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maydays-medbay · 2 years ago

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Blog Links and Other Info

Last Updated: 3/31/2023 [3:38 AM (GMC-5)]

Updates: Added Flamewire's info; added to Dropdash, Ether, and Fireskimmer's profiles

This is a master document of many important things circling on my blog, such as my OCs and their respective ref sheets, currently open ask games, links to my other blogs, and AUs that I have made. Updates to the doc will be added to the top of the page next to the indicated spot

Info and Other Blogs

Call me Krutch, Arch, or Arc; He/Him pronouns

My birthday is March 21st if that matters to anyone 😂

The Medbay Discord! - here

My Other blogs:

@memory-not-found (Karma's RP Blog)

@of-ruins-and-rubble (Ruination Corps. RP Blog)

@of-arches-and-angels (Ultrakill Sideblog, very blank and empty rn)

Current Ask Games

5 minute sketches

Ask Me Anything

Flowery Oc Asks

Uncommon Questions for OCs and Creators

Headcanon ask

Unhinged Character Bingo

Transformers Character Asks (I made this one a while ago lol)

Characters

Karma / Dreamer, Astronomer, Lover of the Stars / He-Him / ref sheet

Phonetic Spelling: [Car-muh]

Voice Claim (Speaking): Anakin Skywalker from The Clone Wars Animated Series

My main OC, who currently lives on a starship with a small crew

Very reserved, but has a relatively pleasant personality when he does talk to others. Very smiley and gentle despite his size

Clumsy because of how big he is, though doesn't enjoy it much

Silverfall / Therapist, Serenity, Level-Headed Thinker / He-Him / ref sheet

Second Youngest of his siblings [Dropdash, Flamewire, Goldrake]

Used to be conjuxed to Karma, but was unfortunately offlined

Had a very happy and bubbly personality, but rarely showed it because of their willingness to listen to others and sit still

Very quiet speaker despite their personality (in most cases)

Really liked flowers like lavender because it was his brother, Goldrake's, favorite

Felt responsible for Goldrake up until they all went separate ways and lost contact with one another

Dropdash / Engineer, Blunt, Voice of Gravel / He-Him / Head Concept

The Eldest of his siblings [Silverfall, Flamewire, Goldrake]

Second tallest of his family

Very prickly personality

Not as intimidating as he tries to be

Hates flowers. Don't bring them anywhere near him unless you want a tool of some kind lobbed at your head.

Kibble puffs up a lot when angry- more than the average bot. This has been used as fuel to tease him plenty of times

Flamewire / Informant, Assassin, Teller of Secrets / He-She / Concept

Second Eldest of his siblings [Dropdash, Silverfall, Goldrake]

Tallest and tankiest of her siblings

He's not associated with Decepticons or Autobots, and will sell his services to anyone who will pay up

Cunning and self-centered

Leads an underground party that deals in secrets and assassination

Has a large following outside of either faction that will listen to her out of both loyalty and fear

His faceplates were scarred after a nasty brawl with a group of Decepticons

Many of the parts on her helm are cameras- many overlook them and see them as headlights or some other light source

Ether / Friendly, Painter, Fruit of Fate / He-Him / ref sheet [very outdated]

Phonetic Spelling: [EE-ther]

Kin of Karma and Silverfall

Very chaotic and energetic when he wants to be

Other than that he can be relatively quiet, especially when focused on a painting or other art project

Still grieving deeply over Silverfall's death and is more emotionally distant. He dissociates sometimes because of the event

Tries his best to take care of Karma while he can, even if sometimes he holds resentment towards him

Is hurt most when his caretaker, Karma, forgets him (this, unfortunately, is a common occurrence- especially as Karma grows older)

Tempest / [Placeholder] / He-Him

Cloudbreak / [Placeholder] / He-Him

Fireskimmer / Explorer, Exotreader, Fountain of Flame / He-Him

An XZ Class Exotreader frametype

Has an outlier ability that allows for him to combust parts of his body on command, though he can't use it for super long in risk of causing permanent fire damage- even with his fire resistance

Part of an explorer crew with others of his frametype

Both of his crewmates were his conjunx endura while they were all aboard their ship, The Novacore.

Currently in a holding cell under the Ruination Corps.' command

Paradigm / Cannibal, Mnemosurgeon, Two-Faced Vitriol / They-Them

Phonetic Spelling: [Pare-uh-dime]

Voice Claim (Speaking): The Conductor from Infinity Train (Vocoded, Robotic Voice)

Comprised of two individual bots, Jekyll and Hyde, and has two sparks in their frame

Both Jekyll and Hyde, when referred to individually, use He/Him pronouns

Hyde is the dominant of the two, more often being in control of the body and their motor functions

Hyde is cunning and overall an extremely manipulative individual, while Jekyll is more brutish and headstrong

They lead the Ruination Corps. alongside 5 other bots, though they are the overall "supreme" leader

Halcyon / Tactician, Chemist, Lurker in the Dark / They-He-It

Phonetic Spelling: [Hal-see-ON]

Voice Claim (Speaking): Higgs from Death Stranding

One of the Salvific Six- or the leaders of the Ruination Corps. besides Paradigm

Their tongue turns into a needle that they use to inject others with a variety of their dark concoctions, or suck fluids from objects

Has no optics on its face, though he does have sensors there...not to say that they don't have optics somewhere on their frame

Jaw can split open to grip onto things when using his needle

Vyrox / Surveillance Officer, Analyst, Creator of Malware/ He-They-She

Phonetic Spelling: [Vi-rocks]

Voice Claim (Singing): A Little Bit - Jake Daniels

Another member of the Salvific Six of the Ruination Corps.

Has an built-in system that lets him look through cameras and other surveillance devices- including comm units and other things of the like

Enjoys creating viruses that they can use against other bots

She isn't afraid to get their hands dirty if he has a duty that upholds the cause

Traitors will face Vyrox whether they like it or not, they don't miss anything going on within their ranks

Wolfram / KRAN-469074, Demolitionist, Elemental Expert / He-Him

Phonetic Spelling: [Wolf-rum]

Based on the KRAN frametype made by @cuppajj

The 74 at the end of his designated number is the same for that of Wolfram (now known as tungsten) on the periodic table of elements

Often straight-faced and intimidating to those he's unfamiliar with

Actually very goofy and loves joking around with others, even if it can take a while to get them to stop being somewhat afraid of him

Very science brain

Starbramble / Starseeker, Explorer, Shrouded Pathfinder / He-Him / ref sheet

Based on the Starseeker frametype made by @dimorphodon-x

Very lone wolf-esque mentality, though bonds that he makes are very strong

Betrayal will result in a life-long grudge. He doesn't do second chances

Lives on a jungle-heavy planet with his pet turbofox (even he doesn't know how he befriended the small beast)

Alternate Universes [AUs]

Counterfeit Paradigm

This is the name that I use for all of my OCs, but it's not really anything more than that. Most of the stuff involving this AU is just me talking about Paradigm or Karma lol

College AU - Main Info

An AU where everyone is in a College setting, though not everyone still has to be in college and can just be a normal citizen of sorts

Gecko AU - Some info

Not much info on this one as of right now other than all of the characters getting gecko-like features

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themissingmarvel · 5 years ago

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The Witness

(This is just my own writing. It’s not a fanfic or anything. It’s just something I’m working on. I’ll keep the rest of my sideblog, but if this tickles your fancy at all, or whatever, let me know. Otherwise I’ll just be posting the link to the Tumblr for my assorted writing)

It always takes me a moment to remember I am alone. The sensation is jarring because I am never alone, but simply isolated. I hear words and voices, dripping down like rain onto the pages before me, my pen flowing without my guidance. It dances through the fibers and creases of the sheets bound in leather, and I am a spectator. There is relief that comes in bringing memories and feelings to life, to allow myself space within my mind for more than the thoughts of others. Even as the book fills, my body cramping as the sensation of discomfort fills me, I feel so much relief. The path of a young girl, her decision to cross the street a block up and her thoughts that are created from that, are no longer mine. She is not mine. I see the future that has happened of a woman once set to live a life of financial success traded for the future of a woman giving up hope at nineteen.

Sadness. I remember that’s what I am hearing, seeing, feeling. Loneliness is always worse when shared with someone else, but hers is mine. I cannot touch this path taken, because the choice has been made. A ripple into a wave into devastation all at once, and it is no longer mine. I feel a tickle on my cheek, surprised to reach up and feel a tear. Crying. Sadness. It is not an emotion I cherish because it is not mine, but the resentment built inside me I take responsibility for. Humanity with perks and drawbacks, and I feel I own it all. I belong to these thoughts that are not mine, and the life taken is torn from my consciousness, leaving me alone with loneliness.

The book is filled, and I stare down. Her eyes, a deep chocolate, begin to fade from my mind and I recognize the split. I am not the woman in the bathtub, the one clutching the razor as she shakes, and that olive skin is not mine. The black hair sticking to bare skin is not mine, and I am not destroying my own body. My pen hits the table and I find myself relieved by the physical pain that settles in its place. Shoulders once hunched over a book feel sore, my hand cramped and shaking. The last words in the book are almost unrecognizable, except for the finality of it. One might extrapolate the ending to a story that has yet to happen and is set in stone from the tone put forth. I am not the author, but I am the owner.

Feelings that are not mine dissipate like smoke, but what I am left with, as my world becomes focused, is in fact mine. The deep resentment I work to avoid is fed like a flame, devouring what I desperately try to cling to. I am angry and sad, and I feel responsible for emotions that don’t belong to me. I am the author but not the owner. Logic informs me that I have not made this choice, to take my own life, but my mind feels to be the culprit. I am tearing pieces of her from me in a desperate attempt to reclaim my mind that has already gone so long without knowing itself.

Closing the book with ease, I carry it with me, my legs dancing across the marble floor as I remember myself. So many names. I frequently repeat my own so I don’t lose them, afraid to write my own book for fear that it will escape me forever. Memories are tricky when they are the only history you have. I have no photographs to cherish, no trinkets or tokens to remind me of who I am or where I come from. Instead, there is ink on my fingers and a sense of longing for something, I know not what, to ease me into something else.

Standing on a nearby stool, I reach up high and slide the book by others, finally watching as I leave the girl behind. She is both nine and nineteen, and I do not know which. I know only her story and her choices, and I know her choice has led her down a path none could stop. I am grieving for her loss in the eyes of her mother, grieving her loss through her own eyes. Desperately, I hurry off of the stool, letting go of all that I have touched, all at once feeling a sudden void appear.

It takes me by surprise, standing flatly with my bare feet against the marble, and it is then I hear his voice. Made and unmade. Here and gone. There is nothing except for him and his desperate plea to be made free of… what? For the first time in my existence, I feel my head aching from being so empty. This presence, both there and not, is rattling my sanity around like a penny in a coin jar. Here I realize why I am in pain, and it is the understanding that it is because I can feel my own thoughts finally flooding in. Memories of stories, a disconnect between me and them, a schism created in a cataclysm of knowledge that was never mine.

Before I am aware of what has happened, I am on the floor, eyes fluttering open, forcing myself to reality. Is this reality? I take a moment, lying there, to stare at the rows of books lined before me. Perception altered, but this is my reality. It is mine. I blink a few times to force myself to understand where I am. Careful movements pull my body upwards until I am sitting, half on my side, legs sprawled out with my hands holding me up. The voices are back, screaming, powerfully against my skull, and I attempt to organize them as I always do. For a moment, I contemplate that I have finally gone insane, unable to understand the voices or see the faces. I cannot hold them. I cannot touch them. I can only hear them, and it is driving me mad.

My hands rise to my head, gripping at my hair as I gasp for breath that does not come. Panic. This is a sensation I am familiar with at a disconnected level, a place where I am not the one in panic. Who feels panic. Who is panic. What is panic? These voices won’t stop, and now they are pleading. In my current state, I cannot decipher all of them, feeling like I have reached into the water and I am trying to pull a strand of liquid. It is impossible. And for the first time in a long time, I scream, my own voice jarring even to me, “Stop!”

At once, there is silence. I sit. I hold my head and I wait. My command has echoed and I can hear it swimming down the halls of my library. I feel it touching every book and every piece of furniture. For as long as I can remember, I have been alone, so the feeling is comfortable to me. But now, with my words, I know I have summoned something else forward. The man of Light? Those of Light? Those of Dark? I remember the fights. The pain. I remember why I am alone.

Quickly, I scramble to my feet, carrying myself in the direction of my personal manuscripts. They are mine, and I cannot question why I can think so clearly all of a sudden. Clarity has not been a word in my vocabulary in some time, so I embrace the ability to utilize it. Clarity carries me and I flee, dancing with the wind that cannot touch my world. I feel my body in its entirety, carried by air and light, pulled back through darkness and shadows, held together by thin fibers of reality.

My movements stop suddenly as I reach my table, the old oak worn, polish that was there once years before, gone from a millenia of use. I see his form at the table, words to describe him flooding my now-freed mind. Confident. Smooth. Relaxed. Wicked. Dangerous. Dark. Frightened. Handsome. Terror. I can feel myself grasping for other words that I may utilize, but he speaks before I can, “The Witness. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” A smirk plays on his lips, and I find myself confused.

This conversation is new to me. I haven’t had it. It isn’t happening. And yet he is here and speaking. Anger washes over me, “You broke it.”

He stands and I step back. His hands lift as if to show passivity, but I know better. The man in robes of darkness. He is their creator, but not mine. My feet feel colder as they touch the floor, my fingertips frozen as I step back with each of his steps forward. He is taller than me, his dark hair slicked back, blue eyes piercing. He is handsome because he has willed it so, and I recall my previous encounters. I am aware now he is trying to catch me unawares, and he has the upper hand. His voice is smooth as it leaves his lips, “The barrier? Yes, of course. Your little fit not too long ago informed me of where you were. You’ve never been too good at sanity, love.”

My face has contorted to anger, despite my attempts. I am desperately confused and terribly frightened at this sudden space in my mind. Has he caused it? Has he simply taken advantage? I ask none of these questions, “My space.”

He smiles, broadly, walking towards me with steps of confidence as I am stopped by shelves of books, “Honestly, how long has it been since you spoke with another? I was hoping for better conversation topics than this.” I watch as his hand extends, briefly stroking my jawline. His words would be sincere were it not for our own history.

But talking helps me. While I would never tell him, conversing with another will always bring me back. The available space I now have, the space occupied with the rest of the world, certainly doesn’t hurt. My hands reach up and apply pressure to his chest, forgetting my own force as I will him back. He stumbles, laughing as he does so, but I speak first, “You have no business here, Bringer.” He holds up his hands again and I am expected to be placated by this motion. I am not.

“She speaks! Full sentences, no less. I would disagree that I have no business here, Witness. We both know my business. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” He grins. I am reminded of the stories from lore of all cultures. The stories of the serpent that taunts. He is the serpent, but I am the Witness. I have realized, now, that he is not aware of my inability to know. He is not aware that there is space in my mind, and that my sanity, for now, is left free. So I stand, attempting to remember what it looks like to hold my ground. I wish that I could free a book, read through memories and gain them back. To my left is a brown book holding the life of an adult, one I cannot recall but I know holds power. I wish to have it back.

“Bringer, you are to leave. I want none of your business! I told Light and Dark years ago I would have no place.” I speak as sternly as I am able to manager. However, his laughter is both sincere and cold, filling the halls and corridors, leaning his head back as it explodes forth. I am aware of the look of anger filling my features, unable to stop the clenched fists as he steps forward, testing the waters.

I resist and stand as he speaks once more, “Witness! Let us drop the formalities. Please. You’re too lovely a woman to be called by such a name. Let us converse as they do.” He speaks plainly, giving me a look of exasperation and amusement which bothers me incredibly.

I am angry and I shout, my willpower gone, whatever of it I had, “I will not. I told all of you I wasn’t playing a role in your games! I am no witness!”

His hand reaches out sharply, a flash and flurry of movement as he slams his hand against the shelf to my right, “Whether you like it or not, you are The Witness. Your sense of time has left you, but I know better. We spoke eons ago, I was hoping you’d changed your mind.” His hand brushes over the binding of the books, my eyes widen as he does this.

There is little to know about my space, except that it is mine. The place I exist in is understood as sacred, and it is of my creation. The tomes that fill the place before me are all of mine, and have all been inside of me. He is touching what I know is sacred. He is touching me. I feel my face contort, “Do not touch them. I would sooner set fire to this place than allow you access.”

He looks amused. The Bringer smiles at me with his features that I recognize as dark, with a façade so very much him, “You’d sooner bring on insanity? That is, more than you are? We both know, if you burn this place, all of this,” he twirls a finger, then taps my head, “goes back in here.”

I push him away again, angrily regaining my distance. I do not miss interactions, and I am swiftly reminded as to why I have preferred being alone. Suddenly I am longing for the memories that have crowded in my mind, and a profound feeling of loneliness lingers. My hands brace the table, feeling my heart race as emotions I have forgotten how to own become mine again. My life is not in jeopardy, and I am aware that he cannot harm me here. I am safe. But safety is a matter of mindset, and mine is dwindling.

He comes back, a scent of smoke and ash dancing with him. I feel his presence, but he remains distanced, “Fine, let me be candid. I’m here because we need you. Madeline, please.” I hear pleading, turning my own face at the sound of a name he has chosen to use. I remember its meaning, I remember that he has placed me on a pedestal, as they all have. While most have kept a distance, his darkness feels comforting. His motives are never hidden and I always know what to expect.

“Oliver…” He looks pleadingly at me, and the human emotions I am so aware I have not felt are now consuming me. His motivations are selfish. But I find myself wanting to believe this is not the case. I find myself pleading for his honesty. I want to take a book now, take all of them, and put them back into my mind. This hollow feeling is filling with my own thoughts and my own emotions, overtaking me like a virus.

His face changes, and at once I have shown my hand. I recognize his face and I turn mine away, “Leave.”

He reaches out and his cold hand grabs my bare arm, pulling harshly as his voice raises in volume, “Madeline, don’t you see! This is what I mean! Your confusion is his work. He’s robbing us of futures, all of us!” I turn sharply and free myself from his grasp, now holding my soft brown fountain pen. He looks surprised, though hasn’t time to do much else. Holding up the pen, I write in the space before me,

Be Gone, Oliver

in writing that dances on air. Before any words to argue can escape, he vanishes before me.

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