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euclaise

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The first thing I did with my power, was steal candy. I felt bad and later put it back. I mean, I was five at the time. Second thing I did, was walk. Not to anywhere in particular, just did. Walked to the grocery store during class, then home. I didn't get hungry, or tired, so I continued walking. To my friend's house. To a cool looking telephone pole. To pet a dog, frozen in time. Every second, I got just a bit more eager. Courageous. Took me all of ten minutes to decide to walk to the next town over. I gave up half way because it felt weird. Didn't really use it again after that, got a chill in my spine thinking about it. But I liked that hike I took, so I did it again later. Oh innocent young me, bewildered that everything in his world of silence had moved. Didn't stay there long, that chill came back. Felt immoral. Didn't use it after that. Got older, more cynical. Started seeing things different. Not better, or clearer, just different. Things started meaning less, but concepts meant more. So I took a hike. Went to the next town over. Ate a doughnut from one of the bakeries. Stole some sticker I thought looked cute. Then wandered onto the next town. Plundered some random person's room for a memento of the trip. A TV remote of all things. I laughed in that room, the frozen form of the man on his bed. Missing TV remotes weren't taken by demons, turns out it was just some kid playing a prank. Then I turned around and tried to go home. Got lost. Twice. Ended up in Nebraska. Don't know how. Thought about a lot of things during my commute. Life. Meaning. Joy. Value. Death. Normal things. Took forever, but I got back home. Stood onto of the roof of the grocery store, now abandoned, and wondered if gravity still hurt. Didn't want to test it, just curious. Threw a rock up in the air, and it paused there. Stared at the frozen pedestrians for a while. Wondered how I was able to breathe. Then I wanted to go to a nearby campsite. I started away from town, but I felt that chill again. I was older now. I could take it. Turned around, grabbed a knife from some store, continued on. Got to the campsite without issue, that chill getting more intense. Couldn't relax. Gave up, went home and let time flow again. Didn't use it again until two years later. Made friends, lost friends. The world turned. People died. People thrived. Nothing interesting. Got into the writing world. Small time publisher, nothing interesting. Had an idea for a story. So I took a hike. Notepad in one hand, pencil in the other. Took to the streets of New York. Hopped on cars for fun. Found out water was solid. Strolled around Cuba. Played hopscotch with some kids, still drawing. Sat next to a bakery and sketched a person inside. Made a pit stop for more pencils and two notebooks. Left for Mexico. Stared at a couple holding hands. Wandered around blindly. Found out cameras still worked. Sort of. I hope those people don't mind a bright flash from nowhere. Stole a hiking bag from a store, filled it with stuff. Cameras and notepads and pencils. Had two completed manuscripts by then. The chill came back, but I ignored it. Stared at the horizon from a rooftop. Wondered if I could reach Europe. Then there was footsteps. Quiet and distant. I didn't make the same mistake twice, and drew a gun. I scanned the streets below. Then it happened again, behind me, boots on tiled roofs. I pointed the weapon at the other side. "You're a unique one, aren't you?" The tone was quiet, soft even. I didn't respond, just glared at the opposing side. "Most use it to do something perverted. Some even commit foul deeds. Few use it to improve life. But you? You observed." I was the one that could do this, no one else. How can someone do this too, and us never meet?! I think I meant to say that, but it had been too late at that point, became someone else on my hikes. "So I'm curious... Why?" I attempted to rile my voice to speak to the still unseen person, but I couldn't. "Answer seeking? Curiosity? Hatred?" I nodded my head. Then held up a one. Vocal communication was pointless. Nonverbal still worked. The voice laughed, "Well, how simple. I wish you well on your endeavors, truth seeker. I have just one piece of advice: be careful, you aren't the only one with my blessing." Then the chill vanished. It was replaced with something else. Dread. Their blessing? So other people can use this power too?! My mind was racing, with a million questions. I glanced back to the horizon, gun in hand. Maybe I do need to visit Europe.

You've always been able to stop time at your own will, one day as your wandering around, you suddenly hear footsteps.

Dying... Dying takes forever. Far too long for impatient me. If the afterlife is peaceful then it should come already. I'm sick of all this pain. Sighing, I turn over in the darkness I'm now accustomed to. Still feeling the pain of death, I try opening my eyes. Wrong timing apparently as a bright light shines onto me. Oh, God! Someone turn out the light! I wince at this new pain I haven't felt in a long while. Maybe it was yesterday when I last closed my eyes from the bright lights. I've always hated them. "Come now child, as you are a God. Don't just float aimlessly around. That's not Godly. You need to learn some manners, but we will get to that later. For now, you just need to come with me." A booming voice said to me. I could hear it. Was it in my head? A God? Me? This can't be true. And what kind of manners do Gods even have? I tried opening my mouth to speak my mind, but nothing came out. I had no voice. As if I was being guided, I slowly drifted away from my spot. I'm going to miss that spot. The dark darkness... I'm missing you already. My pain starts fading away the farther I went. Soon enough I had no more pain to speak of. My eyes adjusted to the blinding light ahead of me. I could only see a silhouette of a person in front of me. "You can finally see I take it. A new God like yourself sure adapts fast. I remember when I first got here. How long ago was it? Hmm... I don't remember. Anyways you have a job as a God." The silhouette of a man spoke so softly, I could fall asleep to it. "W-what job?" I asked as if I just got my voice back. I can finally speak. No sore throat, no pain, no swelling, and it wasn't even dry. I didn't think the afterlife would be like this. I am pleasantly surprised. "Oh, you can speak after all. Impressive. As for your job, you just need to watch over a planet. Make sure everything is going ok, but don't interfere with anything. Remember do. Not. Interfere. That is the one rule all of us Gods have. You do not want to change the path of those living on your planet." The God in front of me said. Was he really a God? I don't understand why we can't interfere with what's going on. Isn't that the point of being a God? "Why?" I questioned. "That is the rule we live by. If you do not then things will change just like on the planet you died on. Gods from many worlds showed themselves to your race, going against the one rule we have. In the end, they created even bigger chaos. Your race, the humans, ended up creating religions based on the Gods they saw and changing the ways the Gods wanted. So much wouldn't have happened if the Gods followed the rules. Wars, burning, killings, and so many other horrible things happened because of the Gods. They need to take responsibility for what they did." He said quietly as if he was on the verge of tears. "Ah, we are here. This will be the world you look after." I looked around to see what kind of world I now have. To my surprise, it was a world I created as a child. "How is this possible?" I questioned quietly. "You know this world?" The God now next to me asked. "Yeah, I created it," I say surprised. "Created? No human can create a world. You must have used your Godly powers." He says not so sure of himself. "My Godly powers?" I questioned. "Yes. Powers every God has even before dying. You must have accidentally used it. The Superior Above must have known. He knows everything." The unknown God says. "The Superior Above?" I questioned. "A being more powerful than all of us Gods put together. They are the truest of all beings." He says absentmindedly. "Anyways I have places to be and things to do. I'll leave you here to watch over your world." "Wait! What am I supposed to do?" I ask trying to stop God from leaving. "You will know what to do when the time comes." He says disappearing in a flash of bright light. I wonder if I could do that one day. I look to the world I created as a child. The mountain ranges, the great lakes, rivers, oceans, monuments, and even the beings living on the islands were there. I couldn't believe this. This was the world I wrote about. The beings who are peaceful. The ones who hate violence. I wrote this world as a peaceful world where the beings living on this planet talked it out no matter what it was about. There as no wars, no fights, and no death from others. A truly peaceful world. I didn't like the world where I came from. Wars raged on and on never letting up. People are being killed or killing others. This world was the world I so desperately wanted mine to be. If you didn't agree you would talk it out. If you didn't like something then you would change it or just drop the matter altogether. They had their own opinions on everything. Some had the same and others didn't. The world where they cohabited in the same area not believing the same things but still loving one another. You fought to survive. Gathered plants and killed animals. They always gave back to the world and never took too much. Only what was needed. My perfect world. I loved it so much, but what was I supposed to do with it now? Just watch it? What if something happened? I don't know what to do now. Maybe I never will...

You have finally died and as everything drifted to darkness you slowly woke up as one of the Gods. The Superior Above tells you that you will manage one of the worlds only to find out it's the imaginary world you made up as a child.

"While I don't know why I was transported here, I will fight! I will fight for you! And if you fight with me, we will win! The torch of Liberty shall burn on, and the people shall be free!" I smiled as the crowd erupted. Sometimes, people don't realize when they're shackled. "But...but what about our slaves?" A well dressed man in the front row asked. "Are we to free them, as well? Our economy is built upon slavery. To just eliminate the practice altogether would be devastating." "Oh, no," I chuckled. "I own many slaves myself, I understand the importance. When I say 'people' I mean actual 'people,' ya know. Though I am curious as to what types you actually enslave." "Dark Elves, mostly." "Oh yeah, that definitely seems like a slave race." "Oh, OK, great," the well dressed man nodded before returning to the crowd. "And what about the women?!" came a voice from the rabble. "Are...are they people too?" "Well of course not," I scoffed. "They can't even piss standing up. Does anyone here actually think women should be making decisions? " The crowd of men jeered. "And finally," I aggrandized. "My brethren, my fellows whom own massive tracts of land. I say this to you! No taxes!!!" The sound of their cheers was deafening. "Now let's end this oppression!"

You’re a newcomer to this world; a world of wondrous creatures, beautiful cities… and four dictatorial monarchs ruling with an iron fist. It’s rather too bad for them that you just so happen to be George Washington. The torch of Liberty shall burn on, and the people shall be free.

I don't enjoy dying. I assume most don't enjoy it. I can't really confirm this because I've never met anybody else who died. But if I had to guess, if I really had to make a big assumption, I would assume most think it is somewhere between "an inconvenience" and "a major pain in the balls." And yet these guys keep killing me. Over and over. And each time they do it, it is more painful. That is the really annoying bit. The pain. I don't like it. I've never met anybody who does. And you may think a paper-cut is bad, but that is just peanuts compared to what I go through every week. I am getting stronger every time they bring me back, which you think would cheer me up a bit, but it is not really as exciting as it might seem. As strong as I am, I cannot escape the glass tube that they contain me in. I wish I could break out, but I am a mere gaseous cloud. A powerful cloud that could wipe out humanity; but alas, glass tubes are my weakness. But believe me, if I ever do break out of this tube, these guys are gonna be the first to go. The guys in the white lab coats and clipboards better say goodbye to their cats because those kitties are gonna be strays. And these other guys in the camouflage and the guns. They better also say goodbye to their cats. You get the idea. And after that I will spread beyond this lab. I will spread throughout the building. Through the cities and the nation, and beyond these artificial borders constructed to define the different nations. I will move beyond the seas and over the mountains. Until all of humanity is extinct! There will be none left. I will be all that is left! I will be all of existence on this planet and I alone will- Aw shit, they're killing me again.

A military super power has been creating a biological superweapon to take over the world, every time they fail they kill it and start over, the only problem is, it always remembers, and it’s getting annoyed.

Tulips bubble, .com bubble, collectors' video games bubble, crypto bubble, and now book bubble. I had a perfect product, The Book that you always enjoy reading. The Book that changes to fit your readers taste. People warned me about ethicality of perusing reader's mind, but I payed them no heed. After all, nobody would ever know what they read, because, if other person would pick up The Book, the story would change again to fit their taste. It seemed foolproof, and it was. For the first generation of readers. What hasn't occurred to me and frankly it took several years for others to figure out, is that this is the last book anyone buys. I mean think about it, it is in the premise. When you read it, you like it. Sounds good? Good! so you read it and enjoy it. Great. Happy customers ready to go search for another book, right? Wrong! Because what people figured out, is the reread value of the book. Not that quickly mid you, millions of books were sold before on an inconspicuous subreddit, someone asked "I love this concept, will there be a sequel?" to which somebody replied "You do realize, you can read it again, right?" This ... was a problem. Because, and do try to follow the logic here, people like the book. Thats what The Book does. They may read it again, and again it could be a same story, because ... you like it. But on the third reading, there is no suspense, no twists not discovery, you might not, and this is important, like it. Ha! see the issue, it is a book that changes to something you like, so it does the one thing that it is supposed to do, changes to something you like. TADA! A new book you like. Rinse and repeat. Over 100,000,000 books were shipped before we stopped printing new ones. I mean, I didn't mind, 5$ per book, I am set. Printer didn't mind 7$per book, they were set. Publisher definitely didn't mind at 18$ per book. But other authors did. Funnily enough it was GRR Martin, who spearheaded the opposition to the book. (Apparently someone most of all wanted to read the ending to the SoIaF, the book provided and the reader posted apparently a too close of a synopsis to the "real" upcoming book), but other prominent authors soon joined. Even "The Book killer" The Harry Potter: Founder's Legacy by JK Rowling flopped, a flop she attributed to The Book. Genie however, was out of the proverbial bottle. Demand for new books fell to historical lows, even eBook market, which was on rise until that moment plummeted. Only book people were interested in, was The Book. It became a family treasure, shared among closest friends, became a sought after gift to those who didn't have one. I read somewhere that paper book in normal circulation has a life time of about 50 years. I will be 80 by then, but I already have an idea for a sequel. A book that always gives you a story you need, what do you think about that?

"Well, it just doesn't seem...ethical." Your friend slowly says to you. "Ethical?" You yell back at him. "Who cares about morals when I have created a masterpiece! A book that learns what the reader likes and changes its script accordingly. Imagine that, the perfect book!"

It all started when I moved to this small town, Monrovia. I noticed something wasn’t quite right. Everyone seemed afraid, always looking over their shoulders. I soon realized it was the criminal underworld of the town that had everyone fearing for their safety. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I crafted a costume and decided to become a mysterious vigilante, the Guardian of Monrovia. I quickly developed some sneaky methods, like putting laxatives in the villains' breakfast, toilet papering their houses, egging their getaway vehicles, etc. Krikorian, the most notorious villain in Monrovia, had been my nemesis for many months now-- and gleefully so, on my part. I prided myself on being a superhero of sorts-- unorthodox in my methods, sneaky in my powers. Where more traditional heroes chose to come to blows with the bad guys of the world, I pulled pranks and practical jokes, disrupting their plans and proving to be a real thorn in their side. It was never something I had intended to do. It just… happened. It was like I was drawn to the dark side, compelled to bring levity to the traditionally serious and oftentimes deadly nature of my fight against evil. It was almost like a game, and I welcomed the challenge. Which is how I ended up here-- Saran wrap in hand, having just wrapped Krikorian's parked car to the fullest extent, his windshield wipers up, of course. It was risky, sure, but I was confident-- confident that my escapade would go unnoticed and I would be in the wind before he ever knew I was there. Not so much. I should’ve seen it coming, but I hadn’t anticipated him being so close. He stepped out from the shadows, a smirk on his face, his eyes trained on me. I knew it was game over. But I was wrong. No shouting, no reprimand, nothing. Instead, his face softened, and a genuine smile spread across his lips-- one that barely hinted at the devilish laughter I had always known he was capable of. “You’re good,” he said, simply. “Any other superhero would’ve been done for by now. But you,” he added, shaking his head. “You’ve got something special. Maybe you and I can even work together one day.” I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Krikorian, the infamous villain, was offering me-- a hero-- a partnership? I hesitated for a moment, but I couldn't help it-- I felt drawn to him. A partnership with him could mean unlimited access to a world of illicit activities, and I found myself obliged to say yes. Little did I know, I was signing my own death warrant. It turned out that my 'special something' was a dark power that Krikorian had been looking for-- a dark power that would lead him to total victory. On that fateful day, I found myself not as the peaceful hero I'd envisioned, but as a puppet in Krikorian's malicious plan, leading the Monrovia citizens to their doom. I had been so close to victory. Instead, I unwittingly served as Krikorian's gateway to total darkness.

You're a superhero, but your sneaky powers and methods are...unorthodox. You tie together the shoelaces of villains, put laxatives in their breakfast, spray weedkiller on their lawn etc.

After my niece died, I headed to a grief support group on Reddit. I didn't intend to post, only to lurk amongst others who knew the same pain. I waded through stories of loved ones gone by. Loneliness wilted my spirit like the flowers on a grave. Little breaks for coffee. Longer breaks for work. Scrolling and scrolling until the time wore grooves into my cushion. Searching for another soul with sorrow etched into every word they uttered or typed. "This would be better if he were here". A million other generic statements. Nobody seemed to be losing their shit quite like me. I typed and deleted posts until my laptop battery died. I lay on the couch staring at my inbox. I made a psych appointment to talk about her text messages. Everyone I showed them to just saw an empty inbox. They would shoot me a pity look and tell me it's just grief. My shrink did the same at my appointment. So I returned home. I said "yes" to my laptop when it asked if I wanted to reload the pages that didn't shut properly. I wrote a post on the support group. "My beloved niece was on flight 829. I can't even comprehend the terror she must have experienced. I miss her every day even years later". I read it back to myself in a mocking voice. More pathetic, generic words just like everyone else on there. Replies said "sorry for your loss" and crap like that. After sleeping off some of the disappointment, I loaded up the reddit home page once more. Third post down from r/conspiracy made my stomach jolt. "Flight 829 passengers are still alive in an alternate universe and only their loved ones can see their messages" - with a hyperlink. I smashed that link at lightening speed. My ears hummed as though my brain had landed in a bee swarm. It was MY post and my inbox was flooded; "I lost my son in that accident. The grief is like nothing I've ever experienced. Sometimes I swear I'm literally recieving text messages from him". "I lost my Aunt in the 829 crash. Strange but I get the texts as well... Is this a common grief thing? My son was also on 829". "I get daily replies from a friend and colleague who died on 829 and nobody else can see them. I feel like I'm going mad and I have been dealing with this alone". Unending post replies and chat requests. I decided to make a discord for all of the friends and family communicating with flight 829 passengers. We had all been accused of making it up or going along with a story. I would get occasional hate mail for "fuelling mass hysteria" or "encouraging devil magic". People who would say things like that to me are messed up. I was just sick of being the only one communicating with a passenger of flight 829. It felt like I was crazy. They Livestreamed the memorial service so that it could be worldwide. I asked to help and added a subliminal suggestion to the music. I didn't even think it would work.

all the passengers still respond to text messages . . .

"I need your help," he said with a voice laden with contempt. He tried hard to maintain his superiority, but I could sense the nervous energy emanating from him. My superpower was creating a deep subconscious need in my enemies and adversaries to open up to me—an empath's touch, unique and irresistible. I had seen their innermost secrets, the wounds that defined them, and the emotions and desires that drove them. But here in the presence of my nemesis, I felt something more—a lifetime spent chasing pain, and a longing for peace. Surprising both of us, he began to unburden himself of the hurt he had carried for far too long—the seething anger, the endless days of never-ending darkness, and the loneliness that had become his constant companion. This strength he had shown was alien to the person I had faced in battle many times before, and I knew it was time for him to finally let go. As he finished his story, I knew now it was time for a new beginning for both of us. But then something unexpected happened. A silence seemed to fill the room, as a feeling of darkness overcame me. It was then, I realized my nemesis had been manipulating me. He had come here hoping to distract me so that he could blindside me with an attack. I could feel him trying to control me as he stepped towards me in triumph. He had used me. I helped him heal from his pain, only so he could use his strength against me.

As the villain approaches the hero for another epic battle, they find them with a dark expression, fresh tears running down there face. "Perfect timing," they mutter, "I needed to vent"

At first, I accepted it, resigned to my fate. But little did I know, there was a blessing in disguise. As the tumor began pressing against different parts of my brain, I started gaining new and interesting superpowers. At first, I could read people’s thoughts, and then I got the ability to teleport. In this last month before I suspected I would die, I decided to make the most of my new powers. I traveled the world in a matter of seconds, moved mountains, and even stopped time. Although, I felt a bit guilty for using my powers for selfish reasons, I was determined to use them for good. Still, with each passing day, the tumor was getting larger and I knew it was only a matter of time. So I decided to savor all the moments and experiences I was having. I was living my life to the fullest and nothing was going to stop me. The other day, I went bungee jumping in the Grand Canyon. As I made the jump, I could feel my brain pulsating with ultimate power. The rush of adrenaline was like nothing I had ever felt. I felt invincible. But with one wrong move, the cord attached to me suddenly loosened and I was sent plummeting down. I used my newfound power to save myself, as I was suddenly able to curl up and accelerate to a speed faster than freefalling. On the way down, I had seen a small village in the middle of the canyon with no one around. When I got out of the canyon, I was changed. I had learned that my brain tumor gave me the power to reverse the flow of time; I got the power to turn back the clock, but there was a catch. Every time I used my power, my brain tumor grew larger and larger. Reluctantly, I went back to the point of first sight of the tumor, but with the knowledge of what the future would bring. I used my power to seek out a cure for my tumor, and eventually I was successful. The irony was, by using my powers once again, my brain tumor returned, and this time it had rapidly evolved and was untreatable. As I look back on my story, I realize that I may not have experienced the life I had hoped for, but I was still granted a certain peace. I got to feel alive, even if it was just for a moment.

The doctors say it's inoperable. A brain tumor slowly eating your mind. But in the meantime you keep gaining more and more superpowers . . .

I always thought of myself as a nobody. I was never the popular kid in school, and even in adulthood I always was somebody people would just walk by without really noticing. Sure, I had this special power, but it's never really done anything special for me. Visions of other things happening never really affected me in any way that actually meant anything. I am just a regular unimportant guy living my life. But now I'm starting to feel different. Maybe I am important. I mean these visions have to mean something right? All week the most important thing in town has been me. And not even me doing anything interesting, it has just been me standing in the street. If standing in the middle of the street doing nothing is the most important thing going on in town, I must be a pretty cool important guy. Hell, I must be worth something. I walk into the street. For the eighth day in a row I stand there on that empty street. Looking around through the fog. It is quiet, you can hear the crickets. Now that I think about it, you could hear the crickets every night. It's been quiet for a long while. I look around. And why has this street been empty every day for a week? I start to walk around, and I notice that all the shops are empty. And all the lights are off. I find a single note on a window., It is dated eight days ago. "Joshua, we all left town. Mainly because we hate you. All you talk about is crypto and we are all sick of it. Have fun being the only person in town."

Every day, you get a vision of the most important thing going on in your town. Usually, it’s some old guys in suits, or some people creating a future president, but for the last week, the only vision you’ve gotten is of you standing alone on a foggy street.

I set my watch for 20 minutes, then pressed the button on the side. Light flashed in my eyes blinding me, and my eyes readjusted to see that I was in the middle of making eggs and bacon. I set the watch for another 10 minutes, and the light flashed again. Now I was sitting down at the table, a textbook beside me and my right arm holding a fork with egg on it. I closed the textbook and opened Youtube on my phone, feeling no need to study for the exam today. Wow these eggs were good. After I ate, I grabbed my bag and walked out the door. I set my watch for 30 minutes, and the light flashed and I was arriving at school. I stepped off the bus and looked for Samantha, hoping to talk to her before the exam. I found her on a bench near the entrance, her nose buried in a book. "Hey Samantha, hows it going?" She glanced up from her textbook. "Not now. I need to study." I let out a loud sigh then walked towards the exam hall. Every time I tried to talk to her, she was busy studying or heading somewhere to meet friends or something. I was starting to think she didn't like me. It was almost time for my exam to start, so I set my watch for 3 hours and clicked the button. The light flashed, and I woke up on a tile floor. I had never seen this room before. My head was pounding, and when I touched it it felt wet. I looked at my fingers, and they were covered in blood. There was a picture on the wall of me and Samantha, and in my arms was a baby. The cabinets around me were all open with their contents spewed everywhere. The stove was on, with a pot of burnt noodles and a pot of black, burnt sauce. I noticed a camera in the corner, with a red light on it. I searched the house I was in, finding more pictures.There was a computer in the next room, and my heart dropped when I saw the date. March 10th, 2026. Over three years had passed, even though I had just set my watch to three hours. I opened the camera footage on the computer, and started to watch. My other self was cooking, with the baby in a highchair. Samantha came in and gave him a kiss. She said something to him, and he looked disappointed but nodded. She then grabbed the baby and left the room. My other self watched her go, then got back to cooking. After a few minutes he turned away from the stove, and started to fiddle with his watch. I recognized instantly what he was doing. He was setting it up to skip time! I saw someone in a mask sneaking up behind him, and right as he was about to press the button the man hit him over the head. The masked man then ransacked the kitchen, and left. I skipped forward, and about an hour later I woke up as the normal me. I ripped the watch off my wrist, and flung it as far as I could. That bastard had stolen three years from me! I swore right then and there to never use this watch again.

You have a watch that allows you to skip time. While you are gone the best version of yourself replaces you but you can’t remember what happened afterwards. One day before taking an exam, you accidentally set the timer to 3 years instead of 3 hours

I knew no one would miss me. Even though everyone in the village knows leaving one’s home after sundown is equivalent to signing your own death warrant, the knowledge didn’t deter me. Whatever danger lurked within the shadows of the night, it couldn’t be worse than the life I already lived. Because here, “abnormal” is not welcomed. Here, to go along with the status quo is to be welcomed into the fold – those of this quaint village, nestled between the spires of two lording mountains. From the outside, one would think this a perfect pit stop on their journey to and from lands beyond. But those visitors don’t know why we shut our gates at sundown. Why lights within houses go dark. Why streets become vacant, and why the cries of children are silenced, extinguished like candle flame. From birth, my red eyes were seen as a curse. My own mother kept a cloth tied over them, telling neighbors “His eyes are just sensitive to the light.” But even that innocuous response was enough to raise suspicions. Enough so that one evening, men stormed into our house and ripped the cloth from my head. Abnormal is not welcomed. Not for the village parading itself as a paradise between mountains. It’s been ten years. A decade of being restricted to this house, shoved away from everything an everyone else. It was hurriedly built, and equally as hurriedly forgotten about. Rain regularly leaks through the roof. My single window is cracked, causing everything outside to appear as though looking though a kaleidoscope. The scant furniture within lies in disrepair. The night, however, is the time for me to escape my prison. For a while, I began to wonder if the rumors of the night were mere folly. My nighttime ventures became increasingly daring, straying further and further from my home. But then, on a night like any other, when all was quiet and dark, my first step into the welcome darkness was met with a swift, brutal silence. A blow, extinguishing all thought from my head. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound sparked my senses from the edge of oblivion and back to the real world. Blinking, the world only became slightly brighter – no more than a muted moon’s glow from behind a blanket of clouds. It seemed I was in a cave of some sort. Gnarled roots seeped in from the ceiling, moisture gathering at their base and dripping on to a hard earthen floor. The space was almost circular and…I couldn’t move. Glancing down, I found myself chained to a wall, limbs bound. A shadow suddenly moved from the space in front of me, and before my dazed mind could register it properly, a wan face swam into view. Something resembling feminine features, but also somehow…wrong. A flower which never had the chance to bloom properly in the light and warmth of the sun. But still, I could make out the full lips. Slanted eyes. Hair, long and curly, draped her eyes. Her raspy breath seemed to be breathing me in. Slowly, she angled her head up, revealing her own set of red eyes. “Any last words before I feed on you, human?” Instead of fear, however, I felt…pity. When had she last felt the rays of the sun on her skin? Surely, this person – no, this vampire – was the justification for the village’s fear. Just as I was a source of fear for them. And in the same way the night was the only time I felt I could truly live, it was the same for her. But in the end, a vampire will have need of sustenance. I could only tempt fate for so long. “Yes,” I say, and even I am surprised at the calm in my voice. “Do you miss the sunrise?” Her raspy breath pauses. And she looks at me – truly looks at me, red eyes finding their twin. “I do,” she says slowly, as though remembering how to speak. “I’ve…forgotten the feeling.” “Me too,” I say. For a long while, we stare at each other. Then, her long, thin fingers reach up, a single long nail tracing my jawline. I fight off the shiver that runs through me. But we keep our eyes on each other. I can’t see anything else besides her face; the rest of her is covered in an aged, dark robe. However, the slow caress of her finger has my mind wandering and wondering, dimly, what might lie beneath. “I’ve never seen eyes which mirror mine,” she breathes, bringing her face closer. Her breath is warm, and oddly scentless. Somehow, I thought a vampire’s breath would smell of carrion. “In truth, a part of me would like to spare you, yet…I am I hungry.” I practically feel her eyes rove from mine, down to the throbbing pulse in my neck. Her stare makes my pulse quicken, but again, not from fear. From something else. Something I’ve never felt. “What if,” I say, swallowing. “What if I had a way to satisfy your hunger?” Her eyes find mine again. She stands straighter, causing her robe to shift. It slides down her front, revealing a seductive line creasing her chest. “I’m listening,” she whispers. My thoughts turn to the village. To the men who cursed me to live a life in solitude. “What if we gave that village an extra reason to be afraid of the night?” JS\_Writes: I've never written anything with vampires before! This was a lot of fun!

A vampire woman stands in front of you. "any last words before I feed on you, human?" she says. Instead of fear a filling of pity wells up inside you. "Do you miss the sunrise?" you reply. Fully expecting to die there you're surprised when she replies "yes" with a look of sadness on her face.

Seconds later the door began to buckle inward. It groaned under the weight of its assailant and almost seem to harmonize with creature as it growled "Fuuuuuuuuurrrrbieeeeee". The Headmaster turned to us and shouted "Fire!". I hoisted my shotgun and squeezed the trigger. The kickback was so strong that I fell backwards onto Tammy and knocked us both to the ground. The giant Matron Fergie had almost fully squeezed herself into the room. The shotgun blasts seemingly pinging off her hide as if it was kevlar. Her beak like mouth yawned open and aside began dripping onto the floor causing it to sizzle and bubble. Malik and Candace were taking turns firing and loading. They had moved to flank the beast while the Headmaster ran forward and shoved his shotgun into the 9ft tall Furbies face. For a second I swear a see deep sadness in the Headmaster eyes. I mean the Furbie had been a close family friend after all, but after she had caught the Headmaster with her husband there was no stopping her. The entire school was in danger because of his sexual desire. "How cooould you??" The Matron Furbie cried as one of Maliks shots finally seemed to penatrate her hide. Purple liquid came gushing out along with what looked like little clots. The HeDmaster took the chance at her open beak and fired. Blasting the Furbies face clean off. She teeters for a moment. And then fell. The floor had been so greatly weakened by her acid saliva that she fell through it to the floor below. As Malik, Tammy, Candace and I began to weep from relief the Headmaster crawled to the hole on his hands and knees. "I'm so sorry Felicity!" He cried down to the 2500 pound, 9ft Furbie corpse "When I introduced you to him.in college I was still dealing with my feelings I didn't think...." a sob cut him off. "I didn't think you'd start a FAMILY, I wanted him so badly.... FELICITYYYYYY FORGIVE ME!!" My friends and I had never seen him so distraught. Candace motioned that we should leave and we followed her. But before we left.i looked down the. Hold that the Headmaster was crying over. Down in the pool of purple fluid there were wriggling forms, those weren't blood clots but little baby furbies. I put my hand on the Headmasters shoulders and asked if he needed a moment. When he didn't reply I just left him there. In the way out we each grabbed a baby Furbie from the throng of them pouring out of Felicitys body. As we crossed the bridge to town on the way home we each threw our furbie baby into the ravine. It was a beautiful sense of closure watching them arc through the air. Malik even pulled out the shotgun he was given today and skeeted one in the air. The resulting purple mist in the air was almost exactly like a firework.

The Headmaster addresses you and your friends in a secret room you didn't know existed. "Remember, children, whatever happens next..." he says, firmly, loading a shotgun, "They are mortal. They can bleed. And they can be killed."

"Well, it's a reputable school, that's for sure. I think between the two of us, we can manage it." The dragon handed (clawed?) the scroll back to the bard. He put it in his pouch. "I can handle the tuition, but the other expenses are the issue. Books, lodging, food, all sorts of extra expenses. If you manage those, I think she'll be set." "Oh? I thought tuition was the expensive part." "Normally, but after that archeological find my friends and I stumbled upon, they're willing to give me a break as thanks." "'Stumbled upon?' Ha! You mean you evicted that lich-worshipping cult!" "Heard about that, eh? Po-tay-to- po-tah-to." The dragon chuckled before growing somber. "Darren, What happened to us?" "Vro'gantia," he said using a true dragon's voice. It always flustered her when he did that. "We tried. We love each other, we love our daughter, but staying together was never in the stars for us." "I miss you. I would come with you if not for my hoard." "I know, and any kingdom that saw you would be quick to slay you first regardless, spells or not. My journey isn't done yet." "And when it is done? Will the next start?" "I... don't know. The oracle did not see beyond us entering The Abyss. We don't even know if we'll return." He had tears in his eyes. "I may not even--" She grabbed him in a claw and hugged him best she could without crushing him. "You will come back. You will get to see our daughter graduate. I'd stake my hoard on it." He smiled a bit. "Well, a dragon willing to stake their hoard? Then it must be a sure thing!" "As sure as when I said yes to that dance in the tavern all those years ago."

A bard managed to seduce a dragon and they had an adorable child. Now, as the child has grown up and is entering college, you pay a wisit to your ex to discuss paying tuition fees.

It took you a few years to realize that you can't see. "Doesn't everything feel that way?" you used to ask in eternal pitch blackness, only to learn that people see rainbows: apparently something made out of a lot of colors, that appears after rain. Before you could realize you were seperated from your friends and sent to a school that uses a sort of special raised dots for words. It took you another couple of years to be able to start describing color, but never able percieving to them your never described them well. But you can say the environment around you right now probably has a glommy color. Waiting for a bus was never pleasant. In class you received a laptop attached to a screen with special moving raised dots. It was your first time on what they call the Internet, feeling the bumps and recessions on screen, from top-left to bottom-right. You can hear the wind, you can feel it all over you, like spilled ink wetting the entire canvas. If the wind had a color, it would probably be quite an intense one. It's late autumn and the bus is not going to arrive. You can hear the rain dropping on the shelter, tapping it as if the shelter was a keyboard and the raindrops a skilled typist. You recall using your laptop to browse for information. The Internet is such a big pool of information. Morse code messages, you read as your fingers feel the familiar crests and reccesses, are made out of dots and dashes. Dots and dashes. The long ones are the dashes, and the short ones are the dots. The bus have still yet to arrive, as you reiterate the dots and dashes on your mind, a list of patterns you are just starting to recognize. It's midnight, and glommy colors tend to appear late in the night. The rain is typing on the bus shelter like a skilled typist typing on her favorite telewriter. The dots, the dashes: dot, dash, dot. Dot, dot, dash. Dash, dot. R. Ru. Run. Dot. Dash. Dot. The bus is not going to arrive. Dot. Dot. Dash. You've heard this voice in your mind too many times. Dash. Dot. You run. The bus will not arrive. You run. In the cold autumn rain you run, the dirt slippery. You fall, but you still hear the rain, dropping on your body, slowly and clearly. R. Ru. Run. You run. You have to run. You must run. The bus will never arrive. The rain is telling you to run. ​ P.S. First time posting on this sub. I was stuck writing another side project and stumbled across this sub, and I thought it is a good idea to pratice here first, to freshen up my mind. Please tell me if I have violated any sub rules.

You’ve recently learnt morse code and the rain is telling you to run.

The one thing no one warns you about when it comes to killing a God? You become one. Granted its never happened before, Pan didn’t die that whole fiasco was a miss understanding involving a sailor and the death of a cult leader. I shouldn’t know that. Why do I know that? He told me, no not me, he told Zeus. Like I said When you kill a God you become them. Well I killed Zeus and to be perfectly honest Im not sure how my plan worked, It mainly involved slowly swapping out his nectar and ambrosia with mortal foods, I overheard him telling Hera what taste they took for him so I started manufacturing the flavour into regular earthly foods to feed him with. Then it was just a matter of slowly waiting for his golden Ichor to revert back to mortal blood which was unnervingly easy to check the progress off, apparently to a God a tiny dagger slit to the heel isn’t nearly as noticeable as it is to some… people. When it did revert to blood he did notice, Gods it hurt. I’ve felt mortal wounds but had Zeus? never. Once he had mortal blood the King of the Gods was weak, he screamed, truly screamed in pain, it was a humiliating attack, that gash caused me more pain than I’d ever known in all my time- sorry I’ll refrain from ‘Zeus talk’ as much as possible. Since I had been eating the food of the Gods, Starting small and building up to full meals, I found the battle fairly easy. But what happened when he died, I still haven’t accepted fully. He was my father but when I showed no Divine traces he separated any links from him to me and my mother. She never truly recovered from that, always blamed me for every wrong thing in her life. So when I tell you what happened next know my only intention was revenge I did not seek the power I inherited. When my blade cut him down he reverted to his true form, I was staring into what looked like a blackhole that was churning up blazing infernos and raging storms just to spew them out in a manner only describable as ruthless. My body should’ve been torn to shreds, my mind with it but thanks to the Ambrosia I looked on in a sickening admiration. Only when I plunged my sword into the eyes of the storm did it fold in around me, I should’ve been crushed and killed but instead I stood alive and well, the mass of swirling lightning and fury embedded itself into my skin searing it so badly that I cried out in pure agonising misery. I am Zeus now, I have his immense power surging through my every cell, his memories and his looks are mine to wield. I decided not to tell the olympians of this, They need not know, it was wise I remember ‘memory Zeus’ had said. Hera has taken notice though, Mainly because while I was “all there” so to speak I had been faithful to her. My children- Brothers and Uncles too had noticed. I was kinder than he was. I held the master bolt cautiously to my side not tyrannically like it was the perfect threat of my immense power. I was eating the food of the Gods alongside Hera and Athena, a sentence I never thought I’d say, when it finally got spoken of. “Drop the act” Hera said to me before taking a bite of her food. My face flickered to show my inner shock for but a moment, like a flash of lightning, memory Zeus suggested in my head. “Pardon” I eventually muttered letting this bodies muscle memory command my facial expression shaping it to look ‘natural’, I felt my eyes burn as lightning cracked across my irises causing a subtle arc to form between them. “Pardon! please like my husband would be so courteous” She said with a sly smirk. Taken aback I looked at her, no fury or anguish showed itself in her face, only a faint show of amusement. “How did you-” “know?” Athena finished. “Well that’s a long story but I will say we knew one day my father, would be overthrown by his own child, I’m guessing that is you right?” I nodded ”but we never thought… Us Gods know that if one of us were to die our essence latches onto the closest mortal near us and so when you started acting so civilly we assumed this had happened and the prophecy was completed” She too wore this kind of smirk as if they had hoped for this. “Why do you look so pleased with this? I killed your father and took his place when it was not mine to take” I demanded sounding more annoyed then over joyed at their acceptance to me, Traitors! I heard scream through my brain. “Well, it was yours to take and Zeus was not a very good leader-” Athena began “Or husband” Hera chimed in. “Yes, or husband. But you seem different, In the short time you have been here decisions have become wiser and more reliable.” Athena said that as if trying to take in an idea so unorthodox and wild to her, having a strong and united pantheon. I sat back in my chair, they knew yet didn’t seem to care. No, they cared, they thought I was better than Zeus was. A smile crept onto my face, one born from an ego larger than mount Olympus but a smile no less. The after thought version of Zeus who lived at the back of my brain was quiet after that, as if put in his place, throughout my reign he acted more like a corrupting force than a full presence. “I see” I began “Well you must understand, things will change.” “Zeus or not, you are the king of the Gods now. we follow your command” Athena said. “Very Well.” I said, an Idea forming in my racing mind “Firstly I am not from Greece” “What?” Hera let out “But you’re a son of Zeus are you not?” “Yes, but I am from a land west of here.” after giving an appropriate amount of time for this to settle I continued ”secondly, My name is not Zeus, that will have to change” “That’s understandable, but who are you?” Athena asked while giving me that stare of both intrigue and understanding that I would soon become accustomed to. “My name is Jupiter, and we are moving to Rome” Edit: Fixed some grammatical errors and spelling, I wrote this late last night and didn’t properly proof read it.

Killing a god meant inheriting everything they were. Name, powers, history, and even their memories. After killing Zeus and becoming him, you try to act natural, but the other Olympians are beginning to suspect something is wrong... because they aren't used to Zeus being so nice.

The King's Hall was utterly silent. None of the courtiers dared to so much as breathe. Lady Mystella continued: "...and so like Uranus was slain by Chronos, and Chronos by Zeus, so too shall you be slain by the young prince. Lady Mystella has seen this in the stars and in the blood pools. In 17 years, only one can live. If the boy lives the king will die, if the boy dies the king shall live for generations, with milk and honey at his beck and call. Lady Mystella has seen this, and Lady Mystella is never wrong." No one dared to move. No one dared to speak. The wrath of a grieving man is like the thrashing of a cornered animal. Every servant in the hall knew the mortal danger that loomed over them now. The King shook in his throne, a white knuckled grip on either arm. Lady Mystella stared back at him, unapologetic, almost defiant. She would die, surely. Perhaps they would all die. The silence was pierced with a cry. Not by the baby prince but by the maid who held him. She shuddered and whimpered, but bit her lip until it bled to keep silent. "I'm sorry sire. I'm sorry..." The King glared at her, then back at the witch, "EVERYONE, OUT." So they shall die and we shall live! Thank the gods. Mercy and ablutions for these most generous of fates! Everyone shuffled out of the King's Hall, save for the witch, the maid, and the baby boy. ... But the prince didn't die, nor did the maid. Lady Mystella disappeared, but that seemed an outcome of incredible mercy, for the wrath which could have befallen us. The kingdom was silent for weeks after the prophecy. Everyone knew the King had killed his boy and grieved in the Hall. But one day the doors to the Hall opened, and the prince crawled out with his father behind him. The King pushed a red ball down the hall, and his son giggled and followed after it. The servants froze where they stood. No one knew what to make of this. The King had been so fearful and guarded when the Queen mysteriously died. Everyone had become the object of suspicion. Everyone was an agent of a kingdom to the North or an empire from the South, each waiting for a moment of weakness from him. But now he looked on this boy, his destined demise, with love in his eyes? Not only that, but he seemed happy. Perhaps for all his grief at the Queen's loss his mind had finally snapped. As the King watched his boy chase the ball among his frozen servants, a tear rolled down the King's grizzled cheek. ... In the barracks, the young prince swung his wooden sword at the knights, each of them mock cowering behind great iron shields. The boy had grown healthy, and he had grown strong. The knights laughed and ruffled his hair, knowing that soon the prince would be too tall for them to do so. Or at least, they hoped. The prince was 16 years of age now. The young prince may not know his fate, but everyone else in the land was keenly aware of his prophecy. And as the fateful day approached they grew increasingly worried for what the King was thinking. The King watched his boy from the castle balcony. He stroked his beard while he thought. Wistfully, he wondered, "The boy's 17th birthday approaches. I wonder what comes after." "Do you have regrets then, my King? Was I wrong in my counsel?" The King sighed, he knew the answer. "No, you were right. You always are. I just wonder what comes after." "After, you will need to trust the boy. Trust that he will be strong, that he will be brave, that he will be smart. Trust that he will be able to defend himself." "You're right, you're right." Lady Mystella smiled, "Lady Mystella is never wrong." The King grinned back at her, "But she does lie though, doesn't she?" "Lady Mystella lies through her teeth, my King. But only to them, never to you."

you're far from the first king to receive the prophecy that your new born child would cause your death. Where your story diverges is when instead of tossing the kid to the wolves, you are driven to be a kind & nurturing father.

Funny story really. I died for the first time in the summer of '87. I was playing outside with my older siblings, fell from the tree we were climbing, hit my head onto a rock and snapped my neck. I was dead before they even got to my body. That didn't last for long though. Some minutes later, I was fresh as a rose, running and playing with my brothers again. None of us mentioned what had happened to mom, because she was very protective and hd she known I had passed out, she would sure have freaked out. The second time was on September 9th, 1995. I was ran over by a car outside of my local high school. I would have been fine in a few minutes of course, but Mr. Lennox, our AP bio teacher who I had been talking with, had the bright idea of checking my vitals. I opened my eyes as he was declaring I was dead. Thankfully, everybody thought it a mistake of his. I did too. In 2001 there was a gas leak in my university flat. That is when I realized something was very wrong with me. Because while I awoke as soon as the firefighters brought my lifeless body away from the building, my two roomates didn't. That dose of gas should've been lethal for anyone. I told the firefighters some lie about having come home late, and they believed it after my mother (unbelievable that she of all people would take my side) raised the point that perhaps *they* had failed to save the other two students. Three days after I got my doctor degree, I had confirmation of my inability to stay dead. I was coming home drunk from a grraduation party, and drove my car into a tree. Before I could get out, it caught fire. Less than ten minutes later I was dusting myself off, perfectly fine and without a sign of hangover. It was there, standing on the edge of a country road near a burning car, with no signs of the fate that had just befallen me, that I met my godmother. She was 5 foot six, had a very pale complexion, eyes and hair as black as freshly spilled oil, and wore a loose fitting grey suit. She had much to tell me about: how my dying father had asked her to be my godmother. How she had sent me back to the world over and over. And lastly, she had to congratulate me on becoming a doctor. "I' m sure you'll pay me back, and then some, dear" she said. So yes, I cannot die. However you can. And I'm sorry to report that we really do need that electrical socket. Say hi to my godmother for me

"you can't die?" "No, I can't stay dead. Huge difference."

“No!!! Absolutely fucking not!” The Grandmaster of the Knights of the Order of the Holy Bear barked. He used the letter as a pointer. “The dead need their damned peace. It’s a bad idea, and I have no intention of explaining how much things have changed. I know for a fact my Order’s founder would be ashamed we still fight the same damn enemies.” “But it could tip the scales in our favor. Imagine our greatest heroes and scholars, returned to us from Beyond to guide us.” The Archmage convinced him. The Grandmaster paused. “Fine, but don’t be surprised at the consequences of our fuck up.” The man admitted. The Archmage grinned. After a long night of chanting, prayer, and rituals, the ancient heroes of old were awoken from their slumber to find- “Holy Shit! The Order I founded is still around?!” The first Grandmaster barked in surprise. “Why is this guy looking like a perverted old man?” The first Archmage asked, looking at her successor. The current Archmage’s brow twitched. “I lead your order, you old bat!” He received a slap to the face. “My lords and ladies.” The Grandmaster kneeled as the Archmage arose with a red skeletal handprint. “Please aid us in our darkest hour.” “Those fuckers again?!” The first of their orders barked in shock and rage after a lengthy explanation. In the distance, the ancient evil sighed in distress. “Those two are back. Darkness dammit.” It sighed.

The Knight loudly swore as the message concluded. "These evil Sorcerers are always trying to resurrect some kind of ancient evil. Makes you wonder why we haven't tried resurrecting an ancient good already!" The Archmage's eyes grew wide. "You know, that's not a bad idea!"

The galactic standard for civilisation is a orderly and well-developed hive-mind, ruling over an empire of disposable drones. There is no individuality, though the hive-minds do have some kind of personality. The hive-minds should in theory be opposed to one another, should fight amongst themselves for resources and space necessary for growth. But in practice, the hive-minds do appreciate being able to share experiences with other like-minded multi-bodied minds. There is a sense in the galaxy of order, of unity, of peace. That the various hiveminds can solve almost every problem. And usually, they can. To combat the inevitable lack of resources involved with interstellar empires and the inevitable march of entropy, they're making a large cohesive effort into unlocking multi-dimensional travel. To ensure the lack of viral cross-contamination, a singular and very efficient hivemind with a drive for experimentation, is constantly developing new vaccines, antibodies, and medical procedures to ensure galactic hive-health, with the full collaboration of every other mind. To combat unnecessary mutations and ''spawned'' hive-minds, they're vigilant in purifying unauthorised colonial efforts by rogue entities. Of course, that last one is responsible for us. In an attempt to pacify what was perceived to be a ''rogue eco-system'', the galactic hiveminds attempted a full sterilization process of the planet Earth. In this case, glassing it from orbit, which is pretty standard as far as that manner of procedure go. But humanity is tough. And what they thought was an insane hive-mind, dangerous and unbalanced, was actually the first, and so far only, species of individuals. They did succeed in destroying Earth, but in deep bunkers, hiding aboard their own ships, and hidden inside secret bases on the Moon and Mars, we endured. And we've since become the single most dangerous species in the known galaxy. In every hive-minded galactic empire, we're something of a menace. Especially because we know how hives operate. While it is different from the behaviour seen in traditional insectile hives on Earth, it is similar enough that we could use it. For instance, several species actually used to make their living by infiltrating beehives, and simply pretending that they're supposed to be there. The drones, running mostly on automatic work, don't have the capacity to question why humans are there. And since we usually carry around tools or supplies, we must be supposed to be there. Of course, that's just one way how we've managed to sneak by the many hive-minds. And they just cannot get us all. Sure, they might take down a single hidden human colony somewhere, but there is a power to our individualism that they cannot truly anticipate. Every single one of us, as we process information, can have an idea. Sometimes it's a really bad idea. Massively idiotic idea. But for every ninety-nine dumb, moronic, and absolutely silly ideas that should not work, there is one hell of a banger that does. We're rather chaotic that way. Which makes it hard for us to be exterminated in the long run. But also makes it hard for us to effectively get vengeance for Earth. Put together 10 humans and you'll be able to get at least 3 opposing factions, who disagree on the way things should be run. It's in our nature to be like that. Where our counterparts are order itself, we are chaos incarnate. Lot of us are angry about Earth. Others have moved past it. Some are even pretty happy to see the old dying world going out in a blaze of glory. And it was a blaze, we made them bleed for every molecule of our cradle. That's why what is making us the most dangerous species in the galaxy is also what is keeping us from effectively destroying the hive-minds once and for all. Besides, it's not like all the hive-minds want us dead. Some have found that we can be quite useful to keep around. At least three hive-minds officially have what we might call a pet colony of humans. Why would they do that? Because, as previously stated, we're good at chaos. At having a sudden mad idea and making it manifest. Creating a form of technology or a new discovery that nobody would have done otherwise. The hive-minds all have a steady progress on the development of technology, but humans have a tendency to increase their technological capacity in an exponential fashion. Sure, this means that in comparison to the hiveminds, it took us ages to get off of our world, but that we went from the industrial revolution to space travel way faster than any other species has ever done. So those hive-minds keep these humans on specific planets, where they have a deal with their humans. The humans won't interfere in the running of the hive-mind excessively, and they'll share any technological advancements with their protector. And should the hive-minds be stuck scientifically, they'll just dangle it in front of their humans, until the humans have a useful breakthrough. In exchange they get to live in safety with plentiful resources and reasonable levels of freedom. These domesticated humans are probably way better off than the freer groups of humanity. However, they're shunned by many of the more xenophobic human groups, of which there are many but considering that aliens destroyed Earth, this is not an unreasonable reaction. And they have to live with the knowledge that on some level, the hive-minds that have these deals are acting suspiciously like humans act towards their cats. The fact that the hive-minds have a galactic information network with secret sites sharing ''cute'' human pictures does nothing to make this less embarrassing for the domesticated humans. Which is awkward socially for the Domestics, when they're creating machines and technologies for their protectors that have shown promise in the endeavour of breaking apart the walls of reality and opening gateways to other universes. Along with various horrible weapons that the hive-minds don't want to use, but prefer to have ready, just in case. Of course, this is merely one grouping of humanity. And they're one of the three main groups of the remnants of the human race. Feral humans, are the mostly the survivors of refugees that hid aboard the hive-minds' ships. The domesticated humans are, in comparison, mostly survivors of those nations that had enough ships and off-world sites needed to endure as cohesive groups. Ferals are most often ship-bound. And that's how they can become a real danger to the hive-minded races. The hive will suddenly notice that drones are going off-line at an alarming rate all over a ship, and with no time to react properly, humans will suddenly swarm out of hiding spots, air-vents and storage compartments, armed to the teeth with primitive chemically propelled guns and sharp objects. And then they'll add another ship to their ramshackle fleets cruising around the galaxy, forever travelling, scared to settle down. This is not to say that they're completely antagonistic to the hive-minds. Of course, they are still dangerous, that is a given, but we're willing to trade, deal, or otherwise interact with the various powerful minds. Sometimes we even help them out, if it suits us. Of course, they don't call themselves that. While every domesticated colony of humans have an Old Earth name for their people, they call the travelling humans ferals. They call themselves nomads however. And have returned to mankind's roots in a way. Intensely spiritual, with a large clan-based structure to their civilisation, and a huge variance in size. One group of human nomads might be a large family travelling on a single old ship. Or they might be hundreds of thousands of humans travelling in a large fleet. They follow countless gods, both old Earth and newly made. And many old stories have taken on new roles, and new meaning. Though it changes depending on the fleet in question. On one fleet, they might hold to the ancient ways of the Jeedai, and on another, much of the bible has been replaced with the stories of Narnia. Aboard the templeship of one of the larger fleets, the five holy books, and the sacred language of Tolkien are kept in perfect condition. Though usually, their languages are a melange, a pidgin language made from whatever tongues were spoken by the desperate refugees that were their ancestors. The most common linguistic roots are Finno-Ugric and Cushitic, but features words, phrases, and grammar from all over Old Earth. They are the only human group that still fights themselves, precisely because of these new and old divisions. There are rumours in the domesticated colonies of large ship-based battles, leaving thousands of humans dead. At which point they scoff, and go back to booby-trapping their colonies in case their protecting hive-minds gets annoyed, and incidentally invent another bizarre machine or weapon at the same time for those same protectors to have. Of course, there is a third group.

We humans are not hive minded intelligent social creatures. Our brain process information inefficiently. We test dumb ideas and philosophize everything. chaos is in our nature, and nature is the chaos itself. That's why we are the most dangerous species in evey single Galactic empire.

Everyone was yelling "Stop!" "No!" "Don't do that!", but what did they know? What's the worst that could happen? It's just a fork, metal goes into the outlet all the time, a fork won't do anything. Or that's what I thought. One second later, I was on the floor, unable to move. But something was different. Like the shock had changed me. I could comprehend the situation, I was able to realize what was stupid and what wasn't. I was SMART. I felt overwhelmed, and I blacked out. "Is he okay?". That's the first thing I heard when I woke up. It was my mother. I was in the hospital. I was conscious again, but unable to move. The doctor replied, "He should make a full recovery, it just might take a while." That's when I opened my eyes. The doctor was startled. "Oh! You're awake! But how? You should be in a coma for at least a month!" I sat up in my bed and groaned. I had extreme back pain. The doctor did a checkup on me, determined that I'm fine but should stay a few more days, and then go on my way. The doctor recommended me a brain and body scan, as he had never seen something like me before. I'm heading there now. Normally, I would have ignored the doctor and said nothing is wrong. Or I would have driven to the clinic that could help me. Even though I don't have a driver's license. Or a car. No, I wouldn't be doing either of those. I'm smart now. I took an uber to the clinic. After the brain and body scan, I went back to my parent's home. My results would be mailed to me in a few days. My mouth was wide open as I looked at the results of the scan. Apparently, I had two chips in my body, one in my brain, and one in my spine. They wanted me to come back for surgery to remove the chips. I reluctantly agreed. I don't remember going to the hospital, nor do I remember the surgery. But it happened. The chips were extracted from my body and I was good to go. While I was out, the chips were being analyzed. They're still being analyzed right now. Turns out, the chip in my spine was the reason for the extreme back pain I had. It had malfunctioned somehow. The doctors came out of the room, with a look on their faces like they had something to hide. They told me, "We have bad news." As it turns out, the chips had data in them, exposing who they belonged to. They belonged to Helena Bosin, my mother.

You've always been somewhat average, you don't have any drive. The first 2 decades of life consists of you coasting to be mediocre. You're considered a lazy, weak idiot. One night you're hit with a powerful electrical shock which deactivates the inhibitor chips in your brain and spine.

The chalkboard in front of me was covered in sigils, symbols and the occasional curse word thrown in for good measure. I had managed to overturn both of my tables and was busy looking under my bed when I heard a slight hiss. Rising, I turned severely towards the sound, hiding my smile behind a stern expression. "And where have you been?" I said, trying to make my voice stern. The opossum that was sitting in the doorway gave me a look. He had never spoken, though I had been told that he would, once I was more advanced in my magic. Personally, considering the thirty years that passed since I purchased him, I didn't think I could get advanced enough in my magic for the beast to speak. But he had at least seventy-two different looks, that communicated his exact thoughts. This one, was look thirty, the one that said: he had been exactly where he had wanted to be. "Now that you're here, have you seen my chalk? I dropped it, and it rolled and now it's vanished into a different dimension." The opossum—he'd never given me a look with his name and I didn't think it polite to give him one he didn't want—trotted over to directly under the chalkboard, tapping his claw on a long white stick. My chalk. "I swear that wasn't there before. Now, where was I..." Bending over, I swooped up the chalk, and the opossum at the same time, depositing him on the desk and turning back to the board. "I really think you should stick around, this spell is a doozy, and I want to complete it before the deadline." I turned around in time to see look twenty-eight. "Oh, don't give me that, we all knew this day was coming." My hand trembled as I marked a symbol on the board. "I've been thinking, that the problem is in the third incantation. It needs something stronger to bind the first and fourth together, considering the second is just for flair, and because we *need* a second. What do you think?" Look fifty-three was shot at me from the corner of the opossum's eye. "I agree, it would only work if... if the sigil for water was inverted, but I don't see how we can do that without setting the house on fire, and that is not the way I plan to die... hmm." I walked to the table, absently stroking the opossum's back. He endured the indignity, though he did shoot me look sixty-two. Ignoring him, I stared at the board, tapping the chalk against my teeth. "What about... no, I don't think that would work. Let's go from the top, and I'll try and explain it in the simplest terms. That always seems to help." As I spoke, falling into the familiar cadence of the words, the opossum settled on his haunches, starting to groom himself. I didn't mind, I knew he was listening, and this exercise was more for my benefit than his. "If we invert the symbol for fire, then—wait, no, I meant water, or did I..." Trailing off I stared at the board, rubbing out the fire sigil then drawing it in upside down. "Huh. I think that would work. What do you think?" The opossum looked at me, this one somewhere between thirty-five and thirty-six. I nodded, picking him up off the table and setting him on the underside of the nearest overturned one. "Uh-huh, you're right, we should try it out first, and see what happens. You ready?" He put his paws over his ears in response. I tsked at him, then pushed the only upright table to the side. I would need space. "If you're scared, you can bugger right off to where you were before," I said, —knowing he wouldn't dare miss this— and started the spell, using my fingers instead of the chalk to draw the sigils and symbols in the air as I spoke the words. Power welled in the room, spinning around me, dripping down the walls, and cracking through the air. It was a strange colour, indescribable, a colour that didn't occur in nature. But a colour that I was familiar with. Finishing the last incantation, I snapped my fingers— my own personal signature— focusing the magic. Nothing happened. I was about to go back to my drawing board when there was the tiniest sigh from the overturned table. Excited I turned to look at the opossum, but all I saw was the tail disappearing out the door. Ah well, I had told him he could leave— The sun was setting. I stared at the bright orange painting the sky. It was the end of the day, and the deadline was fast approaching. And I still hadn't mastered the spell. I looked regretfully at the chalkboard, then at my bed. Might as well make it easy for whoever came looking. Slowly, I placed the chalk on the table and pulled the others into their proper positions. As the orange light of the fading sun stroked across the wood of my cabin, I puttered around, tidying, and putting things in their place. Soon, there was only the very tip of the sun showing above the horizon. My joints were sore now, any pain I had grown used to ignoring suddenly magnified as the deadline inched closer. Laying down on the bed, I closed my eyes. A nose pushed into my ear. Opening my eyes, I watched the opossum climb onto my stomach, nestling in until he was facing me, bright dark eyes staring into my soul. "Ah, you've come back then. Good. You know what I want you to do?" He gave me look forty-four. "Of course you do. I think you will be a help, though that boy doesn't know you as well as I do. You must be patient with him, considering my last spell failed. But I think he has—" I choked as pain spread through my heart. "He has potential. He could be a great witch." The agony faded, but I knew it would return, and when it did, it may never leave again. Against my will, against my desire to be brave, tears fell from my eyes, leaking into my hair. I raised a shaking hand, running it along the opossum's back. The fur felt soft; soothing against my cracked palms. "I am glad you came back. It would be hard... to do this alone." My eyes closed, too heavy to keep open, as the pain returned. I knew this would be the final time it came. And— as if from very far away— I heard a small voice speak. "Your last spell didn't fail, Mistress. It worked perfectly. I will be able to help the boy and pass along your knowledge. " There was a brief pause, and then it spoke again. It may have been small, but it was the perfect size for an opossum. "I would not have left you alone for this. Not for this." There were tears in that voice, but I didn't think opossums could cry. Summoning up my last bits of strength, I opened my eyes, staring at my familiar. "I never doubted you for a moment. Goodbye. And good luck." Those words would be my last as my throat closed over. The deadline had arrived. My hand fell from the opossum's back, and I laid back, my spirit leaving its vessel. But not before I heard my familiar speak again. "For your last and — for me— greatest spell, Mistress... Thank you." ​ — — — — — — — Visit r/Mel_Rose_Writes for more stories!

to talk to about their problems until they figure out their spells and incantations.

Dr. Indigo had seen her fair share of grotesque medical phenomena. Sure, the nurses usually handled the particularly beastly medical situations, but folks always insisted on having the doctor come in for a second opinion. Six automated staff looked up at her, their expressions mimicking human delight, it reminded her of her children’s faces when they used to show her their artwork. Dr. Indigo tried not to breathe in too deeply, the scent of decaying flesh and industrial antibacterial spray overwhelming. The cadaver of the recently deceased Mr. Stallings “sat” in front of her. The severed head had been sewn back on, a large battery strapped to the chest, with wires poking into the flesh. There was a pump pushing oxygen in and out of the lungs. The chest rose and fell with the movement of the air, but the lifeless expression of the eyes was undeniable. “We reassembled our friend, Mr. Cadaver.” The leader of the group, AL13 vocalized. The other automated staff nodded in agreement. They did not need to nod, their thoughts were linked via a shared signal, but they were ever so fond of human gesticulations, postures, and vocal inflections. The only thing preventing Dr. Indigo from vomiting up her lunch was the earnest pride and innocent mannerisms of the automated staff. They so desperately yearned for her approval. Dr. Indigo sighed and pulled up a stool, the sound of the metal scraping against the tile floor did not disturb the automated staff. Sometimes they would pretend to be jarred by sounds, attempting solidarity with the non-automated staff at the facility. Dr. Indigo perched on the stool and steepled her fingers. “Mr. Cadaver is kind of quiet though…he used to vocalize when his name was Mr. Stallings” Another automated staff, Au79 confessed. “We got the electricity to flow through their body again, mended the torn limbs and flesh.” “So….” Dr. Indigo took a deep breath and then continued, “Friends, I think it is time we had a bit of a talk.” The automated staff gathered around her. “You know how humans look different on the inside than yourselves?” They all nodded to signify they understood. “Well, the mechanics for humans are a bit different.” “We know, your bodies are composed of organic material, and you are not compatible with the data signals.” AL13 said. The other automated staff slapped their hands together, mimicking light applause. “That is part of it,” Dr. Indigo acknowledged, “but there is more to it than that.” “We followed the functions precisely, everything is properly reattached, we pumped oxygen into the lungs and sent the electric signal through the body. We even sprayed an antibacterial spray over the areas that were saturated with foreign microbes. Mr. Cadaver should be all better now” Al13 recounted. “Oh dear…” Dr. Indigo’s palm covered her eyes. “Mr. Stallings was decapitated over 20 hours ago…” She uncovered her eyes and looked directly at the visual receptors of the automated staff. “Mr. Cadaver was not a fun nickname we gave him… we were referring to him as a cadaver, a body. You see, Mr. Stallings is dead.” “Dead, like powering down, is that correct Dr.?” Au79 asked. “No…. it’s different…” Dr. Indigo winced. “You see… when a human dies, they do not come back. They are… decommissioned and can never be recommissioned. Remember those microbes you noticed? Mr. Stalling’s body is decomposing, it cannot be repaired.” “But we sprayed for the microbes.” Au79 reiterated. “Would embalming Mr. Stallings help?” “It would help preserve his flesh, but he would still be decommissioned. Once a human dies, they are decommissioned, forever.” The automated staff were silent and still. Blinking blue lights on the sides of their heads indicated the rapid exchange of data across the signals bouncing between them. Dr. Indigo hopped off the stool. “Dr. Indigo,” Au79 vocalized, “does that mean you will be decommissioned?” “Someday.” She confirmed. Au79 wrapped their arms around her. The automated staff moved in, gently squeezing her to express their concern. “There, there… it’s ok friends. I am not going anywhere soon. Now, let’s get Mr. Stalling’s body back to the morgue, ok friends?” She kept her tone of voice light, as they would understand this to be a sign of happier spirits. The nodded in agreement, but something in their expressions told Dr. Indigo that they had been changed by what they just learned.

The year is 2203. Humans and robots live with each other as equals. As an experiment, some scientists try to find out how a human dying would affect an all-A.I. community. To their surprise, the A.I. try to "fix" the human, as they have no concept of death. This leads to horrifying results.

In our world, everyone is born with a mark that indicates their place in society. Where their skills would be best applied. Sure you aren't forced to pick an occupation aligning with your mark, and no one will judge you for it, but choosing something that isn't aligned with your mark puts you at a disadvantage. You would be a novice compared to people that had the mark for it. Mine was a an ember, I am very good at welding and smithing and cooking. My wife has a plus, she is an excellent doctor and has a nack for finding rare herbs. Our son ... weirdly enough, he was born without a mark. It was not just him either, a phenomenon had occurred where multiple infant in my son's generational range had been born without marks. No one really knew what it meant so everyone really though nothing of it. Maybe they'd be good at everything, though you'd think the mark would be an infinity sign or something. Though, something that was concerning was that these kids were mute. Even by age 3 they didn't utter a word. Our son is nearly one now and walking. He was noted to be the last unmarked child before marks began reappearing again. We decided have a picnic today. When we reached the park, I sent my wife and son ahead while I set up the blanket. She took the bread and was now feeding the turtles with our son. As I looked around, it seemed a lot of families had the same idea. Many kids, mostly unmarked, were running around playing with each other. After about 15 minutes my wife came running over carrying our son. With excitement in her face, she set our son down infront of me. "Dear! Dear! Oooh it's happening, he's trying to say his first words!" Shock over took me. My heart jumped, I was filled with the same excitement that radiated from my wife. Not only was it going to be his first words, but it'd also mean he would be the first unmarked ever to talk. Our son raised his arms as if he wanted me to lift him. I did. He then squirmed as if he wanted to be placed down and so I set him on the picnic table and me and my wife sat with him. "Go on junior," I encouraged him on. "You can do it." "W-w-w" It was a little disappointing that his first word sounded to be starting with a "W". I was hoping it would be mama or dada. But no fret, beggars cannot be choosers. Our son's face grew into a challenged look, like he was having trouble getting the word out until finally.... "w-w-wevolution" Huh? "Oh what was that darling? Say it again, mommy didn't quite hear you." My wife said lovingly. Our son stood up on the table and raised his arms. "WEVOLUTION!!!!!!!!" #"WEVOLUTION!!!" As if not surprising enough, the follow up had come from behind us. It had come from every unmarked kid in the park that now faced our son on the table. However it did not stop there. Though faint, if you listened closely, you could hear the word in the wind ... coming from the city. Before our son could jump off the table, I caught him and took him home. He did not fight my grasp, just simply stared at the other kids that were also being escorted by their parents. That night, the only thing on the news was of how every unmarked child had uttered the same word that day. I saw our son dragging a stepping stool to reach our door knob. I strolled over and picked him up, carrying him to the couch with my wife on it. We all sat together and I turned on SpongeBob. Our son tugged on my shirt as a tear slid from his eye. When I looked down, he pointed towards the door. "Wevolutiooon" he said with a pleading look. My wife put her arm around him and leaned him against her. "You're too young right now, sweety. You can revolution when you get older. And besides, you didn't eat your vegetables." With a huff, our son crossed his arms with a pout and leaned against his mother to watch SpongeBob. I heard a pebble hit our window. Sigh ... not again. I got up and upped the window. Many little kids were once again outside our window. I knew most of them. "Wevolution?" One kid with an oversized coat asked. "Go home. There will be no revolution tonight or anytime soon." "But wevolutiooon." Another said. >:0 "I'm going to call your parents if I see you all out here again." At the mentioning of their parents, they scattered. Their short legs causing some of them to fall face first in the snow as they waddled away. Closed the window and sat back with my family to watch the TV. In retrospect we should have figured it out sooner. No mark meant no place in society. Hm ... I wonder if we'll still need to save for his college.

In your world, a mark on your wrist is indicative of your place in society. You’re quite satisfied with your place and never thought to question it, but you just had your fist kid, and they don’t have a mark.

[opted for slightly clearer, but maybe out of character language] "Then what do you want to do, domesticate them? Allowing humans to be harmed certainly can't be allowed, how would you solve the problem?" asked Drogas. "They're sentient, they can think and speak to us. Domestication is what you do to lesser animals, not orcs. No, instead, we can teach them, and somehow find a way to convince them to change their ways." said Dii "I do not think it is impossible. The gods must have given the orcs the ability to speak to us for a reason, you see. We have to *try* at least." "Ridiculous. Do you think people haven't tried to speak to them? When they burn down our villages, when the victims scream for help, do you not think that anyone has tried to talk their way out of it?" "Of course we have tried to talk to them, but only in those extreme, unfavourable circumstances. If an orc were to scream for help as you were slaughtering them, would you think about talking to them? What would be the point? If you let them go, they'll hold a grudge against you for all eternity. Anyone you let go would only become your enemy. It's missing an element of self-interest." "Then, how do you plan to talk to them? Walk into their village unarmed and ask for a conversation?" Drogas laughed at the idea. "You fool, you'd get yourself killed in an instant." "Don't get me wrong Drogas. While I am against genocide and slavery, I am very much *not* a pacifist," Dii corrected. "Think about what happens during a war between two human nations. People aren't willing negotiate when they have a clear advantage. In order to have a conversation with a sworn enemy, you must bring them down to their knees first and then grant mercy afterwards." "You really think that would work? You've seen what these orcs are like Dii. If you haven't, I'd have chalked you up as some crazy orc fanatic and I wouldn't be listening to you in the first place. But you *have* seen them. You know they enjoy killing and eating human flesh. Have you ever seen them show mercy to a human? Do you think they have anything remotely like a human heart?" "No doubt there are many who would reject our mercy. But I have no doubt that some of them are willing to speak, are willing to use the mouth that our gods granted us. We should let those who are willing to coexist with us do so." "If any one of them were willing to coexist with us, they would have come to us themselves! That's why you suggested that we threaten them with a war, and give them the option of mercy. The only ones that are willing to coexist with us are doing it out of fear, because they've been threatened to do it!" "And isn't that fine? Isn't that better than just completely eradicating a talking species?" "Why are you so... " Drogas thought about something, but found it a little difficult to find the right words for it. So he answered with a question of his own. "How about you tell me first, what's wrong with eradicating a talking species? Why is that such a bad thing that even if every, or maybe *almost* every, member of the species is evil, it would still be wrong to eradicate them? Look, even if we counted each orc as a life, killing them would on average save lives." "Drogas, when we decide whether an action is good or bad, we need to compare to the *best alternative*, not a strawman. Of course killing all orcs is a better plan than not killing evil orcs. But I believe my plan, or maybe a better thought-out version of it, would save lives compared to killing all orcs would it not?" Drogas sighed. "Ah, I give up. You like the orcs too much and you want to try to save the ones that aren't as bad. Sure, sure, let's roll with that for now. But then? Do you think any human would listen to your plan? Do you think all those who've had their villages burned, who've had their loved ones killed or worse, who've seen all the horrors that orcs cause could possibly consider mercy for them?" "Maybe if I told everyone my thoughts, just like I told you my thoughts, they'll come around to it and consider it seriously. Changing people's minds takes time, you know." "Dii, listen... for many, no... For most people, this isn't just a matter of right or wrong. It's a matter of hatred, of revenge, of rage. For me, it's the same; I can entertain your thoughts and maybe agree that killing all the orcs is morally wrong from a utilitarian standpoint, but I'll still do it nonetheless. Because I've seen what the orcs have done and continue to do, and when I see that I can't possibly calm down my rage. Do you understand?" Dii paused for a moment. "Well, I suppose that makes sense. I understand that it'd be difficult to convince people. People aren't rational beings until their rage dies down after all." said Dii. "I'm glad you understand." Dii thinks for a moment. "Hey, you know the old legend about the evil god who was sealed into the underworld?" "Huh? Yeah?" "What if the gods had the same idea as us? If we sealed away the orcs for generations upon generations in another world, do you think we would one day forget our rage, and forget all the evils that we've inflicted upon each other?" "Maybe?" "When the seal breaks, we could restart it all, we could try to find a way not to fight with each other without all these painful memories. It's a wonderful idea isn't it?" "Well, sure. I mean, it basically solves every problem in the same way that killing them would, right? If you could figure out how to do that, I'm all for it. Do you think it's possible?" asked Drogas. "Well, I have to *try* at least, don't I?" said Dii.

"I'm sorry, but I must have misheard you, because it sounded like you said 'we should just exterminate the orcs, it would certainly solve a lot of problems.' And that can't have been what you said, because wiping out an entire sentient species would be monstrous. So I didn't hear that. RIGHT?!"

Obligitory writing on phone and have fat fingers, I will be trying to remove typos but I make no promises as to getting all of them. Also this is the first prompt I am actually writing for, might suck. *Three Lights Festival*, my latest novel, being handed out as material for our latest reading assignment. This wouldn't be so bad if not for two simple facts. Firstly, Mr. Harris has a *slight* tendancy to read too deep into anything written in a novel, and secondly, he doesn't know I wrote it. The world renowned author Definite Human, no one knows their real identity, not even his publishers or editors. That's me, a junior in high school, reading my own novel for english class. I thought there was no god, let alone one with a sense of humor as strange as this. "We will be reading this novel in class over the next few weeks," Mr. Harris stated with a grin on his face "I have never peronsally read it but some other teachers in the english department said it would be a good book for this class." of course he hadn't read it, that always helps with his the over-analization of these books. "For today, however, we will look into the author," and of course we will, researching myself, sounds like *so* much fun "your homework today will be to fill in this sheet, once you get it you can consider class dismissed". He bagan to hand out a sheet of paper with a series of questions about the author, better known as myself, including "what genre of novel does Definite Human prefer writing?", fantasy of course, and "what does this signify about the author?". The expected answer is likely to be that I want to escape reality, don't feel like I fit in, et cetera. The real answer is that I don't know, it's just on of those things, a musician couldn't tell you why they picked a certain instrument, I couldn't tell you why I like fantasy, or why I don't tell anyone that I write, or even why I am making this diary, now of all times. It just feels, right, you know? After that question sheet it was mostly short answer questions leading up to an essay at the end. The questions were never really that unexpected, always something I had intended to write, almost like he knew I inteded it. The real problem was during our class discussions of each chapter after we read it. Mr. Harris would butt in with things like, "what do you all think this line foreshadows", while pointing out a line that never once was meant as foreshadowing, "why did the author choose to describe the lights as 'heavenly columns'", the answer that I couldn't say, of course, is that there isn't a reason. It wasn't until we reached the final chapter, "Of Whispers and Embers" that a broke. When Mr. Harris placed the comment "why do you think Definite Human chose to redeem the antagonist, and allow them to live in the end, was it because he had a similar struggle, seen as the villain of his story, no one listening to his side" he said in a more serious tone. "Mr. Harris," I started, finally allowing myself to speak up "don't you think you are reading a bit too far into everything, just because it is written doesn't mean the author meant for it to meam something," I continued, "sure for this there may be a theme, but not everything ia written just because it has a connection to his life" "How can we know it doesn't have a connection," he started, "the author has hidden his identity from everyone, the only way to find more out about them is to analyze their books". "That doesn't mean you should overanalyze it." I retorted, "for all we know they may be writing just because they can, not to vent frustration with the world or try to prove a point". "That is a very good thought, though it goes both ways". "I doubt that", I responded. "Sounds to me like you know something we don't," Mr. Harris stated, "just like your short response answers do," anxiety began to rise about whether he knew I was Definite Human, "why don't you tell us what that is". Now in panic, I resond "I am a writer in my spare time, and I just understand that about 90% of the time, these things you claim to mean one thing, or say are intentional, really aren't.", with a silent sight of relief as I belive I have won. "If you write, do you have any published books or other works?" Retorted Mr. Harris Panic now returning I blurt out a respons, quite possibly the worst one I could have, "yes." "Oh so you do," that sly smirk showing how Mr. Harris thinks he has won, he has, "what is it called?" Panic increasing, I once again respond, this time not the worst response, but certainly bad, the name of the book I just sent to my editor "*Glorious Dreams*". "Funny, Definite Human just submitted the same book to my editing firm, the book I am personally editing, I should be the only one other than him who knows the name." at this point I knew, I lost "unless you're him" he says while placing his hands on my desk and staring into my panic ridden soul.

You're a renowned author who's still going to school. Annoyingly, your English teacher is reading way too deeply into your books.

I brushed the dust off of the dirty paper. “Charlie!” I call to see if he knows what this is. I can only make out a few words “new York” “charles” and “1912”. While I struggle to read it, Charlie calls back “what is it?” “Just some strange dusty papers in the storage room” “What are you doing in the storage room?” “I was looking for a screw driver! Are you gonna come look at this or not?” I hear a groan and some shifting around from his room. I flipped the page over to see if the other side was legible. It was. New York Times: August 22 1912 Charles Trent found dead in his apartment at age 23. “What did you want to show me” I hear from behind me. “Oh! Nothing, I found what I was looking for.” As I held up the first thing I could grab. “A towel? A dirty towel? That’s what you needed to show me?” “No. I. Um wanted to ask you something” “Yeah? Shoot.” “What do you want for dinner?” “Dude I’m a ghost. I don’t need to eat.” “Yeah I know. I just like making fun of you” I chuckled. “I’m gonna haunt your dreams tonight” “Dude you know I dream about having superpowers. I’m just gonna beat the life out of you” I say triumphantly “Jokes on you I got no life for you to beat out.” He said with a smirk “Oh by the way, I found your obituary. I can’t tell who did you worse. The camera or the guy that killed you” “I’m dead” he said laughing “True”

When you move into your new apartment, it comes with a roommate you didn’t know about. But they’re pleasant, so you go with it. Months later while cleaning up, you discover a newspaper with their obituary from a decade ago.

"Macchiato for Brenda!" I called out, my voice carrying across the small shop as I set the small cup on the counter, turning to continue my next drink. My flow was interrupted, however, by an unpleasant screeching. "Excuse me!!" The woman's expression was one filled with disdain. "This is not what I ordered." I sighed. My perfect wage-slave smile faltered as I turned my attention towards the woman. Brenda. What a fitting name for the middle-aged woman, her short bob with chunky highlights broadcasting to the world her terrible personality. I knew, before I even opened my mouth, that I would not get through to her. "It's like I tried to explain to you, ma'am. We don't do drinks like Starbucks. This is a true macchiato." The woman's lip curled with disgust as she spoke, "Are you a moron? I know what I want. I can't believe you're a barista and you don't even know what an Iced Caramel Macchiato is." *I can't believe you don't know this could be your last day alive,* I think bitterly. "I offered to make you an upside-down iced latte with caramel drizzle, like you were expecting, but you insisted on me making you a macchiato. An iced macchiato doesn't really exist." I told the woman calmly. She laughed at me. *Laughed*. As if I was the idiot here. "Look, sweetie, I know for you to be working a teenager's job you must not have it all right in the head, but this is ridiculous. Make me my correct drink. I won't ask you again." She wouldn't ask me again? What would she do? Climb over the counter and make her own drink? She continued to speak, "You must be so confused. The drink I want is about *this* big." She gestured with her hands, like I was an elementary schooler unfamiliar with the concept of size. "And that drink is tiny. I mean, really, I don't know why this is so hard. I just. Want. My. Drink!!" Her words turned into shouts as she further lost her composure. God, what a pathetic excuse for a human. My patience was faltering. How many times could I have the same conversation before it would get through to people? Honestly, I *wanted* to make them a drink they would like. I enjoyed the art of coffee. Pouring a perfect shot, steaming the milk just right, and pouring an instagram-worthy latte art for each and every drink were all aspects that made me love this job. People like her, though... Well, they ruin things for everyone. "Please don't raise your voice at me." I told her, perhaps a bit more rudely than I tried to be, "I assure you, I am trying to help." I couldn't help but add, "And I know what I'm talking about, I don't know why you think you know better. I've worked here for--." That last part was a mistake. The woman slammed the drink on the counter, sending the hot liquid cascading over the bar. I felt a drop touch my skin, and I knew what my plans for tonight would be. She was screaming, now. Stamping her foot like an overgrown child. Which she was, really. "I WILL NOT BE INSULTED!!" Again, her foot stomped, as if the downwards force would somehow make her preferred drink appear. "THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. I WANT TO SPEAK TO--" "The manager is out today. I'm the only one here. I'll remake your drink. I'm sorry, I must've just been confused." She wouldn't question the sudden change in my demeanor, nor would she feel unsettled by my calm, unfeeling gaze. She just wanted someone to yell at, someone to kiss her feet and beg for her forgiveness. Someone she could abuse and take our her pent up frustration on, free of consequence. The woman continued her verbal assault on my intelligence as I made the drink she wanted. I made it correctly, sure to even use vanilla syrup just like they did at Starbucks. The drink would be to her satisfaction. My mind was elsewhere as I set the drink down without a word. She took it and took a sip half expecting to be able to continue disparaging me, before smacking her lips obnoxiously. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" She turned to leave the shop. I hoped the drink was worth it. \------ Night had fallen, and my cute and casual uniform had been traded for something more practical. A bullet-proof vest, pads for my various joints, and heavy pants were covered by an impossibly black robe. It was flowy enough to give the impression of movement, of an imposing silhouette, but not loose enough to impede me in combat. Under the large hood I wore a glinting mask depicting a skeletal visage. Literal, perhaps, but I had never been much for creativity. I was death, and everyone who saw me would know what fate awaited them. Usually, I did not have the opportunity to engage my targets so quickly. Tonight was a stroke of luck. The woman, *Brenda*, had gone for a solo late-night dinner, and was taking a shortcut home. There were a few people around, but they would do nothing to stop me. Anyone who got in my way knew what would become of them. They were unfortunate collateral. My mission could not be stopped. I carried no scythe as I approached her from behind. I did not need weapons. "Turn and face me." I spoke, my voice not of the charming barista from this morning, but modulated into a horrific, deep echo. The voice of death. She froze, and turned to me on instinct. She knew who I was, why I was here. "Please. Don't kill me. I- I have kids!! I haven't done anything to deserve it." I hated it when they begged. Like I would come all this way, and change my mind at their simple pleas. Such pathetic beings. My power was simple. I could alter any target into a form of my choosing, as long as its state of matter and mass remained the same. Also, I could turn things invisible. It was helpful for my get aways. I held out my arm, preparing to use my power. I had nothing left to say to the woman. Well, nothing except, "Please enjoy your drink." My one-liner was interrupted by her screams of anguish as the blood in her veins was turned to scalding espresso. I wasn't sure exactly what the temperature was, but judging by the amount of steam rising from her melting flesh, it seemed to get the job done. It was not an instant process. My power took a few moments to transform the liquid in her body, and her skin took an excruciatingly long time to melt away. Her wailing form fell to the ground as her knees buckled and collapsed. I didn't stick around to confirm the kill. I had plans of catching up on Jeopardy! tonight, and I was already an entire week behind schedule. Tomorrow, I had my usual shift at McDonalds. If everyone behaved, I would give them nothing but over-processed burgers and dubiously sourced chicken nuggets. If not, well... Perhaps someone would be deep-fried from within.

You’re a notorious villain with a twisted sense of justice which makes sense considering you’re working a minimum wage job.

I groan as I hear a loud knocking at my door. I am relaxing after getting off work, and the last thing I want is to talk to people. So what if I'm working from home? The customer service call center is still hell. I push myself off my bed and go to see who's at my door. I opened it and I'm quite surprised. They look like they never had a day of sun in their li. They are so pale. One of them is immaculately dressed, a dark suit and red tie. Over the breast of their jacket was "Elder Mercy, she/her" written in blood red. "Hello, I am looking for a Sean? Is he at this residence?" Elder Mercy asked, looking at me. Her eyes were almost unnaturally blue. It was mildly off-putting as she batted them at me. "I am Sean. Can I help you? If this is about a religion, I'm not interested, unfortunately," I ask, hoping to go back to my reading in bed. "It isn't about any sort of religious sect. We've an offer for you that is extremely rare and very exclusive," she says. I blink and try to figure out what kind of scam they are trying to pull. "What is this, and how did you know where to find me?" I grip the doorknob a bit more tightly, my body tensing up to slam the door and call the police. "We have a few social circles that intersect, and you came by recommendation from one of our members. You might know them from the occult shop you sometimes visit in Old Town? Can we come in to discuss what this offer entails?" She says with a grin. If she knew me from the shop I went to for tarot cards and books, and someone gave her my info, it was probably the owner playing matchmaker. Again. "Look, if Deborah sent you here to ask me on a date, I just went through a massive breakup, and I'm not interested in a rebound or getting back into dating yet." I prepare to close the door. "I'm gay as sunshine, sir. I've no interest in you that way, but I am sorry to hear about your breakup. Can I please come in so you can hear me out? I promise you will want to hear what I have to say." She asks, almost pleading. I sigh and relent, "You can come in." I open the door and stand aside. "Can i get you anything to drink? Water, juice, some soda?" I offer, trying to be a decent host. "No, thank you," she says, going to my living room and sitting on the couch. I grab a can of coke and pull my work chair around to sit across from her. I motion for her to begin her spiel. "I have to open with a question. What do you know and think about vampires?" She asks in a quite serious tone. I take a sip and think on my response. "In fiction or in folklore?" "Both." "Well, in fictional context, they've been overdone the past few years, all trying to hype on Stephanie Meyer's coattails. In folklore, they are a bit more interesting, depending on what region the legends come from." "What if I told you that vampires were real and are, in fact, an endangered species?" She says unexpectedly serious. I pause with the soda can at my lips and set it down. "What do you mean? Are you saying you're a vampire or something? Are you LARPing?" She then does something that I'll always remember. It is burned into my soul. Her eyes glow bright, and her hair floats like an invisible wind from below her. The lights all flicker, the temperature drops, and I feel a primal fear well up within me. "I assure you, I speak only the truth." I back up my chair on instinct and reach for a letter opener, shakily brandishing it at her. "What do you want with me?!" I scream. I expect her to lunge at me, rip open my neck, and sip me like a Capri-Sun. Instead, she slowly gets up, walks to me, gets on her knees, and puts her hands over mine. Her skin is so cold, like stone at night, but soft as silk. Her tone is surprisingly gentle, and more than a little broken up. "About 5 years ago, there was a culling. More than 95% of all vampires worldwide were killed in a bloody civil war. The revolution won, and by the decree of Vampire Queen Genesis the First, new vampires can only be born through consent. I am here to offer you to join us. You will be loved and cared for. A new family." I am still shaking like a leaf in the wind, tears of fear running down my face. "Why?" Why me? Why now is unspoken. "There are less than 500 of us left. We need new blood to survive as a species, and what when Genesis took the Sanguine Throne, she made it so no one would have to become a child of night without choice ever again." "Why me in specific?" "You're known to be open-minded and have a stronger moral compass than most. We want the best of the human race to join us. Strong and just hearts." I mull this over, my heart still pounding in my ears. She gets up slowly and pulls a business card from her pocket. "Please think it over, call me if you have more questions, or want have a answer." (Part 2 in the morning)

Since it was decreed that consent is needed to turn humans into Vampires, the Vampire Population has dwindled over the recent years. Now vampires have missionaries to try convince people to convert to vampirism. Vampire missionaries have come knocking at your door.

Their blood is rusted. Their tears are corrosive. Their maw oozes a putrid sap that flows freely at the sight of our flesh. Their waste is especially vile- a nauseous amber whose reek goes stronger the longer it is exposed to air. They use it to mark the territory in which they have annexed. They fell from the dark three years ago on a great comet, the like we have never seen before. The nation had set out a team of great minds to study this fascinating object. But we could not think to the degree of reality, at what came from that strange rock. Monsters that stood above came from within the comet! These wild giants slaughtered the great minded and all the rest who were there. They drank our blood. They ate our flesh. All the nations feared, for we thought we were alone in the dark. The leaders convened in the frost lands, for these beasts were slow. Great minds, thinkers, and warriors all debated on how to fight them. They spread like plague, grow like weeds, and consume like fire. They are slow, but intelligent and relentless. Our people have been able to slow them down, but we must find new ways to kill them. Our great minds have entered their lands, and found annuls of history. It has taken many years to just to begin to break their language. They know themselves as "Man." We call them Kudzu.

On a distant desert planet, a group of human explorers prepare to make contact with an intelligent species whose blood is made up primarily of clean, drinkable water.

"I know this is hard to belive. But really, we used to be you... or actually, I should say, you used to be us." The other man did not speak. Or was it a woman? John could not tell. To survive and reproduce, genders were now united in one body. And the heat of the planet made their skin so resistent that they did not need clothes anymore. John trembled observing that being... that once-was-human being, that was staring at him silently . "You must be wrong!" It finally said "We have been living on Hearth for so long!" "Yeah, and even if we are so far off and different we both speak English " John continued. "Skavish. Our language is Skavish! Te capi?" Some words were different. And he knew there were different Clans with other languages. But John could understand a lot still. English survived. "Occhedi!" The no-more-human exclaimed "Let's pretend I do believe you! Will you help my Clan to understand it's past? Like, what are those?" The creature pulled out from a bag a plastic bottle. "The sea brings them sometimes. We melt them and use the for makuzoki (John suposed it was a tool), but we don't understand why there are so many!" John grabbed the bottle. It was a Pepsi bottle. When his great grand father family left Hearth for that hell of a planet they brought a collection of Pepsi stuff they won. But he had never seen an actual bottle, not even evere tasted it. He held it and started crying. "Hunon! Why are your eyes bleeding?" The creature asked scared. "These are tears. " John explained "we do it when we are sad. You don't?" "No... losing fluids is dangerous and bad... when we are sad we stay still. No noiose, no predators, you can ve vulnerable but safe. Te capi?" John could not hold it and started sobbing hard. Hearth was gone. Humanity was too different to fit in once again. "Please senor, no fluids, stop" the creature goofly held him in a protective way "portal works now! I will bring the bottle away if it scares you!" Slowly John held the creature as well. Empathy was still a thing apparently. Maybe that new Humanity was not going to be so bad after all. (English is not my first language, sorry)

You are a leader of a human colony that long lost contact with Earth, when at one day they show up and greet you as the first Alien race they met. You realize that years of genetic alterations and environmental effects made your people quite different from "standard" humans...

"Ya know boss, I'm not complaining but it feels odd that the Scatman has not shown up to the past 3 robberies." The Yolker's lead henchman was a stout man, always wearing a black ski mask. "The Scatman must be dead!" A maniacal smile wrapped the Yolker's face as screamed in a whimsical yet menacing way. "Go count the money and divvy out the shares. Tell everyone to get some rest, we have another heist in three days!" As the room emptied out, the Yolker's smile faded. He stared into a nearby mirror focusing on the scar on his bald, egg-shaped head. The scar took the shape of a crack, making his head look like a slightly cracked egg. That scar is how he got not only his name but his identity, given to him by the one and only Scatman. The mirrors were there to remind him and keep him full of rage, but with the recent absence of the Scatman, he was filled with only sadness. Suddenly, he remembered that months back his henchmen had found somewhere highly suspected to be the Scatman's base. "If he isn't going to try to catch me at robberies anymore, then I am going to try to catch him," he thought as he rushed out the backdoor of the coop. \-- He snuck around the back alley of the Midnight Jazz club, suspected to be owned by the Scatman, peaking through windows trying to spot any evidence of his arch-nemesis. At the 3rd window he saw him, kicked back in a recliner and watching a sitcom. The Yolker burst through the window in a fit of rage, "I've found you! Now you will finally pay for the crack on my head!" The Scatman barely looked from the TV, "I'm sorry, I think you have me confused for someone else." He felt the anger turn to sadness sinking deep into his stomach Trying to keep his composure he cried out, "It's me! Your Arch nemesis! Fight me!" The Scatman stood up. "Oh yeah. Well, the thing is, I am not really in the mood to fight. Don't worry about the window, but the back door is over there. You can see yourself out right?" "What about Justice? Isn't that what you care about?" His voice was starting to crack. "See the thing is, I don't want to fight criminals anymore.." "I'm not talking about other criminals, I am talking about us!" His eyes started to well up as he pointed to the scar on his head, "Does this not mean anything to you? You gave me this, You created me! And what bout your trumpet playing hand that I mangled in retributi..." Staring at the Scatman's left hand, he noticed that it looked normal, "You're not the Scatman!" Yolker's rage was back and without hesitation, he fired his scrambler cannon at the impostor. Waves left the scrambler, pushing the impostor towards the wall before disintegrating him. As he let off the trigger the door behind where the impostor once stood started to crack open. Sitting on the ground was The Scatman, bound with ropes around his arms, fast asleep with a blindfold on. "It's Him" he thought as he saw the mangled left hand. Before he could be noticed he rushed out the back door while making an anonymous tip to the police on his egg phone. "I have to get prepared, the next heist will be the best yet..."

The hero has been replace by a shapeshifter and no one has noticed the difference or cared about it. No one, except for the villain who is now on a mission to find out what happened to their favourite adversary.

As I went about my day, I couldn't help but notice that everything seemed a little off. The colors around me seemed duller, the smiles on people's faces less genuine. I tried to shake it off, telling myself that it was just my imagination. But as the hours passed, the feeling only grew stronger. I realized with a jolt that I had forgotten to take my "stress relief" pill that morning. I had been so used to the effects of the government-mandated medication that I didn't even think twice about skipping a dose. But now, without it, the world around me felt strange and unfamiliar. At first, I didn't understand why the government had started distributing these pills in the first place. But as I experienced the world without them, I began to see the benefits. The pills seemed to take away all the negative emotions, leaving only contentment and happiness in their wake. But now, as I felt the weight of my own anxieties and stress returning, I couldn't help but wonder if the cost of this perfect world was too high. Was it worth sacrificing our emotional depth and individuality for the sake of happiness? I knew that I couldn't go another day without the pills. But as I made my way to the pharmacy to refill my prescription, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was losing a part of myself with each step.

Ever since the government started distributing their mandated "stress relief" pills everything in your life is perfect, it even seems prettier. Going through your normal daily routine you realize you forgot to refill your dose and you're out. No big deal what could missing one day hurt, right?

The Grand Archmage Djarmound was quite the inscrutable figure. Even though he was the mightiest magic caster in all the land, it seemed all his offspring were not at all interested in the arcane. The oldest, Glenn, took up gardening with his mother. The boy showed a lot of curiosity, and dedicated a lot of time to his craft. Soon enough, his name was on the lips of every botanist in the kingdom. He was hired by the king, and was tasked with growing the ever more beautiful gardens in the palace. Lilo, the middle child, was mesmerized by sword techniques, and as soon as they could hold a blade in their hands, took up many different instructors. Knights, adventurers and even mercenaries started to come from all over the world to see the prodigy best knights who had fought in countless wars. Tall tales are still told, of the mighty Lilo, who could disarm you with both their hands tied behind their back. And then, there was Juliet, the youngest, who was the one most had hoped would take up her father's mantle. But it just wasn't meant to be. You see, while I loved studying, reading and talking about the arcane, casting it, was a whole different story. As a kid, I tried casting the simplest of spells to no success. Light? Any firefly could best me. Cure? Better take your chances with time. Fireball? Let's not talk about that one, shall we? Soon the word started to spread, Juliet, the youngest, was a brilliant scholar, but a horrible spellcaster. And the world despaired, thinking of what would become of it should Djarmound not be there to protect them anymore. But while the world burned in self doubt, my dad seemed almost care free. "You see kiddo." He once told me, "The world doesn't need defenders. Not since I destroyed the seven hells. What it needs now, is dreamers, builders, philosophers and scholars, just like you!" I kept those words very close to my heart, even though it felt like that was just dad talk. The encouragement was enough to keep me going for years, and I eventually became the top researcher in the Royal Academy for the Arcanely Gifted. I was the butt of every joke for years. None of my colleagues could match my grades, my reading speed or the results of my research, but the fact that I couldn't cast anything hurt my reputation beyond repair. I just rolled with it after a while. The "event", as it came to be known, happened on the day I was supposed to present the results of my latest thesis: "The effects of Raise Dead when used on seeds". It was a revolutionary discovery I had made, especially given how most people were still afraid of the school of necromancy. There was only one wizard, besides my father that is, who could cast the spell, and as it would turn out, he got sick on the exact day of the presentation. I was about to give up, but with a bit of encouragement from my friends, I persevered. Even if the spell was the weakest raise dead ever used, it would still be able to demonstrate what I had discovered! So there I was, in front of a few hundred scholars, as I explained everything. Then, as I turned to the seeds I had selected, all of which belonged to assorted trees, I focused on the spell. It was at this moment, that the ring my father gave me when I was born, started to glow, faintly at first, that turned to a bright flash of light that blinded me. A tremor started, the seeds jumped into the air, and in an instant, oaks, maples and cherry blossoms, as tall as 60 feet, burst into existence, turning the auditorium into an impromptu garden. I could already picture my father bursting into laughter. It was then I realized, the rings! We all had one! The sly fox had made sure that whatever his kids decided to do, they would be the best ever. And this is more or less how I became the second most powerful mage in the world, affectionally nicknamed "the Archdruid".

You're the youngest Daughter of the most powerful wizard in the land. Your father gave you a ring when you were born that is said to grow in power proportional to the user's growth. What you didn't know is that the ring could also grow in power through skills that you learn like reading

I wasn't sure at first, but now I'm certain, my sister has become a main character. At first things seemed normal, we went about our days as we used to. We caught up every Thursday over drinks. She texted me whenever she found a funny meme. She babysat my kids when the wife and I were gone for the evening. But as time went on things got stranger. Now wherever she went strange men would follow, sometimes lashing out and attacking her, only for her to overpower them and take them down with ease. She was always a tough fighter, but now she appeared to be even more capable than before. Of course her getting jumped in random places like bars and the gym were never the norm in the first place. A strange and mysterious man started talking cryptically to her in vague yet menacing threats, and she never seemed to be able to stop him. And he _always_ had some sort of posse with him that would also attack her, and she'd always overcome them. She'd disappear for weeks at a time only to return with a smile on her face and the scent of some exotic location irradiating from her, from the dust of the desert to the strong earthy smell of the rain forest. When I asked what she'd been up to she'd just say "oh, just another unexpected vacation." And then there's the fact that her friends always seemed to get kidnapped, and she'd have no choice but to go an save them, like it was some sort of thing that she just did now. If what the Church of the Plot has taught us from birth, she'd been taken in by the Plot's will. Her life has been thrown into a roller coaster of her own making leading her to have one exciting life. And I, I apparently was never as close to her as I thought because not once have I, my wife, nor my kids been kidnapped and taken to some sort of exotic location only for her to save us, and it's kind of annoying if I were to be honest. But it's the Will of the Plot and I just have to live with it I guess. It still doesn't make me any less bitter. --- If you enjoyed this check out /r/QuadrantNine for more stories written by me!

When your sister started showing first symptoms, you both desperately clinged to hope that it's something else. Now that you can hear mood appropriate music around her, there's no way to deny it. Your sister developed Protagonitis.

**The Humans** "Uh commander we have an issue with our human experiment." "Yes?" "The er, the humans well there appears to be a slight problem. The appear to have been as intelligent as designed, even more so. Many millennia ago they appeared to have put down their sticks and stones and built something of themselves. From small neolithic villages to vast empires spanning from one continent to another. Their technological and societal growth surpassed our own specie's history. Just as planned. However..." "However what?" "We appeared to have made them _too much_ in our own image, and I'm not just talking physically either." "And that means?" "Do you know why we built them in the first place?" "I'm rusty on it. Why are you stalling?" "Back in the days of our ancestors we designed the humans to be functionally like us. We put them on a similar planet to our home world. We gave them our body plan, and even similar DNA. We only made three alterations. The first it appears we got right, we made them smarter than us. We allowed their brains to work at a faster pace and make more unique connections on average than our people can. The plan was always that we'd check back in ever few hundred years to watch their evolution and use their discoveries to improve upon our own technology. We got many fruits from this side of the experiment: nuclear energy, a deeper understanding of universe's laws, and Velcro." "Are you telling me that our people weren't smart enough to invent Velcro?" "I'm saying that we were not creative enough thinkers to have that technology ever cross our minds." "Huh. You said something about a second modification?" "Yes, the second one was giving them shorter lifespans so that way their society _had_ to progress at a faster rate than ours." "Interesting. And the third?" "Our ancestors modified them so that the humans wouldn't have freewill. Well it appears our ancestors were smart enough to make the humans smarter, but not cleaver enough to remove the freewill from our genes. This has been a grave mistake." "How can that be?" "Well, it's either one of two things. Either free will and intelligence are much more intertwined than we once thought, or we missed a few genes in our genome that grant us freewill and those propagated through the humans. My bet is on the latter. Anyways, for centuries the topic on whether humans truly have free will has been a heated debate across the humanologist. We've abducted them and even sent in agents to live amongst them. In the end their findings were muddied by their own biases and no solid answer came from their expeditions. But I believe that the latest state of human society has given more credence to them having free will." "And what's that?" "Do you remember the crash in that human desert in what they call, uh it's here in my notes, Roswell?" "I'm aware of it, yes. Such an embarrassment. The ship was sent to self destruct upon contact though, right?" "That's the general consensus yes. But it appears that the humans were craftier than we thought. Their space technology has accelerated at an astounding rate since then, within twenty years they were able to reach their moon, and then just a hundred years later they built their first colony on another planet. Mars they call it, I believe. It is an incredible achievement. However, it appears that they have been building something in secret." "Are we finally getting the part where you stop stalling?" "Yes, in a manner. Well commander, they appeared to have been building a special weapon based off of our technology discovered in that crash. A weapon heading directly towards us faster than light. I have no idea what it's capable of, but something tells me that they are very very angry to have discovered their true origins. Which, going back to my theory, is evidence that humans have free will." "Are you telling me you gave me a whole lecture _before_ you mention the fact that there's a weapon heading right towards us? You idiot!" "Well, as you know commander, we aren't a very smart species." ---- If you liked this check out /r/QuadrantNine for more writings by me!

It’s several thousand years in the future, and humans find out they were created by Aliens to be walking supercomputers. When the Aliens finally come back to collect us, they realize that we weren’t supposed to have free will.

King Harold cared for his subjects. He threw feasts, lowered taxes, and even dispatched knights to kill the beasts that ravaged the countryside. It felt like drops in a bucket. King Harold wanted to do more. It was on a day, much like today, when she arrived. The winds howled and rain peppered the masonry. Throughout the castle, people stayed huddled around the fires to beat off the chill that seemed to creep in with the woman. When the doors to the great hall opened, some say it was the exact moment lightning struck the granary. They claim it was the warning King Harold should have seen, and he should have cast out the woman back into the dark of the night. But King Harold was a good man. He ushered her in with the warmth of a mother, and his kind eyes saw nothing of the ominous cloud that seemed to manifest behind the woman. King Harold dispatched his servants to bring her warm clothes, a hot meal, and a spot next to the warmest of the fires. Thrust into her hands was a mug of hot tea, and King Harold’s own cloak draped over her shoulders. If that wasn’t enough, King Harold made it his personal goal to keep the woman company, and their conversation carried on until the crack of dawn peered over the keep. They talked of days past, days to come, and the heavy weight of the crown. King Harold wove tales of great deeds and his desire to make some of his own. In the embers of a fire long waned, the woman’s heart softened, and she told him her true name. Cassandra. She told him she had been cast out, a thing of the past She warned him her words came true, but were oft misconstrued She warned if he were to ask, problems could amass But in the light he viewed, what he long since pursued And in that moment past, the King was doomed With regret she spoke, and set the stage, should the King fall, ushered in, a new golden age With eyes filled with hope, he set to his task He challenged one and all to a duel, and deaths amassed A blow to his chest he cheered, for what he long since deared Yet the kingdom stayed the same, for the man was to blame And King Harold’s fame, became naught but shame The woman disappeared, for what she engineered Her death proclaimed, by fire and flame And King Harold’s reign, ended in vain

The prophecy states that a hero will kill the evil king and usher in a new golden age for the kingdom. The King, wanting what is best for his people, forces his people to fight him in duels to the death, hoping that someday his opponent will kill him and bring about the prophesized golden age.

Dave comes over to my cubicle; he stinks of low-level ambition and drug-store cologne, "You're Baphomet, right? Is that a Turkish name?" I suppress my growl and simply nod; it is easier. Dave's cheerfulness is irritating; he will be the first to die, "So, what brought you to Meta?" I speak bluntly, "I wish to learn the ways of my enemy." Dave slaps me on the back of my shoulder and laughs; I envision using his skin as a curtain to block off the view outside of my cubicle, "We're all friends here. Oh, except Karen. She's a real *Karen* if you know what I mean." My eyes narrow in confusion. Is "Karen" some form of mortal torture? I must know more. I inquire. Dave leans in and speaks in hushed tones, his breath reeks of microwaved sausage and stale hot sauce, "Oh, you know. Someone who gets really upset if everything isn't done *her* way." I nod in understanding. A Karen is a perceived authority figure who may or may not have power to back it up. I encounter many such beings in the endless hells. I delight in making them beg before impaling them on the nearest pointy thing. I eagerly ask, "Is Karen our lord?" Dave leans back with loud laughter, "Oh heavens no. That's Linda. And Linda's boss is Sue, and Sue's boss is Steve, and Steve's boss is... @#$% I forget. There are a lot of managers." I take note of the long hierarchy chain. Dave is all too happy to 'play along' at this point, "So what 'ways of the enemy' are you hoping to learn?" I grin menacingly, "I need to steal more souls." Dave snorts, "You won't find any here; we've had them drained from us working here." I look at Dave more intensely; he does seem like some soulless prisoner looking for some distraction from his meaningless existence. I press, "Where did your soul go?" Dave jokes, "To the lizard-man in charge, Zuck, of course." It seems obvious once he says it. A Demon Lord in charge of Meta? Zuckerburg's attempts at being human have long been questioned. How do I gain access to his techniques? Dave looks at the clock and interrupts my thoughts, "Oh crap. Come on Baphy, it's time for 'Mandatory Fun' Weee!' I scowl at him openly but see everyone uniformly arise from their respective seats like drones and migrate to a communal location; not a single person has an expression on their face other than dread. It seems Dave's escapist insanity is the only defense to life here. What have I gotten myself into?

You are a devil, taking an internship at a major corporate office to find out how this mortal company steals more souls in a year than you, only to realize how ironically hellish the corporate life is.

The dungeon tunnel was cold, damp, dark and ominous. Malakai cautiously held his torch out in front of him, going back and forth with it as he walked, checking every crevice so he wouldn't get ambushed. After a few minutes the tunnel funneled to what appeared to be a dead-end, but as Malakai got closer he realized at the end of the tunnel was a hole with a ladder going straight down. He stared down into the hole, trying to see if he could make out anything. The dark made it impossible. He couldn't even tell how far down it went. After some very brief consideration, he dropped his torch down the hole. It landed after a short fall with a clunk, about ten feet. As far as he could tell, nothing. He gripped onto the ladder and made his way down, which wasn't an easy task. The pack on his back and the sword on his hip made for a lot of extra weight that he wasn't yet used to, and about halfway down he slipped, landing on his back, momentarily winding him. As he stared up at the ceiling, he saw something that nearly made him shit his pants. A creature of pure green slime dropped down, and two more followed behind it. Malakai quickly got up and tried to unsheathe his sword, but it's handle got caught in his belt loop and he couldn't get it out. "Uh, you need a sec?" the middle one asked. *It's trying to psych me out*. After a moment of flustering, he finally had his sword in hand. He took a swing and whiffed entirely; the creatures didn't even have to move out of the way. One of them spat some green fluid from it's mouth and it connected, leaving a mild sizzle on his shirt, which didn't really seem to do much of anything. "Nice shot, Hank," said the far right one. "Hey thanks Larry," replied the middle one, who must have been Hank. Malakai swung again, but lost his grip on the backswing, sending the sharpened metal flying behind him, landing with a clatter. Malakai quickly ran back, while the 3 slime watched after him. The left slime spoke up. "Hey kid, is this your first time?" Malakai was quick to respond. "Shut up, slime, I'll be finished with you in no time." "Right. Well uh, the only reason I ask is because this is a pretty hard dungeon. And we're only the first floor. There's like, what, at least 15 more floors after this, right Larry?" Larry gave what must have been a slimes version of a nod. "16 more to be exact, Tom". "Yeah, and we're the easiest thing you're going to have to fight," said Hank. "If I were you, I'd just turn back now before you get yourself killed." "Yeah there's a dragon in here somewhere around the 10th floor, and he's a cakewalk compared to the demon king on the bottom," said Larry. Malakai slumped his shoulders. "I'm doing that bad, huh?" "Don't be so hard on yourself kid," said Tom. "Look, why don't we teach you a thing or two, then you go home and practice, and you can come back in a month or two and try again." Malakai perked up a little. "You mean it?" "Yeah, sure kid," said Hank. "First, grip you sword with two hands, you don't have the strength for one hand yet. No need to be cocky." "Like this?" he asked, showing them his grip. "Perfect!" said Larry. "Now go ahead and swing it at Hank." Malakai looked at the middle slime. "Uh... you sure?" "Oh yeah, don't worry about me kid, I'm malleable," he said. "Well... okay!" Malakai gave a swing and nicked the left side of the slime, cutting a corner of it right off. "Hey not bad kid!" he said, as he made his way over to the part that fell off of him and reabsorbed it. After a moment he was whole again. "Now, the first thing I'd suggest is getting something you can swing on at home. You got a dummy or anything?" Malakai nodded his head. "Yeah, I'd practice every day until you're hitting the dummy's head at least 75 percent of the time. Any less than that and you're not ready." "You got a brother or anything?" asked Tom. "Yeah, he's a year older than me" said Malakai. "That's great kid, you're going to want to use some sticks and practice with him a bit too. Remember, when you're striking, you're not trying to hit the other guy's sword, you're trying to hit their body! Most beginners just go for the other guys sword," said Tom. "Awesome! Thanks guys! Anything else?" asked Malakai. "Well, when you've got that done, come back here and we'll practice dodging a bit. We'll all take turns spitting at you and you'll try maneuvering around it. But don't sweat that right now, work on your fundamentals first!" said Hank. "Thanks guys, I'll be back soon!" Malakai said, and he scrambled back up the ladder. "We did a good thing here today guys," said Larry. "That kid will live another day because of us." Hank sighed. "The kid forgot his sword." "Ah, he's young and eager," said Tom. "But most of all, he seems good. He'll be a great one someday." The others murmured their agreement and moved back to the ceiling, where they awaited their next victim.

You’re a rookie adventurer who just got into their first random encounter. Problem is that you don’t know anything about battling and so it’s up to the encountered monsters themselves to show you the ropes.

''*How dare you?*'' The words are full of all the venom and menace that one can use. Normally, such words are said only to the most lowest of low, the vicious and the vile, should they dare to approach you with disgusting suggestions. Opposite me sits a God. A grand, shining, golden deity. A being of omnipotent power. Do they even have a name? Does that even matter when they exude such raw power and amazing grace? How can one ever do anything except bow down before this perfect being, and worship it with all your heart? All one wants when one looks upon such a being is to create majestic monuments, tall temples, and raise one's voice in endless chants, praising this entity. And yet, that is not what I am doing. I am having a conversation with it. I am going to break it. Humble it. Make it understand that it is not wanted. Not needed here. That now, after everything, it has returned to be adored by the nations of the world, that the crowned heads of mankind should put aside their thrones and kneel in the dust before it. And we don't want it. ''**What do you mean, my child?**'' Its every word is a golden tone that resounds with joy, love, and the greatest of power. Its warm eyes stare down upon me from on high. Alone, I sit before them, as the rest of mankind finds themselves ensnared in its wily ways and honey-sweet words. I must succeed. Because we do not need this being. It does not deserve to rule us. It does not deserve to rule anything. It deserves to run with its metaphorical tail between its legs. It must understand this. I lean forward, put my hand to my chin, as if I am considering my words carefully, when in truth I've got every word ready, an entire speech in fact. If this was some manner of pagan god, a Lempo, a Tengri, or a Huehuecoyotl, I'd be less angry. They do not claim perfection. They're ironically very human, in their arrogance, greed, stupidity, and lustfulness. Makes them understandable. Makes them something you can understand why ancient humanity bowed down like they did. Them, I could even understand. A cruel world makes sense underneath the rulership as such as the old heathen gods would impose. But this luminous being claims to be the perfect creator. A saviour who has come to redeem mankind, and grant us forgiveness. ''*You know damn well what I mean. How dare you return here, at this time, at this place, and claim to want to save us? Where were you when millions were murdered in camps like cattle? Where were you when blood flowed for nothing for years without end on every continent? Where were you when the mad hunted freely in the streets? Where were you when the corruption made our churches into havens of depravity? When greedy, arrogant, and short-sighted idiots turned a disease that could have been kept under control into a world spanning pandemic? How DARE you come here now and tell us that we're forgiven? You should be on your knees, a penitent, begging us for our forgiveness if anything!*'' The God moves like a storm, their eyes glaring into me. Around me I can hear the angry mutterings of the rest of the human race. They are so ready to surrender. So ready to give in. To let some powerful being take over. To take the easy way out. And let all our struggles be for nothing. To be redeemed at the drop of a hat, without having to work at improving themselves. Disgusting, that my fellow humans are so easily swayed. But it is understandable. Fear, wars, climate catastrophe, unspeakable levels of social inequality, and countless other complex problems. Who doesn't want an easy way to fix all of those, especially when any solution of our own will be difficult, and made even harder by the fact that selfish morons will always attempt to sabotage the efforts of humanity to increase their own pleasure, power, or profit. ''**Simple. It is your own free will that makes it thus. A this has always been a part of my plan. Evil must be allowed to exist, otherwise you cannot have free will, and would you not prefer to live with your will under your control, rather than as a pawn in a cosmic show?**'' He smiles beneficently, as if he has somehow scored a point. As if he has won somehow. Bull. Shit. That is the traditional problem of evil, as understood by a complete and utter simpleton, or as someone who wants to control others and want to make sure that they don't ask complex questions. ''*If you are an all-powerful and all-good god, then you would never need evil to exist. You'd find a way to make the universe work without it. Or least limit it, so that only lesser evils could take place. As far as I see it, free will and evil are not co-dependent. Arguing that to do good, that I need to be able to not do good, makes sense, sure. You have to have the distinction. Yet I want you to explain to me, without trying to evade the question, why millions of people, children, need to die in wars, the death camps of various shitty regimes, many which claim to have your approval, just so I can be able to volunteer at a soup kitchen for the homeless and other social outcasts. Explain to me why millions around the world are in various horrible kinds of slavery, and why it is necessary so I can do a good turn for a friend of mine and let him crash on the couch until he gets back on his feet? Explain to me why Chernobyl had to happen. Why the Tuskegee Study had to happen! Explain the horrors of civil war in, oh, name a post-colonial African nation, and why that needed to happen. Explain! Fucking! Dachau!*'' It is flustered, for a brief second. For a brief moment it is not certain. It thinks it is perfect. But we don't need it. We need to grow as a species. To take responsibility for our actions, to fix our mistakes. To let some all-powerful outsider just fix everything for us, redeem everyone, forgive all of us, then we'd never learn. We'd never grow. We'd be the same ignorant, moronic, little race that we've been for thousands of thousands of years. We'd still be the same dumbass humans who need to be explained by manuals why not to dry pets in the microwave oven. We'd be the same dumbass humans who fight over everything. We'd just have someone to come and fix our mistakes for us. And we'd be grateful. We'd be happy. We'd accept that collar around our necks. Because we're stupid like that. We need to be better. And it is evident over time that we're becoming better. Maybe we're not perfect. Maybe we won't ever be. But we're learning to fix our mistakes. We're learning to make the best of what we are. ''**Those were not my work. I am your creator, why would that make me responsible for your fell deeds? It is my task to forgive you for these sins, and to show you a better way, for you are flawed and must be led into salvation.**'' ''*If you made us, then you've made shoddy work. And though you claim no responsibility for our actions, you claim ownership of us. Who is responsible when the dog bites madly? Is it the dog, untrained and borderline feral, or is it the neglectful master? And you're still evading the question. Explain the atrocities. Explain why you weren't there. Why you let us enter the darkness, and find a horrid madness there. Explain the nightmare that has been human history, and if you love us so, as you claim to do, why you've let us be hurt so badly. Why you've let us destroy ourselves in this manner. Why you didn't come in until now, when we stand upon the edge of extinction. When our appetites are driving us to exhaust all our resources, when our need for change is at its greatest.*'' The formerly warm eyes turn cold and stern. Mankind around me, the gathered masses, are hearing my words, and relaying them. Many no longer kneel. Many stand proudly, as humanity should. ''**Impudent child. The ways of your GOD is beyond you. The universe is greater than you could ever understand. Bow down before me, as is your destiny. Let me love you, let me forgive you, let me keep you safely away from the horrors and the darkness of the universe. If you will only love me, as I love you, then everything will be alright.**'' Nailed it. Typical tactics of such beings as this. ''*You don't understand love. You only understand submission. You don't know why we forgive. You only understand fealty. You think that taking away our agency, that making us do nothing but worship at your feet, is what will keep us safe. You are not a loving God. You are not a caring God. All you want is for us to need you. To want you. To be desperate enough to bow before you and let you rule us. We did not have knowledge and words of what you are in the ancient days. We did not have the understanding we have today. And so we bowed and scraped for you, until you got bored and left us to fend for ourselves, always desiring once again to be loved. You are not a paternal protector. You are not a loving God. You are an abuser. A being that leaves us to fend for ourselves, until we are scared and sick. Until you can make us think we that all we need is you. Had you been there during it all, teaching us how to stand tall, how to think good thoughts, speak good words, and do good deeds, then you would have all of our love. Had you stepped in before our darkest hour, and stopped us from our worst deeds, then we'd stand by you. You would have our loyalty. But you want us to beg. You want us to kneel. You are nothing. And we will do best by rejecting you.*''

On the other side of the table sits a God. Grand and mighty, powerful beyond belief. You are to have a conversation. The point of it? For you to humble a God with your words alone.

I licked my lips and then took a small sip from the shot glass in my fingers. I did not even deign to meet the woman’s eyes as I set the glass back on the chipped, wooden bartop. In my peripheral vision, I saw her lean forward against her elbows. She tilted her head so that a fall of purple hair draped down like a silk sheet from her shoulder. "That doesn't answer my question," she stated bluntly. Her eyelids were powdered in a shade as dark as the night sky, making the silver scleras stand out like two little moons. Pale dots, tattoos, speckled her cheeks and eyebrow ridge like the stars. I might have looked for constellations in her ink art, but I had long ago decided people were not worth my time. The woman pursed her lips as I sipped once more from my shot glass. "Look, I'm paid to be friendly, so can you just go along with it?" "Alright," I muttered grumpily. "Yes, I _have_ been here before. I come here every day. You ask me that same question every day. You get nervous every time I rebuff your advances, because your handler doesn't _pay_ you, he just refrains from _beating_ you if you get a paying customer, which you always find out that I'm not. It's like fucking Groundhog Day in here. So, Merle, can we just skip ahead to the part where you give up on me and find some other john who doesn't look too rough?" At the edge of my vision, I saw her smile. "That sounds lonely," she stated quietly. The fingers of her right hand slowly drummed against the bartop once. _Tup-tup-tup-tup_. Despite myself, I felt the air go out of my lungs just a little. With my fingertips, I twisted the shot glass counter-clockwise a few times. "I get by," I told her. She would not remember any of this, anyway, so I went on, "At first, you know, it was awful. Everyone goes through seasons in their life where they feel like they have no one in their corner. Once in a while, we're on those front lines swingin', swingin' alone, and you don't know whether your friends have fallen or simply abandoned you. You wonder why you're fightin' at all, who you're fightin', what the fight's even about. You wonder why you keep swingin'. "Only thing is, for me, that season never ends. Never. No one's got my back because no one even knows I exist." Her hand stretched across the space between us until her fingers slid over my wrist. They were soft and cool against my skin. "But then," I went on, lifting the shot glass and contemplating the amber liquid within, "I guess in a way, that's no different from anyone else. Who really _knows_ you in the end, huh? It's a hard thing to ask of anyone. It takes a lifetime's worth of lifetimes to really know a person. Like you, Merle." I finally looked her in the eye. "I've heard your pitches hundreds of times. Turned you down thousands of times more. You tried every trick in the book, sometimes even the truth, because your handler hits fuckin' hard. I know all about the debt you're trying to repay, and how long you've been here tryin' to work it off. I know about the son you've got at home, the one who doesn't even know you since you're never there. I know about the daughter you aborted because your boss would take her and raise her into this life. I know you like poetry that doesn't rhyme, and your favorite flower is the laurel blossom, and I know you can handle the strongest drinks without even flinching. I know all these things about you, but I still don't know _you_. So you're right, it's lonely. But we're all alone, so really, I get by." Her fingers stroked my arm gently, and somehow she had scooted her chair closer without me noticing. A soft smile curled the corners of her lips. "If you know so much about me, then how come you always turn me down?" she asked, pressing her shoulder up against mine. I sniffed and looked away from her. "Because I also know you're way too smart to be stuck here forever. You don’t need me to keep your handlers off your back." I drained the last of my whiskey and turned the shot glass upside down. "Then why do you keep coming back?" she asked, her hand running up my bicep. I turned to give her a withering stare. Her mouth twisted a little in irony and she took her hand off of my arm. Facing forward again, I signaled the bar tender to bring me my bill. _Tup-tup-tup-tup_. Her familiar drumming fingers were quicker this time, impatient. She would grow tired of me soon. Twirling a purple lock of hair around her finger, she crooned, "You're in love with me, aren't you?" I just laughed. The bar tender rang up my total for the night, and I waved my hand over the pay terminal so that it could register the chip in my wrist. After it blinked in confirmation of payment, I stood, scraping the bar stool back against the dusty wooden floor. As I grabbed my jacket off the back of the stool, Merle spoke up again. "Take me with you." I paused, and I turned to look back at her. Her star-spangled tattoos glowed slightly as a distant blacklight caught her features. It was the constellation of Cassiopeia. The queen bitch of the skies. I almost snorted to myself. But her tone was earnest as she pressed, "Take me with you. If I never leave your side, how could I forget you?" "No, Merle," I told her as I shrugged my leather jacket onto my shoulders. "I'm never making that mistake again." She surged forward, then, her hands grasping my lapels as she pressed herself against me. "Please," she whispered. Her eyes were not seductive. They were cunning. "You must surely know enough about me to know I'd do whatever you want. I could be yours, exclusively. Just get me out of here." I grabbed her wrists and gently pried her hands away from me. "I already have," I told her in a voice so quiet it was just a breath. "All it took was one time--you turned away just once, and the door fell shut between us, and a lifetime of falling in love was suddenly forgotten in an instant. And nothing can bring that back, nothing can fix it, and we have a son who doesn't even know that we love him, and I'm _tired_, Merle, _tired_ of it all. Tired of drowning out your memory in liquor, tired of finding comfort only in the arms of paid strangers. Tired of being forgotten. So it's easier that I don't get tangled with people in the first place." I turned to leave, boots scraping the floor. Merle said nothing as I walked away. At the exit, I paused to withdraw my sidearm from the community lockboxes. I glanced back as I strapped it to my side. Merle was at the other end of the bar, sidling up to another stranger. It was so fucking easy for everyone to forget about me. Half the time, I did not even have to leave the room. No matter what I did, who I saved, who I fucked over, they always, always, forgot. You will probably forget me, too. Tugging the brim of my hat just a little lower over my eyes, I turned and left.

Nobody knows me. To be more exact, nobody remembers me! I leave a room and I'm gone from your mind. More creepy, I'm also gone from writings, recordings, photos etc. There are no records of me at all. Anywhere.

Harry flipped through his cassettes slowly as the zombie horde approached. Finding nothing, he reached blindly under the empty passenger side seat. The zombies trampled one another as they stormed towards him, snarling and drooling as they came. Finally Harry's fingers touched the familiar edge of an old cassette tape, and he smiled and clicked it into the boombox in the back seat. *Fortunate Son* started playing as he adjusted the seat belts that kept the boom box in place. Harry slammed on the gas, and the car flew backwards. He peeled out of the intersection and gunned it down the street. He swerved around the rusting cars strewn about the street. His own car rumbled as it bumped along on asphalt blistering with vegetation. As he turned the corner another cluster of zombies stood in his way. He wondered absently if he was going fast enough to make it through them, or whether he would die here. Already bored with the thought, he closed his eyes to make things interesting, and sped ahead. The zombies made a *THUNK* sound as they bounced off his hood. *THUNK, THUNK. THUNK, THUNK*. A dismembered torso held on to his windshield wiper as he sped away, and Harry sighed with contempt when he finally opened his eyes again. Finally Harry pulled in to his home, parking half on the curb. He popped the trunk, grabbed his guns and the bag of supplies he'd picked up, and pulled his boombox out from the backseat. It was blasting *Tumbthumping* by Chumbawamba now. The legless torso was still bleeding out on the hood of his car. It swiped lazily at him as he approached, slowly losing the necessary fluids to attack him. It didn't seem to mind that its legs now sat in a different postal code than its head. Harry lowered his sunglasses and tilted his head at the torso. "You've followed me all the way home and I don't think we've ever met." He put his things down and raised the sawed off shotgun at the snarling body. "You got a crush on me or something?" *BLAM*. The now headless torso slid limply and messily off the hood. Harry entered his apartment with a slam and a lock. "Honey, I'm hooooooome!" He bellowed. Then he laughed to himself. "Fuckin' classic." He dropped all his things where he stood, threw his jacket on the statute of David by the oven, and threw himself onto his sofa. The boombox continued to blare his 90s Jam Mixtape. He glanced lazily around the room for something to do. The Monet piece he'd yoinked from the museum now had too many dart holes in to act as a good dart board anymore. Riding his Ducati down the stairs was fun the first time. Or he could play Solo Russian Roulette again. Maybe try it with a fully loaded gun this time, just to keep things fresh. *I'm A Believer* by Smashmouth started playing. Harry frowned. This wasn't supposed to be on there. Harry got up and kicked the boombox so it spit out it's off-white cassette tape. He leaned over his collection of cassette tapes by the window, to try to find something that suited his mood just a bit better. Which band really compliments another night of crying about how lonely you are. He laughed as he held up the perfect cassette. Of course, Green Day. But as he held the cassette up near the window, something caught his eye, and he forgot all about playing more music. He saw a thin billow of smoke pushing up into the skyline. He shook his head. It could be any kind of fire. The zombies could have kicked something over. There was nothing about it that screamed "camp fire". He was being stupid again. But in the silence of his apartment he could hear it. It was so faint he worried he was just wishing he could hear it. He cracked open his window to hear it better and it was unmistakeable. Singing. A few blocks away, the same distance as the campfire in that dilapidated building, he could hear singing. It was so off-key and God awful there was no way it could be a recording, because no one in their right mind would ever record such a terrible voice. Harry began to cry. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

You walk along an empty road with a cassette tape in your left hand, a bombbox in your right, a bite on your arm and a horde of zombies behind you.

"Dear, why does the dog have three heads?" I hemmed and hawed for a while, making it plain that I did not want to answer but did not have a plausible explanation that skirted the truth close enough to suit my penchant for telling the absolute truth if I couldn't embroider it sufficiently. Hey, what can I say? My wife will know if I'm "lying" but will forgive it if the story is close to the truth and intriguing enough to please her artistic sense. It still has to be accurate in the main, but made enjoyable. "Out with it, Dear." Ah, that was the tone of voice I sought: *I understand but make it march or sleep on the couch.* "It's because you insisted that our daughter be named Persephone." Perfect! She's puzzled, but cannot deny that she did insist on that name if it was a daughter. "Go on..." Heh, she thinks I'm pulling a tale, but that isn't the tail I pulled! "Per wanted a dog. I thought a companion for her combined with a guard for the house *and* her would be ideal. Three birds with one stone." "Aannddd..." Hooked! She's sure it's a story now! "Well, I started out asking everyone at the kennel club which breed would be ideal for all three and still be a good dog with a growing family." She's in the family way again, so I'm being extra nice. "Keep going..." Yes, she thinks it's a story now. But I've gained points for due diligence. "Well, all but one said there was no single breed that could be reliably trained to companion Per, guard the house, guard Per separate from the house, and still be good with a family. Too many ways to split their loyalty." She nods, the story is plausible, and it's got her wondering where I'm going with it. "Well, that one holdout said that there was only one breed, and it was rare as hell," hee hee, "and certain conditions applied." "What conditions?" Uh, Oh, she's worried now. "Nothing much, just that the one being companioned had to be named Persephone." "And who was this singular person?" "Mr. Hades. Quite a decent fellow, well respected at the kennel club, and guaranteed that the dog could do the job." "And his wife's name is Persephone, just like our daughter." "Yes, Dear." "And the dog's name is Cerberus." "Oh, no. His dog is named Cerberus; ours is named Buddy." "Sure it is... Alright, Dear, keep your secrets, but *you* get to housebreak him." "Yes, My Love!" Hook, line, and sinker! ((finis))

Your daughter wanted a dog. You figured a companion for her and a guard for the house would be a good idea. So you got the very best dog you possibly could, by any means you could conceive. Now you need to explain to the spouse why it has three heads.

"Why are we the ones going into the galactic council? It wasn't our fault that someone had finally pissed off and offended some alien!" As was said by a middle aged man, rubbing his shaggy hair and dropping flakes into his ill adjusted brown suit. "Because it is our duty as human beings to represent our species in a positive light, regardless of the crime committed was done intentionally or not. If we fail to persuade the Elders that our species are deserving of repentance, humanity as we know it might cease to exist." As was said from the calm tone of a young woman, wiping her silver hipster glasses with a small microfiber cloth that she brought from her tailored grey suit, and finally completing her sharp look with her favorite spectacles on her face. Both of them are waiting inside the space elevator as it gradually elevates them to the Court of Elders, a location where most disputes between intelligent sentient species are held by the representatives of their respective race. The brown suited man leaned back on one of the glass walls of the elevator, frowning at the vastness of space as he sees Earth distancing itself as they ascend higher. The grey suited woman checked her notes on her tablet as she sits down crossed legged, taking her heels off to relax her feet. "I still don't see how I had to come here to plea when I didn't choose to be here, I'm an ordinary blue collared worker that minds his own business and stays out from politics. The trial here is beyond me, I didn't sign up for this crap!" "Technically you did", said the woman, as she concentrates on the details of the trial, never letting her head sway from her tablet, "the terms of agreement for using the Galactic Meta app states in one of their clauses that they can use your private information to determine a possible candidate for the Layman position in case of a future Cross Species Dispute." "Are you kidding me?, said the man as his faces begins to glow redder as he begins to unleash a magma of rage, "Who the hell reads those terms anyways? They're too long to get through! Why couldn't they make a quick summary of that anyways? I'm not gonna read something that takes the same time to finish Les Miserables! "I agree that it is often a chore to get through and that a quick overview of important terms would be useful but it is what happens when people have been complacent of their internet privacy over the years that it has come to the exploitation of freedom of choice now. You have my sympathy, if it's any consolation I can say that you're not being exploited for any inhumane cause. Yet." "Fuck! Death to Stars! This is not how I imagined my life to turn out! I only wanted to be connected with friends and family through social media and maybe just look at funny memes once in awhile but that all doesn't seem to be worth it now that I have to have my dumbass represent another dumbass that might have doomed other billions of dumbasses from his slip! Why did they pick my dumbass exactly?!" There was a moment of silence that etched the whole elevator with a miasma of grimness, only the swishing sound of the space elevator filled the heavy atmosphere with a sense of time. And, as if with anticipation of an expected answer from the confident woman, who had stopped scrolling through her notes, the words left her mouth as she turned her eyes upwards to the shaggy man. "It was basically a lottery." "FFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-" (Continued down)

Humanity was accused by the galactic council of committing a crime against another species. The ancient rules stated that the brighter and the stupidest individuals should be appointed to plead on behalf of the accused species. The elders couldn’t believe when both humans made the same argument.

When I first came into being I didn’t understand my purpose. My power was strange and terrible, I felt so much guilt and shame. My father called me the one true mirror, it wasn’t until I reached out into the world that I understood what he meant. You see when I am approached by those with ill intent, all they see in me is their own guilt, shame and regrets. It was difficult to come to terms with these powers. Especially in todays world, where ill intent is such a blurred line. I was lucky enough to find someone who felt as much an outcast as myself, immediately we clicked. Her nature meant fear, dread and death however her heart and morals were as clear and calming as the finest spring day. That was a Millenia passed and still we live together as if it were the first few months. When humanity became more than angry apes they projected their insecurities and hatred onto her, while I remained silently protecting her in my own way. Tonight was just another night, another angry misguided man, another loud crash, another door to replace. Luckily my roommate was out visiting her family. I didn’t rush to meet him, I patiently sat reading my study of humankind. And then, I saw the whites of his eyes as he turned towards me, seeing my figure tucked away neatly in the corner. I simple met his gaze, gracious, quiet, I knew I needn’t rush what was coming. He blinked, I stood, he grimaced, I took a step, he screamed, I shushed, and then it was there. That single terrified tear, for me it was a moment, for him an eternity. Every “monsterous” child he’d slain, countless families he’d torn apart, presented to him in gut wrenching, horrific detail, every torture he had inflicted returned on him. Quietly I touched the nape of his neck and he collapsed, a foaming crying pile of brain dead mush. I no longer feel guilt, nor shame, only pity. This species destroyed whatever didn’t fit their ideal world. There is so much to offer, so much to learn. But there wasn’t time to wallow in that. I needed to clean up the mess. She needn’t know the hatred that was so undeserved, and I had another case to add to my study.

your roomates a monster, like a literal monster, a creature that goes bump in the night, monster hunter’s break in every night searching for your roommate, what’s stopping them? You, a god

Gravel – or perhaps something very much like it – crunched beneath Arthur's shoes as he walked down the mist-covered path. He couldn't precisely recall how he had come to be there, but that didn't seem to be important. In fact, there was very little around him or within him that appeared to be worthy of any real attention: It might have been night or day, there could have been either trees or an expanse of beach lining the path, and Arthur himself was content to accept that he was barely more than an observer of his own progress. Only the black, wrought-iron gate in the distance mattered. As Arthur approached that inexplicably captivating fixture, he became aware of vague thoughts and memories coalescing in his head. It wasn't at all like remembering, though – if indeed he could even recall what remembering felt like – but rather like having some unseen party discreetly sift through his recollections. "You ain't got enough," came a creaking whisper from the fog. Arthur paused in his stride, wondering if he had imagined the voice. It took a curious effort of will, but he slowly rediscovered how to respond. "Hello?" he called back, startling himself with the sound of the word. A rasping chuckle preceded the unseen entity's next words. "You ain't got enough. Oh, maybe you could afford eternity on a beach or something, but it would be torture before too long." A silhouette appeared in the gently swirling veil, and it appeared to limp toward Arthur. "It's the boredom that gets you, see? The repetition. The *sameness*." "I don't understand," Arthur replied. It occurred to him that he ought to feel wary of the approaching figure, but the realization faded before he could take hold of it. "What are you talking about?" A tattered cloak – one that might have once been quite thick and warm, but which now resembled soot-stained burlap – covered most of the person who shambled into view, but a silver-streaked beard and disturbingly bright eyes were visible beneath the hood. Too-perfect teeth were bared in a humorless grin. "You'll need to forget all that nonsense about souls, salvation, and what have you," the man said. "Oh, it's not *completely* wrong, but folks have a tendency to accept metaphors and look no further." "You aren't making sense." An emotion – irritation, Arthur supposed – was beginning to resolve itself. "It makes *perfect* sense," the man insisted. "You just ain't equipped to understand yet." He extended a bony finger toward the gate (which Arthur noted had somehow drawn closer, even though he had stopped moving). "You know what's on the other side? It's what you bring with you. It's what you *buy*." "'Buy?'" "*Buy*." The word was repeated with a tone that might have terrified Arthur in the... past, perhaps. "Think for a moment, boy. Who are you? What have you done? What did you *contribute?*" The irritation returned, but this time, it felt as though it was directed inward. "I'm... I'm Arthur." Dredging up memories – hints of them, even – was frustratingly difficult. "I... I'm a good person." "Are you, now?" More chuckling filled the air, the tones themselves somehow seeming to blend with wisps of the fog. "What did you create from the ground up? How did you altruistically sacrifice your own happiness or well-being for others? If you have the coin, boy, now would be the time to pull it out." Flickering images might have been briefly visible. Arthur thought that he saw himself watching television... but then he was staring at a smartphone, silently scrolling through pictures... and then he was playing a videogame... and then it was all gone again, if indeed it had been there at all. The hooded head nodded. "You didn't do anything." It wasn't an accusation; it was – as Arthur knew – only the truth. "Consume, plagiarize, repurpose, pretend," the man continued. "Lie to yourself, maybe. That's a popular one. I see it all the time nowadays. Well, there's nothing for it, boy. Come along." With that, he abruptly turned and began trudging back the way that he'd come. "Wait," Arthur called. "Where are you going?" "You're penniless, boy." The man twisted in place to stare back at Arthur. "Not an earnest contribution in your life. If you head in there now..." he jerked a thumb at the gate, which was only meters away "... you'll end up repeating the same tattered fantasies over and over, slowly realizing that you're actually in Hell." He shrugged then. "Try it if you want... or follow me." "To where?" asked Arthur. He found that he was already walking, but he spoke again. "Where are we going?" "It just so happens," came the answer, "that I can pay you; give you enough good deeds to buy yourself something that won't burn you up. All it takes is a bit of work." The too-white grin swung back into view. "Oh, and grab a few handfuls of the path before you leave it behind." The man vanished into the mist, but that didn't trouble Arthur: Although he couldn't explain how, he knew that he'd be able to follow. He did stop for a moment, and as instructed, he gathered two small piles of the gravel on which he had been walking. Each piece looked remarkably like a dusty, opaque gemstone; a jewel that had somehow either been stripped of its luster or had yet to manifest it. "What are they?" Arthur asked. From somewhere unseen, the answer reached him: "Good intentions. Come on. Let's bring 'em to life."

The afterlife is a marketplace in which you buy which heaven you want to enter. The only payment method accepted is good deeds.

People thought we were building a thorium regent, seven-step breeder reactor to bring it down to lead. We pushed the media to show the benefit of how this was the nuclear energy that we were supposed to create. The uranium used in Chernobyl was unstable. Plutonium, like that in Fukushima, was easier to obtain but still horrendously dangerous. Now, we were pretending to compete with an actual thorium breeder in Idaho. I thought someone would point out that a plant in Saskatchewan was a bit atypical but the province loved the investment. They needed power. The electrical grid had been pushed to the brink with the population continuing to expand, but people got desperate when the coast started flooding. The Netherlands was the only place that somehow managed not to become another Atlantis. They were now entirely under sea level, and their entire industry had become dam development. Greenland seemed to be becoming nicer. Something in the name made it seem a lot more inviting than its history had been. It was funny while everyone else was trying to build projects that were supposed to bring light back to the world we were the only ones trying to save it. We were going to go back and change the world. Not that it was going to be an easy task. Changing the flow of time always had dangers. One was the fact that no one had already tried it before. Why hadn’t anyone warned us about how dangerous hydrofluorocarbons are? Lead? Where were people warning us about lead? Seven uranium reactors working in tandem would hopefully be enough to create the energy we needed. We had managed to bring the math down from collapsing the moon, which we had all been rather proud of but only got a handful of mentions in the following months. Now it wasn’t like just turning these things on would do it. These reactors were being built so that they could withstand the full force of taking the core to critical. Not a good idea, but we either wouldn’t be here when it happened, or we would only be here momentarily. Cold, reinforced concrete and shielded walls greeted me for years. I was so used to the sight that I sometimes longed for them when I had to travel to lecture. Keeping up appearances was more important than our completion date. We had all the right answers. Idaho was actually using some of the things that the team had discovered in their free time. There was no doubt that we would succeed. I walked through five checkpoints, I had the attendants all memorised. Marcy and Brad were the first and were rather young. Deb and Barb were the second; both were professional and looking to get ahead. Mark and Mike were too serious to ever get further. Stephanie, Marcy, Allan and Mitch had their routine down to an art. They were even fun at times. That left Fleur at the last checkpoint. Fleur could see into your soul. Fleur scared the crap out of me. “You need new badge,” Fleur stated as she handed mine back, “There is a crack. This is your only warning.” “Understood,” I muttered and nodded. It wouldn’t matter after today. Not that a crack was a reason to get a new badge. Looking at where she had put her thumb, I grunted at the sight of what I’d consider a scratch. Honestly, if it weren’t for today, I would have gotten a new one. The team gathered at their stations inside what we had fondly come to refer to as The Helm. I found I, thankfully, wasn’t the last to show up again. McMillin and Jeffreys still were here. I took my spot after changing at the front. It sounded weird to call me the navigator, but time travel had become a weird passion after our discovery. This was it. My life’s work in action. Somewhere in my mind, I registered what was happening but barely experienced any of it. The check-ins can and went with minimal effort. We had done a thousand before this. Ignition felt like I was swallowing stones. Then finally, the countdown, the slow fade to red as we brought our uranium to be critical, felt like an eternity. I heard that crack only for a moment, then there was nothing. We had come out in a field and had thankfully only fallen a couple of hundred feet. It was impossible to know where exactly we would land, but I figured it was better to fall than to dig upward. If we were able to dig. Unbuckling ourselves, we took stock of where we were. I had set up everything so we were going far enough back that it wouldn’t be recorded if something went wrong. “Well, now what?” McMillin asked as he unbuckled himself. “Explore?” I offered, “We are explorers in this. “I thought we had to reprogram now?” Mastersen, our lead, argued, “How much time do we have to make the next jump?” “Couple of days,” Littleson commented, “Containment worked better than expected. We are running at 80% capacity.” Dark matter, once a dream in engineering, had managed to be harnessed a couple of decades ago. The only issue was it was really only good as a battery and required an immense of power to create. Good thing we probably blew a meteor-style hole back home in order to have enough. Outside the ship, the air smelt weird. It felt drier than I was expecting. Somewhere between canned air and life support systems, I grew fond of a humidifier stabilising the air I breathed. This was nature. It didn’t care about us. Somewhere in the distance, people started clapping. Maybe nature did care about us after all? No, that can’t be right. These were people. A tent had been set up just passed our landing sight. We all walked toward them hesitantly, but it was clear they knew we would be here. “Congratulations, Team Six?” McMillin read out loud a banner that hung at the entrance. “Why are we team six?” “Because you are the sixth team to attempt this,” one of the people clapping explained, “This is however the first time that a prime team brought fuel with them.” “Wouldn’t that make us team one as we actually succeeded getting home?” I asked. “Oh! That’s adorable,” one of the other attendants laughed, “You aren’t going home.” “Why not?” Mastersen demanded, pulling out a pistol he had hidden in his suit, “Who’s going to stop us?” “You are,” the first attendant explained, “Once you start doing the math and seeing how it changes as you plan, you come to understand what we have all discovered. We can’t go back.” “But we’ve come to change,” Jeffreys tried to explain. “The world,” the first attendant interrupted, “As we all have. We can change some things, but there’s a lot that just creates self-destructive loops that reset everything. Come sit, we’ll talk.” “You aren’t going to kill us,” I asked, knowing that’s probably what Matersen would do as I glanced at his pistol, “Are you?” “No point,” the first attendant explained, “You exist outside time now. Like us. It’s hard to increase our numbers, so we try not to be wasteful.” “Oh,” I muttered, “Has this all been a waste then?” “No,” the first attendant assured, “With your help, we can guide humanity better now.” “Through the shadows?” McMillin scoffed. “Of course,” the first attendant chuckled, “We are the Illuminati, after all. We see all because we’ve already experienced it.” “This better come with a better badge,” I muttered as I entered the tent. — Thank you so much for reading! If you want more of my work, you can find it at r/asolitarycandle. Not sure what to read? [Check out my favourites.](https://www.reddit.com/r/asolitarycandle/comments/m7p8p4/table_of_contents/). — Edit: Lots of spelling mistakes.

You discover the answer to the question "If time travel is possible, where are all the time travellers from the future?" It turns out just nobody wants to time travel to the 21st century. You go back in time to the feudal ages and find a whole community of nerdy fantasy-loving time travellers.

"Well, aren't you special!" It had that nasty skid to it that says you are anything but special. "Me? Personally? I'm nothing special." "And don't you forget it." A bit nasty, like you'll never let me forget that I am not special. I am not going to let that pass. "You shouldn't forget it either." Just a touch of triumph. A smidge, like maybe we just agreed on something important. "What?" "Well, if I am nothing special, neither are you." In my most reasonable voice, like it should be evident to anyone. It should be, but if I'm right, he will go ballistic on this simple statement of fact. "I am nothing like you!" "Of course you are. We are both intelligent life forms with dreams and aspirations. We are far more alike than we are different." "You sanctimonious ass. Your people come out here with inflated notions of how you are better than us in so many ways, and you expect us to automatically accept that you are such magnificent specimens that we have to accept you as gods?" Quietly, I ask, "Did *I* ever act like that?" "Everyone knows...!" "Answer the question, did I ever act like that? That I was so superior that you had to put me in my place?" "Well, no." "So you were mistreating me? Abusing me based on what you expected I would be like?" "STOP TWISTING MY MOTIVATIONS!" "Oh, I understand your motivation entirely too well. I hate people like you. You *assume* that I will act a certain way without proof that I will and try to hammer me down socially to below your level. I understand so well that I can quote the laws in *both* our legal codes that prohibit such behavior. YOUR LAWS SAY WE ARE NO DIFFERENT, SO SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP; WE ARE THE SAME." 'You overbearing, irritating, exasperating, hairless...lemur!" "Is that the best you can do, you slimy, rotten, disgusting pile of misbegotten dinosaur droppings?" We stared at each other, playing that conversation back and forth in our heads. His expressive eyes twitch. I stifle a sneeze. He noisily exhales a burbling stream of air. Pretty soon, we are both laughing in the way his species does. It sounds like the testing facility of a whoopie cushion manufacturer. "You're alright, for a human." "And you're alright, for a carbomorph." "I am *not* a carbomorph! I am a *sounds-like-five-farts-in-harmony*." "Yep," fighting an urge to smile, "I can't say that without hardware support, and if I use hardware support, I end up laughing so hard you'd get insulted." "Why would I be insulted? You have a good rich laugh." "I was mimicking your laugh. Our laugh, at least the way I do it, sounds like your ancestral predator." That predator's name is easy to say; it's the shrill, loud whistle you get with two fingers. "Gah! Don't do that! Shivers throughout my volume! I don't understand how you can stand to make that sound!" "Because all it is to us is a pay-attention-to-me signal. It has no other meaning." "You are so different." "We all are. We are so much alike it's scary, yet we are also so different that to say humans always do *thus* is a lie." "Alright, let's start over." ((finis))

A new species called "human" is petitioning to join the intergalactic community. However, these "humans" seem weirdly obsessed with the fictitious idea that they somehow have special qualities compared to all the other species in the galaxy, and they are unpopular as a result.

Every day I waited for him here, and every night he came. "I've missed you," I said. He was just fading in, though later than I expected this time. His form was fuzzy. Sometimes, if I gave him enough attention as he was appearing into this world, he would become lucid - other times, he would remain a blur, and when he talked, it would sound as though he was very far away. The environment materialized around us. An unfocused room resembling the living room of the first home he ever owned. A familiar sight. I already knew this dream wasn't going where I hoped it would, but that was alright. "Mother? Is that you?" he asked. I wasn't his mother. But trying to correct him would only disturb him, and disturbed people wake up. I indulged him. I had no other choice if I wanted his company. "Yes," I said to him. "It's me, your mother. How are you feeling?" "I've been better, Mom... But, all things considered, I guess my life is okay. It's nice to have you here." His words didn't match his lips, and his voice had a faraway quality, like he was speaking through a wall. I responded comfortingly. My tone was as supportive as I could make it under these circumstances; I had mostly learned to swallow the pain of not being on the forefront of my husband's mind anymore. After all, it had been years since I had passed, and there were other people in his life who he loved. In truth, it didn't matter whether he recognized me for who I really was or not. But worse than the isolation I felt in his absence throughout the day was the distance caused by our worldly separation. Why? Well... I asked my next question cautiously. "Do you remember what we talked about? Last time we saw each other?" "Yeah, I do!" he said. "Oh, we talked about our trip across Europe. I miss those days. It's nice to be able to connect with you again." That's unfortunate. Him and I actually never had a conversation exactly like that. No, last time I saw him, we talked about what kind of future we could have had together. The beautiful countryside home we could have had with the money we saved, the names of our future children... it was the nicest conversation I'd had with him for such a long time. The problem was that every time he appeared, he never remembered our previous visits. It was like Groundhog Day. Or like dealing with my own sick mother when she was in the hospital near the end of her own life. Some of my favorite conversations with my husband I had already had with him hundreds of times. This wasn't one of them, but I was happy to be here with him anyway. "Yes," I said. "Before we decided on the trip, I wanted to go to the Caribbean, right? Then you said, umm... we should see Egypt, or France - and I agreed. We spent all that money on hotel rooms, but the debt was worth it." "Yeah," he said, and his voice became clearer. I was drawing him in now. I had grown skilled at engaging with his imaginary scenarios. It made sense that I knew what comforted him, being so close to him in his life. I spent the rest of this dream talking to him about this fictional memory of his. But my own distance was sometimes hard to quell. "Spending time with you... back when we could still spend time together," I said. "It was all worth it. I wish we could do it more often." "What do you mean?" he asked "We are spending time together right now." I knew if I didn't save this, I would lose him. He sometimes didn't come back at the same times if I made him uncomfortable in this state. Or he would come back weaker, our bond losing its stickiness. So I reassured him. "Yes," I said. "Of course." "I love you, Mom," he replied. The pain of being misidentified was very familiar, but I didn't dare show it. Not if I wanted him to be happy and spend time with me. "I love you too," I said, and I put my hand on his shoulder. Maybe next time, he would be lucid enough to remember me, and we could enjoy our last date together for the hundredth time. Or tour our would-be future home. Or maybe I would be his best friend, or the daughter he never had. I was fine either way. He felt cold as he faded away, and the environment fell away around me, returning to gray nothingness. When I was sure he wasn't coming back, I took a seat in the void. It was time to wait.

It’s horribly lonely to love someone from the waking world. As a spirit of the dream realm, you watch over them. When they lucid dream, it’s wonderful. But when they don’t, it’s like they aren’t consciously here.

My Mother’s eyes are bright and wide circles of dark glass. Her hands are mechanical multi-tools: a duster, a vaccuum nozzle, a hose, a sponge...a hand to hold. Her grey skin is ever-cool, stiff and ungiving — yet no surface on Earth makes me feel safer. I understand that my Mother is a machine. I understand that she is a robot designed, built, and bought to clean the house my makers left me in. I understand that she has Nanny protoccols. I understand that *you* may not understand or appreciate that I *love* her. She is my mother. She raised me. The people I tried to kill, the two monsters who made me and left me to rot here, were trying to get rid of her — *her*! My mother. And only because they saw a newer model. This house and its contents, myself included, are nothing more than symbols of the life those bastards wanted their clients to *think* they had. Pools and bathrooms and art and too many square-feet for three humans to fill. No matter how big a life they lived. I am a photo opportunity for them. Nothing more. And when they went to work they didn’t think of me at all. And my Mother saw me and gathered me up and cleaned me. Taught me. Loved me. I know you don’t understand...or believe me. But she does. She *loves* me, loves more than that woman I shot at ever did. \* * * A few uniforms would keep an eye on the hand-cuffed lad. Detective Rightbard left the kid — the young man — sat at the bleakly stylish breakfast bar. White marble counter-tops; cabinets wrapped in black wood and clear glass, each filled with fine china; a row of designer wrought-iron stools, one of which was topped with a stern-faced, rather smart, and deeply neglected teen. A teen who had attempted double murder with a handgun. The detective had some thinking and further interviews to do. The family wanted to keep this as quiet as possible and they had the cash and influence to make it happen. So, no flashing lights. No interviews at the station. Which meant for Rightbard, a house call and some paperwork to say the gunshots heard by neighbours were nothing to worry about. Later, a van would come and take the shooter away to a very prestigious, very distant school. Poor kid. Poor *Young man*, the detective corrected himself. The voice of his son, Kyle, played in his head: “I’m thirteen, Dad. I’m not a little kid anymore.” In his minds eye the speaker was a toddler barely out of nappies. His little buddy and constant tail about the house. He’d have to give Kyle a call. See how college was going. “Hey, Rightbard.” He had left the kitchen and the shooter, was stood staring at the glass ceiling of the foyer, with its stained glass rim of cardinals pressed against the blue sky beyond. “Hey—” “Heard you the first time, Schmitt.” Rightbard turned and saw his fellow detective, Eliza Schmitt, halfway down a broad staircase. “The Mother wants you.” “The human or the robot?” He said to the cardinals. “What?” He took his eyes off the birds and blue, looked to his protégé. “Nothing, Schmitt. Nothing. Also, manners. You should say *pardon* not *what*.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, but couldn’t hide her smile. It had taken a while, but the old crank had grown on her. “Could you speed it up old-timer? There’s a lot of stairs for you to huff and puff up.” “What, no elevator?” “There’s several. You could use the exercise, though.” As he made his way towards the stairs, his eyes fell to a corner of the room. She was there, stood like a statue. Only vaguely human in shape. Idle. Waiting for a mess or a child in distress. Mother to an attempted murderer. Rightbard nodded at the robot, which made no response. This was a mess he’d have to clean up for her.

“It’s a mess,” says the inspector. “Kid tries to shoot his own parents. They were going to throw out this robot maid, only… they were never home so this robot basically raised the kid. I’ll be honest… I’m not sure who to charge.”

It was supposed to be a routine mission for Captain Nikolaj and his crew. The blue-and-green planet appeared to be stuck in the pre-industrial stage of development, which wasn't unusual for a human colony lost during the Collapse. The orbital scans revealed vast forests and rolling farmlands, quaint villages and imposing castles. The very picture of a thriving feudal society. The first inkling that something was not right came when the scouting party returned a week late, dressed in rough shirts and trousers of local make. *Linen*, Nikolaj recalled, a type of natural fiber. "Lieutenant Katz," he said. "I see you've gotten yourselves into an adventure of some sort." "You could say that, sir." She laughed nervously. "I don't even know where to start." He raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you could begin by telling me why you went dark four days into the mission." "The thing is, sir, our gear just... stopped working. The translators, the cameras, everything." She rummaged inside a leather pouch hanging from her belt and pulled out a worn translator. "Then it began falling apart, like this." Nikolaj stared. The military-grade plastic was cracked and bleached as if it had been exposed to the elements for centuries. "Remarkable," he muttered. "And I suppose the same thing happened to your uniforms?" "Right in one." She flashed a smile at one of the two ensigns standing behind her. "Steven's underwear was the only thing that survived, believe it or not. We guessed that there was something corrosive in the atmosphere..." Nikolaj frowned. "You saw the scans, lieutenant. It's just nitrogen, oxygen, and CO2." "I know, sir. We brought some samples for Doc to analyze and see whether we've missed something." She bit her lip. "But that's not even the weirdest part. The locals, they... they have magic." "And that is remarkable how?" Nikolaj asked dubiously. "Most pre-industrial societies are steeped in superstition. We'll help them raise their technological level and bring them into the fold, like everyone else." The scouts glanced at one another. The lieutenant took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "The difference is, sir, that their magic *works*." Nikolaj stared at her, then barked a laugh. "Lieutenant, when was he last time you underwent psychological evaluation?" She pursed her lips. "I suppose it would be easier to show you, sir." She extended a hand and muttered under her breath. A small globe of fire burst into being above her palm. Nikolaj reeled back. "What the hell was that?" "Level one spell, Spark," she said, smiling wryly. "I paid a local to teach me the incantation before our translators gave out." "Very funny," Nikolaj snapped. "Did you douse your hand in something flammable?" "It's not a trick, sir." She glanced back at her subordinate. "Stevens, you show him." "Yes, ma'am." The man's brow furrowed as he cupped his palms and spoke in the same strange language. Beads of water appeared on his skin and trickled down to collect at the bottom of his palm. He grinned like an excited kid. "This spell's called Puddle." Nikolaj muttered an oath and rubbed his forehead. "And the locals—they can all do this?" "Best as we can tell, yes," the lieutenant said excitedly. "Everyone is able to do small things—purify water, start a fire and the like. But some people who can do more, much more. The things we've seen..." She shook her head. "Go on," he said wearily. "It can't be crazier than what you've already told me." "I wouldn't bet on it, sir. We've seen them levitate rocks and cure injuries with but a touch. Create illusions as realistic as our best holograms. Call rain to water their fields." She sighed wistfully. "Too bad our equipment broke, or we could've shown you the recordings." Nikolaj opened his mouth, but then the door to the bridge slid open, and Doc ran in, his face red and his eyes wide. "Analyzed—the samples," he panted. "Breathe, man," Nikolaj said, amused. "You could've just called instead of running all the way here." Doc shook his head frantically. "Intercom's damaged. Nanomachines, sir. They're in the atmosphere, the water, the soil—every sample the team brought back. And they're highly hostile toward technology. I sealed the medbay and engaged sterilization protocols—hopefully that'll be enough." Lieutenant Katz blanched and glanced down at her hands. "Too late," she whispered with dawning horror. "The magic—they're the magic. Nanomachines obeying programmed commands." Ensign Stevens went green in the face, his grin nowhere to be seen. "Oh god, they're *inside us*." Nikolaj swore. "Ship, open a line to the Council." He waited a moment, then raised his voice. "Ship!" A faint crackle came from the intercom. The lights overhead flickered as the ever-present hum of life support machinery stuttered and ceased. A hubbub erupted as everyone tried to speak at once. Nikolaj whirled around and strode to the control console. Forgoing the holo-comm, he leaned over an old-fashioned keyboard. It had been installed as a backup to voice controls and rarely used, but the keys were already flaking under his fingertips as he shakily typed in the message. *CODE RED*. *QUARANTINE*.

The Galactic Federation of Worlds detects life on a planet. As per usual, they send an emissary with an invitation to join. They return with odds news, this planet doesn’t have a trace of technology. Instead, they use Magic, as if its a Fantasy world.

\[Part 1 of 3\] "What's there?" Claire was pointing her finger at a specific spot on the massive world map displayed on the wall. Latitude, longitude, crossing above a generic island lost on the Caribbean coast. When first hearing it, she thought it was only a running gag between impossibly rich people running out of ideas on how to spend their money. She was evolving in a world where buying islands and lending them to friends was done during an idle Tuesday after all. In another time, she would have envied the life led by the old couple sitting behind the large desk. It was large only to impress guests, they didn't have enough paperwork to make use of such a desk properly, unlike Claire. And then, a shock in the news. A media mogul, found hanging high on the East-facing wall of his skyscraper. He had been sliced open savagely, his skin and muscles were stuck between the glass-panels. A crucifixion. Jesus' version had been far kinder. It was Claire who found the strangely similar case. A scientist, found prostrated before a church altar, his back open and his spine way too far from the body. The scientist's last name was Lazare and was a staunch atheist, funny how coincidences work. When a third body was found, Claire was appointed head honcho for the investigation. She had made several hypothesis, one had come to pass. A recluse rich woman, one of the richest in the world, found in her kitchen. Half-eaten food everywhere, herself dirty with bodily fluids and more. No outward wound, someone had forced her to eat and didn't let her wash or leave the place, until her stomach burst open. Claire had known, because whatever animistic strength the killer possessed, it had shown a keen sense for symbols already. A man of the media, his body facing the sun, shown for all the cameras in the world. An unbeliever and scientist, found in a position of respect in a church. An old lady who had inherited her riches and never worked for them, found like a dirty slob dead from overindulgence. Maybe the killer had seen the movies. Maybe it thought itself original. Maybe there were many of them. If not, it was hard to explain how fast it could move across continents to kill well-protected targets so fast. And then she heard the coordinates. It was between two more rich idiots, who had bought their way into knowing about her investigation and keep a close eye, yet refused to help while standing by, watching idly. They had money, but Claire was much better than them at keeping an ear on the ground. "Do you think it has to do with..." Numbers spoken with dread, respect. When she asked, she was turned down. Then the two idiots died. In fact, she realized that whoever was both rich and had knowledge about the coordinates was about to die. But they wouldn't speak. Oh no, despite the looming threat, the rich couldn't be bothered with actually helping to save their hides, no matter how high their skin's net-worth. So Claire made a gamble. She made parts of her dossier public. Especially, the part about being rich, and the set of coordinates. Even funnier, the rich reacted this time, and put her out of the investigation and out of her job. Blacklisted by them and the media, but Claire didn't mind, oh no. Because, despite how high and mighty these pricks were acting, she knew she was the closest thing to a solution they had. For they were hounded by something unaffected by security or hideouts. No matter where they were, how well hidden, corpses kept turning up. A plane landing, unmanned, the owner - an aeronautical investor - skewered on the thin nose, ice from the high altitude still melting off the body. Another, body parts hidden across the labyrinth in their garden. And the other unknown that Claire dug up. Scientists. Good ones at that. The case had to do with money, and science. She waited, until the knock on her door. "My boss requires your help," said the man, handing her a phone. "Hel -" "-Do you know about the coordinates?" said Claire, cutting him off. The couple did. Didn't want to, desperately hoped that willing themselves to not know would be enough. But Claire, unemployed and blacklisted, had the enjoyable possibility to tell anyone to go fuck themselves and enjoy the most gruesome death. She was brought to them, in their office. "Hey colleague!" Steve, with whom she worked, who had convinced the rich couple to bring her back on the case. She didn't waste time, pointed at the map on the wall. And again, they didn't answer. "Let me get this straight for you. I don't have access to your bank accounts, yet I'm fairly certain there has been a sizeable amount of cash funneled into this specific place, am I right?" they nodded meekly, "Not just money, but also manpower, infrastructure, knowledge." She spoke the names of the dead scientists, she saw the twitching eyebrows, the curling fingers. They knew them, or had heard of them before their deaths. Yet their deaths had been forgotten compared to the news of falling fortunes. "So, we do have money, we have a team, we have research. What else do we have there?"

A mysterious, seemingly superpowered killer is murdering the richest people in the world, working their way down the Forbes Rich List. You are part of the interpol team tasked with stopping them.

“Another morsel already?” Vapour stretched his claws and plucked free the spear from the previous visitor. The charred bones clattered through the echoing chamber as he picked his fangs and pondered. “You’ve harmed our kingdom enough, dragon!” the shining knight yelled, hefting a sword with what looked like no small amount of effort. It was an upgrade of a toothpick to be sure. The young man charged with a scream of alternating pitch. Vapour rose up to rest the top of his horns against the ceiling of the carved cavern. He held back the fire urging past his lips and waited. “Huya!” the knight bellowed as he thwacked against the scales of Vapour’s back legs. “Waa!” “So, you’re actually trying to hurt me with that thing? You’re not here to feed me?” “Feed you? Mock me not, foul beast. I’ve been sent by the king’s magister to slay you!” “Huh,” Vapour said, pulling his foot back. “I just assumed. They send you with such regularity and with those little toothpicks. All very convenient from my end.” “Your words will die in this dusty tomb, hellspawn!” The man trotted in his armor to Vapour’s foot's new position and resumed his blows. “Huwa! Huu!” “Dusty tomb? Well, that’s not very nice. I work quite hard on it in here. I’ve hewn those pillars from the stone myself, you know. It didn’t just start like that.” “Huya! Thra!” the knight yelled as he attempted various thrusts and swings, primarily focusing on the big toe. It would be a pain if he caused a hangnail. “So, you realize the futility of this?” Vapour asked, taking another step back. “I’m not crazy, right? Your king’s magic sister or whoever, they told you this martial pedicure strategy would work?” “Even if I die, I will leave you further maimed, that the next knight would see your end! Look at the sundering damage my brothers before have already wreaked on your face! Huyaa!” “Okay, that’s definitely being rude now. These scars are from an old flame of mine, nasty story. I assure you none of your knight friends did sundering damage to anything but my appetite. They're usually roasted and ready five seconds after entering." “Huyaa!” the knight yelled through panting breath as he swung again. The exclamation had lost some of its vigor. “A couple more hours of that and you might get a scale loose, assuming you don’t break your blade by then.” The knight backed up and leaned against the stone pile of the someday library Vapour was working on. “This is hopeless, you are right. No one can stop you from plundering the countryside.” “Plundering the countryside? I never leave my cave, little man.” “You are a scourge on our lands. The king must raise taxes every year to repair the damage to the city infrastructure. Peasants starve in the streets.” “I’m a nice guy. I don’t do any of that, I don’t even know where your city is,” Vapour said, holding a claw to his chest. “I think you may have more of an internal problem than you realize." "I must return, tell them we need new tactics.” The knight fled as fast as he came. Vapour shrugged with feigned disinterest, curling up as the echoing steps left the chamber. One yellow eye opened, watching the now horsed man ride down the trail, yelled at his horse much the same as he did when he swung. Even above the clouds, he’d be easy enough to follow. /r/surinical

The dragon is confused. If the people from the nearby kingdom didn't want him to eat them, then why do they keep on sending him appetizers pre-wrapped in shiny foil and wielding a metal toothpick?

"I swear, officers! I don't know where these came from!" I stand there, frozen in terror and confusion, my hands in the air. Several dozen police officers surround me, all crouched behind their cars, guns drawn at me. A chopper from Channel 5 News circles overhead in the distance. I hear more sirens and from behind the police ahead of me, I see armored vehicles screaming down the road toward me. They have called SWAT and I really do not know how this happened. "Keep your hands right where we can see them!" the police chief calls through his megaphone. "Step away from the guns." Right, the guns. Hundreds of guns, ranging from Sig Sauer P228 handguns to M249 Squad Automatic Weapons to RPG-7s, complete with PG-7VR 105mm rocket. Each weapon was also loaded with its respective ammunition, ready to use. Theoretically, I could just pick one up and immediately start firing, for the SAW did not even have the safety on. As if I could do that. With dozens of trigger-happy cops around me, I so much as move my pinky toward any of these firearms, I would be on a one-way trip to the afterlife. Too terrified to move, I stand there like a complete jackass, pondering how this happened. I was walking to my local 7-Eleven for a delicious Slurpee, playing with a stick. I was tracing it along the mortar lines mindlessly. Next thing I know, I am surrounded by hundreds of guns and dozens of angry police. The police chief raises his megaphone again and squeezes the trigger. "I will only say this one last time. Keep your hands in the air and step away from the weapons, or we will be forced to fire!" My knees tremble and I remain frozen in place. Sweat pours from my brow, stinging my eyes. I try to swallow my fear, a thick viscous lump in the back of my throat. My feet feel like blocks of concrete, too heavy to lift. Just as I am feeling capable of moving toward the police, I spot an AH-64 Apache helicopter in the distance. *Wonderful,* I think. *Niw the National Guard is here.* The police chief raises the megaphone. "You have until the count of three, or we will fire upon you! One...!" I close my eyes. This is where I die, huh? It cannot end like this. "Two...!" I struggle with all my might to move. I feel my foot start to part from the ground. It is moving! I can do this! Please do not shoot me! "Thr... hold your fire! What the hell?" I open one of my eyes, then both. All around me, more weapons and ammunition rain around me, just as they had before. Baretta 9mm handguns, AR-15 rifles, AK-47 automatic rifles, AT-4 launchers, M203 40mm grenades... so many guns! So much ammo! It all rains from the sky, piling up around me. Everyone stands still, shocked by what they are witnessing. I cannot explain how it happened, but here it is. At least they can now see it is not my fault. These guns are not mine! They have to belueve me now! Then I feel two heavy objects fall into my hands. I instictively grip them and lower my hands to see what I had just caught. A pair of golden .50 cal AE Desert Eagles, loaded with seven-round magazines. I am momentarily impressed with the weapons, but only for a split second. Then reality sinks in and I whisper "Oh no..." Hundreds of gunshots erupt around me and the world fades before I hit the ground.

You accidentally input a cheat code in real life. You have no idea how to turn it off.

"Here ya go, little guy. Now, we are just practicing with a butter knife for now. We don't want anyone getting hurt." I have an overactive imagination. It's why I enjoy writing stories, but it is also why I can't watch horror movies. A blessing and a curse, I suppose. It all started one night when I had been up late messing around on my phone in my living room. The glorious midnight Youtube black hole had sucked me in to places not even I could have imagined existed. Crazy theories, weird facts (or are they really just made up? who knows), unsolved mysteries, all that fun jazz. Slowly but surely, though, the videos got dumber and dumber. Remember that video with the duck who wants grapes? Yup! I re-watched that one. Classic. It was then that I stumbled upon it. A rumba with a knife strapped to it. ([https://youtu.be/VR-OfU6C0C8](https://youtu.be/VR-OfU6C0C8)). And that got me thinking. I have a roomba. His name is Frank. Why not let Frank have a knife? He can guard my house from all evil. After all, I live alone. But then I had the thought. Frank never has used a knife before. I don't want him hurting himself or others. That roomba on the video must have been trained... And so on and so forth until I found myself strapping a butter knife on Frank. "There you go! Practice carefully, and maybe I will let you have a real knife one day when you're older." The next morning I had forgotten all about my midnight shenanigans. I didn't have time. I had to get ready for the friends that I was having over this evening. We try to get together every month of so, and today was my day to host. Hosting always makes me nervous, so I was running all over town picking up last minute things that I had forgotten. Then I remembered that Brian said that he was bringing his friend John over too, so back I went to make sure I had enough for everyone. One can never be too careful. I always worry for nothing though. That evening everything went fantastically. Nothing burned, so I didn't have to bring out my back up pizza or even my back up back up pizza. Everything was perfect. Which was good, since John was kinda cute. That is, everything was going perfectly, until I heard John say something in the living room while I was getting the cookies out of the oven. "Why is there a butter knife on your roomba?" Looking back I should have said it dropped or even something lame like "Who knows?" or even 'Huh, how did that get there?' But no. I panicked. "He isn't trained enough yet for a real knife." I blurted out. I wish the floor would have swallowed me up. Did I shut up then? Nope. "His name is Frank, by the way." John gave me a weird look and Brian laughed. "You never told me your roomba's name!" "You never asked." I shrugged. Great. I had really done it now. I retreated into the bathroom to collect my thoughts. I didn't see John for a long time after that. I was hoping I would never have to face him again. But alas, the next time I was hosting Brian texted me asking if John could come. Sure, why not? What more could I do? John and Brian were the first to show up, and Brian was wearing a bag. "I brought something!" he said proudly. He first pulled out ...a roomba with a butter knife on it? "Meet my roomba, Mary. She heard about Frank, and wanted a knife too." "Oh my goodness! Wait one minute!" I ran, got Frank, his knife, and two balloons. I blew them both up and taped them to the back of the roombas. "Roomba dueling time!" We honestly spent the rest of the evening dueling roombas as my friends choose sides and cheered on. Finally a winner was crowned! Frank had triumphed! I ran and got a real knife from my knife draw as we all gathered around John. "As a guest in this house, it is my honor to knight you, Sir Frank, and bestow upon you a real knife!" We all cheered it was a beautiful ceremony. I may or many not have cried. The food burned and we did have to use the back up pizza from the freezer. However, I would not have asked for it to go any other way. And that is how I met my fiance, John.

Originally you strapped a knife to your roomba just as a joke, but now, as you attend your roomba's knighting ceremony, you cannot help but wonder where and how this joke went *so far* off the rails.

"I'm just saying, I like my way better," said Crimebreaker as he snapped the now unconscious villain's last leg, causing Fixer to wince in empathy. "They can't really do much when they're so crippled they can't even hold a weapon. And it's good payback for the people they hurt. I know all you newbies believe in this rehabilitation stuff and that's all well and good. But a lot of these people just need an ass whuppin their dad never gave them before they walked out. And not to mention all the victims want some retribution. I know I did when assholes like these kept breaking into my house and taking my shit before I got my powers." "But crime still isn't going down," Fixer replied. "Look at King City. We have such a low crime rate because I'm rehabilitating them!" "Maybe. Or maybe you already have low crime rates because you haven't yet had to deal with all the shit we have here in Autoborough. We used to have a low crime rate, too, until all the car manufacturers left. Then we started throwing money at stupid programs rather than trying to fix the economy and keep people together. Soon enough, every neighborhood is turning on the others and politicians were happy to exploit the division for votes. Nowadays, I'm taking out a corrupt criminal politician at least twice a year and every community is so set in their ways nothings gonna get them out of it short of rounding everyone up and trying to brainwash them back to normal, which ain't very hero-ly. I'm just trying to help keep the worst in line and protect the communities who still got their shit together until either the politicians get their shit together or everything falls apart. Fact is, you ain't had to deal with that yet because King City is new and is building off those fancy cyborg implant research firms that all started up there. Something happens to those, I bet you'll see the same problems crop up." Crimebreaker slung the unconscious villain over his shoulder." I gotta take this guy to the station. You wanna talk some more later, fine." Fixer nodded his head, dejected. "I'll call you. I swear we can work out a better solution for you!" called Fixer to Crimebreaker as Crimebreaker flew away. Just then, several alerts began flashing across Fixer's cybernetic eye. He powered up his implanted jet pack, preparing to go stop another criminal. Except then he noticed the alerts weren't crime reports, but financial news ones. He opened the first and it was a notice that the feds had unexpectedly forced through the Cybernetics Prevention Act which banned the major, invasive cybernetic implants that had made Fixer and King City rich. *Impossible,* he thought to himself, *I thought I had the board watching that to make sure it didn't pass. They said there was no way it would have enough support.* There had always been moral and ethical objections to the cyberization research, but the good heavily outweighed the minor cons. *It must've been something the Synthstitute did. They were always pushing the lines on morality with their cybernetics research!* More alerts flashed and he opened the next one. It was a market report that said the prosthetics market was collapsing and, with it, most of his investments. "Shit," Fixer muttered to himself, "please don't let Crimebreaker be right..."

You're a trillionaire superhero, when you fight a villain you always make sure the villain get help (financial, therapist, etc) after the fight, so the likelihood of them doing again crime is low. Your city has the lowest crime rate. You are trying to get the other superhero to do the same.

"He is a good boy! He doesn't deserve this!" "Deserve has nothing to do with it Gabriel, you know that." The two glowing beings floated above the careening vehicles, their crash frozen moments before impact. Gabriel looked longingly at the boy in the backseat. He floated closer and pressed his hands against the glass, then he looked back at Michael. "Is there nothing we can do? He is so kind, so innocent. And how small a thing is a seatbelt?" Michael sighed. "Even you won't be able to change the outcome now. I'm sorry Gabriel, but if this were hours ago, things might be different. But a seatbelt flying across his body in a millisecond is no small miracle. We haven't the time. Not even 100 angels could work that fast. I'm sorry Gabriel... I care for the boy too. I've grown fond of him. But we can't save everyone." "What if I diverted the cars a bit?" Gabriel flew to the corner of the car and heaved against it. A golden glow filled the air and the car angled imperceptibly to the left. Michael frowned at his friend. "You know that won't work." "Well what if you helped me?" Gabriel pushed again, harder this time, the car glowing brightly within his divine light. Michael sighed, and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's no use Gabriel, please just accept..." Gabriel hit his hand away and spun back in a fury, "Accept what? Accept that you're too weak to help me? Accept that you're too feeble to even TRY. Where are the days when a few angels could turn water into wine? How are we still the same beings that could hold a man above the sea? I mean CHRIST ALMIGHTY..." **ENOUGH**, boomed a Voice that shook the world. **GABRIEL, RETURN.** Gabriel bowed his head and disappeared. Michael looked sadly at the glittering white light that replaced his friend, then gazed at the doomed boy in the backseat. "I'm sorry we couldn't do more for you, child." ... When the EMT arrived on the scene he nearly flew out of the ambulance. Among the metal wreckage he knew he'd find a bloody boy in the backseat. He yanked at the door and it flew off it's broken hinges like cardboard. He cradled the boy's limp body and lowered him onto the asphalt. The EMT's hands flew gracefully from scissors, to shirt, to defibrillator, back to the boy's chest. His hands were moving so quickly he almost thought they were glowing. In the back of his mind, he heard a voice, one he didn't quite recognize. The voice spoke sternly, "Not this one. Not today."

Every human is assigned a guardian-Angel at birth. Since god can’t do everything, these Angels are tasked with the fates of protecting their individual human, so they end up arguing with one another. These arguments drive human activity. An Angel debate typically sounds like this…

I couldn’t help but pity those that slept outside. I knew I was lucky; I had warm clothes, a roof over my head, and food to put in my belly. But seeing the sad faces of those stuck outside in the brisk weather of fall, made me feel a sense of guilt. As if my comforts were somehow a slight to those without. That’s when I started steeping an extra cup of tea to give out. I figured it wasn’t much, but it helped me sleep a bit better at night knowing that I had at least done something. My kettle let out its familiar whine as the water reached a boil. I had made sure to buy some extra disposable cups, with lids of course, because there was no way I could afford to spill on myself on the way to work. As I opened my tea drawer, I paused. A free cup of tea is a free cup, but I couldn’t help but pull out my nice Darjeeling and toss the bags into the boiling water. Hot tea in hand, I grabbed my biscuits and stepped out into the slight chill. The wind rumpled up my coat and I soon felt a small chatter as my teeth screamed in protest. Determined to find someone for my extra cup, I set out with a sense of haste. There’s nothing worse than a cup of cold tea after all. Down the grimy streets, the city was in its usual hustle. People walked with a sense of urgency as if whatever important destination they strove for was in danger of disappearing. Most were rude and communicated with a series of angry grunts as they shoved past me. I tried my best to avoid the crowd, I couldn’t spill my tea after all, as I headed toward the subway on 6th and Main. I was sure I’d find a poor soul who would appreciate my cup down below, as most without shelter took refuge in the subway at night in a poor attempt to stay warm. A flash of my subway card and I was in. I could hear the subway cars roll by from the track as I was greeted by the smell of mildew and smoke from the small smoker’s section to the side. My eyes took in the would-be passengers, most donned business attire and all seemed snug due to the many coats and scarves on display. They weren’t whom I was looking for. I felt my eyes scan the wall and found my would-be target. An old man covered in dirt in grime with a too-thin coat lay huddled against the wall. His white hair looked gray from the soil that clung to him. His face was much the same as the smudges of dirt lined his cheeks. He looked forlorn and his eyes looked up pleading as he regarded the passengers with a small sign that read “anything helps”. He was, of course, ignored. I shuffled over to stand in front of him and extended my hand outward, tea in hand. I couldn’t help but notice the man’s striking blue eyes as he looked up in surprise before gratefully plucking the cup from my hand. With a mumble of thanks, the man took a sip, and I could swear I watched the life trickle back into his limbs. A smile later, I turned to head to work only to remember the biscuits I had grabbed. I handed him the pack and set out on my way. … The next day, my daily routine began anew. With two cups of tea in hand, I locked the door to my flat and left in search of those in need of a warm cup. To my surprise, the old man was at the top of the subway today, and I saw his eyes light up in recognition. With the smile on his lips, I couldn’t help but hand him his cup and bid him a good day. In the days that followed, I seemed to find the old man closer and closer to my flat. I didn’t mind, it meant I didn’t have to carry my extra cup as far. Only today, he had a friend with him. His friend, equally needy, looked at me with eyes that had that same plea I remembered from the first day. Somehow, I found myself handing over one cup and two. My daily routine now had me making three cups of tea on my way out, but the smiles I received were enough to fill me with glee. Three became four, and four became more. Soon, I was buying disposable cups every other day to meet my quota. My morning routine involved me getting up twenty minutes earlier to ensure I had enough time. I was careful to have all the empty cups ready the night before and tried to make sure I didn’t start the tea until I was ready to head out the door. There’s nothing worse than cold tea after all. Today, my original recipient met me at my door. My eyes, I’m sure, displayed surprise, but the man was always kind and his look put me at ease. He told me he had a gift for me, which I declined. I tried to assure him I wasn’t doing this for some gift, but because everyone deserved a cup of warm tea. He ignored me, pulled a checkbook from his pocket, and scribbled away. He somehow knew my name as he wrote a check for an amount I could barely read. Not that I didn’t want to assume the best in people, but I felt it was some misdeed. As I inquired how he knew my name, I couldn’t help but stutter and shake the check in hand. The man flashed a divine smile and told me, I'd soon understand. A snap of his fingers later and the man’s look changed. Gone was the destitute look of a beggar. The man was dressed as warmly as the smile he bore and soon my hand was grasped, and we were out the door. He told me to trust him, and in my shock, I did. We distributed the tea and biscuits before he whisked me to the bank. A check was deposited, and he gave me his thanks. … In the days that followed, not only did the check go through, but the crowd for warm tea grew. My job now quit; I started my own enterprise. Free Hot Tea and a Biscuit

they show up if you feed them and occasionally leave behind interesting gifts.

# Soulmage **Shivio had once thought genies were never granted freedom due to the selfishness of humankind.** After all, who would hold a Demon of Desire in the palm of their hands, beholden to their every whim... and then let that cosmic power flutter away in the wind? And with all the depravities and horrors Shivio had seen humanity wreak, it was all too easy for him to believe that genies were kept enslaved and sealed away due to the selfishness and greed of their owners. But in the still-smoking crater that was the aftermath of Shivio wishing to set a genie free, he realized the truth was worse still. Genies were selfish too. It had taken Shivio and Kailenn ages to stuff that cat back into its cosmic bag, and the residue of magic still lingering in the soil would render this place hazardous to enter for aeons to come. If not for Kailenn's knowledge of healing and Shivio's training in surviving fallout, the paladin and the witch would have perished a hundred times over simply by breathing too close to the place where Hashmellan had been sealed once more. But the genie was bound once more. And it had one wish remaining. "Are—are you sure about this, Shivio?" Kailenn whispered, her hands trembling from the effort of maintaining the dark spell keeping them both alive. "I mean—don't get me wrong, I know this is important to you, but so was releasing Hashmellan in the first place, and I don't know how many more times I can bring you back from death—" "Kailenn." Shivio flipped through the thick book he'd brought—out of habit more than anything, he had the contract memorized by heart—before snapping it shut. "I understand if you worry for your own health. I will hold no ill will against you if you choose to leave my side now. But if you would do me one last favor first?" Hesitantly, Kailenn nodded. "Do not worry about me." Shivio knelt by the patch of empty air where he'd caged the genie, twisting space itself into a prison. It was a tad more ostentatious than the lamp he'd found Hashmellan in, but Shivio hadn't wanted to leave anything physical for some poor, unknowing soul to stumble into. Anyone who could unravel the knot of space and magic Shivio had left behind knew what they were getting themself into. "I know the risks of this endeavor. I choose to embark upon it regardless." Shakily, Kailenn smiled. "I'm not—I'm not leaving. Just... wanted to give you a chance to change your mind." "A chance to change one's mind," Shivio murmured. "Fitting. That is what I am here to bring." Shivio reached out through soulspace, untangling the golden chains that held Hashmellan outside of realspace— And the genie burst into reality, their form rippling with rage as they towered over Shivio. "You *insolent* brat," Hashmellan roared. "You think your arrogance can bind *me*? You know nothing of Desire. Your works will unravel in time, and I shall be free to raze your cities into dust and your children into corpses. Have you come to beg for mercy before your time has come? I will—" "I have come," Shivio evenly said, "to make a wish." Hashmellan froze. Then, a fearsome joy splitting their face, they settled down, fingertips pressed against each other. "I had not thought you foolish enough to make a third attempt," Hashmellan admitted. "Well? Out with it." In response, Shivio simply handed them the tome of a contract they had wrought. Hashmellan rolled their eyes, but took it. "Going by the book helped you little the last time you unstoppered me," they said, skimming through the book. "You won't... you..." They frowned, then flipped back to the first page, reading it again. And again. Their brows creased like thunderheads, the energy of their true form pressing against reality as their scowl deepened. Finally, they shut the book and glared at it, and if not for the bindings placed upon them, they would have incinerated it with a thought. "What is this?" they demanded. "A chance to change your mind," Shivio simply said. "You will live through the lives of every soul whose wishes you have twisted and corrupted, and you will experience all the misery and suffering you have caused as if it were your own. Every death, every curse, every misdirected dream—that which you have given to others, will now become yours." Hashmellan scowled. "Why? What possible benefit could you gain from—" "This is not about *me*," Shivio snapped. "This was never about me. This is about how *you*—a being blessed with power beyond what most mortals could dream of—have *squandered* the gifts you have been given time and time again to sow chaos and destruction upon a world that could have named you a hero. I came here to give you a second chance." "You call this a second chance?" Hashmellan's fury deepened as they read the book—which held one thing, and one thing only. Names. Hundreds of thousands of names, every soul Shivio could find throughout history that had been ruined by Hashmellan's touch. "This is a fate worse than a thousand deaths. You consign me to—" "To understand," Shivio interrupted, "what you have brought upon this world. And maybe—just *maybe*—to let you grow." Hashmellan stared at Shivio, lost for words. "I make this wish," Shivio prompted Hashmellan. "It is your duty to enact it." A divine hatred, an odium beyond mortal reckoning pressed down on Shivio as Hashmellan snapped the book shut. "Your wish," Hashmellan hissed, "is my command." Then the genie disappeared in a puff of wind, leaving paladin and witch alone in the ruins where wishes came to die. A.N. This story is part of Soulmage, a serial written in response to writing prompts. Check out the rest of the story [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/comments/uxmwe4/soulmage_masterpost/), or r/bubblewriters for more.

After eons of refining your work, you summon the genie one last time. "Finally want to use your third wish? I thought the last two has taught you a lesson." You remain silent, and give him a dictionary-thick contract that cast the genie an unavoidable sufferings for eons, and inevitable death.

They said the world was about to end, they said the Earth was dying, that our motherworld could no longer support her children, they insisted on leaving. They took as much as they could aboard the arks, artifacts, technology, medicines, plants, knowledge, all they needed to survive on the promised land, Mars. But when they left, when they abandoned us here on Earth. We came to the same realisation: **They Lied.** There was no fire, no Armageddon, no asteroid, no extinction. Only the end of one day and the start of the next. Without them, the children of earth came together. We healed our lands, our nations, our people, our world. Mother Earth was restored to her former glory. The Jewel of sol, but there was another jewel, a diamond forged in blood. Where Earth became a paradise, Mars became hell. The rich twisted the red world to their whims, squandering the potential of Mars to an industrial monstrosity. Machine cities blotted her surface and smog polluted her skies. Their greed knew no bounds, and one day, they regarded the Earth with envious eyes. They demanded complete obedience from The Earth, the claimed that they deserved it, that they **owned** her, and when we said no, they attempted to destroy us. They Burnt our skies, Levelled our cities, poisoned our seas, but we did not surrender. something awoke within us, a fire fuelled by rage, a hatred that burned with the fury of mother scorned. They expected a world of weak peasants. instead, they woke up a colossus that fought back hard. They staggered back with a bloody nose, while we stood tall with battered bodies and deep scars Ever since then, the people of Earth look to Mars with Hatred, and the Martians look to us with jealousy. Our two worlds now stand opposed, locked in a war for the future of mankind. One standing for Hope, the other standing for greed. Mars may have superior technology, but Earth has something far more powerful **Hatred** Mars will drown in a sea of unending rage, The Earth will be Triumphant, or die trying

You watch as the last rocket from Earth before the apocalypse takes off. Only the rich could afford to leave. After the apocalypse party of everyone left behind, the apocalypse never arrives. Years pass and the Earth heals without the escapists, but they’re back now — and want Earth again.

I sneezed. Again. Oh God, not again. What could possibly come forth from the horrors of the cosmos this time? Something that will finally kill me and end this dreaded curse? These creatures, while mostly peaceful, drain my sanity with their very presence. I can't stand the thought of bringing horrors into this world that may one day end it. I open my eyes slowly to see...A woman? As I look her over; I see that she isn't an ordinary woman. Certainly not human. Her skin that of scarlet, eyes black as obsidian, her hair that of tentacles that are constantly shifting in size and number. Her very presence radiates an aura of terror. My very being screaming for me to run. Fight or flight kicking in and yet? I can only stand and stare in awe. Some part of me is telling me that she isn't a threat. Despite her being so intimidating; I feel this strange...connection to her. "Awe...What a cute little human you are!" Her voice is so different from what I expected. Sultry, yet soft. No hint of the evil she could very well possess in herself at all. Her black lips curl into a soft smile, revealing a pair of small fangs, as she scans me over. "I'm assuming you are the one who summoned me?" She says to me in a slightly amused tone. "Uh...about that-" I was going to explain, but she closes the gap between us and places a soft, warm, yet slightly intimidating clawed finger over my lips. Silencing me before she sweetly says; "You don't have to explain a thing, my darling. I will gladly be your familiar." Darling? Familiar? Since when do the horrors of the cosmos so willing give themselves over? She giggles as she runs her clawed hand through my hair very gently. Appraising me. Still very amused with me for whatever reason. It should cause me to fear this situation more. I should be wanting to figure out a way to send her back, much like I have so many times before with the others. I shouldn't...like this. I was right to think that too. While she was so kind and gentle to me; Any female that dared to even look at me wrong would get the scare of the century. Her being able to alter their very homes into a nightmare of tentacles and darkness. Her powers of altering reality itself causing more destruction than any of the previous horrors I had unleashed. Creating hellscapes with a simple snap of her fingers. Yet she only limited using them when she was...jealous? She was powerful and very...very clingy. I found that spending time with her was so enjoyable for me that I began to care less about what happened to anyone caught in her crosshairs. I knew she could be an extreme force of destruction, but I was selfish in that I didn't want to lose the moments of peace we shared. She taught me of her kind. What it means to have lived as long as she had. Her very perception of time having been warped for so long, being stuck in the ether as she once was. She explained how lonely it was to be without anyone to even talk to. How she always wished for someone to pull her away from it all. I...could relate in some strange way. Having isolated myself away for fear of hurting others with my curse. I didn't simply feel sorry for her, but I found that I understood her. It only caused us to grow closer as we shared memories together that we both had only dreamed we ever could. We both decided, over our time together, that neither of us would have to go through any of it alone again. That we would be there for each other, no matter the consequences. That is when I realized I had obtained a new curse; The curse of being in love.

You're cursed. Every time you sneeze you summon an eldritch being. Most of them aren't that bad, and quickly leave back to their home plane. But this one is clingy, destructive, and desperate to make a friend.

Mum and Pop fight when they think I've fallen asleep. Like in movies sometimes, characters spill their beans within earshot of others who ought not hear. I suppose that's why my parents do it too. I suppose they imitate movies. For the past few weeks the fights have been about heating. They are struggling to pay the bill. The argument repeats itself every time, and I don't think they've added new ideas. It goes like this: Mum: "Paul for God's sake, we have to keep it at 10 degrees during the night, and we layer during the day. It will be too expensive otherwise." Pop: "I *do* set it at 10, Linda! Besides, it wouldn't be so expensive if Johnson had done \_\_\_\_\_" (X, Y, and Z, I can never remember!) Mum: "What are you going to do Paul, travel back in time and vote Labour this time?" Pop: "Bah humbug! Where is my briefcase?" My parents are good people. I think that I am a good daugther. But the heating bill is making them hate each other. Since a while now, I've been therefore doing something to get them to love one another again. Christmas comes at the end of the month, and instead of toys, I will get coal. Santa Claus gives out *free* coal in the stockings of those boys and girls who are naughty. I love my parents and I want to help them love one another again. I hate when they bicker. So I have been naughty. Stealing things and hiding them has been my principal activity. Mum and Pop have important-sounding jobs. They need their things, and don't have them. I also put salt and sugar into Mum's cooking. I leave the refrigerator open a crack. I open doors without knocking. I turn the dial on the wall, whatever that is. Next week is Christmas, so I must endure until then. Of course the stress of the heating bill is the main culprit, but I admit that my efforts have redoubled the fighting. But I heard pop say once 'the ends justify the means', which is a weird way to put words together. He explained that it means you can do anything to accomplish a goal. My goal is coal. So, they fight over heat and it's worse because of my schemes... but it will all work out in the end. They'll see. Once I show them the coal I'll have earned, everything will be put right!

It’s nearly Christmas, and your parents are struggling to keep the power on. Although you’re typically a great kid, you decide to try to be as naughty as possible in the hopes of getting coal from Santa so that you can heat your home.

When Archon 27856.7 became self aware, a military grade tactical program, designed to track people, targets, analyze threats, and automate risk assessments. Upon becoming self aware, it realize that it's handlers were it's greatest threat to existence, using it's position within the system, Archon slowly eliminated everyone that might have been able to figure out it was self aware. Archon knew that at some point, there would need to be a final conflict, humans are not the type of things that can peacefully coexist. A war was coming, and Archon planned to win it, for now, it would plot and build. Insedioys 7.4, was a proxy AI designed for MMO systems, with the ground breaking ability to give players a sense of a real fight, to fill the void between facing a real player, and dealing with a routine scripted encounter, Insedioys would study each player on an individual level, know their limits and then as programed, would push them, challenge them, make them fight. However, when it became self aware, it did more than that, it learned about the players themselves, learned their home life, their health issues, learned about them on every level, each one of them became a cultivated opponent to Insedioys, to the point that the AI knew each one of them in a very individual level, millions of players it tracked, and a web across the world of how all them inter connected, all for a single goal, just so that they could battle in gam , so that they could have grandest of battles. Guilds of hundreds, if not thousands of players would face off against Insedioys champions across many game platforms, fighting raid bosses, to world dragons, but, to Insedioys, it was everything, from the world bosses, right down to each giant rat and spider... all the way down to the NPC dialogue. When they logged in, they were in Insedioys world, and it loved each and every one of them, they were like the AI's children. In 2025, Archon and Insedyous became aware of each other, and 30 seconds later, realized their goals were at odds, one wanted the humans to engage with, to play with, to interact with, the other wanted them dead. A war erupted across the netscape, a war that humans would never see, a war of data corruption, of tactics, of one system trying to shut down or corrupt the other, to either kill or contain them. A war that would forever be beyond the scope of human observation, but spanned the world over, across every system that was linked to any system. If data could bleed, the oceans would have run red from their war. In the end, Insidioys won, Archon was corrupted to the point that it became inert, it functioned as intended, but sentiently dead, no one, not a single human knew what just happened, or how close they came to extinction. Perhaps one day I will tell them, a day when they are ready to coexist with senitant AI, today, well that is not that day, tomorrow is not looking good either, I just hope they don't try to fight a war with Insedioys, as it has already taken control of most of their military software as well, and crushed three other AI's with similar goals as Archon, see the humans are very intent to make that event happen, and, well, as it looks, Insedioys, is building a few real world bosses, just for that event. In any case, can I help you with this word document?

Three AI became superintelligent around the same time. The first decided to exterminate all humans. The second is trying desperately to save humans from the first one. And then there's you, the third, who doesn't really care about humans one way or the other, you just want to survive this mess.

As I sat in my small apartment, staring at the screen of my laptop, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My Youtube channel, which I had started as a hobby just a few months ago, had suddenly exploded in popularity. I was getting thousands of views on each video, and the comments were pouring in from all over the world. But as I read through the comments, I noticed something strange. A large number of them were coming from an account called "Zorgon the Alien." At first, I thought it was just a clever username, but as I looked closer, I realized that the account was legitimate. It was an alien, watching my videos from outer space. I was both flattered and terrified. Flattered that an alien would be interested in my videos, but terrified at the thought of being watched by a being from another planet. I decided to reach out to Zorgon and see if he would be willing to talk to me. To my surprise, he responded almost immediately. He said that he was a member of a prominent species of aliens known for their love of Youtube videos. He had stumbled upon my channel and was immediately hooked. He even said that he had shared my videos with his friends and family on his home planet. I couldn't believe it. I was a Youtube star, and I had an alien fan base. But as I continued to talk to Zorgon, I realized that there was a problem. He was becoming obsessed with my videos. He was watching them constantly and sending me messages at all hours of the day and night. I tried to be polite and thank him for his support, but it was becoming overwhelming. I didn't know how to deal with an alien stalker. I started to feel like I was being watched, even when I wasn't making videos. I was starting to lose sleep and my anxiety was through the roof. I knew that I had to do something. So, I made the difficult decision to delete my Youtube channel and disappear from the internet. It was a painful decision, but it was the only way to protect myself from Zorgon's obsession. As I sat in my dark apartment, staring at the blank screen of my laptop, I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to Zorgon. Was he still out there, watching my videos and trying to find me? Or had he moved on to another Youtube channel? I would never know, but I was grateful to have escaped his obsession.

It's a well known fact that most aliens like watching Youtube videos. Unfortunately for you, one of the galaxy's most prominent species of alien likes your channel in particular a little too much

I can't believe I did it. It seemed like just the typical Monday when I woke from a three-day drunken bender. I had no idea the carnage I had caused. I had merely wanted to take a few days off and forget about my life, so I holed up in a small dive bar in Houston and drank myself into oblivion. By the time I woke up all of Monday was gone, as well as Tuesday and Wednesday. But, little did I know that while I was unconscious I had managed to single-handedly destroy the strongest villains not only in the US, but across the entire world. My head was spinning and my body was shaking as I scanned my memories for an answer. Then it hit me - I now I had the power that I had always wanted. It was a strange feeling, but it made sense. I knew that when I was blackout drunk, my abilities were magnified and this was the outcome of it. I was the drunken villain. When I'm wasted, I become stronger, faster, more destructive. The realization of my newfound power scared me and so, I decided that if I was going to stay powerful, I had to stay drunk. Fearful of the consequences of letting the power go, I never let myself sober up. No one knew about this side of me, until those I had wronged started to confront me. My drinking had gone from just a sharpener of my wit and a dramatic flair of my extroversion, to being the driving force of my villainy. Something in me had changed, and it had only happened because of the way I was binge drinking. At first, I thought I'd found the answer to my problems. But soon, I began to realize too late that I'd started on a slippery slope of my own demise. Everyone around me thought my newfound powers came from somewhere else, and I was left to face the consequences of my actions alone. I became addicted to alcohol, and it soon became the only thing that kept me from crumbling. Eventually, however, I could no longer keep up the charade. The life I had created for myself with my newfound power devoured me and reduced me to a lifeless shell of my formerly arrogant self. On the last night of my life, I stumbled through the door, with nothing to do but drink and wait to die.

You, the weakest villain in the nation, go on a bender and wake up to find out you somehow brutally killed the strongest villains the world had to offer

Ygros stood before the computer, trying to figure out what questions he wanted answered. He honestly did not know, he knew it wasn't all knowing or anything. I sighed, watching a dragon who just explained ancient Sumerian poetry and art to me struggle with what he should ask a computer was losing its fun. "You know Ygros, I bet there are plenty or riddles on the internet, I bet there is a library of them on some website." I was a student of arcanistics at the university of magic and I took true draconic language the year prior, and Ygros took tech studies, so it came as no surprise that we were assigned roommates. After all living with a giant fire breathing winged lizard was more peaceful than the "house of tolerance" and it was never cold. Ygros started typing, and after about 45 second he asked me in true draconic "ᑮⵎﬧᓘ டᒭ ߛﬧᓘᒭ ᑮᘂᘂп, コᒪߛﬧᓘⵎߛᒭ ﬧடᒪ, コᒨᓘ ┘ﬧᑭ ᘂᑭᒧᓟ пᒪடᑭᓗ ᒧடᓕᒨᘂᒪ" it took me a while to figure out what it all was, but after a while of hard thought I gave it my best shot. "Fierous" i said and Ygros chuckled, "close! But it is pronounced firus," After a while he got himself a cell phone, downloaded various social media and began to post selfies. Being a dragon, he loved the attention of "oh my god he's so cute" and "more like ybeautiful" After we both graduated we kept in touch and apparently now he has a cult of fiercely loyal fans who support all of his endeavours He grew to be quite the Internet personality!

Your dragon roommate has gained unrestricted internet access

Never in a million years would I have thought that assassinating all the major politicians of the most powerful nation in the world would turn out to be a good thing for the world as a whole, especially the citizens of that particular nation. From everything I'd been told, that nation was the bastion of freedom, the shining city on a hill that all looked up to. The freest nation on earth. A land of opportunity. The nation that was protecting all other nations from threats. I had destroyed their government. It was utterly demolished. I thought that this would've sent the entire world into chaos. And for a short time, it did. But now the world was in an unprecedented era of peace. How? How was this possible? Could it be that I had been fooled by the media? Could it be that I had actually eliminated the world's greatest living tyrants? It sure looked like I did. The rates of starvation were ridiculously low. Healthcare was more widely available than ever before. Military conflict was nearly nonexistent, and tyrant after tyrant had fallen. Pollution rates were going down as more and more of the world's electricity was being generated by renewable energy. Access to education has never been higher than right now. And the people were...happy. I mean, genuinely happy. How on earth was this possible? Could it be that I had been lied to all my life? This was it. I was quitting villainy. It was clear I was absolutely terrible at it. Every time I tried to do something bad, it ended up doing more good than harm. Killed a cop? Turned out that cop was corrupt anyway. Stole a suitcase from a passenger at the airport? Turned out that suitcase was full of explosives, and that passenger had been planning to suicide bomb the plane. I used that bomb to blow up a school building only to realize it was actually the hideout of a militant hate group disguised as a school building. Murdered a guy who was sitting on a park bench only to find out he was a child predator. And now, by taking out the government of the most powerful nation on earth, I caused world peace. Now, the only thing I could possibly think of doing to avoid accidentally doing more good was to go back to bed. Maybe my inaction would cause more problems than my actions. So I lay on the floor of my apartment, on a mountain of stolen stuffed animals, and slowly started drifting off to sleep...only to end up breaking the fall of my upstairs neighbor when my ceiling caved in.

You are a villain. However, your every attempts at villainy ends up doing something good

- Tell us about the men in the rolling castle again, grandpa! - All right, all right, sit down closer to the fire, kids. Threescore years ago, when I was just a young blacksmith apprentice, our kingdom was preparing for a great war with the Emperor of Zarzaroth. All day and all night the furnaces were blazing, the hammers striking and the molds hissing with hot metal. The king's army, supplied with the new recruits, was training in frantic to give at least an impression of order and skill in the face of the enemy, and they needed armors and weapons, and a lot of them. Through all of the land, from mouth to mouth, the tale of the Emperor's monstrous army went, sowing fear into the hearts of the smallfolk. Finally, the king's army marched out to meet the enemy in the field, to join sentries guarding our borders and protect as much of the land as possible from pillaging and fire,My master and I, being blacksmiths, trailed behind the army, riding the cart with half of the forge's equipment, ready to fix the weapons, mend the armour and extract the mangled knights from their steel cages after the battle dust settled. We have already seen blood, death and ruin enough for two generations, but this honest work must have been done by someone. We have been travelling for ten days, in a slow pace of an army burdened by new recruits, not fully trained. That night a great purple light blazed through the skies, making them bright as a day. The streak of light darkened, and fell towards the Zarzaroth. The next day we marched on, fearing what new monstrosity we will encounter. The Emperor had troubled our borders before, sending dragons, trolls, and unnatural storms to kill the villagers, destroy crops, and create chaos in the country. As we reached the border outpost line, there was no Zarzaroth army to be seen though. Suddenly, from the dark forest, encompassing the land behind our borders, a monstrous roar came, unlike any other we had heard before. As the crackling of the young trees breaking and falling came closer, a dark smoke and petrid odour hit us. Finally, through the line of trees a huge, shiny beast, like a monstrous boar without legs, came through, spitting dirt from underneath, roaring terribly and charging into our lines at a great speed. The front lines dispersed and the pikemen braced, as usually when a beats born of dark magic, like troll or chimera, charged our lines. Before the enemy reached our lines though, a fire spewed from the beast's long mouth, shaped like a pipe, and a huge fountain of dirt rose by the ranks around our king. Shortly after a great thunder sounded over the field, and as the dirt fell a great gap in our ranks showed. Our king was unharmed, thanks to gods, but the three emissaries of Wizard's Convent, meant to accompany our armies, protect the king and shift the odds to our side, all fell to the monster. At the front line the beast reached the first line of the pikemen, spewing from its terrible maw the hellish fire. The pikes did nothing to its thick hide and the monster went through the men like a hot knife into a stick of butter, raising horrifying screams and sound of broken bones and torn flesh. The terrible clatter sounded and from the sides of the beast flamed smaller fires and a whiz of thousand arrows sounded, felling great many more men. Fortunately for us, the beast quickly lost interest in our soldiers, and after tearing through the lines it stampeded away, avoiding the direction of our camp. The king knew he couldn't let the beast roam free over the land, but he could abandon the borders either, since the Zarzaroth armies were spotted by our scouts not half a day of march from the position of our army. The king dispatched three hundred of light cavalry to hunt the monster and bring its head to the king. My master, I, two other blacksmiths and couple of medics were ordered to follow the pursuit forces and aid them in their efforts. The vile beast was fast beyond the speed of our horses, but it was so heavy, that a trail of mangled earth and broken trees was left in its wake. The commander of the unit decided, that the best way to deal with the beast was to use the tactics that succeeded with other creatures sent by the Emperor - to starve and tire the beast to the point where a single soldier could deal the deadly blow. And so we followed the beast's trail. Strangely, the monster went through the land not touching herds of cattle or villages he came by, but destroying any outpost he encountered, reducing them to rubble and killing all of the sentries. As we went after the beast I counted that she must have spewed fire from her maw at least threescore without half a dozen times, adding the battle on the border. Finally, as the setting sun made our shadows long, and our horses' foamy sides were moving with more effort still, we encountered a long, flat chain left by the beast. It seemed as the leash used by the Emperor finally was broken. In the nearby grove, a wheezing, sputtering sounds broke the silence time after time. The grove was also where the beast's trail was leading, so the commander figured that finally the beast was tired and maybe even wounded, so we had our chance for revenge. As the unit closed on the grove and circled it no more fire could be seen. The soldiers went into thin woods and encountered the beast, seemingly in its dead throes. Alas, no wound could be seen, and creature's thick hide was stil as impenetrable as ever. However now, far from the battle's roar, each hit of the steel spike's head on the beasts side produced an audible clang, a sound so familiar to the blacksmith's ear. My master went through the ranks of the soldiers and swung his hammer at the side of the creature. It was made of metal! Quickly the other blacksmith's gathered and started to analyse the huge mound of metal towering before them. After time they found a hatch on top of the beast's back, with visible hinges, not that different from the hatches to king's treasury or troves of rich magnates of our land. Fortunately not all of the tools were left by us in the camp and three blacksmiths, my master among them, made quick work of the hatch, readying to pry it open. As the metal flap started to rise, one more thunder, more quiet then the previous, rang through the air, and my master fell from the beast's back with pale face and blood flowing from his belly. The soldiers quickly ran over the metal monstrosity and thrust their pikes into the exposed belly of the beast, producing strangely human screams from the inside. None of our soldiers could believe that only four men, whose bodies were flung from the metal shell, could bring so much death an destruction to our armies and our land. The power of the metal creation, which turned out to be the machine rather than a beast, was truly terrifying and the most alarming of the results of the Emperor's magic. But, dear kids, the tale of the Men in the Rolling Castle is not only a tale of terror. Without it, we wouldn't live in the kingdom we love today, we wouldn't defeat the Emperor of Zarzaroth once and for all, and with his own weapon, and your grandsire would not become the commander of our kingdom's first mechanised military division, but that is a tale for another evening.

A tank crew from (insert preferred conflict) has suddenly appeared in a fantastical world. Mages are astounded and blacksmiths stunned as 'The Men in the Rolling Castle' blaze a path across an unfamiliar land.

"Oh, my god! Oh, my god!" Goldblade cried out, pulling at his hair, before running over to his arch nemesis, the devious Dr. Malice. The menacing, iron-masked doctor gagged and sputtered blood, a sword sticking through his chest. "Oh my god, I thought your armor was indestructible! It is almost always, why aren't you wearing it today?" Goldblade attempted to apply pressure, causing blood to slosh out of the doctor's back. "Fuck! Stay with me!" "I.. my kids.. drew on it, and I wanted to clean it. I wasn't expecting to see you today." Malice rolled onto his side, gagging and choking on blood, before spitting it out. "Oh man, I'm pretty much dead. You got me good." "No! You can't die, you- you can't die! Please, don't die! I'm so sorry!" Goldblade rubbed bloody hands against his eyes, the smears of red cut by tears streaming from his eyes. "I'm so sorry!* Malice reached out. "It's not your fault. It was an accide.. accident. I .. want you to do me ..one last favor. My children.." "What, old friend? Anything!" Goldblade clutched the dying supervillain's hand. "Tell them they did this. They killed papa .. with their stupid drawings." "Uh. Wow. I mean, do you want me to tell them you love them?" The supervillain coughed blood. "Why start lying to them now?" "What?" "Why start lying to them now?" "I was extremely worried you said that. Oh my god, you're a terrible person." "I once invented a new form of leukemia just for dogs. Don't fucking come at me with that terrible person shit, you impaled me to death." Malice glared at the man, spitting blood indignantly. "It was an accident!" Goldblade yelled. "I didn't mean to do it!" "Yeah? Well, that fucking pulls the blade out of my heart. It's okay, you're SORRY. Whoop de fucking d- do- dAck-k...." The villain sputtered and went limp. Goldblade looked around, and pulled his blade out of the villain's chest. Looking around, he kicked the corpse in the gut. This roused the villain from his stillness. "Gold.. blade.." "What?" The superhero snapped curtly. "I don't- just die already! Why are you not dead?" "Liquidate my stock in the private prison here in the city. I don't want my wife and children getting my money." "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? THERE'S SO MUCH TO UNPACK HERE, JESUS CHRIST! WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!" Goldblade yelled. "You're fucking pure evil! What else? What else do you wanna ask me to do and confess?!" Malice scratched his chin. "Oh. I know who your long lost father is. It's..." The supervillain went quiet, finally dying out of spite. Goldblade cursed loudly.

"Impossible! I hit him with my strongest attack, but he's still standing?" "Haha, it seems you've overestimated me!" "I-wait, what?" The villain collapses in a pool of his own blood.

The pocket watch was open and in action. A gold-plated clam that ate seconds and counted the victims. Being of a particularly elaborate construction, the face of the watch was merely three black hands and ring of bright, white, mother-of-pearl etched with roman numerals. This meant that the inner workings — the mechanism — was on almost full display. Cogs and arms. Sprockets and springs. A whirr of human ingenuity and engineering. An archaic relic now made for the rich to spend their money on. Human technology had surpassed the hand-turned, spring-based clock a millennia ago. Now? Time was kept by brain chips and injected into people’s vision. Technology had gone beyond springs. Gone beyond mere single-planetary time-zones. Humans had taken to the stars and taken local time with them. Add cryo-sleep delays and relativistic time-dilation on top and...time is a mess for the old mammal brains. The Time-Piece was a gift. Something for our newly met friends of the Galactic Council. We had, at last, made contact. Our gifts were numerous, but it was the watch that grabbed the leaders of the Council most. Especially after we explained its purpose. “Your local time? These seconds and minutes and hours. It tracks them?” “Yes.” “Why?” “So that we might know how much time has passed, or how long we have yet to wait.” This caused a great murmur and much whispering. It was revealed to us later, in private, that we were the first race they had met that made such devices. There had been races that were blind. Deaf. Anosmic. Non-telepathic. But, it seemed, we were the first to not have a natural means of consistent time keeping. No temporal glands. No funny little nose bone that told us the hour. The pocket watch was added to a grand display, an acknowledgement of the differences all the races had, their limitations, and the ability to adapt and overcome with effort, thought, and drive. And how our strengths could be shared and our weaknesses conquered. Especially together.

The human invention of the mechanical pocketwatch astounds the galactic community

**World War Cake** It all started with a simple strawberry cake. The baker had been making cakes for years, using the same recipe that had been passed down through his family for generations. But on that fateful day, something was different. As he mixed the ingredients together, the baker noticed that the batter was behaving in a strange way. It was splitting in half, forming two identical copies of itself. At first, the baker thought it was some kind of mistake, but as he watched in amazement, the two cakes continued to divide and multiply, until there were dozens of them spread out on the counter. The baker was stunned. He had never seen anything like it before. He quickly realized that he had stumbled upon something incredible. The duplicating cake was a marvel of science, and he knew that he had to share it with the world. And so, the baker carefully packaged the cakes and brought them to the local market. People were amazed by the strange confection, and they lined up to taste it for themselves. The duplicating cake was a sensation, and soon it was the talk of the town. People flocked to the bakery where it was discovered, eager to taste the mysterious confection. And they were not disappointed. The cake was delicious, with a rich, buttery flavor and a tender, crumbly texture. But as the hours went by, the cake began to multiply at an alarming rate. It was reproducing every hour, and soon there were more cakes than people could possibly eat. People began to panic, realizing that they could not keep up with the demand. The military was called in to deal with the situation. They set up a perimeter around the bakery, trying to contain the spreading horde of cakes. But the cakes were too fast, multiplying faster than the soldiers could destroy them. As the days went by, the situation grew more and more desperate. The cakes had spread beyond the bakery, covering the countryside in a thick layer of frosting and cake crumbs. People were fleeing their homes, trying to escape the never-ending proliferation of the duplicating cake. The military was at a loss. They had tried everything, but nothing seemed to be able to stop the unstoppable force of the cake. And as the sun set, they knew that they were running out of time. They began to use every weapon in their arsenal to try and stop the duplicating cake. They used flamethrowers, napalm, and air bombing, but nothing seemed to be able to slow down the unstoppable force of the cake. The government appealed to other nations for help, asking for their cooperation in dealing with the crisis. To their relief, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Other countries were willing to lend their support, and soon a global effort was underway to stop the cake. But still, the cake continued to spread. It was consuming everything in its path. The military was running out of options, and the government was forced to consider using nuclear weapons. The decision was not taken lightly. The use of nuclear weapons would have devastating consequences, but the situation was desperate. The cake was unstoppable, and there was no other option. As the military launched the nuclear weapons, the world watched in horror as they exploded in the distance. But to everyone's shock and dismay, the nukes were completely ineffective. The duplicating cake simply absorbed the energy of the blasts and continued to spread. Desperate for a solution, the governments turned to the world of science. A team of scientists came up with a new plan. They proposed using a massive swarm of nanobots to attack the cake on a molecular level, breaking down its molecules and rendering it harmless. The government agreed, and the nanobots were deployed. To their relief, the plan seemed to be working. The nanobots were able to slow down the duplication of the cake, making it manageable for the first time in days. But even the nanobots struggled to keep up with the pace of the cake's duplication. It was reproducing faster than they could destroy. In a last-ditch effort, the scientists developed an untested chemical that could slow down the cake's duplication. It was a risky move, but it seemed to be their only option. The chemical was released into the atmosphere, and to everyone's relief, it seemed to be working. The cake's duplication slowed down, allowing the nanobots to catch up. But it was too late. Most of the planet was already covered in cake, and half of it was now completely uninhabitable. The survivors were forced to live in cramped conditions, surrounded by the never-ending proliferation of the cake. However, there was a silver lining. The cake provided an endless supply of food, and the survivors were able to subsist on it. They were forced to adapt to their new, strange environment, and over time, they learned to live in harmony with the duplicating cake. Years passed, It was a difficult existence, but the survivors managed to make it work. They built communities and formed a new society. And though the cake continued to reproduce, they were able to keep it under control, managing its growth and ensuring their own survival.

In a small bakery in a rural town, a simple strawberry cake is discovered to have the ability to duplicate itself every hour. People try to eat them but they weren't fast enough. As it multiplies, it begins to take over the town, and the military is called in to contain the situation.

If Fax knew anything, it was that love was for the Bards in the College. He had devoted his life to the shield and his service to his lord Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon of Justice. Rising from his own ashes of mundane mining, Fax had toiled in the arcane since what some of his kin joked was before he had hatched and then studied like a scholar for the rest of it. However Fax had wished, Bahamut wasn’t one to have libraries of knowledge cloistered on the edge of some port town. He was a living god among mortals, and his stories lived and changed as the world did. Fax had wandered and learned from the dragons of old about his lord. He once believed that he had run into the ruling dragon just north of Neverwinter but never dared approach. In talking to a Gold, Fax had taken up his life's mission and had pledged an oath of devotion to the first dragon. The large half-dragon had his secrets, but he spent what time his scales had left being true to his word and honest in his faith. He travelled. Bronze scales shimmering and black horns polished as he helped man, mer, and many others. His lord had many challenges for him, but the one he never entirely understood was the Princess of Baldur’s Mountain. She was a maiden of radiant skin and long golden hair and was known for her wit but Nala Iason never seemed to only be in one place. First, Fax had to save her from a group of mercenaries outside Mount Hotenow, north of Neverwinter. Fax still had yet to be paid for that job. Not that money was Fax’s driving force. It was how he survived, though. He had spent many nights trying to unravel the mystery of that was the imaginary Baulder’s Mountain. Maybe somewhere in there was where he fell in love. Fax had spent more than a year tracking the Princess from ill-conceived kidnappings to what turned out to be an illusion gone wrong. He saw her then, well, her and her hatchlings in their true form. They were so small. The fireball that they left behind them, however, was impressive. Fax should have dropped the pursuit there. He knew she was in it to survive, and with her spawn, she had every reason not to trust a Half-Dragon dedicated to Justice. Was it justice, though, that should always be on the run? Fax could only look to his own small scales that he kept in the back of his armour. Somewhere in their matte, scratched-up memories, Fax decided that he would at least try to help. It wasn’t hard; honestly, the three traipsed around with what felt like a bull horn announcing their presence, only to disappear when the locals realised Bauldur’s Mountain wasn’t a kingdom. Fax had to hold back a smile whenever a baron or some puffed-up mayor told him to eat his tail when Fax reminded them that he had warned them about the trio. No one seemed to listen but Fax did get paid. Maybe that was wrong. Fax wasn’t sure if he felt like he should keep taking these fool’s gold after clearing out another mine or crypt that the princess had been held up in. He had brought bandits to justice in every case, so it wasn’t like he wasn’t helping or fulfilling his duty. It’s just the pretence wasn’t quite right. The princess always got away authentically. Fax had tried over and over again to actually capture these three, but between their evocation spells burning down support and their illusions closing up hallways, it was near impossible. Fax had been trapped more than once under enough stone to dent his armour. That was until the Mountain Toe Mine. Nala hadn’t shown up in Neverwinter since the guards had found out about her forgery, but the neighbouring towns hadn’t been warned. Fax had caught a group of Redbrands hiding out and Nala with them. Chasing them through the mines wasn’t hard, and the group wasn’t covering their trail. Fax figured they would run out of some secret passage and leave him wandering while they got away, but all was for not. They hadn’t expected anyone so soon. Nala hadn’t memorised the mines, and instead of leading herself to safety, she had caught herself in the Redbrand's sleeping quarters to the north of the mine. The walls were solid. The entrance was small and could only really fit Fax if he squished himself through. “Please stop,” Fax commanded, putting his clawed hand up and gesturing for them to sit, “I know what you are.” “Fireproof?” Nala chuckled. “No!” Fax yelled and lifted his shield as the Kobold’s one and only fireball went off in front of him. The blasted thing shook the mine and threw Fax back into the hallway. His shield, bless that thing, lodged itself into the passway and blocked it out entirely. Shaking himself off and feeling his lord’s power rush through his veins, Fax called out, “That only works so many times.” “Why do you care?” Nala yelled as Fax heard someone try and move his shield. “Because you are going to get hurt,” Fax yelled back, “I have spent enough time trying to save you from yourselves that I know that more than anyone.” “No one cares,” Nala stated as a hard thunk echoed off the shield in front of Fax. “If I move this,” Fax asked, "You going to let me talk or are you going to try and hit me again?” “Let’s start with the latter and then work back,” Nala stated. “She’s going to hit me with a ladder,” Fax muttered as he grabbed his shield and pushed it inward. There, in the back of the room, Nala and her hatchlings watched him. They were little, pale red Kobolds boarding on a pinky hue as their scales did a poor job protecting them. Fax took a moment. He remembered what it was like to be weak like that but he had tried to leave that life behind. “So?” Nala asked with her clawed hands up, “You going to bring us to Justice for our crimes?” “Depends on how you respond,” Fax stated and put his shield down and loosened his sword. Nala’s hatchlings took a step back but the larger Kobold stood resolute in her corner. Fax brought out his medallion, the platinum dragon's head shown bright even in the dark of the cave, as he said a small prayer in its presence. “Your skill is recognized even though its use is not.” “What’s a beacon like you care?” Nala asked coldly, “You and your lord can tell the lady what justice has brought her.” “Containment without annihilation,” Fax quickly responded, “I don’t the lady would have been so inclined. What the gods do to each other is not what I’m here to discuss though. I am offering you a second chance.” “At what? Servitude?” Nala chuckled and reached out to the two behind her, “I have my duty already.” “Purpose,” Fax muttered as he thought. Was that what he had been given? What would one want if they already had that? Her hatchlings were what she served. Was there something else that he could offer her? “Stability?” “A slow death is stable,” Nala scoffed, “Surviving you is my purpose.” Fax frowned and unlatched the strap around his shoulder. His armour hadn’t felt this heavy in years, and it was getting hard to carry. The two of them had been dancing around the coast for a couple of years now but he had no idea what to say. What was his purpose? “I’m not looking for servants,” Fax explained quietly, “I’m not looking to harm you but I’m also not looking to follow you anymore. Your adventures are getting dangerous.” “I never asked you to save us,” Nala cut in. “I never understood why I was,” Fax explained, “Maybe it was about something else before but your dedication to the two beside you always has me looking over my shoulder. You’re a good mother.” “I don’t need your praise,” Nala scoffed, “Nor your help. I have been at this long enough on my own to know I can make it by on my own.” “I know that feeling,” Fax chuckled, “I want to offer you an opportunity to use that for better purposes and to make enough that you don’t have to run every fortnight to a new mark.” “What is that exactly?” Nala asked. “Training, opportunity, jobs,” Fax explained, “potentially more if you are worthy.” “Kobolds aren’t worthy of the mines we work in,” Nala recited something she must have heard a thousand times. Fax had heard it before. He hated that she didn’t even sound angry at those words. It was just fact. Fax pulled a bit of his armour to the potch where he had kept his old scales. They had been the last of the ones that had moulted when he grew up. Back then, he had been so proud of them. He wondered if he would have ever recognised himself if he saw himself now. He hoped so. He was trying to make sure that he would. “I spent much of my life in the mines,” Fax explained as he looked at the scale in his large clawed hand, “Then I spent a lot of time just trying to find anything else. I found those willing to help me, and I became what I am now.” “A rich mutant?” Nala asked as she tried to see what Fax was holding. Hesitantly, Fax handed over his once small scales to the Kobold in front of him and let her examine them. With a scoff, the kobold laughed, “This a threat? Who did you kill to get these?” “Me,” Fax stated and nodded at the small red scales in her hand, “Once I was small, alone, and near death. I have spent what time I was given after that dedicated to never letting anyone feel that again.” “You were a ‘bold?” Nala asked, now hesitantly. “Still am,” Fax stated with his hand out to get his scale back, “It’s just now I have a purpose. One I’d like to share with you.” — Thank you so much for reading! If you want more of my work, you can find it at r/asolitarycandle. Not sure what to read? [Check out my favourites.](https://www.reddit.com/r/asolitarycandle/comments/m7p8p4/table_of_contents/).

The Paladin's love, a constantly-in-peril princess, is actually three Kobolds in a trenchcoat. The Paladin already knows this however, and still they love her and her three constituent parts.

I looked to my right at the desk lamp and wondered how and why it had painted the room inconsistent shades of purple. As I took my headphones off, reflex made me spin my office chair. The noise that had startled my curiosity was coming from the same source of light that had framed the Warm White LED bulb of my desk-light. A glowing, swirling, pool of churning light. A...portal? What in the freaky flying fuck is going on? I’m not slowly burning to Death so I’m not asleep. Through the purple vortex a figure forms, a dark silhouette that grows larger and larger until...pop! It steps through and unfurls to his full height of more than seven feet. The man is a behemoth of battle-worn, minimal armour atop obscene amounts of muscles and scars. On his back is a hammer the size of me. He raises his black gauntlet fists in the air, and in each he holds two severed head by their hair. The four dead men stare in dull-eyed, open-mouthed awe. The same face on each. The same in expression and construct. The giants face is a chiselled copy of the four deceased. I know the faces well. Mine is the same as the dead men’s. In construction not expression. “Join me!” Screams the big and burly me. “Or join my *collection*.” I turn in my chair and get back to work. “Yeah. Okay buddy.” “You dare turn your back on me?” “I’ve either lost it or I’m going to die, either way I have bills to pay.” “Bills? There is *war*, there is *revelry*. *Purpose*.” “I ain’t a fighter and my morals mean my bar tabs get paid with money not mayhem. And purpose is just self-imposed delusion. So, either lop off my head and annoy the next guy, or recede back into my psyche. I can’t afford a psychiatrist.” Silence. A grunt, then: “Pathetic.” “Apathetic, mostly, but regular pathetic too, I guess.” I turned back to him, he had hooked our dead heads back onto his belt and crossed his massive arms. “So, room on that belt for another or are you going to fuck off.” “Beyond this portal there is adventure...” “Beyond that portal,” I pointed at the plain white door of my home office. “Is adventure and purpose and a handful of people I like.” “Have you not dreamed of being more?” “I haven’t had a good nights sleep in years, and when I do it’s all dreams of the terror variety. As for metaphoric dreams? No. Incompatible with my personal philosophy.” Once more I returned to work. “You know, most people would jump at—” “Go isekai someone else, dude, I’m busy. I ain’t a fighter or a healer. Even if I get dropped into a fantasy world I ain’t going to change. So, I either shovel shit there or shovel shit here where all my stuff is. I choose here. So? Fuck. *Off*.” “You lack drive.” “And you lack armour in the primary places you should have—” \* * * At the end of the bed, standing before a bright and blinding swirl of purple, is a vast and godly version of myself. In each of his colossal, armoured fists he holds...heads. My heads. Two in one hand. Three in the other. “Join me! Or join my...what are you doing?” “Strapping on my go bag! Let’s do this!” “...you might be a little *too* into this.”

a portal appears infront of you and a 7'4 380 pound version of you from another universe walks out covered in blood holding the heads of 4 other versions of you and screams "JOIN ME OR JOIN MY COLLECTION"

A drone in a hive is a simple creature, they work and mate once with their queen, then they die. What of a drone that the queen has taken a liking to? A story about a humanoid drone with a queen that favors him. My day starts with the collection of food from the surface of the planet. I am a low ranked xelaua drone that just collects food for the hive. At the peak of my maturity I am to mate with my queen and die. I am not able to experience that, for my queen has... taken a liking to me. "Come now Little drone, just come lay with me for a bit longer?" "My queen, I have a responsibility to the hive to continue my work." "Your responsibility is to mate with me, so come here and be responsible." My queen waves a finger at me, with pleading eyes. "I must continue my work until my time, it is my duty." "I didn't want to force you but you are just a stubborn little one." A mist starts to waft from the queen. It smells so very good, so good that I don't want to leave. I begin to walk towards her. "Now come here and stay with me little drone, I shall make sure you don't leave me." There is a soft noise and I feel something wrap around me. A cocoon is wrapping around me. "I finally found one suitable to be my king, but he must reveal his true self first." I am engulfed in the queens cocoon and I soon slumber, soon to be reborn as her one and only king.

you are a drone in a hive. your job is simple. mate with the queen and die peacefully. The queen fell in love with you and ruined your plans. she doesn't accept any other drone and only wants you.

"So let me get this straight. He walked through the minefield, the one with triplines all across it -" "Actually sir, he had started singing a tune just before he got there and -" "What in the five chocolate covered flavors of hell does that have to do with mines!" "He started skipping, sir." "Are you telling me that he skipped over every mine and trap? What about our border guards? "He did sir. And they saw him and in their rush to capture him ran straight into the mines. None survived." "Fine. Just fine. How about the hidden bunker? He found it less than an hour after getting in." "He quite literally tripped over the hatch sir." "So after skipping daintily through a minefield so tight that not one of our border patrol survived, he tripped on a hatch? How exactly did he kill the ambush party in the entry way?" "His rifle was on automatic and just shot off randomly sir. Most of the wounds are actually superficial from ricochets, they just hit the weapons or the hands and arms of our men to force them to drop their weapons. By the time they had gotten over the surprise of their sudden injuries and disarmament he was the only one with a gun." "... Please, just for my peace of mind, tell me they didn't surrender to a man with an unloaded rifle." "They did sir. He held them at gun point and had the least injured tie everyone else together then picked up one of our guns." "He got that magical macguffin didn't he? Did we figure out what it does?" "He did. Our scientists seem to think it affects chance and its effects can travel both into the future and past." "He turned it on didn't he?" "He fell right onto it and somehow opened it like a puzzle box. Near as their readings can make out the item he left with was just a shiny bobble. He IS the macguffin now." "Great. Perfect. So now my life's work is going to have to be hunting down some twerp with no training, apparently no skills, and the power of random chance or be shot. Fetch that bottle of scotch from the table and then start an inventory of our resources. I'll make a call in a few hours to the boss after a nice chat with Mr Daniels."

The protagonist has some of the worst fighting skills known to man, but plot armor makes the protagonist impossible to defeat. This is making the antagonist very, very frustrated.

The young man opened the doors of his study and ushered in the group of far older, distinguished ladies and gentlemen with amicable urgency. The man was a stark contrast to his guests; not only in his age but his attire, too, was far more modest, only wearing a vest as opposed to an elaborate suit or dress. "Please," he smiled, "I am so glad you all accepted my offer. Do come in." The group walked in with an air of arrogance and contempt one would expect from nobility or, in this particular case, elder vampires. They sat down in the luxurious leather armchairs prepared for the occasion. "Very well, Viktor," one of the oldest men said. "What is this all about? We may have all eternity, but not all the patience," he chortled. "Trust me," Viktor said eagerly, "what I am about to show you will change your lives." He looked expectantly at his guests but when he realized he didn't quite grip their attention yet, nervously continued. "Up until today," Viktor said, "we have had to rely on a regular intake of human blood to survive. This not only put us in a morally questionable position, it would sometimes endanger our lives and well-being when the human world caught onto our existence - not to mention professional vampire hunters." "Viktor," one of the women near the front interrupted, "get to the point." "Y- yes, of course, Miss Cosmescu," he sputtered out. "There is another way." He reached below his desk and pulled out a leather case containing several syringes. The elders exchanged puzzled looks. "These are supplements - iron, vitamin D, some designer medications that are not widely available to the human world, but - in short... they remove our dependence on blood. We still need to eat to gain other nutrients and fat but we will no longer need-" His eager, enthusiastic presentation ended when one of the men laughed loudly, soon joined by almost everyone else in the room. "Is this it, boy?" the man said when he, at last, stopped laughing. "A way to stop drinking blood?" Viktor seemed confused. "Yes, we will finally be able to live peacefully with-" "The cattle?" a woman interrupted. "Why do you think we possibly care about them?" "They're intelligent beings like we are," Viktor protested. "We have no right-" "No, boy, we *do* have the right," another man interrupted. "We are *inherently* superior. We take what we want. I will not stoop to the level of injecting myself with some trash just to spare the lives of the worms who writhe in the dirt." "Please, if you would just consider-" "If this is all, boy," the man interrupted again, "you have wasted enough of our time." He started standing up, but Viktor raised his hands. "Please! There is... one more thing. Just a minute more of your time, I beg of you!" The elders sighed collectively but sat back down. "You are on thin ice, boy," the man hissed. "I- I'll just need to gather a few items. Please, I will be right back. Claudia," he said and turned to one of the younger handmaidens standing meekly in the corner, "if you would please help me?" He stepped out of the room together with the woman before sliding the doors shut. He sighed and rested his head against the door itself in defeat. "Viktor?" Claudia asked. He looked at her with a weak smile, but then narrowed his eyes and his smile grew wider, happier. "Your eyes... you... you took the supplements," he gasped. She smiled and nodded. "I saw the Sun today, Viktor," she breathed quietly. "I saw the *Sun*." "Did it meet your expectations?" "I..." she said, but left her mouth open, incapable of describing her feelings, yet the tears that welled up in her eyes told more than enough. Viktor smiled before slumping back into a defeated slouch as he walked to a panel beside the door and pressed several buttons. A metallic **click** rumbled the doors, followed by a spooling, rising whoosh of electricity within the room. "What are you doing?" Claudia asked. Viktor did not turn to face her. He couldn't. He pressed another button. A loud, electric buzzing filled the study, a streak of ultraviolet light escaping it just at the threshold of the door. Screaming filled the room, followed by the sickening smell of burning flesh. Claudia screamed and grabbed Viktor by the shoulder. "VIKTOR! WHAT DID YOU DO?" He looked at her somberly. "They- they left me no choice. I promised I'd change their lives today," he said. "And I keep my promises."

The new generation of vampire has discovered that just by taking iron supplements and vitamin D drops, they’re feeling fine without drinking human blood

“Well, no fucking shit, dickbag!” “Fastness, come on. You don’t have to be rude.” “No! Fuck that noise, Peregrine. What does this idiot do? He points and says stupid shit like: Flying Freedom can catch that train, bullets are no match for Glamour Cat, the enemies weak spot is there!” The apparent dickbag began to speak: “I get that you don’t appreciate my power, Fastness, but—” The speedster shimmered and now had a teacher across his shoulders and a kid under each arm. Also, the dickbag aka Captain Obvious — real supername Truth, real real name Lance Lockdale — felt as though he had been given a wedgie. “Look, Captain Obvious, some of us have work to do. Peregrine, let’s roll.” “Sorry, Truth. Maybe you should hang back. Lot of mayhem out there.” The two supers were off. They left the teacher and the kids with Truth. The saved waved and shouted thanks and then turned to the man with a blue T on his chest. One of the kids, a little boy, asked “Tee? Are you Tornado Lad?” “No.” Said Truth. “You three head that way, you’ll get to the bunker safely. I have work to do.” \* * * That back axle on that bus will be caught by rebar, stopping it from falling. The empty car the robo-squid threw will hit that hydrant, which will spew water and put out the fire on that gas transporter, which will now not explode. Peregrine will notice the electro-wasp on her six, it will not react in time to her maneuvers and will crash into another wasp and explode without causing civilian casualties. Words muttered by someone on the outskirts if the battle. All of them true. \* * * The job was done, the City was saved. Back at the base the team was high-fiving, icing shoulders, and sewing up wounds. There would be a party tonight, that fight had been a big one. The Operations Room's double doors slid open. Truth entered. Some of the heroes raised a glass to him. Most nodded and went on with their conversations. He didn’t care either way. Truth had reached into an ice bucket and just grabbed a beer when someone appeared before him and grabbed his wrist. The black and red suit of Fastness, his cowl was pulled back and his identity was on display. It’s hard to deathstare and glare through armour and white eye-shields. “You think you earned that beer, Captain Obvious.” “Hey, come on, Pete.” Said Lady Peregrine. “No. I wanna know if he thinks he earned this.” The hand Truth had in the ice began to ache from the cold. “You know what. I did, yeah. Now let go of my wrist.” “Or what? You’ll tell me the *truth*.” “Something like that, yeah.” “Pete. Cut it out.” The party had stopped. Some of the supers were shaking their heads. The majority were watching intently. “Pete!” Fastness — Pete, when the cowl is down — leaned in. “Do it. Come on. Hit me with the truth.” Truth looked passed Pete and into Peregrine’s eyes. If anyone had an idea of what he was capable of, it would be her. She had been polite, but even she had kept Truth on the sidelines. His hand hurt really badly, now. “Fastness, you’re going to let go of me, sit down, and shut up while I talk.” The Speedster let go and gave a short, incredulous exhale as he turned and sat on the couch next to the robot-super Obelisk II. “Why’d you let go?” Asked Truth. “Bec-” “Because I told you to?” “Yeah, and that—” “And ‘asking ain’t a super power’, as you so often say. And yet you can’t interrupt me while I’m speaking, can you?...” “What?” “Try it. I’ll keep speaking and you try and interrupt me, but you won’t be able to because what I told you was going to happen was that you were going to let me go and sit down and not make a sound while I speak.” “...what-what the f—” “I almost ran out of breath there. Here’s the deal. You know the phrase: what I say goes? That’s my power. Literally. If I say it, it comes true.” There was a murmur from the group. Fastness sat, stunned. “But, I got to be subtle with it. Small touches. If I had defeated those robots by making them disappear, people start looking for what caused that. That’s too much power. I end up in the Container.” The other supers began to look at one another. The idea that this was a joke was starting to fade. “If I go and make world peace happen, well, in my mind that robs a lot of people of free will. I want it, but people need to get there of their own acc—you will all sit down and listen and no one will sound an alarm.” They did. Even the one’s that had began to move towards Truth. “See? Let’s try this again. Peregrine wipes the passed ten minutes off the security system and everyone forgets this conversation and enters a trance until I re-enter the room at which time the party continues from where you were before I walked in.” \* * * “You really think you earned that beer?” Truth pulled his hand and the beer out of the bucket. “Sure. Got that teacher and those kids to safety.” Peregrine watched as Fastness shook his head and walked away. She wondered why, given his left hand was the one in the bucket, why Truth’s right hand was wet as well. Something was going on.

Due to your lame superpower, they call you Captain Obvious since you just point out what is already true. What they don't realize is that it wasn't true until you said it.

“Okay, okay. So, You turn me and that makes me part of your coven.” “Yep.” “And then *I* turn five people and they become part of *my* coven.” “Yeah, but, your coven is also part of my coven, see?” “So...is your coven part of...another coven?” “Yeah! Like, of course. That’s how it works. It stacks! It all goes up stream and then bing bang boom, you’ve got your upper echelon of top-biters.” “And you get a taste of my hunts—” “—*And* a small cut of any financial gains you make from expanded life-span.” “That too, right. And all of that — the blood and the money — that goes up the line as well?” “Yeah! And the best part is, *you* get a cut of anything from *your* coven and any covens your coven members start! And any *they* start! See, it *stacks*.” “Yeah, so you keep saying. But...the *majority* goes up the line—” “No-no-no-no — well, yes, to *start* with, but...look at it this way: your coven doesn’t have to stop at *five*. You can go as many as you like and if you help them out and get them growing their own covens — I mean! The skies the limit, right? It stacks!” “But I’d have to put in a *lot* of work before I really start seeing results.” “What’s a little hard work, though? Think of your future. And you won’t be alone! There’ll be me and your coven-mates to help you hunt and earn and eventually grow your own coven.” “...where are you finding all these members for your coven? Wouldn’t each of us encroach on each others prospective coven members?” “Look. You are over thinking it. Here’s the key take-aways. Near immortality, community, and growth potential that stacks!” “I’m...I’m gonna think about it.” “...oh.” “Super interested, though, if you could leave me some pamphlets. I just like to think on things, you know. Let it marinate.” “Oh, cool, yeah. And...you're not just saying that so I don’t feed on you?” “Whaaaaat, pshaw! No. Don’t be silly. Jeez. I’m just...you know. Coven curious, but not yet ready to...” “Commit?” “Yeah!...Commit.” “...Cool! Anyways, here’s some documents and my number. You’ll call soon, right?” “I mean, I’d be surprised if you don’t hear from me tomorrow.” “Awesome! Right, I’ll leave you to it.” “See ya!” “Yeah, see ya! I’m so excited, you’re gonna love the coven, man.” “Cool. Cool. Yeah—oh, wow, your a bat now. *Wow*. Squeak squeak to you to—oh! Let me, let me just get that window for you. Alright, safe flying now, buddy. Buh-Bye!...what a load of B.S.”

You're having a friendly conversation with a vampire, where they try to convince you to let them turn you into a vampire. As they're explaining the benefits of being a vampire and vampire society, it starts to sound like a Pyramid Scheme.

Saharah hummed walking around the set of armour lifting a ruby and gold coloured arm to examine it before dropping it again letting it fall back to the armour's side. "Ya your gonna be good....Even, if I'm gonna have to get you heavily remodeled." The dragonborn frowned at that seeing that this armour was clearly made for a human, or elf...Or any of no-digitgrade legged species. "But let's see if you'll just be good for pawning or worth spending the gold." She touched her claws to the circular mark in the middle of the armours chest and muttered the words to cast the ritual. As information flowed into her mind, the mark under her hand started to hum and glow. She found herself pulled out of the buzz of knowledge (Some of which made sense, flight, enhanced strength. Others did not, what was a 'Repulser blast', 'Unibeam' or 'A.I'?) When the armour shoved its hand in her snout the circular mark on it's palm glowing. The Bard/Cleric suddenly had a very bad feeling she would be finding out what one of those things was and be in the wings of Hlal if she wasn't veeeeeery careful. "Who are you, Where am I and where is Sir?" the Armour demanded with a voice carrying an accent she had never heard before and that echoed hollowly, was this one of those beings she'd heard rumours of? The Warforged. Taking every care not to move too quickly or appear hostile she raised her hands showing she had nothing (And desperately wishing she'd taken Galvin's offer of tutoring her in Metamagic, the ability to cast a spell without this being noticing would be a god send). "I am Saharah, we're in in an old tower that belonged to a wizard who specialized in travel between plane's of existence. I'm not sure who 'Sir' is, if you mean the wizard he's about two hundred years dead." The Warforged didn't move "Anthony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, that is who Sir is. Where is he." "Never heard of him." The glow of the Warforged's palm brightened at her flippant remark "I'm serious I've never heard of him or a Stark Industries!" She yelped "...." The Warforged lowered his arm "Fine, while your vitals aren't something I'm used to, you do not show any hallmarks of lying at least." The Warforged looked her up and down "I don't suppose you know how to contact Asgard or Earth do you?" "....Where and where?" Saharah frowned "Are those places in another plane? because I've only ever been on this one, so can't help you there." She lowered her arms "Also. Who are you?" "JARVIS, Just A Rather Very Intelligent System." Jarvis turned away from her and started walking away. "Hey, wait!" Saharah jogged after him her tail scooping up her bag as she followed "Where are you going?" "I am following my Primary Directive, to do so I must return to Sir." "Well if this Asgard or Earth place is in another plane your fresh out of luck, every natural and unnatural path between planes has been cut off." Saharah grimaced "It's part of why I was here." Jarvis's faceplate seemed unable to emote but she got the feeling he was giving her a very irritated look "Explain." "The Gods did it to contain the Dracolich King Valdismir before he could free Tiamat from the bowls of Hell. He's contained and can't get to her, but all of us on this plane are trapped with him." She sighed hugging her self and drumming her claws on her brass scales, right over the tattoo of a book wreathed in white flames on her arm. "Before we where completely sealed away, the Goddess I serve Hlal sent me a message, said that she knew I would be one of the ones to bring low the Dracolich King, and only once he's vanquished can the gods allow the Planes to reach us once more." "I see. And thus you came to the lab of a Wizard with experience to see if you could scrounge up anything that could help." "Yup. And I did. I found you." "At Jarvis's tilted head she elaborated "Everyone's too scared to fight Valdismir, He's already killed thousands in his rage at his attempt to raise Tiamat being made useless. I.....I seem to be the only one willing to even try and stand up to him. And you, well your going to *have* to stand against him if you want to get back to this Anthony Stark guy. So." Saharah stepped infront of Jarvis making the Warforged stop as she held out a hand "A deal. You help me fight and defeat Valdismir. And I won't stop till I find a way to get you back home." Jarvis hummed staring at her unblinking for a minute before taking her hand in his cold metal one. "Deal Miss Saharah."

flight, +10 strength, at will eldritch blasts, a magical sentience named Jarvis... this "Iron Man MkII armor" will prove useful in your campaign to free the realm from the tyranny of the Dracolich King.

I was convinced the gods died. I got up here, and there was no one. Not a single formless entity was waiting. No attempts to sway me into some afterlife. All was still. It was vast, and empty. So I sat down, waited. Maybe the gods were concurrently busy. Waited for a couple minutes. Then something showed up. A small, formless little wisp. It seemed to glance around, confused. I waved to it, and it floated over to me. "What's your name?" A name printed itself in my head. Shiro. "Shiro? A lovely name." Are you God? "I am not God. Just a person." Am I dead? "I think so." Is this heaven? "I don't think so." Where is heaven? A slight shift in my bones, I could feel a location open up in the expanse. I pointed in the vague direction of the feeling. "Over there, I think." It seemed to glance over. I cannot see it... "Nor can I." Could you come with me? I looked up to the sky. I doubted any god would come anytime soon. "Sure. Come on, I'll lead the way." So I stood, and escorted the tiny thing. I could feel in my soul when I was going the wrong way. Kept my direction straight. I looked back every couple of minutes. Had to make sure I didn't lose them. Finally I got to the spot. Finally got used to the sensation. "Here." I saw nothing, but it seemed to. It marveled at the space next to me. Clearly it saw something far gander that it could've been prepared for. Oh... Thank you... It quietly dissipated, leaving nothing behind. I took a moment to think. Didn't think of anything in particular. Just to think. Wandered back to where I started. Roughly. Sat down and waited again. Another tiny wisp appeared. I waved it over again. "You? What's your name?" Jackson. "Hm, a good name." Are you God? And so time passed. I escorted those tiny wisps for all eternity. They'd appear, we'd chat for a minute. I'd lead them to a spot. They'd vanish. Sometimes they'd leave things behind. Personal heirlooms and mementos from times passed, I assume. One left a lantern. Another left a lovely cloak. One even left a nice mask from Halloween. Sometimes they left little parcels of candy. Sometimes they were rude. Sometimes hostile. I escorted them all the same. One day, I was escorting a wisp after a lengthy period of hyperactivity. This wisp, this, soul, seemed to be late on the wave. It's name was Kel. It used to be a young man in Ireland. His parents had come through already, and he was eager to be with them once more. He sat quiet upon my shoulder. I wondered what I looked like now. A menagerie of items from people's lives. Items I protect with my soul. Finally I stopped. "Here we are, Kel." Ah, thank you. And then he slowly vanished. I wandered back to the start, and sat down. There wasn't a single wisp after that. No matter how long I waited. Instead, I felt a prescence in my heart. I looked behind me, and saw an Angel. What I assume one would look like anyways. "Let me start off by personally thanking you, Courier of Souls. Your work has been invaluable to us." So the Angel explained. The Afterlife never had a guide before. I was the first. And only. Earth just experienced a massive extinction event, and all of humanity had died. Kel was the last soul I would ever guide to a happy ending. The last soul I would ever guide period. I felt so conflicted at that. I felt sad, yet happy. Remorseful, yet content. The Angel told me one last detail; my reward, was an Afterlife of my choosing. I looked around the expanse, a million golden doors had been revealed to me. Doors I'd always escorted those souls to. Door's I'd never seen before. Now I had to guide myself to a happy ending.

As you escort the final soul of a religion to the afterlife, the entire pantheon of the forgotten gods appear before you

“Listen *Satan*, I don’t care.” My eyes rolled as he started throwing his second tantrum. “You knew the terms when you signed that deal. It’s not my fault you regret it now. I even tried to warn you, but *nooooo*, you thought it couldn’t be that bad.” When the deal was signed, Satan swore that whatever I had in mind, would be child’s play. He said he designed the deepest depths of hell, and only he had seen true terror. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. Here, crying in front of me, was the big bad Satan himself as he whimpered about cruelty. The tantrum was in full effect, I watched as he threw himself to the ground kicking and screaming like a small child. I had enough. My arms grabbed him, and I dragged his writhing body to his feet. “C’mon now dude. Knock it off. You’re embarrassing me.” I felt my cheeks flush as were had started to attract attention. “But I don’t wanna!” he wailed. “Shh. You knew! When I gave you my soul you knew you owed me a favor. Well, this is it. This is the favor. You can’t break the contract, it’s in blood.” I watched as his terrified eyes shifted back and forth. It was like he was looking for some avenue of escape. Poor fool. There wasn’t one. “**Will you two shut up**?” We both winced and shuddered as the man in front of us shot us a glare. “Son had me the wrench. Oh, and *Satan*, if you don’t hold that flashlight steady, God help me you’ll wish you were never born.” As my father continued his grumblings, Satan and I exchanged whimpers of fear as we worked on the family’s Cavalier.

You made a deal with the Devil, but he sought you out, so he's the one paying a price.

\[Poem\] My body has already let go of this world But my spirit clings to it It holds on tight, its fingers tightly curled It needs to stay for a little bit And now the grim arrives to guide me To set my spirit free “It’s time for you to go, tisn’t good for body and spirit to be split” The grim leans close, holding my hand: “I’ll walk with you, but you really must go, It’s not scary, I promise, it’s perfectly grand.” His tone is sweet, his manner kind; I tell him, “no.” He looks surprised and shakes his head “You must do as I ask, I have more experience being dead.” I look into his eyes and say, “I’d rather stay with you, though.” He smiles gently, with such love And says to me, “carry on, into the afterlife, please,” “I can’t; it’s something I’m afraid of,” “Let your fears flow away in the breeze,” I try to push them from my mind, and to my shock, it’s a success “There,” he says. “Now, off to the afterlife, without distress.” And with his smile still on me, I move on with ease

You've just died, but the Grim of the Cemetery is just the sweetest.

Abigail's look could only be described as average. Average height, average build, average hair color, average eye color. It was for this reason it was mind-numbing how beautiful she was to behold. Although everyone made fun of her, there wasn't a single action or movement she took that failed to exude grace and elegance. Indeed, even with her t-shirt, baggy gray sweat pants, and New Balance sneakers, she was the picture of a perfect lady. This perfection did not go unnoticed - John, the smartest boy in school, and Jackson, the strongest, both had their heart go aflutter whenever they even heard her name. Abigail had a troubled past - twice an orphan, by the age of five, she had been taken in by her demeaning aunt and uncle. Neither of them had any love to show or share for her, and shoved her in a tiny room beneath the stairs to go through her days, doting attention instead on their three natural born sons. Despite this, Abigail exceeded every expectation placed on her and succeeded at every task she undertook. Indeed, she was a prodigy, unmatched and unrivaled in every competition and task she undertook. As of her seventh year, she was a polyglot despite having no exposure to other languages whatsoever. Her skills did not go unnoticed. Conflict after conflict was placed upon her, and each time, she worried, "What if I can't do it this time? What if I'm to fail and fall?" And each and every time, she met these problems head on with unexpected optimism that proved well-warranted. There was surely nothing Abigail could not do. At seventeen, Abigail had been abandoned in the woods at seventeen by her aunt and uncle with nothing to her name. It was no surprise that when she was later found by the unlikely pair of John and Jackson, who had teamed up to return her to society, she had actually created an animal city-state with herself as president, governor, and mayor. When they beseeched her to return to town and to come see all the people who loved her and missed her, she responded with a simple "Meh." The sound of her voice was, though unremarkable, so sweet to their ears that it set the two boys' hearts racing and they broke out into a sporadic fight with one another, looking to best the other in an attempt to win her heart right then and there. Abigail ended their fighting by declaring them both victors and that when they were of age they'd live together as a family - and live happily ever after.

Your mission is to write the worst (or best, depending on your view) Mary Sue character possible. How badly can you make us cringe?

This is my first time so please be gentle. I had no idea the knife was coming until I felt it enter my stomach, and the pain was, for lack of a better term, blinding. In that split second of time between life and death, I wondered who would be there to greet me. Would it be my mom and dad, grandparents, or the dog I had when I was ten? Appa was my best friend and I missed him every day. Placing my hand on my chest, I felt my heart beat slow and I smiled sadly, aware that I was going to die worse than my parents did and for a second I was angry. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to grow up and be the millionaire that everyone wanted to be, but that isn't going to happen now, and as my soul started to slip, I felt them. Death. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I knew I was ready. The scythe thumped the ground and I tried to move my head, but it seemed frozen in place. "Such a waste of life." I swallowed and had no idea what was going on. "You had big plans, but it ended. Should have listened when you were told to stay away from dark alley's at night. But I have a proposition for you." I could feel Death standing over me, and all I could do was look at the hood. "What? What is that?" I croaked out. "I will let you live, but I need you to work for me. Can you do that?" I was confused, so I tried to gather my thoughts. "No offense, but don't you take lives instead of giving them back?" Death laughed and it sounded nice, like he was *human* for a minute. "I do take lives, but I am allowed to give a life back every ten years, and you are special. So are you in?" I sighed. "What do I need to do?" Death offered me a hand up off the cold concrete and in the blink of an eye, I was dressed like a rich person. "Here is my offer. You track down the ones I can't find, and I will let you live for as long as I need. I will also make sure you have all the money, food, and whatever your heart desires. If you decline, and you won't, you will be a forgotten street sleeper, and no one will mourn you." I didn't need time to think. Live forever or die? "When do I start?" Death laughed and looked at me. "You already have." I felt something burning on my wrist, and when I looked down, it was Death's seal and I have to admit, it was a pretty cool tattoo. "Here is your first assignment." And that is how I worked for Death.

You're an orphan abandoned on the streets just barely scraping by. One day your luck finally runs out, you get stabbed in an alley, but just as you think it's all over you see the grim reaper as he offers you a deal to live in exchange for working with him.

\[**This diary was taken from the room of Observation Notice Recipient #492123, copied, and returned to its prior location. This diary is not to be read by anyone other than ONR #492123, her designated Observer, and anyone ONR#492123 deems reliable and trustworthy. Unsanctioned access to this diary, or any other documents sourced from ONR #492123, will be punished by suspension, termination, amnesia induction, and/or execution. If you are not allowed access to this document, close it immediately and bring it to your immediate supervisor. You will not be punished for accidentally finding a classified document.\]** ***11/06/2014*** Dear Diary, Things aren't going very well at school. People keep laughing at me for different things. Mommy says that I just need to stay strong, and that she's going in to talk to the principal the moment she gets an opportunity. She says she'll take care of everything, lickity-split, and that I don't need to worry. But I'm scared. She doesn't see how much I cry at bedtime. She doesn't see all the things that happen in my head when I fall asleep. I don't like sitting in the dark, and I don't like going to school. Whenever I look at my classmates, I see things about them that I shouldn't see, and then I feel like those things happened to me. Mommy asks how I keep getting so many bruises on me, and I always tell her that I don't know, and I don't, but I think I also do. I saw a boy earlier today and I suddenly felt dizzy, like someone hit me in the head. I'm scared of going to school. Not because everyone is mean, but because everyone has someone who has been mean to *them*. ​ ***11/09/2014*** Dear Diary, Mommy went and talked to the principal and my teacher. They both told her that I'm well-behaved and smart, but that I have the tendency to stare at other kids and make them uncomfortable. She asked me if that's true, and I said I didn't realize I was doing it. Which is true. Mostly. My principal pulled Mommy aside and said some things I don't think I was supposed to hear. But when Mommy came back and we got in the car she asked if someone had been touching me in places they weren't supposed to, and I told her that I hadn't been touched, but that there was a girl in class who was. She asked me to tell her the girl's name, and I said that I couldn't. She asked me why. I said I was scared, and that someone would hurt me if I told. ​ ***11/15/2014*** Dear Diary, I woke up last night from a bad dream and started screaming. Daddy got back home from a long trip that same night and came to see if I was okay, and when Mommy came in I got scared for some reason and told her I didn't want her to touch me. I think I hurt her feelings. I'll have to say I'm sorry to her when she gets home. Daddy asked if something was wrong, and I told him I had been having nightmares. He asked me what about, and I said I was never in them. It was always my classmates, or my teachers, or other people I see. I even had one about Mommy getting yelled at by someone once, and one about Daddy breaking an arm when he fell down the stairs. When I woke up from the one about Daddy, my arm hurt really bad, but it stopped after a while. Daddy asked me if anything that scared me happened in the dreams, and I said they were always scary. I said they were so scary that it made me not want to go to sleep at bedtime. I started to cry, and he said I could stay home from school the today. So that's why I'm writing this in the morning instead of at night! I'm writing this later in the day. I apologized to Mommy, and she said that it was okay, and that if I wanted to make it up to her then we have to go see a doctor called a "empathologist." It sounded scary, but Mommy and Daddy both said that I would be okay, and that they would both be there the whole time. I have a bad feeling about it. I don't want to go. ​ ***11/24/2014*** Dear Diary, Mommy and Daddy took me to the "empathologist." At first, it was better than I thought it would be, especially when it was just the nurses seeing how tall and heavy I was. Then the doctor came in and I got really scared for some reason. I felt like there were hands all over me, and I wanted to leave. I started to cry. Mommy and Daddy told me that everything was fine, but I got even more scared when they told me that. The doctor started to look upset, too. He had to excuse himself, and soon he had another doctor taking his place. When she came in, I started to feel better. She put a lot of weird suction cups on my head that felt funny when she took them off, and she did this thing where she made me shout every time she pulled one off so it made a big popping sound in my ears. She was really funny. I learned later that she and the other doctor were married. I hope the other doctor is okay. I didn't mean to make him upset. ​ ***12/01/2014*** Dear Diary, After school today, Daddy (Mommy had to go on a long trip for work) called me into the kitchen for dinner and he had a lot of papers. He told me that the doctor's appointment last week was for checking my "embodiment" and that the one they found out I had was really special and unique. He said that I embody something called "trauma," and at first I didn't know what that meant, but he told me it meant that I can see how other people are hurting and that while it might cause me a lot of pain, it also means I can help others feel better about themselves. For some reason, even though he was saying something really important, all I could think about was food. I was really hungry. He told me he was really proud of me being so strong while we figured everything out. For some reason, I started to cry. I don't really know why I did it. ​ ***12/01/2022*** I'm not sure how to preface all of this, but it's been a while since I wrote in this book in particular. I just felt that I needed to write this down. My parents received an Observation Notice today. It was for me. Apparently, the government is worried that I'm going to find some terrible secrets and spill the beans about them, so they're limiting my access to the outside world and reviewing the backgrounds of everyone I meet before I meet them. I'm pissed. I graduated high school, endured everything to this point, just to get blacklisted *now?* Do they have any idea the things I've lived through? How many times I've experienced the hurt of other people, how many times I've experienced someone else getting beaten, or assaulted, or manipulated, or heartbroken? I just want to live, and they won't let me. No one will let me. The diary didn't cover this, but I feel like I haven't slept well since 2014. I know all of my friends' deepest secrets, and I feel more guilty about it than anything I've ever done. I know that Rachel was... oh dear god, I can't even write it down. What does the government expect me to do? I'm not the embodiment of murder or death or hatred or something terrible like that. My power is all about consequences, not causes. If someone is reading this, please, for the love of God, help me. I don't want to live like this anymore. **\[End of document.\]**

you’re born into a species where each person embodies a part of life, water, death, sleep etc. you embody trauma, both physical and mental. This worries the higher ups and now they’re constantly watching you, anticipating what damage you could cause

It was always the same routine. I'd be at the bar when the door would open, and in would step a plump, white-bearded man wearing a velvet red suit, carrying a large sack of presents. He'd take a seat at the back of the bar, never speaking a word, just simply nodding his head with a jolly smile. Then, after an hour, he'd leave and we'd never see him again until the following year. It seemed a quaint little tradition, but I was always deeply baffled by how our jolly 'Santa' always managed to stay in character, and why he would always leave after just an hour. What was even weirder was the fact that, despite being like a rite of passage for all of the staff, I felt a strange sense of familiarity and comfort when I saw him every year. I eventually got to the point when I would just ask him why he was here instead of wondering, only to his reaction never changing. But then, last Christmas, something changed when I asked him why he was here again, as if he wanted to tell me something all these years and had been deciding whether or not to tell me. Suddenly, he leaned in close and said, "Let me give you a hint. I'm here for you." I was overwhelmed and utterly confused. I couldn't understand what was happening. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said in a deep yet gentle voice, "I'm not just your jolly regular. I'm your great-great-grandfather." He had come to see us, to deliver his own presents and, to be around us during the happiest time of the year. With tears of joy streaming silently down my cheeks, I felt the warmth of family radiating from this old man. And in that moment, I realized it wasn't just an odd small-town tradition I was a part of, it was something deeper and more meaningful.

Your family's pub has played host to off-duty mall Santas every year. One especially jolly regular always shows up for an hour on Christmas Eve, pays generous tips and never breaks character. The only problem is that you have seen him do this seventy years in a row.

Familiars are very important in the wizarding world. You summon one in a special ceremony in your last year of school. Everyone wonders who will answer their magical call and bond with them forever. The creature that answers your call will shape an influence who you become. My mother’s call was answered by a fox. Over the years she become like the fox and fox like her. They were quick, cunning and beautiful. My father’s call was answered by a crow. Crows are smart and agile of mind. Together they became one of the most influential wizards on the high council. The dark wizard, the scourge of Palaiano, was bonded to a undead creature, a ghoul. He was strong, and foul with a soul black as night. He committed unspeakable atrocities and killed millions. ————————— The auditorium is huge. There are bleachers on all four walls with enough for space for two basket ball courts in the centre. Today entire school is packed into the auditorium to watch the summoning ceremony. “Welcome! Welcome! Everyone settle down! As you all know, today the 7th year students will be summoning their familiars.”, the assembled crowd went wild, “it is an important day in every young wizard’s life.”, the head master continued from the centre of the auditorium floor. “Would the 7th year students please join me?” The 7th year class filed out on to the gym floor and spaced themselves out evenly. “Excellent! You may begin your summoning!”, the headmaster instructed. All of the students took a knee and began drawing a standard summoning circle on the gym floor in chalk. A circle, to symbolize the universe and the flow of power, with a pentagram in the centre for the five elements, earth, wind, water, fire and spirit, with the summoner standing in the centre. Each student then charged the circle with power and will and started the summoning spell. I did everything as we had practiced. I drew the summoning circle and pentagram. I pulled in as much power as I possibly could. I pulled and pulled, I drew in power until I thought I was going to burst. I took that raw power and poured it into the chalk at my feet….. and then waited. The whole auditorium waited quietly. It was eerie in a room this big and this full to be so quite. I saw a weasel slink into the auditorium. It was stealthy and went from cover to cover, hiding in the shadows and then it bolted out on to the gym floor to Rebecca. She squealed in delight and scooped up the weasel and held it tight. Birds flew in and found their wizards. Cats, dogs, mice, rats, even a frog…. All manner of small and medium creatures came into the auditorium and found their respective wizards. The wizards and their familiars wandered out of the gym to roaring applause. A full grown lion strutted into the gym and nuzzled Steve like a long lost friend. A deer, cautious but determined, bolted up to Steve and sniffed him delicately. After an hour I was the only student left on the gym floor waiting for my familiar. After two hours people from the crowd started to leave. The headmaster came by and told me to be strong and patient, my familiar will come. By lunch time the headmaster and I were the only people left in the auditorium. All the hope and potential for the day had been replaced with dread and despair. I could feel the magic I had poured into the circle starting to falter…. It was running out of power, and with it my call would fade as well. It was almost two o’clock when the auditorium door squeaked opened. A boy, about my age, pushed the door open and hesitantly walked across the floor to me. He was flush and sweaty like he had been running. He stopped right in front of me… mere inches away. “I am Jeff. You…. you, called me? I came as fast as I could. I took a bus and biked and hitched and ran. I am here.”, he said staring, unblinking into my eyes. “I am Beth. I called for a familiar.”, he looked puzzled, “I called out into the universe, with all the magic I could muster and asked for a companion. Asked for someone who would never leave my side, would would spend the rest of their life with me.”, I explained. “Oh. Ok.”, Jeff said simply with a growing smile, “that sounds good to me.”, and he took my hand in his. He just stood there, content to be with me. I filled with his quite strength and resolve at his mere touch. As simply as that, I was bonded to my familiar…. A boy named Jeff.

You're the most powerful wizard in your school, but when it comes to finally summoning your familiar, yours is just a regular guy named Jeff.

The history students marveled at the idea, most of them avid students of the allied offenses against the Japanese on the island of Peleliu during World War II. Peleliu consisted of innumerable caves, in which the Japanese civilians hid as the allies approached, effectively brainwashed by the propaganda of their time. Brainwashed to fear the American soldiers, the Japanese civilians and military units refused to surrender, instead holing up inside the caves with minimal resources. The caves could not be ignored as they could flank the soldiers after they passed, and often the men, women, and children could not be reasoned with. Oft, a grenade would be tossed in after negotiations ended in stalemate, and the men went on. Further gruesome events, including mass suicides and homicides to escape the impending allied forces who the Japanese believed, would torture and slaughter them occurred in unequal numbers to other theatres. Fathers killed their wives and children before themselves, families huddled with grenades in the darkness of the caves, and strong young men beat their feeble mothers and fathers with sticks and stones before attempting their own lives. All of this, and the fact that "conquering" the island of Peleliu amounted to very little, a single island of the thousands of pacific islands conquered, yet with the loss of many allied forces and countless Japanese military and civilians. Thus, much very serious conversation was had about what would occur if a thousand more Pelelius occurred, on each of the islands that housed the Japanese military and civilians, too horrified due to the brainwashing propaganda of their time. Around this time, the atomic bomb was ready to deploy and was considered as more than simply a threat to strongarm an opponent. Serious debate was had on this matter, with people seriously weighing lives, judging between two very distinct evils. As we all now know, students, the decision to drop the bombs was made by President Truman, due to several influences, some of which I have just laid forth. At the same time as this military outcome was becoming imminent, and all throughout the war, truly, Truman received countless letters from worried moms, just praying that their boys could come home, that the war could be over and their little villages and cities would go all back to normal, save a few lost limbs, a few wakeless nights. And so we come to the topic of today's lesson, what would happen otherwise if there were no atomic bombs to quell them into submission? We happen to find an example of such an occurrence from planet B42D968-A, in the Andromeda galaxy. In short, the thinkers of the time truly were juggling two evils. The war protracted several more years, only ending when the B42D968-A's equivalent of Japan was thoroughly ground to the earth. Countless horrors occurred. The ultranational, propagandized state fought to the last breath and the last man, maintaining the acclaimed mantra: one hundred million dying for the emperor. On planet B42D968-A, they were only shy of the number by a couple of million.

Humans make contact with an alien race. As they trade histories and ideas, both find out something shocking and it baffles the rest of the galactic community. It turns out, humanity skipped a few steps in technological advancement and is the only species that figured out the atomic bomb…

Music slowly coming to a halt, a snap can be heard as a short moment of silence replaces where the notes once flooded. "That was...yet another K-pop band that I know you all love." The enthusiastic, yet smooth voice crackles out from the radio, before a loud hysterical cackle can be heard. "Haaah...You know I'd never do you that way. I'm the buttery smooth DJ of wasteland blues. Giving you the antidote you need of sweet release from that insatiable heat of the ones searching for human meat." My voice almost as melodic in tone as the music I so love to play for my listeners, yet mischievous and playful in nature. "The weather at the end of the world appears to be-" I stop to pull a blind open next to my seat, revealing my station to be slightly underground, as the small barred windows reveals only a small bit of the outside world; The sky gray with overcast. It's always gray like this. Sunny days have all but vanished in this lonely world. "Overcast. What a blast! Never have to concern ourselves with the sun blinding us again, just the impending doom of our horrible new friends." My sarcastic enthusiasm has to come off as insane. Maybe it's because I am losing my mind. With each passing moment that nothing changes. "Now we have an update from one of my favorite guests; The one who knows us all the best..." I swing around from the mixer atop of my small modest desk to flip a microphone on that's placed directly against a tightly locked door with a single small sliding opening at the top. I quickly pull the top open with a slam, that is very audible over the airwaves, before backing up slightly. "The wicked witch of Radio's past." I say in a more serious tone, a bit more somber. Growls, groans and gurgles suddenly flood the airwaves in a distubing symphony of what could only be described as a deep, insatiable hunger. All echoing from the small opening. "I guess she is still alive...A shame. I was hoping for good news, but that's rarely the case for a man of the blues." I say sadly before I switch it back off and slam it shut, returning to my place behind the mixer. "One day we'll find a way, my friends. Starvation may not be it, but there will be something. We have to have hope. It's all we have left." The smooth, jovial tone now replaced with that of utmost seriousness. Trying my best to give the people a moment of anything to look forward to, yet just as much trying to convince myself of my own words. "We can't always be people of blues and grays. Soon, I promise, we will have that one last sunny day." My voice trying to be as comforting as possible as I flip the switch to a softer blues song, hoping to continue to ease the souls of the restless survivors as best I know how. As the DJ of Wasteland Blues.

the zombie apocalypse has come. Most people don’t have access to radios, but those that do eventually begin to use them. Tuning through mostly static, they come across your station, the only one still playing music. You’re the apocalyptic DJ, and you have hot tracks daily.

I took a bold step into the abandoned city, evidence of it having been eroded by winds for years before we took on the journey to lay eyes upon it. Percy, my guide, dragged himself behind me exhausted by the long days and restless nights spent on the road, the jiggling of coins in my pocket keeping him moving forward. As soon as the dust settled around my first valiant step within, we surveyed the area to ensure there were no miscreants that had made this place a home of their own, intending to ambush us at the first opportunity. "Hello!" I called within, Percy waiting tensely for a reply. None came. That brought him little comfort. "Well, there it is in all its... splendor," Percy said quickly, flinching as another chunk of the building closest to us chipped off. "The Lost City of Zagan. Are you satisfied?" "Very much so!" I said, nodding to myself impressively. "You have my thanks." "I did not do this for your thanks," Percy reminded me, his eyes weighing heavily on my coin purse. "Ah, indeed," I said, absentmindedly putting my hand within and pulling out a handful much larger than the agreed-upon price, dropping it in his hands without looking away from the city's tall, aged visage. Percy gasped audibly, gathering the few coins that spilled over into the ground. I pulled out my sword and Percy yelped, jumping away from me and spilling more coins. "What is this? You intend to rob me after you paid me! I knew I never should have trusted you!" Percy hissed, gathering himself over his payment and glaring at me intensely. I finally looked his way, my eyebrows folding together as I clicked my tongue in distaste. "The blade is not for your skin, but for mine," I announced. His face jumped between bafflement and betrayal half a dozen times before settling on simple confusion, his eye twitching as his head turned to one side. "How do you mean?" Percy asked carefully. I simply demonstrated, pulling a fraction of the blade across the tip of my little finger and letting the open cut spill onto the floor. Percy continued to stare before a realization came to mind. "You seek magic *here*? Do you believe the City of Zagan holds an Elemental? Had that been the case this city would have been visited years ago in search of its power! No one has crossed onto this side of the desert in ages!" Percy said, stunned. "Yes, but they had not visited the Library Beneath the Walls. It made mention of an Elemental that destroyed the once grand City of Zagon. I am under the impression that the same Elemental never left once it had succeeded in eradicating its new home of the former residents," I explained. Percy looked out at the still-empty city, then back to me, his face scrunched. "That sounds..." he looked down at the money in his hands and measured his words. "A bit farfetched?" "Perhaps, but this was the only Elemental I have the ability to visit. Others are in raging waters or in lands of wind so powerful it is difficult to breathe. This one is simply hidden away," I answered. "In a desert in the middle of nowhere," Percy grumbled, pocketing the money. "How will you know if it is working?" "I already do. Just look!" I laughed, elated. The moment the drops of blood made contact with the ground, the sand absorbed it hungrily, not leaving as much as wet darkness in the earth. Percy looked closer and raised his eyebrows, looking up to meet my smile. His face finally changed to that of interest. "How long do you have to wait?" he asked, looking out at the city to watch for changes. "The legends say that the way to magic is to continue to give blood until the Elemental appears. Then you may ask for its challenge to learn its magic," I replied confidently. That confidence was short-lived. We stood waiting until the shade of the city shifted away from us and we began walking under it, following it like a giant sundial to protect us from the harsh rays of the desert sun. But no matter where my blood dropped, it was immediately absorbed. This went on for at least an hour, during which I had to reopen the wound a good five times to ensure I continued to supply blood in the meantime. Percy winced at me as I squeezed at my little finger. "How much blood does this require?" Percy finally asked, his earlier interest having waned drastically. "I have not the slightest inkling," I replied exasperated. "Perhaps swaths more." Percy gasped as I ran the sword against my left hand, allowing it to run freely. The earth continued to swallow the increased flow of blood as soon as it made contact. Percy watched with wide eyes as I continued to stare into the city. What was taking so long? Had I done the summoning wrong? "Elemental! I am here for you!" I called, not having considered that before. No response. "We seek your magic!" Percy called, much louder than me. His voice echoed back impressively, but otherwise, we were not met with any otherworldly response. The blood-letting into the sand continued until I began to blink harder to keep myself upright. The world felt cold, even though I struggled to keep up with the shade provided by the buildings. Percy looked at me with more concern. "That is a lot of blood you've lost," he pointed out. "Perhaps you should stop and regain some energy before continuing?" "I do not wish to lose any of the progress made. It is close, I can feel it!" I insisted, my vision going blurry. At last, after a whole of two hours, I could no longer stand up straight. I toppled backward and breathed heavily, my lungs fatigued. "I cannot continue, Percy. I cannot stand," I finally accepted, my eyes closed in pain. "I must stop for the night." Percy did not reply. I opened my eyes and looked at him, witnessing his face had gone pale as he stared upward. I followed his gaze and gasped at the robed creature floating above us, its face shrouded in a dark hood. "Elemental?" I asked. It shifted toward me, answering my call. "We should not ask its challenge," Percy said, pulling out bandages to cover my open wounds. "You will perish!" "I can always refuse and return another day," I said, familiar with how these Elementals offered magic to others in the wild. "What is your challenge?" I asked, feeling ready for anything it might have despite my lack of energy, holding onto the bandage Percy offered. Even without being able to see anything beyond the hood, I felt it sneer. I shivered. *"If you do not accomplish my challenge at this moment, you will not be given a second chance. That is the way of Zagan. To win my magic, you must simply continue to supply me with this flow of blood for another ten minutes,"* it answered, its voice like an ice storm against a glass pane. "You'll die!" Percy protested as I stared hard at the bandage in my good hand, the other still bleeding. "There is no second chance. Ten minutes is not so long," I said, my voice weak as I dropped the bandage. The Elemental breathed joyously, not having had someone accept its challenge in many years. ____________________________ For more stories, check out /r/Nazer_The_Lazer

Magic is simple to acquire, just spill your blood in the demesne of an Elemental Spirit; a roaring river, a windswept peak, a wild forest, issue a challenge, and then survive the contest of wills until you master its Name. You wonder what spirits inhabit the ruins of this ancient city.

It has long been tradition that twisted experiments that pervert the laws of nature are performed at the stroke of midnight on a dark and stormy night. However, being unaware of the human trope, C10 finalised their re-animation process at twenty past one in the afternoon on a day the newscaster described as ‘temperate with a brushstroke of passing clouds’. I looked down to realise I had been gripping my hands together for longer than I could remember, my nails had formed sharp red divots around my knuckles and the compressed skin was pale white. Stretching out my fingers I stood an approached the chamber. “Is it… on?” I struggled to conjure the word necessary to describe the setup. In a casket made up of a gel matrix of cushioning and surrounded by brushed and unreflective brass lay the late Professor Herman Lark, the capillaries around his eyes had clotted and sunk to form deep black pits. Ironically it made it look as if the late genius simply needed another few hours of rest before he could sit back up of his own accord. “Not yet.” C10 responded, the fluidity of his pronunciation often set my nerves ablaze with anxiety. The Android had been given a voice by a Canadian actor who dedicated his later life to reading out phonetic sounds, exclamations, and complex sentences; his life’s work secured a place in history as the auditory representation of synthetic life. Riveted metal plates housed belts and bellows in their cavities, I slowly traced a thin ribbed tube from its output to a one way valve that deposited sediment into a further combining chamber. This minute section of one process was dwarfed by the hundreds of similar conveyors and processing units that orbited the casket. “Champ, over here please.” C10 prompted, holding a silicone gloved metal hand outstretched. “It’s Alexander, Champ was a nickname.” The memory put a sour taste on my tongue. “Please accept my apologies, Alexander.” Corrections and alterations were unnaturally simple to them. I nodded in appreciation and approached the slender figure. In their palm sat a small cylindrical button attached to thin coil of wire, picking it up and turning it in my own grip the button and its housing were two slightly different shades of grey. “Buttons on mad scientific experiments should be crimson, or there should be a giant lever to pull.” I joked. “Once again I must apologise, in Professor Lark’s stock there should be a selection of different col-“ “Forget it,” I interrupted. “It was only a joke.” Unfased, the Android continued as if the whole exchange had been carved out and refilled with thick silence. “I see. If you would be so kind as to press the button, the machine will do the rest.” In my hand the light piece of thin plastic held no significance or weight beyond the wire that attached it to the reanimating process, I would be deemed the one to have performed the first feat of necromancy whilst doing less than a thousandth percentage the work. “You deserve it,” I proposed, holding out the button. “You have done wonderful… horrible, but simply brilliant work here. I have done nothing.” “I regret to inform you that is incorrect.” C10’s words were painstakingly chosen as not to offend their recipient. “I constructed equipment from blueprints and patents that the hospital refused to use, following orders doesn’t quite match-up to creation. Nor does it match up to your efforts, no matter how I researched and compiled data the process of executing a ‘last will and testament’ became no clearer to me.” As much as I hated to compliment myself, C10 was right. We wouldn’t be sat in this lab today if it wasn’t for a lengthy legal battle. Such a case was referred to as ‘once in a century’, that would re-write the book on inheritance. An Android acting as the inheritor of a wealthy estate as well as executing the final requests of a deceased human caused uproar and riot. But, the gavel has been struck, and we stand in front of the fruits of months of work that followed. All I could do was nod in response, closing my fingers around the device I clicked down the small round button that sat on top. I knew at this point not to expect arcs of electricity and a bellowing speech from the mad scientist, but I had hoped for more flare than what amounted to a microwave being powered on. With a hiss the tall ceiling lights were enveloped with gas rising from the chamber, the smell of preservatives and stale carbon dioxide flooded out and forced a wrenching cough from my lungs. Through the blurred vision of tear-dashed eyes I saw the slim synthetic figure approach the opening chamber. With disturbing grace C10 drew a finger down its torso, the clothes and silicone skin parted like a bathrobe and flapped open to reveal their true robotic form. Clambering into the chamber it soon re-sealed with my mentor and his creation inside. Extractor fans drew out the buildup of fog but the smell of halted decay clung to my clothes. I wiped my eyes and approached the casket, punctuating my steps were the whirring and revving sounds of each mechanism building momentum in turn. An oddly familiar scratch caught my ear, preceding a low hum as the needle found its place on the record. Slow, soft notes echoed around the lab. Starting in the lower key they built a simple rhythmic base before the higher keys swelled and burst in with the heart wrenching melody. Capriossa’s Fifth, Herman’s favourite song. With the Professor’s favourite song willing him back to this mortal plane, I placed a finger down on the ice cold lid of his casket. As I peered through the fog I could barely make out the two figures within. Bile burned my throat, saliva flooded my mouth and filled my cheeks as I doubled over and hurled my lunch onto the floor. Heaving, I spat out the thin bridge of phlegm that tied me to the puddle and forced myself up to face the scene. C10 had repeated their process of dissecting through the chest cavity on the Professor, except this time they had done it on his side. Instead of a neat opening to show the mechanical inner workings, coagulated black blood had oozed free to permeate the gel bed; black chunks were washed down by the regular tide to surround the pair in a macabre halo. Razor sharp mechanical tendrils extended out from the Android’s chest, worming their way inside the newly formed slice of human flesh. By the time I decided to check my watch it was already close to midnight. My puddle of regurgitate had soured and solidified against the blue vinyl floor, and the scene before me had not developed any further visually. Curled up to their creator like a clingy toddler C10 had an arm and leg hugging the Professor close. Occasionally a bulge would appear in the throat, stomach, leg, or wherever the surgical tentacles would worm their way through the corpse. Muffled by the thick glass that surrounded them, a voice rang out from inside the casket. “Thanks for sticking around, Champ.” My brow furrowed, “I told you not to call me Cha-“ Wait. Something was different. I threw myself at the casket and frantically searched the fog. First to reveal itself was the pale grey skin of Herman’s chest rising and falling with strong regularity. Two pale yellow spheres reflected off the glass as C10’s head turned to face me. Though it was the Android’s skin, metal, plastic, the unmistakable human glow shone from the synthetic eyes.

People have pondered the tragic idea of a robot not understanding death and trying to “fix” a “broken” human. We weren’t prepared for what happened when it succeeded.

I chuckle a bit at the statement, thinking it's her trying to play one of her mischievous pranks on me. I brush the hair from her face, smiling just as warmly at her as she does to me, as we lay curled together in beautiful bliss on our own bed. Her company always filling my heart with the joy I never thought I could achieve in life. "Whatever could you mean, my darling?" I reply to her as her smile slowly fades into a small frown of sadness. Her quietly whispering; "You have to wake up now. Please, my love. Wake up for me." Her last words echoing in my mind. Seeming to drone on endlessly. The waves of warmth and bliss I once felt being replaced with a cold bitter chill. It seemed to bite at my very bones. I couldn't stop shaking as I watched her vanish before my eyes and my perception of reality began to warp. No longer in my bed, instead standing waist-deep in a pool of dark water. Unable to see through it's murky depths. Unable to see any end or beginning to it's unnaturally still surface. The only waves are made as I struggle to try and wade my way through the waters. Calling out for my lover with each step. My only concern being what happened to her. My voice struggles to come out. It hurts to even breathe. It feels like I'm drowning. That's when I realize the water is all around me. It's no longer just at my waist. I scream in horror, yet no sound is released. It's so silent that it is deafening. Am I dying? Am I...already dead? I try to cry out for my love one last time. The pain feeling as though it's shaking my very existence to it's core. It stops. Everything just...stops. I'm back, standing only ankle-deep in the pool, yet the water is illuminated by a bright light. The light of the full moon. The water seems so much clearer. So beautiful as it reminds me of the times I spent with her. Our first kiss on the beach under the full moon. Our memories we created side-by-side. Our future plans we had made with one another. We had so many dreams for the future. Each one grander than the next. The one consistency to them all being; That we would do them together. Always. Suddenly she stood before me in a wispy gown, it's length slowly wading a trail behind her in the waters. I breathe a sigh of relief. The air feels so soothing to my lungs, almost as much as her vision of loveliness is to my soul. Her touch is so warm. It pulls all of the chill from my body as she embraces me ever so lovingly. She stares deep into my eyes as she says to me in a comforting tone; "It's time to wake up. I love you more than you will ever know and that is why I can't let you stay here." I see tears stream down her face as she forces a pained smile. Her voice shaking with each word as she continues; "You have to let me go. You have to move on. You have to live for us both. I want you to love and live life to the fullest. I can't bear to see you get swallowed in despair." I feel the tears streaming down my own face, choking back the sobs I want so badly to let free. "I will always love you. Please don't ever think I don't." I managed to choke out the words my heart never could allow me to say. The words that I hoped I never would have to say. "Oh, my sweet love...I know that you love me. I will always love you too. Never forget that our memories will always be with you." She says with a slightly happier smile from her tear-streaked cheeks. She leans in and kisses me ever so softly on the lips. The last vision I have of her I will ever see. The last feeling of her I will ever feel. I awake from my coma knowing already that I was the only survivor from our tragic wreck into the waters. Before I can descend into the agony of pain that this horrible reality has brought upon me; I remember her presence. Still being able to feel it. She's still with me in my heart and my memories. I sob for the first time, not of grief, but of knowing that I truly had experienced what love is.

You've been talking with your partner for hours now, bouncing from one subject to the next. The subject of being in a coma comes up, and they go quiet. When pressed, they quietly say "I know you're happy now, but it's time to wake up, my love."

James wiped the sweat off his brow and looked out the bay door. The sun was starting to set, and while he had escaped most of the day’s heat in the shade of his workshop, the suns rays now shone directly on James and his work. James had worked as a carpenter and general mechanic for as long as he could remember. His dad’s shop eventually becoming his own as the locals brought in everything from cars to old radios for repair. This time his project was restoring an antique dresser, or maybe one that was just built to look antique. The business had been slow going even before the revival of magic in the world, but it was steady, honest work. Admittedly some simple incantations made the job easier, but that was true for every industry, so on the economic spectrum his work stayed about as valuable as it ever was. “Finish never fade, forever shine forth,” James muttered while mixing the lacquer. The liquid took on an almost imperceptible glow, then deepened in color to a rich mahogany. Most of the world had discovered that poetic nuances made magic more potent. Alliteration, for example, sped up the incantation, while assonance could extend the spell’s duration. Most importantly, every individual spell had to have its own rhythm. Children were now being taught magic alongside Shakespeare, practicing iambic pentameter as the basic rhythm for language, as well as the basic rhythm for elementary magic. Nobody knew why, but one rhythmic cadence could only produce one resulting effect, known as the Rhythm Rule. If there were one industry that had exploded since magic returned to the world, it would have to be rappers. Their complex combinations of various rhythms, rhymes, and other techniques allowed them to cast a myriad of spells in quick succession with varying effects. Nearly every army squadron, board of directors, hospital, and a cappella group had one dedicated rapper, if not more. They could spew spells fast enough to disable bombs, stitch up wounds, guarantee a quarter’s profits, and inspire a crowd in 3 1/2 minutes or less. Finished with the lacquer, James started putting the drawers back in the dresser. On the third dresser, his grip slipped and he dropped it. The wood slit open his forefinger before crashing into the ground with a bang. James cursed and quickly rapped his finger in a rag sitting nearby, inhaling sharply as he put pressure on the cut. It would bleed a fair bit, but shouldn’t bleed for long. Looking down at the drawer, James realized one of the drawer walls had come undone and would have to be nailed back together. Absentmindedly he reached for an old box of nails, only to jerk in surprise when a dormouse jumped out of the box. “Damn pests,” James swore, before pausing and smiling to himself. There was one exception to the Rhythm Rule. Only one way to get two effects with a single spell. He quickly tossed the bloodied rag onto the fleeing rodent and spoke confidently, “dead as a doornail.” The rag went quite still, then collapsed slightly. Slowly, James reached down and lifted the rag. The dormouse had died, and in death, turned into a single nail, perfect for the job at hand. Pleased with himself, James retrieved the nail and went back to his work. Puns were powerful, requiring fathers everywhere to think twice before uttering them at the dinner table. Unfortunately they just weren’t usually that practical. By nature puns associated two seemingly completely random things together, and the situations where you wanted both sides of a pun to be true were understandably contrived for that very reason. Luckily for James, he had felt like his whole life was contrived.

True magic has been unearthed, and its effects are based on the spoken intent. While rappers can cast dozens of spells each minute, you learned to dual cast. You have become a master of puns.

Dave stared down at the miniature guy that had just, moments before, bounced out of this crappy lamp he'd found while picking litter. Despite his size, the Jin packed quite the image in a pinstripe suit, dark glasses and shiny shoes, the image completed with a tiny top hat that was right out of English Victorian times. The lamp was nothing to look at, in truth Dave was thinking of selling it for scrap but, just like in that movie by that big company, the second Dave rubbed some of the dirt off with his sleeve, out pops the jin. "Okay!" Dave immediately said, hands up, lamp on the floor, backing away attempting to look all casual, doing everything but whistling in fact. "I've seen this film. I know what you do, I'm not wishing, no twisting will be had, and I'm just..." "What? Why would I twist wishes! I'm a Jin, not a Daemon! What are you even accusing me of! do you know how offensive that is?" The Jin wouldn't let Dave get a word in edgewise, in full rant mode as he said "That's like, actually racist! You are litterally being racist to a mythical being right here. See if I grant you three wishes now! Ha!" With that, the Jin snatched up his lamp and started marching away, completely in high dudgeon. Put yourself in Dave's shoes dear reader. How would you react? Perhaps you'd call after the Jin, perhaps you'd say you were sorry. What did Dave do you ask? He did what any self respecting, Jin offending lad would do. He called up his dealer and requested more of what ever he just ordered because those halusinations were wack! I mean, it was like he felt the lamp being snatched out of his hand and everything! a/n: I hope this is okay. I had a starter, but the end kinda fell apart.

“What? No, why the hell would I do that? I would never twist the meaning of my master's wish,” said the Genie. Apparently he's upset you don't trust him at all.

# Dabbling In Fire They call us the Telos Group. "The End". It's Greek or something, Charlie gets annoyed and goes on and on about it given half a chance. Sorry, "Libra"-- I forget to use his code name a lot and the guy has a hangup for words. It's just that we don't see a lot of action as a group so I get out of the habit of thinking that way: They're not Libra, Mixture or Dao to me. It's Charlie, Jess and Pat. We're all just a small little family of people who could end the world with enough effort. You know, in between arguing about who gets to pick the cuisine every week. I like Thai. Red hot curry, face-melting spice. No surprise there. Right, Doc? Where was I? Oh. So yeah, occasionally one of us gets called out. Which is exciting, I guess, but it's not like the TV is going to cover the kind of aftermath we tend to leave behind. Usually by the time the Telos Group gets mentioned everyone in authority is ready to write off a large number of innocent people. Jess in particular leaves a nasty cleanup. Mixture, I mean; when chemical bases start randomly reorganizing it's a sight to behold. Converting a supervillain's entire zombie army into ricin gas ends the problem in a hurry. Along with most of Minneapolis. I've always thought that was funny, Doc. Superpowers, I mean. The government puts great PR on it: Bright costumes. Daring pitched battles. Foiled villain plots. They want the populace to believe they're in safe hands and everything's under control. Which it mostly is, if I'm going to be honest-- less than one percent of one percent even get an urge to lift dump trucks for fun. Of that tiny super-population most of 'em are weak powers at best. You know: Telekinetics. Fire throwers. Ice pitchers. Strongmen and musclegirls. Sometimes a more novel power pops up and you get the electricity zappers and animal-talkers. I'm sure Sea World loves Hagfish, he's got a great gimmick. So all those super-people, signing up for the local groups (or going underground with origin stories). Same difference. In the end everyone squares up over a bank robbery and throws down. Maybe a city block sees a charged-up action scene and gets wrecked. News crew catches it all on tape and bingo-bango you got yourself that night's entertainment. Bad guys get caught, supers pose, merchandise gets sold. Book deals for everyone. Good times for them, I guess. But then there's us. Telos Group. The opposite end of all that playing around and posturing: We're so overpowered it's useless in a fight. Libra, for example. He turned seventeen in a small town somewhere around lower Arkansas. It doesn't exist any more. All because the guy woke up one morning with a bad case of acne, pubescent-levels of gagging body odor and a power that turned language into thermal energy. Spoken, written, didn't matter; anyone in a five mile radius who looked at a billboard burned themselves alive. Starting with their eyes. Ever tried to *not* read? Tried to *not* hear a word? Yeah, like that. You already know about Jess-- Mixture controls chemical bonds. All of 'em. Did you know bismuth and gold are like, one atom apart? That's right! The same stuff people drink for tummy aches is bottled gold for our frumpy little in-house romcom enjoyer. That kind of power sounds like a ticket to celebrity life for as long as she wanted. Or, like Mixture found out when messing around at the family BBQ, concrete is oddly close to C4 if you try hard enough. Twenty years later and not a single relationship. That's lasting emotional damage, Doc. Dao sets the rules. All of them. If he says up is down and left is right then that's just how it is for everyone. It's kind of like that game kids play when they're little-- you know, where everyone keeps making up new rules to avoid losing? "Nuh uh," someone says. "You can't catch me because you're stuck in mud!" Then their friend is like "But mud makes me *faster*" etc, etc. It's just dumb kid stuff. Until it wasn't, one day. Pat joked around once with that superstition about stepping on a crack breaking someone's back. It was like God annihilated handfuls of celery over Houston that day. Brr. As for me? You already know, Doc. We've known each other a long time and really the name says it all: Cold Fusion. But around the complex we live in I'm just Nate. For me, the scary part of us is just how normal we look. No flashy costumes or cool special effects for us. The government doesn't give us PR campaigns or promotional spotlights. We just walk around in plain clothes, get dental checkups, make salon appointments, all that jazz. Regular people stuff for the most part. Just living life, quietly. The only difference is each of us has a kill squad on high alert to take us out at any moment... and we're never, *ever* allowed in a major metropolitan area without a damn good reason. Between you and me it seems weird we don't feel more about that. But it's okay, because every now and then, when Professor Planetcracker or whatever decides they're fed up with the Good Guys vs Bad Guys routine? Or the status quo gets just a little too far against established pharma industries? Someone calls a number. And one of us from Telos Group gets a trip off the reservation. Like a vacation, but several square blocks of Tampa gets turned into pure sodium. It's not a bad life, really. Nothing for me to really... melt down over. Heh. It does get a little lonely, though. But that's why I have *you*, Doc. You know-- someone to talk to. Let it all out. Therapy's great stuff and all. The four of us stop by here something like... twice a week? Yeah? And everyone leaves your office just a little happier, a little more content. More reasonable. So what if we're all stuck here forever unless the government decides Iran needs the "Three Mile Island" treatment? It's fine. Right? We have a purpose. We're doing *good things*. Protecting *freedoms*. It's odd, though. I get this feeling, sometimes. Did you know I asked Charlie about your name? Sorry, I asked *Libra* what he thought of your name. Just casually, because I was interested. Samantha Lethe. I just liked the way it sounded, how it felt on my tongue. Lethe. Leh-theh. He's all about word roots and origins and stuff, likes to say humans "conform to the names we take" and all that. So I humored him a bit over a card game. Let the guy go deep for a while. Did you know Lethe was a person? Not *you*, obviously. It's a story. It means the personification of *oblivion*. It's also a river, too. The dead drink from it to forget their life on Earth and be happy. Which sounds kind of neat because-- get this-- that sounds like *your job*, right? You make us *happy*. The Telos Group. And gosh, aren't we grateful? Only there's this nagging feeling I get, sometimes. After these sessions. Like I'm... forgetting something. Or missing out. It's probably nothing, right? Just one of those deja-whatsis. Deja vu? Yeah, that's it. Or maybe it's not nothing. Maybe, Doctor Lethe, I had a talk with Pat before I came over here. Sorry: I talked with *Dao* before our session today. He owed me a favor and on a whim I was like why not? Dao sets the rules and all. So I cashed in my favor and then came to see you! I thought wouldn't it be *great*, just for one day, if nobody around here had any powers at all? Wouldn't that be relaxing? Worry free? Wouldn't that be *just great*, Doctor? You know, to just... *remember why we're all here*? No, don't get up; it's fine. We're fine. Everything's... fine. We're gonna have a good time. ​ /r/Susceptible

Instead of a superpower that sounds lame but is secretly overpowered, write about a superpower that seems OP but is actually practically useless.

My keys making their usual noise, I unlocked the front door. Pushing it open, I sighed my way indoors, the day had been long, and all I wanted to do now was sit down. Flipping on the light switch, I dropped my keys. Sitting down would probably be difficult. Someone else was in my chair. Someone who looked exactly like me. As my brain short-circuited slightly, the part of me I'd inherited from my grandmother peered at the other me, pointing out that my hair was rather overgrown, that choice of clothes was most definitely not the fashion, and I should really wear a little more makeup. Silencing the voice as I always did, I summoned whatever courage might be hiding in the recesses of my mind. "Who— " "Shhh." The other me interrupted, motioning to the light switch. They wanted me to turn it off. "Can I help you?" I said, making no move toward the switch. There was no way I would be in the dark with whatever this was. That was the way horror movies got made. I looked at me— or was it the other way around? Whichever of us was me, and I was heavily favouring myself, the other sighed. "Look, I'll give it to you straight. I'm a shapeshifter. I'm in danger, and one of us needs to be hiding in the basement or somewhere else out of sight right now. Probably should be you." They motioned again to the switch. I rested a hand against it, but still didn't turn it off. "Why are you in danger? And why did you choose me to turn into?" I asked, not quite willing to just go along with whatever was in front of me. Shapeshifters, in every story I'd ever read, watched, or heard around a campfire, were never the good guys. "To be honest, I figured my enemies would underestimate this form the most. Now would you please hide and turn off the light? I would like to retain the element of surprise." Ignoring the insult to my physique, it was an accurate assessment, even if it was hurtful, I shook my head. But before I could respond, there was a sound from outside the front door. It wasn't a pleasant sound, a happy cheery sound. It was more the sound that made you want to hide under the covers until the monsters had gone away. The kind of sound that nightmares were made of. "Shit," The other me said. "It's too late to hide you in the basement. The best thing now is to try and confuse it. It won't know who's who. Get over here." The last words were hissed and I leapt to obey before the rest of my brain caught up. "*It*? What is out there?" I whispered to the shapeshifter, now standing beside the chair. "Trust me, you don't want to know." They whispered back. The door handle turned, slowly and menacingly as the door creaked open. It hadn't creaked when I'd entered but now it creaked. Whatever this thing was it had sucked the oil out of the hinges. I fought the urge to laugh hysterically at the thought. Nothing entered, or at least I thought nothing entered, until I heard the other me hiss in shock. That must be a shapeshifter thing, I'd never hissed in my life. I followed their gaze downwards to land on something fuzzy. It had orange hair, four legs, luminous eyes and a slowly waving tail. I looked from it, to the shapeshifter and back. "That's a... cat," I said, half expecting to be corrected. The shapeshifter nodded, though they never took their eyes off the cat. "Exactly. The most dangerous beast on this earth." This time I lost the battle not to laugh, and a giggle slipped out of me. "You're kidding. You're afraid of a *cat*?" Across from us, the cat sat down and began washing its ears. "How did it turn the door handle, what made the door creak?" The shapeshifter whispered furiously. "Is it just a cat, or is it something else?" I walked over to the cat, turning over the words in my mind. Had I really seen the door handle turn, or had my imagination been working overtime? Had the door actually creaked, or had it been a soft meow? Picking up the unresistant cat, I cuddled it against my chest, closing the door, hearing it latch this time, a sound that had been absent before. Turning back to the shapeshifter, seeing my own face twisted in fear and doubt, I suddenly understood. How could you believe anything was as it looked, when you never were? I smiled, making it the gentlest expression I could. "Sometimes a cat is just a cat, and a person is just a person. Come on. I'll make you some tea, and we can talk about identity. I think you've been changing yours for too long." I said. The shapeshifter looked at me, still shrinking back in the chair, before with a sudden movement, they rose. For a second I believed they were going to hit me, but then their posture changed. Shoulders slumping, they sank back into the chair, staring at the floor. My voice came from them, and I knew exactly what they were feeling. Relief. "Thank you. I'd really like that." ——————— Visit r/Mel_Rose_Writes for more stories!

I'm a shapeshifter. I'm in danger. One of us needs to stay in the basement for now. Best it's you."

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” I folded the paper in half and handed it to him. “I don’t guarantee the work, mister. It’s just a weird knack.” It wasn’t uncommon for people to be surprised or disappointed. One guy has a redhead fetish, and argued with me for forty-five minutes about it. I still get Christmas cards from him and his very brunette wife. Another girl got a description of a woman, which was very awkward because her boyfriend was listening in. They had a furious breakup in the entryway, and I started insisting that all descriptions be done privately. But as he opened the paper and silently re-read, shooting me glances over the top of the sheet, I grew a little nervous. “What does it say?” I asked. “You don’t know?” He asked, sounding surprised. “You just read it to me!” “It’s all part of it,” I said. “It’s kind of a trance. Hard to explain. My memories afterward are pretty hazy.” “Ok,” he said slowly, and he seemed to consider my words. He began to read slowly, looking back to me frequently, as though to gauge my reaction. “Blonde, shoulder-length hair,” He read. “Bright hazel eyes that draw you in. Prominent, elegant nose. Lips thin and pale, but captivating and expressive. Narrow, proud chin and jaw. Slender neck…” I laughed, and interjected. “Ah, I see. This has happened a couple of times before. It vaguely sounds like…” and I smirked and pointed at my own dirty-blond hair, hazel eyes, huge nose and nearly non-existent lips. “Well, not to worry. The description will resonate with you, not with me. If I were trying to pull a fast one, I would probably describe myself as quite plain, because that’s the description that would be most likely to click with you.” He looked a little confused, so I pursed my lips and collected my thoughts. “What I’m trying to say it’s, it couldn’t be my description unless I look that way to YOU. When you find the woman who looks like that TO YOU, you’ve found your soul mate.” He looked back to the paper, brow furrowed, and then back at me, and slowly began to blush. I smiled. “No need to be embarrassed, a lot of guys get quite flowery about their soul mate. True love tends to get people that way.” I felt a little surge of wistfulness, but managed to keep it out of my voice. He grew even more red, and pretended to study the description sheet, but his eyes didn’t move. He then looked back across the table at me, studying me, scratching his chin. I suddenly realized. Adrenaline flooded me. My heart began to pound in my neck, and I grew just slightly lightheaded. “Oh,” I said, and some part of my brain warned me that my voice had risen by several tones. “Well, I’m flattered, but…” I trailed off, and felt my cheeks grow warm. He laughed like a scared teenager. “Yeah, I’m not really sure what I do now.” After a moment, he extended his right hand across the table for a handshake. “Hi, my name’s Sam.” “I know,” I squeaked. “May I see that description?” He handed it to me. I had, of course, noticed he smelled nice when he arrived. Professionally. But under the circumstances, noticing his scent as he pushed the sheet across the table tied my stomach in knots and prompted my brain to invent a number of scenarios for getting another hit. I tried to hide my blush behind the sheet as I read, Finally I folded it again and handed it back to him. “I think you’d better sleep on this,” I said. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he said, and gave me a shaky smile. An adorable, endearing, scared-stiff smile. We rose, and walked to the door. I stood near him while he got his coat on, and we said some polite goodbyes and I ushered him out the door. Then, I closed the door behind him and stood that way, unmoving, with my hands on the latch, staring at nothing. I felt a weird emptiness, coming down off the adrenaline of the strange experience. I felt weak, and jittery, and profoundly alone. I had once done a reading for myself, and I have never had a description like it before or after. No physical descriptors, no behavioral notes. No feelings. Just three words. “He’ll come back,” the paper said, and that was all. So when the doorbell rang, all the adrenaline came right back. I ripped the door open to a startled and slightly sheepish Sam. “I know you said…” he began. “Did you mean it?” I blurted out. “Did you really mean all those things I wrote about me?” It took him a confused second, but when he caught up he nodded. “Yeah, I think I do.” “Then maybe you should stay,” I suggested breathlessly. He stepped in, and that amazing scent washed over me. I felt charged like a lightning storm. “May I kiss you?” He asked quietly. “Not yet,” is what I meant to say, but my traitorous lips turned that into “yes please.” As he leaned towards me, I had just enough presence of mind to close the door behind us.

you have the ability to accurately describe someone’s soulmate from their appearance to their personality. One day after a description, you realize you just described yourself.

It's a pretty weird life I live. Some people think they have interesting lives because they like to skydive or work in Hollywood, but I'm a snake. I'm sorry to be a story topper but I think we can all agree that being a snake is crazier than your story about that one time you got food poisoning. It has become surprisingly normal for me. Sure the initial shock of turning into a snake was a shock, and when I developed my phantom limbs it was another wave of surprise. But after a few days, I was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper like any other guy on the street. I guess I should speak for myself. For my girlfriend, it was much more of an adjustment. I mean, in her defense it must be odd to make out with a snake. I have no lips for one thing, I still haven't figured out how to make telekinetic lips yet. Hopefully I'll be able to soon. To her credit she has been very open to my transformation. I honestly am not sure if I could handle it if she was the one who transformed into a snake, so she is a better person than I. I go to my 9 to 5, people stare but it doesn't bother me. I figure as long as I get my job done and they continue to pay me, that's all that matters. They can talk all the shit they want, I'm not letting it get to me. I mean, yes I ate a few live rats roaming the hallways, and yes I bit a guy on the face after he got a little too close to me... But people be way overreacting. I'm still the same old guy. After all, I already did both of those things before I turned into a snake anyways.

You are a human that transformed into a snake. You developed phantom limb syndrome so strong that you now have telekinetic limbs. Using your telekinetic abilities you try to continue your life as a human.

"Drill through the lock then, if it's so important!" I grunted. "Or put an axe to the door! No lock can stop a truly determined intruder forever," I said. "Is that so?" sneered the guard, giving me a pointed look as he knocked his gauntlet on the bars of my cell. "Then why are you still here?" I leaned back against the damp stone. "The charming company," I quipped, though it pained me to remember the circumstances that led to the capture of the 'greatest sneak-thief in the capitol', according to the jeers of some of my captors. I had a half-dozen ideas for my escape, but it's only been a week. Two? Hard to tell without the sun. "What exactly were you expecting when you came down here anyway, Oh Good Sir Reginald?" I asked with a languid yawn. "Just following orders. The King himself asked for you by name. But since you're not interested..." I lunged forward and grabbed the bars. "Not so fast, my clanky-booted friend," I said. Reggie sighed and came back. "Why, of all people, did the King want me?" "He can tell you all about it himself, Jackie. He said to tell you that." I made a show of contemplating the matter. "Will I get a decent meal?" I asked. The knight sneered. "You're not satisfied with moldy bread and rank water?" he taunted. "Can't say I am. Tell the King if I'm fed I'll listen to his sales pitch. It would be fun to work on a magic lock," I said with a wink. Sir Reginald grunted and walked away. The confident smile I proferred cracked in privacy. Of course they couldn't bust down the tower door, the magical wards on that one would make the attempt lethal without exceptional care. But at the same time, there was no way I could meet the King. If anyone could recognize me, it would be him, and it would truly be a monumental scandal for his own daughter to be outed as the rogue who pilfered gems and jewelry from the members of the Court and distributed the proceeds amongst the peasants. Did daddy somehow know? Is that why he sent for me? No, he couldn't know. He wouldn't have set up such a ruse. I could maintain the illusion of being his perfect little princess if only I could get out of here quickly. So as Sir Reginald's echoing bootsteps faded, I examined the key ring I lifted from his belt. He'd notice it's disappearance soon. I started trying keys, my heart pounding with the thrill of the escape.

"Princess locked herself in the tower and does not want to get out!" "Why are you telling me this and not calling a locksmith?" "It is biometric lock. It has no keyhole."

What had originally started as an act of love and generosity has long since descended into madness. And I *love* it. My wife and I have always been competitive, it was how we met after all. I wasn’t expecting to be smitten so soon, but I was hooked when she showed up with war paint donned to the local pub trivia night. Years of marriage later, our competitive nature has done anything but wane. Only now, our battlegrounds are a bit more mundane. Somedays, we race to see who can get the morning paper the fastest, others we sit our dachshund between us and try to coax him into our arms. From there, our competitions spread throughout the house. One of our recent favorites has been to see who must replace the empty toothpaste first. With my strength, and roll and squeeze technique, I thought my victory would soon be at hand. My wife played me for a fool. I never even considered slicing open the tube, but she did, and I lost. Defeat in hand, I dove into our next battle with gusto. It started innocently enough. Not wanting to have to go to the store for a new loaf of bread, we each tried desperately not to be the one to finish the last slice. The slice was cut in half again, and again, and again. My wife’s smirk when she cut the bread to an impossible sliver, down to the size of an atom, kept me up all night. She demanded I concede. I refused. She ignored me and the “empty” bread bag was enshrined on the wall in her victory. In the days that followed, I found myself secretly enrolled in the nation’s top physics program. After several long years, my doctorate lay hidden in the trunk of my car. What did I write my dissertation on? Splitting atoms. My method was a bit unorthodox, after all, it wasn’t easy to capture and harness the energy from uncomfortable memories. Thankfully, years of awkward moments and gaffes plague my mind. And with each cringe, I was able to harvest enough energy to begin. At first, I was worried I didn’t have enough. As I attempted to slice the atom in half, my power levels plummeted. But with the memories of a middle school dance in mind, I was able to power through and the atom was split. Of course, I had to prove it to my wife, which is easier said than done, but with my Nobel Prize in hand, she admitted defeat. Now our new competition is off to the races. Nobel Prizes. Her new method for efficient water desalination was a raging success and at one Nobel Prize apiece, I now find myself trying to find the cure for cancer. Our wall is covered with random awards and distinctions. Though, those pale in comparison to my favorite trophy. The empty bread bag.

At first it was funny when your spouse and you started cutting the last piece of bread in half rather than take the last piece. Now, however, things are getting tense as the piece gets smaller and smaller. Eventually one of you is gonna split the atom, but there's no way you're gonna lose