You are Ushi Walker, the half-Japanese/half-American wielder of the mighty quirk “Everything is Bigger in Texas”, one of U.A. High’s better-than-average students, and at this moment, aching mightily for some answers. Just a bit of honest-to-goodness <span class="mu-i">clarity</span> on this shady ‘All For One’ character that seems set on terrorizing you and your classmates in 1-A.
So far, your and Shoto’s own endeavors (heh) have fallen short. But now, Bakugo, after witnessing you fail to glean anything substantial from Midoriya as you all departed your last day of the school term, seems poised to succeed where you two had stumbled in interrogating his neighbor.
It’s not a surprise to any of the four of you in that alley that it’s a much more hands-on and physical means of questioning.
It’s also hard to deny the part of you that’s excited by the turn of events…in that ‘gettin’ the job done’ way. Not in the ‘two boys wranglin’ ‘n one physically dominates the other’ way. Nope. Definitely not… That part of you would’ve rather been the one doing the wranglin’ after all.
But there will be, no doubt now, a bit of wranglin', and maybe some yelling… <span class="mu-i">likely</span> some yelling, by Bakugo, and then Midoriya will finally let you know about All for One and how All Might is involved in all of this!
Shoto may not approve, but it's a just cause: the safety of everyone in 1-A! Probably more than that, like whoever else has a League of Villains' target on their back. Besides, Midoriya is holding back and keeping secrets, even when he knows y'all know something’s up. None of this would need to happen if he just gave you what you wanted!
And not at too high of a cost at that. Like Bakugo had just said, he'd just go home after this and that'd be that. Just getting home to his Mom a little later than expected, maybe shakened up and bruised a bit.
<span class="mu-i">By people that should have been his friends, cornered and extorted by them for the truth…</span>
Of course he wouldn’t tell his Mom what actually happened, and probably make some excuse that it was a clumsy accident. Or, far more likely, a result of training.
<span class="mu-i">It’s what you did most of the time too, not much more than a year ago.</span>
…How many times did you feel like you were cornered in a similar fashion during middle school, and not even for something worthwhile? Yeah, you could have broken free at any time. Not much can stop a suddenly ten foot tall person from going where they want to in the short run.
<span class="mu-i">But you never did run. It wouldn’t have been right.</span>
Your eyes glaze over as you gaze across the empty room into the unblemished, untouched plain wall of white. There is nothing breaking up the sterile and newly painted surface; it is entirely barren of any bumps, patches of discolouration, or decoration. You let a deep sigh for the umpteenth time as you pace back and forth across the featureless room. Each one of those long sighs comes without thought, as if your body is trying to exhale the roiling stress welling inside your soul. Occasionally, you mumble to yourself, to your past, to memories, words that would have changed events or created new, better ones to take their place.
Finding yourself at the front door through your aimless pacing, you see a clean white envelope lying there alone, solitary on the brown bristled doormat, staring up at you impatiently, waiting, demanding to be opened. You know what it is; it couldn’t be anything else. Within the envelope that has been sitting alone, untouched for days, taunting you, are the grades you achieved in your last year. Your nose crinkles, and your face scowls at the thought of the word achievement being linked to your grades. You know you have failed, which is why it still sits there unmolested because the second you rip open the envelope and gaze within, your belief becomes an immutable certainty. The last year of your life being nothing but an utter unrepentant failure, a total waste.
Continuing your repeated pacing, a curse you’ve been inflicted with for half a week, you enter the only room that is not totally empty. A solitary camping bed sits in the corner of the room with a sleeping bag messily draped across the frame. You have been gifted the money to furnish the place by your father, as well as the apartment itself, but you have not found the energy or drive to push you to do such. Instead, you have moped around your new home. There was some scant talk about the you and your father continuing to live together this year, but the conversation never found a conclusion and died a forgotten death. It could have been a nice place if you or anyone else put in the effort, and it certainly is spacious enough with five distinct rooms. But instead of a home, it is a blank, featureless prison that you are entombed within. Utterly alone and lonely.
Looking out one of the many windows, you watch more droplets of rain coat the transparent surface and dribble down the glass. You’ve always loved the rain. There is something special in the rain that you find resonates within your soul, but you struggle to explain. The rain continues to lash at the window with hundreds of tiny thumps as you stare through into the darkness of night sheathed behind. Finally, deciding you need some fresh air to break free of the oppressive loneliness this prison perpetuates. You grab your coat and walk out of your apartment, with a spiteful step landing on the single shameful letter sitting on your doormat.
You remove your hand from the last of the vehicles.
At this range, they never had a chance. Four personnel carriers and another infantry support vehicle lie in various states of destruction. Flipped, crushed, smoldering, torn asunder, or any combination.
One soldier cries into the shadowed night, tossed from his turned out position by your flip of his vehicle. He glows white in the thermal vision, one leg twisted back.
“Do we offer surrender in this instance, pilot?” You question.
“No prisoners.” Pilot Thea’s response carries a hint of exasperation. Her mind brushes yours in low-sync.
“Because of our relative position?”
“Because we couldn’t carry them, Core. Only room for two in the cockpit. And we are not shuttling around some blue POW.”
A foot actuator ends the source of the noise. “Understood, pilot.”
—---------------- You are Beta core, an Artificial Intelligence built to operate the Ferrum Empire’s most advanced mecha frames against enemies within and without in tandem with a human pilot.
One month ago, your prior pilot collapsed into a coma during a particularly close battle against several enemy Aces. She has not been able to return to her role or see you since then. The replacement, Thea, is somewhat more irritable and less willing to indulge your questioning.
Refitting and repairs made your pilot’s chamber slightly larger, along with installing a second passenger chair and straps for one to sit in safely. You made a breakthrough in understanding how the short-term <span class="mu-b">Memory Leash</span> functioned, leading to a workaround to reset and halt the lockdown process. It should work, if an <span class="mu-b">Error</span> is triggered again. You hope it isn’t.
The deployments in the field have been much less frequent then the near-daily missions Sophie took on. Thea’s been a quick study with the controls, and her augmentations have helped smooth the sync process, after some initial adaptation.
<span class="mu-s">You are <span class="mu-i">Fiona Jarnafeldt</span>, Level 1 Helsinki Stormwatch agent.</span> Your job is to weed out the criminals and mutated aberrations that lurk in the stormdrains below the Finnish capital. With enough time and effort, you hope to be promoted to Level 3 and earn the right to start a family – a luxury not afforded to all in this new world. By order of the world organization Mother Nature's Providence, the population of each city cannot stay higher than one million, and all of planet Earth one billion. For the child you want to have to be a part of that number, you have to fight.
It has been five weeks since you first arrived in Helsinki and met your mentor, L3 Trollslayer Lalli Kiikoinen, and started training. It has been one week since you've started your deployment on regular missions. It has been a few days since your first successful troll hunt. And today, you are serving your first warrant.
The situation with Stormwatch is that a couple months ago, a prototype pneumatic suit and its fuel was stolen as it arrived in Helsinki, and an entire squad sent to apprehend a suspect was singlehandedly destroyed by a ferocious two-headed jotunn known as <span class="mu-i">Lorppo</span>, “Chatterbox.” The Stormwatch has since been trying to recover their numbers and prepare to fight that giant, but in the meantime, one of your superiors, L3 Manhunter Sigrun Eugen, launched an investigation into if these bandits have tried replicating the pneumatic system for their own purposes. She found that a number of purchases across multiple machine shops can together be used to create the machinery required to start producing their own parts. The parts acquired under bogus identities over the past few months would not have made complete lathes and mills.
And that leads you here, to a hospital uptown. A number of legal acquisitions filed for “repairs and replacements” were made by this hospital, the parts being the final pieces of the puzzle. It's not a busy hospital, taking in mostly patients from surrounding villages that don't have sufficient tools in their own medical centers. There would be plenty of rooms for such a machine to be in storage, or gods forbid use, while an opportunity arises for the crooks to steal it away to the Undercity. While not within the stormdrain itself, it does concern the stolen Stormwatch property, giving your group rights to investigate.
With you are three other agents; L3 Trollslayer Lalli Kiikoinen, L3 Manhunter Sigrun Eugen, and L1 Manhunter Saemus Fahy. In your earpiece is your Operator at Stormworks HQ, L4 Nonoka Sumika, who is watching all your bodycams and relevant security camera feeds, and providing orders and support.
In the dark corners of the Imperium, where shadows writhe and whispers speak of forbidden power, you stand at the crossroads of destiny. The fabric of reality trembles as the call of Chaos echoes through the void, beckoning you to choose a path that will forever alter the course of an Imperial world. Khorne, the Blood God, promises glory in the crimson rivers of war. Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, whispers secrets that unravel the very fabric of fate. Nurgle, the Plaguefather, extends the gift of resilience through decay. Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure, lures with desires that dance upon the edge of ecstasy and excess. Each cult presents a dark covenant, and your allegiance will shape the destiny of the planet upon which you tread. The time has come to embrace the Veil of Shadows and select your pact with Chaos. Choose wisely, for the winds of change carry both salvation and damnation.
The first thing you feel is the biting cold. Second is the head-splitting hangover. You force your eyes open to reveal that, alas, you're still in the world of the living. Seems like you still have to go to work today.
You are a <span class="mu-s">Cleaner.</span> A clean name for a dirty profession.
From meaningless errands, to exploration, to contract killing, to everything in between, you work in all manner of jobs as a deniable asset to the Companies of the City. It's apparently one of the better ways to keep food on your plate and a roof over your head if you know what you're doing. <span class="mu-s">Your main goal is to get enough money and resources to get out of this shitty gig.</span>
You rise up from the bed. You live in a remarkably shitty apartment that barely qualifies as one. Your bedroom only has a bed that's hard enough to belong to a prison cell, a table with a barely functional TV, and a closet. The only pricy thing you own is a cellph-
<span class="mu-s">RING! RING!</span>
You answer it quick. The connection is choppy but you can just barely make out the robotic and exhausted tone of the man on the other line.
"Hey. It's me. Did I wake you up from your depression nap?" You start to answer but you get cut off. "Great. We have some messes for you to clean. A lot. Looks like you're in high demand, pal."
"I'd get ready if I was you. We'll transmit the list to you shortly; we'd prefer if you don't die on us too soon. Your 'life' 'matters,'" the voice of your handler drones on. "And one more thing, please review the assessment sheet provided to you when you joined."
"That is all. Good day." The Handler hangs up.
You toss your phone onto the bed and reach for that stupid assessment sheet on your desk. You get up and head to the bathroom. You might as well try looking a bit more presentable before you start today.
The year is 20XX, tales of the legendary Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, simply known as The aone to Stalkers and those who reside inside the Zone... Stalkers are those who live and work in the zone (albeit illegally) and make their living primarily by collecting and selling Artif𝐚cts, which are strange and anomalous things still not understood by science which are formed by the Zone's strange environment and conditions and are worth a fortune. You have heard far and wide of tales of the Zone and of the wonders and dangers inside of it and have decided to leave your old life behind in favor of becoming a Stalker in hopes of adventure and striking it rich.
You're Po, and you've been isekai'd to Europe in the 1940's, right in the middle of World War 2. And it's up to you to stop it.
But first of all, who are you sided with? > Allies (Great Britain, United States, Soviet Union) > Axis (Germany, Italy, Japan)
What special perk have you been blessed with? > Cyborg Sync This grants you a unique degree of control over the system housed within you, allowing you to cultivate your technological powers. You can access and interfere with electromagnetic waves in your surrounding through your antennae, and make powerful, but not yet lethal displays of light and sound with your tummy television, along any other creative uses of your bioelectronics.
> Magic Drum You've been isekai'd with your signature artifact of immense power, the Magic Drum. Its power only responds to you, and you can spawn it to yourself or despawn it at will. The Magic Drums grants you powers of sound manipulation and teleportation, which you may cultivate and expand upon.
> Noo-Noo You have a robotic familiar, Noo-Noo, which will obey your every command. It is sentient, and bit mischievous. It is ungodly skilled at stealth and recon, and it communicates in a language that only the two of you understand. Should Noo-noo ever become damaged or destroyed, you can heal him with the power of a Big Hug. You can also magically recall him to your location by asking him to come. Noo-noo can be modified and improved upon by technological means.
Or maybe you will learn something of value. As the window only opens inward, there is a considerable dead angle right underneath, and you position yourself to exploit this by pressing closely toward the wall. Bulbmin reacts with confusion, but luckily remains quiet. "What?" There she goes again. "So some guy ran up on him with a Poliwag and then decided to call stronger Pokemon in? That's, like, so lame. If I were going to try that trick I'd at least bring a second Poliwag. What? It is <span class="mu-i">so</span> also the plural! And then it would be like 'Haha, surprise, I said my new Poliwag and never specified there's just the one'." She has to laugh at the idea; an ugly laugh your memory associates with many an indignity. A brief silence follows as she listens to the other person, then: "<span class="mu-i">Four</span> Poliwag? What would be the point? Who wants to blow the money for two perfectly good Pokeballs on waylaying some rando with one Pokemon? Two are enough. I think they become different Pokemon later, but I don't think there's more than two different forms. Hm? Well, idiot or not, Mordo does know his theory. I'd think with how you go pink in the face every time he looks at you you'd pay more attention to what he says." Pause. "Jamie, I have <span class="mu-i">eyes</span>. Hm? I don't know. Yeah, I suppose if I'd taken the bet I would possibly have the cash to spare. What <span class="mu-i">did</span> he get? Really? A <span class="mu-i">Bulbasaur</span>?"
At this point Bulbmin perks up (you can tell by the way his forelimbs straighten against your head), and only your speed in holding his snout shut prevents your disastrous discovery. "<span class="mu-g">Bulblblbl...</span>" You try to stroke his face by way of an apology, and he quiets down. "I suppose it fits. A toady little parasitic growth. What? Oh, oh absolutely. I figured Charmander too." Beat. "Yuri <span class="mu-i">who</span>? That's his actual name?" The next laugh is decidedly less vicious than the usual, but still not at all pleasant. "Heh, Clyde is going to hate that so much. He had like three-houndred riding on a Charmander. But that gives me an idea."
You tend to hate when she gets ideas, at least whenever you are the context. And once again she does not disappoint: "Suppose you guys could actually just come over later. Say you wanted to congratulate him. Yeah, I know, Dad's been insufferable all evening. Got some bike on the cheap and all. So annoying! Well, I better get ready. He'll be back any minute if he knows what's good for him, I can smell dinner already. You get the guys together!"
Continuing to hold Bulbmin's mouth shut, you advance to the door as the feed cuts out with the slamming-shut of the window.
>Ring the doorbell to announce yourself >Just go inside and right to your room >Just go inside and talk to Mom >Go to Sis and call her out >Other (Write-in)