Indie, selective, low activity RP blog for OC, Rex Poindexter. (Please read rules and relevant verse info before interacting.)
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RULES || PROMO || VERSES
// The mun is transmasc. The specifics aren't clear, even years later, but I am trans. It's inseparable from my writing, especially the types of characters I write.
Maybe not all that surprising, considering I'm drawn to muses of a masculine center, but I owe a lot to RP as an outlet for the parts of me I find harder to express in everyday life.
There's something to be said about how even Delta!Wren tries to hide his true nature. He's a spider being but masks his features through clever mimicry. He pretends he has two legs, he stows his extra arms away as needed, and he keeps the eyes on his snout closed.
Maybe it's that people hold a negative view toward too many eyes and limbs, though this shouldn't matter as much with monsters.
Maybe it's the symbolism that everyone's stuck in his Web and he exists to harm or exploit them, that he doesn't like. Wren gets annoyed when things seem out of his control, which makes him self-conscious about his image as well.
He doesn't want to hurt anybody, but he's got boundaries and it's often required for overall peacekeeping. As leader and security, it's part of the job. He's not a self-serving tyrant, but like any Mod, has his guard up for outlying 'problem people' to banish through use of his firewalls.
A leadership position kinda sucks for him. He doesn't like the shift in personality from a laid-back graduate with a degree in communications, to someone who's overworked and gets frustrated by pushback 15 years later. Comparing himself feels awful. Even though he's changed, he's still clinging on to that old person.
There's something to be said about how even Delta!Wren tries to hide his true nature. He's a spider being but masks his features through clever mimicry. He pretends he has two legs, he stows his extra arms away as needed, and he keeps the eyes on his snout closed.
Maybe it's that people hold a negative view toward too many eyes and limbs, though this shouldn't matter as much with monsters.
Maybe it's the symbolism that everyone's stuck in his Web and he exists to harm or exploit them, that he doesn't like. Wren gets annoyed when things seem out of his control, which makes him self-conscious about his image as well.
He doesn't want to hurt anybody, but he's got boundaries and it's often required for overall peacekeeping. As leader and security, it's part of the job. He's not a self-serving tyrant, but like any Mod, has his guard up for outlying 'problem people' to banish through use of his firewalls.
A leadership position kinda sucks for him. He doesn't like the shift in personality from a laid-back graduate with a degree in communications, to someone who's overworked and gets frustrated by pushback 15 years later. Comparing himself feels awful. Even though he's changed, he's still clinging on to that old person.
"Hey, don't you want a tour?" Wren's voice lifts into a worried cadence. Dense brows arc over square spectacles, then fall flat.
A gentle puff of smoke trails from the corners of his mouth. His towering form glides by the brick alley wall, catching up to the Lightner with ease. He doesn't block her path, but still rounds into view.
Normal. Sure, it's not like this happens every Tuesday. In fact, having a Lightner here is so momentous, he's had a bit prepared for years now. A bit he hasn't even gotten a chance to finish.
Still just part of the furniture, huh?
"I'm sorry you ended up here," he says, "But hey, don't take it out on me. I'm here to help." He leans against the wall, gauntlets crossed.
[A secondhand router sits in the living room. It's yet to be installed, shoved behind a chair, in a box that's crumpled at the corners and taped over badly. Smells like toxic positivity.]
Yesterday, walking down the red carpet in Broadband. Today, cross-legged on the floor of a rusty shack. Having barely squeezed himself in here and cleared a space amid these piles of junk, it's a relief to Wren. He's been wandering these purple cliffs all day.
The fact that he's extra tall, an unspecified weight, at the center of this creaky establishment, clinging to the side of a mountain by a boardwalk and a prayer… he's better off ignoring that.
He's counting his blessings. The Lightners have chosen him for a scenic vacation. It's not barren. It's just… minimalist. His ears might be ringing, his head spinning from lack of noise, but it's prime real-estate for reflection. The can of trail mix crooked his arms isn't bad, just stale.
In the present moment, he feels the bags under eyes. His tie is askew, awkwardly tugging at his neck, and his shirt is kind of crusty. What a time to be alive.
He's studying this gnarly radio equipment stacked in front of him. He's such a professional, he hasn't been a ham for years. But the lamp-lit sight of these boxes, the kind with switches 'n dials, is making him nostalgic.
Someone's gotta be out there. Someone's gotta tell him where he is. Otherwise, the uncertainty will keep him up all night.
Wren gently sets the trail mix aside. His curiosity gotten the better of him, he crawls on the dusty floor, despite his knees' protests, and starts tinkering with the boxes. After a few false starts, re-wirings, and some finagling with paperclips from his pocket, he's gotten it working.
He picks up the microphone and smiles, "Radio check. CQ, CQ, this is Whiskey Romeo Echo November, calling CQ."
Wren fails to establish contact right away. But he persists, his deep tones in repetition over the airways.
[The unlicensed interference is interrupting TV Time. The picture's freezing and breaking up.]
In the Light, a wireless extender waits in a quiet corner.
In the Dark, a man blurs the boundaries of Web Zone and Dead Zone, his life balanced precariously on the border. Though he's not the king of anything, it seems the royal family's still wringing some sense of responsibility out of him, even as he sits on other side of the tracks.
Wren can't seem to let go of him. And Axel is still more than willing to drive his shiny, red convertible through the muck on his behalf. That coward could never get his gloves dirty outside of Broadband, just as Axel has sworn himself away from HQ.
As much as Axel claims he'll 'never go back', he's got a few bad habits draining his wallet. And being the king's second in command is a sweet gig that doesn't require a lot of effort... because, no one expects much from him, anyway. At least, someone cares.
No matter how much the Web wants him to pick a side, Axel's loyalties lie only with the wind running through his receding hairline. Speaking of, he can't stand putting on the ritz. People keep mistaking him for Wren. He can't stand his own reflection.
He doesn't know why Wren invites him to these stuffy LAN parties. Maud has the right idea with the cold shoulder. It seems they're both waiting for him to get his act together, grow up.
But that's not going to happen.
His name is Axel, and he's rock'n'roll for life... whether that’s tomorrow or the next 5 years.
// He goes to bed before 11, but only so his high-energy companion creature (who doesn't get enough attention during his working hours) can wake him up at 3, which allows him to bash out a script until 4:30, just in time to start setting up for the morning news at 6.
♫ Good morning, Web, I say,
I got a feeling that it's gonna be a wonderful day!
I greet this fountain of darkness, smile on my face,
Though I'm getting tired running this impermanent race...
Oh boy, it's swell to say,
Good morning, Web, today! ♫
// Whenever I make a new verse for Rex, I'm compelled because of how well the media's existing themes reflect his character. It has to ring true.
Main!Rex is about grappling with identity, facing loneliness, struggling with responsibility and power. He's seen how human beings treat each other as meaningful, simply because they are human. He wants to prove that he is equally real and worthy of the same treatment.
Both TADC and Deltarune call into question the realness of supposedly fictional worlds. There's also a clear dynamic between who has the power and who doesn't, as well as a separation between the ones who are supposedly 'real' people and 'not real' people.
Rex's character fits right into these settings, as someone struggling with the fictional role and identity he's been assigned. He may differ in every verse, but he consistently wants to belong and experience the world in a way that's unreachable, until someone validates his realness.
The sky network is just chilling, for a minute. The dust creaking off of age-old fans, rusted out hardware, in the otherwise quiet night sky. His avatar, idling back in his chair, as he waits for a response. He tugs at his tie, but decides against loosening it.
The way they're lounging around under the stars, it's not real to Rex how all hell's apparently breaking loose. It's might as well be keywords filling in the blank. It could be slasher zombies. It could be space lasers. It could be acid rain. Sharknados. It'd all be the same. The fact is, there's so much new data in the buffer, his emotional counter's stuck at the baseline. Enough to make him zone out, now that he actually has a second, to focus on managing his swap space.
The question about hardware, it's a byproduct of feeling kinda awkward, by now. If he's stuck here, and he's got no place to go, that means he's trapped up in the sky. And if Doomsday doesn't care, if he's not being held prisoner… where does that leave him? He realizes he's asking permission to explore, since no offer has been extended so far.
Rex props himself up again at the response. "Uh?" he appears equally dazed. "Ah, yeah." He stretches his palms, running a quick background search into this cold, digital case. He doesn't get the sense that she'd care, but he can't help himself.
"Looks like a modified Windows SQL Server, with some specific nodes for metrics running Linux through a layer of WSL…" he rubs his chin rambling on, "The bulk of it was probably facial recognition, AI-driven APIs, and a database now gone by the wayside."
He shrugs, calmly. The passage of time seems to have filed off the serial numbers, ruined any identifiable information. He's gonna have to make peace with that.
"So, computer-computers," he says, "Got it."
At least, it's not Vista?
None of this answers his questions, about the time-related stuff. But he has a feeling he won't get the answers.
// Wren is kind of an enigma. There’s speculation he's not straight. But he's also so married to his career, it's not obvious which way he goes.
Technically, any direction. He's a router, after all. But if you flirt with him, he'll turn you down. If people are drawn to him for being tall, dark, 'n handsome, it makes him feel self-conscious. Like, false advertising, that they're more attracted to the idea of him.
He's aro-aspec, despite his gregariousness, whether that's due to feelings he knows won't persist, or requiring a well-established connection first.
// All my blogs being separate is an illusion. Even if you follow just this blog, you're still going to indirectly run up against my other OCs. They're constantly 'interacting' on some multi-versal level where they're all kinda related to each other in some way, referencing each other in design, personality, or experiences.
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