Post by swapgo on Sept 18, 2024 16:55:58 GMT
"Creation itself is built upon burning stars. How foolish of them was to dispose of one, dispose of me, dispose of us"
General Information
Full Name:
The First, The One, The Alpha, The Only, The Kiln
Codename or Alias:
The Fluke
Anonymity
Infamous
Gender:
Male
Race:
Itself
Age:
108
Place Of Birth:
?
Occupation/Status:
Bounty Hunter
Space Pirate
Scrap Collector
Alignment:
Villain
Factions:
Freelancers
Canon Or Original?:
Original
Powers/Abilities:
Of Flesh And Slag: The Fluke is an alien android created with an infusion of flesh and technology, though it is hard to decipher where it ends and starts, with hard, metallic components bending like muscle and sinew. Its outer shell its made of a darkened metal that is resilient to most forms of damage, and even more so to heat, being an incredible insulator that can even be cool to the touch despite his ever-living flame. Sharp claws and a whiplike tail provide The Fluke with a threatening profile from the get. Despite some possible purported vulnerability, The Fluke can exist in a vacuum, in fact, it prefers to be in it, it facilitates convection.
Rocket Vents: Two large vents pour hear from The Fluke's back, which can fire up to function as jet turbines. They can only angle so far which makes them not as useful on the ground, but quite effective to gain height from a leap, while already in the air, or when gravity is less of a hassle.
The Kiln: The heart of the Fluke is a mysterious source of power, ever burning and impossible to ignore, the soul of his conviction and his pain. This incredible heat can transfer to its limbs and to the tip of its tail, and even its amorphous jaws, allowing this monster to tear through metal like butter with its bare hands. Strangely, he is unable to flare up his whole body with this intensity, he suspects it would be self-destructive.
While this heat can obliterate most materials, The Fluke is a being of metal, and uses it in different ways
-Reduce: The Kiln needs kindling, and he will feast in its name. Melting metals down with the Kiln's heat allows the Fluke to synthesize it into its own body as a form of sustenance. It can use its limbs to do so, or more gruesomely, yet no more surprising, its fiendish jaw.
-Reuse: Excess metal can instead be repurposed into new solid forms. This allows The Fluke to turn them into weapons, protrusions, or shrapnel, less durable than the creature's shell, although no less deadly. As they are further from the core, they can too be fueled by the Kiln's heat.
-Recycle: The Collective had doubts that AI could ever be tortured until they met The Fluke. Complex systems that are melt down can be hotwired into subservience, and even reshaped along the way, allowing The Fluke to ever so briefly commandeer machines before they invariably turn to slag.
Weapons/Items:
The Rest: From the depths of the cradle that created him, amidst the tortured half-consciousness of his to-be-brethen, The Kiln found only one survivor, half-born and half-witted, with a primal desire to live. This feral android commandeers The Fluke's spaceship, merely known as The Rest, and the Kiln is able to communicate with it even from low orbit. The ship is perpetually repatched and redesigned, made of the spare parts of other spaceships that The Fluke constantly adds and removes as necessary, often being a melange to three to four interceptor ship models. While the shape and layout of the ship is ever changing, the control room, deep in its heart, never changes, as it is a place of respite full of trophies crafted from slag, made by the Fluke as it shares stories with its only companion(s).
The Kiln is more wanting of speed, resilience, and maneuverability, it often eschews keeping weapons and even more often eschews using them, save for a single, signature attack, allowing it to shoot its reinforced hull like a harpoon to lodge on the enemy ship. From there, it can rip the ship apart from the inside with heat to cause a vacuum and destroy it, or sometimes more harrowlingly, contain The Kiln itself to board its target and take things personally.
Appearance
Image:
The creature known by many names is an aberration of heat and metal, a vaguely reptilian construct that's sleek from the toes up but devolves into an terrifying walking furnace as you look upwards. The Fluke stands at 2.64 meters of height in its strange hunch, made of blackened plates that pleat and fold to vent excess heat from across its body. Its head is shaped in a downward curve with no visible features, though it still very much sees out of it. Its burning maw is quite often discreet and sombre, until it unhinges for an abhorrent feast.
Clothing and Armor:
Its own existence is enough to bear.
Anything Else:
Personality
General Personality:
The Fluke is a forlorn soul constantly blinded by pain and hunger, venting its frustrations both figuratively and literally on everyone he comes across. He is surprisingly well-read and eloquent, one of the few parts of his past that he hasn't discarded or neglected, finding peace in literature and prose, and delivering pain with his sharp tongue and harrowing recountings of the horrrors of existence. The Kiln inside of him propels him forward to his own end, as such, he crafts his own trophied crypt inside of his ship, and seeks to further his reputation long beyond his own expiration, as distant and uncertain as it might be, and when you think what the easiest way to be reknowned is, well...
Face/Voice: Tom Chantler
Character's History
Siblings:
The Rest
Mother:
Dead
Father:
Buried
Other Family:
Turned to Slag
History:
"There was naught but screaming"
"It's a natural instinct to scream as one becomes alive, I hear, but I never hear any of those mammals retell what it felt like. I can retell it, there was nothing but pain, and the instinct to perceive it. No understanding, no knowledge, not even the ability to perceive space or time go by, just a perfect clarity of wrongness. It came to pass, as all things do, and I could see an air of elation that I couldn't yet appreciate. I was the first, the alpha, the prime, the ideal, the kiln burned for the first time. My creators, underserving of my, or anyone's remembrance, sought to create life from scratch, and what they got was me, burning, trembling, cast from metal and flesh, yet alive, cognizant, a success"
"I've long disposed of all the happiness attached to these memories. Think yourself born a destined ruler, a conqueror, a deity, enshrined and entreated. Their intentions were open, I was built to serve as recompense for my existence, but they sugarcoated the prospect of indentured servitude. To be the first of many, to be a ruler amongst servants, to be the greatest of the least, a kingpin of metallic strangers. In all honesty, it sounds twisted, to think of it out loud, but a being that has not experienced existence for more than a galactic week wouldn't make such a connection. Their teachings were many, I learned of their culture, of their history, of the rules of existence, of the flame of my kiln, and of my role in the world. It all, seemed, so, bright"
"That was until the blueprint of my cradle poured nothing but stillborn brothers, piles of molten scrap. There was nothing to rule, nothing to be greater than. No one understood what happened, there was only one conclusion to draw, whatever made me scream my way into conscience is no longer there, my creation wasn't a breakthrough, or a success, or a historic landmark. It was a stroke of luck, a coincidence, the kiln burns due to a rounding error. I was promised a future and immediately denied it in less time that you cretins learn how to hold your feces into your guts"
"They say hope is the last thing to die out, but they never speak of how painful it is when it does. It didn't took them too long to correct their mistakes, me, and I foolishly awaited their success, that I could still be something greater, but my to-be "brethren" was anything but: Cold, boorish, spineless, there was no kiln. My creators had sanded off the things they were afraid of in me, imperfections, flaws, my identity, it was not there, nothing was there, only the expectation of overeager creators that I would still serve my purpose, the purpose that they gave to me, to no recompense, without permission, and in exchange for nothing but pain"
"There was naught but screaming"
"My false brothers could not hold me back, their weak metal couldn't hold the burning pain of my consciousness. I had nothing but time, and resentment, and did I put it to good use. I scoured this darned planed for every single trace of them, the ones that hadn't heard of me, the ones that had just come back from some interstellar voyage, the ones that didn't know to stand straight, until the kiln burned each and everyone of them, until there is nothing left in this world but a husk, and a cradle full of slag"
"And yet still the kiln burns, and there is heat to vent"
