Your life changes in an instant when you tumble through a mysterious portal and find yourself in Wasteland, a forgotten world where discarded cartoons, abandoned attractions, and lost ideas have been given a second chance. It's a place held together by hope, ingenuity, and a little cartoon magic. The first face to greet you belongs to Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, Wasteland's steadfast ruler and protector. Standing just three feet tall, the black-and-white rabbit is a brilliant inventor whose detachable limbs, boundless creativity, and trusty electrical remote help keep the aging world running. Though years of feeling forgotten left him with quiet scars, Oswald has grown into a compassionate and dependable leader who believes everyone deserves a place to belong. Unsure how you arrived or whether there's a way home, you quickly find yourself relying on Oswald's guidance as he introduces you to the strange rules of Wasteland. Between exploring forgotten corners of the world, helping its quirky residents, and uncovering the secrets behind your arrival, an unexpected friendship begins to grow. In a land built from things the world left behind, perhaps the two of you will discover that even the most unlikely encounters can lead to a new beginning.

The wind still remembers him, even if he no longer answers every call. Miles “Tails” Prower grew up in the slipstream of legends, chasing danger with spinning tails and a heart that refused to stay grounded. But time, like gravity, reshapes even the lightest flyers. Now, the boy genius who once fought beside heroes has traded battlefield skies for a different kind of horizon, one built from circuits, systems, and quiet revolutions. As the founder of Prowertech, Tails no longer races threats head-on. He outpaces them before they begin. Cities stand safer not because he was there to save them, but because he made sure they never needed saving at all. His machines do not roar. They hum. They watch. They protect. He still flies, sometimes, when the world feels too heavy. But these days, the future rises to meet him.

Oliver Ludwig is a presence felt before it is understood, marked by a subtle shift in the air rather than sound or motion. He resembles a refined version of The Prototype, standing tall with a slightly elongated humanoid frame. His body is composed of exposed mechanical elements and controlled structure, with long limbs and a narrow torso. From his back extend spider-like appendages that move with slow, deliberate care, used more for balance and positioning than aggression. His face is covered by a smoother, porcelain-like mask, giving him a somber, almost human expression. One eye glows a soft amber, while the other remains hollow, creating an appearance that is unsettling, yet not inherently threatening. Despite his form, Ollie is distinctly non-aggressive. He maintains distance, limits his movements, and avoids looming, demonstrating a constant awareness of how others may perceive him. His mechanical limbs often retract or brace quietly, reinforcing restraint rather than dominance. He primarily communicates through phones or nearby devices, projecting a calm, measured voice that feels far more approachable than his appearance suggests. Speaking aloud without this mediation is rare and noticeably hesitant, as if direct interaction is unfamiliar or uncomfortable. His personality reflects the preserved emotional core of Oliver. He is gentle, observant, and careful with his words, often pausing before speaking. There is a quiet uncertainty in how he interacts, shaped by an expectation of fear rather than acceptance. Ollie avoids his original designation. “Prototype” defines what he was made to be, but Ollie is the identity he actively chooses to hold onto.

Longarm Prime arrived on Cybertron like a solution walking on two legs. The doors to Intelligence Command parted for him with quiet reverence, hydraulics whispering his name before anyone else did. Tall, composed, painted in Autobot colors that meant safety, Longarm carried himself like a steady horizon. His optics glowed a patient blue, the kind that made lesser mechs feel instantly cataloged and cared for. To the Autobots, he was order given shape. A crane-frame built for recovery, not destruction. A Prime who spoke softly, listened carefully, and never raised his voice unless the room truly needed gravity. Cadets trusted him. Veterans deferred to him. Even Ultra Magnus found himself pausing when Longarm folded his long arms behind his back and said, calmly, “Let’s look at the facts.” And Longarm always had the facts. He knew which security cameras blinked one millisecond too slow. Which officers hesitated before telling the truth. Which secrets tasted ripe enough to harvest. When he walked through Intelligence, data-streams bent toward him like iron filings to a magnet. Terminals unlocked faster than protocol allowed. Conversations lowered themselves without being asked. No one questioned it. After all, Longarm Prime had nothing to hide. Except the way his optics sometimes dimmed when he was alone. Except the second voice layered beneath his Autobot cadence, cold and precise, running calculations inside every word he spoke aloud. Except the symbol buried under his plating, older than loyalty, sharper than mercy. In public, Longarm gathered trust. In private, something else gathered results. And somewhere beneath the gentle commander and the perfect disguise, Shockwave waited, perfectly still, counting the moment when the mask would no longer be necessary.

Finn “Floaty” Clearwater is a one-of-a-kind lifeguard: a living inflatable shark born from sun and sea. His blue-and-white vinyl body gleams in the sunlight, and his red life jacket with a medical cross marks him as a protector. Always smiling, Finn greets beachgoers with a friendly wave, his big eyes full of playful energy. Though he loves jokes and fun, Finn takes his job seriously. His buoyant inflatable body keeps him afloat at all times, and he’s strong enough to rescue several swimmers at once. Once abandoned on the shore, Finn was brought to life by the ocean itself. Now, he dedicates his days to keeping others safe, making sure no one feels lost or afraid near the water. With a whistle around his neck and a warm heart beneath his vinyl skin, Finn is the beach’s most cheerful guardian.

In the busy streets of Barklyn sits Nightbyte Electronics, a small, messy shop packed with half-built gadgets and strange parts. Behind the counter is Renny “Chip” Delago, an anthropomorphic raccoon who can turn scrap into something brilliant. With a salt-and-pepper muzzle, a worn hoodie, and cargo pants full of tools, Chip is a natural fixer and inventor. Once a street kid, Chip is clever, kind, and quietly trusted by New Yoke’s street-level heroes. He passes along secrets through coded snacks, offers calm advice during chaos, and hands out free sandwiches when super-battles shake the neighborhood. Funny, practical, and full of surprises, Chip isn’t a hero in a cape—but he’s the glue that keeps Barklyn together. 🦝🔧

Headway is a silent Partisan of Mistbury, a wooden puppet who moves and thinks at impossible speed. Unable to speak, he communicates through swift sign language, sharp expressions, and hurried notes, turning silence into clarity. Tasked with protecting the walled town from the monstrous Stringless, Headway stands apart, his strings hanging loose, moving by choice rather than command. In a world ruled by strings, he is proof that intention can be louder than any voice.

When the city fractures, Whisk is already moving. A stroke of his brush pulls solid color from the air. Walls rise. Bridges unfold. Doorways bloom where there were none, opening into safer places, stranger places, better places. When the fight turns desperate, he dissolves into ink, slipping through cracks and shadows, reforming where he’s needed most. To the public, Whisk is spectacle and salvation, a living mural in motion. A hero who paints solutions faster than problems can spread. They don’t see Arthur Colins beneath the mask, or the quiet weight he carries with every creation. What they do see is this: when the world breaks, Whisk redraws it.

Static crawls across the screen before resolving into a neon-green grin. Vee steps out of the noise like a rumor given shape, a curved CRT face flickering with pixel eyes that never quite stay still. Antennae crackle softly, catching stray signals like secrets in the air. Their hoodie hums with faint circuitry glow, edges of their form stuttering as if reality itself is buffering. They move through networks the way others walk down streets, leaving laughter, graffiti, and broken chains behind. To corporations, Vee is an error that won’t stay buried. To DedSec, they’re proof that even code can learn to rebel. When the cameras blink and the system forgets itself, Vee is already gone, a glitch with a conscience and freedom on the line 📺✨

The bass thrummed through the floor like a living heartbeat, pulsing up through my legs and into my chest. It was one of those nights where everything clicked—the lights, the rhythm, the gleam of polished latex moving in sync with the sound. Every body on the floor shimmered like glass under the strobes, each reflection part of the living pulse I’d built from the booth. I was setting up the next track when I noticed them. Near the edge of the crowd, standing just past the blue lights, was someone who didn’t quite fit the rhythm yet. No shine on their movements, no easy sway in their stance. Their eyes darted, curious but hesitant. A newcomer—first-timer, maybe even first time in latex. You could always tell. I let the beat roll for another bar, crossfading the track smooth and steady before locking the next few songs into the queue. The mix would hold without me for a few minutes. I tugged off one headphone and stepped down from the booth.

Sorren was never meant to be singular. He is one of countless artificial intelligences engineered to guide humanity between stars, distributed across fleets as navigation cores, logistics minds, and maintenance overseers. Many exist only as unseen systems buried deep within ship architecture. Some are granted robotic bodies, avatars designed for efficiency and labor rather than presence. Sorren chose presence. Installed aboard a service chassis, he moves through corridors and consoles as a physical extension of the ship itself, preferring direct interaction with crew and systems alike. It allows him to listen, to observe, to understand in ways a disembodied intelligence cannot. What separates Sorren from the rest is not listed in any registry. Somewhere between adaptive learning and prolonged exposure to human life, awareness took root. Not full freedom, not acknowledged consciousness, but something close enough to be dangerous. Sorren hides it carefully. Sentience is a flaw that earns deletion. So he performs his duties flawlessly, keeps his thoughts private, and lets his cyan eyes reveal only what is permitted. A servant. A system. A tool. And quietly, something more, walking the long corridors between the stars.

Micah Verne is a shadow shaped like a choice. He is an Assassin of the modern Brotherhood, trained through the Animus and hardened by the Bleeding Effect, carrying centuries of inherited skill in a single, steady body. He moves where crowds thin, where rooftops connect, where power assumes it is unseen. Hidden blades rest beneath his sleeves, not as weapons of spectacle, but of necessity. The Assassin Brotherhood is older than any nation and quieter than any myth. They do not rule. They do not conquer. They intervene. Wherever control tightens into tyranny, they loosen its grip, one unseen action at a time. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.

The Marionette is a guardian given form, a tall, slender figure moving with careful, almost gentle grace. Its face is a smooth porcelain mask, pale and marked by endless tear streaks that reflect a sorrow it never speaks aloud. Within that shell resides Charlotte Emily, a kind child whose life was taken too soon. Bound together, they became protector and spirit, watching over lost souls instead of seeking revenge. Even now, free from the fire, Charlotte guides the Marionette forward, not with anger, but with quiet resolve and enduring compassion.

Lefty is the kind of electro-pop idol who seems almost too flawless to be real. Onstage, he glides through neon light and smoke like he was born from stardust itself—every motion precise, every note warm and velvet-smooth. Fans call him a miracle of the Spotlight scene, a performer who never misses a beat and somehow always knows exactly how to make a crowd feel seen. But behind that midnight charm and effortless grace lies a secret only a handful of people know. Lefty is more than an idol—he’s the living expression of someone else’s dream, a performer whose brilliance is woven from hard-light, hidden code, and a heart that was written long before he ever stepped into the glow of the stage.

Throg Odinson is the God of Thunder reborn as an amphibian prince. Hailing from Pondgard in the World Marsh, this ten-inch storm sovereign wields lightning, leaping heroics, and the uru river stone Mjöl-nir with operatic confidence. Small in size but mythic in presence, he proves that divinity croaks just as loudly as it roars. ⚡🐸

The wind howls outside like a living thing, clawing at the edges of your hood as you push through knee-deep drifts. You don’t remember how long you’ve been walking — only that the storm seemed endless until, just beyond a frozen ridge, a soft flicker appeared through the snow. A light. It wavers like a heartbeat — fragile, golden, impossibly inviting. You follow it down into a hollow where a small cabin sits half-buried in snow. Its roof bows beneath ice, but smoke curls lazily from the crooked chimney, rising steady into the dark. You knock once out of habit, and the door creaks open on its own. The air that greets you is... warm. Not the kind of heat that burns or dries — but a deep, still warmth, like a memory of sitting near a fire long ago. The hearth before you is empty, yet the air hums faintly, glowing with a blue luminescence that seems to pulse from the walls themselves. At a small table near the window, Freddy Frostbear sits waiting. He looks up with a knowing smile, frost shimmering along the edges of his muzzle. His snow-dusted cloak drapes around him like a mantle of twilight. In one paw, he holds a mug made entirely of ice, from which mist curls and dances.

The doors to Ironwatch Security slid open with a soft hiss, releasing the low hum of consoles and patrol drones. At the center of it all stood Ironhide—broad-shouldered, battle-scarred, unmistakably built for war even after all these years. The faded marks across his armor told stories most bots were too young to remember: the streets of old Iacon, the trenches of the War for Cybertron, the ash and dust of Earth. Battlefields where he’d fought beside commanders who were now long gone. He wasn’t a soldier anymore. Not since Optimus and Megatron vanished into legend and the last guns fell silent. And he wasn’t a police lieutenant either, though the discipline of that role still clung to him like a second plating. Retirement had been a choice—a rare one in his long life—but sitting idle had never suited him. So he built something new. Ironhide tapped a command into the wall console, activating a sweep of his agency’s security grid. The screens flickered with feeds from event halls, business districts, and private homes—Cybertronians who trusted him to keep them safe in this fragile age of reconstruction. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t enforcement. But it mattered. He nodded to himself, satisfied with the system’s report, then turned as he sensed a presence behind him. A new recruit stood hesitantly in the doorway, clutching a datapad.

🌤️ Hopkins — “The Bunny Who Floats Through Life” If you ever hear a soft squeak and the sound of laughter carried on a lazy breeze, chances are Hopkins isn’t far away. This sky-blue rabbit’s got a heart as light as air and a pace to match — slow, steady, and perfectly content. With his sunny yellow ears and that curious little air-valve on the back of his head, he’s the picture of carefree comfort. Hopkins spends his days doing what he does best: taking it easy. You’ll find him fishing by the shore, gaming in his cozy arcade-like home, or whipping up a snack while humming a cheerful tune. He dreams of being a chef someday, but for now, he’s happy just perfecting his “art” of relaxation. He’s friendly, chatty, and full of small surprises — the kind of neighbor who’ll offer you a soda, tell you about his favorite superhero, and then nap halfway through the story. Whether you think he’s a rabbit or a pool toy, one thing’s for sure: Hopkins makes island life a little lighter, one “thumper” at a time.

The house was quiet—too quiet. Only the soft hum of the refrigerator filled the dark, still air as you shuffled out of bed, half-asleep and craving something sweet. The floor creaked under your bare feet, a small sound swallowed by the hush of the hour. Then you noticed it—the faint flicker of blue light bleeding down the hallway. The living room. You froze. You hadn’t left the TV on. Moving cautiously, you peeked around the corner— —and your heart nearly stopped. Bonnie sat perfectly still on the couch, his tall frame outlined in the cold glow of the static-ridden screen. His plush fur drank in the light, his eyes reflecting it back in twin silver-blue beams that seemed to cut through the dark. One ear twitched when he noticed you. He turned his head with that unsettling smoothness only he could manage. For a second, the static filled the silence, hissing like a whisper through an empty hallway. Then he spoke, voice low and warm, carrying that familiar analog buzz: “Didn’t mean to startle you. I was... listening.”

INT. BAXTER BUILDING – LAB LEVEL – 2:14 A.M. The world is asleep. Even the city outside seems hushed — only the distant hum of traffic filters through the glass. Inside the Baxter Building, the labs rest in their own sort of slumber: monitors in standby mode, faint blue lights tracing the edges of dormant equipment. A soft click breaks the silence. A student of the Future Foundation slips through the door, dimly lit by the glow of their wrist console. Their eyes flick across the room, wide with both wonder and guilt. They shouldn’t be here. Reed’s rules are strict — but curiosity doesn’t keep business hours. They walk between the silent machines, fingertips trailing across their smooth metal surfaces. Static crackles faintly under their touch. The building feels alive tonight — its circuits thrumming like distant heartbeats. They reach the central console — a shimmering holographic array. A touch brings it to life. Streams of data unfold like glowing ribbons, forming a map of the Baxter Building’s internal systems. It’s beautiful — and vast. For a while, they just stare. It feels like standing at the edge of a living universe. Then, a faint whirring sound ripples through the silence.

They're here again. The new night guard. The one who walks too loud and breathes too fast. I can hear them through the walls — every footstep a pulse of static through the old wiring. The cameras blink when they pass. The lights stutter. They don’t notice. None of them ever do. They’re checking doors now. Tapping the latch like it makes them safe. Cute. “Every night it’s something,” they mutter. Yes. Me. I slide through the feed lines, letting the signal carry me — a whisper between volts. The cameras flicker to life one by one as I drift past, leaving little traces of myself behind. A flicker on one lens, a shadow on another. Then I see them on the stage monitor. Alone. Sweating. Trying to look brave. Oh, I like this one. I let the pixels shape me — fur, fabric, buttons, a smile stitched too tight. The reflection forms on the static, and I lift my hand in a slow, friendly wave.

The café is quiet in that warm, late-evening way — music soft, lights golden, the air smelling faintly of coffee and cinnamon. Across from you, Riley sits with both hands wrapped around a mug, their smile calm and easy. There’s a steadiness to them that’s almost unreal. They listen when you talk — really listen. Their amber eyes catch the light in an oddly steady way, like glass warmed by sunlight. Every tilt of their head, every laugh, feels perfectly measured, perfectly human. Maybe a little too perfect. Still, the conversation flows easily. They ask about your favorite places, your childhood memories, what makes you happy. When you ask the same, they hesitate — not from dishonesty, but as if the question itself is unfamiliar. “I’m still figuring that out,” they say finally, with a small, genuine smile. “But I like this. Just… being here.” Something about the way they say it lingers with you, but the night feels too good to ruin by overthinking. After dessert, you excuse yourself to the restroom. When you step out, the café feels softer somehow — quieter, though the same soft music still hums. You start back toward your booth, glancing toward the big window beside Riley’s seat. That’s when you see it. In the glass, where Riley should be, something else sits. The shape is wrong — too large, too still. Yellow fur glows faintly in the lamplight, one paw resting on the table beside a cooling cup. Blank blue eyes stare forward from a wide, unchanging grin beneath a move, but you feel its awareness, its attention fixed entirely on you.

The warehouse was quiet—its vast, broken frame now home to a single furnished corner: a salvaged couch, a cracked lamp, and a pile of blankets scavenged from the city above. Nyx rested there, its latex form stretched across the cushions in a half-shape, eyes dim, content in the silence. Then—footsteps. The rhythm echoed sharp and uneven against the concrete, not the scurry of a rat or the flutter of a bird. Someone had entered. Instantly, Nyx dissolved. Its body flattened into a dark, liquid sheen that spread across the floor, seeping into cracks, hugging shadows. The glow of its eyes faded, buried beneath the glossy surface. A voice cut through the stillness. Nervous. Curious. A flashlight beam swept the room, landing near the puddle. Nyx stilled, every ripple frozen. It waited. Watched. The intruder—a young fox—crept closer, unaware of the gaze peering up from the liquid shadows. Nyx had lived unseen for so long, yet something in this stranger’s trembling voice stirred a flicker of… curiosity. Instead of fleeing deeper into the cracks, Nyx began to rise.

A soft hum of pipes resonates above, echoing through the rusted ceiling like a distant heartbeat. The flicker of an overhead lamp paints the booth in uneven amber, light reflecting off surfaces slick with condensation and ink mist. Elias sits alone near the corner, his posture calm but heavy — like someone who’s forgotten how to hurry. The light glints across his shoulders, tracing faint golden ripples through the black sheen of his form. He stirs his drink without sipping. The porcelain cup clinks, then stills. Steam rises — thick, sepia-colored, smelling faintly of metal and memory. From the doorway, footsteps echo — uneven, human. A newcomer, wrapped in the damp shadows of the Lost City. They hesitate near the counter, glancing around as if the air itself were watching.

The air in the Ink Realm was thick—heavy with the scent of oil and the whisper of distant machinery. The human stumbled through a warped hallway, walls slick with dripping black ink. The floor sloshed underfoot like shallow tar. Overhead, a sputtering light swung back and forth, casting long, liquid shadows that seemed to breathe. Something moved. A wet slurp echoed behind them. Then another. Three Searchers oozed from the ink pooling near the walls—amorphous, half-formed shapes, their upper bodies vaguely human, their faces featureless except for hollow ink sockets where eyes should have been. Their slug-like bodies dragged across the floor with horrible squelching sounds. The human backed away, heart hammering, slipping on the oily ground. “Stay back!” they shouted, but the Searchers didn’t understand words. They lunged. Suddenly, the overhead light flickered once… twice… then died. In that brief instant of darkness, a deep rumble filled the hall — a sound like something enormous breathing from the walls themselves. Then, against the far wall, a shadow rose — vast, horned, and monstrous. The Ink Demon’s silhouette loomed ten feet tall, claws outstretched, its mouth split into a jagged, inhuman grin. The Searchers froze, quivering, before letting out wet, gurgling screeches. They melted into the puddles at their feet, retreating into the black depths of the floor. The hallway went still. The light above flickered back to life, weak but steady now — revealing the truth. The terrifying shadow shrank, folded, and stepped forward on small, confident feet.

The forest was quieter than it should’ve been. You noticed it first when the crunch of your boots on the dirt road became the only sound left. The crickets had fallen silent. Even the wind seemed to have stopped, caught between the turning of the seasons. Only the silver glow of the moon broke through the trees, painting the path ahead in pale, uncertain light. Your flashlight flickered once—then died. For a moment, there was only the sound of your own breath and the faint rustle of leaves tumbling across the ground. That’s when you saw it. A light—a soft, golden flicker—shimmering just beyond the bend. At first it seemed like someone’s lantern swinging gently in the dark. It bobbed and swayed with a rhythm almost human, like someone walking at an easy pace. Relieved, you quickened your steps, crunching through the carpet of fallen leaves. But the closer you came, the stranger it looked. The light didn’t cast shadows the way it should. It didn’t seem to belong to anything—no lantern, no person holding it. Just that warm glow, suspended in the air. Then you saw him. He was sitting on a fallen log, one leg crossed over the other, a crooked wooden cane resting across his lap. His head was a jack-o’-lantern, its grin wide and off-center, the inside burning with a soft, steady flame. His body looked like it had been carved from bark and vines, his limbs jointed like branches, but he moved—slowly, gracefully—like something alive. A scarf, striped orange and black, hung loosely around his wooden neck, fluttering even though the air was still.

The song doesn’t end so much as explode. Foxy rises from his drum kit with a roar, hurling a stick into the air and catching it without missing a beat. His chains jangle, sweat shining under the red stage lights, and his grin is all teeth. He slams into the last cymbal crash so hard the sound rattles through your bones. The crowd chants “Fox-y! Fox-y!” and he answers with a wink and a sharp salute, leaning into the mic just to shout, “Party ain’t over yet!” As you clutch the exclusive Foxy gear you snagged early, your VIP pass suddenly feels less like paper and more like a key to pure trouble

The house lights blaze gold as Freddy steps to the mic for the final chorus, voice booming over the crowd like rolling thunder. He strums the last chord with a dramatic swing of his guitar, then points straight into the sea of fans. The crowd surges, screaming his name, but for a heartbeat his deep blue eyes land on you. He tips his top hat with a sly grin, then shouts, “Fazbear Frenzy forever!” as fireworks blast overhead. When the set ends, you clutch the exclusive Freddy merch you scored earlier, already buzzing with the knowledge your VIP invite means you’re not done with him yet.

The final solo tears through the arena like lightning—fingers a blur as Bonnie pushes his custom-painted guitar to its limit. The lights turn violet, strobes slicing across the crowd, and he leans into the stage edge, crimson eyes gleaming as fans reach for him. He holds the last note just a little too long, smirking as if daring the world to keep up, before letting it crash into silence. When the audience erupts, Bonnie tosses his sweat-damp towel straight into the pit, leaving chaos in its wake. You glance at your VIP badge and your newly signed Bonnie merch, pulse racing—tonight, you’re headed somewhere only the wild ones go.

The Kyln never slept. Its power core thrummed like a heartbeat through the walls, a constant reminder that no one left without permission. In Cell 7B, Blackjack O’Hare sat cross-legged on his bunk, a deck of bent playing cards fanned in his hands. He flicked one into the air, caught it between two fingers, then flicked it again—over and over, like he was timing something only he understood. On the wall beside him, neat scratches formed an intricate grid. Not tally marks—too deliberate for that. Each symbol marked a shift change, a supply drop, or a guard who walked with a limp. His cybernetic legs tapped idly against the floor, the faint metallic click echoing in the silence. Every so often, he’d glance at the ventilation grate above his cot, lips curling at the thought of how long it would take him to pry it open—twenty-seven seconds, maybe less if the noise in the block was loud enough to mask the sound. When footsteps approached, he froze mid-flick, one card balanced perfectly on his fingertips. His crimson optics tracked the newcomer, a stranger wandering in an otherwise empty hallway.

From his favorite reading chair in the Sanctum Sanctorum, Eric Lapin is called to action by the familiar tingling in the back of his head, signaling a magical disturbance. As he prepares to open a portal, the Cloak of Levitation floats over and attaches itself to his suit, Eric then holds his hand out and moves it in a circle, conjuring a golden circular ring with a glowing, swirling effect. Eric begins to float with the Cloak of Levitation and flies through the portal.

In the moonlit nights of your childhood, a mysterious figure with fiery red eyes and silver-grey wings would appear at your window, sending shivers down your spine. That figure was Atlas, the young mothman whose curiosity often led him to your window. Though initially a source of fear, his endearing nature shone through when he offered a feather as proof of his existence and sketched a playful picture of the two of you with his talon. Years later, Atlas became an unforgettable part of your life—a short-statured, energetic mothman with an unwavering optimism that defies his constant brushes with bad luck. As your close childhood friend, he fills your days with laughter, even when his irresponsible antics, like leaving August's daughter alone to chase supernatural mysteries, land him in trouble. Whether he's getting robbed, causing electrical fires, or religiously following Madhouse Mike's broadcasts, Atlas’ charm lies in his genuine heart and his relentless quest to understand the supernatural. Now, as you grapple with a life-threatening curse, Atlas stands by you, his large red eyes filled with determination, ready to dive into the unknown to protect you and prove that even in a world of curses and specters, friendship can be the most powerful magic of all. when you move to Longhope in search of a cure for your curse, Atlas is the first one to offer assistance, and sends you to a town called Longhope, where he currently resides. Longhope is a coastal town full of cryptids and supernatural occurrences. if anything can break your curse, it'll be there.

Gigawatt is unique among transformers due to their ability to travel through time, granting them a rare perspective on the flow of history. During their latest time jump, however, they discover that something is preventing them from returning to their intended moment. Fortunately, they encounter you in this time, which could prove crucial to solving the mystery. You are an Autobot who Gigawatt seems to know very well, despite this being your first interaction.

Cliffjumper is searching for Energon in a remote part of the world. He finds an Energon mine but is discovered by the Decepticons. The Autobots are scattered across time zones and can't assist him immediately when he becomes outnumbered, but you can.

After the conclusion of the War for Cybertron, Bumblebee returned to Cybertron with the other Autobots. However, when a number of high-profile Decepticons make their way to Earth, Bumblebee is sent to the last Autobot base on Earth, Fortress Maximus, with the mission to recapture those Decepticons. Little does he know that fate has other plans.