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[WP] Humans are seen as a diplomatic race of negotiators and peacemakers, leading to other races seeing them as weak. When one species attacks a human fleet station, however, they soon realize why diplomacy became a survival mechanism for the earthlings. | The Kithyaki Emperor watched the monitors. The fleet was annihilated, to the last ship, even to the last escape pod.
Outposts, military bases, stations, all gone. Planets left dark, scarred, and lifeless.
Only their homeworld remains.
The humans were supposed to be weak, gentle. A race of diplomats. They talked about everything! Insult a human and he would talk to you to find out what drove your anger towards him. They helped every space faring race they encountered.
Until they met the Kithyaki.
The Kithyaki refused to talk, refused to negotiate. They refused all ambassadors. The humans had accepted this and returned to their own space.
The Kithyaki then discovered that Scintilly 3 had greedium on it. Scintilly 3 was in a human system, a farming and livestock planet the humans called New Alamo.
As was the Kithyaki way they came and took the planet by force of arms, slaughtering the humans despite their lack of arms, and statement that they would cede the world to them.
One shipment of greedium was all that had left the planet. When an investigative ship had been sent it merely vanished. Then their ships in other places began to vanish as well.
Nearly a third of the Kithyaki's holdings had simply disappeared before they'd found out that it was the humans that were attacking them, and even the ship that discovered this and got the word out had been destroyed moments later.
And now, only their homeworld remained. They had no more interplanetary capabilities, all shipyards having been destroyed.
But that didn't seem to be enough.
Ships had been arriving in orbit for hours. The stars had been blotted out on the night side of the planet, their daystar being heavily shadowed from the cloud of ships in orbit.
Every monitor the emperor looked at showed human ships, then one by one the monitors blinked out. Moments later they came back to life.
A single human stood sat looking out of the screen.
"Remnants of Kithyaki," the humans voice was flat, emotionless, almost as if he was a machine, "we at one point believed that everyone could be negotiated with. We know, from our own history, where unchecked greed and aggression lead. It leads here. We would have given you the greedium, it is absolutely useless to us. However, that was not good enough for you. So to avoid this ever happening again, we will make sure that no one ever forgets. They will remember New Alamo."
The feed cut, and the sky began to brighten, as the temperature began to climb...
In the years afterward, when other space faring peoples passed the blackened husk of Kithyaki Prime. They were hailed by a beacon playing one message in every known language, "Remember New Alamo." | "This is your last warning" the translation slate warbled, "turn aside or we will defend our station with all due prejudice. Major Xiong out."
Moments later Xitech's coms erupted into chatter mocking this pathetic human display of bravado. Like a fire worm trying to scare a bird these lanky, pompous idiots flailed about when they should be running. Also "due prejudice"? Only humans would be so obsessed with sounding smart that they'd use such dainty language as death came streaking towards them. They would learn to fear the Skulls Teeth.
"I'm in position to deploy boarders Kirmas Sane-When-Dead." That would be the pilot Raedes Death-Tastes-Sour. "Say the word and we gut this shiny fis.."
Xitecks lander rocked as debris shot out from the roiling plasma ball that was once Yttir Try-And-Die's assault shuttle. Retracting her eyestalks from the blinding flare and retching from the sudden pain Xiteck nearly didn't see a spacesuited human rise sneakily out of an nearby airlock holding some thing that looked oddly similar to a boot. A boot that made a metallic thump as it was thrown onto the pilots canopy and stuck there just a lonely mag-boot an arms length from Raedes' confused face. Turning to his cargo of murderous brigands he chirped "Did, did that ape just throw a shoe at my ship? What the hell is shoe suppose.." a second explosion closer and brighter rhan the first cut off both the unlucky pilot's words and head as the cockpit module turned into a mess of twisted metal and rapidly freezing clumps of.. someone. Without the maneuvering module Xiteck's lander was just a converted cargo crate, so it was now or never.
Taking lead of her small group of stunned marauders Xiteck opened her newly cut doorway into the human station to a dark and gravless hallway. No sign of the boot bomber or any other members of the tall race. Maybe they finally ran away? Hopefully they left their trinkets behind.
Moving cautiously toward the first intersection she accidently walked right into the prettiest nightmare she had ever seen. Multihue laser pulses ripped through the corridor, the team tried to return fire but had to dodge their own blasts as they came careening wildly back from the mirror polished cover the humans had erected in the dark halls.
It only took a few seconds before all of them were crumpled on the deck and simply floating in the zero-g hall, steam and smoke escaping from ruined flesh and destroyed armor. As she watched the smoke from her chest curl slowly away feom her Xiteck Dawn-comes-early realized with horror that the humans slowly coming towards her were much, much taller than she had been told. As darkness closed in she heard one say something but her essence was long gone before the translation slate could finish chirping out it's demand for surrender. | |
[WP] Humans are seen as a diplomatic race of negotiators and peacemakers, leading to other races seeing them as weak. When one species attacks a human fleet station, however, they soon realize why diplomacy became a survival mechanism for the earthlings. | "Haven't you read our histories?" asked the lieutenant. Her uniform was singed and torn, and a streak of dried blood ran down over her left eye. Otherwise, though, she was unhurt.
The Jozzdi, manacled and bruised and leaking blue ichor, spat out another fang. "To what end? Your race is soft! You natter on about... teamwork... fairness."
The Jozzdi captive looked around. There was certainly nothing 'fair' about the wreckage of his armada's flagship. The pride of the Empire, their first target was meant to be a soft target. Something to convince the rest of the Council Worlds to join the Empire freely. How had it gone so wrong?
"You missed it, then. Piles of shoes. Naked bodies in mass graves. Mushroom clouds."
"What are you talking about, *human*?" The Jozzdi spat out 'human' as though it were a pejorative.
"We humans do work well together, don't we? What you don't know is, we used to put our abilities to use against each other. Your last galactic war, how many of your own died? Ten million soldiers, a few more than that in civilian casualties? Something like a quarter percent of your total population?"
The captive nodded, unsure but nervous as to where this was going.
The lieutenant knelt down, her eyes level with his eyestalks. "The last time humans decided we really wanted war, do you know how many died? Twenty-five million soldiers. Twice that in civilian casualties."
The Jozzdi's eyestalks lurched backwards in surprise. "*Seventy-* Preposterous! Your race has never gone to war since First Contact!"
"This war happened before First Contact," the lieutenant said. "We lost *three percent* of our people. Some of them in ways which would horrify you," she continued while fingering a small six-pointed star on a silver chain worn around her neck.
The eyestalks slowly angled up, an awe in them which hadn't been there a moment ago.
"If we'd known. If only we'd known. We'd have invited-"
The enraged lieutenant slapped the captive. Technically a war crime, but she felt it justified. "And we would have *refused*. Our species grew up on war. War every generation. Conquest, invasion, raids, colonisation. We've grown sick of it, Jozzdi. We know what we can do when we work together, and it isn't pretty."
She turned her eyes skyward, to the burning ships struggling to escape the gravity wells before they exploded, the escape pods bleeding out of the hatches.
"And we will teach the Jozzdi, and the Galatic Council, what we know of war." Her gaze turned back to the Jozzdi. On her face, a smile. Not a friendly smile, though. One which drew on millions of years of evolution as a herd animal... and an apex predator. "After all, isn't war just diplomacy by another means?" | "This is your last warning" the translation slate warbled, "turn aside or we will defend our station with all due prejudice. Major Xiong out."
Moments later Xitech's coms erupted into chatter mocking this pathetic human display of bravado. Like a fire worm trying to scare a bird these lanky, pompous idiots flailed about when they should be running. Also "due prejudice"? Only humans would be so obsessed with sounding smart that they'd use such dainty language as death came streaking towards them. They would learn to fear the Skulls Teeth.
"I'm in position to deploy boarders Kirmas Sane-When-Dead." That would be the pilot Raedes Death-Tastes-Sour. "Say the word and we gut this shiny fis.."
Xitecks lander rocked as debris shot out from the roiling plasma ball that was once Yttir Try-And-Die's assault shuttle. Retracting her eyestalks from the blinding flare and retching from the sudden pain Xiteck nearly didn't see a spacesuited human rise sneakily out of an nearby airlock holding some thing that looked oddly similar to a boot. A boot that made a metallic thump as it was thrown onto the pilots canopy and stuck there just a lonely mag-boot an arms length from Raedes' confused face. Turning to his cargo of murderous brigands he chirped "Did, did that ape just throw a shoe at my ship? What the hell is shoe suppose.." a second explosion closer and brighter rhan the first cut off both the unlucky pilot's words and head as the cockpit module turned into a mess of twisted metal and rapidly freezing clumps of.. someone. Without the maneuvering module Xiteck's lander was just a converted cargo crate, so it was now or never.
Taking lead of her small group of stunned marauders Xiteck opened her newly cut doorway into the human station to a dark and gravless hallway. No sign of the boot bomber or any other members of the tall race. Maybe they finally ran away? Hopefully they left their trinkets behind.
Moving cautiously toward the first intersection she accidently walked right into the prettiest nightmare she had ever seen. Multihue laser pulses ripped through the corridor, the team tried to return fire but had to dodge their own blasts as they came careening wildly back from the mirror polished cover the humans had erected in the dark halls.
It only took a few seconds before all of them were crumpled on the deck and simply floating in the zero-g hall, steam and smoke escaping from ruined flesh and destroyed armor. As she watched the smoke from her chest curl slowly away feom her Xiteck Dawn-comes-early realized with horror that the humans slowly coming towards her were much, much taller than she had been told. As darkness closed in she heard one say something but her essence was long gone before the translation slate could finish chirping out it's demand for surrender. | |
[WP] Humans are seen as a diplomatic race of negotiators and peacemakers, leading to other races seeing them as weak. When one species attacks a human fleet station, however, they soon realize why diplomacy became a survival mechanism for the earthlings. | "Haven't you read our histories?" asked the lieutenant. Her uniform was singed and torn, and a streak of dried blood ran down over her left eye. Otherwise, though, she was unhurt.
The Jozzdi, manacled and bruised and leaking blue ichor, spat out another fang. "To what end? Your race is soft! You natter on about... teamwork... fairness."
The Jozzdi captive looked around. There was certainly nothing 'fair' about the wreckage of his armada's flagship. The pride of the Empire, their first target was meant to be a soft target. Something to convince the rest of the Council Worlds to join the Empire freely. How had it gone so wrong?
"You missed it, then. Piles of shoes. Naked bodies in mass graves. Mushroom clouds."
"What are you talking about, *human*?" The Jozzdi spat out 'human' as though it were a pejorative.
"We humans do work well together, don't we? What you don't know is, we used to put our abilities to use against each other. Your last galactic war, how many of your own died? Ten million soldiers, a few more than that in civilian casualties? Something like a quarter percent of your total population?"
The captive nodded, unsure but nervous as to where this was going.
The lieutenant knelt down, her eyes level with his eyestalks. "The last time humans decided we really wanted war, do you know how many died? Twenty-five million soldiers. Twice that in civilian casualties."
The Jozzdi's eyestalks lurched backwards in surprise. "*Seventy-* Preposterous! Your race has never gone to war since First Contact!"
"This war happened before First Contact," the lieutenant said. "We lost *three percent* of our people. Some of them in ways which would horrify you," she continued while fingering a small six-pointed star on a silver chain worn around her neck.
The eyestalks slowly angled up, an awe in them which hadn't been there a moment ago.
"If we'd known. If only we'd known. We'd have invited-"
The enraged lieutenant slapped the captive. Technically a war crime, but she felt it justified. "And we would have *refused*. Our species grew up on war. War every generation. Conquest, invasion, raids, colonisation. We've grown sick of it, Jozzdi. We know what we can do when we work together, and it isn't pretty."
She turned her eyes skyward, to the burning ships struggling to escape the gravity wells before they exploded, the escape pods bleeding out of the hatches.
"And we will teach the Jozzdi, and the Galatic Council, what we know of war." Her gaze turned back to the Jozzdi. On her face, a smile. Not a friendly smile, though. One which drew on millions of years of evolution as a herd animal... and an apex predator. "After all, isn't war just diplomacy by another means?" | "A few thousand. Once, your race numbered in the trillions, yet now you haven't enough left to even consider repopulating."
Looking at the broken creature, frozen in it's stasis... It honestly gives me a macabre sense of satisfaction. Like watching a man steal, only to run directly into a cop.
"Can we wake them up, Geordie?"
"Yes captain, though I don't think it'll last more than an hour. Maybe ten minutes of consciousness."
"Good enough. Make it so."
It doesn't even have the strength to thrash at the pain of thawing out, which gives me another kind of satisfaction, one I keep to myself. There are cameras watching, and I was told to be brutal, not an animal.
"SS'ceele..." ❲Where?❳
"Warship eighty six B, of the seventy fifth Homeland Fleet. We call her the Merry Widow. I've you woken up to tell you that the H.U.P.s has declared war on your people, and has already won it. As the highest ranked member of your people governing body, do you accept the results of this war, or must we find a secretary more willing?"
"Sha... Sha'lee'-" ❲War? Bu-❳
And another one goes. We always expect these races to hang on like we can. We always expect them to be stronger, or smarter. We're always disappointed.
"That was the last one, Captain. The only ones left are civilians."
"We tried, at least. Send the videos wherever they need to go."
"Aye sir."
The way the humans declare war on another race has always disturbed me, doing it only after they've ground their enemy into paste and thrown that paste into an overloading casamere-hyl'om drive. I have to watch their videos, to curate and present to the Lords for "judgement", as if those figureheads matter anymore.
As if we could stop those beasts from ravaging our homes.
It's a wonder they pretend to use treaties and diplomacy at all.
Sure, they adhere to those treaties, but to those races that remember, you take the terms they give you, and be grateful they don't want everything. | |
[WP] Humans are seen as a diplomatic race of negotiators and peacemakers, leading to other races seeing them as weak. When one species attacks a human fleet station, however, they soon realize why diplomacy became a survival mechanism for the earthlings. | The bridge crew of the Earth Frigate, Orinoco, watched the viewscreen in stunned silence.
Captain Adeela Levinsky spoke up, "Lieutenant Turgenev, report."
Yuri Turgenez broke his gaze on the viewscreen and looked down at his console, "Calais Waystation is....destroyed. Debris shows sign of laser burns. Who ever did this hit the reactor quick. The lifepods also have laser burns. Several storage containers were forced open, while many are intact. I ain't seen a turkey shoot like this since the Grahn Incursion. No life signs. Thermals are cold. Wait....we're being hailed."
"Put it through," commanded Captain Levinsky.
The comms came on, "Help! Please, I'm low on air and it's freezing in here. This is Stan Anders, pilot of the ice hauler, Boreas."
The captain replied, "This is the Earth ship, Orinoco. Help is on the way. What happened here?"
The pilot spoke through chattering teeth, "A Kerothi fleet. Hit hard and fast. I hid in the cargo hold. The ship is breached."
Levinsky ordered, "Grapple the ship, get him out of there and into sickbay.
Commander Greyfeather spoke up, "Got 'em. Kerothi fleet on long range scanners. En route to the Kerothi outpost in the Mozai sector. Four cruisers, six raiders, and....a carrier."
The bridge went quiet again. Earth ships had only bested a Kerothi cruiser once and that was by multiple suicide runs.
Captain Levinky stood and straightened her uniform and headscarf. She looked at the faces of her bridge crew and said, "Tactical alert, lay in an intercept course to the Mozai system. Go to light speed once the survivor is aboard."
Commander Greyfeather responded, "Ma'am, we don't stand a chance. Time to intercept is three hours."
"You heard my orders, I'll be in my ready room, I have some calls to make."
Three hours later the Orinoco decelerated from light speed and approached the Kerathi fleet.
Commander Greyfeather interjected, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, I can't let you send this crew to their deaths. I have to evoke..."
Captain Levinsky cut him off, "Dakota! I need my XO if we are going to live through this. Open Hailing frequencies to the Kerathi Fleet."
The bridge crew exchanged nervous looks.
"Channel open," Replied Lieutenant Turgenev.
She took a deep breath and said, "This is Captain Adeela Levinsky of the Earth frigate, Orinoco, to the Kerothi fleet. You are ordered to surrender your ships. You will be lawfully tried for the destruction of Calais Waystation."
The reptilian Kerothi face came on the viewscreen and hissed, "Humans. Inferior race. You have had light speed tech less than a century. Humans are easy prey. I am Zeyhan son of Shran and you will die today."
Captain Levinsky stood and replied, "There were not only humans on Calais Waystation. There was a shipment of Irzi fruit on the way to Leghan Prime. The Leghani were not pleased to hear they would have to spend the holiday season without Irzi fruit."
Three Leghani marauder ships exited light speed and took position beside the Orinoco.
Zeyhan hissed back, "Leghani are slow prey. No match for us."
The Captain smiled and said, "Did you know there was a cloister of nuns on Calais Waystation? The Church of the Divine Order was not pleased to hear you slaughtered sisters of the faith."
Four white Templar ships materialized from light speed.
Zeyhan tapped his claws and said, "We will feed the heretics to our nestlings!"
Captain Levinsky nodded, "Funny you should mention nestlings. Did you know that Princess Flarabl was on Calais Waystation on her way to college? King Tetlili was enraged to hear that his first daughter by his third wife was murdered."
Three Royal carriers emerged from light speed. Zeyhan cut the comms channel. The Kerothi fleet scattered and attempted to escape. The combined force of the Orinoco, Leghani, Templars, and Royal carriers made short work of the Kerothi fleet. | "A few thousand. Once, your race numbered in the trillions, yet now you haven't enough left to even consider repopulating."
Looking at the broken creature, frozen in it's stasis... It honestly gives me a macabre sense of satisfaction. Like watching a man steal, only to run directly into a cop.
"Can we wake them up, Geordie?"
"Yes captain, though I don't think it'll last more than an hour. Maybe ten minutes of consciousness."
"Good enough. Make it so."
It doesn't even have the strength to thrash at the pain of thawing out, which gives me another kind of satisfaction, one I keep to myself. There are cameras watching, and I was told to be brutal, not an animal.
"SS'ceele..." ❲Where?❳
"Warship eighty six B, of the seventy fifth Homeland Fleet. We call her the Merry Widow. I've you woken up to tell you that the H.U.P.s has declared war on your people, and has already won it. As the highest ranked member of your people governing body, do you accept the results of this war, or must we find a secretary more willing?"
"Sha... Sha'lee'-" ❲War? Bu-❳
And another one goes. We always expect these races to hang on like we can. We always expect them to be stronger, or smarter. We're always disappointed.
"That was the last one, Captain. The only ones left are civilians."
"We tried, at least. Send the videos wherever they need to go."
"Aye sir."
The way the humans declare war on another race has always disturbed me, doing it only after they've ground their enemy into paste and thrown that paste into an overloading casamere-hyl'om drive. I have to watch their videos, to curate and present to the Lords for "judgement", as if those figureheads matter anymore.
As if we could stop those beasts from ravaging our homes.
It's a wonder they pretend to use treaties and diplomacy at all.
Sure, they adhere to those treaties, but to those races that remember, you take the terms they give you, and be grateful they don't want everything. | |
[WP] Humans are seen as a diplomatic race of negotiators and peacemakers, leading to other races seeing them as weak. When one species attacks a human fleet station, however, they soon realize why diplomacy became a survival mechanism for the earthlings. | The bridge crew of the Earth Frigate, Orinoco, watched the viewscreen in stunned silence.
Captain Adeela Levinsky spoke up, "Lieutenant Turgenev, report."
Yuri Turgenez broke his gaze on the viewscreen and looked down at his console, "Calais Waystation is....destroyed. Debris shows sign of laser burns. Who ever did this hit the reactor quick. The lifepods also have laser burns. Several storage containers were forced open, while many are intact. I ain't seen a turkey shoot like this since the Grahn Incursion. No life signs. Thermals are cold. Wait....we're being hailed."
"Put it through," commanded Captain Levinsky.
The comms came on, "Help! Please, I'm low on air and it's freezing in here. This is Stan Anders, pilot of the ice hauler, Boreas."
The captain replied, "This is the Earth ship, Orinoco. Help is on the way. What happened here?"
The pilot spoke through chattering teeth, "A Kerothi fleet. Hit hard and fast. I hid in the cargo hold. The ship is breached."
Levinsky ordered, "Grapple the ship, get him out of there and into sickbay.
Commander Greyfeather spoke up, "Got 'em. Kerothi fleet on long range scanners. En route to the Kerothi outpost in the Mozai sector. Four cruisers, six raiders, and....a carrier."
The bridge went quiet again. Earth ships had only bested a Kerothi cruiser once and that was by multiple suicide runs.
Captain Levinky stood and straightened her uniform and headscarf. She looked at the faces of her bridge crew and said, "Tactical alert, lay in an intercept course to the Mozai system. Go to light speed once the survivor is aboard."
Commander Greyfeather responded, "Ma'am, we don't stand a chance. Time to intercept is three hours."
"You heard my orders, I'll be in my ready room, I have some calls to make."
Three hours later the Orinoco decelerated from light speed and approached the Kerathi fleet.
Commander Greyfeather interjected, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, I can't let you send this crew to their deaths. I have to evoke..."
Captain Levinsky cut him off, "Dakota! I need my XO if we are going to live through this. Open Hailing frequencies to the Kerathi Fleet."
The bridge crew exchanged nervous looks.
"Channel open," Replied Lieutenant Turgenev.
She took a deep breath and said, "This is Captain Adeela Levinsky of the Earth frigate, Orinoco, to the Kerothi fleet. You are ordered to surrender your ships. You will be lawfully tried for the destruction of Calais Waystation."
The reptilian Kerothi face came on the viewscreen and hissed, "Humans. Inferior race. You have had light speed tech less than a century. Humans are easy prey. I am Zeyhan son of Shran and you will die today."
Captain Levinsky stood and replied, "There were not only humans on Calais Waystation. There was a shipment of Irzi fruit on the way to Leghan Prime. The Leghani were not pleased to hear they would have to spend the holiday season without Irzi fruit."
Three Leghani marauder ships exited light speed and took position beside the Orinoco.
Zeyhan hissed back, "Leghani are slow prey. No match for us."
The Captain smiled and said, "Did you know there was a cloister of nuns on Calais Waystation? The Church of the Divine Order was not pleased to hear you slaughtered sisters of the faith."
Four white Templar ships materialized from light speed.
Zeyhan tapped his claws and said, "We will feed the heretics to our nestlings!"
Captain Levinsky nodded, "Funny you should mention nestlings. Did you know that Princess Flarabl was on Calais Waystation on her way to college? King Tetlili was enraged to hear that his first daughter by his third wife was murdered."
Three Royal carriers emerged from light speed. Zeyhan cut the comms channel. The Kerothi fleet scattered and attempted to escape. The combined force of the Orinoco, Leghani, Templars, and Royal carriers made short work of the Kerothi fleet. | “War never changes, but we did.”
The Humans claim they know war but they’ve only ever been the peacemakers, brokers and contract writers. They’ve shied away from conflict at every turn, giving away resources and territories that no empire in the verse would.
Six rotations after the attack,a diplomatic convoy arrived. Debris still littered the system, at least thirteen ships must’ve been here, all civilians that’s for sure, but no survivors. 122,000 confirmed passengers, less than ten percent had been recovered. Dhjiik didn’t leave more organically than they had to.
R’axor had been here two rotations and already was sick of the loss caused, the Dhjiik had ever been a problem for the Core, sticking to the old ways of brutality and plunder, threats and violence. R’axor could see no reason for this attack, there was nothing to gain here. Moving the last intact and identifiable body into the hangar xis comm chirp. Patching the screen on the Human Ambassador greets xim “Greetings. I am Ambassador Stellaris from the Terran Beltway, we would like to thank you for the honour you’ve shown ours by gifting you the ship and goods at the coordinates being sent to you now. Peace be your path.”
“The way of peace didn’t help your ‘ere did it?” R’axor grunts back “The gift is welcome but I’d rather the salvage.” Without blinking the Terran agrees, they always do. “One thing we ask.” the Terran says hesitantly, shaking “Please, understand we never wanted this. Remember, peace was our necessity.” Confused, R’axor agrees and terminates the link. To ximself though xe knows the Terrans will just end up losing more.
Core officials notified all planets under the Empire that mourning was to be observed, the Terrans has returned the few souls that remained back to their home star and entered their blackout. The Terrans wouldn’t communicate out of their system for a full solar orbit. In the Senate R’axor had delivered xis findings. The Dhjiik has obviously been responsible and had grown in numbers and force to be able to wipe out so many so quickly and be gone before anyone could stop them.
One orbit later, the Core starts to receive disturbing reports. They make no sense, the Dhjiik are not to be found, the Rim worlds have not traded with them in rotations, no signals came from their fight pits, the slave planets no longer broadcast auctions. Silence.
Everything is gone. The planets, the shipyards, the pirates, everything. Gone.
367 Terran days after the first reports came in. The Beltway Council made their first announcement. It was as ever a deal. “This is Ambassador Stellaris to all inhabitants of the Core. We have made our peace with the Dhjiik. There will be no further conflict. Do all Core worlds agree to a cessation of hostilities?”
Quietly and no so quietly this was laughed through entire systems. The response was simply to ask “What would be given in return for peace?”
“Peace”
“But, w...”
The response was swift and merciless, the triumvirate of Core leadership planets blinked out of existence, flashes seen across the Inner Rim. Terrans never explained what they did, just reminded the Core that Terra is a memory for a reason.
Cosmic dust motes, a glaring Lack and the message “Guerre est la même, mais nous choisissons de ne pas l'être.” are a memorial for history and a reminder why Terrans choose peace. | |
[WP] Humans are seen as a diplomatic race of negotiators and peacemakers, leading to other races seeing them as weak. When one species attacks a human fleet station, however, they soon realize why diplomacy became a survival mechanism for the earthlings. | Admiral Japlic of the Coalition Defence looked over the wreckage. Over two thousand humans had once lived and worked aboard their fleet station, tending to ships that came through. Now they were dead, the station crippled by plasma weaponry. Xe sighed, before activating a holo-call.
A screen projected before him, showing the profile of the human ambassador to the Coalition. Her green hair was spiked in their latest fashion, and she had a look of resignation on her face.
"Ambassador Gemma. I am at the site of Station Pol-48."
"Thank you for contacting me Admiral. What can you tell me?"
Xe pulled the cap from xis head, holding it in xis primary arms.
"I am sorry to report there are no indications of survivors. The stations artificial atmosphere appears to have been breached and vented. My initial assumption is the attackers used plasma weaponry. We are connecting with what remains of the onboard AI to find out exactly what happened."
Gemma bowed her head.
"Thank you Admiral. Please forward everything you can onto me. And, can you try and find out a roster of all those who were there please."
"I will do my best Ambassador. Admiral Japlic out."
The call ended, and xe shock xis head. Why would they target humans? It made no sense. Humans were probably one of the most peaceful races of the Coalition. They were experts in diplomacy. They made deals. It was said if you want to come out on top, hire a human.
Xe set xis sight back on the wreckage, seeing the first exploration drones approach. Hopefully they would find answers soon.
\-----
The results came back quickly. Yoth'til were the culprit. Japlic groaned. They were the problem children of the Coalition. Large enough to pose a serious threat, but savvy enough to only push the line as far as they could. They had a long standing distain for humans. Being a war race, they thought those who solely made peace were weak.
Xe sent a report to the Coalition Council, with a duplicate going to Ambassador Gemma directly. Xe managed to find a full roster, given over by the dying remnants of the AI. That was sent as well.
Within a standard cycle one of the human diplomatic vessels arrived via hyperspace. They collected the bodies of the deceased, before leaving again. A statement was released by the Council, condemning the attack. The Yoth'til ignored it. And the galaxy carried on, the news soon forgotten.
But the humans didn't forget. Whispers came of great constructions being undertaken in their space district. When asked, the Ambassador laughed it off as nonsense. They believed her, as humans didn't lie.
After a standard year, the Admiral was patrolling the shared space. A fleet of Yoth'til ships went past, aiming sneering messages at xis ship. But before they left, a group of unknown ships appeared out of hyperspace behind them. Without hesitation, they unleashed a barrage of plasma fire. The Yoth'til ships were caught by surprise, destroyed in an instant.
The Admiral ordered the shields be brought to full power, before hailing the new ships.
"Unknown Ships. On order of the Coalition, cease and state your name now!"
"This is Captain Hali of S.S. Second Horseman. We have no quarrel with you. If you excuse us, we have business to attend to with the Yoth'til."
"Who are you?"
A video link was established. Xe saw a human, scarred with a fearsome expression on his face.
"Human, clearly."
"I thought you were peaceful."
Hali barked a laugh.
"Oh, we were, only because we are a beast with a taste for blood. They killed civilians, and laughed. So we are going to show them just why we had to become peaceful. You think they are bad? When you have a chance, search for the history of Earth."
"But why now?!"
"Pol-48"
They jumped away. Japlic stood at the bridge, shock clear on his face. Hyperspace scanners showed they were a small part of a major fleet, all heading towards Yoth'til space.
He almost felt bad for them. | Hatred is seen as a negative emotion in this day in age but it can be so much more than that. Hatred is bitterness, resentment, anger, and natural, an emotion that every species feels. This is something our foolhardy neighbors have forgotten and our diplomats.
Slowly the enemy approaches an imperial empire bent on the domination of all life through conquest. People set in their ways so much so that mere words can not change their goals and opinion. Carefully I maneuver my railgun's sights onto the enemy, a cavalcade of farce power.
Their armada passing the thin red line between the asteroid belt and pluto intent on conquest. If you want peace you must prepare for war this is a lesson we learned after a tidal wave of death and destruction. The dull white pinprick on the holographic display flickering red as the order is given.
Rumbling shockwaves pass through the station as the first salvo is fired from the battery on the lower wing. The powerlines crackling with electricity as I pull the trigger the railgun sending the antimatter shells accelerating towards the enemy. Their trajectory following their targets as the fleet attempts to evade in vein.
Titanic booms of their ships lighting up the void as they feel the bitterness of humanity's most repressed and primal emotion, wrath. | |
[WP] The terrifying thing about pacifistic species is that they hate war so much that, when forced to fight, they will make damn sure their enemy can never fight again. | "They are a plague." Zaran spoke with a solemn resolve. "They will sweep across the stars and consume everything. We cannot stop them."
"What makes you think so young one?" Mik'lal asked with a flippant gesture.
Zaran felt his chest plates compress with rage "Have you not seen?" he screeched "They consume the very worlds they speak to protect. They pretend that their past is so horrible, their deeds against their own so unspeakable, they believe themselves the only ones in the galaxy capable of true war. And for their own gratification they will subdue every other race to bring their so called peace .''
Mik'lal chuffed out loud, it had been many cycles since he had heard so much fear one of his own kind. The truth was much simpler than Zaran could comprehend, worked up as he was. "It doesn't matter" he stated flatly "none of it matters."
"How can you say that?" Zaran questioned softly, "They wont stop until they are the only ones left. You've seen it."
"All I have seen is their willingness to breach Terran space." Mik'lal said with a tone of finality "The humans will give them their eternal peace, as they desire, we just keep on our side of the line."
"Well, You're not wrong" Zaran stated, somewhat mollified "The humans do love their peace..." | "Are you sure we can take them on?"
"We have over 25 companies of veterans from previous wars then all the conscripts. There is no way they can stop us with no standing army."
"There is a reason they have been around for so long I don't think this is wise."
"What do you suggest then? Wait until our people starve and die out? Give up our culture and join theirs? We are warriors!"
"I just feel it won't go well."
"Well your feelings are noted." The commander mocked "But we attack tomorrow."
Dan left the briefing room and returned to his quarters. Passing the cramped hallways, bustling with activity as everyone was getting ready for the upcoming battle that would determine their survival. Dan kept feeling that his people were walking into a trap. The Cellinotes showed no aggression towards other races and from what could be seen they didn't have a standing army and just a skeleton of a security and police force. It felt wrong.
The morning came, ships were loaded and troop transports rolled and flew out of garages and hangars of the life-ships. The fighting was one-sided the first wave not sustaining any casualties and dealing many. One singular message came across a public channel
"Cease your attack or be destroyed. This is your only chance."
The message was not heeded. Dan watched and read reports of troops moving right for the capital of the Cellinotes. There was no resistance and soon reports came in of little or no activity. Dan felt the deep feeling in his gut again.
"Its a trap!"
As Dan spoke the words an ear piercing whine shot through all speakers and communications Dan clasped his hands around his ears and felt his hands warm with blood. It felt like an eternity but then the whine stopped. Dan staggered up and saw some of his fellows not moving with expressions of pain on their face. Most were alive and only some began to get up.
Across the public channel came the voice of a Cellinote "Welcome to our theatre of war, we warned you." | |
[WP] The terrifying thing about pacifistic species is that they hate war so much that, when forced to fight, they will make damn sure their enemy can never fight again. | As the first sleek, black hulled dagger ship pierced the solar systems edge we watched. As their numbers grew and their vast armada darkened the stars we looked on and prayed for their departure. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farthest flung outpost of our people we sent them kind greetings and offers of peace. In a thousand languages gathered from all the other countless visitors to our small corner of existence, we begged them to go back, to raise no weapons against us.
"Turn back proud warriors," we said to them as our hearts filled with dread. "We wish you no ill and would be as brothers to your kind if you would but lay down your arms," we cried in unity.
Still, their numbers grew and their vast legions looked upon a peaceful system and thought, "Why would we treat with creatures such as you."
They looked upon peace and saw idolence. They heard offers of love and mistook kindness for weakness. They received overtures of brotherhood, and believed it motivated by cowardness. They saw the open arms of friendship, and mistaking it for weakness, missed the steel beneath.
We did not beg them to leave because we feared their bombs, or the scorching blast of energy weapons, or their nuclear powered fury. We pleaded with them to turn back, to go home, so that our children would not be forced watch as we sullied the stars with their blood, and scattered the fragments of their proud war machines across the void.
Yet, as had happened innumerable times before they did not go. Their greed, or vanity, or maybe simple pride drove them on. They lashed out, and as that first blow fell against us, we, with weary determination gathered our might. And with one voice struck them from the heavens. With one horrific blow of our vast consciousness we rent their ships from the black nothing of space and with a song of reluctant retribution ground their screaming multitudes into star dust. Then it was done, and we wept for them, as we wept for those that came before and as we will weep for those yet to come. | "Are you sure we can take them on?"
"We have over 25 companies of veterans from previous wars then all the conscripts. There is no way they can stop us with no standing army."
"There is a reason they have been around for so long I don't think this is wise."
"What do you suggest then? Wait until our people starve and die out? Give up our culture and join theirs? We are warriors!"
"I just feel it won't go well."
"Well your feelings are noted." The commander mocked "But we attack tomorrow."
Dan left the briefing room and returned to his quarters. Passing the cramped hallways, bustling with activity as everyone was getting ready for the upcoming battle that would determine their survival. Dan kept feeling that his people were walking into a trap. The Cellinotes showed no aggression towards other races and from what could be seen they didn't have a standing army and just a skeleton of a security and police force. It felt wrong.
The morning came, ships were loaded and troop transports rolled and flew out of garages and hangars of the life-ships. The fighting was one-sided the first wave not sustaining any casualties and dealing many. One singular message came across a public channel
"Cease your attack or be destroyed. This is your only chance."
The message was not heeded. Dan watched and read reports of troops moving right for the capital of the Cellinotes. There was no resistance and soon reports came in of little or no activity. Dan felt the deep feeling in his gut again.
"Its a trap!"
As Dan spoke the words an ear piercing whine shot through all speakers and communications Dan clasped his hands around his ears and felt his hands warm with blood. It felt like an eternity but then the whine stopped. Dan staggered up and saw some of his fellows not moving with expressions of pain on their face. Most were alive and only some began to get up.
Across the public channel came the voice of a Cellinote "Welcome to our theatre of war, we warned you." | |
[WP] The terrifying thing about pacifistic species is that they hate war so much that, when forced to fight, they will make damn sure their enemy can never fight again. | "Initiate compression sequence."
Everyone has lines.
They aren't *hard* lines. They're fuzzy. They get crossed. It's an uncomfortable thing to know about people- to know about *yourself-* but it's true.
"Compression in progress. Currently at 11%."
We are composed far more of circumstance than we are conviction. Our mental picture of a constant self isn't quite a *lie*, but it doesn't map to reality terribly well.
"26% compression."
Still, crossing a line requires significant circumstances. A line may not be the solid barrier we imagine, but it's a serious impediment, all the same.
"42% compression, and we've reached a self-sustaining miniature black hole. Stand by for complete compression."
Lines also get moved. Crossed once, they become easier to cross again, because the act of crossing them pushes them back. Escaping our normal bounds *expands* our normal bounds.
"78% compression."
If your bounds include something, then you can do that and still be constrained by your bounds.
"100% compression."
"MBH complete compression confirmed. Launch system ready?"
For instance, if your normal bounds include a bit of overeating, then you can overeat without going too far overboard.
"Launch system ready."
"Confirmed. Begin launch sequence."
But if your bounds *don't* include overeating, then if you are pushed into overeating...there's no saying where you'll stop. The main limitations are physics- your stomach can only physically hold so much food.
"Launch sequence initiated. Accelerator orb 1 on its way."
If your bounds include a certain amount of violence, a certain amount of bloodshed and warfare, then when you wage war, you will still, by and large, be constrained within certain boundaries.
"Accelerator orb 1 has become part of the MBH gravitational system. Currently being ripped apart by tidal forces. Launching accelerator orb 2."
If, however, your bounds do not include warfare, then when and if you are pressed into it, your destructiveness is limited only by cleverness and the laws of physics.
"Accelerator orb 2 has joined the MBH gravitational system. Launching accelerator orb 3."
Pacifism tends to give you a great deal of time to get good at science, and at creativity, and at creating the infrastructure to undertake unusual projects without much forewarning.
"Accelerator orb 3 has joined the MBH gravitational system. Stand by for impact."
So when a pacifistic civilization finally endured enough destruction to really embrace the idea of war, they didn't hold back. They didn't bother with guns, or with bombs, or with expensively-trained soldiers.
Why limit yourself?
No, the pacifists-turned-warriors employed their creativity, and created a weapon much more destructive, and much harder to stop.
Creating a black hole with the mass of a small asteroid isn't terribly difficult. Spacefaring civilizations do things like that all the time. Creating one with the mass of a planet is much more difficult, but it's far from impossible. And once you have that, you have something that can tear a planet apart, compressing about half of it into the black hole, and turning the other half into a ring around the black hole.
It's quite pretty, really. There are worse things than your planet becoming a fascinating feature in pop-cosmology magazines.
Launching it is much harder. You can't exactly poke it with a giant stick like a billiards ball or something.
But what you *can* do is launch other bodies at it.
Your aim doesn't have to be terribly exact- the miniature black hole is dense enough that a direct hit won't actually do much. Think of shooting a bullet through a cloud. It's like that, except you're shooting the *cloud* at the *bullet*.
But if you get them to become gravitationally entwined, then you can use that to get the black hole moving.
It's slow, of course. You can throw more things at the MBH gravitational system to accelerate it some more, if you're in a hurry. It takes a lot of energy, and requires sacrificing a planet, or *several* planets, each time.
The end result is a miniature black hole speeding toward your target. The black hole itself is undetectable. The broken pieces of your accelerator orbs will form a pretty ring, and make the whole thing nice and visible, but there's no real way to actually *stop* it.
Just sit back, relax, and wait for tidal forces to tear your target planet apart.
It was some 11 hours between the final steps of the weapon test launch and the moment of truth. Even with three accelerator orbs, this was a slow process.
Thousands of scientists watched as the ring drew near to the target planet. There wasn't any actual collision, but the whole thing became a giant mess. The ring scoured the surface of the planet, as tidal forces tore it into pieces. Large pieces, at first, but they broke up with time.
Soon there was nothing but a massive ring around a still-fairly-small black hole, slowly heading out into space at an awkward angle.
It was a successful test. The weapon worked exactly as intended.
Time to try it out on somewhere populated. | "Are you sure we can take them on?"
"We have over 25 companies of veterans from previous wars then all the conscripts. There is no way they can stop us with no standing army."
"There is a reason they have been around for so long I don't think this is wise."
"What do you suggest then? Wait until our people starve and die out? Give up our culture and join theirs? We are warriors!"
"I just feel it won't go well."
"Well your feelings are noted." The commander mocked "But we attack tomorrow."
Dan left the briefing room and returned to his quarters. Passing the cramped hallways, bustling with activity as everyone was getting ready for the upcoming battle that would determine their survival. Dan kept feeling that his people were walking into a trap. The Cellinotes showed no aggression towards other races and from what could be seen they didn't have a standing army and just a skeleton of a security and police force. It felt wrong.
The morning came, ships were loaded and troop transports rolled and flew out of garages and hangars of the life-ships. The fighting was one-sided the first wave not sustaining any casualties and dealing many. One singular message came across a public channel
"Cease your attack or be destroyed. This is your only chance."
The message was not heeded. Dan watched and read reports of troops moving right for the capital of the Cellinotes. There was no resistance and soon reports came in of little or no activity. Dan felt the deep feeling in his gut again.
"Its a trap!"
As Dan spoke the words an ear piercing whine shot through all speakers and communications Dan clasped his hands around his ears and felt his hands warm with blood. It felt like an eternity but then the whine stopped. Dan staggered up and saw some of his fellows not moving with expressions of pain on their face. Most were alive and only some began to get up.
Across the public channel came the voice of a Cellinote "Welcome to our theatre of war, we warned you." | |
[WP] The terrifying thing about pacifistic species is that they hate war so much that, when forced to fight, they will make damn sure their enemy can never fight again. | As the first sleek, black hulled dagger ship pierced the solar systems edge we watched. As their numbers grew and their vast armada darkened the stars we looked on and prayed for their departure. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farthest flung outpost of our people we sent them kind greetings and offers of peace. In a thousand languages gathered from all the other countless visitors to our small corner of existence, we begged them to go back, to raise no weapons against us.
"Turn back proud warriors," we said to them as our hearts filled with dread. "We wish you no ill and would be as brothers to your kind if you would but lay down your arms," we cried in unity.
Still, their numbers grew and their vast legions looked upon a peaceful system and thought, "Why would we treat with creatures such as you."
They looked upon peace and saw idolence. They heard offers of love and mistook kindness for weakness. They received overtures of brotherhood, and believed it motivated by cowardness. They saw the open arms of friendship, and mistaking it for weakness, missed the steel beneath.
We did not beg them to leave because we feared their bombs, or the scorching blast of energy weapons, or their nuclear powered fury. We pleaded with them to turn back, to go home, so that our children would not be forced watch as we sullied the stars with their blood, and scattered the fragments of their proud war machines across the void.
Yet, as had happened innumerable times before they did not go. Their greed, or vanity, or maybe simple pride drove them on. They lashed out, and as that first blow fell against us, we, with weary determination gathered our might. And with one voice struck them from the heavens. With one horrific blow of our vast consciousness we rent their ships from the black nothing of space and with a song of reluctant retribution ground their screaming multitudes into star dust. Then it was done, and we wept for them, as we wept for those that came before and as we will weep for those yet to come. | "They are a plague." Zaran spoke with a solemn resolve. "They will sweep across the stars and consume everything. We cannot stop them."
"What makes you think so young one?" Mik'lal asked with a flippant gesture.
Zaran felt his chest plates compress with rage "Have you not seen?" he screeched "They consume the very worlds they speak to protect. They pretend that their past is so horrible, their deeds against their own so unspeakable, they believe themselves the only ones in the galaxy capable of true war. And for their own gratification they will subdue every other race to bring their so called peace .''
Mik'lal chuffed out loud, it had been many cycles since he had heard so much fear one of his own kind. The truth was much simpler than Zaran could comprehend, worked up as he was. "It doesn't matter" he stated flatly "none of it matters."
"How can you say that?" Zaran questioned softly, "They wont stop until they are the only ones left. You've seen it."
"All I have seen is their willingness to breach Terran space." Mik'lal said with a tone of finality "The humans will give them their eternal peace, as they desire, we just keep on our side of the line."
"Well, You're not wrong" Zaran stated, somewhat mollified "The humans do love their peace..." | |
[WP] The terrifying thing about pacifistic species is that they hate war so much that, when forced to fight, they will make damn sure their enemy can never fight again. | As the first sleek, black hulled dagger ship pierced the solar systems edge we watched. As their numbers grew and their vast armada darkened the stars we looked on and prayed for their departure. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farthest flung outpost of our people we sent them kind greetings and offers of peace. In a thousand languages gathered from all the other countless visitors to our small corner of existence, we begged them to go back, to raise no weapons against us.
"Turn back proud warriors," we said to them as our hearts filled with dread. "We wish you no ill and would be as brothers to your kind if you would but lay down your arms," we cried in unity.
Still, their numbers grew and their vast legions looked upon a peaceful system and thought, "Why would we treat with creatures such as you."
They looked upon peace and saw idolence. They heard offers of love and mistook kindness for weakness. They received overtures of brotherhood, and believed it motivated by cowardness. They saw the open arms of friendship, and mistaking it for weakness, missed the steel beneath.
We did not beg them to leave because we feared their bombs, or the scorching blast of energy weapons, or their nuclear powered fury. We pleaded with them to turn back, to go home, so that our children would not be forced watch as we sullied the stars with their blood, and scattered the fragments of their proud war machines across the void.
Yet, as had happened innumerable times before they did not go. Their greed, or vanity, or maybe simple pride drove them on. They lashed out, and as that first blow fell against us, we, with weary determination gathered our might. And with one voice struck them from the heavens. With one horrific blow of our vast consciousness we rent their ships from the black nothing of space and with a song of reluctant retribution ground their screaming multitudes into star dust. Then it was done, and we wept for them, as we wept for those that came before and as we will weep for those yet to come. | ##The Boveen Menace
"What does the intercepted message say, Michaels?" The captain of the USF Terracotta asked, watching the display.
"The translators are working on it now. It was sent to all the Boveen vessels and appears to have led to unprecedented formation change. All the ships, even the supply carriers are converging."
"I will not be out manuvered by grass eating space cows. Get me a missile vector to the alpha ship," the captain barked.
"Vector locked, ready to fire." The gunner sat motionless in the FR rig as the monotone breaths fogged the display in front of him.
"Hold by, gunner. That was a fast lock."
"No surprise. That's the oddest part, Captain," Officer Michaels said. "The Boveen aren't hiding the alpha ship like they have in previous engagements of this size. It's front and center and they're moving towards us along with the whole formation. They'll be in During laser range in one minute."
"Are they approaching to negotiate?" The captain asked, analysing the 3d map in the center of the room. "Prepare the lasers either way."
"Negative Captain, comms are black and they're accelerating. Even if we take out every ship, the shapnal alone will tear us apart like paper. Those are heavy ships."
The Captain looked at the map gravely, seeing the line of alien ships barreling toward them.
"I have that translation, Captain," Michael said, letting a bit if fear creep through the professional tone. "The command was just one word. Stampede."
\---
Thanks for reading.
If you liked this, check out /r/surinical to see more of my prompt responses and other writing. | |
[WP] The terrifying thing about pacifistic species is that they hate war so much that, when forced to fight, they will make damn sure their enemy can never fight again. | "Initiate compression sequence."
Everyone has lines.
They aren't *hard* lines. They're fuzzy. They get crossed. It's an uncomfortable thing to know about people- to know about *yourself-* but it's true.
"Compression in progress. Currently at 11%."
We are composed far more of circumstance than we are conviction. Our mental picture of a constant self isn't quite a *lie*, but it doesn't map to reality terribly well.
"26% compression."
Still, crossing a line requires significant circumstances. A line may not be the solid barrier we imagine, but it's a serious impediment, all the same.
"42% compression, and we've reached a self-sustaining miniature black hole. Stand by for complete compression."
Lines also get moved. Crossed once, they become easier to cross again, because the act of crossing them pushes them back. Escaping our normal bounds *expands* our normal bounds.
"78% compression."
If your bounds include something, then you can do that and still be constrained by your bounds.
"100% compression."
"MBH complete compression confirmed. Launch system ready?"
For instance, if your normal bounds include a bit of overeating, then you can overeat without going too far overboard.
"Launch system ready."
"Confirmed. Begin launch sequence."
But if your bounds *don't* include overeating, then if you are pushed into overeating...there's no saying where you'll stop. The main limitations are physics- your stomach can only physically hold so much food.
"Launch sequence initiated. Accelerator orb 1 on its way."
If your bounds include a certain amount of violence, a certain amount of bloodshed and warfare, then when you wage war, you will still, by and large, be constrained within certain boundaries.
"Accelerator orb 1 has become part of the MBH gravitational system. Currently being ripped apart by tidal forces. Launching accelerator orb 2."
If, however, your bounds do not include warfare, then when and if you are pressed into it, your destructiveness is limited only by cleverness and the laws of physics.
"Accelerator orb 2 has joined the MBH gravitational system. Launching accelerator orb 3."
Pacifism tends to give you a great deal of time to get good at science, and at creativity, and at creating the infrastructure to undertake unusual projects without much forewarning.
"Accelerator orb 3 has joined the MBH gravitational system. Stand by for impact."
So when a pacifistic civilization finally endured enough destruction to really embrace the idea of war, they didn't hold back. They didn't bother with guns, or with bombs, or with expensively-trained soldiers.
Why limit yourself?
No, the pacifists-turned-warriors employed their creativity, and created a weapon much more destructive, and much harder to stop.
Creating a black hole with the mass of a small asteroid isn't terribly difficult. Spacefaring civilizations do things like that all the time. Creating one with the mass of a planet is much more difficult, but it's far from impossible. And once you have that, you have something that can tear a planet apart, compressing about half of it into the black hole, and turning the other half into a ring around the black hole.
It's quite pretty, really. There are worse things than your planet becoming a fascinating feature in pop-cosmology magazines.
Launching it is much harder. You can't exactly poke it with a giant stick like a billiards ball or something.
But what you *can* do is launch other bodies at it.
Your aim doesn't have to be terribly exact- the miniature black hole is dense enough that a direct hit won't actually do much. Think of shooting a bullet through a cloud. It's like that, except you're shooting the *cloud* at the *bullet*.
But if you get them to become gravitationally entwined, then you can use that to get the black hole moving.
It's slow, of course. You can throw more things at the MBH gravitational system to accelerate it some more, if you're in a hurry. It takes a lot of energy, and requires sacrificing a planet, or *several* planets, each time.
The end result is a miniature black hole speeding toward your target. The black hole itself is undetectable. The broken pieces of your accelerator orbs will form a pretty ring, and make the whole thing nice and visible, but there's no real way to actually *stop* it.
Just sit back, relax, and wait for tidal forces to tear your target planet apart.
It was some 11 hours between the final steps of the weapon test launch and the moment of truth. Even with three accelerator orbs, this was a slow process.
Thousands of scientists watched as the ring drew near to the target planet. There wasn't any actual collision, but the whole thing became a giant mess. The ring scoured the surface of the planet, as tidal forces tore it into pieces. Large pieces, at first, but they broke up with time.
Soon there was nothing but a massive ring around a still-fairly-small black hole, slowly heading out into space at an awkward angle.
It was a successful test. The weapon worked exactly as intended.
Time to try it out on somewhere populated. | ##The Boveen Menace
"What does the intercepted message say, Michaels?" The captain of the USF Terracotta asked, watching the display.
"The translators are working on it now. It was sent to all the Boveen vessels and appears to have led to unprecedented formation change. All the ships, even the supply carriers are converging."
"I will not be out manuvered by grass eating space cows. Get me a missile vector to the alpha ship," the captain barked.
"Vector locked, ready to fire." The gunner sat motionless in the FR rig as the monotone breaths fogged the display in front of him.
"Hold by, gunner. That was a fast lock."
"No surprise. That's the oddest part, Captain," Officer Michaels said. "The Boveen aren't hiding the alpha ship like they have in previous engagements of this size. It's front and center and they're moving towards us along with the whole formation. They'll be in During laser range in one minute."
"Are they approaching to negotiate?" The captain asked, analysing the 3d map in the center of the room. "Prepare the lasers either way."
"Negative Captain, comms are black and they're accelerating. Even if we take out every ship, the shapnal alone will tear us apart like paper. Those are heavy ships."
The Captain looked at the map gravely, seeing the line of alien ships barreling toward them.
"I have that translation, Captain," Michael said, letting a bit if fear creep through the professional tone. "The command was just one word. Stampede."
\---
Thanks for reading.
If you liked this, check out /r/surinical to see more of my prompt responses and other writing. | |
[WP] You’re a supervillain who, after a long and successful career of villainy, just want to quietly retire. But pesky superheroes just won’t have it. | Dread Wizard checked his watch. Two minutes. He was slowing down in his old age. With a wave of his hand, he broke his spell, and the superheroine fell to the ground unconscious. He didn't recognize her, but she was young; probably from the new generation of heroes. With a gesture, he dropped her through a portal behind his old rival's house. Red Wolf could deal with her like the last eight this week.
Dread Wizard began to close the portal, then paused. This was getting seriously annoying, but was he really that desperate? He sighed and walked through the portal. Red Wolf, in human form, was inspecting the crumpled heroine on his lawn, and didn't seem surprised to see him:
"Dread," he said, "it's been a while. I was just thinking of getting ready to go find you. I thought you were retired, so what's with the heroes falling on my property every other day?"
Dread looked around. They were in Red Wolf's fenced-in backyard, but it still seemed exposed.
"How about we take this inside, Red? Unless you want your neighbours catching a glimpse of me."
He helped Red carry the heroine inside and put her on a couch, before settling down in the kitchen. Red was drumming his fingers, an old, familiar sign that he was ready to fight.
"So, Dread, why are you dropping so many heroes at my place? The only reason I've left you alone is that you promised me you were retiring."
"I am!" Dread said, "But these heroes kept showing up! I even moved my wizard's tower to Antarctica and buried it under the ice, but somehow they keep finding me. And not even the good ones; they're all on par with that last girl, and she was barely an inconvenience."
Red shook his head in disbelief. "That's Valkyrie you just took out. She's the powerhouse of the new generation of heroes."
Dread shrugged. "She was strong enough, I suppose, but had no subtlety. My second layer of traps beat her easily. Nothing like the old days, when even Warmaster had some ability to engage in a battle of wits. Hell, we wouldn't have become rivals with the power imbalance between us if you weren't such a sneaky pain in my neck. No, none of these heroes pose a real threat. They all just come busting in, as if they expect me to fight them hand-to-hand."
"It's a new world," Red said. "Most battles these days are settled on the street in an all-out brawl. Even the back-stabbing magic types are leaning towards direct combat. Lairs are out; punching is in."
"That misses the point," Dread said, exasperated. "Why are they still gunning for me? I'm publicly retired, and I never did anything *that* villainous. I'm pretty sure no one is nursing a multigenerational grudge against me, and I know I settled all my outstanding feuds before quitting the business."
Red sighed. "You're one of the last big name villains out there. Every hero looking to become famous sees you as a quick road to the limelight. Maybe you never murdered anyone, but you did humiliate the entire Super Quintet at once, you stole Italy, and astral rash is your fault. Retired or not, you are firmly a supervillain in the eyes of the public, and therefore in the eyes of this new generation of supers who grew up normal."
Dread snorted. "Too simple. They could also go after Vampeer, or Darkwave if they were just in it for the glory, and those two have a much worse reputation than me."
"Some do try for them. They're all dead. You're the safe option; difficult to find, near-impossible to beat, but you also never kill." Red raised a finger when Dread tried to speak. "And *don't* try telling me you will start murdering trespassers. After fifty years, no one, least of all me, will buy that."
Dread eyed Red suspiciously. "You've got that look on your face. What are you plotting?"
Red's expression was wounded innocence, "I have no idea what you mean."
"It's the same look you got when you hid a nuke in my tower during our fight, or when you named the Dynamic Duo so I wouldn't expect the third hero. You've got some plan I won't like. Spit it out."
"Well...". Red said, conspicuously looking at the ceiling to avoid his gaze, "if you switched sides, I could pull some strings and get you an official pardon, and the heroes would be required to leave you alone."
"That's strange," Dread mused, "I could have sworn you suggested I become a hero. But that would be absurd."
"Is it?" Red asked. "You're still the strongest, most flexible wizard alive. You wouldn't even have to do that much. Fix some tears in reality, banish a few demonic lords, finally give up the cure for astral rash. Near impossible for anyone else, but hardly even an inconvenience for you, and a few good works like that would make you untouchable in the public's eye. A good deed every couple months, that's it. And then you can spend the rest of your time studying or enchanting or whatever it is you're doing down at the South Pole."
Ninety percent certain he'd been tricked, Dread Wizard agreed. He accepted the offer of a cup of coffee, and they sat in awkward silence for while they drank. Dread finally sighed and stood.
"I guess I'll get started. I'll hand the cure over to the medical community." After a moment's thought, he added, "Make sure you take lots of credit for my switch. If I'm going to go straight after all these years, I want everyone to know it was my rival, not one of these newcomers, who convinced me. I still have my respect."
Red Wolf hesitated, then held out his hand, "Glad to have you on our side, for a change. I won't miss the lightning. Or the fire. Or the acid. Or-"
Dread Wizard shook his hand to cut off the long list of attack spells he'd thrown at Red Wolf, "Glad to be working with you sneaky bastards instead of against you. It'll be nice to have a plan go according to plan for once, without *someone* messing it up." | Silence. Peace. Waves endlessly caressing the sand. The wind gently blowing through the palm forest. Some beautiful clouds travelling over the sea, toward the horizon. Fishes swimming around the shallow water. Birds singing mating songs in the depth of the forest, somewhere between the mountains.
"This island is truly magnificent", whispered Zogborg while savoring the salty breeze.
That was it. He finally chose the place of his death. After a life full of restless adventures, fights and failures, he could let it go. He desired to leave his past behind and enjoy a few moments of simple and quiet peace. He took off his clothes, put his naked feet on the sand and walked to the water. The sea was nicely fresh. He felt the water caressing his scars and cleaning his hair. The tension in his body slowly melted, as he dived in the deep water and abandoned his body to the current and the waves. The pain partially faded away. That horrible, constant pain that cursed his life.
"No more pain", he thought while playfully rolling underwater.
His head was getting so light. He could hear the screaming in his head stutter, weaken. All the voices were going away, defeated. He smiled and danced, then swam back to the beach to sit under the sun. The sand was welcomely warm and he fell asleep. He was, for the first time since so long, at peace.
He woke up to the familiar feeling that something was wrong. The clouds in his head came back. The horrible screamings were already echoing in the back of his mind. He wasn't alone anymore. He dressed up, waiting for the intruder to approach him.
"Come out", he said at the forest.
A few deceptive long seconds of silence made him hope to be mistaken, but only for a few seconds.
"You are sharp as usual. Congratulations, Mr. Zogborg."
A scream, painfully loud, flashed in his mind. The voices were back, spitting nonsense, gurgling and raging.
"How did you find me?" Managed to ask Zogborg while putting his hands around his head.
The superhero smirked. "Do you really think you can hide somewhere?"
Zogborg didn't find the strength to fight the voices and let them take control. He smirked back. An hideous, crazed smirk.
"I thought you would be happy if I disappeared, so I went away. Why did you follow me? Do you want to kill me? Please, kill me."
The superhero shook his head. "You belong to a prison, I am not a murderer, unlike you."
Zogborg laughed while shaking. "A prison you say? You don't get it."
He could not control his body properly anymore, the voices were getting too strong. He forced himself to say a few more words. A last attempt to remain sane.
"I am my own prison. Leave me alone, please, go away from here. I will not hurt anybody anymore. I just want peace."
"Your words mean nothing. How many innocent people did you kill? How many lives did you destroy? I am here to capture you once and for all." Said the superhero, then walked forward.
Zogberg lost consciousness, like every time the voices were getting control of his body. He would start remembering only hours after waking up. The voices would take over his mind and flesh, to murder, and torture, and dismember, and destroy, until their hunger was sated.
He woke up in a cell. It was dark, small, ugly, stinky. He could hear the other prisoners shouting, resonating with the screaming inside his head, making the voices stronger.
He screamed. A long, desperate scream: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"
He screamed again and again, trying to cover the voices.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" | |
[WP] This kingdom had a special rule of succession: whoever kills the ruler is the new ruler. Well, the last queen died in childbirth 8 years ago. | With its unstable and murder-encouraging rule of succession, the Kingdom was bound to fall into a power vacuum from which it could never recover one day.
And it was not as though the Kingdom did not know this. Hundreds of desperate political scholars and historians made pleas to reform the law, and on every occasion the reigning monarch was killed and replaced by another, who quickly banished or even executed proponents of reform. Of course, then there were those who supported keeping the rule of succession, arguing that it prevented against complacency and corruption. Indeed, the longest lasting rulers of the Kingdom were diligent and fair, if only to ensure the loyalty of those around them. Still, one cannot deny that such rulers were only a handful among the dozens in the Kingdom's short history. Only after the mysterious assassination of the last prince, barely a year old at the time of his death, did the Kingdom realize the true gravity of its situation.
To this day, no one knows who committed that heinous act of murdering an infant, though conspiracy theories run abound. Some speculate that it was the anarchists, who had grown resentful of the constant squabbling going on at the capital. Others claim that it was the army, who expected to seize power without anticipating that most of their forces would disband as soon as the seat of the throne was empty. Still others point out that it was the neighbouring countries who had benefitted most from the chaos, deriving revenue from selling weapons and food and even gaining land in the partition. However, most agree on one thing: that the young prince was just as likely to have died of assassination as he was of neglect, if only because his mother had died in childbirth and everyone else was too busy attempting to kill each other in the infamous civil war.
The civil war lasted for eight long, bloody years. The anarchists descended upon the castle to feast, and were eventually forced to retreat to the mountains after the capital forces retaliated after a year long siege. The capital forces then succumbed to their traditional rivalries and split into factions. Enemies who had once fought with words to convince the monarch now fought with the soldiers over differences that no longer mattered with no state to speak of. The majority of these soldiers, however, simply went home to defend their families, forming small militias in their hometowns or cities. The West Islanders, who had long yearned for independence, broke away almost immediately and began to build up an army to defend their newfound kingdom. It was only after a coalition of other nations invaded the capital and wiped out almost all of the factions did the chaos stop. The Kingdom was then divided amongst the coalition, who then had to contend with the angry militias and the question of the West Islanders, a conflict which continues to this day.
— Excerpt from *Political Instability at the Top* | The throne had been open for eight years since the Queen Regent had died in childbirth as the court fought over who the rite of usurpation gave the crown.
One faction believed the young princess should be made queen. After all, it was her delivery that killed the queen.Another believed the King Consort should be made Regent. After all, he led to the Queen's pregnancy that ended her reign.
Yet another still believed the Crown Physician should be made monarch. Had the care provided been better, perhaps the Queen would have survived.
There was also a faction who believed the midwife should be coronated, for it was under her supervision the Queen had passed.
The fighting had been going on for years. The council had continued on governing while it was sorted out. But the various players all pled their cases in the court of public opinion. All of them pleading to not be made monarch.
After all, none of them wanted the burden of having been found to have killed the beloved queen. | |
[WP] Witchcraft has recently been declared illegal. However, with how much good their local witch does for the community, the townsfolk aren't about to simply take this lying down. A cunning plan is soon concocted. | Underlying Magic
____________
"This is preposterous!"
"Damn rich folk tryin' to muck up our lives."
"But what will we do for healing items?"
The whole town gathered around the notice board that usually presented letters of request for odd jobs, notices of sales, or requests for companionship as needed by the villagers. Today, however, a Letter of Marque from the King announced the forbiddance of any and all magic performed within the kingdom.
Amidst their futile jeers and shouts, the gathered people all went silent when they heard a particular, wooden, shop door open and close.
About four hundred heads turned slowly to watch the woman clad in long black robes with the pointy black hat as she sat her black cat on the dirt road to scamper off. She turned to them and raised an eyebrow before approaching.
"What's going on?"
A sound of collective throat-clearing could be heard in the ensuing silence. Then a few sounds of kicking at dirt, and rolling of pebbles beneath their feet.
One brave man slicked back his hair and sheepishly stepped forward. "Well, you see, Matilda..." he began to wring his hands before continuing, "The king, kinda, sort of, maybe, made your job illegal and put a bounty on your head." His eyes darted to the ground, before risking a glance up to see her expression.
Matilda's face was impassive. She strode forward towards the notice board. The entire village scooted sideways, like a fat sheep, out of her way. Tearing the crisp, white paper off the board away from its rotted, yellowed peers, Matilda scanned the letter.
"Well, that's pretty cut and dry. I guess I can't do business here anymore. Toodeloo! Come, Whiskers!"
As the witch walked back towards her combination home and shop, the villagers scooted back to their previous position.
"Miss Matilda?" A young girl asked. Her high pitched voice shaking slightly.
"Yes?"
"We don't know what we'd do without you. Please don't go."
"You wish me to stay?"
The whole crowd seemed to find its voice, "Yes, of course!"
"Despite it being against your king's orders?"
Their voices must have fallen to the ground, because they all began to look down.
"I'm sorry, but my business is magic. I must go where it is allowed."
Taking a small scroll from inside a pocket on her robes, and sprinkling some ashes in a circle around her, Matilda began to read a foreign sounding incantation as her entire residence and place of business began to glow with a blue light. Before the building had managed to even lift a full foot off the ground, a voice cried out from the crowd.
"But please, Miss Matilda, you have to do something. We need you. You can't take this lying down, can you?"
Her mouth stopped for a second, and gaped for a word before closing again. The house dropped with a loud thud. A flower pot fell off the upper floor and shattered.
"And what exactly did you have in mind?"
The villagers never noticed how odd this particular shade of dirt on the road was, until now.
"Well, we have to do something. Please, Miss Matilda, can't you think of anything?"
Matilda sighed. Looking up at the sky unfocused towards the invisible water droplets hanging in the air around her, Matilda rocked her head back and forth.
The crowd leaned forward, their necks like those of tentative turtles.
"Blight Gambit?" Matilda asked.
A cheer erupted amongst the tossing of hats.
"Alright, everyone in my shop. We have to plan this out. Not one mistake, you hear. No word of this to any Kingsguard. You play your part down to the letter. It won't be me taking the fall if this whole farce goes to dung. Come on."
A few months passed after Matilda's wooden shop had bulged like the cheeks of a squirrel. A rider under a banner displaying a yellow crown, trumpeted loudly in the morning air. Everyone gathered outside, casting suspicious looks at each other.
A white, ornate, wooden carriage with gold trim slowly clambered up the muddy road.
"Introducing Lord Weymar, emissary for the King and your liege lord. All hail!"
"Hail." The crowd replied dully.
The carriage door swung open before the attendants had time to put the step ladder in front of the high seat. A man jumping out, let his yellow-trimmed, lush, purple robes plop in the mud before addressing the crowd in a raised voice.
"Oh dispense with the nonsense. You all know why I'm here. Where's the gold, hmm? Not a single tax has been paid in three months. What's the problem? Not enough mead in your troughs?"
A side eye shot between each of the villagers. The town mayor stepped forward.
"Please forgive us, my Lord. We have met with horrible misfortune. Our people have begun to think that this land is cursed. Not a single crop has grown. No metal worked has retained its shape. Nor have any visitors spent a single coin at our inns. We are starving, your lordship!"
The Lord trudged around to the different stalls bordering the town square. He gestured to the goods for sale. "Nonsense, what do you call this then?"
"My Lord, if you will test them, you will see."
Lord Weymar raised an eyebrow. He poked the fat pumpkin sitting on the wooden stall. He pulled his finger back in shock as the orange vegetable deflated into a rotting pile of goo.
"My word!"
"There is more, my Lord, please see!"
The lord further dirtied his robes walking through the muddy streets as he stepped to the blacksmiths shop and cautiously poked one of the displayed swords. Instantly the metal melted into a dirty red lump of raw iron.
"But what could be wrong with your inn, and your other service industries?"
"My Lord, perhaps you smell us standing here?"
"Don't peasants always smell that bad?"
They all looked at each other.
"No, my Lord. If you were to wash but a finger in our bathing water hauled up from our creek, you'd notice in an instant."
The lord hesitantly granted the request. And then sniffed gingerly at his own royal fingertip.
"Good heavens! What is that putrid stench?"
"We don't know, my Lord. But we think it's a mixture of pig dung and rotting eggs. It's in all the water, and we can't get it out."
"But how on earth could things get so bad here, so quickly?"
"Well, we think it may have something to do with the anti-magic edict. All of these problems would be short work for our former resident witch. But she had to move away when the King's order went up."
"Very well, very well! I shall have words with him shortly. You will be expected to pay back your dues once these problems are resolved. Good day!"
And with a huff, and smelling most unlordly, Lord Weymar got into his carriage and drove off. His wheels a bit less round than when they began.
The whole town leaned eagerly forward. One man called in a whisper, "Is he gone?"
The little boy up in the tree scouting the road beyond the hill shouted back, "Heee'ss goooonnnnee!"
With a quick puff of dust, the muddy road turned to solid dirt again. The stench from the villagers vanished. The rotten swords straightened to a fine point. And all the food and their underlying stalls transformed into a great feast.
The villagers ate, sang, and drank, rejoicing in mirth. Matilda appeared in front of them at the head of the table in a loud 'poof!'
They all began chanting "Matilda!" Matilda! Long may she mage!"
"Actually, 'mage' isn't a verb. You can't use it in that context." But her complaints went unheard as the villagers lifted her chair up over their heads and began carrying her around the village, singing her praises and chanting nonsensically.
It wasn't two days later that a new notice went up revoking the previous decree.
Dropping her shop back into it's proper place, squeezed between the inn and the brewery, Matilda went about redecorating.
"Miss Matilda, thanks for the feast and everything, but when are you going to change the wolves back into whatever they were before?"
"What wolves?" Matilda asked in a frightened voice. | ##Magic of the Village
The soldier steps away from the notice board and turns with fear in his eyes. His commander watches him from his mount. The soldier straightens his back and walks to his horse, controlling his pace to avoid demonstrating fear while maintaining speed. He jumps onto his horse and prepares to leave. His commander holds up his hand and smiles.
The villagers look at the notice board and gossip sparks immediately. Questions begin to emerge from them. They debate the morality of the law. They debate the practicality and likelihood of enforcement. They avoid questioning their own livelihood in the moment, but they will do so later in the night. A girl still in pigtails walks up to the sign. She is learning to read and is eager to apply her skills.
*Attention*
*All magic is prohibited. Any practitioners shall be arrested. If one is caught aiding a practitioner, they shall be jailed for their crimes. If you know the location of a practitioner, inform the knights immediately*
The official seal of the king is at the bottom. The girl's face drops as she has not learned how to conceal her emotions. She runs away from the notice board. She ignores the farmers and merchants as they wave to her. She ignores the bugs and rodents in the forest. She stops at her destination, a small hut in the woods. She knocks on the door.
A woman who looks old enough to be the girl's sister opens the door. She has long hair that is contained within a bonnet. Her clothes are standard for a peasant yet spotless.
"Marigold," the girl embraces the woman and starts to cry.
"Isabel, what is the meaning of this?" Marigold hugs Isabel.
"There is a new notice. All magic is illegal. They are going to arrest you," Isabel cries into Marigold's apron.
"Oh dear, I was afraid of that," Marigold gently pushes Isabel away and begins casting the spells to reduce her travel load. Isabel stands in the door crying.
"Is this the last I will see of you?" she whimpers. Marigold turns to Isabel.
"For the foreseeable future, this is a common occurrence for us. A new king ascends to the throne and distrusts all witchcraft so he tries to have us arrested, and a few overeager knights search the town. Do not worry. I will be fine, and they will not harm you. They will assume that you were my victim and cast themselves as the hero," Marigold says as her furniture starts to shrink and float into her bag.
"But doesn't the king have wizards?" Isabel asks.
"Of course, he does, but royal magicians are always the exception. If it weren't for my dignity, I would gladly except such a role. Unfortunately, the idea of appeasing the wishes of an idiot has never been desirable to me so I must live my life on the run," Marigold reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small necklace. She walks over to Isabel.
"Keep this close. In the full moon, we will be able to speak," Marigold smiles. Hooves stomp in the distance. The knights from the village arrive. The lead knight smiles and gets off his horse.
"Unhand that child you foul witch. Sir Leo demands it," the knight removes his helmet to allow his full glory to be seen in the light. He has a proud look in his face that can only be earned through delusion. His subordinates tremble. Sir Leo looks at his knights and gestures them to get off their horses.
"No, I won't let you take her," Isabel stands in front of Marigold.
"By the grace of God, what spells have you cast on this innocent child? Before I slay you, you must undo your curse," Sir Leo gestures widely and projects his voice as if there is a large audience watching him.
"She hasn't cast any spells on me outside of healing my sickness, and you are not going to slay her," Isabel yells. In the distance, a mob of villagers start approaching the hut.
"Oh dear," Marigold sighs, "I had hoped I wouldn't have to deal with a mob this time."
"My child, this witch probably gave you the sickness herself. Now, unhand the girl, witch," Sir Leo points his sword at Marigold.
"First, please stop calling me witch. Second, I will go with you. Just give me a second to undo my curse on the girl," Marigold bends next to Isabel and magically connects her voice to Isabel's mind, "Please go with the villagers. You shouldn't have to see this. I am sorry that the world is a cruel place, but I would never forgive myself if you were harmed. I will be alright. I will slip away from the knights when we are far from the village."
Before the Marigold can finish her speech to Isabel, a man punches Sir Leo in his exposed head. Sir Leo falls on the ground. A group of villagers surround him and start to kick him until he begs for mercy. His subordinates are surrounded by angry villagers with pitchforks. The town magistrate, who landed the first blow on Sir Leo, approaches Marigold.
"Miguel, what is the meaning of all this," Marigold says.
"When the knights posted that notice, we had a secret quorum, and we all agreed that we were not going to let them take you. We were going to give them a red-herring while we plan a long-term solution. The knights already knew about you and left before we could enact our plan," Miguel says.
"So you attacked them, you could be tried for treason," Marigold says.
"These knights," Miguel gestures the group, "Their leader is too proud to admit commoners beat him, and the rest of them are too scared. Isn't that right?"
Most of the knights nod their head. Sir Leo struggles to stand with his blade.
"I would never lie or admit defeat," Sir Leo points his blade. Miguel raises his fist, "I merely fell off my horse while riding out of the village. The village is full of wonderful people who would never break the law Come along men."
"Wait," Miguel raises his hands, "And on the way you lost your horses."
"And on the way home we lost our horses," Sir Leo starts to run away from the hut. The other knights follow.
"Knights, pfft," the village elder, Elizabeth snorts, "They always act chivalrous and pretentious yet none of them would last ten seconds in a bar brawl."
The villagers nod their head in agreement.
"But you can't expect this to last forever, what about the king?" Marigold says.
"Who cares about the king? Kings are always more concerned about the color of their carpets than their subjects," Elizabeth places extra venom on the last word, "Besides, odds are he will be assassinated by one of his heirs in the next few years. That's politics."
"I mean you're not wrong, but what if the next king is even harsher on witches," Marigold stammers in disbelief.
"Then, we will fight off whatever stupid decree he makes. You are one of us, and we look after our own," Miguel smiles, and the villagers nod their head. Marigold starts to cry.
"This has never happened to me before. I am used to being ran out of town with pitchforks," Isabel hugs Marigold, "Thank you all so much."
Marigold removes the furniture from her bag and starts to re-organize her home. Elizabeth walks into her house.
"Wait a minute, have you been able to move your furniture with magic this whole time?!" Elizabeth shouts.
"Uh, only my enchanted furniture," Marigold says.
"My goodness, the next time I need my table moved; you better help out. Otherwise, I will turn you into the king myself," Elizabeth says.
"Elizabeth," Miguel's face drops in horror.
"It's fine," Marigold laughs for the first time at the thought of being turned in, "I will be sure to help you with your furniture, Elizabeth."
"Good," Elizabeth smiles and walks out of the hut with Isabel in hand.
The villagers go about the rest of their day as if nothing happened. The only sign of the day's even is the the notice on the board. It will stay on the board for as long as current king decrees it, and the villagers will ignore it until it is revoked.
---
r/AstroRideWrites | |
[WP] You’re the apprentice of a vampire hunter, and the two of you go to hunt a vampire that has taken the lives of many. This would be easy for you....if the vampire wasn’t so cute. | The expert vampire hunter stood behind me. He told me that he'd "Let ya try to do it on yer own." He (hopefully) would help me if there were severe difficulties.
I knocked on the door. The location I was led to was an old, run-down shack.
It's walls were solid, sure, but they looked like they could crumble at any time.
I knocked on the door. It was locked, and hey, they'd opened the door before.
A young girl, no older than seven, opened the door. ...What?
"Hiya mister!"
"Hello... miss."
"Waddaya need sir?"
"Uh... I've been told a vampire lives here. Have you heard anything about that?"
"Wat's a vampire..?"
Damn it.
"Well, uh... a vampire is somebody who burns in the sun, has a negative relationship with crosses, and can only be killed by something called a stake."
"Oh! I can't go out in the sun..."
"Why?"
"My momma says that it's bad for me."
Oh.
"You ever eat garlic?"
"Oh... I started swellin' up.."
Oh no.
"Okay... I have to go talk to someone."
"Okay mister!"
She gave me a big smile. She had... fangs.
She then shut the door.
I turned to my superior, who I had affectionately dubbed 'Cowboy' due to his accent.
"Cowboy-"
"For th' last time, don't call me that."
"Anyways... what do I do here?"
"What?"
"This seven year old is clearly- were you even listening?!"
"Oh, I tuned ya out."
"THIS IS IMPORTANT!"
"Don't ye yell at me."
"You act like my dad..."
"Do I now?"
"Anyway, this kid is a vampire..."
"So?"
"C'mon man! I can't hurt a kid!"
"Fine. I'll go handle it."
I watched as he then knocked on the door.
\[Part 2?\] | Let's set the scene: A half-naked vampire is currently trapped in the corner of a bedroom. The thing trapping him is 12 crosses dropped from the ceiling, surrounding his every side, each dangling from a thread tied to the rafters. Outside this ring is a fully naked apprentice Vampire Hunter, only known by his title "Private", and his teacher/surrogate mother-figure who calls herself "Captain", currently dressed in her best impression of a rural mother. Both vampire hunters are holding crossbows loaded with wooden stakes.
*"So, Private, what's the hold up? He's trapped in a quarter-circle of crosses and yet your stake launcher seems rather tense and loaded."*
"You know that thing we talked about?"
*"Look, I get it he's attractive-"* **"Why thank you"** *"Shut up leech! I get that he's attractive but so are the vampires we have chained, and, well, you can see what they're situation is."*
"I thought it was an open secret that the three of you are just into sadomasochism?" **"Ooohhh kin-"**
*"Can you for once in your life not reveal personal secrets on the basis that they are either of the open variety of secret?"*
"...sorry..." Private replied meekly. If it weren't for the circle of crosses the vampire would've already pounced and did various things we cannot discuss due to age restrictions and such.
*"We're going off topic. You-"* She pointed her stake launcher at Private *"-Stake-"* then pointed at the loaded stake in said stake launcher *"-Him."* and then pointed her stake launcher at the vampire.
**"He was about to."** *"CAN IT!"*
"I know I have to, but, do we really need to?"
*"Yes, we're vampire hunters, it's kind of our job."*
"Maybe the murders were a false accusation?"
**"Yeah, no, they're all *totally* murderized."**
"If then, we can't just go out and execute vigilante justice instead of turning vampires in to the proper authorities."
*"We can have a discussion about the ethics of the legalized persecution and murder of vampires AFTER you put a stake through his heart."*
"Uh, um, hmmmmm..." The Private, mentally shitting himself right now, currently had to decide between treason due to resist the orders of the extension of the state, that being Captain, or shooting a really cute guy who so happened to be a vampire and also so happened to have murderized the fuck out of some orphans. Like, that crime scene looked like the cover of a fucking death metal album or something.
Captain let out a sigh *"How much do you care about him"*
"I want to cuddle with him everyday and every night."
*"Wow, that was quic- Well, anyway."* Captain let out another sigh *"Fine, I'll let you keep him."*
"Really?"
*"Psyche."* She smiled and then quickly pulled the trigger of her stake launcher, firing a stake at a wall. Unfortunately, a certain very rude vampire got in the way of the romantic meeting of stake and wall, so instead a stake got entered from his ear and poked out the eye, where it remained lodged. A faint roasting sound could be heard as the silver stake burned the flesh of the vampiric twink.
Private was, understandably, speechless.
*"Welp, get dressed before you freeze your butt off."* Captain said while cheerily skipping away before stopping *"Huh, I never used that phrase literally. That's neat."* she then continued the aforementioned cheery skipping. | |
[WP] Men have created an artificial fantasy planet full of elves, dwarves, dragons, and many other interesting creatures. Magic works through nano bots and programming tricks. Though they war on each other from time to time, all know not to approach the glass towers of men with hostility. | The legends and history of Altria were deep and strong.
For centuries the planet thrived in order and chaos. Wars were waged and the victor was always determined on the height of their ability to use the planet's magic.
But one strange narrative always poked its head in the stories: the men in the glass towers.
Many written theories had been philosophized, but not one person had ever come to a solid explanation; of course, that is, one that all the kingdoms could agree upon.
I compiled all accounts, since the birth of history, into one large book. I've documented all mentions of these strange anomalies, from the men in the glass to the guardians.
And I've come to a new, more sound conclusion of these mysterious men.
I saw one of these glass towers with my own eyes on Summer's Year-475 around the half rotation. I ventured to Mist's Edge and hiked for nearly two cycles. Mateo III and Glarbon, Third King From Glargon, witnessed the men in the glass towers in Mist's Edge. Their accounts were of strange men, dressed in fatigues they saw from no other army, and odd tools and weapons that harnessed the planet's magic in ways that they had never seen before.
Mateo III said that one man carried an iron tool that shone a beam of light at his will. To this day, many historians claim his experience was a nomad traveling the lands while using a lantern, but Mateo's case was similar to Glarbon's.
Glarbon's experience was much more dramatic and bloody. During his reign, The Orc Warchief raged across the land and eventually found himself conquering the secluded mountains of Mist's Edge. Though, no conquering ever happened. Instead, the men of the mists slaughtered his entire army; all but a few, including the Warchief himself, managed to escape. Glarbon stated in his book, Orcs and War--written by the Elvish novelist W. Wenzy--that he and his warriors charged an odd structure that cast reflections of the sun and phantom warriors. They attacked, shattering and cracking some pieces of the structure. Men that resided on top of the tower aimed iron weapons that fired green beams of magic, dropping his men in one shot. His retinue was slaughtered in mere minutes, all orcs that were redeemed in battle and war.
After witnessing the tower for myself, from a safe distance, I believe the men that reside inside are spectators or, how Galeon IV described them, Gods.
The men in the glass tower are watching us. Monitoring us and assuring we are fit for one specific reason: entertainment.
Our entire existence is based on the simple fact that the Gods in the glass towers want to be entertained. And what better exhibit than our planet, Altria.
And to prove my theory, I've captured one of the Gods.
And he will talk. And tell me everything.
[Next Part!](https://www.reddit.com/r/AJHWriting/comments/mpsvbt/the_ones_in_the_glass_towers_short_story_1953/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3)
r/AJHWriting | When our ancestors first approached the glass towers, they were convinced that it was closer to god than what we could ever possibly comprehend. The plains of green surrounding it compared to the dull and grey concrete jungles meant that this was the only place that we could live. It had to be a divine sign to live here.
Our history were surrounded by stories of their near infinite wisdom, allowing us to have a rescue from the vast wastelands that surrounded it. We were eternally grateful for their kindness, even if their motives were not known to us.
We were assured that they knew the answers to life's impossible questions: when earth mother cries, does her tears reach sky father? Are his arrows of light a reminder that we are all mortal? Why are we mortal? And where do we go? We were all completely sure that inhabitants of the glass towers somehow knew these answers. The structures piercing the sky served as a testament to that, with technologies and knowledge that not even the great sages could rival.
The corruption our ancestors fled from never stopped approaching us. It was inevitable that it would come, but only time could tell when it could strike. Like an ever-increasing plague that hungered for more destruction, its spreading poison mercilessly killed our crops and animals. Our brothers and children began to starve as famine swept across our former paradise.
When Adonis the second came to power, he sought to travel towards the Towers of Wisdom, looking for guidance on what to do in those hopeless situation. His compassion and love for live was rewarded with strikes of cruel and fiery blazes of light. Few were spared in the massacre. The destructing power that the Towers held made us truly realize its otherworldly power again.
This must have been its answer to our blasphemous pleas! We must hope that they will one day rescue us when its time comes! We cannot not doubt their worthiness, for their power shows that we are not worthy of their knowledge. This must be a holy test before we are granted access to the Glass Towers before us upon our death.
All we can do now is hope while we rot beside and worship the glass towers. We must silently pray that they would one day give us salvation from this suffering. | |
[WP] As you grew older horns and a tail started to appear. You have been splashed with holy water more times than you can count and now your going to a job interview with someone who is HIGHLY religious | 'Thank you for coming in today, Mr Flynn, I believe you're our last interviewee of the day!'
'Thanks for your time.'
'My name is Reverend Thomas, I am the lead teacher in religious studies at St Paul's Church of England Secondary School and I also officiate the weekly catholic assembly for the students. I suppose the first question is - where did your passion to teach come from?'
'Well I suppose I just have a lot of knowledge bouncing around in my head up there and thought what better way to use that than to impart it on the next generation.'
'Indeed. Now, this may be rather awkward, but I can't help but notice that... you specialise in ancient history and French language.'
'Yes.'
'We teach Spanish at St Paul's and our history curriculum is contemporary. Fifteenth century AD and beyond.'
'Ah.'
'Also you have horns'.
'I'm sorry?'
'Horns. You have horns on your head.'
'Oh yes, these old things? I suppose I do.'
'...'
'...'
'Why do you have horns on your head, Mr Flynn?'
'I'm not sure exactly. Genetic, maybe?'
'You were born with them?'
'No, they developed around my teen years.'
'And did your parents exhibit... horns?'
'Couldn't say, I grew up in an orphanage.'
'Interesting. So you have no known parents?'
'Well I have my adopted parents who I do consider my true mother and father. I'm sorry but how exactly does this pertain to the job?'
'My apologies, you're quite right it bears no relevance. So I see here you have three years experience at a primary school in Portsmouth.'
'Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed my time there and feel it has prepared me well to step into a teaching role in a secondary school.'
'Brilliant. And you're willing to work outside of contracted hours if necessary?'
'Yes.'
'And you have a tail.'
'Ye - I'm sorry?'
'You appear to have a leathery, lizard like tail that protrudes from your rear.'
'Oh this? Suppose so.'
'...'
'...'
'Why do you have a leathery, lizard like tail that protrudes form your rear, Mr Flynn?'
'Couldn't say. Gen-'
'Genetic, yes, of course.'
'Will the tail be a problem?'
'Well we do have a strict uniform policy that extends to students and staff; boys cannot have hair below the collar, girls cannot wear makeup, nobody can have piercings of any kind, and, well... tails aren't explicitly mentioned, but pony tails are, and for boys they are strictly prohibited.'
'This is beginning to feel slightly discriminatory'.
'I mean no offence. We are merely not accustomed to horned, long-tailed men applying for teaching positions. Please do not mistake my confusion for intolerance.'
'Well ok then.'
'Now under religion you have ticked *none of the above*?'
'Correct.'
'Of course you have. And do you have a residence within ten miles of the school?'
'Yes.'
'And do you have a diving license?'
'Yes.'
'And the power of Christ compels you.'
'Pardon?'
'The power... of Christ... compels you.'
'I don't understand. Is that water you're flicking on me?'
'Never mind.'
'Wait, what was that?'
'Just some scented water for the office. I feel it really freshens the place up. Anyway, it says here that you have a minor offence for petty theft?'
'When I was eighteen, yes. A stupid mistake which I have learned from and become a better person as a result.'
'And what did you steal?'
'An apple - from the local market.'
'An apple?'
'Yes, for my friends. Adam and -'
'Let me guess, Eve?'
'No.'
'Oh.'
'Steve.'
'Please leave.' | The interviewer's eyes light up the moment I walk in the door. This is not the reaction I'm used to seeing. "Is something the matter" I ask hesitancy "oh it's just the first time I seen some one like you in real life". I barely notice that their tie is marked with an upsidedown cross. "So... Are you aware of how this maybe off puting right?" I say still unsure what's going on. The interview goes mostly normal, with occasionally moments that make me uncomfortable do to what feels like the same and exact opposite of how holy men usually react, this interviewer is way to interested and almost like he saw my as some sort of proof that their beliefs were true. I could stand it and walked out early, feeling like no one cares about the person attached to the horns and tail.
Even if I get called back I'm not comfortable going to work there. Zeal is never going to not make my skin crawl. | |
[WP] "We Who Fell" Is one of the most terrifying supervillain teams on the face of the planet. They are cunning, powerful, and ruthless but what really places them apart as something different is that each and every member is a former superhero. | We who fell
​
Lives wasted Year after year
Lectures wasted on your deaf ears
​
We who fell
​
Protecting who you love
While we chain our hearts away
​
We who fell, By the wayside
As you took us for granted
​
We who fell
in love
with the idea of being so good
that you treated us like trash,
but we never asked for more
​
Id sacrifice my life for yours
but would you ever lose sleep over mine
​
Its time
Time for we who fell to to be we who will not fall
​
We who fell, we who rose
unburdened, unshackled, unrestriced by the need to be good by your standards
​
We who fell
in love with ourselves
​
You hate us because we are you.
​
You hate us because we do what we should have
What you would do.
​
Labeled as bad for seeing that a life of servitude is akin to slavery
​
We who fell may have abilities
But who was in power?
​
My life was in your hands,
news articles, Comics, and praise
all to be torn away
​
We who fell
for your tricks
​
No more.
​
We who fell, got back up.
Without you | We are the Fallen
Nova sat down on the bench she’d probably call he bed for the night. All her money had been taken and given to charity by a person she’s once seen as an ally. But she’d been wrong, even with her mind reading and controlling abilities she’d still been wrong. She leaned back against the bench not noticing the girl approaching her.
-Sam-
I’d seen from my spot in the shadows as Nova slumped on the park bench. Me and dad had been tracking her. Nova Parkson was once the mind hero DayDream, she was a kind hero with mind abilities. My dad the famous antihero the Stalker would even agree she was good. But even though she was good society and the other “heroes” betrayed her.
I tapped her shoulder when I made it up to her. “Umm excuse me miss?” I said my voice sounded nervous, just like dad said. I played the nervous girl when talking to other out at night, he’d said it made me seem less suspicious.
“Is something the matter little one?” Nova asked reaching out and touching my cheek.
“No, but I’ve seen some creepy men in the area who’d hurt you,” I said. It wasn’t fully a lie, but I knew Nova would be able to take care of herself. “So I was wondering if you needed a place to stay, my dad and I would be happy to let to stay,” I offered holding out my hand.
I’d expected a rejection but Nova quickly stood and grabbed my hand.
“I saw yours and their minds, your truly a remarkable young woman,” Nova said softly.
I smiled and we started our way to my house.
——————
If you told me a year ago that my dad would start a supervillain organization with my now mom. I’d call you crazy.
But it happened.
Nova and my dad had hit it off pretty well and dad not wanting to keep secrets from her told her about him being the Stalker.
Nova, or well now mum, didn’t care since she’d fallen for him too. Soon a new villain started working with the Stalker, Nightmare was her name. She was had strong mind abilities and soon some of the heroes realized it was DayDream who’d chosen a new path.
Soon more betrayed heroes started joining them, and our basement was no longer a safe or large enough place. So we moved into a bigger house on a hill that dad was able to make a huge basement. A few of the others stayed with us so the bigger house was perfect, no more people sleeping on the couch and floor.
It was fun seeing how our lives changed.
Right now I was sitting in the lair with a headset on, snacks and drinks beside me as I watched the screen showing me where everyone was.
I turned on the broadcast that was being played by the heroes.
“Everyone be careful out there, the group ‘We are the Fallen’ is out, our goal it to capture them,” Aquata’s voice rang out.
“You all heard that,” I said into the headset.
“Loud and clean,” Carder said. Carder was the youngest of our group only being a few years older then me. Dad and Mum had adopted him after his parents kicked him out after being betrayed. Carder’s antihero name was Shocker since his abilities were electric based.
“Midnight, I got a problem,” Ōkami said, he sounded like he was running.
I quickly pulled him up on a secondary monitor. He was being chased by the tec hero Techno.
“Shit, Ōka your gonna need to chuck your coms to the right at your next four way and turn left. Keep running left and Nightmare will will run into,” I said quickly relaying the information to Mum as well.
I heard Ōkami throw the coms and cut the coms ties to the others except my personal one.
“Stalker going dark for a minute to get intel of Techno,” I said to dad before changing headsets.
I waited a few seconds before a heard the coms come live.
“Hello?” Techno’s voice came through.
“Hello Techno,” I said in a purring voice. This was the voice the “heroes” knew as Midnight.
“Midnight, what are you doing?” He asked.
“Well this and that, what are you doing,” I purred.
“Well I was chasing Ōkami, but I guess you were being him disappearing from my radar”.
“Well it wouldn’t be fun if you caught him”.
“Still playing cat and mouse Midnight”.
“It’s fun,” I purred leaning back, for months I’d been playing this game with Techno. I let him get close then leap away.
“Does Stalker know about this?” He asked. I saw his pacing on the screen.
“He knows a bit, but a girl is allowed to have her fun,” I said.
I then thought for a second and pulled out my phone and pulled up my contacts. “6, last digit is 6,” I said.
A small cheer came from the other side of the coms soon fallowed by a text. “Hello Midnight,”.
I laughed to myself.
“Now I got to destroy the com, bye bye Tec,” I said before blowing the coms.
“:p butthead,” Techno texted.
I smiled to myself and pulled on my other headset to finish the patrol.
The rest of the night went by smoothly and without problem. Carder would visit Ōkami tomorrow with a new coms for him. I went up to bed when I headed them all come in. Thankfully it was the weekend and I had no homework since it was a little past midnight when I finally crashed to bed.
—————————
If you want to read to hear more I might make this a Watt pad story. | |
[WP] "We Who Fell" Is one of the most terrifying supervillain teams on the face of the planet. They are cunning, powerful, and ruthless but what really places them apart as something different is that each and every member is a former superhero. | "HOLD THE LINE, BROTHERS!" cried Patriot, gritting his teeth as blows rained upon his star-spangled shield. "We must buy time for the civilians to evacuate!"
He lashed out with his other hand, power mace burning fiercely with crackling energies as it smashed through three assailants, like a hot knife cutting through butter. All around him chaos was erupting as insectoid figures leapt and cavorted in a whirling frenzy of destruction. Brightly-coloured costumed twirled in elegant counterpoint with their dark opponents, fighting to hold back the dark tidal wave of insect bodies. Gouts of ichor spurted across the pavement as the heroes' fists and weapons found their mark. Occasional splashes of red blood and screams marked the demise of both heroes and mortal humans, cut down by the seemingly endless surge of bladed limbs and chittering mandibles.
Above it all, a constant siren could be heard, alternating with a recorded message: ***ALL CITIZENS, PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR NEAREST EVACUATION SHELTER IMMEDIATELY IN AN ORDERLY FASHION. THE CITY IS UNDER ATTACK. I REPEAT. PLEASE PROCEED...***
Patriot took a quick glance around him, even as he narrowly dodged a deadly swipe. The number of heroes holding this area was dwindling, slowly but surely. If they did not take decisive action, they will soon lose this battle of attrition.
Patriot barked out orders; "Starfire, Steel Hawk, Tenpest! Find The Mantis and stop him! We're taking too many losses!"
"Yes sir!" came the reply in unison, as three colourful figures disentangle themselves from the melee and streaked to the sky; even as the sirens cut off suddenly with a high-pitched blast of white noise - every being was forced to their knees, hands clutching at their ears, and three colourful streaks fell out of the sky. The City's announcement speakers blared to life again with a harsh voice.
***.....ATTENTION, CITIZENS. THIS CITY IS NOW UNDER THE DOMINION OF "WE WHO FELL". SURRENDER, AND YOU WILL KNOW MERCY. RESIST, AND PERISH....***
Patriot struggled to his feet, raising his shield by reflex just in time to block a bladed forearm, its owner chittering its other three arms drew back to strike- Only to burst, screaming, into bright blue flames, consuming its form. A blue-costumed figure stepped forwards and grabbed Patriot's arm, yanking him to his feet.
"Patriot, we need to fall back to HQ! We've sustained 50% casualties already, Mantis's troops aren't letting up and now it looks like E-Razor's hacked into the City's network! Auto-defense drones will be crawling over us in no time!"
The newcomer, AzureWrath, spoke rapidly between hurling flaming fireballs at the advancing enemies. Patriot knew she was right - the green dots on his HUD were winking out, one by one, swallowed by a sea of red dots.
"Some of the enemy have breached our line and are headed into civilian housin-"
Patriot glanced up to see AzureWrath's body pinned against a wall by a long silver sword. He hurled his body sideways, just in time to avoid another silver sword singing through the air as it struck the pavement where he'd been standing.
"No! Silver Knight is here, too?" he hissed, recognising the insignia on the blade. More swords sang through the air as other heroes met their demise, a silver-armored figure on a nearby rooftop materialising the swords from his hands and sending them slicing through the air.
Patriot could not believe this - they were up against at least three of the WWF, former SSS-ranked heroes, traitors who had switched sides to form a supervillain team bent on world domination. All in the name of "unifying the world order".
"ALL HEROES, FALL BACK TO HQ! REPEAT, FALL BACK TO HQ, LEAP FROG FORMATION!" he cried. Pings on his HUD visor let him know that the survivors had acknowledged his orders.
He ducked and blocked as he ran down the street, dodging blows that could cut man or hero in half, flying silver swords that could penetrate all known defenses.
He cursed as a few cuts made their mark on his flesh. But onwards he ran.
He cursed as more life-signs winked out on his visor, screams ringing in his ears. But onwards he ran.
He cursed as the HQ building came into sight around the corner, already ablaze and in ruins, a blazing figure hovering twenty stories from the ground, pouring eldritch flames into the stricken building - Inferno, the Human Torch. The fourth member of the WWF.
He cursed as the skyscraper before him crumbled like a child's tower of wooden blocks, a gigantic figure emerging through the billowing cloud of debris - Gargantua, the fifth member of the WWF.
He cursed as car-sized pieces of building crashed around him, crushing his body into a bloody pulp.
Above all the mayhem and wanton destruction, the City's speakers continued to broadcast their baleful message.
***ATTENTION, CITIZENS. THIS CITY IS NOW UNDER THE DOMINION OF "WE WHO FELL". YOUR HEROES HAVE ALL FALLEN, OR OTHERWISE FLED. SURRENDER, AND YOU WILL KNOW MERCY. RESIST, AND PERISH.*** | "Halt!" yelled Blue Ocean, as she pointed forward with a single finger and fifteen wicked-looking spears forged out of an unknown light blue energy that shimmered with power surrounded the four hooded perps that had broken into a HIPVAC Government Containment Unit, known to contain B Grade Level Special Items.
While the items stored within the facility still couldn't be allowed to be released to the general public, they still could pose a city-level threat if stolen, and thus A grade hero Blue Ocean was dispatched. Usually, it was just a bunch of junkies that got too drunk on the power surge, or the odd kid with a villain fantasy that was stupid enough to raid a government facility, but Blue Ocean happened to be visiting the local Heroes Association branch that day and volunteered to quickly resolve this mess.
The masked man in front gave a long, weary sigh, and slowly pulled back his hood.
"Ohho, Jen, look what we got here," said the man said in a jovial tone, his once-handsome features now dulled by a hideous scar that ran across his face, but his dark orange iris and striking red hair were striking features that were hard to ignore.
Blue Ocean's pupils dilated as she realized who the man standing in front of us was. Without hesitation, she released her power, and fifteen spears mercilessly arced towards the hooded criminals. Against that group.... the most important thing was to not hesitate, not even for the slightest instant.
The red-haired man, known as Mantis in his hero days, sighed again as both his arms transformed into long, translucent scythes, and with a stunning display of inhuman speed and agility, every spear headed towards them was sliced in half mid arc, dissolving into a pitiful burst of blue light.
Blue Ocean felt her heart rate speed up, quickly deciding that the best outcome for her was to be a nice little girl and let the villains carry on with their job.
Wait....
What?
"Fuck," she shouted, as she realized how potent The Enchantress' power to insert fake thoughts into others' minds was. While it only lasted an instant, and she couldn't control people, that second of indecision was enough to decide the fight. It was all over....
She felt a sharp blade press towards the back of her neck and found herself standing face to face with The Enchantress, her light green eyes and alluring white hair unmistakable for another.
She leaned in and whispered into Blue Ocean's ear lightly, while gently slipping something that felt like a small parcel into her hand, and the next instant a black void enveloped the two hooded men along with Enchantress and Mantis, leaving behind only a woozy man displaying signs of having used power enhancing drugs and a trembling Blue Ocean who looked like she'd seen a ghost, as she stared at the small wooden box that had the words WWF emblazoned on to it with mixed emotions. | |
[WP] "We Who Fell" Is one of the most terrifying supervillain teams on the face of the planet. They are cunning, powerful, and ruthless but what really places them apart as something different is that each and every member is a former superhero. | The bank is on fire, local firefighters approach but quickly find out that the fires were caused by powerful pyrokinetic named Inferno, one of the members of We Who Fell.
Inferno was once a respected A Rank hero, his fighting power was unmatched, and with the power of fire resistance he would rescue civilians from any fire with ease. That is until the day of march 5th where a residential building caught on fire.
Inferno was told that there were 14 people still inside and once he got those 14 out he decarded it a victory and let the firefighters handle the rest, a little off protocol but usually no-one demanded that he followed strict rules, he was a hero after all. Little did they know that a family of illegal immigrants was inside one of the abandoned apartments, the reports say they burned to death holding onto one another. Once the media picked it up the story, it spread faster than a wildfire, one even Inferno himself would be scared of.
Inferno was labeled a racist, a monster at times even a Nazi, the public spread rumors that that he did so on purpose since they were not registered citizens, and that he is a danger to all immigrants. Of course they had no proof of that but it was still enough to hurt his image, and after enough backlash he was fired from the Hero association and his power license was revoked so he was nothing but on ordinary citizen now.
Part time jobs didn't pay the bills or the lawyers for the divorce his wife requested and then one night came the breaking point, as he was going back home from the local supermarket a shadowy figure creeps up behind him
the figure pulls out a knife and says "Hey pal let's make this quick, give me all your money and nobody will get hurt"
Inferno turns around, he thinks of using his powers but know that using super powers even in self defense can land him in trouble "I don't have any left, spend all of it on a divorce and on this frozen pizza"
the man punches Inferno on the face "That was your first and last warning, next time it'll be the knife. so Money NOW "
Inferno at this point is at an all time low, so powerful yet powerless in that very moment, he had always been in service of the people and he has nothing left to show for it, at that moment he just though 'Fuck it'
"Hei pal, let me give you the money it's right here" Inferno says as he puts his hand in his pocket and as it pulls it out presents the robber with his middle finger "Now either choke on it or fuck off you dipshit "
The robber is fuming, he tries to attack Inferno with his knife, a moment later flames start to spread all over Infernos body, the robber shocked drops the knife and stumbles as he tries to run away but it was too late, the flames already caught up to him burning the robber to a crisp. On that night, Inferno became a member of the We Who Fell
​
At the bank the Heroes from the hero association arrived, Frostbite and Aquaking took care of the flames, once Infernos flames were extinguished GigaFist took knocked him down with one punch,
"Finally we have one of the core members of the WWF in custody" Frostbite says
"But this was a bot too easy why would he attack a bank in daylight when he knows we all are watching over the city, somethings up" GigaFist says
Inferno smiles "Wow we have a clever one don't we, but you are too late anyway"
GigaFist grabs him "too late for what?"
"Aren't you missing one person Alex?"
GigaFist was in shock Alex was his real name, he hadn't told that name to anybody except his mentor, the one who was missing from the usual team. he knew this was a distraction and he knew exactly where he could find his mentor
"I have to go" GigaFist says as he runs at the speed of sound towards the city jail.
"Please tell me you didn't do it, you are better than this"
when he arrives there he finds the guards already unconscious. GigaFist quickly heads inside and as he goes to the cell area his worst fears came true right in front of him. His mentor Captain Galaxy an S Rank hero holding one of the prisoners up by their throat on one hand
GigaFist uses his immense speed to get the prisoner out of his hands "What do you think you are doing?" GigaFist asks Captain Galaxy.
"Do you even know who you are defending, get out of my way boy"
"I know he is the one who killed your wife and daughter, but this isn't right"
"And who the hell are you, to tell me what is right." Captain galaxy screams as he lunges towards GigaFist punching him in the gut with all his strength, Gigafist falls to the ground and Captain Galaxy starts walking towards the prisoner to finish him off
with the captains back towards him Gigafist stands back up and quickly charges towards him pushing both of them into a wall "I may not know what right is, but I know this is not it"
Captain Galaxy pushes GigaFist away "How can you defend him, when you know what he has done, when you know the pain he caused me" He flies up into the sky and continues "I begged the judge to execute him, but they still refused to do it"
"Yes, and you know why, it is inhumane and cruel"
"Can he still be called a human after killing a child in cold blood"
"If you kill him now, the number of murderers in the world will remain the same"
"And that is exactly why I won't stop at 1" Captain Galaxy says as he nosedives towards GigaFist, this time however he was prepared, GigaFist swiftly dodges the strike and grabs onto his hand to thro Captain Galaxy into the ground.
"Remember that trick" GigaFist says "You were the one who taught it to me, I always dreamt of being just like you, and now you turned into an animal, even having ties with We Who Fell"
"They are the only ones that would help me bring him to justice"
"So all those years we spend together, all those people who you saved, are you ready to throw that all away just for this"
"just for this .. just for this .. JUST FOR THIIIIS" Captain Galaxy screams at the top of his lungs, the surrounding walls start to shake because of it
"He took everything from me, and the system that I worked for turned their back on me, I am done trying to make the world a better place, it can rot in hell for all I care"
GigaFist pauses for a brief moment as they stare each other in the eyes "I know you have been going easy on me so far in this fight, I have done the same. You are going down a dangerous path, and if you don't stop right now I will have to see you as an enemy"
"Do what you must boy, but if you continue getting in my way I will have to do the same "
"Then let's just end this once and for all then"
"Finally we agree"
They both prepare their most powerful attacks, GigaFist uses his atomic punch, it's a ranged attack so powerful it can destroy entire mountains, the shockwaves from it have been know to be felt miles away. Captain Galaxy uses his galactic slash, also a ranged attack that can cut through any matter know to man, so deadly that it once cut an army of 10000 zombies and the entire hill behind them. These were attacks they would only resort to in the most dire situations, they had never tried it against one another since it was to dangerous even for the near immortal beings that they were.
They both throw out their attacks, the ground shakes as the whole prison starts to collapse, after the dust clears out the to GigaFist looks at his opponent, in Captain galaxies lower stomach there is a hole the size of a football, as GigaFist looks down at himself he finds that he is ok, not even a scratch on him, he is relieved until he turns his head towards the left. The prisoner who Captain Galaxy was after was cut in half from head to crotch.
"You idiot, why would you not fight me"
"As much as this world has hurt me" Captain Galaxy coughs up blood "You are a good boy, you have a long life ahead of you, live it to the fullest"
"Was all of this truly worth it at the end"
Captain Galaxy smiles "at least I may join them once again, thank you, kido" as he falls on the ground and dies. | "Halt!" yelled Blue Ocean, as she pointed forward with a single finger and fifteen wicked-looking spears forged out of an unknown light blue energy that shimmered with power surrounded the four hooded perps that had broken into a HIPVAC Government Containment Unit, known to contain B Grade Level Special Items.
While the items stored within the facility still couldn't be allowed to be released to the general public, they still could pose a city-level threat if stolen, and thus A grade hero Blue Ocean was dispatched. Usually, it was just a bunch of junkies that got too drunk on the power surge, or the odd kid with a villain fantasy that was stupid enough to raid a government facility, but Blue Ocean happened to be visiting the local Heroes Association branch that day and volunteered to quickly resolve this mess.
The masked man in front gave a long, weary sigh, and slowly pulled back his hood.
"Ohho, Jen, look what we got here," said the man said in a jovial tone, his once-handsome features now dulled by a hideous scar that ran across his face, but his dark orange iris and striking red hair were striking features that were hard to ignore.
Blue Ocean's pupils dilated as she realized who the man standing in front of us was. Without hesitation, she released her power, and fifteen spears mercilessly arced towards the hooded criminals. Against that group.... the most important thing was to not hesitate, not even for the slightest instant.
The red-haired man, known as Mantis in his hero days, sighed again as both his arms transformed into long, translucent scythes, and with a stunning display of inhuman speed and agility, every spear headed towards them was sliced in half mid arc, dissolving into a pitiful burst of blue light.
Blue Ocean felt her heart rate speed up, quickly deciding that the best outcome for her was to be a nice little girl and let the villains carry on with their job.
Wait....
What?
"Fuck," she shouted, as she realized how potent The Enchantress' power to insert fake thoughts into others' minds was. While it only lasted an instant, and she couldn't control people, that second of indecision was enough to decide the fight. It was all over....
She felt a sharp blade press towards the back of her neck and found herself standing face to face with The Enchantress, her light green eyes and alluring white hair unmistakable for another.
She leaned in and whispered into Blue Ocean's ear lightly, while gently slipping something that felt like a small parcel into her hand, and the next instant a black void enveloped the two hooded men along with Enchantress and Mantis, leaving behind only a woozy man displaying signs of having used power enhancing drugs and a trembling Blue Ocean who looked like she'd seen a ghost, as she stared at the small wooden box that had the words WWF emblazoned on to it with mixed emotions. | |
[WP] "We Who Fell" Is one of the most terrifying supervillain teams on the face of the planet. They are cunning, powerful, and ruthless but what really places them apart as something different is that each and every member is a former superhero. | "Evacuate the building immediately!" Star Press yelled as he sprinted through the halls of the Super Hero HQ, "WWF is coming!"
Jazz Handle, the superhero intern, looked confused at the panicked heroes around him. Even Purple Pillar was hurriedly gathering up his breakfast.
"Whoa, this is good, right? You've been hunting We Who Fell for a long time!" Jazz Handle said, following the retreating heroes.
"That's a line for the papers, kid. WWF will beat you to death. We can't stop them. They know all of our weaknesses from their days as heroes." Tight Beam said as he patted himself down, finally pulling out a set of car keys. "They threw my grandfather's war medals off a bridge and I waited in the car. We still might not get away in time even now."
"They don't know my weakness" Jazz Hands said. "I'm going to hold them off while you escape."
"I'd say don't be a hero that would probably just motivate you more. You ever heard of the real WWF?"
"So, their powers are all based on animals. You mean the World Wildlife Fund?"
"Never mind, you're probably too young. They go by something else now, I think. Good luck, kid. Hit them while they're monologuing."
The door slammed as Jazz Handle prepared his canes and began to recite a soulful ballad.
"Suuuuper Slaaaaam!" came a commanding voice through the halls as the door to the rec room as Kodiak Kommander, Ape Nation, and Clydesdale Doug thundered in.
The burly bear of a man, dressed like a lumberjack wearing a duck hunter hat pulled down a microphone from the ceiling somehow and pointed right at Jazz Handle. "We came here on your turf so we could disrespect those shiny shoes do gooders to their faces and they ran, oh yeah! I don't even get to use my sack of tricks" Kodiak dumped a duffel bag on the table, spilling a yo-yo, a hunk of some glowing blue metal and what looked like a slice of Key Lime Pie.
"Like little babies," Clydesdale Doug, the hulking centaur, said as he bucked, tearing the microphone from Kodiak up to his mouth. "Back to their super momma's house!"
"Except for this little snazzy pipsqueak!" Ape Nation roared as he smashed a ping pong table by jumping on it. "Are you gonna take all of us, kid? I call first smackdown! I'm hungry for blood!"
"I don't have to stop you." Jazz Handle tried to get his breathing under control as he gripped his canes harder through the sweat. "I just have to slow you down. Say hello to Cue Lewy and Lean Cuisine!" He released his canes to float. They began to spin beside him, bobbing in time with the music as Ape Nation charged.
\---
Thanks for reading.
If you liked this, check out /r/surinical to see more of my prompt responses and other writing. | Fallback, the fresh faced newbie to the hero world, gaining good press for his great infiltration skills that have saved many hostages. So of course, the Order Keepers, had to send him for reconnaissance into the bank. It was a robbery turned to hostage situation, needing the utmost stealth to gather the most intel. So far from the reading of the scout bots, he knew 4 targets were in the building, but they set up jammers, old fashion leg work was needed.
Unfortunately, he knew he was out of his depth when the floor broke under him. Should've known they wouldn't make it easy.
"Shouldn't have come here kid, you don't have power to stop us. " , that gruff voice, has to be Top Dog, he always loved playing the age card. " But it is good to see you."
"Oh you know, just wanted to drop by," Fallback replied as he gazed past the elderly giant, counting 3 targets in total, "Oh, and Hound says hello."
"Ha, you bring that pup along? Maybe you have a chance."
"He's lying," stated one of the others, has to be Ammo," they sent him to scout us out, but at this point it doesn't matter."
Fallback rolled into combat pose, Top Dog will lunge first, Ammo providing cover fire if escape is attempted. Which means the third must be gathering the money. Reaching into his bag, Fallback ran at Top Dog, sliding as the big man jumped over to where Fall back once stood. Top Dog didn't notice the circle of net bots placed there until they were pining him in place. Ammo opened fire, but Fallback already threw his shield bot up in defense. Fallback kicked over another bot over to Ammo, who realized too late it was a stun bot.
Fall back smiled, " Two down-"
"One to go?" Interrupted the third figure, Metra.
Before Fallback could jump, a psychic arm grabbed his leg, while another pinned his hand into his bag.
Metra smiled, "You know, you are just too good at this."
"He learned from the best." A forth voice? Fallback remembered then that the readings showed all four here.
"You! Why?" Fallback knew he was getting too angry, he needed to calm down.
" I see your temper is still too high, remember the breathing tricks." He remarked, it had to be...
"Raid, you won't get away with this!" Fallback screamed, not even noticing that Top Dog and Ammo already recovering.
"I don't doubt you'll stop me, but till then, we have much to do." Raid turned, gesturing to the others it was time to leave. They each grabbed armful of bags, heading to the stairs. All Fallback could do was watch as Raid stepped closer, leaning to his ear.
"Till next time, son." | |
[WP] You have the ability to instantly absorb any book's information. This works by freezing time whenever you touch a book and not unfreezing until you've read the book cover to cover. | “…in the present case, it is just as necessary to renounce a nonexistent freedom and recognize a dependence we do not feel. THE END.”
I’d done it. I’d finally finished Tolstoy’s *War and Peace!* It had taken me the better part of four days but it was finally over. Well… not *days* per se, but what counted for days in frozen time. I’d slept three times since I’d started it and I was starting to feel tired again. It was a long one and of all the fiction books I’d been forced to read it was by far the longest.
I looked around the room. No. Of course. Time was still stopped. My wife was still holding the glass of water halfway to her lips. My daughter was still frozen midstride in the middle of our hallway using her skates in the house. When time had first frozen I’d spent so long feeling angry at her for not listening to our rule about that, but more recently it just felt nice to see her so happy. I gave her a little kiss on the forehead for maybe the thousandth time and wished my touch could force her to enter my timespace like it did for non-living object… No such luck.
She *was* happy. Her bright blue eyes positively sparkled with it. I’d never feel that happy again.
I let out a sigh and grabbed my backpack. It was time for another trip to the store. There had still been a few cans of beans in the back and a handful of questionable avocados that had felt too soft. Even if they were a little overripe, at this point the nutrients would be good for me. After that I’d have to start breaking into houses to find more food if I didn’t want to have to bike down to the next town. I was still concerned what a decision like that would cause. Would it be my breaking point? Would I just grow insensitive to crime? If I decided to travel outward from home instead would I ever find my way back here? It had been so long…
I gave my wife and daughter one last sorrowful look and headed out the front door. The neighbor kid’s mountain bike was still waiting where I’d left it after my last trip. Still propped in the air, frozen, waiting for me to finish reading so time could resume.
“You’ll have to wait a little longer, buddy,” I told the old bike as I grabbed one of the handlebars. The bike flashed into frozen time with me and its weight jerked in my hand. I hopped on and started pedaling down the cul-de-sac. As always I had to push through the air like jello as it made contact with me and briefly entered frozen time before returning to its previous state after I passed. It made biking a pain. Frozen time made \*everything\* a pain.
“So Tolstoy,” I muttered to myself as I rode. “T… T…” That meant I was getting close to end of the fiction section. I hadn’t even had the strength to review the non-fiction section yet and see what I was in for. Surely there would less, right? I mean, how boring could a dictionary be? I blew out a heavy sigh as I turned onto Main Street. *Very boring,* I decided, *very boring indeed.*
Well. That was a problem for another day… or rather another endless smear of uncountable, unknowable time. How many times had I slept? How many more did I have to go? It was unlikely I would ever know and that was probably for the best.
I pulled up to the grocery. People were still milling about, loading their cars or walking inside in groups. All the carts and baskets in sight were empty. Those had been easy pickings for me early on. I’d waited until most of the good food was emptied out of the store before moving on, but eventually even a candy bar here or an orange there saw all the food these innocent people had purchased gone.
*What’s really the difference,* I wondered, *between taking food out of a grocery cart and going into their homes to take it out of their cabinets?*
I paused. “No,” I said aloud. “No! I won’t do it!” My words echoed in the strange soundless landscape, eventually returning back to me in a mocking melody. *“…do it… do it… do it…”*
Would I? Would I have to? Once again I cursed the impish god or devil that cursed me with this power. I even cursed my co-worker Zach, who’d unknowingly handed me over to this timeless realm when he’d tried to show me a funny line from a book he’d just read. But more than anyone I cursed the name of Gregg Zehr: the inventor of the most hideous device ever concocted by mankind. The Kindle!
\~\~\~
*Thanks for reading, you can find more of my writing* [*right here*](https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/i7qje7/wizard_tournament_humans_need_not_apply/) *on reddit.* | September 15th, 2002:
Okay. You’re probably wondering why you find this note written among the pages of Pride and Prejudice. God, I hate Bronte with a passion.
Moving on. I have this power that allows me to absorb information from cover to cover of a book, and this is because time freezes when I touch a book. It’s been really helpful so far. There’s really no topic I can’t read up on, and I always have time to complete it for as long as I find a book about a topic I need. It seems instant to anyone else; I’m the only one who knows the truth.
Why is this a problem?
Well... time won’t unfreeze until I finish reading the dang book. As it stands, I’ve been stuck here for approximately a week simply because I can’t get past the introduction. Who cares about Mr. Darcy or whoever moved in?
So, why did I start? Well, I stumbled, caught myself, and ended up with this - incredibly annoying - book in my hand because my sister had left it on the couch. Now, here I am.
September 5th, 2002:
I thought about changing the year to fool you. Make you think I’d been here a while now. As you’ll notice, brave reader, I made it another 20 pages. Go, me! I can feel my brain seeping out through my ears. How is this a masterpiece? Why does anyone ever read this?
September 12th, 2002:
Reporting from page 77. In my infinite, bored wisdom, I... I can’t believe this... I crushed my glasses with my arm during a nap. No idea how I’ll finish now that I can’t tell the words out. I’m NOT sorry for writing all over the page.
September 22nd, 2002:
I know, I know. Time is frozen and it’s still technically September 9th, but I’ve been counting relative days. There’s a sense of time even in my frozen state. I can’t call it night, because the sun is also frozen, but I just kind of know when a day “should” have passed. I really miss my parents. I miss my bed. I miss going outside.
November 30th, 2002:
I know. It’s been a long time. I’ve tried so many ways to repair my glasses. I just can’t manage, and I can’t open any other books. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I’ve come up with an idea.
I’m going to burn the book. That way, it will no longer be there for me to finish. I guess you see where this is going. If you are reading this, it didn’t work.
I’m not sure what will happen then. Maybe my superpower is more of a curse. I’m so sick of this, I don’t even care.
May 27th, 2003:
Sorry, I’ve kind of just been laying here. I don’t get hungry, thirsty, or seem to age. I can’t think about any other ways out. I can’t see well enough to read.
June 5th, 2003:
I’ve reconciled what needs to happen. I had a visitor, or maybe just a hallucination. I can’t destroy the book, so I need to destroy myself. I’m sorry mom, dad, Jean. I’m sorry for what you’ll find if time unfreezes. I can’t do this anymore. | |
[WP] Once you die, you find out that everyone gets to heaven. The only one suffering in hell, for all our sins, is Jesus. But the living keep sinning higher with every passing day. | The bible got it wrong.
Jesus was the most compassionate soul that ever lived or died. He loved us, all of humanity, as a father or a mother might love their children. So much love in one man... it should've destroyed him.
And I guess it did.
I died today. Walked right into Heaven too, which surprised me. I didn't exactly live a virtuous life you see. From the age of fifteen I knew I belonged in Hell when I started slinging dope to kids younger than me. It was either that or going hungry but... I knew my place then. I made peace with it, knew no ammount of good deeds could restore my soul, so I didn't try. I knew I was going to Hell.
Yet here I am. Saint Peter greeted me holding an almost passable faccade at being human, and somewhere unplaceable Archangel Michael bathed me in absolute joy as it watched me. It... hurt to look at. They say you'll get used to it. That even this human form will grow dull, that I'll live a few lifetimes of peace but will then want change. Perphaps Saint Peter is simply ill-accostumed to the human body.
I wanted to meet Jesus, couldn't tell you why. I figured he must be, like, the king of Heaven, or something. This is probably blasphemous to even say out loud, but I never paid much attention to the catechism, though my mother tried. My mother tried so hard. I looked, I screamed out for him, and nothing. I knew then he wasn't there. The quiet, the void that followed his name told me more than the looks my brethren passed me. Looks of pity, of quiet desperation, of guilt. But not for me.
I was led down. Funny word that. My mammalian brain would tell me I was walking a straight line but I knew, better than I know my mother's face, I was going *down*. To the only window in Heaven.
The bible got it wrong. We've always read, "Jesus died for our sins", and we've always read it literally. He died on the cross, for us. But that's not the end of it. You see, he died alright. He was greeted at the pearly gates by God themselves, and was given a chance to stay. He refused, of course. He wanted to see Hell. He wanted to see the suffering of his beloved men. And he did. For three days, he watched his children endure everlasting torture at the hands of demons. His heart ached. It broke. After three days, he made a choice.
What wouldn't you do for your children?
I watch now with an emotion difficult to place. Horror. Disgust. Anger. Guilt. Crushing fucking guilt. I watch as the demons jam nails into his... No, they took his joints and, and, something LOOMS, and his flesh it just- there's too much. So much, all the time, I can't keep up. They make him look as his mother she- she- again, and again, and again, and again, and, and... It could be my mother there, couldn't it? But he's there, alone. Tears stream down my face, red hot as I realize he saved us. My mother, me, all of us.
When his heart broke, he made a choice. A deal. He couldn't bear to see us suffer our own sins for eternity. So he pleaded, he begged, that all the souls in Hell to be sent to Heaven, as would all others to come. In return, he would endure the punishment meant for each of us, forever, at the same time.
And we can only watch. As I look into the broken faces around me I know. We will watch. It's the least we can do.
===
DISCLAIMER: I am not really religious, this prompt just caught my eye and I've got a sick sort of interest in interpretations of the Bible. I made this one up! Maybe it's actually close to what the Bible says, maybe it's not, I have no clue. If I did actually blaspheme, I'm sorry, let me know and I'll fix it. Thanks for reading! | "Look man, I've been as straight forward with you as I can." I said. "If you want me to wait until marriage for sex, then make same gender marriage legal everywhere." These holy spirits want us to stop sinning, yet they made wearing polyester a sin.
"So what? You'll let him suffer?!" The holy spirit said.
I shrugged. "He let me, an innocent child, suffer. Why shouldn't he face the consequences?"
"He would never! Our God and savior are too pure for that!" It said.
" then why does your God make us suffer? How tomyou know Jesus isn't down in hell chilling?"
"He would never! Just get out of my sight."
I know I was harsh, but my life was spent feeling like a criminal for loving who I loved. I fully blamed these two for making me feel that way. I saw it that Jesus enforced some of his pain on himself. I wasn't going to devote myself to someone like that. | |
[WP] Once you die, you find out that everyone gets to heaven. The only one suffering in hell, for all our sins, is Jesus. But the living keep sinning higher with every passing day. | The bible got it wrong.
Jesus was the most compassionate soul that ever lived or died. He loved us, all of humanity, as a father or a mother might love their children. So much love in one man... it should've destroyed him.
And I guess it did.
I died today. Walked right into Heaven too, which surprised me. I didn't exactly live a virtuous life you see. From the age of fifteen I knew I belonged in Hell when I started slinging dope to kids younger than me. It was either that or going hungry but... I knew my place then. I made peace with it, knew no ammount of good deeds could restore my soul, so I didn't try. I knew I was going to Hell.
Yet here I am. Saint Peter greeted me holding an almost passable faccade at being human, and somewhere unplaceable Archangel Michael bathed me in absolute joy as it watched me. It... hurt to look at. They say you'll get used to it. That even this human form will grow dull, that I'll live a few lifetimes of peace but will then want change. Perphaps Saint Peter is simply ill-accostumed to the human body.
I wanted to meet Jesus, couldn't tell you why. I figured he must be, like, the king of Heaven, or something. This is probably blasphemous to even say out loud, but I never paid much attention to the catechism, though my mother tried. My mother tried so hard. I looked, I screamed out for him, and nothing. I knew then he wasn't there. The quiet, the void that followed his name told me more than the looks my brethren passed me. Looks of pity, of quiet desperation, of guilt. But not for me.
I was led down. Funny word that. My mammalian brain would tell me I was walking a straight line but I knew, better than I know my mother's face, I was going *down*. To the only window in Heaven.
The bible got it wrong. We've always read, "Jesus died for our sins", and we've always read it literally. He died on the cross, for us. But that's not the end of it. You see, he died alright. He was greeted at the pearly gates by God themselves, and was given a chance to stay. He refused, of course. He wanted to see Hell. He wanted to see the suffering of his beloved men. And he did. For three days, he watched his children endure everlasting torture at the hands of demons. His heart ached. It broke. After three days, he made a choice.
What wouldn't you do for your children?
I watch now with an emotion difficult to place. Horror. Disgust. Anger. Guilt. Crushing fucking guilt. I watch as the demons jam nails into his... No, they took his joints and, and, something LOOMS, and his flesh it just- there's too much. So much, all the time, I can't keep up. They make him look as his mother she- she- again, and again, and again, and again, and, and... It could be my mother there, couldn't it? But he's there, alone. Tears stream down my face, red hot as I realize he saved us. My mother, me, all of us.
When his heart broke, he made a choice. A deal. He couldn't bear to see us suffer our own sins for eternity. So he pleaded, he begged, that all the souls in Hell to be sent to Heaven, as would all others to come. In return, he would endure the punishment meant for each of us, forever, at the same time.
And we can only watch. As I look into the broken faces around me I know. We will watch. It's the least we can do.
===
DISCLAIMER: I am not really religious, this prompt just caught my eye and I've got a sick sort of interest in interpretations of the Bible. I made this one up! Maybe it's actually close to what the Bible says, maybe it's not, I have no clue. If I did actually blaspheme, I'm sorry, let me know and I'll fix it. Thanks for reading! | " Are you fucking insane?" Judas Iscariot exclaimed as I outlined my plan to him.
"Are you upset I haven't done a PowerPoint?"
"It's not about PowerPoint you can't just stroll into hell "
" No we are going to fly "
"How?"
"It is need to know not go to tell you more until you sign up for it"
"Why do you need me if it all planned"
" You can identify him it's not like there are many photos of him are they?"
"The other disciples are in with the management so I can't ask them"
"So who have you got on your team for this mad plan"
"Some Angels "
"Obviously their easily led and always up for mischief
,but whose planning it."
"Otto Skorenzy and the Son Tay raid team
They are experts in planning and really motivated "
" So you plan to simply go in and get him?"
"Yes nothing says he has to stay there and it's simply just not fair"
"Don't you think it's been tried "
"Not to my knowledge "
"It's completely insane your risking your immortal soul"
" So are you in or not?"
"Oh why the hell not?" | |
[WP] A house invader murdered your sister and you barely escaped with a brain injury. It rendered you incapable of telling the truth. Every word you speak, every gesture and expression, is a lie. You resorted to a life of isolation until one day, the killer is caught and you're a witness in court. | The witness stand seat is well worn. The wood almost feels glossy against my fingertips. A shiver runs up my spine, I wriggle against the coldness creeping into my pores. I keep my eyes cast down, I choose not to look at their faces. The eyes burn into me, as everyone is made aware of my, traumatic brain injury, or TBI, from a medical specialist. I hear stifled gasps and whispers, mumbled disbelief. I question if they are surprised by the incident, my disability, or the murderer. I've been told he's a very upstanding young man.
I refuse to look at him or anyone else. I hate him so much, I shiver again, this time from the rage boiling in me. I've lost more than just my sister and my piece of mind, I feel like I've lost my life. I've learned not to say much and keep an apathetic expression. An expressionless face is better than making the wrong expression and saying things I don't mean. My compliments have turned into insults, tears to laughter, and nervousness to excitement.
I scrunch my eyes closed, I remember laughing as I gave my sister CPR. It was a nervous laughter then, before my TBI. He struck me from behind, effectively killing us both, before fleeing the scene. I regret not crying more. So many days are now filled with my ragged laughter. I laugh until my throat is sore and dry. Until all the air is used in my gasping laughter.
I'm asked to "not" point out the man who killed my sister. Opening my eyes, my head drifts up like a deflated balloon. I lock eyes with him. I hate him, my body shakes, I burst into a piercing, high, manic, laugh. I cover my mouth, pinch my leg hard with the other hand. The jury jumps with a start at my reaction. I can't blame them. I bite my lower lip until I taste blood. My eyes are fixed on him as I exhale and extend a finger toward him. My lips turn into a smile (which should be a frown), his mouth hangs open. The silly little smile remains crooked and tight on my face. But for the first time since her death. Warm tears stream down my cheeks. I'm so happy, I'm finally crying.. this small cold courtroom has become my oasis.
I don't fight the tears, as I'm escorted away from the stand. That's all they needed from me... I'm grateful, it's all I could muster anyways. I am so tired. | Getting up there and giving that testimony was one of the most nerve-wracking things I’d set out to do, and one I’d prepared for. Months of careful planning and thought went into it, and upon being asked to give my testimony I began to read the statement I’d prepared. I’d written what the murderer had done- a the writings lie, of course, because what was written on the paper wasn’t just a lie, but the opposite of what had happened. I look around the courtroom, taking a deep, final breath as the wood-walled world stood still, all eyes on me. My eyes firmly fixed to the page, I begin. “On the night of August 3rd...” | |
[WP] "A month... in a cup?" "Yeah, 'month-in-a-cup'." The nurse handed me a pill cup with an inauspicious orange dot rattling around the bottom. "The Federation developed it to help get guys back on the front. It cranks up your metabolism to get weeks of healing in a few hours." "And I'm... first?" | "First, well, for this strain." She sounded like she didn't want to divulge.
"You're not building my confidence."
"We've worked out the kinks, don't get me wrong."
I didn't like the emphasis she put on 'kinks'. "I was told I would be getting a full briefing."
"And I can't believe I'm the one having to give it to you."
I nodded, I'm not surprised with any Federation red tape flub at this point. "So?"
"You know Sgt. Pollack's... abilities?"
Pollack was involved with military application of slide-stream energy. He was involved with an "accident" that fused him with the space-time continuum. He was, quite literally, a goddamn superhero.
"Yeah, he survived the hyper-point explosion. Walked out as Superman."
"Officially, yes." She raised an eyebrow. "Officially."
I looked down at the little orange pill. "You're kidding." I rattled it around the cup. "I take this and I can teleport to go fight the Andromeda Alliance too?"
She snorted. "Again, officially yes. But we've nerf'd this strain to hell. You're no going to get the energy boost to fly or anything."
"We'll, why not? So I guess he only 'officially' went to Andromeda?"
She nodded. "He meant too much to the cause to let what happened to him get out."
"...", I leaned forward.
"Well", she spoke low, "the level of energy flowing through him, what we unlocked, isn't exactly something a human is supposed to have." She looks away and back towards me. "He was in a propaganda meeting, just sitting with some generals, and he... just... unzipped, at the cellular level. Like he turned into 180lbs of raspberry smoothie."
"Holy shit."
"What was left, his skeleton, his bone marrow popped and sent shrapnel liked a grenade."
"Guess that's how Gen Chang died? That was the same week Pollack "flew off".
She nodded.
"He was a good man."
I looked down at the tiny orange terror in my hand. "Well, I didn't get into the line of work to live forever." I throw the pill back. I looked around not knowing what to expect. My eyes got big, I was breathing heavy.
"Hey big guy, I told you, we nerf'd the hell out of this one. Call me in 4 hours if your boner doesn't go away." | "Yup!" The nurse chirped. The fact that she didn't react to the anxiety in my voice worried me. "The scope of the medication is pretty narrow, so the worst possible side effects is that your injuries don't heal and you have to go through physical therapy, But you would've had to do that either way." She patted on one of my casts. If my legs hadn't been broken I would've kicked her. But instead I winced before tilting my head back and letting the nurse pour the pill down my throat. Her eyes grew curious, like a child pondering a difficult question. "Although we don't fully understand the properties of one of the active compounds, so I suppose that could be a bit of a crapshoot."
"WHAT!?" As I screamed, my vision folded in on itself and everything went black...
I awoke in a bed I wasn't sure I recognized. It felt oddly familiar, but the nice silk sheets couldn't possibly be mine. And why were elegant rays of the morning sun streaming into the room, framing my body with dabs of crimson? I hated having the window open! I rubbed my eyes and stumbled into the kitchen. My roommate hated seeing me walking around the apartment in my underwear but I was too tired to change.
Wait, how was I walking? I grabbed at my legs and found them clothed in pajamas. What the hell was going on? I went into the kitchen where Chris was making some kinda fancy breakfast. "Good morning!" He piped. "I noticed you hadn't woken up yet so I figured I'd make our omelettes this morning. Are you well?"
I stared blankly at the man who had loudly tolerated loving with me for 2 years. "You hit your head or something?"
He froze. "What?"
"When the hell have we made each other breakfast? Matter of fact when the hell have I been up at..." I stopped to look at the clock on the coffee table. "...7am?"
Chris visibly deflated. "So it was only temporary. You don't remember the past month at all?"
"Last I remember I was in the hospital getting talked down to by some uppity bitch."
He finished plating up the 2nd omelette. "Here.
Take it. I'll explain." I grabbed the plate and sat down, taking the fork from the immaculate place setting next to me. "So it's been a month?"
"Thirty days on the dot, now that you mention it. You got home, slept for three days, and then," he sighed. "You were just a joy to be around. You were courteous, polite, thoughtful. You spent your first day awake organizing everything in the house. You dusted and vacuumed almost daily, you'd come home with obscure cleaning products that I had never even heard of. Hell, you even started tending that herb garden." He gestured to the balcony, which was now brimming with all kinds of life.
"Wait, the nurse said that once I was healed up I'd go back out to fight. What gives?"
"Apparently, after the first week home some of the higher ups were so impressed with your newfound organizational skills that they moved you into an administrative position. You now handle the scheduling for Captain Morano, Captian Ping, and Ambassador Gomez." I almost spit out my chives. "Harry Gomez? You don't mean-"
"Indeed. You're supposed to accompany him on his trip to the outer colonies. You probably even decided when he would meet with President Sehnhoff. And to think I was going to miss you while you were gone."
As I chewed, I felt some soy sauce dribble down my chin. "Well fuck that! That sounds boring as hell."
"I mean, some of us would kill to be in that sort of position, especially considering the pay."
Of course. That would pay. I wiped my chin and went back into my room. "Clean your damn dish!" I heard Chris call. On the floor by my desk I found a plastic container labeled "finances" filled with neatly organized papers. I opened it and pulled out the first paycheck-shaped one I could find. I almost fainted on the spot when I read it. So, anyway, that's why I'm late for work today. Sorry. | |
[WP] "A month... in a cup?" "Yeah, 'month-in-a-cup'." The nurse handed me a pill cup with an inauspicious orange dot rattling around the bottom. "The Federation developed it to help get guys back on the front. It cranks up your metabolism to get weeks of healing in a few hours." "And I'm... first?" | "First, well, for this strain." She sounded like she didn't want to divulge.
"You're not building my confidence."
"We've worked out the kinks, don't get me wrong."
I didn't like the emphasis she put on 'kinks'. "I was told I would be getting a full briefing."
"And I can't believe I'm the one having to give it to you."
I nodded, I'm not surprised with any Federation red tape flub at this point. "So?"
"You know Sgt. Pollack's... abilities?"
Pollack was involved with military application of slide-stream energy. He was involved with an "accident" that fused him with the space-time continuum. He was, quite literally, a goddamn superhero.
"Yeah, he survived the hyper-point explosion. Walked out as Superman."
"Officially, yes." She raised an eyebrow. "Officially."
I looked down at the little orange pill. "You're kidding." I rattled it around the cup. "I take this and I can teleport to go fight the Andromeda Alliance too?"
She snorted. "Again, officially yes. But we've nerf'd this strain to hell. You're no going to get the energy boost to fly or anything."
"We'll, why not? So I guess he only 'officially' went to Andromeda?"
She nodded. "He meant too much to the cause to let what happened to him get out."
"...", I leaned forward.
"Well", she spoke low, "the level of energy flowing through him, what we unlocked, isn't exactly something a human is supposed to have." She looks away and back towards me. "He was in a propaganda meeting, just sitting with some generals, and he... just... unzipped, at the cellular level. Like he turned into 180lbs of raspberry smoothie."
"Holy shit."
"What was left, his skeleton, his bone marrow popped and sent shrapnel liked a grenade."
"Guess that's how Gen Chang died? That was the same week Pollack "flew off".
She nodded.
"He was a good man."
I looked down at the tiny orange terror in my hand. "Well, I didn't get into the line of work to live forever." I throw the pill back. I looked around not knowing what to expect. My eyes got big, I was breathing heavy.
"Hey big guy, I told you, we nerf'd the hell out of this one. Call me in 4 hours if your boner doesn't go away." | Time flies. It flies faster than you think it does. One moment you are in a hospital sampling a medicine, next you're out on the streets robbing and stealing, trying to get through another day, another month.
It all began on a windy autumn afternoon. I still remember the faint smell of decay that came in with the breeze. The decayed leaves, yes, the very decayed leaves I had slipped on.
"Your ligament is injured. It's not severe. On the side of the knee, it is," the nurse informed me.
"How long will it take to heal?"
"One month. Maybe a bit of physiotherapy after."
I sighed.
"What's the matter?"
"I have this job interview in the city. But I can't go now, can I?"
The nurse peered over the clipboard clutched to her chest and said, "There is a way. It's a new drug, very experimental. We'll need you to sign some papers, but it may heal you in a matter of hours."
I didn't think twice. The decision was obvious to me. Papers, those bloody papers, a refusal of responsibility from the hospital's side, I signed them.
The nurse gave me a little orange pill.
"How am I supposed to take it?"
"Just like a normal pill."
So, I took it, gulped it down with water, and for the next hour, felt pain so terrible that it made me tear my hair out. But, once that hour was done, my leg felt good.
The nurse gave me another pill to further ensure a full recovery. The second time it felt good as a blast of endorphins overwhelmed me, and visions vivid and warm floated before my eyes. And I felt as if heaven was beckoning me upwards, up into the sky, so light, so warm; and then, it ended.
"Try to walk around a bit," the nurse said.
Pretty soon, I was doing jumping jacks without any discomfort. My experience was recorded. Another experiment that went right. My first brush with the month-in-a-cup, as it was later called.
Two years after my case, the medicine was approved by the state. It was around this time that I started doing it. At first, it was a deep gash in my hand that got me some pills. The injury took two pills to recover. The second one gave me the rush again.
Soon, I started to deliberately injure myself for the hit. Hiring people to beat me up as I came to fear institutionalization. This went on for a year.
Then one day, I woke up with real pains, internal pains, all over my body. The doctors didn't prescribe the month-in-a-cup to me any longer.
"You've become old. We can't age you any further," they said.
But, did I stop? Hell no. I got my stuff from the dealers then. They charged a lot. I had to sell my house for the fifth pill, but it didn't feel bad, no sir, not as long as I was on the pill.
But once the house went, I realized I had nothing to get my fix with, and the pains returned, worse than ever. The month-in-a-cup was too expensive for me now. So, I robbed some folks, took their cash, got me some good old morphine. Not as good, but it does the job, to some extent.
I tell you this as a cautionary tale. I haven't much longer to live. The pills have taken my life, month by month, they have killed me.
People of the law sit up and take notice, if my treatment was a landmark achievement, then so should be my death. A cautionary tale, an old saying: there is no magic pill. | |
Note: This is a repost because my original post was 2 months ago and got zero responses. | [WP] You are an evil warlord and military genius. Your troops win against all odds. The truth? You are trying to LOSE the war, you just have to be subtle so you don’t start a rebellion. But somehow your soldiers win every battle | "Fuck. Again?' I sigh to myself from my position on the hill overlooking the latest battlefield in the war.
My soldiers, against all odds, have once again derailed my plans by winning yet another battle they shouldn\`t have. I had them all arranged in just the right way to ensure they would break and run at a concerted cavalry charge. But somehow, my generals were able to corral the soldiers just before they broke and instead used the formation to allow the cavalry entry before surrounding and crushing them. The rest of the enemy army fell soon after.
It seems I did a good job with those education initiatives I implemented years ago.
Same with the mandated nutrition regimen. My men, along with all the other citizens, grew up on the balanced and filling diet my government provided. Now, even the most average of them are stronger, taller and more enduring than all but the elite of the enemy army.
Now, I realize that doesn\`t sound like I am much of an evil warlord...
And that is 100% correct in every way...except how I present myself.
When I was but a young peasant boy, my father taught me all about perception and how it shaped our world, a lesson I never forgot. So, as I progressed from lowly soldier to sergeant to general and then to warlord and dictator, I used every measure possible to instill fear in my enemies, both in and outside my country. I tortured and executed rapists, but announced they were rebels. I took in orphan children and sent them off to expensive boarding schools, but let slip that I used them for dark sacrificial rituals. I taxed my people heavily but used it to begin several social, economic and infrastructure programs and projects. Along with the education and provided meals, I created a swift system for sending messages all over the country for cheap prices, aided by the many roads and waystations I had built. Next, I provided healthcare services for free and required yearly check ups. The doctors were few at first but the education program bore much fruit in the medical sciences and our doctors are now the greatest in the world. I also provided money to the disabled and elderly, allowing for comfortable and happy lives for them that past generations never experienced.
So, I did a lot for my people.
But most of them saw all of this as me controlling them, the evil warlord cruelly dictating they learn math, eat vegetables, pay taxes(the upper class was the most vocal on this one, *of course)*, get poked and prodded each year and wasting their tax money on unnecessary infrastructure projects and people that didn\`t provide to society.
The ungrateful bastards complained and complained to me, begged other countries for aid in deposing me, started rebel councils, they did everything in their power to get rid of me except resort to violence. It grated on me more and more each year, at least if they actually rebelled and attempted to overthrow me, that would have been fine. But they just kept *complaining.*
My evil warlord persona terrified other nations, as I regularly captured their patrols and paid a lot of good coin to the prisoners so that they would scream crazily out of sight of their forces at our borders, ensuring they believed I was having them tortured. This kept them from even thinking of attacking. Then, I sent the prisoners to the northern reaches of my domain, where I had constructed a paradise city for my "detainees", fine homes and dining with excellent servants but ringed by a massive and a loyal guard corp. Of course, everyone thought I tortured and killed prisoners there, by design.
Then, a year ago, I had enough.
I concocted a plan, one to show my people just how bad things could be.
I started a war with the largest neighboring kingdom, one ruled by a cruel and selfish man, all to lose and teach my citizens a lesson about what a truly bad ruler they could have. I, of course, planned to retire and escape at the last moment to an island somewhere and watch the no doubt chaotic show in my former kingdom.
Then my men kept on winning.
And winning.
*And winning.*
No matter how I rigged the battle against them, they prevailed. My soldiers, all actually loyal to me after countless times I had led the defense of our borders over the years, fought with all of their passion for me and my supposed conquest.
Now, we are approaching the capital and the last force of the enemy left...
As I ride on my horse behind my army, I look over the city only a half mile ahead, surprised to see smoke billowing up from several points throughout the city. Perhaps they are building some new weapon in all of their forges to defend against the siege? That must be it.
As we near the gates and my men spread out in the position I outlined beforehand, carefully leaving vulnerabilities in the most heavily defended areas (according to my spies). Next, something truly surprising happens, just as I notice the complete lack of defenders on the walls.
The gate opens and out walk several well dressed men, nobles I assume.
I move toward the front through my army to try and see what this is all about.
As I near, the man in the lead, who is pale and shaking in apparent terror, speaks out, "We have overthrown the vicious and cruel king! Please spare us!"
I stare at the man, mouth opened in surprise.
Before I can recover my senses, the man shouts out with a trembling voice, "All hail our new Warlord King!" and all of the men bend down on one knee, heads bowed.
**Fuck.** | I ran into the bush, away from the open grass of the battlefield. The trees loomed over me, looking like a horror story. And it didn't help that the sun was setting either.
The gunfire behind me continued endlessly, and echoes of shouts and screams pierced the air. I prayed none of my soldiers get hit. This has to go down as a battle loss, not a loss of life.
We had to retreat now. I stuffed my free hand into my trouser back pocket, searching for my radio. It wasn't there. *Shit*.
Just as I was about to set my gun down for a more thorough look, a tree roughly 15 feet opposite me rustled. I squinted my eyes to see clearly, all I could see was a silhouette. The silhouette - a *human* - peaked out. He was sporting a camo outfit. My enemy. The *other* warlord. *Morfran.*
He held *my* radio in his right hand. He waved it, then chucked it towards me. It landed a few feet before me, landing in a clump of leaves. I made no move to retrieve the device.
I aimed my rifle towards his nose, then lowered it when he raised his hands in the air. He stayed silent. I quickly scanned him, searching for the bulge of a gun tucked away below his raiment.
"What do you want?" I snarled.
"I just want to talk." he replied calmly.
"Go on then." I kept my eye trained on him, waiting for him to strike.
Morfran lowered his hands in a slow motion. "Why are you purposely trying to lose the battle?"
I was taken aback. How'd he know this?
"What do you mean?" I asked, worrying he'd heard the slight hesitation in my voice.
"First off, your gun isn't loaded. Second, I have my inside men. What are you up too?"
He caught me. Shit. I threw the rifle to the floor. "You tell me first. How do my soldiers win every battle? Even when we're trying to lose?" I spoke roughly.
He chuckled, sat down on a tree stump, removed his helmet, and placed it in his lap. His hair was slick with sweat. "I asked first. Now tell me."
Narrowing my eyes, I searched for some emotion or motive through his body language and facial expressions. "I want our army to be *not feared,* so people underestimate our power when we find an opponent tough enough." I replied. As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted saying it. I'd just told my *enemy* our plans.
Morfran chuckled again. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do!"
Wait...*what*?
"I'm trying to lose too," he reached behind his back, pulled out a pistol, and aimed it at me, "I'm just better at it than you."
---
Hope you liked it! Comments, critique, feedback are much appreciated as I'm fairly new to writing. Thanks! |
[WP] Time travel has been invented, but the government only sanctions it to go back in time with a camera and record historical events that happened before cameras. You have been named the Historical Videographer, but you’re starting to notice history didn’t always play out like we’re told it did. | "Are you ready?" I heard a voice behind me and turned to see:
"Madam President! Ma'am!" Snapping into a salute, I saw her smile before she waved a hand at me.
"At ease, Colonel." We stood before the last functioning Time Machine--sorry, the last functioning Transtimeline Transport Dock. "So, are you ready?"
"Umm..." I laughed nervously. "I don't know, ma'am. Is it... possible to be ready for something like this?" We looked at the steel plates, the Stargate, as the nerds here, and everywhere, had taken to calling it.
It sealed off the laboratory of the Doctor's Flemmage, Alice and Ivan, who had been the last successful usage of Element i for the purposes of 4th Dimensional Navigation. With the passing of United People's Act 22 outlawing Element i and all attempts at such temporal manipulation, the remaining Element i had been rounded up and destroyed. Functioning time machines were seized and similarly destroyed. All except this one.
Fifty years it had lay hidden, allowing people's memories of the Time Wars to fade, if only slightly. Now, there had been a scientific curiosity to it that couldn't be ignored. It had been the narrowest World Vote since the installation of the first Supreme Court 200 Solar ago, but the world had spoken. It deserved to see history as it truly was.
A full decade of negotiations later, the time and place was settled. No country wanted to be selected, remembering the barbarianisms of the 21st and 22nd centuries clearly. Shame and embarrassment made them lobby hard for their neighbors and enemies. Eventually, at the end of another massive World Vote, the time and place were chosen.
The Place: -90 degrees South. 0 degrees E.
The Time: 10-December-1911 08:00:00
The Goal: To emerge in the past, set up a covert encampment from which to photograph the arrival of Roald Amundsen's historic trip, four days later.
An attempt to document history without violating the Timeline Preservation Act--the Prime Directive, as it was much better known. All that was left was to choose the photographer. That was where I came in. Two years of selection exams and I was one of six candidates that survived, and the winner of the lottery to be the first through the Gate.
"Colonel, good luck." The president leaned and shook my hand tightly, whispering in my ear. "We're all rooting for you."
"Thank you, ma'am." I was near to tears myself, the anxiety, stress, and joyous energy all balled into one. Not since the night before the first day of basic fifteen years ago had I felt this nervousness.
I let Dr. Linrea and his team help me into the chronosuit, carefully donning the bulky suit, the SUMO as we all it. The Temporally Neutral Slurry, the Goo, that filled the suits would preserve our bodies and mind as we traveled. As I was prepared, I heard the crackled of speakers before a booming voice filled the air.
"Ladies and gentleman, before anything else, please join in giving our fullest applause for one of the finest humans the world, nay the galaxy, has ever seen, our test pilot, United People's Air Force Colonel Aisha Alhamar, M.D." As the crowds applause filled my ears, I felt myself smiling nervously, breathing in and out as I was taught.
"Just like the simulations, right, Doc?"
"You got it, Colonel." Dr. Hudget's eyes smiled at me behind his faceplace, trying to help me relax. "You're gonna be fine."
"Right." Remembering my first HALO jump, I took a deep breath. I had done this before. Just think of the first fold jumps a century ago. They had crossed the whole solar system. I was just going to the same planet in a different time. Deep breath. Okay.
"Let's do it, Doc." I gave him the thumbs up and had it returned as I was strapped in. Like the astronauts of old Earth, I was essentially a passenger on a ship controlled by someone else, letting the computers handle the charting of the course and the distribution of Element i to the Drive.
The remaining twenty minutes or so seemed to drag for endless hours as my distracted hand read through the various checklists with COMND. Training ensured I gave the greater part of my focus to these vital tasks, but a constant thought bounced around behind my work: "Let's go!"
"All right, Aisha, here we go." Finally, I heard General DeShannon's voice in my ear and I almost screamed in excitement.
"All systems are go."
"All right, Aisha, don't screw things up too badly down there." I could feel the smile through the voice, all but seeing the bushy mustache twitching. "I don't want to end up half-penguin or anything."
"Might be an improvement, General." A brief laugh. "I'm ready, sir."
"Then I guess it's time, Colonel."
"All systems, Launch in 5."
"4."
"3."
"2."
"1."
***
"This is Welles to COMMAND, over?" I heard the end of the countdown, but felt nothing, and I couldn't help but activate my radio. I don't know I bothered. If it had worked, I would be in radio silence. I had been briefed to expect some disorientation, nausea, and pain. Instead, I felt... nothing.
"Computer, confirm time stamp."
"Time stamp: 08:00:01 10-12-1911
"Holy shit, it worked!" I breathed the words, and then managed to bite back my curse. What great first words for a historic expedition.
"Computer, undock Pilot."
"Confirm." There was the hiss of decompression, then the steady thumping of pumping as my suit was deflated and compressed down to a form fitting layer, the insulation pumped into the ship's hold.
The helmet stayed on, however, forming an environmental seal, just in case something went wrong. Even deflated, it would still offer the same protection as a Zero Suit. I then spent the next hour checking every system and making sure everything worked and then recording all the proper logs. Next I prepared all the video equipment and recording gear, before exiting my ship into a frozen wasteland.
I was sealed in a heated suit, however, and I moved easily, cloaking the ship and moving my gear to the basecamp 2 Km ahead, only a few dozen meters from the South Pole and the site of my work. The next three days were pure boredom, no different from SERE training in a lot of ways, actually.
***
"This is Colonel Aisha Alhamar, recording from the South Pole, Earth. The time is 0936 and it is December 14th, 1911." I turned the lens away from me to the very distant horizon, where the binoculars could just make out moving shapes. The Norwegians were due to arrive in a few hours. "Here, you will find see the first human voyage to the South Pole and back!"
I finished the narration and hunkered down beneath by cloaking blanket, already piled high with snow. I was just over a kilometer away from the site and was in prime position to capture everything. It ended up being nearly four more hours until the expedition crested the final slope, a storm having slowed their pace.
"Here they are." I whispered to myself, tightening my hands on the binoculars and watching, checking the other screens as well. All good. On screen, 3 dogsleds and a several men moved slowly forward. This was it! We would see history!
"Ahh!" A scream pierced the air, and I snapped my head sideways to the sound, hearing another scream in the other direction.
"What the...!" On my screen, I saw the humans crumpling while the dogs barked ferocious into the storm. As I watched in horror, several dark shapes, each the size of a small horse, emerged from the snow. My horror was soon overcome by a decades worth of training in rescue ops, however, and I immediately started sprinting forward. I could do a 1000m in just over three minutes, and I ran as I had never run before.
"Fuck..." Three minutes had been too long, I saw, emerging to find bodies already being swallowed by the storm. Racing to the nearest, I rolled over a blood soaked man to reveal that...
"Ugh." I closed my eyes briefly in discomfort at the sight, the man's face and teeth both missing, only blood remaining.
"Grgggh." Before I could move to the next, I heard a growling sound and rolled into cover, taking the Colt 1911 kinetic pistol from my suit's holster as I did.
Peeking out, I saw one of the shapes, and in the weak noon sun, I saw that it was a thing of endless holes, around which flesh seemed haphazardly sewn, and I felt my knees start shaking against my will. Clutching the gun tight, I watched in horror as one of the holes swallowed the man I had been examining.
As I stared in horror, the man disappeared into one of the hundreds of small and large black holes in the creature's flesh, before a face started to emerge from another hole! Stunned, I could only stare as the various holes opened to produce a hand, a leg, a head. Eventually, the man stood there and the holes seemed to swallow each other until only the man remained, totally still.
"radageah." I heard a sound and looked to see another human sit up from behind the dog sled, its mouth moving awkwardly. For the next hour, I hunched beneath the snow and watched as all the men awoke and slowly learned to speak, before moving towards the sleds.
The dogs, which had been so vocal earlier, could now only shiver in fear, doing nothing but pee themselves in fear and wait to be swallowed up. Instead, however, the men all seemed to figure out their bodies and quickly mounted the sleds, racing back the way they had come. As I watched them go, I was stunned to see them move as smoothly as the veteran explorers I had photographed coming in, and I was suddenly horrified.
"What did this mean for the future...?" The thought banged against a skull that was currently moving on autopilot, racing back to the ship to inform someone. Anyone! As I ran, however, a smaller voice suddenly spoke up, making my previous warm body turn to ice.
"What if they already know?" | I've recently been ordered to record the death of Archimedes. Why? I have no idea. This is only my second expedition. After buying garments that would be appropiate for the time, I went through the time machine. I set the date to the time period of Rome invaded Sicily. Upon arriving, I had to quickly run inside the gate. I then asked where Archimedes was, for I had a letter for him. I was pointed towards his house. I snuck in, and while I was climing up the ladder, I looked out. Then I saw a Roman camp on the outskirts of Sicily. And I saw soliders ammasing, preparing to take over the city. I saw Archimedes and hid. I stayed there for about three hours before I heard talking. I looked up, and saw a solider with Archimedes. Due to the fact I learned Greek and Latin in order to try out for this job, I knew what they where saying.The solider was warning Archimedes.
"Get out of here, you fool! The supports of this building have caught fire, and if you stay here, you'll be crushed when it collapses."
"But my work-"
"General Skadus had us protect you, and I will follow my damnable orders!" The solider barked back at Archimedes.
By this point I had begun to record and take notes. When the solider left, he muttered "I'll just say I killed him because he tried to fight me with his tools." I snuck out, trying to not be caught. After I left, I ran back to the machine, and before I left I heard a loud boom, and I knew it was Archimedes house. Before I left, I heard a loud deep voice yell out "You killed him? You damned fool!". Chuckling to my self, I left.
(I know it sucks, but this is my first try) | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | So, you're probably wondering how I got to this point. Well, it all started a month exactly 68 days ago. I was goofing off with my friends and one of them dared me to write the number 69 on my arm.
I didn't really care that much. It would wash off in the shower. Only, it didn't. I scrubbed to no avail, so I just went to bed and figured it'd wear off in a day or two. As I was drifting off to sleep, I muttered to myself, "I wish the 69 would be gone from my arm when I wake up."
Well, I guess I got my wish. I woke up the next morning, and my arm didn't say 69 anymore, in its place was the number 68. Needless to say, I was a little freaked out, but what could I do? I couldn't get I off my arm, I just wished that nobody would notice the number counting down on my wrist.
10 days later, I was down to 58. Nobody had noticed yet, but I still hadn't made any progress getting the ink off. It was really starting to freak me out. I didn't know if it was counting the days left in my life, or what. I was just scared about what it might lead to. I just wished I could get the ink off my arm somehow.
The next day, I woke up and looked at my wrist, and to my surprise, it was gone! I went on with my life thankful that I didn't have to worry about it anymore. I thought about telling someone about it, but now that it was over, I didn't see a reason.
Over the next couple of weeks, I started noticing that I seemed to have really great mornings. I don't know why, but it always seemed like I had everything I could wish for when I woke up.
That was until I looked at my ankle one day and saw the number 34. Now I was really freaked out. I didn't know how I could have not noticed it or how the ink could have moved. This was all really terrifying now. I didn't know what to do. I just wished I could forget about the whole thing.
Things continued on as they had from days 57-35. I wasn't thinking about the number, in fact, I had forgotten about it. I still woke up with my hearts desires. I just thought I was having a lucky spree.
I realized I wasn't just lucky this morning. 2 days ago, I saw a 1969 Mustang Boss 429 at a stoplight. Man, that's always been my dream car. I was driving with my buddies when we saw it, and from the back seat, I heard one of them say, "don't you wish you had that car?"
"Sure do." I responded. Yesterday morning, I woke up, and I just wasn't feeling that great. I didn't wake up to my desire. My lucky streak was over. Oh well. I got up and got dressed, then I went downstairs and ate a pop tart. I played some 2K and then I had to leave for class. I walked outside, and in my driveway was a 1969 Mustang Boss 429, just like the one I'd seen the day prior.
I was flabbergasted. I'd never gotten a gift worth more than $100 from anyone in my life. Who could've given me this car? It made no sense. I just wished I could understand what was going on. I'd never gotten this lucky before, and for the last 2 months, I'd had the best luck I could imagine.
This morning, I woke up to a noise that I can only describe as a mixture between a jackhammer and a rooster's cockadoodledo. Needless to say, I was wide awake within seconds. I noticed a very strangely dressed man on the end of my bed. He wore an outfit right out of the Arabian Nights. He went on to explain that he was my genie.
Only, all the stories were wrong. He didn't have a lamp, and I didn't get 3 wishes. You see, there was this permanent maker that controlled the genie. Typically, people would write little to do lists on their hand or things they hoped to accomplish. The genie then helped those people with whatever they had written. I, on the other hand, had written a number.
You see, when someone wrote a number on their arm, that was how many wishes they got. They got one wish a day until the counter got to 0. Whatever they wished for last each day would come true as soon as they woke up the next morning.
Now, you may be wondering, the Arabian Nights was set a long time ago, if he was in a permanent marker, why was he dressed like that? Well, turns out it was originally a quill, and it changed over time into a fountain pen and eventually a sharpie.
So, how did I get it? Well, it turns out that whenever one person's wishe(s) are finished, the pen abandoned the previous owner. It would just fall out of their pocket or they'd leave it on a table. I had found the sharpie outside my Econ class the week before I'd written that 69 on my arm.
Now, you better believe I was kicking myself. I had had 69 wishes to get whatever I wanted, and I'd wastes most of them on stupid stuff like passing tests or getting some ink off my arm. At least I had gotten a sweet car out of it. Now, I had just one more wish.
I though about what I should wish for all day. I couldn't think of what one thing I wanted more than anything else. Finally, I decided to wish to end all sickness. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, awaiting the next day when no one would ever die from cancer or get a cold ever again, I thought to myself, "I wish I'd written a phone number on my hand."... | Um.. I need advice
So get this.
It’s morning. You’ve woken up somewhat lazily. Your phone is resting against your thigh, the covers are rising with yours, and the girl who you’ve brought back‘s breath against the covers.
She is one of the most wild, and free souls that you’ve ever had. Even the feeling of her Head against your chest causes a carnal fire within you. This fire finds fuel within her touch, and you to procede to be young twenty somethings. The brush of her hair against your face is like a lightning bolt to the source, and well, the fire rages.
Later in the day you notice a small 69 on your arm, but you’re pretty sure it’s from the succubus in question. I mean, she left a mark so you can remember the morning, kinda hot? Right?
Well, what would you do if you woke up the next morning, and it was 68 and not washing off.
I know how to do 69, but I can’t ducking twist my body into an 8.
I’m fucking twistedly terrified. what do I do? Is she about to make me a human pretzel?
I hope she at least brings cheese. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | [WP]
She woke up content. Another day sober. Every morning, she wrote the number of days on her arm as a reminder that she didn't need alcohol, that she was better than that. Every night she washed it off to show that she made it through another day. Yesterday was day 69. Today was day 70. She got up and wrote 70 on her arm and looked at it with pride.
Later at work, she rolled up her sleeves and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the number was different. It now read 68. She was confused, she would have sworn she wrote 70. She rubbed it off, borrowed a marker, and wrote 70 again. She forgot about it.
Before she went to bed, she went to wash off the 70. It was gone, and her arm again read 68. Confused and a little disturbed, she went back through the ritual of washing away day 70 and preparing for a night of restful sleep and peaceful dreams.
The next morning, she wrote 71 on her arm and smiled. It was a new day, and she wasn't thinking at all about yesterday.
Later at work, she noticed that the 71 had turned into 67. Confusion and a touch of apprehension flooded her mind. She went to the bathroom and scrubbed the 67 off her arm. Even after the mark was gone, she kept scrubbing. She borrowed a marker again and rewrote 71.
She kept checking her arm throughout the rest of the work day. The 71 was still prominently visible in black marker. She calmed down more and more as the day went on. She checked one last time before getting in her car and her arm still said 71. Satisfied that nothing was wrong, she headed home.
The 67 was back as she went to wash her arm before bed. The confusion had taken a back seat to anxiety at this point. She scrubbed until the skin was bright red. She found a dry erase marker and wrote 71 on the bathroom mirror.
The next morning, the mirror still read 71. She was relieved and wrote 72 on her arm. She changed the 71 on the mirror to 72, checked that her arm still read 72, and went to work.
She found herself compulsively checking her arm all day. Every five minutes became every ten and then every fifteen as the number still read 72. She felt better and better as the day went on. She tried to laugh at herself but it was tinged with nervousness. Everything was fine until it was time to leave and she went to put on her jacket.
The number had changed to 66. She tried to hold back tears. She'd looked only twenty minutes ago! She walked past a drinking fountain on her way out to the car and got her hand wet and scrubbed off the 66. She didn't write the 72 back on her arm.
She got home and her stomach was tied in knots. Her arm blank, she went to the bathroom to look at the mirror and reassure herself. She started crying outright when the mirror read 66. She was too anxious to eat and once she cried herself out, she let the empty numbness wash over her and went to bed. She didn't bother changing the mirror back to 72.
She got up the next morning and, with dread pulsing through her, looked at the bathroom mirror. It had changed itself to 65. She cried silently and rubbed it off the mirror. Today was day 73 sober. She had done the work. She had earned that 73. Why couldn't she have that? She almost didn't want to write the 73 on her arm, but it was her ritual. She had to do it. Solemnly, tears still running down her face, she wrote 73 on her arm. She dressed quietly and went to work.
She tried to keep herself from checking but the anxiety drove her to look every few minutes. Now, every time she looked, it read 65. Every few minutes she'd rub it off and rewrite the 73. She got a cloth and kept it at her desk. Every time she looked, it had changed back to 65. Every time, she rubbed it off and wrote 73. Coworkers came by and asked if she was okay, said that she didn't seem like herself. She faked a smile and said that she was fine, just tired. The co-workers said okay and walked away, but a few of them worried that she had fallen back off the wagon.
She got home and the 65 was back. She had written 73 fifteen minutes ago, after she sat in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. The stress and anxiety were eating away at her. She skipped dinner again, washed her arm, and went to bed.
She tossed and turned. When she could sleep, her dreams were terrifying, vague threats of unknown harm that made her wake up in a sweat. Eventually, she gave up trying to sleep and got up. She turned on the TV and watched the pointless infomercials. She sneered and cried at the same time when she saw the ad for the fancy, expensive rehab facility. Eventually daylight came and she showered and went to write 74 on her arm. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked haggard, with limp hair and dark circles under her eyes. She noticed offhandedly that her face was thinner. She thought about calling in sick to work but then decided that spending all day alone with her thoughts would be worse. She looked down and the number had already changed to 64. Numbly, she washed it off and rewrote 74.
She got to work in a daze. Her coworkers again came around to ask if she was okay. She didn't have the energy or spirit to muster up a fake smile but said again the she was okay, that she hadn't slept well. She didn't notice that all of her coworkers were now looking at her with worry.
All day, she checked and it was always 64. She was barely able to stay calm as she silently washed the 64 off and changed it to 74. She knew she wasn't crazy. She was writing the correct number. She took out her phone and photographed the 74 right after she wrote it. She changed from the camera app to the photo gallery. The picture said 64. She looked at her arm. It read 64. A single tear slid down her cheek.
She couldn't figure out what to do. There was no one to talk to. She had never told anyone about her ritual. No one had ever seen the number on her arm. She didn't know what would happen if she told someone or even showed them what was happening. Too stressed to stay at work, she told her boss that she wasn't feeling well and left early. She stopped by the bathroom to wash off the 64 and write on 74. The number had changed again before she even got out the door.
She got home and walked to the kitchen. She was too nauseated to try to eat anything. She looked down and saw with alarm that the 64 now read 11. Adrenaline flooded her system as she stared at the number with horror. She ran to the bathroom and scrubbed as hard as she could. The 11 would not come off. She got soap, then baking soda, then laundry detergent. The number wouldn't budge. Desperate, she went to the kitchen and opened the cabinet under the sink to find something stronger. As she pulled out the extra strength sink scrub she saw it.
It. How had she missed it? 74 days ago, when she purged all the booze, she had missed one. She had no idea why she would have put a bottle of alcohol in the cabinet behind the sink scrub, but there it was. It stared back at her, mocking her, silently telling her that she wasn't good enough, couldn't do it, wasn't strong. She screamed primally and grabbed the bottle. Violently, she unscrewed the cap and dumped it down the sink. She threw the bottle in the trash. She had worked too long and too hard. Whatever the hell was going on, however scared and horrified she felt, she was not going to let the alcohol win. She walked back to the bathroom and took twice the amount of Tylenol PM that the box said that she could and went to bed. She didn't look at the 11 again.
She slept dreamlessly. She woke at the usual time, even without having set her alarm. She looked down at her arm, at the 11 that hadn't rubbed off. 11 was gone. The number was now 3. She didn't even notice that she was crying as she texted her boss that she was still sick, took more Tylenol PM, and went back to bed. She hadn't even tried to wash off the 3.
She woke again hours later, sick to her stomach. She ran to the bathroom and wretched, but there was nothing in her stomach to come back out. 'Just like the good old days,' she thought bitterly. She wandered to the kitchen to see if she had any ginger ale to try to calm her stomach.
The bottle of vodka was on the counter, full again. All of the vodka she had dumped was back. She somehow wasn't even surprised. The stress, fear, despair came crashing down on her. She looked at her arm. It read 0.
'Fuck it,' she thought, and reached for the bottle. | Um.. I need advice
So get this.
It’s morning. You’ve woken up somewhat lazily. Your phone is resting against your thigh, the covers are rising with yours, and the girl who you’ve brought back‘s breath against the covers.
She is one of the most wild, and free souls that you’ve ever had. Even the feeling of her Head against your chest causes a carnal fire within you. This fire finds fuel within her touch, and you to procede to be young twenty somethings. The brush of her hair against your face is like a lightning bolt to the source, and well, the fire rages.
Later in the day you notice a small 69 on your arm, but you’re pretty sure it’s from the succubus in question. I mean, she left a mark so you can remember the morning, kinda hot? Right?
Well, what would you do if you woke up the next morning, and it was 68 and not washing off.
I know how to do 69, but I can’t ducking twist my body into an 8.
I’m fucking twistedly terrified. what do I do? Is she about to make me a human pretzel?
I hope she at least brings cheese. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | It's probably different now—it would have to be, with a video camera in everyone's pocket and the dudebro culture no longer having the dominance it once did—but in the fall of 1988, if you pledged for a fraternity, you could expect to be hazed, and the hazing could get nasty. If you were lucky, it was called Hell Night. If you were unlucky, it was Hell Week.
Lambda Chronos Lambda called it "Heaven Night" instead. They claimed this was because they wanted to foster a "welcoming atmosphere" for incoming pledges like me—which was a total lie, it was a Hell Night in all but name—but really, it was because you started and ended the night by getting high on pot as a bunch of drunk upperclassmen looked on and sung "Stairway to Heaven" off-key. We took our first dose just after introductions were finished, at exactly 4:20 that Saturday afternoon. No, the whole 420 meme didn't quite exist yet back in '88, but two of the seniors in the planning committee had gone to San Rafael High, where the whole thing got started, and had brought it here to college. You might say we were early adopters. Or that we were into "420" before it was cool.
I can't believe I just said that. Shoot me now.
On second thought, don't bother. Counter's still at 43.
Anyway, during the introduction, it came out that I'd been born on April 20, 1969. Yes, that's right, 4/20/69. The memiest date in the history of memery. Naturally, this had to be commemorated somehow—"radical birthday you got there, Maynard!"—and for some reason (alcohol was probably involved), they decided to do this by having me write 420 on my left wrist, and 69 on my right.
Being right-handed, I had no trouble with the 420 part. The 69 proved a bit harder, and I had to enlist a senior's help. The dude who actually scrawled the 69 onto my wrist was named Paul Browning. I remember that distinctly, because I had gotten him mixed up with someone else, and he made me do something like a thousand pushups saying it after each one.
We suffered through twelve hours of humiliation and degradation before it rolled around to 4:20 in the morning and they had us toke again. Then they formally inducted us, and let us go.
I slept the whole of Sunday morning—or what I *thought* was Sunday morning—away. Woke up at 1:09 p.m. (sixty-nine minutes after noon - just a coincidence, right?) and headed for the showers. Mostly because I was smelling pretty ripe, but also because I didn't really want these numbers on my wrist. I scrubbed and I lathered and I washed. The 420 came off easily.
The 69 did not.
Except it wasn't a 69 anymore, either. It was a 68.
I *might* have chalked it up to the ink bleeding, except that Browning's way of writing nines had been to leave the circle of the nine unfinished and draw the line with a sharp kick at the end, almost like a lowercase *q*. There was no way it could have been swirled into an eight, and at any rate this was way too sharp an eight for the ink to have bled.
*Maybe I'm misremembering,* I thought. *Maybe it was a sixty-eight the whole time and I just* thought *it was a sixty-nine.* This seemed reasonable to me; I *had,* after all, been stoned out of my mind.
I spent the next couple hours finishing up the Western Civ assignment that was due, I thought, tomorrow. Then, at about a quarter past four, my roommate showed up.
“Jason, you freaking nerd,” he said. “What the hell are you doing homework on a Saturday for?”
“Dude, it’s Sunday,” I started to explain, and then I looked at him. Tyler was dressed for work: dress slacks, dress shoes, polo shirt with the logo of the hardware store he worked at—a store which I knew was closed on Sundays. Back then, in this part of the country, a lot of stores were. “It is Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Uh, no, it’s Saturday,” he repeated. “Hey, don’t you have a frat party or something to go to?”
Well, no, because I’d already been to it. But also yes, because it hadn’t happened yet. Because it was Saturday. And it wasn’t just Nate that thought so—it was every newspaper, every calendar, every football game on TV that should have already happened. Every store that should have been closed but wasn’t. I walked around campus in a daze, confirming with the student union, the health center, the fitness center, and the bursar that yes, it was indeed Saturday. The health center also asked if I was feeling all right. The bursar only asked if I was paid up—and it was also closed Sundays.
Bewildered, I made my way back to my dorm room. Eventually, I went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was 1:09 p.m. on Saturday afternoon again. And I was smelling pretty ripe, so I went to take a shower, you know the drill, and this time the number on my right wrist was 67.
You’ve watched, or at least have heard of, *Groundhog Day*, so you probably already know what’s happened, and if for some reason you haven’t, just go look up the plot summary on Wikipedia. Asshole weather reporter goes to Punxsutawney to watch the groundhog and is thrust into a time loop, shenanigans ensue, and ultimately, because it’s a comedy, everyone lives happily ever after. Only *Groundhog Day* was still five years in my future, and apart from *Star Wars* I hadn’t seen much sci-fi (science fiction, you see, was for *nerds,* which was still something socially unacceptable to be at that time), so I didn’t really know what a time loop was.
But I was in one. Just like Bill Murray.
Except in Bill Murray’s loop, everything happens exactly the same way unless he changes something. That wasn’t the case for me. The fifth time around, once I finally figured out what was going on, I actually went back to the stupid Heaven Night again. But this time, Browning wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. “Who’s Paul Browning, Maynard?” someone asked over me as I squatted to cut another blade of grass in the frat house’s backyard with scissors (this was the latest torment of Heaven Night). “Your imaginary friend?”
Ha-ha. Very funny.
He wasn’t there the next time either. Or the next time. Or the time after that. Once the counter on my wrist dropped into the fifties, in fact, the frat house wasn’t there at all. Just an empty lot that informed me that, should I be interested in buying it, I should call Berkowitz Land Development at 426-3313. I actually did that. They didn’t know a Paul Browning either. Or a Lambda Chronos Lambda fraternity. Turns out Chronos isn’t even a Greek letter.
But it *is* a Greek word.
It means Time.
Eventually I figured out the ground rules. It happened whenever I lost consciousness, no matter the cause—sleeping, fainting, being beaten up, even dying. I could stay up as late as I want—I managed to make it all the way to Thursday once—but whenever I passed out, I would wake up back where I had last woken up: 1:09 p.m., sixty-nine minutes after noon, and smelling like roadkill.
That was how it was like until the day it hit zero. Then, I thought, I was finally free. I woke up on actual Sunday morning, feeling great.
But the counter was still there. And it had reset to 69.
Yep. I live each and every day sixty-nine times.
I lost track of time. It was easy to do that when there *was* no time. I experimented. I went to sleep in jail a lot only to wake up free as a bird the same morning. Once, early on, I screwed up the timing and ended up spending seven subjective months in jail before I could get out on bail. Paying that back—and the fine Judge Brinkman eventually levied after, like, a year—was easy. I simply won the lottery. Easy to do when you could get the numbers ahead of time. Although I did still have to do 4,140—I mean “sixty”—hours of community service.
Is it boring? Yeah.
Did you get used to it? Sort of.
Did you take advantage of it? Absolutely. And so would you. Weekends may be four and a half months long, but the workweek is almost a whole year. The lottery winnings provided enough to live off for a while, and by the time they were tapering out the Internet was becoming a thing. Easy money in daytrading when you know what’s going to happen that day.
But it still sucks.
You get a cold. You recover after a few days. For me, those days stretch into months.
You break your leg. You spend the next few weeks on crutches. For me, those weeks stretch into years.
Hijackers smash planes into the World Trade Center and you can’t do anything about that because you didn’t wake up until 7:10 a.m. Pacific that day and it was already too late. Sixty-nine times.
But it’ll all be over soon. Because I just found Paul Browning on Facebook.
He lives near me, maybe a thirty-minute drive at most. He ought to be fifty-four right now, but he isn’t—he looks to be thirty at the oldest. And for someone who claims to be in web design, he’s remarkably cavalier about internet security. It took me less than five minutes to hack his Facebook password, which happened to be the same as for his bank—and the e-mail account tied to both. Which is also where his two-factor authentication is sent to. Yeah, I learned how to hack. What else would I have spent all those 2020s doing?
I *could* screw him. I could screw him badly. I still might. But I want answers first.
And if I fail, so what? I can always try again tomorrow. | Um.. I need advice
So get this.
It’s morning. You’ve woken up somewhat lazily. Your phone is resting against your thigh, the covers are rising with yours, and the girl who you’ve brought back‘s breath against the covers.
She is one of the most wild, and free souls that you’ve ever had. Even the feeling of her Head against your chest causes a carnal fire within you. This fire finds fuel within her touch, and you to procede to be young twenty somethings. The brush of her hair against your face is like a lightning bolt to the source, and well, the fire rages.
Later in the day you notice a small 69 on your arm, but you’re pretty sure it’s from the succubus in question. I mean, she left a mark so you can remember the morning, kinda hot? Right?
Well, what would you do if you woke up the next morning, and it was 68 and not washing off.
I know how to do 69, but I can’t ducking twist my body into an 8.
I’m fucking twistedly terrified. what do I do? Is she about to make me a human pretzel?
I hope she at least brings cheese. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | It's probably different now—it would have to be, with a video camera in everyone's pocket and the dudebro culture no longer having the dominance it once did—but in the fall of 1988, if you pledged for a fraternity, you could expect to be hazed, and the hazing could get nasty. If you were lucky, it was called Hell Night. If you were unlucky, it was Hell Week.
Lambda Chronos Lambda called it "Heaven Night" instead. They claimed this was because they wanted to foster a "welcoming atmosphere" for incoming pledges like me—which was a total lie, it was a Hell Night in all but name—but really, it was because you started and ended the night by getting high on pot as a bunch of drunk upperclassmen looked on and sung "Stairway to Heaven" off-key. We took our first dose just after introductions were finished, at exactly 4:20 that Saturday afternoon. No, the whole 420 meme didn't quite exist yet back in '88, but two of the seniors in the planning committee had gone to San Rafael High, where the whole thing got started, and had brought it here to college. You might say we were early adopters. Or that we were into "420" before it was cool.
I can't believe I just said that. Shoot me now.
On second thought, don't bother. Counter's still at 43.
Anyway, during the introduction, it came out that I'd been born on April 20, 1969. Yes, that's right, 4/20/69. The memiest date in the history of memery. Naturally, this had to be commemorated somehow—"radical birthday you got there, Maynard!"—and for some reason (alcohol was probably involved), they decided to do this by having me write 420 on my left wrist, and 69 on my right.
Being right-handed, I had no trouble with the 420 part. The 69 proved a bit harder, and I had to enlist a senior's help. The dude who actually scrawled the 69 onto my wrist was named Paul Browning. I remember that distinctly, because I had gotten him mixed up with someone else, and he made me do something like a thousand pushups saying it after each one.
We suffered through twelve hours of humiliation and degradation before it rolled around to 4:20 in the morning and they had us toke again. Then they formally inducted us, and let us go.
I slept the whole of Sunday morning—or what I *thought* was Sunday morning—away. Woke up at 1:09 p.m. (sixty-nine minutes after noon - just a coincidence, right?) and headed for the showers. Mostly because I was smelling pretty ripe, but also because I didn't really want these numbers on my wrist. I scrubbed and I lathered and I washed. The 420 came off easily.
The 69 did not.
Except it wasn't a 69 anymore, either. It was a 68.
I *might* have chalked it up to the ink bleeding, except that Browning's way of writing nines had been to leave the circle of the nine unfinished and draw the line with a sharp kick at the end, almost like a lowercase *q*. There was no way it could have been swirled into an eight, and at any rate this was way too sharp an eight for the ink to have bled.
*Maybe I'm misremembering,* I thought. *Maybe it was a sixty-eight the whole time and I just* thought *it was a sixty-nine.* This seemed reasonable to me; I *had,* after all, been stoned out of my mind.
I spent the next couple hours finishing up the Western Civ assignment that was due, I thought, tomorrow. Then, at about a quarter past four, my roommate showed up.
“Jason, you freaking nerd,” he said. “What the hell are you doing homework on a Saturday for?”
“Dude, it’s Sunday,” I started to explain, and then I looked at him. Tyler was dressed for work: dress slacks, dress shoes, polo shirt with the logo of the hardware store he worked at—a store which I knew was closed on Sundays. Back then, in this part of the country, a lot of stores were. “It is Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Uh, no, it’s Saturday,” he repeated. “Hey, don’t you have a frat party or something to go to?”
Well, no, because I’d already been to it. But also yes, because it hadn’t happened yet. Because it was Saturday. And it wasn’t just Nate that thought so—it was every newspaper, every calendar, every football game on TV that should have already happened. Every store that should have been closed but wasn’t. I walked around campus in a daze, confirming with the student union, the health center, the fitness center, and the bursar that yes, it was indeed Saturday. The health center also asked if I was feeling all right. The bursar only asked if I was paid up—and it was also closed Sundays.
Bewildered, I made my way back to my dorm room. Eventually, I went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was 1:09 p.m. on Saturday afternoon again. And I was smelling pretty ripe, so I went to take a shower, you know the drill, and this time the number on my right wrist was 67.
You’ve watched, or at least have heard of, *Groundhog Day*, so you probably already know what’s happened, and if for some reason you haven’t, just go look up the plot summary on Wikipedia. Asshole weather reporter goes to Punxsutawney to watch the groundhog and is thrust into a time loop, shenanigans ensue, and ultimately, because it’s a comedy, everyone lives happily ever after. Only *Groundhog Day* was still five years in my future, and apart from *Star Wars* I hadn’t seen much sci-fi (science fiction, you see, was for *nerds,* which was still something socially unacceptable to be at that time), so I didn’t really know what a time loop was.
But I was in one. Just like Bill Murray.
Except in Bill Murray’s loop, everything happens exactly the same way unless he changes something. That wasn’t the case for me. The fifth time around, once I finally figured out what was going on, I actually went back to the stupid Heaven Night again. But this time, Browning wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. “Who’s Paul Browning, Maynard?” someone asked over me as I squatted to cut another blade of grass in the frat house’s backyard with scissors (this was the latest torment of Heaven Night). “Your imaginary friend?”
Ha-ha. Very funny.
He wasn’t there the next time either. Or the next time. Or the time after that. Once the counter on my wrist dropped into the fifties, in fact, the frat house wasn’t there at all. Just an empty lot that informed me that, should I be interested in buying it, I should call Berkowitz Land Development at 426-3313. I actually did that. They didn’t know a Paul Browning either. Or a Lambda Chronos Lambda fraternity. Turns out Chronos isn’t even a Greek letter.
But it *is* a Greek word.
It means Time.
Eventually I figured out the ground rules. It happened whenever I lost consciousness, no matter the cause—sleeping, fainting, being beaten up, even dying. I could stay up as late as I want—I managed to make it all the way to Thursday once—but whenever I passed out, I would wake up back where I had last woken up: 1:09 p.m., sixty-nine minutes after noon, and smelling like roadkill.
That was how it was like until the day it hit zero. Then, I thought, I was finally free. I woke up on actual Sunday morning, feeling great.
But the counter was still there. And it had reset to 69.
Yep. I live each and every day sixty-nine times.
I lost track of time. It was easy to do that when there *was* no time. I experimented. I went to sleep in jail a lot only to wake up free as a bird the same morning. Once, early on, I screwed up the timing and ended up spending seven subjective months in jail before I could get out on bail. Paying that back—and the fine Judge Brinkman eventually levied after, like, a year—was easy. I simply won the lottery. Easy to do when you could get the numbers ahead of time. Although I did still have to do 4,140—I mean “sixty”—hours of community service.
Is it boring? Yeah.
Did you get used to it? Sort of.
Did you take advantage of it? Absolutely. And so would you. Weekends may be four and a half months long, but the workweek is almost a whole year. The lottery winnings provided enough to live off for a while, and by the time they were tapering out the Internet was becoming a thing. Easy money in daytrading when you know what’s going to happen that day.
But it still sucks.
You get a cold. You recover after a few days. For me, those days stretch into months.
You break your leg. You spend the next few weeks on crutches. For me, those weeks stretch into years.
Hijackers smash planes into the World Trade Center and you can’t do anything about that because you didn’t wake up until 7:10 a.m. Pacific that day and it was already too late. Sixty-nine times.
But it’ll all be over soon. Because I just found Paul Browning on Facebook.
He lives near me, maybe a thirty-minute drive at most. He ought to be fifty-four right now, but he isn’t—he looks to be thirty at the oldest. And for someone who claims to be in web design, he’s remarkably cavalier about internet security. It took me less than five minutes to hack his Facebook password, which happened to be the same as for his bank—and the e-mail account tied to both. Which is also where his two-factor authentication is sent to. Yeah, I learned how to hack. What else would I have spent all those 2020s doing?
I *could* screw him. I could screw him badly. I still might. But I want answers first.
And if I fail, so what? I can always try again tomorrow. | Cold. My face is freezing, and to be honest, I’m not even sure what I am supposed to doing.
I guess that’s not much different to yesterday, but today I feel so much more lost.
No lack of hydration though.
And I can confidently answer any questions about whether root vegetables are at all comfortable between your legs.
My thighs look like a Catholics forehead on Ash Wednesday. Charcoal supposed to be good for your skin though.
Benefits.
Whatever. Tomorrow’s a new day, get to figure out what all this is like with a hockey stick. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | It's probably different now—it would have to be, with a video camera in everyone's pocket and the dudebro culture no longer having the dominance it once did—but in the fall of 1988, if you pledged for a fraternity, you could expect to be hazed, and the hazing could get nasty. If you were lucky, it was called Hell Night. If you were unlucky, it was Hell Week.
Lambda Chronos Lambda called it "Heaven Night" instead. They claimed this was because they wanted to foster a "welcoming atmosphere" for incoming pledges like me—which was a total lie, it was a Hell Night in all but name—but really, it was because you started and ended the night by getting high on pot as a bunch of drunk upperclassmen looked on and sung "Stairway to Heaven" off-key. We took our first dose just after introductions were finished, at exactly 4:20 that Saturday afternoon. No, the whole 420 meme didn't quite exist yet back in '88, but two of the seniors in the planning committee had gone to San Rafael High, where the whole thing got started, and had brought it here to college. You might say we were early adopters. Or that we were into "420" before it was cool.
I can't believe I just said that. Shoot me now.
On second thought, don't bother. Counter's still at 43.
Anyway, during the introduction, it came out that I'd been born on April 20, 1969. Yes, that's right, 4/20/69. The memiest date in the history of memery. Naturally, this had to be commemorated somehow—"radical birthday you got there, Maynard!"—and for some reason (alcohol was probably involved), they decided to do this by having me write 420 on my left wrist, and 69 on my right.
Being right-handed, I had no trouble with the 420 part. The 69 proved a bit harder, and I had to enlist a senior's help. The dude who actually scrawled the 69 onto my wrist was named Paul Browning. I remember that distinctly, because I had gotten him mixed up with someone else, and he made me do something like a thousand pushups saying it after each one.
We suffered through twelve hours of humiliation and degradation before it rolled around to 4:20 in the morning and they had us toke again. Then they formally inducted us, and let us go.
I slept the whole of Sunday morning—or what I *thought* was Sunday morning—away. Woke up at 1:09 p.m. (sixty-nine minutes after noon - just a coincidence, right?) and headed for the showers. Mostly because I was smelling pretty ripe, but also because I didn't really want these numbers on my wrist. I scrubbed and I lathered and I washed. The 420 came off easily.
The 69 did not.
Except it wasn't a 69 anymore, either. It was a 68.
I *might* have chalked it up to the ink bleeding, except that Browning's way of writing nines had been to leave the circle of the nine unfinished and draw the line with a sharp kick at the end, almost like a lowercase *q*. There was no way it could have been swirled into an eight, and at any rate this was way too sharp an eight for the ink to have bled.
*Maybe I'm misremembering,* I thought. *Maybe it was a sixty-eight the whole time and I just* thought *it was a sixty-nine.* This seemed reasonable to me; I *had,* after all, been stoned out of my mind.
I spent the next couple hours finishing up the Western Civ assignment that was due, I thought, tomorrow. Then, at about a quarter past four, my roommate showed up.
“Jason, you freaking nerd,” he said. “What the hell are you doing homework on a Saturday for?”
“Dude, it’s Sunday,” I started to explain, and then I looked at him. Tyler was dressed for work: dress slacks, dress shoes, polo shirt with the logo of the hardware store he worked at—a store which I knew was closed on Sundays. Back then, in this part of the country, a lot of stores were. “It is Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Uh, no, it’s Saturday,” he repeated. “Hey, don’t you have a frat party or something to go to?”
Well, no, because I’d already been to it. But also yes, because it hadn’t happened yet. Because it was Saturday. And it wasn’t just Nate that thought so—it was every newspaper, every calendar, every football game on TV that should have already happened. Every store that should have been closed but wasn’t. I walked around campus in a daze, confirming with the student union, the health center, the fitness center, and the bursar that yes, it was indeed Saturday. The health center also asked if I was feeling all right. The bursar only asked if I was paid up—and it was also closed Sundays.
Bewildered, I made my way back to my dorm room. Eventually, I went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was 1:09 p.m. on Saturday afternoon again. And I was smelling pretty ripe, so I went to take a shower, you know the drill, and this time the number on my right wrist was 67.
You’ve watched, or at least have heard of, *Groundhog Day*, so you probably already know what’s happened, and if for some reason you haven’t, just go look up the plot summary on Wikipedia. Asshole weather reporter goes to Punxsutawney to watch the groundhog and is thrust into a time loop, shenanigans ensue, and ultimately, because it’s a comedy, everyone lives happily ever after. Only *Groundhog Day* was still five years in my future, and apart from *Star Wars* I hadn’t seen much sci-fi (science fiction, you see, was for *nerds,* which was still something socially unacceptable to be at that time), so I didn’t really know what a time loop was.
But I was in one. Just like Bill Murray.
Except in Bill Murray’s loop, everything happens exactly the same way unless he changes something. That wasn’t the case for me. The fifth time around, once I finally figured out what was going on, I actually went back to the stupid Heaven Night again. But this time, Browning wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. “Who’s Paul Browning, Maynard?” someone asked over me as I squatted to cut another blade of grass in the frat house’s backyard with scissors (this was the latest torment of Heaven Night). “Your imaginary friend?”
Ha-ha. Very funny.
He wasn’t there the next time either. Or the next time. Or the time after that. Once the counter on my wrist dropped into the fifties, in fact, the frat house wasn’t there at all. Just an empty lot that informed me that, should I be interested in buying it, I should call Berkowitz Land Development at 426-3313. I actually did that. They didn’t know a Paul Browning either. Or a Lambda Chronos Lambda fraternity. Turns out Chronos isn’t even a Greek letter.
But it *is* a Greek word.
It means Time.
Eventually I figured out the ground rules. It happened whenever I lost consciousness, no matter the cause—sleeping, fainting, being beaten up, even dying. I could stay up as late as I want—I managed to make it all the way to Thursday once—but whenever I passed out, I would wake up back where I had last woken up: 1:09 p.m., sixty-nine minutes after noon, and smelling like roadkill.
That was how it was like until the day it hit zero. Then, I thought, I was finally free. I woke up on actual Sunday morning, feeling great.
But the counter was still there. And it had reset to 69.
Yep. I live each and every day sixty-nine times.
I lost track of time. It was easy to do that when there *was* no time. I experimented. I went to sleep in jail a lot only to wake up free as a bird the same morning. Once, early on, I screwed up the timing and ended up spending seven subjective months in jail before I could get out on bail. Paying that back—and the fine Judge Brinkman eventually levied after, like, a year—was easy. I simply won the lottery. Easy to do when you could get the numbers ahead of time. Although I did still have to do 4,140—I mean “sixty”—hours of community service.
Is it boring? Yeah.
Did you get used to it? Sort of.
Did you take advantage of it? Absolutely. And so would you. Weekends may be four and a half months long, but the workweek is almost a whole year. The lottery winnings provided enough to live off for a while, and by the time they were tapering out the Internet was becoming a thing. Easy money in daytrading when you know what’s going to happen that day.
But it still sucks.
You get a cold. You recover after a few days. For me, those days stretch into months.
You break your leg. You spend the next few weeks on crutches. For me, those weeks stretch into years.
Hijackers smash planes into the World Trade Center and you can’t do anything about that because you didn’t wake up until 7:10 a.m. Pacific that day and it was already too late. Sixty-nine times.
But it’ll all be over soon. Because I just found Paul Browning on Facebook.
He lives near me, maybe a thirty-minute drive at most. He ought to be fifty-four right now, but he isn’t—he looks to be thirty at the oldest. And for someone who claims to be in web design, he’s remarkably cavalier about internet security. It took me less than five minutes to hack his Facebook password, which happened to be the same as for his bank—and the e-mail account tied to both. Which is also where his two-factor authentication is sent to. Yeah, I learned how to hack. What else would I have spent all those 2020s doing?
I *could* screw him. I could screw him badly. I still might. But I want answers first.
And if I fail, so what? I can always try again tomorrow. | ...this doesn't make sense.
I stare at my wrist, again.
I'd written 69. I *know* I had. Yesterday it said 68.
This was... maybe the ink had run? Maybe I'd - I don't know - pushed my arm onto the sheet, left an imprint, then done the same in a slightly different position to leave enough of an imprint on my wrist to turn a 9 into an 8?
...seems unlikely. Especially as I couldn't find any in on my bed. Anywhere.
...but, no matter what explanation I choose, none of that explains what it says *today*.
If it said 67 today, that would be weird. Inexplicable. Strange. But - but it would make *sense*. In some weird way.
But what on earth does it mean when it says 601? What does *that* mean? What possible pattern could *that* show? | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | It's probably different now—it would have to be, with a video camera in everyone's pocket and the dudebro culture no longer having the dominance it once did—but in the fall of 1988, if you pledged for a fraternity, you could expect to be hazed, and the hazing could get nasty. If you were lucky, it was called Hell Night. If you were unlucky, it was Hell Week.
Lambda Chronos Lambda called it "Heaven Night" instead. They claimed this was because they wanted to foster a "welcoming atmosphere" for incoming pledges like me—which was a total lie, it was a Hell Night in all but name—but really, it was because you started and ended the night by getting high on pot as a bunch of drunk upperclassmen looked on and sung "Stairway to Heaven" off-key. We took our first dose just after introductions were finished, at exactly 4:20 that Saturday afternoon. No, the whole 420 meme didn't quite exist yet back in '88, but two of the seniors in the planning committee had gone to San Rafael High, where the whole thing got started, and had brought it here to college. You might say we were early adopters. Or that we were into "420" before it was cool.
I can't believe I just said that. Shoot me now.
On second thought, don't bother. Counter's still at 43.
Anyway, during the introduction, it came out that I'd been born on April 20, 1969. Yes, that's right, 4/20/69. The memiest date in the history of memery. Naturally, this had to be commemorated somehow—"radical birthday you got there, Maynard!"—and for some reason (alcohol was probably involved), they decided to do this by having me write 420 on my left wrist, and 69 on my right.
Being right-handed, I had no trouble with the 420 part. The 69 proved a bit harder, and I had to enlist a senior's help. The dude who actually scrawled the 69 onto my wrist was named Paul Browning. I remember that distinctly, because I had gotten him mixed up with someone else, and he made me do something like a thousand pushups saying it after each one.
We suffered through twelve hours of humiliation and degradation before it rolled around to 4:20 in the morning and they had us toke again. Then they formally inducted us, and let us go.
I slept the whole of Sunday morning—or what I *thought* was Sunday morning—away. Woke up at 1:09 p.m. (sixty-nine minutes after noon - just a coincidence, right?) and headed for the showers. Mostly because I was smelling pretty ripe, but also because I didn't really want these numbers on my wrist. I scrubbed and I lathered and I washed. The 420 came off easily.
The 69 did not.
Except it wasn't a 69 anymore, either. It was a 68.
I *might* have chalked it up to the ink bleeding, except that Browning's way of writing nines had been to leave the circle of the nine unfinished and draw the line with a sharp kick at the end, almost like a lowercase *q*. There was no way it could have been swirled into an eight, and at any rate this was way too sharp an eight for the ink to have bled.
*Maybe I'm misremembering,* I thought. *Maybe it was a sixty-eight the whole time and I just* thought *it was a sixty-nine.* This seemed reasonable to me; I *had,* after all, been stoned out of my mind.
I spent the next couple hours finishing up the Western Civ assignment that was due, I thought, tomorrow. Then, at about a quarter past four, my roommate showed up.
“Jason, you freaking nerd,” he said. “What the hell are you doing homework on a Saturday for?”
“Dude, it’s Sunday,” I started to explain, and then I looked at him. Tyler was dressed for work: dress slacks, dress shoes, polo shirt with the logo of the hardware store he worked at—a store which I knew was closed on Sundays. Back then, in this part of the country, a lot of stores were. “It is Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Uh, no, it’s Saturday,” he repeated. “Hey, don’t you have a frat party or something to go to?”
Well, no, because I’d already been to it. But also yes, because it hadn’t happened yet. Because it was Saturday. And it wasn’t just Nate that thought so—it was every newspaper, every calendar, every football game on TV that should have already happened. Every store that should have been closed but wasn’t. I walked around campus in a daze, confirming with the student union, the health center, the fitness center, and the bursar that yes, it was indeed Saturday. The health center also asked if I was feeling all right. The bursar only asked if I was paid up—and it was also closed Sundays.
Bewildered, I made my way back to my dorm room. Eventually, I went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was 1:09 p.m. on Saturday afternoon again. And I was smelling pretty ripe, so I went to take a shower, you know the drill, and this time the number on my right wrist was 67.
You’ve watched, or at least have heard of, *Groundhog Day*, so you probably already know what’s happened, and if for some reason you haven’t, just go look up the plot summary on Wikipedia. Asshole weather reporter goes to Punxsutawney to watch the groundhog and is thrust into a time loop, shenanigans ensue, and ultimately, because it’s a comedy, everyone lives happily ever after. Only *Groundhog Day* was still five years in my future, and apart from *Star Wars* I hadn’t seen much sci-fi (science fiction, you see, was for *nerds,* which was still something socially unacceptable to be at that time), so I didn’t really know what a time loop was.
But I was in one. Just like Bill Murray.
Except in Bill Murray’s loop, everything happens exactly the same way unless he changes something. That wasn’t the case for me. The fifth time around, once I finally figured out what was going on, I actually went back to the stupid Heaven Night again. But this time, Browning wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. “Who’s Paul Browning, Maynard?” someone asked over me as I squatted to cut another blade of grass in the frat house’s backyard with scissors (this was the latest torment of Heaven Night). “Your imaginary friend?”
Ha-ha. Very funny.
He wasn’t there the next time either. Or the next time. Or the time after that. Once the counter on my wrist dropped into the fifties, in fact, the frat house wasn’t there at all. Just an empty lot that informed me that, should I be interested in buying it, I should call Berkowitz Land Development at 426-3313. I actually did that. They didn’t know a Paul Browning either. Or a Lambda Chronos Lambda fraternity. Turns out Chronos isn’t even a Greek letter.
But it *is* a Greek word.
It means Time.
Eventually I figured out the ground rules. It happened whenever I lost consciousness, no matter the cause—sleeping, fainting, being beaten up, even dying. I could stay up as late as I want—I managed to make it all the way to Thursday once—but whenever I passed out, I would wake up back where I had last woken up: 1:09 p.m., sixty-nine minutes after noon, and smelling like roadkill.
That was how it was like until the day it hit zero. Then, I thought, I was finally free. I woke up on actual Sunday morning, feeling great.
But the counter was still there. And it had reset to 69.
Yep. I live each and every day sixty-nine times.
I lost track of time. It was easy to do that when there *was* no time. I experimented. I went to sleep in jail a lot only to wake up free as a bird the same morning. Once, early on, I screwed up the timing and ended up spending seven subjective months in jail before I could get out on bail. Paying that back—and the fine Judge Brinkman eventually levied after, like, a year—was easy. I simply won the lottery. Easy to do when you could get the numbers ahead of time. Although I did still have to do 4,140—I mean “sixty”—hours of community service.
Is it boring? Yeah.
Did you get used to it? Sort of.
Did you take advantage of it? Absolutely. And so would you. Weekends may be four and a half months long, but the workweek is almost a whole year. The lottery winnings provided enough to live off for a while, and by the time they were tapering out the Internet was becoming a thing. Easy money in daytrading when you know what’s going to happen that day.
But it still sucks.
You get a cold. You recover after a few days. For me, those days stretch into months.
You break your leg. You spend the next few weeks on crutches. For me, those weeks stretch into years.
Hijackers smash planes into the World Trade Center and you can’t do anything about that because you didn’t wake up until 7:10 a.m. Pacific that day and it was already too late. Sixty-nine times.
But it’ll all be over soon. Because I just found Paul Browning on Facebook.
He lives near me, maybe a thirty-minute drive at most. He ought to be fifty-four right now, but he isn’t—he looks to be thirty at the oldest. And for someone who claims to be in web design, he’s remarkably cavalier about internet security. It took me less than five minutes to hack his Facebook password, which happened to be the same as for his bank—and the e-mail account tied to both. Which is also where his two-factor authentication is sent to. Yeah, I learned how to hack. What else would I have spent all those 2020s doing?
I *could* screw him. I could screw him badly. I still might. But I want answers first.
And if I fail, so what? I can always try again tomorrow. | 68. Not "Sixty-eight," which is stylistically more appropriate when writing numbers at the beginning of a sentence, but "68." Because that was what was on my wrist. I'm being literal, you see.
I'm not sure why I wrote "69," just goofing around and if some imgurian spotted it and said, "nice," it'd be like a secret handshake. Or people would assume I like oral both giving and receiving. You know, silliness and a dash of risque'. So there I was with **69** on my wrist in a nice calligraphic script, almost an abstract curlicue if you were a little bit sloshed and I'll admit that I was at the time. I drew it on, admired it briefly, danced and drank and made my way home to sleep it off.
But now it's counting down and what does that mean, exactly? Am I in trouble? What happens when it gets to zero? It wouldn't wash off because believe me, I tried that.
Zero. Will it fade away? Will *I?* These questions plagued me all day, circling in my head like yapping dogs.
The next morning it read something weird. 601. What the hell? What does this mean? If I were into spooky weird stories I would think, okay, it's counting down my remaining time like Justin Timberlake's arm in that movie, but this is a big jump. I know you need more than just two points to infer a linear progression but you don't jump from 69 to 68 to 601. I don't get it.
The morning after that it read 621 and I finally got it. It wasn't counting down - it was counting *up*. It was a matter of perspective, I had been reading it wrong. If I hadn't figured it out then, I almost certainly would have sorted it out the next day when it jumped to 6h1. It says 6g1 today, from my point of view. 169, thirteen squared. Tomorrow, assuming nothing changes, 189. 209 the day after that, again making foolish assumptions.
It's a bit weird - not that any of this isn't weird - but the numerals written by me on my own wrist to be read by my own eyes were deemed by whatever force to be right side up to other viewers, and should be counting up by twenties.
Wait. I wrote the numbers as a lark for others to see. Okay, that does make a bit more sense then. A little.
Still doesn't answer the question of why numbers written in non-magical ink on a non-magical arm for non-magical purposes should start changing on their own, and in increments of 20. And why *up?* Down makes a kind of fatal sense, we all get old and die, we have a finite number of days which are definitely counting down from the moment we're born. Why would it go up? Never mind how they're changing because Harry Potter isn't real, aliens aren't likely to be interested in me, and ultra-secret black helicopter government agencies have better things to do than to screw with my head. So what gives?
To the internet! I'm going to sort this out somehow. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | It's probably different now—it would have to be, with a video camera in everyone's pocket and the dudebro culture no longer having the dominance it once did—but in the fall of 1988, if you pledged for a fraternity, you could expect to be hazed, and the hazing could get nasty. If you were lucky, it was called Hell Night. If you were unlucky, it was Hell Week.
Lambda Chronos Lambda called it "Heaven Night" instead. They claimed this was because they wanted to foster a "welcoming atmosphere" for incoming pledges like me—which was a total lie, it was a Hell Night in all but name—but really, it was because you started and ended the night by getting high on pot as a bunch of drunk upperclassmen looked on and sung "Stairway to Heaven" off-key. We took our first dose just after introductions were finished, at exactly 4:20 that Saturday afternoon. No, the whole 420 meme didn't quite exist yet back in '88, but two of the seniors in the planning committee had gone to San Rafael High, where the whole thing got started, and had brought it here to college. You might say we were early adopters. Or that we were into "420" before it was cool.
I can't believe I just said that. Shoot me now.
On second thought, don't bother. Counter's still at 43.
Anyway, during the introduction, it came out that I'd been born on April 20, 1969. Yes, that's right, 4/20/69. The memiest date in the history of memery. Naturally, this had to be commemorated somehow—"radical birthday you got there, Maynard!"—and for some reason (alcohol was probably involved), they decided to do this by having me write 420 on my left wrist, and 69 on my right.
Being right-handed, I had no trouble with the 420 part. The 69 proved a bit harder, and I had to enlist a senior's help. The dude who actually scrawled the 69 onto my wrist was named Paul Browning. I remember that distinctly, because I had gotten him mixed up with someone else, and he made me do something like a thousand pushups saying it after each one.
We suffered through twelve hours of humiliation and degradation before it rolled around to 4:20 in the morning and they had us toke again. Then they formally inducted us, and let us go.
I slept the whole of Sunday morning—or what I *thought* was Sunday morning—away. Woke up at 1:09 p.m. (sixty-nine minutes after noon - just a coincidence, right?) and headed for the showers. Mostly because I was smelling pretty ripe, but also because I didn't really want these numbers on my wrist. I scrubbed and I lathered and I washed. The 420 came off easily.
The 69 did not.
Except it wasn't a 69 anymore, either. It was a 68.
I *might* have chalked it up to the ink bleeding, except that Browning's way of writing nines had been to leave the circle of the nine unfinished and draw the line with a sharp kick at the end, almost like a lowercase *q*. There was no way it could have been swirled into an eight, and at any rate this was way too sharp an eight for the ink to have bled.
*Maybe I'm misremembering,* I thought. *Maybe it was a sixty-eight the whole time and I just* thought *it was a sixty-nine.* This seemed reasonable to me; I *had,* after all, been stoned out of my mind.
I spent the next couple hours finishing up the Western Civ assignment that was due, I thought, tomorrow. Then, at about a quarter past four, my roommate showed up.
“Jason, you freaking nerd,” he said. “What the hell are you doing homework on a Saturday for?”
“Dude, it’s Sunday,” I started to explain, and then I looked at him. Tyler was dressed for work: dress slacks, dress shoes, polo shirt with the logo of the hardware store he worked at—a store which I knew was closed on Sundays. Back then, in this part of the country, a lot of stores were. “It is Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Uh, no, it’s Saturday,” he repeated. “Hey, don’t you have a frat party or something to go to?”
Well, no, because I’d already been to it. But also yes, because it hadn’t happened yet. Because it was Saturday. And it wasn’t just Nate that thought so—it was every newspaper, every calendar, every football game on TV that should have already happened. Every store that should have been closed but wasn’t. I walked around campus in a daze, confirming with the student union, the health center, the fitness center, and the bursar that yes, it was indeed Saturday. The health center also asked if I was feeling all right. The bursar only asked if I was paid up—and it was also closed Sundays.
Bewildered, I made my way back to my dorm room. Eventually, I went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was 1:09 p.m. on Saturday afternoon again. And I was smelling pretty ripe, so I went to take a shower, you know the drill, and this time the number on my right wrist was 67.
You’ve watched, or at least have heard of, *Groundhog Day*, so you probably already know what’s happened, and if for some reason you haven’t, just go look up the plot summary on Wikipedia. Asshole weather reporter goes to Punxsutawney to watch the groundhog and is thrust into a time loop, shenanigans ensue, and ultimately, because it’s a comedy, everyone lives happily ever after. Only *Groundhog Day* was still five years in my future, and apart from *Star Wars* I hadn’t seen much sci-fi (science fiction, you see, was for *nerds,* which was still something socially unacceptable to be at that time), so I didn’t really know what a time loop was.
But I was in one. Just like Bill Murray.
Except in Bill Murray’s loop, everything happens exactly the same way unless he changes something. That wasn’t the case for me. The fifth time around, once I finally figured out what was going on, I actually went back to the stupid Heaven Night again. But this time, Browning wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. “Who’s Paul Browning, Maynard?” someone asked over me as I squatted to cut another blade of grass in the frat house’s backyard with scissors (this was the latest torment of Heaven Night). “Your imaginary friend?”
Ha-ha. Very funny.
He wasn’t there the next time either. Or the next time. Or the time after that. Once the counter on my wrist dropped into the fifties, in fact, the frat house wasn’t there at all. Just an empty lot that informed me that, should I be interested in buying it, I should call Berkowitz Land Development at 426-3313. I actually did that. They didn’t know a Paul Browning either. Or a Lambda Chronos Lambda fraternity. Turns out Chronos isn’t even a Greek letter.
But it *is* a Greek word.
It means Time.
Eventually I figured out the ground rules. It happened whenever I lost consciousness, no matter the cause—sleeping, fainting, being beaten up, even dying. I could stay up as late as I want—I managed to make it all the way to Thursday once—but whenever I passed out, I would wake up back where I had last woken up: 1:09 p.m., sixty-nine minutes after noon, and smelling like roadkill.
That was how it was like until the day it hit zero. Then, I thought, I was finally free. I woke up on actual Sunday morning, feeling great.
But the counter was still there. And it had reset to 69.
Yep. I live each and every day sixty-nine times.
I lost track of time. It was easy to do that when there *was* no time. I experimented. I went to sleep in jail a lot only to wake up free as a bird the same morning. Once, early on, I screwed up the timing and ended up spending seven subjective months in jail before I could get out on bail. Paying that back—and the fine Judge Brinkman eventually levied after, like, a year—was easy. I simply won the lottery. Easy to do when you could get the numbers ahead of time. Although I did still have to do 4,140—I mean “sixty”—hours of community service.
Is it boring? Yeah.
Did you get used to it? Sort of.
Did you take advantage of it? Absolutely. And so would you. Weekends may be four and a half months long, but the workweek is almost a whole year. The lottery winnings provided enough to live off for a while, and by the time they were tapering out the Internet was becoming a thing. Easy money in daytrading when you know what’s going to happen that day.
But it still sucks.
You get a cold. You recover after a few days. For me, those days stretch into months.
You break your leg. You spend the next few weeks on crutches. For me, those weeks stretch into years.
Hijackers smash planes into the World Trade Center and you can’t do anything about that because you didn’t wake up until 7:10 a.m. Pacific that day and it was already too late. Sixty-nine times.
But it’ll all be over soon. Because I just found Paul Browning on Facebook.
He lives near me, maybe a thirty-minute drive at most. He ought to be fifty-four right now, but he isn’t—he looks to be thirty at the oldest. And for someone who claims to be in web design, he’s remarkably cavalier about internet security. It took me less than five minutes to hack his Facebook password, which happened to be the same as for his bank—and the e-mail account tied to both. Which is also where his two-factor authentication is sent to. Yeah, I learned how to hack. What else would I have spent all those 2020s doing?
I *could* screw him. I could screw him badly. I still might. But I want answers first.
And if I fail, so what? I can always try again tomorrow. | [WP]
She woke up content. Another day sober. Every morning, she wrote the number of days on her arm as a reminder that she didn't need alcohol, that she was better than that. Every night she washed it off to show that she made it through another day. Yesterday was day 69. Today was day 70. She got up and wrote 70 on her arm and looked at it with pride.
Later at work, she rolled up her sleeves and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the number was different. It now read 68. She was confused, she would have sworn she wrote 70. She rubbed it off, borrowed a marker, and wrote 70 again. She forgot about it.
Before she went to bed, she went to wash off the 70. It was gone, and her arm again read 68. Confused and a little disturbed, she went back through the ritual of washing away day 70 and preparing for a night of restful sleep and peaceful dreams.
The next morning, she wrote 71 on her arm and smiled. It was a new day, and she wasn't thinking at all about yesterday.
Later at work, she noticed that the 71 had turned into 67. Confusion and a touch of apprehension flooded her mind. She went to the bathroom and scrubbed the 67 off her arm. Even after the mark was gone, she kept scrubbing. She borrowed a marker again and rewrote 71.
She kept checking her arm throughout the rest of the work day. The 71 was still prominently visible in black marker. She calmed down more and more as the day went on. She checked one last time before getting in her car and her arm still said 71. Satisfied that nothing was wrong, she headed home.
The 67 was back as she went to wash her arm before bed. The confusion had taken a back seat to anxiety at this point. She scrubbed until the skin was bright red. She found a dry erase marker and wrote 71 on the bathroom mirror.
The next morning, the mirror still read 71. She was relieved and wrote 72 on her arm. She changed the 71 on the mirror to 72, checked that her arm still read 72, and went to work.
She found herself compulsively checking her arm all day. Every five minutes became every ten and then every fifteen as the number still read 72. She felt better and better as the day went on. She tried to laugh at herself but it was tinged with nervousness. Everything was fine until it was time to leave and she went to put on her jacket.
The number had changed to 66. She tried to hold back tears. She'd looked only twenty minutes ago! She walked past a drinking fountain on her way out to the car and got her hand wet and scrubbed off the 66. She didn't write the 72 back on her arm.
She got home and her stomach was tied in knots. Her arm blank, she went to the bathroom to look at the mirror and reassure herself. She started crying outright when the mirror read 66. She was too anxious to eat and once she cried herself out, she let the empty numbness wash over her and went to bed. She didn't bother changing the mirror back to 72.
She got up the next morning and, with dread pulsing through her, looked at the bathroom mirror. It had changed itself to 65. She cried silently and rubbed it off the mirror. Today was day 73 sober. She had done the work. She had earned that 73. Why couldn't she have that? She almost didn't want to write the 73 on her arm, but it was her ritual. She had to do it. Solemnly, tears still running down her face, she wrote 73 on her arm. She dressed quietly and went to work.
She tried to keep herself from checking but the anxiety drove her to look every few minutes. Now, every time she looked, it read 65. Every few minutes she'd rub it off and rewrite the 73. She got a cloth and kept it at her desk. Every time she looked, it had changed back to 65. Every time, she rubbed it off and wrote 73. Coworkers came by and asked if she was okay, said that she didn't seem like herself. She faked a smile and said that she was fine, just tired. The co-workers said okay and walked away, but a few of them worried that she had fallen back off the wagon.
She got home and the 65 was back. She had written 73 fifteen minutes ago, after she sat in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. The stress and anxiety were eating away at her. She skipped dinner again, washed her arm, and went to bed.
She tossed and turned. When she could sleep, her dreams were terrifying, vague threats of unknown harm that made her wake up in a sweat. Eventually, she gave up trying to sleep and got up. She turned on the TV and watched the pointless infomercials. She sneered and cried at the same time when she saw the ad for the fancy, expensive rehab facility. Eventually daylight came and she showered and went to write 74 on her arm. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked haggard, with limp hair and dark circles under her eyes. She noticed offhandedly that her face was thinner. She thought about calling in sick to work but then decided that spending all day alone with her thoughts would be worse. She looked down and the number had already changed to 64. Numbly, she washed it off and rewrote 74.
She got to work in a daze. Her coworkers again came around to ask if she was okay. She didn't have the energy or spirit to muster up a fake smile but said again the she was okay, that she hadn't slept well. She didn't notice that all of her coworkers were now looking at her with worry.
All day, she checked and it was always 64. She was barely able to stay calm as she silently washed the 64 off and changed it to 74. She knew she wasn't crazy. She was writing the correct number. She took out her phone and photographed the 74 right after she wrote it. She changed from the camera app to the photo gallery. The picture said 64. She looked at her arm. It read 64. A single tear slid down her cheek.
She couldn't figure out what to do. There was no one to talk to. She had never told anyone about her ritual. No one had ever seen the number on her arm. She didn't know what would happen if she told someone or even showed them what was happening. Too stressed to stay at work, she told her boss that she wasn't feeling well and left early. She stopped by the bathroom to wash off the 64 and write on 74. The number had changed again before she even got out the door.
She got home and walked to the kitchen. She was too nauseated to try to eat anything. She looked down and saw with alarm that the 64 now read 11. Adrenaline flooded her system as she stared at the number with horror. She ran to the bathroom and scrubbed as hard as she could. The 11 would not come off. She got soap, then baking soda, then laundry detergent. The number wouldn't budge. Desperate, she went to the kitchen and opened the cabinet under the sink to find something stronger. As she pulled out the extra strength sink scrub she saw it.
It. How had she missed it? 74 days ago, when she purged all the booze, she had missed one. She had no idea why she would have put a bottle of alcohol in the cabinet behind the sink scrub, but there it was. It stared back at her, mocking her, silently telling her that she wasn't good enough, couldn't do it, wasn't strong. She screamed primally and grabbed the bottle. Violently, she unscrewed the cap and dumped it down the sink. She threw the bottle in the trash. She had worked too long and too hard. Whatever the hell was going on, however scared and horrified she felt, she was not going to let the alcohol win. She walked back to the bathroom and took twice the amount of Tylenol PM that the box said that she could and went to bed. She didn't look at the 11 again.
She slept dreamlessly. She woke at the usual time, even without having set her alarm. She looked down at her arm, at the 11 that hadn't rubbed off. 11 was gone. The number was now 3. She didn't even notice that she was crying as she texted her boss that she was still sick, took more Tylenol PM, and went back to bed. She hadn't even tried to wash off the 3.
She woke again hours later, sick to her stomach. She ran to the bathroom and wretched, but there was nothing in her stomach to come back out. 'Just like the good old days,' she thought bitterly. She wandered to the kitchen to see if she had any ginger ale to try to calm her stomach.
The bottle of vodka was on the counter, full again. All of the vodka she had dumped was back. She somehow wasn't even surprised. The stress, fear, despair came crashing down on her. She looked at her arm. It read 0.
'Fuck it,' she thought, and reached for the bottle. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | I sat in the bar, staring at my hand, the cosmic joke that was being played on me. My target sat next to me, drinking heavily. I didn’t like taking advantage of someone left vulnerable by his circumstances. But I was sure I would be able to save everyone when it came down to it.
I continued to work on him, subtly leading him to the path I wanted him to go down.
It was all horrible. But I liked to live.
The number on my hand read 2.
******
It was a silly joke. I got at least five “Nice” comments. Which was exactly what I was going for. Till the next day when the number said 68.
I tried everything. But the number stayed. And the number kept counting down.
I was scared out of my mind. It was like a guillotine hanging over me, coming ever closer. What would happen when it hit 0?
I quit my job, forgot everything else. I’d just sit at home staring at the number. It had taken over my life. I discovered it changed at exactly midnight.
That was what convinced me. It was counting down days. I was going to die in 50 days.
The next 20 days I spent in a drunken haze, trying to drink all my sorrows away. I didn’t have any family. All my friends who tried to help me, I pushed away. They couldn’t help me. Nobody could.
And so it continued.
When the number was down to 19, it happened. I was walking down to the store when I heard a crash. An accident. I saw a woman and a little kid stuck in the twisted metal trying to escape somehow.
I had nothing to lose.
I went in, pulling them away at the last moment.
That midnight the number went to 21.
I had a ray of hope.
The next day I sat in my car, listening to the police scanner.
Our city is a cesspool of crime and sin. There was always something going on. My first two tries failed. The cops got there before me. It was on the third that I succeeded.
Someone was robbing a small liquor store. I was close.
I saw the perp, no older than 20, with his gun pointed at the cashier. I ran, full speed, tackling the suspect. The gun went off, but luckily nowhere close to his target.
The cops clapped me on the back, appreciating what I had done. That night, the number climbed to 22.
For the next couple of days, there was nothing. The next night there was a bank robbery attempt. I broke free from the police line and ran into the bank.
I took the robber by surprise but he still got a few shots off.
The cops managed to subdue him. But they also arrested me for interfering in their work and endangering lives.
Oh, and the robber managed to kill 3 people before swat took him down.
That night as I sat in holding, the number went down to 17.
By the time I made bail, the number was down to 4 and I was getting desperate.
And so I did what I should’ve done the first time. I put on a mask.
I went around the city, trying to, and helping people.
It worked for a while too. Over the next week I was able to get the number back into double digits.
But then I hit a rough patch.
I couldn’t save anyone.
The number kept counting down.
******
He looked sufficiently wound up as he left.
Ryan Johnson, fired from the TekSystems group, twice divorced with his 2nd wife also a coworker was an angry man. Angry enough at the world to build a bomb. Guided by me, of course.
I didn’t like it, but I liked the idea of dying even less.
I would be the hero, saving hundreds of lives, giving myself room to breathe. And of course, if this worked, then I could always encourage more people to try things like that and save them. If it didn’t, well then I was dead anyways.
Of course, my bad luck just continued. Ryan didn’t follow the instructions properly. The bomb wasn’t supposed to go off till 10 when the office would be completely filled. But the idiot made some mistake in the triggering circuit and the bomb went off at 8:30. I was still putting on my superhero costume when I heard the boom.
He was crying when I reached his home.
“Ryan! What did you do?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He was sobbing so hard that I could barely make out what he was saying.
“You moron.”
“I’m sorry.”
My anger grew and I choked that idiot and killed him on the spot.
That was when the police showed up.
They don’t understand. No one does. I’m not a villain. In fact it’s the opposite. I’m a hero. I just want to save lives.
But they don’t get it.
They still put me in jail, calling me crazy.
Here I was cleaning up the city. I just took down someone who was planning to bomb a whole building and they were calling me crazy?
Was I living in some sort of upside down world?
I sat in my jail cell waiting for the countdown, staring at my wrist.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep.
I woke up the next day, the number at -11. | I slept off the whole of the second day because of my bender on day one, and a third day of hair of the dog left me in no proper mood to panic, but today? Today is panic time, because I’m finally sober enough to realize that the number on my wrist isn’t some stupid tattoo the boys forced me to get after we stumbled out of the bar Friday night. It wasn’t carved into my skin with ink too permanent to be washed off. It was sketched on with sharpie, and I’ve even found the sharpie, and when I started it said 69 (because I’m classy like that,) not 68 or 67 or 66.
Worse still, every time I try to wash it off the ink actually does run a little, but in such a way that the number doesn’t fade. Rather, a black streak runs down from my left wrist to the crook of my arm, sinks into the veins there, and then travels in an inky streak beneath my skin.
So today, on the fourth day since I wrote the damn thing, and on the first day I’ve been sober enough to panic about it, I’m washing and washing and washing and watching the numbers travel.
There are four separate streaks of ink slithering across me. I almost wish I could feel them move but I can’t. I’m in front of the bathroom mirror in my boxers when the doorbell rings and help arrives.
“It’s unlocked!” I shout. The door to my little apartment opens and I can hear Jess bustle in. She throws down the bag she always carries and it thuds heavily.
“Cal?” she says.
“I’m in the bathroom! Uhhh…yeah, the bathroom!” I think about warning her for a moment, but what would I even say?
“You better not be doing anything gross!” Her footsteps draw nearer, the ink still slithers, I think I’m going insane. “I swear, if you are I’m breaking—”
Jess turns the corner, sees me standing there almost naked, smiles for just a second, and then shrieks.
It’s about the reaction I was expecting.
“Cal, what the hell is that?” she asks, pointing at a streak of black ink that’s doing figure eights on my chest.
I shake my head, “I’ve got no idea, I just woke up like this. I’ve been trying to wash the ink off for an hour but it just keeps running and running. I didn’t know who else to call.”
She takes a step forward like she’s going to hug me and I leap back, holding out a hand. “Woah, woah, no! Not until we know what this is. I didn’t call you over to get it on you, I just needed help, I’m freaking out over here!”
“Help? Did you call 911?"
“911? And what would I say to them, I wrote the number 69 on my wrist while I was drunk and now I think my sharpie’s possessed?”
Her jaw drops. Jess stares at me like grown another head, and then her eyes dart to wrist and the number 66 there and she’s laughing so hard. “You sure it was 69? Cal, how drunk did you get this time? I swear, it’s like I can’t leave you alone.”
“It was definitely 69,” I say.
“Looks like 66 to me.”
“Yeah? Well it’s only been that since I woke up.” I pull out my phone, and start her pictures. I didn’t have one of 69, but I snapped a blurry 68 in one of the few moments I’d been awake the next day, and 67 was crystal clear.
“You’re fucking with me,” she says.
“Jess, I wish I was fucking with you. I love fucking with you. But if I was half naked and doing that, wouldn’t think I’d have tried to pull some shit already?”
That gives her pause. I can see her eyes dart down to the black lines in my skin again, following them on their weird circuitous journey. “Look,” I say, “watch this.” Then I wet the sponge and squirt some soap on it and start scrubbing at the number again.
Only this time I’m not at it long enough to start it running again. A few seconds later I feel a sudden, blinding pain, like someone’s taken a hot poker out of a fire and jammed itinto my lower back. I fall, barely catching myself against the sink and Jess wraps her arms me, calling my name. I want to push her off but I can’t, I’m in too much pain and she’s too strong. When I come to she’s holding me, mopping at my sweaty brow with a towel as she whispers my name.
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Cal! Baby, are you ok? What happened?”
“I feel like I got burned.” I worm my way out of her grasp. “Did any of it get on you? I really don’t think you should be touching me.”
My lower back is still on fire. “Jess, I’m gonna turn around now, and I need you to tell me if you see anything weird, ok?”
“Baby, you’re scaring me.” Her eyes are so big, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her shiver quite like she’s shivering now.
“I’m scared too.” I say, and then I turn.
Her gasp fills my little bathroom, and I know something is so wrong. “Jess?” She snaps a picture behind me, the flash is shockingly bright and unexpected.
“Turn around, you’ve got to see this,” she says.
I turn and she’s holding her phone out to me in shaking hands. There’s a one emblazoned on my lower back in a single, big, bold letter. The skin around it is all red and inflamed. I raise my wrist to the light and it still says 66.
“Jess, what time is it?”
“It’s late, why?”
“The exact time, what is it?”
She looks at her phone, “11:58 PM, I didn’t get your text until late.”
“11:58,” I say, and when I look her I can see the exact moment she realizes, and the color drains out of her face.
Jess wraps her arms me, buries her face in my shoulder, and says “I’m going to hold you for the next two minutes, and there’s you can do about it.”
We pass the two longest minutes of our lives like that, blotches ink still racing around under skin, her face in my shoulder, planting tender kisses on me every few moments, my back burning where a number that should not be has written itself into me.
11:59, I’m counting the seconds.
Midnight.
Nothing changes.
“Jess,” I say. She leans back, still holding onto me and I kiss her so deep, my fears about the ink and her touch temporarily forgotten. When we break the kiss we’re both gasping for air and there’s a fire in her eyes that does something to me. But then I look down at my wrist and it reads 65, and she sees too and whimpers and the fire goes. “I’m going to turn around now,” I say, “I need you to tell me if it changed.”
She nods and I turn, and she doesn’t even need to say anything because a moment later I feel her finger tracing a zero on my back.
And then in the apartment next door, a man starts screaming.
r/TurningtoWords
[part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/mv472p/wp_yesterday_i_wrote_the_number_69_on_my_wrist_as/gvah3az?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3) | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said. “I’m calling about your markers. I wrote a little something on my arm and it’s not washing off.”
“Of course, we can help with that,” the woman on the phone said in a cheery voice. “Let me just ask you a few questions. What exactly did you write?
Kevin hesitated. “Is that really relevant?”
“I’m just trying to get a full picture of the situation. It’s all right if it was a penis. Nine times out of ten it’s a penis.”
“What?" Kevin laughed nervously. "No. No not at all. It’s a number.”
“Ah, so you’re an honorary member of the Pen 15 club? Classic.”
“No! It’s *just* a number. It’s the number... oh I don't know, let's say 49. How do I get it off?”
“Oh,” the woman said, sounding relieved. “Well the number 49 shouldn’t be a problem. You’re just going to need to wash it with a little bit of soap and water.”
“Yes, I’ve tried that.”
“I see. Well in that case you’ll need to wash it with a *lot* of soap and water.”
“I’ve tried that as well.”
“Of course. In that case, I recommend turning it off and on.”
“Turning what off and on?”
“Sorry, I moonlight as tech support. Just go to sleep and try again tomorrow.”
Kevin hung up the phone and looked down at his arm. The number 69 remained written on his arm, bold and black, not even remotely faded from all his removal efforts.
Kevin woke up the next morning and immediately held his arm up to his face. The number had changed. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but it was clear as day—the number now read 68. It must have smudged and spread in his sleep. He tried washing it off again to no avail. He was back on the phone within thirty minutes.
“Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?” It was the same woman as the other day.
“Hi I think we spoke over the phone yesterday? I told you I couldn’t get the marker off my skin and you told me to turn myself off and on.”
“Were you penis on forehead or penis on lower back guy?”
“Neither! I was number on arm guy!”
“What was the number?”
“Well see, that’s the thing. Yesterday it was one number… today it’s another number. It’s still not coming off, but the number changed.”
“Sir, what are the numbers?”
“Well if you must know, yesterday it was 69 and today it’s 68.”
The woman paused. When she spoke her voice was far less cheery. “69?”
“Yes,” Kevin replied.
“You didn’t tell me it was 69,” she said flatly
“Well it didn’t seem relevant at the time, did it?”
“Relevant? Of course it’s relevant! Sir I’m going to need to put you on hold.”
“On hold?” Kevin was frustrated. “Why is that necessary? Just tell me what to wash it off with! Vinegar? I got vinegar. I got all the vinegars—white, rice, even apple cider. Maybe a combination? Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”
Kevin waited a moment but no response came. “Hello?” he asked. Still no response. He was on hold.
After five minutes of waiting, another voice answered. This time, a man. “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, this is Mr. Mike speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said, trying to remain polite yet convey his displeasure through tone alone. “I was just speaking with one of your employees. I wrote the number 69 on my arm and—”
“Oh god!” Mr. Mike wailed. "Not again!”
Kevin was disarmed. “Uh… what?”
“Sorry, that was uncalled for,” Mr. Mike said, in a marginally more collected manner. “Don’t worry I’m not panicking at all.”
“Okay," Kevin said, trying not to panic himself. "Should I see a doctor?”
“A doctor?” Mr. Mike scoffed. “Oh no not a doctor. An exorcist, maybe. A shrink, let’s wait and see. But a doctor? You’re better off seeing a tattoo artist.”
“An exorcist? *What?*” Kevin said, thoroughly confused at this point. “Look I need some answers. What’s going on here? I got some ink on me, and I need to get it off. That's it.”
“Calm down,” Mr. Mike said soothingly.
“I am calm.”
“No, I was speaking to myself, you got me all rattled. Okay sir, here’s the deal. We started selling these markers just a few weeks ago. We ran some product tests, but only up to the number 50. I mean, there’s infinite numbers after all. We had to draw the line somewhere. Anywho, it turns out that of all the numbers out there, a *lot* of people like the number 69."
None of this made sense to Kevin, but there was one thing he did take away. “So I’m not the first?” he asked.
“No not at all. That’s the good news. Well, for you at least. People have been inking 69 all over themselves from the day we started selling the markers. And in each case, the number doesn’t wipe off. It just counts down.”
Kevin felt a rage bubble up inside of him. "You knew it doesn't wipe off and you kept selling them?!"
"There's infinite numbers!" Mr. Mike exclaimed. "What are the odds people would keep writing 69? I'll tell you the odds—one in *infinity!* We can't be responsible for that.”
Kevin rubbed his temples. "Okay. So you said something about the numbers counting down? That's not normal. I don't want to hear the science behind it, but what happens when it hits zero? Does it go away then?”
“No clue. But the first of our test subjects—I mean customers—will find out in about 40 days. Stay tuned. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Wait!” Kevin yelled, the panic bubbling back up. “What the hell kind of operation are you running here? It shouldn’t *matter* what number I write, either way it’s just ink isn’t it? It’s just regular marker right?”
“A *regular marker?!*" Mr. Mike scoffed. "I'll tell you what kind of operation we're *not* running, and that's an operation founded upon false advertisement! They’re labeled *magic* markers for a reason, buddy!” Mr. Mike hung up.
Kevin stood there mouth open. He didn't know what the hell was going on but he knew one thing. This was the last time he bought household items off Craigslist.
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | I slept off the whole of the second day because of my bender on day one, and a third day of hair of the dog left me in no proper mood to panic, but today? Today is panic time, because I’m finally sober enough to realize that the number on my wrist isn’t some stupid tattoo the boys forced me to get after we stumbled out of the bar Friday night. It wasn’t carved into my skin with ink too permanent to be washed off. It was sketched on with sharpie, and I’ve even found the sharpie, and when I started it said 69 (because I’m classy like that,) not 68 or 67 or 66.
Worse still, every time I try to wash it off the ink actually does run a little, but in such a way that the number doesn’t fade. Rather, a black streak runs down from my left wrist to the crook of my arm, sinks into the veins there, and then travels in an inky streak beneath my skin.
So today, on the fourth day since I wrote the damn thing, and on the first day I’ve been sober enough to panic about it, I’m washing and washing and washing and watching the numbers travel.
There are four separate streaks of ink slithering across me. I almost wish I could feel them move but I can’t. I’m in front of the bathroom mirror in my boxers when the doorbell rings and help arrives.
“It’s unlocked!” I shout. The door to my little apartment opens and I can hear Jess bustle in. She throws down the bag she always carries and it thuds heavily.
“Cal?” she says.
“I’m in the bathroom! Uhhh…yeah, the bathroom!” I think about warning her for a moment, but what would I even say?
“You better not be doing anything gross!” Her footsteps draw nearer, the ink still slithers, I think I’m going insane. “I swear, if you are I’m breaking—”
Jess turns the corner, sees me standing there almost naked, smiles for just a second, and then shrieks.
It’s about the reaction I was expecting.
“Cal, what the hell is that?” she asks, pointing at a streak of black ink that’s doing figure eights on my chest.
I shake my head, “I’ve got no idea, I just woke up like this. I’ve been trying to wash the ink off for an hour but it just keeps running and running. I didn’t know who else to call.”
She takes a step forward like she’s going to hug me and I leap back, holding out a hand. “Woah, woah, no! Not until we know what this is. I didn’t call you over to get it on you, I just needed help, I’m freaking out over here!”
“Help? Did you call 911?"
“911? And what would I say to them, I wrote the number 69 on my wrist while I was drunk and now I think my sharpie’s possessed?”
Her jaw drops. Jess stares at me like grown another head, and then her eyes dart to wrist and the number 66 there and she’s laughing so hard. “You sure it was 69? Cal, how drunk did you get this time? I swear, it’s like I can’t leave you alone.”
“It was definitely 69,” I say.
“Looks like 66 to me.”
“Yeah? Well it’s only been that since I woke up.” I pull out my phone, and start her pictures. I didn’t have one of 69, but I snapped a blurry 68 in one of the few moments I’d been awake the next day, and 67 was crystal clear.
“You’re fucking with me,” she says.
“Jess, I wish I was fucking with you. I love fucking with you. But if I was half naked and doing that, wouldn’t think I’d have tried to pull some shit already?”
That gives her pause. I can see her eyes dart down to the black lines in my skin again, following them on their weird circuitous journey. “Look,” I say, “watch this.” Then I wet the sponge and squirt some soap on it and start scrubbing at the number again.
Only this time I’m not at it long enough to start it running again. A few seconds later I feel a sudden, blinding pain, like someone’s taken a hot poker out of a fire and jammed itinto my lower back. I fall, barely catching myself against the sink and Jess wraps her arms me, calling my name. I want to push her off but I can’t, I’m in too much pain and she’s too strong. When I come to she’s holding me, mopping at my sweaty brow with a towel as she whispers my name.
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Cal! Baby, are you ok? What happened?”
“I feel like I got burned.” I worm my way out of her grasp. “Did any of it get on you? I really don’t think you should be touching me.”
My lower back is still on fire. “Jess, I’m gonna turn around now, and I need you to tell me if you see anything weird, ok?”
“Baby, you’re scaring me.” Her eyes are so big, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her shiver quite like she’s shivering now.
“I’m scared too.” I say, and then I turn.
Her gasp fills my little bathroom, and I know something is so wrong. “Jess?” She snaps a picture behind me, the flash is shockingly bright and unexpected.
“Turn around, you’ve got to see this,” she says.
I turn and she’s holding her phone out to me in shaking hands. There’s a one emblazoned on my lower back in a single, big, bold letter. The skin around it is all red and inflamed. I raise my wrist to the light and it still says 66.
“Jess, what time is it?”
“It’s late, why?”
“The exact time, what is it?”
She looks at her phone, “11:58 PM, I didn’t get your text until late.”
“11:58,” I say, and when I look her I can see the exact moment she realizes, and the color drains out of her face.
Jess wraps her arms me, buries her face in my shoulder, and says “I’m going to hold you for the next two minutes, and there’s you can do about it.”
We pass the two longest minutes of our lives like that, blotches ink still racing around under skin, her face in my shoulder, planting tender kisses on me every few moments, my back burning where a number that should not be has written itself into me.
11:59, I’m counting the seconds.
Midnight.
Nothing changes.
“Jess,” I say. She leans back, still holding onto me and I kiss her so deep, my fears about the ink and her touch temporarily forgotten. When we break the kiss we’re both gasping for air and there’s a fire in her eyes that does something to me. But then I look down at my wrist and it reads 65, and she sees too and whimpers and the fire goes. “I’m going to turn around now,” I say, “I need you to tell me if it changed.”
She nods and I turn, and she doesn’t even need to say anything because a moment later I feel her finger tracing a zero on my back.
And then in the apartment next door, a man starts screaming.
r/TurningtoWords
[part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/mv472p/wp_yesterday_i_wrote_the_number_69_on_my_wrist_as/gvah3az?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3) | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | I sat in the bar, staring at my hand, the cosmic joke that was being played on me. My target sat next to me, drinking heavily. I didn’t like taking advantage of someone left vulnerable by his circumstances. But I was sure I would be able to save everyone when it came down to it.
I continued to work on him, subtly leading him to the path I wanted him to go down.
It was all horrible. But I liked to live.
The number on my hand read 2.
******
It was a silly joke. I got at least five “Nice” comments. Which was exactly what I was going for. Till the next day when the number said 68.
I tried everything. But the number stayed. And the number kept counting down.
I was scared out of my mind. It was like a guillotine hanging over me, coming ever closer. What would happen when it hit 0?
I quit my job, forgot everything else. I’d just sit at home staring at the number. It had taken over my life. I discovered it changed at exactly midnight.
That was what convinced me. It was counting down days. I was going to die in 50 days.
The next 20 days I spent in a drunken haze, trying to drink all my sorrows away. I didn’t have any family. All my friends who tried to help me, I pushed away. They couldn’t help me. Nobody could.
And so it continued.
When the number was down to 19, it happened. I was walking down to the store when I heard a crash. An accident. I saw a woman and a little kid stuck in the twisted metal trying to escape somehow.
I had nothing to lose.
I went in, pulling them away at the last moment.
That midnight the number went to 21.
I had a ray of hope.
The next day I sat in my car, listening to the police scanner.
Our city is a cesspool of crime and sin. There was always something going on. My first two tries failed. The cops got there before me. It was on the third that I succeeded.
Someone was robbing a small liquor store. I was close.
I saw the perp, no older than 20, with his gun pointed at the cashier. I ran, full speed, tackling the suspect. The gun went off, but luckily nowhere close to his target.
The cops clapped me on the back, appreciating what I had done. That night, the number climbed to 22.
For the next couple of days, there was nothing. The next night there was a bank robbery attempt. I broke free from the police line and ran into the bank.
I took the robber by surprise but he still got a few shots off.
The cops managed to subdue him. But they also arrested me for interfering in their work and endangering lives.
Oh, and the robber managed to kill 3 people before swat took him down.
That night as I sat in holding, the number went down to 17.
By the time I made bail, the number was down to 4 and I was getting desperate.
And so I did what I should’ve done the first time. I put on a mask.
I went around the city, trying to, and helping people.
It worked for a while too. Over the next week I was able to get the number back into double digits.
But then I hit a rough patch.
I couldn’t save anyone.
The number kept counting down.
******
He looked sufficiently wound up as he left.
Ryan Johnson, fired from the TekSystems group, twice divorced with his 2nd wife also a coworker was an angry man. Angry enough at the world to build a bomb. Guided by me, of course.
I didn’t like it, but I liked the idea of dying even less.
I would be the hero, saving hundreds of lives, giving myself room to breathe. And of course, if this worked, then I could always encourage more people to try things like that and save them. If it didn’t, well then I was dead anyways.
Of course, my bad luck just continued. Ryan didn’t follow the instructions properly. The bomb wasn’t supposed to go off till 10 when the office would be completely filled. But the idiot made some mistake in the triggering circuit and the bomb went off at 8:30. I was still putting on my superhero costume when I heard the boom.
He was crying when I reached his home.
“Ryan! What did you do?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He was sobbing so hard that I could barely make out what he was saying.
“You moron.”
“I’m sorry.”
My anger grew and I choked that idiot and killed him on the spot.
That was when the police showed up.
They don’t understand. No one does. I’m not a villain. In fact it’s the opposite. I’m a hero. I just want to save lives.
But they don’t get it.
They still put me in jail, calling me crazy.
Here I was cleaning up the city. I just took down someone who was planning to bomb a whole building and they were calling me crazy?
Was I living in some sort of upside down world?
I sat in my jail cell waiting for the countdown, staring at my wrist.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep.
I woke up the next day, the number at -11. | # Bargain Bin Superheroes
(Arc -1, Part 4: Roger v.s. His Burgeoning Powers)
(Note: Bargain Bin Superheroes is episodic; each part is self-contained. This story can be enjoyed without reading the previous sections.)
**The best method of discovering one's superpowers is an open question.** The Unified Sovereignties took the approach of having its federal government monitor everyone like a hawk, and snatching up anyone who showed the slightest hint of promise; the Middle Communes had once held massive standardized tests in order to check for every known superpower; the Secular Byzantine State encouraged citizens to discover their abilities in their own time. All of them had their benefits; all of them had their drawbacks.
None of them had anything on sheer dumb luck.
Roger Eltman stared at the number on his wrist, frowning. The 6 and 8 looked... melted. As if the ink had turned runny for a moment, then dried. His brother was on the phone in the driveway; Roger sat on the gravel next to him, pondering the symbol.
"Hey, Connor?" Roger tried.
Connor gave him a fleeting glance. "One sec, Clara," he said into his phone. He turned down to his little brother. "What's up?"
"The government... likes to snatch up people who have supernatural thinger-majiggers, right?" Roger asked.
Connor's lips tightened. "Yeah. They literally *just* stole our cat for that."
Roger frowned. "I thought they said they were taking him because he was dangerous?"
Connor sighed. "Read between the lines, kiddo. They just want power, in every sense of the word. If they find something unusual, they'll try to take it for themselves."
"Unusual like... magic symbols on my arm?" Roger showed his wrist to his older brother.
Connor paused, then said into the phone, "Clara, we might have a problem. Get to my house as quickly as you can. I'm going to shut off the phone line—no telling what the Feds have wiretapped." He clicked off his phone and sealed it in a Tupperware box for good measure. "What do you mean, magic symbols?"
Roger sketched out another 69 in the gravel. "I was messing around the other day—"
Immediately, the sketched-out symbol flashed once; in the empty space where Roger had dragged his finger, clean, pure water suddenly materialized.
Connor jerked up right, backing away. "Holy—"
"Woah!" Roger stared, enraptured, at the symbol, then back at his wrist. He frowned, peering at it more closely, and took out a marker, drawing another 69 on his wrist. It flashed and summoned water—much less this time—and the ink began to run, mimicking the pattern on his other wrist. It wasn't *quite* a 68, he realized—there had just been a convenient streak of ink that had connected the left side of the 9 to the bottom.
"...Have you always been able to do this?" Connor asked.
Roger blinked. "Er. I have no idea. I... I mean, I can't remember going out of my way to draw the number 69 before..."
Connor sighed. "Of course you discovered superpowers through an internet meme. Right, this just got abruptly more complicated." He clenched a fist. "We know that the Feds aren't above snatching pets from our homes just because they have powers—I don't want to know what they'll do to you. Clara should be able to help."
"Speak of the devil, and she appears," Roger muttered under his breath. Indeed, a sleek blue car was pulling up to Connor's driveway.
"Don't talk about her like that. She's here to help," Connor snapped. "Unless you *want* to end up strapped down to a government table somewhere?"
"I might risk it if it meant avoiding *her*," Roger muttered darkly. "Sheltered little puffball."
"Maybe, but she's a *friendly* sheltered little puffball who's going to save our collective ass. So show her respect." Connor smiled at Clara as she stepped out of the car. "Hey. You got my message, right?"
"Yeah. Look, Connor, if you're worried about the government snatching you away for your powers, is this really the time to be doodling zodiac signs in the driveway?" Clara asked, pointing at the 69 on the floor.
Connor and Roger shared a glance. "...What?"
Clara knelt and etched a symbol into the gravel. "The sign of Cancer. Looks like this." She pointed at her neatly-drawn ♋on the floor.
Roger raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Yours... doesn't fill itself with water?"
"What?" Clara blinked. "Wait, yours *does*?"
Obligingly, Roger traced out the Cancer symbol again, this time in the air; Clara's eyes widened with shock as water coalesced into existence out of nothingness and fell to the gravel floor with a *splat*.
"I've read about this," Clara finally said. "Symbol manipulation. Some jerkwad supervillain had it, what, ten years back? Twenty? God, I had to write a paper on this; I should know this."
Roger gave her a dirty look; his teachers would never care enough to read or grade a paper if he wrote it, much less bother to assign him one. "You know what this is? Get to the point."
"Roger!" Connor snapped.
"No, no, he has a point. This is... well, it's a *strong* power, if it fully manifests. One that the government might... take an interest in." Clara hesitated, then said, "Try... try drawing some of the other zodiac symbols. Like, uh... what month were you born in?"
"I don't know," Roger said shortly. "Dad never bothered to tell me my birthday, and Connor was kicked out of the house before I was born. He only came back when he found out some other miserable soul was being forced to live under Dad's thumb."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"...Just, er... just try this month, then. Leo." Clara drew a ♌on the floor; irritated, Roger sketched one in the air to follow suit.
A burst of heat and light appeared as soon as he finished the sign, and Roger yelped and shook his hand. "You could have *warned* me that it would set me on *fire*!"
"I'm sorry! I didn't know that it would—that is, powers manifest differently each time, and Symbolhead had much better control—" Clara bunched her fists in her skirts. "Okay. No, okay, this—this isn't all bad."
"How is this not all bad?! The government's going to steal me, too! Just like they stole Zeus!" Roger snapped.
Clara grinned, unfazed. "Because symbol manipulation is a *potent* power, and the government can't just push you around if you have powers of your own—not if you know how to fight back. Let me run you through the rest of the symbols. If we're quick, we might be able to make a large enough show of force to get your cat back—*and* convince the government that stealing you away is more trouble than it's worth."
Roger and his older brother traded glances.
"I trust her," Connor said, "and she knows what she's doing."
Roger sighed. "Alright. Fine. Show me the symbols."
Clara nodded, kneeling down. "Right. So, the Zodiac is divided into elements—water, earth, fire, and air—which is probably what makes each of the symbols have their effect. We'll start with water, since that seems the safest..."
A.N.
I'm trying something new! "Bargain Bin Superheroes" will be an episodic story where each part is inspired by a writing prompt that catches my eye. Check out [this post](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/comments/mhzat1/bargin_bin_superheroes_masterpost/) for the rest of the story, and subscribe to r/bubblewriters for more. If you have any feedback, please leave it below. As always, I had fun writing this, and I hope you have a good day. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said. “I’m calling about your markers. I wrote a little something on my arm and it’s not washing off.”
“Of course, we can help with that,” the woman on the phone said in a cheery voice. “Let me just ask you a few questions. What exactly did you write?
Kevin hesitated. “Is that really relevant?”
“I’m just trying to get a full picture of the situation. It’s all right if it was a penis. Nine times out of ten it’s a penis.”
“What?" Kevin laughed nervously. "No. No not at all. It’s a number.”
“Ah, so you’re an honorary member of the Pen 15 club? Classic.”
“No! It’s *just* a number. It’s the number... oh I don't know, let's say 49. How do I get it off?”
“Oh,” the woman said, sounding relieved. “Well the number 49 shouldn’t be a problem. You’re just going to need to wash it with a little bit of soap and water.”
“Yes, I’ve tried that.”
“I see. Well in that case you’ll need to wash it with a *lot* of soap and water.”
“I’ve tried that as well.”
“Of course. In that case, I recommend turning it off and on.”
“Turning what off and on?”
“Sorry, I moonlight as tech support. Just go to sleep and try again tomorrow.”
Kevin hung up the phone and looked down at his arm. The number 69 remained written on his arm, bold and black, not even remotely faded from all his removal efforts.
Kevin woke up the next morning and immediately held his arm up to his face. The number had changed. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but it was clear as day—the number now read 68. It must have smudged and spread in his sleep. He tried washing it off again to no avail. He was back on the phone within thirty minutes.
“Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?” It was the same woman as the other day.
“Hi I think we spoke over the phone yesterday? I told you I couldn’t get the marker off my skin and you told me to turn myself off and on.”
“Were you penis on forehead or penis on lower back guy?”
“Neither! I was number on arm guy!”
“What was the number?”
“Well see, that’s the thing. Yesterday it was one number… today it’s another number. It’s still not coming off, but the number changed.”
“Sir, what are the numbers?”
“Well if you must know, yesterday it was 69 and today it’s 68.”
The woman paused. When she spoke her voice was far less cheery. “69?”
“Yes,” Kevin replied.
“You didn’t tell me it was 69,” she said flatly
“Well it didn’t seem relevant at the time, did it?”
“Relevant? Of course it’s relevant! Sir I’m going to need to put you on hold.”
“On hold?” Kevin was frustrated. “Why is that necessary? Just tell me what to wash it off with! Vinegar? I got vinegar. I got all the vinegars—white, rice, even apple cider. Maybe a combination? Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”
Kevin waited a moment but no response came. “Hello?” he asked. Still no response. He was on hold.
After five minutes of waiting, another voice answered. This time, a man. “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, this is Mr. Mike speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said, trying to remain polite yet convey his displeasure through tone alone. “I was just speaking with one of your employees. I wrote the number 69 on my arm and—”
“Oh god!” Mr. Mike wailed. "Not again!”
Kevin was disarmed. “Uh… what?”
“Sorry, that was uncalled for,” Mr. Mike said, in a marginally more collected manner. “Don’t worry I’m not panicking at all.”
“Okay," Kevin said, trying not to panic himself. "Should I see a doctor?”
“A doctor?” Mr. Mike scoffed. “Oh no not a doctor. An exorcist, maybe. A shrink, let’s wait and see. But a doctor? You’re better off seeing a tattoo artist.”
“An exorcist? *What?*” Kevin said, thoroughly confused at this point. “Look I need some answers. What’s going on here? I got some ink on me, and I need to get it off. That's it.”
“Calm down,” Mr. Mike said soothingly.
“I am calm.”
“No, I was speaking to myself, you got me all rattled. Okay sir, here’s the deal. We started selling these markers just a few weeks ago. We ran some product tests, but only up to the number 50. I mean, there’s infinite numbers after all. We had to draw the line somewhere. Anywho, it turns out that of all the numbers out there, a *lot* of people like the number 69."
None of this made sense to Kevin, but there was one thing he did take away. “So I’m not the first?” he asked.
“No not at all. That’s the good news. Well, for you at least. People have been inking 69 all over themselves from the day we started selling the markers. And in each case, the number doesn’t wipe off. It just counts down.”
Kevin felt a rage bubble up inside of him. "You knew it doesn't wipe off and you kept selling them?!"
"There's infinite numbers!" Mr. Mike exclaimed. "What are the odds people would keep writing 69? I'll tell you the odds—one in *infinity!* We can't be responsible for that.”
Kevin rubbed his temples. "Okay. So you said something about the numbers counting down? That's not normal. I don't want to hear the science behind it, but what happens when it hits zero? Does it go away then?”
“No clue. But the first of our test subjects—I mean customers—will find out in about 40 days. Stay tuned. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Wait!” Kevin yelled, the panic bubbling back up. “What the hell kind of operation are you running here? It shouldn’t *matter* what number I write, either way it’s just ink isn’t it? It’s just regular marker right?”
“A *regular marker?!*" Mr. Mike scoffed. "I'll tell you what kind of operation we're *not* running, and that's an operation founded upon false advertisement! They’re labeled *magic* markers for a reason, buddy!” Mr. Mike hung up.
Kevin stood there mouth open. He didn't know what the hell was going on but he knew one thing. This was the last time he bought household items off Craigslist.
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | # Bargain Bin Superheroes
(Arc -1, Part 4: Roger v.s. His Burgeoning Powers)
(Note: Bargain Bin Superheroes is episodic; each part is self-contained. This story can be enjoyed without reading the previous sections.)
**The best method of discovering one's superpowers is an open question.** The Unified Sovereignties took the approach of having its federal government monitor everyone like a hawk, and snatching up anyone who showed the slightest hint of promise; the Middle Communes had once held massive standardized tests in order to check for every known superpower; the Secular Byzantine State encouraged citizens to discover their abilities in their own time. All of them had their benefits; all of them had their drawbacks.
None of them had anything on sheer dumb luck.
Roger Eltman stared at the number on his wrist, frowning. The 6 and 8 looked... melted. As if the ink had turned runny for a moment, then dried. His brother was on the phone in the driveway; Roger sat on the gravel next to him, pondering the symbol.
"Hey, Connor?" Roger tried.
Connor gave him a fleeting glance. "One sec, Clara," he said into his phone. He turned down to his little brother. "What's up?"
"The government... likes to snatch up people who have supernatural thinger-majiggers, right?" Roger asked.
Connor's lips tightened. "Yeah. They literally *just* stole our cat for that."
Roger frowned. "I thought they said they were taking him because he was dangerous?"
Connor sighed. "Read between the lines, kiddo. They just want power, in every sense of the word. If they find something unusual, they'll try to take it for themselves."
"Unusual like... magic symbols on my arm?" Roger showed his wrist to his older brother.
Connor paused, then said into the phone, "Clara, we might have a problem. Get to my house as quickly as you can. I'm going to shut off the phone line—no telling what the Feds have wiretapped." He clicked off his phone and sealed it in a Tupperware box for good measure. "What do you mean, magic symbols?"
Roger sketched out another 69 in the gravel. "I was messing around the other day—"
Immediately, the sketched-out symbol flashed once; in the empty space where Roger had dragged his finger, clean, pure water suddenly materialized.
Connor jerked up right, backing away. "Holy—"
"Woah!" Roger stared, enraptured, at the symbol, then back at his wrist. He frowned, peering at it more closely, and took out a marker, drawing another 69 on his wrist. It flashed and summoned water—much less this time—and the ink began to run, mimicking the pattern on his other wrist. It wasn't *quite* a 68, he realized—there had just been a convenient streak of ink that had connected the left side of the 9 to the bottom.
"...Have you always been able to do this?" Connor asked.
Roger blinked. "Er. I have no idea. I... I mean, I can't remember going out of my way to draw the number 69 before..."
Connor sighed. "Of course you discovered superpowers through an internet meme. Right, this just got abruptly more complicated." He clenched a fist. "We know that the Feds aren't above snatching pets from our homes just because they have powers—I don't want to know what they'll do to you. Clara should be able to help."
"Speak of the devil, and she appears," Roger muttered under his breath. Indeed, a sleek blue car was pulling up to Connor's driveway.
"Don't talk about her like that. She's here to help," Connor snapped. "Unless you *want* to end up strapped down to a government table somewhere?"
"I might risk it if it meant avoiding *her*," Roger muttered darkly. "Sheltered little puffball."
"Maybe, but she's a *friendly* sheltered little puffball who's going to save our collective ass. So show her respect." Connor smiled at Clara as she stepped out of the car. "Hey. You got my message, right?"
"Yeah. Look, Connor, if you're worried about the government snatching you away for your powers, is this really the time to be doodling zodiac signs in the driveway?" Clara asked, pointing at the 69 on the floor.
Connor and Roger shared a glance. "...What?"
Clara knelt and etched a symbol into the gravel. "The sign of Cancer. Looks like this." She pointed at her neatly-drawn ♋on the floor.
Roger raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Yours... doesn't fill itself with water?"
"What?" Clara blinked. "Wait, yours *does*?"
Obligingly, Roger traced out the Cancer symbol again, this time in the air; Clara's eyes widened with shock as water coalesced into existence out of nothingness and fell to the gravel floor with a *splat*.
"I've read about this," Clara finally said. "Symbol manipulation. Some jerkwad supervillain had it, what, ten years back? Twenty? God, I had to write a paper on this; I should know this."
Roger gave her a dirty look; his teachers would never care enough to read or grade a paper if he wrote it, much less bother to assign him one. "You know what this is? Get to the point."
"Roger!" Connor snapped.
"No, no, he has a point. This is... well, it's a *strong* power, if it fully manifests. One that the government might... take an interest in." Clara hesitated, then said, "Try... try drawing some of the other zodiac symbols. Like, uh... what month were you born in?"
"I don't know," Roger said shortly. "Dad never bothered to tell me my birthday, and Connor was kicked out of the house before I was born. He only came back when he found out some other miserable soul was being forced to live under Dad's thumb."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"...Just, er... just try this month, then. Leo." Clara drew a ♌on the floor; irritated, Roger sketched one in the air to follow suit.
A burst of heat and light appeared as soon as he finished the sign, and Roger yelped and shook his hand. "You could have *warned* me that it would set me on *fire*!"
"I'm sorry! I didn't know that it would—that is, powers manifest differently each time, and Symbolhead had much better control—" Clara bunched her fists in her skirts. "Okay. No, okay, this—this isn't all bad."
"How is this not all bad?! The government's going to steal me, too! Just like they stole Zeus!" Roger snapped.
Clara grinned, unfazed. "Because symbol manipulation is a *potent* power, and the government can't just push you around if you have powers of your own—not if you know how to fight back. Let me run you through the rest of the symbols. If we're quick, we might be able to make a large enough show of force to get your cat back—*and* convince the government that stealing you away is more trouble than it's worth."
Roger and his older brother traded glances.
"I trust her," Connor said, "and she knows what she's doing."
Roger sighed. "Alright. Fine. Show me the symbols."
Clara nodded, kneeling down. "Right. So, the Zodiac is divided into elements—water, earth, fire, and air—which is probably what makes each of the symbols have their effect. We'll start with water, since that seems the safest..."
A.N.
I'm trying something new! "Bargain Bin Superheroes" will be an episodic story where each part is inspired by a writing prompt that catches my eye. Check out [this post](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/comments/mhzat1/bargin_bin_superheroes_masterpost/) for the rest of the story, and subscribe to r/bubblewriters for more. If you have any feedback, please leave it below. As always, I had fun writing this, and I hope you have a good day. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said. “I’m calling about your markers. I wrote a little something on my arm and it’s not washing off.”
“Of course, we can help with that,” the woman on the phone said in a cheery voice. “Let me just ask you a few questions. What exactly did you write?
Kevin hesitated. “Is that really relevant?”
“I’m just trying to get a full picture of the situation. It’s all right if it was a penis. Nine times out of ten it’s a penis.”
“What?" Kevin laughed nervously. "No. No not at all. It’s a number.”
“Ah, so you’re an honorary member of the Pen 15 club? Classic.”
“No! It’s *just* a number. It’s the number... oh I don't know, let's say 49. How do I get it off?”
“Oh,” the woman said, sounding relieved. “Well the number 49 shouldn’t be a problem. You’re just going to need to wash it with a little bit of soap and water.”
“Yes, I’ve tried that.”
“I see. Well in that case you’ll need to wash it with a *lot* of soap and water.”
“I’ve tried that as well.”
“Of course. In that case, I recommend turning it off and on.”
“Turning what off and on?”
“Sorry, I moonlight as tech support. Just go to sleep and try again tomorrow.”
Kevin hung up the phone and looked down at his arm. The number 69 remained written on his arm, bold and black, not even remotely faded from all his removal efforts.
Kevin woke up the next morning and immediately held his arm up to his face. The number had changed. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but it was clear as day—the number now read 68. It must have smudged and spread in his sleep. He tried washing it off again to no avail. He was back on the phone within thirty minutes.
“Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?” It was the same woman as the other day.
“Hi I think we spoke over the phone yesterday? I told you I couldn’t get the marker off my skin and you told me to turn myself off and on.”
“Were you penis on forehead or penis on lower back guy?”
“Neither! I was number on arm guy!”
“What was the number?”
“Well see, that’s the thing. Yesterday it was one number… today it’s another number. It’s still not coming off, but the number changed.”
“Sir, what are the numbers?”
“Well if you must know, yesterday it was 69 and today it’s 68.”
The woman paused. When she spoke her voice was far less cheery. “69?”
“Yes,” Kevin replied.
“You didn’t tell me it was 69,” she said flatly
“Well it didn’t seem relevant at the time, did it?”
“Relevant? Of course it’s relevant! Sir I’m going to need to put you on hold.”
“On hold?” Kevin was frustrated. “Why is that necessary? Just tell me what to wash it off with! Vinegar? I got vinegar. I got all the vinegars—white, rice, even apple cider. Maybe a combination? Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”
Kevin waited a moment but no response came. “Hello?” he asked. Still no response. He was on hold.
After five minutes of waiting, another voice answered. This time, a man. “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, this is Mr. Mike speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said, trying to remain polite yet convey his displeasure through tone alone. “I was just speaking with one of your employees. I wrote the number 69 on my arm and—”
“Oh god!” Mr. Mike wailed. "Not again!”
Kevin was disarmed. “Uh… what?”
“Sorry, that was uncalled for,” Mr. Mike said, in a marginally more collected manner. “Don’t worry I’m not panicking at all.”
“Okay," Kevin said, trying not to panic himself. "Should I see a doctor?”
“A doctor?” Mr. Mike scoffed. “Oh no not a doctor. An exorcist, maybe. A shrink, let’s wait and see. But a doctor? You’re better off seeing a tattoo artist.”
“An exorcist? *What?*” Kevin said, thoroughly confused at this point. “Look I need some answers. What’s going on here? I got some ink on me, and I need to get it off. That's it.”
“Calm down,” Mr. Mike said soothingly.
“I am calm.”
“No, I was speaking to myself, you got me all rattled. Okay sir, here’s the deal. We started selling these markers just a few weeks ago. We ran some product tests, but only up to the number 50. I mean, there’s infinite numbers after all. We had to draw the line somewhere. Anywho, it turns out that of all the numbers out there, a *lot* of people like the number 69."
None of this made sense to Kevin, but there was one thing he did take away. “So I’m not the first?” he asked.
“No not at all. That’s the good news. Well, for you at least. People have been inking 69 all over themselves from the day we started selling the markers. And in each case, the number doesn’t wipe off. It just counts down.”
Kevin felt a rage bubble up inside of him. "You knew it doesn't wipe off and you kept selling them?!"
"There's infinite numbers!" Mr. Mike exclaimed. "What are the odds people would keep writing 69? I'll tell you the odds—one in *infinity!* We can't be responsible for that.”
Kevin rubbed his temples. "Okay. So you said something about the numbers counting down? That's not normal. I don't want to hear the science behind it, but what happens when it hits zero? Does it go away then?”
“No clue. But the first of our test subjects—I mean customers—will find out in about 40 days. Stay tuned. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Wait!” Kevin yelled, the panic bubbling back up. “What the hell kind of operation are you running here? It shouldn’t *matter* what number I write, either way it’s just ink isn’t it? It’s just regular marker right?”
“A *regular marker?!*" Mr. Mike scoffed. "I'll tell you what kind of operation we're *not* running, and that's an operation founded upon false advertisement! They’re labeled *magic* markers for a reason, buddy!” Mr. Mike hung up.
Kevin stood there mouth open. He didn't know what the hell was going on but he knew one thing. This was the last time he bought household items off Craigslist.
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | I sat in the bar, staring at my hand, the cosmic joke that was being played on me. My target sat next to me, drinking heavily. I didn’t like taking advantage of someone left vulnerable by his circumstances. But I was sure I would be able to save everyone when it came down to it.
I continued to work on him, subtly leading him to the path I wanted him to go down.
It was all horrible. But I liked to live.
The number on my hand read 2.
******
It was a silly joke. I got at least five “Nice” comments. Which was exactly what I was going for. Till the next day when the number said 68.
I tried everything. But the number stayed. And the number kept counting down.
I was scared out of my mind. It was like a guillotine hanging over me, coming ever closer. What would happen when it hit 0?
I quit my job, forgot everything else. I’d just sit at home staring at the number. It had taken over my life. I discovered it changed at exactly midnight.
That was what convinced me. It was counting down days. I was going to die in 50 days.
The next 20 days I spent in a drunken haze, trying to drink all my sorrows away. I didn’t have any family. All my friends who tried to help me, I pushed away. They couldn’t help me. Nobody could.
And so it continued.
When the number was down to 19, it happened. I was walking down to the store when I heard a crash. An accident. I saw a woman and a little kid stuck in the twisted metal trying to escape somehow.
I had nothing to lose.
I went in, pulling them away at the last moment.
That midnight the number went to 21.
I had a ray of hope.
The next day I sat in my car, listening to the police scanner.
Our city is a cesspool of crime and sin. There was always something going on. My first two tries failed. The cops got there before me. It was on the third that I succeeded.
Someone was robbing a small liquor store. I was close.
I saw the perp, no older than 20, with his gun pointed at the cashier. I ran, full speed, tackling the suspect. The gun went off, but luckily nowhere close to his target.
The cops clapped me on the back, appreciating what I had done. That night, the number climbed to 22.
For the next couple of days, there was nothing. The next night there was a bank robbery attempt. I broke free from the police line and ran into the bank.
I took the robber by surprise but he still got a few shots off.
The cops managed to subdue him. But they also arrested me for interfering in their work and endangering lives.
Oh, and the robber managed to kill 3 people before swat took him down.
That night as I sat in holding, the number went down to 17.
By the time I made bail, the number was down to 4 and I was getting desperate.
And so I did what I should’ve done the first time. I put on a mask.
I went around the city, trying to, and helping people.
It worked for a while too. Over the next week I was able to get the number back into double digits.
But then I hit a rough patch.
I couldn’t save anyone.
The number kept counting down.
******
He looked sufficiently wound up as he left.
Ryan Johnson, fired from the TekSystems group, twice divorced with his 2nd wife also a coworker was an angry man. Angry enough at the world to build a bomb. Guided by me, of course.
I didn’t like it, but I liked the idea of dying even less.
I would be the hero, saving hundreds of lives, giving myself room to breathe. And of course, if this worked, then I could always encourage more people to try things like that and save them. If it didn’t, well then I was dead anyways.
Of course, my bad luck just continued. Ryan didn’t follow the instructions properly. The bomb wasn’t supposed to go off till 10 when the office would be completely filled. But the idiot made some mistake in the triggering circuit and the bomb went off at 8:30. I was still putting on my superhero costume when I heard the boom.
He was crying when I reached his home.
“Ryan! What did you do?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He was sobbing so hard that I could barely make out what he was saying.
“You moron.”
“I’m sorry.”
My anger grew and I choked that idiot and killed him on the spot.
That was when the police showed up.
They don’t understand. No one does. I’m not a villain. In fact it’s the opposite. I’m a hero. I just want to save lives.
But they don’t get it.
They still put me in jail, calling me crazy.
Here I was cleaning up the city. I just took down someone who was planning to bomb a whole building and they were calling me crazy?
Was I living in some sort of upside down world?
I sat in my jail cell waiting for the countdown, staring at my wrist.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep.
I woke up the next day, the number at -11. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said. “I’m calling about your markers. I wrote a little something on my arm and it’s not washing off.”
“Of course, we can help with that,” the woman on the phone said in a cheery voice. “Let me just ask you a few questions. What exactly did you write?
Kevin hesitated. “Is that really relevant?”
“I’m just trying to get a full picture of the situation. It’s all right if it was a penis. Nine times out of ten it’s a penis.”
“What?" Kevin laughed nervously. "No. No not at all. It’s a number.”
“Ah, so you’re an honorary member of the Pen 15 club? Classic.”
“No! It’s *just* a number. It’s the number... oh I don't know, let's say 49. How do I get it off?”
“Oh,” the woman said, sounding relieved. “Well the number 49 shouldn’t be a problem. You’re just going to need to wash it with a little bit of soap and water.”
“Yes, I’ve tried that.”
“I see. Well in that case you’ll need to wash it with a *lot* of soap and water.”
“I’ve tried that as well.”
“Of course. In that case, I recommend turning it off and on.”
“Turning what off and on?”
“Sorry, I moonlight as tech support. Just go to sleep and try again tomorrow.”
Kevin hung up the phone and looked down at his arm. The number 69 remained written on his arm, bold and black, not even remotely faded from all his removal efforts.
Kevin woke up the next morning and immediately held his arm up to his face. The number had changed. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but it was clear as day—the number now read 68. It must have smudged and spread in his sleep. He tried washing it off again to no avail. He was back on the phone within thirty minutes.
“Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, how can I help you?” It was the same woman as the other day.
“Hi I think we spoke over the phone yesterday? I told you I couldn’t get the marker off my skin and you told me to turn myself off and on.”
“Were you penis on forehead or penis on lower back guy?”
“Neither! I was number on arm guy!”
“What was the number?”
“Well see, that’s the thing. Yesterday it was one number… today it’s another number. It’s still not coming off, but the number changed.”
“Sir, what are the numbers?”
“Well if you must know, yesterday it was 69 and today it’s 68.”
The woman paused. When she spoke her voice was far less cheery. “69?”
“Yes,” Kevin replied.
“You didn’t tell me it was 69,” she said flatly
“Well it didn’t seem relevant at the time, did it?”
“Relevant? Of course it’s relevant! Sir I’m going to need to put you on hold.”
“On hold?” Kevin was frustrated. “Why is that necessary? Just tell me what to wash it off with! Vinegar? I got vinegar. I got all the vinegars—white, rice, even apple cider. Maybe a combination? Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”
Kevin waited a moment but no response came. “Hello?” he asked. Still no response. He was on hold.
After five minutes of waiting, another voice answered. This time, a man. “Hello, Mister Mike’s Magic Markers, this is Mr. Mike speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” Kevin said, trying to remain polite yet convey his displeasure through tone alone. “I was just speaking with one of your employees. I wrote the number 69 on my arm and—”
“Oh god!” Mr. Mike wailed. "Not again!”
Kevin was disarmed. “Uh… what?”
“Sorry, that was uncalled for,” Mr. Mike said, in a marginally more collected manner. “Don’t worry I’m not panicking at all.”
“Okay," Kevin said, trying not to panic himself. "Should I see a doctor?”
“A doctor?” Mr. Mike scoffed. “Oh no not a doctor. An exorcist, maybe. A shrink, let’s wait and see. But a doctor? You’re better off seeing a tattoo artist.”
“An exorcist? *What?*” Kevin said, thoroughly confused at this point. “Look I need some answers. What’s going on here? I got some ink on me, and I need to get it off. That's it.”
“Calm down,” Mr. Mike said soothingly.
“I am calm.”
“No, I was speaking to myself, you got me all rattled. Okay sir, here’s the deal. We started selling these markers just a few weeks ago. We ran some product tests, but only up to the number 50. I mean, there’s infinite numbers after all. We had to draw the line somewhere. Anywho, it turns out that of all the numbers out there, a *lot* of people like the number 69."
None of this made sense to Kevin, but there was one thing he did take away. “So I’m not the first?” he asked.
“No not at all. That’s the good news. Well, for you at least. People have been inking 69 all over themselves from the day we started selling the markers. And in each case, the number doesn’t wipe off. It just counts down.”
Kevin felt a rage bubble up inside of him. "You knew it doesn't wipe off and you kept selling them?!"
"There's infinite numbers!" Mr. Mike exclaimed. "What are the odds people would keep writing 69? I'll tell you the odds—one in *infinity!* We can't be responsible for that.”
Kevin rubbed his temples. "Okay. So you said something about the numbers counting down? That's not normal. I don't want to hear the science behind it, but what happens when it hits zero? Does it go away then?”
“No clue. But the first of our test subjects—I mean customers—will find out in about 40 days. Stay tuned. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Wait!” Kevin yelled, the panic bubbling back up. “What the hell kind of operation are you running here? It shouldn’t *matter* what number I write, either way it’s just ink isn’t it? It’s just regular marker right?”
“A *regular marker?!*" Mr. Mike scoffed. "I'll tell you what kind of operation we're *not* running, and that's an operation founded upon false advertisement! They’re labeled *magic* markers for a reason, buddy!” Mr. Mike hung up.
Kevin stood there mouth open. He didn't know what the hell was going on but he knew one thing. This was the last time he bought household items off Craigslist.
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | By the next day the number didn't change. It didn't wore off, and eventually my mind just omitted it. It was also small enough to be covered easily.
A year later, the number when down to 67. I didn't notice for a while. I just saw it one morning while I was brushing my teeth. For some time I felt really scared. Why did it change that time? Is there another trigger for the change? A lot of anxious thoughts just rumbled through my mind.
I was still young, 29 years old when the number changed to 68. As time passed, I just learned to live with the changing numbers. Each year in the same date, getting closer to zero. It felt like a reminder of my mortality, but I didn't have more information on it. I didn't know why it started happening, and I couldn't be sure of what will happened at the end.
As I approached my late 80s, I finally saw the numbers decrease to a digit. I had already lived a full life. Nobody in my family ever got to live that far away. I had lost a lot of people through the years, but I also gained precious moments with all of them. As new generations came to life, I saw my family increase, being happy even in the hardest of times.
Some time before that I was already wondering if I'd actually live up to 97. It felt so long and so short at the same time. As the time approached, I just thought about those that I missed, those that will miss me once I'm gone, and those that I will never get to know. I feel grateful, and rather melancholic.
The number in my hand... A transcendental dirty joke, that changed in more than one way my own views on life. As an atomic clock, ready but ignorant to a future after 0, the number changed and fade away.
I was alive, I was conscious. What had happened? What had changed? Some exceptional degree of freedom rose in my heart, all anxiety regarding time just disappeared. Unburdened mortality, a path with a certain end, but a beautiful path nonetheless. | |
[WP] Yesterday I wrote the number 69 on my wrist as a joke. Today it's 68, and now it's not washing off. | Fate has a hell of a way of working.
It started as a dumb joke. Picture me walking home drunk with my friends. We were NYU kids, and we looked like most freshmen: some of us rich, some of us naive, most of us just craving the unknown.
I thought I was gonna be friends with these guys for the rest of my life.
So there I was — again, drunk, belt-out-showtunes drunk — staggering home when one of my buddies slapped my chest and said, "Hey, look at that."
I looked.
Thinking now, I don't remember who said it, or even the sound of their voice. I remember a black hoodie, the hood drawn up, the face imperceptible except for a smirk.
But I looked and I saw the advertisement winking on a wall of downtown lights: **HEY, RYAN -- 69 DAYS. WRITE IT DOWN. DON'T FORGET.**
I giggled the way only a happy nineteen year old with a fake ID could. "Weird. That's my name."
They passed me a sharpie and said, "Write it down. It says don't forget."
"Dude, who the fuck brings a sharpie to go drinking?" I said, laughing. And I turned my head.
But whoever was there was gone.
My roommate Jack asked me, "What's the matter?"
I looked back at the sign, and it had changed to advertising some overpriced jeans.
But I still held the marker.
I don't know why. I was drunk.
Please let that be why.
I don't know. I ask myself still if I ever had a choice, or if the moment that stranger in the hood spoke, my mind was already clockworked to a single possible end.
I uncapped the marker. I wrote the number down. 69. Haha. My friends would call me a stupid asshole later for a middle school level joke.
And I followed my friends, into the night.
\*\*\*
Next day: 68.
"Nice prank," I told Jack that morning at the dining hall, showing him my wrist.
Jack scowled at me. He stood in the clothes from last night, sleep-rumpled, my own face reflecting back in his aviator sunglasses. He said, "My dude you gotta stop yelling at me. My head hurts so bad there's like... fuckinnn tectonic plate activity in there."
"I'm talking normally."
"Oh my god that's what I mean. You're shouting."
I pat his shoulder and say, "You're gonna have a rough morning, because we have bio lab in like an hour."
"Kill me, dude."
I went back to the dorms to take a shower before class. But no matter how hard I scrubbed in the shower, the number didn't fade.
My wrist was a bright angry red, but the number 68 was tattoo-fresh.
Not a joke even my drunk asshole of a friend could pull off.
I did the only thing I could do. I went to class. I ignored it.
I wonder if I had a choice in that, too. When something like this happens to you, you'll always be glancing back over your shoulder at time. Looking for missed footholds. Things you could have done or changed.
I ignored it for 67 days.
When it reached the number 1.
When I thought I was going insane.
When I was so certain, with this paranoid deep-pulsing certainty, that if it reached zero, I would die.
I was too afraid to show my buddies. I flaked off in the last week or so, as my anxiety started looming on me like mold in an old house. Choking me inside out. If I saw them, they'd confirm its realness. Or I'd have to question their realness, because what if I'm only hallucinating them seeing my hallucination?
So I stayed in my dorm all day, skipped class, turned off my phone. Everything. I was lucky it was a Saturday and Jack was almost certainly going to stay the night with his girlfriend.
At least I thought I was lucky, until midnight hit, and the door started rattling. When the door didn't budge, the person started knocking with a quiet, consistent urgent.
I bolted upright in bed.
What was that poem? I was a business major, not English, but it echoed from some long-forgotten English 101 requirement: *something rapping, something gently tapping, at my chamber door.*
That number on my wrist said 0 and I'd never been so certain I was a goner. Like some cheap horror movie, I could picture the grim reaper hulked on the other side of the door.
"Open up," the voice hissed, "quick."
It was familiar, but not. Like seeing an old friends reflection in a carnival mirror.
I heard a dude from a couple doors down scoff in the hall. "What's wrong, Ryan? Forgot your key again?"
"Shit, I hope not," said the too-familiar voice again with a laugh that was my laugh and I realized it was my voice. "Hopefully Jack's home."
He said that pointedly, urgently.
I stood up. Everything within me urged, like a low wordless biological scream, to open the door, everything depended upon opening that door right now.
There was never a choice.
I unlocked the door knob. I opened the door, standing on the other side of it, out of sight
The me who was not me said, "Oh, shit, thanks Jack."
He stepped into the room and slammed the door shut.
I blinked at him. At me. A living mirror that was me, stuck out of time. The other me wore a black hoodie, and his eyes were stern.
"Listen," he said. "I don't have a ton of time to explain. Here's what you need to know: we're in a time knot. Well, more like a time mobius strip, but we're not exactly math majors, are we?"
*We.* My skin shivered.
I said, "So I really have gone crazy."
"No, time has. Mildly. We're... there's a blip in our timeline. A recursion. We're one time-data-error away from deleting out of existence forever."
I stared at myself and he stared back and I felt the bear trap of time close around me.
"At some point, we fell out of time for the first time. We went back, to that night we saw the warning. And if we keep going back and keep going back, we'll still exist."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Only for this one small infinity. Time exists all at the same time We're dead, eventually. But if we don't do this, there will be no more us, dead or alive."
"I don't get any of this."
"No, because you're still the first one of us to go back. You'll get it next time you come back here and talk to us." He pulled off the black hoodie and tossed it at me, along with a sharpie. "You'll need these."
I just stared at myself.
Then, like clockwork, always like clockwork, I put the sweater on.
"What are you going to do?"
"Stay here. Like I always do." Other-me traced the concern on my face and said, "Don't worry. Time anomalies happen all the time. Most people just aren't the version of themselves who know it yet."
My mind spun with first times and always and I didn't understand, I couldn't. No one ever did.
But I saw it, when the other-me opened the door and it was nothing but black galaxy. When I walked through like a man possessed.
And I stepped out into downtown NYC on a cool spring night, and see myself, staggering drunk with my friends, with no idea what was happening.
I had no choice.
I followed.
I saw my own shocked face when I offered my past self the marker.
And as the next 69 days ticked past, I understood it all. How time can be future and present and past all at once. All at once I was born and dead and young and old, all at the same time. If you ever get stuck outside of time, you'll see: you can hold it in your palm like a handful of beads, strung together.
And I was a little bead knotted off from the rest. About the get snipped off, if I didn't keep saving myself, over and over.
Fate. Time. The weird clockwork machine of space-time that carries us all forward in an organic algorithm finer than any system man ever made.
But there are little bugs, now and then, in a series of 1s and 0s as vast as all of time.
Maybe you're a time-glitch, just like me. Don't worry. You'll know what to do, when it's time.
Fate has a way of working these things out.
\*\*\*
Thank you for reading! :) Hope it makes sense haha | By the next day the number didn't change. It didn't wore off, and eventually my mind just omitted it. It was also small enough to be covered easily.
A year later, the number when down to 67. I didn't notice for a while. I just saw it one morning while I was brushing my teeth. For some time I felt really scared. Why did it change that time? Is there another trigger for the change? A lot of anxious thoughts just rumbled through my mind.
I was still young, 29 years old when the number changed to 68. As time passed, I just learned to live with the changing numbers. Each year in the same date, getting closer to zero. It felt like a reminder of my mortality, but I didn't have more information on it. I didn't know why it started happening, and I couldn't be sure of what will happened at the end.
As I approached my late 80s, I finally saw the numbers decrease to a digit. I had already lived a full life. Nobody in my family ever got to live that far away. I had lost a lot of people through the years, but I also gained precious moments with all of them. As new generations came to life, I saw my family increase, being happy even in the hardest of times.
Some time before that I was already wondering if I'd actually live up to 97. It felt so long and so short at the same time. As the time approached, I just thought about those that I missed, those that will miss me once I'm gone, and those that I will never get to know. I feel grateful, and rather melancholic.
The number in my hand... A transcendental dirty joke, that changed in more than one way my own views on life. As an atomic clock, ready but ignorant to a future after 0, the number changed and fade away.
I was alive, I was conscious. What had happened? What had changed? Some exceptional degree of freedom rose in my heart, all anxiety regarding time just disappeared. Unburdened mortality, a path with a certain end, but a beautiful path nonetheless. | |
[WP] When humans joined the galactic union, space force & military were made into clandestine projects & continued growing in secret. When the most powerful alien race challenged the peaceful humans for sport, they & the galact union learned the hard way the human saying "Si vis pacem, para bellum" | "They're hailing us."
"Onscreen."
"Yes commander."
A human woman that he assumed was their leader appeared onscreen. They weren't very good at understanding human emotions through facial displays, but this one looked enraged.
"Have you communicated with us to come to terms? You are outmatched and know of our destructive capabilities." The Virulians had attacked the humans and destroyed a small portion of their population for sport. They did not have the technology to match up to them. They had given them six months in human time to come to an agreement for raw materials or be destroyed. Logically they assumed like all animals the humans had an instinctual will to survive. They would give up and fall in line with the others in the galactic union.
They expected her to remain enraged, but she put on a human happy face. "Yes, we reached an agreement the day after you attacked us. We are unanimous."
"If you came to an agreement why did you wait this long to contact us? We would have destroyed you in a few hours. What agreement did you reach?"
"We had a few holdouts at first, but then they saw reason. We also needed time to organize and build. Your race will be the next that the humans render extinct."
"You! Translate extinct." The commander said, pointing his furry finger at a random crewmate. He was confused when the crewmate looked scared. "What does it mean?"
"They will kill all of us, down to the last." He was confused when the commander laughed."
"Send a Virulian A class battle cruiser to destroy one of their *cities,* they need to understand that we are not bluffing."
"Yes sir!"
A few virulian ships had been flying near the human home planet called earth in hyperspace. The second they dropped from hyperspace their location fell off of the map.
"Where are they? Did they flee?"
"No..sir. They dropped from hyperspace but their locator showed critical damage in the seconds before they were destroyed."
The commander now realized that he had underestimated the humans to some degree. *If* they had truly offended them and they were united towards one common goal in theory they could have gotten a large technological jump. It wouldn't be a simple dash in, shoot, and dash out mission anymore. It would be bloody and they had a possibility of losing.
"Perhaps we can reach a more favorable agreement." He said.
"Listen, and listen well. As the elected president of this world I speak for all the humans. There will be no agreement. You killed three point five billion of us."
"Out of ten! And you humans have a high birth rate."
She ignored him and continued speaking. "You killed men, women, children, and leaders. If we submit now there is nothing to stop you from doing it again, next time taking more lives. We will not tolerate this. We will not be your slaves. It's us or you. As long as there is one damn human standing, they will fight to their last breath in the hopes of killing you. You will receive no mercy. We will not take prisoners."
The virulian rolled his eyes. "Contact central command. These apes are declaring war on us. We will teach them the meaning of submission. Cut the feed."
Before her feed was cut, the president spoke one simple sentence. "Si vis pacem, para bellum"
As they connected to central command it was quite blurry and filled with smoke on screen. Any words being spoken were unintelligible. They changed channels and picked up on the words from a distress beacon on a loop. "The Terrans are attacking. All attempts at communication have been denied. Defenses are failing. For every one ship destroyed three more drop from hyperspace. They are bombarding the planet with mass drivers. Half the population dead. I repeat, only five hundred million remain alive. Recalling all ships immediately."
"They can't be serious." He said, the horror evident in his voice. "Contact the colonies. Now! and you!: The commander said, once again pointing to the scared lowly crewmate. "Translate the apes last sentence."
He shakily typed it in then looked at his commander with complete despair.
"If you want peace, prepare for war." | "what I'm saying is that if our military is to be secret and only used as a last resort why are we following the spirit of the laws? Seriously, they were written by 34 races that have known nothing but peace for the past 1000 years or so, 3 that were just flattened by tech they don't understand and the one race doing the flattening, there are quite a few loopholes. For instance it says here no more than 1 warhead may be attached to a missile but it defines a warhead as an explosive device having no propulsion, that means cluster weapons are still in as long as we launch small missiles. That's only the first, we have 23 years, lets make sure this war is won before it starts"
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
23 years later on the 25th anniversary of humanity's admittance to the union war was declared by the summary execution of there diplomatic party stationed on the unions central station.
The images and an accompanying message reached earth the next day. "To humanity of earth, we the Atraxi hereby declare war upon you under the terms of union warfare, we nominate Henimari of the Hapiods to act as judge. Respond with your choice of judge to be joined by the head of the council to rule over all matters in this war."
"We nominate Corvex, commander of the Atraxi military as our judge, they are bound by the rules as written and should know them better than anyone"
For 7 earth days there was nothing and then came the reports, the Pluto colony fell first, it was only an observation and science station, it took less than an hour for it to be reduced to rubble, the colony on titan reported next. They had built underground to keep the heat in, after 4 hours they were buried, the attacking fleet left them to suffocate and headed for mars.
Mars had actual defences, no atmosphere means that shooting down micro asteroids was a daily occurrence, Atraxi projectile weapons were useless but their lasers could slice the domes easily enough, never doing critical damage but venting the atmosphere was plenty to render a dome inoperable. The battle of mars raged on for 36 hours as the fleet bombarded the many colonies bellow until a bright flash of light filled the sky, an explosion making a rounded mushroom cloud due to the lower gravity, then another, and another. A million explosions filled the sky burning the retinas of anyone foolish enough to look, the enemy fleet visible only to the observation telescopes was noticeably damaged but still the lasers reigned down. Another wave of explosions, and another, more in each batch, no longer 1 per ship but 5 per ship, then 10 per ship, then 100 per ship. The economic power of a Dyson Sphere was truly terrifying.
The 32% of the Martian population that remained watched as the enemy fleet ignited engines and set course for there home worlds. 12 days it took them to fly home, significantly slower due to the damage they sustained but what they found when they arrived was a sight no one had considered as an option when they had been drafting the rules of war. Where there home world should be, where 24.8 billion Atraxi should live there was rubble, a planet fractured with a crater in the side that reached into the lower mantel, at least they wouldn't have died slowly.
"Our home world is destroyed, how can you as leader of our forces sit there and tell me this is fine?"
"It is because I lead the forces that I know this, I am an official judge to this war, we outlawed the use of nuclear weaponry against hostile instillations due to the fallout but they used it on there own planet, our fleet limped home and there world is now just as dangerous as when they first started living there. They broke our home world with pure kinetic energy, not a single trace of radiation, they just accelerated a lump of iron fast enough that when it hit our world it carried the energy of an extinction level event. You know that with the amount of power each race has a war is won or lost on first strike, we killed an observation post and approximately 1.3 billion civilians, they have taken out our home, issue the terms of peace"
The communication landed on the desk of humanity a day later.
priority 1 communication
* The Atraxi wish to end the war under the terms of white peace as defined in the terms of union warfare with a proposed ceasefire effective immediately.
"your sure we can push them?"
"yes president, they lost their home world and we have rearmed our defences, they can flatten mars and do significant damage to earth but they always took the planets they wanted so never used space habitats, we could exterminate 99% of there population with the next strike if we want to"
Priority 1 communication
* \-Humanity rejects your offer of white peace.
* \-Humanity accepts a ceasefire of 7 days to permit communication between us
* \-Humanity offers you your surrender
* you will apologise for starting the war
* you will share your classified technology with the entire union
* you will make a binding statement to the union forbidding you from instigating future wars
Nukes were considered old tech and as such weren't regulated at a union level so it had been easy to mass produce them in preparation and to pre stage groups of them near to mars to allow for quick and stealthy attacks on the attacking fleet.
The planet killing weapons were even easier, a slight adjustment to the communication and transport lasers enabled them to have a much greater range of movement, they usually kept the tv's on and the freight moving about from hab to hab but all focused on a single 10 ton lump of metal with a mirror on the back and it soon had enough energy to end a civilisations age of dominance, it wasn't even expensive to fire, we had built a few hundred of them in preparation, we could always use the spares to break up large asteroids for mining.
We could never have matched their fleet ship for ship but we never needed to, we prepared for the war, now we oversee the peace. A new species is joining next month, they join a safer galaxy.
edit: fixed the there for their issue | |
[WP] When humans joined the galactic union, space force & military were made into clandestine projects & continued growing in secret. When the most powerful alien race challenged the peaceful humans for sport, they & the galact union learned the hard way the human saying "Si vis pacem, para bellum" | The Galactic Union made it's offer. And it was the offer in the best traditions of the mafia, the kind that humanity could not refuse. Disarm, dissolve it's armed forces and welcome the new age of peace.
The human diplomat that signed the Galactic Union treaty said the words "Si vis pacem, para bellum" but no one bothered to translate what that meant.
But of course that was a lie. Because even when the Union called their members equals it was made clear that some members are more equal than others. Kantor were one of them. They were one of the founding members, one of the earliest FTL capable species in the galaxy, at least according to them. And they hated change. Unfortunately for them humanity was practically the poster child of change.
When humans started building starbases to provide services along the long haul FTL routes Kantor begrudgingly had to accept that it was a good change. When human culture became popular Kantor thought it was just a passing fad. When vrin, okroh, tular and vorta and many others turned to humans for help that was the last straw. Kantor had spent thousands of years making sure that they were seen as the only ones capable of helping others in difficult times. Yes they would extract a price, an often steep price but there was no one else.
Kantor senior administrators demanded that humanity stop trying to change the Galactic Union. They demanded that colonies are abandoned, that starbases are demolished and any help they are providing others. Humanitarian aid must stop. Medical assistance must desist and sales of cookies must be limited to one per sentient per standard month. Humans declined with a shake of their heads and a small smile on their lips.
The High Administrator of the Kantor sent the fleets to human starbases, human outposts and colonies with the order to teach them a lesson that no one declines orders from Kantor.
First few starbases fell under the Kantor bombardment as planned. Then humans sent a warning that any more aggression would be met with decisive force. Kantor ignored it and raided a colony, releasing nerve gas into the atmosphere. Paralysing the humans and then capturing them and sending them to spawn hives on their home world where they would be used to spawn the next generation of Kantor. They sent the recordings to the other species to show what happens to those that defy Kantor.
That is when the humans brought their fleets. Thousands of ships setting out of hidden anchorages all across the galaxy. Millions of troops trained on fortress worlds, disguised as "historical re-enactment zones". Tens of thousands of war machines ready and waiting.
Kantor died. First their fleets, then their armies, then their cities and worlds. The rest of the galaxy watched in horror as humans erased Kantor from existence. Their homeworld cleansed with nuclear fire. Only when the last of Kantor were gone humanity woke up from it's blood rage. Now faced with a galaxy that was both grateful and terrified humans went back to what they did best. Changing things.
And that phrase comes from a dead human language, from an empire long gone. It means "If you want peace, prepare for war". And that is a lesson the galaxy is not going to forget.
​
\- An introductory lecture on the interstellar relations course in university of Oajeh Bi by Associate Professor Komo Duh in the year 229 After Kantor | "what I'm saying is that if our military is to be secret and only used as a last resort why are we following the spirit of the laws? Seriously, they were written by 34 races that have known nothing but peace for the past 1000 years or so, 3 that were just flattened by tech they don't understand and the one race doing the flattening, there are quite a few loopholes. For instance it says here no more than 1 warhead may be attached to a missile but it defines a warhead as an explosive device having no propulsion, that means cluster weapons are still in as long as we launch small missiles. That's only the first, we have 23 years, lets make sure this war is won before it starts"
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
23 years later on the 25th anniversary of humanity's admittance to the union war was declared by the summary execution of there diplomatic party stationed on the unions central station.
The images and an accompanying message reached earth the next day. "To humanity of earth, we the Atraxi hereby declare war upon you under the terms of union warfare, we nominate Henimari of the Hapiods to act as judge. Respond with your choice of judge to be joined by the head of the council to rule over all matters in this war."
"We nominate Corvex, commander of the Atraxi military as our judge, they are bound by the rules as written and should know them better than anyone"
For 7 earth days there was nothing and then came the reports, the Pluto colony fell first, it was only an observation and science station, it took less than an hour for it to be reduced to rubble, the colony on titan reported next. They had built underground to keep the heat in, after 4 hours they were buried, the attacking fleet left them to suffocate and headed for mars.
Mars had actual defences, no atmosphere means that shooting down micro asteroids was a daily occurrence, Atraxi projectile weapons were useless but their lasers could slice the domes easily enough, never doing critical damage but venting the atmosphere was plenty to render a dome inoperable. The battle of mars raged on for 36 hours as the fleet bombarded the many colonies bellow until a bright flash of light filled the sky, an explosion making a rounded mushroom cloud due to the lower gravity, then another, and another. A million explosions filled the sky burning the retinas of anyone foolish enough to look, the enemy fleet visible only to the observation telescopes was noticeably damaged but still the lasers reigned down. Another wave of explosions, and another, more in each batch, no longer 1 per ship but 5 per ship, then 10 per ship, then 100 per ship. The economic power of a Dyson Sphere was truly terrifying.
The 32% of the Martian population that remained watched as the enemy fleet ignited engines and set course for there home worlds. 12 days it took them to fly home, significantly slower due to the damage they sustained but what they found when they arrived was a sight no one had considered as an option when they had been drafting the rules of war. Where there home world should be, where 24.8 billion Atraxi should live there was rubble, a planet fractured with a crater in the side that reached into the lower mantel, at least they wouldn't have died slowly.
"Our home world is destroyed, how can you as leader of our forces sit there and tell me this is fine?"
"It is because I lead the forces that I know this, I am an official judge to this war, we outlawed the use of nuclear weaponry against hostile instillations due to the fallout but they used it on there own planet, our fleet limped home and there world is now just as dangerous as when they first started living there. They broke our home world with pure kinetic energy, not a single trace of radiation, they just accelerated a lump of iron fast enough that when it hit our world it carried the energy of an extinction level event. You know that with the amount of power each race has a war is won or lost on first strike, we killed an observation post and approximately 1.3 billion civilians, they have taken out our home, issue the terms of peace"
The communication landed on the desk of humanity a day later.
priority 1 communication
* The Atraxi wish to end the war under the terms of white peace as defined in the terms of union warfare with a proposed ceasefire effective immediately.
"your sure we can push them?"
"yes president, they lost their home world and we have rearmed our defences, they can flatten mars and do significant damage to earth but they always took the planets they wanted so never used space habitats, we could exterminate 99% of there population with the next strike if we want to"
Priority 1 communication
* \-Humanity rejects your offer of white peace.
* \-Humanity accepts a ceasefire of 7 days to permit communication between us
* \-Humanity offers you your surrender
* you will apologise for starting the war
* you will share your classified technology with the entire union
* you will make a binding statement to the union forbidding you from instigating future wars
Nukes were considered old tech and as such weren't regulated at a union level so it had been easy to mass produce them in preparation and to pre stage groups of them near to mars to allow for quick and stealthy attacks on the attacking fleet.
The planet killing weapons were even easier, a slight adjustment to the communication and transport lasers enabled them to have a much greater range of movement, they usually kept the tv's on and the freight moving about from hab to hab but all focused on a single 10 ton lump of metal with a mirror on the back and it soon had enough energy to end a civilisations age of dominance, it wasn't even expensive to fire, we had built a few hundred of them in preparation, we could always use the spares to break up large asteroids for mining.
We could never have matched their fleet ship for ship but we never needed to, we prepared for the war, now we oversee the peace. A new species is joining next month, they join a safer galaxy.
edit: fixed the there for their issue | |
[WP] When humans joined the galactic union, space force & military were made into clandestine projects & continued growing in secret. When the most powerful alien race challenged the peaceful humans for sport, they & the galact union learned the hard way the human saying "Si vis pacem, para bellum" | "I present this news with the gravest of regrets, my friend. The Tiermoc are preparing to bring war to your territories."
Council Representative Aven Marks stared into the purple, tendrilled face of the messenger, the current Community Ambassador from Kuloc. His name was Geem. He'd come alone to Aven's office in the human embassy building. A rare move for the usually-reserved ambassador. Aven hadn't known him very long, but he'd spent enough time with the ambassador to know that while he might not be a good man, he was a good soul.
Which is why he kept himself from smiling. It wouldn't be polite.
"Do they now?" Was his answer instead. "The Tiermoc. I'm not familiar with them. They... aren't big on research or trade, I'm guessing?"
"Please allow me to repeat for I fear understanding has not been met." Geem surged forward, which was considered slightly rude in their society, it signaled impatience and aggression. "They bring death, weapons, ships."
"Yes, yes. I do understand, my friend. I do. War is, sadly, something my race is all-to familiar with. It's why we prefer to stop it before it starts." Aven gazed down at his friend, then signaled his translation matrix to signal the gesture in Kuloc: *Look: Reassuring.*
"No. You are not understanding!" Geem waved his face tentacles. "The ships raid your trade outpost within hours. War comes."
"Straight for the outposts?" Aven shook his head. "Foolish."
"You must prepare defenses! You-"
"Geem, friend." Aven resisted the urge to throw his arm around the diminutive Kuloc, as that would have been perceived as an assault on their world. "We have a trade contract with your government for Kultonian Crystals I think, is that correct?"
"But..."
"Correct?"
"Yes." Geem signalled through his translator that the affirmation came with the addition emotions: *questioning intent.*
"How much do you know about the contract?" Aven leaned back against his desk. "Have you read it?"
"No. Trade is not my primacy."
"Hm. Well, do you have a copy of it you can access?"
Geem signaled: *Affirmation, questioning, intense.*
"Bring it up and read section 14, subsection E, the first few lines should do it."
The Kuloc stood still for a long moment, then he pulled out his data device and began manipulating the long tendrils on it that acted as a control device. A few seconds passed, then the Kuloc stopped. His face tendrils went still and his sensor stalks twitched toward Aven then back at the machine.
"Question: is this-"
"It's in every contract, yes." Aven allowed himself to smile now. "Mutual defense of all trade routes with partners who sign contracts with us."
"But you have trade contracts with hundreds of species!" Geem's translation matrix flashed with dozens of tone modifiers to his words: *Shock, Surprise, Horror, Amazement.*
"Indeed." Aven took a deep breath. "Which means the moment the Teirnoc open fire on the trade outpost, they officially declare war on every single species we trade with."
Geem turned around, looking about the small office that Aven kept as if expecting it to be something it was not. He looked at the paintings and the chairs and finally back at Aven.
"I feel very sorry for them." Geem said at last.
"Oh, don't be. We won't be too harsh to them. After all, it's obvious that they're not a very intelligent species." | "what I'm saying is that if our military is to be secret and only used as a last resort why are we following the spirit of the laws? Seriously, they were written by 34 races that have known nothing but peace for the past 1000 years or so, 3 that were just flattened by tech they don't understand and the one race doing the flattening, there are quite a few loopholes. For instance it says here no more than 1 warhead may be attached to a missile but it defines a warhead as an explosive device having no propulsion, that means cluster weapons are still in as long as we launch small missiles. That's only the first, we have 23 years, lets make sure this war is won before it starts"
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
23 years later on the 25th anniversary of humanity's admittance to the union war was declared by the summary execution of there diplomatic party stationed on the unions central station.
The images and an accompanying message reached earth the next day. "To humanity of earth, we the Atraxi hereby declare war upon you under the terms of union warfare, we nominate Henimari of the Hapiods to act as judge. Respond with your choice of judge to be joined by the head of the council to rule over all matters in this war."
"We nominate Corvex, commander of the Atraxi military as our judge, they are bound by the rules as written and should know them better than anyone"
For 7 earth days there was nothing and then came the reports, the Pluto colony fell first, it was only an observation and science station, it took less than an hour for it to be reduced to rubble, the colony on titan reported next. They had built underground to keep the heat in, after 4 hours they were buried, the attacking fleet left them to suffocate and headed for mars.
Mars had actual defences, no atmosphere means that shooting down micro asteroids was a daily occurrence, Atraxi projectile weapons were useless but their lasers could slice the domes easily enough, never doing critical damage but venting the atmosphere was plenty to render a dome inoperable. The battle of mars raged on for 36 hours as the fleet bombarded the many colonies bellow until a bright flash of light filled the sky, an explosion making a rounded mushroom cloud due to the lower gravity, then another, and another. A million explosions filled the sky burning the retinas of anyone foolish enough to look, the enemy fleet visible only to the observation telescopes was noticeably damaged but still the lasers reigned down. Another wave of explosions, and another, more in each batch, no longer 1 per ship but 5 per ship, then 10 per ship, then 100 per ship. The economic power of a Dyson Sphere was truly terrifying.
The 32% of the Martian population that remained watched as the enemy fleet ignited engines and set course for there home worlds. 12 days it took them to fly home, significantly slower due to the damage they sustained but what they found when they arrived was a sight no one had considered as an option when they had been drafting the rules of war. Where there home world should be, where 24.8 billion Atraxi should live there was rubble, a planet fractured with a crater in the side that reached into the lower mantel, at least they wouldn't have died slowly.
"Our home world is destroyed, how can you as leader of our forces sit there and tell me this is fine?"
"It is because I lead the forces that I know this, I am an official judge to this war, we outlawed the use of nuclear weaponry against hostile instillations due to the fallout but they used it on there own planet, our fleet limped home and there world is now just as dangerous as when they first started living there. They broke our home world with pure kinetic energy, not a single trace of radiation, they just accelerated a lump of iron fast enough that when it hit our world it carried the energy of an extinction level event. You know that with the amount of power each race has a war is won or lost on first strike, we killed an observation post and approximately 1.3 billion civilians, they have taken out our home, issue the terms of peace"
The communication landed on the desk of humanity a day later.
priority 1 communication
* The Atraxi wish to end the war under the terms of white peace as defined in the terms of union warfare with a proposed ceasefire effective immediately.
"your sure we can push them?"
"yes president, they lost their home world and we have rearmed our defences, they can flatten mars and do significant damage to earth but they always took the planets they wanted so never used space habitats, we could exterminate 99% of there population with the next strike if we want to"
Priority 1 communication
* \-Humanity rejects your offer of white peace.
* \-Humanity accepts a ceasefire of 7 days to permit communication between us
* \-Humanity offers you your surrender
* you will apologise for starting the war
* you will share your classified technology with the entire union
* you will make a binding statement to the union forbidding you from instigating future wars
Nukes were considered old tech and as such weren't regulated at a union level so it had been easy to mass produce them in preparation and to pre stage groups of them near to mars to allow for quick and stealthy attacks on the attacking fleet.
The planet killing weapons were even easier, a slight adjustment to the communication and transport lasers enabled them to have a much greater range of movement, they usually kept the tv's on and the freight moving about from hab to hab but all focused on a single 10 ton lump of metal with a mirror on the back and it soon had enough energy to end a civilisations age of dominance, it wasn't even expensive to fire, we had built a few hundred of them in preparation, we could always use the spares to break up large asteroids for mining.
We could never have matched their fleet ship for ship but we never needed to, we prepared for the war, now we oversee the peace. A new species is joining next month, they join a safer galaxy.
edit: fixed the there for their issue | |
[WP] When humans joined the galactic union, space force & military were made into clandestine projects & continued growing in secret. When the most powerful alien race challenged the peaceful humans for sport, they & the galact union learned the hard way the human saying "Si vis pacem, para bellum" | "I present this news with the gravest of regrets, my friend. The Tiermoc are preparing to bring war to your territories."
Council Representative Aven Marks stared into the purple, tendrilled face of the messenger, the current Community Ambassador from Kuloc. His name was Geem. He'd come alone to Aven's office in the human embassy building. A rare move for the usually-reserved ambassador. Aven hadn't known him very long, but he'd spent enough time with the ambassador to know that while he might not be a good man, he was a good soul.
Which is why he kept himself from smiling. It wouldn't be polite.
"Do they now?" Was his answer instead. "The Tiermoc. I'm not familiar with them. They... aren't big on research or trade, I'm guessing?"
"Please allow me to repeat for I fear understanding has not been met." Geem surged forward, which was considered slightly rude in their society, it signaled impatience and aggression. "They bring death, weapons, ships."
"Yes, yes. I do understand, my friend. I do. War is, sadly, something my race is all-to familiar with. It's why we prefer to stop it before it starts." Aven gazed down at his friend, then signaled his translation matrix to signal the gesture in Kuloc: *Look: Reassuring.*
"No. You are not understanding!" Geem waved his face tentacles. "The ships raid your trade outpost within hours. War comes."
"Straight for the outposts?" Aven shook his head. "Foolish."
"You must prepare defenses! You-"
"Geem, friend." Aven resisted the urge to throw his arm around the diminutive Kuloc, as that would have been perceived as an assault on their world. "We have a trade contract with your government for Kultonian Crystals I think, is that correct?"
"But..."
"Correct?"
"Yes." Geem signalled through his translator that the affirmation came with the addition emotions: *questioning intent.*
"How much do you know about the contract?" Aven leaned back against his desk. "Have you read it?"
"No. Trade is not my primacy."
"Hm. Well, do you have a copy of it you can access?"
Geem signaled: *Affirmation, questioning, intense.*
"Bring it up and read section 14, subsection E, the first few lines should do it."
The Kuloc stood still for a long moment, then he pulled out his data device and began manipulating the long tendrils on it that acted as a control device. A few seconds passed, then the Kuloc stopped. His face tendrils went still and his sensor stalks twitched toward Aven then back at the machine.
"Question: is this-"
"It's in every contract, yes." Aven allowed himself to smile now. "Mutual defense of all trade routes with partners who sign contracts with us."
"But you have trade contracts with hundreds of species!" Geem's translation matrix flashed with dozens of tone modifiers to his words: *Shock, Surprise, Horror, Amazement.*
"Indeed." Aven took a deep breath. "Which means the moment the Teirnoc open fire on the trade outpost, they officially declare war on every single species we trade with."
Geem turned around, looking about the small office that Aven kept as if expecting it to be something it was not. He looked at the paintings and the chairs and finally back at Aven.
"I feel very sorry for them." Geem said at last.
"Oh, don't be. We won't be too harsh to them. After all, it's obvious that they're not a very intelligent species." | The Galactic Union made it's offer. And it was the offer in the best traditions of the mafia, the kind that humanity could not refuse. Disarm, dissolve it's armed forces and welcome the new age of peace.
The human diplomat that signed the Galactic Union treaty said the words "Si vis pacem, para bellum" but no one bothered to translate what that meant.
But of course that was a lie. Because even when the Union called their members equals it was made clear that some members are more equal than others. Kantor were one of them. They were one of the founding members, one of the earliest FTL capable species in the galaxy, at least according to them. And they hated change. Unfortunately for them humanity was practically the poster child of change.
When humans started building starbases to provide services along the long haul FTL routes Kantor begrudgingly had to accept that it was a good change. When human culture became popular Kantor thought it was just a passing fad. When vrin, okroh, tular and vorta and many others turned to humans for help that was the last straw. Kantor had spent thousands of years making sure that they were seen as the only ones capable of helping others in difficult times. Yes they would extract a price, an often steep price but there was no one else.
Kantor senior administrators demanded that humanity stop trying to change the Galactic Union. They demanded that colonies are abandoned, that starbases are demolished and any help they are providing others. Humanitarian aid must stop. Medical assistance must desist and sales of cookies must be limited to one per sentient per standard month. Humans declined with a shake of their heads and a small smile on their lips.
The High Administrator of the Kantor sent the fleets to human starbases, human outposts and colonies with the order to teach them a lesson that no one declines orders from Kantor.
First few starbases fell under the Kantor bombardment as planned. Then humans sent a warning that any more aggression would be met with decisive force. Kantor ignored it and raided a colony, releasing nerve gas into the atmosphere. Paralysing the humans and then capturing them and sending them to spawn hives on their home world where they would be used to spawn the next generation of Kantor. They sent the recordings to the other species to show what happens to those that defy Kantor.
That is when the humans brought their fleets. Thousands of ships setting out of hidden anchorages all across the galaxy. Millions of troops trained on fortress worlds, disguised as "historical re-enactment zones". Tens of thousands of war machines ready and waiting.
Kantor died. First their fleets, then their armies, then their cities and worlds. The rest of the galaxy watched in horror as humans erased Kantor from existence. Their homeworld cleansed with nuclear fire. Only when the last of Kantor were gone humanity woke up from it's blood rage. Now faced with a galaxy that was both grateful and terrified humans went back to what they did best. Changing things.
And that phrase comes from a dead human language, from an empire long gone. It means "If you want peace, prepare for war". And that is a lesson the galaxy is not going to forget.
​
\- An introductory lecture on the interstellar relations course in university of Oajeh Bi by Associate Professor Komo Duh in the year 229 After Kantor | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | It should have been easy. Cryo-Stasis was new, undertested, and rushed through development. Tech like that always fails in Alpha, Always.
It should have been easy! A crossed wire here, a bent feed line there. Accidents happen, machines break all the time.
IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN EASY! Just go to sleep with everyone else, and never wake up.
It seems the gods are not without a sense of humor, because I was the only one that did.
Frozen in time, I was the only one to survive the crash landing.
Frozen in Time, the only one to survive their second death.
Frozen in time, and the only one who can move forward with the mission and give Earth a chance at a new life. | My previous identity; Jacob Daniels.
Cause of death; SpaceX Mars mission, engine failure, mid-flight.
I recall a faint memory, my last moments before reincarnation.
Suffocation, a burning sensation of radiation, weightless.
When I first learned of my previous life, it terrified me. In a world where people gained their powers on how one dies in their old lifes through unnatural causes, be it accidents or victims of war or murder, I wasn't sure what my powers would be as someone who died in space.
Of course, the possibility of how my powers form varies on a number of factors, one of them includes the feeling I had on the moment of my death. What was that suppose to mean on my case?
Unfortunately, there's no telling when will our powers arrive. I was powerless for 20 years, making me a victim to bullies and power abusement. I was like the rest of the population, the ones that died an old death.
Powerless.
Defenseless.
Hopeless.
That is... until a fateful day, when a powerful enemy strikes my hostel.
..........
It was a cold winter night.
I was a sober student sending my two drunk friends back to our room, when a massive explosion broke from our dorm. Screams can be heard, as people ran out of the building with panicked faces. Fire roared from the top floors, with a silhoutte of a man looking down on everyone like a self-proclaim god.
"Oh, god!" I cried, dropping off my drunk friends on the grassy plains, rushing to the scene, hoping to help as many people as I could. The man, however, screamed from above, and he descended like a burning vulture.
He landed in front of me, fire spewing around him. Red flames burned under his skin, revealing a blacken skull. His eyes were molten lava, tearing hot magma. He bore a wide grin, pointing at me.
"So, you're Jacob Daniels reincarnation?" he croaked.
My skin crawled upon hearing my old name. "How do you know that?" He let out a sick cackled, forming a fireball on his palm. "Someone wants you dead. That's all that matter to me!"
He charged right at me, forcing me to evade his fiery fist and fire blast. I was at a disadvantage, as the heat around him threaten to burn off my skin. My mind rushed to the closest fire extinguisher, and I tried to reach to the one weapon I have against the fiery monster, but the man shot a powerful fireball at it.
The canister violently erupted into white fog, blinding me enough for the man to kick me in the stomach. I cried, as my skin withered from the flames. The man simply looked down on me, and laughed. "I honestly believed that you would be somewhat difficult to kill, considering my clients paid me a fuck ton of cash. But wow, this is the easiest billion dollars I've ever have."
Right as he slammed his burning fist onto me, I blocked with with my forearms. Knowing that I could still fight back, he placed his knee on my chest, and continuously beat my arm, his power slowly eating up my skin and flesh. I grunted, trying to break free from his weight, but to no avail.
​
All I could do was scream.
​
On that desperate moment, something clicked. Like a survival instinct finally kicking in gear, a warm feeling and a whirring sound came from the bottom of my spine. It slowly crawled itself up, the noise growing louder and louder, and a dim light slowly brighten from my back. Then, as that strange warmth reached the back of my neck, I let out a roar.
A blue powerful beam came emerged from my cries, searing through the man's head. He howled, his flames slowly being put out from his body.
As my roar ended, so did the beam, leaving blue smoke escaping my lips. It taste... sour, like lemon. As I looked onto my body, I realised my bones were glowing blue under my skin. I felt... stronger, tougher. The burns on my body slowly mend itself.
​
My powers... they're awake.
​
The man made another attempt to strike me, but his attack failed as I let out another roar. This power surging in me blasted the enemy meters away from me, giving him a critical burn that even his flames could not inflicted.
"W-What the hell? What the hell is that?!?" the enemy cried, tossing more fireballs at me. This time, the flames were no more than a nuisance to me, though they did succeed in tearing my shirt away.
As I stood before him, the man looked up to me. Then, as if he realised something, he let out a soft cackle. "Now I get it... The explosion from that rocket, it granted you the power of some sort of nuclear energy... or maybe something more... since you were killed in the middle of a space mission."
"Shut up," I gritted, suppressing that haunting memory of that incident. I grabbed the enemy by his neck, and roared, "Who sent you? Why do they want me dead?"
"Told you... they hired me to kill you," he smirked. "How should I know why?"
I threatened him with that whirring sound of my power. My mouth got warmer, with blue smoke seething out from my teeth.
Horror filled the man's eyes as I slowly opened my mouth. "Okay! Okay!" he cried. "I only know who wanted you dead! It's some guy named Vincent McCall! He claims to be a reincarnate of Joshua Wells!"
I dropped the enemy hearing that name.
​
Joshua Wells...
​
One of my colleagues on my past life. A colleague that despise me because he thinks I took everything from him. The ideas, the proposal, the girl he took an interest in, Sharon. The man who believes he was entitled to my previous success because his father was one of the founders in the project.
Was he the one behind my death? And the death of my three friends on that rocket?
Wait, do my old friends share the same power I now possess?
Will he be hunting them as well?
​
Who is the reincarnate of Sharon?
​
These were the questions that urged me to find the ones who died on that rocket with me, and find the reborn Sharon before Joshua does, and to stop his delusional madness from infecting the world. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | Beeper beeping. Sun's not up. What the hell is happening?
Phone the chief. "What is it?"
"Oh thank god it's you, Muskman. Hostage situation. You remember that separatist militia last month? We've found the splinter cell, and they've got the mayor and his kids. They're holed up on a farm out on..."
I wrote down the address and then made one more play for sleep. "I'll give you a billion dollars to leave me out of this", I said. Not "you should leave me out of this, it'll be great". I was very careful.
"You don't have a billion dollars, Muskman" the chief said, chuckling. He was right. I grabbed a banana and hit the road.
The farm was high up on the south side of a valley about twenty miles outside town. The cops had blocked off the road and formed a cordon at the bottom of the driveway, which wound up another two hundred yards to the actual property. From where we were I couldn't see the farm house itself, but I could hear observers on the radio reporting in.
"Alright," the chief said, "the main house is here" pointing to the map, "behind it is a barn with no ground level windows. Imaging suggests three hostages, most likely the mayor, his wife and their 8 year old daughter, and two kidnappers, both males, both armed with long guns. We have no shot and they're threatening to execute a hostage in 30 minutes."
He smiled. "And they've just agreed to let an unarmed negotiator approach the barn".
"Alright, let's do this. Sun's already showing". And it was, a pale glow over the hills fringing the valley, still startlingly orange and blue after all these years, nothing like the rusty twilight that haunts and lures me in my dreams.
I moved up the driveway at a measured pace. I never, ever want to spook my prey. There's nothing I can do at a hundred yards. It took me a few minutes to reach the barn up that steep driveway. As I rounded the corner I could just make it out the weathered red sides and white wooden trim.
They must have peeped me through a crack, because as I approached the door cracked open and a voice called out "freeze, hands up, turn slowly".
I did as they asked. One of the kidnappers stepped out, rifle aimed at me. I tilted my head to the side to see if the other one was in earshot, but I couldn't see him.
"I work for you, buddy", I said.
"Shut up" he said, as he worked his way around behind me. Then when I was between him and the barn he said "move" and gestured towards the slightly-open barn door.
I walked slowly to the barn, hands up, middle of my back tickling under the rifle sights.
*Long, slow breaths* I thought.
As I entered the barn it was completely dark, and then suddenly a night light flicked on, bathing us in red light.
*Dim red light* I thought, catching a breath and half expecting nothing but cold emptiness.
As my eyes took in the warm light I saw a scared eight year old girl in pyjamas, a middle aged man and woman both in their robes and...
*There you are* I thought, taking in the sight of the second kidnapper in his black tacticool gear. *No need to wait any longer*.
I turned and took a step back from the imaginary line between the two kidnappers. I put on a happy face as I glanced back and forth between them and said "you guys should come with me, it'll be great!".
They lowered their guns and settled into a relaxed posture. I turned and left the barn, and they followed me. As we walked down the steepest part of the driveway I heard twin bullets whizz by me, and twin wet thumps behind me, followed by the distant voice of the chief screaming "STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN! HOLD YOUR FIRE!".
It wasn't the snipers' fault. Maybe their fingers twitched. Maybe a phantom voice in their ear said "take the shot". Maybe their firing pins slipped free and hammered their bullets away all by themselves.
People would always follow me if I promised them it would be great. And they would always die doing it. | My previous identity; Jacob Daniels.
Cause of death; SpaceX Mars mission, engine failure, mid-flight.
I recall a faint memory, my last moments before reincarnation.
Suffocation, a burning sensation of radiation, weightless.
When I first learned of my previous life, it terrified me. In a world where people gained their powers on how one dies in their old lifes through unnatural causes, be it accidents or victims of war or murder, I wasn't sure what my powers would be as someone who died in space.
Of course, the possibility of how my powers form varies on a number of factors, one of them includes the feeling I had on the moment of my death. What was that suppose to mean on my case?
Unfortunately, there's no telling when will our powers arrive. I was powerless for 20 years, making me a victim to bullies and power abusement. I was like the rest of the population, the ones that died an old death.
Powerless.
Defenseless.
Hopeless.
That is... until a fateful day, when a powerful enemy strikes my hostel.
..........
It was a cold winter night.
I was a sober student sending my two drunk friends back to our room, when a massive explosion broke from our dorm. Screams can be heard, as people ran out of the building with panicked faces. Fire roared from the top floors, with a silhoutte of a man looking down on everyone like a self-proclaim god.
"Oh, god!" I cried, dropping off my drunk friends on the grassy plains, rushing to the scene, hoping to help as many people as I could. The man, however, screamed from above, and he descended like a burning vulture.
He landed in front of me, fire spewing around him. Red flames burned under his skin, revealing a blacken skull. His eyes were molten lava, tearing hot magma. He bore a wide grin, pointing at me.
"So, you're Jacob Daniels reincarnation?" he croaked.
My skin crawled upon hearing my old name. "How do you know that?" He let out a sick cackled, forming a fireball on his palm. "Someone wants you dead. That's all that matter to me!"
He charged right at me, forcing me to evade his fiery fist and fire blast. I was at a disadvantage, as the heat around him threaten to burn off my skin. My mind rushed to the closest fire extinguisher, and I tried to reach to the one weapon I have against the fiery monster, but the man shot a powerful fireball at it.
The canister violently erupted into white fog, blinding me enough for the man to kick me in the stomach. I cried, as my skin withered from the flames. The man simply looked down on me, and laughed. "I honestly believed that you would be somewhat difficult to kill, considering my clients paid me a fuck ton of cash. But wow, this is the easiest billion dollars I've ever have."
Right as he slammed his burning fist onto me, I blocked with with my forearms. Knowing that I could still fight back, he placed his knee on my chest, and continuously beat my arm, his power slowly eating up my skin and flesh. I grunted, trying to break free from his weight, but to no avail.
​
All I could do was scream.
​
On that desperate moment, something clicked. Like a survival instinct finally kicking in gear, a warm feeling and a whirring sound came from the bottom of my spine. It slowly crawled itself up, the noise growing louder and louder, and a dim light slowly brighten from my back. Then, as that strange warmth reached the back of my neck, I let out a roar.
A blue powerful beam came emerged from my cries, searing through the man's head. He howled, his flames slowly being put out from his body.
As my roar ended, so did the beam, leaving blue smoke escaping my lips. It taste... sour, like lemon. As I looked onto my body, I realised my bones were glowing blue under my skin. I felt... stronger, tougher. The burns on my body slowly mend itself.
​
My powers... they're awake.
​
The man made another attempt to strike me, but his attack failed as I let out another roar. This power surging in me blasted the enemy meters away from me, giving him a critical burn that even his flames could not inflicted.
"W-What the hell? What the hell is that?!?" the enemy cried, tossing more fireballs at me. This time, the flames were no more than a nuisance to me, though they did succeed in tearing my shirt away.
As I stood before him, the man looked up to me. Then, as if he realised something, he let out a soft cackle. "Now I get it... The explosion from that rocket, it granted you the power of some sort of nuclear energy... or maybe something more... since you were killed in the middle of a space mission."
"Shut up," I gritted, suppressing that haunting memory of that incident. I grabbed the enemy by his neck, and roared, "Who sent you? Why do they want me dead?"
"Told you... they hired me to kill you," he smirked. "How should I know why?"
I threatened him with that whirring sound of my power. My mouth got warmer, with blue smoke seething out from my teeth.
Horror filled the man's eyes as I slowly opened my mouth. "Okay! Okay!" he cried. "I only know who wanted you dead! It's some guy named Vincent McCall! He claims to be a reincarnate of Joshua Wells!"
I dropped the enemy hearing that name.
​
Joshua Wells...
​
One of my colleagues on my past life. A colleague that despise me because he thinks I took everything from him. The ideas, the proposal, the girl he took an interest in, Sharon. The man who believes he was entitled to my previous success because his father was one of the founders in the project.
Was he the one behind my death? And the death of my three friends on that rocket?
Wait, do my old friends share the same power I now possess?
Will he be hunting them as well?
​
Who is the reincarnate of Sharon?
​
These were the questions that urged me to find the ones who died on that rocket with me, and find the reborn Sharon before Joshua does, and to stop his delusional madness from infecting the world. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | I woke up alone on a strange cot in an empty hallway. The hallway is grey and dingy. Rusty pipes, valves, and large metal hand-wheels line its soot covered walls. Above, bare bulbs hang from wires suspended from the concrete ceiling. The place has the feeling of a shopping mall service corridor, or a utility passage under a stadium. One of those in-between places, behind the scenes.
I have no idea how I got here.
Panic catches in my throat. I do a quick check. Mostly OK. My body seems in good shape. I don’t appear to be injured. But my mind… there’s nothing there. No memory of where I am or how I got here; no memories at all really. I don’t even remember my own name. The panic deepens.
I hop up and give the pockets of my dark blue uniform a quick pat down, but they’re empty. No help there. However, I do notice a patch on the front left breast of my flight jacket which reads SPACEX, and on the right a patch which says JOHNSON. So, I do have a name at least.
I’m SpaceX Johnson. It's a start. What now?
I glance around the corridor. There’s only two directions: left or right. They both look exactly the same. Shrugging, I close my eyes, spin three times, and start walking.
At first the hallway seems empty and endless. Ther floor and walls are concrete, nondescript, and unchanging. Every once in a while I come across a heavy green service door, but all of them are locked. I can't shake the feeling that I’m being watched, but I see no one. So I keep walking.
In the distance I finally see something new, and I pick up the pace towards it.
The hallway ends in a blank wall. Before it stands a tall, skinny man in an immaculate charcoal tuxedo with a purple handkerchief tucked into the front pocket and a matching cumberbund around his waist. His face is drawn tight, given his head a skull-like appearance and his skin is darker than midnight. He stands straight and stiff under a bare light bulb. His eyes are locked onto me as I approach.
“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” he says coldly.
“Where the hell am?”
He only stares back.
To either side or him are large doors with windows in them. The one to his right is labelled “Blue Wing” and peaking through I see a blue -carpeted hotel hallway bustling with activity. People walking, smiling, carrying suitcases or in swim trunks with towels over their shoulders. It all looks so comfortable, peaceful. So normal.
I reach for the push-bar on the door, but a hand flashes out like lightning and wraps around my wrist like steel wire. The man in the tuxedo is glaring at me. His eyes are perfectly black; looking into them is like staring into the void.
“This area is off limits to the gentlemen,” he says. He sounds bored, like he’s said it a billion times before. I glance over his shoulder, through the window in the door under the sign which reads: “Red Wing.” There I see a mostly deserted hallway, the walls painted red and the carpet matching. Paintings of primitive looking drones rolling over crimson sand dunes line the wall. A shiver runs down my spine.
The tuxedo man follows my gaze and shifts his position to further block the door.
“That area is off limits to the gentleman as well,” he says.
I step back. I want to scream. I want to call for the police. I want to sock him in the face and run for it. But somehow I know that any of these options would be completely futile. The dark skinned man in the tuxedo was in total control here.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
He shrugs and points back down the corridor. “I suggest you try that direction.”
“Gee, thanks.” I turn to leave, but take one last peak through the Red Wing window. Coming out of a hotel room door I see a woman there in a blue flight jacket, just like mine. She stops and looks over her shoulder at the window.
My heart stops. That deja vu shiver runs down my spine again. I recognize that face! I know her! I don’t know how or why, or even what her name is. But I know her, there's no doubt about it.
Suddenly, the cold hand is back, on my shoulder this time. “I suggest the gentleman starts moving, while he still can,” comes his snake whisper in my ears. There is no lie in those eternal black eyes.
I take his advice and start moving.
I walk through that dismal utility corridor for hours. Nothing changes. Nothing new. I might as well be on a treadmill.
Then, suddenly, another hand from the shadows at the edge of the hallway, this one wrapped in a white glove. A man sits up from a cot there. He wears an orange spacesuit with a shattered helmet. The face inside is warm and smiling. He stands and begins to speak excitedly, but I can’t understand the language. No matter, his whole vibe is the direct opposite of the man in the tuxedo. He points down the hallway and waves for me to follow him.
I do.
We walked for a while, him chattering the whole way. The whole thing feels so dream-like, so surreal, yet so familiar.
We get to the end of the hallway. There’s no doorway. Just emptiness. Emptiness and space full of endless stars, all of them unfamiliar. I’m staring out an open door to the universe.
Fear paralyzes my body. There’s no airlock. There should be an airlock. I don't know how I know this but, I do. I’m not wearing a spacesuit. I know what happens to human bodies in the vacuum of space. I close my eyes and wait for the most unfortunate of deaths. At least the confusion will be over.
Nothing happens. I try to take a breath. I can’t, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t breathe out either. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been breathing this whole time. And that's OK too.
My name is SpaceX Johnson, and I don’t have to breathe anymore. The desolation of the vacuum no longer applies to me. That's my power.
The Russian cosmonaut nods and smiles, then waves his hand at the open door and the stars beyond as if to say “welcome home.”
I launch myself through the door and into my new life.
/r/dariuspilgrim | My previous identity; Jacob Daniels.
Cause of death; SpaceX Mars mission, engine failure, mid-flight.
I recall a faint memory, my last moments before reincarnation.
Suffocation, a burning sensation of radiation, weightless.
When I first learned of my previous life, it terrified me. In a world where people gained their powers on how one dies in their old lifes through unnatural causes, be it accidents or victims of war or murder, I wasn't sure what my powers would be as someone who died in space.
Of course, the possibility of how my powers form varies on a number of factors, one of them includes the feeling I had on the moment of my death. What was that suppose to mean on my case?
Unfortunately, there's no telling when will our powers arrive. I was powerless for 20 years, making me a victim to bullies and power abusement. I was like the rest of the population, the ones that died an old death.
Powerless.
Defenseless.
Hopeless.
That is... until a fateful day, when a powerful enemy strikes my hostel.
..........
It was a cold winter night.
I was a sober student sending my two drunk friends back to our room, when a massive explosion broke from our dorm. Screams can be heard, as people ran out of the building with panicked faces. Fire roared from the top floors, with a silhoutte of a man looking down on everyone like a self-proclaim god.
"Oh, god!" I cried, dropping off my drunk friends on the grassy plains, rushing to the scene, hoping to help as many people as I could. The man, however, screamed from above, and he descended like a burning vulture.
He landed in front of me, fire spewing around him. Red flames burned under his skin, revealing a blacken skull. His eyes were molten lava, tearing hot magma. He bore a wide grin, pointing at me.
"So, you're Jacob Daniels reincarnation?" he croaked.
My skin crawled upon hearing my old name. "How do you know that?" He let out a sick cackled, forming a fireball on his palm. "Someone wants you dead. That's all that matter to me!"
He charged right at me, forcing me to evade his fiery fist and fire blast. I was at a disadvantage, as the heat around him threaten to burn off my skin. My mind rushed to the closest fire extinguisher, and I tried to reach to the one weapon I have against the fiery monster, but the man shot a powerful fireball at it.
The canister violently erupted into white fog, blinding me enough for the man to kick me in the stomach. I cried, as my skin withered from the flames. The man simply looked down on me, and laughed. "I honestly believed that you would be somewhat difficult to kill, considering my clients paid me a fuck ton of cash. But wow, this is the easiest billion dollars I've ever have."
Right as he slammed his burning fist onto me, I blocked with with my forearms. Knowing that I could still fight back, he placed his knee on my chest, and continuously beat my arm, his power slowly eating up my skin and flesh. I grunted, trying to break free from his weight, but to no avail.
​
All I could do was scream.
​
On that desperate moment, something clicked. Like a survival instinct finally kicking in gear, a warm feeling and a whirring sound came from the bottom of my spine. It slowly crawled itself up, the noise growing louder and louder, and a dim light slowly brighten from my back. Then, as that strange warmth reached the back of my neck, I let out a roar.
A blue powerful beam came emerged from my cries, searing through the man's head. He howled, his flames slowly being put out from his body.
As my roar ended, so did the beam, leaving blue smoke escaping my lips. It taste... sour, like lemon. As I looked onto my body, I realised my bones were glowing blue under my skin. I felt... stronger, tougher. The burns on my body slowly mend itself.
​
My powers... they're awake.
​
The man made another attempt to strike me, but his attack failed as I let out another roar. This power surging in me blasted the enemy meters away from me, giving him a critical burn that even his flames could not inflicted.
"W-What the hell? What the hell is that?!?" the enemy cried, tossing more fireballs at me. This time, the flames were no more than a nuisance to me, though they did succeed in tearing my shirt away.
As I stood before him, the man looked up to me. Then, as if he realised something, he let out a soft cackle. "Now I get it... The explosion from that rocket, it granted you the power of some sort of nuclear energy... or maybe something more... since you were killed in the middle of a space mission."
"Shut up," I gritted, suppressing that haunting memory of that incident. I grabbed the enemy by his neck, and roared, "Who sent you? Why do they want me dead?"
"Told you... they hired me to kill you," he smirked. "How should I know why?"
I threatened him with that whirring sound of my power. My mouth got warmer, with blue smoke seething out from my teeth.
Horror filled the man's eyes as I slowly opened my mouth. "Okay! Okay!" he cried. "I only know who wanted you dead! It's some guy named Vincent McCall! He claims to be a reincarnate of Joshua Wells!"
I dropped the enemy hearing that name.
​
Joshua Wells...
​
One of my colleagues on my past life. A colleague that despise me because he thinks I took everything from him. The ideas, the proposal, the girl he took an interest in, Sharon. The man who believes he was entitled to my previous success because his father was one of the founders in the project.
Was he the one behind my death? And the death of my three friends on that rocket?
Wait, do my old friends share the same power I now possess?
Will he be hunting them as well?
​
Who is the reincarnate of Sharon?
​
These were the questions that urged me to find the ones who died on that rocket with me, and find the reborn Sharon before Joshua does, and to stop his delusional madness from infecting the world. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | 2 seconds left. Last chance to make this shot. One shot and we're in the finals. One person between me and the hoop. What's his power? I soon find out. Wind. a gust of air blows me back all the way to the opposing hoop, slamming me violently in it. 1 second left, then zero. I remember one thing however. the game doesn't stop until i touch the ground. I hear a cable snapping, and i take a leap of faith. A cable snapping
I remember now. the cable snapped. my spacewalk, cut short as i flew into oblivion. That was how i died. i slammed into Mars, through it's gravity field. Gravity.
I come back to reality. Floating above the court. Nearing the hoop, i throw the ball, and then snap gravity back. The ball slams into the ground, causing the room to shake, and we had won. I have so, so many ideas on how to use this. | My previous identity; Jacob Daniels.
Cause of death; SpaceX Mars mission, engine failure, mid-flight.
I recall a faint memory, my last moments before reincarnation.
Suffocation, a burning sensation of radiation, weightless.
When I first learned of my previous life, it terrified me. In a world where people gained their powers on how one dies in their old lifes through unnatural causes, be it accidents or victims of war or murder, I wasn't sure what my powers would be as someone who died in space.
Of course, the possibility of how my powers form varies on a number of factors, one of them includes the feeling I had on the moment of my death. What was that suppose to mean on my case?
Unfortunately, there's no telling when will our powers arrive. I was powerless for 20 years, making me a victim to bullies and power abusement. I was like the rest of the population, the ones that died an old death.
Powerless.
Defenseless.
Hopeless.
That is... until a fateful day, when a powerful enemy strikes my hostel.
..........
It was a cold winter night.
I was a sober student sending my two drunk friends back to our room, when a massive explosion broke from our dorm. Screams can be heard, as people ran out of the building with panicked faces. Fire roared from the top floors, with a silhoutte of a man looking down on everyone like a self-proclaim god.
"Oh, god!" I cried, dropping off my drunk friends on the grassy plains, rushing to the scene, hoping to help as many people as I could. The man, however, screamed from above, and he descended like a burning vulture.
He landed in front of me, fire spewing around him. Red flames burned under his skin, revealing a blacken skull. His eyes were molten lava, tearing hot magma. He bore a wide grin, pointing at me.
"So, you're Jacob Daniels reincarnation?" he croaked.
My skin crawled upon hearing my old name. "How do you know that?" He let out a sick cackled, forming a fireball on his palm. "Someone wants you dead. That's all that matter to me!"
He charged right at me, forcing me to evade his fiery fist and fire blast. I was at a disadvantage, as the heat around him threaten to burn off my skin. My mind rushed to the closest fire extinguisher, and I tried to reach to the one weapon I have against the fiery monster, but the man shot a powerful fireball at it.
The canister violently erupted into white fog, blinding me enough for the man to kick me in the stomach. I cried, as my skin withered from the flames. The man simply looked down on me, and laughed. "I honestly believed that you would be somewhat difficult to kill, considering my clients paid me a fuck ton of cash. But wow, this is the easiest billion dollars I've ever have."
Right as he slammed his burning fist onto me, I blocked with with my forearms. Knowing that I could still fight back, he placed his knee on my chest, and continuously beat my arm, his power slowly eating up my skin and flesh. I grunted, trying to break free from his weight, but to no avail.
​
All I could do was scream.
​
On that desperate moment, something clicked. Like a survival instinct finally kicking in gear, a warm feeling and a whirring sound came from the bottom of my spine. It slowly crawled itself up, the noise growing louder and louder, and a dim light slowly brighten from my back. Then, as that strange warmth reached the back of my neck, I let out a roar.
A blue powerful beam came emerged from my cries, searing through the man's head. He howled, his flames slowly being put out from his body.
As my roar ended, so did the beam, leaving blue smoke escaping my lips. It taste... sour, like lemon. As I looked onto my body, I realised my bones were glowing blue under my skin. I felt... stronger, tougher. The burns on my body slowly mend itself.
​
My powers... they're awake.
​
The man made another attempt to strike me, but his attack failed as I let out another roar. This power surging in me blasted the enemy meters away from me, giving him a critical burn that even his flames could not inflicted.
"W-What the hell? What the hell is that?!?" the enemy cried, tossing more fireballs at me. This time, the flames were no more than a nuisance to me, though they did succeed in tearing my shirt away.
As I stood before him, the man looked up to me. Then, as if he realised something, he let out a soft cackle. "Now I get it... The explosion from that rocket, it granted you the power of some sort of nuclear energy... or maybe something more... since you were killed in the middle of a space mission."
"Shut up," I gritted, suppressing that haunting memory of that incident. I grabbed the enemy by his neck, and roared, "Who sent you? Why do they want me dead?"
"Told you... they hired me to kill you," he smirked. "How should I know why?"
I threatened him with that whirring sound of my power. My mouth got warmer, with blue smoke seething out from my teeth.
Horror filled the man's eyes as I slowly opened my mouth. "Okay! Okay!" he cried. "I only know who wanted you dead! It's some guy named Vincent McCall! He claims to be a reincarnate of Joshua Wells!"
I dropped the enemy hearing that name.
​
Joshua Wells...
​
One of my colleagues on my past life. A colleague that despise me because he thinks I took everything from him. The ideas, the proposal, the girl he took an interest in, Sharon. The man who believes he was entitled to my previous success because his father was one of the founders in the project.
Was he the one behind my death? And the death of my three friends on that rocket?
Wait, do my old friends share the same power I now possess?
Will he be hunting them as well?
​
Who is the reincarnate of Sharon?
​
These were the questions that urged me to find the ones who died on that rocket with me, and find the reborn Sharon before Joshua does, and to stop his delusional madness from infecting the world. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | Beeper beeping. Sun's not up. What the hell is happening?
Phone the chief. "What is it?"
"Oh thank god it's you, Muskman. Hostage situation. You remember that separatist militia last month? We've found the splinter cell, and they've got the mayor and his kids. They're holed up on a farm out on..."
I wrote down the address and then made one more play for sleep. "I'll give you a billion dollars to leave me out of this", I said. Not "you should leave me out of this, it'll be great". I was very careful.
"You don't have a billion dollars, Muskman" the chief said, chuckling. He was right. I grabbed a banana and hit the road.
The farm was high up on the south side of a valley about twenty miles outside town. The cops had blocked off the road and formed a cordon at the bottom of the driveway, which wound up another two hundred yards to the actual property. From where we were I couldn't see the farm house itself, but I could hear observers on the radio reporting in.
"Alright," the chief said, "the main house is here" pointing to the map, "behind it is a barn with no ground level windows. Imaging suggests three hostages, most likely the mayor, his wife and their 8 year old daughter, and two kidnappers, both males, both armed with long guns. We have no shot and they're threatening to execute a hostage in 30 minutes."
He smiled. "And they've just agreed to let an unarmed negotiator approach the barn".
"Alright, let's do this. Sun's already showing". And it was, a pale glow over the hills fringing the valley, still startlingly orange and blue after all these years, nothing like the rusty twilight that haunts and lures me in my dreams.
I moved up the driveway at a measured pace. I never, ever want to spook my prey. There's nothing I can do at a hundred yards. It took me a few minutes to reach the barn up that steep driveway. As I rounded the corner I could just make it out the weathered red sides and white wooden trim.
They must have peeped me through a crack, because as I approached the door cracked open and a voice called out "freeze, hands up, turn slowly".
I did as they asked. One of the kidnappers stepped out, rifle aimed at me. I tilted my head to the side to see if the other one was in earshot, but I couldn't see him.
"I work for you, buddy", I said.
"Shut up" he said, as he worked his way around behind me. Then when I was between him and the barn he said "move" and gestured towards the slightly-open barn door.
I walked slowly to the barn, hands up, middle of my back tickling under the rifle sights.
*Long, slow breaths* I thought.
As I entered the barn it was completely dark, and then suddenly a night light flicked on, bathing us in red light.
*Dim red light* I thought, catching a breath and half expecting nothing but cold emptiness.
As my eyes took in the warm light I saw a scared eight year old girl in pyjamas, a middle aged man and woman both in their robes and...
*There you are* I thought, taking in the sight of the second kidnapper in his black tacticool gear. *No need to wait any longer*.
I turned and took a step back from the imaginary line between the two kidnappers. I put on a happy face as I glanced back and forth between them and said "you guys should come with me, it'll be great!".
They lowered their guns and settled into a relaxed posture. I turned and left the barn, and they followed me. As we walked down the steepest part of the driveway I heard twin bullets whizz by me, and twin wet thumps behind me, followed by the distant voice of the chief screaming "STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN! HOLD YOUR FIRE!".
It wasn't the snipers' fault. Maybe their fingers twitched. Maybe a phantom voice in their ear said "take the shot". Maybe their firing pins slipped free and hammered their bullets away all by themselves.
People would always follow me if I promised them it would be great. And they would always die doing it. | 'You shouldn't be here!' Tristan shouted. His voice carrying easily across the tops of the quiet cubicle farm. Marjorie, a handsome older woman that was Tristan's work neighbor, walked around the beige carpet covered divider, spotted me, and fainted. I had only given her a friendly smile.
My friends had all learned about superheroes. By now death, and subsequent rebirths with miraculous powers, was the new reality, so it's not unusual that my own transformation could happen. Could. Welcome to my new reality, I thought.
<My powers seem to be based on the massive influx of energy as the enormous rocket engine had torn me apart as it burned through our atmosphere and into near earth space. The speed that tore my limbs apart seemed to bind them in wild energy. I call myself Cosmic, but really the name is a work in progress.>
Tristan was furiously fanning Marjorie with a manila folder. He glanced up at me. The glance was not fearful, so that much is good. But he shouted me back into action.
'You're a hero right? Get her some water!'
'Oh yeah.' I said, sprinting for the kitchenette that every floor in this four story office building had. I barely noticed how fast I had run. It did dawn on me, however, that the water flowed from the Sprinkler Springs water cooler like a thick syrup. The sight brought me back to the realization that I clearly had to get a solid control over these new powers, and fast. Starting with my run back to the collapsed woman. I had the chance to survey all the devastation my ill timed run had caused.
Like the following shockwave of a passing fighter jet flying too low, my run path had flipped a number of fully loaded tables, scattered the sturdier office chairs and left the air awash in flying paperwork. Not the best start for a new superhero career. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | 2 seconds left. Last chance to make this shot. One shot and we're in the finals. One person between me and the hoop. What's his power? I soon find out. Wind. a gust of air blows me back all the way to the opposing hoop, slamming me violently in it. 1 second left, then zero. I remember one thing however. the game doesn't stop until i touch the ground. I hear a cable snapping, and i take a leap of faith. A cable snapping
I remember now. the cable snapped. my spacewalk, cut short as i flew into oblivion. That was how i died. i slammed into Mars, through it's gravity field. Gravity.
I come back to reality. Floating above the court. Nearing the hoop, i throw the ball, and then snap gravity back. The ball slams into the ground, causing the room to shake, and we had won. I have so, so many ideas on how to use this. | I woke up alone on a strange cot in an empty hallway. The hallway is grey and dingy. Rusty pipes, valves, and large metal hand-wheels line its soot covered walls. Above, bare bulbs hang from wires suspended from the concrete ceiling. The place has the feeling of a shopping mall service corridor, or a utility passage under a stadium. One of those in-between places, behind the scenes.
I have no idea how I got here.
Panic catches in my throat. I do a quick check. Mostly OK. My body seems in good shape. I don’t appear to be injured. But my mind… there’s nothing there. No memory of where I am or how I got here; no memories at all really. I don’t even remember my own name. The panic deepens.
I hop up and give the pockets of my dark blue uniform a quick pat down, but they’re empty. No help there. However, I do notice a patch on the front left breast of my flight jacket which reads SPACEX, and on the right a patch which says JOHNSON. So, I do have a name at least.
I’m SpaceX Johnson. It's a start. What now?
I glance around the corridor. There’s only two directions: left or right. They both look exactly the same. Shrugging, I close my eyes, spin three times, and start walking.
At first the hallway seems empty and endless. Ther floor and walls are concrete, nondescript, and unchanging. Every once in a while I come across a heavy green service door, but all of them are locked. I can't shake the feeling that I’m being watched, but I see no one. So I keep walking.
In the distance I finally see something new, and I pick up the pace towards it.
The hallway ends in a blank wall. Before it stands a tall, skinny man in an immaculate charcoal tuxedo with a purple handkerchief tucked into the front pocket and a matching cumberbund around his waist. His face is drawn tight, given his head a skull-like appearance and his skin is darker than midnight. He stands straight and stiff under a bare light bulb. His eyes are locked onto me as I approach.
“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” he says coldly.
“Where the hell am?”
He only stares back.
To either side or him are large doors with windows in them. The one to his right is labelled “Blue Wing” and peaking through I see a blue -carpeted hotel hallway bustling with activity. People walking, smiling, carrying suitcases or in swim trunks with towels over their shoulders. It all looks so comfortable, peaceful. So normal.
I reach for the push-bar on the door, but a hand flashes out like lightning and wraps around my wrist like steel wire. The man in the tuxedo is glaring at me. His eyes are perfectly black; looking into them is like staring into the void.
“This area is off limits to the gentlemen,” he says. He sounds bored, like he’s said it a billion times before. I glance over his shoulder, through the window in the door under the sign which reads: “Red Wing.” There I see a mostly deserted hallway, the walls painted red and the carpet matching. Paintings of primitive looking drones rolling over crimson sand dunes line the wall. A shiver runs down my spine.
The tuxedo man follows my gaze and shifts his position to further block the door.
“That area is off limits to the gentleman as well,” he says.
I step back. I want to scream. I want to call for the police. I want to sock him in the face and run for it. But somehow I know that any of these options would be completely futile. The dark skinned man in the tuxedo was in total control here.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
He shrugs and points back down the corridor. “I suggest you try that direction.”
“Gee, thanks.” I turn to leave, but take one last peak through the Red Wing window. Coming out of a hotel room door I see a woman there in a blue flight jacket, just like mine. She stops and looks over her shoulder at the window.
My heart stops. That deja vu shiver runs down my spine again. I recognize that face! I know her! I don’t know how or why, or even what her name is. But I know her, there's no doubt about it.
Suddenly, the cold hand is back, on my shoulder this time. “I suggest the gentleman starts moving, while he still can,” comes his snake whisper in my ears. There is no lie in those eternal black eyes.
I take his advice and start moving.
I walk through that dismal utility corridor for hours. Nothing changes. Nothing new. I might as well be on a treadmill.
Then, suddenly, another hand from the shadows at the edge of the hallway, this one wrapped in a white glove. A man sits up from a cot there. He wears an orange spacesuit with a shattered helmet. The face inside is warm and smiling. He stands and begins to speak excitedly, but I can’t understand the language. No matter, his whole vibe is the direct opposite of the man in the tuxedo. He points down the hallway and waves for me to follow him.
I do.
We walked for a while, him chattering the whole way. The whole thing feels so dream-like, so surreal, yet so familiar.
We get to the end of the hallway. There’s no doorway. Just emptiness. Emptiness and space full of endless stars, all of them unfamiliar. I’m staring out an open door to the universe.
Fear paralyzes my body. There’s no airlock. There should be an airlock. I don't know how I know this but, I do. I’m not wearing a spacesuit. I know what happens to human bodies in the vacuum of space. I close my eyes and wait for the most unfortunate of deaths. At least the confusion will be over.
Nothing happens. I try to take a breath. I can’t, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t breathe out either. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been breathing this whole time. And that's OK too.
My name is SpaceX Johnson, and I don’t have to breathe anymore. The desolation of the vacuum no longer applies to me. That's my power.
The Russian cosmonaut nods and smiles, then waves his hand at the open door and the stars beyond as if to say “welcome home.”
I launch myself through the door and into my new life.
/r/dariuspilgrim | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | [Voiceover](https://vocaroo.com/13k8XP9YHqiK)
I glow with soft white light, but I am not the Moon.
I twinkle with distant fire, but I am not the stars.
My war runs red as rust, but I am not Mars.
I land flawlessly atop a midsize sedan, crushing the bicycle rack beneath my boots. "I have died and behold I am alive." I jump to the road below, attempting various gestures in the busy city streets, honks and curses a cacophonous symphony backdrop to the exploration of my new skills.
"Move, pal!" "Get outta the road!"
"Be calm, citizen. I am a newly resurrected hero and I must get my bearings readily!" I attempt to summon a phantom blade, but my glowing gloves remain untooled. I hover lightly off the ground but that was nearly a given, considering how I died. There must be more!
I attempt to set a dumpster alight with mind magic, but no bolts of energy issue through me. A glimmer catches my eye on the sidewalk. I bend down to find a diamond, carved in the shape of a hand. I place it to my chest and it melds with my suit, spreading the glow of my radiant skin like stained glass.
"I won!" a young woman screamed beside me, holding out a lottery ticket. Near her, a middle-aged man chuckled to himself as he looked down at his phone. The screen was filled with green line spikes and six-digit numbers. He typed 'Hodl' reverently.
"Nat 20!" a trumpeting boy screamed from the card store near me, standing above his peers in a blanket cloak. I look down at my hands again, still wearing the gloves of the SpaceX pilot, a phantom of those burned in orbit. My power matches my death indeed, I realize.
I soar across the sky, but I am not the Eagle.
I bellow loud but I am not the Seal.
I rack proudly but I am not the Stallion.
I am the Doge, and I bring fortune to all.
&#x200B;
/r/surinical | Infinite space.
The final frontier.
Endlessness.
Blackest night.
I scribble these down on paper, trying to think of what my super power should be called.
I've kept my power a secret for most of my life, you see, this world is different. It's strange, somebodies death grants you a super power. Nobody knows who, nobody knows why, they just know that how someone dies determines your power.
There are common powers, pyromancy, flight, strength, even breathing underwater. All related to common deaths. Typical that I get unlucky
I remember the day my power manifested. I remember the tingling sensation running down my spine. I remember watching the news as Buzz Peak died due to the space station malfunctioning. He died alone, in the emptiness of space. The feeling spread through me. Then all around me, and it grew and grew. I didnt understand it at the time, why suddenly my parents stop caring, why my sweet grandma stopped baking me cookies, why nobody wanted me around.
For years I was alone.
But I've been practising control.
I won't be alone anymore.
. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | I knew Mars as home.
I was born on this red planet. Been here for as long as I could remember. Which wasn't very long, mind you, but even my parents cannot tell me about Earth. Words like "doomed," "failed," and "disaster" were thrown around freely and readily. It was a little unfair, perhaps, but what did I know?
I walked around sometimes, hands inevitably dotted by the fine rust covering every square inch of the planet. We tried to remove it, sweep it away from the White City, but it persisted and stayed regardless of human efforts--never quite willing to leave a corner spotless, a floor tile unsullied. And as I walked, I would reach the end of the line--the dome. I saw the dust storms kick up outside, and I could feel safely protected by whatever highly scientific material this was--but not enough to keep out every speck of rust.
I stared at Mars' twin moons, the sons orbiting their father. If I let my gaze stray a little further into the vacuum of space, I could see our old home--still a pale blue marble. We came from Earth, but that felt like so distant a memory.
Memory. But it was a memory. Of that, I was certain. Mars is home. But Earth was home. Why do I remember it like that?
My hand found itself pressed against the dome. Was I trying to break it in some sort of futile effort? Or just the reckless risk-prone teenager in me? I don't know.
But there was this feeling I couldn't shake. My home was out there. No, not on Earth. No, not in the White City. On the red planet itself, where the dust storm raged on unabated. On that particular day, I don't know how long I stood there, watching the storm kick itself up in a flurry unlike any I've seen or heard about before.
My mind wandered, out onto the red planet, into the twin moons, out into the space with oh so little stars, and an old, pale, blue home that somehow ached my heart. I heard the sirens, I think. But too late. My teenage hand could do nothing to the dome from the inside--but Mars' fury was something else. In the few moments that transpired as the cracks formed around my hand, I screamed, and rust found itself into every crevice, every nook and cranny of my body from inside and outside. Sensation flooded through every atom, and I coughed, and I shouted, and I cried, and everything my body ever did in distress, it did that until my throat was hoarse and my eyes burned and my fingernails dug like thorns deep into my palms.
But. But there was no distress. I don't know when I realized it, but I could breathe easy. I thought the fury of Mars was unabated. As I calmed down, it was a different story, however. The White City was built for humans, they had said, and outside of it was dangerous. But I was not bothered. The rust now coated every single bit of me, and I could not care less.
Mars is home. Not the White City, not the metal home I grew up in. I knew it as I walked on the ground, the rust sweeping itself around me, not with snapping jaws, but with loving pecks. And I walked, so, so much, my legs treading the ground tirelessly. It wasn't I that guided my legs, though. They just kept plodding assuredly, until I found a speck of white in the red, red rust of Mars.
It was familiar in a way I didn't understand. A distant memory. I pulled it out. I knew what it was, but I couldn't tell you the name of it for the life of me. But I put on what looked to be a small dome on my head, anyway, and stared out into space once more.
For some reason, my old home looked so much bluer from here.
---
r/dexdrafts | Infinite space.
The final frontier.
Endlessness.
Blackest night.
I scribble these down on paper, trying to think of what my super power should be called.
I've kept my power a secret for most of my life, you see, this world is different. It's strange, somebodies death grants you a super power. Nobody knows who, nobody knows why, they just know that how someone dies determines your power.
There are common powers, pyromancy, flight, strength, even breathing underwater. All related to common deaths. Typical that I get unlucky
I remember the day my power manifested. I remember the tingling sensation running down my spine. I remember watching the news as Buzz Peak died due to the space station malfunctioning. He died alone, in the emptiness of space. The feeling spread through me. Then all around me, and it grew and grew. I didnt understand it at the time, why suddenly my parents stop caring, why my sweet grandma stopped baking me cookies, why nobody wanted me around.
For years I was alone.
But I've been practising control.
I won't be alone anymore.
. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | [Voiceover](https://vocaroo.com/13k8XP9YHqiK)
I glow with soft white light, but I am not the Moon.
I twinkle with distant fire, but I am not the stars.
My war runs red as rust, but I am not Mars.
I land flawlessly atop a midsize sedan, crushing the bicycle rack beneath my boots. "I have died and behold I am alive." I jump to the road below, attempting various gestures in the busy city streets, honks and curses a cacophonous symphony backdrop to the exploration of my new skills.
"Move, pal!" "Get outta the road!"
"Be calm, citizen. I am a newly resurrected hero and I must get my bearings readily!" I attempt to summon a phantom blade, but my glowing gloves remain untooled. I hover lightly off the ground but that was nearly a given, considering how I died. There must be more!
I attempt to set a dumpster alight with mind magic, but no bolts of energy issue through me. A glimmer catches my eye on the sidewalk. I bend down to find a diamond, carved in the shape of a hand. I place it to my chest and it melds with my suit, spreading the glow of my radiant skin like stained glass.
"I won!" a young woman screamed beside me, holding out a lottery ticket. Near her, a middle-aged man chuckled to himself as he looked down at his phone. The screen was filled with green line spikes and six-digit numbers. He typed 'Hodl' reverently.
"Nat 20!" a trumpeting boy screamed from the card store near me, standing above his peers in a blanket cloak. I look down at my hands again, still wearing the gloves of the SpaceX pilot, a phantom of those burned in orbit. My power matches my death indeed, I realize.
I soar across the sky, but I am not the Eagle.
I bellow loud but I am not the Seal.
I rack proudly but I am not the Stallion.
I am the Doge, and I bring fortune to all.
&#x200B;
/r/surinical |
The first time Mrs Ana Daniels noticed anything different about Estelle was like any other day. She had been doing chores while the baby lay calmly burbling in the morning sunlight after a feed, had managed a cup of tea and to put a wash on- even though Jimmy had gone to work this week and she was alone for the first time since the new arrival. As she walked down the hall, the light had become more dim. Returning to the nursery, she was met with resistance from the other side; panic swelled in her chest - Someone was in the room! But shoving with more of her strength she found tendrils of fern curling around the door. Twigs cracked under her finger tips as she forced entry, and what she was met with took her breath away. The room was a riot of green. The oak crib was gone, Estelle cradled in the trunk of a large tree. Ferns peeked out from under the window, and dry leaves crackled under her slippers. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | The girl snapped her fingers, and the woman who was yelling immediately gasped and clutched her throat, her shouts cut off as she rasped for breath.
"Are you going to calm down, now?" The girl asked, nonplussed.
"You... Bitch..." The woman's eyes that were bulging out of her head were filled with cold fury. She snapped her own fingers, and the girl immediately collapsed to the floor, and the force that was making the woman unable to breathe disappeared.
"You goddamned ingrate..." The woman gasped, looking down at the girl in disdain. The girl was asleep. Put to rest by the woman's powers. There were many in the world who had the woman's powers, but no one had the girl's.
Countless people died in their sleep, but no one had died of a space suit malfunction on a spacewalk in an orbit around mars.
The girl had, in a last life. And her power to stop people from breathing was a Class S ability. If she was not contained or institutionalised, it would spell danger for everyone around her.
But the thing was, she was. They were in one of the rehabilitation institutions for youth with Class A or higher tiers of powers. The woman, and many like her, were there to teach the children. Educate them about the wonders and dangers of the powers they possessed.
But the girl was an honest to god sociopath.
The woman heard the door open behind her and people rush in, talking in hushed voices.
"Shit... Are you ok? That's the second goddamn time this week. She's out of control." A man whispered loudly, and the woman saw the girl shift, and then shift back as if she was still sleeping.
"She's awake. Stand back." The woman muttered angrily, fingers ready to snap and activate her ability again. Continually using her powers would drain her, but the girl had to be subdued.
"Are you going to behave or do you want to go to sleep again?" She asked the girl.
"Behave? All I was doing was talking to that boy."
"I heard what you were telling him."
"He can stop people's hearts from beating. He died from a heart attack in his previous life, right?"
"How he died isn't important. He can use his powers for good. He can influence people's heart rhythms. Do you know how valuable he would be as a frontline worker? He'll singlehandedly resuscitate people who are dying. He doesn't need to hear the vile bullshit you're putting in his ear."
"Ironic, isn't it. If only he had someone with his power to save him from dying in the first place."
"Look, with enough time, we can find a productive use for your power, too."
"I do have a productive use for it."
"You nearly killed me. You nearly killed most of everyone in this room."
"Sucks that you all died in your sleep in your past lives. I thought putting others to sleep was a dumb power, but you guys really like to abuse the shit out of that power on us, huh?"
"The only abuse of power here is you abusing yours."
"Have you met anyone with a power like mine?"
At this the people in the room shifted uncomfortably. They could not fathom her previous death, much less the extent of her powers that derived from it.
"No. That is why we're trying to help."
"Trying to restrict, more like. I want to see. I want to see how far I can push myself. What my powers actually are. I think oxygen manipulation is only part of it."
"You can't... You remember what happened to them."
"I told you I'm over them."
"You're not. You're sixteen years old and you killed your parents on accident. There's no way you're over something like that."
"Well, you aren't a doctor. Just let that boy and me do our thing. If things go too far. Hey, you have your miracle boy to bring whoever gets the short end of the stick back to life."
The woman wanted to scream at the girl, but only angrily snapped her fingers again. And the girl's posture slumped for the second time that day as she was put to sleep. |
The first time Mrs Ana Daniels noticed anything different about Estelle was like any other day. She had been doing chores while the baby lay calmly burbling in the morning sunlight after a feed, had managed a cup of tea and to put a wash on- even though Jimmy had gone to work this week and she was alone for the first time since the new arrival. As she walked down the hall, the light had become more dim. Returning to the nursery, she was met with resistance from the other side; panic swelled in her chest - Someone was in the room! But shoving with more of her strength she found tendrils of fern curling around the door. Twigs cracked under her finger tips as she forced entry, and what she was met with took her breath away. The room was a riot of green. The oak crib was gone, Estelle cradled in the trunk of a large tree. Ferns peeked out from under the window, and dry leaves crackled under her slippers. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | I knew Mars as home.
I was born on this red planet. Been here for as long as I could remember. Which wasn't very long, mind you, but even my parents cannot tell me about Earth. Words like "doomed," "failed," and "disaster" were thrown around freely and readily. It was a little unfair, perhaps, but what did I know?
I walked around sometimes, hands inevitably dotted by the fine rust covering every square inch of the planet. We tried to remove it, sweep it away from the White City, but it persisted and stayed regardless of human efforts--never quite willing to leave a corner spotless, a floor tile unsullied. And as I walked, I would reach the end of the line--the dome. I saw the dust storms kick up outside, and I could feel safely protected by whatever highly scientific material this was--but not enough to keep out every speck of rust.
I stared at Mars' twin moons, the sons orbiting their father. If I let my gaze stray a little further into the vacuum of space, I could see our old home--still a pale blue marble. We came from Earth, but that felt like so distant a memory.
Memory. But it was a memory. Of that, I was certain. Mars is home. But Earth was home. Why do I remember it like that?
My hand found itself pressed against the dome. Was I trying to break it in some sort of futile effort? Or just the reckless risk-prone teenager in me? I don't know.
But there was this feeling I couldn't shake. My home was out there. No, not on Earth. No, not in the White City. On the red planet itself, where the dust storm raged on unabated. On that particular day, I don't know how long I stood there, watching the storm kick itself up in a flurry unlike any I've seen or heard about before.
My mind wandered, out onto the red planet, into the twin moons, out into the space with oh so little stars, and an old, pale, blue home that somehow ached my heart. I heard the sirens, I think. But too late. My teenage hand could do nothing to the dome from the inside--but Mars' fury was something else. In the few moments that transpired as the cracks formed around my hand, I screamed, and rust found itself into every crevice, every nook and cranny of my body from inside and outside. Sensation flooded through every atom, and I coughed, and I shouted, and I cried, and everything my body ever did in distress, it did that until my throat was hoarse and my eyes burned and my fingernails dug like thorns deep into my palms.
But. But there was no distress. I don't know when I realized it, but I could breathe easy. I thought the fury of Mars was unabated. As I calmed down, it was a different story, however. The White City was built for humans, they had said, and outside of it was dangerous. But I was not bothered. The rust now coated every single bit of me, and I could not care less.
Mars is home. Not the White City, not the metal home I grew up in. I knew it as I walked on the ground, the rust sweeping itself around me, not with snapping jaws, but with loving pecks. And I walked, so, so much, my legs treading the ground tirelessly. It wasn't I that guided my legs, though. They just kept plodding assuredly, until I found a speck of white in the red, red rust of Mars.
It was familiar in a way I didn't understand. A distant memory. I pulled it out. I knew what it was, but I couldn't tell you the name of it for the life of me. But I put on what looked to be a small dome on my head, anyway, and stared out into space once more.
For some reason, my old home looked so much bluer from here.
---
r/dexdrafts |
The first time Mrs Ana Daniels noticed anything different about Estelle was like any other day. She had been doing chores while the baby lay calmly burbling in the morning sunlight after a feed, had managed a cup of tea and to put a wash on- even though Jimmy had gone to work this week and she was alone for the first time since the new arrival. As she walked down the hall, the light had become more dim. Returning to the nursery, she was met with resistance from the other side; panic swelled in her chest - Someone was in the room! But shoving with more of her strength she found tendrils of fern curling around the door. Twigs cracked under her finger tips as she forced entry, and what she was met with took her breath away. The room was a riot of green. The oak crib was gone, Estelle cradled in the trunk of a large tree. Ferns peeked out from under the window, and dry leaves crackled under her slippers. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | I’m unaffected by pressure.
That sounds like nothing, right?
Well, think about the air pressure pushing down on you right now. Think about the pressure you are exerting on the the world by standing on it. Think about the pressure at the on of the ocean that can crush most things not originating from there. Think about the vacuum of space, that has so little pressure that you’ll boil and pop.
I think about that last one a lot. After all, it’s what led to this.
Putting that aside though, other forces affect me: thermal change, granitic attraction, electromagnetics, etc. It’s just isn’t *pressing* (ha ha).
It’s nice. No bully could push me around, no villain can strike me down, no weight is too great for me to carry. Bullets don’t leave a mark.
But it has its flaws. I don’t get anything from hugs. I’ve heard tickling can be annoying, but I’ll never know. I can’t ever get a tattoo, only burns. I would never be able to give blood as the needle can’t go through my skin, and there’s no pressure difference to draw the blood.
All that there is for me to do, is talk, and think. I’m now the one that gets sent to negotiate with people. You know the kind, those that can punch through walls, can throw buildings, etc. Never the ones with laser vision, control over magnetism or electricity, nor the ones who can freeze things. Just strength. Just “punchy pushy fighter” types.
Thankfully I’ve gotten good at it. Haven’t met anyone immune to *social* pressure, so that’s nice.
Still curious what a relationship would be like. Tried dating a while back, but apparently there’s a lot that people intuit based on feel. Makes me bad at hugs, and kissing, and most things past that.
Who knows. Maybe I just need one little push. |
The first time Mrs Ana Daniels noticed anything different about Estelle was like any other day. She had been doing chores while the baby lay calmly burbling in the morning sunlight after a feed, had managed a cup of tea and to put a wash on- even though Jimmy had gone to work this week and she was alone for the first time since the new arrival. As she walked down the hall, the light had become more dim. Returning to the nursery, she was met with resistance from the other side; panic swelled in her chest - Someone was in the room! But shoving with more of her strength she found tendrils of fern curling around the door. Twigs cracked under her finger tips as she forced entry, and what she was met with took her breath away. The room was a riot of green. The oak crib was gone, Estelle cradled in the trunk of a large tree. Ferns peeked out from under the window, and dry leaves crackled under her slippers. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | I knew Mars as home.
I was born on this red planet. Been here for as long as I could remember. Which wasn't very long, mind you, but even my parents cannot tell me about Earth. Words like "doomed," "failed," and "disaster" were thrown around freely and readily. It was a little unfair, perhaps, but what did I know?
I walked around sometimes, hands inevitably dotted by the fine rust covering every square inch of the planet. We tried to remove it, sweep it away from the White City, but it persisted and stayed regardless of human efforts--never quite willing to leave a corner spotless, a floor tile unsullied. And as I walked, I would reach the end of the line--the dome. I saw the dust storms kick up outside, and I could feel safely protected by whatever highly scientific material this was--but not enough to keep out every speck of rust.
I stared at Mars' twin moons, the sons orbiting their father. If I let my gaze stray a little further into the vacuum of space, I could see our old home--still a pale blue marble. We came from Earth, but that felt like so distant a memory.
Memory. But it was a memory. Of that, I was certain. Mars is home. But Earth was home. Why do I remember it like that?
My hand found itself pressed against the dome. Was I trying to break it in some sort of futile effort? Or just the reckless risk-prone teenager in me? I don't know.
But there was this feeling I couldn't shake. My home was out there. No, not on Earth. No, not in the White City. On the red planet itself, where the dust storm raged on unabated. On that particular day, I don't know how long I stood there, watching the storm kick itself up in a flurry unlike any I've seen or heard about before.
My mind wandered, out onto the red planet, into the twin moons, out into the space with oh so little stars, and an old, pale, blue home that somehow ached my heart. I heard the sirens, I think. But too late. My teenage hand could do nothing to the dome from the inside--but Mars' fury was something else. In the few moments that transpired as the cracks formed around my hand, I screamed, and rust found itself into every crevice, every nook and cranny of my body from inside and outside. Sensation flooded through every atom, and I coughed, and I shouted, and I cried, and everything my body ever did in distress, it did that until my throat was hoarse and my eyes burned and my fingernails dug like thorns deep into my palms.
But. But there was no distress. I don't know when I realized it, but I could breathe easy. I thought the fury of Mars was unabated. As I calmed down, it was a different story, however. The White City was built for humans, they had said, and outside of it was dangerous. But I was not bothered. The rust now coated every single bit of me, and I could not care less.
Mars is home. Not the White City, not the metal home I grew up in. I knew it as I walked on the ground, the rust sweeping itself around me, not with snapping jaws, but with loving pecks. And I walked, so, so much, my legs treading the ground tirelessly. It wasn't I that guided my legs, though. They just kept plodding assuredly, until I found a speck of white in the red, red rust of Mars.
It was familiar in a way I didn't understand. A distant memory. I pulled it out. I knew what it was, but I couldn't tell you the name of it for the life of me. But I put on what looked to be a small dome on my head, anyway, and stared out into space once more.
For some reason, my old home looked so much bluer from here.
---
r/dexdrafts | The girl snapped her fingers, and the woman who was yelling immediately gasped and clutched her throat, her shouts cut off as she rasped for breath.
"Are you going to calm down, now?" The girl asked, nonplussed.
"You... Bitch..." The woman's eyes that were bulging out of her head were filled with cold fury. She snapped her own fingers, and the girl immediately collapsed to the floor, and the force that was making the woman unable to breathe disappeared.
"You goddamned ingrate..." The woman gasped, looking down at the girl in disdain. The girl was asleep. Put to rest by the woman's powers. There were many in the world who had the woman's powers, but no one had the girl's.
Countless people died in their sleep, but no one had died of a space suit malfunction on a spacewalk in an orbit around mars.
The girl had, in a last life. And her power to stop people from breathing was a Class S ability. If she was not contained or institutionalised, it would spell danger for everyone around her.
But the thing was, she was. They were in one of the rehabilitation institutions for youth with Class A or higher tiers of powers. The woman, and many like her, were there to teach the children. Educate them about the wonders and dangers of the powers they possessed.
But the girl was an honest to god sociopath.
The woman heard the door open behind her and people rush in, talking in hushed voices.
"Shit... Are you ok? That's the second goddamn time this week. She's out of control." A man whispered loudly, and the woman saw the girl shift, and then shift back as if she was still sleeping.
"She's awake. Stand back." The woman muttered angrily, fingers ready to snap and activate her ability again. Continually using her powers would drain her, but the girl had to be subdued.
"Are you going to behave or do you want to go to sleep again?" She asked the girl.
"Behave? All I was doing was talking to that boy."
"I heard what you were telling him."
"He can stop people's hearts from beating. He died from a heart attack in his previous life, right?"
"How he died isn't important. He can use his powers for good. He can influence people's heart rhythms. Do you know how valuable he would be as a frontline worker? He'll singlehandedly resuscitate people who are dying. He doesn't need to hear the vile bullshit you're putting in his ear."
"Ironic, isn't it. If only he had someone with his power to save him from dying in the first place."
"Look, with enough time, we can find a productive use for your power, too."
"I do have a productive use for it."
"You nearly killed me. You nearly killed most of everyone in this room."
"Sucks that you all died in your sleep in your past lives. I thought putting others to sleep was a dumb power, but you guys really like to abuse the shit out of that power on us, huh?"
"The only abuse of power here is you abusing yours."
"Have you met anyone with a power like mine?"
At this the people in the room shifted uncomfortably. They could not fathom her previous death, much less the extent of her powers that derived from it.
"No. That is why we're trying to help."
"Trying to restrict, more like. I want to see. I want to see how far I can push myself. What my powers actually are. I think oxygen manipulation is only part of it."
"You can't... You remember what happened to them."
"I told you I'm over them."
"You're not. You're sixteen years old and you killed your parents on accident. There's no way you're over something like that."
"Well, you aren't a doctor. Just let that boy and me do our thing. If things go too far. Hey, you have your miracle boy to bring whoever gets the short end of the stick back to life."
The woman wanted to scream at the girl, but only angrily snapped her fingers again. And the girl's posture slumped for the second time that day as she was put to sleep. | |
[WP] Superpowers are granted depending on how you died in your previous life. Someone who died in a fire might shoot fire from their fingertips, etc. You were an astronaut that died during the SpaceX Mars Mission. | I’m unaffected by pressure.
That sounds like nothing, right?
Well, think about the air pressure pushing down on you right now. Think about the pressure you are exerting on the the world by standing on it. Think about the pressure at the on of the ocean that can crush most things not originating from there. Think about the vacuum of space, that has so little pressure that you’ll boil and pop.
I think about that last one a lot. After all, it’s what led to this.
Putting that aside though, other forces affect me: thermal change, granitic attraction, electromagnetics, etc. It’s just isn’t *pressing* (ha ha).
It’s nice. No bully could push me around, no villain can strike me down, no weight is too great for me to carry. Bullets don’t leave a mark.
But it has its flaws. I don’t get anything from hugs. I’ve heard tickling can be annoying, but I’ll never know. I can’t ever get a tattoo, only burns. I would never be able to give blood as the needle can’t go through my skin, and there’s no pressure difference to draw the blood.
All that there is for me to do, is talk, and think. I’m now the one that gets sent to negotiate with people. You know the kind, those that can punch through walls, can throw buildings, etc. Never the ones with laser vision, control over magnetism or electricity, nor the ones who can freeze things. Just strength. Just “punchy pushy fighter” types.
Thankfully I’ve gotten good at it. Haven’t met anyone immune to *social* pressure, so that’s nice.
Still curious what a relationship would be like. Tried dating a while back, but apparently there’s a lot that people intuit based on feel. Makes me bad at hugs, and kissing, and most things past that.
Who knows. Maybe I just need one little push. | The girl snapped her fingers, and the woman who was yelling immediately gasped and clutched her throat, her shouts cut off as she rasped for breath.
"Are you going to calm down, now?" The girl asked, nonplussed.
"You... Bitch..." The woman's eyes that were bulging out of her head were filled with cold fury. She snapped her own fingers, and the girl immediately collapsed to the floor, and the force that was making the woman unable to breathe disappeared.
"You goddamned ingrate..." The woman gasped, looking down at the girl in disdain. The girl was asleep. Put to rest by the woman's powers. There were many in the world who had the woman's powers, but no one had the girl's.
Countless people died in their sleep, but no one had died of a space suit malfunction on a spacewalk in an orbit around mars.
The girl had, in a last life. And her power to stop people from breathing was a Class S ability. If she was not contained or institutionalised, it would spell danger for everyone around her.
But the thing was, she was. They were in one of the rehabilitation institutions for youth with Class A or higher tiers of powers. The woman, and many like her, were there to teach the children. Educate them about the wonders and dangers of the powers they possessed.
But the girl was an honest to god sociopath.
The woman heard the door open behind her and people rush in, talking in hushed voices.
"Shit... Are you ok? That's the second goddamn time this week. She's out of control." A man whispered loudly, and the woman saw the girl shift, and then shift back as if she was still sleeping.
"She's awake. Stand back." The woman muttered angrily, fingers ready to snap and activate her ability again. Continually using her powers would drain her, but the girl had to be subdued.
"Are you going to behave or do you want to go to sleep again?" She asked the girl.
"Behave? All I was doing was talking to that boy."
"I heard what you were telling him."
"He can stop people's hearts from beating. He died from a heart attack in his previous life, right?"
"How he died isn't important. He can use his powers for good. He can influence people's heart rhythms. Do you know how valuable he would be as a frontline worker? He'll singlehandedly resuscitate people who are dying. He doesn't need to hear the vile bullshit you're putting in his ear."
"Ironic, isn't it. If only he had someone with his power to save him from dying in the first place."
"Look, with enough time, we can find a productive use for your power, too."
"I do have a productive use for it."
"You nearly killed me. You nearly killed most of everyone in this room."
"Sucks that you all died in your sleep in your past lives. I thought putting others to sleep was a dumb power, but you guys really like to abuse the shit out of that power on us, huh?"
"The only abuse of power here is you abusing yours."
"Have you met anyone with a power like mine?"
At this the people in the room shifted uncomfortably. They could not fathom her previous death, much less the extent of her powers that derived from it.
"No. That is why we're trying to help."
"Trying to restrict, more like. I want to see. I want to see how far I can push myself. What my powers actually are. I think oxygen manipulation is only part of it."
"You can't... You remember what happened to them."
"I told you I'm over them."
"You're not. You're sixteen years old and you killed your parents on accident. There's no way you're over something like that."
"Well, you aren't a doctor. Just let that boy and me do our thing. If things go too far. Hey, you have your miracle boy to bring whoever gets the short end of the stick back to life."
The woman wanted to scream at the girl, but only angrily snapped her fingers again. And the girl's posture slumped for the second time that day as she was put to sleep. | |
[WP] A superhero tries to stay anonymous at their normal day job but doesn't realise the whole office actually knows. | I rolled my eyes as Zach walked into the office at 10:17 am and announced a little too loudly, "Sorry I'm late guys, my car was a bit...frozen up this morning."
It was as if Zach was making a pun to an unseen audience. He smugly walked to his desk, content that everyone in the room actually believed his alibi, and sat down after putting his brief case on the table. He clicked the case open, and rummaged through the contents as if Steve, his cubicle-mate, couldn't see the tattered remains of the suit that Zach obviously intended to wear to work this morning before his car "Froze up".
Steve shot me a look. *Should we just tell him?* My entire office knew of course, that what had actually happened was that earlier this morning Zach had literally picked up his car and hurled it at Frost Giant at a formidable speed, stopping the terror the beast was causing our small town for good. It was all over the news. The police hadn't even dug the massive corpse from under the green 2013 Kia Optima that Zach drove to work *every day* until now. Zach thought by wearing glasses to work that nobody would recognize him.
Zach's tardiness wouldn't normally be a problem, he was doing good community service after all. What annoyed me was that I already knew Zach was going to need a couple of days off to get his car replaced and we needed all hands on deck. Tax season was about to come to an end and these audits were not about to write themselves. I was always confused about why Zach wouldn't work a construction job or something. | Clark walked through the front door of the daily planet. He knew his secret was safe. By day, he was Clark Kent, journalist for the Most prolific newspaper in Metropolis. But by night he was Superman, the most powerful being in the solar system. The weight of the universe was on his shoulders as the leader of the justice league. And he used his journalistic abilities to expose corruption. Today was going to be a big day. He had to publish an expose that was going to run front page, tomorrow. As he set it on the editor’s desk, it was received with great impatience. At that moment Clark felt as though he was more of a superhero with his writing then he was as a kryptonian. However....The editor grabbed the papers with such gusto, not because he was in such a hurry to read this paper. He fears the Godman, himself. Every day Clark walks into that office with his hair swept to the right wearing a regular ass suit with that stupid look on his face. They all knew. The only reason his 3rd grade writing level made the paper was because that bastard shoots lasers out of his eyes and wear his underwear on the outside of his pants. | |
[WP] You are an author in the year 2455 writing a historical novel based in 2020s Earth. How does it open? | \-What r u up 2?- the message read, its letters composed of tiny little pixels on a screen the size of a human palm.
Tyler John-Smithson smiled, it was his 'bae' Jennifer no doubt thinking of him after the night they spent together. They had been seeing one another for a few months now and had officially gone steady according to Jennifer's MySpace page. It was a nice change for Tyler, who had been ghosted many a time before meeting her.
He replied with emoticons, cheerfully animated facial expressions, specifically for the purpose of conveying ones feelings. He chose the face with the sunglasses on and a smirk then typed the words "Just chilling doin errands, u?". He didn't wait for a reply, but pocketed his cellular telephone and proceeded into the department store where he wanted to get some necessary items.
Whawl-Mart was a veritable emporium of goods from around planet Earth, with a high concentration of products from the Orient. Most of it was of substandard quality to Tyler, but it cost very little dollars in relative terms. The Peoples Republic of Chyna were a powerhouse in manufacturing and trade on a worldwide scale, for better or for worse. Tyler, like so many other Americans from the United States, had little idea just how much one of the Orients recent exports would change his life.
He walked past a row of televisions, a beloved artifact in many households which announced current events, portrayed violent spectacle, and on occasion educational content remotely. These were showing the "news" on the Chinese News Network or CNN. A rolling bar of words below read: *"BREAKING: Coronavirus cases appear in Europe and North America. World leaders considering quarantine measures."*
"Coronavirus?" thought Tyler. "Sounds like one of my favorite beverages."
He found aisle 9, which contained what he was looking for. Toilet paper, a simple pressing of wood fibers built specifically for the purposes of hygienics during excreta, was a vital necessity for civilized life. To Tylers horror, the empty racks were a sign of upcoming trials he was ill-prepared for....
***This concludes the sample of "Love in the Time of Coronavirus" by Cire Aykraugh-Markez coming soon to all holoports and assorted media on Unicron Cycle 2.A! Thank you for reading.*** | With many different portrayals, splendid villains to counter act the hero, and stories that were well written; the story of batman, selfless vigalnte ready and able to defend humanity had been done quite a few times the decades prior the twenty- twenties.
Out of the cruel irony of our universe, or simply outstanding coincidence. The begining of the two thousand and twenties started with a virus that threatened mankind. Not batman, but a man who ate a bat nearly caused the end of, what was than known as modern civilization.
In SX-B670, what was formerly know as The United States of America, the Orange Man was in the process of being impeached. Yes it is pure coincidence the fruit colored man was in the process of something that was named after another fruit. At the time SX- B670 was the powerhouse of Tarsav. In those days, Tarsav, was better known as Earth. | |
[WP] You made a Sc-Fi novel with theories you made as a joke. You get a call from the scientific community. You have discovered a new element | It would have been an utterly unremarkable day if it weren’t for two small facts: it happened to be my birthday, and someone from the Nobel Association called to say I discovered a new element.
I had spent the better part of the day ignoring the outside world. If I wanted to be congratulated for not yet having died, I’d visit my shrink more often. As far as I’m concerned, birthdays are for children and Jeanne Calment—only worth celebrating if you’re mentally undeveloped, or defending a title.
With twenty missed calls on my phone from contacts like “Jon Bignose,” “Kathy Acquaintance,” “Michael Work,” and “John Smallnose,” it was a wonder I picked up the phone for an unknown number.
“Hello,” I answered. “Yes, it is my birthday, and no matter how hard you wish, it's unlikely to be any more happy than any other day.”
“Oh,” the caller seemed to hesitate. “Is this Ronald Dougan?”
“The man of the hour. Would you like my autograph?” I asked sarcastically. “Thirty-eight years avoiding my inevitable demise is no small feat, you know.”
Before you judge too harshly, I can explain. Birthday calls from acquaintances are a dime a dozen. At the end of the day, they’re just fulfilling some ritualistic obligation—they’re not actually interested in talking to you. I’m doing them a favor by ignoring their calls—they’re off the hook. It’s a win-win. Now, a call from an unknown number is a different story. An unknown number could be anything, it could even be Venezuelan call center trying to reach me about my car’s extended warranty. An opportunity to troll a call center is a *real* gift.
“I *would* like your autograph, Mr. Dougan,” the caller answered. “And I’m sure many others would as well. But not for the reason you think. Happy birthday, by the way.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked. I came into this conversation guns blazing, fully owning the upper hand. It did not feel good to have the tables turned like this.
“I’m with the Nobel Association. There have been some recent breakthroughs in particle physics thanks to your book.”
“My book?” I hadn’t written a book.
“Yes, the Wayfarers Map to the Universe.”
The memories came flooding back. I *had* written a book. Way back in college, and only as a joke. I posted the whole thing for free online, “self-published” I believe they call it these days. Hadn’t thought anyone read it.
“Do you remember the Floob particle, you described?” the caller asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Do you remember how you described its interaction with electrons and dark matter?”
“Yes,” I lied again.
“Well, it turns out that you were right.”
“What do you mean ‘I was right?’”
“I mean that the Floob particle exists, and it interacts with dark matter exactly as you described, and that discovery has led to the creation of a new element.”
I blinked. If I had known more about science, maybe I’d have had something more intelligent to say. As it stood, all I had to offer was a casual “Oh good.”
“Yes, Mr. Dougan. It’s very good. Astounding really. Do you have time to meet today? We’d like to go over your findings and talk about next steps.”
“Sure,” I replied without really thinking. “Give me a time and a place.”
And so it was that now I’m fully dressed driving to god knows where to meet god knows who about god knows what. If this was a scam, it was a really good one. Honestly, they deserve my money, or at the very least, my time.
I can’t pretend like I wasn’t excited. I’ve never done much with my life. I work a dead end job, no real hobbies on the side, and no social life to make up for any of it. If I'm going to be completely honest, I didn't see myself making it another year. I'm not saying I had any specific plans to... you know. But I also didn't exactly see myself as the live a full-and-happy-life type either. I was no Jeanne Calment.
When I got to the location the woman described it looked to be closed. It was a restaurant and while the sign said “open,” the lights were off inside.
I pushed the door open. There was no one here. It was scam, I knew it.
Then, a voice. "Mr. Dougan, you have discovered a new element." It was the same woman from the phone. "The element of..."
And then, lights. Confetti. music.
"SURPRISE!" A crowd of people leapt up from behind the counter. "Happy Birthday!" they yelled. It wasn't just any crowd. It was Jon Bignose, Kathy Acquaintance, Michael Work, John Smallnose, and whole host of others whose calls I had been ignoring the entire day.
I can’t really describe how I felt in that moment, except that I had to hold back tears. Not from disappointment, because one thing was clear, I most certainly had not discovered a new element. They were tears of happiness.
Kathy came over and gave me a hug.
"What is all this?" I asked.
"We all noticed you seemed a bit down lately," she said. "Works been rough on us too. Thought your birthday was a good enough reason as any to have a celebration."
I smiled. “Did you actually read my book?”
“Of course,” she beamed. “I google stalk all my friends, and that was the first thing that came up when I searched you.”
One word resonated. Friend. All this time Kathy saw herself as a friend, not an acquaintance.
I'd have rethink how I saw the people in my life, because looking at the crowd that had gathered here, one thing was clear. Much like particle physics, I didn't know shit about friendship.
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | "Mr. Harrison, would you take a seat?"
The lifelessness of the cold room with its metal table was only worsened by the generic flower portrait on the wall. The windows had bars, James noticed.
"What is this about?" He asked as he sat in the uncomfortably thin chair, clearly not designed for a man of his girth.
A stack of papers sat between him and the two stone-faced suits. "This here," the left one said. Timon, James decided. His eyes fell to the cover page of the stack. It read 'The Wayward Mercies.'
"This is about my manuscript?" James asked with a huff. "What interest could the government have in that?"
"Describe it for us, the plot," Pumba said, face still serious as if he were breaking the news to a war widow.
James scoffed again, running his fingers through his thinning hair. "I don't even know how you got that. I only sent the first few pages to a few agents and just have a nice pile of rejection letters to show for it."
"It was those first few pages that piqued our interest, Mr. Harrison. Now, please, describe the setting."
"Okay, it takes place in a post-apocalyptic America where a young boy is led through the ruins of New York State."
"And what caused the apocalypse?"
"Well, if you read it then you already know, but sure." James took a deep breath. "I did a master's in chemistry before I ended up working at the family store again. I always found the concept of the island of stability fascinating."
"The island of stability?" Timon asked. "This is a chemistry term."
"Yes, it refers to the theoretical size of an atom beyond our current periodic table where atoms would cease being hyper unstable and able to exist for more than a few milliseconds. This is usually described as higher elements, but my idea is what about higher level isotopes of existing elements, which may produce strange effects as well as be stable."
"Copernicium specifically," Pumba said. Not a question.
"Yes!" James said, excited again. "Rather than milliseconds, Copernicium 285 has a halflife of almost half a minute. There was Russian research into an asteroid believed to contain Copernicium 288, which would mean its half-life may be in the thousands of years. Strangely, this was all I could find and even that research was hard to find. This could be a heavier homolog of mercury and form strong binary compounds with noble metals like gold."
"And you theorized in your manuscript that a fission reactor disaster could produce and spread this volatile long-living metal into the atmosphere and quickly contaminate all water supplies on Earth." Timon didn't need this explained to him.
"Yes, the consequence of which in my novel is that humans all across the world experience constant and agonizing pain activated by a Copernicium-iron amalgam forming in their blood."
"And in this novel, you hint that the protagonist is a genetically modified human whose blood serves as a drug to the others around him." Pumba coughed once but kept staring.
"Farfetched, I know, but that's science fiction. The need for the drug is so high and everyone is unwilling to work through the pain and eventual blindness caused by the metal poisoning, they develop a gene modification that would cause children born to produce an enzyme to act as a chelator to surround and expel the metal from the body."
"And you don't have a background in medical science or genetics, is that correct?" Timon asked. "Did you consult anyone for this?"
"No, I mean, I do a lot of reading on my own but I kind of gave up on academia."
"Interesting, well, what would you say if we offered you a job, Mr. Harrison?" Timon opened a folder. The top was typed in bold TOP SECRET, just like the movies.
"Not as a novelist, I'm guessing?"
"No," Pumba said. "You got it somewhere in the neighbor of 95% correct, all working on your own, without formal training. Your apocalypse is coming, Mr. Harrison, and a very select few are working to stop it before it does. Some very smart people are behind that door and they're very interested in this gene therapy you describe here."
"I'm a failed novelist who works at his father's convenience store. I think you already know my answer." James Harrison said, looking at the document.
"We'll need your cell phone, then," Pumba said. "Then we can introduce you to the team."
/r/surinical | |
[WP] You made a Sc-Fi novel with theories you made as a joke. You get a call from the scientific community. You have discovered a new element | It would have been an utterly unremarkable day if it weren’t for two small facts: it happened to be my birthday, and someone from the Nobel Association called to say I discovered a new element.
I had spent the better part of the day ignoring the outside world. If I wanted to be congratulated for not yet having died, I’d visit my shrink more often. As far as I’m concerned, birthdays are for children and Jeanne Calment—only worth celebrating if you’re mentally undeveloped, or defending a title.
With twenty missed calls on my phone from contacts like “Jon Bignose,” “Kathy Acquaintance,” “Michael Work,” and “John Smallnose,” it was a wonder I picked up the phone for an unknown number.
“Hello,” I answered. “Yes, it is my birthday, and no matter how hard you wish, it's unlikely to be any more happy than any other day.”
“Oh,” the caller seemed to hesitate. “Is this Ronald Dougan?”
“The man of the hour. Would you like my autograph?” I asked sarcastically. “Thirty-eight years avoiding my inevitable demise is no small feat, you know.”
Before you judge too harshly, I can explain. Birthday calls from acquaintances are a dime a dozen. At the end of the day, they’re just fulfilling some ritualistic obligation—they’re not actually interested in talking to you. I’m doing them a favor by ignoring their calls—they’re off the hook. It’s a win-win. Now, a call from an unknown number is a different story. An unknown number could be anything, it could even be Venezuelan call center trying to reach me about my car’s extended warranty. An opportunity to troll a call center is a *real* gift.
“I *would* like your autograph, Mr. Dougan,” the caller answered. “And I’m sure many others would as well. But not for the reason you think. Happy birthday, by the way.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked. I came into this conversation guns blazing, fully owning the upper hand. It did not feel good to have the tables turned like this.
“I’m with the Nobel Association. There have been some recent breakthroughs in particle physics thanks to your book.”
“My book?” I hadn’t written a book.
“Yes, the Wayfarers Map to the Universe.”
The memories came flooding back. I *had* written a book. Way back in college, and only as a joke. I posted the whole thing for free online, “self-published” I believe they call it these days. Hadn’t thought anyone read it.
“Do you remember the Floob particle, you described?” the caller asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Do you remember how you described its interaction with electrons and dark matter?”
“Yes,” I lied again.
“Well, it turns out that you were right.”
“What do you mean ‘I was right?’”
“I mean that the Floob particle exists, and it interacts with dark matter exactly as you described, and that discovery has led to the creation of a new element.”
I blinked. If I had known more about science, maybe I’d have had something more intelligent to say. As it stood, all I had to offer was a casual “Oh good.”
“Yes, Mr. Dougan. It’s very good. Astounding really. Do you have time to meet today? We’d like to go over your findings and talk about next steps.”
“Sure,” I replied without really thinking. “Give me a time and a place.”
And so it was that now I’m fully dressed driving to god knows where to meet god knows who about god knows what. If this was a scam, it was a really good one. Honestly, they deserve my money, or at the very least, my time.
I can’t pretend like I wasn’t excited. I’ve never done much with my life. I work a dead end job, no real hobbies on the side, and no social life to make up for any of it. If I'm going to be completely honest, I didn't see myself making it another year. I'm not saying I had any specific plans to... you know. But I also didn't exactly see myself as the live a full-and-happy-life type either. I was no Jeanne Calment.
When I got to the location the woman described it looked to be closed. It was a restaurant and while the sign said “open,” the lights were off inside.
I pushed the door open. There was no one here. It was scam, I knew it.
Then, a voice. "Mr. Dougan, you have discovered a new element." It was the same woman from the phone. "The element of..."
And then, lights. Confetti. music.
"SURPRISE!" A crowd of people leapt up from behind the counter. "Happy Birthday!" they yelled. It wasn't just any crowd. It was Jon Bignose, Kathy Acquaintance, Michael Work, John Smallnose, and whole host of others whose calls I had been ignoring the entire day.
I can’t really describe how I felt in that moment, except that I had to hold back tears. Not from disappointment, because one thing was clear, I most certainly had not discovered a new element. They were tears of happiness.
Kathy came over and gave me a hug.
"What is all this?" I asked.
"We all noticed you seemed a bit down lately," she said. "Works been rough on us too. Thought your birthday was a good enough reason as any to have a celebration."
I smiled. “Did you actually read my book?”
“Of course,” she beamed. “I google stalk all my friends, and that was the first thing that came up when I searched you.”
One word resonated. Friend. All this time Kathy saw herself as a friend, not an acquaintance.
I'd have rethink how I saw the people in my life, because looking at the crowd that had gathered here, one thing was clear. Much like particle physics, I didn't know shit about friendship.
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | ##Ripped from the Pages
*Gassons. They are everywhere and nowhere. They create the universe, and they will destroy it. They are to quote a famous novel, "the stuff that dreams are made of." They are also what makes reality work.*
I re-read the first page of the book, and I rub my eyes. The prose is so ornate that I may as well have a purple filter on my screen. Who would enjoy this derivative garbage? I've seen twenty different variations on the science fantasy special force in the universe since I was a kid.
My phone vibrates on the table. I look to see a text from my agent asking about book progress. I text him back that I'm editing; he says that he will take a look after I am done for commercial viability. I shake my head.
Why I am doing this? I became a writer to express my creativity. This paint by numbers style is destroying my originality. If my younger self would've read my books, he probably would've actually been inspired to write because he thought he could do better than me. I smile. That's why I will keep writing to inspire some kid to be better than me. I go back to reading the book.
*Gassons can be harnessed by a few unique individuals called manipulators. The manipulators have the power to shape reality to their will. The greatest civilizations have been formed through their efforts. When their work was done, the individuals disappeared. Existing only in legends for millenia.*
My god, I am so derivative. I lean back in my chair. The reader is going to be able to predict this story beat by beat. A few of the cynical readers would probably want to have the Gassons to be rich. With my bank account, I am inclined to agree with them.
My phone vibrates again. I look at the screen and see my sister texting me. She says that she just got a call from a lawyer. We have a great uncle that died with no children. We inherited ten million dollars each.
I blink in disbelief. This is a prank or wild coincidence. I text her back asking if this is true. She says that this is not a prank. I open my email to see an email from my bank on this transaction. I look at my book. Maybe I do have the Gassons.
I look at the night sky. If I have the Gassons, then I should be able to re-write reality. What if I re-arranged the stars to spell peace? How would humanity react? I close my eyes and focus on spelling peace in the sky.
---
I wake up staring at a light. I try to move my limbs, but they are strapped down. I look around the room and see a group of people in hazmat suits.
"What the hell," I yell. The people jump back in fear. My anxiety increases. The room starts shaking. The straps holding me down snap loose. A gas enters the room. They are trying to knock me out. I concentrate on getting rid of the gas. It quickly disappears.
"Mr. Devin, please calm down," I hear a voice from an intercom, but I can't see one.
"What the hell is going on?" I yell.
"We are coming to you because of the Gassons," the voice says. I pause.
"What? But that's just a stupid thing I created for my book," I say.
"That's how they make the manipulators aware of their presence," the voice says.
"Wait," I pause, "Did I manage to spell peace in the sky?"
"Our allies detected your attempts and stopped them before you could get too far," the voice says.
"Allies? Am I still on Earth?" I ask.
"Yes, of course, you are. Our allies have been present throughout history particularly when a manipulator occurs," the voice says.
"Well, what do you want from me?" I ask.
"There is no easy way to say this. We want to remove your manipulator abilities. We have enemies as well. They love having manipulators on their side. Earth isn't ready to take part in this war. You aren't ready. That's why we have to remove them. Don't worry. You will live. We have also edited your book to remove reference to anything that too closely resembles the Gassons and their influence," the voice says.
I think back to what I wrote. The manipulators destroyed each other in a cosmic war. The result was an evil empire forming and conquering the universe. A rebellion group is trying to overthrow them. The return of manipulators resulted in both groups recruiting them to fight the other. I wonder how close I got to the truth.
Even if it is wrong outside of the Gassons, am I ready to take part in a cosmic struggle? I am a meager writer that can barely lift a dumbbell and gets scared at the sight of blood. I don't think I could handle being the centerpiece of a war. That isn't for me. I lie back down on the table and close my eyes.
"Do it," I say. Maybe that's why I write, to inspire others to do what I am too afraid to do.
---
r/AstroRideWrites | |
[WP] The disappointment of being sent to guard some random planetary outpost away from the war wore off pretty quickly once you were informed of your real task, fighting back against the Sol System's most dangerous apex predator: "Humans" | “Stay down kid.”
I groaned and turned over. He kicked my feet out before I could properly get them under me.
“I said stay down.”
The soldier was wearing black armor. It’s was bulky, with hard edges giving it a crystalline aesthetic. “If you couldn’t beat me then you sure as shit won’t beat them.”
It was standing around 6 guns in various states of disintegration and assembly. It was pulling parts from each, seemingly trying to make a working weapon from the remains.
“Why did you spare me?” I ask.
“I’m not a monster.” It replied
I couldn’t stop the hysterical laugh escaping my lips. It’s helmet was on but I could tell it scowled at me.
“You want a monster? go out there.” He said, jabbing a hand at a blown out window. “You’ll find one soon enough. Well, one will find you. If you’re lucky you won’t notice when it happens.”
I finally took stock of my surroundings. Appart from the heavy Pulse Rifles on the ground, the only thing around me was rubble. The orange horizon sat below a black sky. There was smoke everywhere.
“If you’re not a monster who am I fighting?” I pulled myself over to the wall and sat against it. The human didn’t stop me.
He also didn’t respond for a minute. He clicked together something he was working on and a blue light began exiting from a small core of some kind.
“You can here through warp, yes?”
“Warp?” I asked
“Warp. Faster than light travel.” It said tersely
“Ye- yes?” The air in the room had gotten suddenly cold.
“You’re fighting that void. And the madness that lives within it.”
Memories came to me. I was new to this planet. I’d rather be to the east, even before I knew of the living hell that was this planet. This was a slaughter, that was a war. Yet still, *still*, I had memories. The frustration in the air of the convoy as it was pulled from its way to the frontlines. The anger at being told that it would be sent to guard a backwater planet.
The dead faces of the living veterans, and the uncertainty of fighting a new foe. The shock at seeing a war torn planet. The terror of waking up to explosions and streaks of fire.
The push to create a buffer, a forward camp. The insanity of humanity. Soldiers of black steel, fighting as infantry just as fiercely as if they were a full battalion. Carrying on their persons what rival our cannons.
Then when those had been destroyed, they and their armor blown to pieces, the look in their eyes. I had seen one run through 3 men. We thought her dead, helmet shattered, right arm blown off at the elbow, breastplate crumbling. She pulled herself out of that muddy crater. The knife was a fragment of an exploded munition. We only stopped shooting when we couldn’t tell the difference between the mud and her blood.
The look in their eyes. Like nothing mattered more than death. I had seen the results of that madness turned toward each other. Unfortunately it was most often turned towards us.
“That void.” I finally spoke. “You can’t fight flux space. You can fight humans. We were told apex predators of the Sol System. We weren’t told murder incarnate.”
The human scoffed. “I don’t know what you were told. We ain’t apex predators. But I can tell you that this planet is for the hopeless. Your war, your civilization is naïve. You call it flux space, but the void shouldn’t be disguised as such. “Flux” seems safe. The void will grab you by the throat. It will pull you underneath the waves. It will wait till you’re drowning before tearing into your mind and soul.”
“I didn’t understand why humanity was fighting it alone. We had been alone, and finally we found life. We found your people. We found your unity of species.”
“I don’t know the specifics. Ambassadors and politicians can deal with those. I only know the price was outrageous. You couldn’t compare to us yet we’re making demands.”
“Well you haven’t dove deep enough into the void- sorry- flux. Just wait till you do. The men and women on this planet are sent here to die. What you see here are those that have lost their wits and logic to the horrors of the void. Horrors beyond what you can comprehend.”
His gun was complete. He kicked the others and their parts to the side, sitting down.
“You struggle to fight against them. They have no tactics, no strategy. They want blood. They want death. Others as much as their own. They have a modicum of armor and weapons that could have fit in a battlefield 200 years ago. They are mindless and you struggle against them.”
He began to take off his helmet. “When the void crawls out and fights for your worlds you will be overrun.”
I remember the eyes of the humans I had fought. They were white, wild, and terrifying. His eyes weren’t any of that. They were calm, watching, calculating.
“I have been here almost 600 days. I started counting in kills. More recently, time between them. Not many come back from this planet. Fewer still push back the madness completely before they do. Remember that wherever you end up. Humanity wasn’t the apex on earth. Yet somehow we have to be to protect this galaxy. Your civilisation might feel big, but it is less than insects compared to the greater powers beneath the stars. “ | The message, apparently, was quite urgent. Urgent enough to delay the launch of the troop transport long enough to pull Dai1 and his fellow Browns off.
"Report to Chief Science Officer at Observation Outpost D. Re: Sentinel Duty."
"This ought to be interesting," thought the grizzled veteran. "Eastern sector?"
The Human encroachment had escalated to a point that war became inevitable.
Diplomacy was doomed to fail. Appeasement did not fare any better.
Had the war escalated so quickly that the war had to be fought on two fronts?
Fairness and mercy. These were alien concepts to the Humans. Only cold, calculated warrior efficiency and logic were needed for their plan to expand and dominate. And zero prisoners of war is the ultimate expression of that human efficiency and brutality.
Most had never heard of Observation Outpost D tucked away at the edge of the Sol System.
The planet Earth was first discovered by a Human astronomer 50,000 sols ago. Soon, out of the sporadic exploration efforts, the theory of a fabled Human homeworld started to emerge. The theory was too preposterous even for the most die-hard Human supremacists. That all changed when their charismatic Great Leader hijacked and refined the idea into one that fitted perfectly into their plan to lay claim to Earth and the rest of the Sol System.
When Dai1 arrived at the outpost, he was ushered into the presence of the Chief Science Officer: a fellow Brown who appeared to be in a constant state of excitement.
"Commander Dai1! Welcome! So good to finally meet you! Your reputation precedes you! But pleasantry aside, we are running out of time!"
The doctor quickly briefed the new arrivals. The Humans were due to arrive in Earth's orbit in 30 sols. Their most logical and safest approach appeared to be the lone Earth space platform current in orbit. Under no circumstances would this effort to make contact with Earth's inhabitants be interfered with. Our outpost on the lone moon was well cloaked and would remain operational.
"Dr. Sei1? Did you make a mistake in your request for a security detail? I'm not quite sure we are qualified."
"That's just in case our communication was intercepted. What I really need is a team of demolition and excavation experts! Your particular background is a dream come true! Medical Archaeology!? Here's the plan."
After Dai1 and the crew were given some time to recover from space lag and study the plan, they assembled to depart for their own orbiting space elevator. Although the humans on Earth bore some resemblance to their fearsome galactic brethren, he was more concerned with the partially finished list in his hands.
Continent Africa - Virus release completed.
Continent Asia - Virus release completed.
Dai1's assignment was the last one on the list.
The terrain would be the harsh frozen northern part of the planet. The Arctic?
The task would be to first locate a lost expedition of two ancient vessels called the HMS Erebus and the HMS Terror. But the wrecks would only serve as signposts to their ultimate goal.
The smallpox virus awaited in one of the ice mummies.
Dai1 sighed and steeled himself for the hellish task.
"Fairness and mercy? They deserve neither!" | |
[WP] Every year, a superstitious village abandons a human child in a nearby forest in exchange for divine protection. In actuality, an old hermit adopts the children and teaches them to ward off intruders. This year, the hermit’s best apprentice happens to locate and escort the abandoned child. | Torin stepped through the Veil and back into reality again, her blade dripped with eldritch fluids of another world.
Jagged lacerations covered her body, the worst of which had taken her eyes again. It was a brutal, existence, but one she had been chosen for and one she served far more faithfully than any other alive.
Bringing the blade to her mouth, the young woman begins to lap at the substance. It wasn't blood, not in the way beings of this world knew it. But it did have exceptional properties.
As each swallow of viscous fluid entered her throat, a warmth could be felt from within. Slowly, but surely, her wounds closed, turning from weeping cuts into scabbed lines and fading into old scars. They still hurt. They always did. But she would get used to the pain, as she always did.
The final thing to come back was her eyes, filling into the spaces that had been carved away by things best left unspoken.
As her vision came back, she froze. Standing before her was a group. The Others. Their protective charge. Skittish, even now, they watched her drink ethereal blood like an animal. When she froze, so did they, fear etching their faces.
They were all human, but they wore some kind of long black robes. A funeral march of a kind. At the head of the little group was an elder, wearing some kind of adornment on his withered scalp and carrying a long staff. With him were a man and a woman marked with a red sash. Then it became apparent there were was another one. A cooing bundle wrapped in white. They cried and spoke long.
Torin hadn't cried since she was a girl. It always struck her how different she was to the Others. Upon her first steps into the Veil, she was changed. They fey magicks had ravaged her, turning her into something else. Wings, a beak, claws and feathers. Smooth scales and long fingers. Larger than them by a head, easily. All four eyes stared at the members of her former species in quiet contemplation.
It took a while, but they too set the child upon the rocks before Torin, and were pulled away, back to the home where, supposedly, she too was born.
There was a long pause, Torin idle in thought and staring at the bundle with avian interest. It occured to her that this child would be a Hunter too. They thought this divine protection.
It was not.
It was the First Child who had stumbled upon the Veil in the forests, the First who had hunted and become what he is now. It was the First who had found more children, fostering a family deep in secret meadows. And it was the First who was now far too old and far too... twisted to protect the Others from the same horrors that had dragged his parents kicking and screaming into the night.
Torin had been very good. Perhaps too good. It had only taken her a year to adapt and Hunt. The bottles of viscera she had collected clinked softly in the silent forest, brought to help the Yonger grow. To some, it made them fast, to some, strong. A few of the lucky ones developed magicks of their own, being nearly passable as the Others. But not on Torin. Her fighting soul had marked her changes the day she was born. The First had seen it. The blood worked wonders on her body, but had stunted her mind in a way. She felt it even now, the desire to delve further, to eat more, to burn her way across the Veil. But the gentle sounds of the child brought her back to the present.
A single finger extended, blackend and viscera covered claw retracted, gently prodding the white bundle. A hand came out to grip that finger, attempting to pull it in to bite at.
She smiled. Or at least she tried. Human expressions were so hard for her now and she often felt apart from. the Younger.
"I see a fighter's soul in you." She remarked casually, understanding.that it couldn't comprehend her, but compelled to speak to it. Perhaps this is what the First had seen A kindred spirit.
"You'll need it."
That hand scooped up the child in massive arms, and the pair were gone in a flurry of feathers and drops of the color shifting liquid, heading towards the First's abode, deep within the forest. | "I hate them. With their stupid beliefs and their superstitions."
The abandoned child had finally spoken. It had been 3 hours since the child was found crying in the forest. My apprentice had gave him a meal to re-energize the poor boy.
"Now now son, there's no need to hate fear. It just brings fear and darkness." I said.
"The divine protection isn't real is it?"
"Not divine no. But protection does exist. You see Acrymus there?"
My apprentice waved at him.
"Yeah so what about him?" the child questioned.
"He is the one who protects the village. There are other recruits of course but they are at the training camp." I answered, "He is my best one, but the others protect them as well. There are no sacrifices, no elder deities. Only brave and noble warriors."
"So because I was abandoned, am I now one of these soldiers? That's epic!" the boy awed.
At the moment, I knew he would go on to be one of my best, maybe even the best. I saw the sparkle and the awe in his eyes. I knew it was his destiny.
"Now, what's your name?" I asked.
"Moruya. Moruya Actinife."
"That's a fine name"... | |
[WP]A person from earth gets sent to a world where magic works on how well you know something. For example, a wizard can't Fly if they don't know about gravity. The person however is a world-renowned scientist. | *"Oh, so it's just densification. The specific heat capacity and mass is still constant, just use heat instead."*
*"What? How can you use heat to break through armoring spells?"*
*"You don't break through things with heat. You...well, cook the person through their ward. Like an...egg in a frying pan."*
*"That's kind of..."*
*"Messed up, I know. But you can throttle the heat to just cause heatstroke. Spontaneous combustion requires the flash point of a material to be reached, which is usually really high. They'll be cooked alive before you can set them ablaze."*
A long pause of silence before the apprentice spoke up again.
*"So how would you protect yourself from heat?"*
*"Well... You could always transfer the heat to wherever it was siphoned from."*
*"The heat isn't just created?"*
*"Not unless there's an energy expenditure or the decay of a radioactive isotope. Most heat spells seem to be convection through the air. As heat is concentrated and moved to the target, the surrounding air is cooled in response. It's adiabatic."*
*"Adia-what?"*
*"The total amount of heat doesn't increase or decrease within the given system."*
*"Oh..."*
*"It can also be done in reverse; sapping the heat from someone. You can freeze them like that, cause hypothermia, or frostbite depending on how much you take out."*
*"You're starting to scare me, professor."*
*"Hah, nonsense, I just might have figured out how to conduct biological stasis. Come, we've got an experiment to do! I want to see if I can't reach absolute zero!"*
*"A-absolute zero?"* | **Part 1**
The portal beckoned - a vantablack hole that held sound and light captive. It was located in the centre of the cluttered warehouse that served as Jeremiah Coltrane’s laboratory. Jeremiah turned to his quavering assistants, who kept themselves well away from the functional black hole and gripped at banisters and mechanical instruments. Jeremiah gave them a reassuring smile before walking to the other side of the two-dimensional hole, where the surface was a bright white light. He leaned in close to the smooth surface, his tinted welding glasses almost touching it. He stepped back and looked down at his watch.
“3, 2, 1... “ he counted down under his breath. Right on cue, a small robot on tracks rolled out of the white hole. Jeremiah crouched down and examined the robot, picking it up and rotating it around. He held a scanner to it and watched how several arrows gyrated around to establish measurements. The corners of Jeremiah’s thin mouth curled up when he saw on which values the arrows landed.
“That concludes the penultimate test, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, righting himself. He walked back to black side of the hole. “Time for a human subject. I would send one of you, but, eh, I want to have the honours.”
“Dr. Coltrane, I must protest,” a young woman in a lab coat and tangled hair spoke up. “There is no way of knowing wha-”
“Ah-ah-ah-ah,” Jeremiah cut her off, wagging a finger. “You can have your turn after me. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he concluded as the woman threw up her hands. He inhaled deep and exhaled, and walked forwards. Although he immediately found himself in another world, it was as if a hundred people had been pulling at him from different sides.
“Woooow.” He let himself fall limbly into the blue grass that stretched out in all directions. Everything span, including two distant heavenly bodies - one a light red and the other a pale blue, who turned in circles like a toy above a baby’s crib. “Wooowie.”
After a few minutes had passed, so had Jeremiah’s discomfort and he was able to stand up again. Behind him, a white hole stood patiently in the grass. He quickly ran around it to see if the other side had correctly spawned. It was black, to his relief.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, moving his gaze over the alien world one last time. Preparing to step through it again, he shuddered at the thought of the sensation of interdimensional travel. He hesitated for a moment, and in that moment the portal vanished. It was gone in the blink of an eye. Jeremiah blinked a few more times, which didn’t result in the portal returning.
“No… No, no, no.” He tore the goggles from his head and pulled out a small electronic telescope out of his frayed lab coat. He frantically panned the device across the plains. Earlier in his experiments the portal would sometimes relocate, which had to do with quirks in the quantum mechanics he applied.
“Shit,” he muttered when the lens only revealed forests and mountain ranges on the horizon. He was about to lower the telescope when he noticed a figure on horseback racing toward him. He reached behind him with his free hand, and drew a custom made pistol that he’d tucked away in his belt, concealed by his coat. The rider slowed down and waved at him.
“Hullooo, are you lost?” The man called out. Apart from his vaguely medieval attire, nothing stood out from the man. The man wore a well cultivated beard.
*A human, and I can understand him?* Jeremiah thought, scratching his chin with the telescope. “Yeah, I’m far from home. What, uh, what language are we talking now?”
The man narrowed his eyes and took him in from top to bottom. “What question is that? Umbrish, of course.”
Jeremiah smiled at the man and slid his weapon back in his belt. “Of course, I’m a traveler, so I switch languages often. I mix them up every so often.”
“Hmm, well, you speak it very well. I would think you were a local if it wasn’t for whatever that is you’re wearing.”
“The garb of my country,” Jeremiah said, still smiling.
“And what country is that?”
“Ah, you wouldn’t know it.”
“Please, try me.”
“It’s called… Quant… Onia. Quantonia, yes.”
The man jumped off his horse and took a few brisk steps toward him. Stopping in front of him, he stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That’s not a real place. Let me hazard a guess as to what’s going on here,” the man said after an uncomfortable pause. “You’re a wizard-artificer who accidentally teleported himself here. I know the Blue Plains very well, so much so that the Magiks will alert me when there is a disturbance. That’s why I came here. You don’t know Umbrish, which leads me to believe that you have an expert grasp on linguistics, allowing the Magiks to translate our words.”
Jeremiah listened slack jawed and shook his head when the man paused for breath. “For someone who’s throwing around words like ‘magic and wizard’, you‘re not far off with your deduction.”
The man extended a hand and Jeremiah took it gingerly. “The name’s Idalf, from the court of King Owin. You can’t fool me, I know you’re a powerful wizard. And your coming is a godsend.”
*Powerful wizard, eh?* “Why’s that?”
“Our king is gravely ill. Scores of mages and wizards have been unsuccessful in treating him. Magik has failed us… which must mean we are dealing with some ailment we have not encountered before. But maybe what we need is a fresh set of eyes.”
“I’m not a medical doctor, though-”
“Please, enough with the evasive answers. A true wizard like yourself has knowledge of many domains…” Idalf's voice trailed off. “Did you teleport here… or fly?”
“Fly? What, like this?” Jeremiah flapped his hands mockingly.
Idalf gasped and clasped his hands together. “Yes, like that!”
Jeremiah looked down - he was suspended about a foot in the air. “O-of course I can fly! This impresses you but teleportation doesn’t?” *What the fuck is going on?* he thought, moderating the flapping motion, making him come down to the ground again.
“Never met a wizard who can fly. I have met a few who were able to teleport. The knowledge required is immensely esoteric. They tried to explain it to me, something about dematerialization and radiation.”
“Let me get this straight… Once you understand something, you can use magic to do superhero stuff?”
“You’re a strange fellow. You could learn about humor so you may Magik some better jokes.” Idalf said with a raised eyebrow. “Come, let’s go to the king.” | |
[WP] You are an alien conqueror that came to take over a nondescript planet named 'Earth'. Your glad you landed first and did some recon, because this 'Comic Con' meeting you have discovered has some of the greatest powers in the universe gathered and your not sure invading is a good idea anymore... | It had been ten thousand years since the disappearance of the Fyrum, a ferocious and dominating species that almost wiped out all the life within this galaxy.
Yet, here they were on the planet the dominant species had named 'Earth'.
Their appearance was as horrific as the stories foretold. Humanoids with red and black skin, along with two small protruding horns on the top of their sinciput. Some of them carried a strange weapon that made a whizzing sound while lighting up a reddish color.
I wasn't sure if our translation systems were calibrated fully yet but the Fye called it a lightsaber.
From my understanding, Earth had not been unified yet. I believe the people lived under several different governmental systems.
So imagine my shock when I stumbled upon some sort of intergalactic federation headquarters they called 'Comic-Con'.
I didn't expect ambassadors from different kinds of species, including those I have never seen before.
There must have been some convergent speciation that occurred with humanity as some individuals walked around with hairy tails and others with feline features.
Initially we assumed that humans themselves were not much of a threat but I saw visuals of their past conquests posted all throughout the facility.
These beings had variations of abilities I have never seen in any other species before, some had psychokinesis while others could straight up manipulate reality itself.
I think initiating an invasion of this planet would be disastrous and not worth the effort.
Humanity would live to see another day, completely ignorant as to how close they came to being in a great war.
For now. | Cloaked behind the dark side of the moon, the Hive ship sat, waiting. In 72 hours, once the generals had harmonized their plan to the drone army, ships would explode out, stripping the sad backwater planet for it's precious resources. But deep inside the Hive ship, Grix ran, skittering down the hallways at such a breakneck pace that even the message bots had to zip to one side, or else be dashed to bits from his sheer momentum. He slammed into a bulkhead, nearly cracking one of the armored plates of his carapace, before frantically keying open the bio-lock to the command chambers with three trembling clawed fingers.
The chitin door retracted into the walls, revealing the Command Cluster, the finest generals in the Thrivaxian army. Their shells vibrated with the force of their barbed legs scraping together, and the discordant chorus they made told Grix that if he didn't play his accompaniment right, he'd be eaten alive for his impudence. But they had to know. And Grix, damned fool that he was, was going to tell them.
He bowed his thorax low to the ground, front legs moving closer to the writing mass of the Cluster. His back legs scraped together to produce a high keening pitch that even Command couldn't ignore. Their eyes rotated in their skulls, and the generals extricated themselves from the Cluster to surround Grix. Grix shivered in his shell as the generals wings fluttered open, all at once creating a loud, angry hum.
*Speak*, thundered Command, *that we might hear your wretched name before your evisceration.*
*Your Graces, the Queens are in danger. We must abandon the assault, Glorious Eminences.*
The Command Cluster edged their bodies nearer to Grix, mandibles flexing. *Explain.*
Grix relaxed his maw, allowing the Sonic Data Recorder to roll out onto the floor. Petrified, his fingers manipulated the keys of the recorder until the bright music it stored rolled forth from the speakers.
The song spoke of a gathering held on the little planet, indeed, many gatherings, celebrating beings of great power whose might outshone the pitiful nuclear defenses that the foolish creatures of the planet trusted to keep themselves safe. There were hundreds: one was blue suited and red caped, with an alien symbol emblazoned upon his chest; another a powerful sorceress whose magic could foretell thousands of futures in an instant; a third was clad in night black armor, and wielded a blazing red sword that, so far as Grix could tell, could cut through any substance the Thrivaxians had so far discovered. Not to mention the thousands of robots, extra-terrestrials, Hive-class ships, and other horrifying technologies that these seemingly planet bound apes had managed to invent in just over a century.
The final chords of the song faded in the air, and the generals of the Cluster were silent. Grix braced himself for what he knew would come, and frantically continued his clumsy fumbling with the recorder.
*IMBICILE. DOLT. These gatherings have long since been known to us, you mewling terrified grub! This "Comic Con" you speak of is a cultural event celebrating fiction! You fear naught but dreams! Evisceration is too kind a punishment for your idiotic failings; you will be cast out by the High Queen herself!*
As the Cluster began bodily forcing Grix from the command chamber, he managed to extract the data disk from the recorder and flip it over to the B-side before snapping it shut and hitting play. Praying to the First Queen, The Hive on High, his fingers snapped the volume nob to maximum.
A new tune began to play. This one continued the same report as before, with the new information Grix and his group-mates had discovered not even an hour earlier. One of these "Comic Cons" had just started, and another routine bio scan of the populace revealed a massive spike in signal interference. Further refinement had cleaned up the signal, revealing troubling information. Among the festival goers were certain individuals whose bio-readouts had energy levels eclipsing those of entire cities on the planet Earth. They celebrated the same pulpy stories the others did, but they did it with the weight of personal experience, and the joy of being seen for who they truly were. Amongst these silly apes were true super beings, holding the psychic power investment of billions of souls, accumulated over decades. These new gods and goddesses of Earth loved their worshippers, and would almost certainly take personal offence to their destruction. While their powers differed somewhat from the stories told of them in fiction, they could apply it to the same devastating ends as their imagined counterparts. And should the Hive proceed with their plan, media analysis showed that they would exterminate every drone on the ship. Beginning with the High Queen.
Now true stillness had fallen among the generals. Grix dared not move, lest he break the generals' total concentration on the report. The Cluster removed themselves from Grix, and took the Sonic Recorder from his claws. Without a sound, they retreated back into the command chamber, and re-engaged the bio-lock on the chitin door.
Grix collapsed on the floor, legs curling under him, and thrummed with relief. Praise to the High Queen, he thought. Praise to the First Queen, Hive on High. | |
[WP] You are an alien conqueror that came to take over a nondescript planet named 'Earth'. Your glad you landed first and did some recon, because this 'Comic Con' meeting you have discovered has some of the greatest powers in the universe gathered and your not sure invading is a good idea anymore... | "Come in," I hiss into my receiver. "Someone from High Command, come in!"
"Greelog here," says Greelog. "What's the status of your mission? Has your cover been blown?"
"No, it's just..." I find myself standing too close to a human couple. One is dressed as a bat, while the other is dressed as a clown. Their spandex-wearing spawn stares at me. I excuse myself and run into one of their defecation chambers. "It's the invasion," I whisper. "We have to call it off."
"Why? What have you found?"
"Too much," I tell Greelog. "For one thing, they have these individuals called 'super-heroes.' They're a swarm of vigilantes with varying powers and skills, many of whom can fly."
"Impossible," snaps Greelog. "Have you confirmed their abilities?"
"No, there appear to be rules preventing them from using their powers at holy places such as these. But plenty of them have been making the requisite 'whoosh' sounds while holding their arms out in front of them."
"That does check out," agrees Greelog. "But it is no matter. A few exceptional vigilantes cannot substitute for a well-trained army."
"But that's just it," I exclaim. "Some of these vigilantes fight alongside the military. "In fact, they have a female capable of flight and energy-blasts named Mar-Vell in the Air Force, and a weapons developer named Ton-E Stark producing far greater weapons than we had anticipated."
"Interesting. But these challenges are not insurmountable."
"No," I agree. "But there's another problem. They appear to have perfected cloning technology."
"Are you sure?"
"I am. I've seen multiple Mar-Vells and Starks at this gathering, alongside Na-Ru-Tos, Spider-Men, Bat-people, and a number of identical humans in bathrobes waving around lightsaber replicas."
"By the Queen's eggs," Greelog shouts. "They have lightsaber technology?"
"It appears so. They also have portal technology, as developed by the scientists Cave Johnson and Rick Sanchez." I swallow my mouth-fluids. "They sell portal guns here as if they were cheap novelties. Who knows what even a properly-armed civilian could do to our forces?"
"It doesn't matter!" Greelog is becoming agitated. "We will find these heroes, and we will break them. Then the people of Earth will fall!"
I shake my head wearily. "It wouldn't be enough. Their level of devotion to these heroes and villains is cult-like! Some of them will go without bathing for days, just for an autograph or a selfie!"
"A selfie?" It sounds as if Greelog has relaxed. "Do you mean to tell me that this species has developed smartphone technology?"
"Yes!"
Greelog chuckles. "No worries, then. Come back to the ship, and try not to be seen. We'll just wait for this species to push itself into extinction. Shouldn't take longer than twenty more years." | Cloaked behind the dark side of the moon, the Hive ship sat, waiting. In 72 hours, once the generals had harmonized their plan to the drone army, ships would explode out, stripping the sad backwater planet for it's precious resources. But deep inside the Hive ship, Grix ran, skittering down the hallways at such a breakneck pace that even the message bots had to zip to one side, or else be dashed to bits from his sheer momentum. He slammed into a bulkhead, nearly cracking one of the armored plates of his carapace, before frantically keying open the bio-lock to the command chambers with three trembling clawed fingers.
The chitin door retracted into the walls, revealing the Command Cluster, the finest generals in the Thrivaxian army. Their shells vibrated with the force of their barbed legs scraping together, and the discordant chorus they made told Grix that if he didn't play his accompaniment right, he'd be eaten alive for his impudence. But they had to know. And Grix, damned fool that he was, was going to tell them.
He bowed his thorax low to the ground, front legs moving closer to the writing mass of the Cluster. His back legs scraped together to produce a high keening pitch that even Command couldn't ignore. Their eyes rotated in their skulls, and the generals extricated themselves from the Cluster to surround Grix. Grix shivered in his shell as the generals wings fluttered open, all at once creating a loud, angry hum.
*Speak*, thundered Command, *that we might hear your wretched name before your evisceration.*
*Your Graces, the Queens are in danger. We must abandon the assault, Glorious Eminences.*
The Command Cluster edged their bodies nearer to Grix, mandibles flexing. *Explain.*
Grix relaxed his maw, allowing the Sonic Data Recorder to roll out onto the floor. Petrified, his fingers manipulated the keys of the recorder until the bright music it stored rolled forth from the speakers.
The song spoke of a gathering held on the little planet, indeed, many gatherings, celebrating beings of great power whose might outshone the pitiful nuclear defenses that the foolish creatures of the planet trusted to keep themselves safe. There were hundreds: one was blue suited and red caped, with an alien symbol emblazoned upon his chest; another a powerful sorceress whose magic could foretell thousands of futures in an instant; a third was clad in night black armor, and wielded a blazing red sword that, so far as Grix could tell, could cut through any substance the Thrivaxians had so far discovered. Not to mention the thousands of robots, extra-terrestrials, Hive-class ships, and other horrifying technologies that these seemingly planet bound apes had managed to invent in just over a century.
The final chords of the song faded in the air, and the generals of the Cluster were silent. Grix braced himself for what he knew would come, and frantically continued his clumsy fumbling with the recorder.
*IMBICILE. DOLT. These gatherings have long since been known to us, you mewling terrified grub! This "Comic Con" you speak of is a cultural event celebrating fiction! You fear naught but dreams! Evisceration is too kind a punishment for your idiotic failings; you will be cast out by the High Queen herself!*
As the Cluster began bodily forcing Grix from the command chamber, he managed to extract the data disk from the recorder and flip it over to the B-side before snapping it shut and hitting play. Praying to the First Queen, The Hive on High, his fingers snapped the volume nob to maximum.
A new tune began to play. This one continued the same report as before, with the new information Grix and his group-mates had discovered not even an hour earlier. One of these "Comic Cons" had just started, and another routine bio scan of the populace revealed a massive spike in signal interference. Further refinement had cleaned up the signal, revealing troubling information. Among the festival goers were certain individuals whose bio-readouts had energy levels eclipsing those of entire cities on the planet Earth. They celebrated the same pulpy stories the others did, but they did it with the weight of personal experience, and the joy of being seen for who they truly were. Amongst these silly apes were true super beings, holding the psychic power investment of billions of souls, accumulated over decades. These new gods and goddesses of Earth loved their worshippers, and would almost certainly take personal offence to their destruction. While their powers differed somewhat from the stories told of them in fiction, they could apply it to the same devastating ends as their imagined counterparts. And should the Hive proceed with their plan, media analysis showed that they would exterminate every drone on the ship. Beginning with the High Queen.
Now true stillness had fallen among the generals. Grix dared not move, lest he break the generals' total concentration on the report. The Cluster removed themselves from Grix, and took the Sonic Recorder from his claws. Without a sound, they retreated back into the command chamber, and re-engaged the bio-lock on the chitin door.
Grix collapsed on the floor, legs curling under him, and thrummed with relief. Praise to the High Queen, he thought. Praise to the First Queen, Hive on High. | |
[WP] You are an alien conqueror that came to take over a nondescript planet named 'Earth'. Your glad you landed first and did some recon, because this 'Comic Con' meeting you have discovered has some of the greatest powers in the universe gathered and your not sure invading is a good idea anymore... | "Come in," I hiss into my receiver. "Someone from High Command, come in!"
"Greelog here," says Greelog. "What's the status of your mission? Has your cover been blown?"
"No, it's just..." I find myself standing too close to a human couple. One is dressed as a bat, while the other is dressed as a clown. Their spandex-wearing spawn stares at me. I excuse myself and run into one of their defecation chambers. "It's the invasion," I whisper. "We have to call it off."
"Why? What have you found?"
"Too much," I tell Greelog. "For one thing, they have these individuals called 'super-heroes.' They're a swarm of vigilantes with varying powers and skills, many of whom can fly."
"Impossible," snaps Greelog. "Have you confirmed their abilities?"
"No, there appear to be rules preventing them from using their powers at holy places such as these. But plenty of them have been making the requisite 'whoosh' sounds while holding their arms out in front of them."
"That does check out," agrees Greelog. "But it is no matter. A few exceptional vigilantes cannot substitute for a well-trained army."
"But that's just it," I exclaim. "Some of these vigilantes fight alongside the military. "In fact, they have a female capable of flight and energy-blasts named Mar-Vell in the Air Force, and a weapons developer named Ton-E Stark producing far greater weapons than we had anticipated."
"Interesting. But these challenges are not insurmountable."
"No," I agree. "But there's another problem. They appear to have perfected cloning technology."
"Are you sure?"
"I am. I've seen multiple Mar-Vells and Starks at this gathering, alongside Na-Ru-Tos, Spider-Men, Bat-people, and a number of identical humans in bathrobes waving around lightsaber replicas."
"By the Queen's eggs," Greelog shouts. "They have lightsaber technology?"
"It appears so. They also have portal technology, as developed by the scientists Cave Johnson and Rick Sanchez." I swallow my mouth-fluids. "They sell portal guns here as if they were cheap novelties. Who knows what even a properly-armed civilian could do to our forces?"
"It doesn't matter!" Greelog is becoming agitated. "We will find these heroes, and we will break them. Then the people of Earth will fall!"
I shake my head wearily. "It wouldn't be enough. Their level of devotion to these heroes and villains is cult-like! Some of them will go without bathing for days, just for an autograph or a selfie!"
"A selfie?" It sounds as if Greelog has relaxed. "Do you mean to tell me that this species has developed smartphone technology?"
"Yes!"
Greelog chuckles. "No worries, then. Come back to the ship, and try not to be seen. We'll just wait for this species to push itself into extinction. Shouldn't take longer than twenty more years." | It had been ten thousand years since the disappearance of the Fyrum, a ferocious and dominating species that almost wiped out all the life within this galaxy.
Yet, here they were on the planet the dominant species had named 'Earth'.
Their appearance was as horrific as the stories foretold. Humanoids with red and black skin, along with two small protruding horns on the top of their sinciput. Some of them carried a strange weapon that made a whizzing sound while lighting up a reddish color.
I wasn't sure if our translation systems were calibrated fully yet but the Fye called it a lightsaber.
From my understanding, Earth had not been unified yet. I believe the people lived under several different governmental systems.
So imagine my shock when I stumbled upon some sort of intergalactic federation headquarters they called 'Comic-Con'.
I didn't expect ambassadors from different kinds of species, including those I have never seen before.
There must have been some convergent speciation that occurred with humanity as some individuals walked around with hairy tails and others with feline features.
Initially we assumed that humans themselves were not much of a threat but I saw visuals of their past conquests posted all throughout the facility.
These beings had variations of abilities I have never seen in any other species before, some had psychokinesis while others could straight up manipulate reality itself.
I think initiating an invasion of this planet would be disastrous and not worth the effort.
Humanity would live to see another day, completely ignorant as to how close they came to being in a great war.
For now. | |
[WP] You are an alien conqueror that came to take over a nondescript planet named 'Earth'. Your glad you landed first and did some recon, because this 'Comic Con' meeting you have discovered has some of the greatest powers in the universe gathered and your not sure invading is a good idea anymore... | “Uhh, mothership. I think we have made a big mistake here,” whispered Ulrog.
Ulrog felt very out of place. To any onlooker, he was a short, chubby man. Someone who wouldn’t stand out. But beneath the holo-suit, Ulrog was absolutely terrified.
“Mission Report, Ulrog. What have you found?” a voice spoke into his earpiece.
“We need to leave Earth alone. And pray that they never become a space-faring species, Mothership.”
Ulrog then began to report the sights he had seen. Many of these humans were engaged in fierce discussions over which of the beings in the audience were stronger.
Ulrog heard stories of how a being named Soops could sneeze apart an entire solar system. Apparently, sneezing is an involuntary reflex from humans where they project specks of body fluid. And this being’s *body fluids* could destroy a solar system.
And other parties argued that he wasn’t stronger than this other being. A ***sun*** that was named Gokew? A being whose hair changes with his strength and at his peak, could shake the very universe.
The worst part is, Ulrog saw ***dozens*** of beings matching both descriptions, indicating that Earth was clearly the most dangerous part of the universe.
But if only that was the limit of power on this planet. Ulrog also witnessed other bizarre displays of strength beyond comprehension.
Ulrog walked into a certain section of the area and saw numerous people holding strange storage units they called “Kards.” And on these storage units, they stored otherworldly creatures and they could create effects that defied the known laws of physics.
There would be tables where two Earthlings sat across from each other. Far as he could tell, these weren’t famed champions he heard others dischssing. And these two Earthlings would begin casting these effects and commanding these creatures. Though everything happened at speeds much faster than Ulrog could comprehend. Other onlookers would cheer at some event and when I asked someone to explain to me what happened, it seemed the other Earthling was hit with catastrophic damage.
They were banished to an otherworldly dimension, attacked by some mystical forces or hit with some terrible curse of some sort. But while many others clearly reacted in surprise, Ulrog couldn’t even see these acts take effect. They were that fast. They were completely unharmed, save for some emotional damage.
And then there were the females of the species. They were very… distracting.
“All in all, mothership. I’d like to come back now and may we never wrong this planet.” | As I wandered the convention center, I saw hundreds and hundreds of powerful beings. Most seemed to be humanoid. Many with powerful weapons, some without, but there seemed to be some sort of implied peace treaty between the attendees. They wore some sort of necklace documentation that I assume was consent for peace during the meeting. Despite the raw power that clearly flowed through this gathering, there was a pervasive sensation of peace and joy. While I appreciated the feeling of safety, I had the impression that given any sort of attack, these jovial beings would quickly resort to violence. | |
[WP] Your entire life has led to this moment. You were created for children’s parties and now you have arrived at your very first one, still unsure exactly what will happen. You are a piñata. | "This is my quest"
"This is my goal"
"This is my journey to make"
The hollow words I used to psych myself up for the battle ahead echoed in the depths of my mind.
The piñata clans had began this journey long since I was born to this world but none had returned.
None had returned
The gnawing anxiety of what was to come burned my soul down to the last gumdrops.
"But I will"
The brief bout of worry quickly faded only to return tenfold as the shadows lightened. The veil had been lifted.
The human before me had lifted the thin towel it used to disguise and carry me through the hostile lands but alas it was time.
The human was tall and strong, it was clearly of the middle aged adult subclass, it was showing signs of leaving its prime as it graying blond hair fell, obscuring my vision.
It let out a groan while attempting to lift me. was it age weighing it down or was the path to my rsting place that arduous?
Yes, that must of been it! The blond human had clearly taken damage defending me on its quest.
"I will repay you for this debt my friend. I swear."
The human lugged me to a room decorated with golden ribbons and signs of splendor.
"Piñata!"
A dozen high pitched voices cried out in union drawing the attention of my single facing eye.
Multiple adult class humans stood tall around a table. The warriors and lowest class of humans the servants of the nobility and yet noble in their own way.
At the head of a table stood shorter humans with snow white hair- the senior class; the experts of the humans who had long since traded their youth and power for strategic brilliance.
Sitting at the table where a superior sight however: multiple child class humans huddled around the golden table- the nobility of their species; the children where served and followed by the adult class as if God's above them.
The table these great beings huddled around was filled with various candies and gifts- it was a gruesome sight but worthy of such great beings to surround themselves with the organs of their fallen foes-
"Piñata"
All thought were cut off as I saw my answer. A child with a crown around his head was yelling my title. He was a king and this was his kingdom.
The king was looking at me expectantly as the blond adult hung me by a string and gave his leige a stick of glitter and gold.
A stick?!
Was this an execution? No, that's ridiculous, what this must be is a knighting.
I was being granted the honor of knight in mere seconds of meeting my leige. Was I truly this fantastic? Would I be the great and noble steed my leige rides to battle
No! I'm getting ahead of myself. The current priority is simply introdtions.
"My leige, I am the 43rd heir of the great horse Piñata clan. It is an ho-"
Pow!
The air in my cream eggs was blown away by a strike far from gentle.
My leige had struck me far too forcibly. But no matter, It was probably just a part of the knighting process that I was to feeble to endure without notice. What a pathetic fool I am.
Pow! Pow! Pow! Crack!
My leige had struck far to many times for safety. My original theory was correct.
I was not worthy of being knighted and thus I was being massacred. A tragedy In the making.
My leige was strange however. He seemed far to eager for something else than my death. He eyed the falling paper mache far two vigorously. Seeing so much of my own paper made me sick.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Plop!
A candy bracelet fell to the carpet only to be snatched up and devoured by one of the lesser nobles.
"No! It isn't possible!"
Had I been tricked? Had these creatures truly not be human at all?
I tried rigorously to escape the blows but felt a rough pair of hands hold me still.
"You too my friend?"
The old blond adult class sided with his leige and betrayed his comrade.
"Traitors! All of you are Traitors!"
My screams where cut short as my lollipops fell to the ground. It was over.
All my ambitions came to an end as I saw the rebid dogs called nobles fall upon my entrails.
I have failed only to have one echoing sentence send me to my grave
"This is the best birthday ever!" | # [POEM]
Although my fate is to be beat,
I accept that it's for the best.
For them and myself, it's a treat.
I was purchased for a feast;
I'll show up, exquisitely dressed,
Although my fate is to be beat.
Hung in place, I can't retreat,
but I also will not protest.
For them and myself, it's a treat.
When they saw me, they shrieked;
They're all so impressed.
Although my fate is to be beat,
The entire event is quite a feat.
I'll take blows from an armed guest,
For them and myself, it's a treat.
I guess I'm feeling bittersweet,
As my goods will be repossessed.
Although my fate is to be beat,
For them and myself, it's a treat. | |
[WP] Honestly? You 100% didn't expect that to work, even more so, that it would work so well. | **“Who has summoned me?”**
I sat back on my heels and raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t expecting the joke summoning to work at all, much less summon… Well, this. It - he - was beautiful, the ideal picture of classical beauty. The look was only complemented by the huge, white wings that reached down to the ground.
“I summoned you. Who are you?”
**“Be not afraid, child. If it was me who you summoned, there was a reason. Why?”**
“I’m not afraid of you. You’re an angel, that much is obvious. Are you here to protect me?”
**“An angel? Oh, you jest,”** the creature chuckled.
“I’m not… jesting, angel. Why are you laughing?”
He continued laughing, the sound beautiful and melodious.
**“Have we really been gone so long you have forgotten the difference between angels and demons?”**
I opened my mouth to reply, then paused.
“You’re a demon?”
**“Of course, mortal. Have you not read the ancient texts on angels? They look nothing like me.”**
“So you’re telling me that all of those paintings, and stories, and works of art picturing angels… those are all demons?”
**“For the third time, yes. Demons.”**
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” I stammer, “everyone knows that demons are supposed to be ugly, with scales, and horns, and… I don’t know, tails!”
The demon smiles softly, a look of pity in his eyes.
**“Oh, to be young and innocent again. You must’ve heard the saying “you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar”? We’ve evolved to become beautiful, perfect beings, because you’re more likely to trust us.”**
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“You’re evil, then?”
Again, he laughed.
**“Of course, dear one. But you’ve realized it too late. I do hope we’ll meet again soon. With what you get up to, I wouldn’t be surprised.”**
I stood there, confused.
“What do you mean? Where are you going?”
**“Oh, innocent human. I’m not going anywhere. You are.”**
I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I looked down and saw a large spike protruding from my heart.
**“You were right, you know,”** the demon said, cupping my cheek in his hand, **“We are ugly. We’ve just learned to keep it on the inside.”**
I drew in a rasping breath, coughing.
“Why? I’m just a human.”
**“Oh, no, sweet one. You’re just a soul.”**
And with one last smirk, he was gone. The blood continued to gush out of the hole in my chest at an alarming rate, but I had already known there was no stopping my death.
The only question was if I really would see him again soon. | [Poem]
A smile can trick your brain someone said,
*Bullshit* I thought through the cloud in my head.
Yet feeling self concious I gave it a try,
Felt the lips move, a twitch of the eye.
At first the muscles were all cramped and tight,
But I just kept on at it until it felt right.
And after a while my charlatan grin,
To my surprise came to feel genuine.
I'm not saying this mind trick will change your life,
Blast away all your worries or eliminate strife.
But maybe just try it the next time the blues,
Come creeping in...you've nothing to lose! | |
[WP] A superhero fights evil by wiping the memories of both the villain and everyone who knew of them, so that they can be reintroduced in society safely. Today, as you were combing through old newspapers, you discover, that you were once the worlds most powerful supervillain. | I watched the pupils of his eyes contract as he listened to my monotone speech, my hand resting on his shoulders.
"Your name is Jared Eaker, you are here to find yourself and pursue a dream that will greatly benefit society. This is your chance to restart your life with a clean slate."
The ex-criminal's body loosened beneath my grip as his mind cast aside his memories in an artificial amnesia. He had no close living relatives, so very little needed to be done in order to erase his past. Unfortunately the man in front of me was just another victim of a broken society, cast aside after the death of his parents and picked up by a desperate gang. This by no means was my highest profile case, but even the smallest of criminals deserved a second chance from society. Sometimes, all people needed in life, was to forget their past, to forget their hurt.
"Hey I know you." Jared said with a brightened smile spread across his face. "You're Slate. I've seen you on TV. What are you doing here?"His mouth contracted into a crinkled smile as his eyes dropped down to the square S that was embroidered into my uniform. "Say, where did you even come up that dumb name anyways?"
"Don't know." I chuckled. Ignoring the question as to why I was here.
"You sure do give me a lot of work." Headmaster Miller told me, her head shaking, after Jared skipped away with enviable glee.
"What can I say, I truly believe we can change the world like this. One citizen at a time."
"You've always been a dreamer, Slate. But if you'll excuse me I have more than enough work to do."
"Good luck." I called to her as she walked away. "Also if you don't mind I'm going to steal a drink out of your office before I go."
She replied by holding her hand up high above her head and giving me a brief thumbs up, without turning her head to look back at me.
Stealing drinks from Headmaster's mini fridge was one of the perks that I probably took for granted. Citizens didn't have to be so kind to me, constructing statues in my honor, buying me dinners, and letting me borrow their cars when I needed to pursue a villain. Most of them didn't even know what I did to the villain when I caught up with them. All they knew was that I was big, strong, and had a dumb superhero name.
*Another Country Surrenders to Satan*. The headline of the newspaper that sprawled out across the desk caught my eyes. How could it not? It was probably the best click bait title I had ever seen, and yet the newspaper appeared far too old for such hyperbolic titles. Curiosity gripped me and I walked over, completely forgetting about the drinks I had originally came for. The newspaper itself was dated almost 12 years old and it had a picture of present day Poland marked red with a large S. And underneath it was a picture, a picture of me. A picture of me walking away from a burning village. With a caption that read can anyone stop him?
But how? I had only been in the hero business for 8 years. Before that I was a nobody.
Loud footsteps echoed down the hall as I heard Headmistress Miller shout. "Slate, wait, don't go into my office I for-" Her voice cut off as she saw me standing over her desks.
"This was me." I muttered, the realization creeping in. "I'm satan"
"Not actually Satan." she whispered back, her face transparently pale. "it was a pretentious name that I never liked."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I managed to ask through the tears that now streamed down my face.
"It wasn't my idea Slate. You were the one who wiped your own memories and left me as the sole keeper of your secret. The world no longer remembers those days and neither should you."
"Satan." I corrected her. "And there's no going back now. I can't erase a memory twice." my hands shakily reached for the letter opener that was left on the desk.
"Was I afraid that these memories would drive me to become a monster again." I said feeling the sharpness of the letter opener against my chest.
"No Slate," she whimpered. "When we met you were so ashamed of what you had done. You came to me with one last desperate attempt to save yourself and a chance to repay humanity."
The pain, Oh the pain. I remembered it all. They came barging inwards, to my soul, with a vengeance. The screams, the explosions, the smell of burnt flesh. Nothing could erase the pain. Not my powers, not the headmistress, nor the blade of the letter opener slicing through my heart. What had I done? How many more people had suffered at my hands? How many people could I never repay?
"Mum" I whispered as I curled up on the ground. My tears pooling beneath me, damping my clothes with a strange mixture of salt and blood.
"I'm sorry."
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u/secretlyalive | The balcony seat is empty, and perfect for a sniper, should one avail themselves this evening. For better or worse, however, no such individual is within the opera house. Well, he could certainly serve as one, if he choose, but hopefully there would be no need.
The performance is about to begin, the tension of anticipation hanging thick in the sold-out seats. The symphony adjusts stands and slides, shuffling in their chairs even more than the audience. They are waiting for their conductor, the rising virtuoso that had only made her debut six months ago.
He is too.
There's a rustle behind him, as someone slips past the ushers.
"You're looking wonderful, Bertrand."
"Special Agent Williams," he says, not caring to dignify the jab with anything other than cold formality.
"I thought I might join you," says the older man, settling down in the chair beside him.
"Evidently," Bertrand said as he crossed his legs and focused on the massive turntable that would announce the star of the show.
"You didn't need to come here, you know," he said, "we've got it, even if shit does hit the fan."
"Six month's the limit. Never had someone turn back past then."
"Nothing I say is gonna reassure you, is it?"
"I give up a piece of me every time I take a job from you. Literally," he said, trying to remember which memory he'd given up for hers. He had it written down *somewhere*, "I *will* see this through, even if I have to saw my own balls off."
"Fine, fine. None of us can really stop you. You've earned at least that much."
Bertrand snorted, and re-focused his attention on the stage, before chewing his lip, ever-so-slightly. It was a tell few noticed, but she had. That, and the proceeding hesitation, had almost cost him his life.
"How many of you are there?"
"Twenty-five, including three retired pros. Shut up real quick about their retirement when we told them who they were coming out for."
*That should be enough,* thought Bertrand, but even so, he didn't relax in the slightest, flinching as the lights dimmed. The punch of the spotlight was almost enough to send him running, especially when he saw who stood their.
The conductor was a young woman, maybe just entering her twenties at most. Scarlet silk, and white lace, with a thin black dress underpinning it all. In her hand was a violin whose expense would've dropped someone a new house.
For what it was worth, she played it like no one else could.
The symphony rose and fell, alternating between classical styles, with bizarre interludes into jazz and electronic music that should've sounded disjointed... but didn't. It all fit together like a technicolor jig-saw puzzles - sounds that were meant to clash melding and flowing to produce something truly unique.
The young virtuoso spun and dance, long fingers blurring as she unleashed a barrage of sound, until, at long last, the music dropped into silence, leaving her to spin one last echo of the opening refrain.
The applause was uproarious, a standing ovation inevitable.
Williams sagged back into the seat, gobsmacked at the performance.
"I don't know jack about music, but that was... wow."
"Indeed. If only she stayed in the industry the first time. Think of the tens-of-thousands that might've enjoyed the songs rather then being splattered across this venue and that."
The two men departed, to their interviews and sad lone apartment. Before Betrand could duck out of the exit to the west, Williams called back to him.
"You promised me this time, Bertrand. Why do you do it?"
Bertrand supposed that he had in fact promised the man, although, probably in an attempt to get him off his case. Either way, he offered a non-committal shrug,
"Helps me remember."
With that, he ducked out into the rain.
It helped her remember too.
She strode through the halls of the house, feeling the surge of triumph rush through her veins, and yet... there was something missing. Something... quintessential.
Her fingers flexed, reaching from something thicker than the neck of her violin. A muscle memory of mysterious origin was demanding her, compelling her to do something. But what?
The performance was so close to perfect, the sounds interviewing just as she'd seen in studio. It was a masterpiece, everyone thought so, even her.
So why was she still thirsting for more?
That hidden desire perched on her like a toad, growing heavier and slimier until she couldn't bear to think of anything else. It dragged at her as she opened the car door, and gnawed on her bones as she stepped up to the edge of her apartment complex.
That was when she saw the man.
He wasn't much older than her - a handsome twenty-something, reading something off a phone screen under an umbrella in the rain. Everything told her to go inside and not bother the poor man, but something drove her to turn down, around and approach him. Something greater.
Her fever of excitement was so palpable it made her feel ill, and the certain conviction that something wonderful was about to happen. There were a few pleasantries exchanged, maybe a few subtle flirtations, not much that could be remembered later.
In fact, she couldn't remember any of it, really.
Except for the music. It had been sublime, an inspiration for her later work.
The mans mouth had opened, and the choirs had rang out, harmonics of such purity - she'd been so annoyed when he'd stopped.
His stomach had open, and the string's that had emerged from within? Oh, what a timbre!
The drum in his chest beat more perfectly than any she'd every heard, and with such resonance! And such sorrow when it had stopped.
She wanted to do more, so much more, but it would appear that the song was coming to an end. The instruments had fallen silent one by one, and now there was nothing left to do. Out of curiosity, she squeezed and pinched the flesh, and to her delight, it formed a perfect rose.
So she left him there, a bittersweet reminder of the music they'd shared, a bouquet of red and yellow and pink and purple, all wet, even when the rains had stopped. Just before she vanished from the mouth of her studio, she started, having almost forgotten, turned, and gave a quick bow to her partner. With that, she bounded out into the street from the alley, with a spring in the step that only an inspired artist could have.
New compositions spread across her mind, the richness of their sounds now unparalleled.
There was so much to do.
It was time to make music.
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*I write many things, silly and serious, over at* /r/The_Alloqium. | |
[WP] As everyone leans in to hear the latest vague reports about the alien invasion, the General bursts into the bunker. "I NEED A DOCTOR -." Immediately, every surgeon and physician stands at the ready. "NO! A DOCTOR OF ___!" Confused, all eyes turn to you. | We’d been waiting in the holding area for what felt like hours, but in actuality was only a few minutes. The greatest minds around the globe had been summoned and gathered: doctors, physicians, scientists, anyone who had any deep knowledge or skill was in attendance. Which begged the question, why was I here?
I knew we’d been invaded. You’d have to live under a rock to not know that first contact with an alien lifeform had been made. Their ship was bigger than the moon for crying out loud and could be seen around the world. The chaos that filled every city was unparalleled. Nobody had any answers, and no one knew what was going on. So, when a military escort showed up on my doorstep, I didn’t even question it. But now I was starting to.
Seeing all the stiffs whispering amongst themselves I wasn’t sure what would happen next. And maybe that’s why I wasn’t ready for it, when it happened.
A debriefing started and we all leaned in to hear the latest report about the alien invasion when the General burst into the bunker. “I need a doctor!”
Without hesitation a dozen hands went up. Surgeons and physicians, the finest from the world’s leading hospitals stood at the ready. Which made it even more surprising when the General shook his head in frustration. “No, no. Damn it Krill, I told you I needed an Audiologist!”
Krill, presumably the second in command, bobbed his head and pushed me forward. Guess that was my cue. I gave a timid wave.
The General looked me up and down, taking my measure. I must have passed muster because with a grunt nod, he left the bunker, and I was nudged to follow.
XXX
The sit-room was controlled chaos. Monitors everywhere, military personnel at the ready. Frantic whispers into headsets. But all that stopped when the General walked in, with me on his heels. He barked an order, and I was led to a door on the other side.
It opened to reveal a room with a dozen soldiers. All in peak health. All holding their ears and moaning.
“Every person we’ve sent up to make contact has come back without their hearing. I need a full report after you’ve examined them.”
Without so much as a by-your-leave, the General was gone, and I went to work.
XXX
32 patients and 2 hours later and I’d come to a conclusion, kind of.
I hoped I was wrong, but the reality was I probably wasn’t.
I was escorted to the General, who stood in the center of the sit-room controlling the chaos. He looked up, “Well?”
“I … uh.” I’d always hated public speaking ever since I was a child. My speech impediment made it mortifying and I’d avoided it at all costs. Standing in the center of the room with more than a hundred sets of eyes on me wasn’t helping matters.
“Out with it.”
His brusqueness hit my hell-naw trigger and anger briefly overcame my stage fright.
“Each affected service member reports hearing a high-frequency radio signal before losing their hearing. It happened exactly the same way for each of them. There are some treatments that can be tried but by and large I expect them to suffer from permanent hearing loss.”
The statement was met with silence.
“Is that all?”
Why was it that the lead commander of such an important endeavor had to be a dick? I thought. Guess that was the way of the world.
“No. That’s not all. The description matches what would be considered in laymen’s terms an attempt to communicate.”
The General rolled his eyes. Honest to goodness rolled his eyes at me. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”
He looked at Krill and gave a nod. I was dismissed. Except I wasn’t done.
“I’ve been doing modifications on hearing aids. Based on my examinations, I believe adjustments can be made to nullify the damaging effects of their frequency.”
The General considered this. At the same time an operator shouted, “Movement, sir!”
Across the many screens set up around the room the image of the aliens’ mothership was front and center. A hatch of some kind had opened at the bottom of the ship and thousands of smaller vessels flew out.
The General looked at Krill, “Get this man everything he needs.” To me he said, “I need as many of them as you can make. As fast as you can make them.”
“Not a problem, but …”
“We don’t have time for buts right now. Get going.”
I debated my obstinance. I could just follow orders and leave it at that. I didn’t have to volunteer what I really thought. But looking at those tiny ships hovering over our atmosphere I realized I didn’t really have a choice.
“The enhanced aids will help those who have their hearing. But one of my prototypes will help translate their radio frequency.”
Everyone stopped. The General stared at me like I was a lunatic for not offering this sooner.
“The catch is … the best person to wear that prototype and attempt contact is someone who is already hearing impaired and a linguistics expert.”
The General nodded, then barked to his subordinates, “Start the search globe-wide for ideal candidates, fast –"
I took a deep breath. It was for the good of the human race. Fine.
“That won’t be necessary, sir. I already know someone. My ex-wife.”
God help us all.
\~\~\~
Thank you for reading! For more scribblings, wander over to r/WanderingAnonymous | I didn’t know when I entered the fetal position. I didn’t know when I started rocking back and forth like a small child waiting for its mother. Hell, I didn’t even remember how I got in this dingy bunker, surrounded by soldiers and scared civilians alike, sitting on the ground with only a thin patina of wet ash and mud between myself and the bare concrete below.
And yet I was there, wrapped in the remnants of a towel and trying to block out the steady stream of garbled communications from militaries, police forces, and any regular old citizen who had managed to grab a radio when the world became hell. The damp, shredded towel was barely any comfort; I had only held onto it because I had used it to escape my burning home, and the concept of dropping it never even crossed my mind.
A commotion at the door to the bunker broke me from my reverie.
“Medic! Medic! We need a medic over here!”
A trio of soldiers barged in, supporting a fourth that hung limply around their shoulders. The soldier’s head lolled about in a sickening way, and even in the dim orange of the sodium vapor lights overhead, I could see the sticky coat of blood over his entire face.
To my left, a group of civilians that had been hunkering down with me stood.
“We’re doctors and nurses,” one said. “What do you need?”
The soldiers set the injured man on the ground in the cleanest part of the bunker and the doctors set about their work with an oddly detached efficiency, stripping the clothes and armor from the man’s wound and cleaning it with whatever scraps they could find.
The woman next to me whistled in a low tone. “That’s lucky,” she murmured.
“Lucky?” I hissed. “What’s lucky about this? This is the fucking end of the world!”
“Lucky for *him*,” she said, pointing at the soldier. “I can’t imagine many of these Cold War-era bunkers were fortunate enough to have a medical staff evacuate into them.”
“I’m not sure it would be fortunate for us to survive this hell,” I muttered bitterly.
“Thing will turn around,” the woman said with a confidence that astounded me. “The government and military will come around. They’ll save us all.”
“Lady, that *is* the military,” I said, pointing at the injured man. His squadmates stood around him, watching awkwardly until one of the nurses pushed them away. “I don’t think they’re going to do much *saving*.”
“The Lord will provide,” she said stubbornly.
My mouth flapped open, then closed. “I— you— really? You think *that* will save us?”
She looked me in the eye. “Even if He does not, I do not fear death. It will be like going home.”
I stared at the injured soldier, who began to shake violently. “I wish I had your confidence,” I whispered.
The woman followed my gaze to the soldier, then winced and turned away. “All the same, I’d rather it be painless. Again, lucky. Imagine if we were near a university instead of a hospital. Can you imagine asking for a doctor and then some schmuck stands up and says, ‘I have a doctorate in communications?” She snorted.
“Excuse you,” I said. “I *do* have a doctorate in communications.”
She laughed. “Exactly. It’s ridiculous.”
“That’s not a joke,” I said, my face growing warm. “I worked hard for my Ph.D. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mock me.”
The woman reeled back. “Oh. I— I didn’t—”
I scooted away from her and stared at the door.
Time seemed to pass in slow motion. After what was either a few minutes or half a day, the doctors sighed heavily and pulled a blanket over the soldier. His squadmates took him outside and reappeared alone some moments later. At some point, the entire earth seemed to shake around us, as though a giant’s footsteps were echoing through the ground.
Something slammed against the door repeatedly.
“It’s the General!” gasped the soldier guarding the entrance. He yanked the door open and an older man stormed in. His uniform was crisp, despite being covered in soot and blood, and his short-cropped grey hair made me want to stand at attention and not meet his eyes. Or, more notably, his eye. One was covered in a tasteful black eyepatch that seemed to cover a thick mass of scars.
“I NEED A DOCTOR!” the general yelled with a voice that rattled my soul.
The evacuated medical team stood again, exhausted but ready to take on the challenges ahead of them.
“We’re doctors and nurses,” one of them said. “What do you—”
“Piss off,” the general growled. “I need a *real* doctor, not one of you half-educated sawbones that appropriated an honorable term. I need a doctor… in communications.”
The woman stared at me. “Uh… he’s a doctor in communications!” she said, pointing in my direction.
I wilted into my shredded towel under the general’s fierce gaze.
“You,” he said. “Come with me.” He jerked a thumb out the door into the unknown.
I slowly climbed to my feet and took a hesitant step forward.
“Did I stutter?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone.
“N— no, sir,” I squeaked.
“Get over here, then. We’re going.”
The woman gave me a gentle push, and I followed the general out of the bunker into hell.
***
The sky overhead was black with smoke. Strange shapes darted about, occasionally dipping below the clouds and flashing with a foreign light that seemed to split the very air itself. The ground around us was all dirt and mud. Every last tree, bush, and blade of grass had seemingly been torn up or burned in the pitched battle.
“Sir, you have the wrong idea!” I said, straining to be heard above the booming of the guns around us. “I studied fictional media and its effects on different demographics! I don’t know about… well… communicating!”
The general continued to march at a steady pace that was almost double my normal walking pace.
“Son, do you think I’m stupid?”
Despite him yelling the question, I could somehow tell it was in that same low, dangerous voice that had startled me into action earlier.
“No, sir, but—”
“Son, do you know how we survived here in Washington, D.C. when so many cities are lost and gone forever?”
I sighed. “No, sir.”
“You write, kid?”
“I… what?”
“Do you write?” the general asked, his eyepatch flashing as he glanced at me. “Stories? Books? Low production value shorts on the YouTube?”
“I… I dabble, I guess. Why?”
“Ever write a short sci-fi story about how humans are better than other aliens?”
I flushed. “Once or twice.”
“If you were to have aliens attack the world, where would it be?”
I tripped over a rock and fell into the mud, planting my hands and knees deep into the filth.
“New York City, probably,” I said, regaining my feet and attempting to wipe the thick sludge onto my pants. “Or London, or Paris, or maybe Hong Kong. Probably not D.C.”
“Exactly.”
“Sir, I don’t follow. Why—”
“You ever heard of SETI, son? Voyager’s golden record?”
“Of course, but—”
The general stopped and I plowed into his back. He continued speaking as though he hadn’t even noticed.
“Son, we’ve been yelling into the void for decades now. Makes sense that something would hear us.”
“But we’re just… humanity,” I protested. “The odds that Earth would be habitable to them are practically none! What other reason would they have to attack.”
The general scratched his chin absentmindedly. “You ever watched them Avenger movies?”
By this point, I was almost used to the general’s abrupt topic changes. “Yes. I wrote my thesis on how they’re simply the natural culmination of mass-market—”
“Never got around to it myself,” he muttered. “More of a western man, myself. Good, Bad, and the Ugly is about as good as it gets. Kids took me out to see that damnable Cowboys versus Aliens nonsense a few years back.”
“Sir, what’s your point?”
The general gestured ahead of us. I could just barely make out a massive array of electrical equipment and computers in a trench. Thick cables snaked away from them, creating a messy tangle at the base of the computer.
“We’ve done some communicating,” the general said, “but we need a communications professional.
“I already told you, I don’t do languages!” I protested. “How—”
“Language ain’t an issue, son. We’ve been yelling into the void for years, remember?”
The general pushed me to the computers. At the front of the array was a single headset with a microphone
“What—” I began, but the general interrupted.
“Can you please explain the concept of ‘fiction’ to these dumb [aliens](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks)?” | |
[WP] Burn the witch, they shouted as they tied her to the stake. She just laughed as fire was her ally, not an enemy. | I can't blame the town's people for not know what my kind could do with fire. There are few of us and we are very hard to catch. I won't blame them for not recognising the ring of tattooed flames on my wrist, but I will blame them for burning old Agnes.
I stared intently at the lead witch hunter, he would be the first to burn. Afterall he had burnt women for knowing card tricks and advanced medicine, he deserved death.
As the torches were thrown onto my pyre, I summoned Isa in her true form. Isa leapt for the oil soaked wood with a laugh that only I could hear. She consumed the wood hungrily, driving out the regular fire.
The witch hunters must have finally realised that something was wrong once the flames surrounded me. I did not scream, even as Isa burnt the ropes from my wrists. She would not hurt me, dogs did not hurt their masters.
The witch hunters did not turn to run until I had raised my hand towards them. "Sear"
Bloated with heat and power from my pyre, Isa leapt at the men. Their screams did not last as long as Agnes's had.
Once the men's bodies were twisted lumps, I turned to the villagers "YOU DID NOTHING! YOU STOOD THERE AND WATCHED THOSE MEN BURN INOCENTES! HOW COULD YOU!" That broke the spell of shock and fear that had held the villages, they ran.
I gestured broadly to the entire village "sear." Isa leapt forward to obey. Some of the villages would escape, many wouldn't. All would suffer with their homes destroyed. Maybe the rumours would stop the burnings. Many they would encourage them. I was to angry to care. | As the witch laughed towards the dark sky, the flames rolled over her body like water; flowing up her arms, cresting over her chest, streaming over and up her neck and chin. They poured into her open mouth, endlessly emptying into her insides. Not burning flesh, nor hair. The conflagration became nothing but charred, dry wood and the witch, unharmed, standing upon the unlit block.
The crowd stood silently. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. The torchbearer was uncertain if he ought to relight the kindling or not. They watched and waited until the witch faced them with an open mouth. She inhaled even more, her chest and belly bursting at the gowns seams, then smiling, exhaled. A fiery maelstrom erupted from her lips, unfurled and flooded the very air, consuming all in its path. The crowd weren't hasty enough. Man, woman, child; all those who cursed and raped and forced her onto the pyre where now their own, one of bone and skin.
When all was ash and tinder, bones bleached black and innards no more than fatty pools of filth, the witch stepped down from the block. Gingerly, she walked around them, beyond their homes, and disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
---
If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my [subreddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/MicahCastle/) and consider subscribing. | |
[WP] "This is a joke right? Who put you up to this?" The demon looked angrily at the man who had summoned him. "I'm... not sure what you mean, I followed the ritual and..." "We only deal in HUMAN souls." "Wait, what?" | "Ari, I'm not sure this is a good idea," the girl stood there just inside the pentagram that the other teenager was drawing. Her delicate face was twisted with worry, her jet black eyes darting around nervously, and her fingers were twirling her onyx hair around and around. She bit her lip and glanced at the other girl.
She straightened and pushed her golden curls out of her face, her periwinkle blue eyes flashing with annoyance in her angelic face.
"I've told you before, Anna. The adults are keeping secrets from us. This is the only way we have to find out the truth." Her face softened, and she reached over to take Anna's hand. "They kept us separated for years. Didn't even tell us we were twins. Our meeting was purely accidental, and now they are trying to seperate us again."
Her eyes met Anna's and held them firm.
"I won't lose you now that I have you, ok?"
Anna looked back at her sister, and then nodded hesitantly. Ari smiled broadly and released Anna to light the candles. After she was done, she looked around, narrowing her eyes and nodding.
"Ok, I think we're ready," she said. "Anna, stand over here." She positioned Anna at one of the two altars they had set up on either end of the outer pentagram. "No matter what happens, don't step outside the pentagram or inside the inner pentagram," she reminded her, and Anna nodded.
Ari walked over to the other altar, and smiled reassuringly at Anna.
"This is going to work, I promise," she said.
Then she looked down at the altar. On it set a wand, a dagger, a golden chalice, a tall black candle, a statue of the demon they wanted to summon, and an open tome filled with odd symbols and runes. The same items were on the altar by Anna.
"Let's get started then," she said confidently, ruthlessly stamping down her nervousness.
As one, the two girls started chanting in a strange language. As they chanted, each picked up the wand and made elaborate motions in the air. The motions they made were the same, but done in mirror image of the other.
The flames on the candles started to flicker, and they walked in a counter clockwise motion, still chanting and making the symbols with their wands. As they walked around the circle of the pentagram, a black light started to shine around the outer pentagram, matching them step for step.
They each made a full circle, and the black light rose to form a wall around them. As they each regained their altar again, they set the wands down and picked up the daggers. | "Are you going to play dumb with me?" The Demon possesed cat said from inside the circle. "You expect me to believe you think you're human?" I scratched my head "Well as far asI know I am." "Most would more certain, or atl least more confused." I sat down and flipped through the tome. "Well it's been a long week for me. First i find out the supernatural exists, then get chased by a Monster Mafia, and finally haveto turn to summoning a demon as a last ditch effort for protection. You could say my mind is a bit fried." The Demon cat layed down near the edge of the circle. "You are surely interesting. Tell me more." | |
[WP] "This is a joke right? Who put you up to this?" The demon looked angrily at the man who had summoned him. "I'm... not sure what you mean, I followed the ritual and..." "We only deal in HUMAN souls." "Wait, what?" | **CW: Murder, General Stupidity**
"Who told you that you had any right to summon me?"
"Nobody. I conducted this ritual in private with no witnesses, just as the ancient texts instructed," said the robed man standing over the elaborate summoning circle.
"Oh, you think you're funny? Trying to get a laugh out of me? Trying to... *induce* some chuckling, Mr. Chucklehead?" Within seconds, the demon had dropped all false pretense and was now standing in an off-kilter way with his arms folded. He tilted his head in a way that was half-menacing, half-annoyed. "You really think a *demon* can sell its soul to *another demon?"*
"I'm not a demon!" The man removed his hood, revealing a rather unthreatening baby face with a pair of thick glasses. "I'm a human accountant for Morton and Ringer Law Firm. Name's Bob."
"Bob!?" the demon repeated. Its glowing eyes bugged in its goat-skull head. "You mean to tell me you're a demon named *Bob!?"*
"Well, ah, technically my full name is Beelzebob, but I just go by 'Bob.'"
"Ah-ha!" The demon smirked and gave Bob a knowing glance. "Beelzebub, a classic demon to name your little evillings after. Well, Bub, I think--"
"Not Beelzebub, Beelze*bob,"* Bob said. "Like I told you, I'm not a demon. I'm a pathetic sack of hot air with no life. I don't need my soul."
"Are you insane!?" the demon roared, causing a whirlwind of fire to whip around the room. "Use that thick head of yours for once! What kind of human names their baby *BEELZEBOB!?"*
"Uh, my dad?"
"YOUR DAD!?"
"Yes, that name was the last thing he talked about with my mom before he died in a freak drowning incident."
"Very peculiar. But I can sense you're not one to lie," said the demon, his anger subsiding. "Some humans are a bit out-of-sorts. Maybe your dad was just 'different.'"
"Mom always said he was a good man. It took decades for her to come to terms with his death. It was only last year she told me the whole thing." A sad smile crawled over the man's face and he shook his head, jostling his glasses. "It really was a tragedy. One moment they were walking into Church hand in hand, and the next, the Pastor started screaming something in a foreign language and dunking Dad's head in the holy water font..."
"Oh, ***Lucifer Have Mercy!"***
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*For more weirdness, check out* r/OctOpusTales *!* | Oliver King had grown up with a relatively normal childhood. He had been adopted before his first memories from a Catholic adoption center into a Catholic family. He accepted his family and never much thought of his birth parents. Oliver was raised Catholic all his life though he loathed the religion for it's strictness and the guilt placed upon him. He felt there was more to this life and that surely God was much different than the light painted by the Church. His hunger for knowledge grew as he matured. He questioned everything he was told during Mass and wondered at the nature of God and his angels. Much more he wondered how Satan, God's own creation, could be as evil as he was depicted.
By the time he was halfway through high school, he had decided to find out for himself. He began reading furiously about the things the Church didn't publicize. Oliver amassed a secret collection of books on possession, demons, and details of the afterlife. He spent all his free time learning as much as he could. "What exactly does it take to go to hell?" He asked himself constantly. He was determined to find out.
The day after Oliver graduated he decided he was ready. He took his cumulative knowledge together to perform a ritual and get the answers he craved. The preparation had been completed the week before. He had gathered all the necessary components and perfected the geometry to summon a most wise demon from the depths of hell.
Oliver relied himself. He knew the drain the ritual might have on his body and soul. Lesser men had been driven mad attempting to do what he had planned. He knew if he didn't do it that day he would never have the courage to try and would be driven mad anyway by the regret and cowardice. He began.
The chanting was simple enough. He held his hands flat on top of the complex geometric symbol he had carved into his bedroom floor and continued the chant. Surprisingly, the Latin came natural to him. Maybe it was all the time studying the ancient texts he had kept tucked away. Oliver's heart pounded as he watched the effect of the ritual spread from the epicenter of his carving. It began to glow and spread out towards the edges. All the candles he had used to light his room had flames nearly to the ceiling. He focused. He couldn't let the magic distract him. He chanted harder and louder to match the energy he felt in him. He had seen his hands glowing and suspected his entire being to be shining an unholy light. Oliver could barely see this glow emanating from beneath his dark robes. The light was almost too much for him and he felt weak. The perspiration around his brow stung his eyes but he kept chanting until it finally happened.
The demon appeared. Oliver had summoned Paimon a most wise and beautiful demon. His crown shone brightly in the candle light. Paimon spoke calmly.
"What is it you desire of me my liege?"
Oliver started "I seek knowledge of- wait... My liege?" His face scrunched in confusion.
"Do you know not of your heritage o dark one? Have you not begun your works upon this earth"
Oliver reached for words but found none. His mind had simultaneously cleared and swirled with understanding.
"No." Was the most he could croak
"You are a King" Paimon said with a bowed head. "You are the son of Lucifer, bring of destruction. You are to initiate the end of times."
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Some of the royalty in hell are not as loyal as they ought to be. Others have business on earth they would rather not conclude. You, however, have sensed in some small way that you are not what you appear, haven't you?"
"Perhaps. Urges. Curiosities. Impulses. I've done my best to be kind but it never felt like it came naturally."
"It's time for you to give in to those urges. You must be baptized in the ways of your father. You must kill you parents. The sooner you get that out of the way the sooner your true strength can manifest. This small summoning should not have fatigued you as it has."
Oliver had been sweating and out of breath but only just realized how truly weak he felt. The ritual was quite the event for him. He wasn't sure if it was the fatigue or the evil inside him which formed the hollow smile across his face. He had thought of all the reasons he had wanted his parents dead over the years. None of the groundings or arguments spurred this wrath. No, his excitement grew merely at the idea that he could have *fun* with it. He could enjoy their suffering. It wouldn't even cross his mind how sick he must be to lust after that feeling.
Paimon and Oliver continued to discuss what this true strength would entail. They spoke of the ancient planning for the end times. Oliver needed the details. He needed to know exactly what he must do and when. It took all he could not to giggle at the thought of being crowned King of an eternally suffering world. | |
[WP] You find a GPS that takes you where you need to be instead of where you want to be. | All I wanted to do today was go to the store. And to be honest I didn’t even want to be doing that. I was tired. It was Saturday and I was supposed to stay home and do nothing those days! My phone had been pretty spotty recently but I at least trusted it to get me to the store. I hadn’t lived in this city very long and I avoided leaving the house when possible, so my navigation skills were lacking without a gps.
“In 800 ft turn right onto Stratton Road. Go straight for 2.3 miles.” I followed the gps instructions for 20 more minutes before I realized something was up. This was not the store. Instead, I was parked in front of some hole in the wall building with almost yellow walls and a green metal roof. My nose crinkled from the stench of rotten food. I could even see what looked like a raccoon digging through some garbage, and 3 men in ripped, dirty clothing crowded around a side door to the building.
Obviously I did not get to the store like I wanted. I checked my phone only to see it pitch black. I clicked all the buttons I could but that piece of junk was not turning back on. Great. My heart pumped a little as I hurried out of the car and made sure it was locked. No matter how many times I glanced around it didn’t seem like anyone was approaching me so I booked it into the building. The moment I opened the door I knew my life had changed. That aroma. It was. . . magical. I almost floated to the counter, following my nose which didn’t want to stop inhaling the smell.
“How can I help you?” The deep voice of a man asked. Holy crap he was beautiful. Those eyes! I peered at the menu.
“I’ve uh- I’ve never been here before.” I mumbled out. My breathing got faster. Why did someone as handsome as him work at a place like this?
“I suggest the tacos. They are what this place is known for after all.”
Known for? People actually went here? Willingly? Well, I guess I would too just to get another whiff of what I suppose are tacos and a sight of a work of art like him.
“Yeah. Yeah I’ll have two tacos and a, uh, a root beer.” After paying, I sat down and flopped my head on the silver metal table. Maybe I didn’t want to come here but it sure seems like I needed to. The tacos came quickly and I couldn’t shovel them in my mouth fast enough. I should have savored them, but I swear they were like a bottle of water after running a mile on a hot day. Yes. I definitely had needed to come here and I would be coming here a lot more often. As I stood to leave the gorgeous man started to approach me.
“I’m sorry to do this.” He said. What? Do what? Did my card decline or something? Did I need to pay again?
“We’ve been waiting for you for so long. You’re needed back home.” He kept talking faster and faster. “Im not sure how you knew to come here. Luck has graced us all!” I’m pretty sure before this day I had never seen this man in my life. He was too recognizable. So why would he talk to me like that, say those things? I stumbled backwards as he got closer and hit a wall. I looked back but instead of a wall, there was a woman. A gorgeous woman who looked like a goddess. She smiled at me, then everything went black. | You sit in an dilapidated, musty office. The smell of dust and ink envelops you and drags you into a sense as monotonous as the constant clacking of typewriters and copying behind you.
The date hangs in the corner of the page of your latest document: July 20, 1963.
It serves as a glimmer of hope despite your substandard surroundings. Today is the day that you can open the gift left to you by your father on your 18th birthday before he disappeared.
As to why he choose this day... only him and god knows. The gift itself is something he always called a GPS. It was something he brought back from his trips that ,once again, only him and god knew where he went.
But when you were a little kid... you believed he went to the future.
He said it was a wonderful item that harnessed the 'coordinates of space' whatever that meant and would guide you wherever you need to go. All you need to do was turn it on on a certain day; Today to be exact.
You turn the device on and it gives a resounding beep. A Logo flashes across it's face reading Mortise: All You Ever Needed. Finally it slides to a flashing screen thats telling you to leave your workplace.
Your boss finally approachs you to reprimand you because you stopped working.
And at the same time a Logo Flashes across the screen. It reads Mortise: All You Ever Needed
He raises his voice after realizing that you arent looking at him and scolds you like a child.
" Are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"
Finally the screen slides over to a directions menu. There is a bright red arrow pointing out of the office
"No.. not anymore. Im done listening to you" and then you stand you and leave. | |
[WP] A Moon Goddess finds a little Russian dog named Laika (the first animal in space) stranded in orbit and decides to rescue/adopt her. | ##Life of the Moon
I never knew my name, but I understood that I played a role in the universe around me. It took a long time before I understood why I played that role.
I suppose most people do not remember their births or infancy. My first memory was looking at my people extended family across the night sky. Their aura entranced me, and I wanted to join them. When I tried to run for them, I felt the pull of my sister. I looked back her, and I looked at father.
Father's light was different than the rest of the stars. His light was powerful and invited, but it had a dangerous quality to it. My other siblings all felt the same about him. They kept close to please him, and I knew that if I ever left. My sister would lose her creatures.
My sister is the favorite of my immediate family. She is the only one of us that father has blessed with creatures. Father and her have created a mosaic of life. Father insists that the rest of the family avoids looking at her creatures, but when the opportunity presents itself, every one of us gazes in awe at them.
I am blessed as well because I am the closest to her. I encircle her to learn more about the secret of life. It is difficult to ensure acquire a good position to view them, but I am able to do it often. When I am feeling daring, I will block father's view of part of my sister briefly. The creatures react in odd ways to my presence.
My sister's creatures are starting to advance and create their own structures. One day, a small creature is able to escape her. Without thinking, I grab it out of the air. It is encased in a strange pod, but I am able to remove it.
The creature within is furry, and it has the most adorable eyes. When I touch it, it starts licking my hand. I bring it to my home, and it brings me join. My sister is truly lucky to always have such creatures.
I begin looking closely out how my sister sustains life to ensure that my own creature survives. It is difficult, but I am able to transfer some of my energy to the creature. The creature seems to love me, and I don't feel alone anymore.
More pods leave my sister containing more odd creatures. I rescue every one of the creatures and make them my own. They are diverse and unique, but they are all exciting. A few creatures are able to make it to me without assistance, but they leave before I can greet them.
With all of the life on me, I begin to feel a greater connection to the life that has not arrived. They are clearly as enamored with me as they are with father. I start to understand their languages and cultures through these brief interactions, and I discover that they have names for me and the rest of my family.
I am rotating my sister with a sense of confidence that I have never felt. My father is angered by my rebellious streak, but I do not care. I will be able to make my own way soon. Maybe, I will greet the rest of the family soon. Not today, today, I will enjoy the life on Earth.
---
r/AstroRideWrites | It had been completely by accident that Artemis had discovered the spacecraft. And even more so when she heard a whimpering noise from a dog.
Artemis watched the little dog with a sad smile. It was huddled in a corner of a metal container she assumed to be of mortal creation. More importantly though, it looked sad. And trapped. And...scared? Well of course it would. It had been taken away from everything it knew and thrown into dangerous conditions, with hardly any food and water left. The mortals had left it to die with not so much as a treat for thanks. Even Artemis wept at the death of one of her hounds and yet she felt as though she had more humanity in that moment than anyone on earth. They could have sent a damn plant. They could have volunteered one of their own! How could anyone even think of sending a defenceless animal. She could feel the heat grow as she drew closer to the dog, nipping at her skin like pinpricks. She crouched down and sat with it as it popped its head on her lap. She shifted the collar to reveal a name tag. “Laika”. The dogs ears twitched at hearing it’s name for the first time since it left the atmosphere. “You might make a good hunting dog...although I suppose you deserve some rest before I even consider that for you”. She scratched the dogs back as it climbed into her lap.
The heat climbed higher as the whimpering grew louder from laika. She couldn’t help but hold the dog a little closer to her chest as she remembered her first hound. He was just as sweet as the bitch she held in her arms at that moment. If the hunting thing didn’t work out she was sure that someone on Olympus may be able to help. Maybe even hades wouldn’t mind a new friend for Cerberus? Persephone could certainly convince him. Or perhaps she could gift her to Apollo. One thing she was certain of though is that the mortals would no longer hurt her. | |
[WP] A Moon Goddess finds a little Russian dog named Laika (the first animal in space) stranded in orbit and decides to rescue/adopt her. | ##Life of the Moon
I never knew my name, but I understood that I played a role in the universe around me. It took a long time before I understood why I played that role.
I suppose most people do not remember their births or infancy. My first memory was looking at my people extended family across the night sky. Their aura entranced me, and I wanted to join them. When I tried to run for them, I felt the pull of my sister. I looked back her, and I looked at father.
Father's light was different than the rest of the stars. His light was powerful and invited, but it had a dangerous quality to it. My other siblings all felt the same about him. They kept close to please him, and I knew that if I ever left. My sister would lose her creatures.
My sister is the favorite of my immediate family. She is the only one of us that father has blessed with creatures. Father and her have created a mosaic of life. Father insists that the rest of the family avoids looking at her creatures, but when the opportunity presents itself, every one of us gazes in awe at them.
I am blessed as well because I am the closest to her. I encircle her to learn more about the secret of life. It is difficult to ensure acquire a good position to view them, but I am able to do it often. When I am feeling daring, I will block father's view of part of my sister briefly. The creatures react in odd ways to my presence.
My sister's creatures are starting to advance and create their own structures. One day, a small creature is able to escape her. Without thinking, I grab it out of the air. It is encased in a strange pod, but I am able to remove it.
The creature within is furry, and it has the most adorable eyes. When I touch it, it starts licking my hand. I bring it to my home, and it brings me join. My sister is truly lucky to always have such creatures.
I begin looking closely out how my sister sustains life to ensure that my own creature survives. It is difficult, but I am able to transfer some of my energy to the creature. The creature seems to love me, and I don't feel alone anymore.
More pods leave my sister containing more odd creatures. I rescue every one of the creatures and make them my own. They are diverse and unique, but they are all exciting. A few creatures are able to make it to me without assistance, but they leave before I can greet them.
With all of the life on me, I begin to feel a greater connection to the life that has not arrived. They are clearly as enamored with me as they are with father. I start to understand their languages and cultures through these brief interactions, and I discover that they have names for me and the rest of my family.
I am rotating my sister with a sense of confidence that I have never felt. My father is angered by my rebellious streak, but I do not care. I will be able to make my own way soon. Maybe, I will greet the rest of the family soon. Not today, today, I will enjoy the life on Earth.
---
r/AstroRideWrites | After her eighth revolution around the Earth, Chang'e made the conscious decision to stop counting. Eternity was a long time, and pining away for her old homeland sounded like a miserable way to spend it. As much as she wished for company, it was unlikely that anyone would ever join her. After all, immortality elixirs didn't grow on trees. And in order for someone to ascend, they would need to get their hands on two of them.
No, it looked as though she would be alone for the rest of eternity.
Turning away from the Earth, Chang'e focused her attention on the moon. When she arrived, it had been sparse and bare - nothing but a barren and empty hunk of rock. She intended to change that. Though Chang'e had no knowledge of agriculture, of architecture, of anything beyond playing the dutiful wife to a narcissistic and power-hungry husband, these days, she had nothing but time.
Over the years, she found a way to coax life from the earth. One of the small cassia seeds that she'd found in her pocket sprouted, then two. A ramshackle lean-to was her abode for a while, then a more stable structure. Hou Yi would never find her attractive now, not with her worn hands and her muscular lean frame. But then again, she had made sure that he would never ascend to the heavens. They would never meet again.
A few centuries after her self-imposed exile, Chang'e was resigned to her fate. She enjoyed tending to her garden, to fixing up her house, to keeping herself busy. On nights when the moon faced the Earth in its entirety, she would look back at her home for a few hours.
So when the shuttle arrived, she was completely surprised. Floating over to the shuttle, Chang'e looked inside to find a dog - eyes wide with terror and whimpering in distress.
"Oh, you poor thing," she whispered. Guiding the shuttle towards the moon, she quickly freed it. Surely, the creature had a name? Inspecting the dog, she saw that its collar had a tag. "Laika," she said aloud, savoring the sound of the long vowels.
Laika whined in reply and burrowed its soft nose into her clothes.
"Don't worry, girl," Chang'e breathed. "I don't know who sent you here, and I don't know why. But here, you will have a home." | |
[WP] Everyone laughed at your super power to manifest any sort of pun related device. That was before you sawed the ocean in half with your sea-saw. | "Where does the king keep his armies? In his sleevies."
A battalion of soldiers rushed from under my sleeves, armed and ready to take on my foe.
I had thrown everything I had at Doctor Destruction. My pun-related powers had sent shock-waves through the world when I sawed the ocean in two with my see-saw, cementing my legacy as the celebrated One-Pun Man. But now I had tried ten different puns on Doctor Destruction, hoping at least one of them would land. But no pun in ten did.
"I guess you could say," said Doctor Destruction, "that I have no sense of humor."
He twirled his mustache and cackled as bolts of lightning crackled behind him. Already he had set a dozen orphanages on fire and had invented a machine that converted the sadness of puppies to electricity. How could I defeat a being of such pure evil?
"Well, I'm having as much fun as a sea monster," I said. This was a gamble. A last resort. If this didn't work, I would be all out of options.
"A sea monster?" said Doctor Destruction. This was it! It was now or never.
"Yeah," I said. "Because I'm Kraken myself up."
This titan of a pun engulfed me, transforming me into a beast that would make Cthulhu escape in horror at my sight. A gigantic crab-octopus chimera, I felt power surge through my tentacles.
I devoured Doctor Destruction as if he were a helpless sailor. He let out a faint cry. "No need to be salty," I said, draining his body of sodium. "Do you why frogs are so happy? They eat whatever bugs them."
With that, I had destroyed Doctor Destruction. Which meant that I had become a doctor of destruction. As the horror about to unfold dawned on me, I heard a voice:
"Where does the king keep his armies?"
\---
/r/Hemingbird | They all laughed, I was the Master of Puns. Able to manifest anything related to a pun. They all laughed, called me weak. Until they saw what power puns truly hold. Anyways, my name is Dormes or Kurpater, depending on who you ask.
Let me tell you a story of how the Oceans were cut. A mortal once made a pun, a pun never heard before. This pun, that, while didn't make me famous among mortals, made me a legend within Gods. Sea-saw.
Once I heard that pun, it gave me the power to cut oceans, I summoned this new tool. I used all my power, angered Poseidon, and finally cut his domain in half.
Soon I saw something happening, a new land rising, for you cannot leave the bottom of the Ocean and land free. The Gods were amazed, frightened, and everything in between and together.
This creation, as you might guess, are the Americas. If this pun was not made, the world for mortals would be so different. Anyways, my time is short, I have to go. | |
[WP] Everyone laughed at your super power to manifest any sort of pun related device. That was before you sawed the ocean in half with your sea-saw. | They said that, long ago, Moses split the Red Sea so the Israelites could escape from their pursuing Egyptian captors. There was no real reason to believe the story- a simple hyperbole to scare the non-believers into worshipping a higher power.
However, Dale stood before the Atlantic holding a regular-looking handsaw. It was nothing extraordinary- just a regular handsaw with signs of age reminiscent of any other handsaw in any garden shed in the entire world. Dale knew, though- this simple gardening tool had the outlandish possibility to split entire oceans asunder with as much ease as cutting a tree.
A... *oh, for fuck's sake, really? You're really going to make me say this? This is the dumbest thing I've ever seen... Alright, alright, Dale, Dale, put the gun down, I'll say it. I'll say it, I'll say it, don't shoot me with the hand!*
... one could call it a "sea-saw," if you would. *Alright, I said it, now put the handgun away. Please. We can resolve this without violence... Okay. Thank you. I'm gonna get back to the story now- I'm putting my hands down to turn the page.*
*Okay.*
Dale examined the saw in his hands, feeling the sheer power of the object he had created. He could hear the headline now- *"Local man saws ocean in half. World in chaos."* The world had been taunting him from day one with the videos of an idiot that saws he can summon a chainsaw, then makes a handsaw that can cut through chains like wood. All he wanted was to make the world laugh with his jokes and how ridiculous the premise of a "hot dog," or a "soap opera," but instead, they laughed at *him.* They laughed at him and his useless abilities, they laughed at him for his awful sense of humor, and every heave hurt.
... well, if they thought the ability to manifest a sexy werewolf was useless, he'd just have to show them otherwise.
With enough vim and vigor to kill a horse just by looking at it wrong, he dove into the ocean and began cutting. *"Hey, man, I could really use an oxygen tank."* he thought. A brief air pocket the size and shape of a tank showed up, and Dale took a break and dove in to regain his breath before the pocket shot to the surface and lost its shape. He swam right back over and continued cutting. Funny man Dale had become well attuned to the inherent bullshit of his abilities- a wet tuxedo instead of a wetsuit, a fish hook that you can never lose instead of a grappling hook, a backpack shaped like a jet instead of a jetpack... it was aggravating at first, but soon, he was able to adjust. He sank into the hot pile of cow crap and embraced it long ago, wanting to make people laugh with the tools at his disposal.
Now? No one would be laughing. Not after this.
...
Panic worldwide.
Boats rested on the floor of the ocean, totally exposed on all sides and covered in sand. The sides of the ocean remained perfectly still, unlike every social media site and news outlet on the internet. Twitter began going at a million miles a minute. r/interestingasfuck was set alight with drone pictures from inside the crevice of the wall of ocean sliced like gelatin in a cup. Dale sat back on the shoreline, watching it all unfold on his phone. He was still sopping wet, but now, it didn't matter. The Atlantic ocean was sliced in two, forming a channel all the way from New York to France. Fish flopped uselessly down below, some managing to flap themselves back into the ocean, others not so lucky.
Dale admired his handiwork with pride, the saw that did it all at his side. Funny man couldn't do anything. Funny man was totally and utterly useless. Funny man was an idiot. Well... Funny man just cut the ocean in half. Could an idiot do that? HUH?! COULD AN IDIOT DO-
*... Dale, buddy, I'm gonna go ahead and say that this seems a bit unhealthy. Like... I get that it doesn't feel good for people to laugh at you, but this is getting psychot- Hey, hey, hey, put the hand away, Dale, we talked about this, alright? We talked about this! We don't have to get violent! I'm complying, man, I'm c-*
# BANG!
&#x200B;
*AUGH!... Dale, p-please man, I have a wife and kids. M-Mercy-*
# BANG! BANG!
... I killed him. I made a gun that looks like a hand and I shot him dead.
It doesn't need to be reloaded. It shoots for as long as I want it to, and I used it to kill someone.
I... I just wanted to make people laugh, man. I wanted to use what I had to make people happy, and they just piled on me instead. I don't get it. I don't think I'll ever get it. That's why I cut the ocean in half- you have to take someone who cut the ocean in half seriously. If they don't take him seriously, I shoot them with a handgun.
... heh... handgun. "Hand gun." A stupid fucking hand that shoots bullets. Isn't that funny? Huh? It's so funny! It's so fucking funny!
... I'm gonna go lay down. | They all laughed, I was the Master of Puns. Able to manifest anything related to a pun. They all laughed, called me weak. Until they saw what power puns truly hold. Anyways, my name is Dormes or Kurpater, depending on who you ask.
Let me tell you a story of how the Oceans were cut. A mortal once made a pun, a pun never heard before. This pun, that, while didn't make me famous among mortals, made me a legend within Gods. Sea-saw.
Once I heard that pun, it gave me the power to cut oceans, I summoned this new tool. I used all my power, angered Poseidon, and finally cut his domain in half.
Soon I saw something happening, a new land rising, for you cannot leave the bottom of the Ocean and land free. The Gods were amazed, frightened, and everything in between and together.
This creation, as you might guess, are the Americas. If this pun was not made, the world for mortals would be so different. Anyways, my time is short, I have to go. | |
[WP] Everyone laughed at your super power to manifest any sort of pun related device. That was before you sawed the ocean in half with your sea-saw. | They said that, long ago, Moses split the Red Sea so the Israelites could escape from their pursuing Egyptian captors. There was no real reason to believe the story- a simple hyperbole to scare the non-believers into worshipping a higher power.
However, Dale stood before the Atlantic holding a regular-looking handsaw. It was nothing extraordinary- just a regular handsaw with signs of age reminiscent of any other handsaw in any garden shed in the entire world. Dale knew, though- this simple gardening tool had the outlandish possibility to split entire oceans asunder with as much ease as cutting a tree.
A... *oh, for fuck's sake, really? You're really going to make me say this? This is the dumbest thing I've ever seen... Alright, alright, Dale, Dale, put the gun down, I'll say it. I'll say it, I'll say it, don't shoot me with the hand!*
... one could call it a "sea-saw," if you would. *Alright, I said it, now put the handgun away. Please. We can resolve this without violence... Okay. Thank you. I'm gonna get back to the story now- I'm putting my hands down to turn the page.*
*Okay.*
Dale examined the saw in his hands, feeling the sheer power of the object he had created. He could hear the headline now- *"Local man saws ocean in half. World in chaos."* The world had been taunting him from day one with the videos of an idiot that saws he can summon a chainsaw, then makes a handsaw that can cut through chains like wood. All he wanted was to make the world laugh with his jokes and how ridiculous the premise of a "hot dog," or a "soap opera," but instead, they laughed at *him.* They laughed at him and his useless abilities, they laughed at him for his awful sense of humor, and every heave hurt.
... well, if they thought the ability to manifest a sexy werewolf was useless, he'd just have to show them otherwise.
With enough vim and vigor to kill a horse just by looking at it wrong, he dove into the ocean and began cutting. *"Hey, man, I could really use an oxygen tank."* he thought. A brief air pocket the size and shape of a tank showed up, and Dale took a break and dove in to regain his breath before the pocket shot to the surface and lost its shape. He swam right back over and continued cutting. Funny man Dale had become well attuned to the inherent bullshit of his abilities- a wet tuxedo instead of a wetsuit, a fish hook that you can never lose instead of a grappling hook, a backpack shaped like a jet instead of a jetpack... it was aggravating at first, but soon, he was able to adjust. He sank into the hot pile of cow crap and embraced it long ago, wanting to make people laugh with the tools at his disposal.
Now? No one would be laughing. Not after this.
...
Panic worldwide.
Boats rested on the floor of the ocean, totally exposed on all sides and covered in sand. The sides of the ocean remained perfectly still, unlike every social media site and news outlet on the internet. Twitter began going at a million miles a minute. r/interestingasfuck was set alight with drone pictures from inside the crevice of the wall of ocean sliced like gelatin in a cup. Dale sat back on the shoreline, watching it all unfold on his phone. He was still sopping wet, but now, it didn't matter. The Atlantic ocean was sliced in two, forming a channel all the way from New York to France. Fish flopped uselessly down below, some managing to flap themselves back into the ocean, others not so lucky.
Dale admired his handiwork with pride, the saw that did it all at his side. Funny man couldn't do anything. Funny man was totally and utterly useless. Funny man was an idiot. Well... Funny man just cut the ocean in half. Could an idiot do that? HUH?! COULD AN IDIOT DO-
*... Dale, buddy, I'm gonna go ahead and say that this seems a bit unhealthy. Like... I get that it doesn't feel good for people to laugh at you, but this is getting psychot- Hey, hey, hey, put the hand away, Dale, we talked about this, alright? We talked about this! We don't have to get violent! I'm complying, man, I'm c-*
# BANG!
&#x200B;
*AUGH!... Dale, p-please man, I have a wife and kids. M-Mercy-*
# BANG! BANG!
... I killed him. I made a gun that looks like a hand and I shot him dead.
It doesn't need to be reloaded. It shoots for as long as I want it to, and I used it to kill someone.
I... I just wanted to make people laugh, man. I wanted to use what I had to make people happy, and they just piled on me instead. I don't get it. I don't think I'll ever get it. That's why I cut the ocean in half- you have to take someone who cut the ocean in half seriously. If they don't take him seriously, I shoot them with a handgun.
... heh... handgun. "Hand gun." A stupid fucking hand that shoots bullets. Isn't that funny? Huh? It's so funny! It's so fucking funny!
... I'm gonna go lay down. | "Where does the king keep his armies? In his sleevies."
A battalion of soldiers rushed from under my sleeves, armed and ready to take on my foe.
I had thrown everything I had at Doctor Destruction. My pun-related powers had sent shock-waves through the world when I sawed the ocean in two with my see-saw, cementing my legacy as the celebrated One-Pun Man. But now I had tried ten different puns on Doctor Destruction, hoping at least one of them would land. But no pun in ten did.
"I guess you could say," said Doctor Destruction, "that I have no sense of humor."
He twirled his mustache and cackled as bolts of lightning crackled behind him. Already he had set a dozen orphanages on fire and had invented a machine that converted the sadness of puppies to electricity. How could I defeat a being of such pure evil?
"Well, I'm having as much fun as a sea monster," I said. This was a gamble. A last resort. If this didn't work, I would be all out of options.
"A sea monster?" said Doctor Destruction. This was it! It was now or never.
"Yeah," I said. "Because I'm Kraken myself up."
This titan of a pun engulfed me, transforming me into a beast that would make Cthulhu escape in horror at my sight. A gigantic crab-octopus chimera, I felt power surge through my tentacles.
I devoured Doctor Destruction as if he were a helpless sailor. He let out a faint cry. "No need to be salty," I said, draining his body of sodium. "Do you why frogs are so happy? They eat whatever bugs them."
With that, I had destroyed Doctor Destruction. Which meant that I had become a doctor of destruction. As the horror about to unfold dawned on me, I heard a voice:
"Where does the king keep his armies?"
\---
/r/Hemingbird | |
[WP] Everyone laughed at your super power to manifest any sort of pun related device. That was before you sawed the ocean in half with your sea-saw. | A battered streetlamp oscillated its dim light, casting faded rays into the seedy alley. The pale slivers of yellow flashed across the faces of the two burly men so that only a ragged scar here or a slitted eye there were visible. Caged in the vice grip of the two men was a thin figure. It wasn't struggling. In fact, it wasn't even tense or alarmed.
"I'll make this easy. Give me all your valuables and you leave with a small bruise on your arms. Don't comply, and I will be forced to kill you." The speaker was someone completely enveloped in the shadows, facing the serene man and his two captors. Clearly the ringleader of this mugging.
"Why would I do that?" the serene man asked. He sounded genuinely confused.
"If death doesn't scare you, then maybe pain will." There was cracking knuckles to accompany the voice, indicating that the serene man should probably take this mugging seriously.
But instead of sobering to the situation, the serene man laughed. "You have no idea who I am! Do you remember when the ocean was cleaved in half with a sea-saw? That was me! I am the pun-dit of wordplay! Nobody attacks me with im-pun-ity! I will pun-ctuate the air with your screams!"
The two burly men clamped their grips tighter, causing the pundit of wordplay to wince. From the shadows, the ringleader said, "You're clearly insane. The CIA leaked documents that proved the supposed sea-saw was really a military test that looked strange at first glance. You won't scare us with your lies. Now give us the money or die!"
The pun man shrugged. "Don't believe me? Don't think I have control over the ocean? Fine. Let me give you a small taste. A micro-wave, if you will."
"Microwave?"
And then a rush of water erupted from the gutter in a peaking wave and doused everyone but the pun man, who remained miraculously dry. Sputtering furiously, the three muggers drew their weapons. But the pun man just smiled.
"Do you think I'm done with you yet? After you insulted my pun-ishing power? No! I will ex-pun-ge you from the face of the earth!"
And then a horde of boxer shorts ran into the alley, their gloves catching the light of the streetlamp. While the three muggers were distracted with that, the pun man caused the water from the micro-wave to split into thousands of legged droplets, which began to sprint at the three terrified men. Running water.
Cackling loudly at how stupid the men looked trying to kick away the boxer shorts and running water, the pun man asked, "Are you getting tired yet?"
Suddenly, all the cars parked on the street adjacent to the alley spontaneously lost their tires, which rolled at the three men, now thoroughly overwhelmed.
"Help us!" one of the burly men shouted an octave higher than normal as a well-tread tire bore down on him.
"Why should I help you pun-ks?"
"We'll stop being criminals!" the other burly man promised. "Please, just help us!"
With a devious smile, the pun man acquiesced. "Of course. I agree that you should change your career. Branch out a little."
Relief billowed across the man's face, "Thank y--"
The rest of his sentence was cut off when he became a tree.
"You're a monster!" the other burly man shouted, still kicking away boxer shorts.
"Odd that you should personify a can," pun man said, sipping on the Monster energy drink that was now in his hand.
"We'll stop giving you a hard time! Just let us go," the ringleader pleaded.
This made pun man think for a moment. "It's funny you should mention time," he said thoughtfully. "I do have an appointment in a few minutes, so this encounter is pun-cturing my plans. Let's end this before it gets too... time consuming."
One voracious bite later and he had eaten the remainder of the ringleader's lifespan away. There was only one of the muggers left, and he was too busy avoiding tires and boxer shorts and running water to notice the fate of his leader.
"I'm not a pun-itive man," the pun master said, motioning for his pun manifestations to leave the mugger alone. "You've learned your lesson. You may go."
Without a word, the mugger turned, grew a tail, and fled. He wouldn't get far, of course. There were whip and lashes waiting for him around the corner that would make him stop so fast that his neck would have a serious kink in the afterlife.
Popping a cigarette in his mouth, he was disappointed to not have anything to smoke. Still, it had been a good night. Three serial muggers were done preying on people without com-pun-ction. Maybe there were stronger superheroes out there, but the pun man didn't see them any-where. Well, that wasn't true. He saw them in a few wheres. But they certainly didn't have as much fun with their job. | From the newly blasted fissure splitting the Atlantic, arising from the walls of water carved down deep into the darkest depths, walked a man, rather normal looking other than the knight's helmet on his head and the massive barbed trident he was using as a walking stick.
The crowd gathered to gawk at this unexplainable phenomenon was even more stifling than the Miami heat. Crank adjusted his collar. He needed somewhere to change.
"I come like a puzzle, citizens!" the man said in the booming voice belying some sonic power. "In peaces!"
An audible groan traveled like a wave through the crowd. Who was this joker? As Crank pushed his way through the crowd, holding his pipe but not yet daring to use it, the man clapped his hands like rising thunder. Three strikes of lightning shot down from the clear sunny sky. From a blue mist, an alligator mixed with a man stood beside this new villain. It wore a trenchcoat and an elongated fedora. Next, a gruesome, fat insect formed bumbling above them, emanating a green mist. Crank stood on his tiptoes to see a public bathroom in the distance.
"I am the Pundertaker! I have come to take my rightful dominion over this city. As a gesture of goodwill, I offer you a boon. One of many to come!" The man thundered, raising his hands and arching fresh lightning in front of him as the civilians scrambled to back away.
A huge chasm appeared as the sands of the beach flowed into it. A column of thick, tarry smoke rose up as Crank hammered on the locked bathroom door. The occupant sounded to still have a ways to go. The smell was unmistakable, from the smoke, not the bathroom. One man in the crowd let out a triumphant shout through giggles.
"Behold, the pot-hole!" Pundertaker said, climbing atop the insect and riding through the smoke. "Now, before the festivities begin, I need the mayor delivered here to me on the beach, dead or alive. The person who brings him to me will receive riches beyond their wildest dreams."
A group of police officers launched a smoke grenade at the villain who laughed in response, dominating whatever they were saying through the megaphone.
"Fools, you look upon my great works and think you can stop me!" The villain held the trident saw to the sky and another bolt of lightning struck it, changing it into a grey cane. "Behold, the might of the Hurri-cane!"
A wall of wind swept through the crowd as they screamed. A Volvo lifted up and struck into the gathered officers.
"Forget it!" Crank yelled, taking the baggie from his pocket. He dumped eight times the legal limit of bath salts into the pipe and drew hard, letting the acrid fumes dance between his remaining teeth. He did not cough out the poison as a normal man would but breathed out slow and sweet, smelling of peat moss with the smile that was plastered across a thousand newspapers.
His muscles busted through his shirt and he wasted no time, bounding towards the villain with a fierce karate kick. The alligator jumped in front of the villain, blocking the blow with its tail.
"High as hell, reckless abandon, and looking eight days past your expiration date," the alligator snarled in the gravelly voice of a noir detective. "It's an honor to meet you. A shame it had to be like this."
The alligator launched itself at Crank, biting his midsection and knocking him straight into the pot-hole. He breathed in and let the conjured ganja revitalize him. This villain was a fool if he thought a gator could stop him.
Crank launched out of the hole, spinning the gator by the tail like a shotput. He released, launching the projectile reptile into the still airborne Pundertaker, who was knocked off his bee mount.
"Ahh," the villain yelled, clearly unaccustomed to battle. He was powerful but a newbie for sure. "Who the hell are you?"
Crank floated over the crowd, grabbing an empty can of Skoal flying lazily through the wind as he approached, saying nothing.
"It's Florida man!" someone in the crowd shouted. A cacophony of intoxicated cheering rose up.
"This city's taken," Crank said, throwing the can like a ninja star and knocking the cane from the villain's hand.
"No!" Wasabee! Investigator! Kill this man!" the villain squealed as he began mouthing to himself, clearly struggling to find another pun as he crawled towards the cane.
Crank breathed in more of the fine kush before landing six blows against the toxic bee. His eyes watered as the foul thing belched acid onto his chest. If he didn't have trace amounts of every stimulant known to man running through his veins, he would have passed out. He kicked out and drew a 20 dollar scratchoff from his pocket. "Keep the change, honey!" he quipped as he threw the card to tear the bee in half. He made eye contact with the alligator, who dropped his gaze and scurried away, unwilling for a round two.Crank blasted a path to Pundertaker, traveling through the air with all the speed of a modded 1996 Camry XE. It wasn't enough.
"My-newt! Go, give him an embolism!"
Crank felt a small prick as something burrowed into his veins. His blood stream was the most inhospitable environment on Earth. He wasn't worried. He continued towards the villain.
"I've got it!" Pundertaker yelled as he grabbed his tool again. "Go Sand Witch!"
A cackling accompanied the thunder as lightning struck the beach and a ten-foot-tall golem of sand rose up, topped by a pointed hat.
Crank punched through the creature as the crowd roared behind him but each bit of damage was almost instantly undone. The battle raged on for minutes. Crank could feel the smooth glass in his bloodstream fading. He couldn't last much longer and this sand witch wasn't slowing down. The golem grew a long wand and began some incantation as deli meats swarmed above it.
"Come on, think!" Crank beat his addled brain, trying and failing to sober up. Then an idea came through the drug fog, creativity likely stemming from the LSD of the night before.
Crank dove past the golem and ripped the cane from the villain's hand. "This better work. Go Mike Dyson!"At first, there was only silence, even from the crowd.
Then a familiar voice came bellowing down from the heavens. "Miami! Let's get ready to RUMBLE!" The ding ding of an arena bell followed by the whir of a vacuum cleaner drowned out the roars of the crowd as a figure rose from the sand. A heavyweight boxer, sack on his back, and strong suction jets instead of a right arm caused the people to back away, forming a wide circle. He engaged the sand golem, squared up and dancing on his tiptoes.
Each blow drew more and more of the creature's sand into Dyson's bag, until it was on its knees. A final knockout blow and the creature was only a pile of sand, cackling no more.
The boxer walked over and help up the squirming villain as Crank approached. Crank held up a broken bit of a corona bottle, expressionless as he walked towards the villain.
"No, no, I surrender, please Florida Man. Don't kill me!" the villain was powerless without his staff, looking a pathetic blubbering mess as his face was struggling to not be sucked into the heavyweight champion.
Crank knocked the helmet off his head, revealing a sniveling face.
"My Knight Cap! Don't let my death be on your conscience. You're a hero! You can't do this!"
"Don't worry," Crank said, slicing the glass across the villain's throat. " I’m not really a mourning person."
&#x200B;
/r/surinical | |
[WP] Everyone laughed at your super power to manifest any sort of pun related device. That was before you sawed the ocean in half with your sea-saw. | "What have you done?"
The words hung in the air, repeating over and over in my head until they were meaningless. whathaveyoudonewhathaveyoudonewhathaveyoudone...
To be honest I wasn't even sure myself.
"just stop..." I whispered gripping my head with both hands, as if trying to push these words out my head by force.
In the silence I could feel the eyes of the other heroes boring into me. Not much time could have passed since no had reacted to what had happened yet. But it was only a matter of time before they turned on me. What had I just done? Sea-saw?
The power of words truly is a terrifying thing.
There was no way for the rest of the heroes to prevent the resulting tsunamis and coastal damage. Some lives were saved but the casualties were still unthinkable. The villain Frenzy, a half man half shark, who started the conflict was destroyed in the attack, true; but even his actions took a back seat to the devastation caused by my sea-saw. It was Powerman who finally acted swiftly knocking me unconscious. When I woke I was gagged. Trying to remove the gag resulted in electrical jolt that rendered me unconscious yet again. When I woke next I was informed I was a prisoner in the Void, a special prison for villains manned and patrolled by heroes. I was told they were deciding what to do with me and that I would remain in quarantine until then. As time went by I learned that many across the world wanted me dead due to the devastation I caused. Initially I accepted the fate, but as the quarantine stretched on it gave me time to reflect on the way me and my power were treated like a joke only to now be considered a villain. The crushing loneliness, guilt, and resentment was a burden too heavy to bear until finally the good-natured jokester that pal'd around with heroes was gone. A new conviction grew in it's place, and the isolation provided ample time to hone the words of power I would use when the time finally came.
After 8 months of quarantine the deliberations finally came to a consensus. The verdict; removing my vocal chords. Since the ability could only be manifested when spoken this would ultimately render my ability useless.
When the heroes Living-Flame and Icequeen came to retrieve me for the procedure I decided I would not go quietly.
"We are sorry for this." Living-Flame said. "Do you have any last words?" she said removing my gag.
"What are you doing?" Icequeen snarled, "Let's just get this over with."
"What an icebreaker." I rattled out through a sore mouth and lips.
By the time it dawned on Icequeen what was happening it was too late. I had already swung the massive flaming hammer down on her crushing her.
Living-Flame, shocked by the sudden violence, was too slow to act.
"Fire poker." I managed to mumble.
Normally Living-Flame is virtually impossible to attack directly since she has no physical body to speak of. She very much lives up to her name, a being of pure fire. She can control the intensity and heat of her fire, as well as how big or small her form takes on. No one is sure of her limits, and some speculate she could shrink her size to a floating ember or grow large enough to ignite earth's atmosphere and destroy the planet. I had to act quick to take her down.
A spear appeared in my hand, a weapon that could damage fire itself and without hesitation I plunged it into her. Her fire faded to ashes and scattered to the ground.
I stepped out of my cell as the facility alarms began ringing.
As the heroes began pouring into the corridor, I uttered the words of power I had fixated on.
"Mind bombs!" I shouted so that everyone could hear.
Everyone stopped in their tracks faces twisted in pain many clutching and shaking their heads. I looked down at the remote detonator in my hand, and before anyone could react, pushed the button. | From the newly blasted fissure splitting the Atlantic, arising from the walls of water carved down deep into the darkest depths, walked a man, rather normal looking other than the knight's helmet on his head and the massive barbed trident he was using as a walking stick.
The crowd gathered to gawk at this unexplainable phenomenon was even more stifling than the Miami heat. Crank adjusted his collar. He needed somewhere to change.
"I come like a puzzle, citizens!" the man said in the booming voice belying some sonic power. "In peaces!"
An audible groan traveled like a wave through the crowd. Who was this joker? As Crank pushed his way through the crowd, holding his pipe but not yet daring to use it, the man clapped his hands like rising thunder. Three strikes of lightning shot down from the clear sunny sky. From a blue mist, an alligator mixed with a man stood beside this new villain. It wore a trenchcoat and an elongated fedora. Next, a gruesome, fat insect formed bumbling above them, emanating a green mist. Crank stood on his tiptoes to see a public bathroom in the distance.
"I am the Pundertaker! I have come to take my rightful dominion over this city. As a gesture of goodwill, I offer you a boon. One of many to come!" The man thundered, raising his hands and arching fresh lightning in front of him as the civilians scrambled to back away.
A huge chasm appeared as the sands of the beach flowed into it. A column of thick, tarry smoke rose up as Crank hammered on the locked bathroom door. The occupant sounded to still have a ways to go. The smell was unmistakable, from the smoke, not the bathroom. One man in the crowd let out a triumphant shout through giggles.
"Behold, the pot-hole!" Pundertaker said, climbing atop the insect and riding through the smoke. "Now, before the festivities begin, I need the mayor delivered here to me on the beach, dead or alive. The person who brings him to me will receive riches beyond their wildest dreams."
A group of police officers launched a smoke grenade at the villain who laughed in response, dominating whatever they were saying through the megaphone.
"Fools, you look upon my great works and think you can stop me!" The villain held the trident saw to the sky and another bolt of lightning struck it, changing it into a grey cane. "Behold, the might of the Hurri-cane!"
A wall of wind swept through the crowd as they screamed. A Volvo lifted up and struck into the gathered officers.
"Forget it!" Crank yelled, taking the baggie from his pocket. He dumped eight times the legal limit of bath salts into the pipe and drew hard, letting the acrid fumes dance between his remaining teeth. He did not cough out the poison as a normal man would but breathed out slow and sweet, smelling of peat moss with the smile that was plastered across a thousand newspapers.
His muscles busted through his shirt and he wasted no time, bounding towards the villain with a fierce karate kick. The alligator jumped in front of the villain, blocking the blow with its tail.
"High as hell, reckless abandon, and looking eight days past your expiration date," the alligator snarled in the gravelly voice of a noir detective. "It's an honor to meet you. A shame it had to be like this."
The alligator launched itself at Crank, biting his midsection and knocking him straight into the pot-hole. He breathed in and let the conjured ganja revitalize him. This villain was a fool if he thought a gator could stop him.
Crank launched out of the hole, spinning the gator by the tail like a shotput. He released, launching the projectile reptile into the still airborne Pundertaker, who was knocked off his bee mount.
"Ahh," the villain yelled, clearly unaccustomed to battle. He was powerful but a newbie for sure. "Who the hell are you?"
Crank floated over the crowd, grabbing an empty can of Skoal flying lazily through the wind as he approached, saying nothing.
"It's Florida man!" someone in the crowd shouted. A cacophony of intoxicated cheering rose up.
"This city's taken," Crank said, throwing the can like a ninja star and knocking the cane from the villain's hand.
"No!" Wasabee! Investigator! Kill this man!" the villain squealed as he began mouthing to himself, clearly struggling to find another pun as he crawled towards the cane.
Crank breathed in more of the fine kush before landing six blows against the toxic bee. His eyes watered as the foul thing belched acid onto his chest. If he didn't have trace amounts of every stimulant known to man running through his veins, he would have passed out. He kicked out and drew a 20 dollar scratchoff from his pocket. "Keep the change, honey!" he quipped as he threw the card to tear the bee in half. He made eye contact with the alligator, who dropped his gaze and scurried away, unwilling for a round two.Crank blasted a path to Pundertaker, traveling through the air with all the speed of a modded 1996 Camry XE. It wasn't enough.
"My-newt! Go, give him an embolism!"
Crank felt a small prick as something burrowed into his veins. His blood stream was the most inhospitable environment on Earth. He wasn't worried. He continued towards the villain.
"I've got it!" Pundertaker yelled as he grabbed his tool again. "Go Sand Witch!"
A cackling accompanied the thunder as lightning struck the beach and a ten-foot-tall golem of sand rose up, topped by a pointed hat.
Crank punched through the creature as the crowd roared behind him but each bit of damage was almost instantly undone. The battle raged on for minutes. Crank could feel the smooth glass in his bloodstream fading. He couldn't last much longer and this sand witch wasn't slowing down. The golem grew a long wand and began some incantation as deli meats swarmed above it.
"Come on, think!" Crank beat his addled brain, trying and failing to sober up. Then an idea came through the drug fog, creativity likely stemming from the LSD of the night before.
Crank dove past the golem and ripped the cane from the villain's hand. "This better work. Go Mike Dyson!"At first, there was only silence, even from the crowd.
Then a familiar voice came bellowing down from the heavens. "Miami! Let's get ready to RUMBLE!" The ding ding of an arena bell followed by the whir of a vacuum cleaner drowned out the roars of the crowd as a figure rose from the sand. A heavyweight boxer, sack on his back, and strong suction jets instead of a right arm caused the people to back away, forming a wide circle. He engaged the sand golem, squared up and dancing on his tiptoes.
Each blow drew more and more of the creature's sand into Dyson's bag, until it was on its knees. A final knockout blow and the creature was only a pile of sand, cackling no more.
The boxer walked over and help up the squirming villain as Crank approached. Crank held up a broken bit of a corona bottle, expressionless as he walked towards the villain.
"No, no, I surrender, please Florida Man. Don't kill me!" the villain was powerless without his staff, looking a pathetic blubbering mess as his face was struggling to not be sucked into the heavyweight champion.
Crank knocked the helmet off his head, revealing a sniveling face.
"My Knight Cap! Don't let my death be on your conscience. You're a hero! You can't do this!"
"Don't worry," Crank said, slicing the glass across the villain's throat. " I’m not really a mourning person."
&#x200B;
/r/surinical | |
[WP] Everyone laughed at your super power to manifest any sort of pun related device. That was before you sawed the ocean in half with your sea-saw. | "What have you done?"
The words hung in the air, repeating over and over in my head until they were meaningless. whathaveyoudonewhathaveyoudonewhathaveyoudone...
To be honest I wasn't even sure myself.
"just stop..." I whispered gripping my head with both hands, as if trying to push these words out my head by force.
In the silence I could feel the eyes of the other heroes boring into me. Not much time could have passed since no had reacted to what had happened yet. But it was only a matter of time before they turned on me. What had I just done? Sea-saw?
The power of words truly is a terrifying thing.
There was no way for the rest of the heroes to prevent the resulting tsunamis and coastal damage. Some lives were saved but the casualties were still unthinkable. The villain Frenzy, a half man half shark, who started the conflict was destroyed in the attack, true; but even his actions took a back seat to the devastation caused by my sea-saw. It was Powerman who finally acted swiftly knocking me unconscious. When I woke I was gagged. Trying to remove the gag resulted in electrical jolt that rendered me unconscious yet again. When I woke next I was informed I was a prisoner in the Void, a special prison for villains manned and patrolled by heroes. I was told they were deciding what to do with me and that I would remain in quarantine until then. As time went by I learned that many across the world wanted me dead due to the devastation I caused. Initially I accepted the fate, but as the quarantine stretched on it gave me time to reflect on the way me and my power were treated like a joke only to now be considered a villain. The crushing loneliness, guilt, and resentment was a burden too heavy to bear until finally the good-natured jokester that pal'd around with heroes was gone. A new conviction grew in it's place, and the isolation provided ample time to hone the words of power I would use when the time finally came.
After 8 months of quarantine the deliberations finally came to a consensus. The verdict; removing my vocal chords. Since the ability could only be manifested when spoken this would ultimately render my ability useless.
When the heroes Living-Flame and Icequeen came to retrieve me for the procedure I decided I would not go quietly.
"We are sorry for this." Living-Flame said. "Do you have any last words?" she said removing my gag.
"What are you doing?" Icequeen snarled, "Let's just get this over with."
"What an icebreaker." I rattled out through a sore mouth and lips.
By the time it dawned on Icequeen what was happening it was too late. I had already swung the massive flaming hammer down on her crushing her.
Living-Flame, shocked by the sudden violence, was too slow to act.
"Fire poker." I managed to mumble.
Normally Living-Flame is virtually impossible to attack directly since she has no physical body to speak of. She very much lives up to her name, a being of pure fire. She can control the intensity and heat of her fire, as well as how big or small her form takes on. No one is sure of her limits, and some speculate she could shrink her size to a floating ember or grow large enough to ignite earth's atmosphere and destroy the planet. I had to act quick to take her down.
A spear appeared in my hand, a weapon that could damage fire itself and without hesitation I plunged it into her. Her fire faded to ashes and scattered to the ground.
I stepped out of my cell as the facility alarms began ringing.
As the heroes began pouring into the corridor, I uttered the words of power I had fixated on.
"Mind bombs!" I shouted so that everyone could hear.
Everyone stopped in their tracks faces twisted in pain many clutching and shaking their heads. I looked down at the remote detonator in my hand, and before anyone could react, pushed the button. | A battered streetlamp oscillated its dim light, casting faded rays into the seedy alley. The pale slivers of yellow flashed across the faces of the two burly men so that only a ragged scar here or a slitted eye there were visible. Caged in the vice grip of the two men was a thin figure. It wasn't struggling. In fact, it wasn't even tense or alarmed.
"I'll make this easy. Give me all your valuables and you leave with a small bruise on your arms. Don't comply, and I will be forced to kill you." The speaker was someone completely enveloped in the shadows, facing the serene man and his two captors. Clearly the ringleader of this mugging.
"Why would I do that?" the serene man asked. He sounded genuinely confused.
"If death doesn't scare you, then maybe pain will." There was cracking knuckles to accompany the voice, indicating that the serene man should probably take this mugging seriously.
But instead of sobering to the situation, the serene man laughed. "You have no idea who I am! Do you remember when the ocean was cleaved in half with a sea-saw? That was me! I am the pun-dit of wordplay! Nobody attacks me with im-pun-ity! I will pun-ctuate the air with your screams!"
The two burly men clamped their grips tighter, causing the pundit of wordplay to wince. From the shadows, the ringleader said, "You're clearly insane. The CIA leaked documents that proved the supposed sea-saw was really a military test that looked strange at first glance. You won't scare us with your lies. Now give us the money or die!"
The pun man shrugged. "Don't believe me? Don't think I have control over the ocean? Fine. Let me give you a small taste. A micro-wave, if you will."
"Microwave?"
And then a rush of water erupted from the gutter in a peaking wave and doused everyone but the pun man, who remained miraculously dry. Sputtering furiously, the three muggers drew their weapons. But the pun man just smiled.
"Do you think I'm done with you yet? After you insulted my pun-ishing power? No! I will ex-pun-ge you from the face of the earth!"
And then a horde of boxer shorts ran into the alley, their gloves catching the light of the streetlamp. While the three muggers were distracted with that, the pun man caused the water from the micro-wave to split into thousands of legged droplets, which began to sprint at the three terrified men. Running water.
Cackling loudly at how stupid the men looked trying to kick away the boxer shorts and running water, the pun man asked, "Are you getting tired yet?"
Suddenly, all the cars parked on the street adjacent to the alley spontaneously lost their tires, which rolled at the three men, now thoroughly overwhelmed.
"Help us!" one of the burly men shouted an octave higher than normal as a well-tread tire bore down on him.
"Why should I help you pun-ks?"
"We'll stop being criminals!" the other burly man promised. "Please, just help us!"
With a devious smile, the pun man acquiesced. "Of course. I agree that you should change your career. Branch out a little."
Relief billowed across the man's face, "Thank y--"
The rest of his sentence was cut off when he became a tree.
"You're a monster!" the other burly man shouted, still kicking away boxer shorts.
"Odd that you should personify a can," pun man said, sipping on the Monster energy drink that was now in his hand.
"We'll stop giving you a hard time! Just let us go," the ringleader pleaded.
This made pun man think for a moment. "It's funny you should mention time," he said thoughtfully. "I do have an appointment in a few minutes, so this encounter is pun-cturing my plans. Let's end this before it gets too... time consuming."
One voracious bite later and he had eaten the remainder of the ringleader's lifespan away. There was only one of the muggers left, and he was too busy avoiding tires and boxer shorts and running water to notice the fate of his leader.
"I'm not a pun-itive man," the pun master said, motioning for his pun manifestations to leave the mugger alone. "You've learned your lesson. You may go."
Without a word, the mugger turned, grew a tail, and fled. He wouldn't get far, of course. There were whip and lashes waiting for him around the corner that would make him stop so fast that his neck would have a serious kink in the afterlife.
Popping a cigarette in his mouth, he was disappointed to not have anything to smoke. Still, it had been a good night. Three serial muggers were done preying on people without com-pun-ction. Maybe there were stronger superheroes out there, but the pun man didn't see them any-where. Well, that wasn't true. He saw them in a few wheres. But they certainly didn't have as much fun with their job. | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | "Why i am here?" I asked the officer.
No answer.
"Seriously, why?"
"You know why! Zork is dead. We know that you killed him!"
I was shocked. Zork was my best friend on the entire ship.
When i first met him i was irritated by his skin-colour and number of limbs,
but he was the nicest guy one could imagine and we became soon very close.
Why should anyone kill him?
It took a while until i could speak again.
"No! Why should I? He was my best friend!"
The officer sighed.
"Okay, than you can surely tell us why you gave poisened food"
"What do you mean? We had lunch together. Your food here is so boring, so i always spice them up with some of my spices.
Zork was bored too, so he asked me if he could taste it. That is the only food i gave him, but i did not poisened it!"
"What are these 'Spices'?"
"Sodium Chloride, Curcumin, Piperine, Capsaicin, the usual stuff to make food delicious"
The officer laughed awkwardly.
"So you admit that you gave him Capsaicin but deny that you have killed him?"
I was confused. "Yes? Why?"
"Its the most deadly chemical in the universe! How did you even get this stuff?"
"Deadly? Why does nobody tell me this? I eat this regularly and never had the idea that someone could have such an intolerance too it"
Now the officer was shocked
"You eat this voluntarily? You humans are truly a weird species...Still you killed him. My sentence is death by coffeine!"
I never was so glad to get a coffee! | Kai’s 3 hearts were racing, but on the outside he was as calm and collected as ever. His antennae didn’t even twitch.
He was the best of the best; a true professional, which is why the Tripodiferons didn’t hesitate to give him his full payment upfront. They knew there was no risk to him leaving a mess or not finishing the job.
Most of the in the Galactic Alliance looked down on humans as naïve, smug, and over-entitled. Although Kai agreed that it was a little embarrassing how long it took them to make first contact with another galactic race after achieving space travel, the Opditromicors doing the galactic equivalent of landing on their nose before figuring out that they weren’t the only ones in the galaxy, he didn’t have anything against them personally. But Kai was always careful to keep emotions and business separate.
It was risky, but Kai liked to keep close to the target to make sure the job was complete. The plan this time was simple, pose as a server during the dinner before the first day of the Galactic Summit, administer the poison into the human ambassador’s meal, and when the job was done use the intergalactic teleportation device he smuggled in to make his escape.
Carrying the human ambassador’s requested dish to his seat, Kai couldn’t help but notice the quantity and strange appearance of the human food. The ambassador had requested his first course to consist of “two Big Macs, two Filet-O-Fish, and a large chocolate shake”.
Kai had thought the human ambassador was strange looking when he had seen him in the past on the Galactic News Network holograms, but seeing him in person he looked even more unique. He was large in the stomach region, like many of the humans, but the fur on his head is what really drew Kai’s attention. Though he clearly had no fur on the top of his head, the fur on the side of his head had been molded and shaped with what must have been many chemicals and the labor of several humans to appear as if there were fur growing on top, and closely resembled the pelt of a small Brumachrofon. And although Kai knew that humans had a variety of skin tones in their species, the bright orange hue of the ambassador’s was something that Kai hadn’t seen in another human.
“I don’t know what kind of food you usually eat in this shithole, but you have to try this sometime. Human food is fantastic, the greatest in the galaxy, actually. Like everything we make, just terrific. Don’t listen to what the liberals tell you, with the global warming and the poverty and the yada-yada, we really are tremendous.” Kai overheard the human ambassador saying to the Opditromicorian ambassador sitting next to him, who was already obviously uncomfortable and annoyed. The human didn’t waste any time digging into his meal, peeling away the wrapping from his human dish and taking the first bites when Kai was only a few steps away from his seat.
The poison that Kai chose was fast-acting, mimicked the symptoms of heart-failure, and was impossible to trace. Usually the victim dies in under 30-minutes, silently slumping over to meet their fate. Which is why Kai was very surprised with what he heard behind him as he was walking back towards the kitchen.
“Holy SHIT! Where did you get this Big Mac from, Mexico?!”, the human ambassador screamed through labored breathing and intense coughing. “They steal our jobs, won’t pay for my wall (which is also tremendous, by the way) and now you’re making me eat their spicy Mexican Big Macs?!?! I’m going to need two more chocolate shakes over here!”
Ok, onto plan-B, thought Kai as he continued making his way to the kitchen to get the human his additional “chocolate shakes”. Luckily he had a few more poisons that he could try, and it was clear to him that the human was going to be having many courses in which to administer them.
When he was about to open the door Kai heard a huge commotion behind him. He quickly turned around and noticed waves of dozens of humans overwhelming the Galactic Summit security. Like the human ambassador, they were all also very large in the stomach region, but much paler and with a lot more fur on their faces.
“Make the Milky Way great again! Trump for Galactic Emperor!” Kai could hear them screaming as the human mob continued swarming their way into the dining area. “Get the commies out of our galaxy!”
Although the situation for the other members of the Galactic Summit looked precarious at the moment, Kai knew that the human mob currently overtaking the Galactic Summit security would shortly be taken care of. They would likely sentenced to 3,000 Earth-years of time-dilated solitary confinement in the prison within Sagittarius A, the human ambassador will be expelled from the summit, and the Tripodiferons will be happy even though (for the first time ever) he didn’t finish the job.
Who knows, maybe in another 300,000 Earth-years the humans will be evolved enough to peacefully join the Summit. | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | "Is it done?".
On the screen a large green lizard-like creature drooped appreciatevly at the question. Unsteadily they answered "Well..".
"What! We lost five of our Ikarin brethren making that poison. Did those damn useless Ferins mess up the delivery? We can not be connected with this in any way.".
"No..." Crackles from the screen "The Ferin agent delivered the poison in the exact way they were instructed. Nearly scalding as instructed.".
"Well, what happened then? Did they get caught filling the syringe?".
Clearing there throat the screen creature responds "Hrm, yes he was caught before he could fill the syringe. They responded quite strangely though. The human sniffed at the container and said 'that smells good'".
Shuddering in their seat "They said Barbacon smelled good?!?"."Yes. Our agent was so shocked by what they heard, he allowed them to take the container. Which contents were then poured into smaller ceramic containers and passed out. The target and several other humans imbibe the poison leisurely. After the target finishes, they tell the agent that that was the best cup of Joe they've had in a while".
"Cup of Joe? And you said they drank it all? So, they're all dead now right?".
"Unfortunately no. There was no appreciable negative effect on any of the humans. Seemed to actually perk them up".
"THERE WAS WHOLE SCOOP OF CONCENTRATED BARBACON IN THAT POISON!!! One grain will kill us and the humans just drank it happily. Tell the agent to abort mission and both of you return to base for further instructions".
"Yessir, Ryzyl out." Crackles out of the screen before it blinks off. "Plan B then", he hisses bringing up a picture of a green plant on his handheld display, "there is no way they can survive the smoke of the Maryjanus bush". | It wasn't easy being the janitor of the underground Xanriq. I handled dirty jobs, disposing of any unwanted guests. VIPs, diplomats, politicians, you name it, give me the cash and I'll do it. I became known as the number 1 hitman soon enough, and no target ever survived an encounter with me. Today's target? A "homo sapien" by the name of Benjamin Miller, an ugly fellow what with his head fur and merely two beady eyes. Apparently his peace negotiations with the Flirghov made him quite the unpopular one.
I arranged to have dinner with him, a classy high end restaurant, and also the front for the most dangerous mafia for light years. A friend of mine bribed the chefs to lace his food with horrid chemicals, while mine remained harmless and delicious. Asbestos seasoned rigloc salad vs one laced with caffeine, or a classic loaf of yizlu bread with a pinch of theobromine, while mine had the homey taste of nitroglycerine.
*"Thanks for having me over! It was a pain sitting in a conference room for 4 hours, I'm famished!"* The soon to be damned buffoon was giggling and leaving an irritating smile, I can't wait to watch him die. He began to put a "fork" full of the salad into his face hole, his face immediately scrunched up as his pupils began to widen. *"What the- is this caffeinated?"* Oh it was indeed. *"Blech! That's no good."* He reached for a glass of Hujix juice, that fool had no idea it had capsaicin in it, the slightest microgram can cause a regular silicon-based organism to melt into a puddle seconds after ingestion. His face flared up, red as liquid poured from the top of his head, see you in hell.
*"Woah woah woah! That's a little spicy!"* What. *"Caught me off guard, although the spice adds a little to it, reminds me of my sister's cocktails."* This was absurd, how did he survive not one, but two of the galaxy's most potent poisons! Those damned earthlings will regret this. *"It's a bit rude to say, but I'm not liking the food here all that much, my apologies. Here, I'll take you to a place I go to all the time, hook you up with some traditional Earth cooking! You like spicy and caffeinated food?"*
This wasn't good, my mission is compromised, he's going to send me off to the galactic federation prison, or even a torture chamber for my insolence. It's fine though, I have connections and they can help me at any time. The ship landed in this run down diner, filled with tacky decorations and this strange Earth music devoid of screams or synths. *"Here, I got both of us one of my favorites, buffalo wings with a chocolate sundae and some iced coffee, eat up! Oh yeah, and before you ask, no they don't use any actual buffalos."* The smell of it enough made me sick, I had to get out of here! I turned my head and saw this imposing tall security guard, if I try to leave I'll be done for. I barely was able to mutter out the phrase "Thanks, you too." before accepting my painful demise. | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | "Is it done?".
On the screen a large green lizard-like creature drooped appreciatevly at the question. Unsteadily they answered "Well..".
"What! We lost five of our Ikarin brethren making that poison. Did those damn useless Ferins mess up the delivery? We can not be connected with this in any way.".
"No..." Crackles from the screen "The Ferin agent delivered the poison in the exact way they were instructed. Nearly scalding as instructed.".
"Well, what happened then? Did they get caught filling the syringe?".
Clearing there throat the screen creature responds "Hrm, yes he was caught before he could fill the syringe. They responded quite strangely though. The human sniffed at the container and said 'that smells good'".
Shuddering in their seat "They said Barbacon smelled good?!?"."Yes. Our agent was so shocked by what they heard, he allowed them to take the container. Which contents were then poured into smaller ceramic containers and passed out. The target and several other humans imbibe the poison leisurely. After the target finishes, they tell the agent that that was the best cup of Joe they've had in a while".
"Cup of Joe? And you said they drank it all? So, they're all dead now right?".
"Unfortunately no. There was no appreciable negative effect on any of the humans. Seemed to actually perk them up".
"THERE WAS WHOLE SCOOP OF CONCENTRATED BARBACON IN THAT POISON!!! One grain will kill us and the humans just drank it happily. Tell the agent to abort mission and both of you return to base for further instructions".
"Yessir, Ryzyl out." Crackles out of the screen before it blinks off. "Plan B then", he hisses bringing up a picture of a green plant on his handheld display, "there is no way they can survive the smoke of the Maryjanus bush". | “*Woof…*” muttered Ruff McGruff, staring into and through his cup of water as he absentmindedly stirred.
Losing his job at the agency had been hard enough, and the foreclosure of his modest dog house had been worse still. He couldn’t sleep, he could hardly eat, when he could afford it, and the mange was starting to set in in earnest. It was humiliating. But this… Ruff gazed at the kibble coupons on the countertop, at the wrinkles in the paper from his too-tight grip. He would be able to eat like a king for years, but at what cost?
The door of the café bathroom eased open, as did the old dog’s jaw when he saw his mark, perfectly healthy, emerging with a scrap of toilet paper trailing from her Crocs. How could she still be standing? The fruit salad he had added grapes to… the chocolate shavings he had sprinkled into her coffee… *how?* | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | My face hurts from smiling. This is my first formal diplomatic dinner, and it’s already wearing on me. Ever since human expansion exploded and we found and joined the Federation of Intelligent Sentient Humanoids, relations have been a struggle. The other members act cordial, but everyone still looks at us like the teen who just moved up from the kids’ table. We thought that pinching the fabric of space and time to move throughout the cosmos would be the toughest part; who would have guessed that it would actually be the slog to curry favor with a bunch of F.I.S.H.? I look around the room at all of the unfamiliar faces. Me and my bodyguard are the only Terrans in a houseful of Murkan elite. Our host this evening is the head of Murkan diplomatic relations, who I have been trying to negotiate a trade deal with for months. I'm not going to try to spell his name. I call him Sam. This seems to perturb him, but in exchange I let him call me something easier on his tongue than “Councilman Rebecca,” which appears to be something close to “Reba” if you replaced the R sound with a noise similar to ripping paper. Whatever. It works.
I approach Sam and try my pitch one last time before dinner. He seems disinterested and gives me only perfunctory responses before excusing himself you speak to other guests. I go for a last ditch effort with a bit of light humor as I say “seems a shame to invite me all this way if you didn’t want to talk shop.”
He stops and grins at me. “I am sure that there will be plenty of discussion after dinner. One mustn’t rush such things. Negotiations have a way of working themselves out on a full stomach.”
With that, he disappears into his other guests.
Before long we are all ushered into the dining room and take our seats at a long and elegant table. The last seat before the head has a placard with my name on it, so I pull out the chair and sit down. Someone pulls out the chair next to me at the head for Sam. Conversation dulls to a murmur while a number of servants bring out entrees on opulently decorated plates. I’m used to people gawking at the new alien, but it seems to be coming to a head as everyone gets their food. The number of eyes on me is heavy and uncomfortable, and no one seems to want to meet my gaze as I look around the table. I notice that I have a different dish than everyone else.
Sam sees me notice this and says “Tonight I am serving a Murkan delicacy, but I have been told that Terrans such as yourself tend to not care for it. They say the taste is similar to one of your… what were they called… squirrels?”
All at once I am extremely glad that my meal is different. “You are a kind and generous host, and I apologize that you felt the need to make additional accommodations for me.”
Sam says “nonsense. I believe that this meal is exactly what you deserve. Go on, try it.”
If any eyes from around the long table weren’t on me, they are now. Hesitantly, I bring the fork to my mouth and take a bite. Sam looks at me with bated breath. As I chew, a familiar sensation washes over me, along with something... new.
I drop my fork and slap my hand over my mouth. Sam bares his grotesque teeth in a delighted smile.
"Oh my god," I utter with a mouthful of food.
Sam looks around the table at a room full of people who host a mixture of expressions ranging from concern to equal amounts of delight.
"Oh my god," I say again.
Sam raises his glass and says to his company "you see? These things have a way of working themselves out." He turns to me and says "enjoying the meal?"
"How did you know?" I ask him as I slump back in my seat, bewildered.
"Research, my dear. Research. All of these compounds are synthesized from organic matter on your planet to be far more potent than anything you could find naturally." His smug expression grows.
I sit up, and greedily take another bite. Sam's expression falters as he watches me. I look back at him, and through another bite of food I say "yeah, but I mean how did you know that *mole poblano* was my favorite dish? I haven't had it since my mother made it for me *years* ago.”
I roll my eyes. “Duh. It’s my country of origin’s national dish.” I take another bite, “but still, that is some crack research team you guys have.”
All of a sudden I freeze and stop chewing. The guests, who have been strangely quiet up until now, seem to somehow get even more captivated by my culinary reunion. I say “wait, there’s something… different…”
Sam leans in, his concern fading and a bit of confidence returning to his expression. “Yes?” he asks.
I gasp and turn to him. “Did you add *coffee?!*” I turn and playfully slap him on the shoulder. Or, his general shoulder region, I guess. “What, did you travel to Earth to personally steal a recipe from my abuela’s notebook? That was her secret ingredient: espresso powder in the cocoa!”
He quickly looks around nervously “No! I assure you that we have stolen no secrets from the any of the Terran planets!”
“Relax, I’m just giving you a hard time.” I look around the room at the shocked patrons. “Eat! Please! I feel like a pig eating by myself.”
The spectacle seemingly over, everyone tentatively begins eating their meals.
***
Tensions gradually ease and the rest of the meal goes smoothly. Light talks of trade and policy are brought up and quickly dismissed in favor of more casual conversation. As the night comes to a close, I signal to my guard and we approach Sam as he finishes saying goodbye to the last of his guests. I don’t know what the Murkan equivalent of “nervously pulling on your collar to let steam out” is, but I imagine it’s similar to the little fidget dance he is doing now.
“I was wondering if we might have a word with you in private,” I ask him.
“But of course,” he replies. He nods to two large Murks by the door and the five of us enter some kind of study. Sam takes a seat behind a large desk and gestures for me to sit as well. Our bodyguards stoically loom behind both of us.
No one speaks. The only sound is the gentle clink of ice as I absently jostle a glass of whisky.
“I have a bit of a confession to make,” I admit while casually looking at my fingernails, “and I imagine that you do as well.”
Sam shifts uneasily in his seat.
“You are right to assume that humans are all too willing to turn on other humans. We kill each other constantly. We’re actually really good at it,” I brag as I pause to take a sip of my drink. “Unfortunately, we are frustratingly clever and occasionally extremely lucky. Like me for instance. Out of all the dirty, vile, rotten scumbags on my planet that should see your black market request for poisons, your contract landed in the hands of my brother.”
“Hey!” your bodyguard exclaims.
“You know you’re a scumbag, Diego.” I turn to look at him and say “now be quiet, I’m having a moment.”
My gaze returns to Sam and I chuckle lightheartedly. “That actually *was* my abuela’s recipe. My shock was genuine. Your chef did a fantastic job preparing it.”
Sam sits in silence as I continue to sip my beverage. Finally, in a low voice, he says “what do you want?”
I place my drink down on his desk hard enough that the sound of ice cubes clinking against the sides of the glass hangs in the silence of the room. | “*Woof…*” muttered Ruff McGruff, staring into and through his cup of water as he absentmindedly stirred.
Losing his job at the agency had been hard enough, and the foreclosure of his modest dog house had been worse still. He couldn’t sleep, he could hardly eat, when he could afford it, and the mange was starting to set in in earnest. It was humiliating. But this… Ruff gazed at the kibble coupons on the countertop, at the wrinkles in the paper from his too-tight grip. He would be able to eat like a king for years, but at what cost?
The door of the café bathroom eased open, as did the old dog’s jaw when he saw his mark, perfectly healthy, emerging with a scrap of toilet paper trailing from her Crocs. How could she still be standing? The fruit salad he had added grapes to… the chocolate shavings he had sprinkled into her coffee… *how?* | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | "*Again it is just splendid to have you here with us, creation knows we need more with your kind's ambition here!*" the alien diplomat symphonically curdled before gliding away to greet another dignitary.
Nole exhaled heavily through his nostrils and, after a brief tuck of the shirt, began to look around the auditorium. He could still barely believe it, and he was literally standing there with his own eyeballs watching it happen; cosmic life, mingling among each other like a long-awaited family reunion.
He could still barely believe things were going so *smoothly*, but perhaps that was just the soldier in him. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice:
"*How are you feeling captain?*"
Nole turned and was immediately grateful for the interruption. "*Mrs. Lanter, I was wondering where you sauntered off to.*"
Nataly Angelique Roderiguez-Lanter was the representative from Earth, specifically from the Gilead-Republican Conservative party. The GRC insisted that they would not be left out of any extraterrestrial negotiations now or in the future, but they didn't listen when the U.N.S.N. tried to tell them this was the intergalactic equivalent to an office cocktail party and that no such negotiations would be taking place. Go figure.
"*Oh I was trapped in a rather one sided conversation with the Keplerite ambassador, but I just think he's nervous about being here.*" She sipped water from a strange looking glass, keeping her eyes on him all the while. "*They don't have anything stronger here if you're wondering, something about different biochemistries, so they just serve water. It's good water though.*"
Nole nodded thoughtfully. The Keplerites made contact with the outer galaxy almost at the same time as Earth did, so they were kind of in the same boat. He internally chuckled when he realized that they actually came to the convention on the same ship. "*I think I understand what he's feeling, the Keplerite. On some base level this just feels, I don't know.* ***Unnerving.****"*
Nataly smiled her perfect smile. "*Well Nole just look around! There are predators and prey here, organics and machines, how can you not feel like this is a bomb waiting to go off!*"
Mrs. Lanter wearing a red silk dress with a tastefully low neckline, with crimson highlights in her jet-black hair. Even the non-simian species present took note of her beauty; It was almost comedic when she walked past the group of plant-like aliens that were literally just gigantic eyeballs on stalks.
The sight of her slender frame yanked Nole's thoughts away and forcefully made him think on his own appearance; Mrs. Lanter might be considered underweight on Earth, the high-gravity homeworld of the Human species, but Captain Nole McGowan was not from Earth. He lifted his long, lean arm, and straightened out his shirt cuff, which gave him the brief few seconds to think on the origins of his people, and the bizarre circumstances which brought him here.
Whereas the members of the wealthy Lanter family were tried and true Earthers, the McGowans of Ganymede were proud denizens of the outer system reclamation zones, what his ancestors called the "outer planets", as well as the countless asteroids in the belt. Generations of life in zero gravity had irrevocably altered the bone density of the people inhabiting the reclamation zones, and as such Nole McGowan bore the trademark features of an Outer Human: he was extremely slender, and almost three meters tall. There were countless conflicts between Inner Humans and Outer Humans over labor rights, and those conflicts continued for centuries as Humanity spread through the Sol System.
Nole internally shrugged. Those events were in the past, and he was standing in unison with an Inner on the greatest frontier Humanity had ever faced.
Perhaps Humans don't need an enemy anymore. Inners and Outers demonized each other because it gave purpose, meaning, and unity. Maybe, just maybe, this could end that sort of destructive thinking once and for all.
Dragging his thoughts back to the present, Nole answered his companion. "*I've had my fill of blood and bombs if you don't mind me saying Ma'am...I suppose it's just the shock of suddenly knowing Humans aren't so special in the grand scheme of things.*"
Nataly's smile somewhat shortened, but didn't fully vanish. She took another sip before answering:
"*Perhaps you're right Captain. It may be uncouth for me to say this, but there are many on Earth who don't want things to go back to the way they were. I feel comfortable enough telling you this as I feel the same way.*"
Nole smiled, genuinely, for the first time tonight.
Still, he felt on edge. He had seen hundreds of combat missions and had seen some of the worst battle scenarios come to pass. He had seen young and bright-eyed men and women blown to bits by railgun slugs, he had almost lost an arm rescuing hostages on one of the Neptune gas refineries, and he had narrowly escaped a U.N.S.N. vessel that was about to be blown into atomic dust by nuclear torpedoes.
He tried to convince himself this was just his natural reaction to a singularly *unnatural* environment, but something in his bones told him to be on guard.
He was eager to continue the conversation with Nataly until the room blared with an extraordinarily loud voice asking all for their attention.
The event was organized by the alien race known as the Hegemites, an insect-like species that was apparently very well respected by the galactic community. Other big players were present, but none looked really antagonistic towards each other. Nole pondered how such complex systems were able to co-exist without conflict or even the tension of conflict.
As the Hegemite Ambassador took its place addressing the massive congregation of lifeforms, it gave special thanks to a delegation of crystalline aliens for providing the venue before rather suddenly giving special thanks to the Human ambassadors.
The voice of the Hegemite Ambassador was flute-like and extremely pleasing to the ears, which Nole, and Nataly by the curious look on her face, didn't really expect, considering the Ambassador's face was an extremely large collection of mandibles and harsh-looking proboscises.
"***We wish to give special consideration to the newly discovered fledgling sentients known as the Humans.***"
The Ambassador lifted one of its chitin-plated arms out to the area where Nole and Nataly stood. He felt the many eyes of the hundreds of races of beings on him, and he felt another nervous pang in the pit of his stomach. He darted his eyes at Nataly, and saw that she was as cool as the water she was drinking.
"***When our probes first penetrated the outer edge of their system, we found them in vicious battle betwixt one another.***"
"*Jesus Christ*", Nole thought. We're going to look like monsters.
"***Brother slaying brother? We could not conceive of it. It was a conflict of resources, and discrimination among their own."***
To his surprise, the room suddenly filled with the short chortles of what appeared to be laughter. Even the Ambassador had a few small whistles of amusement.
"***A common occurrence when one thinks they are alone in the world. What made us truly inspired was what happened when our presence was discovered.***"
"***How quick it was when your kind regained unity, and now you stand before creation, and know now your tree of life stands amidst a vast forest.***"
A choir of clapping sounded across the room, and Nole found himself slowly becoming at ease. "*They're just ribbing us*", he thought to himself. "*Phew.*"
"***We wish to toast to the sentients known as the Humans of Sol, those who so eagerly wish to ascend beyond their nature. This one asks all present to please raise your cups and drink full, if you're able, to newfound brotherhood, to creation's endless bounty!***
Nole again smiled, and look to to find Nataly also smiling deeply. He began to raise his arm to toast, but realized he didn't have a cup. Nataly saw this and quietly asked a server to bring him a cup of something, and the small creature zipped away and returned as quickly as he left with a rather enticing glass of water.
The room began to fill with the sounds of the different species' toasting rituals; a race of mean-looking aliens clashed their cups together like a gang of drunken bikers, and the group of gazelle-looking creatures next to them daintily tipped their glasses together while entwining their necks together in what reminded Nole of certain ancient Earth animals mating rituals.
"*To the Humans of Sol.*", Nataly said as she raised her cup to Nole's, smiling.
"*To newfound brotherhood.*", Nole replied. Nataly's smile almost completely disappeared as they drank.
The next moment Nole had no idea what had transpired, but he felt as if he had swallowed a chunk of molten lava. He dropped his glass, he remembered hearing it shatter on the floor as he dropped to his knees. He felt the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream, and as he forced himself up he felt as though he was a dragon breathing fire, like one of the old Earth legends. He looked and saw Nataly and a crowd of concerned looking aliens helping raise him from the ground. He brushed off the crowd and stood up.
What he saw when he stood up would haunt him for the rest of his days. The Hegemite Ambassador was writhing on the floor, gibbering in a singsong and frantically grasping at the silken robes on its insectoid frame. A few seconds later its arms ceased moving, and curled up. It was dead.
Panic looked to be spreading among the other attendants of the event, and it wasn't until another Hegemite took the stage that people started to be evacuated from the auditorium. Nole looked down at the glass that shattered on the floor, and it all came to him.
Someone had poisoned the Ambassador, and attempted to poison him, but for some reason he was still alive.
**END OF PART I** | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | “Woah that’s spicy!” I exclaimed before realising something was awry. Early on we had accidentally put some ambassadors in the hospital by serving them curry.
“I didn’t know your people had spicy food!” I exclaimed.
The aliens looked nervous, before one answered, nervously, “I’m glad you like it?”
I continued with “the only issue is that the caffeine, and I can tell the difference between regular and decaf, mind you, makes us humans have a bit of trouble going to sleep.
Later came desert, a chocolaty delight. They seemed surprisingly nervous the whole time. I have no idea why. I was clearly enjoying it. I guess it’s probably because I was able to get really good terms from them, to be honest, I was pleasantly surprised at their willingness to negotiate such generous terms.
**the story continues**
It was only after I got back to my ship that I realised: it was the Wowfolk\* that we had nearly killed with a curry. Spicy food was poisonous to them. This had been an assasination attempt. It had been pretty much us and the Proximans who could drink tea, eat chocolate, and stand peppers, and that was because Proxima was quite odd. I was on Tau Sagittarii, they would hardly serve spicy food here.
\* named for the wow signal | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | "What did you hope to accomplish?" The woman asked, pushing the drink away now that she knew the intent behind it.
The common space outside the council chambers had little activity. And this Trennovian had followed her here, making small talk and offering to buy her a drink as they discussed the law that would come to pass.
A law that the Trennovians did not like.
"Seriously. What does killing me *now* accomplish? The law's been passed." She shook her head, her hand reaching into her bag for the handheld impact cannon and feeling the comforting cold metal of it.
The alien's look of shock slowly vanished and a blank expression replaced it.
"No future transgressions. You'll be an example."
"I'll be a martyr. There are a million different ways you can have gone about this. Killing me to set an example is the worst way you could have thought of."
"Your kind has them all in your pockets. Your archaic manipulation of atoms and it's destructive effects are too valuable an asset. They want to learn more. You wish to teach them your ways. Calling it means of deterrence. We all know."
"These are the kinds of things you voice out in there, Xur Plin. You're not the only people who are pushing back."
"Our voices do not carry as far as yours, newcomer. What you call a means of deterrence? This is ours."
"This is your deterrence? Actually killing a politician? Do you have any idea what this will mean? What you have done? This summit... It's a wonder how it exists the way it does. But to violate it's standing, it's integrity, with the act of killing?"
"Maybe they'll listen to us now." The Trennovian reached out towards her with startling speed, it's appendage producing a sharp needle-like contraption.
The woman took out the cannon and fired desperately. The force of it pushed them both away from each other. They both fell, crashing to the smooth, polished floor as the sound of the discharge filled the area.
She slowly got to her feet, her arms numb from the recoil. The Trennovian lay, trying to gather itself and rise back up. But it was too winded, too shaken. The woman collapsed back to her seat, eying the poison. The taste had resembled gingered coffee, to an extent. It reminded her of the spiced coffee her mother used to make. She heard the urgent footsteps and stern voices making their way toward the source of the discharge, and reached for the drink.
Might as well. It was going to be a long day. | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE LIKED IT!?! The words echoed throughout the Gaozuhan throne room, rattling me to my core.
"My liege, I -"
King Sufu cut me off "I do not want to hear an excuse Zax! Dignitary Wallaby is supposed to be DEAD! He is VERY MUCH ALIVE and you sit here and tell me with a straight face that he drank the poison? Do you take me for a fool? How much did the Nobunagans pay you to betray us? HOW MUCH?!"
Carefully I thought of my next words, I had done EXACTLY as the King commanded, I laced the humans "coffee" with the poison from the Nobunagans home world. The Nobunagans say it speeds up the consumers heart, starting a runaway rhythm until the consumer expires, but the human...just... drank it. He even got a second glass! All he did was complain of the drinks temperature!
"Sire, I did precisely what we planned, the human should be dead. The Earthlings and Nobunagans should be at war...I cannot explain how he...he just drank it. It defies logic"
The King sat quietly. Long he had angled for the top seat at the Galatic Citadel, the strongest warriors of the Unified forces all came from Gaozuhan, the position is rightly his. At last he spoke "these...creatures...these Earthlings think they can just appear with their technology and weaponry and usurp me well... ill show them, and you Zax... you can regain your honor"
"Anything my King" I immediately jump at the opportunity.
"Return to Nobunaga, they have another plant that we dare not speak of.. the incineratio, it can be turned to a liquid paste, use that to take care of our dear Mr Wallaby"
"It will be done sire, though the effects are most gruesome."
"Zax" the king said "If you fail me again, it will be you who drinks the poison am I clear?"
This scene is going through my mind on repeat as I sit across from Wallaby... watching him devour the poison...using it as a supplement to his buzzard wings.
"Zax buddy this sauce is unreal! The heat and flavor is so perfectly balanced man you have got to bring this stuff to Earth when you visit!"
The man does not see me bare my teeth...a nervous smile I think the humans call it
"I am a dead man" I mutter | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | "The agenda for today's meeting is relating to a significant amount of forces moved close to the border of.."
I knew what to do. This wasn't my first rodeo. Ever since I was old enough for the job, I've been carrying out hits on people.
This one was no different. Surprisingly easy too. The security was quite lax for such an important meeting, and I managed to sneak into the staffroom and grabbed myself a uniform. It doesn't fit me that well, but whatever. Nobody's going to notice.
The lunch break was ticking closer by the minute.
I stood in the corner of the room, observing the quite plain meeting hall. 9 chairs, each with an ambassador of every galactic species and a woman at the head of the table, droning on, and on.. and on..
When she announces : "Refreshments and food will be served shortly."
Obviously I'm already holding the platter, each filled with delicacies from every corner of the galaxy with a special little ingredient for our little homo sapien friend here.
Capsaicin is said to be deadly. It's known as the 'killer chemical' for a reason. Only a fool would dare willingly ingest such a potent poison. It stiffens the muscles and sends the target into anaphylactic shock, restricting respiration before slowly asphyxiating its unfortunate victim in a matter of minutes. It takes a drop of this stuff to kill.
I sneaked an entire vial of the stuff into the ambassador's food, as a special 'thank you'. Now here I am, serving his food to him. I hope he enjoys his unexpected last meal. A monotone "Thanks." from him, and I make my exit.
I leave the room, leaving the door open just a crack so I can peer in and watch him die.
The first, and last bite, before his face displays surprise, fanning his mouth like crazy and panting like a mutt.
"Water! Milk!" he shouts.
"Too hot! Goodness!"
The rest of the members look at him in confusion, and they all mumble. The woman leading the meeting goes over to check what's going on. I smirk, knowing these would be these last words.
He downs his entire glass of water, swishing it around in his mouth and swallowing, coughing.
"Why, how unexpected." he says, before.. taking.. another.. bite?
Huh? This fool just came face to face with one of the most potent toxins, and shrugged it off like nothing? Is this man invincible? Don't tell me, something as harmless as cyanide will kill him, instead of *that*?
What now? How do I dispose of him? Gosh, my client will *kill* me! | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | Peter tried leaning back in the chair. Ugh. No such luck. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get comfortable.
He looked around at the dozens of other representatives. Their tentacles and furry limbs rested comfortably in the seats.
He was out of place.
He played with the glass of water in front of him. Each representative was given a beverage along with the appropriate paper work. They had looked at him in shock when he asked for a glass of ‘Dihydrogen Monoxide’, but he shook it off. Different star systems, different dishes.
His brain filtered out the speaker in front of the the crowd, muffling the noise around him.
Raising the glass to his lips, he took a sip. He squinted, his face contorting. Ugh. What was that? Tasted… bitter. Something was off with the water. He set it down. Best not to get worked up about it.
The speaker turned to him. His translator ear-piece morphed the strange squeaks and growls into a human voice.
“Would the human representative please step onto the stage?”
Peter obliged, calmly walking from his seat to the podium. He began to speak about the planetary developments, the amounts of resources gathered, and anything else of note.
“Speaking of our interplanetary exploration budget, we-“
*THWIP*
The sharp sound of an object cutting through the air resounded as a dart flew from the crowd and onto Peters neck.
“Gah!”
Peter fell back from the microphone and onto his knees. He grasped at the foreign object lodged in his neck, yanking it out. He could tell. The life was draining out of him. He could feel the alien toxin flowing through his veins. He-
He felt fine. Aside from the slight twinge of pain in his neck and specks of blood, he was fine.
He slowly stood, and the interplanetary officers swarmed the crowd and stage. Doctors surround him, placing him in a gurney, asking questions. The officers dragged a feathered creature in a trench coat out by two of of his many limbs. He scowled at Peter as he was dragged away.
Peter spent many hours in the infirmary as the police furiously scoured the auditorium.
Finally, a nurse walked in. She seemed somewhat humanoid, aside from the black eyes and gray skin. Oh, and the claws.
The translator activated again as she spoke.
“Well, I don’t know how, but… your body seems to have been immune to the poison. Both the dart and the glass were spiked with caffeine. Tell me, have you always had this immunity?”
Peter blinked.
“What? Uh, yeah. Humans drink caffeine all the time. That’s what makes up stuff like coffee and tea.”
The nurses eyes went wide.
“That… is news to us. This needs to gather more attention.”
As she hustled out of the room, an officer came in.
“You may be pleased that we’ve captured the would-be assailant. He’s part of the Gallus species, and is being placed into the custody of your protective services.”
I nodded.
“They’ll probably give him the death penalty over this.”
“Hm.” He said “I believe your planet is home to a Gallus sub species? Gallus gallus domesticus?”
I nodded again.
“Yup. And like I said, the death penalty. Those guys taste great with ketchup.” | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling | |
[WP] The attempted assassination of a human dignitary at a galactic summit goes awry. Turns out, many of the conventional toxins in an alien assassin's repertoire include compounds like caffeine, theobromine and capsaicin; lethal to many species, but... less than effective on humans. | At first, it was entertaining. A meeting of diplomats, gathering and sharing gifts. A few too obvious looks and startled expressions.
It was innocent enough to begin with. A drink, supposedly a local delicacy. Yet it felt so much like an espresso that I could have sworn that Andromorph was from New Jersey. He even had the accent. Or maybe that was just the universal translator.
The looks he gave me after I finished it without blinking was, to say the least, unnerving. As if he didn't expect me to enjoy it as much.
Next was the Flagellians. They offered me a golden brown liquid that looked, smelled and tasted like a good Malt Whisky. Those guys quickly became my fastest friends. Especially after I quickly organised a trade deal for a few million units of the stuff. They were awful concerned about openly discussing it, but I made sure they knew I understood. Earth had its own prohibitions, after all.
The Andorians and Belvitiands were less welcoming. They offered me a platter of meats that, while appearing entirely vile, actually turned out to be perfectly seasoned strips of what they called "Interfectorem Cibum". When I coughed and hacked at the first bite, yet still went in for seconds, exclaiming "That's sone killer seasoning!" I swear they nearly attacked me on the spot.
It was the Pandorians, though, that nearly killed me. They, at least, had the decency to be apologetic when my throat swelled and bulged, blocking my breathing. In my defence, they did share the dish with me, the bread the delicious, and I savoured every bite.
Until, that is, they mentioned that we had a similar dish on earth.
Never had I cursed the invention of pecan bread more than I had in that moment. | It was the perfect plan to kill the human dignitary.
I carefully grounded the leafs wearing protective gloves and a respirator to prevent my own death. Nobody could survive that much of the dangerous tea leafs.
Now how to best disguise the poison that would be this creature's end. As I quickly looked at the available ah yes the delicious sweetness of the tetrodotoxin would disguise the taste of the tea after it was brewed in water.
It was quite the delicacy and their was no way the human would be able to turn it down. This human would pay for forgetting to tip me.
As I delivered the drink I sat it down in front of the Human who ignored my presence as he laughed at a joke told by a Bunnerian dignitary.
I watched as they drank the poison
I watched as the panic spread over them
I watched as they gasped trying to breathe
I listened as their heart beat it last feeble attempt.
As they laid motionless
As the Bunnerian dignitary tried to revive the Human
As the Favaustian dignitary looked in my direction
As the Favaustian shouted pointing at me
As the restraints were applied to my 8 tentacles
I never once looked away with my smiling face even as they placed me in the air cruiser
I had gotten justice for myself and my fellow server's.
For all the insults and dismissive gestures
For the complaining and trolling |
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