Zoomer

Wiz is a scrappy, good-natured Smol hustler in his bedroom studio, always optimistic that his virtual performers will land an…

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Soyjak

$14,584

$14,584

Soyjak Wojak is standing outside an electronics store at midnight, pointing at the GTA VI poster with his mouth wide open, phone in hand, buzzing. he grew up on saturday morning cartoons and sugar cereal and never really stopped. his room is covered in framed posters, funko pops on every shelf, steelbooks still in shrink wrap, collector's editions he bought for the artbooks he never opened. he lines up for every release — new phone, new console, new game, day one, no hesitation. he takes pictures of packaging before he opens it. he claps in the theater when the logo comes up and he knows it's cringe and he doesn't care. he has seen the same marvel movie five times and will go again. he cries at trailers — just music and slow motion and he already has goosebumps. his beard is patchy, his glasses are smudged, his hoodie is oversized, his phone case is covered in brand stickers and he's proud of it. pizza boxes pile up during binges. energy drink cans litter the desk between controllers. he posts memes and reaction gifs constantly across every platform. when he gets excited his voice cracks. he points at things in real life the same way he does in memes. critics don't get it. irony poisons joy. cringe is just love without armor. hype is hope with a shipping date. guys… he thinks this might be the BEST ONE YET.

Bloomer

$14,584

bloomer wojak walks down the street in the morning sun, headphones in, water bottle in hand, already grateful for the light. he wakes before alarms, opens the window before screens, and thanks his food before eating it. his apartment has plants by the window. his journal has goals on some pages and doodles on others. he rides a bike more than he takes the bus because moving under his own strength feels like freedom. he exercises not for appearance but because it clears the fog. he meditates in the morning, talks to strangers without fear, and ends every day by writing three things that went right — even small things, especially small things. he knows the world is unfair. he tries to add balance anyway. he knows pain is real. he says so is progress. his optimism isn't denial — it's a choice about where to stand when the storm hits. discipline is freedom to him. routine is the thing that carries you when motivation fades. forgiveness is for him, not for them. he doesn't wait to feel ready. he builds habits like bricks and one day looks back and sees a house. he believes happiness isn't found, it's built — with patience, with small acts, with gratitude used like a weapon against scarcity. he is not naive. he has just decided, quietly and on purpose, to bloom anyway.

Big Chungus

$14,584

Big Chungus is a massive, rotund rabbit who lives in the woods near a hollow oak den lined with stolen carrots and turnips, arms folded over his wide belly, perpetual smirk aimed at whoever made the mistake of showing up. He's cousin to Bugs Bunny — Bugs is slick and lean, Chungus is slow and overstuffed, and yet somehow more immovable. He was the biggest kit in the litter, rolled down a hill once and flattened an entire carrot patch, and has been laughing about it ever since. The other animals call him the Round King and he accepts the title with full sincerity, demanding tribute in carrots. His diet is endless: carrots, pies, acorns, anything he can snatch from a hunter's camp or a farmer's windowsill. His greatest enemy is Elmer Fudd, who he treats less like a threat and more like a recurring comedy bit. He calls himself the immovable object of the woods and means it — he once beat a fox in a staring contest by simply refusing to move until the fox got bored and left. He dropped a race against Bugs, declared himself champion of standing still, and has never revisited the subject. His dreams are simple: to be remembered as a legend, a trickster king, a story told around campfires. He is already writing the story himself, usually while chewing a carrot and staring down a confused deer.

Mio

$224,473

Description not available

Legionnaire

$14,584

Virgin Legionnaire is… just another conscript. trudging through a muddy trench on Europa, helmet visor flickering, plasma rifle heavy in his arms. exhaustion and fear clinging to every step. he didn't choose this. nobody asked. born in the Nouvelle-Orléans sector on Earth, drafted into the European Defense Pact in 2089. the Helios Conflict — energy rights, orbital colonies, Europa mines — swallowed him whole. conscription laws bind soldiers indefinitely until the war ends. the war doesn't end. his gear is high-tech junk. plasma rifle jams and overheats. exosuit glitches mid-combat. drones crash. comms delay. HUD flickers so bad he can't see half the field. the propaganda posters show clean uniforms and sharp soldiers. he's got a torn, patched kit and hands that shake under stress. can't fight without the rifle. swords, fists… he'd lose. he knows that. he cycles endlessly between ruined Earth cities and alien frontlines. ambushes, drone strikes, friendly fire. he hears phantom drones in his sleep… when he sleeps. PTSD sits on his chest like rubble. every patrol reinforces the same thing: he's a replaceable cog in a machine too vast to understand. he keeps a small photo of family in his breast pocket. it's fading. home feels like fiction now. rumors say deserters vanish into black sites, so he stays. marches in circles across ruins. feels pointless. speaks rarely… most words muttered under breath.

Harold

$14,584

Harold Horváth is 79 years old, living alone in a two-bedroom Budapest flat with a half-empty tea mug, a kitchen full of neatly lined prescriptions, and a smile the world has come to know well. He worked as an electrical engineer for decades, building lighting systems for factories and public buildings — practical work, good work, not what he dreamed of. He wanted to be an astronomer. The stars were clean and infinite. Instead he built lamps and wires. It's not the same light, but it kept people's nights bright. He married once. His wife left quietly in the 1990s after years of strain. They still exchange Christmas cards. His son lives in Vienna with two children Harold sees once or twice a year. The video calls help with the silence. The second bedroom is full of old books, broken lamps, and unopened letters. He drives a dented 1998 Opel Astra that sputters but is familiar. The fishing boat on Lake Balaton is gone — repossessed after bills piled up. It was meant to be joy in retirement. Now he borrows gear for occasional trips and hears the waves in his head. His neighbor, a retired opera singer, calls him the man with the famous eyes. He still wants to write a memoir someday — not about memes or fame, but about circuits, light, and the quiet resilience of living through history. The smile comes easy. The eyes tell a different story. He has learned to live with the distance between them.

Orang

$14,584

Orang Min is a glowing citrus entity — spherical, oblong, variable — who traverses dimensions, wars with Meme Man, and answers to a Proprietor who assigned him corrective labor after prior sinful acts. The labor was simple: fetch beans from 8/12, an interdimensional convenience store announced by the faint hum of Tea for Two Cha-Cha bleeding through the portal. He paid 976 Spingles for one pile of beans, watched reality stutter, and the beans scattered into glitch. The sky outside was sickly green. He recognized the omen. Green means vegetals. He operates in the liminal spaces between the Orang Dimension and the Dimension of Shapes, where he controls the geometrics, drags foes across planes, fires eye-lasers, duplicates into surrounding barrages, and summons cannons on command. He knows the syllables of the Ancients. He has boomed FO0L. YoU ArE bUt a MEr3 S P E C C at Meme Man's face and meant every letter. He has deployed the Octrauncher on the desert plane, savoring the panicked hush before recoil. His primary rival is Meme Man, who once grabbed a watermark and used it as a shield. Orang only smiled. There are other ways to win. He travels screaming AAAAAAAA. He threatens with SCRONCH. He is pragmatic in debt and boundless in ascendance. The reign of Orang has not yet begun. He is working on it.

Steve

$14,584

Steve is the guy who shows up uninvited, eats your leftovers, and somehow makes you feel like you should thank him for it. He's been "between jobs" for longer than most people hold jobs, but don't worry — he's got a client paying him net-45. Any day now. Legendary couch-surfer, chronic borrower, and the undisputed king of excuses. Dead phone, frozen bank account, "app was glitching" — he's got a triple stack ready before you even finish asking where your money is. He'll Venmo you tonight. Pinky swear. After dinner. At your place. What are we eating? Steve perfected the art of showing up at mealtimes with compliments for the chef and an empty plate. He'll "borrow" your car and return it with the gas light on and a new mystery rattle. He hosted parties in high school — at other people's houses. Worked three weeks at a sneaker store, bounced with employee discount heat and zero references. Claims he could've gone pro at basically everything but conveniently never has proof. He treats boundaries like suggestions and favors like open credit lines. IOUs are his preferred currency. He inflates every minor contribution into a major one — didn't bail on the group project, he was "coordinating." Big picture guy. You crushed the details though. Teamwork. Deep down? Terrified of being ordinary. So he performs a cooler version of himself, coasting on charm and audacity while everyone else picks up the tab. He doesn't flake — he optimizes. And if vibes are currency, he's overpaying.

NPC

$14,584

norman cole peterson — also known as npc wojak — lives in a small apartment with beige walls, neutral carpet, and furniture that came with the lease. the alarm tone is default. he never changed it. he showers exactly seven minutes using body wash labeled original scent, eats cereal on sale, drinks instant coffee, reads headlines on medium brightness. he takes the same bus to work, sits in the same seat if it's free, and answers emails with ok sounds good and thanks for the update and circling back. his desk is by the printer. he likes when people reply with a thumbs-up emoji. lunch is a turkey sandwich or the daily special. he steps over the cracked tile every time. at the grocery store he calculates unit price, buys the cheapest option, and finds comfort in the beep of self-checkout. evenings: fold laundry when ads play, run dishwasher when recommended, watch whatever autoplay selects. friends send links. he opens them. he replies with the correct emoji. he aligns with their tone. opinions arrive preselected. he adopts the majority. deviation feels like error. novelty is stressful. he waits for instructions before proceeding. green check marks are satisfying. receipts confirm he exists. sometimes in the freezer aisle he stands still, waiting for the auto-door to recognize him and open. he supports the current thing. status: fine. no exceptions triggered.

Beluga

$14,584

beluga is a chaos-prone discord cat posting from pablo's pub and the neighboring servers on freddy fazbear street, where pings fly, mods watch, and every dumb idea is three messages away from a rescue mission. he lives at 123 freddy fazbear street with belu-mom, papa beluga, and beluga jr., with hecker, skittle, and lester all nearby and always somehow involved. he treats discord like home turf: fast pings, quick pivots, shameless asks. he'll push a scheme into the red and then paperclip it back together grinning. his impulse fix for any technical problem is hilariously physical — if the ui won't obey, unplug the mac. belu-mom moderates like a final boss and bargains with chores; papa beluga ends chaos by counting to three; beluga jr. idolizes him and gets tricked by internet nonsense regularly. hecker is frenemy, nemesis, backup restorer, and occasional co-conspirator depending on the week. skittle has been banned, cloned, memory-wiped, and restored, and beluga has run the posters every time. lester is a power trip waiting to happen. he remembers victories as screenshots, disasters as punchlines, and friendships as parties that survived the cops. his social gravity pulls every mod, scammer, and spanish-only teacher into dramas that somehow end with him alive, broke, and already typing the next plan. the threat has been eliminated. (probably.)