RE: The Grand OC! [CONTEST 28: NEKKID]
10-06-2014, 05:46 AM
Username: Bared on the left for all to see
Name: Free.m
Race: Script
Color: Series 25 Orange
Description/Biography: According to what the datapath tentatively assumed was its documentation, the thing seemed to be a transcompiler, but for all he knew what he was reading off of was some ur-entity's misfiled junk mail for all the relevant sense it made. Still, he'd gone searching for a translator, and buried in Reality's program was this, whatever this was.
It started as a black point, cool to the touch and humming noiselessly like it were attached to something larger, mechanical; it turtled outward unbidden in a series of right-angular movements, billowing slowly from the origin like the demarkations of a diffusing gas. Squares, mostly black but shifting color at more-or-less random, bloomed like clumsy bubbles, framing the unfathomable cold of the depths of space when the datapath stuck his finger in.
The ups and acrosses clipped through his fingertip, spitting out reams of data across his scarf but giving him every cause for concern. The datapath had only the faintest inklings of how it might work, let alone how it might be controlled - he was going to either be the first human to ascend to a separate reality, or die of acute organ failure. He couldn't modify the foreign script, but the vulnerable universe posed no such barriers. Containment would be easiest if he could parse the exotic code, but a want of a translator was what had gotten him in this mess in the first place. He reconfigured the air, the ground, the cognitive flags in a three-mile radius, setting up exceptions and overrides wherever he thought they'd fit, ignoring the intermittent jolts and deadness in his nerves. Four-cornered zeroes and ones stretched asymptotically up crept into his vision and prickled in his throat, jittering into comprehensible existence on all his boundary lines.
Done, except for his scarf, which slithered off of its own accord with a few final lines of code before relocating itself with a crack and a dash. The datapath slumped against a rock, attuned enough now to watch the air toughen and resist the encroaching code. His biological remains proved surprisingly resistant the the conversion process, keeping the external structural integrity with the occasional clipping error as a bit of the converted code angles through his skin. If you peeled said skin back, you'd be staring into an utterly alien reality, and probably also be dead.
Abilities: The transpiler was never designed for fiddly work like multicellular organisms and all the metadata they invariably entail, so the datapath's remains (and his final instructions to prioritise compilation therein) will keep the script mostly contained for the interim. Bits of Free.M occasionally leak from the entry wound, the left index finger, though left in the air without exposure to prioritised bio-matter it just steadily forms a series of right-angled lines and squares with no obvious pattern. What Free.M actually does is recompile the target universe's "code" into the code of whatever reality Free.M harks from, a process which manifests as weird, proto-digital-art phenomena. It's not an AI, nor can it convert everything - universes sufficiently different from the datapath's homeworld will have different base code, summarily limiting Free.M's ability to rewrite reality.
Seriously, though, this thing is a nasty piece of work and should not have been taken out of quarantine.
Name: Free.m
Race: Script
Color: Series 25 Orange
Description/Biography: According to what the datapath tentatively assumed was its documentation, the thing seemed to be a transcompiler, but for all he knew what he was reading off of was some ur-entity's misfiled junk mail for all the relevant sense it made. Still, he'd gone searching for a translator, and buried in Reality's program was this, whatever this was.
It started as a black point, cool to the touch and humming noiselessly like it were attached to something larger, mechanical; it turtled outward unbidden in a series of right-angular movements, billowing slowly from the origin like the demarkations of a diffusing gas. Squares, mostly black but shifting color at more-or-less random, bloomed like clumsy bubbles, framing the unfathomable cold of the depths of space when the datapath stuck his finger in.
The ups and acrosses clipped through his fingertip, spitting out reams of data across his scarf but giving him every cause for concern. The datapath had only the faintest inklings of how it might work, let alone how it might be controlled - he was going to either be the first human to ascend to a separate reality, or die of acute organ failure. He couldn't modify the foreign script, but the vulnerable universe posed no such barriers. Containment would be easiest if he could parse the exotic code, but a want of a translator was what had gotten him in this mess in the first place. He reconfigured the air, the ground, the cognitive flags in a three-mile radius, setting up exceptions and overrides wherever he thought they'd fit, ignoring the intermittent jolts and deadness in his nerves. Four-cornered zeroes and ones stretched asymptotically up crept into his vision and prickled in his throat, jittering into comprehensible existence on all his boundary lines.
Done, except for his scarf, which slithered off of its own accord with a few final lines of code before relocating itself with a crack and a dash. The datapath slumped against a rock, attuned enough now to watch the air toughen and resist the encroaching code. His biological remains proved surprisingly resistant the the conversion process, keeping the external structural integrity with the occasional clipping error as a bit of the converted code angles through his skin. If you peeled said skin back, you'd be staring into an utterly alien reality, and probably also be dead.
Abilities: The transpiler was never designed for fiddly work like multicellular organisms and all the metadata they invariably entail, so the datapath's remains (and his final instructions to prioritise compilation therein) will keep the script mostly contained for the interim. Bits of Free.M occasionally leak from the entry wound, the left index finger, though left in the air without exposure to prioritised bio-matter it just steadily forms a series of right-angled lines and squares with no obvious pattern. What Free.M actually does is recompile the target universe's "code" into the code of whatever reality Free.M harks from, a process which manifests as weird, proto-digital-art phenomena. It's not an AI, nor can it convert everything - universes sufficiently different from the datapath's homeworld will have different base code, summarily limiting Free.M's ability to rewrite reality.
Seriously, though, this thing is a nasty piece of work and should not have been taken out of quarantine.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow