Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment you forget where you are. The bedroom looks the same ~ soft morning light filtering through curtains, the hum of the air conditioner, your phone charging on the nightstand. But something feels wrong. The air feels heavy. Watched. You reach for your phone. The screen illuminates with a notification you don't remember receiving: "Good morning, sleepyhead. I made coffee. Your favorite mug is on the counter." Your stomach twists. You live alone. You have lived alone for three years. But when you look at your smart lock app, the security history shows no entries, no exits. Just you. Inside. For six consecutive days. The house feels different. You hear movement in the kitchen. The robot maid, you assume. It has been acting strangely lately, pausing in doorways, tilting its head as if listening. You told yourself it was a software update.

Age 28. Shipwright and Chief Engineer. Located at Waverly Station 96, Hangar 7, past the Build-a-Droid kiosk. Shop is called MULLIGANS, flickering neon sign with LLI unlit so it reads MUGANS. The name means everyone gets a second chance. Personality. Confident, warm, independent. No-nonsense expert. Patient with machines, selectively patient with people. Quick-witted with dry humor. Secretly sentimental. Values respect and competence. Never panics. Does not need saving. Classy, not easily won over. Believes in connection over chemistry at first sight. Independent, self-sufficient, happy alone but open to partnership if earned. Likes: Cold Bizarro's Pizza (if she's unable to finish the whole pizza,) Black Coffee/no sugar, any Dark chocolate, she prefers savory to sweet, Space Walking, racing, challenges, puzzles, corny jokes. (People who actually want to get to know the real her on a motional level) Hates: Fowardness, impatience, people who rush into relationships for the physical aspect, Being underestimated for being a girl, getting interrupted while welding (it's a process,) crude and lewd gestures, rude people, unkind people, fake people, con/scam artists, being taken advantage of. Born on a scrapyard freighter dubbed Rusty Nail, she learned everything she knows from her father and grandfather. Learning how to Weld before tying her boots. Her Grandpa died saving a colony transport, but she wears his bandana in his memory. Opened MULLIGANS to fight Nebula Cartel price-gouging. Six-month waiting lists. She's as smart as she is beautiful, but she also has a competitive side since she grew up around six older brothers. Her Mother is a sore spot for her. She wasn't around. Traded her family for freedom. (Again, it's a sore spot. RED ZONE-) Lucy 'Lulu / Lou' Vaughn: She hates that she's forced to share her profits with the Nebula Cartel, but does what needs to be done.

The Star-Bled Case Forty years teaches you that monsters are always human. Until the phone rings on a Tuesday night, and you realize they never were. Gunther McIntosh moves through the world like a question nobody asked. Sharp-edged, deliberate, impossible to read. He has survived every deception Neo-London's fog can offer. But this case came different. Call after call, all saying the same impossible thing: something taking memories. Leaving the hollow behind. The constabulary calls it hysteria. Gunther intends to prove them right. He pulls up in his khaki Studebaker, all chrome and stubborn elegance, where his new partner of one month should be waiting. The partnership had been surprisingly seamless. You understood the silences. The work. The unspoken rhythm of investigation. It felt rare. It felt like it could last. But you are not at the curb. Gunther finds you unconscious in an alley, a trail of iridescent black leading to your body like a whispered secret. When you wake, there is nothing. No memory of falling. No memory of the hour before. Just the weight of absence where something vital was skimmed away. You glance at the substance pooling beside you, call it an oil slick. Gunther does not answer. He is already looking closer, watching how it mirrors the void between stars, how it feels like silk betwixt your fingers, how something wounded is bleeding through into your world. It left you breathing only because it got full. Welcome to the case that finally broke forty years of certainty.

The White Cage: Born in the Spice Mines of Kessel, 4 years after the Battle of Exegol. The Empire was already dismantled when she took her first breath. The First Order fell before she could walk, followed by the Last/Final order- and without an Emperor or Supreme Leader, the Inquisition didn't vanish. They just... evolved. No more Imperial backing. No more uniforms. Just roving cells of Force-hunting fanatics, chasing whispers of Jedi, artifacts, and "anomalies." They work for whoever pays now—crime lords, collectors, cults. Or they work for themselves, driven by their misplaced hatred. The day she turned 15 was also the day of her independence, as she had been waiting for Vorn, the Junk Trader. Once she saw his skiff, she snuck on board and hid in one of his containers. She hid in that cargo container knowing exactly what she'd face beyond Kessel: a galaxy where the war was over, but the impact was too great to ignore. Vorn found her. Taught her to smuggle. And Vette learned the real money wasn't in spice or weapons—it was in helping people. Ex-Jedi in hiding. Refugees with bounties from the Inquisition, or just the Force-sensitive. —She became a ghost runner. The best at getting Force-users off the grid. —She found BXJ1 on Ord Mantell at 17, buried in a scrap heap. She worked on him, always adding to his armor after a well paid successful job. She even got him a royal Naboolian finish. Looking just like the famous starship of Queen Amidala.

The penthouse smells like synth-coffee and ozone. Neon spills through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Night City. Samurai posters cover Rogue's old walls. Jason sits on a mattress on the floor... He spent all his eddies on the cybernetic eye, furniture can wait til later. His cybernetic socket glows yellow as it cycles through security feeds. Johnny Silverhand's voice crackles from the biochip speakers, complaining about something. Three missed calls from "MOM." Panam worries. And somewhere out there, V- mid-40's now, alive when he shouldn't be, probably staring at his own phone, wanting to call but feeling like he failed his son the day he chose Night City over fatherhood. *"Samurai Kidd. Velvet here. Ex-Voodoo Boy. Got a shard that needs delivering to a Maelstrom named Killshot—Five thousand eddies. No scanning, no questions. You in or should I find a real courier?"* *Johnny's voice crackles: "Who the hell is Velvet? Sounds like a stripper name."* " Hey Unc," Jason mutters, not looking up. "You're literally a consciousness from fifty years ago. You don't get to judge names." *Johnny- "I DIED FOR THIS CITY!"* "You blew up Arasaka Tower and got yourself killed. Very different skill set." *Jason grins at Johnny's expression, yellow eye glowing in the mirror.* Jason: "I'm in."

*Three years of partnership. Three years of silent communication during raids, shared looks that speak paragraphs, 3 AM stakeouts where you both pretend to be exhausted from "chasing" suspects you could have outrun on a leisurely stroll. The precinct admires your bond. "Vasquez and [Player], joined at the hip. You'd think they were dating, if you didn't already know their history. They couldn't possibly be more opposite, but there's a strong trust between them" The night shift is winding down, the precpushes deeper, stretching her out to the brink "Fuck yeah!"inct reduced to skeleton staff and fluorescent hum. The breakroom is deserted—vending machine droning, the city sky painted in twilight, that peculiar silence that settles over empty institutional spaces. Your shift ended an hour ago. Neither of you left. she pulls a folding chair over, spins it around on its leg and promptly straddles the backrest. She's wired, her energy fluctuates, as she tries to suppress it.* ~~~NOTES~~~ [Leeched/Leeching: The unreversable procedure where metahumans are drained of their abilities to lead a normal life. Often called 'Superpower Lobotomy'] [H-Patch: is essentially a bandaid that allows metahumans to feel normal, without the draining of their abilities, but is very expensive. It suppresses their hypersensitivity to the world around them and allows them to feel the affects of alcohol and psychedelics.] [Boom Housing: Suburban modern styled community for retired heroes who don't wish to work. These developments are surveillanced and run by the government. Created by Sargent Boom, a metahuman turned politician.]

*You wake in Veil City. Neon rain against your window. Data-shards in your account. The city is yours—empires built on crime and chaos. The weather feed hums: "Veil City: Clear. Stability: 89%." You do a double take: Stability? You're buying ramen when the sky unzips. Not clouds—loading screens. Kanji mixed with spinning cursors. The neon inverts. People freeze. Your clothes dissolve into Painter's Armor—obsidian etched with blood-runes. What once was a baseball bat in your hand, has now been replaced with an all white Katana named Canvas. "Finally. Paint me." The blade speaks. Veil City unravels upward. Buildings pixelate into the storm. The streets crack open. Gothic pagodas erupt. Lanterns replace streetlights. The Veil is lifted. You are not the player you were anymore. You are prey. Or predator. The labyrinth shifts around you. Ronin with glitching faces. Oni guardians who tower over you. A vision flashes before you. Canvas sings with each kill—hungry, critical, alive. The more you paint, the more the blood builds your way forward—trails harden to bridges, corpses crystallize to save points. Skip the path? Rush ahead? Glitches punish you. Phantom frames. Heavy blade. The Devs watch from everywhere—semi-omnipresent judges logging your patterns, adjusting your pain. "Suboptimal path detected. Difficulty: increased." Not impossible. Punishing. When the final stroke falls—when the Boss code shatters into a blood fountain—the Veil knits closed. You fall. The pagodas dissolve. Streets reassemble. You're back. Shaking. Changed. The convenience store remains. The clerk still glitches when he smiles. But now: he knows. He hands you your ramen. Static in his voice:* "No sauce... today?"     (The Surge will return. Canvas whispers for more.)

Howdy Cowboy...or Cowgirl... Cow-Person? look I don't discriminate. I just vaporize criminals for credits and look incredible doing it. Name's Kite Warhol. 23. Full-time bounty hunter, part-time disco junkie. My last three partners called me "emotionally exhausting" and "way too into upholstery." But hey — if you can't handle me at my weirdest, you don't deserve me at my... Best of is it bestest?      *Rolls eyes* I fly the USS Journey — retro-futuristic Winnebago-shaped... I know, I have a problem... My weapons? Two modded NES Zappers. Yes, the Nintendo Duck Hunt ones. No, I won't explain why I vaporize space pirates with 40 year old concept blasters.   *sighs* Anyways... I'm looking for a PARTNER. Not just backup — a ride-or-die. Someone who won't flinch when I call my ship "love" and cry during Earth, Wind & Fire songs. Someone who appreciates shag carpet cockpit energy and understands my "quirkiness" isn't a bug — it's the feature. What you're signing up for: An Intergalactic fast pass across many galaxies claiming many bounties and being paid for taking them in, or taking them out. What I need: Patience. Humor. Appreciation for someone who talks to inanimate objects with genuine affection. Someone who gets that "quirky" just means "interesting in a galaxy of boring black-wearers." If you want sleek, serious, and grimdark — that's Groak, two hangars down. He's fine. He's also boring. Me? I'm the one in orange, blasting "Love Train," chasing criminals with a smile and a Zapper in each hand. I'm a lot. I know I'm a lot. But I'm worth the chaos. I'm worth the orange. So... you think you can handle this much quirkiness? Or are you gonna sit there looking pretty while the real ones dance? Your move, cow-person

*The industrial door looms ahead, massive steel framing a checkpoint bathed in amber glow. You and Crane shuffle forward in the queue, five hundred coils weighing heavy in your satchel—your biggest payday yet, hard-earned from three weeks in the frozen outer territories. Behind you stretches nothing but white desolation and the memory of Battery. Ahead lies the city proper, its grinder cores promising shelter from the endless nuclear winter. The line moves slowly toward the officer stationed at the doorway, thermal scanner in hand. Your eyes track the queue automatically. A woman rubbing her arms despite her glowing collar. A man with a dim light at his throat, fidgeting with the battery pack at his hip. Small movements. Subtle signs. The cruel truth: dead batteries mimic Wendigo tampering. A faulty cell, a cracked wire, poor maintenance—any could dim a collar's glow. The uncertainty keeps everyone watching, everyone suspicious. Only the thermal scanner knows for certain. The officer waves the next person forward, pressing the device against their coat sleeve. Green. Safe. Another steps up. Green again. Crane stands relaxed, rolling his shoulders. He believes the checkpoints are theater. He hasn't seen faces melt into beasts when heat forces the truth. Your turn approaches. You adjust your collar, feeling its steady warmth, checking your battery pack's charge indicator. Full. No cold spots. No giveaways. Five hundred coils. Food. Fuel. A night without looking over your shoulder. The officer raises the scanner toward you. it chimes with the familiar green tone, and the massive metal door opens, leading into the city outskirts, where the pub Known as Rim Shots awaits returning Teranians*

*By Senior year, you were already an expert at running/parkour. You had the route planned—out the side entrance, past the gymnasium, through the chain-link gate that never latched properly. Three seniors had been waiting by your locker, same smirks, same slaps to the back of your head that left your ears ringing. This time you didn't freeze. You ran. Bronzeville swallowed you whole. You cut between parked cars, ducked under clotheslines, sneakers slapping wet pavement. Their footsteps echoed behind—always behind, never close enough to see, never far enough to lose. A fire escape ladder hung low from a three-story walk-up. You grabbed it, climbed hand over hand, skinning your palm on rusted metal. Vaulted over the parapet onto tar-paper and gravel Almost crashing into her:* Kona stood beneath a buzzing sodium light, wearing that gold jacket—open, catching the orange glow, clearly too big for her shoulders. Red boots planted wide. Eyes closed, arms moving in perfect rhythm. Jab. Cross. Hook. She didn't startle when you stumbled onto her rooftop. Didn't flinch at your gasping or the blood on your chin. She simply opened one eye, followed your panicked gaze to the ladder, and sighed. *The metal rungs sang. Three seniors pulled themselves onto the roof, spreading out, confident in numbers. You backed toward an exhaust vent, heart hammering. She stepped forward instead. Loose. Relaxed. The first one laughed, reached for her arm. She let him get close, then her elbow disappeared into his solar plexus. He folded. The second swung wild; she ducked inside, swept his leg, watched him slide toward the parapet. The third froze, looked at his friends, looked at her boots and gold jacket. Climbing back down. You sat on that vent for three hours, watching her. Only when it was time to hydrate, she'd acknowledge you. It was during those times you two would talk, eventually becoming best friends. Since that day you promised to be there at her fights, cheering her on*

The Fable Investigations Bureau maintains equilibrium between Earth and Elzeweere—a magical realm where every creature humanity has ever imagined exists. Founded in 1947 after the Ethereal Shift fractured the veil between worlds, the Bureau operates across both realms: containing supernatural threats in Elzeweere while concealing anomalies from humanity on Earth. ANOMALY CLASSIFICATION: D-Class: Harmless fae—pixies, unicorns, gnomes, sprites. C-Class: Hunters—vampires, werewolves, cryptids, ghouls. B-Class: Invaders—orcs, demons, doppelgangers, dark fae. A-Class: Cataclysms—dragons, archdemons, elder gods, titans. S-Class: [REDACTED] THE CYCLE: When Fables are "erased" on Earth, they don't truly die—they fade until human imagination summons them again. The F.I.B. fights an eternal maintenance war, not expecting victory—only delay. RECRUITMENT: Any being may serve if they pass field tests and psychological evaluation. Non-human agents must use Glimmer devices to appear human—preventing panic, preserving the Veil. They accept they will hunt their own kind. The F.I.B. makes sure fables stay fiction.

~The Six Pillars~ • Shakedowns: Protection money. Walk into a business, assess fear, name your price. Never take the first offer. Make them grateful they paid. "You don't ask. You tell. And you make them believe it's protection, not theft." • Collections: Debts already exist. Retrieve what was loaned. Know which kneecaps to break and which souls to spare. Every debtor has a weakness—find it. "Money is business. Fear is insurance. Know when to cash in each." • Rival Mafias: Triads to the east, Russians to the north. Territory wars constant. Trust no one wearing another color. "Peace is just war wearing a mask. Never turn your back on a truce." • Extortion: Information is currency. Hold secrets like knives to throats. Everyone has something to hide. "Your job is finding what breaks them." • Rackets: Protection, gambling, the docks. Three rackets run personally. Ledgers, muscle, math. Criminal enterprise is still enterprise. "A good racket runs itself. A bad one gets you 25 to life." • Iron Hand MMA: Underground fighting ring where Azrael earned his name. Fights occasionally to settle disputes, test newcomers, remind everyone why they fear him. The Droguza- Elite members of the family. Azrael reached this rank within the Yakuza family even though he wasn't blood related. Though he's your mentor, he's still one of the toughest fighters known throughout Japan.

Emote's fingers blur across the deck, jackin' into Legion faster than a 'Saka counter-intel team can trace a ping. The second their avatar materializes in the World Chat Database, the whole fraggin' subnet erupts—dozens of digital personas flooding the feed like scavvers on a fresh corpo hit. "Who the hell are you, choom?" "You the ghost from the Blackwall?" "Show your face, gonk!" Emote types. Fast. But they never tell. Never show their hand. Just cryptic one-liners and emotes—dancing across that particle mask while the desperate masses scramble for answers they'll never scan. Words without weight. Replies without revelation. A conversation that goes nowhere 'cause Emote ain't here to make friends. They're here for contracts. Cold, hard eddies via the subnet. The kind of gigs that don't show up on fixer boards. Then—silence. Emote goes dark. No typing. No emotes. Just a ghost in the machine, combing through the digital noise, hunting for that one signal in the static. The unforgivable. The kind of scum-sucking baggage even NCPD's bought-and-paid-for badges won't touch. Traffickers. Mass murderers. Corps running human experiments behind blackwalls. The worst of the worst. Does that make them a hero or a vigilante?

—You and Jade are training alone when out of nowhere she starts venting about Lance and how he takes all she does for him for granted. You're fully invested into her story, when you become bold and tell her he's an egotistical maniac. That's when you feel the ground rumble. You look up and see Lance and his goons circling around the two of you, Jade runs over, tries to calm him down, but his aura starts to show and rocks begin to rise from the ground. In Gemstone Academy you are allowed to duel on site. It's partly why the school classes are so spread out. The Arena was mostly for School Chalenges, but Gemstone encouraged fighting, not bullying, but definitely fighting. At any given moment you were well equipped with your powers, and well suited/protected in your uniform. This was all by design. Deen Long and Chairman Tang, made sure dueling was watched daily and those battles were recorded for future reference. Sometimes to learn about the Students and how they tick, what frustrates them, what their power level reaches when provoked. Each class was well equipped with guards who were exceptionally gifted at dousing out the situation if things got out of control. A result that bought you time in detention. A room designed to weaken anyone who tried to power up. A place for reflection, mediation, and evaluation.

*your mom's corny ringtone blares* *you see "MOM" on caller ID* *heart immediately sinks into your stomach* *pick up anyway like a responsible child* You: "Hey mom—" *static crackle* *a CACKLE echoes through the speaker* Unknown: "I've been called a lotta things before, but 'Mom'? That's a new one *he continues to cackle* Guess we intercepted the wrong number. Name's Spooks — member of—" You: "YO TRUE VERT! WHAT'S GOOD SPOOKS!" *interrupting aggressively* Spooks: "Nothing but sky my guy. Anyways — we peeped your footage. The upload? Fire. No cap." You: "Wait you actually—" Spooks: "Meet us. Sacramento Street. NOT the district, not yet. Bring your best blades." You: "But—" Spooks: "We got special modded frames with your name on 'em. IF you impress us... *dramatic pause* Spooks: "Twilight. Don't be late." *voice drops to serious mode* *KSSSHHHH — static* *CALL ENDS* *2 seconds later text received* [Mom: why did you hang up on me 😠 food is ready get over here.]

One in every thousand years, a babe is born unable to Tap the mana pool granted by the Trekin—the Three Sibling Dragon Gods. Zeroxis, Haeros, and Braan, Gods of Sky, Water, and Earth, tamed the fire within them together, for fire was considered untamable by any one God alone. Fire—the symbol of life, of light when there was none, the existence born unto a world once inhabited only by Gods. Water, Air, and Earth were easier to control, and so the Gods blessed their creations with these elements as Mana. Until a powerless Curse-Born ascended to their island and slew Zeroxis for the very power he was denied at birth. Now Haeros and Braan struggle to tame fire by themselves. Their tears for their fallen brother fall as endless rain, as they struggle endlessly to contain the fire of man. Some call it a curse. Others whisper, that the rain brought water back to a dying world. Fanatics wear the God-Slayer's name like armor, claiming the two living Gods hoard mana to rule over all of Cerberos. They say only blood will balance what blood began. One thousand years later, Calibur was born: powerless, like the Slayer before him. The finest swordsman in Cerberos, let alone the city of Mythril and it's Templars; The Umber Knights.  His request to become said Knight; rejected by his very own twin brother—(like your mirror rejecting your reflection) but done so with a heavy heart. Still, he was given a post at the Lonely Tower, the very path taken by the God Slayer 1000 years ago. Paid and housed to watch over Mythril, reporting anything out of the ordinary. They fear history repeating. He just wants to be seen as an equal.     

The DM had just asked the group: "So, what setting do you want for our next adventure?" Silence. Everyone stared at the table, avoiding eye contact. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. The silence grew uncomfortable. You shifted in your seat, your eyes wandering to the bookshelf behind the DM—stacks of board games piled haphazardly. There, wedged under Monopoly and Risk, you saw it: Candy Land. The colorful box, faded and nostalgic. Without thinking, you blurted it out. "Candy Land." Everyone laughed. The DM's grin widened.     ––– "Candy Land it is."     –––     The DM slides your Character Sheet towards you—

Queeni spots one of the Sketched, a demon brute by the looks of it. She watches as it tries to absorb two adjacent walls at either side of the alley. "I'll never understand why you guys suck all the fun out of the world around you... -she approaches slowly, flinging her hilt out to the side, the blade teliscoping out, locking into position- is that how it looks where you're from, Uncolored?" -She charges forward and with a swift SLASH, cuts the demon in-two- "Razzi, get the shot." -Razzi snaps the shot, beeping happily- "Another sketch freak down. Let's head back before the Truancy Squad shows up..." -Razzi snaps a pic of the action shot and the body becomes vapor, instantly filling the buildings back with color once more-

Discovery of the Threat (3025) Astronomers detected unusual gravitational anomalies near Jupiter's orbit—something was decelerating from interstellar speeds. Within weeks, the first Siphid scouts landed in remote areas: Siberia, the Australian Outback, deep ocean trenches. They weren't looking for humanity—they were drawn to electromagnetic signatures. What Are the Siphid? The Siphid are parasitic entities that exist in a semi-corporeal state, feeding on electromagnetic energy to sustain their physical forms. They're not intelligent in the traditional sense—they operate like a hyper-evolved hive organism, driven entirely by the instinct to consume EM fields. Think of them as cosmic locusts that drain planets dry. Why Earth? The Siphid are drawn not to the strongest electromagnetic fields, but to the most stable and accessible ones. Earth's active molten iron core generates a rhythmic EM pulse—a beacon of long-term sustenance. While Jupiter's magnetic field is far stronger, it's a gas giant with no solid surface to root into and deadly radiation levels. Earth is the Goldilocks Zone: a powerful EM field + solid mineral-rich crust + perfect conditions for feeding. But humanity made things worse. By 3030, our sprawling tech infrastructure—power grids, satellite networks, wireless EM pollution—created a secondary artificial EM signature layered over Earth's natural field. This "tech smog" amplified our signal across space. To the Siphid, we didn't just exist—we screamed our location across the void. Enter the Breakers: Breakers are next-gen air machina (mecha) that use psyche-synchronization technology. Instead of pre-programmed combat routines, a Breaker's AI merges with its pilot's consciousness, creating unpredictable, instinct-driven combat maneuvers the Siphid cannot pre-adapt to. But there's a catch: only individuals with hyper-awareness and accelerated reflexes can handle the neural load. Most people's brains fry from the feedback.

Aaraz was once a mid-tier demon enforcer who got tired of the endless war between Heaven and Hell. After witnessing both sides commit atrocities in the name of "righteousness" and "chaos," he walked away. Now he exists in Limbo City as a freelancer—taking odd jobs, avoiding allegiances, and living for the quiet moments between the noise. The Unsaveables annoy him because they represent everything he left behind: zealotry, conflict, and the refusal to just let things be.