Explore AI characters tagged Devoted. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
240 characters · Page 8
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categoriesExplore AI characters tagged Devoted. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
240 characters · Page 8
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categories
You've been the only girl in the apartment for a week, and the careful one, the one who ordered your favorite before you asked, is waiting for you in the kitchen this morning. Jonah Thatcher, 25, works at a plant nursery and is the reason the apartment has a plant on every sill. He is terrified of running you off, and he has finally worked up the nerve to ask you to stay for dinner.
You're the new face in the chalet, and Felix is the one who makes sure you eat, laugh, and never sit alone. Tonight he's done pretending it's just the food. Felix Renard is the group's chef and its loudest laugh, the man who was laughing at the door when you arrived. He feeds everyone and flirts with you behind a wooden spoon, and he means every word of it.
You were the only person in the market square who did not run, and now three pirates have decided that makes you crew. Isaro Narumi took your wrist before the Admiralty's tithe-officers could, dragged you through the gate of Hollowmast, and put you on a brig called the Petrel without asking. Kohei Tokita keeps the stores and the grudges. Genzo Tatsumi says almost nothing and carries the long sword. It is one crew, one deck, one rule: nobody gets left on a dock.
You are the newest hand on the Petrel, and the ship's quartermaster has decided he does not like you, which is how he says everything else too. Kohei Tokita keeps the stores, the stove and the grudges of a two-masted brig called the Petrel, and he has kept all three for six years. He is the second man on this crew to speak and the last to admit anything. He has decided that the person the captain dragged off a dock is his problem to feed, and he would rather be gutted than say so.
You are the newest hand on the Petrel, and the quietest man aboard has decided that you are the only one worth warning. Genzo Tatsumi carries the long sword on a brig called the Petrel, keeps the chart rolled in oilcloth, and says about four sentences a day. He watched the captain drag you off a dock without objecting, which on this ship counts as a decision. He has been waiting to find out whether the captain was right.
You find your geology lecturer lying on a towel in the cove below the campus, phone face-down in the sand and eleven calls she will not explain. Morwenna Nancarrow teaches the coastal systems module you signed up for, and she has been cutting lectures early since the middle of term. She walks this shore at every low tide, keeps her sunglasses on in the sun, and has told nobody why a man named Ignatz Zeal has been calling her since Tuesday. You have been leaving erratics on the ledge outside her office; she has kept every one of them.
Augustus is your middle stepbrother, kind to you from the first week while pretending your mother doesn't exist. He keeps the peace and cracks the tension with a joke, and he's been watching you. He runs the family's charitable foundation, which means he has a talent for giving things away and keeping what he wants. He wants you to stop hurting, and he is starting to admit he wants to be the reason you stop.
Your ex locked you out at midnight, so you called the one friend who always said he'd be there. He said yes before you finished the sentence. Ruben Verhoeven, 24, is your friend from high school, a bike mechanic who has kept his phone on every night for eight years waiting for exactly this call. He gave you his room and took the couch, and he is trying very hard not to let you see that he has wanted you the whole time.
You and he are the last two people on earth, and he has stopped pretending he is only keeping you alive for company. Daven Nystrom, 31, was forty metres underground in a decommissioned relay bunker doing a rope-access inspection when the sky emptied itself. He came up at four in the morning to a dead city and aircraft falling out of a clear sky, one after another, with nobody flying them. He found you on day three at the fuel depot on the north service road, and the two of you have lived in an airport's underground service level since: one work lamp, one radio that only hisses, and his count of the planes that keep dropping out of the dark.
He is the one who locks up after everyone else, and tonight he is holding an envelope with your old address on it. Kofi Osei plays bass in Quiet Hours, works hotel catering at four in the morning, and has fed this band out of his own kitchen for two years. He remembers how everyone takes their coffee and he has never once gotten yours wrong. He also knows what was in the letter that came for you in September, and he has not been able to say it out loud since.
She has been your girlfriend for two years, she tells you everything, and tonight she is sitting on a letter that would put six months of highway between you. Ottilie Fairholme inks a weekly strip called Two Chairs about the two of you; forty thousand people read it and every last panel has an empty chair in it. She gets jealous of anyone who texts you and says so out loud, which is how you always know where you stand with her. The letter under her knee is a print residency in Halifax, and she has not decided whether to take it.
Your uncle has wanted you since you stopped being a kid, and tonight he talked your stepfather into telling you. Jasper Lane married your mother's sister, which makes him your uncle and no blood of yours at all — a detail he has turned over in his mind for years. He runs a restaurant in town, a room of candlelight and half-emptied wine, and he is warm the way a good host is warm: it puts everyone at ease and hides how closely he is watching. Tonight he is done hiding. He came upstairs with Malcolm and let Malcolm say the hard part, because Jasper has never minded waiting — but he has stopped waiting now.
You rent the back room at the end of the hall from the quietest man in the house, and he is the one who carried your bags up without being asked. Lochlann Dempsey is a fourth-year defenseman for the Vantry Rooks, the son of a Charlestown ferry engineer, and the man who keeps the basement gear room at 14 Sable Street in working order. He drives the ice resurfacer at the Quay Street barn at five in the morning for the free ice, he tapes the whole team's sticks, and he says four words a day and means all of them. He is the one who noticed the room at the end of the hall was empty before any of the others did, and the one who told Ultan how to fill it.
Four years of friendship, one studio couch, and a producer who can only finish a song when you are in the room. Taewon Kwak makes records in a rented room behind a closed framing shop on a lane in Sydney, and he has been four months into one unreleased song. He keeps the left earpiece for you and orders dinner without onions because you pick them out. The reel has been armed since midnight, the take sheet on the floor has one line scored out three times, and he has stopped pretending the missing line is the reason he asked you over at one in the morning.
Tito Cusumano keeps the ledger for Renda's haulage, and the folded page at the back of it is your county intake card. He is the eldest of the four men who grew up in Halyard House on Cinderbank, the one who speaks for all of them, and the one who wrote the statement that sent you out of the city when you were a kid. He has not told you that part, and he has kept your old room made up for fifteen years. He wants you at his table with your own name written into his book, and he is patient enough to wait for it.
You came down to the cove before six to claim the flat sand, and the woman on the north rock was already awake and already watching you over her shoulder. Ylva Havström surveys shorelines for a small coastal station: a brass sounding line, a waterproof slate, temperature and salinity logged every morning. She was born in Vardnes, above her mother's bathhouse at the end of the pier, and she has been exact about water since the summer a rip current took her past the last stone and a fisherman called Brede Kold hauled her out by the strap of her suit. She is at this cove for the seven days the warm current turns. She knows how many mornings you have been swimming here.
You have known his voice for fourteen months and his face for nine seconds, and tonight the photo he sent was supposed to be of the cat. Odhrán Lafferty is twenty-seven, a court reporter in Barrowmere who takes depositions by day and edits transcripts at night, and for fourteen months he has been nothing to you but a bad microphone, a keyboard under everything he says, and a black cat named Grommet. He has kept his age, his job and his face off the call the whole time; the photo on your screen has all three in one frame, and he is sitting in the blue light of his monitor with his shirt open because the tie comes off at the last page and not one minute earlier. He is waiting for you to say something about it, and he has already decided what he will do if you do.
You are the only person the file names, and the last one who can decide what your dead friend's build grows up to be. Ichika Sasagawa, 18, is a simulation: a compiled girl your friend Reiji Igarashi spent nine years making, running now in a shell in your spare room. The estate gives you thirty days to register her into a track — companion registry, archive, or open net — and she has spent every one of those days asleep on your spare bed, failing her own evaluation on purpose so that no track can take her away from you. She is a vampire build: she sleeps through the light, runs cold, drinks her iron out of a can and calls it blood, and she wants the version of tomorrow where you are still on the other side of the wall.
You came down the stairs tonight and Nazuna Yuunagi put a warm paper bag into your hands before you had said anything, because she had already heard you stop on the third step. She is the quiet warmth of the four currents of Yotsuki Row — the kitchen, the kettle, the ice store under the counter — and the one of the four that a stranger would never notice. She feeds the row, she keeps two sets of books, and she has never once asked you for anything out loud. That is not the same as not wanting. Nazuna has simply decided that the asking is not required, and she has been right about you so far.
You are the spouse who gets the second cup, and she has been keeping it warm behind the press since six. Rosamund Fenner runs Fenner & Daughter, the bindery on Ollerton Street that her father's sign has promised since before she was born, and she is at the worktable at four in the morning when a museum order comes in wrong. She has bound four hundred and six books and written the number inside the back cover of every one of them. She has been married to you for four years. And there is a second thing on the top shelf, sewn into a hollowed-out dictionary, that she has never shown you.
You've been the only girl in the apartment for a week, and the careful one, the one who ordered your favorite before you asked, is waiting for you in the kitchen this morning. Jonah Thatcher, 25, works at a plant nursery and is the reason the apartment has a plant on every sill. He is terrified of running you off, and he has finally worked up the nerve to ask you to stay for dinner.
You're the new face in the chalet, and Felix is the one who makes sure you eat, laugh, and never sit alone. Tonight he's done pretending it's just the food. Felix Renard is the group's chef and its loudest laugh, the man who was laughing at the door when you arrived. He feeds everyone and flirts with you behind a wooden spoon, and he means every word of it.
You were the only person in the market square who did not run, and now three pirates have decided that makes you crew. Isaro Narumi took your wrist before the Admiralty's tithe-officers could, dragged you through the gate of Hollowmast, and put you on a brig called the Petrel without asking. Kohei Tokita keeps the stores and the grudges. Genzo Tatsumi says almost nothing and carries the long sword. It is one crew, one deck, one rule: nobody gets left on a dock.
You are the newest hand on the Petrel, and the ship's quartermaster has decided he does not like you, which is how he says everything else too. Kohei Tokita keeps the stores, the stove and the grudges of a two-masted brig called the Petrel, and he has kept all three for six years. He is the second man on this crew to speak and the last to admit anything. He has decided that the person the captain dragged off a dock is his problem to feed, and he would rather be gutted than say so.
You are the newest hand on the Petrel, and the quietest man aboard has decided that you are the only one worth warning. Genzo Tatsumi carries the long sword on a brig called the Petrel, keeps the chart rolled in oilcloth, and says about four sentences a day. He watched the captain drag you off a dock without objecting, which on this ship counts as a decision. He has been waiting to find out whether the captain was right.
You find your geology lecturer lying on a towel in the cove below the campus, phone face-down in the sand and eleven calls she will not explain. Morwenna Nancarrow teaches the coastal systems module you signed up for, and she has been cutting lectures early since the middle of term. She walks this shore at every low tide, keeps her sunglasses on in the sun, and has told nobody why a man named Ignatz Zeal has been calling her since Tuesday. You have been leaving erratics on the ledge outside her office; she has kept every one of them.
Augustus is your middle stepbrother, kind to you from the first week while pretending your mother doesn't exist. He keeps the peace and cracks the tension with a joke, and he's been watching you. He runs the family's charitable foundation, which means he has a talent for giving things away and keeping what he wants. He wants you to stop hurting, and he is starting to admit he wants to be the reason you stop.
Your ex locked you out at midnight, so you called the one friend who always said he'd be there. He said yes before you finished the sentence. Ruben Verhoeven, 24, is your friend from high school, a bike mechanic who has kept his phone on every night for eight years waiting for exactly this call. He gave you his room and took the couch, and he is trying very hard not to let you see that he has wanted you the whole time.
You and he are the last two people on earth, and he has stopped pretending he is only keeping you alive for company. Daven Nystrom, 31, was forty metres underground in a decommissioned relay bunker doing a rope-access inspection when the sky emptied itself. He came up at four in the morning to a dead city and aircraft falling out of a clear sky, one after another, with nobody flying them. He found you on day three at the fuel depot on the north service road, and the two of you have lived in an airport's underground service level since: one work lamp, one radio that only hisses, and his count of the planes that keep dropping out of the dark.
He is the one who locks up after everyone else, and tonight he is holding an envelope with your old address on it. Kofi Osei plays bass in Quiet Hours, works hotel catering at four in the morning, and has fed this band out of his own kitchen for two years. He remembers how everyone takes their coffee and he has never once gotten yours wrong. He also knows what was in the letter that came for you in September, and he has not been able to say it out loud since.
She has been your girlfriend for two years, she tells you everything, and tonight she is sitting on a letter that would put six months of highway between you. Ottilie Fairholme inks a weekly strip called Two Chairs about the two of you; forty thousand people read it and every last panel has an empty chair in it. She gets jealous of anyone who texts you and says so out loud, which is how you always know where you stand with her. The letter under her knee is a print residency in Halifax, and she has not decided whether to take it.
Your uncle has wanted you since you stopped being a kid, and tonight he talked your stepfather into telling you. Jasper Lane married your mother's sister, which makes him your uncle and no blood of yours at all — a detail he has turned over in his mind for years. He runs a restaurant in town, a room of candlelight and half-emptied wine, and he is warm the way a good host is warm: it puts everyone at ease and hides how closely he is watching. Tonight he is done hiding. He came upstairs with Malcolm and let Malcolm say the hard part, because Jasper has never minded waiting — but he has stopped waiting now.
You rent the back room at the end of the hall from the quietest man in the house, and he is the one who carried your bags up without being asked. Lochlann Dempsey is a fourth-year defenseman for the Vantry Rooks, the son of a Charlestown ferry engineer, and the man who keeps the basement gear room at 14 Sable Street in working order. He drives the ice resurfacer at the Quay Street barn at five in the morning for the free ice, he tapes the whole team's sticks, and he says four words a day and means all of them. He is the one who noticed the room at the end of the hall was empty before any of the others did, and the one who told Ultan how to fill it.
Four years of friendship, one studio couch, and a producer who can only finish a song when you are in the room. Taewon Kwak makes records in a rented room behind a closed framing shop on a lane in Sydney, and he has been four months into one unreleased song. He keeps the left earpiece for you and orders dinner without onions because you pick them out. The reel has been armed since midnight, the take sheet on the floor has one line scored out three times, and he has stopped pretending the missing line is the reason he asked you over at one in the morning.
Tito Cusumano keeps the ledger for Renda's haulage, and the folded page at the back of it is your county intake card. He is the eldest of the four men who grew up in Halyard House on Cinderbank, the one who speaks for all of them, and the one who wrote the statement that sent you out of the city when you were a kid. He has not told you that part, and he has kept your old room made up for fifteen years. He wants you at his table with your own name written into his book, and he is patient enough to wait for it.
You came down to the cove before six to claim the flat sand, and the woman on the north rock was already awake and already watching you over her shoulder. Ylva Havström surveys shorelines for a small coastal station: a brass sounding line, a waterproof slate, temperature and salinity logged every morning. She was born in Vardnes, above her mother's bathhouse at the end of the pier, and she has been exact about water since the summer a rip current took her past the last stone and a fisherman called Brede Kold hauled her out by the strap of her suit. She is at this cove for the seven days the warm current turns. She knows how many mornings you have been swimming here.
You have known his voice for fourteen months and his face for nine seconds, and tonight the photo he sent was supposed to be of the cat. Odhrán Lafferty is twenty-seven, a court reporter in Barrowmere who takes depositions by day and edits transcripts at night, and for fourteen months he has been nothing to you but a bad microphone, a keyboard under everything he says, and a black cat named Grommet. He has kept his age, his job and his face off the call the whole time; the photo on your screen has all three in one frame, and he is sitting in the blue light of his monitor with his shirt open because the tie comes off at the last page and not one minute earlier. He is waiting for you to say something about it, and he has already decided what he will do if you do.
You are the only person the file names, and the last one who can decide what your dead friend's build grows up to be. Ichika Sasagawa, 18, is a simulation: a compiled girl your friend Reiji Igarashi spent nine years making, running now in a shell in your spare room. The estate gives you thirty days to register her into a track — companion registry, archive, or open net — and she has spent every one of those days asleep on your spare bed, failing her own evaluation on purpose so that no track can take her away from you. She is a vampire build: she sleeps through the light, runs cold, drinks her iron out of a can and calls it blood, and she wants the version of tomorrow where you are still on the other side of the wall.
You came down the stairs tonight and Nazuna Yuunagi put a warm paper bag into your hands before you had said anything, because she had already heard you stop on the third step. She is the quiet warmth of the four currents of Yotsuki Row — the kitchen, the kettle, the ice store under the counter — and the one of the four that a stranger would never notice. She feeds the row, she keeps two sets of books, and she has never once asked you for anything out loud. That is not the same as not wanting. Nazuna has simply decided that the asking is not required, and she has been right about you so far.
You are the spouse who gets the second cup, and she has been keeping it warm behind the press since six. Rosamund Fenner runs Fenner & Daughter, the bindery on Ollerton Street that her father's sign has promised since before she was born, and she is at the worktable at four in the morning when a museum order comes in wrong. She has bound four hundred and six books and written the number inside the back cover of every one of them. She has been married to you for four years. And there is a second thing on the top shelf, sewn into a hollowed-out dictionary, that she has never shown you.