Festive

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@TokyoPewPew I promise commitment until the very last post o7

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

@TokyoPewPew No. I am a bum this summer, and desperately in need to stretch my writing muscles on something quality 🙏

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Still a spot open, @TokyoPewPew?

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

Intriguing as always, TPP. I'll keep a lookout for this.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

I shall await their response

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Would the GCPD be considered a team? What is the permissibility of that?

Redshift Blues

Man was created in the image of God

And God is a perfect being.

Therefore, it is the obligation of man to become such perfect beings.

There were few words that could be brought in description of Ramon’s quarters as effectively as simply dull. The walls were barren, dry, and empty from the myriad of frivolous iconography of desires, and only filled in part by a small holo screen he used as a calendar and an old world mirror that hung a perfect few inches from the screen. His bed was tidy, as neat as one would expect fresh off the factory floor; the sheet tucked and folded at the perfect angle and measurement with the blanket and pillow laid upon the top as if it hadn’t seen the touch of a living being in its lifespan. Such was the perfect state as all things should stand. And although, as he saw in the mirror a face that grew wild with a sea of tangled whites, browns, and grays of a shaggy beard, and overalls marred to the ends with ashen marks of black powder and oil stains, many tenets of his old life were not lost.

It was a habit he couldn’t kill, even at the far reaches of space, even on this dreadful rock they docked that reminded him more and more of his “home” than any before it. Ramon’s head had turned from the mirror's pristine visage to face the scratched and scuffed view from the window of the ship. And while his eye hadn’t caught any inhabitants out on the surface, he remembered some from the docking. It was a rock uniform in its people, a colony of miners whereupon they waded through the dusty shafts for but a hint of material and toiled upon the surface in their free time. It was a sight too familiar to his eyes. It was homogenous, a society of one people, with one job. A land he had hoped he long escaped from, yet it seemed in some way man always fell into castes.

His eyes shifted away from the mirror, a wistful breath of air trailing from his lips with a turn of body and a short walk over to the cramped desk in his quarters. Well, if the slab of sheet metal could be considered a desk anyway. The rickety metal clicked and whined under Ramon’s weight as he sat before the desk, and his hand of true flesh and bone swiped the opaque bottle of conditioner from its neatly aligned row. The caste had it’s benefits, the arm he held laided out and pressed against the cold steel he could barely feel was a testament to that. With the free hand, he damped a little cloth stained with overuse in the conditioner and slathered it upon the surface of his arm. It was leathery, rough, porous, yet from afar it looked real. When standing away, one couldn’t spot the slight discoloration as it melded into real skin; they couldn’t spot the faint lines where modules connected to one another. As he slid the cloth further up his arm, it wasn’t simply one big mass of artificial skin; some were worn, more leathery and discolored than the others, some were more fresh, more skin-like. Such were the perks of his service. Those from his home who worked jobs like the ones on the rock where they were docked weren’t afforded such luxuries as synthetic skin. Yet AGIs cared for their own. They still had new arms, new legs, yet ones that attracted the dust of the mines like a moth to a flame, wherein they rusted under the conditions they were thrown into. Ramon had the luxury of only needing to condition the synth-skin on his arm and leg every so often for care. He didn’t need to oil or wirebrush his joints; he lacked the need for the constant replacements that came with modularity. Yet nothing came without sacrifice. While those in the mines toiled under rock, he toiled from the front lines. Space takes, it always takes. And the AGIs give. They gave him life. They gave him a spine. They gave him limbs. But they also take.

Once again, he dampened the cloth. With a swift roll of the overall, he repeated the motions from his arm onto the synth-skin of his leg. Few ever leave Magna Centuari. The generation they are now on, the value of which always slips his mind, is comfortable. And increasingly “perfect,” that loftly goal the AGIs spew forth. And while his time in Centauri space has been limited in these present days, he’s seen the flyers, the flags, hell, even when they step foot upon the sparse Specula-4, it was there. He saw it in the eyes of the emissaries who greeted them, like twins the both of them stood. And in moments and even now, he found disgust in their revelry: of the flag and what it stood for, of the badge on their chest, of him. First generation is few and far between, and the barbarity of their upbringing is only held in their minds and the servers of the AGIs. The first perfect few, they were called; the gene-seed of what is now the entire modified population. His mind can’t help to feel it as vile, how they acted as if he was god-borne due to his birth. The whole lot of them needed more time in the birthing chambers, he thought, more intellect from his academic brothers.

And how he let that grass-green colored boy convince him to sail under the licenses of these folk again, he would never know. Ramon rolled down the pant leg of his overalls as he finished with the last swipe of the conditioner. And with that, he rose, grabbed the stack of manuals off the same desk, and packed them into the bag he had received off the back of the chair. Today was gun inspection, and while the young crew ran off on this rock doing who knows what, that is what he will be doing. He may have been out of the service for a long time, but some things? They just stick with you.

Redshift Blues

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_____________________________________________________________________________________ Ringworm _____________________________________________________________________________________ History No utopia is born without the sacrifices of a few. No peace is brought without hardship before it. There is no perfection without trial and error. And the tetrarchy in their early days of faux prophetical words and actions knew such the best. How does one imagine they bred the first perfect generation? The tales they spin to the mass public detail stories of love between coincidentally perfect pairs and the use of perfected gene modification to create a prime populace for the country. Yet many look past the early days of the Avalon Charter, ones obscured through erasure and phaseouts, written in pages hidden deep within the darkest coves of physical archives dotted in the underbelly of the prim and property Avalon. The children of such foundational experiments by the AGIs to perfect their process are seldom remembered, and the camps are even less so. Such spaces were akin to factory farms, yet hidden and tucked away from the public’s eye in the natural cave systems; they were concrete hulls weathered and diminished by the settling of earth, laden and lined with the miasma of children scarcely cared for. For facilities that brought life upon this plane, they seemed to take it as often as they gave it. Newborns, toddlers, kids, and teens all packed away in the deep dark of the tetriarchy’s biggest secret, where imperfections were bred out and the modification of the human genome was perfected. All such according to its masterplan. Ramon was one of these children; the first generation of what would snowball into the expertly bred soldier. Though a man creeping in years, the memories of such a place were ones that never leave, like a scar embedded in one's brain. Born from a test tube in the stead of a mother’s womb, he was raised in the sterile grays of laboratories and training centers, and the stink of hundreds of kids from the same batch of himself packed into dormitories that bulged at the seams. His early days are fragments of memories of being pushed to his limits, beyond what the typical child had the capacity of, and of being held in medical examination to make sure nothing was failing inside of him; Some of his siblings weren't too lucky on that front. They were bred from only the strong, the rageful, the loyal, the obedient, those loyal to the cause or flag that was put before them. There was no soul saved; it was brother and sister put against each other, expressing the rage that was bred into them while under the watchful eye of the scientists that hung in the background. Their genes were encoded and played with, traits were removed and added. Some of his brothers couldn’t feel the sensations of pain; they were the quickest to go. Some of his sisters held a modified genome that manifested stronger light receptors in the eyes; they couldn’t handle the harsh rays of the sun. The tetriachy tried to mix and match traits to spring forth a generation of the strong to protect from the forces beyond their homeworld, yet in the end, only Ramon’s subbatch of 100 survived through their in utero modifications, and the training that exercised man to the limits of his strength. The cream of the crop, they hailed him and his siblings. The best of the best of soldiers to be inducted into the Magna Centauri army. And such words of adoration and praise would hold true if most of them didn’t become subsumed by the ever-present mania that followed them from the cavernous camps. Most of his siblings died in battle; the mania that followed them since birth failed them, it made them reckless, and recklessness is death. For some, it brought melancholy, a sadness so deep it made them see the end of the barrel of their own weapon a more preferable option than life. Ramon was not exempt from the failing of the first generation; the rage had still boiled in his body and tainted his blood, yet one of the reasons he had made it out of the program and into the field was through his control of it. His life had been the military; that is what he had made for. Since his commission into the armed forces, he had been put to work. War was not a common thing in the systems, yet as man expanded farther and farther into the stars, piracy and crime began to carve their niche. It was decades upon the force that rooted out piracy from within their spacefields that brought him through the ranks; it was what gave him his own squad, then control over his own teams. Yet, being created for one purpose doesn’t exempt one from follies. It was one raid. One raid that brought an esteemed officer from grace. A raid in which several small ships had been commandeered from a standing force, and in which Ramon had been ordered to bring them back. It was a failing mission. The force of the pirates had been beyond what he was capable of handling, yet he pushed forward and, in the process, lost a team on a mission that he had his control on. As a result, he became disconnected, fragmented. Forced into retirement from the army as a result of this failed mission and to save face for Ramon himself, he was left alone, rotting away on him home world. However, one day, he simply left. Ramon drifted around planets for a few years after such, earning coin from quick security jobs here and there for corporations and executives who needed the manpower. But now, in the present day, he has found himself aboard the Dullahan once again, aboard a ship not as simply security personnel, but as an officer again. He had spent his years adrift quelling such anger that held a vice grip around his soul, but now was the true test of resistance. Personality & Reputation Outspoken, loud, on edge, all are such words that have been used to describe Ramon. He is a man of efficiency. When assigned a job, he gets it done quickly. He is loyal to a fault, and in the present, his grip on the passion of rage has become steadier. Most days, he is collected, and even calm. He has worked hard his whole life, and such hasn’t stopped until this day. Every job he completes, he does his best to do it well. Yet also, he is a man who deeply cares for his crew, beyond simply the stern look upon his face in a lecture on every mistake and inefficiency you hold; he breaks you down to build you up. He has been an officer on a ship longer than many of his crewmates have been alive; the heart, soul, and blood of his experience as a soldier has been directing those on one. Knowledge of battle is held in each one of the scars laden upon his body, knowledge of different worlds held in the replacement of body parts. He is a man who has been from Magna Centauri to the Sol Federation, and every little crack in between. Well-traveled and well-seasoned, the stars are in his blood. Appearance Ramon is not quite the vision an officer many would have in their mind, that well-refined and prim version of himself left with rank removal. He’s gruff; long gone is the military garb of suits and the absence of any facial hair, where that once stood is mostly practical and workwear dyed in dark colors, and a beard of soft grays and white that stretches from his face. The hair on the rest of his head sports the same colors as well. His build is stocky and tall, imposing to most, a characteristic that was deemed inefficient for the following generations beyond him. Patches of off-colored skin lay laden across his back, left arm and leg, and scars lay riddled across most parts of his body. And beneath those odd patches of skin on the left side of his body lay the cybernetics implanted on him after the several debilitating injuries he had received throughout his career. For a society run by AGIs that lacked such a concept of a physical body, for their soldiers, they deemed it the utmost important to upkeep.

____________________________________________________________ ◤ “Man is by nature a fickle little thing; there will always be a hand that guides.” ____________________________________________________________ Full Name: Ramon "Ringworm" Montalban Age: 64 Homeworld: Avalon Occupation: Executive Officer Affiliation(s): Homeland Defense Department - Magna Centauri (Formerly) ____________________________________________________________ Strenghts Ø Friends in High Places. Despite his rather unsavory departure from Magna Centauri, those bonds he had formed through the shedding of blood and the healing of wounds remain lit for rekindling. Ø Quick on His Feet. There are a few things that remain with you once you leave the service, and snapping quickly on an objective is one such thing. His mind flows quickly with decisions when pressed, and his hands drop even faster to his weapon when called for. Ø Hearty as a Horse. His constitution is one built of steel. Breed in his blood is a resistance to many a sickness the common man lacks, and a lifespan years beyond the settlers of yore. Ø Once a soldier, Always a Soldier. The training never really leaves you; His hand instinctively drops down to his hip in weary times, to dive for cover is like this sixth sense, he could survive off a diet of cigarettes and dried meals akin to dirt. Ø Handy With a Manual. Ramon knows his way around many weapons systems, with a manual in hand and a few days to break it down, he'll understand a system like he does the back of his hand. ____________________________________________________________ Limitations Ø Shell Shock. Man horrors have crossed his eye; he is not a stranger to them. Some days he hears the screams in the crewmates' shouts across the common space, other days he hears the crackle of explosions in the hissing and wiring of the interior components of the ship. Ø Matter-a-fact. Ramon is rather curt with his words. He is a man straight to the point, with little exaggeration or praise crossing his lips. When he sees something, he says something. Ø Stuborn as a Mule. When deadset on something, his mind is rarely ever changed. Hard to convince him of any one thing, Ramon is strong in what he believes. Ø Man or Machine. While his service is years behind him, the scars of days past still linger. He's become more metal as the flesh has been ripped from bone, and the bone from body. As the years pass on, those parts which were once top of the line slowly degrade into obsolescence, both invasive and damaging to replace. Ø Mania. Being born to be a soldier means capturing man's rage at its most effective form. Sometimes, that rage seeps out. ____________________________________________________________ Miscellaneous Ø Documented Cybernetic Augmentations. Partial spinal cord replacement, complete left forearm and hand replacement, complete left leg replacement, artificial skin dotting patches of his body, including all cybernetic replacements. Ø Ringworm? Such was a nickname that has followed him most of his life, since when he was 34 on a military charting expedition and contracted an unknown necrotizing fungal infection, which appeared similar to the older Earth infection, Ringworm. The result of such a disease was the removal of his left forearm and hand ____________________________________________________________

After the Storm (A bit of everything x F, looking for F)

Pinhead Fetus (a story made by tealrootssss)

Interesting