[WP] Your Grandma, a shape-shifter, is diagnosed with Alzheimers. She begins to forget her true form...or was it a disguise all along?
Grandpa and I walked into the entrance of St Mary’s hospital. In the ever-bustling reception area, Healers strode purposefully in all directions. We made straight for the elevator, heading to the Geriatric Unit on level 4. As the elevator door opened, I saw a young boy sitting in a wheelchair who was being pushed by- who I assumed to be- his mother. His right leg was completely covered in a white plaster cast. Grandpa made sure the door of the elevator didn’t shut as they passed through and the woman cast him a grateful smile. As they moved away, I caught the beginning of an argument between the two.
“So you’re really going to take my X-box away for two whole weeks?”
“I told you Timothy, if you didn’t try to stop this levitation nonsense before you’re old enough, that there would be punishment.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” the boy whined, “Jake double dared me. Double dared me Mom. Plus, he levitates around the house whenever he wants.”
“You jumped off the roof Timmy! If we didn’t get you to a good healer in time, who knows what would have happened. Now stop arguing before I make it three weeks…”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. As the elevator ascended, I looked up at my Grandpa. He had always been a tall man, but these days there was a slight stoop in his posture. The twinkle in his usually-bright blue eyes had dimmed. An invisible weight tugged on the corners of his smile. But, ever stoic, he looked down at me and spoke in a forcefully cheerful tone.
“What do you think she’ll be today, Maddie?”
These days, Grandma had taken a liking to shifting into her favourite historical figures. Yesterday it had been Queen Elizabeth the second. For the entire visit, she spoke in a high English accent and inquired regularly as to the whereabouts of her beloved Corgi dogs. The Healers had informed us that she had already requested 9 cups of tea that day.
I flashed Grandpa a grin. “I don’t know, but really hoping she’s gotten sick of the Queen. I’m not sure either of us could handle being asked any more questions about what the Daily Telegraph had to say about her outfit she wore on the day of her Diamond Jubilee.”
Grandpa chuckled. As we entered the ward, we were greeted cheerily by all the staff we passed. We were regulars now, and most greeted us by name. I saw my Grandma’s primary Healer step out of a nearby room. Even if one was born with the Healing gift, there were certain limitations to the extent that one could "heal" the body; and some things that even the most skilled of healers could not fix. Degenerative conditions of the brain were amoung these ailments. All Healers were, hence, required to attend medical school as any other Doctor would. Healer Saunders, who was in charge of Grandma’s care, also had a degree in both Neurology and Geriatrics.
“Healer Saunders!” I called.
The man spinned in my direction and, recognising me and my Grandpa, walked towards us.
“How is she doing today?”
The man smiled with genuine warmth. “Judith is doing just fine today, although,” he paused and furrowed his brow, “I must admit, I have no idea who she is. Her current form I mean. But she is perfectly fine for visitors.”
Grandpa and I strode into Grandma’s private room where Grandma was standing, gazing out of the room's window. When she turned to look at her visitors, her face was that of a young woman. She looked to be about in her young 20’s. She had wide, chocolate coloured eyes and tresses of beautiful, long dark hair. I felt my Grandpa freeze in his stride. When I looked up, his face was contorted into an expression I had never seen before. It was… Pain. Longing. Disbelief.
Grandma’s face light up when she saw him. “Oh, Harold, thank goodness you’ve arrived. I thought we were going to be late!”
Suddenly, I understood. Tears were streaming silently down my Grandpa’s face. She had not recognised him in over a year. Somehow, he forced calm words out of his mouth.
“L-late for what, my dear?”
“The dance, silly!” Grandma giggled. But then her expression turned serious. “The only problem is… I can’t seem to find my dress. And I can’t go in this old thing.” she said, motioning down to her hospital gown.
“Oh, don’t worry my love… I think I know where you left it.”
“You’re wonderful Harold,” said Grandma. I had never seen anyone look at another person like she was looking at Grandpa right at that moment. She walked up to him and kissed his cheek.
“I’ll be right back, darling” said Grandpa, and he exited the room. I followed swiftly in his wake. He sat down on a nearby chair, and covered his face with his hands. I could tell by the movement of his shoulders that he was sobbing.
“That’s… Grandma when she was younger?”
Grandpa looked up, and took a shaky breath. “Yes… that’s Judie when she was 23. I was 25. We were going to the faculty dance that night. I forgot… I forgot how beautiful she was.” He was silent for a moment. “The pictures don’t do her justice. Not even slightly.” He sighed. “Come Maddie, we should probably go.”
I shook my head. “We’re not going anywhere. You’re taking Grandma to a dance. Wait here… Just for a few minutes. Literally.” I smiled playfully.
When I ran, time slowed nearly to a halt. Speed was my gift, and there was no better time to use it than now. Just over 36 seconds later, I burst into my room. The friction had burnt the soles of my shoes and the carpet slightly.
“Worth it.” I muttered.
I grabbed my prom dress from the cupboard, and rubbed the soft pink silk between my fingers. I knew it would fit Grandma easily. I picked up some of my jewellery and some make-up from the drawer too. I rushed to Grandpa’s room, and picked out one of the suits he reserved for special events. Soon, I was back in the Ward, carrying my items and panting slightly. I held them out to Grandpa, whose eyes were still wide in wake of my sudden disappearance.
“You’re taking Grandma to the dance.” I stated firmly.
He looked up at me, and that twinkle in his bright blue eyes which I had missed so much was back. “But Maddie… where will I take her?”
I pondered for a moment. “Well, in the time it will take you both to get ready, I reckon I will have found something suitable… I’m pretty fast. Now go tell Grandma you found her dress." And with that, time ground to a near-halt as I ran back out of the hospital doors.
[WP] Instead of being funded by John Hammond, Jurassic Park is instead funded by his second cousin on his father's side: Richard Hammond. Along with Jeremy Clarkson and James May, how would Jurassic Park: Top Gear Edition be different?
Announcer Jeremy: Tonight, on The Grand Tour: James is attacked by a Compy. I take a casual offroad drive in a Land Rover. And Richard pees himself.
Jeremy: Helloooo Hellooooo, thank you thank you, and welcome to the Grand Tour. Coming to you from Isla Meurta.
James: I say doesn't that mean the Island of Death?
Jeremy: Yes it does James, but don't think too much about it we've been in worse places.
James: Like what, exactly? I saw an actual Dinosaur as we came in on the Engine Helicopter. Four feet and a giant gaping mouth.
Hammond: Looked rather like Margaret Thatcher
Jeremy: Thank you Richard. No that was a herbivore, and we like herbivores, they don't try to eat us.
Richard: Wait hold on how do you know it was a herbivore? You are no expert on dinosaurs sir. In fact you are an expert on nothing. Why are we here?
Jeremy: Hammond we are here because your lawyer called the Producers and informed them that you now own this park, and the Producers saw an opportunity.
Richard: Wait hold on, I own this now? They didn't tell me that.
Jeremy: No they were waiting to see if you got eaten first.
James: May I just point out that while the dinosaur we saw when we first landed was in fact a Diplodocus and thus a herbivore, there are signs on this map I've just been handed by the Producers which clearly say Tyrannosaurus Rex pens and Velociraptor Field. These are not...
Jeremy: Yes yes, that's all well and good James, but nobody cares about what you're saying because it's boring. We have been given a challenge. We are to, in a word, survive. We will make our way from this welcome center, through the Raptor fields, past the T-Rex pen, and lastly finish the tour at the exit gates here at the ferry dock. And we will be doing so in these: Richard you'll be driving a 2003 Jeep Grand Cherokee. James you shall be driving a 1988 Toyota Land Cruiser, and I shall be driving a 2001 Land Rover. Mine of course has more power, because I asked for the most powerful one.
James: They all look hideous.
Jeremy: Blame Hammond for that, he owns this place now this is his paint scheme.
Richard: Wait you can't blame me for this I've just found out I own the place. And don't touch that, that looks expensive to fix.
Announcer Jeremy: So we set off on our tour of the island. The Producers gave each of us a flare gun and a package of bear spray, along with a map. James wanted to lead the way but I quickly determined that he was going too slowly so I chose an opportune moment to surge ahead.
James: Clarkson you pillock, we have no idea what's ahead of us, slow down!
Richard: Yes slow down Jeremy, you might crash into my new park and if you do you're paying for the damages.
Jeremy: Hammond if I crash into anything it will just be gasoline in a few years so look on the bright side, you've got a future in OPEC!
Announcer Jeremy: Everything was going smoothly under my direction when suddenly things took a turn for the worse.
James: ...of course this entire park appears to be fabricated from plants and animals that evolved millions of years apart, and could never have existed the same time. That plant over to our right for example is from the Triassic era, while that small dinosaur up ahead would appear to have been from the Tithonian age...
Announcer Richard: James was then attacked by a large number of small dinosaurs. The Toyota was up to the task.
James: Get away from me you little bast....
Jeremy: Everything ok back there James? I accidentally bumped a gate open a few minutes ago, I trust everything is progressing normally?
James: Clarkson you cock, you've let some dinosaurs out into the wild and they've attacked my truck. My tires have been eaten by some sort of acid.
Richard: What do you mean you bumped a gate open Jeremy? If you've damaged my park I'm going to have it taken from your pay.
Announcer Jeremy: We progressed through the park, James with a new tire and horribly scarred paint job that actually improved the look of his Toyota. As we approached the Raptor portion of the journey Richard began to show signs of sluggishness.
Jeremy: Something wrong with your Jeep Richard? You seem to be falling behind.
Richard: No, no nothing wrong with the Jeep. I just keep feeling like we are being watched.
James: Of course we're being watched there are cameras all over the place.
Richard: No, I think there's something out there.
Announcer Jeremy: Hammond was right. His natural instincts as a small animal that survived by sensing when hunters were tracking him were showing through.
James: Come on Richard. Everything is behind a fence. Unless Jeremy has broken another gate.
Jeremy: I merely grazed that one thank you very much.
Richard: Grazed it? Going 50 MPH?
Jeremy: Oh cheer up Hammond, look at all this magnificent land, all of it yours.
Richard: Not after you get through with it, you're destroying it piece by piece. And what was that noise?
Announcer James: That noise was in fact, a Raptor jumping onto the roof of Richards Jeep.
James: Wow, what an excellent example of a Velociraptor. Flash it with your high beams Richard.
Jeremy: Hammond control yourself. The Producers wouldn't send us out here in the wild if they thought we could come to harm. Use your bear spray, I'm sure it will work.
Richard: Ahhhh, the cap is broken, the cap is broken. Here we go, and ahhhhOhh god I've sprayed myself. I've sprayed myself. And peed myself if I'm honest.
James: It's worked, the bear spray is driving the Raptor away! By Jove Hammond!
Announcer Jeremy: Having survived the Raptors and the devious Compys, we now made our way into the dragons den of all lions dens. The Tyrannosaurus Rex pen. All of us were more than willing to proceed past this point in the tour but the Producers insisted.
Jeremy: ...And so you see the Land Rover is simply superior to anything else on the road. Look at what we've been through so far. My Land Rover has managed to suffer nothing but a few dents in the bumper. Hammond's Jeep is a mess of urine feces and bear spray, which I'm sure will take forever to clean and the roof is barely holding up. James Land Cruiser is of course the indestructible truck but even it could not escape this tour unscathed.
Richard: Jeremy you've gone off the road. Jeremy you're on the wrong path.
Jeremy: That's ok, my Land Rover can handle anything. I know what I'm doing, I'm going to race you both to the dock.
James: You win Jeremy, come back please. You're headed into the T-Rex pen itself. It's marked off limits.
Jeremy: No no, I will have none of your nonsense James May. They could not have a fully grown T-Rex on this island, it's too small. It would starve. My Land Rover can out race anything else on this island, including you're two pitiful excuses for 4x4s.
Announcer Richard: And with that we shut up and let him go. We could always find a new co-host. Chris Evans isn't doing anything.
Jeremy: I may have erred when I said they couldnt have a full grown T-Rex on this island. Because I am stuck right now in a ditch. A ditch that looks remarkably like a footprint. And I don't know if I can get out of it. Time to switch to sport mode. And now press the fiddly little button, and here we go....no no that didn't do it. I'll have to engage the Terrain Management system and switch it to Mud/Ruts. There we go and...hahah yes we are free! Britain is gloriously victorious once again!
Announcer Jeremy: I shouldn't have been so happy. I might have been out of the ditch but my efforts to gain freedom had been noticed.
Jeremy: Oh my god what is that? Must go faster. Land Rover don't fail me now!
James: Jeremy scientists estimate that T-Rexs can only reach a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour! You can do it Clarkson!
Announcer Richard: As we rounded the last bend to the docks we could see Jeremy in his Land Rover being chased by a T-Rex.
Richard: It's almost got you Jeremy, turn hard right!
James: Yes, lets see what turns better, a Land Rover or a T-Rex.
Clarkson: Now is really not the time James!
Announcer James: In fact it was. Clarkson's sharp turn was in fact the difference, and as we boarded the ferry, our cars full of mud and our own biowaste, we couldn't help but thank goodness that dinosaurs couldn't fly.
Announcer Jeremy: And on that Bombshell, gooodnight!
[WP] The year is 2040, and you are the last smoker alive. The "Quit Smoking" ads get personal.
"Quit now Dan!" said the man on the talking billboard. A finger pointing at the lone figure walking down the empty street. Empty due to everyone crossing to the other side to avoid him and his smog. Dan paused by a waste bin, small cardboard box in hand. He looked from the box to the bin and back again. Those across the street stopped and stared, ready to witness history being made. There was absolute silence as Dan lifted his hand, as if to throw the packet towards the bin, all eyes now on him, even the billboard advert man stopped to watch. He launched it. It hit the rim. There was a sharp intake of breath as it bounced into the air above the bin. It hit the rim on the other side, people held each other in nervous anticipation. The packet landed onto the other trash in the bin and the crowd across the street erupted into thunderous applause and cheering. Celebrating as if a great sporting victory had been achieved. Little did they realise that Dan had taken a new packet from his pocket, removed the plastic, drew a long white stick out with his teeth and ignited the end. As a large grey cloud left his lips, the crowd died down. realising their premature celebration. There was a disappointed groan and a shuffling as daily activities resumed. "God dammit Dan. You were so close." shouted the billboard.
[WP] The year is 1910. Adolf Hitler, a struggling artist, has fought off dozens of assasination attemps by well meaning time travelers, but this one is different. This traveller doesn't want to kill Hitler, he wants to teach him to paint. He pulls off his hood to reveal the frizzy afro of Bob Ross.
Hitler was having a piece of banana cake when Bob Ross walked in.
"And I just feel like no one gets me, you know?" The future Fuhrer was saying to one of his servants, as he sprayed whipped cream over the cake, distracted. "I mean, I know most artists are destined to be posthumous, but… I don't know, I guess I want the fame and the fortune too, you know?"
"Ja, It is very hard, my master," the man said, in a German accent but in English for no reason at all, just like foreign characters in the movies.
"Hey, Hitler," Bob said, stepping in, confident. "May I?" he pulled a chair sat down without waiting for an answer.
"What is this!?"
"Listen, I'm Bob Ross and I'm from the future and I paint stuff."
"Yes. Here's the thing – I'm supposed to come here and teach you how to paint so you'll be a good painter and not invade Poland and then the rest of Europe and cause the death of millions of people."
"Holy shit, I do that!?" Hitler widened his eyes.
"Oh, yes. It's awful. People still use your name as a reference to evil. There's even an internet law based on how long it takes until someone compares a certain situation to Nazi Germany during an argument."
"What's the internet?"
"Never mind," Bob leaned forward. "This is what we're going to do – I'm going to teach you how to –"
"Excuse me," Hitler's servant said, in that same fake accent. "I'm afraid I must intervene here."
"Well, Mr. Ross, have you considered the twist?"
"Yes. The fact that you'll teach this man how to paint, he'll grow to be a famous painter, not invade anything, and when you return to your home time you'll find out that another man named, I don't know, Hans, has taken over Germany and did worse things than Adolf here could ever do."
Ross frowned. "I don't follow."
"You don't watch much Twilight Zone, do you?" The servant asked.
"How do you know about the Twilight Zone? This is 1910."
"Never mind about that." The servant leaned back. "My name is Hans, Ross. And I will take over Germany if you teach Adolf how to paint."
"Why!? Why would you do that?"
"Why else would I be in the scene? Why would Hitler not be alone when you walked in? I have to serve some purpose for the plot, right? And let's face it – go back in time and kill/talk/convince/teach Hitler is a trope we've seen before, and it always ends like this. In fact, most time traveling tropes tend to end with a silly variation of the butterfly effect we-made-things-even-worse twist. Let's not make this prompt another example."
Bob Ross scratched his head and thought about this. "Shit. Okay. I guess. But what do we do now?"
"Now we find a way to subvert time traveling tropes and present something fresh for the readers. And fast, because they're getting impatient."
"Why are they getting impatient? We're still at 500 words!"
"Yes, but we've gone post-modern self-referential, characters-acknowledging-their-own-stories. That annoys some people."
"It's not really my fault, look at the prompt. Where do you go with time traveling Bob Ross and Hitler that's not self-referential parody?"
"Now you're blaming the OP for your shortcomings as a storyteller. Classy."
"Not my shortcomings. I'm not the author."
They both turn and stare at me for a second. I shrug.
"Anyway," Hans said, resuming the conversation. "Do something different. Fast."
"Huuuuuuh…. Fuck, I don't know. Kiss Hitler!"
"Erotic Nazi Fanfic? No thanks."
"Okay, then… you have cancer, and Hitler nurses you to health, but in the end we find out Hitler has cancer too, and –"
"I'm not taking part in The Fault in our Stars Feat. Adolf Hitler. It ain't gonna happen."
"Well, you gotta do something, and fast, because time is running out."
"Hitler? Any suggestions?"
Adolf looked around. He got up and paced. "I don't know. Can you just return to your present time and call it a day?"
"And then everything happens as it's supposed to? That's boring."
"Yeah…" Hitler stopped. "I don't know then. I really don't know."
Hans shook his head. "Okay, I got this." He grabbed a little radio device from his pocket and spoke into it. "Send them in."
Ross frowned. "Send who in?"
Static emerged from the radio for a second, then a voice answered: "Copy that."
"Send who in?" Adolf repeated. "What's happening?"
"Well," Hans said, getting up. "If we're in a Hitler and Bob Ross time traveling prompt and we can't figure out a way to turn it into something fresh, we might as well embrace irony and self-mockery to the full extent of Writing Prompt's classic tropes."
"What do you mean?"
The door came open behind Ross. He turned back and watched as two teenagers walked in – a boy in round glasses and a scar on his forehead and a girl that looked a lot like Emma Watson.
"Hey Harry, hey Hermione. Sorry to drag you into yet another prompt. You got the time turner?"
"Yup," Harry said, in a bored tone.
"Harry Potter fanfic? Really?" Ross shook his head. "For fuck's sake."
"If we're gonna go down the rabbit's hole, let's do it proudly."
Hermione started setting the time turner. Harry looked around, curious. Ross sighed.
"Fuck that, I'm out," Hitler said, and then he jumped out the window, and then WW II didn't happen, but the Statute of Secrecy was violated on account of the whole thing and muggles learned about magic and when Ross returned to his present day no one gave a shit about static paintings anymore, so he died a poor man, which I guess is irony or whatever, I don't even care.
For more information on why the fourth wall is damaging your health and you should get rid of it, check out /sub/psycho_alpaca =)
[WP] No human has to ever work again, instead you have a robot that goes to work and earns your pay for you, but you are responsible for keeping it in a good condition. One day you find your robot making a robot to do its work.
"Hey, whatya doing there?"
The robot whipped around and tried to use its thin body to cover what was behind it.
"Oh, nothing master... just umm... work for work, you know. Homework, is what they are calling it," said the robot.
"Homework, huh? Never heard of a robot having homework," said his master trying to peak around his body. "So what is this 'homework' of yours?"
"You wouldn't find it interesting," said the robot, "I have to make a vacuum cleaner. My factory would like to design a vacuum cleaner better than those dreaded Dysons, but we haven't been able to yet."
"Ugh huh," his master nodded.
"And my boss thought I was the most creative in the factory, so he told me to work on it when I went home."
"How creative..." the master muttered. Whichever direction the master turned, the robot scurried to hide his creation. "So why the secrecy then? You know I used to be an engineer. I created you."
"Exactly!" The robot perked up. "And it wouldn't be my creation if I had your help. So I'd really rather do this on my own."
"Alright, okay," said the master, "I'll leave you to your creating then."
The robot relaxed as his master left the room.
"Oh, that was difficult," the robot said to himself and it turned to continue working on the robot that would replace him at work. Then he would be the master and have time to talk with the other robots. He would never have to lift a finger for work again. Suddenly, the other door to the room opened directly in front of him.
"Ugh," the robot groaned.
"Liar!!" yelled his master, looking down at the robot's creation. "You're making a robot."
"I-I can explain."
"You know what happens to liars?"
"Oh, please, no."
"No, master, please."
"I beg you, please don't!"
The next day the robot wheeled himself to work. His fully functional, completely flexible and absolutely dexterous set of legs were replaced with a box of metal with wheels. The other robots at work roared with laughter. Only children's robots came with wheels and that was because children usually didn't have a grasp of kinesiology to build a set of legs for the robot to move.
Eventually, the robot was given its legs back after it admitted to learning a valuable lesson. Never lie to your master. And it never did again.
Thank you for reading! More at /sub/itspronouncedgif.
[WP]You are a parent in an anime. Your child is born with epic anime hair, and you are certain they will become the protagonist. You are determined to not become a tragic back story like so many other anime parents.
"Fucking fuck fuck shit fuck!" I leapt to the side, somehow keeping my daughter asleep as yet another telepathically hurled boulder smashed down where I had stood. I looked down on the little girl that slumbered in my arms, why was she born with blue hair? The Main Character curse had already claimed my wife and Ill be damned if it gets me. I looked back at my pursuer, some psycho from yet another cult trying to take my little girl for their purposes.
I had prepared for this though, in my satchel was a pocket of hammerspace I had a hermit make me. I reached in for a grenade, and with all my might whirled around and flung it at him, it took him a half second to comprehend what was happening but by then it was too late. I didnt look back but instead was greeted by a falling arm in front of me. Somehow she still slept. I decided to keep running on the off chance that there were more with the dead bastard.
Soon enough I was back in my house, I set my precious (albeit a bit difficult) angel in her crib. Seemingly on cue as soon as I sat down she woke and began to wail. I picked her up yet again, cooing and shushing her into calmness. Suddenly my phone rings, its an unknown number but I may as well answer, wont change anything if its another cultist or god forbid a main antagonist.
The voice on the other end was a cheery woman. "Open your door." She said.
"Are you people even trying anymore? Give me five minutes to rest for Christ's sake and then Ill come out and entertain your fancy." I snap, I hung up the phone and threw it across the room.
Not quite unexpectedly, my door crashes off the hinges and slams into the wall. I stand quickly, ready for another fight. The woman casually strolls in and... Shes leading a pink haired boy?
"I see you have a main character as well?"
Edit: thanks for the compliments yall, apologies for any grammar mistakes, i was distracted when I wrote this.
[EU] Lord Voldemort's subjugation of the British magical community is successful and he now turns to nearby Scandinavia. To his surprise, he encounters Nordic aurors who are not only unafraid of death, but who eagerly battle him to enter Valhalla, like the Vikings of old.
Lord Voldemort stood in the very center of the harbor in Bergen, Norway. Waves lapped at his heels, but the water underfoot was as steady as dry land. He thought that this might make a more dramatic show for the muggle simpletons; they believed their savior could walk on water, so perhaps they’d be more accepting of their doom if he could too. A simple trick, Voldemort mused. Any second year at Hogwarts would certainly know how to do it, and yet the Muggles were always more awed by that ability than anything else. So he naturally took advantage of their stupidity, and was going to put on a show for them. The sooner they turned in the wizards hiding amongst them, the better. They'd all be killed regardless, but it would be more efficient if the muggles helped.
At his back, a swarm of Death Eaters were clustered in the fog. He was pleased to see how swollen their ranks had become; their numbers had nearly doubled since the fall of Britain. The wizards here in the North had obviously learned what happened to those who resisted in the Ministry. And yet there were still some who refused to join. Who even fought back. So the message apparently needed to be made clearer. Which is why, along with the swarm of Death Eaters, a hundred prisoners stood in the bay as well. The images of them were projected across the clouds so that the whole city might witness what was about to happen.
“First, to our Muggle audience tonight: you are helpless against us.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it was magically magnified to the level of thunder booming down from the clouds. Every single person in the city was listening to his address whether they liked it or not. “I know that some wizards have promised to protect you, but they can’t. The sooner you turn them in, the better. Those of you that assist our efforts will be spared.” A lie, but Muggles always liked to have some hope to believe in. “And now to you members of the Bergen Resistance,” Voldemort said, “Your fool’s errand is nearly at an end. Those refugees from the Order of the Phoenix have lied to you. Misled you. There is no stopping me, and those who try will only meet one end: Death.” He turned and waved his wand, wrenching one of the Resistance wizards forward through the mist. “You. What is your name?”
The wizard glared back at Voldemort with icy blue eyes. “Kristian,” he answered. Though icy wind blew across the harbor from the mountains, the wizard didn’t shiver or even flinch. It was like his hatred of Voldemort was burning him from the inside.
“Kristian, I give you a chance now. Submit before me, swear an oath to serve me, and I will not kill you.”
Kristian spit back in Voldemort’s face. The gob of saliva hung in the air, suspended by Voldemort’s magic. Then it dropped to the waves below and disappeared. Voldemort had been through this routine enough times to expect that from the first ‘volunteer’ from the crowd.
“Very well, Kristian. Rolf, his wand, please.” A newer but promising Death Eater stepped forward and handed the wizard a wand. “Kristian, we will duel. And I will kill you. And then I will kill every last member of your group that refuses to submit to me. Do you understand?”
Kristian responded with a flash of green light and a shout: “AVADA KEDAVRA!” All moral ideas of not killing had pretty much gone out the window after the widely publicized Purge of London. The Killing Curse struck Voldemort straight in the chest, which stung a bit. But it was worth it for the effect of seeing every Resistance wizard’s jaw flap open. Many of them had not yet accepted that Voldemort was unkillable… and now the proof was right here before their very eyes.
“Well met, Kristian.” Voldemort twirled his wand with an almost bored expression, then returned fire. Kristian’s body was thrown across the waves and sank beneath the foam before he even knew what hit him.
“And your name, witch?” Voldemort asked the girl. She couldn’t have been older than 17, with long brown braids that hung down to her waist.
“Anna,” the girl said. Her tone was just as defiant as Kristian’s, and the other 98 wizards and witches that Voldemort had killed after him.
“And will you bow before me, Anna? Do you submit?”
“Never,” she shouted back, as loud as she could muster. And she did it with a smile on her face.
Somehow, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Even among the staunchest Dumbledore supporters of the ministry, some had defected. And tonight, not a single one. “WHY?” Voldemort shouted. “WHY do you still fight? Have you had your eyes closed all night, girl? Did you not see me kill 99 of your friends? Do you really want that to happen to you too?”
She laughed, and it echoed across the sky, into Voldemort’s very core. “I should be so lucky!”
“You cannot win,” he said, almost pleading with her. He had no qualms about killing this girl; there had been thousands before her, and would be thousands after her. “You know that. You know that I have defeated Death itself.”
Anna laughed and shook her head, the way one does when a child utters some ridiculous notion. “You have not defeated, Death,” she said. “You have merely gotten good at hiding from him. Cowards hide from Death, and those of us brave enough to face him will be rewarded by the Gods in the end.”
“Gods?” Voldemort laughed. His underlings had told him how superstitious these Norse can be, but he hadn’t really believed it. “There are no Gods.”
Anna laughed again. “Says the man walking on water.”
Voldemort snapped and thrust his wand forward, putting her under the Imperius curse. “KNEEL!” he hissed at her, and her knees fell into the waves, soaking the hem of her robes.
“You can force my body to do what you want,” she grunted back, fighting back against the Imperious curse with everything she had but still unable to stand, “But my spirit stands tall.”
“Fine, then.” He gestured for Rolf to bring the girl her wand. He allowed her to walk a ways down the waves, then she turned and pointed her wand at him. She immediately tried to hit him with a curse, which he blocked. “CRUCIO!” he shouted back. The crippling pain wracked her body, and she fell into the surf. He repeated it, torturing her over and over again till blood spurted from her mouth and into the ocean foam. Even some of the Death Eaters grew uncomfortable upon seeing how much pain he put her through.
Finally he let her stand. “Now will you submit?”
She couldn’t stand. Voldemort let her sink beneath the waves until only her head was above water. “Coward,” she finally managed to spit out. “You’ve only rewarded me with an honorable death.”
Voldemort twitched his wand, and sent her squirming body to the bottom of the bay until finally it fell still.
Voldemort sat alone in his study. He’d made a quick trip back to Britain to fetch the book that now sat on his desk. It was full of ancient Norse runes, describing the most powerful ancient wizards of Scandanavia: Odin, Thor, Loki, and many others. Beyond the desk lay the broken body of the Hogwarts Runes Studies Professor, who Voldemort had killed in a fit of rage. He was a mudblood anyway, Voldemort told himself to bury the pang of regret that came from realizing he'd need to find someone else to translate the rest.
Also on the desk was a small diadem, silver with a large blue jewel in the middle. It was another little souvenir that Voldemort had picked up on his trip back to Hogwarts. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of it in over an hour.
There was a soft knock on the door. Voldemort managed to pry his eyes off of the Diadem long enough to allow Rolf to enter.
“Well?” Voldemort asked. “Any progress?” They’d given the Resistance two hours to turn themselves in, or to allow the Muggles to turn the wizards in for them. Voldemort didn’t need to be a skilled Legilimens to understand Rolf’s body language: the whole night had been an utter failure.
“No, my Lord.” Rolf said. “Not a single one.” He took a step back, as if expecting that Voldemort might want someone living to use as an outlet for his rage. But surprisingly, Voldemort didn’t even seem to care.
“Very well,” he said. His eyes went back to the shimmering blue jewel in the middle of the Diadem. Rolf stood awkwardly in the doorway, waiting to be dismissed. It was almost like Voldemort had forgotten he was here. Just as Rolf was about to slowly try slipping away, Voldemort spoke again. “Rolf? What do you know of Valhalla?”
“Errr… it is a place in the ancient legends. A hall where warriors go if they die in combat against a worthy foe. Where they can fight alongside the Gods themselves until Ragnarok.”
“A worthy foe…” Voldemort repeated under his breath. Then he fell silent again, still staring at the Diadem. Once again, Rolf was just starting to take a soft step back to exit the room when Voldemort spoke. “Rolf, I need you to find something for me.”
“Yes, my Lord. Anything you need.”
Voldemort picked up the Diadem and held it gently in his hands. “A basilisk fang, if you please. I have some errands to run.”
Thinking about writing a continuation. In the meantime, subscribe to /sub/luna_lovewell, which is where I'll be posting Part 2.
OK, Parts 2 and 3 are posted here if you are interested! Part 4 is on its way.
[WP] The year is 2030, and the entire world is firmly under the control of the Australian Empire, and no one really understands how it happened.
Well, if no one else will post, guess it's my sacred duty.
"Cheers, mates, n pour out a stone cold Fosters on me." Emporer Hemsworth's standard sign-off rang in my mind even after the holo-projector switched off. I'd never really noticed how different he sounded from literally everyone I knew. Then again, you weren't required to watch the daily news until your 8th birthday, so I'd never paid any attention.
I wandered into the kitchen and started getting my lunch ready for school. Grandpa came wandering in, muttering something about prune juice to himself. "Gramps, how come Emporer Hemsworth talks so funny?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Thanks, real helpful."
"You wanna talk about helpful? I once strangled three of those Andromedan bastards by hand during the war, so I'd say allowing you to not be enslaved is pretty goddamn helpful."
"What does that have to do with Emporer Hemsworth's accent?"
"Ask your teacher, or just GooSnapFace it." Was all Grandpa said as he shuffled out, prune juice in hand.
I pulled out my gov'ment issue mobile and opened GooSnapFace. "Why does Emporer Hemsworth talk funny?" The first result was a video from some history buff with a bad suit. I hit play. "The rise of the Australian Empire all began when President Trump made the mistake of hanging up....
Edit: formatting and more aussie
Final Edit: better formatting and even more aussie.
Final Final Edit: To all the aussies pissed about Fosters. A, that's the joke. B, it's a dystopia.
[WP] As a child in the 1960s you heard the phrase 'somebody walked on my grave' after somebody shivered. While watching the moon landing, you see Buzz Aldrin step on the moon. You immediately shiver.
I clutched my side as the color drained from my face. Blood was spreading across my neatly pressed white shirt, dark and red as wine. “It wasn't supposed to be like this.”
“Be like what, traitor?” The man I once called my friend unscrewed the silencer from a sleek black pistol and began to procure a black tarp from inside his trench coat. I had to give him credit, I never thought someone as unassuming as Alex had the guts to try to kill me. He was my closest advisor, after all.
The scene before me blurred together in wet shapes like watercolors as I fell to the floor. I coughed. “I was going to die on the moon. Buzz...he...he stepped...”
Alex crouched down to face me, his breath hot and labored.
“Buzz? Stepped? You're mad, my friend.”
I clawed at his chest with weak fingers. My vision was fading. “On his first step on the moon. I shivered. Stepped on my grave.”
He laughed. “Oh you poor soul. You don't really believe in all that gibberish, do you?”
When Alex put it like that, it all seemed so foolish. “No...I guess it was stupid. The whole shivering thing. Just an old wive's tale.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking at me like I was an idiot. “I'm not talking about that. I mean the moon. You know that space travel is a hoax created by the US government, right? It was all a bunch of cold war propaganda. Don't tell me I'm the only one that bothered to read the classified documents about our space program.”
“A hoax?” My words were coming softer, drops of blood flying out of pale lips with each concerted effort. “Then that means...”
“Yup,” said Alex, reading my mind. “They dressed Buzz up in a shiny white suit and had him take a walk through the dump.”
“Then...you're going to bury me in a dump?” I rolled over in my spot at Alex's feet. He shivered.
Just then, the door exploded inward, showering the room with splinters. Men in crisp black suits stormed into the room and everything erupted into gunfire and blinding light.
I heard a thud next to me. A moment later, all was silent, and I looked up. Alex was staring at me, his face cold and lifeless.
One of the men crouched down to examine me. “Are you okay?” I heard him ask, but his voice was faraway, like he was calling to me from the far end of a hallway. “Hang on sir, it's going to be alright.”
Then the world went dark.
I woke up some time later, to a bright fluorescent lights and worried voices.
“Are you okay, Mr President?” a voiced asked. I recognized it as Watson, my head of secret service. I sat up. I was in a bed in some kind of infirmary. There was bandages around my abdomen and pain lancing through my side when I twisted around too far.
“Yes, I'm feeling better now.” I paused studying the hulking guard attending me. I wondered how much truth there was to Alex's mad ramblings about the moon. “Watson, can you have someone bring me the classified briefing on our NASA expeditions during the 60's?”
Watson didn't hesitate. “Right away Mr. President.”
Some time later, Watson returned holding a manilla envelope in his hand. He handed me the file, looking confused, and said, “Sir, are you sure you want to be doing this in your current health?”
“I'm sure, thank you,” I replied, dismissing my guard. He nodded and dissolved back into the shadows in the corner of the room.
I flicked the file open and read the briefing on our first landing on the moon. I thumbed past pages of verbiage and semantics until I found a journal from a public worker embedded in the center of the file. The file shook in my hands as I read it contents.
July 20th 1969: Successfully staged the moon landing today. Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong each received a lump sum payment of $500,000 for their cooperation and discretion. Leaving Area 51 later this afternoon...
I put the file down. Alex was right; it was all a hoax. I looked over at Watson, lurking quietly in the corner. He had been in the secret service for a long time, even served as far back as the Carter era.
“Hey Watson,” I started, hoping I wasn't about to sound stupid. “Do U.S. President's secretly get buried in Area 51 when they die?”
He laughed. “Hell no, sir. Unbefitting for a president. These days, that's where we dump the bodies of war criminals and enemies of the state that we don't want the public to know about. For people that need to disappear.”
Suddenly he looked up at me, a bit worried. “Say sir, why the sudden interest?”
“Oh, no reason,” I assured him, although that did little to assuage the anxiety knitting it's way across his brow. Watson had been close to Alex- they talked a lot. Too much. I saw them whispering quietly to each other during briefings when they thought I wasn't looking. Soon he would discover the truth too, just as Alex did. Gingerly, I took a step out of the bed and landed on the floor.
[WP] The human attribute generator placed 1 on all your stats, but 11 on your luck, the max should have been 10. God watches in anticipation as you unknowingly went to your first boss fight.
God scooted to the edge of his seat, "Gabriel," he shouted, "It's about to begin!" An angel with large wings entered the viewing room with a mild jog, popcorn bounced from the bowl he carried, "Sweet, I've been waiting to see what Plato-- Oh, it's just Tim." "Yeah," nodded God with a smile, "I love watching the guy, it's all so unexpected, y'know?" He made some room on the cloudy couch, small white clouds puffed out when Gabriel sat down. "Oh, I like Plato's show best, crazy what 10 wisdom can do," said Gabriel, eating fistfulls of popcorn. God rolled his eyes and dug his large hand into popcorn bowl, taking out half of the content, "That guy's so boring to watch. He just sits in his garden." Gabriel shrugged, "Well, yeah, but you have to admit that he--" "Shh, ssh, it's starting." interrupted God. The clouds in front of them dispersed, a direct view of the surface appeared, the god view.
Tim lumbered into the warehouse, he squinted in an effort to improve his poor eyesight, "This isn't McDonalds." He decided to turn around, tripped over his own feet and slammed into the ground. A raspy voice laughed, "Are you dumb or just blind?" it asked. A couple of rough looking fellows closed in, one of them cackled, "Or both?" said a short man with a wide grin.
"Hold on," said Gabriel, "Who's that guy?" God turned to him, "What? That's Franky. You know? The kingpin's henchman?" Gabriel's eyes glazed over, "I thought that was the other guy, he looks like the other guy. They all look alike." "That's because they're twins." The angel nodded thoughtfully, "Ok, ok. So, who's that guy again?" God rolled his eyes, "Jesus!" "What's up, dad?" a voice asked from another room. "Not you!" God shouted. He turned to Gabriel and sighed, "Gabriel, just watch, Ok?"
The thugs took Tim by the arms, dragged him into a dark room and tossed him onto a wooden chair. A voice spoke from the darkness, "You one of Lady Hennessy's little birds?" it asked. The light switched on abruptly, Tim shielded his eyes with his hand. On the other side of the room sat a man in a striped suit, his right leg raised on a stool, and he was puffing on a cigar, "Are you?" Tim squinted, trying to make sense of the blurry shape, "I'm Tim Jones, Sir. I don't know any Lady Hennessy." The kingpin gritted his teeth, then smiled, "If that's how you wanna play it," he said, pulling out a gun, "Then I'll introduce you to my little friend." "I think that's discrimination." replied Tim. "What?" Tim squinted and gestured at the person beside the mobster, "Yeah, I think you gotta call them 'vertically challenged', or something." The kingpin stared at the stool beside him, "This is a stool." he informed Tim. Tim squinted again, "Is it?" The kingpin gestured wildly at the stool, "It clearly is!" he shouted, "Are you blind?" "No, I'm Tim." "What?" Tim spoke up, "I'm Tim, Sir." The kingpin rubbed the bridge of his nose between 2 fingers, "This guy doesn't have two brain cells to rub together." He sighed and waved a dismissive hand, "Just drop him off at a McDonalds or something." Tim smiled, "That'd be great, Sir." Everything worked out.
God chuckled, "I can't get enough of this show." He pulled out a large TV-guide, "What else is on?" "I think 'The Art Hour' is next." answered Gabriel. The father of creation sighed, "I don't really like that show." He was silent for a moment, then a huge grin appeared on his face, "Gabriel, I've got a great idea." Gabriel was busy fishing for leftover pieces of popcorn, "Do whatever." God sighed, some interest would be nice, and snapped his fingers, "Leadership and charisma to 10," he announced, "Come on, Hitler. Let's see what you can do."