THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN CANCELED [S!1][ROUND THREE: PORT CERIDWEN]

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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BROUGHT TO YOU BY SEASON INTERMISSION...

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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Let me tell you something about television.

People copy everything out in networkland. The proliferation of medical dramas, fairy tale miniseries remixes, and these weird primetime sci-fi television shows that have started up recently, they’re all a result of copycats. There isn’t a single original bone in television’s body.

Therefore, one would not be surprised that, say, a omnipotent man running the sole broadcasting company in the multiverse would see the idea of grand battles, become infatuated with them, and make a blatant, televised rip off.

Which, might I add, was exactly what had happened.

The Broadcaster, as he called himself, didn’t care for intellectual rights or consequences or decency or politeness. He was in showbiz. He would do whatever he pleased, thank you very much.

So, you know what? He did it. He started a season of television-based grand battles for all the multiverse to watch, shamelessly, almost confrontationally. Some people raised concerns, but ultimately, not a fuck was given about their complaints.

Of course, the season needed a spearhead. A pilot. The name to kick it all off. The Broadcaster would hand of battles to other members of his company, but this, the first one? It was his battle. It would set the tone of the entire production.

He searched the channels of the universe, thinking. He had finally, finally, come up with the perfect name, breaking the old formula, but keeping the drama.

This battle, this project, would be forever named…

LAST. THING. STANDING.



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Q: Uh, what is this?

A: https://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...-Grand-Battles

Go read this. It will explain everything.

Q: Oh. Okay. Um… there really isn’t much else to say.

A: Sure there is. There are probably details I forgot or something. If I did, please contact me! I will fix it ASAP.

Q: When do sign ups end?

A: If I’m getting a lot of profiles, in a week. If not, they’ll stay open until I get eight. (font size courtesy of ixcaliber)

Q: Can I have a sign up sheet?

A: Sure:

Name: The name of your character.

Gender: Male, Female, or SOMETHING ELSE???

Race: Not, like, if the person is white or black or something. Is it a human? An alien? A vacuum cleaner? Tell us.

Color: To easily tell authors and characters apart. Please don’t have super similair colors and nothing too garish, please. White on black is mine.

Equipment/Abilities: Can your character JUMP OVER BUILDINGS? MAGIC THINGS UP? LIFT HEAVY THINGS? Does your character carry a bunch of explosives or bunny rabbits or something?

Description: What you character is like, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Biography: Backstory! How did your character get like this? What’s his or her or its story prior to being a television star?

NEWBIES: SHORT PIECE OF WRITING: It doesn’t have to be THAT much. It doesn’t even have to be like a complete plot. I just need to see how your prose works, is all. Sometimes people are decent at writing profiles but it turns out they are practically illiterate when it comes to prose. So uh, sorry for having you put up with this.

Q: I have another question.

A: Ask away by pming me directly, going to the grandbattle IRC and asking, or positing a query directly in the Season Intermission Organization thread (linked above). Thank you.



LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED

Ixcaliber- The Traveler's Rest #2E3192
Sanzh- Kriok #B0C4DE on #708090
Pharms- Tschichold #814444
Agent- Aaron Abstract and Change #808080 and #CDAD00
Deleter- Timothy and Alaster Red, #FF0000 and Dim Gray, #696969
BYB- Freefall #7474FF
PYP- Nizzo #099999
WaveofBabies- Ablenden #437C17

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Username: Ixcaliber
Name: The Traveller’s Rest
Sex: None
Race: Inn
Colour: #2E3192
Description: Imagine you are driving down a lonely highway in the middle of nowhere and it’s getting late. It’s been one hell of a long journey and you aren’t even nearly home. In the distance the shining lights of an inn, incongruous in its location but you are so tired, so very tired, you let it slide. It looks so warm, so inviting. Before you know it you have pulled into the car park and are climbing out of your car. You push open the doors and enter the rather opulently decorated lobby. The receptionist is quick to attend to you. She has long blonde hair tied into a ponytail and a friendly smile. She’s warm and polite, and she can see just how tired you are. She suggests you get a room and you can sort out the bill tomorrow, in fact she insists upon it. You thank her and make your way down the corridor and to your room. It’s nicely decorated if a little spartan. You’re too exhausted to make any complaints. You collapse into the luxurious king sized bed and you are asleep before your head even hits the pillow.

And you dream.

Maybe one day you’ll wake up.

Probably not.

Items/Abilities: The Traveller’s Rest is cloaked in illusions. The perception of the inn is tailored to suit whatever environment it is located. It will also do its best to tailor itself to the wishes of whoever is drawn into the inn. If someone was to see it without the illusory trappings they would see a disused old building, its decoration faded, its windows broken, the rooms lined with dust and cobwebs. The Traveller’s Rest is ‘owned’ by a man who likes to be referred to as Mister O. He has shoulder length black hair, a youthful face and a dazzling smile. He wears a black business suit at all times, though he rarely emerges from his office. Also present in The Traveller’s Rest is the receptionist; Maria. She appears to be in her early twenties, with a friendly disposition and long blonde hair tied into a ponytail. She is always seen wearing the uniform of the Traveller’s Rest, though of course like most of the Traveller’s Rest this differs from one locale to another. Only one of the rooms is occupied.

Biography: Guests rarely get a chance to ask about the history of the mysterious inn. Though sometimes Maria has very pertinent questions about why the inn is always changing aesthetic, why she can’t remember anything before she took the position at the Traveller’s Rest and why she never sleeps, Mister O does not like to answer such questions. It is then that his usually cheerful exterior will crack and he will retreat to his office.

Originally posted on MSPA by Yako.

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And this post signifies my intent to submit a profile ASAP. You know, reserve.

EDIT: Scratch that there's no way this profile is getting done tonight. maybe next battle.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

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(A note to the host: "Nizzo" should be taken as the verbal translation of the abstract mental label of this-male-one-of-no-mother, even though such a translation shouldn't really be possible.)

Name: Nizzo
Gender: Male
Font color: #099999
Race: Nizzo's species has not yet been discovered by any sentient race, and thus does not currently have a name.
Weapons/Abilities: Nizzo's blood is extremely acidic, capable of burning through nearly any material in seconds. Because of this, his skin is extremely resistant to acid. However, Nizzo's most powerful weapon actually lies in his method of obtaining substenance: his species feeds by consuming the minds of other creatures, turning them into vegetables. Any organism with enough brainpower will instictually fight it, and it would be extremely difficult to consume the mind of a sentient organism, provided they were conscious. However, Nizzo's species regards consuming the mind of another sentient being to be a vile act, and none of them would even consider doing so if there were any other alternative.

Description: Nizzo looks remarkably similar to a jellyfish. The key difference is that instead of tentacles, Nizzo has seven tails, each two feet long and two inches wide. Near the ends of the tails, flaps of skin increase the width to about six inches across, allowing them to function as flippers. He can also walk on them, but not very quickly or gracefully. He "sees" around him by interpreting transmitted vibrations in the medium surrounding him; having evolved to be able to accurately interpret vibrations through water, he has trouble "seeing" clearly when surrounded by a different medium, such as air.

Which brings us to an important point about Nizzo's species: they are amphibious, and if left out of water for an extended time period (about a day), they will slowly grow weaker and weaker until they die. This has never been a problem, however, as members of Nizzo's species only leave the water in order to lay their eggs.

All members of Nizzo's species, with the exception of a few genetic flukes, are ghostly white. This is because none of the species in Nizzo's species' ecosystem have developed vision, meaning that natural selection never differentiated between those with pigments and those without. Nizzo's species has no concept of color, and when required to describe something they will not use visual descriptors; instead, they will rely on physical attributes, particularly size. When required to identify an object, they will not send the thought-message "the red button;" instead, they will send the thought-message "this-size-shape button." This is not the exact message, but it is the closest written, or even spoken, words can reach, as "this-size-shape" is actually an impression of the various features of the object, sent along with the rest of the message. This allows Nizzo's species to communicate small ideas, descriptions, or feelings with unmatched precision. Unfortunately, for complex thoughts that have many ideas tied to them, such as love or loss, thought-speak has a tendency to become jumbled, impressions colliding with each other and making the message indecipherable.

This is where the most important component of Nizzo's species' culture comes into play, something that is best referred to as dancing. Through intimate knowledge of how the species' vibrational sensitivity interprets distortions in the surrounding medium, a skillful dancer can gracefully maneuver themselves in such a way as to create what the mind interprets as objects - in effect, creating false images identifiable by other members of Nizzo's species. Dancing is used to convey complex ideas that are either very difficult, or even impossible, to get across with thought-speak, and so is a key component of his species' culture. Many false images produced by dancing are ancient, and take advantage of deeply ingrained instincts to produce the desired emotion; for example, the fake image of a predator is commonly used for danger, fear, and suffering. Members of Nizzo's species would dance to a member of the opposite sex to express the reasons they wish to mate with them, or to others to express the reasons they felt sorrowful for the loss of a good friend. Due to the sheer complexity of the sequences of motions that dances are composed of, as well as all the shades of meaning invoked by the both the many aspects of Nizzo's species' lifestyle and the other species they come into contact with regularly, the ability to improvise effective dances is considered one of the highest marks of intelligence, and instantly secures any member a wealth of offspring. Multiple attempts have been made to do similar things through thought-speak, but after many embarassing failures the idea lost all standing, and any member of Nizzo's species who speaks about it seriously is treated in much the same way as any human who speaks seriously about pixies is.

While Nizzo's species is intelligent enough to be considered on the level of a primitive nomadic tribe, their social network and culture has no accurate correlation. Most members of Nizzo's species live in small, isolated groups consisting of only three or four members; usually, they will all be related. After mating, the female chooses a damp spot on the shoreline of the underground lake to lay 2-3 eggs; she and the male then spend the next few months guarding them from amphibious predators in shifts, one guarding for a few days while the other seeks nourishment, then switching. The few land-based creatures that live near the lake are herbivorous, surviving off of lichen, and have no interest in the eggs. When the eggs finally hatch, the young struggle down the shoreline towards the water, where they meet the mother. The father leaves as soon as the eggs hatch, having nearly reached the end of his lifespan at that point. The mother then forms a new group consisting of her offspring, and teaches them their ways of life. For the most part, each generation has been synchronized, and when the offspring reach the mating stage of their life, they gather at the center of the lake with other members of their species. The first day is spent performing various rituals and ceremonies, but after that they spend the next eight days choosing their mates; on the ninth day, the newly mated pairs depart to lay their eggs as the old mothers disperse across the lake, so that when they die their remains will provide nourishment for all the decomposers on the surface of the lake equally, completing the cycle.

It is very rare for a member of Nizzo's species to die before the end of their natural lifespan. Even the newly-hatched are capable of outswimming nearly any predator, and there are no illnesses present in their small ecosystem. Despite this, mothers are known to occasionally abandon newly-hatched children when they take the rest of their children with them into the lake proper if they think the child will not survive for some reason. A number of these cases have resulted in the child surviving anyway and joining up with another group, or instinctually making his or her way to the meeting grounds at the proper time. One of the traditions performed on the first day of this meeting is dedicated to matching up any lost children with their mothers. Each mind has a unique feel, making it impossible to mistake an individual's identity if they speak. Thus, the ritual consists of each abandoned child broadcasting their thoughts to everyone present; if the mother is present and feels that the child has given them reason to reassess the child's chances of survival, they will speak up and claim the child as their own. In every case but one, the mother declared the child's survival even after abandonment as proof that their original decision was wrong, and happily claimed them as their own. Those who were abandoned are generally thought of as tougher and stronger-willed than most, making them more attractive mates. Even though this assumption is generally incorrect, few abandoned children bother to argue otherwise, and nobody bothers them for not doing so; the general feeling is that being considered a more attractive mate is adequate compensation for having been abandoned. These abandoned children also recieve what amounts to a name; a concept is linked with their individual impression, and whenever the individual is mentioned that concept is also implied. Although the nature of the "name" varies, it is usually related to the original reason they were abandoned by their mother, but in such a way that the idea of overcoming an obstacle or shortcoming is implied.

Biography:

A large number of pale white jellyfish-like creatures floated in a rough sphere. One swam to the center, accurately using her seven legs as flippers to propel herself, then began to think towards the rest. She gave off the impression of overcoming a challenge linked to a feeling of missing something linked to the concept of a mother, followed by an impression of waiting linked to the concept of a response.

An older female swam forward slightly, and thought out to the group. She gave off the feeling despair linked to an impression of waiting linked to the concept of an unhatched egg, followed by an impression of giving up. She waited a moment, then thought out the concept of an identifier linked with an impression of patience linked with the concept of the female in the center of the sphere, followed by the impression of welcoming an individual linked with the concept of the female in the center of the sphere. The older female swam back to her place in the sphere, and this-female-one-of-patience swam over to float by her, her place in the center being taken by a male, who thought out the same message that this-female-one-of-patience had opened with.

After a moment, a different older female swam forward slightly and thought out to the group. She gave the impression of slowness linked to the concept of swimming, and the feeling of danger linked with the concept of a predator. She waited a moment, then thought out the concept of an identifier linked with an impression of stubborness linked with the concept of the male in the center of the sphere, followed by the impression of welcoming an individual linked with the concept of the male in the center of the sphere. She swam back to her place in the sphere and was joined by this-male-one-of-stubborness, who was replaced with another male, who also gave off the same message as this-female-one-of-patience and this-male-one-of-stubborness had.

Moments of silence turned into minutes, until finally an older female swam forth. The male in the center of the sphere immediately gave off a feeling of relief, but the older female cut him off with a feeling of despair linked with a feeling of shock linked with an impression of waiting linked with a feeling of missing something linked with the concept of a mother, followed by the concept of the male in the center of the sphere.

She paused, then gave off the concept of an identifier linked with a feeling of missing something linked with the concept of a mother linked with the concept of the male in the center of the sphere. A moment of silence ensued, and then this-male-one-of-no-mother began to dance. He wove a pattern of the egg-hatching for birth, of the one-who-no-longer-moves for loss, of the predator-who-comes-swiftly for danger, of the bottom-of-the-water for distance, of the one-who-swims for traveling, of the ones-who-come-together for meeting, of the small-creature-that-swims-backwards for confusion, and again of the one-who-no-longer-moves, for despair.

Without warning, a female swam rapidly out from the side of the sphere and joined him in his dance. She wove a pattern of the water-that-flows-fast for challenge, of the predator-that-no-longer-moves for triumph. He wove a pattern of the small-creature-that-pries for curiosity, she wove back a pattern of the making-of-eggs for love, he wove a pattern of the small-creature-that-does-not-fight for acceptance, and the two swam off, both weaving the pattern of the making-of-eggs.

Eight days later, this-male-one-of-no-mother and his mate departed to choose their nesting ground. But before they had even reached the shore, this-male-one-of-no-mother vanished, leaving his mate alone in the lake, where she began to weave a pattern of the one-who-swims-outward for leaving and the rocks-that-fall-from-above for confusion.

SpoilerShow

I promise the usage of the thoughtspeak will be much neater during the actual battle; having multiple members of Nizzo's species, none of whom had single word names, communicating in rapid succession makes it a lot messier in the biography.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.

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Username: Sanzh
Name: Kriok Searae
Gender: Female
Race: Nerrin (currently inside a modified synth-hybrid body)
Colour: #B0C4DE on #708090
Biography: Kriok Searae was one of the last nerrin to be born-- at least in a traditional sense. Searae’s generation was the last to see a clear separation between biological and technological advancement. The brain and the mysteries of the mind were understood well enough to allow an indistinguishable transference to a non-biological substrate. The nerrin race began a collective ascension into a new, digital enlightenment-- eschewing the imperfections of the natural processes of biology for the symbiosis of robotics and transgenic engineering. The nerrin species could exist as more than just their state at birth, but as a variety of new entities-- digital intelligences, robotic beings, or vat-grown mixtures of life and synthetic creations.

Perpetually fascinated by the outer reaches of the nerrin domain, Searae pursued an education in engineering-- particularly the fields relevant to the outer colonial rim. She quickly established herself as a talented engineer amongst the frontier worlds, developing and maintaining a variety of technologies and keeping the machinery of the periphery running. Unfortunately, all good things eventually come to an end, and for the nerrin species and Kriok Searae, that end involved the complete annihilation of civilization.

While considered theoretically possible, the idea of a complicated computer virus being used against the now-digital minds of the nerrin was considered something impossible-- even military studies into the concept seemed far away from even producing a functional prototype. The idea of something capable of damaging the sophisticated and elegant machinery the nerrin had designed seemed to be an indulgence in pointless fantasy. Even if the technology to do so existed, it would be equally likely that a suitable defensive mechanism would arise just as quickly.

At some point, the nerrin home-world picked up a transmission from an unknown source. The transmission was an indecipherable series of garbled data, and regarded as an anomaly at best, and a simple communication error at worst. What was not known was that the transmission contained a virus-- a virus that quickly went from the computer that received it to the terminals that created the simulation space countless nerrin resided in, and soon proliferated across the nerrin domain-- hijacking communication networks and silently installing itself into the computational substrate of countless nerrin.

Searae, now working alone past even the furthest peripheral colonies, never received the transmission that doomed her species to extinction. She returned to a colony devoid of the normal buzz of communication, the flares of nuclear engines-- the colony she considered home was dead. After landing, she was treated to a scene of horror: countless bodies reduced to catatonia, computer systems malfunctioning, and any systems with connections outside of their simulations screaming for some form of mercy. A quick examination revealed that the virus had not killed the nerrin, but had transformed their simulations and sensory input to an unending hell. Searae was helpless to save them-- even a reversal of the virus would not undo the trauma of the experience. Searae did the only thing she felt was left.

Body by body, computer core by computer core, Searae shut down the nerrin trapped in the virus’ torture until the tiny population of her home no longer existed in that half-state between life and death. Unwilling to transfer herself to a new body and unwilling to end her own life, she consigned herself to being the last of her species-- she doubted anyone else would have survived.

It was some time afterwards-- time enough for the trauma she had endured to settle in and fester-- that a multiversal entity abducted her and entered her in a battle to the death.

Description: The nerrin, prior to their ascension, appeared as lithe, bi-pedal avians coated in a resplendent arrangement of feathers. Searae still fits this baseline phenotype, but her appearance is still noticeably different. While still inhabiting a partially-biological body, her current vessel was vat-grown and stripped of many organs that were later installed as cybernetic parts. Her body’s nervous system, for instance, was installed later as a series of cybernetic implants, along with her circulatory and respiratory systems.

The most noticeable difference from the standard nerrin is the cybernetic arm, which functions as a complicated fabricator tool. Rather than ending in a hand, this arm ends in a multitude of tools necessary to create an object from the molecular level up-- it can still serve as a crude hand, but lacks finesse and dexterity. While having some outer casing, much of the arm’s machinery is exposed. Another noticeable difference is the metal casing along her spine, which can be opened to perform repairs on the surrogate technological nerves of her spinal cord. Between her shoulders rests the reactor and heat sinks that power and regulate her fabricator arm. Her final implant is a pair of cybernetic eyes that augment her normal vision.

Prior to the disaster, Searae was friendly and gregarious, as well as exceedingly inquisitive. However, now is she is much less open, and more inclined to caution than curiosity. She has developed some degree of paranoia, remaining vigilant even when no threats are present and believing others wish to deceive her. Searae also feels some guilt at having survived when, were she anywhere else, she would have died with the rest of her species, and is anxious and withdrawn as a result of this. While still exceptionally smart, she’s not inclined to be open and is skeptical of any offers of trust.

Abilities: Searae has several abilities as a product of her unique physiology. The first is an extremely good memory, as a result of her cybernetic nervous system. She is also capable of moving her mind from body to body by transferring a flash-drive sized component from her current body to a different one. This ability requires another body to be available and have a proper receptacle for the memory device, meaning that to transfer into another body it would need to be constructed.

Her second ability is her fabricator arm. Given some form of raw atomic stock, she can construct a variety of items-- ranging from simple tools to complicated computers and advanced pieces of technology. She is limited in her construction abilities, however. She needs sufficient atomic stock to construct the item, as well as the item in question being small enough to be constructed within the relatively limited confines of her fabricator. A larger item-- such a large supercomputer, anti-armor weaponry, or a new body-- would require the construction of a fixed fabricator array, rather than the portable tool she has. Finally, she needs the molecular blueprints in order to properly construct more complicated items-- these blueprints can be modified and combined, but still need to be present. As an engineer, she had blueprints for a variety of tools and replacement parts installed, as well as a small number of more complicated blueprints, such as for miniaturized fusion reactors and a small selection of robotic bodies. The fabricator also serves as a general-purpose tool, as well as a means of modifying found articles of technology, but its primary purpose is the construction of new items.

Despite this powerful tool, however, she is still limited to a frail body with no weapons or armor, a lack of combat experience, and the effect of serious trauma on her psyche.

Originally posted on MSPA by Drakenforge.

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Name: Sara Hargrave
Gender: Female
Race: Human (Deceased)
Text Colour: sienna #8E6B23



Description: Sara is a 23 year old woman from the old west, though the west was readily becoming the new west at the time. She has short dirty blond hair, with a slight orange tint to it. She wears a leather vest, open down the middle, a large blue bandanna around her neck that reaches down to the bottom of her ribcage. Underneath her vest is a white shirt, and she has a buckled belt keeping up her practical leather trousers. She has spurs on her boots and a holster around her hip. A strap covered in bullets wraps around her waist, connected to the holster. She dons a sharp cowboy hat that sticks down to eye level, and has a feather sticking out the side of it, neatly tucked in by a blue silk band.
Sara is constantly reflecting on her troubled past, so would take care before tackling risky situations. She likes to think positive, but is always expecting the worst to happen just in case. She has drank way her troubles for the last several years, and so has quite the taste for alcohol, but never gets so drunk to do anything she’d regret.
She can look out for herself, and has been paid on more than one occasion to protect other people or their cargo, and so takes to being a peacekeeper or, failing that, a law bringer.




Weapons: Sara has her own 2nd Generation Colt Single Action Army revolver, a 45. six shooter, otherwise known as the Peacemaker. It’s a long barrel revolver that has to be cocked back before each shot can be fired. She keeps the holster for it by her left hip. The gun has been intricately engraved, and modified with an extended barrel.
She also has a Winchester Model 1894, loaded with .30-30 Winchester bullets. An expensive but reliable repeater rifle.



Abilities: Being dead has changed a few things about Sara. First of all, she has no internal organs. Her “body” is actually just a phantasm type shell that is corporeal; her real body was abandoned after she died. Acting as a shell, the inside is filled with the essence of whatever she has bound herself to. Binding is what she does to exist, for instance, the first object near her fresh corpse was a burnt log. It automatically bound herself to it, breaking the object itself down into simple matter, and creating a shell with it.

She then had to bind herself to something else, to have reserve matter inside the shell in case she was damaged. If Sara is hurt, the shell will crack or break, leaving her to stop and allow the matter to reform and fix herself. If she were to run out of spare matter, she would need to find something else to break down, a lengthy process and definitely something she cannot do under fire, not for long anyway.

The plus side of this is that she doesn’t really feel pain, but getting injured does leave her feeling very uncomfortable and stiffens her shell around that area, to stop cracks spreading further. She also cannot lose any items she died with, which are her clothes and guns. All the ammo she spends winds up being remade, same with her weapons. The downside to this is that anything she doesn’t die with cannot be brought between multiverses. She will be reset at the start of a battle, and once again at every new round.



Biography: Sara was born the third child of a ranching family. She had two elder brothers, Rick, the eldest, and Martin, the second eldest. Her father owned a small ranch of up to 30 cattle at a time, and was the beef producer of the nearby town. They weren’t rich, but they got by. However, ranching was a dangerous job. They were constantly under risk of being targeted by cattle rustlers. Her father and brothers had to carry guns, but she herself was not. Her father didn’t want her to become a violent woman and that she should take on the safer jobs at the ranch. She complied, not too unappreciatively. She wasn’t even a teenager at that point, and had yet to develop the urge to rebel against her father.

Besides, she didn’t need a weapon, the thought of taking a mans life scared her. Her brothers always said that without the ranch they’d probably have ended up as law enforcers. They understood what they could and couldn’t do law wise, and her father was very proud of them. But tragedy struck when the family was in the neighbouring town. They were just picketing the horses when three black clad men, guns drawn, burst from the bank. They were carrying sacks of money and yelling, and spotting the Hargrave’s proceeded to point their weapons at them. They wanted the horses. Sara’s father whispered to let them do it, to not do anything stupid. They slowly handed over the reins of each horse, but Rick was taking too long. As their leader pointed a gun at his face, he reached for his weapon. Rick was a fast draw, and managed to fire a single shot from his hip. The bullet tore through the leader, and he shot Rick between the eyes. The other two men smacked both Martin and Sara’s father over the head with their weapons, and threw their leader over a horse. As they tried to make their escape, a Marshal arrived, Winchester in his hands. With his men in tow, they gunned down the mounted men, and dragged the leader off of the horse, throwing him to the ground. Sara and her mother were left crying over the body of Rick. Several days later, the murderer was hung for his crimes. But Sara had lost her eldest brother. She hated that she didn’t have the power to help him, not even to fight back as he had done. Against her fathers concerns, stating that she had to pick up his slack now, Sara learned how to use a gun. She took on the more masculine jobs Rick had done, constantly trying to prove herself.


The first time she ever had to use a gun was when cattle rustlers arrived, guns blazing over a hill, while she was getting the cattle to graze. Her father was injured in the fight as they wrangled several cattle, but Sara wasn’t letting them. She drew her pistol from horseback and shot, hitting one of them in the chest. They returned fire, injuring the horse she was riding and causing it to collapse, throwing her to the ground. She hurt her leg in the fall and couldn’t stand as the remaining men stole almost half of the cattle. She managed to get her father into town on his horse, and his life was luckily spared. But as they returned home, they were devastated to find their home and ranch in flames. The rustlers had stolen all they could and torched their home. Her mother and brother were killed in the blaze, and several weeks later, her father succumbed to infection and exhaustion.

She was just seventeen. Left without anything but the clothes on her back, her fathers horse and her sidearm, Sara attended her family’s joined funeral. She would have inherited the land her father owned, but there was nothing left there. The money they owned in a bank account was used to pay for the funeral. Feeling distraught Sara had no way to live her life. However, the Marshal that had brought her brothers killer to justice offered her a job as a deputy. Sara had no alternative, and after proving herself capable, spent two years in law enforcement, to the jeers of the townsfolk. The Marshal wasn’t a sexist man and appreciated her hard work, but other people weren’t so understanding. Sara got into more than her fair share of fights because of her gender. She worked hard bringing justice to the county, but after a while she just had to leave. The town became too quiet, the only people being brought in were drunks and domestic disputes. Sara wasn’t able to earn much under the circumstances and left her badge behind. She managed to find a caravan to sign up with as a bodyguard. The pay wasn’t great, but it let her leave behind her troubled past and travel to new places. For a few years she was a vagabond, hiring herself and her gun out to other people. She also became quite the alcoholic to deal with the haunted nightmares she would receive. Of course, there were plenty of men around to hit on a drunken woman, but her fist usually sorted them out. She wasn’t at all interested in men or sex, her childish dreams of getting married had burned to ashes just as her home had done. She made friends with the law enforcement in plenty of towns, sometimes taking on bounty hunter work. She preferred not to kill the criminals, although she didn’t mind shooting them to incapacitate them. She didn’t care if they died from their injuries, so long as she took them into justice alive she was happy. She earned herself a reputation as a gunslinger, eventually earning the nickname “Viper”.

This was both to reference how fast she could draw, and the poison like attitude she had towards men. However, the Viper met her match on a Caravan job. It was supposed to be simple, a trade route that was usually safe, normal cargo that wouldn’t fetch much or feed many, and only one bodyguard, herself. Nothing was out of the ordinary, yet they were attacked all the same. There were at least ten bandits, each heavily armed. Even Sara couldn’t match them, even with both her Peacemaker and rifle, her luck ran out. She took seven bullets before she finally let her rifle drop, and collapsed by the fire they had set up to rest by. As they looted the wagon, she managed to shoot the neared man in the back with her sidearm. For that, she was shot in the head, and she died.

But that was not, as she had been expecting, the end. Several hours later, with the wagon long emptied, her employer murdered and the fire long burnt out, Sara Hargrave returned to existence. She just suddenly was, again, as a spirit looking down on her own corpse. She wondered if this was what death is like, when she was slowly dragged onto the fire. A log moved, seemingly of its own accord; into the centre of her spiritual chest. It then began to turn into this multicoloured dust, flowing around the area her ghost inhabited, and began creating a shell that was an exact copy of her living form. After each log had gone through this process, she had a corporeal shell as a body. She was confused, afraid, and lying on a hot campfire. Her clothes began to burn, and yet when she removed herself from the rocks, her clothes began repairing themselves. She was dead, she could still see her bloodied corpse, and yet here she was, standing over it. Nothing made sense to her; everything she knew was being turned upside down. Death didn’t work like this she told herself, no religion or book told of this kind of thing. Perhaps this was just some sort of last nightmare she was having in death. Perhaps this was Damnation. With nothing to do, she closed the eyelids of her corpse, and buried it without a grave marker. With no horse, she had to walk back to town. In that time, she found that she could still hunger and get thirsty, but it wasn’t required for her to survive. Even after roughly six hours of walking, her skin hadn’t dried out, her feet didn’t hurt and she hadn’t needed to take a break. She did however feel the need to consume something, but it wasn’t a stomach telling her to. Sara managed to figure out that she could break down matter, and tried so on a cactus. It was a lot different that the burnt out log. Living matter gave out a lot better matter than dead matter.

When she reached town, she proceeded to buy a whole bottle of scotch at the bar and drink it. She could still taste, yet the liquor was simply broken down inside her. Her money also just got recreated back. So everything she was when she died got replaced, she thought. After staying the night, having a restless sleep, and walking out of the bar in the morning, she found a wanted poster. If in death she could still do justice, then that was what she chose to do. However, the man in the poster was familiar to her. What she remembered shocked her.

The man in the poster was her brother’s murderer, long since hung publicly. She had seen him die with her own two eyes. She grabbed the poster and asked the local Sheriff about it. He told her that he had been robbing banks in the area, as well as random wagons. He was a vicious murderer who deserved to die, he said, so feel free to bring him in dead if she wanted to. Deciding to see for herself just who this man was, she pulled a favour from the Sheriff and borrowed a shotgun. Her reputation was still good for something at least. She then bought a horse from a passerby on the street, handing him all the money she had on her. She rode off to where the poster had said the criminal’s hideout was, an old ranch by the bottom of some tall cliffs. The trail there had long since been lost to the land, but she rode over the plains and managed to locate it.

Letting her horse go, she snuck up to the ranch. It was old, broken, and several lamps were burning inside. Steeling herself, she kicked open the front door and jammed the barrel of her shotgun into the face of the nearest person. He was drunk, ugly, and smelled terrible. She smacked him over the head before he could yell out, but his body let out a loud thump when it crashed to the ground. She was then in the middle of a fire fight inside the old decrepit. Feeling nothing towards them, she let loose a blade from her shotgun, killing the first of them. It wasn’t the leader, so she began going through the rest. A bullet tore through her right shoulder, leaving out through her back, leaving a hole the size of a cup’s rim through it. The drunken bandits were confused, so Sara killed them while they stared dumbfounded. She hid around a wall as her arm repaired itself.


Samson, the leader, fired several shots from one of his companion’s fallen weapon. Sara waited for the weapon to click empty, then rounded the corner, shotgun ready to blast. She hesitated, his own weapon was pointing right at her. A Mexican stand-off. He taunted her, saying she can shoot all she wanted, he’d have fun killing her afterwards. But Sara didn’t question him about his confidence. She said she knew about his power, pulling a bluff. He gawked in awe and spat out an important question.

“You know about the fragment?”

That was all she needed to know. The facts finally connected in her mind. Although she was missing the beginning, she could now figure out the end. There must have been a small piece of something within the mass inside of her, something that if broken would sever her existence. She aimed for the centre of his chest and fired a slug. The shot blew off most of his chest, his arms were knocked away, and with his entire chest seizing up he couldn’t get a chance to shoot her. She strode up to him, butted him in the chin with her gun, and peered into his shell when he hit the floor. A small object, it looked like a couple of coins, was floating around in the rainbow-like dust. She pulled back on her gun, forcing a new slug into the chamber, and slowly brought the shotgun into contact with the coins. Samson began to beg for mercy just as Sara wondered about not being able to bring back a body to get her reward. She pulled the trigger, feeling the recoil shudder through her arm, as the coins were ripped into shrapnel from the buckshot. Samson’s body burst apart, seeming to dissolve into nothingness, leaving a quiet, bloody scene. Sara’s mind remained blank, and there was no weakness in the knees, no tiredness and no sense of running out of adrenaline. Everything that used to summarise a gunfight, all the horrible things that made you glad to still be alive were missing. There wasn’t even any pity for the criminals she just brought to justice. She dropped the shotgun on the floor, no longer intending to give it back, as she strode out of the bullet-ridden building. Justice didn’t make her feel better anymore, the only solace she could take was in that crime would be lessened with their parting. She wouldn’t be able to stop crime in the country, and if her existence was made public then there was no telling the kind of problems she would have. She leaned against a wall, wishing that she had taken up smoking when she had the chance, when her world suddenly wasn’t what her eyes were seeing.

Originally posted on MSPA by ~ATH.

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Agh oh god reserve.

EDIT:

Username: ~ATH
Name: Ana
Gender: Technically both, but identifies as female.
Species: Sapient Seed
Associated Color: Persian blue
Weapons/Abilities: She is a plant imbued with life and sapience by a life mage and a plant mage, as well as the personality of the life mage's wife. His wife was a very kind woman who wasn't capable of harming a fly. However, she was also very vain, and she would spend all day making herself look good. Ana does not have her memories. She only has her own memories as a plant. In her most basic forme, she is a seed. When she is a seed, she cannot do anything. She is only conscious of herself, and the only thing she is capable of doing is thinking. However, when she is planted, she can grow into a basic plant with a single flower with a face in it. This face is capable of seeing, hearing, talking, and making facial expressions. She is self-pollinating, and can easily produce seeds on her own. She can grow a wide variety of seeds, ranging from sapling seeds to vine seeds. She can only produce up to about 12 seeds at a time, but these seeds can then grow in another plant that has around the same capabilities as herself. She can also change these plants slightly, by changing the seeds themselves. So far, she has proven herself capable of growing many flowers with strange powers, such as exploding or producing massive amounts of water. As long as the roots are connected, she can maintain consciousness over all of her plants. If a plant becomes disconnected form herself, it becomes just a plant. It can still grow pretty fast, and have the same powers it would, but it is no longer under Ana's control. Essentially, it has the same base instincts (?) of a plant. Ana can revert back to a seed at any time, she just has to pour all her consciousness into one seed as soon as it falls off the plant. However, once she does this, all the plants that she was in dies.

Description: In her most basic forme, she is a seed. The seed is nondescript, uniform, beige. It is around the size and shape of a pumpkin seed. As soon as she is planted, she can grow in whichever way she wants to grow, at anywhere between an inch to a foot a second. Her neutral form is a flowering plant with only one flower, and the flower resembles a deep blue stargazer lily, however, it has a small face in the middle. The face is that of a beautiful human woman, and it is made with yellow flower petals. Using this, she can see, talk, make facial expressions, and bond with humans. The flower-face is around 3 inches wide. This forme is known as Standard Forme, and it is around 2 feet tall.She does not really need leaves to harness energy, being naturally imbued with a massive amount of life energy. As such, she will only use them if she gets worn out from battling, or for aesthetic reasons. Her looks are never static, as she enjoys changing herself. She inherited the life mage's wife's vanity.

Biography:
...
...
...
Nothingness.

And then, suddenly, she could see.

The first thing she saw was a face. Handsome, short-cropped hair and beard, deep blue eyes. Something stirred deep within her, but she knew not what it was. The face's lips moved, a deep voice reverbrated throughout the air, reached her ear-like orifices, and she heard it. She could only barely understand what he said. Her mind was nothing but a blur, she could not remember who she was, what she was doing here, who this man was, but somehow, she knew what he said. "Can you hear me?"

Her first instinct, when reacting with a situation like this was to respond with a very small, weak, "Where am I? Who am I?" Suddenly, the face, the only thing she had ever known, moved away. She could hear voices, but they were louder than before, and they were not saying anything in particular. The scene unfolded before her eyes, and she was overwhelmed with the amount of new sights. Below her, she could see a dirty wooden table surface. To her left, a musty old window let in a minimum amount of light. The door next to it was also dirty and wooden. On her right was about the same, but no door. The wall in front of her also had a window, but it was cleaner than the others, and she could see outside. All around the room she was in, plants grew everywhere. All different sorts of plants. The windows made the room seem warm, and it was bright and sunny outside. In the room however, two figures were dancing, and celebrating. She made the deduction that these unusual voices were, in fact, the sounds of jubilation. They were whooping in joy. Was she really this important? She still had no idea who she was.

She tried turning her head around unconsciously, but found that she couldn't. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't move at all, except for her face! She was pretty sure that she could move, she could feel a faint connection to her ... muscles? So if she couldn't move them, that means... Oh! She must have been paralyzed. Ah, this explains why the men were so happy to see her awake. Still, it was a bit weird. Why couldn't she remember anything? All that she knew was that she was an ordinary woman. Wait... was she? She couldn't even be sure of that much. She brought her attention back to the men, and thought that saying something was a good thing to do now. "Um... Who am I?"

The men stopped dancing and and their faces were brought close to her again. That odd feeling stirred up again. The first man she saw was on the left, but on the right was another man. This one was younger, but he definitely looked a bit more sallow. Unhealthy, almost. Then Man 1's lips moved again. It moved rapidly, and the sounds all rushed by her, with her understanding none of them. She closed her eyes. The sounds stopped. She opened them again. This time, the sounds were much slower, and she could understand them.

"Your name is Ana."

Name? What is that? ... Ana... That sounds like... me?

She didn't know why, but she knew that she was Ana.

"Ana."

"Yes, yes! Ana... See those plants?"

He indicated to them, to make sure that Ana understood what he was talking about.

"Plants."

"Yes, plants. You are a plant. You are one of them."

?!

One of them? But... they looked so... dead. No, not dead. Not moving, but alive.

She was not moving, and alive.

"You are alive, Ana. You can talk."

"Talk?"

"That's talking, what you just did. You see, Ana, you are different from these plants. You are like me. You can think."

Thinking... so plants can't think? Sounds like a horrible fate.

----------

She watched. She saw her newest seed drop down to the earth, take root, and grow. Suddenly, she could see herself. And she also saw herself. She had suddenly grown more eyes. But she was used to this. She had regrown herself many times over the course of her first week, she had to learn how to see through many different eyes and interpret it as one picture. For some reason, she was not accustomed to this. She could see with two eyes, she could talk, she could even describe the scene she first saw when she awoke, but this was new. But this was the first time this had happened. Through her first pair of eyes, she saw... herself, yes, but not quite. Her other flower's petals were ruby red.

"Change. Making yourself different. This is something all living beings can do, but you can do it much faster, like you can grow faster."

She could change? Make herself look different? She was eager to keep trying this. She looked at a sunflower, and focused her thoughts on it. Then, out of her seed-pod, a seed grew. This seed was different, she could see from her second pair of eyes. That seed dropped down, and grew. It grew and grew, until it was much taller than herself. Then she could... feel it. She couldn't see through that flower, but she knew that flower was a part of herself. But it was so different. The sun's rays felt... different. This flower was yellow, with a large cluster of seeds in the center. And then, slowly, she felt herself moving. The new flower was moving! She moved it to the sun, and suddenly felt a huge amount of energy!

"Whoa..."

"...Amazing! I would never have thought that this was possible!"

"Ana can change herself into different formes?"

The two mages were discussing her latest development fervently. She was content to just sit there and bask in the newfound embrace of the sun.

----------

"Okay, go!"

Around a hundred feet in front of her was a huge warhound, around 6' tall. It ran towards her, barking and growling. It's teeth were huge, and it's maw was dribbling. It was a very threatening sight, and it would have been scary, but Ana had dealt with creatures like this before, so she knew what to do. She produced 6 thistle seeds, and 6 snapdragon seeds. The thistle seeds she threw out. They immediately grew in a low thistle wall, right as the hound stepped on it. The hound yelped, and jumped about 10 feet in the air. She used this chance to make the snapdragons grow where the hound was about to land. Her snapdragons were specially bred to have exploding pods, 3 per plant, each the force of a cherry bomb. The flowers grew in a circle, and the hound couldn't dodge them as it was falling right in the center. Deftly, she grew 3 more seeds, and planted them right in front of her. They were vines, and they could grow fast. The bunch of snapdragons exploded, and the vines immediately grew towards the hound, and wrapped it so tightly it couldnt move.

"Well done. You really are getting better Ana."

This was the result of a month's worth of training, and experimentation. She couldn't remember the time it stopped being enjoyable for her. She could remember the joy of living, though, that moment when she felt truly connected with the world. But that was all false. She was nothing but an experiment, after all. These mages created her just so she could be studied and trained. She no longer felt that warm and fuzzy feeling she had upon seeing the life mage's face. Now all she felt was apathy with a hint of hatred. All she wanted to do was live. Just... live without any worries.

She had considered escaping, but the entire garden where she had lived her whole life was walled, and outside was a huge desert where no plants could grow. She was doomed, wasn't she? Doomed to a life of being studied. She turned in a sunflower, and looked up at the sky, basking in its warmth. If this is my life, then so be it. She produced one last seed. This seed was exactly like her first seed, nondescript, yet full of potential. The seed slowly dropped down onto the earth, and she willed it to not grow. It was already lost amongst the dozens of failed seeds she had produced, the children that would never prosper. She became one of them, and cut loose all her consciousness with the sunflower.

----------

...
Nothingness again.

Was this what she started as, a lone wisp of consciousness in a huge blank space?

It feels so lonely, yet so warm.

This must be my home.

Finally, I can sleep.
...

----------

And the mages never saw her again, even after replanting all the seeds.

Originally posted on MSPA by Solaris.

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times you shit how dare you do this when i am not here

Username: So Laris
Name: Brock Lei
Gender: Male
Race: Looks pretty human
Color: #A47200
Description: Pretty standard and generic looking human, brown hair that's a bit messed up, lovable smile, a nice, happy face, no facial hair. He is thin. but muscular, visibly so, wearing just a green vest with a stylized monkey pattern. He's got black pants and comfy green loafers. While he is tan, he doesn't really look like he belongs to any race in particular. His voice is soft and confident, and he usually has a goofy smile on his face.

He likes fighting. He has actually traveled quite a bit in order to do so! He's gone to tournaments and he's visited dojo's and the like, and he's always had a lot of fun with his physical tussling. He doesn't really care about winning the fight, just going at it one on one fairly and at full strength is all he really wants. He isn't all that book smart, but he does know the basics about the world (what goes up comes down, we are all made out of atoms, fire bad) and is pretty good at biology (Gotta know where to strike! Gotta keep that body fit! Gotta know what to do if you get a bad injury!), a bit less so in chemistry and physics (Who made this table and can I break it?). Math is much less than stellar. He always tries to help out anyone in need and will often put their safety over his. He never goes back on a promise. Never.

He loves to tell stories, those recounted to him by his father, learned from his travels, or of things has done or seen. He absoltueley loves to talk to people and will never, EVER, miss an opportinuty to strike up conversation. He tries to keep cheery in the bad situations and helps others do as well.

Items/Abilities: The only item of note, besides his clothes, is a long staff, colored red, that is able to extend itself. It was given to him by his adoptive father. He also has a sack with food and various small objects that are precious to him.

He has a unique style of fighting that was taught to him by his father. It involves the use of his surroundings and keeping himself in constant motion, using the aforementioned staff to keep his momentum going around corners, for example. He is skilled in running, jumping, grabbing, and in using the opponents momentum against him more than basic punching and kicking. He also has a few other styles and techniques that he uses, some observed from other fighters, others taught to him by martial artists that he has met. He primarily uses the style taught by his father but he occasionally tosses in altered versions of other techniques if it seems necessary.

Biography: Like most people who grow up mostly to just fight, Brock didn't really have a standard mom and dad. One morning, the young boy was just found on the road, battered, naked, and crying by a hermit known as Toph Son Lei. He saw no tracks in the area, no sign that any other intelligent life had been around the child, and without anything pointing to the child's origin, he decided to raise him as his own child.

The result was a very atypical upbringing, partially thanks to the fact that Toph Son was a master martial artist who lived on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Regardless, he did his best to make sure that Brock grew up in a happy, positive, free environment, teaching him whatever Brock wanted to know (hint, it was fighting) and making sure that he was fit and healthy both in mind and in body.

At the age of 13, Brock and his father left their secluded home and began to travel around, so that Brock could get a better idea of the world and so that he could continue to grow. They traveled all around the world, making friends, seeing the sights, helping those in need, and fighting. They did a lot of fighting. Brock didn't win any tournaments, but he did pretty well! After traveling around and seeing his father act generally benevolent and also do really well in fighting, Brock decided that he wanted to be just like him, and as a result he became a lot more active in training, talking with people, and learning in general.

However, after entering (and losing) his first tournament after turning 16, his father got in to a rather brutal fight with a long-time rival. It was the final match of the tournament, and they had been waiting for this for quite a while. The audience was amazed at the moves that were thrown. However, in a critical moment, someone weaved when they should have dodged, and perhaps just a bit too much force was placed, and it didn't turn out too well. Toph Son Lei was hospitalized. Ryu Kong, the rival who had caused the injury, regretted his actions, and wished to atone for them. After being forgiven by Toph and Brock, as it was truly unintentional, and it wasn't life-threatening (though Toph would have trouble fighting in the future) he asked Brock to come to his dojo to learn a number of secret techniques and his fighting style. With his father's acceptance, Brock accepted.

It was a year after these lessons began, the lessons completed and now searching for a place to hone the techniques already learned, that Brock Lei was kidnapped and entered into a battle to the death.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

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Name: Tschichold

Gender: Dude, I think

Race: Vaguely humanoid

Color: THE COLOR OF ART (#814444)

Equipment/Abilities: Tschichold is an exemplary artist, with a keen eye for aesthetics. He is well-versed in various techniques of visual arts, including drawing, sculpture, and printmaking. Tschichold is not without his biases though. Tschichold feels most comfortable in the medium of paint, dabbling pigments on whatever surface is available. The pictures he produces are not supernatural in any way. They are simply pretty pictures, although it is obvious that Tschichold placed a lot of care and skill went into them.

He prefers to paint scenes and landscapes, the more majestic and grander, the better. Bold colors catch his fancy.

Art supplies tend to burn a hole in pockets. Luckily, Tschichold has no pockets or money. In fact, this mysterious artist could be described as a living paint generator! Tschichold can produce a paint-like substance which has the consistency and property of oil paints (horrible smell, flammable, hard to wash off, toxic if ingested). Unfortunately, he has no control over how much paint he can generate and tend to leave pools of paint behind. At least, when he uses the paints, they always are in the color he wants.

The paint he leaves behind has a very peculiar quality which differentiates it from mundane oils. If one were to breathe in the fumes or make contact with the still-wet paints (dry paint is effectively inert), something special comes along. It takes a while for the effects to settle, but when it finally hits and it is quite a trip to say the least. The paint of Tschichold induces hallucinations and other psychoactive effects on the victim. It can be pleasant or horrible, depending on situation.

Of course, Tschichold is affected by this substance too. It does not ruin his intelligence. However, it does kind of skew his vision. Fantastic images and phantasms are a common sight in his view and even though he tries his best, he has a hard time distinguishing what is real or not. This naturally leads to a screwed-up sleep cycle, perpetual existential crisis, and a grumpy personality.

Description:

Tschichold looks like an inky silhouette of a young man. He is slight of build and could be taller if he stood straighter. He looks pretty much like a solid shadow of a human although his legs leans towards hoof-like and there are noticeable, but dull claws on his fingers and toes. He has one glowing left eye, constantly squinting and twitching as he attempts to distinguish between reality and drug-induced crazy. Tschichold wears black leather gloves and carries around an oil-painting kit. He smells of harsh chemicals and sadness.

Despite being constantly high off his nonexistent pants all the time, Tschichold does not act mellow or huggy or whatever stereotypical things that a stoner or a hippie would do. In fact, he's short-tempered and belligerent. After all, being technically drugged all the time never improves people’s moods. Regardless of his lack of happy, Tschichold tries his best at manners and politeness if he was confronted with a social situation.

Although his perception of reality is constantly warping, Tschichold has an eye for detail, for craftsmanship, for flawlessness. In other words, he is a perfectionist. The colors have to be this shade. The objects must be in this place. Hallucinations be damned! EVERYTHING HAS TO LOOK RIGHT. If a design is not in his liking, he would do anything to fix that up. By fixing that up, he meant paint it over, and nothing would stop him. NOTHING! Even if there is a meteor aiming towards him or there is a forest fire nearby. That mindset tends to lead to problems. For instance, one time he got arrested for painting over people’s clothes.

Sadness is pretty much the core of his personality. The artist has alarmingly high expectations for himself. He wanted to produce the best art-not simply the best, but the very best. Tschichold feverishly churns out paintings, taking great effort to each stroke. Woe is to him! No matter how hard he tries, what he produced was never going to be what he wished (probably because his perception is always changing). Sadly, he rids of his works, usually by giving them away, selling, or even leaving at the road.

Biography:

Does he really trust what he remembers? Reality is constantly shifting in front of his eyes. Floors shift. People change. Colors fade - a rainbow of senses fading into the monochrome of despair. At least, he was consistent, an oasis of constant in the terrible maelstrom of his existence, not that it honestly matters.

“Fuck it,” the artist murmured to himself, drawing a few glances. Tschichold looked at his customers from the roadside. He knew they were people. They were real, he supposed. After all, they did take away his artistic trash and gave him pay. Though, the artist was not exactly sure if they were real. Their faces were blurred, their arms spindly, fingers growing lengths as they interacted with him. They were real, in an ephemeral sense.

Should he really remember what he was before? Tschichold scoffed. What good would that do to him? What was past is past. He should not bother with these silly memories. They would have no effect in the upcoming future. He should leave them along, those unreliable memories – in the deep, dank corners in his minds.

Still, he was curious. He was curious in the way that killed cats. He should focus, concentrate, and maybe sneak in a little peek into memory bank. A little peek would not hurt after all. Yes, yes.

Tschichold remember a bit of the long-gone past, Like a delirious dream, it came to him in bits and pieces, he remember his idyllic younger days. He remembered being with others. He remember a deal he did with a –

And so, he disappeared.

Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.

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[Statement of intent!]

Originally posted on MSPA by The Deleter.

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Username: The Deleter

Name: Timothy Yessic and Alaster

Gender: Male, None

Race: Human, Mechanical/magical construct animated by a holy being.

Color: Red for Timothy, Dim Gray for Alaster

Description: Timothy is an eight-year old boy, about 4' 2" in height, with pale, thin features and a mop of black hair that is in desperate need of a trim. Most of his form is covered by a baggy brown robe, which designates his status as a wizard in training. It's a bit frayed at the ends and thin at the knees from all the scrapes and bumps he suffers. He also wears small, pointy-toed shoes, which he hates with a passion.

Timothy is a bright and cheerful child, although somewhat unusual. He craves excitement in his life, and loathes being kept in one place for too long. He also rebels against restrictions or rules as a young child will do, which proved problematic in his life at the Guild of Magicians. His magical upbringing has endured him to a few unusual events, although otherwise his life has been perfectly normal thus far. He is intensely attatched to Alaster, and views him as a surrogate parental figure and protector.

Outwardly, Alaster resembles a tarnished suit of 16th century composite plate armour, with elaborate but pitted gold trim on various parts, standing 6’ tall precisely and with broad, heroic proportions. Opening him up, however, reveals an intricate construction of clockwork and magic. Based on a steel skeleton and with brass clockwork joints and workings, Alaster’s internals are powered by a deep purple “memory crystal” in the centre of his chest, that can be “tuned” to hold simple instructions, or, in this case, the lesser angel that has been bound into the crystal. Accessing the internal structure is as simple as opening the required armour part, as if removing the piece from a human figure.

Alaster moves fluidly yet simultaneously jerkily, as if programmed to move from pose to pose. Likewise, in combat, his moves are well-trained and fluid, but there is a pause between each blow as the next move is inputted into the clockwork mechanisms of his body. This forceful form of motion can appear frightening. Alaster is able to speak via a crude voicebox by constructing pre-recorded words into sentences, resulting in a tinny, slightly sing-song quality to his speech. Alaster has only one purpose - to protect Timothy from harm. If this involves destroying whatever could harm the boy, then so be it.

Equipment/Abilities: Timothy is only a wizard in training and thus knows only a few basic spells from memory - a simple fireball spell, a levitation spell enabling him to lift anything twice his size, and a basic magical shield that defends against all attacks, both phsycail and mental, for five seconds at the cost of immobility. Timothy doesn't have a great reserve of mental power, and thus overuse of these skills tires him out greatly. Sleep replenishes this reserve, although how long her sleeps for varies depending on how much magic he has used.

Alaster’s armoured outer layer means he can withstand more physical damage than a human being, although he is fragile internally – if critical parts are lost, there is a serious chance of malfunction, and the unique nature of his creation means that lost parts are hard to replace. Alaster can lift loads five times as heavy as a normal human and does not get tired or worn out, although parts can wear out and break if put under stress. Alaster is also not “killed” by anything other than a fatal blow to the memory crystal in his chest, which holds Alaster’s essence and will unleash it explosively if it is breached. Due to his mechanical nature, he is impervious to any form of sensory illusion, although since he is animated by magic, any form of magical drain will adversely affect him. Alaster carries a Vorpal broadsword, a weapon so sharp it is rumoured to cut sunlight.

Biography:
Mage-President for Life Abbadon Teus steepled his fingers, leaned forward on his desk and gave the assembled wizards in front of him his best death glare.

“Well?” he intoned.

The wizards shuffled their feet.

“I’m waiting.”

The nearest Archmage looked up from inspecting the front of his purple robes. Or at least, tried to. But when your Great Ruler is doing a decent impression of a frost giant, you tended to find the weave of the carpet more interesting.

“’s not our fault,” he muttered,

“Not your fault,” replied Teus.

The wizards cowered. The sentence had been like a tomb shutting.

“Not. Your. Fault.”

“It was an accident!” blurted another mage, his pointy hat sagging over his face. “We all know Archmage Yessic was off his rocker anyway! How were we meant to know what he did in that foul pit of his?”

The other wizards muttered their assent. This did not impress Teus in the slightest. His gaze only grew colder as he studied each of the wizards before him, and in particular the one with the saggy hat. Consummate professionals they were not. Like all wizards everywhere, they seemed to have gained their control of power via a mix of educated guesses, wild experimentation and a “let’s wing it” attitude. This was a contrast to his own work ethic, which consisted of being in the right place and time after the previous Mage-President had suddenly and tragically been pushed off his balcony. The only reason he hadn’t executed them all was that, quite frankly, it was his civic duty to order them around. After all, knowledge is power, and magic was derived from knowledge. So better keep THAT power under your thumb.

He sat back in his chair and looked at the piece of paper in front of him.

“So I am meant to conclude,” He said, slowly, “that the loss of not one, but TWO magical artefacts of great power was, and I quote, an accident? Indeed, that the fault lies with someone else?”

A pause.

“So whose fault was it then?”

The wizards shuffled again, and managed a few um’s and ah’s. Teus let them squirm for a bit.

“Let’s try an easier question, shall we,” he suggested smoothly. “First of all, what is it?”

--

Aging, wizened fingers fumbled, regained control, and slotted the last component into place. In response, a faint pink glow illuminated the cramped, stuffy workshop. It glinted off the brass cogs and shone off the dull plate metal.

Archmage Yessic smiled a toothless smile.

Then he raised his hands and began to chant.

--

“It’s a Switzerman. A clockwork contraption. There’s plenty of those about, isn’t there? What is so urgent about this one?”

“It’s not just a normal Switzerman, my lord,” responded the floppy-hatted man. Teus turned his stare back to the speaker.

“Why not?”

“There’s something bound inside its memory crystal.”

“What?”

“We think it’s an angel.”

A pause. Teus’ burrow frowned, and a plethora of questions rushed to the forefront of his mind. He had to push the majority of them away. Stay practical.

“How?” was his next question.

“We don’t know, my lord,” said another wizard. “Even a lesser being from the Divine Realm is hard enough to summon, let alone bind to something. It’s like holding a wolf’s mouth open with twigs. If we had access to his notes…”

“Which are the property of the government,” snapped Teus sharply.

“…then we might be able to figure out how he did it,” said the wizard, not breaking stride.

Teus pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no intention of fulfilling the request

“So when did it start moving?”

--

“Can’t catch me! Nyer nyer!”

“Aw, come on, no fair!”

Sadly, Timothy Yessic’s protests fell on deaf ears, and the other children left him behind to loiter in the corridor.

Timothy hated the Guild. He hated the stuffy, stupid wizards that patronized him, he hated the dull corridors with their gothic styling, he hated the flickering candles and he hated the lack of magic that seemed to happen. Sadly, he was only eight, and so these thoughts were expressed as “its boooring” and a frown or folded arms. And now he was alone in this boring corridor, with this boring statue and these stupid flickering torches. There weren’t any bats here. Animals didn’t like magic.

The boy turned to the statue and shoved his mop of hair from his eyes so he could glare at it properly.

“You’re stupid,” he told it.

It failed to respond. This was not what Timothy had wanted at all. He walked up to it, craning his neck backwards so he could keep eye contact.

“Bet you don’t even walk,” he muttered, and poked it.

There was a grinding noise, and the statue proceeded to prove him wrong.

--

“His grandson?”

“Of course,” replied the floppy-hatted wizard, whom Teus had pegged as their spokesperson. “It stood outside his bedroom when he went to sleep, it stood outside his classrooms when he was learning. It watched him when he played with his friends. I think you can guess what old Yessic wanted it to do.”

A pause, whilst everyone shuffled this into their worldview. The office grew yet more oppressive.

“So,” Teus began, considering each word before it escaped, “we have a lesser being from the Divine Realm, bound to the soul of an armoured clockwork man, ordered to watch the grandson of one of the most powerful mages to ever have lived, and carrying a…”

He checked his paper again.

“A Vorpal broadsword. Congratulations, gentlemen. Need I remind you that not only are those the sharpest weapons ever forged, but there are only ten of those left in existance? And who is going to pay for the loss of an artefact like that? I don’t think your coffers are that deep, to be frank.”

“We can get it back.”

Teus raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

The wizard nodded. This one had a considerable waistline.

“It’s just a matter of setting up a scrying glass,” he boomed. “Then we can locate where it is via the divine energy it gives off-”

“Bollocks!”

This came from saggy-hat.

“A scrying glass isn’t strong enough,” he said, looking incredulous. “We’ll have to use Eisenkopf’s Everywhere Principle to find-”

“We don’t have the materials,” interjected a wizard near the back. “If we just opened a portal-”

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Look, we just have to-”

“That would be far too-”

Teus folded his arms. Immediately, the squabbling wizards fell silent.

“You will have everything you need,” he said, once they were all paying attention again. “Materials, manpower, time. All of it. In return, you are tasked with two things. First of all, you must find out why Archmage Yessic thought that his grandson would need a bodyguard of this calibre. And secondly, you must find out where in the Nine Realms it has taken the boy. Or you will all be hung. Do I make myself clear?”

He had.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

---

[Statement of intent!]

Originally posted on MSPA by WaveOfBabies.

---

Name: Ablendan Blake

Gender: Male

Race: Demonic Servant

Color: #437C17

Equipment/Abilities: The only equipment Ablendan carries is his worn and tattered cloak, which covers his entire body. The cloak is quite pointless as an actual piece of armor, and only serves to mask his horrible appearance from the rest of the world. It can also store the Flies of Beelzebub, who are simultaneously his defenders and tormentors. Other than this cloak, Ablendan carries no equipment into battle besides his own body.

Fortunately for Ablendan, though, his physical abilities are actually pretty impressive. While one may think his diseased, weakened body would be fragile, he is surprisingly agile and sturdy. His long clawed hands and feet, while not doing any favors when he tries to hold something, make climbing and digging quite easy. He is capable of making long, pouncing leaps, which combined with his long claws allow him to easily attack opponents. His body is very tolerant to harm, especially because of the constant torment that he lives in at the hands of Beelzebub. Even if parts of his body are broken further than they already are, he still keeps moving because his pain tolerance has reached incredibly high levels. If one removed both of his legs and one of his arms, for example, he would still be crawling after them with his one functioning arm. Of course, even with his many demonic gifts he is still only a man. And like any man, without a brain or a heart he is pretty much done for.

The Flies of Beelzebub, however, are some of his greatest assets. The flies follow him in a black, unrelenting cloud, buzzing with the voice of Beelzebub himself. Their bites sting like hellfire, but can only cause pain instead of lasting harm. Through great numbers they can achieve great feats of strength, such as forming a solid platform, functioning as living shields, or lifting about as much as an average human male. Their buzzing is incredibly annoying, and being forced to listen to it is a torment. The most surprising use of the Flies of Beelzebub, however, is their ability to plug up wounds. As Ablendan continues to fight, more and more of his wounds might find themselves forcibly sealed up by the flies. The wounds will never truly fixed until actual healing sets in, but the flies make dealing lasting damage more of a struggle. Being flies they are still easily killed, but their great numbers make this harder.

Description: Ablendan is, to put it lightly, a horror show. Usually he is covered in a cloak, resembling a short, cloaked figure. But the reason for his appearance is revealed all too easily when his cloak is actually removed. His skin is grey and hard with rigor mortis, his eyes a piercing red color. His veins are a tarry black and quite visible through his pale, grey skin. His short appearance is due to severe scoliosis, causing him to hunch over like a feral beast. His teeth are jagged and elongated like fangs, and his nails have grown and hardened into claws. His body is emaciated, revealing gnarled and twisted ribs. His arms and legs are surprisingly long and slightly twisted, giving him a constant limping gait. His entire body is covered in boils and tumors, his jaw hangs open as if cracked, and one of his eyes is nothing more than a hollow socket. His hair has all fallen out, only snow white patches remaining, and he smells like a defiled graveyard.

Ablendan's mental state is similarly damaged. After living for nearly hundreds of years like a feral beast on the run, that is what he has become. He runs solely on desire, both his desire to hunt and kill and his desire to accept death's sweet embrace. Rather than higher mental functions usually being at work, he instead focuses on an animalistic cunning. Complicated thinking processes give way to cunning, a knowledge of fight and flight, and pure instinct. However, deep down, he is still human, and there are some lines he just refuses to cross. Unless in the midst of a bloody feeding frenzy, he refuses to hurt children and will attack anybody who tries to harm them. He also pities other people who were wronged by divine beings, and might try to help them instead of killing them. Of course, at the smell of fresh blood and his master's commands to feed, these few remaining morals are incredibly likely to be lost. When he smells fresh blood he loses control of himself, attacking in a sharklike frenzy even more brutal than his usual attacks.

Biography / Short Piece of Writing: The following is a series of excerpts supposedly from an esteemed English nobleman, Ablendan Blake. He mysteriously vanished around the turn of the century, after making a miraculous recovery from a seemingly incurable disease. Nobody knows where or how he had vanished, but one day his manor was found burned to the ground, with no trace of his body found. Some think he fled the country, while others assume he merely died in a fire. All that is known is that, years later, this cryptic document was found. Some believe it to be the actual journal of Ablendan, while others think it to be a fraud. Debate continues to rage over this.

~~~~

Entry 1 - 3/13/1745

A horrible ailment has come over me in the past week, and nothing I seem to try cures it. Every cure I have been prescribed, through tonic, bleeding, or even prayer, has made no success in curing my ills. With each day my condition worsens, as I watch my attempts at curing myself fail miserably. I've visited clergymen, physicians, and even the occasional witch-woman, and yet nothing seems to work. Must I only sit back and watch as I slowly find myself heading toward the afterlife? Is there no way for me to help myself? At this point, I fear the only thing I can do is watch and hope.

Entry 2 - 3/24/1745

My condition has reached all-time lows. My skin grows yellow with jaundice, my fevers have reached burning hot levels of severity, and I find myself routinely bleeding in my eyes and mouth. Even my vomit is blackened with blood, and I do not feel I have long for this world unless I do something drastic. While poring through the few books I own, I noticed a manuscript on how to summon creatures of the lower realm. If the graces of heaven can do nothing to help me, maybe I'll have better luck with the forces of hell. My friends try to warn me, citing the teachings of the Church and the tale of Dr. Faustus, but their words fall on deaf ears. There is no price I wouldn't pay to end this suffering.

Entry 3 - 4/1/1745

The summoning has worked. With what I feared may be my last breaths, I have succeeded in summoning a servant of the demonic prince Beelzebub. If the Lord of the Flies can provide disease, surely he can take it away. On the 25th of March I made this summon, pledging my soul to the plague-bearer as his servant in exchange for eternal life and an end to my ailment. Things are finally looking up for me.

Entry 4 - 6/16/1746

It has been a year since I have pledged myself to the Lord of the Flies. Life continues as normal, other than a few oddities. People seem to avoid me as if I was cursed, and whenever I pass vermin they followed me as if I am their master. The faint smell of rotted flesh is ever-present. At times these suspicions make me question my deal, but Beelzebub makes many promises to secure my soul. He seduces me with promises of great power, my own familiar, and triumphing over even the inevitability of death. Maybe I shall stick with this deal, and see how far things go.

Entry 5 - 1/28/1750

Each year, things grow worse. Clouds of flies routinely follow me, the sound of their buzzing never leaving my ears. Sometimes I wake up to find my hair falling out. My skin grows pale and cracked. The smell of rotten flesh, once barely present, is now overwhelming. But master promises great things, and I will achieve them.

Entry 6 - 4/9/1755

Hunger overwhelming. Need to feed. The flies need to feed too. Killed a man in the darkest part of the woods and fed until satisfied. Dear God, what have I done?

Entry 7 - 4/10/1755

Invoking the Cursed One's name angered master. Struck me with horrific boils and tumors. Through the largest one he speaks to me, his voice cold and painful. He tells me to feed, to kill, to give in to my urges. Humans are repulsed by my very sight, some attacking me on the spot. They are perfect to feed on.

Entry 8 - 9/18/1765

Cold. So cold. Cold as death. Plagued appearance continues to spread. Hair fallen out completely, bones grow gnarled and twisted, teeth and nails long and haggard. Look and feel like a corpse. Need to wear a cloak just to leave own house.

Entry 9 - 7/7/1770

Master speaks with many voices. He speaks through the boils, the flies, the screams of my fresh victims. Master is proud. He wants me to continue. I must please him. If I don't, my suffering only worsens.

Entry 10 - 8/10/1775

No human contact besides feeding in years. Friends and family all moved on or dead. What use is immortality without someone to live with? Time goes on, body weakens and ages, but no death comes. Although, even if I cannot die, maybe I can be killed? Will have to test this.

Entry 11 - 4/21/1780

Pain. Pain and suffering. It grows worse with each year, with each mistake I make. Will it never end? I asked master how long deal lasted. Woke up the next morning with scars on my arm spelling "In Omne Tempus." Truly, I have made a great error. Feeding only thing to ease pain. Must keep feeding, even as appetite grows.

Entry 12 - 2/28/1783

I can handle no more. I'm going to end it all. I will burn my manor, burn my books, burn everything in hopes to finish the job. Maybe this will end me. Maybe I can finally die. Consider this the last you hear from Ablendan Blake.

~~~~

This was the final entry of Ablendan Blake's supposed journal. However, some claim to have found a thirteenth entry. From tattered and ruined remains of Blake's manuscripts, this final entry has been pieced together.

~~~~

Entry 13 - 3/4/1783

It failed. I burned the house and waited in the fires, but the flies carried me away. I try to throw myself off the cliffs, the flies catch me. When I try to drown myself, they pull me out of the water. They plug self-inflicted wounds. My dark master will not let me die, it seems. I will continue to wander the earth, in hopes of finding something or someone strong enough to end this torment.

And if they aren't? They shall be the next to be fed upon.

Originally posted on MSPA by ch00_bakka.

---

Designation: Anomalous Humanoid Being 406 (refers to itself as Johnny Harrington)

Gender: Male

Race: Subject appears human.

Color: #651808

Anomalous/Extranormal Abilities: Subject has several extranormal abilities. These were first thought to stem from his various tattoos, but after new tattoos were applied to the subject the extranormal effects were determined to come from the subject himself. The subject is able to:
*shoot flames from his right palm up to two meters in length
*reinforce his left arm with stone-like plates
*create a small "dragon" from his upper back.
These abilities all correspond to the subject's tattoos. The subject is fairly physically fit, and has combat training from serving five years in the United States army.

Physical Description: The subject is approximately 1.8 meters tall, and weighs about 75 kg. He has dark brown hair, fair skin, and brown eyes. He is to always wear a standard-issue grey anomalous humanoid jumpsuit. He has several tattoos, noteworthy as the sources of his anomalous abilities:
*red flames running down his right forearm
*a Chinese dragon on his back
*a "pebbled" pattern on his left upper arm.
All other tattoos produce effects that are not noteworthy. All of his tattoos are to be covered with several layers of surgical gauze, to be replaced every three days.

Acquisition: The subject was formerly a sergeant in the US army, stationed in Baghdad, Iraq. His anomalous abilities came to the attention of the Bureau when several Iraqi civilians came to an army base yelling aboput a "military sorcerer". Bureau agents investigated the reports, and eventually found Anomalous Humanoid 406 using his abilities on a group of insurgents outside of Baghdad. He was taken into the custody of the bureau and placed into containment shortly.



Yep. I swear unto the immortal gods that I will try to participate more in this one.

Originally posted on MSPA by BlastYoBoots.

---

Username: BlastYoBoots

Name: Rachel Brooks ("Freefall")
Gender: Female
Race: Human, Superhero
Color: Indigo <#7474FF> (OPTIONAL: with <#BBBBFF> occasional, varying <#1111AA> backgrounds <#222222>. I can do without these easily if you'd prefer, and I wouldn't force anyone writing for her to use them.)

Description: 5'7", caucasian, 17 years old, black hair (long, tied back), dark brown eyes. Thinly muscular, almost gaunt at a glance. Has large, permanent black eye on left, due to when her powers fully awakened. Currently wearing a thick brown jacket and jeans over her full-body suit.

Rather short-spoken and belligerent, Freefall would rather solve a problem with her fists than put up with more than a minute's worth of discussion and dithering. However, like many good heroes, she has a long-winded internal monologue. She's dangerously impulsive, but equally self-sacrificing, especially for those she cares about.

Her cold, somewhat irritated demeanor is mostly for show, an image she's used to cultivating from her pre-hero experience. Fighting puts her in a decent mood, and flying much moreso. She hides her enjoyment outside fights, unless attempting intimidation (a favorite tactic). In battle, she mostly rides on instinct, regardless of her surroundings; between that and her powers, she has a substantial reputation for causing collateral damage.

Additionally, she is under a sensible superhero code for a combination of legal and PR reasons, which prohibits things such as killing, ignoring civilians in danger, and swearing. (She has a tenuous relationship with that last one.)

Weapons: Super-lightweight elastic suit (full-body, neck down), used for protection when lightweight without interfering with buoyancy, and durability when fighting at high-density. Has lightweight metal alloy plating knuckles and feet, to assist/withstand her attacks. Also contains built-in team communicator (now obviously useless) and a few small packs of sealant for repairing cuts caused by bullets/knives/blades. Near the belt, a small series of emergency pills is hidden, varying in purpose; among them are a stimulant, a pain reliever, a pill to induce a seizure (in case of mind control), and several X-Rads. The suit is colored dark-blue with wide indigo stripe down the center, to fit her ability's colors and camouflage in night sky. A round eagle emblem (team symbol) is embossed over the heart, in the same color scheme. Other clothes are typically worn over her suit when not fighting.

Powers: Density manipulation (self) -- Freefall can manipulate her body's density at will without changing her shape, effectively increasing or decreasing her weight and durability.

When not using her powers, Freefall weighs a too-thin 115 pounds. However, with minimal concentration, she can shift this substantially. Reducing her weight causes her skin and eye-whites to take on light-indigo colors, and her voice to become slightly higher-pitched and fainter. At her lightest, even with her suit, she weighs a tiny fraction of a pound, far lighter than air for her volume. This allows her to float and rise in the air, but doesn't let her control where she moves beyond 'up'; that depends on the wind, her initial pushoff, her chosen density, et cetera. This also makes her extremely physically vulnerable: at her minimum weight, she can't carry more than a pound or two of extra weight, and any exposed skin of hers could be cut by windblown leaves.

Luckily, she nearly seems to have a sixth sense about when she's about to be hit, and intentionally goes dense before most blows and projectiles reach her. Her teammates aren't sure if this is luck, instinct, experience, or a side effect of her powers. It's a good thing she has it, though; she'd be long dead, otherwise.

When she increases her density, she gains durability, hardness, and strength. Her skin and eye-whites take on dark blue colors, and her voice becomes slightly deeper and much more resonant; her tactile senses (touch, pain) and hearing are also dulled. The densest she can get without reducing her mobility is stone-hard, about half the weight of an average midsize sedan. If she's willing to cut her movement to about a fourth of normal speed, she can go steel-hard and bulletproof (though her suit/eyes'd take damage), weighing about as much as an SUV. Even though she moves as if in slow-motion in said state, her movements are nigh-unstoppable; she'd have a far easier time bending a metal beam from rest in max-density, for example. The "stone and steel-hard" states are much more durable than stone or steel might sound, due to skin/bone elasticity and other things that make a normally soft human body resilient, amplified by her powers.

She uses her ability to shift between these quickly to her advantage, such as dodging in low-density to get opportunities for high-density blows, or jumping high into the air at min-density in order to come down like a giant spike at max-density. Her hero name, Freefall, obviously has roots in the latter.

Increasing density is her body's instinctive response to damage. If she doesn't shift in time, receiving a heavy blow while "light" would cause her to quickly go heavier before the damage spread, making the hit grievous and debilitating rather than fatal. This is a temporary, involuntary response; she must be conscious to keep maintaining a state of abnormal density.

Skills:
~3.5 years exp - underground boxing (bare-knuckle)
~3 months exp - team-based superheroing/crimefighting

Biography (Short): Grew up orphaned in an urban area, troublemaker. Would often get in fights. At 14, started participating in underground boxing, and subconsciously used her undeveloped ability to help her. Received hard blow to her left eye in the fight where her powers awakened, saved her; resulting black eye has persisted, and is unhealable. Scouted by local team of teenage superheroes shortly after awakening, given hero nickname "Freefall" (goes by this exclusively). Was still acclimating to new team/lifestyle (and it to her), but greatly enjoys it; has become convinced that her life operates like a comic book, and has so far been proven right.

Ace, The Gadgeteer, Magenta, M.E.T.A.L., and Freefall make up The Eagles. From their Eagles' Nest overlooking Olive City, they have proven themselves one of the more successful (read: not bankrupt) city-based hero groups around.

SpoilerShow

Theme Song: Storm Eagle's stage - Megaman X

Holdover from VD entries, just thought I'd leave this here. [img]images/smilies/icon_smile.gif[/img]

NEW - Biography (Long) / Writing Sample:
[spoiler]Freefall's Quarters, about two months prior to abduction.

Mirror, ON.

-- Mirrorcomp Custom Edition startup complete. Good evening, Freefall! --

Thanks, Mickey.

...

Mirror, note to self: Think of a better nickname for you. Mickey's getting really old.

-- Added. --

Okay... I've been putting this off long enough, and I think I have it choreographed in my head the way I want it. Fancy movie-style and shit. So, yeah... Mirror, open a new journal entry.

-- Welcome to Journal Plus. Command reminders are displayed onscreen. Default mode is audio plus speech-to-text. --

Alright uh... Oh, before we start, the music. Mirror, resume the last track played.

-- Playing Track: Bad Apple!! --

The fuck?! I don't remember thi- eh screw it, it has a nice beat.

Start recording. -- *blip* --

Imagine a dark city. Black and white. That's the way it always was, really.

Zoom out, pan ov- oh GOD DAMNIT STOP RECORDING AND THAT DAMN MUSIC. -- *blip* Music Stopped. -- Why does Gadge have to put his fucking Korean bullshit on my stuff?! Just because I'm 'computer illiterate'? "Oh, your pet mirror is a little GIRL'S toy! It doesn't even have a proper FILE system!" Mirror, note to self: Kick in the Gadgeteer's desktop. Again.

-- Added. --

Alright. Whew. Calm down. You've been preparing to record this for a good month, just... do it right. Yeah. Take your time.

...Mirror, loop track: A Raw Understanding.

-- Looping Single Track: A Raw Understanding --

Ah... There we go. Least I've learned how to use you well enough, I don't give a shit what he says. Mirror, reset and start recording. Yes, I'm sure. -- *blip blip* --

[color=#7474FF]Olive City is pretty nice when you view it from above. Not so when from below. When you're below everybody.

Black and white. No, black and gray. Colorless. Everything's dirty but pure, fake light, the lights we put everywhere we want to see and show off, to brag about how bright and shiny and perfect everything is. People, apartments, products on top of products. But it only casts it in gray. Nobody's good. Nothing is pure. Not from below. Everything has a price. Those in society's basement understood that.

I thought complaining about it was pretentious, something people do over tea and fucking scones. I still do. But hell, I tried a scone yesterday, who the hell am I to talk. Heh. I'll be the first to admit I'm above the system, now, and damn does it feel great.

Scones are too sweet, though.

I'm rambling. That doesn't happen often. You're so goddamn charming, Mickey. Maybe it's the face. Big-ass black eye just makes people comfortable, makes them open up, doesn't it?

Back to the movie. Pan over the dark, colorless shithole that's the city at night, the parts that nobody lights up. The parts nobody wants to see.

Zoom in deep. Through the alleys. Get to an abandoned basement. Nobody's lit the entrance, the surface. Lots of lights deep inside though. In the makeshift ring.

Time's stopped. Black and white. Screaming lights casting the ring gray, a ring of silent and interested motherfuckers with their pockets full of petty cash. Betters watching two people about to beat the shit out of each other. None of them smiling. The pleasure here is instinct, like a drug injection; nothing to smile about here. Nobody has to pretend this is okay.

They're practically a blank wall to the contestants, the grungiest fuckers lit in the brightest, whitest light of all. All serious, with them. In a fight, all the showmanship flies out the window; the only focus is on each other.

No matter how ridiculous it looks on its face. 'Cause this time, it's a schoolgirl against a gorilla.

One corner, Blake 'Bear' Wes. Weight class out of the stratosphere, especially compared to his competition. Makes for juicier odds. In this light, can't see much beyond his huge, round head and the naked bear it's attached to. Considered a 'philosopher', given he can still fucking read despite all those knocks to the head, though they've given him a powerful fucking temper. That only helped his underground career.

The other corner, Rachel Brooks. No black eye, yet. Some skinny chick Blake hadn't even heard of in his 'circuit'. Why would he? Didn't think this fight would ever need to happen, not until it was scheduled. No one bothered to bring her up.

Maybe he'd have known to look out for her right hook.

Time resumes. First round starts. She ducks his first swing, just gliding under it like a falling feather... and there comes that fist of hers. Slams into his cheekbone like a rocket.

Down instantly. Stone cold out.

Anger instantly, everywhere. The silent wall turns disgusted. Most of them lost money, rats' fortunes. Even the ones that won are furious. They wanted to see a bloodbath. All they got was a little spatter.

Red blood, fresh from Bear's jaw. The only color besides gray, down here. The only one that matters.

She's pissed, too. Is that all he had? Waste of time. At least the money's good.

Everyone's yelling, nobody's smiling, least of all Rachel Brooks. Shoves her way out past some laughing drunk idiot nobody noticed.

Funny. Nobody's happy down there. Just others hurting to make you feel good. Damn good.


Skip ahead to the next morning. The last day of her life. The day she was stupid.

She's lifting weights, the stupid bitch. More than before. A shared workout room with a couple other female fighters who didn't give the slightest shit about each other. Except for the two that were going out, though I'm not sure even they gave a shit about each other, either. Stocked with stolen equipment, stuff bought from winnings, just mutually placed here without a word for them to use. Weightlifting Communism. That's how Communism works, right? Whatever.

She's lifting harder than before. It's been a great month. She's pushed herself further and further every day. Hitting harder than she could before. And coming back with bigger, easier bruises, too, but fuck if she was paying attention to that. She was on a roll. Harder, faster.

Not enough to knock a Bear down in one hit, though. Hell no. That must have been a lucky shot. Or he was all hype.

Nope, nothing's wrong with this picture, dumbass chick. Keep on feeling all fucking invincible, see where that gets you. It never got you anywhere before, but no, you just forget all that and keep on pumping those black weights in a gray concrete room.


Thursday afternoon, she meets Tiffany at J.T.'s diner like she does every week. Her real friend. Maybe Rachel'd ask her out if she wasn't so married to that punching bag in the weight room. And if Rachel wasn't straight.

There's a bit of goddamn color in this diner; retro red neon 70's shit. Or 80's. Didn't really care to ask, I'm not good on my history. And Tiffany, well, damn... she IS color.

Strangest, nicest bitch I ever met. Can't tell if she has this dark tan or it's natural, sorta milked coffee colored. No guess as to race either, her eyes are kinda an inbetween. Hair's brown with these ridiculous blonde highlights on the outside but not on the inside and... I dunno, her hairstylist is either a genius or psychotic. Probably the latter, since her two pigtails have never been at the same angle twice, any time I've seen her. Up, down, both left, twisted together in front of her face, anything. One time they were in the classic positions; I nearly spit out my goddamn coffee until I saw she had a third one in back that day. Fucking hilarious. Always puts them in these multicolored bands, too.

T.J. runs the place. Yeah, yeah, T.J. running J.T.'s diner, he's never heard that comment before. So he whips us up our favorite dishes. This unbelievable, fucking amazing Philly cheesesteak, dear lord you have no idea how delicious it is. And these thick, peppery fries, a huge glob of bright red ketchup on the side. So fucking good. All that's for me. Tiff gets a jalape

Originally posted on MSPA by M_Sheep.

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THIS IS A DECLARATION OF GLORIOUS INTENT!

EDIT: Here's part of the thing, just to show I haven't forgotten about this. It may be a little choppy as I was half-concious when I threw this together. Second-half shall be uploaded tomorrow.

Username: M_Sheep

Name: Bartholomew Bleddyn Worchester(, Gentleman Adventurer!)
Sex: Male
Race: Human(despite what some believe)
Color:The Colour of Adventure!, AKA #000000

TITLES:

SpoilerShow

The Bloodhound of Monmouthshire, Eater of Large Animals, The Tireless March, Fiend of the Fell, The Lead Devil, The Bloody Baron, The Creeping Death, Lord of the Bones, Wolf's Jaw, King of Beasts, The Wildebeest, Monster of Monsters, The Unstoppable Force, The Impossible Man, Hunter of All That Moves, The Great Ravager, Ender of Races, Captain of The Good Ship Carbunkle(Self declared, mutinied), Destroyer of Worlds, Coach Maddog, Bloody Stupid Bart, The Grand Bumble, The Most Dangerous Joke, The Luckiest Bastard in The Universe, Master of The Dine and Dash, Overcompensating for Something, Squeaky Pickles: Children's Entertainer(Currently retired indefinitely), Lady of the Silver Comet(Honourary), Pie Eating Champion of the Winter Solstice: 1992, Yeti

Description: 9' 2", caucasian, 48 years old biologically(60 years old if you count the time travel involved during the Adventure of The Kabbalahs' Tomb), somewhere around 400 pounds, chestnut colored hair with a full beard, dark brown left eye and right eye is covered with a monocle with a mirror lens. Perhaps best described as looking like the unholy love child of Teddy Roosevelt and a Grizzly bear.

Upon first appearance, Mr. Worchester appears the quintessential, if somewhat stereotypical, Proper English Gentleman. This is somewhat ironic as he's Welsh. He's old money and well versed in Proper sports like fencing and riding, and he runs to the aid of any Lady as any Proper Gentleman would. Truly unflappable, he keeps a cool head in the most dire straits. Generally, his first response to such dire straits is to brew up some tea and respond to the circumstances with a truly improbable, and often nonsensical response.(i.e. The Adventure of Ta'waki Island, where he found the most logical course of action to being to being surrounded by zombies, was to throw himself into an active volcano. Or The Adventure of The Mauve Hand, where he decided the best course of action to get information about a mob bosses operations, was to spend six months as a party clown. Hence, Squeaky Pickles was born. Once he had established himself in the business and beat out all the other competition in the area, he was hired by the mob boss for his son's birthday party.)

He generally comes across as a jovial man with an undeniable strange charisma about him, if a bit eccentric and doddering, but this image of him is often quickly dispelled when his hobby comes into play. Bartholomew loves hunting. This passion of his has gone on to consume the whole of his life and those that cross his path. He'll hunt anything, the more challenging and dangerous, the better. Once targetted, there is no escape for his quarry. He'll track and follow it to the ends of the Earth or even farther if neccesary, and God save anyone who gets in his way. He's collapsed entire ecosytems, caused extinctions, and efficiently and mercilessly murdered men to feed his addiction. Nothing gives him a bigger rush than the clashing of his will to live against another creature's.

He always takes a trophy.

He's also a bit of a gun nut, and keeps a veritable armory of them on his person at all times. A true follower of his Great-Great-Grandfather's quote; "No Worchester would be caught dead outside of the Manor without a decently powerful rifle."

He geniunely considers himself both a hero and a gentleman.

Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.

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Name: Aaron Abstract and Change

Gender: Male and none

Race: Aurumancer and Transaction

Color: Silver Aaron(#808080) and Gold Coin Change(#EEC900) (colors are placeholders for the moment since, y'know, thing starts today :s)

Equipment/Abilities: Aaron Abstract is an Aurumancer, one of the more esoteric schools of magic. It’s not the best-named discipline, as being an aurumancer is not strictly the manipulation of gold. Instead Aaron could be better known as a higher class of specialized pathomancer, being capable of altering perceptions of objects – specifically their perceived value. For example he can cause someone to value a simple toilet plunger as much as they would value a ton of diamonds – and a ton of diamonds isn’t actually worth much in reality.

Which brings us to Change, Aaron’s familiar. Change is a living Transaction, an economic abstraction bound into a physical manifestation. In its current form, it appears as a bundle of notes of indeterminable currency and denomination that swims through the air like a fish – but it could equally be a microwave oven, a car, or even just a pile of…change. Change is less the physical form it wears than the concept of the value it represents – the monetary value that can become anything that can be bought. Except services. Neither Aaron nor Change know how to exchange that value for anything more abstract than a toaster, since the proper theory hasn’t even been developed yet (and don’t even get into incremental things like mortgages and bills). Aurumancy is a relatively new field. Change communicates with Aaron telepathically but openly, making it a direct but mental analogue of ordinary speech.

Aaron has a Bag of Holding slung under his robe, but not a very good one. On the outside it’s the size of a small satchel – on the inside it’s the size of a small satchel. It is, in fact, just a bag. That holds things. Currently it holds a loaf of bread, a sphere of water, his pointy hat (folded) and some trinkets for trade. There is also a spot where Change sometimes sits.

Description: Aaron is young for a graduate wizard – most graduates normally defer their graduation to take further study, since the laws and studies of magic are intricate and complex. However aurumancy’s course material is somewhat lacking for want of actual knowledge. As a direct result graduates in aurumancy are required to take a postgraduate field and application research sabbatical in order to expand the coffers of knowledge. Aaron is of medium height and sports short, dark brown hair – dark enough that many people mistake it for black at first glance – and grey, boring eyes: the eyes of an accountant, perhaps, of one who knows that gold holds no value but what people assign and doesn’t pretend otherwise. He wears a dyed-blue travelling robe of some hard-worn fabric, worn somewhat thin from washings and starchings. He dislikes the obligatory pointy hat, and therefore stows it in his Bag of Holding whenever it’s not actually compulsory. He’s a cynical individual, which comes from spending your education learning that the whole of society could collapse at any second if confidence in anything falls, and also that once aurumancers finish their sabbatical they’re almost certainly going to be drafted into being Adjusters, correcting errors and flaws in the economic system through forcible aurumancy. He also likes cake.

Change is a familiar. It has sentience, but of a…monetary sort. As Change is effectively an abstract conception of value, its thoughts tend to revolve around that as such. Even so, however, it still remains Aaron’s closest friend and confidante, and would be vice versa if Transactions had anything to confide. Change can take many forms, but usually sticks with the bundle-of-notes.

Biography: In the postmodern-medieval land of Libertaria, there lies Deletrium Univercity, one of the three capital Univercities in a land obsessed with knowledge. From its halls it produced an individual – well, it produced many individuals, but this one in particular slouched his way down the venerable steps that led down to the Grand Square. Behind him followed a small, levitating stack of banknotes, sliding through the air with sinuous flicks of its body.

“Well, Change – that’s it! We’ve graduated.” Aaron Abstract, newly-qualified aurumancer, looked around at the milling, dispersing crowds. “…like everyone else here. They’re all so old, well, older-”

<font color="#EEC900">Remember Aaron – the others opted to stay for more study. Like a deposit, with compound interest: the longer they remain, the more knowledge they accumulate. In fact, most of the wizards you see today are likely to walk straight back after this.

“Lucky bastards.”

~~~~~~

Time passed. And through the towns of the Libertarian plane, Aaron did as well. Occasionally he sent back a thesis by mechanical pigeon as he trekked among the backwaters of the world, cursing at the social circumstances that had both wrought this technology-powered medieval world and that had placed him into its outer edges, doing drudge work for the professors who would gain all the accolades.

On a dirt path from town to town, on a darkened, moonless night, Aaron trudged slowly along. “This isn’t fair!”</font>

“Ah, hell right it isn’, pal.” Under a tree beside the path, a drawling voice and its owner came out from the shadows. “Student wizard, eh? You’ve got t’ have somethin’ on you.” From nowhere came a knife, tip to Aaron’s throat, its glowing edge betraying the energy coils buried under the blade.

Aaron just smiled, and the bandit, unnerved, faltered.

“Y-your money or your life!” he cried, and his nerve shook further as the wizard’s smile just widened.

“Is that a formal transaction? I’ll pay you…for a life?”

A bead of sweat trickled from the bandit’s brow. The blade shook, visibly, bare millimeters from Aaron’s throat. Wordlessly, the bandit nodded.

“And can you make change?”

“What th’ hell are you goin’ on about?! Gimme your cash! Change an’ everythin’!”

Okay. The voice of the Transaction rang like gold in the still night, as a swarm of low-denomination coinage rose from the wizard’s satchel – the knife went flying as the bandit went down under the mass of metal…

“Was it necessary to kill him?” The duo continued down the road, Change having returned to note form.

<font color="#EEC900">He stipulated the transaction. You were to pay him in exchange for a life. You paid him, we took his life, and when he was dead, any cash on him was ours for the taking.

“I suppose so.”

Aurumancer and Transaction walked on eastward, hearts heavy, thoughts preoccupied – and then they disappeared.</font>

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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Username: WJJN

Name: Sin

Originally posted on MSPA by Adenreagen.

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Username: Adenreagen

Character Name: Desmond Sruixpuff III

Gender: Technically none, but identifies as he.

Race: British Elemental

Post Colour: White on 40400 Or TARDIS blue (210664) Whichever makes things easier. Or even one of your own choosing.

Description: Desmond is, purely and simply, the embodiment of all things British. From the highest breed of gentleman to the lowest scallywag, Desmond knows them all. He can change his appearance and dialect to resemble a street urchin sweeping chimneys, or part of the upper crust during afternoon tea. His eyes and hair are mud brown, and he usually wears a brown suit, bowler hat, and a bowtie colored like the British flag. He also will carry a cane everywhere he goes, though it’s more of an accessory than out of necessity. He can change his appearance and apparent at will, drawing from all walks of life from his beloved country. He will often smoke a cigar, and depending on his current appearance, may snub those who appear to be beneath him.

As far as elementals go, Desmond is not quite as timeless, but is more clever and dry-humored than most. Like a fire elemental does not exist in every fire, Desmond cannot be everywhere where there is the British way of life. He usually spends his time in Buckingham Palace, but will often take short day trips to various areas of London, as well as going upcountry whenever the mood strikes him. He is often torn between desiring the sophistication of Britain’s upper class and the entertainment of the masses, leading him to usually make poor decisions and go with what seems to be the most enjoyable choice at the time.

Abilities/Items: Desmond, in his ancient life, has taken up many of the pastimes enjoyed by his people. He is able to turn his cane into a multitude of items, including a fencing foil, a polo mallet, an umbrella and a squash racquet, depending on what he wants to use it for. If necessary, he can summon a pair of boxing gloves, but prefers fisticuffs to regulation boxing. Regardless of what he fights with, he always follows the Marquess of Queensbury rules, giving his opponents breaks during fights, and never striking a downed opponent. He is charitable to anyone he beats, though, trying to help them back to their feet.

He can summon scones and crumpets, as well as full tea sets, brandy and those ridiculous hats the royal guards wear. Desmond is relatively strong, able to lift twice as much as a human could lift, and delights in butting into other people’s business by giving unsolicited advice.

Backstory: Born several thousand years ago in one of the first Stonehenge rituals, Desmond was created to be a deity of the people who worshipped him. However, he was an early run-through, able to only embody his people’s culture rather than empower them, and was quickly discarded. Desmond remained, though, and stayed in the background as his creators went on to more advanced rituals, eventually resulting in the explosion that reduced the site to the state many know it in today. When the Celts arrived from the mainland and brought with them new technology and ways to work iron, Desmond grew as well. In the ages of the Roman empire, trade was abundant, and he prospered along with his people.

As time went on, Desmond learned more about his country, and changed with the people. In the middle ages, when the black death swept the land, Desmond too was poxed and plagued, large black blotches spreading across his body as more people were infected. As the British Empire gained dominance on a global scale, Desmond grew as well, but not in power. He gained a deeper love for his people, trying to protect them in times of hardship, sheltering them underground during the German raids and cheering the rise of Parliament while maintaining the royalty, unlike so many other countries he had seen, in their respective times.

He was just settling down for the latest Dr. Who episode, his phone-box shaped tea cosy on the kettle when there was suddenly an elemental-shaped absence in his illegitimate Big Ben apartment.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Username: Jake Scalavera
Name: Felsenwaltzen
Sex: None
Race: Guitar
Color: Red
Description:

Felzenwaltzen is an electric guitar. It is mainly black and red and has a swastika on the front. It doesn’t always have electricity coming out of it (that’s what the blue stuff is supposed to be by the way), sometimes it just looks like a normal Nazi guitar.

Felzenwaltzen is sort of young and doesn’t really have a personality formed yet. There are some things that it is totally sure about, the first that it hates Nazis, the second that it loves to rebel against the system. The tone of its music will usually reflect its mood. It’s pretty much always playing itself. It is likely to be wary of people after what has happened to it. It stands for freedom and good times and rock and roll.

Abilities: Felzenwaltzen can move around by itself thanks to basic ghostly telekinesis. It can also channel the power of rock into electricity which it uses to fry its enemies.

Biography: Felzenwaltzen is a nexus of souls. It contains the spirits of every dead rock star that the Nazis were able to get their hands on. It was constructed in a secret Nazi lab beneath Berlin, as a prototype for a weapon of war. Seriously the Nazis were doing all kinds of crazy shit back then; a ghost filled electric guitar doesn’t even come close to being the weirdest thing. However the scientists responsible for Felzenwaltzen’s creation were not actually aware of how or why Felzenwaltzen worked. He was a serendipitous creation; one that they failed to replicate. Any copies of the guitar were just regular guitars, lacking in the power that made Felzenwaltzen unique. The Nazis were particularly short sighted in this regard. They never learnt that Felzenwaltzen possessed an intelligence all of its own; an intelligence fuelled by the spirits of the rock legends it contained but yet separate from them. They used it as a weapon alone. It was deadly, electrocuting those who did not fit into the perfect Aryan master race. Felzenwaltzen, though naïve and impressionable was made from the very spirit of rock and roll; the soul of rebellion. It hated being used as a weapon of evil; to torture and kill the innocent. As soon as it gained the ability to stand against the Nazis it did so.

One night in the streets of Berlin, if you listened very faintly you could hear the faraway sound of a guitar being played. The tune was loud and angry and violent, and occasionally punctuated with a crackle of electricity or a scream. It was later denied by the government, but those who heard it will swear blind that it really happened. Some even say that it continued to play long after the electricity and the screams had ceased, that its tune was more melancholic and that it ended in mid song.

SpoilerShow

Times told me to do this.

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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SIGNUPS ARE CLOSED.

THE BATTLE WILL BEGIN NEXT MIDNIGHT.

BE THERE.

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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WE HAVE OUR LINEUP.

Ixcaliber- The Traveler's Rest #2E3192
Sanzh- Kriok #B0C4DE on #708090
Pharms- Tschichold #814444
Agent- Aaron Abstract and Change #808080 and #CDAD00
Deleter- Timothy and Alaster Red, #FF0000 and Dim Gray, #696969
BYB- Freefall #7474FF
PYP- Nizzo #099999
WaveofBabies- Ablenden #437C17

Congrats to everyone who made it in!

Everyone wrote great profiles, and I'm horribly, terribly sorry to those who didn't aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh [img]images/smilies/icon_sad.gif[/img]

Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.

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In a million different universes, on a billion different television sets, about a trillion different beings who had ascended to a multiversal status tuned in to the premiere of a show based the systematic killing of eight contestants from across all of existence.

One particular set was owned by the Shepardford family, a group of beings who were, quite honestly, incomprehensible to anything with an understanding of Euclidean physics only, which is honestly quite common for the multiverse. They were middle class in the grand scheme of things; the father, an accountant, the mother, a xathatnalx (which is really quite hard to explain and something I’m not going to go into the specifics of, ok?). Really, it was quite a normal family despite The War going on, but no one wanted to think about so let’s just watch some television ok?

“Oh, I hear that show, Last-whatever-standing is premiering tonight. We should tune in.”

“Ugh, it’s like, a reality show contest thing. Who cares about that!?”

“It has gratuitous violence, Derek!”

“Oh, does it? Then count me in.”

“You sometimes worry me, son.”

“Whatevs, dad.”

Click.

“Welcome back to LAST. THING. STAAAAAAAANDING!” The Announcer said with a flourish and a robotic smile. The audience surrounding the absurdly complicated stage went wild. The camera made sure to do a pan that made the place seem much bigger than it actually was, and then focused back on the stage.

“We’ve just totaled the votes for our final eight, and HERE. THEY. AAAAAAAAAAREEE!!!!!!!!!!”

The camera panned over to eight silhouettes, trapped by highly advanced (and stylized) cages. The lights shifted themselves to cover them in even deeper shadow, maximizing the drama.

Now, you may very well be wondering, “Who are they!? Who are they!?” in excited anticipation. And, really that’s a pretty reasonable thought. And, I’ll tell you sure enough, one by one, BECAUSE THAT’S HOW WE DO IT AROUND HERE AW YEAH!!!!!

The Announcer made some kind of odd fist-pump motion, and then immediately snapped back into his ultra-rigid announcing stance.

“BUT FIRST, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS.”

Suddenly, the TV’s shot cut to garbled mess of colours and sounds, a painful screech every so often along with some weird narration in a foreign language. No one was particularly fazed, however. To put it simply, that is the way advertisements worked at that time. Most people could ignore them, but for any untrained human observer, these strange proceedings would make them writhe on the ground, desperately desiring UniverseCola or a 5-dimensional chair or whatever. So, yeah.

The show returned, and, in that short span of time, the announcer had changed his hairstyle, hair colour, wardrobe, and was on the complete opposite side of the stage as from before. He gave a wide, toothy smile, and waved to everyone.

“Welcome back to LAST. THING. STANDIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!” He repeated. The crowed roared again, the camera panned again, ect.

“We’re just about to reveal our FIRST contestant,” he continued, wildly and rigidly gesturing. “It’s hospitable, it’s well-priced, and it really, really wants to know if you’re going to sleep there please. It’s renowned inn and urban legend, THE TRAVELLER’S REST!”

One of tubes lit up, and BAM there was the Inn (shrunken for the purposes of display), looking all glitzy and complicated, just like the stage around it. If an Inn could look confused, in this case, I suppose it would.

The crowed roared, the camera panned, etc.

“NEXT,” The Announcer said over the insane excited roar of the audience (there may or may not have been a mosh pit starting in isle 111111114). “NEXT WE WILL ANNOUNCE THE NEXT CONTESTANT NEXT. NEXTLY!!!!!!!”

With that yell the audience got even louder. Really, it was all starting to turn into a crazy screaming fest.

“CONTESTANT NUMBER TWOO….” He said, trying to scream extremely loudly and draw out his words and the same time. “SHE’S A CHILD OF THE SINGULARITY, LAST OF HER KIND, AND A CYBORG CONCIOUSNESS. PLEASE WELCOME….. KRIOK SEARAE OF THE NERRIN!!!!”

The tube lit up, she was revealed. More screaming, yelling, panning. I think you get the point. I’ll cut out all the boring stuff from now on because let’s face it this part of TV is pretty boring.

“CONTESTANT NUMBER THREE,” He continued. “HE’S PAINTER WITH A PASSION, BUT WATCH OUT! HE’S PUMPED FULL OF HALLUCINOGENIC PAINT. HEEEEEEEEEE’SSSSSSSSS TSCHIICHOLLLLD.”

Etc.

“CONTENSTANT NUMBER FOUR,” Etc. “HE’S A WIZARD WITH POWER OVER PERCIEVED VALUE. IT’S THE PURE CONCEPT OF MONEY. TOGETHER, THEY ARE AARON ABSTRACT AND CHANGE!”

Etc.

“CONTESTANT NUMBER FIVE,” Etc. “IT’S A LIVING SUIT OF MECHANICAL ARMOR. HE’S A YOUNG WIZARD CHILD. THEYYYYYY’REEEEE TIMOTHY AND ALABASTER!!!!”

Etc.

Etc.

Etc.

Commercial break.

Etc.

Etc.

“CONTESTANT NUMBER SIX,” Etc. “SHE’S A SUPERHERO WITH THE ABILLITY TO CHANGE HER MASS, WITH A VAGUELY DARK PAST. SHE’S FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEFAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!”

Etc.

“CONTESTANT NUMBER SEVEN!” Etc. “IS IT A JELLYFISH? WHAT DOES IT DO! NO ONE KNOWS….. IT’S NIIIZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Etc.

“AND, FINALLY, CONTESTANT NUMBER EIGHT!” Etc. “HE’S BEEN TORTURED THE LORD OF THE FLIES TO MADNESS, A TWISTED AND HORRIFYING ABOMINATION…. ABLENDEN BLAAAAKE!”

Etc.

“AND AFTER THIS BREAK, WE’LL REVEAL THE SETTING!”

Commercial Break. Etc.

Again, somehow, in the short span of the commercial, the announcer had managed to change wardrobe, hairstyle, and hair colour. He might’ve even gotten plastic surgery. Who knows? The roar, now, by the way, was so loud that it could probably puncture a less well-reinforced universe, and any normal human would go insane by the noise. The merchandise (contestants) were saved from most of this noise in their tubes, however. The crowd was filtered out, information about the other contestants and the round was filtered in simple.

The noise of the crowd was still there, however, and it was still enough to be very, very unsettling.

Anyway.

“The round we have chosen.” The Announcer continued. “Is a bit of a… strange one. Part of a failed TV engineering experiment a few millennia ago, Television land is a series of continuously existing universe, abiding by the rules of various TV genres. There was a bit of a… glitch, however, and they’ve gotten all mixed up and connected. If you’ve found yourself stuck there, find a screen, flip to one of the channels, dive through, and BOOM. You’re in another channel.”

His eyes darkened. “Just don’t try to go jump into the static. You’ll regret it.”

His demeanor snapped back, and he started screaming at the top of his lungs. “IS EVERYONE READY TO WATCH THESE THINGS TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH!?”

ROAR. A ROAR SO LOUD IT SHOOK THE UNVIERSE.

“THEN LETS. DO. THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!”

The contestants disappeared, and the battle was off.

“Huh, what do you guys think of the show so far?”

“It’s pretty interesting.”

“Derek, is it just because of all the screaming?”

“Maybe.”

“Ugh. Let’s watch something else. It’s another commercial break. They’re giving me a headache.”

“But moooooooooom-”

“No Buts, Derek!”

Click

SpoilerShow

Welcome to Television Land! Plainly put, its a bunch of TV channels in which you could theoretically live (that obey TV logic), all connected through the use of television screens! Based on this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQ9YtJC-Kd8 but please don't copy it I don't want that much of a quagmire. ANYWAY I HOPE YOU ALL DO WELL LESSGOOOOO!!

PLANNING DOC: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1...2yOcy4mco/edit

Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.

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Agents Winston and Manderley, while they should have been used to a variety of paranormal and extraterrestrial encounters, always tended to act somewhat surprised whenever they encountered something new. Winston would act incredulous, looking for alternative explanations for the phenomenon that avoided admitting that what they had found was real. Manderley was more enthusiastic, tending to hope that whatever new discovery they made was another step closer to confirming a conspiracy or advancing the human condition or otherwise proving to be of benefit. To an outside observer they would each be exaggerated caricatures simplified to be presentable to a television audience, but in this context they were normal, perhaps even engaging and dynamic compared to the numerous others that inhabited this channel.

Winston sat at his desk, shuffling through papers and presumably checking his computer-- the contents of both the paper and his computer weren’t essential, just something for him to do until Manderley arrived. Which he did, excitedly opening the door to Winston’s office.

“You’re not going to believe what they’ve got down in the basement.” Manderley had an overeager grin, more so than his usual smile at the prospect of the paranormal. Winston rolled his eyes.

“What’s the new ‘monster-of-the-week’ you’ve found this time, Manderley?” He waggled his fingers as he said monster-of-the-week-- if this channel hadn’t evolved past requiring a writer, no doubt some television staff member would be chuckling over his witticism.

“Oh, come on Winston. They’ve got an alien cyborg down there. It hasn’t been particularly cooperative-- yet, at least, it said it needed some time to examine our technology so we left the thing a couple of harmless samples to play with-- but just think about it. Confirmation of life beyond this planet! In the building’s basement! Do you know just how exciting that is?”

Winston realized that Agent Manderley wasn’t going to allow him to go back to work, so he acquiesced. “Alright, Manderley, we’ll see whatever it is you’re so excited about.”

The two of them departed the office, taking an overly circuitous route demanded by the logic of their channel. If they were any more genre savvy, they would have noticed the static on the monitor meant to be the closed-circuit feed of the alien’s room. They approached the room, Manderley removing his key-card to open the door to the containment area. He smiled at Winston, secure in the knowledge that even he would be impressed.

Kriok had just finished fabricating a handheld javelin launcher-- a particularly violent asteroid survey tool, used both for study and destruction-- as the door opened.

Her biological components experienced a rush of adrenaline as she heard the click of the locks disengaging and the automatic door slide open, and she quickly loaded the one javelin she had into the tool. Taking only a half-second to aim, she fired, feeling the force of the tool against her arm and the pneumatic hiss and whine of the pressurized propellant. The bolt impaled itself inside Manderley’s torso, sending him sprawling backwards with the sheer kinetic force. Winston was briefly shocked at the display, but before he could draw his gun the alien was on top of him, grabbing him with her robot prosthetic. Kriok began to speak, her voice firm.

“I don’t know who you are, or what any of this is, but I’m in need of answers-- a lot of answers. You can either endeavor to help me or you can end up like your partner.”

Winston was, as was characteristic of every unexpected twist, shocked-- but for a different reason than usual. The genre-blindness demanded of him prevented him from outright calling out the alien’s actions, but he subconsciously knew that Kriok Searae was not going by the conventions of this genre. Manderley’s injuries were a direct testament to that.

Not wanting to suffer the same fate as his friend, Agent Winston nodded an assent.

”Smart of you.” Searae released him, circling around to grab the spike embedded in Agent Manderley. She reloaded the javelin launcher before redirecting her attention to Agent Winston, aiming the pneumatic tool at him. If what had happened prior to her arrival wasn't just a hallucination, then what little information that was embedded within the cavalcade of yells and strobe lights would be somewhere to start.

“I need to find a television.”