve little to no real function in battle and there’s very little point messing around trying to get the perfect colour. #DF8000 is taken.
Description: Here you write a description of your character’s appearance and their personality. Pictures can be used if you want but are not necessary.
Items/Abilities: What cool powers does your character have?
Biography: Tell us about stuff that has happened in your character’s life.
Writing Sample: This is an optional section. I guess if you are new it would help with the process of choosing who gets in, but it is kind of prohibitive and I'm certainly not going to disqualify you for not providing one. Essentially this section is here in case you want to do it, or if you feel that perhaps writing a profile does not do justice to your writing or your character (profiles are rarely representative) and you use this as a way to demonstrate what you are capable of, or something. If you don't want to do this section, just forget about it.

PLAYER LIST:
1. Lynette Spettro and Vigil - #D94600 - Solaris - Profile
2. Gomorrah - #525252 on #FFFFFF - -Benedict - Profile
3. Dr. Trisha Bearonrollerblades - #802A2A - Lord Paradise - Profile
4. Weaver16 - #206C60 - Snowyowl - Profile
5. ER/IC - #708090 - Jacquerel - Profile
6. Keagan Lambert- #003300 - Drakenforge - Profile
7. Jolene Kamiensky - #CC0000 - Momatoes - Profile
8. Eris - #FFFF00 on #808080 - Adenreagan - Profile

Here are the colour codes in an easy to copy and paste format.

Here is a plotting/planning document for keeping track of plans or what is going on in the battle.

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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Username: Magica Solari Sama
Name: Lynette Spettro and Vigil
Gender: Female and Male
Race: Magical Gurl and Bunny
Color: This Orangey, #D94600
Description: Lynette is a simple, run-of-the-mill magical girl, although she's not so much a girl as edging on young adult. She wears a frilly, short sleeved, orchid dress that ends at the thigh, with darker purple pants and an even darker long-sleeve shirt underneath. Her shoes are black, as are her gloves, which have a very pretty pattern. Atop her braided, almost blackish-blue hair, is a pitch-black tiara. When she isn't out and about with her magic powers, she has her regular, let down black hair, green eyes, and a normal school uniform.
Lynette is cold. While she was always a bit distant, her transformation into a magical girl made her much crueler, close to where she barely respects anyone normal, with a few exceptions. She often takes the most direct route, and while she is open to advice, she is more likely to do her own thing regardless. This isn't just because she's a cocky, albeit capable fighter(magical and non-magical), but also because her powers have caused her to develop a magical malaise, leading her to trust very few people completely. The severity of it depends on a few things, most of which have to do with the proximity of her magical companion, Vigil.

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Spoiler

Said Magical companion is an oddly colored rabbit, orange and green, with a bandana and goggles in the latter color. They serve no purpose. He is focused and often as cold as his owner, harshly criticizing her failures in battle, and sparing her no mercy whenever she asks about advice. He is driven, ready and willing to go at any lengths to get what he wants. He is loyal to Lynette and helps her as best as he can.

Items/Abilities: As a magical girl, Lynette can transform in and out of her more powerful form at will. When transformed, she has the ability to command and summon ghosts, making them possess items and weak creatures for her. She also has a small staff, about the size of a baton that can emit and solidify ghosts or ethereal energy into weak beam, ray, or shield. This is used mostly if there are no ghosts around. When she isn't transformed, she can't control ghosts, but she can still talk to them. This is actually a curse, as ghosts are tricksters by nature and as a result they often posses inanimate objects undetected, which in addition to the malaise, causes much trouble whenever Vigil isn't around.

Vigil's main ability is to control focus and perception. The main purpose of this power is to make Lynette overcome the malaise and instead focus on the task at hand, be it an enemy or a puzzle. He either make someone focus on one specific thing, or make it so that if someone attempts to focus on something, they instead focus on something else. He often makes enemies attack each other by changing focus on Lynette into focus on one of them. In addition, he has small flaps that allow him to hide his extra limbs and ears, to make him look more normal. When he has all of his ears out, he can glide, and having all his legs out makes him faster and better at jumping.

Biography: Lynette Spettro was once a little girl. Ever distant and interested in ghosts and the occult, she quickly learned that being different only led to mistrust and hatred. Ever bullied in school, tormented by people who earned her trust only to metaphorically throw her under a bus, she was almost resigned to end it all. Then she discovered a new world. One of magic and mysticism, exactly what led to her complete isolation from her peers, where she found out that she could use magic.

It was in this first contact that she met Vigil and also transformed. The initial relationship between the two was rocky, mostly on his part, but as Lynette grew in strength and put more and more trust in Vigil and his powers, he began to return the favor. For a while, they fought the hidden enemies around Lynette's town and school, not out of some chivalrous desire to help them even though they scorned her, but because it was thrilling. For the first time in her life, she felt right and happy.

She would later find out that she was not the first Spettro to use magic in some shape or form. In fact, it had been used for generations, kept secret from the younger members of the family. As she discovered her ancestor's exercises in the mystical and magical, she learned many technical things about the world around her and about her own history. With the knowledge in mind, she quickly accepted her fate and proceeded to fight and grow in magical strength.

As she went off, fighting demons and aliens and wizards, she continued to figure out new ways to use her power, and even incorporated the knowledge from her ancestors. But she quickly learned that the power came with a price. Shortly after her inception as a magical girl, she started to hear voices. From the sky, the walls, the floor, she heard them from everywhere. And it didn't stop there, soon she began to see things as well, starting to have conversations with people who weren't there, which when you can also talk to ghosts led to nothing except internal turmoil.

As Vigil helped her overcome her aliment as best he could, making her focus on the task at hand rather than dwell on her deteriorating mind, her family took a more active role in her magical adventures. With their knowledge, they correctly discerned that the problems were not rooted in the normal world or some hidden curse applied by her enemies, but in the powers that brought her into the world of magic in the first place. In the subsequent fallout, her family turned against her and Vigil attempting to take her powers away and hope that it would cure her. With her mind damaged as it was, she resisted their efforts, violently.

She left her hometown and followed Vigil to somewhere else, where she was lucky enough to find a magical oasis, which reverted her mind back into a more manageable state. With her fractured mind somewhat healed, but her memories unable to forget her family's attempt to constrict her, she resigned to trusting Vigil and only Vigil, ever worried that someone would try to turn her back into a weak little girl.

Originally posted on MSPA by -Benedict.

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Woo, this thing is a thing finally!

Username: Benedict
Name: Gomorrah, the Dyinged City
Gender: N/A
Race: Spectral city
Color: 525252 on white BG

Description: Gomorrah is the spectrally displaced memory of a 50s-era city during an intense riot. Looters and thieves run rampant through the streets, buildings are set aflame, and hordes of violent protesters swarm the streets. In its spectral form, these aspects are shadowy and almost unreal. Crowds melt together, acting as a wave of general mayhem. False flames may engulf host buildings- while not fatal or even directly harmful, they are indistinguishable from real infernoes unless one is already familiar with this behavior.

The most vivid shades are those of intense suffering- scenes of domestic abuse, drug withdrawal, murder or other strong emotions take on life. While most shades are silent or murmuring, these vivid spectres can talk and even break free from their sick puppet show, given certain interference from outsiders.

Gomorrah is not all-encompassing- it moves from place to place, unexpectedly haunting certain areas. Its presence is noticeable but not obvious- lowered lighting, sudden silence, the appearance of shades in the shadows. It does not follow its own topography- while it can interfere with buildings and spawn shades, its aspects are typically overlaid on the location it inhabits in a subtle fashion. Its power to warp a location is usually greatest in abandoned or otherwise derelict places- its effects are severely dampened in highly populated or active areas, sometimes confined to a single building or even room.

Items/Abilities: Gomorrah overlays itself on the topography of its current location. Wherever it inhabits, shadowy forms of its former citizens lurk, faceless, re-enacting their last moments with a form of vague sentience. Outsiders may go unnoticed if they avoid provoking or interacting with some shades, but others are filled with hatred and will seek out and attempt to kill foreigners. Gomorrah is, to some degree, sentient, but is typically silent. If it's desperate, it may exert an influence on shade behavior, but this is unlikely.

Most if not all shades of Gomorrah are inclined toward violence or malice, and while typically exhibiting no unusual strength may attack en masse with household items or common weapons such as knives or bludgeons. Some citizens, such as participants in organized crime, may carry 50s-era firearms, but typically only train them on their personal enemies unless disturbed from their "memories".

Gomorrah can be dispelled in various ways- by the destruction of a certain portion of its ghostly population, the demolishing of possessed structures, or alternatively by the redemption of shades, who can be freed from the city's miasma by acts of kindness. Conversely, giving in to hatred and violence within it will strengthen Gomorrah's hold on an area and attract violent shades. Gomorrah inhabits the edifices of its host location, and is capable of dousing lights, locking doors, and disabling or overloading utilities such as water, power, and so on.

Biography: Gomorrah, before its destruction in 1957, was a notorious metropolis known for its astonishingly high crime rate, corrupt civil service, and frequent violence. Thieves, murderers and assorted cutthroats ran rampant in its expansive slums, and its upscale citizens sequestered themselves in their homes in fear. Those who were not the city's victims were its leaders, who controlled Gomorrah through fear, violence, and connections to organized crime.

During a particular riot, in which the levels of violence in the city rose to unbelievable levels, Gomorrah was judged by a mysterious force. The entire city was wiped off the face of the earth, seemingly gone forever. However, the city remained achored to this plane- moving from place to place, taking possession of entire cities and using them as hosts for its macabre re-enactment of its final moments. Such appearances were written off as ghost stories, but the phrase "under the pall of Gomorrah" became synonymous with violent unrest. [/spoiler]

Writing Sample:

Y'know that time of day, right? When the sun gets low in the sky there, castin' his hateful glare 'cross most anything it can reach. He's done being your own personal light bulb up in the sky, and he tries to let you know a little somethin'. He tries to remind you that he's a god damn ball of nuclear fire a million times the size of your whole planet, that he can do whatever the hell he pleases. So he hurls lances of searing flame through your windows, turnin' all the furniture orange and doin' his damnedest to make you into a blind man. He's done bein' your friend, son, he's gonna mosey on outta there soon and you li'l monkeys are gonna remember how good you had it before the darkness took y'all. And until then, you're gonna remember just who's in charge of the god damn sky, all right?

Just not my favorite time of day, t'be perfectly honest. Sun's an ornery fella, and I ain't usually in the mood to take his lip. But... can't do much about that, can you? He's just gonna come back the next day, prancin' around like he's king of the world. And who'd be one to dispute that claim, eh? He's the dadblasted sun, after all. Ain't no United Nations up in space. So I just go about my business, lettin' that screaming yellow bastard do whatever he likes. This hat's got a nice wide brim, after all, so what's he gonna do to me? Shine harder? He's already burnin' right the hell up, and I don't mind. I'm a part of the race homo sapiens, see. What did we do?

Well... what we went and did was invent ourselves air conditioning. And SPF five million sunscreen, and a pair of fantastic shades like these with a little sticker readin' "blocks UV rays". We had our scientists grow us some silicon crystals, and started puttin' solar panels up on our houses to steal all his light. We came up with this clever thing called a Roof, and under that Roof we mixed up some magnificent stuff we called ice cream. And he couldn't do a damn thing about our blasphemous frozen treats, on account of he's a god damn ball of nuclear fire a million times the size of our whole planet and he doesn't have time to come and sue the pants off of Baskin-Robbins.

So we deal with this fella's encroachments day by day. His days. We scurry around, doin' a whole lot of stuff, not worryin' about whether we're about to get heat stroke. Less you live out where is the Moors and the Arabs, ridin' around on camels and wearing big piles of dirty laundry on their heads or whatever it is they do. Where do they get off worshippin' La-La and rubbin' magic lamps all the time, I ask you? It's a disgrace, is what it is.

Where was I?

Right. The Sun. We spend a hell of a lot of time dealin' with all the crap he throws our way, don't we? Nobody ever bothers wonderin' how we'd go about solvin' the problem permanently, do they? It'd be leagues too diff'cult to even think about accomplishin', really. Big fella doesn't have an off switch or nothin'. He's a god damn ball of nuclear yada yada yada. It'd be dadblasted impossible, wouldn't it? That's what I thought. Crazy talk. The sun's jus' always gonna be there, and there ain't nothin' you can do about it. S'what I thought.

'Till I went and killed the Sun.

...whoa, haha, I had a lot of fun with this character I invented out of nowhere half an hour ago as a writing sample. Maybe I'll put him in the next GB I enter, whoever he is.

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

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Username: Lord Paradise (brainstorming credit to Godbot)
Name: Dr. Trisha Bearonrollerblades, V.D. (and Hippocrates)
Sex: Tee-hee. Uh. Female.
Race: Human (and horse)
Color: I’m digging #802A2A

Description: Pants of any kind have never really been the fashion in the Princessipality of Tiaran, but Trisha, who was never really comfortable with leggings, hides some khaki capris under her ankle-length labcoat-dress. She has a whole wardrobe—a beautiful, hand-carved wardrobe—full of variations on the elegant-veterinarian theme, but the one she’s wearing upon her induction into Deathmatch 9000 is fairly representative of the whole; it’s white with red accents, has buttons in odd places and a slightly lopsided neckline cut to accomodate a convenient breast pocket for the storage of pens. The requisite red cross, tied in a bow to hold the back of the dress together, might suggest the image of a medieval crusader to someone from a world in which history makes any fucking sense, at all.

She also wears a tiara, of course. It is also a head mirror, and if you look closely there are little caducei by the ears.

Physically, you pretty much know the drill: Trisha is an attractive, curvy-within-reason young lady of twenty-four years. She has a bit of a hard look to her that she got from her mother’s side, but mostly passes for a typical Tiaran, or the typical Tiaran’s unattainable ideal of a typical Tiaran. If you look at her hair in the right light, there’s a bit of a blue tint to it, but it doesn’t come out in photos and isn’t often commented upon. On the official documentation her hair color is listed as “brunette.”

You can more or less infer her personality from the “brunette” part, because Tiarans have weird ideas about these things. The darker color of her hair shields her brain from the harmful rays that would otherwise make her less intelligent, more impulsive, and far more desirable to men. Being chemically deprived of the ability to have more than a moderate amount of fun, Trisha derives pleasure in life from her work and the occasional cup of tea with friends. If she experiences a mild amount of disappointment that said friends never invite her to their slumber parties, she at chooses to believe it’s an insult to her character and not to her heritage.

Hippocrates is a perfect shade of chestnut, and otherwise looks perfect, acts perfectly, and is, in fact, perfect.

Weapons/Abilities: It took Trisha a while to figure out how to stash her mother’s Swish! Army Knife in the pocket of her pants without it disturbing the impeccably flattering cut of her dress, but she managed. However, it’s a bit of a process to reach in there and get the thing out, and she tries not to use it while anyone’s looking. She’s handier with it than you’d think.

In the pockets of her labcoat are her real weapons, the tools of the veterinarian’s trade. Aside from the regular pens and bandages and the ever-present jewel-inlaid stethoscope around her neck, she’s carrying five syringes, each filled with specialized DNN (Deoxyrainbow Nucleic Nectar). For those of you who don’t understand the complex art of the veterinary sciences, I’ll explain: any non-sapient animal can be modified by extracting and injecting the DNN of certain traits. The five that Trisha are carrying now are the wings of an eagle, the limb regeneration of a starfish, the lovely shiny lavender shade of some tropical bird or another, the puzzle-solving abilities of an especially well-trained squid, and, for use in terrifying emergencies, the metamorphic powers of a caterpillar. She uses these on her patients or, often, on Hippocrates.

Biography: Trisha was born in a P.O.W. camp, the illegitimate child of renowned Tiaran vegetarian soldier-chef Fredward Pastrykisses and crack dino-roboticist Jessie Bearonrollerblades. After Tiaran won the war and asserted global dominance, the local princess agreed that the whole thing was utterly romantic, Jessie was released and naturalized. Baby Trisha, taking on her mother’s name in the matriarchal tradition, was a full Tiaran citizen from her earliest memories onward.

Though her mother would forever think of herself as an immigrant and never fit in well, staying sane only through the all-conquering power of love, Trisha took to Tiaran like a fish takes to water, staying in the top 10% of her high school class from the ages of 5 to 21 (and winning a spelling bee and two beauty pageants along the way), at which point she was promptly given her veterinary license and opened a small clinic on a farm by a waterfall between two equally majestic mountains. Because there are no such things as alternate realities, she will be just as shocked as anyone to learn that there are Grandmasters who can shuffle her around the universe like a dandelion seed on the wind.

Hippocrates has led a simple but pleasant life in spite of the constant invasive genetic manipulation.

Theme song: FFX--Phantoms

Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl.

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Username: Snowyowl.
Name: Weaver¹⁶. Weaver for short.
Gender: Identifies as male, but there is no biological reason for this.
Race: Robot
Colour: #206C60

Description:

Weaver is a highly advanced (by our standards) robot. His body is made almost entirely of nanobots, and is black in colour with (faintly glowing) blue wires on his surface that make him look vaguely skeletal. He is capable of shapeshifting, but this takes some time, so he generally stays in a humanoid form. This form is nearly 2 meters tall, and has an artificial "face" made out of blue wire that is capable of some basic expressions. By human standards, this form is impressively fast and strong, but not superhumanly so.
He also has a biomechanical "brain" which is encased in metal and stored inside his body. This is his only vital organ; any injury that does not damage his brain is non-lethal and will eventually heal completely. In his default form, the brain is in his tummy - he considers the head too vulnerable.
Most of his body is made of a black matter that serves as his muscle and gives his body structure. The blue wires carry sensory data, and allow him to detect light and sound. He digests normal organic matter (though he has no sense of taste), and eventually assimilates it into his body.
Personality-wise, Weaver is analytical and calm in all circumstances. He understands emotions, though he does not fully experience them himself. He values his allies, and may be quite friendly once you get to know him. He is unsurpriseable and unshockable. He is a calculating strategist. He doesn't usually wear clothes other than protective gear (hazmat suits, for instance). He values things according to how useful they will be in the present and the future, not how well they have served him in the past; incidentally, the concept of a "tradition" is almost entirely foreign to him.

Items/Abilities: Weaver¹⁶'s body consists mostly of black nanobots, with wires of blue nanobots running throughout his form. The black nanites can be made to flow like a gel, healing any superficial injury in seconds. The blue nanites are less modular, and (apart from the thin, mostly cosmetic wires on the surface of his body) are buried deep under his skin. If they are damaged, it will take a few minutes of rest for them to be repaired - so if Weaver's arm is cut off, he will probably need to wait until he's not in direct danger to reattach it.
Given a few hours (and, if he needs to get bigger, a supply of organic material), Weaver can rebuild his body into almost any shape. He cannot make his skin any harder or stronger than it is - no growing claws to rip through steel. He can be separated into independent pieces that will survive almost indefinitely (as long as they don't starve), but any part of him not connected to his brain will have the approximate intelligence of an iPhone.
He does not have a metabolism to speak of - medicines, poisons, and diseases will have absolutely no effect on him. He has no magical abilities at all, though his brain is partly organic so if you want him to be vulnerable to mind-control that's fine by me.
He can also interface with computers to a degree, by morphing part of his body into the shape of a USB key or similar. But this will only work if he is at least vaguely familiar with the operating principles of the computer in question.

Biography: Weaver¹⁶ was designed and built in the year 2590 as a life-support system (and new body) for the brain of Doctor Gooden, a self-proclaimed "mad scientist" who was suffering from an incurable disease that would eventually kill him. The design worked perfectly, and Weaver was given a temporary brain so he could be useful around the lab even before Gooden died. But when the time came to transfer Gooden's brain into Weaver's body, Weaver was torn between his own survival and his duty to his creator. He decided to run away, and Gooden died permanently.
This was quite traumatic for the young Weaver, since he realised that he had missed his only chance to fulfil his life's purpose. He spent the next few years on what he called a "journey of self-discovery", which was supposed to mean looking for his purpose in life but ended up spending a lot of time running from law enforcement - officially he's an "out-of-control robot" who needs to be taken down for the safety of innocent citizens.
At the time of DEATHGAME 9000, he is chronologically 8 years old, though mentally as capable as any adult human.


Writing sample:

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Spoiler"You want a fag, mate?"
The hooded figure didn't respond. The man slumped in the doorway looked up. "A cigarette, man. Do you want something to smo-"
"I'm fine, thank you. I don't actually breathe, so there wouldn't be much point."
The homeless man lit the cigarette. "Fair enough. Jus' trying to be friendly."
"I appreciate that." The robot faced down, his eyes and mouth visible even in total darkness. After a moment, he remembered to smile.

"So... you got a name? Family? If that's how it works for you types, I don't mean to offend ya."
"Yes on both counts, and no offence taken. They call me Weaver. My name is Weaver-sixteen. And there was a man I thought of as my father."
"Ah. I'm sorry for your loss. Was it..."
"Three years ago. More than half my lifetime, as it happens."
"Go on!"
"It's true. My brain was first switched on five and a half years ago. Most of my body is more recent than that."
"Huh. Well, just shows you never can tell, eh?"
Weaver considered this. "I'm not sure what you mean by that. I suppose not."
"Heh. I like your style. Name's Lance, by the way."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lance."
"Same here."

"Family, family... Well, if you count my brother, sure I've got a family. He's an asstard though. Otherwise nope, all alone. No job, no money, no home... "
"Don't you collect unemployment benefits?"
"Nah. Need an address to send the money to, and need money to rent a place. It's like one of those...", he paused to take a smoke, "turtle things. You know. Turtles all the way down. 'Cause, you got to have something to carry the world on, right?"
If Weaver had eyelids, he would have blinked at this point.
"'Cause otherwise it would fall down. So you got something holding the world up, say a turtle. Then what's holding the turtle? 'Nother turtle. And you gotta have turtles all the way down, and then the bottom one falls off, and then your whole life comes crashing down around your ears and you're left on the street."
There was an awkward pause.
"You're being metaphorical, aren't you?"
"Dunno, that's how I heard it. I know the world isn't really on a turtle. It's kinda, in space. Floating..."
Lance drifted off, staring at the sky. Weaver sat next to him and looked up. The hood of his stolen coat flopped down around his neck.
"Funny thing, the stars. Makes you feel all small. And insignificant."
"I know. Believe me, I know."
"You do, eh? You look at the stars too?"
"Almost every night. I sometimes wonder whether it'll be possible to go there."
"Yeah, I hear you. So many other worlds up in the sky, and we're still here. Messing nature up with radiation and quantum and whatnot. Don't think running away to another world is the answer though. Gotta make do with what you got, and all that."

"... no, that wasn't what I was thinking at all. I don't really want to visit other planets. I just want it to be possible, to have that kind of power. To leave our mark on the universe, to take control of the stars - I mean, it's not like they're much use to us now. It must be possible. I don't even mind if I die before then. I suppose... I hope that someday we can be in charge of the world, because it's really screwing me over at the moment."
Lance shifted nervously. "When you say we, you mean... humans and robots, right?"
"Any kind of sentient race would be fine. As long as someone who knows what they're doing is in charge of the universe. Robots probably have the best chances out of anything we know of, though." conceded Weaver.
"So... how come you're living rough in the first place? Don't you need electricity to live or something?", said Lance, changing the subject.
"Hm? No, I eat organic matter. Human food is fine, but I don't have a sense of taste so I mostly eat rubbish."
"Oh. So who do you belong to? Won't they come looking for you? Or - I mean - again, I dunno how this works-"
"I used to belong to a man named Gooden. He's the man I mentioned when you asked about my family. Then he died. Because of me, actually. I don't think I mentioned that."
"Er... no, you didn't."
"That's the worst thing any artificial intelligence can do. Asimov's First Law, you must have heard of it. I was meant to die, as part of the procedure that would save his life. I... didn't want to. In short, I've been on the run for murder ever since. Murder isn't actually the legal term - I'm not considered a sentient being any more, they're just shutting down a dangerous piece of machinery. They're worried I might do something worse. They're probably right. Anyway, that's why I wear this coat and trousers, and why I'm currently 165cm tall, so I look like a human from a distance", he added.
Lance stood up and discarded the cigarette. "I'm just gonna go buy some chips. You want some?"
"No thank you." Lance left at a brisk walk. "Of course it'll be robots that go to the stars. We're stronger, hardier, cleverer, and all-around better than humans. Even then, it'll take someone exceptional. Someone who can stand up to a universe where everything's trying to kill him, and still see the way it works and the way it should work. Someone crazy enough to believe in a better world, and clever enough to make it happen. Someone utterly invincible, who can get back up when entropy spits on his work. Not someone like me at all. But maybe someone I could become."

A pedestrian crossed the street. Weaver kept muttering. "Megalomania and talking to myself. I'm definitely insane. And murder by inaction clinches it. I can see where they're coming from on that point."
The pedestrian stepped under a light, and Weaver noted the uniform. "Excuse me, gentlebot. May I see your re-"
Weaver¹⁶ was halfway over the nearest wall before the policeman hit the ground.

Originally posted on MSPA by M_Sheep.

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Consider this my declaration of glorious intent!


Username: They call me Mr. Sheep
Name: Refers to himself as Bod, short for Nobody. He can't remember what he was called before.
Sex: He appears to be man shaped, if a little on the lean side
Race: He was once a man.
Colour: the colour of that feeling you get when you wake up from a dream you feel you should remember. Kind of like that.

Description: The first thing you notice about him is the horrendously tacky umbrella at his side that's a particularly eyebleeding shade of lemon yellow. After that, things get a bit more difficult. He has two eyes, a mouth, hair......Trying to describe him in unambiguous terms proves to be an exercise in futility. He appears somewhat neat and maybe sort of clean shaven. Yes, and his hair is the same colour as his suit and tophat. Not that you can remember what that is.

Bod's never quite gotten over his fear of crowds and still experiences great anxiety while in them. He constantly fears he'll be trampled and can't even begin to force himself to face a crowd without his umbrella.

Items/Abilities: The Incompetent has done it again folks! His automaton Gentlemen were built for one purpose, just one. To find and retrieve interesting beings. Instead, this Gentleman brought back The Most Uninteresting Man in The World. A man who steals to get by because no workplace can ever remember that he's on its payroll. A homeless vagabond, he can't even rent a hotel room for the night without waking up at the crack of dawn, struggling for breath, only to find that a maid folded the bed while he's still in it.

Nobody ever remembers poor Mr. Nobody. Buses skip him at the stop, stores close while he's still inside, and people cut right in front of him in line at his favorite cafe. Which makes an already drawn out and thoroughly taxing process even longer. Getting the barrista's attention on a slow day isn't much trouble, it's keeping her from forgetting that he's standing right in front of her as she goes back to texting her BFF that's the issue. She'll get up, start throwing the brew together, and then stop because she has no idea why she's making it or who its for. She's usually back to her seat with thumbs to her cell keypad before Bod can get her to notice him again. This little routine usually goes on for about twenty minutes before he gets his coffee. It won't be what he ordered, but it's the integrity of the thing, damn it!

Not that there aren't advantages to being forgettable, especially when that person has nonexistant funds and expensive tastes. Mr. Nobody's grown quite skilled in thievery over the years out of necessity, and frankly, greed. His long, nimble fingers are just as at home on the keys of a piano as they are in your pocket. You can expect there to be lockpicks on him.

Combating Bod's Godlike aura of forgetfullness, is The Most Interesting Umbrella in The World. It's sheer total ugliness turns peoples' heads and makes them acknowledge it's horridly yellow existence. A"cursed" umbrella that, in normal hands, causes people to think you look familiar. Extended exposure to the umbrella causes onlookers to become more obsessed with its holder the longer they can see it. This can, and has, resulted in tragic ends. In Bod's hands however, it makes a person's brain grudgingly admit that, alright, there is a man attached to the end of that umbrella.

Biography: Have you ever woke up one morning to a world that has forgotten you even exist? To wake up and find all trace of your existence erased? To find yourself stricken from records, photographs, even your twelve year old neice's drawings? To be looked at with glazed over, uncomprehending eyes as you crumble into a sobbing heap on a woman's doorstep who never had a little brother? And the world keeps turning on just as it was without you here.

Bod has, but he remembered, and those memories of his own were all he had to cling to as everything else faded away. Except, after so many years, those faded away too when the pain of remembering became too much. Since then, the man who called himself Nobody has lived in a perpetual limbo where nothing changes. Even time forgot him as the rest of the world marched on while he remained static, forever unchanging. Bod has been in his late thirties over one hundred-twenty years. He simply stopped counting after the hundred-twenty eigth year since that day.

Writing Sample: Still ought to do this bit.

Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.

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Name: Jimmy Seong (James-A), James Seong (James-B), and Jim Seong (James-C)
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Color: Timestream A, Timestream B, Timestream C

Description: All three versions of James Seong look about the same. They all stand at about 5 feet 10 inches, have short black hair and brown eyes, and have a small burn on their left hand. Here the similarities end.

Jimmy wears black boots, a brown jacket and a matching brown hat. A patch covers his left eye, though considerable scarring is visible around it. He is very inquisitive, and writes down nearly all his conversations on a small notepad. He tends to be sociable, and frequently cracks jokes in even the darkest situations.

James wears polished black shoes and a dark blue police uniform. He has various scars across the left side of his body, from his cheek to his stomach. He is silent and somewhat gruff, but not confrontational; he goes out of his way to protect those he sees as helpless or weak, but lets the strong fend for themselves. He doesn't particularly enjoy helping others, however; he primarily does it because he feels obligated to.

Jim wears sandals, a green T-shirt, glasses and blue corduroy pants. His scar is from the back of his neck to about halfway down his back. He is very talkative and friendly, and generally finds it easy to get others to talk to him as well. That said, he tends to be rather manipulative, and frequently fails to consider others' needs.

Weapons/Abilities: Any version of James that exists within the context of the battle can switch places with any other at any given time; only these three have been entered, but more might spring up as time goes by. Alternate versions of James can only appear due to potential decisions of his; the independent actions of other contestants, bystanders, and the environment will remain the same throughout all accessible timestreams.

Jimmy is very observant. Generally speaking, he finds it easy to determine things about an area, and the reason things are as they are there; he also has a sort of "second sense" about important things.

James is very athletic, and has a high pain tolerance. He carries a pistol and a nightstick with him at all times.

Jim has the ability to drag one person at any given time into a conversation. While it goes on, they will find it difficult to change the subject, escape, or concentrate on any other activity; however, if he's to keep the conversation going, he has to concentrate mainly on the other person as well.

Biography:

Show Content

SpoilerIt was November 3rd when Jimmy Seong, working for the Grand Rue Gazette, visited the main pavillion in the center of town. On that day, research scientists from the local university were unveiling their prototype time machine. Jimmy had been interested in time travel from about seven, when he first started reading the Pirates of Temporus: Based On True Events! series of comics, so he was incredibly excited over the chance to report on it. Unfortunately, the story he brought back was one of failure: almost as soon as the machine had activated, it exploded in a violent burst of teal, spraying shrapnel across the gathered crowd. The scientists who worked on the project were disgraced, several conspiracy theories were hatched by various groups, and Seong ended up with a large metallic chunk embedded in his face. Surgery would eventually remove it, but his face would be permanently marred, and he was blinded in his left eye.

That same November 3rd, several timelines away, James Seong attended a similar conference as security detail. There was considerable fear that the device might be sabotaged, forcing the police to set up a 24/7 guard for nearly a week; James wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the assignment, as he was rather unconvinced that time travel was possible or desirable. It ended up a moot point; evidently, a saboteur had managed to do his work anyway, as this iteration of the machine exploded as well. James, standing by the device at its unveiling, was this time struck repeatedly in the side by the shrapnel, receiving severe cuts. By the time he reached the hospital, they had already seemed to fully heal, and he headed out and back to duty within three days.

And on yet another version of that very November 3rd, Jim Seong, visiting a third conference with an identical subject-- simply for fun, as he had a weekend to kill and was curious if time travel could really exist-- stood in the fifth row from the front at the unveiling. As in two other timelines, the machine exploded; and as he fled, he was once again struck by shrapnel. Just as had happened with James, his wounds had healed before he knew it, and he quickly forgot about the event.

And so, life passed on for a few years, until one day when Jim Seong was mugged. He had no method of defending himself; as he reached into his rear pants pocket to retrieve his wallet, the only thing he could think of was how greatly he wished he weren't in such a situation. And, in an instant, James took the place of Jim, and before they could even notice Mr. Seong's sudden change in appearance, the muggers had been beaten unconscious and left in the alley.

Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH.

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Username: Garuru
Name: Aiyery-Z
Race: Transcendent
Gender: Male
Color: navy blue on sky blue (#000080 on #ADD8E6)

Description: He was formerly a human, but through advancement of biotechnology, he was able to boil himself down to the essentials of his personality and be compressed into a single ovoid, unlocking his full mental capabilities and allowing him to employ limited telekinesis, as well as another power unique to each person. Additionally, each person's transcendent forms would reflect their personalities in a physical form. This technology first started in 2450, on New Earth (Europa), and it formerly went through lots of opposition due to its questionable ethics, but humankind eventually accepted it as further evolution around 30 years later. It's a risky process, with only an 80% chance of surviving, and it's effectiveness varies from person to person, but the process happens to have been quite successful for him. Not everybody wants to become a transcendent, due to the high risk involved, but regular humans tend to get worse jobs, worse wages, etc. The specific power does not actually develop on its own, it has to be encouraged to emerge by the Ether, who are the group of scientists that first developed the transcendent technology in the first place. This way, the Ether has further control over who gets what, and makes sure everybody gets a power that fits them, as well as to prevent somebody from being too powerful.

His appearance is that of a light blue basketball-sized ovoid. He has two eyes, one at the top of his mouth, at the usual eye line. The other, however, is below his mouth. Both of them are blank, but the bottom one is surrounded by yellow fur. Both eyes are connected by a golden thread. His mouth is in a permanent sharp-toothed grin. Other than those, he has no features.

Show Content

Spoiler

As a person, Aiyery was very ambitious. He had always wanted to be President of the World, because he genuinely believed the world would be a far better place with him there. He also had the tendency to take things to the extreme, never settling for the middle ground. It wasn't unusual to see him happier than the regular person would have a right to be, likewise with being intensely angry or thoroughly depressed. He was also very social. He really enjoyed just talking to people, getting to know as many people as he could. However, he never could connect with those people. He was always studying them, getting to know them but giving very little of himself away. He was always a smooth talker, he really knew his way around people, and over time, he learned how to always know the right thing to say to them. Eventually, he became everybody's favorite party guest. Naturally, the only thing he tells people is that he desires to become the president of the world, and that he would accept no less than that.

His erratic personality became magnified upon becoming a transcendent. He started having mood swings, violent thoughts, and a sociopathic outlook on people. He keeps all this under the facade of a young and upstarting politician, but his facade isn't totally perfect. Some say that he has been behaving oddly as of late. Some people spread rumors. In a fit of cold rage, he killed those people, then hid everything. Nobody suspects him yet, but his mental state became shattered from here on out. He still works toward his ambition to be on top, but it no longer carries good intentions. People were only pawns to him, after all. He would use them to play the greatest game of all.

Items/Abilities: Being a transcendent, he has a limited form of telekinesis. This is usually used for floating around and picking up stuff, as transcendents have no limbs. His mental capability was also accelerated, and he can compute problems at roughly three times the speed of a normal human. Like other transcendents, he has a specific psychic power that was handpicked by the Ether to better fit him. His power happens to be the power to instill change in another person, simply through direct eye contact. He is limited to only changes that the target is capable of undertaking on his own. So, he cannot change their form drastically, but he can cause some changes in their body position, allowing him to move a few muscles that way, or to move the target over there. This so-called "body takeover" is very weak, and can easily be broken if the target is aware that he is being controlled. However, he is capable of controlling the target's emotions as well. To accommodate the body takeover, he will manipulate the target's emotions to match their actions. He can't bring a person to be completely out of character, except perhaps through lots of talking to and coaxing the target to emotional extremes. He can only nudge the target's emotional flow further in a specific direction, and like before, he cannot maintain control if the target is aware that they are being controlled. Being a smooth talker, manipulating emotions simply by talking to people is like second nature to him.

Biography: He used to be an ordinary aide to the mayor of New Earthtopia. He was everybody's favorite party guest, but otherwise, he had few noteworthy traits. After his rise to transcendence, he started to have mood swings, violent thoughts, and an utterly sociopathic outlook on people. On the outside, naturally, he was still as popular and ambitious as ever, but people started noticing strange patterns in his behavior. Those people would have to die, he thought. He didn't want to be locked up, after all. He was above all the others, they had no right to control what he can do. He wanted to become the president so bad that he instigated a devious system of bribery and treachery in the government of New Earth. But he couldn't keep his erratic behavior hidden enough, so he was taken to court to be tried for insanity. There was not enough evidence, so he got off scot-free. But he no longer had the respect of the people. So, the government shifted him over to the lowest available job.

This is how he secured a position as the Forty-Seventh Head of the Detention Facility for the Criminally Insane and Mentally Gifted, a dangerous asylum for those that are insane and possess great psychic powers. This position was bestowed upon him only a year after his rise to transcendence, a new record and an honor that he should be proud of. However, he gets no pride from this accomplishment, as it is not truly what he wants. He knows that the goverment has shunted him in this position due to him being much too dangerous to lead any other sort of facilities. This position was perfect for a guy like him, they all thought. Who better to control the psychic nutjobs than a psychic nutjob, after all?

His job bores him terribly, but he does enjoy interacting with the patrons of the facility. Sometimes, when he's really bored, he will start playing games with the patrons. It was like child's play to him, insane people have the tendency to not pay attention to their mental state, after all. From an outsider's glance, everything appears to be normal, maybe with only a few accidental deaths that few people cared about anyways. Behind the scenes, however, he has orchestrated a chaotic landscape of murders, revenges, and psychological games. It really was interesting, seeing all these people go at each other. Oh, how he wished he could play this game with other politicians. It would have been the greatest game of all.

Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl.

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... and that's eight. Assuming everyone here gets accepted, that means we have a full complement of players. Woo!

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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Yes, congratulations Ix, you have reached the bare minimum needed within 24 hours!
I think that because you have all profiles, that is actually better than how Vendetta did. I don't remember how many reserves were filled on the first day for that.

Originally posted on MSPA by Jacquerel.

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Name: ER/IC (Standing for Emergency Rescue / Intensive Care, often shortened to ERIC or just Eric)

Gender: As a machine, ERIC has no actual gender, but he has a male name and his electronic voice is that of a male, so you might as well call him a he.

Race: Sentient Robotic Ambulance

Color: BBCode Slategray, no idea what hex value this is :B

Biography:

Show Content

SpoilerOne of the last but most significant scientific discoveries of the Khral race was the formation and manipulation of pocket dimensions, opening holes in space leading into weird places that didn't seem to obey the laws of conventional physics. To start with these were really only useful as exorbitantly expensive bags that couldn't fit anything larger than a thimble, but with time their scientists discovered that by messing around with the resonating frequencies required to open such a hole they could modify the conditions of the world inside; making it larger or smaller, messing around with gravity and (perhaps most excitingly) manipulating the relative flow of time so that a minute inside could become an hour outside, or vice versa.
Suddenly the applications seemed endless and they wasted no time in miniaturising the technology and sticking it everywhere they could manage, with the caveat that a lot of the mechanisms were so complicated it took a semi-sentient AI to operate them. Tiny handbags that you could hold your car inside, perfect fridges that could retain your food at its original condition indefinitely without even the remotest risk of spoiling, specialised beds that allowed sleepers to nap for as long as they liked and emerge fully rested only a real-time second later, five thousand man clown cars and gravity-free swimming pools. The fields of physics and robotics rocketed forwards at an unprecedented rate, leading into the planet's greatest golden age.

The very final advancement the Khral made was figuring out how to open more than one hole into the same pocket dimension, creating instant transit, ovens that connected directly to local butchers' shops, a whole new baffling set of crimes and the Krahl's first evidence that they weren't the only sentient species in existence. Completely by chance, one of their magical science holes linked up to the largest pocket dimension they'd ever seen, far in advance of what even their most powerful machines were capable of maintaining. It was a landfill site filled with alien rubbish.
Of course, the only logical thing to do in this situation was to start chucking all of their own rubbish in there too, at least until they could invent a vehicle on the correct scale to fit through one of their own tiny wormholes, fly through the alien atmosphere and reach the gates to a whole new world hanging on a ceiling that was only just in sight (and that would probably only be the size of a dustbin).

Unfortunately before they were quite done with that project, a new and terribly virulent disease spread from someone's badly calibrated time fridge (set to age their milk at an extreme rate rather than keep it permanently fresh), spread through the air and into the newly created intercontinental bin network, arriving in every densely populated area of civilisation overnight. In less than a month the global population was reduced to only those living in isolated rural areas, too terrified to approach the cities for fear of plague. It wasn't much longer before they passed away too, leaving only their sentient machines endlessly repeating their original tasks for lack of anything better to do or anyone to tell them to stop.

Until one of them vanished.

Equipment/Abilities:

Show Content

SpoilerERIC was designed to operate in dangerous areas and disaster sites, and is thus fully waterproof, extremely heatproof and generally durable, as you might expect from a large ball of steel. This is particularly fortunate because his spherical body was built to house a spacial anomaly that would probably be fairly dangerous if left exposed to the naked air for long periods of time. While he is technically a medical robot, ERIC is really only able to diagnose illnesses and injuries rather than actually cure them, though he is equipped to dispense painkillers and set broken bones. His main purpose is simply to transport people out of danger areas and into hospitals. Obviously carrying them there would be fairly impractical, so instead his spherical body can split in two, the top half hinging upwards, to reveal a pulsing purple rift to a specially controlled pocket dimension within which he can store a fairly large number of patients at a time.

The actual size, solidity, gravity and (perhaps most importantly) relative time frame of this pocket world can be entirely controlled by ERIC's dedicated computer systems, even so far as to make time flow faster or slower in different areas of the largely featureless landscape (though the more complex the interior gets, the less computing space he has left to actually think in).
This means that once he has identified the severity of a patient's wounds he can effectively store even the most critically wounded of patients for days or even years. While time passes outside, they are frozen in the state they were in when they entered until such time as they can be adequately cared for outside.

Currently sitting in storage are three members of his creator species, two of them infected with a particularly virulent plague and the third who had only a broken leg and lacerations to his left hand side when he was "rescued". These wounds have now entirely healed, but ERIC's programming doesn't allow him to release patients anywhere other than a hospital, and as he has been in contact with plague victims (even ones locked in time that couldn't possibly have given him the disease) ERIC is now treating his interior as a quarantine, refusing to let anyone out until he is 100% sure he has found a doctor who has a cure.

Description:

Show Content

Spoiler
ERIC is a roughly spherical grey humanoid (standing just a little taller than your average man, but much wider) with two short, flexible tubes for legs and a very basic, nearly expressionless mask for a face. This mask can detach from its fitting at any time and extend several metres from the body on a long, flexible metal limb while using its eyes as torches (in order to investigate small tunnels in collapsed buildings) though as people tend to find this disconcerting it's not a widely advertised feature.
His arms are composed of a collection of tightly coiled steel cables that are capable of a remarkable degree of movement, though usually they're left wrapped around eachother simply to keep them out of the way. These limbs contain an extraordinary amount of strength, allowing him to lift chunks of masonry away from trapped victims of earthquakes, but also incredibly gentle and precise, allowing him to lift said victims safely without worsening any spinal injuries they may have acquired.

As he was only ever made sentient because it takes a sufficiently complex brain to run and control a pocket dimension, ERIC isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. Most of his brain power is directed to the task of running a small universe, rather than deep thought. On top of that he gets less intelligent the more complex his contained world is, so if he were to eject his patients he would become more intelligent, as he'd have more processor space to spare.
As a result of this his attitude is fairly childlike and inquisitive which is only bolstered by the fact that his programming still compels him to investigate damaged and burning buildings or respond to any cries to help. It's been a long time (centuries) since he's had any social contact though, so his interpersonal skills are more than a little rusty.

His one totally healthy "passenger" also experiences periods of conciousness during which he is understandably fairly angry about the fact that he is trapped inside an ambulance that refuses to let him out. ERIC's programming forces him to obey everything one of his creator species tells him to do, as long as it doesn't harm anyone else. As the Khral had never actually come into close contact with aliens, they didn't bother specifying whether that meant "don't hurt a Khral" or "don't hurt any sentient being" in their laws of robotics, so how he'd react to such a request is anyone's guess.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

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Name: Kart Prente
Gender: Male
Font color: #A0A000
Race: Human
Weapons/Abilities: Kart carries a deck of chance cards, each charged with magical energy using special alchemical equipment. When a card is used, its magical charge is depleted, but it grants an advantage to Kart that will help with whatever problem he needs to solve. However, there is no way to control what advantage is given. If Kart needs to win a duel, the card may give him a weapon, cause the sun to shine or reflect brightly in his opponent's eyes throughout the entire fight, indirectly force the duel to be postponed until Kart has had adequate time to train, etc. However, the cards will never guarantee a success; solving the problem is still left up to Kart.

Description: Kart is fairly tall, and on the verge of fit. He wears a black robe with dark red fringes. The black robe signifies that he doesn't want any spilled alchemical ingredients discoloring his robe, and the red fringes signify that he likes the color red. Around his waist are four satchels; two carry a deck each of chance cards, while the other two are empty.

Biography: When in a profession dealing with magic, there are two ways to view it: as an art, or as a science. Those with innate magical talent tend to fall into the first camp, while those without it tend to fall into the latter.

Those who see it as an art focus on the end product - they shape magic to achieve their purposes without worrying about how they do what they do. The reason most magic users think of magic this way is because when they use magic, there is no calculation or theorizing involved - they simply will something to happen, and if their magic talent is strong enough, it happens.

Those who see it as a science, on the other hand, are constantly trying to understand how magic works and how to control it. Reasons for viewing magic as a science can vary; some are in it for the knowledge, others feel it's the only way they'll ever be able to use magic.

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Kart strode confidently out of the Alchemist Hall. He had just finished his presentation on the chance cards he'd created, and was ready to use one and confront his brother once and for all. He had lived his entire life in his brother's shadow. "Why couldn't you have been a wizard like Pack, Kart?" his parents had moaned. Everything he had ever accomplished had been instantly forgotten when Pack came back from his wizarding school and showed off his new tricks. Truthfully, Pack was the only reason Kart had become an alchemist; he somehow felt that if he could upstage his brother in magic, it would right the childhood he'd spent in his shadow.

The urge was so strong that it had driven him to invent countless numbers of magical items. Well, not really countless, but enough that his back shelves were cluttered with failed experiments. He sometimes set aside a failed invention on a separate rack so that if he had a spare moment he could attempt to fix it, but somehow those spare moments rarely came along.

His waterwalking boots were probably the easiest fix, and so were closest to the edge - the main problem was that they weren't waterproof, so they would weigh themselves down as they got more and more wet, eventually taking up too much of the enchantment's weight-cancellation properties and plunging the wearer below the surface as it failed completely.

He was also hoping to fix his absorption staff, an idea he'd had after he had seen a parlor trick where a magician charged a goblet with magic until it burst. He'd realized that certain metals were excellent for catching and storing magic, and had designed an absorption staff that drew magic toward it and stored it. Although it had led to some critically acclaimed new methods of magic transferal, he was not satisfied with it, as the staff would crack if it absorbed too much magic. But the same research had led to the device he had used to charge the chance cards, so perhaps it had not been a total waste.

He stopped in front of his brother's shop. He had only been there a few times, none of them willingly, so he'd had to carefully memorize the route there. He pulled a card out of one of the satchels on his belt, inspecting both sides to delay the inevitable confrontation. It looked much like a regular playing card, but had a back side on both faces.

Kart steeled his nerve and focused on the card. He had no natural magical talent, but the cards were designed not to need any to be activated. The side facing him glowed bright white for a few moments, until a symbol formed over it; eight shadowy figures in a circle, with a pair of crossed swords between them. Kart peered closer at it, narrowing his eyes. "What the heck does this mean?" But before he could puzzle it any further, the glow faded, and suddenly, he was no longer standing in front of his brother's shop.

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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lets pull something up from the drudges of my profile writing



“And what is your name, sir?”

“Timothy. Timothy Hour.”

“And uh, you knew the person in question?”

“Yeah, man. His name is Ulysses. Ulysses Kark. Badassest name ever, if you ask me. He goes by Ly, though. I always told him that was a stupid nickname.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“Well, he’s really Hispanic looking. Not to sound racist, or anything. He just does. Black hair, toned skin. That sort of thing. He’s a normal height guy, and, like, a really generic voice. He’s one of those wallpaper people, despite his name, y’know? He’s a pretty level-headed and chill guy. He can take a lot of frustration before flipping the fuck out. He’s kinda calm in that frustrated way, though. He’s got to chill, before he ends up getting an ulcer.”

“Sir, uh. Stress does not cause ulcers.”

“…what?”

“Stress does not cause ulcers. It’s a common misconception.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Anyway, Mr. Hour, would you be able to tell us about Ulysses’… unusual object?”

“You mean that vase thing?”

“Yes, Mr. Hour.”

“Ok, well, like, he bought it at a thrift store, right? He’d just moved here, and wanted some furniture for his crib. He saw this vase or urn or whatever there, and it was five bucks, and it matched the décor his place had, and he was like “What the hell, I’ll just buy it.” So he bought it.

“And then?”

“Well, like, he was carrying the urn- and man is that urn heavy, you wouldn’t believe- and he dropped it, man does it has a nasty crack from that. But like, the urn landed on its side, and a bunch of water started pouring out. It ruined Ly’s car so badly, it was such a mess. He had to borrow my scooter for a while.”

“Anything else strange about this object, Mr. Hour?”

“Let me finish, jeez. Ok, so. Like, Ly freaked out and stuff, right? I would freak out if my car was totally ruined by a flood of water. So he looks inside the urn, and it’s dry. Like, bone dry. No water or anything. Obviously Ly was all like “wtf?” y’know?”

“Mhm.”

“Anyway, like, he had an inkling of suspicion or something, because he tried tipping the urn a bit, and, what the hell, water poured out of the damn thing. Crazy, huh?”

“So, you’re saying this jar was pouring water despite being completely empty?”

“Yup! Well, sort of. It’s like, well, Ly can explain it better, he’s the one who did the research on this urn, but like one of those gods from those old-school pantheons apparently pissed in an urn one time. So like, the urn is magical, and even thought it’s never full and dry on the inside, if you pour it out you get god piss, which I guess happens to be pure water or whatever. Even then, I wouldn’t drink it. You don’t ever drink piss, believe me.”

“How did Ulysses feel about this object he had acquired?”

“He was pretty sore about it, let me tell you. I mean, it had already ruined his car, and it turned out he couldn’t move very far away from it- 30 feet without any discomfort, 35 if he’s really struggling, so he had to lug the thing everywhere. He had to be sure not to tip it over or drop it or whatever; otherwise he’d get another flood and stuff. Never really had to worry about dehydration, though.”

“And, uh, why was he unable to move away from the urn?”

“Well it turns out it was enchanted by some other god idiot to bond to the first person who buys it. When they die or whatever, it disappears and appears in some store somewhere for sale. Ly happened to be the first guy to buy his thing. He’s kind of unlucky like that.”

“And where is Ulysses now, Mr. Hour?”

“Well, um, that’s why I came to you guys. I have no idea. One day, he was just gone, along with the vase urn thing. Poof, gone. The police can’t figure out, and just now they’re getting FBI peeps on this thing. But the thing is considering his urn, and your, um, profession, I felt like you’d have more motivation to find him. He owes me like, fifty bucks.”

“Oh, yes, sir, we certainly can find your friend, don’t worry.”

The interviewer flipped the notebook closed, giving Timothy a big smile.

“Oh don’t worry, Mr. Hour. We’ll find him. Trust us. We’re already working on it.”

FONT COLOR IS FREAKING BLUE

Originally posted on MSPA by Travosh.

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Username: Travosh
Name: Cyrus Curious
Sex: Male
Race: Above-Human. For most intents and purposes he is human, yet he's built just a bit too solidly, thinks a bit too quickly, and just carries the wrong air for most to consider him plain human
Colour: Nice cool green
Description: At age 30, Cyrus is a bit on the tall side, at around 6'7ft in height. He wears a long-sleeved blue shirt with white trim along the neck, bottom, and at the ends of the sleeves. This shirt is often tucked into his curiously dark green jean pants, an absurd combination of colors that should never be put together on anybody, as they certainly do not look well on him. His belt is a (oh god here it comes) curiously normal brown, but as to whether it actually keeps his pants up is for him to know and you to find out.

As his last name would suggest, Cyrus is an extraordinarily curious person whom will often toss out his own safety to satisfy his insatiable thirst for knew experiences and knowledge. Barring anything he deems worth investigating (A rare occasion indeed) he is for all intents and purposes kind and giving, using his 'talent' to try and give to others as much as he can to deal with the personal feelings of inadequacy he carries. Cyrus has trouble making a pleasant connection with anybody, since when you ask everything you can about somebody, it tends to peeve them off.
Items/Abilities: Cyrus' status as an 'Above-Human' grants him strength greater than your normal human being might possess, a sharper mind (he isn't a genius, but many an everyday problem is beneath him), and a peculiar aura of energy that he cannot actually do anything with, though it does seem to keep most feral beings from making him lunch if he does them no harm.

What grants him this strength manifests itself in the form of an average sized Notepad and pen. This Notepad however inexplicably never runs out of pages, and this Pen is bound and determined to write on anything with never ending ink supplies. Anything written on this pad springs itself into existence, from a keen sword, to a rather skittish elephant, to a run of the mill blue pancake. To a lesser extent, anything written by the pen, however without the Notepad to focus its creative power, the Pen is prone to showing off and just writing whatever it damn well pleases. While the Pen and Notepad CAN be taken from him, they seem to always find their way back one way or another, particularly fast if a thief were to use the Pen anywhere but within the confines of the Notepad.

Biography: Cyrus was an unremarkable child, he was an average athlete and did average in his studies, but the one thing he could call himself unique for was curiosity. Coinciding with his name, Cyrus went after anything that caught his fancy with wild abandon and reckless disregard for himself and the safety of others. While under normal circumstances this might be controlled, it was ever so a split of fortune and its black sister that Cyrus came from a dimension where godlike beings were very real, and very eager to plague mortals and their confounded coils with objects and creatures twisted by their immortal energies. A god certainly cant just go around handing such things off though, where's the fun in that? So they hide them, from inside a mailbox to at the highest peak of the smallest mountain range.

Cyrus' double-edged sword of a find was presented to him inside a college library he visited to look up some information on these previously mentioned obnoxious gods. While taking down notes out of the back sections where such information is kept out of the public eye (yet not out of the eye of Cyrus, whom merely jumped the restricted access sign and meandered on through) Notes were to be essential, and it was to Cyrus' chagrin that he misplaced his notebook while walking down the shelves in search of a new book. While it may have been his chagrin to lose his original notebook, it was to his apparent luck that he found an ordinary looking notepad just behind the book he pulled off the shelf. The second he laid hands on it it, its energies began twisting his own, ascending him to Above-Human status in his people's culture, and forever cursing him with the books presence.

Originally posted on MSPA by The Deleter.

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So I said I wasn't going to enter this but FUCK IT HERE WE GO

Username: The Deleter

Name: Probe Rho, Aliases Lady Robyn Starshine Magnifica Roquefort IV, Drake Holykiller, Raven Moonrunner

Gender: Genderless

Race: Organic Construct

Colour: #FFA07A on #000000 for Rho, #DDA0DD on #FF0000 for Robyn, #000080 for Drake, #4B0082 for Raven

Description: Probe Rho resembles a cross between a pile of beef and a wad of chewing gum, four feet tall and six feet in circumference. Its body is pink and horribly gelatinous, like Angel Delight gone wrong, and several jet-black eyes float in the mass of flesh randomly. This terrible appearance is hidden by the disguises it chooses. Rho is massively selfish, paranoid and devoted to its singular task of finding a world for its creators to invade. Unfortunately, it doesn’t understand humans at all, and relies on its incredibly flawed perceptions of human culture when dealing with situations that aren’t fighting or subversive. It’s not very good at its job, and frustration is common.

Lady Robyn Starshine Magnifica Roquefort IV, the first disguise, is a half-elven, half-demon, half-angel hybrid with peroxide blonde hair and multicoloured eyes. Or at least, that’s what username ~*DracoPup*~ said on www.deviantart.com, and it’s not like humans are very good at lying, right? Unfortunately, the six-foot-long sword had to be dropped as it was too impractical, along with the range of talismans, wings, auras, transformations and the unicorn. But her cheerful personality, voluptuous figure (clad in a huge fairytale dress, of course) and love for animals should, in theory, endear her to everyone. Right?

If things get violent, Drake Holykiller is on hand. Clad in a leather jacket, leather trousers, leather boots and pretty much leather everything, this white-haired, red-eyed individual is a master with all forms of the blade, although it prefers katanas. This form is adept at bladework and combat, and thanks to the fact that Probe Rho is basically a huge muscle, the more demanding acrobatic combat moves can be pulled off, no problem. Unfortunatley, the original Drake Holykiller was arrogant and a massive jerk to everyone. But this is fine - Rho doesn’t really have to pretend to be otherwise when it’s in this form. The forty girlfriends, however, are going to be a bit of a problem. As is the god-killing thing.

Raven Moonrunner is… well, even Rho isn’t sure that wolves are meant to be in every colour of the rainbow. Or glow. Or be linked spiritually to people. But it’s useful for getting around and tracking people with smell, even if other animals tend to howl/screech/bellow in fear and run away upon seeing it. Rho doesn’t like this form at all, to be honest, and is looking for a better form to use.

Weapons/Abilities: Probe Rho can shapeshift into a variety of forms and appearances. Each change takes around five seconds or so. Whilst it can only hold five or so form in its memory banks, Rho can scan more via physically touching whatever it wants to imitate. When transformed, Rho is, for all intents and purposes, that creature or object, down to the cellular level. This means that it inherits the traits and powers of the original person or object. It can only access the powers of its copies whilst transformed as them – attempting to combine forms is dangerous and could result in a messy, horrible explosion.

In its basic form, Rho can exert a limited telepathic influence on organic beings, which enables it to lure targets it wishes to copy. Its body is also elastic and adhesive, allowing it to traverse obstacles and climb, albeit slowly. Due to its decentralized nature, it can also survive being split, torn apart or shattered and can reform itself, although total destruction via intense heat or explosives is possible. It also eats things by engulfing them horribly. As Robyn, Rho can project pink energy beams from the palms of its/her hands, hover in the air and sparkle brightly. As Drake, Rho has quick reflexes and a mastery of swordfighting with blades conjured from the flesh of the probe. As Raven the wolf, it can move quickly and has a keen sense of smell and hearing, and luminous fur acts as a source of light (albeit a really unreliable and kind of useless one).

Biography: The Kli’thix Federation had a problem. For starts, a multi-system tyranny wasn’t exactly benefiting from a name like “the Federation.” No-one would take them seriously. They had to be an Empire.

And therein lied the second problem – they were running out of nearby planets to subjugate. Their ships just couldn’t warp jump far enough, and the races on the other side of the gulf were thumbing their noses and laughing at them, they were sure of it. In a bid to find new sources of life to bully, the Kli’thix created various probes, designed to seek out intelligent life, blend in with the populace, and assess the planets for invasion. If given the green light, the probes then activate their hidden warp jump beacons, and the next thing the populace knows is hundreds of black, pointy ships in their airspace. Perfect!

Unfortunately, like their masters, the probes had massive personality faults. Paranoid, selfish and arrogant, each probe believed that the races they had been sent to spy on were massively inferior. Quite a few were torn apart by the populace after accidentally revealing themselves in frankly idiotic moves. Others ended up brute-forcing it, leading revolutions, coups or other inefficient means of takeover. In short, not the greatest success.

Probe Rho had a different problem. No-one had taught it how Earth technology differed from that of the Kli’thix, because the creators were stupid enough to assume every race used the same base ideas and development. So when it attempted to find world leaders or figures of note to replicate by putting "the leader of the Dev'Antar" into a search engine, instead of ending up on the pages of the White House website, it found various fan fiction websites, terrible art galleries and lots of otherwise nasty material. Sadly, no-one had told it any better, and it proceeded to create three forms based on what it had found, in a bid to take over the planet.

How it’s still alive is a mystery. It probably says something about humans in general.

Originally posted on MSPA by Drakenforge.

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Name: Keagan Lambert
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Text Colour:#003300. Which is green.


Description: Keagan is a headstrong and reckless teenager out to prove himself worthy of being a hero. He's not very charismatic, having spent his childhood shunned by most kids, but he definitely doesn't let it bother him. Always the first to intervene in a fight no matter the reasoning behind it. His psyche took a major blow when he was rejected from becoming a member of the superhero squad his city was famous for. He attempted to be a solo hero instead, saving the city from a warhead by stealing the squad's flying car and making the bomb detonate safely from a serious distance.
He was scarred, hospitalised and received permanent damage to his sight for his heroic sacrifice. He can't remember the long name for his condition, ventral something-or-other is how he refers to it, but it means his left eye can only see one clear object at a time, while everything else remains a blur. His right isn't as bad but is nowhere near as clear as it used to be. Thankfully, he has a pair of glasses he keeps secure on him at all times that helps. He is intensely protective of them, for more reasons than he admits.

He wears a casual winter outfit and a black wool cap that is folded up at the hem but still reaches his eyes. There are slight indications of scarring on the left side of his face, not deep cuts but light burns, and his left eye is paler than his right. Having never joined any sports teams or trained to become a hero, his muscular disposition is about average.

Abilities: Keagan is unnaturally immune to force, specifically Newton's law of inertia. Anything that comes into contact with Keagan, so long as he doesn't know it's there or at least can't see it will not impart any force onto him. Small thrown objects will bounce off harmlessly, sharp edges will fail to cut and bullets would impart heat but not pierce his skin. He could trip and smash his head into the floor, but so far as he didn't see the floor coming, he wouldn't feel a thing. There are three things his body cannot bounce though. Sound, heat and light. With this eye condition as it is, without his glasses he will fail to recognise much that is around him, doubling as an efficient protection from force. However the downside is he is more likely to put himself in harms way in the first place.


Biography: Keagan had never thought of himself as someone who stood out. Even while he kept his “gift” under wraps, he never attempted to make use of it, barely even managing to keep a close circle of friends during his teenage years. He did dream of someday using his powers with a purpose, longing to someday shine as a superhero. His power wasn't exactly spectacular, and pretty much only allowed him to remain unharmed. There weren't many uses that his gift would have when helping others.
When he finally found an opportunity to reveal his gift, he made a mistake that would cost him dearly. During a bank robbery, he attempted to fight off several armed criminals, hoping his ability would keep him safe. With his eyes closed, they didn't hesitate to shoot the foolish boy. Keagan hadn't expected that bullets would actually hurt him, and panicked. With his eyes open, the second pierced his gut, and he was left to die. If it wasn't for the superheroes that he so wanted to be part of, he would have died. He was reprimanded for his stupidity, and while they instructed him that the best use of his powers were to remain as a normal person, they would never hire someone like him.

During his troubled recovery, he befriended a female resident of the hospital close to his own age. She was blind, but a very caring person. When Keagan had recovered, he continued to visit her as a friend to cheer her up during her treatment. It was on the day of her final operation that he encountered the event that changed his life forever.
He was on his way to wish the girl good luck when he saw the Superhero team's electronically advanced car, rumoured to be capable of autopilot, flight and even to contain weaponry. What was abnormal about this was that someone was attempted to load a large device into the back seat, someone who had broken into the car shortly beforehand. Keagan knew about the risks, but there was something about the large cube that didn't bode well with him. He managed to distract the carjacker and land a clean punch on the side of his head, effectively knocking him to the ground. It didn't take long for him to realise what the device was, since he began to feel a tingling sensation around his body, usually one reserved for his ability deflecting something. Coupled with the radiation symbols overlapping the metal chassis of the bomb, the young would-be hero made one very important decision.

He entered the car, quickly worked out how the autopilot worked, persuaded the on board computer (who turned out to be a sucker for the chance to become a hero itself) to help him, and plotted a coarse to drive out of the city before the warhead could explode. During this chase, the squad attempted to talk him out of it over the radio, having quickly learned of his flight from the activist who had sparked the incident. They attempted to gain access to the codes required to deactivate it, however, fell for a trap that would cause the bomb to detonate prematurely. Keagan and the computer agreed that vertical distance was needed, but the G-force that the car would endure on a vertical take off in flight mode would severely injure any regular human.
Keagan, being abnormal, chose to take the plan to save the city, and in his sacrifice, becoming a hero. Not for himself, but that he wanted to save his dear friend, and everyone else inside the city that he called home. The autopilot had other ideas, and after it had travelled a sufficient distance into the sky that the turbulence would not upset the flight plan ejected Keagan into the open air, hoping his power would cause him to survive not only the fall, but being that close to a warheads detonation.

Keagan watched as the car accelerated into oblivion, the blinding flash causing sever damage to his eyes, while the aftershock crashed into his body. Instead of obliterating it like it had done with the car, it harmlessly shunted him down towards the earth and discarding him into the concrete where he bounced painfully. His body finally accepted there were things it could not deflect, the light and heat from the blast leaving their marks on his body as a solid testament. But he survived, and thanks to his efforts do did the city. Not everything was perfect, the blast had untold effects, but he never learned what they were. He was checked back into hospital, commended for his bravery, and left to his own devices. He underwent surgery for his eyes but ultimately never regained proper use of them. However, a young girl chose to impart something that had once belonged to her, a pair of glasses that improved his sight, on the grounds that one day, once his sight got better, he would return them.

Leaving Keagan with one hell of a reason to keep going on, no matter what.

Originally posted on MSPA by Protractor Ninja.

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Username: Protractor Ninja
Name: James “Mighty” Henway
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Color: A rusty reddish brown color.
Description:

Show Content

SpoilerJames Henway is not the type of person that stands out in a crowd. His hair, the most prominent part of his appearance, is a deep shade of brown about halfway between black and blonde, and its thick, wavy curls fall just below his ears. Muscular, but not blatantly so, the majority of Henway’s fighting prowess lies in his agility and vocal intimidation skills, allowing him to disrupt an enemy’s thought process (if any) and quickly strike.

As a regular user of the lighter breeds of armor, Henway generally wears a leather cuirass over a cotton shirt and pants, complemented by slightly reinforced boots and studded fingerless gloves for lending a bit of an edge to his physical attacks.

When not engaged in battle, James is generally amiable towards trusted friends, but sightly dim-witted and quick to see danger where none exists. He is especially willing to run into anything that looks like an opportunity to beat something to a bloody pulp.

Items/Abilities:

Show Content

SpoilerOne of James’s most cherished possessions is the Henway family heirloom, a Baggins’ Bags Belt of Holding™ purchased by Fitzgerald Henway during the Dragon Age. An upgrade from the more common Bag of Holding™, the belt consists of a system of trans-dimensional pouches that allow for nearly infinite storage capability, the only restriction being that the pockets’ capacities are limited to what can be stuffed into each individual opening.

Thanks to a lifetime of yelling at various creatures (and the occasional strength potion), Henway’s vocal cords have been strengthened to the point where he can mentally (and sometimes literally) disarm an opponent simply by being very, very loud.

Biography:

Show Content

SpoilerMighty Henway is currently the last in a long line of adventurers who have somehow managed to bear children before getting themselves killed. James’ father, Beauregard Henway, was once a rambunctious explorer but later settled down with his wife, Rosie Henway, in order to better raise his son. When James came of age,* he inherited the patriarchal nickname passed down through the family and became Mighty Henway.

* The Henway Coming of Age ritual is presented to a male heir to the Henway name every year following his second birthday, and a child is considered a man once he has been successfully able to down a bowl of strained peas. Francis Henway, James’ great-great-grandfather, celebrated his completion of the ritual at the age of 46.

Since his youth, Mighty Henway has proven himself many times over to be of the Henway heritage. He is quick to rush into danger without considering the potential consequences of his actions (though he is not totally ignorant of what may or may not be a trap), and he favors getting his point across very loudly. His strategy has proven to be ineffective on any being that is not intimidated easily, but he has resolved to circumvent that detail by training himself to yell louder than anything else can. His crowning achievement in this field was during the Great Cretaceous Time Schism, in which he successfully reduced a swarm of Velociraptors to a shivering pile of quantum phlegm.

Writing Sample:

Show Content

SpoilerPeas are very envious vegetables.

A particular troupe of these disgustingly unsalted monstrosities had, upon being ignored in favor of a smugly buttered ear of corn by a rather forgetful wizard (who couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d left a life serum on the table right next to the salad dressing), became so angry that they knocked over a bowl of cinnamon-pecan sweet potatoes, took the salt shaker hostage, and declared that they intended to render the entire kitchen useless until they were allowed to go be eaten at some “high-end, respectable place” where they would “finally be recognized as constructive to a meal.”

The wizard refused, claiming that the peas themselves were entitled to nothing more than a salt and buttering. As a stalemate emerged, spectators began to arrive, taking both sides and generally making the whole ordeal more troublesome for everybody. Lawyers were brought in and compromises were made, albeit not without considerable argument from both sides. The peas wanted appreciation, the civil rights enthusiasts wanted justice, the wizard wanted everyone out of his house, and the vegetarians wanted a snack.

Soon, however, the issue was resolved as a giant, most likely having just woken up from years of hibernation, lost his balance as he was putting on his trousers, fell, and crushed the house along with its occupants.

Mighty Henway woke up amidst anger, confusion, and a broken table.

“Urgh,” he said, and spat a shard of porcelain out of his bleeding mouth. “What happened?” He wondered why he felt like blaming whatever was happening on the overturned bowl of peas that lay next to him.

“You ruined dinner, you fool!” screeched a voice as Henway rubbed a globule of mashed potato out of his eye. A woman, dressed in red and covered with what looked like onion soup, leaned down and glared at him. “I told you we were going to have company today! And now you’ve destroyed my last set of fine china, too!”

Henway picked himself up and brushed more of the foodstuff that was covering his clothing. “Sorry, Lady Saturday. I’m certain I had a good reason for barging in like this, but I really can’t remember it at the moment. Something to do with soggy chestnuts.”

He snapped his fingers. “Oh, right! Water chestnuts! I thought I should warn you about the water chestnuts! They’ve been poisoned by the new chef, you know.”

Several of the guests turned green.

“I guess I should go find a doctor, then. I’ll be back soon!”

A smashed window later, Henway was gone, leaving a scene just short of complete pandemonium in his wake. Lady Saturday was trying to figure out whether she should break down in tears or try to find out how much it would cost to repair the brand new hole in the roof, and a good number of people in the room were either panicking or deciding if they should trust the seemingly deranged man who had just informed them that they were probably going to either die or become very ill very soon.

In short, it was the best dinner party Henway had ever been to.

Originally posted on MSPA by momatoes.

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Username momatoes
Name Jolene Kamiensky
Sex Female
Race Human
Colour #cc0000 Red

Description Jolene has close-cropped auburn hair, and is about 5'7'' tall. She is about middle-aged, of tall and athletic build: she had been an active member in the NYPD before being 'retired'. There are always dark circles under her eyes, contrasting sharply with her relatively young-looking face. When she speaks, it is always in a clear and somewhat forceful manner. She is used to remaining calm under intense pressure, but when she snaps, she becomes vindictive and determined to the point that she starts to move and act single-mindedly.

Jolene can become very opinionated and will not hesitate to air her thoughts out if she feels it is needed. She is normally armed with a .45 caliber pistol.

Ability Jolene can control doubles, humanoids who look exactly like her but are invisible to everyone else but her. They can move, eavesdrop, and spy, reporting back to Jolene using telepathy. If they die they simply dissipate into air. They do not feel pain, fatigue or emotion but are still subject to normal laws of physics. She can control how many there are, but she gets more frantic, more stressed and is more and more pushed to insanity if she starts duplicating them beyond what her mind can deal with.

Biography Her name was Jolene Kamiensky. She was a former NYPD police detective. She worked as a detective for four years in the Major Case Squad (kidnappings were her specialty) before being transferred to the Special Victims Division, where her blazing passion and, above all, her unwavering compassion towards the victims made her seem like a natural at her job. And for the longest time, Jolene thought this was true, too. Each day she came home she felt enlightened, fulfilled.

Things didn't go well soon afterwards, however.

The problem was that she -- no, the problem was that they -- well. It was difficult to point out what exactly the problem was. It could have been the stress finally getting to her (a child, murdered! How was she supposed to deal with it? How was anyone supposed to deal with it?) or perhaps her age (she was thirty this summer, thirty long years) but she started imagining things. Started imagining that she, Jolene Kamiensky, nine years in the force, growing old, mom and dad Polish immigrants, normal, very very normal, started imagining that she was being followed by someone who looked exactly like her. A shambling humanoid, naked and haunched. But it was in fact, an exact copy of her in every way except for one major thing: The Other didn't have eyes. Where the eyes would be there was just flesh, rubbery flesh, covering everything. She wanted to scream. She tried to fill in her duties even with the distractions in her mind (what else were they but hallucinations?) but she broke down and bungled a case. And another. And another.

Nobody else could see them. She was suspended for two months. Her chief officer, a kindly man, they knew each other well, he said to her, "Jo, you need this break. Take a vacation. Take your mind off things." He slipped a piece of paper into her hands, whispered to her about a good psychiatrist he knows about. "This is his number", he said. Her hands shook. She was angry that this was happening to her, angry to the point of tears, but she was a professional. Jolene knew this was necessary, but it didn't stop the hurt.

It got worse when she started seeing more of them. And when they, somehow, started talking to her. No matter how far away they seemed to be she always seemed to hear their voices. The things they told her, they were things she would never had known about, like snippets of conversations she couldn't have heard because it happened a mile away.

Schizophrenia, the psychiatrist said.

Jolene was 'persuaded' to resign from the police force. She was stoic on the outside. But inside, finally, she burned and seethed with anger. This was necessary, yes, but they took away her life's work, her one passion, and all because of this. Because she couldn't control her visions. She didn't know at whom she was angry, was it her chief, or was it aimed at herself?




In time she would realize she could control her doubles. To some extent. They moved on their own, roamed the city without her telling them to, but she could tune in on what they were hearing or seeing (but how could they? They had no eyes. Yet they still told her what they saw) and, above all, she could set limits. Set simple commands. Don't go near me she screamed inside her head and, in time, in time, they would finally listen.

Jolene grew stronger. In the rural confines of her parental home, she tried to train the Others, like the way a dog would be trained. Slowly, she transformed her anger, her regret, her frustration, into a finely honed obsession. She would use this power. No matter how they disgusted her, she would use the Others to spy, to look, to enhance her intuition. Jolene Kamiensky, former NYPD Police Detective, prayed every night that one day she would overcome her horror, her shock, and learn to use the Others for the justice that she had loved.

I'm not crazy, she thought to herself, frantically. I'll show them. I'm better.

Originally posted on MSPA by AbsolutlyAngelic.

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Username: AbsolutlyAngelic
Name: Collette Ice
Sex: All of them
Race: Dragon
Colour:This one. #D3D3D3, I believe
Description: Silver scales, icy blue eyes and triangular wings. (I'd draw a picture, but all my dragons look like dogs)
Items/Abilities: She can turn into a silver haired girl who has more strength then any girl should. Oh, and you know, flying. Collette can turn into other things, but she's normally a human girl or dragon. She wacks people with her tail
Biography: She grew up in a cave, like all dragons do, but got continously more curious about the humans that lived near her cave. Eventually, she realized she could turn into one and tried to learn as much as she could about them.
She realized that she could turn into many other things as well and began practicing. As soon as she was old enough, she began to explore the world under many personas, but her favorite was Collette, an human teenager with silver hair. She's made up an entire backstory for her and claims to be a worshipper of a strange religion that believes in dragons, which would explain any oddity
Writing: Collette looked around and surveyed the room. Chances are, someone would die and she wasnt going to let it be her. If the room started to fill with something, she'd fly out. If the ceiling started to collapse, she'd shrink. If... Collette ran through the possibilities in her head. Someone shouted something and she grimaced. Oh course, she had to think of her fellow contestants. She had no idea what they were capable of. For all she knew, the weakest one could be the one to do her in. She turned to the contestant next to her.
"Hey," She smiled, using all the allure she could muster, "How about a truce?"
She'd kill them later, of course. But it never hurt to be friendly

Originally posted on MSPA by Adenreagen.

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Username: Aden “Ronald” Reagen
Name: Eris
Sex: Female
Race: Human-ish, but it wasn’t always that way.
Colour: Yellow on Grey It's apparently easier to read.

Biography: Eris couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed in one place for so long. Even in the beginning on Vio Maleficat she had always travelled with her parents. They had taught her so much but they kept going on about how it was only the beginning for her, that she would one day grow up to be like them: powerful, dangerous, fun. They taught her how the world was changing, and not for the better. Unity was taking over, they were being hunted down, Chaos was being eliminated, they would have to run away to try and be safe. They would have to hide, they would have to CHANGE. Even on Vio it wasn’t safe for them, for they were the true stewards of the world, a world that was coming to reject them.

It was always at this point in the story that Eris would start crying. Her parents would always reassure her, “when you grow up, you’ll be able to make it right, Eris. You, and others like us, will be able to return Vio to the way it was, and spread to other worlds. You’re safe as long as we’re here.” They fled their home world for one that did not know of their kind. Her parents changed themselves, and her, in order to blend in: giving up their multi-creature bodies in exchange for looking human. They couldn’t hide their nature though. They still caused chaos everywhere they went. Those were some of the happiest and scariest times of Eris’ life. Her parents sowed discord everywhere they went, trying to show Eris how the world could be. Storms, famines, disrupting the natural order, Eris had never laughed so much in her life as when she watched her parents play. Eventually they would always be met with enough resistance that they had to move on but they were always together, always a family.

Eventually they were hunted down by the company that had changed Vio from Chaos to Unity. They knew the signs of her kind, the trails of panic left in their wake, and tailed them all the way from Home. Her father was killed outright, her mother hit with a beam of pure Unity and turned to stone. Eris, being much weaker, had managed to hide and escape. Years went by. Centuries. Eris was still a fledgling when her wings appeared. It was a sign that she was starting to grow up, and normally a cause for celebration, but now it only served to mark her. She didn’t know what her parents had done to hide theirs, and she wasn’t strong enough to imitate it. She started causing chaos wherever she went. She had always caused chaos, but now it happened without her meaning to. For years it was always “run from this mob” or “break out of this cell” or even “climb off this burning stake” depending on where she was until eventually she learned to always be on the move.

They came for her in the end anyway. As weak as she was, she left clear enough signs where she had been. She tried to fight them, but they knew how to kill her parents ages ago, what hope did she have? Instead killing her like she expected, they captured her, choosing to study this changed spirit of Chaos.

She’d been here several years now, or at least she thought it was. Stuck in the prison they had built for her. It wasn’t so much a prison as a void. A void of pure unity. With nothing for her to interact with, Eris was the only thing in her cell. There was no up, no down, no physics to tamper with, no laws of the universe to try to bend, just the pure Order that is nothingness. Moving in any direction was pointless, as there was no way to tell if she had moved at all. It was so. Very. Boring. She thought of her parents a lot, of what they had tried to teach her, of what she had seen them do. It was all theory now, she supposed. She would never be as great as they were, because she would never get the chance to try. They would never let her out of the void, except in an extremely controlled environment and they only let her out to study her and then it was right back in. She thought of counting to a billion again, it wasn’t the right way her parents taught her, but it was the only way she could count in this place.

“One…Two…*sigh* three…hm?” There was something else in the void, either very small or far away. She reached out to it and decided that there really was distance here since it was out of her reach. She moved towards it and gave off a girlish “squee” when she got close. It was a machine, and it smelled like Chaos in a place full of sterile Unity. It reached out and took her hand. She only managed to ask it one thing.

“Are you here to play?”

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SpoilerBy the by, the Vio M I'm referring to is the GBS3 version, not the MSPA even though the GB is based off of it.

Description: Eris looks like a normal little girl of roughly ten, except that her hair is white and her eyes are yellow, and she has a pair of wings growing out of her back. There’s that, even if they are small enough compared to her body size to look like part of a costume. Her clothes are a variety of patterns and colors: some denim jeans that look more like patches with pants sewn on them, a bit of corduroy and silk sewn into the same shirt that was once mostly cotton and brown but now has patches of blue and cream... in short, Eris looks like she’s homeless and has had to fix her clothes with whatever was handy, and if you thought that, you’d be right. The only thing that looks normal about her is a small grey tiara she has, but even that is ruined by floating of her head rather than resting on it. (It isn’t special, just a crown of +1 Floating, for effect)

Eris is childlike for her age by human standards, but when your race can live for untold thousands of years, being a couple centuries old is a child. Maturity is discouraged by her kind anyway because children have the best imaginations and get into the most trouble, and when you’re an embodiment of chaos that’s something they try to cultivate. True Eris has caused a riot here, a panic there and hysteria all around but it’s not done maliciously, she doesn’t really have a concept of good and evil, just that chaos is more fun than order and fun things are…well…fun. Sometimes she can get carried away, so from another person’s viewpoint she can be sadistic and cruel or change to lazy and silly without warning, but to her it’s just how she passes the time.

Eris tends to like people who wreak havoc everywhere because it reminds her of her parents, but since she is chaos chances are she'll be able to be endearing one moment and hated the next. A friend could instantly become an enemy and vice-versa. Or not, we'll have to see.

She also loves her some shinies. Giving her shiny things is the fastest way to her heart (besides causing an explosion or something).

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Spoiler This is Eris. She's here to cause Chaos and collect shinies. Except right now she can't do either.

Items/Abilities: As a younger embodiment of chaos, Eris is not a very powerful reality bender, in fact she’s quite weak. She is able to warp herself into posters and pictures and the like and can teleport short ranges. Eris can also change people’s perception of the world and their appearance, albeit in minor ways. She can’t make a serial killer a saint or vice-versa, but she could have made an abbey of nuns break into a fistfight given enough time and effort. She's the teensyest bit of a manipulator if she tries, but what Eris is best at is small chaos: making it rain sideways, and cherry soda at that, or changing how animals bodies are proportioned, or creating just about anything smaller than she is, to an extent. She generally makes, and does, things that don't make sense. Her very presence also creates an aura of chaos, the longer she spends somewhere (on the scale of a room, not a city) the less unity there is, and the more things seem to go out of control. She can’t bring about the end of the world, but she can still freak people out.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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You know what fuck it sure

Originally posted on MSPA by Adenreagen.

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Nice Wojj, you'll make 17 of us.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.

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Not signing up but the entries so far are damn impressive and I am looking forward to what you guys come up with and write and such.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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Name: Boltzman
Gender: Male
Race: Humanny
Abilities: Boltzman has one defining piece of equipment to him: his oilskin sack, a bag of tricks. The bag is a give-and-take deal Boltzman agreed to when he first picked it up. The upside is that whenver Boltzman so desires he can conjure a random valuable object or artefact, probably magical, by rummaging through the bag. The downside is a lot more extensive. The owner of the bag is more prone to hunger and illness and everything else that could ail someone, the bag can at times become greasy or heavier with no reason to do so just to spite its owner. The bag is a bit of a dick and has total control over which gem Boltzman produces, a trait it often exploits, and the bag sometimes speaks, and sometimes pretends to speak, just to drive the man a little more mad with every step. The worst part about owning the bag is that everyone wants it. The bag of tricks is probably the most coveted item in the entire universe and once people as much as lay eyes on the bag, let alone see its prowess, they will be overcome by an immense desire to steal it, enough to range from severe distraction to dropping whatever they're holding and lunging at Boltzman's throat.

Description: Boltzman is old, but it's to be expected of a man who deals in antiques to be a bit antique himself. His face is wrinkled and pockmarked with flecks, his pose a bit hunched over, and his hands thin, covered in burns from the rope he tugs his bg by and with arteries clearly running along his skin. His hair is the only part that can still be called young: long and well kept, Boltzman thought it'd be a shame to cut it down, and let it grow straight down, all neatly combed back.

Boltzman is weak, not just on the outside. He has fighting spirit somewhere between zilch and nil, but he is however a survivalist through and through. What he lacks in strength he makes up for in surveillance. Keeping a healthy look on the situation and considering all options at a glance, and that's not paranoia and that's not the bag talking. He has absolutely no concept of personal space or privacy (the ones who care are just hiding something) but he doesn't really bother with anyone but himself because of his burden, so it's not much of an issue. Though he might be considered strange or even insane by some, Boltzman really doesn't care as long as that's what's keeping him around.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Sorry this has taken a while. I'm not good at making decisions in general and choosing participants for this is genuinely the hardest choice I've had to make in a long time.

Official lineup:
1. Lynette Spettro and Vigil - Solaris
2. Gomorrah - -Benedict
3. Dr. Trisha Bearonrollerblades - Lord Paradise
4. Weaver¹⁶ - Snowyowl
5. ER/IC - Jacquerel
6. Keagan Lambert - Drakenforge
7. Jolene Kamiensky - Momatoes
8. Eris - Adenreagan

And there you have it, if you have any questions or concerns as to why you weren't chosen or whatever then just send me a PM and I will respond as best as I can. I'm going to be working on the start of the battle now and hope to have that up very soon. For those of you who are new to grandbattles or don't frequent the IRC channel, it may be a good idea to start doing so, so as to better coordinate with the other participants. Here is a link to the channel in question (#grandbattle on espernet).

Here is a link to the Season Intermission Organization Thread where you can stay informed of future battles.