Figured I'd have a go at this. Sort of assuming this is a suggestion game rather than everyone having their own character.
That's right, this is a suggestion game. And you've got a sharp eye, the green vortex is a reference to Rick and Morty, but the invention itself takes up more than half your basement. If you still want to call it a portable teleporter that would be hilarious, but you could just leave it blank if you prefer.
You stagger through the crowded streets of London, quietly repeating your name (Edgar Charleson) as well as a few of your friends’. You don’t have very many; they tend to break off contact once you start ranting about the infinite possibilities of parallel planes, which, if properly hydrated, you could do for hours.
Alfons Aakhus, your aunts’ old butler, and Old Tom Overholt are the exceptions. Alfons has known you since childhood, and forgives your inconsiderate ways. And Old Tom really isn’t in a position to say anything about your manners.
You are wrenched from your thoughts as a curious scent discerns itself from the usual smell of horses and waste. A scent that almost moves you to tears. You half stumble, half sprint towards the small unnamed bakery.
As you slam the door open the overweight, rose-cheeked owner stares at you, and her young daughter hides behind her skirts. Not that you would’ve ever noticed this, not usually and certainly not half-starved. You throw yourself over the selection of bread and pastries, starting with the most flavourful-
“Hey, you have to pay for that…”
-bannock you have ever laid your hands upon, and continuing with a loaf, golden brown as if sent from…
“This is not a charity! If you don’t have money, please leave my shop!”
A harsh prod from across the counter wakes you up, and you quickly empty you left pocket of loose change with your free hand, still with your eyes locked onto your newfound baked treasures. They are whispering now, with alluring voices commanding you to -
“This is not enough! There are constables outside and I expect to be payed!”
The change of tone startles you, and you turn to leave the shop, grabbing a baguette as you do so. The furious grunts from behind you would suggest some degree of haste, but you are not in a state to do so. As you slam into another costumer and fall to the floor for the second time today all you have time to notice is his surprised expression, the redness of the owners face and the calming light of a cast iron gas lamp before the blackness surrounds you.
You wake up with a coughing fit, covered in a sudden cloud of flour. The small girl you didn’t notice before stares at you with wide eyes, a linen bag in her arms, then rushes off to the safety of her mother. A few seconds later she enters the kitchen, stout, tall and with a worried expression on her face. She wordlessly reaches out a large bannock with a bitemark the size of your fist.
(1! -2 (poor social skills) = -1) You look at her for a moment, then exclaim “Oh, you expect to be payed!”
You hand her a two-pence, snatch the bread from her hands and wave her off as you take another large bite from the bun. She stares at you, dumbfounded. Moments later she shouts ”Out of my shop!”
You are shooed outside the store, which is incredibly impolite, and bad business practices at that. And as you try to reenter the shop to at least get the bread which you’ve paid for in overprice, she shouts for the constables, the witch!
Well, if there are any around they will certainly have heard that. What do?
Status: Half starved, fatigued, ecstatic
Inventory: A small purse of coins (approximately five pence worth), a newspaper from today, a piece of bread.
Misc: You look about what can be expected from a man who've slept twice in a week
Inventions: The portable teleporter?, its many components. (You should perhaps look into them individually)