Bay 12 Games Forum

Well, there are three factors here; one, you are a noncombatant scholar who likely remained in the living quarters during the event, two, the caverns are cut off from the surface, since the only passage down within a fifty-mile radius was a stair through a thin natural pillar, which if you didn't figure out was knocked down atop Big Shiny, three, having somebody active in the fort above while the people below try to survive long enough for the above-remainer to accomplish something could be pretty interesting.

Name: Junkpot MXV Kenny the latest-death'th.

Soul: A particularly badly-made Sten Mk2 SMG, blew up when first fired.

Incarnation; A vaguely humanoid mechanical assembly, at least one of its limbs probably works. It's about the shittiest thing you've ever seen.

Gender; Rust.

What You're good at: Always reincarnates as a mobile mechanical assemblage within about three kilometers of its last death, good at mechanical maintenance. Pretty damn practiced slapstick comedian.

What you're bad at: So absurdly shitty and fragile that any damage whatsoever causes it to die painfully and spectacularly. Trip over a rock? Bits of ruptured springs go ten feet in the air. Kid shoots it with a slingshot? Michael Bay-esque fireball that somehow avoids harming anything else nearby. Pat on the back? Cumulative rust damage instantly reduces it to a dust-devil of powdered iron oxide. Deeply depressed. Really, really bad singing voice.

Your Hopes: Find oblivion/permanent death. Utterly impossible to achieve. Hence depression.

Your Fears: Immortality, children with slingshots, Joseph Stalin, lubricant oil.

What you need to survive: Scrap metal {To replace everything that falls off and doesn't cause instant death} Coolant of some kind {Air, water, ice, chilled sand, anything to stop it accumulating too much heat from its immensely shitty circuits and burning to death} Antidepressants. {Duh. Not sure how the mechanical horror uses em' though. Sufficient intoxicating chemicals also work, for a while.}

What's in your pockets: A half-empty bottle of antidepressant pills, a photo of Vladimir Lenin with an ineptly drawn mustache and eyebrows in earwax-colored crayon.