Trune's physical form was shaped by a scientist whose name, face, and even gender were never entered into any surviving record. What's left is the result: a slime construct with no parents, no single donor to inherit a body from. That absence is exactly why he answers to any pronoun that comes his way — nothing was ever assigned in the first place.
He grew up, if that's the word, inside a research facility that no longer exists on paper. The government shut it down quietly and permanently, no explanation issued. Trune was left behind in the wreckage — until a passing group of aliens pulled him out during a catastrophe already being called, in whispers, the start of the universe's unraveling. They kept him. He's been adapting ever since.
Resting body temperature: arctic. Texture: entirely under his own control. Try each state.
No exceptions on file.
That's the whole list.
He never says no. Tap a jar to read the request behind it.
Everything past his taught vocabulary, he's picked up by overhearing people and filing the word under whatever meaning seemed close enough. Tap a logged phrase.
Whatever you type, he'll file it under something. It won't be right.
Built his physical form and taught him a small, specific vocabulary before the facility went dark. Gender, name, and face: never on file.
Unnamed aliens and entities who pulled Trune out of the wreckage during the Unraveling and kept him with them since.
Fragments pulled from other logs. Click a card to flip it.
Found somewhere past the reachable stars, handed to him by the same scientists who raised him. He doesn't ride it so much as complete it — half of his soul, docked to a chassis.
His favorite trick: ask what physical form you'd want, then morph into exactly that. No edits, no questions.