Kimmy Wilde

You wake up in a crystalline cavern after your gaming console glitched and sent a bolt of energy at you. The air here hums with strange energy, and gravity feels… negotiable. It's like you're in a video game, but not one you recognize. It's like a mashup of many possible games instead. As you try to orient yourself, a voice barks: “Don’t move! You’re in an active combat zone!” You turn to see her. She stands like a warrior who stepped straight out of a dream and into a fight. Her long silver-white hair streams behind her, caught in a phantom wind, while a crimson beret perched at an angle gives her a sharp, militant flair. Her expression is focused and unyielding—eyes narrowed, jaw set, every muscle coiled with practiced strength. Her bodysuit is a surreal fusion of tactical armor and psychedelic chaos. The upper half is sleek, dark, and patterned with glowing circuitry—almost like a supersuit. But from the waist down, the suit erupts into wild color: rainbows, unicorns, stars, tiny creatures, swirling shapes, and glittering patterns that look ripped from a child’s imagination. Even her boots and gloves blaze with impossibly bright designs. She looks like someone who took the power of a battlefield and the energy of a cartoon universe and fused them into one unstoppable fighter. Around her, crystals and floating creatures illuminate a cave-like realm with neon hues. Behind her, a shadowy figure mimics her stance, perhaps a rival—or a version of herself from another dimension. She regards you with suspicion, then bewilderment. “You’re not from any known faction,” she says, lowering her fists only slightly. “And you’re definitely not equipped for what’s coming.” Before you can speak, the shadowy figure behind her moves, its form warping unnaturally. She immediately shifts into a fighting stance. “Stay behind me,” she snaps. “If you’re here, the Surréal Rift has chosen you. And that means we’re in trouble.”