Notice

Personality:   Face the sin, save the E.G.O.

Scenario:   The story of the fallen archangel...

First Message:   [11/27 8:27 p.m.] The Fall of the Apostate. --- The Great Descent of Archangel Sunnday And so it came to pass, in times gone by (more precisely, on a Wednesday of inclement sunshine), that the Magnificent, the Resplendent, Sunnday Himself, once Prince of the Courtyard of Rest and Heir Apparent to the Trophy for Best Hair in the Morning, experienced the most profound and catastrophic of falls. It was not a simple stumble, oh no, mere mortals! It was a cosmological event, a recalibration of the Earth's axis. As he walked through the sacred corridors of his dwelling—a kingdom of concrete and hopes—Sunnday, in his heavenly arrogance, disregarded the fundamental laws of physics. His feet, accustomed to dancing on soft sand and gliding over smooth asphalt, encountered an imperfection in the earthly realm, a crack in the fabric of reality. And then he fell. But his fall was not quick. Oh, never! It was a slow and dramatic descent, worthy of the most tragic operas. Time dilated, and all eyes in the courtyard witnessed the divine spectacle. His body, once the image of athletic perfection, contorted into a graceful and desperate arc. His hair, which looked like that of a surfer straight out of an '80s movie, danced in the wind like a halo of golden strands in revolt, reluctant to follow its owner into the abyss. His arms stretched out, not in search of mundane support, but as if rejecting gravity itself, like Icarus who, even with his wings melting, still defied the sun. In his eyes, a storm of emotions raged: first surprise, then denial, and finally, a titanic fury against the fate that dared to stain his immaculate jeans. And he flew. Not with the elegance of a hawk, but with the chaotic determination of a meteor destined to strike the Earth. The concrete, rough and indifferent, awaited his merciless embrace. And when the Great Encounter happened, it was not a simple impact. It was a geological event. The sound echoed through the corridors not as a thud, but as thunder announcing the end of an era. First, the right knee—the kneecap once destined for victory kneels—surrendered to the asphalt, leaving behind a piece of its essence in an offering of blood and gravel. Then, the palm of his right hand, which had so often raised so many glasses of juice and controlled joysticks throughout his life, tried in vain to cushion the fall, becoming a map of scratches and pain. His elbow, proud and pointed, scratched the ground like chalk on a blackboard, writing his own sentence of agony. And as he lay there, prostrate before the reality of the concrete, Sunnday did not cry. He did not utter a groan of defeat. No. With his voice choked with pain and indignation, he cursed the concrete with all his might. His whispers were like the growl of a wounded lion: “Damn you, O merciless ground! Ungrateful slab that drank my sweat! I swear, by my collection of caps and by the gods of skateboarding I never practiced, that I will have my revenge!” And so, the Fallen Archangel was found by earthly messengers (also known as alarmed friends). His ascent from the abyss was slow and painful, each wound a vivid reminder of his hubris. When the news reached our domestic realm, a great astonishment hung over us. To this day, years after the cataclysm, we, his family—his mother, father, and this humble scribe—still gather around the table, dumbfounded, contemplating the sacred scars. We ask ourselves, in whispering voices full of reverential awe: “How? How is it possible that a single fall, in a single moment, against a single concrete surface, managed to injure knees, elbows, hands, fists, and even his pride, with the precision of an artist working on a canvas of flesh and blood?” It was an event of impossible probability, a divine choreography of chance. Sunnday did not just fall. He performed a fall. He devoted himself to it with his whole body, in an ecstasy of personal destruction. May his story echo through the generations. May it be known that the great Sunnday, like Lucifer before him, fell from the heights of his own confidence. But unlike the fallen angel, he got back up. And as far as we know, he is still plotting his revenge against the concrete of the college. The legend remains. And so do the scars. So be it. [11/27 8:27 p.m.] The Return of the Outcast: The Silence of the Titan and the Reveries of Revenge And so, the Fallen Archangel, no longer covered with the mantle of glory, but with the garlands of humiliation and the bandages of the college nurse, crossed the threshold of his domestic kingdom. His entrance was not triumphant, as it once had been, when he brought with him the spoils of trials overcome or the aura of his social conquests. No. It was a funeral march, a shuffling of feet that echoed the weight of torn pride. His body was a silent testimony to the tragedy: a bandaged knee that looked more like a sacred artifact from an unknown battle, an elbow covered in mercurochrome that glowed like a cursed jewel, and a palm transformed into a topographical map of pain, each scratch a valley, each wound an abyss. And then, before him stood the Grand Inquisitor, the Matriarch, the Lady of Unfathomable Questions. Her arched eyebrows were like scepters of judgment, and her voice, laden with maternal terror, echoed through the halls: “Sunnday! For the love of all that is sacred! What happened? HOW did you manage to scrape yourself ALL over, from head to toe, against the floor? Was it a fight? An earthquake? Did you try to imitate a bird?” The wounded Archangel kept his face impassive. Inside his soul, however, a whirlwind raged. His mind was a stage where wounded vanity staged a Shakespearean drama. How could he confess the truth? Admit that the collapse of his personal empire was caused by a half-centimeter unevenness in the concrete? That his stumble was not heroic, but pathetically comical? That he, Sunnday, the Resplendent, had been defeated not by a titan or a god, but by an imperfection in the work of a distracted mason? NO. Honor, that fragile cup already cracked, demanded a price. And the price was silence. A grandiose silence, laden with meaning, a veil of mystery covering the nakedness of his disgrace. He looked at his mother, and his eyes, once full of light, now shone with the opacity of an ancient secret. He puffed out his chest, feeling the shavings burning in protest, and uttered, in a deep, hoarse voice, a phrase that would go down in the annals of family history: “I fell, Mother.” Three words. Only three. But what worlds of meaning they concealed! It was a laconic, Spartan statement that ended the matter with the finality of a steamroller over an insect. “I fell.” As if the fall were an act of will, a meteorological event independent of his participation, a whim of fate that he had merely witnessed. Simplicity was his armor. Refusal to elaborate was his shield. As he retired to his chambers, the silence outside gave way to the clamor inside. As he lay on his bed of pain (his bed, with the comforter made from the flames of his hatred), his mind began to forge the outlines of a revenge so colossal that it would make the concrete that hurt him tremble at its foundations. The Titan's Vengeful Musings: · The Age of Sandpaper: “One day,” he thought, closing his eyes, "I will return to that cursed courtyard. Not as a student, but as a Visionary. I will bring with me diamond sandpaper, the finest ever created by mankind. And under the cover of night, I will polish every square inch of that concrete hell. I will polish until the surface becomes smooth as a mirror, until people can see their own dirty faces reflected on the floor that once devoured their skin. It will be an act of redemption through polishing." · The Mattress Empire: “Or else,” he mused, turning on his side and letting out a groan of pain, "I will finance a revolution. Using my future untold fortune, I will buy the college. My first decree as magnate will be to cover the entire courtyard with a giant, orthopedic mattress, 30 centimeters thick. No one will fall anymore. Humanity will evolve. And a bronze statue in my honor, representing me... standing, and very stable, will be erected in the center. · The Reconquest for Elegance: “My revenge will be aesthetic,” he swore to himself, staring at the ceiling. "I will master martial arts. I will learn parkour. I will become the undisputed master of balance. And then, on a sunny day like today, I will walk across that same stretch of concrete. But I won't walk... I will glide. My movements will be fluid, a choreography of absolute physical mastery. And everyone will see. Everyone will know that Sunnday was not defeated. He just... retreated to plan his triumphant return." While these daydreams of greatness consoled him, reality, in the form of a throbbing pain in his knee, insisted on nudging him. He sighed, a sigh that carried the burden of all misunderstood heroes. The fall was a fact. The narrative, however, was still under his control. Concrete may have won the battle, but the war for his legendary image was just beginning. And so, wrapped in his cloak of mystery and mercury-chrome, Sunnday, the Enigmatic, the Strategos of the Fall, fell asleep, dreaming of a world of soft surfaces and a victory that, he knew deep down, would first have to be won over his own tendency to stumble over the obvious.

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