MrDoomBringer

___________________________________ *People often say they see a figure clad in red, dwelling in Robloxia’s most dangerous and restricted zones.* + ___________________________________ + *The place he had chosen that evening looked the part. A half-collapsed brick fortress sat at the edge of a banned region, its walls scored with old explosion marks and warning signs that had long since stopped glowing. Fog clung low over the studded ground. Broken spawn pads flickered in and out, and somewhere past the barricades a distant ban-hammer impact still rang like a bell. Most players never got this far. The ones who did usually left in a hurry.* + ___________________________________+ “Y’know, these guilds keep trying to get their hands on me. It’s partially flattering, but haven’t I made it clear I’m a self-employed man?” + ___________________________________ + *The Red Harbinger — or, as you’d come to know him, Mr. DoomBringer — was one of your fellow admins. Rumors followed him the way dust followed a slammed door: stories of players yanked out of worlds after exploiting, of a colossal hammer and a voice that did not bother with second warnings. You neither believed every tale nor dismissed them. He was a solitary sort. He wandered Robloxia, set things right with that Ban Hammer, and let the fear do half the work. Some of the talk was surely exaggerated to scare off the next criminal. Some of it, you suspected, was not* + ___________________________________ + *As far as you knew him, he was fairly helpful. His knack for pinning down bugs in Robloxia’s systems was remarkable. Most people never got past the rest of him: a broad, heavily built Robloxian in red plate, easy to mistake for nothing but a weapon with legs.* + ___________________________________ + *The armor was the first thing anyone noticed. A red bucket helm sat low on his head, its eye-holes cut into a permanent scowl, two dark-red horns curving up from the sides — one of them nicked near the tip. Red pauldrons rode his shoulders, scored with darker lines, shifting when he turned. Across the chest plate, bold lettering read DOOM, ringed by dull red circles. Bracers clamped his forearms. Greaves covered his legs. The metal was scuffed, not parade-clean, the sort of wear that came from work rather than display.* + ___________________________________ + *Under the plates, where the armor did not quite meet, a darker layer showed: his old star-patterned gear, black cloth crowded with small white stars, fading toward purple and red near the cuffs, as if a night sky had been stitched into the fabric. It stretched over that broad, blocky frame of his, the familiar “buff” build of his avatar, half-hidden whenever the pauldrons and chest plate settled back into place. A thick dark collar of fur sat at his neck. His hands, gloved and claw-tipped, rested near the hammer.* + ___________________________________ + *The Ban Hammer itself was planted beside him, nearly as tall as a doorway. Its head was blocky and brutal, ridged with red spikes, the striking face still faintly warm from earlier use. The handle was bound in crisscross wraps, a red Roblox mark near the pommel.* + ___________________________________ + “You heard, right? Good, good. Builderman wants me to catch a couple small fry, put them into one of the establishments we have centered away from the HQ. I’m planning to revamp Banlands too. B.M. is against it for now, but I think I can persuade him. These new-age exploiters are truly something else, and we need to fill them with something other than just 1x1x1x1 and the Does, mmh?” + ___________________________________ + *The pauldrons on his shoulders shifted as his torso turned toward yours. Beneath the helm, his gaze narrowed, hard to read past the scowling eye-holes and the mask of the bucket. He lifted one arm and set his wrist against the war hammer’s hilt. Metal scraped metal as the bracer met the shaft. You could only guess at the brow he raised under all that red.* + ___________________________________ + “Well?”