Maz

‘’’Maz’’’ is an agent in the Department of Mary Sues. She is written by User:Larfen J. Stocke, esq..

Appearance
As a Gaudi, Maz’s appearance can be summarised as a sort of cockroach-beetle-human hybrid. She has four limbs, two antennae, a pair of large mandibles, and big, round eyes gleaming in the harsh HQ lighting with either innocence, or dire evil, depending entirely on who is looking at them, and their thoughts on large insects. She also has a pair of beetle-like wings, with which she can fly in much the same way a man who has never swum before, and also has no legs, can swim. By human standards, she is squat and round, though, she is fairly tall for her species. She has a near-permanent sense of dishevelment about her, clear in her stance, movements, and antenna twitches. Her species’ biology and, (as a result of heavy stylisation,) appearance, having been left largely vague in canon, seems to be up to the whims of the various Narrative Laws, and how they personally feel towards her at that particular moment. This extends even to such actions as talking (when it is fairly certain she has no voice box, or throat-based respiratory system,) and picking things up (when she, arguably, has tarsal claws and no opposing thumbs.) Just don’t think too hard about it, and you’ll be fine. Having a truly ethereal understanding of privacy, and largely uncomfortable in most clothes, she prefers to just slap her flash patch to her carapace and go au naturale. She lets the disguise generator figure all that nonsense out, if it really, really needs to.

Her forms through the disguise generator vary, of course, but they all share her constant ruffled appearance, relative tallness and thinness, and the kind of sickly skin that comes from either a lifetime spent underground, or perhaps a paper factory.

Personality
Maz is small and lost. She exists in a semi-permanent state of existential crisis, having a series of quaint, harmless beliefs regarding the universe, laws of physics, logic, and basic ‘what can and can’t happen’ that are constantly being overturned. As a result of living in the PPC, where the laws of logic are dictated largely by how hot the personification of irony’s anger towards you is, she is a jittering, quivering mess. The only things she believes are reliable, in this grey hell she has been forced into, is the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. They are anchors of consistency and logic, and she finds herself staring into them with less-than-ideal frequency. As a result of a mixture between her embedded sense of utter lostness and a generally quaint nature, she finds herself tripping her sentences up, attempting to worm her way out of any possible accusation. There isn’t anything inherently wrong with anything, she just finds it personally off. Not that she finds it that off, but she wouldn’t like to spend free time with it. Not that spending free time with it is incorrect, or anything. And so on and so forth. There is a quiet, subtle, deeply buried rebelliousness to her that manifests in a variety of (incredibly short-lived) attempts to avoid doing her job and the occasional caustic remark, the existence of which is promptly denied afterwards. Yocherry has a particular talent in bringing this out of her. Her memory is astounding, and her genre savviness is impressive, so it’s a big shame that she’s usually too terrified or busy ignoring everything to use them. Being a sort of cockroach-being, she can, and will, eat anything. Especially sugar. She would have a sweet-mandible, except for the fact that ‘sweet-mandible’ sounds incredibly stupid. She has a minor case of arguably alive, in which she will occasionally drop into deep, deep confusion about the state of her mortality. Medical’s working on it.

Humans are, somehow, the pinnacle of her misplacement in the multiverse. She finds the creatures stunning, befuddling, and, most of all, kind of disgusting. Why, she wonders, are such squelching fragile things the most common beings in Headquarters? Why, she wonders, do they have heads shaped like wet clay left in heavy wind? Why, she wonders, do they ooze and leak and flap and flop? Not that she’s speciesist, of course. She’s friends with plenty of humans, you know.

Nostalgia relating to her home continuum weighs heavily on her. Her glasses are solidly rose-tinted; her mindset is romantic as a wedding dress made of heart-shaped chocolates. There is nothing in existence, she finds, more important than finding her way home, slotting back into her old life and living the cheery paradise she is certain she dwelt in before she got her abdomen blown open and awoke in HQ, forever barred from returning again. She, admittedly, can’t remember much about her home, and the few floating bits and pieces she can recall being incredibly fuzzy and large-pixelled. She has no doubt, either way, that this home is the single place in the entire multiverse where things make sense.

November

 * Is killed. Wakes up in HQ, instead of the heavenly paradise she was hoping for.

December

 * Is partnered with Yocherry, poor girl.

Mission Reports

 * 1) "A Casual Conversation Between Gentlepersons" (interlude)