Of course they could risk that. What sort of gang leader would actually have that sort of death before surrender mindset? This was more likely a bluff than anything else, preying on the fact that GEMINI had rules to follow as government-sanctioned Espers. It was all bullshit, really. A desperate gamble for a desperate man. Piece of shit.
Those were the thoughts that Klava may have had, if she wasn’t in so much fucking pain. Those were the thoughts that may have informed her thoughts more clearly, if she didn’t have burns on most of her body. Those were the thoughts that would have guided her…to the same actions that her immediate instincts did as well.
As Protector bowed their head, Klava wove her melody, cracked lips spelling out profane words as she tightened her grip on her frosted blade. Cobra had his eyes on everyone, but not in the back of his head. The melody continued to bloom, a snowflake manifesting behind the slowly-retreating gang leader as he continued to present his threat, until…
…Klava’s form disappeared, and Cobra found his back bump against something. Something pliable, yet something crackling. The smell of roasted flesh seeped into his nostrils, a nauseous stench that, for a moment, distracted from the sensation in his unfrozen arm.
Pop. Pop. Snap.
Not the sound of fireworks, not the sound of gunshots, but the sound of the tendons in his forearm snapping as an unnaturally cold dagger was driven into it.
Moments before Otis left, he turned his head around one hundred and eighty degrees to address Lorelai and Tsurara sequentially. “Ok. Lilies don’t come in packs.”
And before much else could be said, he had shot off again, perfectly at home with the sprawling roads and densely-packed storefronts of Arcture. It had been a couple years since he’s seen the city, but not much has changed. Magical advertisements still flooded the senses, while contraptions that followed no scientific laws propelled the residents of the city through cobble-stone streets. Overhead, Otis caught the familiar silhouette of someone annoying, but brushed off any of his thoughts regarding the ninja as he entered the guild properly.
The process, thankfully, was painless.
His curiosity however, could not be ignored.
“The team at the island?” Otis’s eyes shone with a feverish light. “I’ve produced an artifact similar to this before, though more for divining locations than for enabling indirect identification verification. Which island? Which team?”
It was clear that the Strigidae had no intention of moving once he received his answer, but once he did, he had no intention of lingering either. The Tournament of the Long Hall had been another event he was curious in, an opportunity to perform field tests on a variety of different opponents in a safe environment, while also showcasing his creations to a wider audience. Approaching and reading through the entirety of the information board in three seconds flat, Otis considered his odds, considered his competition, and pulled out his gun. There were adjustments to be made. There were actions to be taken. And most importantly?
“Registration finished, Lorelai?”
He needed to rank up if he wanted access to the good stuff.
"People who think of licking knives as a villainous trope just haven't cut a cake before."
[ NAME ]
Regina Moretti
[ HERO IDENTITY ]
Carmilla
[ NICKNAME/ALIAS ]
Bloody Mary, Satan, The Snake of Savior Island, Literally Pandora But Worse
[ AGE ]
'25'
[ GENDER ]
Female
[ AFFILIATION ]
HERO
[ APPEARANCE ]
Despite her healthy height (5’7) and weight (132 lbs), there is an unmistakable sickliness that clings onto Regina Moretti. The smell of disinfectant clings to her pale skin, reminiscent of hospital rooms and taxidermist’ offices, and her hair matches that same deathliness, a dull green that draws in images of untended gardens and weeds crawling over corpses. It’s a disposition that Regina leans into with almost child-like glee, her posture contorted in such ways that she’s never truly sitting or standing upright, her limbs and joints rolling about languidly. She lounges as often as she can, more than comfortable with resting her slim legs upon whatever object serves as the most convenient, rather than the most practical, footrest. But despite this physical slothfulness, this inability to act in any way that shows respect for those in her company, her eyes, gray and lightless, retain an unkind alertness, as if seeking to peel the skin and meat off whatever catches her interest. As if the world existed for her to dissect. As if the lives she held in her hands were naught more than toys.
Those that meet her for the first, the fifth, the fiftieth time would conclude, on an instinctual level, that Regina Moretti was evil.
[ PERSONALITY TRAITS ]
To be a doctor, you need knowledge and empathy. How else would you be able to guide an ailing patient through the conversational steps necessary to accept the diagnosis of their symptoms?
To be a surgeon, you need self-control and stoutheartedness. How else would you be able to guide your subordinates through the bloody affair of carving apart a human while they still lived and breathed?
And to be as such in aeromedical services? You needed all that, as well as the disposition to act swiftly and without hesitation, the ability to improvise where necessary, the capacity to hold every life as sacred, and the understanding that the loss of such lives does not stain your own soul.
Regina Moretti possesses such qualities. Regina Moretti is no longer any of these.
Living beings fascinate her with their uniformity and their diversity, in a world where a single mutation could spawn an entirely different genetic line. She obsesses over such things, every interesting individual a new toy to yearn for, a new doll to dress up or take apart. Only through her self-control does she restrain herself from crossing the line from research to sadism, from what’s an acceptable illegality to what’s a blasphemous taboo, but those boundaries become more and more unclear for Regina as decades roll away. And despite existing within the liminal space of an asset and a threat, she continues to act without hesitation, without care for the judgement of peers, of society, of governance. For Regina possesses a terrifying amount of self-belief, and that belief affirms the righteousness of her goal: humanity’s survival, in a world where any one person can trigger the planet’s demise.
Perhaps that is why, even as she gathers more and more knowledge, more and more degrees, Regina Moretti kept only one with her when she moved to Castleburg: her Doctor’s of Medicine.
And that is also why, unlicensed as she is, if anyone approached her with a desire to live at any cost, Regina will fulfill that desire of theirs, by any means necessary.
…
With such an overpowering mindset, it’s hard to believe she’s human.
With such an overpowering mindset, perhaps she could only be human.
[ BIO ]
Looking back, Regina believes that her life was colorless until age 21, with her fingers jammed inside someone’s chest as she squeezed their ventricle together in a desperate bid to keep them from bleeding out. If she closed her eyes, she could still smell the iron that coated her tongue, could still feel the shudder of their heart against her nails, could see the dazed fear clouding their eyes, and the gratitude that sparkled in those eyes five days after, when she came in to change their bedpan.
That, beyond the aspirations of her parents, the comfort of her childhood, the encouragement of her teachers, and the optimism of the Golden Age, was the defining moment of Regina’s life.
Four years for a Bachelor’s in biology. Another four years in med school. Finished those exams too. Then residency training for another five years, fellowship for two. By the time she was a surgeon, slicing through skin and fat, cracking open bones and pulling together muscle, Regina was 35 years old and wondering if she had seen all that there was to see. Was something so complex as a human being naught more than a puppet of muscle and bone, cartilage and fat?
Calling it a sabbatical, she worked for Doctors Without Borders, and yet increasing the amount of misery and danger she encountered did not increase the value she saw in her work.
Seeking more demanding work, she applied for and became a physician for aeromedical operations, and yet pursuing longer work hours, more unstable environments did not make her brain buzz any more than normal.
What about other areas of medicine? Virology? Psychology? Physiology? Cancer research?
Desperate, oh so desperate, to capture the purpose of her youth. And yet, still, it all felt so myopic.
…
2035.
Coldwater exploded, opening a Pandora’s Box worth of S and A-rank villains upon the world. Heroes around the globe joined, granted the license to kill with prejudice. Casualties on both sides were immense, and it was only by the mercy of foresight that no cities were turned to dust in the aftermath. Whoever survived the hellscape of battle in a nuclear wasteland, however, succumbed to radiation sickness instead. And Regina, at 61 years of age, multiple accolades to her name and no spouse or children to inherit her fortune, had a front-row seat to the tragic aftermath.
A speedster, skin flayed off by infinitesimally small particles of glass. A strongman, organs turned to purple goop by a virus that didn’t exist until now. A mutant, his mutations lost in flame and his humanity naught more but a charred shadow. A Cyrokinetic, 60% of their body cancerous and the rest unrecognizable, left to die miserably, anonymously.
Regina had seen her fair share of war. Regina had seen her fair share of personal tragedy.
This did not shake her.
This reminded her.
This had happened 42 years ago.
“Hah.”
For how much longer did humans have, if children could be granted the power to wipe out cities on a whim? For how much longer did humans have, if animals could spontaneously generate entirely new species that possessed the power to wipe out armies? How many times did humanity luck out, having the heroes of the past choose to be heroes and not villains? How did she become so focused on humanity as individuals?
The purpose of her youth returned, tempered by decades of professional experience, and sharpened by the selfishness of old age.
And why, why oh why oh why had she anchored herself so firmly to merely relying on the medical knowledge of her peers?
Regina Moretti disinfected her scalpel, gazed upon the rows of dead and dying, and smiled the first smile that felt truly genuine. Most of them were beyond saving, but their deaths would improve her craft, would serve as the foundations of what would save their peers, their progeny. An unacceptable loss, but one that had value despite the fact.
Honed edge touched withered flesh, and the ichor of the gods spilled.
…
Regina Moretti is dead. She died at the age of 66, and the entirety of her assets transferred to the daughter no one knew she had.
Regina Moretti is the daughter of Regina Moretti. She was birthed out of wedlock and inherited her mother’s name out of respect for her acts of good.
Regina Moretti is under government scrutiny. She was responsible for developing Project DOUBLESTACK, before practical considerations caused it to be shelved in favor of militarized automation.
Regina Moretti is a collector of Leftovers. She earned the ire of the Leftover Ethics League for her undisguised beliefs that such creatures have less rights than normal animals.
Regina Moretti is evil.
Regina Moretti is HERO’s.
Why?
Because it’s practical.
| MISCELLANEOUS |
Regina Moretti funds multiple scholarships, with names as bland as ‘Moretti Scholarship #1’ and ‘Moretti Scholarship #2’. The money involved is real though, enough to pay for a domestic student’s tuition all the way up to their Masters…but the application format is irritatingly vague.
Regina Moretti, though unlicensed, is invited still to give guest lectures at conferences and universities. She rejects most of them, but for the ones that do get her attention…well, they usually turn out to be memorable.
Outside of her heroic obligations, Regina Moretti will heal someone free of monetary charge if they do not have any other options available. In exchange, these people sign a contract of confidentiality that, if breached, will have…unfortunate consequences.
In lieu of having children, Regina Moretti helps out at the Hero Leftover Zoological Gardens when she she’s feeling particularly lonesome. She doesn’t have any particular love for monsters…but they are fun to pick apart.
Regina is, was, and will always be a voracious reader, having always enjoyed a study room filled to the brim with textbooks. After the conversion of her entire personal collection into a set of PDFs kept in a reading tablet though, that room…has been closed for renovations.
[ RANKING ]
C (Pending Review)
[ POWERS ]
God’s Blood Once understood as a run-of-the-mill regeneration ability, God’s Blood is a power that allows Regina to convert her blood into organic matter, which then persists as such organic matter until she wills it to return to its original form. While she must be physically present for the conversion of blood into other organic matter, the reversal of that transformation can be done at any range. With the passage of time, cells that are made from God’s Blood would be eventually replaced by natural cells, but Regina still recommends that people be ‘properly’ healed after her initial treatment, in case the effects of God’s Blood expire with her death as well. Practically speaking, government officials would recommend the same. No need to give that snake bitch more hostages than absolutely necessary.
While the most common usage of God’s Blood is using it to heal, in which through the conversion of her blood Regina is able to go as far as to remake functioning organs and limbs for others, including parts of their brain, the categorization of ‘organic matter’ is a wide one, giving access to a variety of poisons and medicines that her blood can be converted to as well. Regina’s studies in animal and Leftover biology has, over the course of years, improved that particular aspect of her power’s range quite a bit, granting her more than just a little flexibility in combat scenarios as well.
Such transformations are pedestrian, however, compared to her true fascination and passion with God’s Blood: gene modification and induced mutation. Her Leftovers (lobotomized beforehand, of course) are her primary experiments in enhancing and testing the limits of the ‘natural’ form, while she applies the most stable of experiments onto herself, rewriting her genetic sequence with her blood and shedding her old form like a snake molts its scales. And if she perfected this…
…well, wouldn’t it be grand if even the flimsiest of her heroic peers could get the body of an Adonis without all of the effort involved?
Regina Moretti is 25 years old.
Regina Moretti sounds like an angel. A rotten one.
Regina Moretti possesses a slim figure that belies her strength, speed, and durability.
Regina Moretti has 20/20 vision and a discerning sense of taste.
Regina Moretti can photosynthesize, but really only uses it as a substitute for candy.
Regina Moretti produces blood thrice as quickly and efficiently as a normal human.
[ PHYSICAL STRENGTH ] ■■■■□□□□□□
4/10. Brute strength is surprisingly applicable in a variety of scenarios. Regina limits herself here though, to preserve her form.
[ AGILITY ] ■■■■■□□□□□
5/10. Regina has always found the silhouettes of top-ranking runners and lightweight martial artists beautiful. It matches the form she sculpted for herself as well, so it was an easy match.
[ INTELLIGENCE ] ■■■■■■■■□□
8/10. Talent, backed by hard work and drive, honed by experience and higher institutions, had made Regina one of the most well-known surgeons in the world back when she restricted herself to human techniques. God’s Blood would not be what it is without her intimate knowledge of the deck of cards that was the human body. And now, she’s begun turning that intelligence of hers onto other subjects.
[ DESTRUCTIVENESS ] ■■■□□□□□□□
3/10. While there are ways to cause property damage through creative usage of God’s Blood, Regina, isolated, can only do an amount of damage equal to that of a superior human specimen.
[ LETHALITY ] ■■■■■■□□□□
6/10. Anything that can be put down through biological means can be killed by her. But Regina won’t let any of them die.
[ ENDURANCE ] ■■■□□□□□□□
3/10. Even the toughest human body is still surprisingly fragile. This is currently one of the more annoying problems that Regina’s facing. Do you really need human skin to be considered human?
[ EFFICACY ] ■■■■■■■□□□
7/10. Near-instantaneous blood conversions for healing and poisoning, combined with the ability to induce mutations that increases the amount of blood generated makes for a much less limiting situation than what one would think. Coupled with the fact that she can use bags of her blood, and there’s rarely a situation where Regina wouldn’t be able to access her ability.
[ SKILLS ]
While there’s a sense that her studies as a doctor have become pointless now that her finesse with her power has expanded to the extent it currently has, doubly so when a good portion of her heroic peers possess tough bodies or self-regenerating capabilities, it's still good to save blood where she can. Why use a sledgehammer, when a rubber mallet would do?
She’s fairly comfortable piloting aircraft, from small bush planes to helicopters. No commercial plane experience means that Regina would probably still have to go parachuting if onboard a Boeing with a dead crew though.
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, a surprisingly cerebral grappling art, is something she’s dabbled a decade of her existence in, to get some level of close quarters combat skill. She has a gun though, one that she's relatively good at shooting with, so it’s rare that it’s ever come to that.
Regina fancies herself a good cook. All her dishes feel a bit too healthy though.
[ EQUIPMENT ]
A gun, modified to shoot hypodermic darts filled with her blood.
A backpack, containing medical equipment that’s constantly adjusted and replaced.
Four to eight 500ml bags of miscellaneous organic matter, to be reconverted to blood when necessary.
A flashlight, a tin can of gum drops, her smartphone, and a sharp knife.
If his premonition had marked anyone else but Runa in the diner as the target of Victoria’s sudden attack, perhaps Tian-Gui would have interrupted. He didn’t need Jin-Sun or Iphie to overreact, after all, and Kyouko…well, an idol needed to protect her face, even if she could reverse time and just revert it back to normal. But Runa was the target, so he sat back and focused his thoughts on the other question.
Why?
Mason had said his granddaughter was a fan of the Final V, but here, she seemed to be portraying the attitude of a hater rather than a fan. She showed up late, complained about their lack of security, and then tried to attack them, only giving up when that attack (oh, a Whitestone Pillar?) failed to have any effect. If Mason had no reason to lie, then…
Tian-Gui smacked his fist against his palm.
“Oh, did you want to join the support team, Victoria?”
Hopefully there aren't any glaring lore inconsistencies here.
Carmilla
"People who think of licking knives as a villainous trope just haven't cut a cake before."
[ NAME ]
Regina Moretti
[ HERO IDENTITY ]
Carmilla
[ NICKNAME/ALIAS ]
Bloody Mary, Satan, The Snake of Savior Island, Literally Pandora But Worse
[ AGE ]
'25'
[ GENDER ]
Female
[ AFFILIATION ]
HERO
[ APPEARANCE ]
Despite her healthy height (5’7) and weight (132 lbs), there is an unmistakable sickliness that clings onto Regina Moretti. The smell of disinfectant clings to her pale skin, reminiscent of hospital rooms and taxidermist’ offices, and her hair matches that same deathliness, a dull green that draws in images of untended gardens and weeds crawling over corpses. It’s a disposition that Regina leans into with almost child-like glee, her posture contorted in such ways that she’s never truly sitting or standing upright, her limbs and joints rolling about languidly. She lounges as often as she can, more than comfortable with resting her slim legs upon whatever object serves as the most convenient, rather than the most practical, footrest. But despite this physical slothfulness, this inability to act in any way that shows respect for those in her company, her eyes, gray and lightless, retain an unkind alertness, as if seeking to peel the skin and meat off whatever catches her interest. As if the world existed for her to dissect. As if the lives she held in her hands were naught more than toys.
Those that meet her for the first, the fifth, the fiftieth time would conclude, on an instinctual level, that Regina Moretti was evil.
[ PERSONALITY TRAITS ]
To be a doctor, you need knowledge and empathy. How else would you be able to guide an ailing patient through the conversational steps necessary to accept the diagnosis of their symptoms?
To be a surgeon, you need self-control and stoutheartedness. How else would you be able to guide your subordinates through the bloody affair of carving apart a human while they still lived and breathed?
And to be as such in aeromedical services? You needed all that, as well as the disposition to act swiftly and without hesitation, the ability to improvise where necessary, the capacity to hold every life as sacred, and the understanding that the loss of such lives does not stain your own soul.
Regina Moretti possesses such qualities. Regina Moretti is no longer any of these.
Living beings fascinate her with their uniformity and their diversity, in a world where a single mutation could spawn an entirely different genetic line. She obsesses over such things, every interesting individual a new toy to yearn for, a new doll to dress up or take apart. Only through her self-control does she restrain herself from crossing the line from research to sadism, from what’s an acceptable illegality to what’s a blasphemous taboo, but those boundaries become more and more unclear for Regina as decades roll away. And despite existing within the liminal space of an asset and a threat, she continues to act without hesitation, without care for the judgement of peers, of society, of governance. For Regina possesses a terrifying amount of self-belief, and that belief affirms the righteousness of her goal: humanity’s survival, in a world where any one person can trigger the planet’s demise.
Perhaps that is why, even as she gathers more and more knowledge, more and more degrees, Regina Moretti kept only one with her when she moved to Castleburg: her Doctor’s of Medicine.
And that is also why, unlicensed as she is, if anyone approached her with a desire to live at any cost, Regina will fulfill that desire of theirs, by any means necessary.
…
With such an overpowering mindset, it’s hard to believe she’s human.
With such an overpowering mindset, perhaps she could only be human.
[ BIO ]
Looking back, Regina believes that her life was colorless until age 21, with her fingers jammed inside someone’s chest as she squeezed their ventricle together in a desperate bid to keep them from bleeding out. If she closed her eyes, she could still smell the iron that coated her tongue, could still feel the shudder of their heart against her nails, could see the dazed fear clouding their eyes, and the gratitude that sparkled in those eyes five days after, when she came in to change their bedpan.
That, beyond the aspirations of her parents, the comfort of her childhood, the encouragement of her teachers, and the optimism of the Golden Age, was the defining moment of Regina’s life.
Four years for a Bachelor’s in biology. Another four years in med school. Finished those exams too. Then residency training for another five years, fellowship for two. By the time she was a surgeon, slicing through skin and fat, cracking open bones and pulling together muscle, Regina was 35 years old and wondering if she had seen all that there was to see. Was something so complex as a human being naught more than a puppet of muscle and bone, cartilage and fat?
Calling it a sabbatical, she worked for Doctors Without Borders, and yet increasing the amount of misery and danger she encountered did not increase the value she saw in her work.
Seeking more demanding work, she applied for and became a physician for aeromedical operations, and yet pursuing longer work hours, more unstable environments did not make her brain buzz any more than normal.
What about other areas of medicine? Virology? Psychology? Physiology? Cancer research?
Desperate, oh so desperate, to capture the purpose of her youth. And yet, still, it all felt so myopic.
…
2035.
Coldwater exploded, opening a Pandora’s Box worth of S and A-rank villains upon the world. Heroes around the globe joined, granted the license to kill with prejudice. Casualties on both sides were immense, and it was only by the mercy of foresight that no cities were turned to dust in the aftermath. Whoever survived the hellscape of battle in a nuclear wasteland, however, succumbed to radiation sickness instead. And Regina, at 61 years of age, multiple accolades to her name and no spouse or children to inherit her fortune, had a front-row seat to the tragic aftermath.
A speedster, skin flayed off by infinitesimally small particles of glass. A strongman, organs turned to purple goop by a virus that didn’t exist until now. A mutant, his mutations lost in flame and his humanity naught more but a charred shadow. A Cyrokinetic, 60% of their body cancerous and the rest unrecognizable, left to die miserably, anonymously.
Regina had seen her fair share of war. Regina had seen her fair share of personal tragedy.
This did not shake her.
This reminded her.
This had happened 42 years ago.
“Hah.”
For how much longer did humans have, if children could be granted the power to wipe out cities on a whim? For how much longer did humans have, if animals could spontaneously generate entirely new species that possessed the power to wipe out armies? How many times did humanity luck out, having the heroes of the past choose to be heroes and not villains? How did she become so focused on humanity as individuals?
The purpose of her youth returned, tempered by decades of professional experience, and sharpened by the selfishness of old age.
And why, why oh why oh why had she anchored herself so firmly to merely relying on the medical knowledge of her peers?
Regina Moretti disinfected her scalpel, gazed upon the rows of dead and dying, and smiled the first smile that felt truly genuine. Most of them were beyond saving, but their deaths would improve her craft, would serve as the foundations of what would save their peers, their progeny. An unacceptable loss, but one that had value despite the fact.
Honed edge touched withered flesh, and the ichor of the gods spilled.
…
Regina Moretti is dead. She died at the age of 66, and the entirety of her assets transferred to the daughter no one knew she had.
Regina Moretti is the daughter of Regina Moretti. She was birthed out of wedlock and inherited her mother’s name out of respect for her acts of good.
Regina Moretti is under government scrutiny. She was responsible for developing Project DOUBLESTACK, before practical considerations caused it to be shelved in favor of militarized automation.
Regina Moretti is a collector of Leftovers. She earned the ire of the Leftover Ethics League for her undisguised beliefs that such creatures have less rights than normal animals.
Regina Moretti is evil.
Regina Moretti is HERO’s.
Why?
Because it’s practical.
| MISCELLANEOUS |
Regina Moretti funds multiple scholarships, with names as bland as ‘Moretti Scholarship #1’ and ‘Moretti Scholarship #2’. The money involved is real though, enough to pay for a domestic student’s tuition all the way up to their Masters…but the application format is irritatingly vague.
Regina Moretti, though unlicensed, is invited still to give guest lectures at conferences and universities. She rejects most of them, but for the ones that do get her attention…well, they usually turn out to be memorable.
Outside of her heroic obligations, Regina Moretti will heal someone free of monetary charge if they do not have any other options available. In exchange, these people sign a contract of confidentiality that, if breached, will have…unfortunate consequences.
In lieu of having children, Regina Moretti helps out at the Hero Leftover Zoological Gardens when she she’s feeling particularly lonesome. She doesn’t have any particular love for monsters…but they are fun to pick apart.
Regina is, was, and will always be a voracious reader, having always enjoyed a study room filled to the brim with textbooks. After the conversion of her entire personal collection into a set of PDFs kept in a reading tablet though, that room…has been closed for renovations.
[ RANKING ]
C (Pending Review)
[ POWERS ]
God’s Blood Once understood as a run-of-the-mill regeneration ability, God’s Blood is a power that allows Regina to convert her blood into organic matter, which then persists as such organic matter until she wills it to return to its original form. While she must be physically present for the conversion of blood into other organic matter, the reversal of that transformation can be done at any range. With the passage of time, cells that are made from God’s Blood would be eventually replaced by natural cells, but Regina still recommends that people be ‘properly’ healed after her initial treatment, in case the effects of God’s Blood expire with her death as well. Practically speaking, government officials would recommend the same. No need to give that snake bitch more hostages than absolutely necessary.
While the most common usage of God’s Blood is using it to heal, in which through the conversion of her blood Regina is able to go as far as to remake functioning organs and limbs for others, including parts of their brain, the categorization of ‘organic matter’ is a wide one, giving access to a variety of poisons and medicines that her blood can be converted to as well. Regina’s studies in animal and Leftover biology has, over the course of years, improved that particular aspect of her power’s range quite a bit, granting her more than just a little flexibility in combat scenarios as well.
Such transformations are pedestrian, however, compared to her true fascination and passion with God’s Blood: gene modification and induced mutation. Her Leftovers (lobotomized beforehand, of course) are her primary experiments in enhancing and testing the limits of the ‘natural’ form, while she applies the most stable of experiments onto herself, rewriting her genetic sequence with her blood and shedding her old form like a snake molts its scales. And if she perfected this…
…well, wouldn’t it be grand if even the flimsiest of her heroic peers could get the body of an Adonis without all of the effort involved?
Regina Moretti is 25 years old.
Regina Moretti sounds like an angel. A rotten one.
Regina Moretti possesses a slim figure that belies her strength, speed, and durability.
Regina Moretti has 20/20 vision and a discerning sense of taste.
Regina Moretti can photosynthesize, but really only uses it as a substitute for candy.
Regina Moretti produces blood thrice as quickly and efficiently as a normal human.
[ PHYSICAL STRENGTH ] ■■■■□□□□□□
4/10. Brute strength is surprisingly applicable in a variety of scenarios. Regina limits herself here though, to preserve her form.
[ AGILITY ] ■■■■■□□□□□
5/10. Regina has always found the silhouettes of top-ranking runners and lightweight martial artists beautiful. It matches the form she sculpted for herself as well, so it was an easy match.
[ INTELLIGENCE ] ■■■■■■■■□□
8/10. Talent, backed by hard work and drive, honed by experience and higher institutions, had made Regina one of the most well-known surgeons in the world back when she restricted herself to human techniques. God’s Blood would not be what it is without her intimate knowledge of the deck of cards that was the human body. And now, she’s begun turning that intelligence of hers onto other subjects.
[ DESTRUCTIVENESS ] ■■■□□□□□□□
3/10. While there are ways to cause property damage through creative usage of God’s Blood, Regina, isolated, can only do an amount of damage equal to that of a superior human specimen.
[ LETHALITY ] ■■■■■■□□□□
6/10. Anything that can be put down through biological means can be killed by her. But Regina won’t let any of them die.
[ ENDURANCE ] ■■■□□□□□□□
3/10. Even the toughest human body is still surprisingly fragile. This is currently one of the more annoying problems that Regina’s facing. Do you really need human skin to be considered human?
[ EFFICACY ] ■■■■■■■□□□
7/10. Near-instantaneous blood conversions for healing and poisoning, combined with the ability to induce mutations that increases the amount of blood generated makes for a much less limiting situation than what one would think. Coupled with the fact that she can use bags of her blood, and there’s rarely a situation where Regina wouldn’t be able to access her ability.
[ SKILLS ]
While there’s a sense that her studies as a doctor have become pointless now that her finesse with her power has expanded to the extent it currently has, doubly so when a good portion of her heroic peers possess tough bodies or self-regenerating capabilities, it's still good to save blood where she can. Why use a sledgehammer, when a rubber mallet would do?
She’s fairly comfortable piloting aircraft, from small bush planes to helicopters. No commercial plane experience means that Regina would probably still have to go parachuting if onboard a Boeing with a dead crew though.
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, a surprisingly cerebral grappling art, is something she’s dabbled a decade of her existence in, to get some level of close quarters combat skill. She has a gun though, one that she's relatively good at shooting with, so it’s rare that it’s ever come to that.
Regina fancies herself a good cook. All her dishes feel a bit too healthy though.
[ EQUIPMENT ]
A gun, modified to shoot hypodermic darts filled with her blood.
A backpack, containing medical equipment that’s constantly adjusted and replaced.
Four to eight 500ml bags of miscellaneous organic matter, to be reconverted to blood when necessary.
A flashlight, a tin can of gum drops, her smartphone, and a sharp knife.
Some preserved food Enough for two people to last a few days.
Roll of what seemed to be a mat of thick fur, likely for sleeping on Comfortable, but only one.
A heavy looking fur/cloth blanket. Cozy, warm and heavy. Good for sleeping in colder climates.
Communication horn Made from bone, hollow and likely used for communication.
A small pot and a ladle
Frozen canteen of water
Map of the Under roads. A map detailing some routes used by the Dwarves and Shadow Elves to travel in their subterranean homes. Its not entirely complete, but it at least shows the routes to the two most notable settlements and several other places of note. Unless you travel off the paths, you probably won’t get lost.
Dusk Ring A ring bearing the engraving of Shadow Elf royalty. One who carries it carries authority recognized by the crown of the Shadow Elves. Most who see the crest will be willing to show some manner of friendship and authority to the bearer.
“A pleasant gift is preferred over coinage upon matter’s end,” Isidore responded curtly, coyly. In this world on decline, with expectations of far-reaching travels, a monetary reward was only an anchor, after all. “I accept.” How much was 50 silver? Instinct told him that gold was valued higher than silver, and jewels were valued higher than gold, but perhaps they simply lacked gold veins here, or lacked the technology to mine them. His gaze briefly shot around the grand throne room, searching for signs of that golden luster. He should’ve asked Sorcha about the currency here in more depth or gathered that sort of information from Otti.
Well, it mattered not. After rolling it over his knuckles briefly, the dark-haired youth slipped the Dusk Ring onto his left pinky finger, clenching and unclenching his fist to get a sense as to its fit.
“A conversation,” he spoke, turning to face Nesherit once more, “with Rullphana will take the entirety of these three days. Continue, Prince.”
The moment Sofron’s wound closed while she pulled out her dagger was the moment that Klava knew she was fucked. Of course someone who diamond flames would have other tricks up his sleeve too. She just hadn’t thought he had an auto-healing card to play. It was a misplay then, but not one that she’d regret.
As the man’s hands clamped over her thigh, as words left his own mouth that she couldn’t properly hear, the melting snowwoman of an esper had only one word to say.
“Trigger.”
Sofron’s hands pushed through a sheet of snow as Klava teleported back down the hallway, landing in a crouched position atop the catering cart. Even through the adrenaline, the toll of flat-out tanking the full effects of Balewulf agonized her, enough so that it would hurt more to wipe the tears out of her eyes than to keep enduring the sting of tear gas. But the fight didn’t stop just on account of her pain, and the grind didn’t stop either. If it was up to Apollo to give Sofron his funeral rites, then it was up to Klava to make sure that Protector stopped wasting time on mooks and started getting the job done. Through blurred vision, she made out the silhouette of the armored hulk jumping down into the hole that the Cobra Gang had blasted and inched her way towards the hole as well. Her feet were burning now, smouldering against the ashes of the hallway, but those were all momentary pains, all temporary distractions. When she detransformed, everything would be fine. She was used to this.
She has become used to this.
Klava closed her eyes, trying to give them as much of a break as she could as she pressed her index finger between her brows. Wish, melody, chant, prayer, cause, effect.
Amidst gunfire beneath and the crackling all around, no words could be heard from her blistered lips.
But power accumulated regardless, and as Protector went for her killing strokes, Klava forced her eyes open, granting her a split-second of clarity before tears and smoke scarred her vision again. The beam, pure as moonlight reflecting off of freshly fallen snow, shot downwards, towards the only person who wasn’t dressed like a goon.
With most having had their meals and their initial conversations squared away, the attention of the students naturally turned towards the dance floor. Franz Steiner, despite being a rat, a murderer, and a scam, had put on a mean display of dance skills on the open space, somehow not looking out of place despite the lack of a lady in his arms. There was something admirable about the confidence of the man, undoubtedly, a self-assuredness that made others hesitant to be the second act…until Inti joined in with his own off-kilter interpretation of Occidental-Abya-Yalan fusion dance. That drew more than a couple chuckles out of the observers, most of them wondering who that kid even was, but while the Austrian’s dance was beautiful, the Aztec’s dance was compelling. And when a couple of shitfaced teens crashed into the dance floor following Inti’s routine, demanding perhaps one of the most hilariously satirical orchestrations of the 16th century?
Well, who wouldn’t skip out on an opportunity to dunk on those islanders with an outsized ego?
Brass instruments blared out brightly, echoing throughout the opera hall with the bombast of artillery, as more than a couple drunk Polymaths, in lieu of accidentally causing a catastrophe with their specializations, sang in off-kilter unison with Kalil instead, some with more vulgar interpretation of the lyrics than others. Above in the private boxes, those that fancied themselves more aristocratic sneered or giggled at the display, while those who sat at the dining tables at the back were forced to endure the cacophony they were surrounded in. Hearing damage may not be a complete possibility, but if that elephant-faced Egoist joined in, perhaps no one would be leaving the party without blown-out eardrums. Still, this amount of merry-making may have been expected out of Polymaths who suddenly found themselves free to do as they wished, to mingle with who they wished. So many of them had been tied to academies and parents, governments and wellwishers. But here in Bermuda, surrounded only by their peers? For many, this was the first true night of freedom that they’ve had, not to pursue their own designs, but to act out in socially irresponsible manners.
And with a crescendo of instruments and voices, the song ended, leaving them all breathless.
In that lapse of concentration, in the caesura of youthful restlessness, a man, beard well-trimmed and hair swept back, stepped out from the orchestra of mechanical musicians, his presence commanding, his features a handsome mix of Oriental and Occidental. A few shrill gasps sounded from those more musically-inclined amongst the Polymaths; one particularly-enthused lady even fainted on the spot. For he was Ling-Ling Zamloch, a violinist with international fame, whose talents had seen him perform all across the world. His right hand could control a bow with near-molecular precision, while his left hand could strike the strings at speeds that easily surpassed machinery, all whilst maintaining his humanity. And now, he was here? Some may have dreamt of it, some may have thought it possible, but none had expected that such a humanistic artisan of the musical crafts would be performing for them in-person!
For a moment, the middle-aged man stood, eyes lowered in heart-wrenching contemplation.
Seconds ticked by, the lights in the room slowly concentrating upon him.
And then, bathed in luminescence, he let out a rare smile.
“Would the real Franz Steiner please stand up?”
One finger crooked, beckoning the prodigy of prodigies, the Universal Genius who needed to sacrifice nothing to attain his Formulization.
It was never a challenge that the Austrian boy could back down from, and in Ling-Ling’s shadow emerged a second violin. Twin Stradivariuses, crafted of warm wood and polished by the hands of a master luthier. Seconds stretched on to eternity as two musicians tuned their instruments, the notes honing like the sharpening of blades before a battle, while one of the waiters assembled a stand upon which sheet music was provided to Franz.
‘Danse Macabre, an arrangement for two.’
The genius youth met the gaze of the untouched apex and in unison, they raised their violins.
mickilennial
Feyblue
Kronshi
Sky Blue
Majoraa
High Moon
Emberdawn2
VirgoDrago
