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Brent Roless
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18
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5β7
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77 kg
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Brent does, indeed, lift. He also never skips out on leg day. And while his face is rather average, the intensity of his amethyst eyes is breath-taking. There is a sensation of restlessness that trails him constantly, the muscles in his body constantly taut, his eyes flickering about everywhere. His dark brown hair is similarly restless, a tangled mess that Brent habitually, futilely, finger combs. Sometimes, heavy shadows linger under his eyes. Other times, his skin is a little too pale, especially for someone who hates being cooped up all the time. But no matter what, there will always be a smile.
And though the intensity of his amethyst eyes is breath-taking, his smile melts all that pressure away.
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Brent is a well-adjusted member of society.
An energetic go-getter, he believes that hard work is an investment in oneβs self, and that every wasted moment of your life is a deficit. Relaxing has its benefits, of course, and Brent has googled up enough knowledge from online fitness trainers to know that rest days were important for his body as wellβ¦but studying doesnβt require his entire body. Heβs not someone who wishes to sculpt his body, nor is he seeking to win any upcoming competition. Instead, Brent pushes himself every single day because he wants to be ready for when he would want those things.
As of the present, however, his hard working attitude contrasts his lack of passion for anything in particular. He doesnβt love or hate, only like or dislike, and his smiles come so easily that, no matter how lovely or relaxing they are, to him, itβs just an involuntary facial twitch at this point. Heβs not faking it. It just comes naturally. Soβ¦is he happy or content or satisfied constantly? Brentβs not too sure about that. He learns hard and works hard so he doesnβt have to think hard.
Not that heβs running away from repressed emotions or anything silly like that, of course. Running away isnβt cool. Losing fights isnβt cool. The only cool thing that exists is winning, and the only way you win is if youβre remembered for doing something badass. Getting first place in a competition? Winning. Getting second place in a competition? Losing. Protecting someone from falling debris at his own cost? Winning. Watching as a flowerpot falls on someone elseβs head? Losing. If he can think about it in simple terms, Brent can do anything he needs to do.
And if he wants to be remembered, the least he can do is smile and greet and trade a few words with everyone he meets, regardless of whether or not theyβre a regular, Aberration, or Arbiter. Perhaps itβs naΓ―ve, but Brent believes that if he does it enough times, heβll be on friendly terms with them. Or, if theyβre the grungy type that absolutely detests human interaction, at least heβd have annoyed them enough on a daily basis that theyβd dislike him.
Brent is a well-adjusted member of society nobody.
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It was just a dream. But it was from dreams that the Dreamcatcher imparted powers, and when Brent woke up, there was no hesitation. His parents were at work. He didn't have classes. And he didn't want to die. Instinct told him what his power was, and his power would not save him from a bullet to the brain. So he left for the closest police station, before someone else could see him and call him a 'subnatural freak escaping the authorities'.
He didn't make it far, not when a pleasant lavender scent reached his nose and his limbs became someone else's. Not when he fell over, those twitching limbs becoming as hard as wood.
But, if nothing else, his chances were better than everyone else's.
They found him as still as a corpse in the middle of the street, the half-disintegrated remains of a white cough mask beside his face. On his face was a white smear. All around him were other humans, a black poison coursing through their veins as they spasmed horribly, ranting off strings of painful gibberish.
A gas attack by Perfume, and he survived without even a proper mask.
It took him three days to recover.
It took him two minutes to justify his continued existence afterwards.
And it took a week after that for the excitement of the adults to turn into disappointment.
For his power, despite making impossible technological improvements upon pre-existing objects, could not be copied. It used materials that did not exist. Applied programs that could not be deciphered. Obeyed a whole other set of principles than human technology. No matter how much effort was expended, nothing could be gleaned within a five minute timeframe from the futuristic mutations he reassembled objects into.
Itβs almost as if it was from another world.
But the dream was still there. The hope was still there. And, unlike other subnaturals who could apply their abilities on a magical whim, Brent was both a well-adjusted member of society and required other objects to make use of his powers.
If he could develop his abilities, perhaps they would be able to reverse-engineer all the technologies he could drag out from another world.
If they could do that, perhaps they wouldnβt need the assistance of subnaturals anymore when Bahamut claimed the skies and Jormungand devoured the seas.
And if they could do all that, wouldnβt that be a wonderful thing?
Two days after it was confirmed that the current state of his powers couldn't produce anything that could be feasibly reproduced, Brent was sent off to USARILN East, to be guided under the watchful gaze of the ever-lovely Director Zhang.
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Overclock
The power to magically improve inanimate objects with science, this paradoxical power allows Brent to improve the functionality of anything for a maximum of five minutes, with the power becoming more effective and more energy-consuming the more complex the object originally is. Overclocking a rock would just yield a more durable rock, perhaps transmuted into a different material, but Overclocking a gun would improve it more noticeably, changing the very form of the gun. Furthermore, he can Overclock objects multiple times, refreshing the time limit and increasing the improvements in exchange for increasing the possibility of the object simply exploding or rusting away from developing too much.
Unfortunately, Brent can not decide what upgrade he gets specifically, only determine a general direction for technology to progress. A sword, for example, can be Overclocked to improve its cutting power, but whether or not it gains a monomolecular edge or becomes a lightsaber is completely up to chance. Size limitation so far is that of a twin-sized bed. Suits him just fine, cause future-motorcycles are badass motherfuckers.
When invoking his ability, silver circuitry flows from his arms into whatever heβs holding, engraving the entire object in glowing silver lines before expanding to cover the entire object. Air is displaced as the object is disassembled, then reassembled into a new form. The white light fades, revealing a new object, with βN0 NAMEβ emblazoned on its side. Further Overclocks cause a hot wind to encircle the object, as it creaks and screeches, bending its shape in order to evolve once more.
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He stood above the dark world, and brought light.
A single candle flickered. Then another. And another another another, until the earth was a tapestry of color. And from that tapestry rose great spires, self-sustaining metropolises growing like grass, cleansing instead of destroying the world with their presence. From those great cities flew island-sized arks, spaceships flying past him as humanity sought other worlds, the spirit of adventure finally dawning upon them now that they could rend space and time with their own strength.
He reached out with an open hand, covering the world.
A soft warmth met his grasp, slender, strong fingers connecting with his own.
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The flesh melted and the bones crumbled as he fell, plummeting, intoxicated.
He sank into the soft, dark earth, drinking in the comfort of nothingness, as others rose from that abyss. No need to hide. His companions had no eyes. No need to speak. His companions could not scream. No need to listen. His companions did not think. No need to pretend. His companions were himself. He reminded the world of what was sacrificed. He brought back what was discarded. He recorded what was forgotten. And, as he touched every one of them, he made them better than they were when they were alive.
Deathless, they marched, and, in a silent, black world, he could finally be at peace.
But the warmth lingered.
The warmth that was the poison that let his heart beat.
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Arbiter
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