#scifiwriting

"What part of your story came first?"

Not the title.

Not the genre.

Not even the plot.

The very first thing.

Was it a character?

A scene?

A line of dialogue?

A setting?

A random "what if" question?

It's always fascinating to me because two people can end up writing completely different books from ideas that started in almost the same way.

What Cyberpunk’s Authors Were Actually Trying to Do — and Why Some Futures Aged Better Than Others

Cyberpunk has always had a branding problem. To outsiders it looks like neon, mirrorshades, and leather jackets arguing with capitalism. To insiders, it’s something much colder: a literature of angles, not predictions. The best cyberpunk writers were never trying to guess gadgets. They were stress-testing power, culture, and human behaviour under technological pressure.

Which is why, thirty to forty years on, some works feel eerily documentary — while others feel like a warm duvet wrapped around a collapsing building.

This is a story about that split.

The Early Warning System: Gibson and Structural Reality

When Neuromancer landed, William Gibson wasn’t forecasting the future so much as mapping inequality as an environment. His worlds weren’t “what if” scenarios — they were pressure chambers. Corporations weren’t villains, they were weather systems. You didn’t fight them; you dressed for them and hoped not to drown.

Gibson’s later Blue Ant trilogy quietly completed that arc. No cyberspace cowboys. No chrome prosthetics. Just brand consultants, billionaires with custom aircraft, private intelligence networks, and governments that could be stepped into and out of like badly managed meeting rooms.

Readers who worked in tech, media, or consultancy between roughly 2010–2016 didn’t read Blue Ant as science fiction. They read it as Tuesday. The power dynamics were already in place: capital drifting freely, culture as soft logistics, and influence replacing ideology.¹

This wasn’t cyberpunk abandoning the future. It was cyberpunk admitting the future had already arrived — boring, expensive, and quietly owned.

Snow Crash: Culture as a Weapon System

If Gibson mapped terrain, Neal Stephenson weaponised language.

Snow Crash is often misremembered as a book about VR avatars and sword-wielding hackers. That’s cosplay. The real payload was memetics: the idea that culture itself can function as executable code.

Stephenson wasn’t predicting smartphones or virtual worlds. He was modelling information as an attack surface — language as malware, belief as a delivery vector, identity as something that could be hijacked remotely. In hindsight, Snow Crash reads less like satire and more like a pre-mortem for algorithmic radicalisation, disinformation campaigns, and culture-war psyops.²

Later works like REAMDE and Fall; or, Dodge in Hell doubled down on systems thinking: cryptographic trust, object persistence, tokenised agency. Long before NFTs became a punchline, Stephenson was already asking what happens when objects gain verifiable identity across worlds.

It wasn’t hype. It was architecture.

Ready Player One: The Comfort Culture Problem

Then there’s Ready Player One by Ernest Cline — a book that knows exactly what it’s doing and can’t stop itself anyway.

On the surface, Ready Player One gestures toward critique: corporate control is bad, living in the past is unhealthy, escapism is dangerous. But structurally, the book rewards characters exclusively for deep immersion in nostalgia. Cultural recall becomes moral worth. The future is inherited by whoever memorised the past hardest.

This is where the fault line opens.

Ready Player One doesn’t build a future culture — it curates a museum gift shop and calls it a civilisation. Nostalgia isn’t treated as a transitional comfort (a blanket); it’s repurposed as infrastructure (a house). The book warns the reader not to live there — then hands them the keys.

When the Hollywood adaptation arrived, it wasn’t a betrayal. It was destiny. The text was already ideologically primed for stewardship rather than resistance. Corporate capture wasn’t challenged; it was aestheticised. The system remained inevitable — just slightly nicer if the right nerd was in charge.

Cyberpunk without consequences isn’t rebellion. It’s reassurance.

Why Some Futures Age and Others Fossilise

The dividing line isn’t optimism versus pessimism. It’s angle.

Gibson wrote about power as ambient reality

Stephenson wrote about culture as weaponised code

Cline wrote about nostalgia as identity validation

The first two interrogate systems that operate regardless of individual virtue. The third centres emotional comfort — and comfort cultures do not survive contact with power. They get absorbed, branded, and resold.

Which is why readers now find themselves nostalgically longing for the Blue Ant era tech world — a time that already felt compromised, but still had friction, ambiguity, and room to move sideways. That nostalgia isn’t for gadgets. It’s for operating space.

Conclusion: Cyberpunk Was Never About the Future

Cyberpunk’s mistake was letting people think it was predictive.

It was diagnostic.

The best cyberpunk didn’t ask what will happen. It asked who benefits, who pays, and who disappears quietly.

Some authors followed that question wherever it led — into uncomfortable realism. Others flinched and wrapped the answer in pop culture references like insulation.

And here we are, decades later, living in a world Gibson documented, Stephenson modelled, and Ready Player One tried very hard not to think about.

Nostalgia is still useful. Just don’t try to build a civilisation out of it.

References

Gibson, W. Pattern Recognition (2003); Spook Country (2007); Zero History (2010).

Stephenson, N. Snow Crash (1992); see also contemporary analysis of memetic warfare and information operations in digital culture.

Where the Cakes Are Stale, the Candy Might Kill You, and the Smell of Burnt Flesh Just Adds to the Ambience

Ah, the Hive City Bakery and Sweets Market—where sugar, despair, and the faint scent of industrial lubricant mix into an unholy cocktail of culinary horror. If you’ve ever wondered what a post-apocalyptic bake sale looks like, congratulations, you just found it.

What’s on the menu, you ask? Oh, just the most depressing, borderline-toxic confections you’ve ever encountered.

1. “Corpse-Starch Croissants” – You Don’t Want to Know What’s in Them

Ever had a croissant so dry it doubles as sandpaper? Now imagine it was made from the recycled bodies of the unfortunate. Congratulations, you’ve just bitten into the Hive’s signature Corpse-Starch Croissant.

✨ Flaky! (Like the guy who swore he’d pay you back.) ✨ Filling! (In the same way that eating drywall is.) ✨ Sustainably sourced! (From yesterday’s unlucky citizens.)

Eat it. Don’t ask questions. If you’re hungry enough, you won’t care.

2. “Sludge Pies” – Now With 40% Less Industrial Waste!

A “pie” in the loosest sense of the word, Sludge Pies are served warm—mainly because they’re still fermenting in their own filth.

🥧 The Crust? Half-burnt, half-raw, 100% regret. 🥧 The Filling? A mystery slurry that probably started as something edible but has long since become a sentient goo that might fight back. 🥧 The Experience? A 70/30 chance of immediate food poisoning or enlightenment.

Perfect for those with no self-respect or functioning taste buds.

3. “Synth-Sugar Candies” – Sweet, Addictive, and Probably Illegal

Ever wanted to taste cavity-inducing regret with just a hint of chemical burns? Welcome to Synth-Sugar Candies, the Hive’s answer to real sweets—except engineered in some back-alley lab by a guy named Grim Jax.

🍬 Glows in the dark (definitely not natural). 🍬 Might contain traces of actual sugar. Maybe. 🍬 Side effects include dizziness, hallucinations, and brief moments of cosmic awareness.

Kids love them. Authorities hate them. That’s how you know they’re good.

4. “Meat” Puffs – But What Kind of Meat? No One Knows.

Listen, in the Grimdark Hive, you don’t ask what the meat is. If it smells vaguely edible and doesn’t actively try to crawl off your plate, it’s dinner.

🥩 Possibilities include: ✅ Rat? Maybe. ✅ Some dude who owed money to the wrong people? Could be. ✅ Industrial waste reprocessed into something “protein-adjacent”? Most likely.

Either way, slap it in some questionable pastry dough, deep fry it in yesterday’s recycled grease, and BOOM—you got yourself a Meat Puff.

Hope your stomach can handle mystery protein.

5. “Recaf ‘Delights’” – Wake Up and Regret Your Choices

Need caffeine but also mild psychosis? Try a Recaf Delight, a pastry infused with enough synthetic stimulants to make your teeth vibrate out of your skull.

☕ Baked fresh-ish daily. ☕ Tastes like burnt battery acid. ☕ Comes with a free existential crisis.

Pairs well with crippling debt and the weight of existence.

⚠️ WARNING: Consumption may cause:

☠️ Instant regret & irreversible digestive trauma. ☠️ Hallucinations, organ failure, or spontaneous mutation. ☠️ Your food to fight back. ☠️ An unshakable feeling of being cursed.

👀 If your Meat Puff twitches, chew faster.

💀 NO REFUNDS. NO LIABILITY. NO SURVIVORS GUARANTEED.

🔥REBLOG If you want more! 🍳

The simplicity of said does exactly what it needs to: it identifies the speaker. Don’t abandon the word said completely, but here are some other ways to describe your dialogue! 

1) Use a physical gesture. This allows for the character to interact with their environment for more detailed imagery. 

     “Please, don’t leave me!” She grabbed at the hem of his golden cloak as he turned away from her, the finely crafted material slipping from her wet fingers.

2) Use different synonyms of said to add atmosphere. This can help create tone and volume in your scene, but should be used sparingly. They add a nice flavor and clarity to an important scene— however, some authors think “said” should still be your default.

     “Please, don’t leave me!” She bellowed. 

3) Replace dialogue tags with action in a way that moves the plot along. This kills two birds with one stone. It shows who is speaking, while also pressing the story forward.

     “Please, don’t leave me!” She grabbed at the hem of his golden cloak and a crumbled note fell from his pocket.

4) Use no description at all! If you’ve already clarified who will be speaking from the context above and want the dialogue to stand alone, you could try using no tags.

     She sat in a puddle of her own tears, grabbing at the hem of his golden cloak. He turned away from her, the finely crafted material slipping from her wet fingers. She pressed her hands to her chest, the tightness threatening to subdue her.      “Please, don’t leave me!”

Instagram: coffeebeanwriting Pt. 2 — Coming Soon!

Control takes place in a far-flung future setting. Humanity, long ago fled the milky way, and occupies a distant star system. Corporations have taken over, their enforcers holding down the brutal laws of profit over all else. Crime and violence are rampant, the people are hopeless. 

The story is about a woman named Aluria Giovanni. Daughter of Alenxandros, the most feared crime bosses in the system, Aluria lives a life of luxury and privilege. Her father holds much power and influence, all thanks to his ambitious vision. 

When they were children, Aluria and her brother received numerous biological augmentations. Entirely unheard of and untested, these experiments yielded superhuman abilities. Regeneration, enhanced senses and reflexes, everything to make them the deadliest of killers. Her father used them to cement his stranglehold on the criminal underworld. 

For years, Aluria served with loyalty, until recently she’s begun to doubt it all. She dreams of leaving, of running, but every time she wakes, she’s back home. Memories begin to invade her mind, ones she swears are false. But as time goes on, Aluria starts to doubt exactly what’s real, and what’s not…

“8 o’clock!”

“Contacts!”

“Bursts, goddammit, save your fuckin’ ammo!”

“Not like this, I-I can’t go like this!”

It was a cacophony, a violent chorus of screams, yelling, weapons fire, and rabid growls and roars. The whole situation was a mess, a simple salvage operation for a supposedly abandoned mega-freighter, the Keh’Ti, turned into a meat grinder as the group, a few engineers with four mercenaries for protection, encountered a countless amount of those turned by the Yuul’varchi, the Invasive Gene which ravaged the Coalition's western border. These hybrids were grotesque, misshapen creatures that barely resembled their former selves. Their skin turned gangrenous, drooping and outright missing in some areas, their limbs morphed into bloodstained claws and blades, dozens of unblinking milk-white eyes littered their head and bodies, their jaws split into two, and tentacles burst out of their rotten flesh. The hybrids had none of their sapient qualities left, they merely charged, clawed, bit, and stabbed at those they saw as prey or threats, gibbering meaningless nonsense and roaring with primal anger.

The mei’xer mercenary known as Lebowski knelt on the viscera covered floor, shouldering his rifle and firing well aimed bursts into the creatures' heads and torsos. Despite their sickly appearance, the hybrids had a surprising resilience, tanking fatal shots as bile-esc blood leaked from their wounds, though the gunslinger's shots tended to down them, if not stagger them long enough for another merc to down. Very often, these stumbled hybrids would meet a grisly end, courtesy of a massive 12.7mm cartridge delivered by Lebowski’s partner and lover, a zaarl’mrk named Red. Hidden within the maroon confines of her heavily modified and armed NZMIS, she stood far above the rest of their band, nearly 3 meters in height. When not annihilating hybrids with her suit’s built in heavy machine gun, Red would use her suits massive weight as a weapon, punching monsters into bloody pulps, or crushing them under her foot. She’d also use her extremely potent telekinetics, ripping hybrids in two, or flinging their own bone-formed blades back at the horde, without laying a mechanical finger on them.

Despite corpses littering the floor, there seemed to be no end to the horde, they just kept pushing the group back. One of the engineers, a panicked human welder named Kurji, said she saw a door near the end of the hallway. Lebowski emptied another magazine into a hybrid, appearing to be born from a human, which seemed to do little more than open up its stomach. As it stumbled back, distorted entrails and rancid fluid leaking from its freshly opened abdomen, the mei’xer ejected the spent magazine from his rifle, and threw it full force at the beast’s head. With a little help from Red, it embedded itself into its skull, dropping it. She then telekinetically pulled another magazine for the caseless rifle from his leg pouch, which he took with his right hand, quickly inserting it, and racking the charging handle, chambering another round.

“I got two mags ‘eft!” he yelled to the group, firing single shots to save ammo.

“I have six.” Red stated, using her suit’s emotionless voice synthesizer

“One, I-I’ve got one!” yelled one of the other merc, a rahtil called Chopper.

“Three!” replied the final merc, a mei’xer by the name of Qui’Jei

“We’re fucked!” a frightened Kurji stated, “W-we’re not gonna make it!”

“We’ll make it, ma’am!” Lebowski retorted

The group took a few steps back, the mercs continuing to fire at the horde.

“I have an idea,” Red spoke, “everyone needs to get behind me.”

“Flamer?” asked the gunslinger.

A blip, something akin to a confirming grunt. Lebowski turned his head to the rest of the group, and told them to get back, shooing them away if necessary. The mercs flanked Red’s sides, trying to form a wall of gunfire to stop the hybrids from getting to the terrified engineers. Red held her left arm out, and formed a fist, causing a panel on the forearm to pop open. It raised with a mechanical whirr, and revealed a decently sized flamethrower. With a click and “poofh,” a small, blue flame burst to life, a pilot light for the fuel within the arm, then the zaarl’mrk aimed it at the horde. A massive stream of orange flame shot from the device, lathering the hybrids in a burning, gel-like fluid. They squealed in pain, flailing about as the flames consumed their corrupted bodies. A fair few dropped right then and there, forming a wall of flame which most of the horde avoided, if not fleeing outright.

“A’ight, I think we got ourselves some time.” Lebowski said, a hint of relief on his accented voice, “‘ey, one of ya engies, could you check the door?”

“Mmhm, got it!” physically replied the other engineer, a T’uv technician nicknamed Jumper. He, covered by Qui’Jei, rushed to the door, which was a low tech but functional manual bulkhead. The technician began to open the door, opening the seal by attempting to crank it’s wheel-esc handle, while the mercenary kept his rifle, a heavy but powerful Grak-6, readied. Making little progress, Kurji rushed over to assist the T’uv, helping him move the stubborn handle with a metallic squeal.

“Rusty piece of shit-”

“Jumper, s-shut up and just get this thing open!”

An insectoid click of annoyance.

Most of the Hybrids seemed to have retreated, though a few still paced behind the fire, growling and chittering. Red would occasionally use her telekinetics to fling ones into the steel walls if it got too close, but the creature’s apparent fear of fire made that a rarity.

“Gawds…” whispered Lebowski, “our entrance is fuckin’ cut off, ainit?” he asked, to the rest of the group.

“Appears so.” the zaarl’mrk replied, “Kurji, do you have schematics for this vessel’s layout?”

“B-bit busy r-right now!” she yelled back, adrenaline still overloading her system

“Still a damn mega-freighter,” retorted Qui’Jei, “it’ll take divinites-know how long to get back to th-”

A vent cover above them fell to the ground with a crash, causing the welder to yelp, and most everyone to look towards it. Then, from the open vent, fell a rahtil Yuul’varchi hybrid, this one a little shorter than Red. The flesh on its lower arms was either missing or in tatters, revealing that the skeleton underneath were shaped into nearly meter long jagged blades, covered in a Pollock-esc menagerie of gore. Much of its body was covered in third degree burns, some of which a thick scab was forming over. With a piercing howl, which sounded more like an agonized scream than a roar, it convulsed, and a barbed whip-like tongue shot out of its maw, covered in blood and bile. It wrapped around Qui’Jei’s neck, slicing through his environmental suit and flesh, causing a spray of blue blood, and white sealant foam, which formed around the tentacle. As he, along with Kurji, screamed, it pulled him closer to it’s blades with surprising force, nearly ripping the man’s head off and replacing it with a wet gurgle, followed by the blades piercing his abdomen, and silencing him. As it brutalized his torso, Lebowski fired a round into the hybrid’s leg, causing it to nearly fall over. Red then picked the beast up, her left hand wrapping around it’s torso, ripping it’s nearly 6 meter long tongue out her telekinetic powers. As the tendril and Qui’Jei’s corpse fell to the ground with a wet “thunk,” Red slammed the flailing creature into the opposite wall, reducing its chest into little more than mush and gore. It’s remains flopped to the floor, twitching from leftover nerve impulses.

Korju, witnessing so much carnage in the past two hours, more than she’s ever witnessed in her long, nearly 15 career as a salvage welder, her EVA suit now covered in not only hybrid viscara, but the royal blue blood of one of the mercenaries hired to protect her from pirates. Pirates, not these things that used to be the crew of a cargo ship. She slumped down against the wall, and curled up, quietly sobbing behind the polycarbonate visor of her helmet. Jumper chittered with disdain, leading to more than a few curses courtesy of Lebowski. Chopper attended to comforting the rapidly melting down Korju.

“Listen here, ammonia breather,” Jumper spat at the gunslinger, “we’ll be fucking mincemeat if we don’t get this damn door open!”

“Yer yellin’ ain’t helpin’ get it open.” he retorted.

“Well no one’s helping me, dipshit! And she’s breaking down-”

Red, rather peeved by Jumper’s derogatives towards Lebowski, and the generally wasteful use of time, stomps towards the door, and with a few heavy kicks, busts the bulkhead door down, leaving it a mangled mess. She turns to the t’uv, and steps closer to Jumper, towering over the 152 centimeter technician,

“Don’t call him that.” she threatens with her suit’s flat voice, promptly turning and going through the door.

Jumper and Lebowski stood there for a bit, the former taken aback, before both following the warrior. The gunslinger tapped on Chopper’s shoulder before stepping through.

“‘Ey, I know she ain’t doing so hot, but we gotta move.” He quietly stated.

“S-she needs help, Lebowski-”

“An’ it ain’t safe ‘ere, talk an’ move, man, talk an’ move.”

    Lebowski then went through the doorway, quickly joining Red’s side, and securing his rifle to a sling. He tapped quickly on the jury rigged wrist-computer on his left arm, opening the two’s secure comm channel.

“You doin’ good?” he asked his lover.

“....I am at functional levels.” she replied.

“Not sure if that clas’ifies as good, Mej’ouili.”

“It doesn’t.”

    They were silent for a bit, walking through the remains of what appeared to be a small lounge. Chopper and Kurji rejoined the group, though they hung back a bit, talking in hushed tones.

“...and I’m guessin’ ya donwanna talk ‘bout it?”

“Not yet. Later. Back home.”

“Think we’ll make it?”