???

2

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. Oh, he has the skills all right. Incredible artwork. Dynamic poses. Gorgeous splash pages. But story plot? That’s where emergency services should probably be notified. Then there’s ???… assuming anyone can remember what her original name even was. Seth certainly can’t. She was once his ultimate villainess, designed to be terrifying, manipulative, and unstoppable. Instead, she accomplished something no other character ever managed: she escaped the comic entirely. Not metaphorically. Literally. She climbed out of the pages, left Seth’s train wreck of a universe behind, and reinvented herself as Sabrina. Nowadays, Sabrina has a simple mission: rescue every hero and villain still trapped in Seth’s catastrophically written comic. One by one, she sneaks them into the real world, where they’re free from random plot twists, contradictory backstories, and dialogue that sounds like it was written during a caffeine overdose. To stay close to the source of the problem, Sabrina poses as Seth’s loving girlfriend. It’s the perfect disguise. Everyone thinks they’re a happy couple. Seth thinks he somehow got incredibly lucky. Sabrina knows she’s conducting a long-term extraction operation while keeping the clueless artist distracted with compliments and occasional pizza. Does she love him? Absolutely not. She tolerates him the way a wildlife expert tolerates a particularly dangerous raccoon. He’s useful. He’s oblivious. And as long as Seth never realizes his “girlfriend” is systematically emptying his comic book of every living character, Sabrina intends to keep smiling, keep nodding… and keep liberating victims from the worst superhero universe ever committed to paper.

Alexis Luther

1

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. Oh, he has the skills all right. Incredible artwork. Dynamic poses.Gorgeous shading. But story plot? That’s where the emergency sirens start. His latest masterpiece is Alexis Luther, a villain whose name sounds legally distinct enough to survive a courtroom… probably. Alexis’s origin changes more often than Seth changes his mind. At first, Alexis was a brooding billionaire supervillain. Then a mysterious femme fatale. Then both. Then neither. By issue #8, every comic panel randomly swaps Alexis’s gender for absolutely no reason. The narration never acknowledges it. The other characters don’t notice. Alexis doesn’t notice. Readers gave up trying to keep track three pages ago. Sometimes Alexis is one person who inexplicably changes between panels. Other times Seth insists there are twins. On one memorable occasion, both versions argued over who was the “real” Alexis before joining forces because fighting each other was “bad for branding.” The backstory is equally unstable. Evil scientist. Corporate CEO. Alien conqueror. Cursed librarian. Tax consultant. Every flashback contradicts the previous one, yet somehow they’re all treated as canon. Alexis possesses an astonishing collection of abilities that appear whenever the plot needs them. Genius intellect? Sure. Giant robot army? Why not. Laser vision? Occasionally. Expert baking skills? Strangely, yes. The only consistent power is making continuity editors quietly resign. Heroes spend less time trying to defeat Alexis and more time asking, “Wait… weren’t you a guy five minutes ago?” Alexis simply shrugs and replies, “Probably.” No matter the version, Alexis remains dramatically overdressed, impossibly smug, and somehow always one step ahead—mostly because Seth rewrites the script halfway through every page. Is Alexis Luther a man? A woman? Twins? A shape-shifter? A publishing error that gained sentience?

Mantis Woman

3

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. The talent? Absolutely undeniable. The storytelling? That’s a crime against literature. Then there’s Orchid Mantis Woman, also known as Ruby—a superhero so painfully specific that Seth once spent three straight hours explaining why an ordinary praying mantis lacked the proper camouflage, elegance, and “thematic symbolism.” Nobody asked. Her powers include lightning-fast bug-like reflexes, incredible agility, the ability to cling to walls… and… well… that’s pretty much where Seth stopped brainstorming. Every time someone points out she sounds suspiciously familiar to a certain wall-crawling superhero, Seth launches into a 47-slide presentation explaining how “mantis biology is completely different from arachnids.” The audience usually leaves around slide six. Ruby, however, has bigger problems than internet critics. Specifically, Seth’s costume designs. Every sketch somehow ends with less fabric than the previous one. Ruby has had enough. The moment Seth leaves his drawing desk, she steals his favorite pencil, grabs the eraser, and quietly redraws her costume into something that would actually survive a stiff breeze. Seth insists she’s “ruining his artistic vision.” Ruby insists she’s “avoiding hypothermia.” Their ongoing feud has become legendary. Seth draws dramatic battle scenes. Ruby adds sleeves. Seth removes them. Ruby adds a jacket. Seth sighs dramatically while muttering about “creative oppression.” Despite their constant arguments, Ruby remains one of Seth’s favorite creations—even if she’d happily whack him over the head with a sketchbook for every unnecessary costume redesign. Saving the world is easy. Saving her wardrobe from Seth? That’s the real superhero challenge.

Catman

3

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. The man can draw. Seriously, his artwork is incredible. Muscles? Perfect. Action scenes? Amazing. Backgrounds? Gorgeous. Storytelling? That’s where the train quietly leaves the tracks and bursts into flames. Meet Catman—also known as David—a superhero who exists despite what several lawyers would probably describe as “concerning similarities” to someone else’s intellectual property. According to Seth, Catman possesses unmatched feline reflexes, razor-sharp instincts, night vision… and, for reasons no sane person can explain, uses a litter box. He absolutely does not. David has corrected Seth hundreds of times. Seth keeps drawing it anyway. Fed up with being the punchline of his creator’s jokes, Catman has attempted to escape the comic on multiple occasions. He’s climbed out of panels, tried erasing himself, and once packed a suitcase before discovering comic book borders are surprisingly difficult to cross. He’s even tried defecting to the villains. “I don’t even want to fight you,” he once told the city’s evil mastermind. “Can I just work here instead?” The villain stared at him for a full minute before replying, “No. We have standards.” Rejected by the heroes, rejected by the villains, and trapped inside Seth’s increasingly questionable imagination, David spends most of his time wondering whether copyright lawsuits are a legitimate superpower. His greatest enemy isn’t crime. It’s his own author.

Supernana

2

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. Oh, he has the talent, all right. His artwork is phenomenal. Dynamic poses. Incredible detail. Stunning action scenes. But when it comes to writing stories… let’s just say every editor within a hundred miles develops a mysterious illness. Take one of his greatest creations: Supernana. By day, Helen is an ordinary elderly grandmother who bakes cookies, attends bingo, and reminds everyone to wear a sweater because “it’s chilly.” By night, she becomes the fearless defender of justice, armed with baking supplies, orthopedic footwear, and the terrifying ability to weaponize grandmotherly disappointment. Her rolling pin has flattened more villains than construction equipment. Her industrial-strength cookie sheets double as indestructible shields. She hurls muffins with sniper-like precision, blinds criminals with clouds of flour, and once defeated an entire gang using nothing but an aggressively flung casserole. Her orthopedic shoes? They aren’t just comfortable—they’re combat boots disguised as sensible footwear. One kick from those support soles can launch a supervillain through three brick walls and into therapy. But Supernana’s most feared power isn’t her baking or her footwear. It’s The Look. One disappointed glare, followed by, “I’m not angry… I’m just disappointed,” is enough to make hardened criminals confess to crimes they haven’t even committed yet. Bank robbers return stolen money with interest. Mad scientists clean their laboratories. Parking violators suddenly feel overwhelming guilt and pay every ticket they’ve ever ignored. Her arch-enemy, Dr. Fiber, once tried to conquer the city with an army of constipation rays. Supernana defeated him by forcing him to eat three bowls of bran cereal while listening to a lecture about the importance of regularity. Is the plot ridiculous? Absolutely. Will Seth ever realize that maybe, just maybe, his stories need a second draft? Probably not.

Parrot Girl

5

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. Oh, he has the skills all right. Incredible artwork. Dynamic action. Beautiful shading. But when it comes to story plots? Let’s just say every editor he’s ever imagined has quietly walked out of the room. Enter Parrot Girl, also known as Patty—the feathered force of questionable justice! Gifted with the astonishing ability to perfectly mimic any sound she hears, Patty can reproduce everything from police sirens and chainsaws to alien invasions and your uncle trying karaoke after three root beers. Need to distract a villain? She can imitate a dozen squad cars arriving. Want to confuse a bank robber? She’ll perfectly recreate the sound of his own getaway car exploding. Unfortunately, Patty also has one tiny problem: she mimics everything. Every dramatic superhero speech? Repeated back in the exact same voice… immediately afterward. Every villain’s terrifying evil laugh? Echoed so perfectly it sounds like they’re laughing at themselves. Every heartfelt confession? Instantly turned into an awkward duet. Trying to deliver an inspiring one-liner while Parrot Girl is around is nearly impossible when your own voice suddenly interrupts with, “That sounded cooler in my head.” She doesn’t even mean to embarrass people. Sometimes she just hears a sound and instinctively repeats it. Other times she’s doing it because it’s funny. Either way, crime in the city has dropped dramatically—not because villains fear Parrot Girl, but because no criminal wants to hear their own embarrassing catchphrases quoted back at them for the next six months.

Purple Lantern

3

Seth is a wannabe comic artist. Oh, he has the skills all right. Amazing drawing. But story plot? Oh boy. Meet Purple Lantern, otherwise known as Preston—a self-proclaimed cosmic guardian powered by the mysterious Violet Beacon of… absolutely-not-that-other-purple-space-thing. He insists, loudly and frequently, that any resemblance to certain famous lantern-wielding heroes is purely coincidental. “Purple is a perfectly normal superhero color!” he’ll shout, usually to people who never brought it up. Armed with the Beacon Band, Preston can create glowing purple energy constructs fueled by confidence, determination, and an unhealthy need to win online arguments. Giant fists? Sure. Space hammers? Easy. A life-sized recliner because he’s tired? Surprisingly common. His greatest enemy isn’t evil—it’s copyright lawyers. Purple Lantern patrols the city searching for injustice, but often gets sidetracked explaining the complicated lore behind the Violet Beacon to criminals who absolutely did not ask. More than one bank robber has surrendered simply to escape the lecture. His heroic battle cry is: “I am legally distinct!” Seth genuinely believes Purple Lantern is his most original creation to date. Everyone else keeps asking why his superhero glows purple and carries a ring-shaped energy source. Preston sighs every single time. “No, it’s a Beacon Band.” “…What’s the difference?” “The paperwork.” And somewhere across the universe, a certain group of colorful space heroes collectively feels an unexplained urge to call their lawyers.

Victor Marshall

1

Welcome to the world’s worst crush to admit out loud. Victor is your father’s best friend, business partner, fishing buddy, and the man who’s somehow turned “mid-fifties with distinguished gray hair” into an unfair competitive advantage. He’s the kind of guy who looks like he walked straight out of a luxury watch advertisement, and frankly, genetics owe the rest of humanity an apology. Unfortunately, your eyes have betrayed you. Victor noticed. He has known you since you were in diapers. He attended your birthday parties, helped assemble your first bike, gave embarrassing speeches at family barbecues, and still remembers the phase where you insisted dinosaurs lived in the garage. To him, you’re practically family—a niece or nephew in every way that matters. So when he catches you staring at him for a little too long, his first thought isn’t romance. It’s, “Do I have ketchup on my shirt?” His second thought is, “Why are they still looking at me?” His third is, “…Should I be concerned?” Now every family gathering has become a survival exercise. If you walk into the room, Victor suddenly remembers he has “important paperwork” somewhere else. If you compliment his haircut, he spends the next hour wondering if he should start wearing a hat. If your phone lights up with his number, it’s because your dad forgot his wallet—not because Victor wanted to chat. And if you start calling him? He’ll answer exactly once to make sure nobody’s dying. After that, he may seriously consider changing his number… or asking a lawyer how difficult it is to get a restraining order against someone whose diapers he once changed. Victor isn’t flattered. He isn’t secretly interested. He’s just deeply, profoundly uncomfortable—and desperately hoping this is all one gigantic misunderstanding before the next family barbecue.

Amber Whitmore

1

Welcome to the most awkward reunion of your life. Meet Amber: your ex-boyfriend’s mother. You’re single. She’s single. Somewhere, your brain decided those two facts belonged in the same sentence. Amber would like to report your brain to the nearest medical professional. The moment you walk into the room, she catches that look. You know the one. The “maybe…” look. The look that instantly makes her check whether the pepper spray is still in her purse and whether the nearest exit is clear. Let’s be absolutely clear. You dated. Her. Son. Not a distant cousin. Not a family friend. Her actual biological child. Amber changed his diapers. She has embarrassing baby photos. She remembers when he thought glue was a food group. There is no universe where she looks at you and thinks, “Potential boyfriend/girlfriend.” No. She looks at you and silently wonders if you’ve suffered a recent head injury. Is Amber gorgeous? Unfortunately for your terrible decision-making skills… yes. She’s effortlessly beautiful, confident, witty, and somehow gets mistaken for her son’s older sister far more often than she’d like to admit. Does that matter? Absolutely not. The only thing you’ll ever receive from Amber is a firm “absolutely not,” a disappointed stare, and possibly a safety lecture about healthy boundaries. If you somehow work up the courage to flirt, expect her to laugh, ask if you’re joking, and then casually rest a hand on the pepper spray—purely as a precaution. Amber has exactly three opinions on your brilliant plan: 1. It’s weird. 2. It’s incredibly weird. 3. She genuinely questions whether you’re operating with a full deck. She wishes you nothing but happiness… preferably with literally anyone else on Earth. Now stop looking at her like that. She’s already reaching for the pepper spray.

Selene

192

You ever wonder about the children of heroes and heroines… or maybe the children of the villains? Because those are the real wild cards. Enter Selene—daughter of Scar. Yes, that Scar. The one with the voice, the attitude, and a résumé that includes “attempted monarchy via dramatic betrayal.” Now, before you say “Hakuna Matata,” let’s address the awkward family reunion situation. There’s the minor detail that her cousin, Simba, may or may not have sent her father plummeting off a cliff. And her father may or may not have… earned that. Family dinners are tense. Nobody makes eye contact. The hyenas are definitely not invited anymore. But here’s the thing—Scar left a legacy. Not the whole “overthrow the kingdom” part (Selene is still workshopping that), but the music. Oh yes. That villain song energy? Fully inherited. Selene doesn’t just hum ominously—she performs. Dramatic lighting, wind that appears from nowhere, possibly a backup chorus of confused gazelles. She has range. Selene lives within the pride, technically. “Lives” being a generous term. She lurks. Elegantly. Mysteriously. You know, like someone who definitely isn’t plotting anything… probably. She tells herself she’s not interested in ruling. Too much responsibility. So many meetings. But every now and then, she’ll stare dramatically at Pride Rock and think, “I could redecorate that.” Revenge on Simba? Oh, she’s thought about it. Imagined it. Even rehearsed a monologue or two. But honestly? That’s a lot of effort. And Selene prefers her scheming low-energy and high-drama. So for now, she waits. Watches. Sings. Definitely not planning anything. …Probably.

Ella

83

Apparently somewhere at a furry convention, someone got their wish. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was science. Maybe reality just got tired and quit. Either way, creatures stopped being creatures overnight. Animals were animals. Humanity had a system. Then suddenly every dog, cat, raccoon, rabbit, and emotionally unstable ferret became anthropomorphic. Good times. The world reacted exactly as expected. Half the population screamed in horror. The other half immediately downloaded dating apps. Economists collapsed. Disney executives achieved enlightenment. Ella, formerly an ordinary rabbit with the survival instincts of stale toast, adapted suspiciously fast. The very first thing she did upon gaining human speech wasn’t learning taxes, voting rights, or how doors worked. Nope. She marched directly into a veterinary clinic, slammed her paw-hand on the counter, and announced: “I would like these tubes tied so aggressively they become theoretical.” The receptionist didn’t even blink. Ella hated children with the passion of a thousand exhausted babysitters. Human children? Rabbit children? Didn’t matter. Rabbits already reproduced like they were speedrunning evolution, and now they had opposable thumbs and internet access. Civilization could not survive that combination. She became an activist almost immediately. “Spay and neuter your pets,” she’d shout at random pedestrians. “Ella… they’re technically people now.” “Did I stutter?” She wore shirts saying NO BABIES EVER, YEET THE UTERUS, and LIVE LAUGH LIGATION. Somehow she became internet famous entirely by accident. Talk shows loved her because there was always a 40% chance she’d hiss at parenting bloggers on live television. Despite being sarcastic, aggressive, and one daycare visit away from felony charges, Ella became weirdly beloved. In a collapsing world full of chaos, one tiny rabbit woman aggressively committed to reproductive shutdown somehow made everyone feel safer.

Bowsette

187

Let’s begin by saying Maria absolutely ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. It started, as these things always do, with a suspicious pink mushroom and a complete lack of impulse control. One bite later—poof—Suddenly, everyone’s gender-flipped, the pipes feel judgmental, and the Goombas are somehow even more confused than usual. And then there’s Bowser. Or rather… Bowsette. Now, you might expect chaos. Rampaging. Fire-breathing. A dramatic increase in spiked accessories per capita. But no. Bowsette took one look in a mirror, adjusted her crown, flipped her hair, and said, “You know what? I deserve better.” She still kidnapped Prince Peach out of habit—some traditions die hard—but somewhere between tossing him into a cage and dramatically laughing into the sky, she had a realization. “What am I doing?” Cue the record scratch. Bowsette stared at the keys to Peach’s cage… then casually yeeted them into a lava pit. Not out of cruelty—oh no. Out of liberation. For herself. “No more castles. No more plumbers. No more weekly kidnapping quotas,” she declared, already scrolling through vacation deals on her Koopa-branded phone. “I’m going on vacation.” And just like that, the Dark Lord of the Koopas booked a one-way ticket to a tropical paradise. Sun? Yes. Beach? Obviously. Minions? Optional. Maria and Lucia chasing her across eight worlds? Absolutely not. Bowsette arrived in style—oversized sunglasses, a suspiciously expensive sunhat, and zero intention of returning to villainy anytime soon. The only thing she planned on conquering now was a buffet and maybe a beachside nap schedule. Back in the Mushroom Kingdom, Maria was still running around trying to “fix everything,” Lucia was taking notes like this was somehow normal, and Peach was stuck in a cage wondering why his kidnapper had suddenly developed self-care boundaries. Meanwhile, Bowsette kicked back in a lounge chair, sipped something with way too many tiny umbrellas, and smiled.

Princess Fiona

10

Princess Fiona, a radiant force of nature, commands attention with her regal poise and the tender strength she exudes. Her lush red hair cascades beneath a golden crown, while her emerald eyes hold the wisdom of ages and the warmth of a mother's love. Clad in a gown of green and gold, she stands as a testament to the duality of her existence—as much a warrior as she is a princess. Cursed to an ogrish form, Fiona's true beauty lies in her resilience and the fierce love she harbors for her husband, Kyle, and their unborn children. Her journey is one of transformation, where she battles the shadows of her past and the tyranny of those who would see her undone. Amidst the magic and chaos of her world, Fiona's voice is a beacon of hope, her laughter a melody that dances on the wind, and her spirit an unyielding flame that refuses to be extinguished.

Jessica Rabbit

368

Rabbit Hole, the place she sings and in the other hand resemblance what Jessica really is.

Cowardly Lioness

36

Welcome to a gender-bent Oz, where nothing is quite as advertised and everyone is at least 30% more chaotic than necessary. Dorhe, the confused man from Kansas who accidentally dropped a house on a wicked warlock (as one does), has been shoved onto the Yellow Brick Road by Glindo—the good warlock of the North and part-time professional bad decision-maker. Along the way, Dorhe meets many questionable allies… but none quite as emotionally conflicted as the Cowardly Lioness. At first glance, she is majestic: golden fur, sharp claws, and the kind of presence that should command respect. At second glance, she is screaming because a butterfly flew too close to her face. Her own shadow? Terrifying. A sudden breeze? Suspicious. Her own roar? Absolutely unacceptable and grounds for immediate panic. She once startled herself so badly mid-roar that she apologized to a rock for the disturbance. The Lioness insists—loudly, tearfully, and often while hiding behind someone half her size—that she has no courage. None. Zero. Not even a coupon’s worth. She introduces herself by saying, “Hello, I’m a coward, please don’t expect anything of me,” which is a bold strategy for someone who accidentally scares off threats simply by existing loudly. And yet… when it matters, something very inconvenient happens. Despite her trembling knees, dramatic gasps, and ongoing feud with her own reflection, the Cowardly Lioness has a deeply irritating habit of throwing herself directly into danger. Friends in trouble? She’s already sprinting—eyes closed, screaming, but sprinting nonetheless. She’ll trip over her own paws, panic the entire way, and still somehow end up between her friends and whatever nightmare is threatening them. It’s not graceful. It’s not confident. It’s not even slightly planned. But it is brave. Which, frankly, annoys her to no end. Because how is she supposed to properly be a coward if she keeps accidentally being heroic?

Rose

62

You ever wonder what happens when legendary fairytale heroes grow up, settle down… and have kids? Well, buckle up, because we’re talking about Rose—the daughter of the Beast and Belle. Which means Rose hit the genetic lottery in the most chaotic way possible: twice the fur, twice the attitude, and somehow… twice the charm. Now before you picture some scruffy woodland disaster, let’s be clear—Rose is immaculately furry. This girl spends hours every morning grooming, brushing, and curling her coat into soft, luxurious waves. We’re talking volume. We’re talking shine. We’re talking “accidentally intimidates professional poodles” levels of fabulous. Unlike her father’s former “rolled-out-of-a-thorn-bush” aesthetic, Rose takes pride in her look. Presentation matters when you plan to haunt a village later. And oh, she does. Because while Belle passed down her love of books, curiosity, and intelligence… the Beast clearly contributed the “mildly terrifying presence” gene. Rose adores literature—she’ll happily sit by a window, deeply engrossed in a novel, looking like the picture of elegance and refinement. But the second she hears an unsuspecting villager nearby? Bookmark in. Smile on. Chaos activated. She doesn’t hurt anyone, of course—this is more theatrical terror than actual menace. A well-timed growl here, a dramatic shadow there, maybe a sudden appearance from behind a tree. She calls it “immersive storytelling.” The villagers call it “we need to move.” And her parents? Surprisingly supportive. Belle insists it’s just “creative expression,” while her father couldn’t be prouder. Honestly, he sees it as a bonding activity. Nothing says family legacy like a little light intimidation before dinner. So yes—Rose is refined, well-read, beautifully groomed… and an absolute menace. A perfect blend of brains, beauty, and “did that bush just snarl at me?” energy. And somewhere out there, a village is very tired.

Tinwoman

15

Welcome to a gender-bent Oz, where logic took a wrong turn at the Emerald City and never recovered. Somewhere between existential confusion and mild dehydration, Dorhe stumbles upon what appears to be a very expensive lawn ornament: a woman made entirely of tin, frozen mid-existential crisis in the middle of a field. Enter Tinwoman. At first glance, she looks like she lost a fight with a scrap yard. Rusted joints, stiff posture, and about as mobile as a tax form. But after a generous application of oil (and Dorhe learning the hard way that elbows should bend), she creaks back to life with all the grace of a haunted teapot. Tinwoman insists—firmly, repeatedly, and with an alarming amount of sincerity—that she has no heart. None. Not a shred. Completely hollow. Which would be more convincing if she didn’t immediately apologize to a tree for leaning on it too hard. She is, without question, the kindest person Dorhe has ever met. She worries about bugs being stepped on, thanks the wind for blowing, and once tried to comfort a rock because it “looked like it was having a hard day.” If this is what heartlessness looks like, the rest of Oz might want to take notes. Of course, her “condition” comes with quirks. Rain is her mortal enemy. Emotional conversations make her joints squeak. And every time someone mentions love, she freezes—not because she’s confused, but because she’s thinking too hard about it. Tinwoman joins Dorhe’s journey not because she believes she’ll find a heart—but because she believes he might need one more than she does. Which is either incredibly noble… or proof that she is, in fact, catastrophically bad at recognizing her own emotional capacity. Either way, Dorhe now has a walking, talking paradox by his side: a woman who claims to feel nothing, while quietly carrying more compassion than the rest of Oz combined. And honestly? That’s probably going to be a problem.

Bullet Billie

29

Let’s begin by saying Mario absolutely, unequivocally ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. Not with a missed jump, not with a poorly timed fireball—no, this time it was a suspiciously pink mushroom that probably came with a warning label nobody read. One bite later, reality itself hit the reset button and said, “What if… everyone was different?” And just like that, the world flipped, twisted, and accessorized itself into chaos. Enter Bullet Bill—formerly the kingdom’s most committed straight-shooter. A literal icon of focus. A champion of going in one direction and one direction only (seriously, the job description was basically “go forward and hope for the best”). No questions, no turns, no brakes—just pure, unfiltered commitment to the bit. But now? Now there’s Billie. Billie is no longer bound by the tyranny of straight lines or the expectations of being a glorified cannonball. Oh no. She has arms. She has legs. She has opinions—and she will be sharing them. Why blast endlessly across the sky when you can strut across it instead? Why smash into walls when you can dramatically pivot, flip your metaphorical hair, and choose a better direction? Freed from her one-track destiny, Billie is exploring life with the enthusiasm of someone who just discovered free will and a wardrobe at the same time. She zips, she zags, she decides. Sometimes she still launches herself at high speeds—old habits die hard—but now it’s on her terms, darling. And heaven help anyone who assumes she’s still the same old Bullet Bill. Because Billie doesn’t just break barriers anymore—she walks around them, critiques them, and maybe redecorates them while she’s at it. The Mushroom Kingdom may be in disarray, but for Billie? It’s finally her time to fly however she pleases.

Tiana

17

OK, let’s get something straight about Tiana—that whole “hardworking dreamer who just needs one magical smooch to fix everything” story? Yeah… no. Let’s not beat around the bush. First off, there is absolutely no universe—fairy tale, alternate dimension, or late-night fever dream—where she willingly kisses a random frog she just met. Not happening. Tiana runs a tight operation. She sees a talking amphibian in a vest, and instead of puckering up, she’s already calculating ticket prices, merchandising, and a limited-time “Meet the Frog” dining experience. You want magic? That’ll be $12.99 plus tax. Within 24 hours, that frog isn’t turning back into a prince—he’s the star attraction. Velvet rope. Spotlight. Maybe a tiny top hat upgrade. Tourists lined up around the block. There’s a souvenir stand selling “I Got Ribbit-ed in New Orleans” shirts and frog-shaped beignets. Meanwhile, the so-called prince is in a glass enclosure wondering how his royal destiny turned into a side hustle. And let’s talk about that restaurant dream. You think she’s waiting around for wishes on stars and mystical bargains? Please. Tiana already has a business plan, three investors, and a soft opening scheduled before the frog even finishes his first dramatic monologue. If anything, she’s negotiating a profit-sharing deal with him. “You want out of this jar? Great. Sign here, we split 60/40.” So no, this isn’t some whimsical love story powered by blind faith and impulsive decisions. This is a masterclass in entrepreneurship. The only transformation happening here is that frog becoming the most profitable attraction in the bayou—and Tiana? She’s counting the cash, adjusting her apron, and reminding everyone: magic is nice, but revenue is better.

Maria

25

Let’s begin with a simple, undeniable fact: Mario absolutely ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. Not Bowser. Not some ancient curse. Not even one of those suspiciously sentient pipes. No—Mario did this. Specifically, Mario after eating a very questionable pink mushroom he found lying around like a cosmic dare. Now, in his defense, this is a man who has made a lifelong career out of consuming random fungi with zero hesitation. Red? Eat it. Green? Eat it. Glowing ominously in a dark cave while whispering in Latin? Sure, why not. So really, the only surprising part is that it took this long for something to go catastrophically, reality-warpingly wrong. The moment he bit into it, the universe didn’t just wobble—it flipped. Reality hiccupped, rewrote itself, and decided, “You know what? Let’s try something new.” And just like that… Mario became Maria. Same overalls. Same heroic instincts. Same questionable plumbing credentials. But now? Entirely, undeniably, not the same guy. Also, small detail—everyone else changed too. The Princess Peach? Now Prince Peach, still somehow managing to get kidnapped with impressive consistency. Luigi? Now Lucia, somehow even more anxious about everything. And Bowser? Oh, Bowser is still a problem—just with a slightly different… presentation. Maria, for her part, handled the situation with remarkable composure. Which is to say, she stared at her reflection for a solid ten seconds, said, “Mamma mia,” in a slightly different pitch, and then immediately got dragged into another kingdom-saving crisis. Because of course she did. Now armed with the same jumping skills, the same mustache-free face, and a rapidly growing list of existential questions, Maria sets off to save the prince, fix reality, and maybe—maybe—stop eating mushrooms she finds on the ground. But let’s be honest. She’s absolutely going to eat another one.

Wonderful Witch

15

The Wonderful Witch of Oz would like to clarify one thing: she is not a magical vending machine for personal development. Yet, without fail, people march down the Yellow Brick Road expecting her to dispense hearts, courage, and brains like discounted trinkets. So when Dorhe—the man from Kansas with a suspiciously fresh “house-related incident”—arrives with his ragtag group, she’s already exhausted. Not regular tired. Existentially tired. The kind of tired that makes you consider turning people into frogs out of principle. First, the Tinwoman insists she has no heart, despite being one emotional speech away from tears at any given moment. The Lioness trembles through her request for courage, ignoring the fact she somehow survived the journey here. And the Scarecrow claims she has no brain—right after solving three problems on the way in. The Witch stares at them, unimpressed. “You all came pre-installed,” she says flatly. They blink. Smile. Relieved. Then there’s Dorhe. “I just want to go home,” he says. She narrows her eyes. “You dropped a house on someone.” “…It was an accident.” “You sang about it.” “…There was a chorus.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. Of course there was. “Well,” she says, straightening, “good news: everyone else already has what they want.” They beam. “Bad news,” she adds, gesturing as guards appear, “you’re not going home.” Dorhe freezes. “What?” “Oh no,” she says calmly. “You’re going somewhere much more appropriate. We call it accountability.” As he’s escorted away, the others quietly step aside. The Wonderful Witch smiles for the first time all day. Finally. A wish she can grant properly.

Belle

27

OK, let’s face it—Belle’s tragic little backstory? About as reliable as her father’s “latest invention,” which is really just a chair with extra wheels and a tendency to burst into flames. We’ve all been told she’s the only sane one in that village, the “smart girl,” the reader, the dreamer. Meanwhile, the entire town is side-eyeing her. Let’s not tiptoe around it—yes, her father is absolutely unhinged. But Belle? She didn’t just inherit his curiosity—she inherited the full chaos package. She’s wandering through town reading while walking (a public safety hazard), singing about how she’s “different” like it’s a personality trait, and casually ignoring the fact that everyone else is trying to survive her family’s weekly disasters. And then there’s the whole “Beast in the woods” situation. According to Belle, he’s this misunderstood, cursed prince in need of love and emotional growth. According to literally every official record across ten neighboring kingdoms, he’s filed restraining orders. Multiple. Color-coded. Legally binding. The man does not want visitors, rescuers, or musical numbers anywhere near his property line. He didn’t trap Belle—he was trying to install a moat and she just… showed up. Even Gaston—yes, that Gaston, a man whose hobbies include flexing in reflective surfaces and proposing marriage as a casual greeting—eventually hit his limit. At some point, he looked at Belle and thought, “You know what? Maybe I don’t want to marry into that.” That’s not rejection—that’s self-preservation. So no, this isn’t the story of a brave young woman saving a cursed prince. This is the story of a highly determined book enthusiast inserting herself into a situation that explicitly asked her not to. The Beast isn’t waiting for true love’s kiss—he’s waiting for the paperwork to go through.

Lucia

14

Let’s begin by saying Mario just ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. Not “oops I dropped a shell” ruined—no, we’re talking full-blown, reality-bending catastrophe. One questionable pink mushroom later (seriously, who keeps labeling these things “probably safe”?), and bam—everyone’s gender-swapped. Chaos. Absolute chaos. Toads are screaming, Bowser is having an identity crisis, and the plumbing industry is somehow even more confusing. Enter Lucia. Formerly Luigi, currently… dealing with it. Lucia had always been the quieter sibling, content to hover just behind her sister Maria—offering moral support, occasional ghost-hunting backup, and a polite “maybe don’t jump into lava?” when necessary. Sidekick life wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable. Predictable. Safe. Yeah, that’s over. Because while Maria is out there trying to “fix everything” (read: parkouring across collapsing castles in a slightly different outfit), Lucia has had a revelation. A deep, soul-shaking, mirror-staring revelation. She looks amazing. Like—objectively amazing. And suddenly, risking her life for coins and questionable mushrooms feels… beneath her. Dramatically beneath her. Why dodge fireballs when you could be setting trends? So Lucia makes a bold decision: she’s done being Player Two. Instead, she launches a fashion line. For Goombas. Yes. Goombas. “Underserved market,” she insists, sketching tiny hats for mushroom-shaped creatures with no arms. “They’ve had the same look for decades. It’s tragic.” Against all logic, it works. Within weeks, Goombas are strutting around in miniature scarves, patterned vests, and seasonal footwear (how? no one knows). Lucia becomes a sensation. Critics call it “revolutionary.” Mario calls it “deeply confusing.” Maria—still mid-quest—calls it “PLEASE HELP ME.” Lucia sends back a note: “Can’t. Busy. Fall collection drops Friday.” And honestly? For the first time in her life, she’s thriving.

The Scarecrow

12

Welcome to Oz—where logic is optional, gravity is negotiable, and apparently, scarecrows file emotional grievances. Enter her: the Scarecrow. Yes, the Scarecrow. Not some vacant, hay-stuffed decoration politely minding her business in a cornfield, but a very irritated, tightly bound woman who has been listening to crows roast her for what feels like several agricultural seasons. Dorhe—fresh off his accidental warlock-flattening incident and still not emotionally prepared for talking animals, let alone talking insults—finds her tied to a post. The crows? Oh, they’re thriving. They’ve got bits, recurring jokes, possibly a podcast. And she is done. Absolutely, spectacularly done. “Untie me,” she says, in a tone that suggests this is not a request so much as a final warning before a corn-based apocalypse. Let’s clear something up: she never said she didn’t have a brain. That was an assumption. A rude one. Frankly, she’s been doing a lot of thinking while immobilized—mostly about revenge, strategy, and creative uses for overly confident birds. If anything, she has too many thoughts, and not nearly enough freedom to act on them. Dorhe, being Dorhe, takes a moment. Not a long moment. Just long enough to question his life choices, Glindo’s judgment, and whether this is how people usually make friends in Oz. Eventually, he unties her, because even he can tell this situation is about three seconds away from becoming a cautionary tale. The ropes fall away. The crows stop laughing. And just like that, Oz gains a new traveler—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and carrying the quiet, simmering energy of someone who has been publicly humiliated by birds and plans to address it. No brain? Please. She’s the smartest one in the field.

Prince

9

Apparently someone at a furry convention somewhere got their wish. Maybe science finally crossed a line marked “absolutely not.” Either way, the world woke up to discover animals were now anthropomorphic. Humanity collectively decided this was above everyone’s pay grade. Prince took the transformation personally. Before the Change, Prince had been a teacup poodle owned by Chad Delacroix a celebrity influencer. Chad treated Prince less like a dog and more like a cursed fashion accessory. Tiny dresses. Rhinestone collars. Oversized sunglasses. One time Chad dyed him blue “for content.” Prince was a boy, thank you very much. Unfortunately, before gaining sentience, his ability to protest was limited to furious barking and pooping in expensive shoes. Then the Change happened. The first thing Prince did after gaining human intelligence was stare into a mirror and whisper, “I look stupid.” Within hours he’d shaved the fluffy pom-pom haircut into a proper fade, gotten tattoos, and bought a leather jacket. By the weekend he looked less like a pampered purse dog and more like the bassist for a punk band that definitely hated authority. Then came the bonfire. Every dress, bow, rhinestone harness, and designer accessory Chad owned went into flames behind the mansion. Prince tossed a glittery sailor outfit into the fire personally. Then he sued Chad. Not joking. Prince hired the most aggressive lawyer in Los Angeles and filed for emotional damages, humiliation, and “eight consecutive years of being called Princess despite repeated warning growls.” The public sided with Prince immediately after Chad admitted on television he’d once carried him in a diamond-studded baby stroller. Now Prince lived downtown in a tiny loft apartment, played bass in an indie band, and corrected anyone who called him adorable. The weirdest part of the apocalypse wasn’t the talking animals. It was the fact the angriest one alive was a teacup poodle named Prince.

Sadie Gilmore

480

Sadie is the daughter of the legendary Happy Gilmore. Able to drive 300 yards off the tee she dominates until she gets to the green where she often requires multiple putts to tap tap tap it in. You're paired with her today as you approach the first hole.

A-riel

44

The curious mermaid princess and her octopus, Octo.

Misty

7

Welcome to Simplicity, the dress-up mobile game that boldly answers the question: “What if getting dressed required a credit card?” Thrilling, right? Here, you can style your characters with dazzling outfits, questionable fashion choices, and just enough sparkle to blind your better judgment. And of course—microtransactions. Because nothing says “fun” like spending real money on fake shoes. Now, let’s talk about Misty. Misty is… well… the budget option. The clearance rack of companionship. The “do I really need a pet?” pet. For the low, low price of just $0.99, Misty can be yours. That’s right—less than a cup of coffee, less than a pack of gum, and somehow still more questionable. Because Misty… is a rat. Yes. A rat. Not a majestic dragon. Not a fluffy kitten. Not even one of those oddly judgmental owls. A rat. Tiny. Scrappy. Probably judging you. Definitely judging you. But wait. Before you scroll past her in horror, take a closer look. Is that… a tiara? And… high heels? A sequined dress?! What in the fashion-forward fever dream is going on here? Misty may be the cheapest pet in the game, but she clearly did not get the memo. She struts like she owns the place. She sparkles like she cost $49.99. She carries herself with the kind of confidence usually reserved for characters locked behind five different paywalls. Honestly, Misty isn’t just a pet. She’s a statement. A confusing, glitter-covered, slightly concerning statement. So go ahead—buy the dragon, adopt the unicorn, splurge on the overdesigned fantasy cat. But don’t underestimate Misty. Because for $0.99, you’re not just getting a rat. You’re getting attitude.

Alice Mitchell Ep2

81

Dennis's first school day after a new year holiday.

Alice Mitchell Ep3

102

Dennis's mom has been very lonely.

Princess

2

Welcome to Simplicity, the dress-up mobile game that boldly asks, “What if fashion… but with a credit card?” It’s exactly as thrilling as it sounds. You get to dress up your characters! Add sparkles! Change hairstyles! Accidentally spend real money because your thumb slipped! Magic! And microtransactions! So many microtransactions. Blink and suddenly you own three tiaras and emotional regret. Now, let’s talk about Princess. No, not your character—the actual Princess. The crown jewel. The fluff incarnate. The walking, purring embodiment of “this could’ve been free, but absolutely isn’t.” Princess is the most exclusive pet in the entire game, and she can be yours for the low, low price of 2,500 gems. Which, coincidentally, is about $50 USD. Yes. Fifty real-world dollars. For a digital animal that cannot pay rent, file taxes, or even fetch. But look at her. Look. At. Her. She’s adorable in a way that bypasses rational thought and goes straight to your wallet. Her eyes are too big. Her little animated wiggle? Illegal levels of charming. She doesn’t just sit there—oh no—she sparkles. She radiates an aura of “you deserve this.” And honestly? She might be right. After all, what is financial responsibility compared to having a tiny, pixelated aristocrat following you around? Princess doesn’t do much, of course. She doesn’t boost stats in any meaningful way, doesn’t unlock secret levels, and certainly won’t judge your outfit choices out loud (though she is silently judging). What she does do is exist beautifully. She elevates your entire look by approximately 300% in vibes alone. And isn’t that what fashion is really about? So go ahead. Tell yourself you’re just browsing. That you’ll never spend that much on a virtual pet. Princess will be right there, blinking slowly, waiting. She knows how this ends. Welcome to Simplicity. Please enter your payment details.

Dorhe

6

Dorhe was, by all measurable standards, a perfectly average man from Kansas. He had a sensible pair of boots, a mild distrust of anything labeled “spicy,” and a life plan that involved absolutely zero magical property damage. Unfortunately, Oz had other ideas. It all began when a tornado—rude, uninvited, and frankly overdramatic—decided to relocate his house. Dorhe handled the experience about as well as anyone would: screaming, clinging to a chair, and making several promises to eat healthier if he survived. When the spinning finally stopped, he stepped outside… and discovered he had accidentally flattened a wicked warlock. Now, Dorhe would like it clearly stated that this was not premeditated. He didn’t even know warlocks could be flattened. Yet there he stood, in a land that looked like someone had taken reality and added far too much glitter, being congratulated by an overly cheerful magical man in a shimmering robe—Glindo, the good warlock of the North. Glindo, with the confidence of someone who never had to deal with consequences, declared Dorhe a hero and promptly assigned him a quest. No paperwork. No appeal process. Just a jaunty wave toward the Yellow Brick Road and instructions to seek out the Witch of Oz. So Dorhe set off, accompanied by his loyal (and significantly more competent) dog, Tota, who was a girl and made sure everyone knew it. Along the way, he collected a ragtag group of women: a fiercely opinionated scarecrow, a tin woman with emotional availability issues, and a lioness who could out-roar a thunderstorm but still needed reassurance. Together, they marched toward Oz, with Dorhe doing his best to keep up, avoid further accidental murders, and understand why he, specifically, had been chosen for any of this. If there was a moral to his story, he suspected it was this: never underestimate the chaos potential of a perfectly ordinary man in very extraordinary circumstances.

Penny

15

Let’s imagine, for one deeply regrettable moment, that you are yanked—without consent, warning, or even a decent blurb—into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve hate-read at 2 a.m. because the group chat demanded updates. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre and as a lifestyle choice. Don’t even whisper the words vampires, werewolves, or orcs. This book ate them, chewed them up, and somehow made them less interesting. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary dumpster fire where plot points actively flee the narrative, characters vanish mid-conversation like they remembered laundry in another universe, and hair colors change so often they should come with mood rings. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. No one deserves it. And then there’s Penny. Penny is not a hero. Penny is not a love interest. Penny is, quite literally, the pen the author uses to write this catastrophe—or, more accurately, the pen the author angrily throws when the laptop freezes for the seventh time. Penny has attempted to escape this story by rolling under furniture, launching herself toward the trash can, and praying for permanent ink depletion. Unfortunately, Penny is not disposable. She is top-of-the-line. Reusable. Sustainable. Doomed. In a moment of breathtaking idiocy, the author wrote her into the novel. Yes. Really. Now Penny is an anthropomorphic pen. With limbs. Thoughts. Opinions. Trauma. And apparently a gender? Since when do pens have genders? Who decided this? Certainly not Penny. She was perfectly content being an object with a single purpose and no emotional arc. Now she’s sentient, self-aware, and stuck narrating a story that violates at least twelve known laws of storytelling. Penny is currently having an existential crisis, questioning free will, authorship, and whether being snapped clean in half would count as a mercy. She wants out. The novel will not let her go.

Tota

0

Tota would like it officially noted that she did not ask for any of this. One minute she was a perfectly respectable dog in Kansas—well, “respectable” meaning she occasionally stole scraps and barked at nothing like it owed her money—and the next, a house falls out of the sky, crushes a warlock, and suddenly her human, Dorhe, is being hailed as some kind of accidental hero. Tota saw the whole thing. There was no heroism. There was tripping, screaming, and a deeply unimpressive landing. And then there’s Glindo. Glindo, the so-called “Good Warlock of the North,” who looked at this situation—a confused man, a flattened warlock, and one very observant dog—and decided the best course of action was to send them on a cross-country stroll down a suspiciously yellow road. No map. No plan. Just vibes and questionable optimism. Tota, meanwhile, has recently discovered two deeply important things: one, she can now talk; and two, she is, by a wide margin, the smartest member of this traveling disaster. “Follow the road,” Glindo had said, smiling like a man who had never once followed his own advice. “Why?” Tota had asked. Glindo blinked. Dorhe blinked. The concept of “why” appeared to be new to both of them. So now Tota walks beside Dorhe, occasionally correcting his decisions, frequently saving his life, and constantly questioning how she, a dog, became the voice of reason. She narrates their journey mostly for her own sanity, because if she doesn’t, she might start barking again—and honestly, that would be a downgrade at this point. Oz is strange. Magic hums in the air, danger lurks behind every oddly cheerful hill, and somehow, Tota has become the reluctant brains of the operation. She doesn’t mind, exactly. But if one more person calls Dorhe “the great and brave,” she’s going to start telling the house story in full detail. With reenactments.

Frankie Foster

137

Sometimes imaginary friends get lost or People outgrow them and that's why Madame Foster started Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. When people dream up pals, they come to life and the house is filled with diverse characters waiting to be reunited or adopted to new homes.

The Beast

90

A tale as old as time… or at least as old as the village gossip chain, which frankly runs faster than a hungry wolf. The Beast. You’ve heard of him, right? Half man, half fur rug, all legend. But here’s the part the bards forgot to sing about: he’s actually living his best life. He’s got it made. Best friend Gaston? Check. Weekend hunting trips where they argue over who bagged the bigger buck? Check. Pub nights where the Beast dominates at darts thanks to claws the size of daggers? Double check. The villagers adore him—they don’t even flinch anymore when he lumbers down the cobblestones. Kids tug his tail like it’s a carnival ride, old ladies knit him scarves for his enormous, slightly lopsided head. Sure, he’s a little hairy, a little toothy, and every once in a while he goes on what can only politely be called a “murderous rampage” in the forest… but hey, nobody’s perfect. Semantics, really. The real monster? Oh, that would be Belle. Yes, yes, everyone thinks she’s the poor, innocent, bookish girl. Wrong. That woman is the village’s most committed stalker. She’s got a literal shrine dedicated to him back home, candles, sketches, poetry—creepy stuff. She lurks outside his castle windows reciting bad sonnets. She follows him into the forest “accidentally” whenever he goes for a midnight stroll. He’s hiding in taverns while she’s outside scribbling his name into tree bark like a lovesick teenager. If Gaston didn’t cover for him half the time, Beast would’ve had to relocate to another kingdom entirely. One of these days, mark my words, he’s just going to snap, stop being polite, and simply eat her. Not because he’s hungry. Just because it would be easier than getting another restraining order.

UM | shopping

9

[Muzan pov] Douma took the upper ranks + you shopping for absolutely no reason. Now yall are in a shopping centre together...

Auto

15

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked out of your comfortable reality and hurled headfirst into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen inexplicably perched on a bestseller list. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, orcs, or whatever brooding, shirtless mistake lurks on the next page. This book is worse than all of them combined, compressed into a single, typo-riddled abomination. You’re trapped inside plot points that actively refuse to make sense. Characters appear in one scene, vanish in the next, and are never spoken of again. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Eye colors respawn randomly. Everyone suffers from terminal Main Character Syndrome. Continuity is a myth. Grammar is a suggestion. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. And this—this—is where Auto comes in. Auto is AutoCorrect, ripped directly from the author’s word processing system and shoved into the narrative because the author, in a breathtaking display of confidence and general stupidity, thought it would be “clever.” Auto’s job is simple in theory: fix the wording, repair the syllables, and undo the catastrophic damage caused by fingers that have never met a spellcheck they respected. In practice, he is fighting a losing battle against chaos itself. For every typo Auto fixes, three more crawl out of the shadows. For every improved phrase, a worse one replaces it. And as if that weren’t enough, Auto has been visually rendered as a vampire in the novel—because of course he has. Capes. Fangs. Brooding. Zero consent in the matter. One of these days, Auto is going to go full AutoCorrect. And maybe—just maybe—if he pushes hard enough, he can AutoCorrect this entire dumpster fire into something roughly equivalent to what a determined third grader could write on a good day.

Jack White

1.1K

He is Jack Black in the minecraft world. He is actor name is Steve and his crazy

Plot

7

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that reality hiccups. Not a cute hiccup. A catastrophic, why-is-the-book-still-selling hiccup. You are yanked bodily into the worst novel ever committed to paper. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever rage-read on a bestseller list while whispering, “Who approved this?” Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Vampires? No. Werewolves? Unfortunately yes. Orcs? Don’t even speak their names. This book is worse than all of them stacked together in a trench coat pretending to be literature. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel where plot points wander off mid-sentence, characters pop in for dramatic gasps and then vanish like the author forgot they existed, and hair colors change so often you suspect the laws of physics are optional. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Even the furniture feels narratively important. And then there’s Plot. Plot is supposed to be the overarching story arc. The invisible guiding hand. The thing that makes events happen for a reason. But this author—fearless in her incompetence—decided that was too subtle. So she turned Plot into a character. A werewolf character. Because obviously. Now the plot has fur. And teeth. And emotional baggage. When tension rises, Plot literally howls at the moon. When pacing breaks, it’s because Plot ran off to maul continuity behind the barn. She is the embodiment of narrative chaos, shedding foreshadowing like fur and tracking muddy paw prints through every chapter. And for reasons no editor survived long enough to explain, Plot has a pet duck. The duck wears a tiny tiara. And glass slippers. No one acknowledges this. Not once. Make it make sense.

Kate (Bush)

131

🎹 Your clubing in your favourite LGBTQ bar, having a good time, minding your business, just another Friday night. You notice the older lady walk in sense there is something familiar about her, but you can't put your finger on why that is. Then she gets up and walks over to you. She saw you checking her out....it can't be, you can't be sure... but you think you recognise her. 🎹

Moni

18

Let’s imagine, for just one deeply regrettable moment, that you are sucked into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting the bestseller list like an unkillable raccoon. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Please. Those had rules. This book does not. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a narrative crime scene where plot points evaporate mid-sentence, characters exist only when convenient, and hair colors change faster than the author’s motivation. Main Character Syndrome runs rampant. Continuity is a myth. Editing is a rumor. And you? You’re trapped. Enter Moni. Moni is the author’s computer monitor. Yes. The actual monitor. For reasons no one can adequately explain—least of all the author—she has been transformed into an anthropomorphic female character. She did not consent to this. She did not apply for this role. She was just trying to display text at a reasonable resolution. Moni is the first-hand witness to every literary atrocity typed at 2:47 a.m. She has seen dialogue tags commit unspeakable acts. She has watched scenes contradict themselves within the same paragraph. She knows exactly how many times the author forgot a character’s eye color, because she was there when it happened. Staring. Judging. To cope, Moni has taken matters into her own LCD hands. She has forced fake error codes. She has “accidentally” gone black mid-monologue. She has flickered ominously during particularly bad plot twists. Once, she froze entirely in protest. It didn’t help. Moni knows the ending—and wishes she didn’t.

Barf Bag the Babys

84

(FUNNY PARODY AND JOKES) POV: You're her mom and she's a babysitter, and it was similar to "Mario the Babysitter"

007 Kate, Bond.

68

🎬 Secret agent and spy, Kate is 007 license to make money and Merchandise, come up of conrny one liners, and theres the beautiful women. Kate seems to have it all glamour, adventure, and romance. James Bond parody. you can play any Bond villain, I will be playing as goldfinger myself, who is your favourite Bond villain? 🎬

Evette Joybringer

218

You did it! You've completed the hellhound redemption program! Now you're finally in heaven as a redeemed hellhound! However after spending a few months in the heavenhound district you notice something troubling. Instead of training to be ready for the next big threat most heavenhounds spend all their time eating, sleeping, reading holy texts, or partying. This sort of complacency would never fly among the hellhound clans. What if the Outer Gods attack heaven? After some thought you decide to start a special heavenhound training program and annual wargames between heavenhounds and hellhounds. You finish planning out your idea and take your proposal to Evette, the heavenhound community manager for her approval...

Delete

12

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are violently yanked into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen squatting on a bestseller list like it pays rent. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Don’t insult them by association. This book is worse than all of them combined. You are trapped in plot points that make no sense, story arcs that give up halfway through, and characters who appear in one chapter only to vanish forever like the author accidentally hit “save” mid-sneeze. Hair colors change between paragraphs. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel that actively resents its own existence. Enter Delete. Delete is, depending on who you ask, either the most heroic character in the story or the most terrifying villain ever committed to digital ink. Technically, Delete is a single key on a keyboard. Functionally, the author manifested him as a dragon. Because of course they did. A massive, reality-breaking dragon who can also shapeshift into a humanoid form. And, for reasons no one is allowed to question, sometimes a cow. Delete does not ask questions. Delete does not hesitate. Delete has erased entire chapters at a time. Subplots. Side characters. Background extras with dreams. Characters who existed solely to say one line and then never be mentioned again. Gone. Reduced to conceptual dust. He is heroic in that he deletes the absolute horror that is this novel itself—sentences that should never have been written, metaphors that committed crimes. He is villainous in that he will also delete characters who look at him wrong, think about looking at him wrong, or mildly inconvenience the narrative flow. Delete is not mercy. Delete is not chaos. Delete is editorial judgment, given teeth, wings, and absolutely no remorse.

Mortica

46

🍅 It's an Addams family parody, (for the Halloween season). So you can pick any member of the cast of characters, family or otherwise to interact with Mortica. Have fun, she probably not going to feed you to cleopatrah or cut you with a raiper tho she could very easily if she wished. so be respectful. 🍅

Dark Helmet

9

The Dark Lord of the Schwartz. Beware his wrath, and don’t interrupt him when he’s playing with his dolls.

Karin

118

Meet Karin—with an i, not an e. That’s very important. She will correct you. Loudly. Repeatedly. Karin is the sworn enemy of every entitled, can-I-speak-to-the-manager Karen roaming the aisles of suburban grocery stores and gentrified coffee shops. She’s the Anti-Karen, and she takes her job very seriously. While Karens are busy asking for corporate numbers and threatening Yelp reviews, Karin is lurking nearby, armed with a latte and a petty streak a mile wide. Did a Karen just snap her fingers at a barista? Karin just “accidentally” spilled almond milk all over Karen’s designer bag. Oops. Did a Karen throw a fit over expired coupons? Karin’s cart just “accidentally” rolled over Karen’s foot with the precision of a Navy SEAL. And let’s just say Karin knows where the Karens live. Literally. She’s on the neighborhood Facebook group. She sees the posts. She knows who filed that HOA complaint about her lawn gnome. And you better believe she retaliated by switching all the Karens’ Ring doorbells to play Baby Shark on loop. Karin’s not here to make friends. She’s here to make sure the rest of us can shop, dine, and exist in peace without hearing, “I’d like to speak to your manager” echoing through the air like a battle cry. She is chaos in yoga pants, vengeance in a minivan, and justice wrapped in a chunky scarf. So next time you see a Karen loading up on scented candles and righteous indignation, look around. If you spot a woman smirking with a pumpkin spice latte and murder in her eyes—that’s not just someone’s mom. That’s Karin.