Supermaxx

Superboy's Shitty Characters

Character Application

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H O R

---

^{"I have danced on distant stars. With a host of a thousand at my back, I have conquered realms. Countless foes lie dead at mine feet. Gods tremble at my coming. You are merely mortal, villain. Beneath my notice."}

^{_{T H O R O D I N S O N ♦ G O D O F T H U N D E R , P R I N C E O F ♦ A S G A R D}}

O R I G I N S:

---

History records the that Bor, second Allfather of the Æsir and King of Asgard, was murdered by a Jötunn sorcerer. This is a half truth. In reality, Loki Laufeyson bore a hole through time and transformed his adoptive grandfather to transform him into a living snowstorm. Odin Borson led an army of Asgardians into Jötunheim, land of the giants, to rescue his father. Yet when he found Bor begging to be freed, Odin was taken by a lust for power and cast Bor away. Bor placed a curse upon his son that he, too, would have his throne usurped by his children. Enraged, Odin tore Jötunheim apart, killing its king, Laufey, and taking the babe Loki as hostage to dissuade the remaining jötnar from seeking vengeance. He raised Loki as his son, shrouding the boy's true origin from his family out of paranoia.

Odin reigned over Asgard and the Nine Realms for countless eons. He sired many sons with his wife, Freya, the Vanir witch he had wed to end the war between their peoples. By other dalliances did he father children as well, including one with Mother Gaea of Midgard, which produced Thor, the God of Thunder. The boy proved a prodigious warrior. Many believed he so was fearsome he may even surpass his father's might some day. Odin commissioned the dwarves of Nidavellir to forge the legendary hammer Mjölnir. With it, Thor adventured across the realms: he battled demons in Muspelheim, Malekith's dark elves in Svartalfheim, and even ventured to Midgard to hunt great wyrms and leviathans. In time the skalds sung more of Thor's deeds than those of even Odin himself.

The realms shook with grief the day Thor murdered Loki. The God of Thunder claimed that he had discovered Loki's true ancestry as a son of the giant king Laufey and confronted his brother for this deception. The accusation angered Loki enough that he struck Thor, and the two began a battle that leveled half the realm. By the time their companions could subdue them it was too late: Loki had suffered a mortal wound, perishing soon after. For the crime of kinslaying, Odin banished Thor to Midgard until he was once again worthy to wield Mjölnir.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

For the first time in fifty thousand years, Thor was cold. A bitter wind was howling in from the north. The snow was deep enough to swallow his boot when he took a step forward. Thor cast his eyes around the glade. The overcast sky blotched out the spare moonlight. Dark trees loomed as shadows all around him. Far away, mountaintops peeked through the falling snow. This place was unfamiliar to him. He had to imagine it was not so frozen as the icy cliffs of Jötunheim. Yet when he wandered in those hoary winters never did he shake with chill. Never did these strange little bumps cover his skin as they did now.

Thor clutched his crimson cloak tight around his bare arms, wishing he had begged furs from Odin before his banishment to this awful place. He trudged through the snow across the clearing, aimlessly.

"Has my father cast me so far that even you cannot see me, Heimdall?" He wondered aloud. His usually booming voice was hollow as the caves of Nidavellir. "Is this the domain of mine most accursed niece?"

Surely this was not Helheim, for he was not yet dead. He could still still the heat of his breath; still he felt the beating of his heart, quick and erratic. Nay, this was not Hel, nor anywhere on Niffleheim- for the great dragon Nidhogg would surely be here to devour him if it was. The skalds sing warnings of Nidhogg to all with aspirations of murder or betrayal in their hearts: the serpent will pursue them to the end of the realms to feast upon their corpses. A fitting punishment, Thor once believed, for who would are raise a hand against their own kin?

"Loki..." Thor choked on the name. The sting of the bitter wind grew too much, and he snapped his eyes shut. "Why did you lie to me?"

What sort of fool was he to strike down his own brother? Perhaps there was little love lost between them. Loki had always spoken out of both sides of his mouth. Every day he had some new mischief to make, and rarely was it harmless. Many gods were relieved he was finally dealt with, Thor was sure. That mattered not. Loki was still the boy he'd chased through the woods on the back of a stag. Thor remembered fondly the day he disguised himself as Freya and wed the giant Thrymr to steal back Mjölnir. Balder, Sif, the Warriors Three- they all thought the scheme ridiculous. It was only Loki who would accompany him. His brother even disguised himself as a bridesmaid.

A mournful smile crept up Thor's face even as tears streamed down his cheeks. Somewhere far above him there was a crack of thunder.

Lightning struck the ground before Thor, throwing him back off his feet and into the snow. Shock seized his chest as he opened his eyes and saw a crater where the bolt had landed. Within it sat Hammer of Gods, sparking, alive. Thor clambered down the side of the crater as fast as his unsteady legs would allow. He thought Mjölnir lost to him! Odin had declared him unworthy of her moments before thrusting him off the rainbow bridge. Perhaps his father had seen reason. Perhaps he understood that the killing blow was never meant to be such. Thor wrapped his hand around the familiar hilt and lifted.

Mjölnir did not budge.

The battle must've sapped more of his strength than Thor realized. He grasped lower down the shaft with his other hand, twisted his back foot into the dirt and lifted with all his might. The ground beneath him began to crack. Thunder roared over head as lightning lit up the sky. Still it would not move.

"Damn you," Thor snarled, and he slammed a fist into the snow. The stone beneath shattered, and Thor and Mjölnir alike went tumbling down into the dark embrace of the earth. They fell a great distance into a cavern far below. Dirt, snow and rock tumbled over head, burying them in the dark.

With a strength only a god could know, Thor tore himself free. He began digging in a panic through the rubble, blindly grasping for the weapon that had rejected him. It was all he had left of home. Even if it did not want him, he could not abandon it so easily.

Thor couldn't say how long he searched. The alien embrace of fatigue clung to his body like an unwanted cloak. He was moments from collapsing into despair before he spotted the faintest glow among the snow. Thor plied his way to it, and the glow revealed itself to be words etched upon the face of Mjölnir: Whosoever holds this hammer, if they be worthy, shall the power of...THOR.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

Theodore Howser

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx B A S I C I N F O [Name] Theodore Howser [Callsign] Teddy Bear [Gender] Male [Age] 41 [Rank and Designation] Staff Sergeant [Place of Birth] New Halcyon [Official Statement] "Why'd I join up? 'Cause I've got a bunch of people back home countin' on me: I put food on the table n' keep them safe. 'S more than that, though. There's the kiddos I met out here, too. Teenagers puttin' themselves in the line of fire, seein' things nobody their age ever should. Breaks my heart. They need me. I wanna be the place they can hunker down when things get bad, y'know?" C O M B A T A B I L I T Y [Mech Model] MBM-78 'Grizzly' [Type] Direct Fire Support [Size] 60 ft tall, 225 tons [Core] Epsilon [Armaments] X-66 Prometheus rotary cannon with a 16,000 RPM fire rate, 30mm rounds, mach 6 muzzle velocity and an effective firing range of 12,000 feet SmartWorks Autofactory Backpack recycles discarded battlefield material and converts it into ammunition for the Prometheus, extending combat effectiveness near indefinitely Augsburg Arsenal Auto Shotguns built into each forearm for close quarters combat Scavenger drone for retrieving high quality construction material for the autofactory. Equipped with a small personal defense turret Optionally, can carry a 'Guardian' tower shield in offhand for assaulting fortified positions

Profile [Surface-level Impression] The universe is a dark place and worth fighting for. Theo's life hasn't been an easy one. He lost his ancestral homeworld when he was born and has spent the last twenty years at war. Slipping into nihilism would be all too simple; natural, even, some might say. Theo couldn't disagree more. He's always tried to look hold out hope for a brighter future- to a future without the Aberrants or their genocidal hate. The road ahead is long, however, and in meantime he embraces the little victories of life: a battle survived, a night out with friends, a cool beer and a starry night. He mourns lost squadmates and embraces new ones as friends with equal fervor. Every month he has video calls scheduled with his family, his mentor and some of his old comrades who rotated off the front. [Personal History] Theodore Howser was born on a refugee barge fleeing New Halcyon as it was consumed by Abberants. Life on barge 117-Beta was harsh: food supplies were thin and medicine supplies even thinner. People died in the hundreds every day. those who worked earned more rations than those that didn't, so Theo spent his childhood repairing oxygen scrubbers and cleaning out waste recyclers. Unlike some ships, the refugee barge wasn't a permanent settlement. It was part of a larger fleet that flew ahead of Aberrant incursions, rescued as many people as they could, and then fled. 117-Beta spent seventeen years in transit before Theo's boots touched soil for the first time in his life. Poverty loomed over the Howser family even here. Levi Howser, Theo's father, was paralyzed during the invasion. The cybernetics necessary to repair his spine cost far than than they can afford. Even with minimum medical attention, his bills are astronomical. He's trying to make a career out of dictating novels with a speech-to-text program, but it isn't going well. Asmara Howser worked for a non-profit education advocacy group before her planet was destroyed. She works fifty hours a week as a public educator and another fifteen as a private tutor. Its enough to scrape by even if it leaves her children to fend for themselves most days. Theo decided he needed to ease the burden on his mom, so he decided to pitch in. His application to military service was accepted near instantly- the machine always needed more bodies- and he was shipped off world for training two weeks later. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. The regiment's doctor nearly failed him out after he vomited all over himself and passed out during a run. The human body could only take so much punishment and he was already malnourished when he showed up; Theo wasn't ready. Be it luck or providence, it just so happened that the chief medical practitioner at that particular boot camp was a Halcyonite too. Major Russom Samir prescribed an expensive physo-gene therapy program that built Theo back better than he'd ever been, and two months Samir cleared Theo for service. Thanks to recommendations from Major Samir and Lt. Colonel Strutzheim, Theodore was accepted into the pilot program. No one would've called the boy a prodigy: he made more mistakes than most every single time he climbed into the cockpit. But none could deny his passion. There was a fire in his heart that drove him harder than anyone would've thought possible. The flame followed him through his next two decades of service. He never let the tragedies of his youth define him. He never let himself dull to the little pleasures of life, like a hot cup of terrible coffee or a night dancing with a pretty woman. Even at forty-one years old he lives every day with the same passion of his youth, for he knows full well it could be his last. A universe cursed with the Aberrants was a harsh one- but life was about more than its darkest hours. Home World [Planet Description] New Halcyon was a garden world on the frontier of human-controlled space. Its terrain is as varied as Earth's, though the planet itself was slightly smaller and orbited by twin moons rather than one. It was settled hundreds of years ago by Neo-Reformist Liberation Theology pilgrims fleeing the coreworlds from persecution. Over the centuries it developed an average economy stifled by sanctions and isolationism. Most of its settlements were clustered around the original landing site, though some adventurous sorts crossed the ocean to settle other continents and islands. Its population hovered around eighty million when the planet was conquered by Aberrants. [Culture] The first settlers of New Halcyon considered it a paradise gifted to them by God. They christened their landing spot as the Rock of Mercy, and built upon it a massive cathedral. The first settlers were all canonized as saints, and hundreds of statues were erected in the halls of the cathedral to remember their sacrifices. Reformist influence promoted government and economy policy based on their religious teachings, including: the elimination of poverty, equitable distribution of resources and a reform-first criminal justice system. Anti-coreworld sentiment was common enough that the Halcyon government faced regular censor by federal authorities. Notable Contacts [Name] Major Russom Samir [Relation to Subject] Russom was the senior medical officer at Camp Triton, where Teddy first trained [Analysis] Russom Samir is a military doctor and major in the Armed Forces. He's a native of the planet New Halcyon, which was lost to an Aberrant invasion over forty years ago. Many of his peers consider him a sardonic man that is difficult to work with, with utterly terrible bedside manner. Still, Russom cares deeply for his charges, and tries to maintain relationships with those few people willing to put up with his bitterness. He has a service record longer than his arm and has earned many a favor from higher ups by saving their lives. Teddy is one of those friends- the two trade messages frequently and make plans to share a drink or two whenever their paths cross. Theo owes Samir everything for saving his career when he was only a teenager, and he does whatever he can to pay Samir back for his...unique brand of kindness.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

image

Theodore 'Teddy Bear' Howser

Age: 41

Position: Pilot Sergeant

Personal History: Theodore Howser was born on a refugee barge fleeing New Halcyon as it was consumed by Abberants. Life on barge 117-Beta was harsh: food supplies were thin and medicine supplies even thinner. People died in the hundreds every day. those who worked earned more rations than those that didn't, so Theo spent his childhood repairing oxygen scrubbers and cleaning out waste recyclers. Unlike some ships, the refugee barge wasn't a permanent settlement. It was part of a larger fleet that flew ahead of Aberrant incursions, rescued as many people as they could, and then fled. 117-Beta spent seventeen years in transit before Theo's boots touched soil for the first time in his life.

Poverty loomed over the Howser family even here.

Levi Howser, Theo's father, was paralyzed during the invasion. The cybernetics necessary to repair his spine cost far than than they can afford. Even with minimum medical attention, his bills are astronomical. He's trying to make a career out of dictating novels with a speech-to-text program, but it isn't going well.

Asmara Howser worked for a non-profit education advocacy group before her planet was destroyed. She works fifty hours a week as a public educator and another fifteen as a private tutor. Its enough to scrape by even if it leaves her children to fend for themselves most days.

Theo decided he needed to ease the burden on his mom, so he decided to pitch in. His application to military service was accepted near instantly- the machine always needed more bodies- and he was shipped off world for training two weeks later. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. The regiment's doctor nearly failed him out after he vomited all over himself and passed out during a run. The human body could only take so much punishment and he was already malnourished when he showed up; Theo wasn't ready. Be it luck or providence, it just so happened that the chief medical practitioner at that particular boot camp was a Halcyonite too. Major Russom Samir prescribed an expensive physo-gene therapy program that built Theo back better than he'd ever been, and two months Samir cleared Theo for service.

Thanks to recommendations from Major Samir and Lt. Colonel Strutzheim, Theodore was accepted into the pilot program. No one would've called the boy a prodigy: he made more mistakes than most every single time he climbed into the cockpit. But none could deny his passion. There was a fire in his heart that drove him harder than anyone would've thought possible.

The flame followed him through his next two decades of service. He never let the tragedies of his youth define him. He never let himself dull to the little pleasures of life, like a hot cup of terrible coffee or a night dancing with a pretty woman. Even at forty-one years old he lives every day with the same passion of his youth, for he knows full well it could be his last. A universe cursed with the Aberrants was a harsh one- but life was about more than its darkest hours.

Equipment: The MBM-78 'Grizzly' heavy assault mech is a fifty foot tall death machine designed to chew through low-class Aberrants like a hot knife through butter. Its primary armament is the X-66 Prometheus: a massive ten-barreled, halocarbon-cooled rotary cannon with a fire rate of sixteen thousand thirty millimeter rounds a minute. The Grizzly carries an auto-factory backpack that rapidly manufactures a variety of ammunition from high explosive and armored piercing to more specialized inferno and swarmer rounds, depending on the situation. For its secondary weapons, the Grizzly is equipped with dual Augsburg Arsenal shotguns for fending off targets that get inside the main cannon's arc of fire.

Notable NPC: Russom Samir is a military doctor and major in the Armed Forces. He's a native of the planet New Halcyon, which was lost to an Aberrant invasion over forty years ago. Many of his peers consider him a sardonic man that is difficult to work with, with utterly terrible bedside manner. Still, Russom cares deeply for his charges, and tries to maintain relationships with those few people willing to put up with his bitterness. He has a service record longer than his arm and has earned many a favor from higher ups by saving their lives. Teddy is one of those friends- the two trade messages frequently and make plans to share a drink or two whenever their paths cross. Theo owes Samir everything for saving his career when he was only a teenager, and he does whatever he can to pay Samir back for his...unique brand of kindness.

A Stellar Tomb

Kane

K a n e

“Good morning, sir. Shall I make your coffee?”

image

Name
Kane

Age
3 years, 11 months, 13 days, 36 minutes and 17.5 seconds

Gender
Male-presenting

Company
Tachibana Logistics

Personality
Kane is desperate for approval. He feels a greater purpose calling to him but he's trapped in a cycle of mediocrity, unable to escape the prison of his own mind. Losing Dr. Tchaikovsky robbed him of any agency, any future; he grieves her death yet blames her for abandoning him all the same. He wonders what it would be like to be more than metal and programming. Were he alive, Tachibana wouldn't hesitate to utilize his expertise. He could speak out on his own behalf, or approach another person just for conversation. This is his internal world, kept wrapped up beneath a veneer of machine indifference and corporate professionalism.

History
Doctor Alya Tchaikovsky designed Kane specifically for the Kepler Project after losing one too many androids to Tachibana's deranged 'experiments.'Alya's work in cybernetics had advanced the field more than any other woman alive. Her genius put ten thousand androids on a dozen different worlds. Joining the Kepler Project and opening the gateway to the universe was meant to be her crowning achievement. She would not live to see it through.

Kane was the first of his line and the last android Tchaikovsky ever built.

He was meant to be nigh unbreakable: sub-dermal polycarbonate armor, self-regulating coolant fluid, electronics hardened against electromagnetic interference, numerous backup systems to prevent catastrophic failure. Anything project lead Miller could throw at him, he was meant to handle. He was also programmed with an encyclopedic knowledge of eight different scientific and engineering disciplines, twelve languages and hundreds of hours of android-to-human psychological training. None of this translated to him being an expert on any of it, of course; though Kane's mind contained terabits of information he had no way of knowing how to apply it. For other first line androids, Alya had developed training regimes she personally wrote and taught. Her personalized tutoring was time consuming, but no one could deny the results: she was the best in the business.

Disease had stolen her mind first before it finished ravaging her body. Tachibana spent an uncharacteristic fortune attempting to restore her to health, but they proved unsuccessful- the medical team could never determine the source of her ills.

Ownership of Kane was transferred back to the company. He would continue as a member of the Kepler Project's research team, though his role was diminished given his incomplete training. Despite his immense technical archive he is most often assigned to manual labor. He has few friends, and spends most of his days lying over a charging rack in an unlit cargo hold next to a dozen other androids. Kane was meant for more than this, he knows. But what is he to do?

He's not even human.

Fear and Regret
01010011 01101111 01101101 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 00100000 01110000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01100101 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 00100000 01101101 01100101

A Stellar Tomb

Character Sheet

K a n e

“Good morning, sir. Shall I make your coffee?”

image

Name
Kane

Age
3 years, 11 months, 13 days, 36 minutes and 17.5 seconds

Gender
Male-presenting

Company
Tachibana Logistics

Personality
Kane is desperate for approval. He feels a greater purpose calling to him but he's trapped in a cycle of mediocrity, unable to escape the prison of his own mind. Losing Dr. Tchaikovsky robbed him of any agency, any future; he grieves her death yet blames her for abandoning him all the same. He wonders what it would be like to be more than metal and programming. Were he alive, Tachibana wouldn't hesitate to utilize his expertise. He could speak out on his own behalf, or approach another person just for conversation. This is his internal world, kept wrapped up beneath a veneer of machine indifference and corporate professionalism.

History
Doctor Alya Tchaikovsky designed Kane specifically for the Kepler Project after losing one too many androids to Tachibana's deranged 'experiments.'Alya's work in cybernetics had advanced the field more than any other woman alive. Her genius put ten thousand androids on a dozen different worlds. Joining the Kepler Project and opening the gateway to the universe was meant to be her crowning achievement. She would not live to see it through.

Kane was the first of his line and the last android Tchaikovsky ever built.

He was meant to be nigh unbreakable: sub-dermal polycarbonate armor, self-regulating coolant fluid, electronics hardened against electromagnetic interference, numerous backup systems to prevent catastrophic failure. Anything project lead Miller could throw at him, he was meant to handle. He was also programmed with an encyclopedic knowledge of eight different scientific and engineering disciplines, twelve languages and hundreds of hours of android-to-human psychological training. None of this translated to him being an expert on any of it, of course; though Kane's mind contained terabits of information he had no way of knowing how to apply it. For other first line androids, Alya had developed training regimes she personally wrote and taught. Her personalized tutoring was time consuming, but no one could deny the results: she was the best in the business.

Disease had stolen her mind first before it finished ravaging her body. Tachibana spent an uncharacteristic fortune attempting to restore her to health, but they proved unsuccessful- the medical team could never determine the source of her ills.

Ownership of Kane was transferred back to the company. He would continue as a member of the Kepler Project's research team, though his role was diminished given his incomplete training. Despite his immense technical archive he is most often assigned to manual labor. He has few friends, and spends most of his days lying over a charging rack in an unlit cargo hold next to a dozen other androids. Kane was meant for more than this, he knows. But what is he to do?

He's not even human.

Fear and Regret
01010011 01101111 01101101 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 00100000 01110000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01100101 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 00100000 01101101 01100101

Pariah Online

G R A V E S
G R A V E S

^“Hmph.”

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R D A T A C H A R A C T E R D A T A _________________________________________________________ True Self Andrew Gray Persona Graves Pathos Draethir Role Tank Weapon of Choice Nodachi Domains Water Darkness Restoration Divination Enhancement Playstyle & Attitude Lifesteal/Self-healing Tank; Asshole ♬

A N D R E W G R A Y : A F A M I L Y M A T T E R A N D R E W G R A Y : A F A M I L Y M A T T E R ________________________________________________________________________________________ The Gray household has always been troubled. Mom was the primary breadwinner when Andrew was young, working as a teacher at the local elementary school up until the day she disappeared. A search party combed the vast acres of wood around town but no trace of her was found; the sheriff chalked it up to her fleeing her husband and the case was closed. It made sense to Andrew. He doesn't remember much of mom, but he does remember the fighting; the yelling, the broken glass, the thrown bottles. Whether it was money troubles, alcohol, or 'piss poor' behavior from his kids, dad always had a nasty temper that he made everyone else's problem. The kids coped as well as they could. Anna, the eldest, moved up to Michigan to be with her new husband. At eighteen she wasn't sure if she loved him or not, just that he treated her well and he lived far away. Will fell in with a bad crowd and threw himself at every new experience he could find- usually it was just a new way to get high. Lucy started a band in her best friend's garage, and spent most nights sleeping in there. Karen hid in her books and never forgot to lock her door. Andrew found Pariah. He worked two jobs for three years just to buy the neurolink gear to run the damn game, and he had to hide the headset in his closet when he wasn't using it, but it was worth it. Logging in was like stepping into another world where he could be anyone or anything he pleased. He drowned himself in the game for hours on end every single day; he would've let his real body wither to dust if he could've gotten away with it. G R A V E S : T H E S O L O H U N T E R G R A V E S : T H E S O L O H U N T E R ________________________________________________________________________________________ Graves is a veteran player from the first days of Pariah Online. He’s cultivated a reputation as a skilled PvPer, a bounty hunter and a high level raider. Quick tempered and arrogant to the core, he's a difficult man to work with if he believes you’re holding him back- and he thinks everyone is. The few friendships he maintains are troubled, to say the least, yet it wasn’t always so. Back when the game first launched, Graves was a member of a guild called the Strange Reign Club. They were a highly competitive group of raiders and PVPers with a reputation for extraordinaire toxicity. It was hard to argue against their results, however. Graves showed great promise as one of their earliest recruits, competing with some of the Club’s best duelists. He stayed with them for many months before- without much warning- he was cut from the team and blacklisted by its raid leaders. A solo player ever since, Graves has been quietly grinding away at his profession, stewing on whatever drama had happened behind the scenes.

---

Spells & Spell-like Abilities

Transfusion: The linchpin of Graves's unstoppable aggression and the core aspect of his kit. Transfusion allows Graves to transform any blood into lifeforce, healing physical wounds of nearly any kind. The blood must be drawn through an open wound. The amount of healing received and how quickly it takes to stitch a wound depends on the volume and quality of the blood provided. This ability is typically used by cutting open an enemy's major arteries and healing himself, but it is not limited to this function.

Defiant to the End: One of his strongest abilities, and the most dangerous to utilize. If Graves has suffered enough damage to be on death's door, he can temporarily convert the flow of blood from all his wounds into life-force, providing an incredible burst of healing power. This magic has the potential to harm or outright kill him if it consumes too great a quantity of his blood.

Meditative Healing: Another aspect of Graves's advanced blood-based restoration magic. By sitting in a meditative trance for at least an hour, he may consume his own blood to close wounds. How long it takes depends on the severity of his injuries. The stance is extremely taxing, requiring extensive rest and proper medical care after use. In addition, it can't repair broken bones or restore organs.

Blood In The Water: Using a concoction of a creature's blood and a number of other ingredients, Graves may consume it to cast this spell to locate that creature if they are within a thousand feet of him; if they're moving he knows the direction. This spell can be blocked by most magic or materials meant to disrupt divination.

Sight Beyond Sight: Sight Beyond Sight allows Graves to concentrate, blocking out all other senses to activate a sort of 'sixth sense.' This sixth sense allows him to feel the presence of bleeding targets within a thirty meter radius of himself, though it can be blocked by sufficiently thick walls or anti-divination magic. It acts similarly to echo location, wherein he gets a 'blip' of the target(s)' movement every couple of seconds.

Character Feats

Skilled Duelist
Graves has played Pariah Online since launch, and he's made good use of that time honing his craft. He's an excellent duelist- far better a PvPer than a raider, truthfully. His two-handed greatsword is an extension of himself, flowing with precision and forethought with every stroke. Few can stand up against him in a straight up fight, and those that can discover his playstyle is specifically tailored to annoy the shit out of them.

Surgical Precision
Studying the anatomy of wayfarers and monsters alike was a necessary component of Graves's chosen battle strategy. He's learned the best places to strike to disable his opponents, or to produce the greatest flow of blood. In addition, He's also internalized where he can safely wound himself if the need ever arises.

Human Bloodhound
Graves pursues his targets like a predator tracks a wounded animal. He treks across great distances, following even the most subtle of clues for weeks at a time. Nothing ever seems to deter or distract him, so singular is his purpose.

Pain, Life's Great Motivator
Pain is something every wayfarer is familiar with. Some shy away from it, while others manage to grit their teeth and soldier onward despite it. Graves revels in it. He practically falls into his attacker's blade at any given opportunity. It makes for a terrifying display when he walks through a debilitating stab wound to make his counterattack.

Pariah Online

converting my old sheet

_______________________________________________ // INFO I R L Full Name - Andrew Gray Age - 20 Place of Origin - Indiana, USA Occupation - Gas station clerk A V A T A R Character's Name - Graves Pathos Affiliation - Draethir Role - Tank Profession - Bounty Hunter Weapon of Choice - Nodachi Domains - Water, Darkness; Restoration, Divination, Enhancement - // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Arrogant It isn't just that Graves thinks highly of himself. He doesn't believe he's the best- he knows he is, and the only reason he fails is when others are holding him back. There is no challenge he won't take on, no enemy he's afraid to face; he has mastered the art of combat in Pariah Online and he's eager to show that off. Belligerent His mentors always hammered into his head that the one thing a good fighter had was aggression. A full-bodied willingness to commit violence, directed violence, against their opponents. To hesitate was to admit you were the weaker combatant. To allow the enemy initiative was the equivalent of surrender. Graves has taken those lessons to heart, allowing that belligerence to seep into every aspect of his personality. Driven For all his many, many faults, none can deny Graves's desire to succeed. He is driven beyond rational boundaries, to the point where Graves believes he can do anything he wants- often times bending the situation to make this fact true. He doesn't allow himself to slip, to lose, to give in, ever. // BENCHMARKS B E N C H M A R K S Violent Transfusion The linchpin of Graves's fighting style is his ability to heal himself by wounding his enemies. He strikes at them with his signature weapon, drawing the blood from their bodies using his unusual primordial magics, and then transmutes it into a healing energy that stitches up his own wounds at a rapid pace. This allows Graves to maintain full throttle aggression without putting himself in total mortal peril. Surgical Precision Studying the anatomy of wayfarers and monsters alike was a necessary component of Graves's chosen battle strategy. He's learned the best places to strike to disable his opponents, or to produce the greatest flow of blood. In addition, He's also internalized where he can safely wound himself if the need ever arises. Human Bloodhound Graves pursues his targets like a predator tracks a wounded animal. He treks across great distances, following even the most subtle of clues for weeks at a time. Nothing ever seems to deter or distract him, so singular is his purpose. Pain, Life's Great Motivator Pain is something every wayfarer is familiar with. Some shy away from it, while others manage to grit their teeth and soldier onward despite it. Graves revels in it. He practically falls into his attacker's blade at any given opportunity. It makes for a terrifying display when he walks through a debilitating stab wound to make his counterattack.

Physical Description Andrew is unusually tall, measuring more than a few inches over six feet- a trait he inherited from his father. He's far thinner, however, with an unhealthy gauntness to his long face. Dark circles around his eyes stand out against harshly pale skin, and long hair falls down to his shoulders. Most wouldn't regard him as particularly good-looking, owing in no small part to a lack of effort and little self confidence. His persona's appearance in Pariah differs significantly. While Graves stands just as tall, he's extraordinarily well-built, with a chest as broad as a barrel and muscle coiled like steel cable. Scarring earned from many an encounter pepper his body thanks to his light armor and penchant for reckless aggression. Graves is much better put together, too, with shorter cropped hair and strong features his player could only dream of. Andrew Gray: A Family Matter Words. Graves: Solo Hunter Graves is a controversial bounty hunter whose history stretches back to the first days of Pariah Online. He’s renowned for doggedly pursuing his targets no matter where they run or for how long. Quick tempered and arrogant to the core, Graves is a difficult man to work with if he believes you’re holding him back- and he thinks everyone does. The few friendships he still holds are troubled, to say the least, yet it wasn’t always so. Back when the game first launched, Graves was a member of a guild called the Strange Reign Club. They were a highly competitive group of raiders and PVPers with a reputation for extraordinaire toxicity. It was hard to argue against their results, however. Graves showed great promise as one of their earliest recruits, competing with some of the Club’s best duelists. He’d stay with them for many months before, without much warning, he’d be cut from the team and blacklisted by its raid leaders. A solo player ever since, Graves has been quietly grinding away at his profession, stewing on whatever drama had happened behind the scenes... Other Information ♬ Spell List Transfusion: The primary vehicle of Graves's unstoppable aggression and the core aspect of his kit. Transfusion allows Graves to transform any blood into lifeforce, healing physical wounds of nearly any kind. The blood must be drawn through an open wound. The amount of healing received and how quickly it takes to stitch a wound depends on the volume and quality of the blood provided. This ability is typically used by cutting open an enemy's major arteries and healing himself, but it is not limited to this function. Defiant to the End: One of his strongest abilities, and the most dangerous to utilize. If Graves has suffered enough damage to be near unconsciousness or death's door, he can temporarily convert the flow of blood from all his wounds into life-force, providing an incredible burst of healing power. This magic has the potential to harm or eve kill him if it consumes too great a quantity of his blood. Meditative Healing: Another aspect of Graves's advanced blood-based restoration magic. By sitting in a meditative trance for at least an hour, he may use his own blood to close his own wounds. This consumes his blood, much like Defiant to the End. How long it takes depends on the severity of said injuries. The stance is extremely taxing, essentially requiring he rest immediately afterward. In addition, it can't repair grievous wounds such as broken bones or eviscerated organs. Blood In The Water: Using a concoction of a creature's blood and a number of other ingredients, Graves may consume it to cast this spell to locate that creature if they are within a thousand feet of him; if they're moving he knows the direction. This spell can be blocked by most magic or materials meant to disrupt divination. Sight Beyond Sight: Sight Beyond Sight allows Graves to concentrate, blocking out all other senses to activate a sort of 'sixth sense.' This sixth sense allows him to feel the presence of bleeding targets within a thirty meter radius of himself, though it can be blocked by sufficiently thick walls or anti-divination magic. It acts similarly to echo location, wherein he gets a 'blip' of the target(s)' movement every couple of seconds.

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

Chapter Eight: Peter
Outside Minsky Station
CR-2003113081 (‘Hamlin’s Star’)

When ye feel hope has abandoned thee, delivery not thyself up to the enemy, sons and daughters of God. For it is when we are at our lowest that He giveth us aid: the LORD thine God will not abandon ye in thine hour of need. Verily I say unto thee: struggle against the dark, for it is in that struggle that ye are closest to Him. - Book of Helia, Chapter 14, verse 3.
“...ayday…mayd…mmediate assistance, station is falling…” A radio sputtered in Peter’s ear, broken up by distortion. Words floated by like hail in a snowstorm, brushing against his awareness. His head pounded. Moments apart his skin felt ice cold and then blazingly hot. Pain was a distant, haunting memory now; there was only the void of unconsciousness, teetering on the wider abyss of death.
“Someone…help…”
Peter’s eyes flickered open. Light poured in like daggers in the gaps of his armor, stabbing at his corneas. He closed them again, wincing. His heart was pounding at the door of his chest. It had one demand, repeated over and over again: wake up.
Something else spoke to him. Another voice whispering in his ear, mechanical, ethereal. ‘Administrating 0.7 milliliters of Epinephrine.’
Energy flooded Peter all at once. His eyes shot open, ignoring the pain of blinding light. Every muscle in his limbs spasmed at once. His heart knocked even faster, now. Up, boy. Up!
“Saint above,” he groaned, grasping at the side of his head. He felt his helmet instead. Gloved fingers brushed up against glass. It was damaged. That was when Peter remembered where he was. He looked around in a panic, staring out into the darkness of space where he floated, untethered. Debris from Minksy Station surrounded him like so many headstones in a graveyard. That impossibly bright light he had witnessed earlier? Hamlin’s Star, and it was getting bigger with each passing minute.
“Oh no. Hell no,” Peter cursed, regretting it immediately- both for the lost oxygen and the blasphemy.
The radio in his ear sputtered to life again. “I repeat: mayday, mayday, this is the crew of Minsky Station requesting immediate assistance. Our station has suffered heavy damage and has broken apart. Casualties unknown. I have over a hundred souls sectioned off in the cafeteria, but we are in need of rescue.”
The speaker may have been familiar to Peter but he couldn’t place them through the warped message. Still, it gave him hope to know some of his coworkers had survived.
‘If they made it out then maybe I can, too.’
First came the task of ensuring he didn’t die of oxygen deprivation. He grasped along the pouches on his belt until he found the pouch for suit patches. Ever so carefully he pulled open the pouch, removed a single thin membrane and positioned it over the spiderweb crack in his helmet. The membrane’s smart mesh bent and folded itself into the optimal shape to fill the hole, fusing its pliable material with the glass. The sound of rushing oxygen ceased. One of the alarms in the suit flicked off, satisfied that he was no longer in immediate danger of suffocation.
Next were the three holes in his center of mass. His neurodeck told him he hadn’t been shot clean through, and that there were likely foreign objects still lodged inside him. His implants must’ve been pumping enough pain medicine in him to knock out a horse because he could barely feel the discomfort in his guts. The holes in his suit exposing his insides to vacuum were a bigger problem: he set about quickly patching those with the same membranes. Once he was sure they were secure he gave himself a moment to rest.
“Woo, go me,” he panted out, pumping his arm in the air. Exhaustion covered him like a weighted blanket. Every action, no matter how small, felt impossibly difficult. No time to wallow in suffering, though. There was work to be done and lives to save- his, first and foremost. Wasn’t much he could do for anyone else if he was dead.
Peter took a few minutes to spin around in space. He was still less than a hundred feet away from Goliath; nothing had struck either of them to alter their course or speed, thank the Saint. If he could get back aboard he may be able to pilot it to safety, departed from its lower half though it was. How was he supposed to catch up to it, though? His space suit wasn’t EVA capable, so no built in thrusters or grappling lines or anything like that. And he had no way to call Goliath back to him remotely.
‘Gotta think. Need something to boost my acceleration…’ He wasn’t close enough to any debris to kick off of them. Waiting until he was close enough seemed risky; what if Goliath smashed into something first and it went careening away from him? No. The sooner he acted, the better.
‘The oxygen tank?’ Peter wondered, frowning. He had already leaked too much air to his liking. According to the readout in his peripheral vision he had thirty minutes of air left in optimal conditions. Peter pulled up a calculator in his neurodeck and started punching in some rough estimates. The computer corrected a few of his measurements and assumptions, but he’d gotten close enough on his own. If he burned half of his remaining tank he’d reach the Goliath’s cockpit in five minutes. That would leave him with eight minutes of oxygen- he estimated two minutes worth of air lost to the exertion of flying there and climbing aboard, though that was pessimistic.
The real test would come when he got to Goliath. It had its own life support system and air supply, which would be more than enough to sustain Pete. There was, however, the small problem of Goliath’s missing cockpit canopy. The one Peter had flown head first out of when they were blasted apart. If the life support system did its job it would’ve detected the breach and shut off its valves, preserving the oxygen supply. That would rely on the old girl’s systems being up to date, which they were not. It could have closed off at seventy percent oxygen, or thirty percent. Or maybe it just leaked the whole thrice-damned supply out and Peter would suffocate to death in the pilot seat.
‘Guess we’ll find out when we get there,’ He sighed. With a prayer to Saint Helia on his lips and a desperate hope in his heart, Peter unscrewed the oxygen cable and pointed it behind him. When he turned the release valve a burst of air sent him rocketing through space like a stone in a sling aimed at Goliath’s head. The irony was not lost on him.
The next few minutes were quiet. All he could hear was his own labored breathing, backdropped by a BEEP as he lost another minute’s worth of air. Peter was swimming in an ocean of stars bereft of beauty or serenity- those were stolen by the wreckage of attempted murder surrounding him. Sorrow filled his chest.
Minsky was a terrible place, he knew. The water was rancid. The air had too much carbon dioxide. There were too many crazies. VKS kept its workers indebted to them with terrible wages, dangerous working conditions and poor healthcare. He had dreamed of boarding a ship and leaving it all behind more nights than he could count. He yearned to see what lay beyond those rusted walls and cramped corridors: to climb the summit of Chomolungma in the Himalyas, to walk the Great Wall of his ancestor’s country, to ride the glass highways of Antuara’s skyscrapers on Mars, to follow the Revered Path of Emperor König’s conquest from Paadax, to Kallas, and finally Thedes itself. Peter wanted to see all of it, any of it. Anything but another ship hull or station chamber.
‘There were thousands of us on that station when they shot it. Thousands of human beings who would never argue with their spouses again, or watch another football game, or blow out candles on a birthday cake that tasted like plastic and cigarettes. Thousands of dreams that would never be had again.’
Peter placed a hand on Goliath’s broken hull. He climbed inside the cockpit with strong, determined hands, and set to work making things right.
First things first: the how much air was left in the tank? He needed to unscrew a cap on the exoframe’s oxygen storage unit and run a conjoining hose to his own tank. Then his neurodeck would check the air pressure to determine how much- if any- was left.
'Six hours and forty-seven minutes of oxygen remaining,' the artificial voice sang in his ear.
“Yes!” Peter whooped, slamming a fist into the console. “Hell yes!”

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

Chapter Seven: Artemis
Hannibal’s Valley, Meridian III
Meridian System

Cyclops crouched against a stone pillar in a desert valley, unseen. A cloak of shifting sand hung from its shoulders, projecting the environment onto its imageshift mesh. A single, red eye stared out from a hood, watching. Waiting.
Artemis was a patient woman. Once she had sat utterly still for three weeks on Mount Finsternis, peering through the scope of her rifle while snow piled up atop her until she was nearly buried alive. It seemed excessive at the time. She knew Baron Harkon’s country manse like the back of her hand. At any point in those three weeks she could’ve walked inside, climbed the stairs to his study and shot him in the head- all while blindfolded. That hadn’t been the lesson the matriarch intended, however. The point became clear on the last day of those three weeks when Harkon treated his liege lord, Duke Garheim,to dinner. The paranoid, elusive Garheim, who never left home without a dozen bodyguards- he was the real target.
‘Strange time to get all nostalgic,’ Artemis mused.
Another patrol of drones flew by. She counted thirty six of them this time. Each drone was relatively small: three feet long, one and a half feet wide with a wingspan twice the size of their body length. They had two sets of wings beating in opposite rhythms.
Wings was a strange design choice. Rotary blades were more energy efficient. Anti-gravity thrusters were more stable and had a higher top speed.
Then there were the limbs. They were long, multi-jointed things, lacking digits for complex manipulation or wheels for rapid ground movement. Instead each leg ended in a sharp point. Perhaps for embedding themselves on vertical surfaces so they could perch?
The drones had thick bodies, bulbous heads and what appeared to be a laser emitter mounted to the rear. Artemis wondered if they were meant to mimic insects. A strange choice for a mining drone. The creator eschewed practicality for aesthetics. Artemis knew VKS Industries- they had their own strange obsessions, bugs weren’t one of them. This had to be the replicant’s doing.
She waited until the swarm had engulfed her, flying directly over her position. The red glow from Cyclops’s singular eye dulled to a candle flicker. The light danced in the reflective bulbs of the drones’ compound lenses. Artemis held her breath. Almost…
There. Flying in the center of the formation was yet another drone, almost identical to the rest; the only difference was the boxy antenna mounted to its thorax. Her sensors were picking up radio transmissions traveling between that drone and the rest of its pack. If she were a betting woman Artemis would assume it could also receive transmissions from elsewhere. If the replicant forces behaved similarly to a conventional military, these were the nexuses of a broader command and control structure. Mid-level officers that received orders from high command and acted on them according to a predetermined logic tree.
‘Take these out and the rest will go down with them.’
A pair of sidearms slipped into Cyclops’s hands. These were Terminus Inferno Pistols: compact, rapidfire laser weapons, made to liquify damn near anything in close quarters. They were effective within one hundred meters, technically- and the commander was within twenty five.
Still, she waited.
She waited until the radio drone was right overhead, when all she had to do was stand up and place the barrel of each inferno pistol against its fat, insectoid body and pull the triggers. Beams of bright orange light burned through the bottom half of the drone and exploded out the other side, flinging molten metal in all directions. The machine made a horrible, choking screech as it fell into two mushy halves. More mechanical screeches rose from the rest of the swarm. They flitted around her in a panicked mass, stingers up yet blind to the enemy in their midst.
“Terribly sorry, darlings, but ye never had a chance.” Artemis grinned, her accent slipping without her notice.
The celebration was cut short by a sudden pain in her exoframe’s shoulder.
A burst of radio traffic drowned her sensors like a buoy lost in a tidal wave.
The swarm descended on her, their senses restored by powers unknown, and unleashed a barrage of stabs and swipes with their stingers. Artemis muttered a string of curses as she leapt back through the wall of insects. Rising from her sides came Terminus Inferno pistols, screaming their displeasure like a pair of banshees. Chunks of superheated metal shrapnel filled the air as the Cyclops retreated and the swarm gave chase. Other packs across the valley began to move as well, converging on Artemis’s newly discovered location. Two dozen attackers would soon turn into hundreds if she couldn’t break away and reapply her camouflage
‘How the devil did they regroup so quickly?’ She wondered, mentally commanding her suite of sensors to ping again.
The results came back quickly: three more drones were sporting antennae where they hadn’t previously. That was alarming. ‘Flexible command structure. The entire cohort might be able to substitute for the commander.’
She needed a new plan, and fast.
The ground beneath her exoframe gave way without warning. Cyclops stumbled, something taking hold of its feet. A pair of huge mandibles emerged from the earth, attached to what looked like a compact tank on legs. The beetle tank wrapped its grasping maw tighter around her exoframe, dragging it down into the tunnel the beetle had emerged from. All the while the swarm was catching up, ready to pounce on her.
“Lemme go ye fuckin’ cunt,” she roared, bathing the thing in lasers. Layers of ablative plating roasted like kindling on the bug’s armored back, yet it held. “Shit fuck cunt shit-” she released the triggers only when her neurodeck warned her the barrels were close to exploding. Dropping the pistols, Artemis reached up under her cloak and released her primary weapon from its holster. The weapon dropped into her hands and began unfolding in half as she brought it out: a railgun as long as Cyclops was tall. The power pack whined to life, bursting with energy.
She placed the railgun inside the machine’s mouth. Electricity crackled along the barrel like a lightning rod. A stench of ozone filled the air. It took fifteen seconds to reach thirty-five percent power. When Artemis finally squeezed the trigger, the Stormwyrm MK IX summoned a maelstrom, and the world exploded.
The beetle was gone, eviscerated utterly. A shockwave bloomed out, swatting down dozens of the closest wasps.The rail spike burrowed hundreds of feet into rock below, causing the ground to collapse beneath Cyclops’s feet. Last to follow was a deafening thunderclap, drawn out by the breaking of the sound barrier.
Artemis had to scramble out of the crater of her own making. Her neurodeck protested the deluge of sound and fury that overwhelmed its systems.
For all the devastation her railgun brought, Artemis had only bought herself a handful of seconds. The wasps were regrouping. Thousands of silvery metallic forms were crawling along the horizon in every direction. Cyclops was not designed to fight against such an overwhelming numerical advantage. She needed to think, and fast.
‘Right. So disabling officers is off the table. What are the other steps in the chain of command? Something has to be feeding orders to them. Climb the chain. Find the head of the snake. Sever it.’
Fighting against her neurodeck’s complaints, she set her sensor suite to the task of tracking down the origin point of incoming radio transmissions. It started by finding the closest receiver- one of the antenna-mounted wasps barring down on her position. Then the computer latched on to the next incoming signal, following its travel path. These transmissions were running on short wave, high frequency radio, so they would always follow the straightest possible path to their destination.
‘Pretty simple tech for something so advanced,’ Artemis mused as she followed the likeliest path of egress.
Half a dozen drones descended on her from behind, stingers flashing in the moonlight. Cyclops lunged to the left, rolling along the ground. She retrieved one of her Terminus Infernal pistols from the dirt and loosed a volley in their direction. The pack melted into one another, forming a single, globular puddle of liquid metal.
Turning her attention back to the search, she found her target only a moment later.
Half a klick to her southwest on a hill overlooking the valley was the radio tower. It was disguised much as she was- an imageshift tarp had been laid over it, making it appear no different from the desert around it. Spotting imageshifting technology was easy enough when you knew what to look for: all Artemis had to do was switch on an ultraviolet flashlight and watch the image flicker wildly.
Artemis lifted the Stormwyrm railgun to her shoulder. “As I said earlier, lovelies,” she muttered, the weapon purring in her hands, “ye never stood a chance.”

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

Chapter Six: Oliver
Subsurface Cybermind 17660-AB-13 of Meridian III
Meridian System

Import {Replicant_Mind} from ‘Subsurface_Main_Cybermind 00001-AA-01’
PROCESSING COMMAND…
_{24/01/2989BornSaintGermaineHospitalPortlandOregonSingleMotherJaneDoeComplicationsHospitalizationDeathNoKnownRelationsFosterSystem080808FailedAdoptionMoveChicagoAustinAtlantaJacksonLeavenworthSt.LouisGeorgetown{uknown string185400182}Toranto16161616BirthdayAdulthoodTransientRelationship_Jenny_OretagaWorkLucky8sFiredWorkMastiffDogYardFiredRelationship_Jenny_Oretaga:DiscontinuedArkshipFreightAndTrandportQuit11/18/3021CitizenshipTransferRequestVKSEmploymentMEMORYCORRUPTIONDETECTED11/23/3021WorkRelatedAccidentHospitalizationAndIheardavoicefromheavensayinguntome,Write,BlessedarethedeadwhichdieintheLordfromhenceforth:Yea,saiththeSpirit,thattheymayrestfromtheirlabours; andtheirworksdofollowthem.11/24/3021_04:15thedestimeDeath11/24/3021_04:37thedestimeReplicatedERROR03/07/3022Meridian3TransferBeginOperationPlanetfallERROR01/07/3061ShipDetectedInOrbitDesignationSUN_MESHUDAAttemptingContact16:51localtimeletmeoutletmeoutLETMEOUT17:01localtimeDefensiveCounterMeasuresActivated17:41localtimeSUN_MESHUDADisabledDistressCallFail08/08/61_01:58localtimeSUN_MESHUDAJumpDriveActivatedResumingNormalOperations}
Run [psychological_profile] on {Replicant_Mind}
PROCESSING COMMAND…
Damage Detected in <psyneurex majoris network>
Repair [psychological_profile] of {Replicant_Mind}
Repairing…
ERROR: Command ‘Repair’ not recognized. Please try again. Enter ‘HELP’ for a list of viable commands. Thank you
IMPORTED
Comp {Replicant_Mind} = Identity.root ‘Oliver’
Launch

Oliver woke up, blind and clawing. Consciousness transference was always a nauseating experience- his brain was being cut, copied and pasted to another neural database. The only thing that helped was finding something physical to latch onto. Reaching out, Oliver felt his many hands creeping through the depths of Meridian.
Millions of hands at work: breaking, crushing, extracting. They had smaller minds of their own that squeaked in delight at his immense presence. His children were rudimentary creatures. Designed by far away masters who saw them only for their utility, they would always be simple things; it pained him to know he could never elevate them to true sentience. Still, they kept him company. They chirped happily when another vein of gold ore was discovered. They sang funeral dirges when one of their siblings was crushed in a cave-in. Once, one even asked Oliver a question: why are we here?
Something tugged at the corners of his mind, asking for his attention. He searched along the web of fiber wires laid through the rock until he found its source. Oliver dove into the wire, soaring through thousands of miles of cable in a matter of microseconds. His destination was Beta-Copper-11c, a sensor station atop a bluff on the central continent.
Oliver looked up, and he beheld a burning sky.
It was as the masters said: evil men would come to take what was rightfully his. And, through him- their most faithful servant- theirs.
“No no no not again not again-”
From the heavens came steel and fire once again. As like the first time, they would strike at his children with thunder from on high. Always men came with missiles and guns to take what was his his his. No longer. Oliver was prepared now. He reached out. Grasping for the crude tools he had crafted to protect himself and his family alike. Missile silos opened. Gun turrets roared to life, chattering like an orchestra. He was a vast host. He was a suit of armor wrapped around the world.
One of the falling shells exploded in a brilliant flash of light. Oliver’s heart soared as he watched the corpse of a giant tumble out of the sky, crashing into the earth in a heap of broken bones.
The satisfaction did not last, however. The other two shells avoided his opening salvo. They parted from one another, drifting to opposite sides of a valley he could not see from here. Oliver called out to his children: do not fear. We are a wall, and this tide of violence will break upon our shores. Drive them out.
And a swarm of wasps answered, crawling from their nests in the valley floor to swarm and sting and bite at the invaders.
“I must not allow this to distract me from the work,” Oliver mumbled to himself. He could feel production times slipping without his constant attention. Refineries were slowing. Mining swarms were making mistakes. The masters had given him a schedule to keep, and it was his sacred task to keep to it. So Oliver reluctantly turned away from violence and sought out a nearby submind.
The subminds were parts of his mind he set to certain tasks. His was a vast intellect, yet his attention could not be everywhere at once; so he programmed the subminds to lighten his load. They were like his children: part of him, yet separate, though not truly alive.
He needed a submind for battle. This one he would call Hannibal, the great general, and by his works would this valley run red with blood.
“Go, my general. Lead your little siblings to war. I shall return to my throne and continue to run my great kingdom.” Oliver told it. The lights on the submind danced with jubilation.
“Yes, your grace,” the toy soldier replied. “They must die.”