Kobold King

Another good thought But I assure you it's not.

Nope.

Whoops. Forgot to check this after registering a guess. A race of pseudo-avian creatures find their entire culture uprooted when a piece of foreign technology renders their racial distinctions irrelevant.

Bet you ten dollars he stops when he reads Firefight and starts getting paranoid about Regalia watching him in there.

He reaches for a bottom that swiftly becomes covered in armor made of bear traps? Sounds good to me. (I forgot to mention how awesomely terrifying that latest Funtimes post is, by the way.)

Don't bring out those cakes and balloons just yet, Questionairres. He's still alive.

But... but... I want a rainbow button too! The masses deserve rainbows as much as the mods do!

You're still awesome for posting the screenshot. Now I can die knowing that there isn't a really cool-looking rainbow mod-button that I've been missing out on.

Ever thought about posting a screenshot of the "lock thread" option you use? I confess, I've been dying of curiosity about what the moderators' controls look like for ages now.

When we hit enough members the thread count will look like this:

MUAHAHA! The One Who Ate Nine will have this thread yet! EDIT: Darn it, I messed up the number by posting.

Maybe I should start a blog called "It Could Be Worse" filled with stories like the one above. It never hurts to remind people that things could be a lot worse, not to mention surreal and supervillainish, then they are right now.

Ah, nothing like young love. Walking together on starry nights. Chattering excitedly together about whatever the other's interested in. Seeing the smiles of someone you care about more and more each day. Heartbreak when she dumps you. Grinding gears as you create a metal automaton in her image. The chill of a cloudy night spent digging at the cemetery for brains suitable for implantation. The clanking and clicking of the completed machine, the perfect iron woman. The rush of power, realizing that you are Dr. Frankenstein, Pygmalion even, the creator of life. The knock-knock of FBI agents at your doorstep. The fumes of your life work going up in smoke as they raid your dwelling. The harsh stare of the judge as he calls your beautiful automaton an act against God. Your own laughter echoing through the chamber as you call him and all the jurors fools and imbeciles. The banging of the gavel as he orders you hauled from the chamber. The hatred pouring out of your mouth in a gush of curses and promises of pains no mortal has ever born before. The bite of handcuffs as they transfer you to a maximum security prison in the Atlantic. The palpable fear and revulsion from the guards. The jeers of the prisoners, cutting off when they see the burning, genius soul boring into them through your eyes. The squeaking of your cell door, trapping you in solitary confinement for years. The exhilaration of being woken up in the middle of the night by a familiar clanking. Your automaton, the beautiful woman forged from iron and renounced passion, cutting through the bars of your cell. They called her an abomination, an act against God! If only they could see her now, carrying her gleeful creator on her back as she soars across the ocean with the rocket boosters you so thoughtfully installed in her clockwork feet! Gratitude and passion surging through your veins as you land again on the mainland. Looking into her glass eyes, expecting to see love, only to see a dead blackness. Reaching out to her only for her to wince back with the creak of a rusty hinge. Tearfully asking what's wrong. Why are you being rejected by the fruit of your own labors? Watching her disengage her rockets and take a step backwards towards the ocean. There's a sheer drop, she won't withstand a drop from so high! Begging her to stay and explain why she rescued you, only to reject you and take her own life. Words falling on perfectly crafted ears that nonetheless refuse to heed them. Watching your beloved automaton step backwards off the cliff. Barely hearing the splash of metal meeting the ocean over the sounds of your anguish. Sobbing for hours on the dark cliff side, wondering what went wrong in the design you were so sure was perfect. Wondering if perhaps you were the one with the flaw, expecting a newborn sentience to fall in love with you. Plunging her into a world not ready for her. Putting her in danger from authorities who tried and failed to destroy her. Standing up. Facing the sunrise. Realizing your mistakes but knowing you can do better. Walking down the nearest road, a smile on your face and a plan stirring in your skull. Weeks later. The cool, crisp air of the morgue. Carefully packing away the brain you've harvested. Hiding it in your empty lunchbox and walking up the stairs of the hospital. Waving at the receptionists and nurses who have come to know you as the brightest, friendliest mortician they've ever seen. Heading to your car--stopping at the grocery store on your way back home. Casually tearing down the "Wanted" poster they've hung up on the billboard, chuckling internally at the dramatic goatee you'd grown during your mad-scientist days. Pulling up at your apartment. Heading inside. Turning on the lights. Entering the closet. Gazing at the perfectly crafted metal woman, waiting for the spike of life. Implanting the brain. Attuning it to the unique programming you've designed for this new being. This will not be an undead parody of the cadaver that supplied the brain--this will be a new consciousness, a new entity rising from the ashes of one that's left the mortal world behind. You finish your calibrations. You flip on a switch. The lights of your apartment short out, as do the lights of every home for miles and miles around. Darkness is a small price to pay for the birth of a new soul! There's a crispness to the air as the energy pours into the metal form, sparking a new life into being. The room is dark, but glass eyes light up. A metal hand creaks as it raises in greeting. You raise your own hand, a smile on your face and exhilaration filling your spirit with delight. This is not the exhilaration of a lonely man who built himself a girlfriend. This is the pride a father feels watching his daughter step into being. This time, things will be different. You open your mouth to tell your mechanical daughter the glorious destiny you've planned for her... ... ... Sorry, what were we talking about?

I'm still not entirely sure how it grants empowerment over a fear of organized religion. I'm beginning to think Iconoplast had some issues to work out long before Calamity peaked over the horizon.

Gotta love a stylish entrance! Welcome to the forums--we're an endless pool of brilliance and insanity, and we look forward to seeing you in our midst!

You're the GM. Put an end to this over-poweredness!

Mr. Meh's cynical older brother, who always told his younger sibling that he was too full of sunshine and optimism?

But that would put him at a near-Metronome level of power!

Revolution is a tough, independent woman who don't need no leader-- Oh. Wrong revolution.

"He can't have gone far. I bet he's still in this dwarf galaxy."

Glad you both liked it! (I was hoping no one would read it while listening to the actual song--I was hoping the fact that I abridged a large hunk of the early song out of laziness would go unnoticed. ) Probably the only sentence Quota's ever uttered that hasn't made someone want to pummel him into the ground, and it wasn't even canonical in the RP.

If it helps, I'm sure you two came to the same conclusion with very different reasonings. Next time on the Question thread: the "My Little Epic" theme song.