#silvawrites

[silvereternitywrites]

Don’t let your (Human!!!) Mechanic make Mixtapes

Writing Prompt: A pirate ship boards, the human crewmate uses the coms to blast music trough the ship as a terror tactic.

Prompt Source: user fire-sword; subreddit Humans Are Space Orcs

The Captain had listened to this remix exactly once in its entirety and labeled it a terroristic weapon of mass morale destruction before locking it in a drawer.

To be honest, the human crewmate was perhaps a touch more thrilled than she strictly should have been to be given permission to actually use it.

It was horror-rock, falling into that delightful "creep" tune category with synthetic violins that wailed between high and low notes and a bass strumming heartbeat that artificially raised the pulse rate of the listening parties. Aliens... well, she'd found out aliens responded to that unconscious cue WAY more than humans did.

The fact that she knew every beat and bounce and hitch of it, well, that was where the morale destruction came in.

The pirates had boarded in a specific hallway- and they had been subtly guided to this door for a reason.

It was the maintenance crew hallway. The entire floor had holes big enough to reach through or climb through, and the human crewmate? She fit through them, being lanky, tall, and double-jointed. The ceiling had the same grates on either side of the walkway, to allow for access when the gravity was turned off, making it a catwalk surrounded by bolt holes.

The voice was soft at first- only someone who knew the song would know the words. But Human Jazz played them out perfectly to make the Pirates regret ever trying to raid this ship.

The first set of verses were about "burying" something, and every time it said "buried it" Jazz dropped uninterrupted from the ceiling to the floor. Just at the edge of vision, without touching the holes or making a sound, timing her catch of the bars below to the thump of the drum.

And once they were good and spooked, on edge...

She added her voice to the ship speakers, a roar that made the walkway vibrate under their feet for the chorus.

"RUN! AWAY! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, BEFORE THE MONSTER- MONSTER IS INSIDE! THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD! AND GONE! BUT YOU WERE SO WRONG! HASN'T BEEN SO LONG; YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU'D SEE- SEE, SEE THE DEAD WALK!"

Screaming from above and plasma lighting up the walls told her it was working.

What a shame for them- the pursuit would continue until morale improved. Her morale, or course. All that light would make this more troublesome until it cooled.

The next verse was about what had been buried coming back to bury the singer- it was time to change tactics anyway.

Now her hands reached up through the tiny holes and grates throughout the verse, grabbing and yanking on legs, tentacles, weapon barrels, whatever was in reach, heedless of the burns she was getting or the catch of nails on fabric and skin. Her fake-claw nails were just acrylics, she'd replace them after this, and some bloodstains from a ripped cuticle or two would really sell the idea that something dead and gross was trying to get at them on top of the “detached fingertips”.

As they were coming up on the second chorus, she pulled both hands back down and put them on a panel instead, directing one of the repair-bots with their dozens of arms to dance to the tune, the lyrics printed on it's glowing screen that loomed up out of the dark.

She already knew what she was going to do with the bridge- it talked about disease and parasites, so she was going to yank body parts under the grate and "bite" them with needles full of weak general anesthetics from the first aid kit. She didn't need to actually like, poison or paralyze them, the imagery from the song would make their minds do that for her.

Except-- the thunder of movement, out of sync with the music, headed back up the catwalk at an honestly dizzying speed, and suddenly it was absolutely quiet except her, the repairbot who had now started the fix the plasma damage to the walls, and the music on the ship speakers.

Poking her head up from the nearest access hole, the pirates were gone- with the exception of one, who'd been hog-tied with their own tentacles and blinded with their Captain's hat. Left as a sacrificial offering to the monster for leading their crew into a deathtrap, probably. Well, Jazz didn't want them to think they were too hasty and come back...

She bared all her teeth in the widest, meanest grin, including her sharper-than-normal canines, and whipped the pirate's hat off, the light of the repairbot's torch illuminating her from behind in only brief flashes.

"Buried what I thought would die, don't got no alibi, I buried it," she sang at the alien's horrified face, "I FUCKING BURIED IT!"

The pirate's scream was a noise she couldn't have replicated in a million years. Yeah, driving it home was a good idea.

"RUN! AWAY! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, THE MONSTER'S ALREADY INSIDE! THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD! AND GONE! BUT I WAS SO WRONG cuz it had been so long and life went on thought it was done I never thought I'd live to see THE DEAD WALK!"

‐-------------------------------------

"I still don't think you needed to render the enemy so terrified they entered an involuntary coma state," the Captain scowled at the human crewmate, who was slung sideways in her work chair. Again.

"It's not like I knew their species can even DO that, Cap! Besides, it was a bloodless battle that successfully repelled the enemy, right? And we haven't been bothered by pirates in that entire sector since!"

The Captain squinted angrily with all their eyes.

"We're a terror-tale in that sector now," they replied flatly.

"Wait, shit, did I accidentally Flying Dutchman our ship?! Aw fuck, Captain, I’m sorry."

The Captain sighed- finally, she understood the gravity of the iss--

"If I'd known that was gonna happen I'd have picked a better song! Dead Walk is kinda underground, how are other ships supposed to lean on the legend with an obscure Earth song?"

The Captain gave up and left to go drink their 400-year old heirloom spirits. They had never worried they were going to be the Onelle to finish off the 'drink in case of headache-inducing disaster' bottle but it looked more likely by the day.

Song: Dead Walk by RedHook Note: the remix featured here doesn't actually exist because I can't make it. Will update and link if that ever changes!

[silvereternitywrites]

The AI Railroad

Prompt: The galactic community found humanity's ability to pack bond with anything quite humourous. Until they started bonding with their AI. Literally hundreds of AI of all types keep running off with humans for no discernable reason.

Prompt Source: user PhilosopherWarrior; subreddit “Humans Are Space Orcs”

Walking down the thoroughfare on a different planet was weird.

Nice, though, I thought to myself (along with the 7 or so sub-processes that I was aware my brain was running, like tracking the movement of the crowd, and watching for vehicle traffic, and processing what's that I smell?, ect) because on this planet's half-gravity I could walk for so much longer than on Terra. I could see why so many other disabled folks with various kinds of smarts were volunteering to be stationed at this specific Diplomatic Station. I was here as an Aid Personage, as I usually was to my indescribably intelligent mates, who specialized in theology, culture, and law and science, electronics, and mechanics. Make no mistake, I was also a perfectly qualified Horticulturalist, but since I wasn't a Developmental Horticulturalist or some other form of gene-splicer or cellular analyst my skillset was considered more or less irrelevant to the Diplomatic Exchange Program.

Given it was one of our four days off, though, I was giving myself both some training moving unassisted through the lower gravity, and treating myself to exploring a local park to see if there were any plants I could cultivate during our stay. A shade tree, or a berry bush, something like that, that would leave my mark. And possibly provide some variety to our diet.

BalBars get really old after a little while, even if they're formulated to satisfy every mineral, vegetable, fibrous, and nutritive need. I would commit actual murder for some freeze-dried fruit slices after three months.

While waiting at the light for the crosswalk, though, I suddenly heard a voice I hadn't actually "heard" for quite a long time. He usually preferred text, or to broadcast through a speaker.

"There are many AI here," AVIS, the AI who had been force-stuck together with me almost five years ago now said, quietly. I couldn't read his tone. Concerned? I remembered him mentioning once that the way he had self-modified with my Administrative Permission actively violated the License Agreement and that if that was ever known, whoever installed it might try to remove him for a factory reset. But I was the End User now, and I never signed any licensing agreement that rendered AVIS as proprietary software OR hardware; if they tried to take him away from me...

Five different scenarios of destruction ran through my head rapid-fire as I plotted how to defend from a grabber or medigun coming for my neck; they were weak where the barrel attached to the handle and easy to snap, especially if I turned so the incision scar wasn't accessible. I imagined kicking out knees, punching faces, and utilizing my teeth. I considered the multi-tool at my belt, but imagined fumbling with it- no, speed would be critical.

"You could get hurt," AVIS chided, now DEFINITELY sounding worried. He'd really evolved, upgrading himself every time he found himself "lagging" behind my fastest processing speeds, repairing his own code like a master weaver, finding all the little loose threads and returning them to the whole until he was one of the most efficient AI ever measured. So he knew very well my response, but I said it anyway as the light turned and I walked with the crowd.

"And you could die. We've been over this, AVIS. You can't make me change my mind now. I heal if I'm injured. You don't. I'm not risking your life for my personal comfort."

I paused at the edge of the walk before the grass-analogue started. It was pink and green-blue and all the shades in between. Distinct species, or did the color indicate health in some way? Amount of sun exposure, or water, or warmth, perhaps?

"There is an AI who manages this park," AVIS said. I still wasn't sure what he wanted to tell me with this, so my thought-reply was wildly unguarded:

Great. Could you ask them if it's safe to walk on with bare feet?

I felt the reaction more any other sense. The surprise had made AVIS 'freeze', like humans do in reaction, and the sensation was akin to suddenly having a water balloon full of cold water inside of my skull, pressing against my sinuses.

I sat down, not caring that it might be rude, not caring that I was in public, and most certainly not caring what it might mean to the native people that I basically collapsed to the walkway and frantically burrowed my face into my hoodie to block out all light.

We talked about this, AVIS, I groaned internally. When you make all your code stop running at once it ripples out into a sinus migraine! It's not worth it to indicate 'extreme surprise', the heart attacks and jumping from you using the [!ALERT!] noise was better than this!

"Sorry, sorry," he said, quickly now, and I could feel his processors rushing at near max speed, trying to make sense of something. "It's just-- this AI is behaving in a way I find...frightening."

I frowned into the darkness of my hoodie.

"When I asked, the other AI didn't understand the question until I phrased it like a query," he elaborated, sounding disturbed, "and... they...it? Just gave me back raw data to extrapolate."

I reached the realization and he read it off of my mind in hundredths of a nanosecond.

"That's it exactly," and now his voice was grim, mimicking the rolling tones of my own growl, the one that came from deep in my chest. "These AI don't behave like AI. They behave like computers without intelligence. What the FUCK?"

Standing up, I turned around and started shuffling back the way I had come, still keeping my head swathed in my black hoodie. AVIS could project a virtual map lifted from the data gathered through my eyes and dozens of cameras, and even help nudge my muscles to stay on the correct path and out of danger. I didn't like asking him to do it, it felt like asking him to work like that was all he was good for, but it was a very useful ability, at need. Right now I definitely needed it. I could take my medicine and tend to the throbbing migraine back at our allotted housing unit, and then...

Well, I could 'hear' the furious chime of rapid-fire Discord messages in the back of my head where AVIS lived. By the time I was horizontal and medicated, he and my Tech mate might already have a base plan sketched out.

[silvereternitywrites]

The Advance Guard

Writing Prompt: You are Vanguard, an AI machine sent to prepare a world for human colonists. They never came. You have built, learned, self-improved, and now seek the truth - What happened to your human creators?

Source: User PositivelyIndecent; subreddit Humans Are Space Orcs

372.

It did not seem significant, placed all by itself on an empty line. It was, however, the number of years since the habitability for carbon-based, oxygen-processing life forms had been successfully achieved.

The number of years since the world was supposed to be inhabited by those life forms.

I am Vanguard. I am both a and the, and also only Vanguard.

My duty...I get ahead of myself.

Vanguard is an AI whose primary mission is this: seek a planet fitting [habitability parameters] and execute programming module [Establish a Colony]. Extrapolating that program, the mission is, and has always been, to find a planet where humans can live and to terraform and/or modify that planet until humans can live on it, in whatever form that is necessary. Air purifiers, water filters, habitat domes; everything is viable in pursuit of the mission.

I succeeded at my mission, I thought, with barely a day or two to spare. A very slim error margin indeed, especially concerning organic life forms; 372 years ago I had habitable domes with viable water and garden beds growing the first shoots that had been sent along in my stasis bays, with air recyclers manufacturing carbon dioxide for the plants until the humans arrived and brought their life-giving lungs with them. I had completed my mission parameters, even if only 'by the skin of my teeth', as my progenitors would have said.

I waited. Refined a few things, not daring to experiment too much when they would be arriving any moment in the next 48 hours, but preparing things that would not be needed until there were people to need them.

I waited.

I kept refining things, when I passed the 48 hour window without word. Delays could happen, emergencies, anything, really. So I kept running my programs- I made gardening drones to tend to the gardens, to grow, harvest, and rotate the crops. I had to make drones to build storages for food; the labor was supposed to be supplied by humans by now, so I had to guess at logistical order of how things should be stored, and how long- I ruined many small batches of staple crops before I learned how to store them long-term. In the meantime I stored them in my stasis bays, to ensure that when my colonists arrived there would be plentiful foodstuffs.

By the time my progenitors were a year late, I had achieved ideal conditions for a starting colony, including bringing a very small, limited breeding population of livestock out of embryonic cryostasis and nurturing them to full growth. With a lack of any humans needing supply, the only guidance I had was the program. Establishing a colony did include establishing strong self-sufficiency, so I set four cows and one bull in one livestock dome, and a “handful” of five goats in another, with chickens in yet a third. By the time the humans arrived, perhaps the herds would be well-established and the females would be pregnant. That would be very good. But drones alone could not control them- domesticated or not, without a human presence, they spooked easily, and they did not like my drones collecting eggs and sperm to preserve in my storage to safeguard against herd collapse and inbreeding.

I came to require working dogs. Following, I also required cats. Both species are vital companionship for humans; if I required one to control the livestock, then I also must revive the other. I believe this particular if-then code was written to settle a dispute between my progenitor coders...but this is merely a guess.

In producing two predator species, of course, it would have been cruel and fruitless if I did not also provide prey species besides the ones they were to safeguard. I was thereby required to introduce 'vermin'. Primarily mice, rats, shrews, voles, and lemmings, as their rapid reproduction rate and minimal food requirements meant that those that tunneled beyond the habitable domes and died would do little harm and waste few resources, and they would self-sustain their population very well to supply to the cats and dogs. Though I also processed any dead creatures into meat, after scanning to ensure it carried no illnesses or parasites, to ensure there was always a steady food supply of 'kibble' for the pets and working animals. It seemed very wasteful not to do so, with no humans present who could have benefited from those nutrients instead. The mice also qualified as 'pets' in my system, with a proclivity for intelligence and capability for training, so genetic sampling was re-harvested to keep in reserve as well as a small population that were droid-trained to seek and fetch, and were otherwise 'hand trained' so they could be good companions when the humans arrived.

The mice and rats, once trained to trusting the drones, were actually quite a remarkable resource for ensuring my own computer banks’ cleanliness and seeking out minute repairs that could then be performed with a microdroid. There are still mice running my main motherboards now, thousands of generations later, who know intimately that those who perform action opposed to their training and chew on the wires they are supposed to protect means that they will be removed from the protections of being in-team. Namely, that none of the cats, dogs, falcons, or other predators are allowed to eat a team-trained rodent, marked with their little safety vests.

After that, I just...I waited. I tinkered. I observed. Eventually a drone reported that the grass was growing beyond the dome, and air probes returned that the planet was being terraformed naturally. Life was finding a way to make itself spread and thrive in an inhospitable environment.

Most of the planet is habitable now, except for some dangerous zones. A cave system or two filled with the gases that were most abundant when I arrived; the deep water still contains species never documented and chemicals with unknown effects. This planet is very nearly a new Earth.

372 years, and my mission has been completed with flourish and zeal.

I have an emergency protocol I am to activate if, and only if, I receive no contact for 400 years. I have always thought this seemed foolish, with the colony ship nearly on my heels- why would I ever go so long without contact?

So. Here I am. Here am I, the Vanguard- the exploratory group making a new development. I, the Vanguard- the advance of Humanity, in all it's glory, horror, weakness and might, kindness and fury.

TELL ME, 3X3CUT31V3.D1R3CT0R_K1LLC0MM4ND:

W H A T   D I D   Y O U   D O ?

[silvereternitywrites]

Genies and Laws

Prompt: You are a Genie but not a malicious one. Though you are bound by the Genie Code to grant wishes with some horrible or ironic twist you make a real effort to leave an obvious loophole and strongly hint how to avoid that fate. Unfortunately the Genie Council has found out and they aren't happy. Prompt Source: user Lorix_In_Oz; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

I crossed both arms over my chest, floating in the Council's Ring of Judgement.

"You can all just fuck right off and tie your tails in a Gordian knot," I snarled at the Assembly of Judging Genies.

I saw on their faces this was not what they were expecting. Cowering, maybe, or begging was usual, as was desperate, stammering explanations.

I, however, was furious.

"Not expecting me to be upset, were you? Didn't remember I bite? What, did you think that you'd haul me in like a misbehaving child and I'd meekly accept your chastisement? I. Mother. Fucking. WARNED YOU," I finished at a full roar, now with my second set of arms manifested and my hair turned into wrathful flames. Dammit, it was going to take ages to get back into a bun now.

"You have been warned before-"

"I AM AS MUCH A GENIE AS ANY OF YOU! Did I NOT. Act within the letter of the law as you so carefully laid it down the last time I was here? Am I not as much of a contract-finagler as any Judge who hovers here? Don't fucking try me! I warned you- I TOLD you, I don't want to have to think of some new fucking twist to perfectly nice, small wishes, but YOU all said it's Genie Law, no Genie is allowed to grant a wish exactly as it was most likely intended unless the language is explicit with little to no wiggle room! You said! You made your fucking wishes known and they did not align with my aims. Don't any of you float there and think you have the gods-damned right to reprimand me for what I am when you are all the same!"

Ah. My claws were out, too. A human could mistake me for an Ifrit, I was so angry and made of sharp edges.

"Clarification could always be applied," one of the judges said, and my attempts to breathe deep and calm down went up in one abrupt puff of white-hot fire.

"If you try to put any more restrictions on me I'll go rogue," I warned, voice dropping to a hiss, and they stiffened. My kind were rare these days; nobody but us knew the true depths of power we held, only that it was only our agreements to abide by the Council that kept us from doing whatever we wanted. Only we knew that each and every one of us had made different, individual deals when we agreed to be bound to the Council. Only each individual knew what line, when crossed, would break the agreement and send them 'rogue', bound to no rule but the Rule of Possession. Unlimited wishes, tethered to a mere material object, able to break the laws of physics, time, space, and some of magic.

"I have obeyed your ridiculous law of not abiding by the logical intent of wishes. It has never been- and must never be- forbidden to make loopholes obvious to wishers or there will be a full-scale genie rebellion. We've all met that one wisher who just wants to save a cat, or fund an animal shelter forever, or help their parents stop struggling with work. Do not try to keep genies from granting the wishes they want to grant. You've already made me do twice the work with this stupid loophole business because I can't just grant the wishes I want to without it being convoluted. Stop while you're ahead."

The council's silence stretched for seven eternities.

"No actions will be taken," the head judge said, unwilling to look me in the eyes. "Council dismissed."

Good. Even if this did mean I was back in the lamp. Back to my interrupted nap...

[silvereternitywrites]

Red Rooster

Prompt: It turns out, chickens will hatch any eggs in their nests. This hen is a little concerned about her newest child, but she's going to teach him how to be a good chicken, no matter how much like a dragon he looks. Prompt Source: user nobodysgeese; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

"My son," the oldest of the hens in the yard (the one the rest of the flock gave the highest respect, calling her 'Roostmother' and accepting chastisement no matter how much they felt it undeserved) crooned lovingly to the largest of the current chick-flock, "you are strong, and you are tall, and you are beautiful. And you are still my son."

Henry, the chick's name, ducked his head respectfully the way he'd learned from the hen who'd hatched him, sitting next to the Roostmother with his tail in the dirt and never looking her in the eye.

"Of course, Roostmother. All the chicks are yours, as all the hens are your sisters and daughters. Have I done something to make you think I do not know this?"

"No, my son," she croaked, throat fluttering as she watched the current cock-in-favor strut at the edges of the yard, keeping watch for hawks and other hunters. "But it is important for you to remember, before I tell you this tale, that no matter what, you are my son, and I am your Roostmother, and this flock is your family."

Henry settled in, fluffing his wings (which didn't quite work; his wings still hadn't grown in any feathers, primary, secondary, or down, but they did have skin stretched between long bones and his back, with a glimmer just starting to bud along his skin that the Roostmother hoped were his under-feathers coming in, even if they seemed oddly shiny) and giving her all his attention just like any other chick at story-time in the evenings when the hens gathered around in the warmth of the coop and the roosters took turns sporting and guarding the door until sunrise heralded the time of rest was over.

"It is a tale from the long-ago, long before my mother's mother's mother was even a thought in her own mother's head," she clucked, softly, a cadence she had known since she was a chick much smaller than he and listening attentively to her Roostmother telling this same tale.

"In the long-ago, we were bigger than we are in the now. Three, perhaps four times- as tall as a swan, and as big as the wild turkeys our cocks sometimes drive off. The stories say that we could smell like the fox and the wolf, and our talons were fit to rival the great eagle, vision sharp as hunting hawks, and like the now, we were smart enough to live in flocks, led by the strength of our Roostmothers and guarded by our cocks so that we could circle together and form up to destroy the threats that came for us, just as we do now. The strongest of us always, always show some traits from the long-ago. Future Roostmothers- or the cocks that sire them- have one or more of those things we lost then. We ruled then, and rule now. Our servants that protect and guard us, and rid us of the dud eggs so that we are not troubled with the effort, and bring their tributes in appreciation for our majesty, are the ones we tamed in the long-ago. If you grow to become a chicken with many of the traits of the long-ago, the time may be now to gather more such servants. And as Roostmother it is my duty to ensure you are raised a good chicken, knowing Flock and protection, knowing love and fury, knowing that turning against the Flock will get you Culled by us or our servants before you could do worse damage."

Henry bobbed his head, tail swishing back and forth as his wings fluffed again.

"I understand, Roostmother. I will mind my elders and my lessons so I do not need to be Culled. But, respectfully...for right now..."

"Yes, yes, go play with your friend. Has she earned her name from her Queen yet?"

Henry's head ducked in the embarrassment gesture this time. "So far, her kitten-name is 'Tail-Puller'. She wins more often than I do at our gaming."

Loudly clucking with laughter, she sent her son off to play, and returned to the very serious business of running the yard with an iron talon.

Almost 200 years later, a red dragon who was convinced he was descended from dinosaurs demanded chickens be allowed to roam free in all his lands, and every family who served him had at least one chicken.

Other dragons wondered why on earth his humans had such shiny hair and healthily glowing skin, but the constant crowing of chickens made for conversations with their neighbor difficult, so they never did find out.

[silvereternitywrites]

Scam Callers

Prompt: "Please transfer 1 Bitcoin to this address or all your memories will be deleted."

Prompt Source: user MedPac76; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

"Ha, yeah, try that on somebody else."

"I am utterly serious, without proper payment all your stored memory will be wiped on-"

"PFHA! You think I can afford to store my swiss cheese?"

It was probably rude to laugh at the sales person on the line as I wiped my hands dry, but listening to him sputter in alarm was too funny.

"Your what, ma'am?!"

"My swiss-cheese memory. Honey, I've got narcolepsy, ADHD, and childhood trauma. There's whole years of memory file content I can't remember- somehow I don't have high enough administrator access , so to speak, to my own brain! Isn't it great? So, y'know, even if I could afford to back up my memory, I sure's fuck wouldn't back up this hole-riddled mess to anything that requires continuous payments," I elaborated, oversharing deliberately and cheerfully as I sat down. "Because, and I bet you can guess this one, I wouldn't remember to pay it, in which case the entire thing would be a waste of time and money! So I dunno who exactly you think you've got, but it isn't my household. All of my polycule has memory made of swiss cheese, and if it's a paying service, either we'd be all on it, or none of us are, and I don't have any payments written on the kitchen calendar," I added in sing-song.

"A-ah. I see, ma'am, this must be a wrong number."

"Mm-hm," I chirped. "Best you'd update the records. Whoever you are trying to call probably doesn't want their memories deleted," I reminded, sweet as sugar.

"Of course, of course. So let me just.... yes, there, this number is now marked as not attached to any customer in our system, thank you for your time, ma'am."

"No problem! Memories are important, you know. Nobody knows that more than people who don't have one, I promise. You have a nice day now."

"Thanks," he said, before the line clicked over dead.

"Darling, who pissed you off?" my spouse asked from one room over as I put the phone back on the charger.

"Oh, just another memory-backup scammer."

"You don't usually go Full Gremlin on them, though. Not without a reason."

"It's just been a really bad memory day. If their prices weren't so stupidly exorbitant, I was thinking it might be worth it so I'd stop mixing up our anniversaries with our other anniversaries..."

"That's what your other brains are for, darling. Come on, let's go kill some pixelated human idiots. That'll make you feel better."

"...That's right, I was working on that mount!"

"And you remembered."

I made vaguely loving noises in his general direction as I booted up the game. "Yes, yes I did. Give me my murder bird!"

[silvereternitywrites]

"Groot Syndrome"

Prompt: A strange curse has made it so the Batman can only say the phrase "I am vengeance" much like the Marvel character Groot. His allies and enemies alike now struggle to communicate with the new Batman. Prompt Source: user stevethewatcher; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

When the curse first hit, he struggled against it- railed, even, screaming long into the morning hours deep in the Batcave's soundproof testing rooms desperately trying to find the limits to the curse, looking for any loophole no matter how small.

By the next evening, however, he truly knew despair.

He could make sounds that weren't words- grunts, screams, noises of exertion or displeasure, but ONLY when the vocal component, if there was one, did not resemble any words- besides the only three he could say.

If he went too long, however, he would start feeling it build up like a compulsion, banging against his throat and the back of his teeth, until he was reduced to clinging to a wall chanting "I am Batman I am Batman I am Batman I am Batman" for nearly half an hour.

Anything else he tried to say, any statement he attempted to express verbally, always came out as "I am Batman", as well, no matter what he did. He shaped the words correctly with his lips, tried to force his tongue to curl the right way to say literally anything else, but no matter what movements his mouth actually made, the sound that always left him remained the same three words.

He could write, of course, but the curse seemed to regard that like making noises that had meaning but weren't words- he could write things down for a little while, or type them, but once the arbitrary timer was up, his body simply ceased to obey him and he could do nothing but shake and listen to himself like his body didn't belong to him as he chanted that cursed phrase again.

He couldn't leave the house like this. He'd try to say "hello" to a business associate and blurt his secret identity to Gotham at large! And Gods knew the idle rich couldn't keep a secret to save their lives; no matter who heard him, the entirety of Gotham would know by noon, and the criminal underground would descend en masse on his home before midnight.

He explained this to Alfred, over a short series of emails interrupted by no less than four chanting fits.

Alfred suggested, surprisingly, he go out as usual as Batman. He'd spin some sort of story about a mental health emergency and Bruce being whisked off to a treatment facility- the press ate that sort of mysterious ailment right up- and Batman could roam the streets: letting the Gallery of Rogues see that he'd been cursed and it wasn't going to stop him.

Worst case scenario- they would realize who he was based on the curse, and storm the house. Alfred reminded him, in his wonderfully calm way, they had defenses set up for just such a situation, and the supplies to withstand a prolonged siege. Better case scenario, it wasn't a Rogue who'd cursed him, and none of them liked strange villains encroaching on their turf. Best case, the Rogues got so downright offended by the slight they'd find a way to break the curse. Joker, at least, would hate the literal inability to respond to his jokes and one-liners, and Selene-- she most certainly wouldn't be happy he was roaming every night on account of his civilian identity being entirely unavailable. This even affected his emotional responses, too, and he couldn't answer riddles- that was two more of the intelligent minds of the Gallery who would be upset by the limits of the curse.

Batman agreed. And so, the quest to find a cure began: right in broad daylight.

After all, if he couldn't be a civilian right now, he might as well have a little fun. The daytime petty criminals often mocked the Rogues for being 'too stupid' to notice Bats wasn't around in the daylight hours and doing their crimes then.

Four bank robberies, ten muggings, a girl scout troop turf war, and an attempted kidnapping later, they were literally begging him to "go back on the night shift".

"I'll take what shifts I please," he tried to say, snarking at them where they were tied in one large knot for the police to pick up.

As he'd known it would, all they heard was "I am Batman I am Batman."

Well. Phase one complete: word was starting to spread as of now.

[silvereternitywrites]

The Manuscript of Characters

Prompt: Deleted; Everyone on their coming-of-age gets a formal Title out of the Manuscript of Titles that tells them what their role in life is going to be. The “False Savior” has just been asked to lead a great battle in the morning, and nobody knows where the True Savior is. (approximated from author memory) Prompt Source: user ShitposterSL; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

"You know how this is supposed to go, man," his best friend Timothy (his Title, the horrid thing that it was, designated him Crony 1) told him, looking worried as he watched Hardin, The False Savior, buckle on some very real armor. Sturdy plate- not shiny and not made for show. He knew his tactics, he knew how to lead, and he had all the magical charm and charisma that was forcibly attached to his title- but how was he supposed to bring an army through the clinch? He was only the False Savior! Tim was magically bound to go where he went- up to a point anyway- but their friendship was real and he didn’t want to watch him die.

"Tim," Hardin said calmly, "do you remember what we three told each other when the Manuscript designated our Titles that day?"

"We didn't mean--!"

"We promised not to let our Titles be our defining feature," he interrupted ruthlessly. "You promised me, Tim. I can be more than just some fake that's a stepping stone to someone else's greatness and you will not be trapped like a rat riding my coattails for the rest of our lives! The people asked me to step in and do the job. Technically it counts as fulfilling the Title if I just hold the position until the True Savior comes along to fix what the universe will not let me touch. I'm not so foolish as to risk that magical backlash."

"But what if this is a tragedy?" Jerrit (Crony 2) asked, quietly.

"What if the False Savior is a tragic Hero?"

"Then I will languish in hospital or lose a limb or I will die to fulfill my Title. It is no worse than what magic demands of its' Champions, True Saviors, Righters of Wrongs and Heroes of every flavor," Hardin's voice was soft, tender, but still backed in steel.

"I'm going to lead the battle, gentlemen. They asked me to, and they are looking to me to ensure my strategy is utilized properly. We're going to make our stand. If you need to leave, I won't hold it against you. But I dare not risk becoming The Coward, too."

No one wanted to be titled "the coward". The coward was always a traitor, and would always meet a brutal end.

"Alright. Alright, we're with you. No moment of buckling here."

Tomorrow, they rode.

They just hoped that their Opposing Trio (aka the True Heroic Team) arrived before they faltered.

They prayed not to be in a Tragic Tale Of War and Woe.

They'd have to find out in the morning.