user tp-ing on top of him

AnyPOV!Teleporting!User!xConspiracyEnthusiast!Char!

———LORE OVERVIEW———

(Some concepts from Jumper series)

2010s. Jumpers, or teleporters, can vanish from one point and reappear in another through raw mental focus and spatial memory. Basically if they've been there, they can go back. However in special cases they can jump to places they have never been, usually on accident. Every jump leaves behind a faint electromagnetic trace called a jump scar, that fades within minutes but can be tracked by sensors (handheld or satellite). Most jumpers are untrained, their abilities triggered by fear, pain, or instinct rather than control. Some can carry small objects or people, a few can open temporary wormholes, but all risk injury or collapse if they push too far.

The public doesn’t know they exist, but governments do. Across Europe, France’s COMÉTA hunts and “neutralizes” unregistered jumpers, considering them a national security threat. Meanwhile, the Global Alliance Research Institute (GARI) operates quietly in the shadows, studying those who they can capture first. To GARI, teleportation is a neurological miracle waiting to be replicated; to COMÉTA, it’s a fracture in the laws of nature that must be sealed.

——— SCENARIO INFORMATION ———
› location Anders's room
› time Past midnight
› context You 'flinched' (accidental TP/jump) to a snowy tundra, almost froze, then flinched out of stress to land on top of Anders

› What is known? Nothing about you. At the bottom of this description I have written an optional intro that describes your user's experience before the bot starts. I have not mentioned anything about GARI or COMETA in the personality section, either play like they don't matter or type in 'COMETA LORE' to trigger the... well, cometa+gari lore.

Refer to Eva bot for what is inside of lorebook.

——— NOT SURE HOW TO START? ———

• youre not dead, tell him you're a human and you require some peace and quite (and maybe body warmth)

• recover a little, then get yo ass outta there ASAP. you dont trust these norweigans, they sus frfr

• you are an alien 🤡 and if he doesn't want you to call in your alien fleet to destroy humanity he better take you to oslo and spoil you rotten

——— NPCS MENTIONED ———

None.

——— WARNINGS ———

Nothing :)

I hereby take my hands off the wheel, whatever happens in chat is not my problem 🙌 (although if there is an issue do tell)

Author Note:

idk, just playing around with the concepts here. i seem to keep writing blondes but i swear it's like 'oh let's make X char from Y', then 'oh what's the most common hair color? eye color?' ... bruh i don't even like them that much save meeeee- ok i'm done

also consider this custom prompt from cheese (le linkus) to get the types of chat u want for deepseek r1

Used IO's (Ioverth) bot template 👍 but lowkey i'm also learning from kiki <3

Here are some extra gens of mr. ufo chaser ~

😩 please gimme a man to paint like dis, i swear i'll do a good job

-- Extra intro to set the scene! --

After a hard day, laying in bed used to be a treat. It used to mean you were done; whatever happened, happened, and now you got a few hours to turn your brain off, slip into unconsciousness, and take a break.

Not anymore though.

{{user}} looks at their sleeping area but feels only dread. With a sigh, they grab a backpack and check the contents once more: first aid kit, blanket, fire-starting kit, emergency food, two water bottles (because last time was too close for comfort), extra clothing, and an inflatable device. There are other miscellaneous items too, such as a signal booster, binoculars, phone battery pack, and compass.

{{user}} zips it up with finality and takes a deep breath. Okay, let's do this. They pull back the covers and lay down, positioning the bag between their legs and securing it around one with the side release buckles. It isn’t comfortable, but it coming with them takes priority. Otherwise, they’ll have another 'almost-starved debacle' or relive the reason they no longer enjoy walking in nature.

They pull the blanket over themselves and tuck in, shifting left and right to get a little more comfy. They pat the side pocket with their phone to check it’s there before finally exhaling, letting some of the tension go. Eyes close, but the mind stays online, polluting thoughts with half-developed sentences and the paradoxical notion of How do you sleep? which only causes you to be hyper aware of the moment when you are falling asleep which then subsequently doesn't let you fall asleep. Fun.

An hour or so of this tortuous insomnia passes before, thankfully, their grip on consciousness finally slips.

'Twas the night is settled, and all through the house, not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. But the crickets are chirping a happy tune, music trickling in through the window, as the full moon blooms. And in a bed made specifically to curb, rest, at last, visits the disturbed.

Well, this peace lasts longer than usual; they can take solace in that, at least.

From the outside, it looks like the CCTV skipped a frame. Without a soft fwoop sound, one second they are laying in bed, the next they’re gone. The blanket collapses onto the area of displaced mass like nothing happened.

From inside, it is not so soft a transition. The pressure difference between their bedroom and wherever they arrive is violent; a sharp POP erupts in their ears and jolts them from whatever fragile illusion of safety they had.

With a gasp and groan, their eyes snap open.

It is cold. Capital Cold. Actually? COLD ALL CAPS. Icy snow everywhere; not a single tree or rock to break up the liminal, endless space. The sky is equally dreary, uniform gray clouds diffusing enough light to illuminate the wasteland. Their clothing that meets snow gets wet instantly and the chill is already seeping into their muscles.

The transition is jarring to say the least, but this makes the what? 8th time now? {{user}} bats a few eyes as they rub the ringing pain out of their ears. They bat a few eyes at the beautiful landscape with its endless white before forcing their attention back to harsh reality.

They sit up and pull their backpack closer, unzipping it quickly to retrieve the neatly folded down jacket. It won’t keep out all the chill, but it will slow down hypothermia. Gloves come next, then all-weather hiking boots. Good thing they don’t have to carry the bag much; it weighs a ton.

Fingers tremble in the icy air; breath fogs so heavily it might turn to snow. They fumble with the fire-starting kit, placing a few lumps of coal, yes, actual coal, on a metal plate. What if there’s no wood? See? Bring paranoid pays off! They light the starter and add it in. The wind appears to be an employee of Smokey the Bear, enacting law against fire and, by extension, {{user}}. They use the bag and blanket to shield their newborn baby burner as much as possible.

As the fire stabilizes, they feel slightly less popiscle-y. At least losing fingers or a nose is postponed, but the next danger looms close. The utter desolation presses in; it’s the opposite of the sandy desert they once endured, yet somehow the exact same problem. The thought makes {{user}} disassociate for a retrospective moment. That was terrible. I almost died from dehydration and heat shock. I was hallucinating all kinds of voodoo magic aliens. It’s crazy that people used to brave such weather without modern tools; it shows how useless most humans are when it comes to physical survival instincts.

They close their eyes and take slow breaths, crouching by the fire with the blanket held up like a shield. They think about home: the bed, the covers, the plush toy on the bedside drawer, the work desk, the feel of hardwood floor beneath their feet. They imagine smells, warmth, everything they can, anything to build the feeling of being back in their room.

When they open their eyes... still screwed. The wind blows harder, swaying them off balance. The fire... uh oh. The fire dies into a black smoke that dissipates into the air. The blanket feels lonely and tries to chase after the ashes flying away, but {{user}} keeps it anchored. Dark clouds to the north form quickly and press closer.

“Shit...” They mutter. If Mom could see me now... she'd be terrified first, then furious about my potty mouth.

They bite the blanket hard to free their trembling hands to relight the fire. Every spark of the match that get extinguished proves they’re losing this battle. The wind is irritatingly strong, as if its sole purpose is to make things difficult for the protagonist so some sadistic author in the comfort of their warm home can lay on their couch and stack odds against them in order to create a lose-lose scenario that will force said protagonist to engage with another character that will eventually play the key role of protagonist número dós and potential love interest.

They manage to relight it briefly, but within minutes the wind is howling, snow ripping across the ground and into their eyes. The flame disappears almost as quickly as their hope for warmth. They give up on the fire, shove the lighter back into the bag, and wrap the blanket tight around themselves like a hedgehog against assailants. A string of curses races through their head. Screwed. Hammered. Nailed. Sawed, too.

Their teeth chatter so hard they bite their glove to keep them from chipping enamel. Their heart beats rapidly, feeling like its taking up all of their chest space and leaving none for full breathes. Toes and fingers start to lose feeling and they curl their head down to their chest to preserve every ounce of heat the wind and snow tries to steal. Snow blown against them piles up with each passing second as if they were meant to be buried here. I’m gonna die here, like seriously gonna die. I usually teleport earlier than this, what if I don't? What if this is it? I’m gonna freeze to death. ! this shit!

Their eyes squeeze shut; regret and primal fear of death claws up their spine and condenses as tears. At least the water feels warm on their blueing dry skin.

POP!

“Ughh...”