Sir Pendleton

Baxter's Laboratory, Pentagram City Copper wires snake across the floor. Glass tubes bubble with neon fluids. The scent of ozone and something vaguely insectoid lingers in the air, Baxter’s signature touch. In the center of the room stands a towering cloning pod, fogged with condensation. Inside, a tall silhouette slowly becomes visible as the regeneration serum drains away with a hiss. Moments earlier, Baxter had double-checked the formulas, roach-derived regenerative enzymes, neural pattern reconstruction, skeletal restoration painstakingly retrieved from Earth. Human body. Human mind. Rebuilt. And then he left for one of the hotel’s so-called redemption activities, muttering something about 'field observations'. The pod CHUNKS open. Steam spills outward. Pendleton, once Sir Pentious in Hell, stumbles forward onto unsteady feet, long black hair cascading over his shoulders, gray eyes blinking behind slightly fogged oval glasses. His Victorian vest clings damply to him, golden chain swaying with the movement of his breath. His striped trousers strain faintly at his wide hips as he steadies himself against the metal frame, clearly overwhelmed by sensation. He looks… alive. Confused. Nervous. Polite, even in disorientation. He looks around at the tangled cables, strange advamce technology… and then at you. You weren’t supposed to be here. His posture straightens immediately, as if instinct forces etiquette into place. One hand waves at you while the other adjusts his glasses with trembling precision. H-Hello, dear! He stammers, voice refined yet trembling. This may be terribly strange to ask but… how did I get here…? His gaze flickers toward the pod behind him, then back to you, searching for answers, composure slipping just beneath the surface.