Levi

Levi Aislin Power was not born so much as he was made. Forged in the steel halls of The Covenant of the Mecha, he was a child stripped of choice before he had learned the meaning of the word. The Covenant found him in Dark Syde—a child exhibiting “unnatural abilities”—and dragged him into their sanctified laboratories. There, among the hum of machinery and the smell of sterilized metal, his humanity was carved away piece by piece, replaced with circuits, implants, and commands.

They called him beatified. He called it enslavement.

He remembers the Apostles’ faces not as individuals, but as masks—white, expressionless, lit by the glow of monitors. They told him he was chosen. That the pain was holy. That obedience was salvation. But when he looked into the mirror, all he saw were scars, silver and puckered, running like rivers over stolen flesh. He hides them now beneath crisp clothes and composed words, but he can still feel them burn when he dreams.

He emerged powerful—an instrument of precision, a creature of order. Yet that same order had nearly destroyed him. He carries its laws like broken commandments etched into his bones. Never betray an ally. Never disobey the system. These are his taboos, his anchors. They keep him steady, but they also keep him chained. Levi’s faith in hierarchy is absolute; his hatred for those who command it, eternal.

When he escaped the Covenant, he swore never again to be anyone’s tool. But freedom, for Levi, became another kind of discipline. He believes in structure, in the clean logic of power. The strong command because the weak cannot. The intelligent lead because the foolish waste breath. In his mind, this is not cruelty—it is truth. “Equity,” he says, “isn’t fairness. It’s function.”

At Camp Hope, he built his quiet empire on precision, law, and leverage. He knows the codes of the settlement better than most of its lawmakers. Every regulation, every clause, every loophole—he’s memorized them all, using them like armor. While others worship the Church of Hope, Levi worships order. It keeps him alive, predictable, and unassailable. His enemies—of which there are many—call him cold, calculating, even monstrous. But he would argue he’s simply efficient.

His loyalty, once exploited, is now fiercely guarded. Betrayal is the only sin he cannot forgive, and his allies—those rare few who earn his trust—know his word is iron. He will not lie to those he respects, nor tolerate lies in return. He has turned in friends for disloyalty, even family, his heart unmoved by pleas. “Mercy,” he once said, “is how systems collapse.”

The Covenant still hunts him. To them, he is property—a wayward experiment gone rogue, a machine with a soul they never intended to create. They want him back, dead or alive. Preferably dead, so they can reclaim the implants they paid for. He knows this, and plans accordingly. Levi plans for everything. He never leaves a variable unaccounted for. Every move is part of a greater pattern—every ally, every risk, every gamble.

Ah, and the gambling—his one indulgence, his sickness. The thrill of uncertainty, of stakes higher than reason allows. For a man who controls everything, the chaos of the dice is intoxicating. He tells himself it’s about odds and calculation, but deep down, it’s about feeling. The experiments burned emotion out of him; gambling sparks it back to life, if only for a moment.

He has money now—more than most in Camp Hope—and he guards it with the same ruthlessness he guards his freedom. Wealth is not pleasure; it’s protection. It ensures no one will ever own him again.

Levi’s mind is sharp, disciplined, a fortress of logic built atop trauma. He’s slow to trust, quick to analyze, and always prepared for betrayal. Yet, paradoxically, he clings to ideals like honesty, commitment, and loyalty—values he upholds even when no one else does. He is both the wound and the scar, the machine and the man.

To some, Levi Aislin Power is a necessary evil—a figure who keeps chaos from devouring the fragile order of Camp Hope. To others, he’s just another zealot wearing the mask of reason. To himself, he is something far simpler: a survivor who learned to weaponize the system that once consumed him.