Teknopathetic — Roleplayer Guild

"You are but a s̔̽p͉̙ͯ̉͌ē̺͔̙͍͆̅ͅc̓̂ͥ̇͏ķ͓̲̝͒̾ͦ.̶̥ An infinitesimal waste of cosmic dust pressed into a humanoid figure and given breath, e͈̯̫̱̯̼ͤ͆x̛̝̗͕̖̞̙ͬͨ̓̅͌ṗ̘̲͑ͥẹ̟͍͈̗͛͢l̊͗̅͂͏l̓̋ͤ̉ͭ҉e̥͙̙̟̲d͙̈̊̈́̃ͩͥ into a world you cannot begin to fathom, and left to toil until your fleshy shell decays into the dust from which you came...
Yet even the most insignificant of spanners can stop the works of a w͍̲ͬ̋̉̇e̷̟̖̦̳̣̓̈̍l҉̻͈̲͈͓̯l̳͑ͩ̉͂͆̿͌-̩̰͖ͦ̈̍o̵̟̫̱̘̳íͮ̈̏ͤ́̈҉͇l̥̜̮̽̅ͪͥ̓ē̢͊ḍ͍̭̤̈́̔͒́̈̍ ̙̜͈̬̺̫ͯ̿̒ṃ̵͓̳̮̪̘̇͗ͦ̚ͅa̗̼͇̫͉ͥ́ċͩ̾̐̕h͑ͫi͉̫̻̾̄ͥn͕̬̘̭̯̹̊̀̾̌͘e̘̺̜̜̲ͨ̉̅̄ͭ͜.͔͕͈̗̣̺̉"

~I0-N4, 159th termination cycle

No one on Station C-9 truly knows who they are, let alone why they inhabit the unsettling pristine white corridors of their home. Perhaps they float through the cosmos on a collision course with the sun or even on the surface of a lush jungle planet uninhabitable by humans, yet no amount of external horrors could possibly hope to dissuade them from one unified goal: escape. It did not take the strongest of thinkers to realize that being trapped inside a sealed research station with only a half-dozen living creatures still clinging to their sanity and an exponentially-growing number of soulless husks is the fast track to a messy, horrific end.

Death, however, does not qualify as escape. It lurks, and it controls the quick-cloning process in the station; at best, they might find a way to overpower the machine just to have a chance to die without waking up in a puddle of gore in a maintenance closet, body warped and mind full of memories belonging to their past selves.

This is not a story of the triumph of the human spirit.
This is not a story of the evils of automation.
This is not a story of the good of man.

This is a story of hatred and survival.

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What is this story about?

Simple: You are a survivor. Roughly a half-dozen humans are trapped in a complex of uncertain make and locale in the distant future where technology is king and the woes of the past have been replaced with a much more pressing and terrifying reality. Fresh out of a brain scrubber, your crew must determine where they are and why they are trapped in the complex before deciding exactly how they are to survive in the long term. In the short term, they fear death only for the fact that their bodies will be replaced with new ones, with different strengths, weaknesses, and potential mutations. At first, you will likely want to carefully peruse the station and continue whatever jobs have been assigned to you, but as time wears on...

Beyond that, the plot is not set in stone. Overcoming the overseer of the complex will not be a straightforward task and there are many paths to stumble down. Perhaps the story will delve into the tenacity of the human spirit, the confusing matches made during a crisis, or even the horrors of mortals pushed to the point of performing unthinkable acts to secure their future.

That, of course, is up to you.

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Rules and Guidelines

Dyssomnia will be my co-GM for this roleplay. Assume all communication from my co-GM to be just as important and accurate as anything I would tell you.

Character slots are fairly limited. Unless a lot of very interesting people come pouring in, expect no more than five characters at any one time.

There are no character sheets, per se. Each character will be randomly generated by the AI at the time of their rebirth, based on parameters you suggest; all you have hard and fast control over is their gender, for convenience's sake. The exact details of a generated body are up to you, aside from what the machines have assigned to it.

After a character death, your character retains all their memories but may not be able to act on those memories - lacking a current understanding of rocket science makes building a rocket from memory an extremely unlikely occurrence.

Posting format will be third-person novel-style by default. This might change if the AI requests it. ("I0-N4 is only accepting queries in the format of a 1980s text parser from an adventure game," for example.)

There will be stretches of character isolation in which posts flip between your character and the GM (hey, that's me!) not unlike your own personal Choose Your Own Adventure book. This will be handy should other players be slow to post, but isolation will not make up the bulk of the roleplay without some very bizarre decisions.

All OOC queries of the AI will be answered as if the AI were actually responding, and thus might make little sense or be full of misinformation. Inquire at your own risk.

Be willing to die. Death will not be uncommon. This is a horror story and your character will come back shortly, so don't worry about being ejected from a roleplay due to death without due cause.

If a story element unsettles you on a personal level, please let me know via PMs and I will do my best to avoid offending you in such a way in the future.

Play your randomly-generated body to the best of your ability and don't be afraid to embellish beyond the basics given to you. Describe appearance, quirks, and mannerisms to your heart's content.

This list is subject to change.

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How do I join?

Joining is as simple as making a post asking if all slots are full -- chances are, they won't be immediately -- and if given the go-ahead, you will be asked to provide an extremely small blurb on what you would like your character to be, in terms of gender and a vague snippet of history, background, or skill along with a suggestion on a starting point. If you wish for gender and other assets to be fully randomized, simply denote such in your request. For example...

Example said I would like to play a female survivor who has undergone extreme personal trauma and is talented in the sciences. Ideally, I would like to begin somewhere befitting her career.

That's extremely basic, of course. Feel free to go a little outside of the box on character requests, although they will surely not be met with 100% accuracy. Anything from maintenance skill, tinkering habits, a dangerous lack of self-preservation, an extensive criminal record, or even something as crippling as an extreme phobia of automatons are all interesting hooks that are more than acceptable for the basic character premise.
After you have been given your tiny chunk, write about your character! They will be given an official designation (DMW-001, perhaps. This does not at all stand for Dead Man Walking) but you are free to let them choose their own name and write about their description to your heart's content. Anything else is up to you, such as habits, quirks, likes, and so on; the only thing you will not be able to write about initially is your character's backstory. That must be discovered first!
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Current Characters

Deciphering Your Stat Block! [+]

Most of the information contained within is fairly self-explanatory, but there are two sections with numbers and vague allusions to a character's BIOMETRICS and SKILL-SPEC. Put simply, this is a basic idea of your character's strengths, weaknesses, and skills.

For Biometrics, attributes rank and are defined as follows:
LOW (1): Weak, sickly, unathletic, or simply a little slow. On the grand scale of human average, Low is unimpressive but not disabling, simply a moderate disadvantage.
AVERAGE-LOW (2): Baseline human average. The expected level of performance for a standard unmodified human in all aspects of life.
AVERAGE-HIGH (3): Human average developed to its near-peak. Born without special attributes, but the character has either been gifted with or trained to a level of competence above human average without becoming truly mold-breaking.
HIGH (4): Born with a gift and honed to a fine point, humans with a 4-rank attribute are far and above the human average, not unlike a great athlete or thinker of the Pre-Station era.
PARAGON (5): Nigh-impossible to attain. A human born a Paragon is the literal embodiment of perfection in their appropriate field and might be matched one in a billion times but never outdone. Capable of truly impressive and outlandish feats within the realms and rules of reality.

For Skill-Spec, skills are ranked and explained as such:
UNTRAINED - UNSKILLED: The character is truly and wholly clueless in this field. They literally do not know this is a possible field to study and it is extremely rare to reach adulthood with a skill of this level.
UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE: Basic human competence. Casual knowledge of any particular skill but never truly tested or trained in any particular manner.
UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE: A hobbyist, enthusiast, or other non-professional. Knows their way around a skill or career, but not the finer points.
UNTRAINED - HIGH COMPETENCE: The hobbyist turned near-professional. Those who have reached this level without proper training are either extremely well-versed, prodigies, or simply have a knack. It is entirely possible for a high competence hobbyist to match professionals in certain portions of their field, but it is rare to have 100% synchronous knowledge between the two.
TRAINED - UNSKILLED: Professionally trained in a field but never put to the test. Security members straight out of Mem-Academy, for example. Lots of hypothetical knowledge but little actual experience.
TRAINED - SKILLED: A true professional in their field, with full training and plenty of experience.
PARAGON: Unsurpassed knowledge in their field, either natural or otherwise. MacGuyver would be envious of their ability to produce results from the aether.

What is the EXPUNGED skill? [+]

AM-5 ((corneredbliss)) [+]

System Online
Welcome back, AM-5!

The green light at the top-center of the screen lit up just as the greeting faded, leaving the digitalized reflection of its recipient and her surroundings in its wake. Fitted overalls of a worn green shade could be seen in a bundle at the foot of her bed, as well as her brown work boots, gloves, and the belt that her smaller tools called home. The rest of the room was relatively neat, void of any visible personal items.

Directly in front of the camera was the owner herself, standing at her height of 5'6" in a plain white cotton shirt and grey pajama pants. There were a few beats of silence, during which the fair skinned female lowered herself into the swivel chair while gathering the damp strands of her shaggy, dark copper hair into a loose bun on her head. Her expression was somewhat melancholy as she leaned forward onto the desk with her elbows and ran her hands down her face. "I wish you would just call me Amelie," she quietly grumbled into them when they paused around her mouth and nose, leaving her round hazel eyes free to stare at herself in the recording.

Immediately her gaze went to her slender forearms, where it lingered for a minute or two before it drifted upwards towards the ceiling, accompanied by a long exhale of breath. Her hands finally fell from her face, and when she spoke again, her Welsh accent was unmistakable. "They asked me again today." She was chewing on her lower lip, her expression suggesting that she was reliving the memory. "…I still couldn't do it," she said, shaking her head slightly in disappointment. "I couldn't even get my legs into the damned space. Gerard keeps telling me it's alright and that he doesn't mind it at all, but… He's way bigger than I am."

Whether she was aware of it or not, the fingertips of her right hand were trailing along her left forearm, where there were pink lines running down its length, as if she had been scratching at the skin earlier that day. "I just hate that I can't even do my job properly. Someone else has to do it for me." It was childish, really. Who else in the station would have been afraid to slide into a harmless vent?

And suddenly, she blurted out: "I mean, I'm twenty-three years old. You'd think I'd have gotten over it by now!"

Blinking, surprised at the sudden outburst, Amelie looked back at herself on the screen. The corners of her mouth had turned downwards into a frown, which only deepened when she glanced down to see that she had dug her nails into her arm again. She removed them to find a pinprick's amount of blood bubbling up. The mechanic stared at the clot for a moment, willing her frustration to cool down; yelling at the computer screen wasn't going to help her slide into the stupid vent.

Clearing her throat, as if announcing the change in subject, she continued in a collected, yet casual manner. "The real problem is, why do the panels keep getting loose down there?" A short, breathy chuckle escaped her as she reached for the roll of bandages that stood guard at the corner of the desk. Even though there wasn't much bleeding, she would've hated to get it on her white bed sheets.

"In other news…" She ripped the bandage with her teeth and replaced it back in its corner before finally addressing the camera head on, one hand reaching up to her face to scratch the side of her nose. "I beat Maybel in darts for the fifth time this week," she continued, shrugging her shoulders. "That's pretty much it." There was another silent pause, before she nodded her head, repeated, "That's pretty much it," and proceeded to press the End button.

AM-5's Current Statistics [+]

PR-451 ((Octavian)) [+]

"Did Jim send you?"

The room is swathed in darkness; there is the discernible stench of smoke and traces of human filth. The shape huddled in a chair in the far corner taps a booted foot against the dirty ground. Tap, taptap, tap, tap. Sometime later he rises - you estimate a height of about 5'10" - and stretches, arms unfurling outward in a theatrical, catlike manner. The body is thin, but wiry with muscle; red-rimmed brown eyes swivel suspiciously in your direction - they are the unremarkable shade of mud, graced with a manic gleam, bloodshot. A bony hand palms his shaved head, fingertips tracing listlessly the swirls of blue tattoos running about the skin of his skull. "Jim sent you didn't he?" He repeats; the voice is gruff, throaty and surprisingly baritone. He pauses; a pointed chin inclines briefly to the left. "What did you mean you didn't send no one?" Silence. One second, two seconds, three. "I told you I already took care of him. He ain't gonna be a problem no more."

The eyes return to you.

"Don't worry 'bout Jim, he's an asshole. Likes to play games." He extends a hand. "You can call me - " He pauses, glares daggers at you; sucks a mouthful of saliva and spits loudly to the side. "No, not PR-451. What the hell is that, anyway? No, no. I'm Craig. That's my name." The accent - American. Craig scratches the hollow of his right cheek, skin stretched tautly over high, pronounced cheekbones. He keeps a lingering gaze on you - a hawkish, wary stare. You take his hand and shake - his grip is firm and his fingers close on yours with unrelenting force, like a vice. You pull away abruptly once those grimy nails start to really dig in. He reads your expression and grins up at you, a hoarse chuckle against the back of his throat. "You're real twitchy, aren't ya?" A rat scuttles into the room's bare glow, then slinks back into the dark.

"There's one thing I'm gonna tell you, so listen close. Real close." He hisses. "Don't trust 'em. Don't trust me." He hacks a laugh, wheezes. "I got thirty years experience in the lyin' department. You?"

You start to back away, toward the exit. The light flickers and you see the rest of the tattoos spanning his body; numbers, pictures. A death's head, hellfire, a series of lines which looked like they'd been scratched in with a blade. Old scars, raised ridges of damaged flesh. A hand raises and performs a mocking little wave; you see a bracelet dangling, light sparking off its precious stones. An urge arises to question him of its origins, but you decide it is better not to. The hand lowers; the fingers pluck insouciantly at a tarnished silver earring. The cold eyes continue to trail you keenly, and for a moment you think you catch a glimpse of weakness, the minutest smidgen of self-doubt. But then it is gone, and the strange man begins to hum a lilting tune, a mangled variation of 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider'. His foot has resumed its tapping.

As the door slams shut, the last ring of his voice bursts through. "Aw, leavin' so soon? Well, Jim says bye."

PR-451's Current Statistics [+]

TRT-377 ((Sadko)) [+]

The man lie low in his room. His notebook was torn apart by it's own creator. It withered away because it's own god destroyed it with his overwhelming and terrifying creativity. The man dug up dirt from his nails, and flicked them off to the corner of the room. A strange creature buzzed around and bumped into the lightbulb. Light flickered like fire, danced like snakes. The what seemed to be a mechanic fly fell down, and it's noises died off.

The mind crippling work poured into the lifeform which was no bigger than a candy died off as quick as it was given birth. The giant, huddled before the strange machine with it's lights flickering from blue to orange, stroked his shabby, brown hair. Beep. He felt a little uncomfortable, edged a little closer. A small glance at his pinky made him turn back in an instant. "An accident?" He spoke to himself, but adressed to the machine recording him. "No, haha. This is the jokes of my fellows over there back at security division. Especially that brute, Maxim." He spoke in a funny eastern european accent, his swollen, tired eyes pacing around the room. "They didn't throw this mess on the floor on accident, that is because they mock me."

"But I refused to clean it, said they should help me out instead of playing this stupid game, and in response.." he needed not to explain the aftermath, just looked at his bandaged finger. A ragged sigh scattered across the dimly lit room. He stared at a strange contraption of sorts that he kept innovating. He started creating the strange thing some time ago, mostly out of boredoom. The only thing he was conversing with was this stupid, recording machine. And he needed a friend, oh how he wanted someone to help him out. His whole life was working, sleeping, eating, and being picked on. He slowly felt the meaning of life fade away from him. It was slowly turning him paranoid, depressed. But he found his hyperactivity when it came to making the strange contraption. He felt he was making a friend. The rational thoughts left him after he finished working, all he would do is create and create and create. It was his small world he loved with all his heart. And for as he felt like a king, he began to question the reality.

He began thinking.

TRT-377's Current Statistics [+]

XM-1 ((blackensign)) [+]

XM-1's Current Statistics [+]

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Other Information

Current backstory and plot [+]

Credits and acknowledgments [+]

Roleplay inspired by... [+]

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