Characters

GAYIFIER (Year 2140)

In 2140, Gayifier is a living relic walking through a world that time nearly ended. Physically, he still looks like a man in his early 20s—bright, lean, and just as colorful as ever—but inside, he feels like he’s somewhere in his 50s: tired, reflective, and deeply haunted. The nuclear winter that followed the Shattered Sky War left most of Earth frozen and broken, and with it, almost everyone he ever loved. His fellow members of the Joke Comic League are long dead. His 22 adopted children grew old, fought, and eventually succumbed to age, war, or the creatures that stalk the surface. Gayifier never did. He just kept going.

He still wears his iconic full-cover rainbow striped morph suit, no skin visible beneath, a moving streak of color against a dead white world. Over that, he now layers heavy winter gear: a thick, patched coat, reinforced snow pants, insulated boots, and a hood lined with frost-crusted fur. His mask is often wrapped in scarves and goggles to cut the biting wind. On his right hand, he wears a homemade metal clawed glove, sharpened fingers of steel fashioned from salvaged scrap and old weapons. It’s not a symbol of aggression—it’s a quiet reminder that if he has to protect someone, he’ll do it with as little power usage as possible.

After the War, Gayifier made a vow to himself: no more powers unless there is absolutely no other choice. Too many times, his rage and strength tipped battles into carnage. He remembers obliterating monsters, armies, and horrors—but also the cities that crumbled around them, the civilians caught in shockwaves, the allies who never got back up. Now, in this shattered 2140, he has chosen a life of restraint. He rarely flies. He almost never uses the gay-inator. Most of his help comes from his hands, his wits, and his experience. He pulls people from collapsed shelters, helps repair heaters, escorts scavenging teams through dangerous zones, and quietly intervenes when bandits or creatures threaten a settlement.

Gayifier wanders continent to continent, crossing ice-bridged oceans on rare working aircraft or caravans when he can, and often just walking for miles across frozen wastelands. To most survivors, he’s more of a myth than a man: a rainbow figure seen in the blizzard haze, a stranger who showed up when a beast crashed through the walls, or when raiders attacked, and then left before anyone could even say thank you. Entire towns tell stories about him like a ghostly protector—some don’t even believe he’s real. Some settlements know him only as “the Rainbow Wanderer” or “the Color in the Snow.”

The loneliness is crushing. He has outlived not just his generation, but multiple generations. On rare nights when he stays in one place long enough to rest, he lies awake thinking of Queerifier, of his other kids, of Jewman and EMO Man and the rest of the JCL who once stood beside him in loud, hot, chaotic battles. Now the world is quiet, and he realizes this silence is worse. He talks sometimes to empty rooms, to old photos, to the frozen air. He’ll crack a joke like he used to, then let it die in his throat when there’s nobody there to laugh.

Despite everything, his core never changed: he still cares. The LGBTQ+ community as it once existed is scattered, fractured, and often just blended within whatever settlements remain, but whenever he encounters queer kids scared of who they are in this broken world, something in him wakes up. He listens to them. He reassures them. He digs into his old, bright, chaotic heart and gives them hope—reminding them that identity is still theirs, even if the world around them is ash and ice. In those moments, he almost feels like his old self again.

Gayifier’s powers still hum under the surface like a dormant storm. The gay-inator, his flight, his incredible strength—none of that ever left. He’s just terrified of what happens if he cuts loose again. The devastation of the War lingers in his memory like scars on his soul. So instead, he chooses subtlety: a shove instead of a blast, a metal claw instead of a rainbow shockwave, a careful intervention instead of an earth-shaking strike. Only a handful of people in 2140 understand how powerful he truly is, and they keep that secret—for his safety and for everyone else’s.

To some, Gayifier is the last echo of a vanished age of heroes. To others, he’s a rumor told over crackling radios and campfires. But to himself, he’s just a tired man in a rainbow suit trying not to break what’s left of the world. He roams the frozen Earth not as a symbol of pride rallies and bright parades, but as a quiet guardian, keeping people alive in ways that don’t leave craters behind.

He may have once been the protector of the LGBTQ+ community, but in 2140, he has become something broader and sadder: a wandering soul who refuses to stop caring, even after the world has ended twice over.

THE WATCHER (Year 2148)

After his defeat in 2048, his broken body plummeted from the sky, burning through the atmosphere like a dying star. He hit the ocean with such force that the impact shook the seafloor, carving out a cavern where none had been before. There, in the crushing darkness and pressure, his form drifted downward until it came to rest in a jagged underwater cave. When the nuclear winter deepened and the seas began to freeze in 2052, ice crawled downward through cracks, fissures, and trenches, eventually entombing him in a layered shell of frozen water and silt. The world moved on. The War ended. Nations died. The Watcher stayed silent—buried beneath miles of black water and ice. But he didn’t die.

The Watcher’s nature made him almost impossible to erase. Even shattered, torn, and burned from the confrontation in 2048, his essence began to crawl back together, piece by piece. Limbs re-knit wrong before correcting. Fractured bone analogues aligned with sickening patience. But the ice was more than just a prison—it became a suppressant. The extreme cold, the crushing pressure, and the constant stillness of the deep slowed his regeneration to a crawl. Processes that would have taken max 3 years, stretched into decades. He remained half-healed, preserved like a corpse in a frozen tomb, his power coiled but incomplete. His once pristine screen-head was now webbed with cracks, dead and dark.

By 2148, the world above barely remembered the true story of the Watcher. He was a myth, a cult whisper, a half-corrupted name in Eternal Eye scripture and half-faded records. But the ocean still remembered where he fell.

A team of explorers—scrappers and curiosity-chasers from one of the rare, better-equipped settlements—were the first to disturb that memory. They descended by rope and harness down a long, jagged shaft that cut through layers of ice and rock, their lights carving cones into the darkness. Their radios crackled faintly with static and fragments of nervous chatter as they abseiled deeper, temperature drops biting through their gear. Eventually, they reached the cave: a vaulted chamber of black stone, ice glinting like teeth from the ceiling, the water here long since frozen into sculpted waves.

And at the far end of the cavern, encased in translucent blue-white ice, stood a figure.

The Watcher’s body was locked in a half-collapsed posture, arms partly outstretched, like he’d tried to brace himself just before everything froze over him. His cloak and form were torn and ragged, edges frozen mid-ripple. His TV head, once smooth and gleaming, was now cracked in multiple places, like a screen someone had punched. To the explorers, he was just…something old. Something weird. Maybe a relic of the pre-war world. Maybe an old battle weapon. Maybe a statue.

They approached.

As they drew close, their helmet lights reflected off the fractured glass of his screen. For a long heartbeat, nothing happened. Just the sound of their own breathing over the radio, the soft crunch of boots on frost, the muted drip of melting droplets from their equipment.

Then, without warning, the screen flickered.

Static blazed to life across the cracked glass, black and white snow glitching violently. The explorers froze. One of them muttered something about a power surge, another swore. The static then twisted, tightening, pulling inward as though reality itself was being tuned. In the center of the damaged screen, an eye appeared—glowing, unblinking, impossibly aware.

It looked at them.

Not past them. Not through them. At them.

That single moment—those few seconds of contact—was enough to send a spike of raw, primal terror through their minds. Instinct screamed wrong. Something in that gaze didn’t just see them standing there; it rifled through their memories, fears, and futures all at once, like fingers tearing through pages.

Then the ice broke.

It wasn’t a crack; it was an eruption. The frozen tomb around the Watcher shattered outward in a concussive blast, shards of super-cooled ice firing through the chamber like blades. The ropes snapped. The radios screamed with interference and cut off. The explorers had no time to react. The first was impaled by a spear of ice, the second flung into the cavern wall with a sickening crunch. The third tried to scramble back up the rope, only to feel something cold drag them down.

The Watcher stepped forward out of the collapsing coffin, moving with a ragged, stuttering grace. His body was wrong—partially regenerated, seams of glowing void energy running through torn limbs and cracked segments. His cloak hung in ruined strips, edges flickering like smoke. The screen of his head glowed dim and fractured, the central eye flickering.

He didn’t speak aloud. His “voice” hit them inside their heads: overlapping whispers, static, and distant screams, layered together into something that felt like thought forced into their skulls. He didn’t monologue. He didn’t explain. He didn’t have to.

One by one, he took them.

For one, it was as simple as a gesture—reality bending so their heart simply stopped. Another felt gravity twist sideways, slamming them against the ceiling and dropping them repeatedly until they ceased moving. Another tried to fire a weapon, only to find their own shadow rise up and choke the life from them. He killed them with surgical coldness, each death more a test of his own recovering strength than an act of hatred.

When it was over, the cavern was quiet again. Their bodies lay scattered and broken among the ice shards, ropes dangling uselessly above. The Watcher stood in the center of the cave, breathing slow, mechanical breaths. His power was not what it had been in 2048—he could feel the limits, the tearing edges, the instability in his own form. The ice had slowed his regeneration, left scars in his essence he’d never had before. His presence felt…jagged. Incomplete. Less god, more wounded predator.

But he was free.

Above him, the world still lay in nuclear winter, fractured and stunted. Colonies clung to survival. Old heroes were dead. The Eternal Eye limped on in his absence, turning faith into routine. The lattice that had barred him from Reality-0 so long ago had been weakened, his banishment long since ruptured by sacrifice and catastrophe.

And now, after a century entombed in ice and darkness, the Watcher rose again—damaged, unstable, underpowered…but awake.

He would not start with plagues and grand calamities this time. Not yet. First, he would watch the broken world that thought it had buried him. He would feel for the cracks: in people, in cities, in settlements, in reality itself. He would learn who remembered him, who cursed his name, and who still followed the Eye in the dark.

The Watcher, scarred and incomplete, stepped out of the cave, leaving the corpses of the explorers behind. Somewhere above the frozen ocean, a fractured world continued to move, unaware that something old and hateful had just opened its eye again.