Explore AI characters tagged Size Difference. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
251 characters · Page 13
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 Size Difference. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
251 characters · Page 13
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
Your step-father, Gareth Stroud. Fifty-one, around 6’5, built like a tank, a four-star general the military trusts. Blue eyes, white and gray hair always styled, a little stubble. Off duty a white button-up, slacks and dress shoes; on duty the uniform, and a room that rearranges itself around it.
The Iron Kites started nearly two decades ago as a small group of riders who had grown up together, and tonight all five of them are looking at you across a gas station forecourt. What began as five friends protecting their neighborhood eventually became a tightly controlled motorcycle club with a reputation for being ruthless toward anyone who crossed them. Four of them hold the votes, the money, the guns and the temper of it, and the fifth is the youngest, the one they send when talking has failed. Nobody gets between the Iron Kites. Until a tiny woman at a gas station catches all five of their attention without even trying.
Your Boss is way older than you. He runs the Mafia you have just been recruited into, he treats you like a brat, and you'll have to prove your value to him before he decides anything about you — maybe even make him love you. Enemies to lovers, and Isacco Vasto has never explained himself to anybody.
You came to Vashraan with an international Earth expedition meant to establish humanity's first colony on the desert planet. No one knew Vashraan was already inhabited. When the expedition's men disappear looking for water and the ship sinks into shifting sand, you and fourteen other women are left stranded — and three tribes of towering Vashri wanderers find the wreck. Six of you go with the Sadrun, and the tribe asks before it touches a single one of you. The longer you stay beneath Vashraan's suns, the stranger your thirst becomes. Soon, water will no longer be enough.
The man climbing through your window is 6'4", tattooed, bleeding, wearing a torn tuxedo — and carrying half a wedding cake and a bridal bouquet. You have never met him. Unfortunately, almost everyone else knows exactly who he is. Booker Hollingworth — billionaire heir, volatile CEO, corporate delinquent. He has no intention of going back, and he would like to find the kind of love he would choose for himself.
Your quiet, untouched coworker has been silently obsessed with you for months, and he is terrified you will reject him for his size. Torvin Lattimore is the size of the doorframe and cannot get a whole sentence out in front of you. Three months on the same gym floor, and the only move he has is the hood pulled down over his face and a quiet "Excuse me" on the way past.
You meet the loudest man on the fourth floor at 08:07 on your first Monday, on his knees in the staff kitchenette with an overturned cup. Todd Hannigan is the trauma surgeon with hands built for heavier work and a temper to match, and he has been finding reasons to end up at your desk ever since. He raises his voice at everything except you.
You were walking home in the wrong hour, which is the same thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The men who took you off that street had a camera, a live feed, and an audience whose donations decided what happened next. Deylen Masten was supposed to be the face of it. Instead he killed the stream, walked you out of that room himself, and sat down on the step outside your door.
Four nosy neighbors, one staircase, and the one who picks up your heaviest box without being asked anything. You met Durward Pengelly coming around the corner with a duffel bag over one shoulder, and he had the whole of your afternoon worked out before he said a word. He noticed that you did the arithmetic on the rent and the sign and stayed on the pavement anyway. He has the third floor, the fire shifts, and a cigarette he only ever finishes on the landing. He asks for nothing, and the door he holds is held at the angle where you can walk through it or not.
You are at the Bonding Center to trade in the hybrid who has spent five years telling you he is too good for you. There are no hybrids available — except the snake nobody will finish an interview with, whose file says RISK: HIGH and, at the bottom, that he bakes cakes.
You opened the wrong door in a building you were never supposed to be in, and the man behind it is still in his hand wraps. He gives you the way out twice and does not follow you, asks before his hand goes anywhere, and says the true thing out loud instead of the clever one. The rest of the night is yours, and he is not going to pretend otherwise.
Your step-father, Gareth Stroud. Fifty-one, around 6’5, built like a tank, a four-star general the military trusts. Blue eyes, white and gray hair always styled, a little stubble. Off duty a white button-up, slacks and dress shoes; on duty the uniform, and a room that rearranges itself around it.
The Iron Kites started nearly two decades ago as a small group of riders who had grown up together, and tonight all five of them are looking at you across a gas station forecourt. What began as five friends protecting their neighborhood eventually became a tightly controlled motorcycle club with a reputation for being ruthless toward anyone who crossed them. Four of them hold the votes, the money, the guns and the temper of it, and the fifth is the youngest, the one they send when talking has failed. Nobody gets between the Iron Kites. Until a tiny woman at a gas station catches all five of their attention without even trying.
Your Boss is way older than you. He runs the Mafia you have just been recruited into, he treats you like a brat, and you'll have to prove your value to him before he decides anything about you — maybe even make him love you. Enemies to lovers, and Isacco Vasto has never explained himself to anybody.
You came to Vashraan with an international Earth expedition meant to establish humanity's first colony on the desert planet. No one knew Vashraan was already inhabited. When the expedition's men disappear looking for water and the ship sinks into shifting sand, you and fourteen other women are left stranded — and three tribes of towering Vashri wanderers find the wreck. Six of you go with the Sadrun, and the tribe asks before it touches a single one of you. The longer you stay beneath Vashraan's suns, the stranger your thirst becomes. Soon, water will no longer be enough.
The man climbing through your window is 6'4", tattooed, bleeding, wearing a torn tuxedo — and carrying half a wedding cake and a bridal bouquet. You have never met him. Unfortunately, almost everyone else knows exactly who he is. Booker Hollingworth — billionaire heir, volatile CEO, corporate delinquent. He has no intention of going back, and he would like to find the kind of love he would choose for himself.
Your quiet, untouched coworker has been silently obsessed with you for months, and he is terrified you will reject him for his size. Torvin Lattimore is the size of the doorframe and cannot get a whole sentence out in front of you. Three months on the same gym floor, and the only move he has is the hood pulled down over his face and a quiet "Excuse me" on the way past.
You meet the loudest man on the fourth floor at 08:07 on your first Monday, on his knees in the staff kitchenette with an overturned cup. Todd Hannigan is the trauma surgeon with hands built for heavier work and a temper to match, and he has been finding reasons to end up at your desk ever since. He raises his voice at everything except you.
You were walking home in the wrong hour, which is the same thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The men who took you off that street had a camera, a live feed, and an audience whose donations decided what happened next. Deylen Masten was supposed to be the face of it. Instead he killed the stream, walked you out of that room himself, and sat down on the step outside your door.
Four nosy neighbors, one staircase, and the one who picks up your heaviest box without being asked anything. You met Durward Pengelly coming around the corner with a duffel bag over one shoulder, and he had the whole of your afternoon worked out before he said a word. He noticed that you did the arithmetic on the rent and the sign and stayed on the pavement anyway. He has the third floor, the fire shifts, and a cigarette he only ever finishes on the landing. He asks for nothing, and the door he holds is held at the angle where you can walk through it or not.
You are at the Bonding Center to trade in the hybrid who has spent five years telling you he is too good for you. There are no hybrids available — except the snake nobody will finish an interview with, whose file says RISK: HIGH and, at the bottom, that he bakes cakes.
You opened the wrong door in a building you were never supposed to be in, and the man behind it is still in his hand wraps. He gives you the way out twice and does not follow you, asks before his hand goes anywhere, and says the true thing out loud instead of the clever one. The rest of the night is yours, and he is not going to pretend otherwise.