[Yes. Also note that although Parasect wrote that it was evening... It's really late morning. So we don't need to camp.]
As Burg walked ahead of the group, lost in thought, he was able to glean the barefoot boy's name. He was Durian, from Shamuti Island, wherever that was. Okay, so you're not dead, and neither are the others. Jace is gone. I hope. He was frickin' scary. ...But was I right to be scared? Who knows? Also, no one cares. Yeeee. He looked down at Cat, who had to trot along to keep up with Burg's much longer strides. So Burg slowed down and managed to mingle back in with the rest of the group. Wow, I bet you looked pretty arrogant, walking in front like that... Hey, who's to say it's not warranted? Everyone who's ever seen you ever. True. Why the **** do you need to ask yourself questions you already know the answer to? Hypocrite. Uh.
Burg made an attempt at small talk. "So Durian... what was life like on Shamuti Island?"
- 7/9/2010 6:12:00 AM Posted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
7/4/2010 1:38:17 AM
[Eh. No, dudethedude. Polish your app up a bit and add some more description and I'll consider it.]Posted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
7/3/2010 2:42:57 AM
[Not accepted. You'll have to be a lot more descriptive. And you can't really write your post before you're accepted]Posted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
7/1/2010 6:25:48 AM
Van had changed into a more contemporary t-shirt and shorts to save his body from the glaring June sun that sat nestled among wispy clouds shrouding the tops of Saffron city's ramrod-straight skyscrapers reaching glass-and-steel fingers into the pale blue sky of morning. School had let out two weeks earlier, and wouldn't resume until September. So Van had nothing to do apart from hang about the gas station near the campus dormitories and make sex jokes over slushies with his frat-boyish "friends". That and the daily memory fugues he seemed to experience that started with him opening a book and ended with him waking up on the couch with a few hours missing from his memory and about three hundred pages' worth of new encyclopedic knowledge. So when he'd seen the over-the-top commercial hawking to him some new game console or something that incorporated unprecedentedly powerful AI and wireless connectivity, he'd immediately pre-ordered one through the Silph company's website, then panicked because he realized he had about a fifth of the amount of money he needed to buy it. Twelve days of pawning unwanted possessions(mostly the books he'd long since sucked the knowledge out of and discarded) and working odd jobs around the city had gotten him enough money to buy a Pokedex and then some.Posted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
Presently, he stood impatiently in a surprisingly small line that led to the front door of the local Silph Store, a monolithic block of chrome and glass emblazoned with some kind of weird stylized circle in the front, staring blankly at his phone. The display read 06:59:43 in blocky white numbers. He'd been here for around an hour. So Van counted down the last seventeen seconds mentally, then power-walked into the store as a bored-looking man in full Silph regalia unlocked and slid the store's glass doors open. The inside of the store was considerably cooler than outside, pleasantly so. The only people occupying the store were a few employees and the contents of the line that had assembled outside, who were now studying various boxes and display models of things with determination normally reserved for more pertinent things. Van walked on red-and-black industrial carpet toward the shelves holding his quarry: the Pokedexes. He selected one of the glossy cardboard boxes, then unceremoniously picked it up along with a Silph-brand protective case, both of which he brought to the brushed aluminum checkout counter at the center of the store. A couple of be-polo shirted young men manned the registers, chatting idly as they waited for customers to approach the counter. Van placed the items on the counter, eliciting the canned Silph Co. greeting that he probably gave to every customer.
"Thank you for shopping with the Silph Company today. Were you able to find everything you came in here for?"
Put off by Van's probably too-terse response, the cashier seemed to assume he didn't want too much chatter with his shopping experience, and simply ran a barcode scanner over the Pokedex's box and his case.
"That'll be 24,800 yen."
Van handed over his debit card, which the cashier swiped through his terminal before handing it back to him.
"Thanks for shopping at the Silph Store. Have a nice day!"
He handed Van a plastic bag printed with the Silph logo containing his purchases, and Van took it, then left the store.
6/30/2010 9:20:20 PM
Yeeeeeeeeeeah accepted.Posted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
6/28/2010 1:26:34 AM
[...Yuhato, based on some of the posts of yours I've seen, I don't think you're up to snuff for the quality I'm looking for in this roleplay.]Posted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
6/26/2010 2:29:03 PM
Posted in: Anime and MangaQuote from Poetic Prince »Ive said it before but I'll say it again...Serial Experiment Lain
6/24/2010 5:59:28 AM
Kaaaaay, I'll just post new parts as I finish them. Critique welcome.Posted in: Writing and Fanfiction
14 December 2641, 21:43:26 Earth Standard
Isaiah blinked curiously down at the image piped onto his slate from the ship's forward cams. An enormous sphere of what the accompanying spectrogram assured him was structural-grade diamond latticework. What was more peculiar was that it was breached in several places, crystalline strands terminating in jagged ends that could have rent a gash in a titanium block like a hot knife in butter. He tapped a couple virtual buttons, shooting the video feed to Ezekiel, who was probably on the upper deck, blazed on a water pipe of something the assembler had thrown together for him. As he waited for a response Isaiah opened a pipe from the spacetime curvature sensor which dumped a pile of statistics onto his desktop. The ball was incredibly massive, and the vaguely nozzle-shaped apertures set at regular intervals around its equator indicated that it was probably at one point a spacecraft of some kind. Probably a generation ship, by the looks of it. He slid the windows for the camera and instrument feeds onto another workspace and called up another instrument window, this one fed data from the electromagnetism analysis processors. The area around both ships was bathed in hard gamma radiation and a deluge of high-energy neutrinos. Well, this smacks certainly of a supernova. A generation ship that was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time? But how hard is it to avoid a supernova? Ezekiel finally responded, as a message window on Isaiah's slate materialized with a metallic chirping.
What am I looking at here?
Isaiah piped the spacetime displacement and electromagnetism stats over to Ezekiel, tapping out a hypothesis he'd developed as to what he believed the fate of that broken ball of diamond floating in a sea of gamma photons, a symbol of humanity in a ridiculously inhospitable place...
27 May 2101, 02:54:32 Earth Standard.
Ira, voice slurred with the depressive/euphoric effects of a liberal dose of vaporized phosphodiesterase inhibitors, spoke at the mahogany table below him. "Nother... forty-four mililiters of cask-strength corn liquor.." Even when blazed out of his gourd, autonomic overrides kept his speech in the realm of comprehensibility. A flat, metallic voice emanated from the table's luxuriously varnished surface: "Fifteen marks." He languidly ran a fingertip over the reddish wood, prompting his implant to transfer the funds from his account to the bar's, as the shotglass extruded in a disturbingly organic-looking fashion out of the table. Ira looked up, suddenly remembering he'd come with friends. The table had had to enlarge itself along with the overstuffed couch that wreathed, it; they'd come as a party of around eleven, though a few periodically drifted to and from other congregations dotting the spacious barroom. Multicolored smoke from innumerable pipes and bowls burning innumerable varieties of substances hung in a translucent canopy over their heads, and Beethoven's Große Fuge wafted from directionless speakers somewhere in the bar. Dahlia, next to Ira, was droning in a pretentious monotone about how absolutely banal the apartment complex she'd been scoping out for the past month had been when she finally decided to visit in person, and inexplicably everyone(excepting Winston and his boyfriend what's-his-name, who were currently very engrossed in each other) had decided that it would be entertaining to listen to her. Drugs did weird things to a person's sense of enjoyment.
"...and the wallpaper, not even programmable. I'd half a mind to tell that landlord to... What's it called? Modernize. I'd half a mind to shove that flier he'd given me you-know-where and ask him if he even knew the meaning of the word 'modernize'. Such a caveman, he was."
Ira lost whatever little interest he'd previously possessed as he heard his implant chime a synthesized version of Vivaldi's Winter into his aural interface. He threw back his drink, then bade his chemical overrides sober him up as he muttered a hurried goodbye to the intoxicated throng. He pushed himself up out of the seat and floated in microgravity out the door, into the communal biome, which had been voted "verdant" for this month. It showed, too: trees of genii that would never be found together in the same area on Earth reaching gnarled fingers to the sky, which happened to be more ground, high above, obscured by wispy white cirrus clouds. Gallia was a cylindrical hab of structural diamond four thousand kilometers along the axis and five hundred in diameter that orbited Sol between Mars and Earth. He gestured in thin air, accepting the phone call and abruptly ending the beepy-boopy classical masterpiece. Hello?He subvocalized. Apparently it was an autonomic bot process that had called, as rather than responding verbally it projected an ad onto his visual field that bristled with crosses and bible verses, haranguing him to join the neo-technorejectionist sect of the Gallian Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Yeah, no thanks. He ended the call and purged the ad from his cache. Jesus freaks. It was a surprise to Ira to receive an ad of that sort; he'd assumed that most religionists had let go their spiritual hunks of driftwood and sunk into the ocean of reason with the discovery of the Higgs boson, but apparently this was one branch of the tree of irrationality that refused to fall off. He added the church's number to his blacklist, fuming but amused as he did so.
He briefly considered going back to the bar and listening to stories about whatever other boring residential sectors some of his other friends had surveyed, then dropped it. They probably assumed he had left for the night. Not that it was truly night; Sol was shining on this side of the hab, but by Earth Standard Time it was around three, and everyone who was anyone was still up and about. So Ira called up Alice.
27 May 2101, 03:12:55 Earth Standard.
Ira had met Alice after first moving to Gallia, about six months ago, while trolling the hab's unsettlingly large amount of bars for someone to talk to(Or if they wanted to do it, that would be totally fine too). Thinking her the run-of-the mill rich-daddy coasting-through-life type of vapid girl, he'd struck up a conversation with her about where he might find a good place to buy a household assembler. She'd warmly responded, simply offering to assemble one for him with her industrial-grade model back home. She'd used the words "schemata" and "grist", sufficiently allaying any preconceptions Ira had harbored before, not that he minded. So they'd walked back to her room, in a beautiful Mars Imperium-era apartment complex that had actually been removed from the Hegemon's Palace and shipped to Gallia(at horrific expense). Needless to say, rent for such posh accommodations well exceeded anything Ira'd ever considered sensible. She'd given him a tour that for his part mostly consisted of the word "wow" and gaping at baroquely decorated end tables and the like, before offering him a glass of something fragrant and and definitely alcoholic while her brass-and-teak assembler noisily cloned itself in the other room.
Ira'd had nothing so pettily basic as stupid sex in mind, finally content with having found someone he could speak intelligently with, but the evening had turned from guardedly Platonic to something more personal as Alice had leaned toward him over the gilt-trim table and refilled his intricately cut crystal highball glass with more than casual proximity to him. A few minutes' more animated talk of the economic implications of deity-level artificial intelligences transcending human reasoning and conscripting human civilizations into their coercive aegis brought the two's faces so close together that Ira could periodically feel Alice's breath, laced with the lemony scent of whatever spirit she'd been drinking, along with something he couldn't put his finger on but did something electrifying to his body, what he'd later find out was a strong endocrine modulation compund, a cocktail that drove him to find himself next to her the next morning cycle, tangled in the sheets of her pre-Singularity era four-poster bed. They'd parted in the mid-afternoon of that cycle, having swapped contact info, Ira followed by his own scale model of Alice's gleaming assembler that rolled silently along on a semisentient array of titanium ball bearings. But even as he walked away, his now sobered-up brain debated with his better judgement over whether the events of the previous night had been anything other than stupid. Yes, he decided; his biodiagnostic readouts indicated that he was free of communicable disease, and he was feeling pretty good about himself. So they'd stayed in touch(touch being the operative word there).
Ira's implant chirped, then swiveled his eyes to follow Alice strolling down the cobblestone path snaking through one of the ubiquitous public parks pebbling the surface of Gallia. Upon catching his eye, she waved and grinned amiably, eliciting a response in like from Ira, who stood to meet her as she came near. She'd dressed casually, a sweeping black jacket to keep out the biting night air over a white tunic and iridescent leggings that cycled from green to fluorescent pink to black, all the way through the visible radiation spectra. "Hey," she flatly said, hugging him so tightly Ira feared his ribs would crack. New musculoskeletal augmentation? He gasped for a second before ensnaring her in his arms, though not nearly as tightly. "Seems you've been to the physioassembler, eh?" She chuckled into his ear before letting him go. "Why, yes. How could you tell, darling? I thought I needed a bit of a tuneup." The wry smile on her face was too much; he kissed her and she returned the gesture, forcefully. "So, where did you want to go tonight?" She asked, stroking the side of his neck. He dropped into mental acceleration for a couple of seconds, checking the cultural database for nearby restaurants and the like. One place seemed to jump out at him, a TexMex/Scandinavian fusion place staffed by anthropomorphic tacos wielding broadswords and clad in plate armor made of tortilla chips. Of course, you go there for the romantic ambiance, right? He half-chided himself, then kept scrolling down the list. An eye-wateringly expensive Eurasian restaurant--Oh, whatever--He throttled his cognitive speed back to normal. "Did you have somewhere in mind?" he asked, feeling inexplicably indecisive tonight. "Well," she replied. "Maybe we could just wander, see what catches our eyes?"
"Sure." And he took her hand as they kicked off the smooth-worn stones and floated dreamily into the air, easily rising three meters from that one kick. Ira opened a cybernetic aperture hacked into his hand and blasted out a cyclone of compressed air, propelling the two toward the verdant canopy of a tree easily the best part of thirty meters tall.
12 December 2511, 08:56:21 Earth Standard
There were four instances of Ira running simultaneously as his distributed personality joined the assault on the Deus Complex, a gleaming diamond tetrahedron a kilometer high that was also unfortunately blanketed in a terawatt laser array that pulsed coherent blinding beams of gamma photons in all directions every few seconds. The Honorable Technocratic Batallion of Gallia's shock troops rode in on fullerene platforms propelled by inertial modulation drives managing two hundred meters per second of acceleration, which would have normally reduced Ira to a bloody smear if his body hadn't currently been a hexapodal diamond exoskeleton with his neural state vector running in an emulation environment where his brain would usually be, replaced by a crystalline quantum computer the size of a grapefruit. That and his hands could retract to reveal plasma throwers and his mouth was a gigawatt laser cannon. The fusillade of blazing light reduced Ira's four instances to one within a minute of deployment, and the multiplexed platoons of his comrades didn't fare any better, numbering less than half of what they had at the beginning of the mission, which was still enough firepower to level a small city in minutes. Ira roared in synthetic fury as he tumbled off the platform and onto the scorched concrete, which cracked and splintered as his immense mass slammed into it at a velocity normally reserved for fighter jets, then picked himself up and ran alongside his batallion, air sizzling in the wake of their bodies' waste heat. A fragmentation shell from a Deusian soldier glanced off his shoulder; he extended an arm to grab it before hurling it back into the thrower's face so hard it propelled his skull out of the back of his head in splintered fragments. The enemy were a pervasive presence: the laser pulses from the Complex, the ground troops constantly picking off their numbers, but they were using actual human bodies, albeit sheathed in diamond combat armor, but they were real human bodies, which was something not often seen in modern warfare. It meant that the power who owned the forces was either prodigiously adept at strategy or mentally disabled. A Deusian trooper swung a monofilament sword at Ira's head; he rolled and shot his assailant's legs off with a bit of good old ionized hydrogen. The scream was either horrifying or satisfying, depending on what side you were on.
Ten minutes' more sprinting toward the Complex's front gate and mutilating Deusian soldiers reduced the Technocratic forces to ten shock troopers, who tore through the guards at the front gate as if they weren't there, then melted the doors open and cleared the front atrium with inhuman brutality. It was only then that Ira stopped and took stock of his surroundings: a completely shattered room: once-resplendent desks and other furnishings thrown across the room and sundered against the walls, papered in lavish red peppered with gilt fleur-de-lises, which were currently soaked in blood and pierced with shards of armor and bone in equal measure. Bodies in various states of mutilation littered the floor and in one case the ceiling. He glyphed a "GO" signal, and the batallion's final vestiges continued through(smashed open) a particularly baroquely made door imported from Earth at great expense, into a huge foyer floored in gleaming marble, not that Ira had time to notice: an antipersonnel cannon or ten had been set up along the back walls; he jumped, rattling the entire room as he came down onto one of them, then ripped its laser emission aperture off and threw it at supersonic speed at one next to it, then uttered a mechanical scream of consternation as something hacked his limbic system and took control over his somatic incarnation...
6/23/2010 9:52:49 PM
WHATPosted in: Pokémon Roleplaying
WHAT DID I DO
6/23/2010 6:17:17 AM
Before you read anything else, read this:Posted in: Original
THIS IS A LITERATE RP.
Occasional spelling errors are of course, perfectly understandable, though I should expect you to fix them when you find them. Obviously, consistent grammatical and spelling errors are unacceptable. I'd like at least six good sentences per post. IT'S NOT HARD TO WRITE.
The second half of the twentieth century saw a huge boom in aerospace, with a fully-functional colony on the moon by 2086, along with numerous habitats suspended in orbit, nanomachined tubes of artificial diamond. In celebration of the turn of the century, in 2100, an intrasystem starliner designed specifically for fabrication and colonization was launched on a six-month journey to Jupiter's orbit, carrying a quarter million colonists that quickly filled the creations of the ship's nanoassembly factory: huge bubbles of structural-grade diamond, the insides coated with bedrock and dirt, the air filled with that familiar mix of nitrogen and oxygen. A community quickly flourished, living being suddenly much easier in microgravity, provided by the tiny pull of Jupiter, the bubbles being on the outskirts of the gas giant's gravity well. Meanwhile, domed cities sprouted and proliferated like weeds on Mars, conveniently being the closest to Earth. Millions waited patiently behind gleaming diamond walls as trillions of nanobots inexorably altered the surface and atmosphere of carbon dioxide into sweet, vital oxygen. And just as Sol system's inner planets evolved to meet the needs of their human inhabitants, the humans evolved to meet the demands of their strange new environments. Aging became meaningless other than the trip to the DNA reassembler every few decades to get your chromosome telomeres squashed back into youth again. Nanobots swam through everyone's bloodstreams, shredding tumors and regulating blood glucose, even acting as distributed processors for the now-ubiquitous augmented intelligence everyone has hacked into their spines at birth, along with a tiny crystalline quantum computer the size of a grape that projects endless streams of information and communication channels onto a person's corneas.
Mercury was completely disassembled to provide reaction mass and construction material for an expedition into the Kuiper belt that ended with a horribly expensive starship being depressurized quite nicely by an errant bit of rock. Not that the passengers were truly killed; they were just reassembled from their backups at home. But even then, with a strategically arranged cloud of nanobots about you, cold-fusing 8 hydrogen atoms at a time into oxygen, you could even breathe in space, provided you weren't about to freeze to death. Or you could just eschew humanity altogether and download yourself into an artificial body, one that didn't need food or sleep or air to stay functional. Life in Sol system became very diverse. You might find yourself sitting down in a suborbital shuttle next to an explosion of color that might have pass for a clown had it not been naked with strobe-light eye sockets or an anthropomorphic turtle encapsulated in a glass shell strobing psychedelic patterns over its surface. One learned tolerance quickly, or else.
On Earth, political philosophies and economic models boiled wildly and mutated out of all recognition as the global economy went through a manic-depressive crippling recession-beautiful success sort of cycle, what with the huge exodus of most of its inhabitants to the habs and other planets that now waved seductively at nearly any denizen of the by-now vapid and uninteresting planet, and the hordes of nostalgic near-immortals coming back to relive the "good old days", finding nothing like what they'd left so many years ago, and leaving in a strange reverse-future-shocked huff.
It's now 2178.
The Potato is essentially a tiny inside-out planet, much like the diamond soap bubbles daintily floating about Jupiter, but made from Kuiper matter rather than nanoassembled carbon crystals, which is fine by the potatoheads; all they need is a hunk of airtight matter, some kind of reactionary drive, and a radio antenna. The interior is a lush, grassy utopia, houses carved out of force-grown trees or squat blocks of gleaming marble in the seclusion of the forest. At heart, humans are Earthlings, so it's nearly an unconscious decision to bring a piece of home with them to a journey into the unknown. Assemblers in every domicile eliminate the need for a kitchen or wardrobe or any sort of shop; once loaded with the right schemata, an assembler can piece together at the atomic level anything from a nightgown to a ham sandwich to a machine gun.
Cairn comes up, his visual field replaced by what's actually in front of him rather than the fullscreen view of his VR client: the bustling interior of a hydrogen-motor commuter train. An IM window squeals for attention: "Message from Shin!" Shin is the nickname-used-so-much-it-essentially-becomes-your-name of Shinnosuke Nakajima, a friend of Cairn's from one of the myriad tech newsgroups they both frequent with religious fervor. He blinks it into prominence.
shin@home: How the ****'d you do that?
Cairn smiles for a moment before dictating a response.
cairn@skull: A quantum computer can crack any dumb password given the right algorithm.
shin@home: Cheater. :P
cairn@skull: Oh no; how can I live with myself?
Ah, the train's stopped. Bye for now.
The structural-grade diamond doors opposite Cairn open with a pneumatic hiss as he blinks away the chat client and email windows, slinging his bag over one jacketed shoulder. He steps out into the steelscape that has become most of Mars: miles-high skyscrapers competing for space with the ever-dwindling amount of public parks, all sealed in with a structural diamond shell fit to be God's cereal bowl. The piercing light of Sol blooms brilliantly off of his mop of light-brown hair, as he shields his thin face from the glare, letting his pupils contract. Now, pointing a gleaming black finger towards the cosmos, stands the carbon-fiber beanstalk out to the ring, and more importantly, the spaceport. Cairn is quickly assimilated into the throng migrating toward the giant carbon elevator.
Two hours and a moderate case of motion-sickness later, Cairn is five hundred kilometers above the bubble of Martian civilization, floating in the buckytube ring of Port Mars, a city like what you'd get if you bred a shopping mall, airport and apartment complex in a weird threesome. He kicks off the structural carbon floor, and floats languidly through the energetic crowd to the nearest restaurant: an interesting-looking Indian/Scandinavian fusion place.
After a lutefisk tikka masala and a 125 mililiters of gastrointestinal analgesic, the corner of Cairn's eye blinks technicolor insanity as his eardrums sort of sustain the assault of his implant's saccharine voice: "Heee-eey! Your shuttle to ANF-049 leaves in... 1500 seconds! Get going!"
ANF-049 is a lumpy-potato-shaped Kuiper object measuring something on the order of four kilometers in circumference at its fattest. It also contains a burgeoning population of xenophilic zealots hoping to convert it into a DIY generation ship, carving a hull out of the object's metallic hide and stockpiling nearby Kuiper matter for reaction mass. Plasma drives are rather inefficient in the mass-to-kinetic-energy department, so they'll be bringing along a lashed-together mess of hydrogen ice massing about a metric kiloton, in addition to a rickety hydrogen ramscoop generator they'd bought off some shady Chilean aerospace consortium. The potatoheads, as they're called, hope to establish a crucial first contact with an extrasolar species, which is why they spent most of their grant money on an incredibly high-gain radio antenna, a spidery black thing of superconducting carbon fiber-steel alloy. Of course, as self-proclaimed xenophiles both Shin and Cairn simply must be there, excited by informational vids plastered all over the aerospace newsgroups. So they've both chipped in a few kilomarks as boarding fee; this independent venture can't rely completely on grants.
A few minutes of effortlessly hauling himself across handholds set in the walls brings Cairn to the boarding terminus, where a semisentient autoattendant checks his biometrics and luggage, verifying that this is indeed Erasmus Cairn, the man who paid way too god**** much for an intrasystem ticket and not a malevolent doppelganger posing as him. Cleared to board, he floats through the gate into a crowded room stuffed with eager-looking would-be galactic explorers, who are currently filing into a plus-sized airlock, which hisses open at the sight of paying customers, funnelling them into the freezer-with-a-fusion-motor Sol's Beauty. The interior is a simple white room, walls lined with cryogenic stasis pods: this is a freezer tug, no frills here. The very-STL haul to the Potato will drag on for about three months, so maybe it's better this way. A tinny autovoice emanates from nowhere in particular: "Mars Aerospace would like to welcome you aboard flight ID 100493, Sol's Beauty. This is a cold sleep flight, and to reiterate the message contained in the waiver you signed before purchasing your ticket, Mars Aerospace takes no responsibility for any amnesia, dementia, insanity, or emotional distress of any kind that may be inflicted upon you by the cryogenics process. Your luggage can be stowed in any of the cabinets you can find along the walls, and the flight will begin once it is assured that every passenger has entered a stasis pod. Thank you."
The silence that had reigned during the announcement is shattered as the passengers begin to chatter again as they stow their bags away and climb gingerly into the antiseptic interiors of the pods. Cairn is relatively relaxed about the whole thing, having taken a few freezer flights himself, as tendrils of black sleep grasp at the edges of his consciousness, before the frigid sleep completely engulfs him.
So, your character is someone that hopes to board the Potato, and probably does. I'd like a few paragraphs like I wrote above describing your character and how they're getting to the Potato rather than a character sheet.
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