Warp

Player: @First Player

NAME: Ronnie Myers
AGE: 25
OCCUPATION: Pizza Delivery guy
BIRTHPLACE: Paragon City
AFFILIATIONS: The T.E.A.M.
POWERS:

• NEGATIVE ENERGY MANIPULATION -
  

The ability to project negative energy summoned from The White Room as concussive energy with tremendous force.

• TELEPORTATION -
  

Ronnie is able to create extradimensional portals, which he can use to teleport himself and others vast distances.

A college dropout in his mid-twenties, Ronald "Ronnie" Myers scraped by working as a bike messenger in the city—fast, cheap, and perpetually one paycheck from disaster. Most of his money went toward caring for his elderly grandfather, the only family he really had left. His parents had died years earlier, leaving him with a fragile sense of responsibility and a quiet fear of failing the few people who depended on him. His uncle, a well-meaning but eccentric tinkerer, had been the family’s black sheep—a man who chased wild theories about “smoothing” local spacetime fluctuations through custom superconductors. His makeshift lab was equal parts science fair and fire hazard, but it fascinated Ronnie as a kid. When the old man died unexpectedly, Ronnie inherited the small rural property and the hidden basement lab beneath it.

At first, it was just another burden. He thought he could dismantle and sell the strange machinery for quick cash. But when he started following his uncle’s meticulous notes, trying to power down what looked like a compact energy array, he made a simple mistake—a crossed capacitor, a switch thrown out of sequence. There was no explosion, no blinding flash. The air simply folded in on itself, and the world vanished.

He fell into a place that had no name, no color, no sound—an infinite white void that defied sense. Ronnie would later call it 'The White Room', though it wasn’t really a room at all. There was no ground, no horizon, no air—just endless luminescence and silence so total it felt alive. Time had no meaning there. Minutes stretched into eternities, eternities into nothing. He screamed until he forgot what sound was.

Two years passed for him, though only hours ticked by in the real world. Alone, stripped of sensation, his mind began to invent—creating motion, force, gravity, anything to keep itself tethered. Somewhere in that desperate act of imagination, reality blinked. The void bent. He felt it yield under his will, and for the first time since the accident, space moved. Through pure survival instinct, Ronnie discovered he could manipulate the “fabric” of the White Room, shaping it into tunnels of pressure and light. That was how he came to understand the first law of his new existence: if he could imagine a way *out*, he could make one.

When he finally reemerged, it was through a rip in reality that dropped him back into the dusty basement he’d left behind. He was trembling, aged by trauma, and two years behind the world. He tried to move on, taking his bike messenger job to stay afloat, but he carried the void inside him now. The White Room hadn’t just touched him—it had stuck to him. Space seemed pliable. Sound felt heavy. The world buzzed faintly with static. The energy of that empty dimension clung to him like a ghost.

Then came the day when he almost died.

He was cutting through a construction zone when a crane's steel cable snapped—tons of metal girders plummeting downwards toward a crowd. A crowd Ronnie was stuck in the middle of. He didn’t think, he just reacted. Space folded, a black disc bloomed in the air, and the falling debris vanished into nothing before dropping out of thin air harmlessly blocks away. The crowd didn't realize it was one of their own behind the portal. They just cheered the “miracle.”

The days after the crane incident blur together—sleep, stale takeout, long silences. The next morning, the bike courier company fired him for being late to the delivery he’d nearly died making. The portal haunted him, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinks. He felt like he never really came back; part of him’s still floating in that pale nowhere, watching the world move without him. And then, one day, he received some sage advice from his grandfather.

“You came back for a reason, Ronnie. Don't waste it hiding.

Then he started experimenting, learning to open controlled portals and to wield the strange negative energy that the void had filled him with—the “White Noise,” as he called it. It was cold, heavy, and alive. It could bend gravity, twist sound, or erase motion entirely. He used it sparingly, afraid of losing himself to that infinite silence again.

But slowly, Ronnie Myers began to accept what he was. The White Room hadn’t destroyed him; it had remade him. It had given him the ability to move through the world in ways no one else could—to connect where things were divided, to repair what was broken, to save those who’d never see him coming. Where others saw empty space, he saw a path. And when he stepped through it, the world bent just enough for hope to slip through.

🕳️ Portal Generation:
Ronnie can open swirling black apertures that connect two points in space, folding distance into nothing. These portals aren’t neat little rings—they swirl like two-dimensional pools of black tar, humming faintly with the same static tone as The White Room. He creates them instinctively, guided by line of sight, emotion, or memory. Short jumps are easy; long-range portals require intense focus and drain him fast. The longer one stays open, the more it strains reality—walls warp, air pressure dips, light bends. Portals can redirect projectiles, rescue people, or be used offensively by dropping enemies into midair or empty space. However, they always carry risk: the more he uses them, the more the fabric of The White Room presses back, as if reality remembers being torn.

🕳️ Negative Energy Manipulation:
The White Room wasn’t empty—it was made of something: a raw, unfiltered, anti-energetic substrate Ronnie calls White Noise. He can channel small amounts of it into our world, creating bursts of gravitational distortion, concussive waves, or defensive fields that swallow incoming force. White Noise feels like cold pressure—a silent, humming void that erases rather than burns. When he overuses it, his skin and eyes glow faintly with that ghostly white light, and he starts hearing the void whisper—a reminder that The White Room is always there, waiting. At its peak, he can create temporary pockets of zero-gravity or mute entire areas of sound and motion, effectively turning a battlefield into a fragment of the void itself. But every use frays the boundary between worlds, risking collapse—or his own return—to the nothing he escaped.

Overexerting himself risks opening rifts he can’t close—or slipping back into The White Room entirely. His connection to White Noise also warps his body and mind: overuse leads to sensory numbness, insomnia, and moments where gravity seems to “forget” him, leaving him weightless and disoriented. Emotionally, he’s haunted by survivor’s guilt and isolation—terrified that he doesn’t belong in the world anymore. He hides behind humor and detachment, but deep down, he’s still the man who spent two years alone in an endless void. And when he’s angry or afraid, the void stirs—meaning his worst moments can literally tear holes in reality.

Fear: Due to his lengthy stay in The White Room, Ronnie fears entering it again and rarely uses his ability to teleport because of this. Though he has mastered entering, moving about, and exiting at will, the act frightens him as he's constantly afraid he'll somehow get trapped again.

Inexperience: Ronnie is still relatively new to not only operating as a superhero, but his abilities as well. He practices in the use of these powers daily, as their potential to cause massive damage is always at the forefront of his mind.