Silver Eternity Writes

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."

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."

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."

Prompt: Ever since first contact, many alien races have considered humans to be primitive, to the point where we are seen as intelligent animals over our own race. Because of this, many aliens have humans as pets. You are the pampered pet of a very rich alien monarch. Prompt Source: userSuperaptorminion ; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

Most of the time, my life is fantastic- there's a pretty big faction of us, though no one seems to agree on a name except "species traitors". I, however, am of the opinion that if I can live a life of pampered luxury, with no responsibilities, every need taken care of and the only thing asked for in exchange occasional companionship, give me the fucking collar. Fuck capitalism, fuck the grind, fuck all of that shit from back on Earth.

Some kind of Monarch bought me, too, so when I grabbed my mates of choice by the hand and bared my teeth, they laughed, called me cute, and bought them too.

They haven't the slightest clue that we aren't tame, aren't 'just copying them'; like a housecat back home. Sure, you know that your Pomeranian or fat tabby is capable of killing you, if pressed, but you never expect it, because if you treat them well, why would they?

I don't love the Monarch, not really- not like some of the other pet humans do, at any rate. I appreciate that they tend my every need and those of my mates, I pay them with cuddles for providing treatment for my mate's chronic conditions and making them able to pursue what gives them joy again, I tolerate their checks of my own person for such issues (and don't hold it against them when my mates rat out my old injuries), and I enjoy my life of ease. I speak their language- all of us do, because honestly it's funny to watch them lose their shit every time we say intelligible words to them.

Today, however, a threat came to my Monarch- and my Monarch is folding, fearing for the safety of their people and us, the pets, since the challenger is not one of the ones who thinks we are "cute".

This is not acceptable. You see, my Monarch is mine.

Sacrificing themselves for the good of their people is very well and good- but no one is allowed to steal what is mine away from me.

So it is without preamble that I get off my cushion, where I spend most days absorbed in books or writing my own, pressing a button on my wristlet to send a pre-established signal to my mates. One is down in the combat arena, as they always are this time of day, training now that their body obeys them again; the other has been studying intergalactic law, including treaties and declarations of war. In our own language, I consult with them first; I am the culture expert between us, so we have a fairly well-rounded plan when I reach into the side compartment of my Monarch's throne, remove the blaster there, flick it to 'lethal', and shoot all three aliens at the front of the enemy formation.

The clamor and the screaming is enough to give me a migraine, so I am scowling when I step forth, in front of my Monarch, and give them the same hand signal they give me when they want me to move- pointing, paired with a word. They sit.

I turn to the enemy formation, which has sloppily formed up again, though the front three spots, reserved for the leaders, are left conspicuously empty. Good- they had no contingency for if they fell, and no designated people to step into their roles, and without that being pre-established, their culture did not allow for a common soldier to seize command.

It DID allow for 'theft' of the battalion by a conquering commander, though.

"You answer to me now, by right of conquest," I snapped out in their own tongue, prepared to be challenged. The galaxy at large saw us as pets, or PESTS, not as people- someone would challenge that I had the right to claim by conquest at all.

They looked among each other- which was their right to do, to confer if they wanted to challenge whoever had taken out their commanders- before one stepped forward, and I kept my body loose, balanced on the balls of my feet like my mate taught me, but no challenge had been called so I kept still. This one must have been a former commander- a right hand, certainly, because despite not really being able to judge age on their species this soldier was thick with scarring, and though their march never fell out of step, there was the slightest of limps in one of their four legs.

That one knelt down, folded hands on knees, and bent forward, baring the back of their neck in the sign of obedience.

"We are conquered. We answer you."

Oh good.

"I live the life of a Queen, given everything my heart desires, tended to by my mates of choice, given entertainment, food, leisure, and all the time I require to enjoy all of these things. I will not have need of a battalion often- and you are soldiers, loyal and true, battle-tested and strong, so I would not insult you by setting you free. But I have no wish to go out and conquer more, and would not hold a good soldier back from serving honorably elsewhere, for all I can offer is drills and defense should enemies come to invade my holdings, which is rare. If any wish to leave, they are free to find a battalion that fits them better," I told them in my best formal tones. After all, conquering them for my own was only the first step- and if they wouldn't be content to stay, there was no point in keeping them, fostering resentment all along the way.

"A Queen should have guards," the Lieutenant answered, just as formally. "And should a soldier cease to function well as a guard, they may serve perhaps elsewhere."

"As they should, in accordance with their most skilled performance ability," I replied.

"I will stay. My battalion will follow, until they are drawn elsewhere."

"Then be welcome to my service. Your right and left hands?"

Two younger ones with impeccable posture stepped forth, bowed their heads, and held position in the traditional commander's triangle.

"Then it is done. Tend your wounded, honor your dead, then the hale are to report to the combat arena- that is where my right hand trains, and they will know best how to schedule rotations for guard posts. They are my shape and limb arrangement, but with a darker carapace and with the strength of a Soldier apparent in their limbs. My left hand is my shape and limb arrangement as well, but of the same carapace color, and poison-warning blue headfur. His tongue is as dangerous as his color suggests."

My new Commander dipped his head deferentially as he rose to his feet and started directing the battalion. "Understood, my Queen."

Ah. The hazards of using 'queen' with an insectoid species.

Everything settled, I turned my blaster back to stun, put the safety on, and put it in the cubby before climbing up into my Monarch's lap and laying full-body against them in the way they understood meant "I desire my hair and back petted and scratched, NOW".

"I think perhaps our opinion of human pets may be outdated," they said, even as they provided the scratches.

I smiled. "Not really. I'm just a felidae-type human. I don't tolerate people messing with what belongs to me. That includes you. That's how it works, with cats. You don't own us- we own you."

my Monarch looked a little alarmed at that.

Prompt: You're a used superpower salesman. It's been difficult to sell ever since the dealership for new superpowers was built nearby, but you're determined to make some sales because you have a baby on the way, and it's about that time of year when parents are buying teenagers their first superpower. Prompt Source: user CloverPixels; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

Part of the problem, I know, is that I don't have one.

A superpower, I mean. I have a job, and obviously I have parents!

But a lot of people get leery of me when they realize I don't have a superpower, even though I'm a superpower reseller. I just don't believe it would be moral, that's all- it would be terribly tempting to try and use whatever power I might pick to try and get people to purchase powers they didn't want or need, or more than they needed, to make commission.

Another part of the problem is I'm just not willing to be a jerk or a bully, too, and when people come into a superpower dealership like this they're expecting the oil-slick powered up salesman with the pomade in his hair and 17 different offers to 'make a deal', and I'm just- not.

I'm short, stacked, with a rebel haircut, dyed hair, and all the facts laid out neat and simple.

But people come in expecting me to try and trick them, looking for it, and when there isn't any they get nervy and leave, thinking I'm just too slick and they can't find the catch. Maybe that Honesty power would be worth using--? No, no, the registration on it is clear; it compels other people to be honest, not the user.

At my desk, I was jarred from my musings by the sound of the bell above the door.

"Welcome! I'll be right with you, and feel free to browse," I called, and listened to the shuffle of unsure feet lingering in the front aisles.

Unlike the fancy new powers place down the road, where rows upon rows of boxes stood with little question mark tags separated in general sections, our dealership sorted them alphabetically, with the most popular power types in front- strength, speed, invisibility, stuff like that- and every bottle or jar of power had a detailed description of how the power had developed, it's strengths and weaknesses, and the peculiarities of how it worked clearly delineated.

I found the young teenager and the person I assumed was a parent or guardian lingering over the illusion powers- reading one that shifted the user's perception of things around them, and comparing it to one that changed how other people perceived the user or anything the user interacted with.

"Hello, is there anything I can do to aid your selection process today? We have a greater section of illusion powers further back, if neither of those interest," I suggested gently, trying to get a feel for them. It was nicer on everyone if I worked to facilitate filling their needs- and without any further info I had no better suggestions.

"No, I'm kind of interested in this one," the young person held up the paper for the self-use power, putting the other neatly behind it's bottle again, "but I was actually hoping you had powers relating to actually changing matter, not just making it look changed?"

I considered the relatively androgynous young person and made a guess, keeping my tone light.

"Would you be looking for something more along the line of shape-shifting, then, or being able to turn one type of matter into other types of matter?"

An interested shift at the mention of shape-shifting, a perk of the head quickly hidden. So my original guess might be correct.

"Do you have either of those?"

"I happen to have two in stock- of each, mind- and I can bring them out to examine, if you like. Does one interest you more? In the interest of saving space, my desk is very small," I added apologetically even as we drifted back in the direction of my desk.

"Matter-shifting first, please," the older one said, and ah. This would explain the hesitation.

"As you wish. Naturally, all four are on the higher end of the price bracket, even as used powers," I explained as I pulled the papers out and laid them on the desk, with pictures of the bottles. Ones this valuable lived in the vault underground.

"The most expensive one can change any matter into any other matter on the atomic level. It's biggest drawback is the requirement to have a firm grasp of atomic structure and elemental knowledge- and I mean elemental as in the periodic table, not earth, fire, water, metal, wood, or air. It was sold to us when the previous user stopped being able to remember chemical formulas exactly as well as they could in their youth; they became tired of accidentally transmuting their dinners, toys, computers, et cetera."

"And the other transmutation power?" the parent plowed right on, without giving their child a chance to ask a question. I noted that.

"It's less all-around useful, but more suited to someone artistic. It can change objects the user touches into any other inanimate object the user can visualize. The primary drawback to this one," I tapped the page lightly with a pen to indicate which, "is it will always transmute it into exactly what the user visualized. Which, if the user's attention should waver, or if part of the object isn't solidified in their mind when they use the power, that too will manifest. It came to us after it had been bought second-hand from it's first user by someone whose visualization ability was... unpleasantly incomplete too much of the time," I said delicately, and watched the teenager's eyes brighten. So a creative person, then. Best tell them the rest.

"Both are classified as strictly transmutative powers: they absolutely cannot work on anything alive, not even plants and insects."

The child's expression fell, and while I felt bad to dash their hopes like that, better they knew that now than purchase the power, integrate it, and find out it wasn't anything even close to what they needed.

"I hardly think that matters," the adult drew my attention back, and I blinked.

"Depending on what it's intended use is, it matters very much to you as a buyer. If you were to purchase it with intent to, say, go into veterinary medicine, you can use it to transform something like old timber into hospital equipment, as long as you either know it's chemical makeup and components or can visualize the equipment clearly, but they are, unequivocally, NOT able to function as healing powers in any shape or form. You could not visualize a dog's leg to heal after being broken, for instance, or transmute mangled flesh and bone into healthy flesh and bone. Given the price tag on these powers, this is pertinent information- I don't want to sell you a power that you don't want or need."

The teenager looked at me with respect; their adult stared at me with distrust.

"Shall I move on to the shape-shifting powers?"

"Please," the teenager said, before their adult could interrupt again, and I didn't hesitate to sweep the transmutation powers off the desk and lay down both my shapeshifting abilities.

"The less expensive of these two can only transform into animals, and back to the user's original base shape. The drawback is that the user must, unfortunately, 'touch base' between animal forms- there is no seamlessly going from panther to turtle to elephant, as is preferred for combat and rescue workers. It's original user was fully integrated with it, to a degree she was capable of pushing it to 'hold on' to one animal part, return to her base form with that part, and transform into another animal, holding onto that last fragment of the first animal until she no longer needed it, but several copycats who have purchased the power after she retired have never integrated with it well enough to achieve that result, and it is considered impossible by a new user at this point in time."

The adult scoffed, but I knew the teen knew exactly what Hero I was referencing when they mouthed 'Animal Rescue' with stars in their eyes. She'd been among the first Heroes; her integration with her superpower had been flawless even for her generation, and the fact that my resale shop had her power was a crown jewel of our collection.

"The other is unrestricted," I said, keeping it short and sweet. "The user can shapeshift into anything. Animals, plants, other humanoid shapes, inanimate objects; there will only ever be one single discoloration the size of a thumbprint to indicate they are not what they appear to be. The only known drawback is that if a form is kept too long, the user may forget how to shift out of it, which is the only reason this superpower has been sold at all. The only previous user forgot which form was originally theirs, and the only way to find out was to give their power up. They elected not to take it back afterward, choosing to disappear and live a life away from the limelight."

"The Doppleganger," the teenager breathed, and their parent hardly breathed at all.

Prompt:  you have the ability to exchange wounds with other people. you're the only one who knows it works both ways Prompt Source: user [deleted]; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

My skin has been a patchwork of scars for as long as anyone can remember.

And that's the way I like it.

My power- both of them- are two halves, a double-edged sword, and I have managed it well, I think, throughout my lifetime.

Nobody but me needs to know everything- well, nobody but me, and now you. I'm not going to pretend it's not going to be hard, that it's not going to be signing up for suffering and pain and looking like me before you're thirty, with scars that etch your skin telling stories not your own and frightening the children that come to the Healer's... what are they calling it now? College?

But you do have options- you've got choices. The Dean assigned me as your advisor because I'm uniquely qualified to advise you, if you get my drift. This Gift- these Gifts- are always paired, because that's the price. You don't Heal, not in any of the traditional ways- you don't encourage a wound to perform it's natural healing faster, or rewind a body part to before it was wounded, or imprint a pattern on the muscles and bones to make sure they heal exactly the way they're supposed to, or even use your magic to force wounds into whatever state would count as 'stable'- we haven't found anyone else with our Dean's magic quite yet. What we do is at once a thousand times harder and as easy as flicking a finger- we transfer wounds from one place to another.

Oh don't look at me like that. I said what I said the way I said it for a reason. When it manifests it's nearly always the same- someone we love gets hurt, and we transfer their injury to ourselves. We 'steal' their cuts and burns and broken bones. That's because of the other Gift that always manifests and pairs with it- Empathy. Extreme Empathy. Ever wished you could just not empathize with an abhorrent human being and find yourself thinking of them in an empathetic light involuntarily anyway? That's because it's not a mindset. It's a Gift. It's a safeguard.

Our ability to transfer isn't limited- it's not one-directional, and with enough training, you don't even have to transfer the whole injury; I've averted many life-threatening wounds by spreading the damage around. What was a punctured lung, spread across four or five people I'm healing, becomes a severely bruised rib all of us have in the same spot, and when you're as skilled as I you can even 'hide' that under the pain of other injuries by stealing only the pain, not the damage. Now just imagine the sort of damage and pain someone with the Gift of Transference could inflict if we weren't forced to Empathize with even our most hated enemies.

Now from here you can choose to either seal up your gifts- give them away, shut them up in a ball or a binding, I'm not certain how the Magic Masters do it- or keep them. If you keep them, you will have to learn control to a level you cannot imagine; your will of iron, to have so few scars, will need to be forged again, to steel, then to adamantium. You would have to learn to shield your mind from stray emotion, from attack by emotional magics, even from manipulation by common folk who catch on that we know what they're feeling and react to what we feel from them. And once the magic is mastered, you would have to learn to Heal- perform crude surgery, how to stitch a wound, wrap a bandage, and tend to the wounds you Transfer. I apply my own poultices, and stitch my own cuts, and salve my own bruises.

Being an Apprentice Healer is already no easy thing- to be an Empathic Healer harder yet, and to be one like me, hardest of all. I cannot heal with my magic, no matter how I strain it, no matter what I do to stretch and force it. Magic is not a bonsai or a bone, to be bound to a shape and trained to grow counter to it's nature. I have had to make truly terrible choices, at times, including risking my own life and those of my companions. I have lied to them, made it seem that desperation or mutation or an aid spell pre-cast made me able to spread the damage between us, because to lie to them about the risk of death goes against our Healer's Oath, but if I did not, then death was assured. And if I told them how, they might ask of me things not within my ability to give.

My oaths are as unique as I am. I may not lie about the chances of death, given a certain treatment option, or lack of treatment. I do not transfer anything severe, noticeable, or potentially scarring to anyone besides myself without consent. And when I must kill, I am oathed to do so as quickly and with as little pain as possible, both to be humane and to protect myself from my enemies' pain.

Why yes, I kill. I have had to, to protect myself and others; why do you think they sent you to me?

Empathy is it's own double-edged blade- for all that it protects others from us by making us feel the pain of others...

There is no Rage quite like that inspired by an Empath driven mad by suffering, pain, and torment.

My Adventuring party...

Well.

Cursed oath-breakers, delivered to whom you betrayed.

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.

Prompt:  "No," the Evil Emperor said to the demon lord "I will not sacrifice my captain of the guard to you. Not for all the power in the world. That is one line even I will not cross." Prompt Source: user KaiserArrowfield; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

"One line, he says," the demon Lord (his name was Forestqeue, thank you very much) said sarcastically as he gestured with his teacup. "One line you won't cross! Really? You also won't sell children into slavery-"

"It's abhorrent"

"-even pretend it's acceptable to muck about with sexual consent-"

"Because it's not, consent is clearly and easily defined as only valid if it's clear and ongoing!"

"-AND you won't do blood sacrifices, implied debt, indentured servitude, OR making questionable pacts with beings of dubious moral standard! And he says he has only /one/ line he won't cross!"

"Forest, we've had this argument every time you come over for tea, literally there is only one line, it's just that all of those things are well OVER my line. I'm starting to think she's right, by the way, and that you DO come over just to rehash this argument because it's a familiar stalemate."

"It's much easier than trying to rewrite tax laws in my own lands, I'll tell you that," the Lord shuddered and dumped the contents of a flask into his cup. It went from being tea-colored to looking like a slice of the night sky, barely contained by porcelain.

"It takes quite a lot of stress for you to break out the Astra Liquor, Forest. Other than the inherent difficulties you've expounded on- at length- of rewriting Laws that are inherently magically binding while simultaneously dismantling the magic of the previous Law, what else troubles you?"

"My daughter's started bringing suitors to the Palace," he groaned, putting his horned head face-down on the table and covering his head with both hands, claws working deep into his mane.

The Captain caught the cup before it floated off and broke on the ceiling.

"Does that not mean you can intimidate them properly, sir?" she inquired.

"I mean, yes, but tradition dictates I can't go full Fatherly Intimidating on them until after they make their courting intent known AND she picks one, THEN I can test him to see if he'll be a strong enough, or loyal enough, mate for my baby girl. In the meantime I have forty-seven peacocking little demons parading around my front Hall, getting into arguments, scrapping in public, damaging my furniture! Ohhhh they're insufferable. And I can't get any WORK done, they've bumbled into two different magical workings already- one of them is shapeshifted into a cow and has my mages wrapped up in how to turn him back, and two more are currently working their way through every brothel in the kindgom until their curse wears off, I don't dare start working on a Law with them in the Palace."

The Emperor, whom his enemies called Evil, and of course his people didn't (they called him by his name, Hardol), gave his friend a consoling pat to the hand.

"Have you considered setting them a Suitor's Task? You know, one of those traditional events held to weed out the less worthy of potentials by testing their wit or- well, I suppose two would run away with the 'vigor', so perhaps something about strength or political maneuvering instead," he chuckled, listening to Forest groan.

"Something to get them out of the palace for a day would let you work, though! At least in small stints."

Tired gray eyes peeked out from under the heavy brow ridges, and Forest sat up to take his cup back from Brigid.

"You sound like this is from experience."

Hardol grinned around his tea.

"Brigid has had excellent ideas for getting rid of unwanted pests that won't leave the throne room and keep complaining, repeatedly, about my lack of Heirs, and my lack of a Harem, and how they have numerous daughters available on offer," he said, tone as bland as his smile was wicked.

"Oh-ho! Now THAT'S what I come here for, do give me the gossip on what the dowagers got up to this time!"

The page who'd brought the tea slipped out, knowing he'd been noticed, but still quietly keeping up the pretense that pages and serving-boys were invisible, shaking his head as he removed the empty plates and cups from the first half of the "Demon Lord Negotiation Session" in progress. Yeah, his spy network hadn't lied; the "evil emperor, dominion of nations" wasn't evil to his own, and didn't care to sacrifice those who were loyal.

Prompt: You moved into a new house, rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a murdered housewife. One day, you try and catch proof of the ghost. At night, in the kitchen, you see a spectral woman...cleaning the house? She sees you and says “...sorry...the afterlife was dull...this is much better” Prompt Source: user Kradsens; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

"Ah," I said, guiltily shuffling my feet as I became abruptly aware that I was in just a pair of sleep shorts and had my arms stuffed with dirty dishes I had just hunted through my room for.

"Let me just- I don't want to drop these," I mumbled, carefully putting each ceramic mug down in the sink, followed by the stack of plates and bowls.

"You don't have to apologize for cleaning, Miss...or Mrs?"

"Miss, please. Hargrave. I know, the irony," she smiled at me where she was clutching the kitchen broom.

"If you've been watching me much, then I'm sure you know very well I also clean, though mostly sporadically and inefficiently."

"Young man, you forget things for days, and then start to look stressed and hopeless when you realize how many things you forgot! You have bills to pay, and work to do, and picking up after you isn't half as frustrating as my husband was when I was alive," Miss Hargrave assured, putting the broom away before sweeping over to the dish drainer and starting to put things away. She was miraculously silent; nothing clinked or clacked while she worked. No wonder I never heard her before.

"It's part of my disorder, actually, Miss. It's the ADHD, I literally can't see them, until I can," I explained, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly.

"That explains why you look so distressed to discover the mess, at least. It's much more interesting than the afterlife and it seemed a nice thing I could do to help you, young man- has it been helping?"

"Oh, so much! I thought I'd hired a cleaning service and just forgot!"

She smiled, and I felt bad about the cameras and attempts to catch pictures now.

"I'm glad. I'll stay on as roommate, if you don't mind."

"Better than any of the other candidates, Miss Hargrave. Not that there are many, but- y'know."

"Yes. Now, you toddle yourself back to bed, young man! You have work in the morning!"

Laughing, I went to bed.

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.

Prompt: The Zalrex were feared among the galaxy as the most cruel, violent and ruthless species. They would bully, slap, hit, sometimes even kill other species. Nobody could stand in their way.. till they arrived on a small blue planet named Earth. Prompt Source: user Spaceman_Beard; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

"You shouldn't have done that" became a phrase out of nightmares.

It sounded innocent enough, did it not? A simple chastisement. A factual statement. Even an elucidating comment. Not something that would normally become the blood and bone of psychological horror.

But that's what it became when the Zalrex landed on Earth. UK-OTE-4461 was it's official designation on intergalactic maps, indicating there were heavy metals, light metals, and nuclear power sources on the planet that could help a traveler low on fuel limp a few hundred more light years to a proper repair station. The Zalrex, brutes that they were, had decided it would be amusing to strip the planet of all viable materials and make it impossible for travelers to use it that way ever again.

They did not anticipate that UK-OTE-4461 had sophont inhabitants who could still contemplate resistance to the cruelty of the Zalrex scourge.

Nobody had contemplated that any sophont nations or peoples were willing to resist the Zalrex.

They had started strong; they had landed in profusion, rapidly rounding up the inhabitants who appeared to be descended of a docile prey-species, which typically responded particularly well to their usual tactics of shouting, pushing, threatening, and where necessary making good on their threats of violence. The inhabitants- 'humans', they called themselves- had gone where directed, appearing to cave to the threats and allowing the Zalrex commanders to save fuel and energy on not having to perform too much violence in getting their camps established, always a critical time for conquering a planet.

Then, though...

Then came The Mistake.

A young commander, newly promoted to his position, and cocky about it, had decided to perform lethal violence on a complying human simply for the thrill of the kill. Only officers in the Zalrex army were permitted to use lethal force, and the power had gone to his head.

That was when things... changed.

"You shouldn'a done that," said a voice out of the depths of the crowd; those watching the recordings afterward felt a horrified shudder of fear at The Phrase's first utterance.

"You really shouldn'a done that," the voice repeated, as the crowd ceased to move forward, began to mill, began to turn.

"Don't you know nothin' about basic psychology? Followin' through on a beatin' so we know you mean business, that's one thing. It's awful, but it's a bound'ry we can understand. But if all obedience and compliance will buy is death anyway... a cornered beast will fight fer th'right ta take you down with us."

The officer never got the time to understand the danger he faced; the crowd, turned into a furious mob, mowed him down with fists and feet, took his weapons and then turned them on his fellows and broke the officer's defensive lines before they even knew there was a need for defense.

The only sound was the roar of the mob as it surged; not even the best audio recording technology in the universe could catch the death-screams or cries of the Zalrex who were taken into the maw of that bloody beast. The roar seemed to echo and rebound- the moment a different crowd heard it, heard the screaming and the cries and the calling for retribution, for freedom, each formerly-docile crowd became a new mob that unleashed a new wave of wanton death and destruction such as the rest of the universe had never seen. It crushed as many humans beneath the force of the killing rage as it did Zalrex; if the Bloody Beast that was the moving mass of humans noticed, it did not care.

The end was a single human, small, young perhaps, standing on a pile of corpses and looking down at what was left of the Zalrex High Command.

"You may take your wounded and give rites for your dead and leave."

It was the same cold voice that had said the officer should not have done what he had.

"I tried to warn you. We are warriors. We tolerate no insult, we take no dishonor. When you inflict pain on us it only makes our drive to see you dead stronger and hotter, every ounce of pain paid out serving to make our hate run deeper until we are forced to act. I told you. Some roughing up, some fear tactics, and you can get compliance. But if you killed anyone who was complying, anyone who hadn't attacked you first, this would happen. Go. Make sure your allies know better."

Walking out of the theater, one Chim-shin turned to their friend. "Do you think it really went like that?"

"Oh, psst. Of course not, they always play it up for the movie version!"

"No," said a haunted voice from the side, and both of them started when they realized a Zalrex stood there, face drawn and paled to the same shade as a poison mushroom, all four arms wrapped around their torso and tail tucked so far between their legs it almost couldn't be seen.

"We promised to tell everyone who would listen. So no one else would make the same mistake. That's almost exactly how it went. I don't know what rank that human holds in their armies, but it must be high, to know so well that a single foolish action would set off a genocide."

The Chim-shin and their friend hurried away uncomfortably, leaving the Zalrex to his memories.

And on Earth, a Psychology student who was almost done with her thesis for her bachelor's sneezed.