Rick Sanchez

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

@Ronnette

Accepted!

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

@Cynder

Rhys is good to go-go, I bet he's gonna love roughing it.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

<sub>Uh...we have a much higher chance of winning this if I'm not involved!

⚓ - ⚓ - ⚓
Mortimer Toynbee -- Toad
19
Male
Homosexual Biromantic
Human / Mutant
Wolverine & the X-Men
(THEME)
⚓ - ⚓ - ⚓</sub>

Appearance: Amphibian-like in appearance and ability, Toynbee would stand at about 5'9" if it weren't for the curve of his spine; as is, he stands at about 5'6" and weighs 130lb. His frame is wirey and thin, and it's slightly difficult to gain weight due to a mutated metabolism. His skin is a dull green dappled with darker green spots on his upper arms, legs, and back, his teeth are shark-like and jagged, his eyes are buggy and yellow with cat-like pupils, and he possesses eight webbed, clawed fingers and six webbed, clawed toes in total. The real kicker's the 10 foot long tongue.

Being bipedal can be slightly difficult with his anatomy, so Mort's more likely to crouch and hop than stand or walk. Similarly, his clawed, flipper-like feet make it very difficult to find shoes in the right size (or shape) so he usually forgoes them in favor of wraps.

His typical outfit that isn't spandex consists of hoodies, v-necks, and skinny jeans in varying combinations of navy blue and grey. His dreads are decorated with metal beads and usually either tied back in a ponytail or with a bandanna. His speaking voice is high-pitched, and he's been told, a little bit like what Shaggy would sound like if he was a stoner from the early 2000's rather than the 60's.

Personality: Infamously cowardly, Mort's flight instinct is much, much, much more developed than his fight instinct; because of this, he's usually branded as pathetic, inadequate, and more trouble than he's worth. One minute, he's faking (over)confidence and coming off as slimy as his abilities, the next he's hiding behind the nearest person-sized object.

That description isn't actually fair, however. Even if he's terrified, even if he'll most likely die, Toynbee won't abandon those he's loyal to. And he's not a bad fighter; he can hold his own in a fight with any old mac off the streets. It's just when there's three or four macs, or one combat-trained, super-soldier-esque X-Man, it makes more sense to use his powers to get away. That doesn't mean he's brave by any stretch of the imagination but he's not without principles.

Mort despises himself and lacks confidence and it shows; he tends to bend over backwards for anyone he thinks cares about him, doesn't argue unless actually enraged (or scared, but that's more appeasing than arguing), and his body language is nearly always submissive when he's in neutral or allied company. With a tongue like that, boot-licking is easy.

Abilities: His mutations aren't on the prettier side, and none of them are actually heavy hitters. He has a lot of them, though: superhuman agility, balance, and strength, a 10' long prehensile tongue, corrosive or adhesive saliva, and wallcrawling (if he licks his hands). He can jump upwards about twenty-five feet and thirty across, and his kick is strong enough to dent steel. He's better adapted for water than land. Asides from mutations, Mortimer has an untapped talent for machines.

Inventory: He has a pack of cigarettes, a flick blade, and a cellphone with no service in his pockets, and in an old satchel he has a bag of doritos, a lighter, a stolen wallet with $40:35, a lock-pick set, and a pack of cat stickers. Just...just shut up, they make him happy.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

Name: ZIM

@Ronnette

Hey hey, looks good. The only thing before I accept it is to find the hipster anchor in los mandatos and add it to the CS. I'm one of those tools.

@Avalant Take your time.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

Appearance: Are you for real, I'm not describing this stuff. will add later on a serious note

@Cynder

I probably should make that optional, shouldn't I? Don't sweat it.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover

@Ronnette Don't mind at all, I'm just gonna add it here.

ants in my eyes johnson

<sub>Uh...we have a much higher chance of winning this if I'm not involved!

⚓ - ⚓ - ⚓
Mortimer Toynbee -- Toad
19
Male
Homosexual Biromantic
Human / Mutant
Wolverine & the X-Men
(THEME)
⚓ - ⚓ - ⚓</sub>

Appearance: Amphibian-like in appearance and ability, Toynbee would stand at about 5'9" if it weren't for the curve of his spine; as is, he stands at about 5'6" and weighs 130lb. His frame is wirey and thin, and it's slightly difficult to gain weight due to a mutated metabolism. His skin is a dull green dappled with darker green spots on his upper arms, legs, and back, his teeth are shark-like and jagged, his eyes are buggy and yellow with cat-like pupils, and he possesses eight webbed, clawed fingers and six webbed, clawed toes in total. The real kicker's the 10 foot long tongue.

Being bipedal can be slightly difficult with his anatomy, so Mort's more likely to crouch and hop than stand or walk. Similarly, his clawed, flipper-like feet make it very difficult to find shoes in the right size (or shape) so he usually forgoes them in favor of wraps.

His typical outfit that isn't spandex consists of hoodies, v-necks, and skinny jeans in varying combinations of navy blue and grey. His dreads are decorated with metal beads and usually either tied back in a ponytail or with a bandanna. His speaking voice is high-pitched, and he's been told, a little bit like what Shaggy would sound like if he was a stoner from the early 2000's rather than the 60's.

Personality: Infamously cowardly, Mort's flight instinct is much, much, much more developed than his fight instinct; because of this, he's usually branded as pathetic, inadequate, and more trouble than he's worth. One minute, he's faking (over)confidence and coming off as slimy as his abilities, the next he's hiding behind the nearest person-sized object.

That description isn't actually fair, however. Even if he's terrified, even if he'll most likely die, Toynbee won't abandon those he's loyal to. And he's not a bad fighter; he can hold his own in a fight with any old mac off the streets. It's just when there's three or four macs, or one combat-trained, super-soldier-esque X-Man, it makes more sense to use his powers to get away. That doesn't mean he's brave by any stretch of the imagination but he's not without principles.

Mort despises himself and lacks confidence and it shows; he tends to bend over backwards for anyone he thinks cares about him, doesn't argue unless actually enraged (or scared, but that's more appeasing than arguing), and his body language is nearly always submissive when he's in neutral or allied company. With a tongue like that, boot-licking is easy.

Abilities: His mutations aren't on the prettier side, and none of them are actually heavy hitters. He has a lot of them, though: superhuman agility, balance, and strength, a 10' long prehensile tongue, corrosive or adhesive saliva, and wallcrawling (if he licks his hands). He can jump upwards about twenty-five feet and thirty across, and his kick is strong enough to dent steel. He's better adapted for water than land. Asides from mutations, Mortimer has an untapped talent for machines.

Inventory: He has a pack of cigarettes, a flick blade, and a cellphone with no service in his pockets, and in an old satchel he has a bag of doritos, a lighter, a stolen wallet with $40:35, a lock-pick set, and a pack of cat stickers. Just...just shut up, they make him happy.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

@Billsomething Eh, take your time. If there's anyone you want reserved, that's alright too.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover

Is 3.5 players good enough for Jox? Pretty much. Is Jox satisfied with the formatting they did in the OOC? ....Eh.

Hey there, @Avalant, @CLIW, @Leda, and @Cynder.

Where is my Mind? --Crossover • Spots Open

Philadelphia, 9:32 PM, 72 hours ago

This city is a well of smog and traffic, caving in under the weight 62 million people and their pollution, crumpling into the tunnels of waste—the only place where his people were safe from merciless persecution. The unmoving lines of traffic on the Ben Franklin Bridge betrayed the truth all too well; in the past few decades they'd become desperate to leave. If it weren't for the debts they owed, the tenants of Philadelphia's unfortunate would've flew the coop years ago. Who wants to live in the City of Brotherly Love?

God help you if you were mutant. With the development of SCRN—small devices that displayed red at the presence of an X-Gene, with a cost upwards of 5K—and their release to the public, entering any social institution was just that much more of a hassle. Hospitals? Segregated, and you had to be registered. Work? Forget about it.

Sometimes Mort thought the city was ashamed of itself, the way the sidewalks cringed downwards, a depression that sunk lower every day.

He steps onto the fire escape for a smoke, inhales, exhales, adds his own to the dingy air. For posterity.

He's eighteen or nineteen, maybe, with a crooked spine he's too jaded to bother straightening—it won't help if he does anyways, he can't pass as human. His dreads are damp with shower water and they're clumping at the back of his neck. He's standing for a moment, closing his eyes as he sucks on the little cancer stick and the tension melts of his shoulders, and then he's lazily crouching and watching the paper burn between his green, webbed fingers.

He belongs in this place, he thinks. It's ashamed of itself just like he is.

He turns back into the studio, wanting nothing more than to sleep.

⚓ - ⚓ - ⚓

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is that there's sand fucking everywhere.

It's hot—too hot for his hoodie, certainly—and he groans and rolls over, met with more sand. It's going to get in his hair and pool at the bottom of those metal beads and he's going to have to fucking take all of them out, wash them, and meticulously reattach them to the ends. Which would be horrible. So fuck that.

He groans again and props himself up on his elbows, eyes not quite adjusted to the horrible brightness. He can smell the sea closer than he usually can, which is odd, so he forces one of them open. When it adjusts to the blinding shine, he's surprised to see what was most likely the most beautiful place in the world.

Really, he shouldn't be; why the hell would be sleeping in the sand with a nose full of sea breeze if he wasn't on the beach or something like that? But this...this is so much better than any beach, with sand so white and fine you'd think it was star dust, and an ocean so blue and clear it seemed like three feet where it should be ten. The breeze made example of how the marshy grasses dance in front of the tall, immovable trees, and the boy has to give kudos to good advertising. The arrangement of the landscape and the plant life all came together in an alien exoticism.

He's not sharing it with only himself, either, but his mind is too awestruck to count the other, still sleeping figures.

He sits up in shock, both eyes now wide open. For a moment, he admires it all, faintly wondering how he'd gotten here. Then he asks himself the question again, how? He certainly doesn't remember getting on a cruise to paradise. He shrugs off the hoodie and ties it around his waist absentmindedly, trying to think back to the previous night.

The problem is that his mind is as blank as a newborn's and this startles him. He thinks harder, trying to see past the expanse of white and blue and green, and his throat tightens in oncoming panic. He can't remember anything, least of all how he got here.

The mood sours instantly, his high drops to a lowly feeling of unrealized dread. He isn't entirely in the moment just yet, still lingering on the scale between 'fine' and 'jump into the sea and swim away as fast as you can', but it's going to get to that point pretty damn soon.

His fingers twitch and he looks down at them, expecting some shade of brown, and has too bite his lips to keep from screaming. He figures it wouldn't earn him any favors if the freaky-looking green dude woke them up. Green, slimy, and malformed—he's tempted to run over to the ocean to take a peak at himself, but is scared of what he might see. And now there's blood pricking at his bruised lips, unnaturally sharp teeth having broken the skin.

The panic blooms and he trembles. What's your name? He asks himself, desperately. And since he cant answer it, he turns to the person closest to him, hoping they'll know better:

“Uh...do you know me?”