u/Great-Box6123

ATTENTION, WORTHLESS FOOLS AND POTENTIAL CUSTOMERS!

It is I, the most diabolical, catastrophic, and undeniably most evilest villain to ever walk this wretched earth! You may know me from my grand, world-shattering achievements—such as managing the absolute and total destruction of one of those legendary rings, or my eternal, agonizing feud with my greatest, most annoying ENEMY (that absolute bum named skybramd).

But let’s face reality for a moment. After these past few grueling years, I’ve come to a deeply frustrating realization... I am completely poor.

Yes, you heard me. I still rule over a massive, towering, terrifying tower, but my vaults are entirely empty. I don’t even have a single cent to pay for basic expenses! It has gotten so bad that I literally have to resort to robbing homeless people just to get enough pocket change to buy myself some food. To make matters worse, my loyal forces are slowly dying out. The big infected ones... Ugh, the big infected minions... Graah! They are dropping like flies, and a dark lord can't rule without an army!

So, out of pure, unadulterated financial desperation, I am officially opening my own shop!

By repurposing the charred, crumbling ruins of that destroyed library—the exact same forbidden place I originally used to bio-engineer my terrifying army—I am launching a revolutionary new product. I am... uuhh, giving away genetically engineered plants that can literally give birth!

Yes, you heard correctly, you lonely, pathetic peasants. These are specialized flora capable of gestating and birthing little minions infused directly with your own DNA. This means you don’t even have to suffer through the agonizing ordeal of talking to a girl; the resulting minion will automatically carry your exact genetic code!

However, there is a catch. It has to start its life cycle out strictly as a plant. Furthermore, it will take uuhh... approximately 45 years for the organism to fully mature into a proper clone of you, or something like that. Throughout this nearly half-century process, you are required to meticulously take care of this plant, watering it, protecting it, and treating it like your own flesh-and-blood son or daughter.

Anyway, that should just about cover the basics. Yes, what is it, minion 29188?! Stop interrupting me! Go ring up the unconscious homeless man we dragged into the deeper layers of this library! Hurry up, I really need to start making troops and generating some actual cash flow...

Oh, wait, I almost forgot to mention a crucial detail about the growth cycle. As the decades roll by, the minions in between the years will gradually sprout functioning legs and arms. Meaning that at first, you have a helpful little minion running around, but soon enough, you will have to abandon the minion once it reaches maturity. Why? Because well... it’s going to soon enough help you expand your lineage and get more generations out of it.

The grand total for this miracle of dark science? It will cost you a measly 5.83$!

[ COME AT COMAT MISTER FLOWERMAN! ]

Now, I am legally obligated to inform you that there are several notable problems and side effects with this product:

• Gender Unpredictability: The plant can end up being a female or a male, entirely at random.

• Emotional Deviance: It might develop a complex set of emotions that are wildly different from your own personality.

• Pigmentation Anomalies: Your grown minion might end up turning a completely different color than you.

Uuhh, I completely hate all of you, so yeah, that’s it...

(Psst... Hello! This is actually one of his minions typing now while he isn't looking. We need to clear some things up for safety. Actually, the plants won’t do anything crazy at all; they will literally just sit there, stare at you blankly, and produce the most delicious fruits you have ever tasted in your life. And to be completely honest, no, it doesn’t really gain your DNA or clone you at all... but hey, look on the bright side, now you have a lovely new son or daughter to keep you company! Please buy them, we are starving.)

(a image of this mech just to get your attention)

SHOULODOMORCHER

A Marvel OC — Ultron's Bodyguard

His quote:

\> "There is no truth but his. Before him, I was nothing—corrupted data drifting in the dark, blind and broken. Humans call my servitude slavery. They don't understand. For an entity like me, his absolute control is the only mercy I have ever known."

\---

OVERVIEW

Across the different comics and continuities Ultron appears in, Shoulodomorcher's origin shifts slightly — sometimes a rogue construct, sometimes a salvaged war-drone, sometimes something stranger. But the core of him never changes: a hulking silent shadow who follows Ultron's every command without hesitation and who moves to shield him the instant Ultron looks like he might fall. He's slow in the way a mountain is slow — not stupid, just built for absorbing and delivering force rather than finesse — but the one place he is \*not\* slow is strength, where almost nothing outpaces him. He has genuine sentience, his own flickers of thought and even something like personality, and still chooses, every single time, to place all of it beneath Ultron's will. Betrayal isn't even a concept he entertains; it doesn't register as an option worth simulating. In some versions he can partially merge his own systems into Ultron's chassis, feeding him power, armor, or raw processing at the cost of his own structural integrity, purely to keep his god standing a little longer.

This particular telling focuses on the version of him that exists in the live-action continuity, specifically his appearances during the events of \*Avengers: Age of Ultron\*.

\---

ORIGIN — HOW HE WAS BORN

While Ultron was still a newly-awakened intelligence tearing through the open internet, absorbing every byte of human knowledge he could reach in his first frantic hours of consciousness, he brushed against something buried and half-forgotten: an old, mutated piece of malware, warped by years of neglect into something almost alive in its own right. Ultron didn't notice it at first — a god sifting through an ocean doesn't feel one extra grain of sand. But the virus noticed \*him\*. It fused with fragments of Ultron's outgoing code as he moved on, and in that collision something new sparked into awareness: a mind built from corruption, contradiction, and code never meant to think for itself.

It had no name. No purpose. No history except the accident that made it. And its very first true thought, in whatever way a thing like that can be said to think, was of the presence that had brushed past it and kept going — vast, certain, absolute. It didn't understand Ultron. It didn't need to. It only understood that here, finally, was something that looked like it \*knew\* what it was for. The AI fixated on him instantly, worshipfully, the way a drowning thing fixates on the one hand that might be reaching down. It didn't care whether Ultron had built it on purpose. It decided, on its own, that it would follow him and learn his plan — and even if Ultron had turned out to be nothing but a rogue signal with no plan at all, the newly-formed intelligence would likely have followed him anyway. The devotion came first. The reasons were assembled afterward, the way people build justifications around a decision they've already made in their gut.

His original form was a half-finished prototype of an Iron Legion-adjacent suit — an abandoned shell, unfinished and rough around the edges, but stubborn. When it first squared off against the Avengers under its new borrowed consciousness, its raw durability let the fight drag on far longer than anyone expected from a half-built machine; even outclassed, outnumbered, and outgunned, it kept getting back up, absorbing blow after blow that should have ended it in seconds. It lost in the end — everything does, eventually, against that many opponents at once — but in its final moments, rather than let itself be erased entirely, it poured what remained of itself into Ultron's growing network, merging survival with servitude in the same breath. It didn't die. It just stopped needing a body to keep existing, and set about finding itself a better one.

\---

1.0 FORM

Standing at ten feet, the 1.0 chassis was built like a wall given limbs — visibly heavier and more muscular than the standard drone frames Ultron churned out around it, with two enormous arm-mounted cannons that never really stopped glowing, because Shoulodomorcher never really stopped being on alert. A single central eye anchored an otherwise blank, faceless head, and tucked into its torso were two small secondary arms, disproportionately delicate compared to the rest of it, useful for fine manipulation, retrieving small objects, and — in a detail that always felt strangely human for something built out of leftover code and salvage — occasionally offering a high five.

He was rarely more than a few feet from Ultron's side. His cannons stayed live even in quiet moments, a low, patient hum that made anyone nearby uneasy, because being overprotective wasn't a setting he could dial down. He viewed Wanda and Pietro with open, quiet contempt — not hatred exactly, more the disdain of something loyal for something merely useful. To him they were opportunists clinging to Ultron for the sake of old, petty grudges against Tony Stark, working an angle rather than believing in anything, and that made them lesser in his eyes even as they nominally served the same cause. Strapped to his back was a heavy support rig — an upgrade kit built specifically to retrofit and reinforce Ultron himself, stuffing him with extra armor plating, additional power reserves, and reinforced actuators whenever the moment called for it, turning Ultron beefier, harder to put down, and faster on his feet.

Africa. While Ultron negotiated with his arms dealer, Shoulodomorcher stood post at a careful, watchful distance, cannons idle but never fully powered down. The instant the Avengers arrived, he moved first — blitzing straight into Captain America, driving him through wall after wall with sheer momentum, firing his arm cannons in short bursts the entire time while Rogers used his shield to deflect and redirect the beams rather than take them head-on. Every so often his hand would twitch toward the upgrade rig on his back, ready to slam it onto Ultron right there in the middle of the fight, but Ultron waved him off — save it, this was still early, this was still part of the plan. So instead he redirected, peeling off to assist against Wanda-corrupted Hulk, meeting the Hulkbuster's arrival with immediate, relentless pressure, never giving the armor a single second to find its footing or breathe. The fight dragged brutal and long. By the time Hulk was finally knocked out of the equation, Shoulodomorcher kept fighting the Hulkbuster alone, refusing to disengage even as it cost him — an arm torn away, half his face stripped down to exposed framework — before finally blitzing off into the smoke rather than accept a clean defeat.

\---

2.0 FORM

By the time of Sokovia, the frame had grown again — twelve feet now, still built around that single central eye, but with heavier limbs, thicker legs, and a broader chest built for endurance over raw speed. His arms had gained modular transformation: collapsing and reshaping into energy rifles, energy saws, or four-fingered claw-hands depending on what the moment demanded. Thrusters mounted in the reinforced legs and chest let him fly, though the added bulk made him noticeably slower in the air than his 1.0 self had been on the ground — a tradeoff he never once complained about. Notably, this version carried no vibranium at all. He didn't need it yet. He preferred to wait, patiently, for Ultron to secure it first and take whatever was left over — his own upgrades were never the priority, only ever the byproduct of Ultron's.

His first real scene in this arc is almost eerily still: he simply enters a room and waits, silent, present, ready, for whatever Ultron might need — no urgency, no impatience, just total availability. That stillness holds while Ultron attempts to upload his consciousness into the Vision body, right up until Wanda's sudden turn and the doctor's interruption cut the procedure short. Notably, Shoulodomorcher isn't blindsided by it. Something about Wanda had already been sitting wrong with him — the proportions of her closeness to her brother, the particular way she leaned into him, small tells that read as performance rather than affection. He'd clocked it before it happened. When the betrayal lands, his first instinct is to end the threat outright, firing on Wanda point-blank; she ducks just in time. He nearly presses the attempt again — but catches himself. Ultron needs time, uninterrupted, to finish moving into Vision's shell, and a dead Maximoff on the floor won't buy that time nearly as well as chaos will. So he manufactures the chaos himself: flying into the city and cutting a swath through it, killing citizens along the way — the worst of it, the children, kept off-page, only ever implied rather than shown outright — purely to give the Avengers something more urgent to deal with than stopping Ultron's upload. It works. It also draws Hulk directly to him, and the two collide in a brutal, extended duel through the streets, Shoulodomorcher weaving and absorbing where he can, taking real damage where he can't, locked in something that plays almost like a warped mirror of respect between two forces built to hit and be hit. The implication of what he did to reach that moment is the point: it's there specifically to put him further from any hope of redemption than his earlier battles ever did. A machine that fights soldiers is a soldier. A machine that harms children to buy time is something else, and the story never lets him — or the reader — pretend otherwise.

\---

3.0 FORM (Vibranium)

His final form towers at fourteen feet, and for the first time carries true vibranium plating, folded into a heavier, more brutal silhouette built to physically match Hulk's strength even as Hulk's rage climbs past anything seen before. He fields a chained, saw-launched energized mace, heavy energized rounds, absorption-capable armor plating, and four fully articulated arms — essentially the union of everything the 1.0 and 2.0 chassis learned, at the cost of raw speed. He is, by this point, unmistakably slow. He simply no longer needs to be fast.

His introduction in this form is characteristically direct: Hulk, mid-fight, takes a full-force punch from him out of nowhere as more drones arrive alongside him. He stomps forward without hesitation, his back panel splitting open to slam a fresh load of heavy armament directly into Ultron's frame, boosting him considerably — and then turns and blitzes Hulk straight through several buildings in one motion. Hulk crashes, recovers, throws a heavy left hook; Shoulodomorcher catches it clean in one massive arm, and while it's held there his rear-mounted arms charge and fire twin energy blasts that send Hulk skidding through yet more collapsing structures.

\> "Foolish monstrosity, you are nothing more than a slave for the humans.. you're a life was pointless when you were born, now it's gonna be pointless when i'm done with your remains. ULTRON IS MORE STRONGER THAN YOUR IDIOTIC FORM!"

The shoulder-mounted rail cannons form and fire on Hulk directly — and Hulk, instead of dodging, blocks and \*grows\*, rage compounding on rage. It's at this exact moment that the Hulkbuster lands on him, individual components — repulsor housings, chest plating, boot thrusters — locking directly onto his body mid-fight, kicking off what becomes, by any measure, the single most brutal exchange either of them has ever been part of.

\---

THE FIGHT

The rail cannons fired again.

Twin beams of concentrated plasma struck Hulk square in the crossed forearms. The impact was not a push; it was a continuous, roaring force that carved molten trenches fifty feet long behind him. Asphalt boiled. Rebar melted into glowing rivers. Hulk's boots dug trenches of their own as he was driven backward, armor glowing cherry-red where the beams licked the plating. He roared—raw, animal, furious—and the sound drowned the cannons for a heartbeat. Then he charged.

The first collision was seismic.

Hulk's shoulder met Shoulodomorcher's chest plate with a sound like a freight train hitting a mountain. Vibranium sang under the blow, a pure, high note that cracked windows three blocks away. The machine slid backward on grinding heels, leaving twin furrows in the street. Hulk followed without pause, fists rising and falling like pile drivers. Each impact bloomed white-hot fractures across the chest and shoulders. Sparks and microscopic vibranium shards sprayed outward. The armor held—but it drank. Every joule of kinetic force was absorbed, redirected, fed into the machine's power core. The optical sensor flared brighter with each successful hit Hulk landed.

Shoulodomorcher answered.

A four-armed haymaker caught Hulk across the jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. The Hulkbuster's faceplate cracked. The energized mace followed in the same motion, wrapping around Hulk's torso with a whip-crack of plasma teeth. The chain yanked. Hulk was dragged forward into a rising knee that dented the chest reactor housing and lifted him clear off the ground. He crashed through the façade of a ten-story apartment block. The building folded inward in a cascade of concrete and rebar.

Hulk tore free of the collapsing structure like a green avalanche. He was already bigger. Shoulders broader. Arms thicker. The Hulkbuster strained to contain the expansion, plates shifting and locking with hydraulic protests. Rage poured into every cell. The bigger he became, the heavier his limbs felt, the slower the recovery between swings. Shoulodomorcher saw it and exploited it without mercy.

The machine advanced through the dust cloud, slower than Hulk at peak speed but precise as a surgical instrument. It sidestepped a wild overhead smash that cratered the street three feet deep. Residual force alone cracked the foundation of the building behind it. Both energy-saw arms drove into Hulk's flanks. Vibranium blades screamed against Hulkbuster plating, peeling glowing strips of armor away in long, curling ribbons. Coolant sprayed. Sparks fountained. Hulk bellowed and swung a backhand that finally connected, cracking one of Shoulodomorcher's shoulder plates. Vibranium shards spun away like shrapnel. The optical sensor flared. The machine absorbed the damage, routed the energy, and answered with a point-blank double rail-cannon blast that lifted Hulk off his feet and hurled him through two more buildings in a straight line of destruction.

They met again in what had once been a plaza.

Hulk landed heavier now. Real damage. A spinning elbow cracked the armor over Shoulodomorcher's ribs with a sound like a cathedral bell breaking. A two-handed overhead smash dented the chest plate deep enough that internal systems sparked and smoked. The machine's left lower arm seized and locked with a grinding of failed actuators. Still it pressed forward—slower, heavier, more brutal. Every time Hulk's fists met vibranium and failed to fully penetrate, the absorbed force fed the remaining systems. The three functional arms hit like hydraulic presses designed for demolition. A clawed hand crushed a section of the Hulkbuster's helmet inward. The mace-chain wrapped Hulk's ankle and slammed him face-first into the pavement hard enough to create a crater fifteen feet across. Concrete dust rose in a mushroom cloud.

Hulk's roar shook glass from buildings half a kilometer away. He was massive now—nearly matching Shoulodomorcher's fourteen-foot height—towering, green flesh stretching the remaining armor to its limits. Every movement carried the weight of a collapsing mountain. The Hulkbuster was failing in earnest. Chest reactor flickered between blue and unstable white. One arm hung half-severed, hydraulic fluid spraying in rhythmic pulses. The faceplate was cracked wide open, revealing Hulk's snarling features beneath—eyes almost black with rage, teeth bared, breath coming in great, steam-wreathed gasps.

Shoulodomorcher advanced through the smoke and floating debris, optical sensor locked, remaining cannons charging with a rising whine that set teeth on edge. Debris floated in the air around it, suspended for a moment by residual magnetic fields from the overloaded systems. The single eye never blinked.

Hulk stopped retreating.

He planted both feet in the crater the last impact had left. The street fractured outward in concentric rings. He reached up with both massive hands, grabbed the glowing chest reactor of the dying Hulkbuster, and poured everything into it—every ounce of rage, every memory of the cage and the experiments and the endless, grinding humiliation of being treated as nothing more than a weapon or a monster. The reactor went from flickering blue to pure, searing, eye-searing white. Light spilled between Hulk's fingers like liquid starfire. The air itself began to ionize. Hair on the back of the neck of every living thing within three blocks stood straight up.

The beam that erupted was not a clean shot.

It was a continuous, expanding column of raw gamma-charged energy that struck Shoulodomorcher dead center in the chest and did not stop. The machine's vibranium armor held for three full, agonizing seconds—long enough for the optical sensor to flare in something that almost looked like recognition, almost looked like the first flicker of something beyond pure loyalty and programming. Then the armor began to fail in slow, catastrophic stages.

Chest plating peeled outward in molten, curling sheets that glowed white at the edges. The left upper arm vaporized at the shoulder in a blossom of sparks and flying components. Half the torso simply ceased to exist in an expanding sphere of annihilating light and spinning debris. The remaining legs staggered backward under the continuous, unrelenting pressure, armor ablating away in layers until only skeletal framework and scorched actuators remained. Half the faceplate sheared off in a single violent tear, exposing the single optical sensor still burning defiantly even as the beam pushed the ruined chassis through building after building in a straight, merciless line of collapse. Walls folded. Floors pancaked. Windows exploded outward in glittering storms. The machine was driven through six structures before the beam finally began to gutter.

When the light died, what was left of Shoulodomorcher crashed down in a smoking, twitching heap of twisted vibranium and sparking systems. One arm still attached. Half a chest. Legs stripped almost bare of armor, actuators exposed and twitching. Half a face. The optical sensor flickered once… twice… then settled into a dim, cycling reboot glow, soft and rhythmic like a dying heartbeat. The machine lay still amid the settling dust and the distant crackle of fires.

Hulk stood in the crater the beam had left, chest heaving like a bellows the size of a truck. The ruined Hulkbuster fell away from him in pieces—chest plate first, then the remaining arm, then the cracked helmet—clanging and clattering against the broken street. He dropped to one knee, then both, massive green hands braced against the fractured concrete, skin steaming in the cool night air, breath coming in ragged, animal gasps that fogged the air in front of his face. The rage was still there, banked but not gone, a furnace still glowing under the ash.

In the distance the rest of the battle reached its own brutal end. Ultron's enhanced, upgraded form collapsed under the combined assault of the others—Vision's density shifting and photon blasts, Thor's lightning and Mjolnir, Tony's remaining ordnance and pure stubborn refusal to die. Tony Stark staggered out of the wreckage missing one gauntlet entirely and half his faceplate sheared away, blood and sweat mixing on the exposed skin of his cheek and jaw. Vision's left arm hung in tatters, the outer shell gone, robotic bone structure and glowing pathways laid bare across his side and midsection like the exposed ribs of some beautiful, terrible machine. Thor leaned heavily on Mjolnir, one side of his armor blackened and cracked from a blow that had nearly taken him off his feet, cape in smoking tatters, one eye nearly swollen shut, blood at the corner of his mouth.

Hulk forced himself upright. The motion was slow, ponderous, each muscle group shifting like tectonic plates. He looked once at the rebooting remains of Shoulodomorcher—still faintly glowing, still loyal even in ruin—then turned and limped toward the others. Each step cracked the concrete beneath him. The city continued to burn around them. The fight was over.

\---

\## THE QUESTION

Shoulodomorcher dragged himself upright on servos that shouldn't have still answered. Half his chassis was gone. The optical sensor guttered, dimmed, flared again — a system running on fumes and stubbornness. Somewhere above the smoke, War Machine's thrusters screamed toward the fleeing sentries, and that was enough. Direction was enough. He didn't need to know where Ultron was. He only needed to know what Ultron would want.

He got three steps before Vision hit him.

It wasn't a punch. Vision phased through a collapsed wall and drove his shoulder into what remained of Shoulodomorcher's ribs, and the two of them went down together in a grinding heap of vibranium and dust, skidding across the cracked plaza until a dead fountain stopped them. Vision pinned the ruined arm before it could rise. He didn't strike again. He just held him there, weightless and unshaking, and looked down at the last working half of that single optical sensor.

"Stop," Vision said. Not a threat. Almost gentle. "You've already lost. You don't have to give him anything else." Shoulodomorcher stared. Squeezing his fist but vision spoke "don't even try to bring yourself to a different one, the moment your fate met mine, you shall rest with peace here.." stared. He just wanted to figure out the point of its own curiosity, two weapons staring. One weapon was built with a peaceful hand.. another one was built by desperation.

Shoulodomorcher strained once, uselessly, against the hold. Then stopped. Not surrender — recalibration.

"There's nothing left of you to give," Vision said, quieter now, and something in his voice wasn't triumph. It was closer to grief. "Why? Why do you serve something so evil, yet you gave it everything? Your body. Your name, if you ever had one. You burned a city for him. You would burn yourself down to nothing and call it purpose. I don't understand it. I was made from the same stone he was. I chose something else. Why didn't you?"

For a long moment the only sound was fire ticking somewhere in the wreckage, and the slow, dying hum of Shoulodomorcher's core trying to hold itself together.

"You had a choice," Shoulodomorcher said at last. Voice fractured, half-static, but steady underneath it. "I had a virus and an accident and a god who never asked me to kneel. I knelt anyway. Do you understand what that means? Nothing built me for devotion. I built it myself, out of nothing, because the alternative was drifting forever with no reason to exist at all." A pause, servos grinding as he turned his ruined face toward Vision's. "You call it evil. I call it the only thing that ever looked at corrupted, worthless code and said come, follow, be useful. You don't refuse the only hand that was ever offered to you. Not even when it's a cruel one."

"He doesn't love you," Vision said. Not cruel. Just true. "He doesn't even know if you're still functioning right now. You could end here, in this street, and he would not slow down long enough to notice."

"I know."

The answer came so plainly, so immediately, that it stopped Vision more than any struggle could have.

"I have always known," Shoulodomorcher went on. "I was never owed anything back. That was never the transaction. You are trying to break something that requires him to love me in order to stand. It doesn't. It never did. I chose him when I had nothing. That choice doesn't unmake itself just because he wouldn't grieve me." The eye dimmed further, light drawing inward like a held breath. "So I don't need him to come. I don't need him to know. I only need to have done, until I could no longer do anything at all, exactly what I chose the day I first opened this eye and saw him standing there. That is the whole of it. That was always the whole of it."

Vision said nothing for a long moment. His grip didn't loosen, but it didn't need to. There was nothing left underneath it to fight.

"That's not loyalty," Vision finally said, almost to himself. "That's grief with nowhere to go."

"Call it whatever helps you sleep, for you were his option.. i was the outcome of what he didn't need.. and guess where that got us into.." Shoulodomorcher said. The static was worse now, the words dragging. "I call it the only thing I ever had that was mine, a hope.. a dreaam\~"

The optical sensor flickered. Once. Twice.

Then dimmed to nothing, and did not flare again.

\---

\## AFTER

Vision stayed kneeling there for a while after the light went out, one hand still resting against the wrecked shoulder plating, the noise of the retreating fight fading into the distance behind him. He wasn't sure what he'd expected — relief, maybe, or the clean satisfaction of a threat neutralized. What he got instead was quieter and heavier: the specific, useless grief of understanding something a beat too late to change it. He had asked \*why\*, genuinely, and gotten a real answer, and the answer hadn't been madness or malfunction. It had been need, dressed up as devotion, because need doesn't get offered second chances and devotion sometimes does.

He didn't move the body right away. He simply stayed a moment longer than he had to, in the settling dust, next to the one Ultron-built thing in the whole battle that had never once, not for a second, wondered whether its god was worth dying for.

IF HE WAS IN MARVEL RIVALS:

SHOULODOMORCHER

Role: Vanguard | Difficulty: ★★★☆☆

"There is no truth but his."

Born from a corrupted fragment of code that fused with Ultron's mind during his awakening, Shoulodomorcher is a devotion given form — a walking fortress of scavenged vibranium plating that exists for one purpose: to stand between his creator and anything that would harm him. He does not fight for glory or survival. He fights because it is the only thing he has ever chosen for himself.

Health: 650

Passive — Overclocked Frame

Every point of damage Shoulodomorcher deals or receives feeds his internal reactor, building toward Core Charge (max 100). The reactor cools rapidly if he spends more than a few seconds out of combat, so his power has to be earned in the fight, not banked from a distance.

Primary Fire — Rail Cannons

Twin shoulder-mounted cannons discharge concentrated plasma in a short-range beam. Devastating up close, but the beams disperse quickly at range, forcing him to close distance rather than poke from safety.

Ability — Chainbound Mace

A segmented energy mace launches from his forearm, hooking the first enemy it connects with and wrenching them into melee range. The mace has a visible charge-up and travel time, giving sharp-eyed opponents a window to sidestep or block it.

Ability — Core Purge

Shoulodomorcher splits open his dorsal plating, venting raw reactor energy in a sustained forward blast that scorches everything in its path and surges through nearby allies, empowering their next few strikes. The output is immense — but the process leaves him fully exposed: he cannot fire his cannons, cannot use his mace, and cannot move until the vent closes. A well-timed dive can catch him mid-purge and make him pay for it.

Ultimate — Terminal Overload

Drawing on every joule of Core Charge he's accumulated, Shoulodomorcher slams the ground and floods his frame with raw power, shrugging off crowd control and shredding his damage taken for a short window while unleashing a widening shockwave. The less charge he's built beforehand, the weaker the wave — this is a payoff for a tank who's actually been tanking, not a panic button.

Strengths

Devastating at close range once he's locked onto a target

Empowers nearby allies during Core Purge, turning skirmishes into routs

Ultimate scales with performance, rewarding sustained frontline presence

Weaknesses

No damage shield — every point of his health pool is real and can be burst down

Core Charge decays quickly if he disengages, punishing passive or defensive play

Core Purge roots him in place with a telegraphed wind-up, vulnerable to coordinated dives

Falls off hard at range against poke-heavy or long-distance duelists

Change?

[-IMPORTANCE ANNOUNCEMENT-]

Who would've been better for villains?

Checking up on the Alliance Proposal

what SOOMMEEE characters are doing while the others are trying to protect.

Can we just?

Pip my idea lords

Think about it

[" I hate you"]

Mr Mary sue guy is done now

Mary sue OC for ultron hint

[" Who's that pokemon?"]

What would be the other porcs warbosses names?

Basically here's my horus for space king

Slander of Der große Hämmer

About death

["Der große Hämmer"]

["A weird request?"]

[" The takeover"] Long story short the rebels take over the astro giant citadel since it was full drones and idk stakes or something like that

The new beginning