The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 29: UNINTELLIGIBLE!

Alright, this week's theme is METAMORPHOSIS. Show game-changing profiles (or puns)! Good luck!

Name: The Cocoon
Race: Cocoon
Gender: Cocoon
Text Color: #C0C00...A?
Description: A very large cocoon. It doesn't seem to move at all, but occasionally it shakes as though something will come out.

Biography: Well, presumably it was a larva of some sort at one point. Nobody is really sure; it just sort of appeared in Lab B one day. The general consensus is that it's the janitor's fault.
The janitor didn't object to this, mostly because he hasn't been seen since the cocoon appeared.
Lab B was locked down ever since, with plans to either fumigate or just torch the thing, but then the whole thing got bogged down with Dr. Tonal asking for permission to study it first.
By the time that piece of bureaucracy was dealt with and the exterminators were sent in, the cocoon had disappeared entirely. Not that it didn't leave a huge mess behind.

Powers: The cocoon just sort of sits there. Except, while no one's actually observed this happening, it seems to make webs grow around it. These webs also seems to attract other insects; nothing unusual was observed in the webs left in Lab B, except for the sheer variety of insects.
The webs don't seem to be a trap or anything, as the insects were able to crawl around over them freely. But for all anyone knows, they might have been moving towards the cocoon.
Also, sometimes it throbs, or pulsates, or shakes. It's a very unsettling sight.
It's probably not a good idea to stay near the cocoon for extended periods of time, either. We can't actually prove it has any connection to the janitor's disappearance, but better safe than sorry.

Username: High Schoncept
Name: E1, or "Ellie"
Species: Elder Elver (juvenile)
Gender: Any, though different members of the research team tasked with it had their own notions.
Color: Ideorange

Description: E1 resembles a vaguely fish-shaped floating piece of foil-thin sheet metal, about eight feet long and three feet wide. A single, perfectly circular hole is cut out on the anteroposterior axis of symmetry, where this thing's head would be were it a real fish. One could fit their fist pretty comfortably through this hole, except for the orange-and-violet fire hovering in the middle of it. The entire shape is also wreathed in a multicolored flame, though the hues outside of orange are desaturated in comparison. The fire extends out the back in a translucent "tail" that makes E1's total length about twenty glowing orange feet.

E1 is small for their species thanks to a rich and steady diet from a young age which avoided the typical Elder Elver survival strategy of diffusing over a large enough area that they could find food. This is fortuitous for something the size of a galaxy does not a good Battle contestant make.

Carefully glued to the side of the Elver are some electronic devices: one is a tinny speaker E1 can activate by changing the properties of their skin, the others are designed to log location and ambient atmospheric data. They probably weren't designed for trans-universal logging. E1 is quite talkative, personable, and rather childish in personality. They possess a vast array of knowledge though it tends to take an esoteric/"alien" lens when they try to explain it.

Weapons/Abilities: E1's "skeleton" is made of an otherworldly material - while heavy impacts can and will bend it it'll readily unfold back to its usual shape. Being extremely thin and tough, E1's front edge makes for a dangerous knife's edge as it swims through the air/soil/whatever obstructs it, really. E1 "eats" by chopping things up into fine particles, also breaking down concepts or ideas associated with the matter into comprehensible chunks and consuming them with the bright flame in its eye-hole.

E1's non-front edges are starting to dissolve into semi-conceptual existence, which may demonstrate interesting properties depending on what is silly enough to touch it there. Along with its diet transitioning from "concept-infused matter" to raw ideas, and its habit of sometimes flying "flat" instead of "upright" it's quite clearly at the end of its current life stage and big changes are coming its way.

Biography:

The Department of Exoversal Studies invites all students and faculty to our weeklong series of lectures and events to commemorate the departure of our very own exoversal entity, E1. E1 has been a valued collaborator with the department, immeasurably expanding our understanding of the unusual lifeforms which dwell beyond the edge of our universe. E1's contributions while they carry research equipment on their migration to what can only be speculated as the Elder Elvers' interstitial spawning grounds, but their departure marks the end of an illustrious era in RIMI's history.

29/4 1300, Lecture Hall 3 - Introduction to Exoversal Diversity with Dr. Strang

30/4 1300, Lecture Hall 3 - Flight of the Elver: Projections and Predictions from E1's Flight Data with Dr. Sirocco

31/4 1300, Lecture Hall 3 - Teleconference Q&A with E1
31/4 2000, Edgeway spaceport - Voidscope Observatory tour (limited to eight participants. No fee but bookings essential, RSVP here)

32/4 1300, Lecture Hall 3 - Braving the Beyond: Designing Research Probes For Interstitial Durability with Visiting Lecturer Dr. Amaryll
32/4 1800, Main Green - Farewell barbecue. 500cd donation; proceeds go to Scopes For Schools charitable organisation

33/4 0200 Official Farewell Ceremony (restricted to departmental members and invited guests)

Name: Francois Hiccke
Race: Human...?
Gender: He/him
Description: An ordinary man, wrapped in sheets and sheets of loose paper. The paper is gathered together into the rough shape of an overlarge trench coat, the bottom edge of which scrapes the ground. His face is impassive, and seems entirely incapable of expression (it is made of flesh. you did check). On one breast pocket he wears a metal badge, which describes law enforcement of some kind - what law and what enforcement is unclear. The words are unreadable (they are clear words, emblazoned in brass, but they do not seem to say anything when you try and read them). The paper coat is also covered in words (but they too do not seem to say anything, at great and verbose length). Other than that, he wears strange leather gloves, the fingers of which bend in strange ways out the corner of your eye. When he moves them to take coffee or to pick up evidence-bagged contraband, they rustle in excitement (you do not know if it is the paper or the gloves, but it almost sounds like scuttling).

He is here to escort someone. The law wants them. He does not know who or why, but he is sure it is going somewhere. He is working.

Items/Abilities: Francois holds a police revolver. It is black and nondescript. It does not look as if it has ever been used. His spare magazines do not have bullets in them. They shake from time to time, and they are brown, not black.

Biography: Hicckesque, is what they called him at the precinct. He was a normal man. The setting was a town. Orders came from above, in manila envelopes. Every day he opened them and read the orders to the others. One morning he woke up with three people in his bed, whipping each other. He threw his blanket over them as he got up, and he didn't see them anymore. The wheels on his bicycle squeaked. The manila envelopes stuck to him. The people at the precinct began to stop. They would be carted out, along with their desks. He stopped showering. The room began to become empty at work. There were fewer people to read the envelopes to. The envelopes had orders in them. Sometimes they were blank, as if the people who they were meant for were no longer here. Sometimes he could not read them at all. The envelopes began coming in coir, sisal, burlap sacks, and then they stopped coming at all. Every day he would read the paper, densely printed. He would send his men, then his man, then no one at all. There were no desks but his. The papers just came on their own. They stuck to him. He felt small. His blankets were too big for him. He felt as if moving was strange. He could climb the walls if he wanted. The papers were everywhere. The whipping couple had moved into his apartment. All his things were in the closet, and one day the closet door was gone. There was only wall. The papers stuck to him. He did not smile anymore. One morning he went to work and his desk was gone. Then he was gone, too.

The Thomas Packston Elementalist Award and Arnold Fogge's Actually Practical Award is given to the thing that may or may not had eaten the janitor (or might be the janitor), The Cocoon. I sure do love the B-movie vibe and I like the cut-and-dry concept of a developing problem that will emerge into a horrifying consequence. Also, I am a little afraid of what might come out of it. Let’s hope it’s like freshly baked pie or a pile of kittens instead of a horrific bug or bug-like mass.

The The GBS2 Award For Gratuitous Worldbuilding goes to the baby genius/universe E1/Ellie. The fact that Ellie’s strange and immortal nature has a substantial impact on the world and the relatively mundane inhabitants is interesting and can have potential implications (and potential development because she absorbs ideas like how tofu absorbs refrigerator smells). Also, Ellie gets the The Glere Award For Kitchen Sinkery because I realized something when I read the biography. I saw what you did.

The Lucky VII All-Rounder Award goes to the Kafkasque cleaner Francois Hiccke. The profile does a good job at showing the sheer absurdity at the increasing intensity of impending doom/despair so common in early Modernism and how his bland demeanor is weirdly ominous. He also gets the The Convolution Teamfriendliness Cup because what if people get infected/altered by the weird tone he radiates. What if he met the Convolution in person. Will the round implode.

Okay, it's time for another theme!

This week's theme is Party.

Name: Mavrodaphne
Species: Raving One
Gender: Female
Color: Girls just want to have fun.

Description: Mavrodaphne is enormous. She isn’t actually large but she is barely held back by the barest limitations of the average human height, like how her muscles are barely held back by the fawnskin and ivy excuse for modesty. She has prominent horns and is prominently hairy, with hair so thick in places that you can see leopard spots on it. Mavrodaphne radiates an aura of seeming invincibility and never seems to be without a cocksure grin on her face. Despite her intimidating nature, she is quite amicable and if for some coincidentally bizarre reason you are in the same gym as her, she’ll tell you how to diet and exercise properly. Basically, she’s fun at parties if it weren’t for, you know, the barbarian rage and cannibalism thing.

Weapons/Abilities: Mavrodaphne can fall into a mindless battle rage, enhancing her already substantial strength to ridiculous proportions. She can do it just fine while being straight-edge but what proportion is dependent on how intoxicated and in ecstatic frenzy she is. Like doing a kegstand? Leveling a small town ridiculous. Draining every beer factory dry? Potentially god-killing ridiculous.

She also has a weird pinecone wand and snakes, a lot of snakes. She is like a muscular hairy equivalent of a cat lady, but for snakes. They are her babies. Interacting with them is a great way to get on her good (or bad) side, depending on what you do.

Biography: Mavrodaphne was born in the Days Of Yore, into the Cult of the Twice-Born. There she learned the liminal mysteries – the mysterious boundary between gods and men, between life and death – and other miscellaneous skills, like snake-handling and wine-tasting. She was doing fine, steadily rising to the point she was getting referrals for Head Priestess until the Cult was attacked by an organized raid of the Twelve, the official religion of the state. In an effort to save Mavrodaphne, the Head Priestess flung her into liminal space, between now and then, between existence and non-existence. After an agonizingly long period of unthinking non-existence, Mavrodaphne found herself in the Days Of Now.

[Round 1: …

Name: Robert Bilder (or just Bilder)
Race: Toolman
Gender: He/him
Color: kachunk
Description: Bilder is half a man, or more accurately, just over a thirtieth of a man, stretched out over into a vaguely man-shaped figure. Inside him is all manner of power tools and weaponry, all powered by a fiendish tangle of pneumatic and electric hoses. If there's an actual power source in there somewhere, no one has actually seen it. His eyeless sockets house glass orbs instead, retinal chips suspended in them. Every so often he unhinges and airs out a drill or two.

He carries around with him a gigantic socket, about his six-foot height, into which is carved a complex and incomprehensible series of tumblers and grooves. It seems designed as a slot for some tremendous key. Stenciled on one beveled side is a large jet-black 'Y', followed by a slathering of technical jargon in smaller print. It seems to be protocol for inserting this missing part.

Obviously, Bilder is looking for it.

Items/Abilities: He fixes everything in his way. Permanently.

Biography: He has scattered memories of friends, but one was a scarecrow so he no longer really knows what was real and what was, perhaps, a strange and brightly colored fiction. He remembers being taken apart for his talents. He remembers his designation and care of his socket and key. He does not remember where the key went.

They took him apart, into how many parts? Some number. Thirty? Less. A little less. He was a little less, and he did not know anything other than the proper realignment of a ZX-2150a laser saw, and other minutae of the kind. He could fix things. He must have been one of the last ones made, because he remembers having things torn away and knowing you once knew things and loved things and wanted things and not knowing what they were, until the feeling was gone and only he remained.

It hurts. It hurt then, it at this point had ceased to remind him of anything but the proper maintenance and care of a Byrson All-Purpose ANTON (3rd edition), and let's not be hasty but the proper realignment as well. He did not know what pain was anymore, but he remembered that it happened. He is pretty sure that happened. Did his tractor use to talk? Did he have a tractor? Was he the tractor in the end?

Username: Someone beat me to my usual username so I'll go with Scout
Name: Devril Harald
Race: Offense+Defense hybrid
Gender: Male
Color: Time... to level... the field.

Description: Devril is a sharp-featured French man with an Incursor Cell grafting itself between his shoulder blades. It looks vaguely insectoid and the skin it's lying under is translucent, letting a ghastly neon-teal glow through. Similar-colored striations, raising the skin like cords or mismatched muscles, work their way down his arms and back, and up onto his neck and face. His fingers only seem to bend at the knuckles, and the glow in the palm of his hands flickers with pattern almost like a language.

He's an extremely rare case of an Incursor Cell remaining viable out of storage or grafted to a more typical host, and various governments' attempts to study him to better-understand the enemy have left him suspicious of authority and rather hostile to anyone too curious about how his powers work. With his powers' restrictions reducing to him one surprise hit at close range, and ranged attacks too slow to catch a one-on-one opponent out, Devril's at his smoothest in chaotic situations with a lot of bodies flying and a decent amount of backup. For Devril, being alone is worse than being with people he doesn't trust.

Items/Abilities: Devril's primary weapon is the ever-charging explosive energy of his Incursor Cell; anything he grabs is blasted sharply away. Without a target to grab, however, the Cell charges until Devril's arms "lock" in position and he's forced to transfer catastrophic amounts of energy in the from of straight lines burned into the ground ahead of him. Devril can sense these power spikes and position his hands so the divisions take a tactically advantageous form, to either hem enemies in with close-combat allies or granting a team-mate breathing room. Once the "lock" initiates, it takes a couple of seconds for his aim to stabilise, which often forces him to perform his battlefield role out of the enemy's easiest lines of sight.

Devril's power is especially effective against vertical defensive surfaces, though the destructive+electrocuting effects last longer when cast on the ground. Because the energy is less launched from his palms and more that his Cell-grafted arms are like antennae, the shape of terrestrial scars to come can be figured out by a smart opponent by watching his hand position.

Biography: The lone survivor of an Incursor attack on his region, Devril is on a quest for answers about the alien power he can barely control.

Born and raised on a farm in Provence, Devril only survived the attack by grabbing an Incursor Cell from a crashed pod and letting it graft itself to his own nervous system. The Cell somehow took, and masked his bio-signature enough to spare him from the mass-roundup of humans. He's since been on the run, seeking out anyone he can trust to watch his back and join him in the fight against the Incursors

Going to judge sometime tomorrow evening. Last call to get entries in!

Username: Mirdinneri

Name: Jo, Jeff, Nadia, and Amel

Species: Regular Humans, and they'd like to stay that way

Gender: NB, Guy, Gal, Gal

Color: Something somewhat like this.

Description: Jo could best be described as... volcanic. They certainly look the part: tall, rugged and smoldering. Wild red hair completes the landscape, which is generally well-visible in their usual getup of a tank top and shorts. A bubbly personality, Jo can often be found having a good time at the center of any event, and tends towards spontaneity and doing things 'nur zum Spaß davon'.

Jeff stands out in a crowd, and not in a good way. Polo shirt, slacks and shades are the order of the day, with a slicked-back undercut as if the former wasn't enough. Standing 5'11'', he's got the physique to 'pull it off' by conventional standards, though looking pretty is the least of anyone's worries at this point. Jeff's questionable fashion sense belies his demeanor though, as he cares deeply and easily about others, often to the point of self-sacrifice.

Nadia is in fighting trim, and has a combative approach to people to go with it. Highly competitive, acerbic, and generally not a pleasant person to be around. Highly competent too, though. Middling height, Iranian ancestry, strong features will murder you with a harsh glance.

Amel is the youngest of the group, but definitely the most stylish. Punk as heck hijabi, 6'1'', reserved with people she doesn't know but mischievous and fun with people she does.

Items/Abilities: Jo is a professional fire-eater and an unprofessional pyromaniac. While they won't openly admit to knowing exactly how to cook up a molotov cocktail or various other flame-based weaponry, they sure seem to 'find' a lot of them while scavenging.

Jeff was a professional golfer, before all this. While he wasn't quite constant birdie material, he rarely got stuck with bogeys, either. As a result his weapon of choice is any of his set of sturdy clubs, which he wields with precision to avoid unnecessary damage to them.

Nadia, on the other hand, was an Olympic-level fencer for Spain and has the reflexes and swordswomanship to reflect it. As her foil isn't really suited for actual combat, she improvises with whatever suitable items are close at hand.

Amel is a world-class inventor, her specialty being UAVs. Her efforts had secured her a scholarship from her native Algeria to a renowned French polytechnic, and she's only improved since. Her prototypes were already impressive work, and she's upgraded her favorite ('Ray') with a scouting camera, silent propulsion and a remarkably versatile grabbing claw. Jo's idea of taping a gun to it has been vetoed... for now.

Biography: Each of the motley now-crew were in Monte Carlo on unrelated business when it slowly began. By coincidence they'd all arrived at Le Metropole at roughly the same time, and managed to end up in the same elevator as it juddered to a halt. Awkward silence gave way to awkward small talk after half an hour, genuine exasperation an hour later, and cooperative escape after a second hour with no response from the emergency bell. Upon re-entering the hotel at large it was immediately obvious something was Off - a glance out of a window showed traffic in chaos and most people walking around with curiously stiff gaits. Curiously stiff gaits employed in what seemed to be pursuit of people pretty obviously on the run.

A few encounters with constantly smiling, polite, and remarkably homicidal... somethings... wearing human skin later our heroes decided to band together to survive whatever the hell was going on. Thankfully the non-people were easy to spot and circumvent - all the intelligence of a poorly-functioning ASIMO, and a stock phrase ("Hello! How are you? Please accept It! Accept It Today!") repeated just under shouting volume as soon as you were spotted.

They were relentless, though. Having to violently dispatch a few has certainly taken a mental toll, though camaraderie and occasional contact with various other souls marooned in this strange new world (strangely, all also in elevators At The Time) has helped somewhat.

It remains to be seen how they'll react to their relocation to an even more alien existence.

Okay, judging time!

First, our party animal Mavrodaphne takes away the Lucky VII All-Rounder Award for being a solid all-around profile, and the Thomas Packston Elementalist Award for having by far the most straightforward application of the theme.

On that note, Robert Bilder receives the Kracht Saw It Coming Award for the very blatant Part Y pun. (What, not Part E?) However, it also receives the Glere Award For Kitchen Sinkery for its gimmick of Part Y being missing, and what this means for Bilder's state of mind.

Up next, we have Devril Harald, who walks away with Arnold Fogge's Actually Practical Award, primarily for his tendency to group with others. Someone like this is inherently going to make alliances in a battle. And the Convolution Teamfriendliness Cup goes here too, mostly for potential interactions with our next entry. Not only is it a group for Devril to attach himself to, but the fact that both entries come from worlds under attack is sure to lead to some interesting developments.

And finally, our latecomers, a party of four named Jo, Jeff, Nadia, and Amel. They receive the First Five Eigthths Sportsball Award, mostly due to having the only gimmick in the early fields by virtue of being a group. In addition, they claim the GBS2 Award For Gratuitous Worldbuilding for the tantalizing story of an apocalypse where all the survivors were trapped in elevators.

I'm sure I missed a whole bunch of veiled puns in those last two entries. Maybe more in Bilder. But that's how the awards are being laid out this week, and I'd like to thank everyone for participating.

Today's special ingredient is...Poptart. Yea, you read that right. Show me what you can cook up!

Username: Not lying, I promise
Name: Jem Rook
Species: Human
Gender: Dude
Color: Wildlicious Wild! Cherry filling

Description: Way taller than you were expecting, like 2m easily at least. An indeterminate portion of that is the big ol' devil horns on his helmet, but anyway. Tall. Tortured past. Surprisingly personable in spite of his insistence he'll kill anyone that stands in his way. A man of not a great many words, qualitatively speaking. Under the helmet, one eye is white. Legends from yore allude to the white eye can kill you or not. Missing an arm and also a hand but is pretty chill about it.

Weapons/Abilities: A thick and spiky suit of jet black armor, and a probably-matching cool thick and spiky jet black sword. He's well-practiced at sharpening it, and uses shadow magic to wreath its edges in magical shadows. With the help of a magical pauldron, he can also summon a shadowy replacement for his missing arm and hand, which are spiky and jet black and and spooky. Darkness is on this boy's side! He's also really good at being sarcastic but hiding it from Parental Types who don't approve of Teen Cynicism.

Biography: It's Tragic™

Username: Reyweld
Name: The Forgotten Flavour
Species: Golem (material: forbidden pastry)
Gender: N/A
Colour: #371709
Description:
A huge elemental mass of poptart that towers over the typical humanoid. Similarly to a centaur, its torso protrudes from the lower body of a quadruped. However, from this torso extends four large “arms” that drip with green and purple liquids. Its lower body has a tail similar to its arms, but ending in a dripping point as opposed to a grasp. The “skin” of its body is hard with mixed patches of brown and white crumb. Its head is covered in harder white material (like a shell), with sprinkles like freckles distributed semi-randomly across the face. It has no eyes. No ears. No nose. It has only a gaping mouth with rows of brittle teeth, constantly growing like a rat’s.

If it could speak, it wouldn’t. It has no words for the beings who brought it into this world only to cast it into the void. Only hatred. It has gnawed on its teeth for almost as long as it has existed, and the built up loathing has to be directed somewhere.

Intelligence wise, The Forgotten Flavour is lacking. It knows little of the world, and is limited to instinctive, primal knowledge in regards to combat strategy.

Weapons / Abilities:
Green Liquid (passive) - This liquid is viscous, sticky, and smells overwhelmingly of artificial sweeteners.
Purple Liquid (passive) - This liquid is thinner and slightly acidic (causing skin irritation on contact and burns with prolonged contact).
Deadly Taste (passive) - All parts of The Forgotten Flavour are poisonous and cannot be consumed without major consequences.
Golem Body (passive) - Isn’t affected by pain, and has no central thought centre that controls the body. For example, if it were cut in half, it would still be in control of both halves {however not very functionally, as it cannot freely change form}. Defeating it requires complete destruction/separation of moving parts.
Poptart Body (passive) - Resistant to heat and cold, but extremely vulnerable to water (it can dissolve its face, teeth, and liquids; it makes the crumb soggy).
Consume (active ability) - Can rip apart and eat things with its many teeth to grow in size. However, it can only absorb sugars and desserts; everything else passes right through.
Sugary Bite (active ability) - Can bite into something and inject either liquid.

Biography:
When poptarts were being developed, a series of chemicals were used as test flavours in an attempts to maximise profits with cheaper reagents while still maintaining an air of variety and originality. However, this process resulted in hundreds of failed poptarts that killed the initial test rats or made the proceeding quality assurance team vomit. These poptarts accumulated in the organic waste until it transformed into an abomination.

Out of fear that an investigation of the newly created beast would result in the discovery of the company’s animal cruelty violations, The Forgotten Flavour was promptly (and secretly) captured and disposed of.

Or it would have been, if they weren’t cutting corners to limit expenses. The team in charge of capturing it and destroying it were extremely lazy and should have been rooted out during interviews that didn’t happen. They instead dumped the beast into the ocean, where it sunk lower and lower, moved by the currents of the waters.

It has existed in a slightly damp darkness for years. The Forgotten Flavour was forgotten… until now.

Username: BreadProduct
Name: Kevin
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Color: Pantone 88-9C

Description: A 7 year old kid trans-dimensionally abducted from the breakfast aisle in the supermarket after picking up a box of Smores Pop tarts which his mom was undoubtedly not going to buy.

Weapons/Abilities: Aside from light up when you walk pikachu shoes, shorts, a t-shirt that unironically says "Don't have a cow man," an unpurchased box of smores pop tarts proportionally sized to match his 150 meter size using local metrics. He's just a kid.

Biography: You might ask where this giant came from but to him he is not a giant, you are just really small, like lego minis. He spent his time at his home dimension being a typical kid over exposed to Saturday morning commercials, hyped up on sugar screaming while running in circles till he falls down. His most favorite thing in the world is Pokemon and wishes that one day he too can be a Pokemon trainer. His elementary school teacher is worried that he may have ADHD. But his mother who's father left before Kevin was born just thinks Kevin is just being a kid.

Username: Please direct your eyes to the left.
Name: One with no presence needs no name.
Gender: Prefers not to disclose.
Race: That's a secret.
Text Color: A simple blue will suffice.

Biography: Remembering childhood. Birthday partys. Cake, silly hats. Noisemakers. Pinning tails on donkeys.
Most importantly, balloons.
Yes, balloons, such a perfect representation of innocence. A solid, smooth surface, yet if pierced just once... Gone, useless.
And with your innocence lost, what can you do but tell the world?
But so many lost at once. So many colors.
There is nothing left of me but my desire to tell everyone's stories.
Red. Black. Grey. A little blue, for that corner of the sky you can just barely see.
When he wakes up, it will be what he first witnesses.
And also the last thing he sees in his life.

Weapons/Abilities: There are many balloons, arranged in a picture.
So colorful!
If you look closely, you see that all of them are broken.
But you can't look, for the picture speaks to your guilt. You know what you did.
And soon, it will be revisited upon you.
Who left it there? How did it arrive?
These questions shall never be answered.
There is only a picture.

Description: Some questions are better left unanswered.

Username: Agen, they who shits in the woods
Name: His Holiness Tharthe XVII of the New Distributed Roman Catholic Church
Species: Catholic
Gender: He/him
Color: austerity
Description: It has been said that in this day and age, the Pope is nothing but a figurehead. Many people do not know that this is literally true. His Holiness has no need for such abstractions as hands, feet, or organs, these being ties to the mere material world. Instead, from his neatly severed neck protrudes a thick cable, which thins out from neck-width to optical fiber-width. At some point the cable becomes less than subatomically thin, at which point it presumably connects to God.
Items/Abilities: His Holiness can inflict microscopically painful paper cuts. He is also gifted with a fantastical ability to proselytise with the pure and holy words of God himself, though again in this day and age no one gives a shit.
Biography: The New Distributed Roman Catholic Church didn't so much blink when he disappeared, so that gives you an idea as to how much he mattered.

Username: Mirdini
Name: Ch'rri Tn'vrr
Species: Vk'zrr (Segmentoid)
Gender: She/her
Color: Lime Green

Description: Ch'rri was until very recently the premier ear-worm of the Greater Federated Vk'zrr Systems, with her catchy singles playing at least once an hour on every inter-planetary media channel available. How she achieved this sort of musical dominance without proper vocal cords is a mystery, especially considering Vk'zrr are not even the majority species within the Systems. Still, something about her chittering and clattering seems to have struck a tone with all sorts, and it took nuclear fallout with her powerful producers to get her pulled off the air.

Ch'rri is a typical Vk'zrr, ten feet long, two feet wide and with more legs than the average person feels comfortable counting. Her maw secretes an acid that Vk'zrr once used for hunting, but nowadays it's mostly used to signal displeasure with other Vk'zrr. Nothing says 'I hate you' like spitting a caustic substance at someone else.

Not that Ch'rri needs help with that, as her bubbly media personality belies a take-no-prisoners acerbic wit and general approach to others. If Ch'rri likes you she'll defend you to the last, but get on her bad side and you'll quickly find out why so many collaborations with other artists collapsed in spectacular fashion.

Weapons/Abilities: The aforementioned acidic compound produced naturally by the Vk'zrr can melt through most biological matter in a few minutes, with active chewing reducing that number significantly. Ch'rri's pincers are powerful enough to pierce steel, and her innumerable skittering legs let her move at a cruising speed of a solid 60 km/h as well as climb most non-slick surfaces without much trouble.

Unlike many of her kind, Ch'rri's 'voice' is surprisingly nice to listen too, even for non-Vk'zrr. Some conspiracy theorists have proposed that there's something more than simple sound waves at work when she 'sings', but finding proof of phenomena no-one can properly measure has eluded them so far.

Biography: The media of the Greater Federated Vk'zrr Systems is in an uproar when Ch'rri Tn'vrr goes missing shortly after falling out with her producers in spectacular fashion. The original source of the conflict is shrouded in mystery, though the tabloids claim she accidentally exposed one of the producer's children, who had a severely compromised immune system, to the outside world with an errant wave of her pincers. Despite an unprecedented (for Ch'rri) apology, the producer apparently felt it wasn't sincere enough and went nuclear, telling her she'd never work again.

Even if the story was apocryphal it was clear Ch'rri and her producers had fallen out, and she had announced a major press conference to air a scant week after the stories about it broke. In the meantime most major news outlets began what stood out to many as a concerted smear campaign. When combined with Ch'rri's sudden disappearance the day before the conference, it made sure that it was in fact her producers who would never work again.

Let’s get to j-j-judging.

The jovial edgelord Jem Rook gets the Kracht Saw It Coming Award because the pun behind this profile was explained to me and it was amazingly bad. Anyway, he seems like a fun type of dude, cool aesthetic, cool power, even if he probably has internal monologues on a frequent basis. Such is the price of being cool.

The abomiconfection The Forgotten Flavor shall receive the Thomas Packston Elementalist Award which is hella appropriate considering its flavor is arguably elemental. Anyway, this sad pile of artificial flavorings has a straightforward power and purpose (REVENGE). Despite its goofy B-movie premise, it is solid.

Kevin, a literal child, takes home the Convolution Teamfriendliness Cup. Due to his relative powerlessness, he probably would work best with consistent interaction, bringing characterization to the fantastical participants in a grand battle and enlightening his depressing home-life. Let’s hope he’ll time travel or something.

The one that is the One with no presence needs no name will inherit the First Five Eigthths Sportsball Award due to the rather sneaky way of incorporating the theme into the structure of the profile. Dammit Fogel. Anyway, the One reminds of the monster clown from It but more avante-garde. They are very mysterious.

The pope-artificial, His Holiness Tharthe XVII (et al.), is blessed with the Glere Award For Kitchen Sinkery. It took me a while to realize how this relates to the weekly theme and I admit his cybernetic nature threw me off guard. Religion in cyberpunk/posthuman sci-fi should be interesting to explore through him, even if no one cares about him in-verse.

Worm diva, Ch'rri Tn'vrr gets the The GBS2 Award For Gratuitous Worldbuilding (wormbuilding?). While I have to still have to find out the other incorporations of “Poptart” (pop star, acid tart, burst of popularity bubble?), her celebrity status, her dark secret, and her unique biology sheds an interesting light on the world she comes from.

ALL-STARS

It's time to bring back a Grand tradition! Back in the day, Schaz instituted the All-Stars Week, something that escaped this thread... UNTIL NOW. WEEK TWENTY.

Unfortunately we've got a pretty decent chunk more than 8 Themes to choose from, and that just won't do. So instead, I've picked the 8 most popular (read: got the most submissions) themes from the thread so far to fight each other. Minus the following: Poptart (6 entries, tied for first place with Crown and Harsh), because a. it's recent b. there's not a ton more you can do with my throwaway 'do it, Pharms' suggestion of a theme. And Failure (5 entries, tied for fourth with 3 others), because it overlaps far too neatly with Shame.

Any ties among the themes that got 4 submissions were broken by my arbitrary preference, because I'm cool like that.

So here's Week Twenty's Theme: (choose any 2-3 of) Crown, Thrall, Commute, Shame, Plane, Harsh, Puzzle, Heaven! Like before, for this week you take two or three of the last eight weeks' themes, and make a cohesive character that incorporates/embodies them!

The ground rules I'll lift directly from Schaz because they phrased them real good:

No two entries may use the same set of themes. So if someone makes Shame+Crown before you, you're out of luck - but making Shame+Crown+Heaven is a-ok.

There is no reserve system for theme choices. Anything is free game until a profile goes up, first come first served.

You've got a week! Week 21 we can get back to the usual single-theme arrangement.

Provided we have at least nine entrants (hopefully the Dini Cajole produces results as it has in the past), there will be an additional award - the Space Jam Remix Prize For Cross-Thematic Cohesion. I'll give this to the entry whose constituent themes are the least likely to work, but somehow do.

Theme: Crown + Commute
Username: Dragon Fogel
Name: King Otobus III of Pordobia
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Text Color: I don't know, this one
Biography: Pordobia was once a mighty kingdom, but over time, it lost more and more territory to its neighbors. By the time of Otobus I, all the buildings and land had been sold; the only remaining legal property of the kingdom was its fleet of public transportation and emergency vehicles.
It didn't get much better from there. Otobus III ascended to the throne with nothing to his name except one single bus, and no subjects at all. Frustrated at his powerlessness, he passed a royal decree: anyone wishing to set foot in his bus-kingdom must swear undying fealty to him and to Pordobia.
Unfortunately, this resulted in very few customers, until he haggled it down to one hour of fealty after getting off the bus.
He was very satisfied with himself for about five minutes, when he realized he didn't have the slightest clue what he wanted his new temporary retainers to do for him.
He still hadn't figured it out when his bus vanished just after letting them off.

Description: Otobus III spends most of his time sitting in the "throne" of Pordobia, which is just an ordinary bus driver's seat. Nonetheless, he is a king, and he dresses the part. He likes to give grandiose speeches to anyone who gets on the bus, which has not driven a lot of business to his kingdom.
He dreams of one day expanding the kingdom, perhaps with a nice minivan.
The kingdom of Pordobia is a large blue bus. It doesn't really stand out in any way, being just one of a hundred buses commissioned back in better days.

Weapons and Abilities: Otobus III's primary ability is being the sovereign ruler of Pordobia. Consequently, his word is absolute within the confines of the bus. Thanks to the loyalty pledge he demands as a fare, he may also command anyone who gets on his bus, and they are bound by their word to obey him while on the bus, and for one hour after getting off.
The kingdom of Pordobia itself has all the powers and limitations you would expect of a bus.
Otobus is free to leave the kingdom at any time. He just prefers not to.

Plane+Heavens

Name: Kaguya-Hime

Gender: She?

Species: Unidentified Flying Object

Color: Green flash

Description:

An UFO. An honest to God UFO.

Kaguya-Hime (named after the folklore tale rather being the topic of said folklore tale, mind you) is a flying saucer roughly the size of a compact car. Kaguya-Hime is rather lively for a man-made machine, the malfunctions and quirks of her circuits suggests a whimsical if curious temperament. She is also a bit temperamental and her emotions are telegraphed through colors and patterns displayed on her surface.

Occasionally, you can see a figure flitting from window to window, but that’s probably just nothing.

Abilities:

Kaguya-Hime is speedy, having the capacity to bend and twist in ways no ordinary car can do and her entirety is covered in metal plates, laminated with a red, lacquer-like substance to enhance its bulletproof nature. Like classic UFOs, Kaguya-Hime can immobilize and kidnap people with her tractor beam. Unlike classic UFOs though, prolonged contact will result in a growing obsession with the moon. The obsession comes in many emotional flavors but the default is a strong homesickness, but that’s probably just nothing. Yessir.

Biography:

Show Content

Spoiler
After the mandatory badges and papers, the two FBI agents, one peculiar, one serious, proceeded to march towards the crash site. Not exactly optimal to march in formalwear but they preserved. They reached their destination.

The observatory’s domed roof loomed overhead. There was a hole punctured neatly through it. There were no birds, no buzzing of cicadas. The silence was almost overbearing, but that’s probably just nothing.

Really.

They went in. The hallways were dusty and it was a weekend, so there was no-one here. They explored deeper, the rooms became more esoteric. Bathrooms to laboratories. Pamphlet containers to screens. All the screens displayed the same thing. Today’s moon. It was a harvest moon, large and orange like a pumpkin.

Was there meaning? The peculiar one said out loud.

Maybe, the serious one sighed. That’s just probably nothing.

Probably.

They finally reached the area. Computers haphazardly sprawled here and there. Shredded and dust. Many screens were haphazardly place together into a grand-large collage. It displayed a destination, the moon, then to somewhere else, far beyond the solar system, the galaxy, the stars. The stars!

Whoever broke into this observatory. It was definitely not of this world. No, not of this reality.

I think she wants to go home, the peculiar one said.

The serious one thought about it. That off-handed statement, it felt correct? Like something in her gut told her it was definitely right despite no evidence.

But that’s just probably nothing.

Probably.

Username: MaxieSatan
Theme: Crown + Harsh + Puzzle
Name: Inquisitor Ivivis Krospi
Species: Human, or something approximating it "Demigod"
Gender: Such definitions are for weaker beings than They, for They are the Gods made flesh.
Color: More-or-less-royal purple-esque

Description: Standing at just over seven feet tall and boasting considerable bulk, Ivivis is imposing at a distance and terrifying up close. They are almost never seen without Their ceremonial purple-silver checkerboard full-plate; all that can be seen underneath is Their eyes, cold and hungry and weary, for They did not see fit to rest until Their aims had been accomplished.

Under ordinary circumstances, Ivivis is a power-hungry and cruel individual; though They once hid behind a veil of zealotry, They gradually left these pretensions behind as Their collection of artifacts and influence within the kingdom grew. Upon being torn away from all They had worked for, however, Their outlook changed; Their cruelty remains, to a large extent, but lacks any direction... but it's hard to say whether it will fade or grow even more intense as a result.

Weapons/Abilities: Aside from Their military, theological, and investigative training as an Inquisitor, and Their considerable natural strength, Ivivis has collected a variety of powerful artifacts from Their realm.

• One of these is the very armor They wear, rebuilt from an ancient locomotive; though the knowledge to build railroads anew has long since been lost, the armor nonetheless allows Them to charge forth at terrifying speed on an open battlefield. Though speed is Their greatest asset, inertia thus proves Ivivis' greatest enemy, for if Their quarry can reach (or create) a sufficiently twisted path, They will be forced to walk as if They were wearing a normal suit of super massive armor (i.e., Hella Slow).
  
• Another is the sword at Their side — the legendary Sword of Damocles, able to "solve" just about any solid object, but requiring an obsessive amount of sharpening and general maintenance if it is to maintain its full power.
  
• The Diorama of the Sky City was once used to form lavish universities and palaces from the clouds themselves; now Ivivis primarily uses the edifices it summons as obstacles to Their quarry.
  
• The Cannon of Heaven fires wherever They choose to call it down in the nearby area, and causes immense devastation within a surprisingly miniscule and neat area. Being able to fire is, of course, a completely different question than being able to aim, but that's cold comfort if They have at least a vague idea of where Their target is.
  
• Lastly, there is the book known only as The Endless Lexicon, which is more or less what it sounds like. Even Ivivis has no idea what possible tangible use this could have; mostly They held onto it for religious and political purposes.
  

Biography:

Show Content

SpoilerNoinia du Suokús hunched down behind the old stone wall and clung to the lantern like her life depended on it. She closed her eyes and the world around her lit up brighter than the sun. Fear-Maker had launched one final attack and received a sword through the stomach for his troubles; They kicked his corpse aside and started counting on Their fingers.

"Eins, zwei, drei, vier... Ah, yes." Unfarel and Zektrom, bless them both, turned towards each other and readied their morningstars as Ivisis turned Their gaze towards the family crest They held in hand, thirty-six squares gone dead, forty-five still glowing. "You two... now, if I have it right, you should be this way..."

They turned in the wrong direction and started walking, and Unfarel gave a nod. The two began their approach, starting silently towards their target, then gradually getting faster. Suddenly, Noinia was enlightened — They had known, the whole time; to charge Them while they held the crest was the most foolish move her brothers could have made, for it was not, in fact, possible to evade Their gaze — but she did not cry out. It would not have saved them, only doomed her.

And as her brothers prepared to strike the tyrant, They cackled as a plume of fire erupted from the ground behind Them. Both men were gone in an instant, along with the ground below their feet; all that was left was a seemingly endless well, marked by a red buoy.

"Funf, sechs." They did not even turn to look around at the damage they had done; instead they turned ever so slightly to the right, and then back in the other —

Shit, They're looking right at me.

"Well, I do hate to go out of order, but you simply haven't covered your tracks, Miss Noinia!"

Noinia broke into a sprint, opened her eyes, let the lantern burn out; now all that she needed to see was in front of her, and the sound of clattering footsteps, louder and louder each time, told her enough about the one pursuing her.

The lake, she realized, hope welling up within her. She slowed down, held the Lattice aloft, and began tracing between the stones that stood above the surface of the water; bridges formed from the aether, and finally she could see a twisted path to the other bank. If she could only make it there before They caught up to her; from there, she would have the advantage, as They would have to slow down to deal with the sharp, sudden turns. She could escape, possibly even destroy Them in the waters if They were foolish enough to pursue her far enough, to think she wouldn't destroy the Lattice if she had to...

Her lungs began to burn as she sprinted desperately forward. It wasn't enough to match the Inquisitor, who barreled forth with greater speed and endurance than the finest horse on the continent, but maybe —
maybe she was still close enough —

"Your attempt is impressive, if cowardly, but you have made an error in judgement, Our dear!" Noinia had no chance to figure out what They meant before a tower burst forth directly in front of her, formed from silt and pebbles; she slammed into it with a miserable splut. "Did you think that your good friend the Patrikios could simply enter the country and leave again, so suddenly,
so quickly, without Us noticing?"

She turned to face Them, forcing herself to show no fear. If she could no longer flee — and They had slowed down now to rub in the fact that she couldn't, that the game was finally up — then she would face death with dignity, and show her distaste for Them in her final moments. "Kriptokuota had no quarrel with You!"

"We must disagree. He quarreled with Us by helping you brigands hide what is rightfully Ours."

"It was not our birthright, much less yours!" Noinia pointed with her dagger, not to threaten, but to emphasize — none would ever threaten an Inquisitor, but as far as she was concerned, They had proven Themselves unworthy of the title long ago. "You have no right to it, not even if we were guilty! There was no forfeiture!"

Ivivis laughed loudly, and the armor made it echo and reverberate even more than it did to Their words. "You are mistaken,
young one, for all is Our birthright. It has been decreed—"

"By a terrified puppet king?!"

Though she could not see it, she knew the smile that was now beneath Their helm: wide but mirthless. "Perhaps the throne,
too, is Our birthright." They drew Their sword once more and leveled it,
prepared to thrust it through Their target's chest. "Any final words in your defense?"

Noinia shook with fear and anger, closing her eyes tight to keep the tears inside. "You would commit treason openly, then? Not even pretending, now?"

"Our dear, it is not treason if it is in the service of the realm. Now —" and she drew back the sword —

And there was no strike, and at first Noivia thought she had died too quickly to notice it; but when she opened her eyes, there was nothing but an open field before her, and the family crest lying in the grass.

Ivivis was gone, and she was far too relieved — especially since twenty-seven squares remained alight, not only her own — to care where.

She set off to find her living siblings, and to bury the dead.

Username: hi its ix
Theme: Heaven + Commute
Species: Angel, XYR (Xyriel) Class
Name: XYR-393
Gender: N/A
Colour: #C4A605

Description: A Xyriel Class Angel is comprised of two halves each of which is made of a number of panels (known as wings). When all wings are folded away the Angel resembles an enormous (six feet in diameter) sphere. When wings are opened they can be used as legs for movement across uneven terrain. Ironically a Xyriel Class Angel’s wings are not capable of flight. Like all Angels Xyriel Class Angels glow with a bright light that is mildly uncomfortable to look at.

Every Xyriel Class Angel comes equipped with a Soul Vestibule consisting of four separate Terraces; these are Economy, Business, First and Private.

The Economy Terrace is an expansive but low ceiling room shaped like a ring filled with hard plastic seats with a thin cloth covering facing inwards towards the centre of the ring. At the centre of the ring there are a number (maybe ten or so) of angels (these angels are more reminiscent of the traditional depiction of angels; wings, robes, halos etc, though on a framework that is essentially just shapes arranged to vaguely resemble a humanoid figure) and television monitors showing edited versions of early two thousands movies. There are a number of narrow pathways between the seats projected out from the centre, these pathways are strictly for angel use to allow access to any customer. Customers can call angels using a call button located on an overhead panel. From these angels Customers can purchase many simulated refreshments, headphones to allow them to enjoy the in-purgatory movie, any of a selection of sponsored novels or handheld video games or potentially an upgrade to a higher Terrace. There is a roughly one thousand soul capacity in the Economy Terrace.

The Business Terrace is much like the Economy Terrace but with more comfortable seating, more room, television screens installed into the back of every seat to allow customers to choose their own viewing from the selection available and a basic computer interface that allows customers to access the internet or use a basic suite of programs. There are the same number of angels present on this terrace but this terrace has roughly a two hundred soul capacity so they are much quicker to get to any customers who require their attention.

The First Terrace resembles a luxurious ballroom more than anything else. It is divided roughly in half, with one half being a well stocked dining area where customers can help themselves to whatever they desire and the other half being a comfortable lounge, with seating areas, enormous and well stocked bookshelves and a variety of games and other entertainment items. The very centre of the room features an impressive fountain arranged around which are an orchestra of angels playing soothing ambient music. Angels with replenishing trays of horderves and glasses of wine circulate throughout the lounge. The First Terrace is stated to have capacity for fifty souls, though many more could easily fit within.

The Private Terrace is a collection of private rooms for the most devout/highest paying customers. These rooms can be customised for each individual customer's preferences. This Terrace is also home to the pilots of the Angel, in XYR-393’s case Veronica Rose and Saito Hisae. Their private rooms are the only rooms that allow access to the Helm where the Angel may be manually controlled.

XYR-393 is identical to any other Xyriel Class Angel. When it was taken to be part of a battle it was transporting roughly 550 souls and operating on autopilot. Its default behaviours are to locate and collect any disembodied souls and when it has reached capacity to bring them back to Paramundis.

Weapons/Abilities: Xyriel Class Angels are not designed for combat. Its functionality is simply to collect souls. If under attack its default behaviour is to quickly retreat and call for an Azazel Class Angel to defend it. It is however quite bulky, heavy and well built, if piloted as such it could be an effective fighter.

Biography: Paramundis is a manufactured afterlife built by humans after the discovery of technology that allowed us to directly interface with the soul. Paramundis was initially a private corporation, though they were acquired by the government after the monumental nature of their enterprise was ascertained. Even so their modus operandi hasn’t really changed; an artificial heaven which you can buy your place in, and a hell for those who, for some reason, want to experience that instead. Paramundis has been recently promising brand new afterlife experiences coming soon including Valhalla, Elysium and the Fields of Aaru. It is unknown what Paramundis does with any souls that don’t qualify to enter either of its afterlives and there has been a lot of controversy around that issue with many seeking to find ways to keep their souls out of Paramundis’ hands.

XYR-393 is a pretty unremarkable Angel, recently manufactured it is still on its first collection run.