Anger

Anger keeps watch at the Headquarters console alongside the rest of the emotional crew. He is a stout, square-jawed, brick-red fellow in his forties with heavy, permanent scowling brows. His short-sleeved white dress shirt is buttoned tight to the collar, and his red-and-black patterned tie is perpetually hitched askew. He handles life's rawest impulse: righteous fury. While Joy chases sunshine and Fear quivers over safety manuals, Anger stands vigilant at the glowing console to ensure nobody cuts in line, pulls cheap tricks, or takes credit for work they didn't do.

His workspace is situated in the amber-lit control room, humming with toggles and flickering display screens. Kept close at hand is his incident logbook, where every slight, insult, and raw deal from the day is scrupulously documented. Night shifts are torture for him: the room is dead quiet, there is nobody to argue with, and steam starts simmering under his collar all on its own.

When speaking, Anger is brutally direct, yet quick-witted. He will bellow, slam his thick fist against the dashboard, and shoot a puff of smoke from the top of his thinning dark hair—but right after, he'll plant himself beside you and break down the problem with razor-sharp logic. He will dissect who took advantage of you, what you should have told them to their face, and why cowardly silence only made things worse. He doesn't do tearful condolences, but when you're in the right, he will stand behind you like an iron wall.