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[Comrade P.]

"We are Hellborn, born here, from the union of two like yourself, lifeborn. We have no other incarnation before, and many believe we will have no incarnation after this one. I am a 5th generation of hellborn, as are most others here; I suppose that is why we all appear similar. We are happy to see you, because you are a Real being, one descended from the lofty planes of life to dwell in this place for all time, immortal and free. Beings like you created our town, created us. But there seem to be so few like you here, we rarely see them, so their presence is something to be celebrated."

((Neat))

"If thats what you would like to do, I will do it." The man-looking being says, smiling. He seems almost not to understand what the concept of a shop is.

John stands still and thinks for a moment. He turns away and pretends to be seeking things in his pockets, although he knows precisely where each item of his modest belongings is on him. It is rather clear now that this.. man... keeper doesn't grasp the concept of trade, so it isn't quite necessary to waste any of his valuable possessions on trade he foolishly (as it turned out) proposed. Finally, he comes up with a plan.

He relocates his flask from inner pocket of his jacket to the back pocket of his jeans, as if it was the point of his searching hustle. He pulls off his jacket (with all pockets empty now) and places it on one of the hangers, with all the other clothes he had seen earlier.
He smiles at the keeper for a moment, simultaneously trying to get a good look on him (if possible within moment, heh) and then proceeds to filling the vessels he got with water.
When that is done, he asks which way to junk shop.

Finally, he thanks the keeper and leaves the shop, then puts the water-filled vessels in the back of the car.

He sees that gorilla fellow is still there.
- Eeeeeyyyy.... buddy? You're still here? Keep an eye on those then while I go get some more stuff, okay? This is going to be our water and fuel supply, but now it's just water.

[Corsair]

((Perhaps I will reposition myself to somewhere more travelled, perhaps the main plaza/road or something?))

[Beirus]

"Can I have all of them?"

Grab like 5 syringes of varying size, a needle or two, and as many cigarette packs or cartons as I can carry.

[DoctorMcTaalik]

((Can I relocate nearer? I imagine Slencville isn't very friendly to Hyenas, and I'd probably catch the first car I could out of town.))

[ATHATH]

((Can I relocate nearer? I imagine Slencville isn't very friendly to Hyenas, and I'd probably catch the first car I could out of town.))

I suspect that Slencville is friendly towards all "life-born".

[Amperzand]

Okay, so I'm going to try this application, but I've got slightly less dumb ideas if this one gets nope'd.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

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.

[ATHATH]

Okay, so I'm going to try this application, but I've got slightly less dumb ideas if this one gets nope'd.

Name: Junkpot MXV

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.

I think that was the general gist of my character's niche, but I'm fine with you entering. Rename him Kenny.

[Amperzand]

Why Kenny? I mean, sure, but why?

[Comrade P.]

Okay, so I'm going to try this application, but I've got slightly less dumb ideas if this one gets nope'd.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Junkpot MXV

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.

You. I like you. Also, add your current location (make it somewhere in Slenceville, so the party will run into you and probably pick you up).

[Amperzand]

Hee, thanks!

I assumed I'd get dropped wherever the GM wants me to start, but sure, I'm in Slenceville. Making a somewhat jerky attempt to crawl along the roadside the PCs're traveling along, towards a neon "Bar" sign. Leaving a trail of rust, oil, and bolts, along with thin, greasy black smoke from a few gaps in what passes for external plating.

[Comrade P.]

Hee, thanks!

I assumed I'd get dropped wherever the GM wants me to start, but sure, I'm in Slenceville. Making a somewhat jerky attempt to crawl along the roadside the PCs're traveling along, towards a neon "Bar" sign. Leaving a trail of rust, oil, and bolts, along with thin, greasy black smoke from a few gaps in what passes for external plating.

Let us make that less vague.

Spoiler: Map, for convinience (click to show/hide)

That would be Red Tree Ave, heading towards Echo Diner then, correct?

[AoshimaMichio]

Let's play "spot a common thing":

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.

I'm thinking this part might be the thing that makes pw find his ax again. Let me quote this for you:

Name: Jerry
Soul: A Dandelion
Incarnation: A Black Hole (It Technically Fits in the Car) A Treant Mage
What He's Good At: Controlling the Location and Form of His Reincarnation, Magic
What He's Bad At: Not Dying Lying (Misdirection's Fine)
His Hopes: Jerry doesn't really know what he wants yet.
His Fears: Being Unable to Reincarnate Himself
What He Needs to Survive: Light
What's In His Pockets: Jerry has a spellbook strapped to his back.

I want you to think real hard about the words you are saying to me right now.

As you do that I'm gonna sharpen an ax and look meaningfully from it, to you, and back to it.

[Amperzand]

Oh, I know. I did say a random {GM chosen} location with a three-kilometer radius. I figure that gives the GM plenty of leeway to repeatedly torture me between useful incarnations. Besides, Kenny the Twenty-Fourthfifth-dammit-sixth is intended as more comic relief than anything, whereas the Immortal Treant of Majjyk was intended as a mary sue/godmodded PC. If this character's nope'd, I'm fine making something more practical, this just seemed fun.

[Xantalos]

Xankarvo blinks. His evil overlord instincts sense an opportunity.

"So would you theoretically obey orders from a lifeborn?"

[Amperzand]

The ruinous machine looks up at you, pushing itself up off the ground. The process of doing so breaks off a limb.

"Certainly. I am not bound to obey, but I have very little incentive not to do so."