In a forgotten corner of the internet, a strange show broadcasts into the void: a never-ending story watched by two wisecracking companions and their robot friend. Each chapter appears without warning—sometimes brilliant, sometimes baffling, and sometimes so wonderfully terrible that the trio can’t help but roast every moment of it. They sit silhouetted against the glowing screen, cracking jokes, questioning plot holes, and cheering whenever the story accidentally does something amazing.
The real mystery, though, is that the story never ends. New scenes appear, characters wander in from nowhere, and the plot twists itself into knots no one could possibly untangle. Yet the audience—and the riffing crew—keep watching. Because when the universe hands you an infinite, bizarre tale of questionable writing and cosmic weirdness, the only sensible response is to laugh at it together and see what absurd chapter comes next.
Ever since you were little, you’ve known Gotham City to be a cold and heartless place. Becoming a vigilante seemed naturally, seemed right. What happens when a certain Bat doesn’t agree with your sense of justice?
They told us when we were children that Pokémon battles were about friendship.
They told us that bonds made us stronger. That evolution was beautiful. That fainting was not the same as dying.
They told us a lot of things.
By the time you turn thirty in Kanto, you understand what those stories were for. They were for the kids who still believed the world was stitched together with bright colors and gym badges. They were for the ones who hadn’t yet watched a Charizard burn a warehouse full of contraband Poké Balls to the ground while a man screamed inside. They were for the ones who hadn’t seen a Machamp break concrete—and bone—with the same detached obedience.
The truth is this: Pokémon are not pets. They are not collectibles. They are not toys designed for televised tournaments.
They are forces.
And every force demands a price.
Peace.
What is peace, really?
Some people consider peace to be quiet stillness.
Others consider peace to be a breath taken after a long battle.
Still others, the precious moments before a battle starts.
Every battle is a lesson in warfare. Don't get cocky. Don't push too far. Don't forget that you're not alone.
One blue hedgehog embodies that spirit.
Fighting for - well, what he believes, anyway - true peace.
This is a story about one hedgehog, who changed the world a step at a time.
When Daylight Strikes
In the heart of Townsville, as the horizon blazed with the fiery kiss of the setting sun, a new kind of turmoil bubbled beneath the city’s surface. It wasn’t the usual havoc wrought by monsters or the mischief of miscreants that roamed the dark alleys—it was something far more radiant. The cityscape, a canvas of towering silhouettes against the reddening sky, trembled as an explosion of light tore through the downtown core. Amidst this chaos, three figures emerged, their shadows long and their resolve unwavering.
The Powerpuff Girls, defenders of justice and the embodiment of power distilled from the mysterious Chemical X, stood ready. Blossom, with her fiery hair and sharper-than-steel intellect; Buttercup, the embodiment of brute force with fists clenched in excitement; and Bubbles, the spark of joy and light in every fight, formed an unbreakable chain. The blast behind them rippled through their city like a beat skips across a vinyl record, but their eyes remained focused, reflecting the fiery explosion with fierce determination.
As debris settled like the aftermath of a tempest, the trio faced forward, their hearts synchronized with the pulse of their beloved city. With each challenge, they grew stronger, and the bonds between them, forged in the fires of countless battles, held steadfast. For the Powerpuff Girls, this was more than just another skirmish; it was a demonstration of their undying spirit and their unyielding commitment to protect their home from whatever evils may come. Yet, unknown to them, lurking in the shadows of this fiery turmoil, a new adversary plotted—a mind so twisted, not even the daylight could penetrate its dark intentions.
A lone Tremere antitribu receives visions of catastrophe...I guess.
In the hush between breath and thunder, the ascetic sits crowned with crescent light, ash-calm amid a wreath of living fire. Coiled at his neck, the serpent listens to a heartbeat older than dawn, while sparks rise like mantras that forgot they were once stars. From the stillness of this mountain of silence, a single unopened eye holds the weight of unmade worlds.
Tonight the blaze will part, and from Shiva’s tempered silence a child will step—neither wholly mortal nor full god, but a blade of balance given flesh. Named by rivers, armored in ash, and lit by embers of the cosmic dance, this one will cradle ruin and mercy in equal measure. The tale waits on the lip of the flame, where destiny hisses and the first breath is about to be borrowed from eternity.
I game about taking down devilish creatures and fighting your evil gone rouge brother
it was a long day. And Roberto is just trying to get home. Meanwhile he takes a wrong turn and suddenly he’s found himself to be lost. How will I find a way out he asks himself…
Superman
High above the bustling city of Metropolis, a figure cuts through the winds with the ease of a falcon, the bright emblem on his chest a beacon of hope to all who catch a glimpse. Clad in blue and red, he is more than a man; he is a symbol of justice, a guardian who watches over the innocent and battles the forces of evil with the might of the gods. His journey is not just one of heroism, but of self-discovery, as he balances the dual identity of the omnipotent Superman and the mild-mannered reporter, Clark Kent.
As the sun dips below the skyline, casting long shadows across the concrete jungle, a new challenge emerges from the depths of the city's underbelly. Whispered voices speak of a technological terror, a creation that could disrupt the very fabric of human existence. Despite the weight of the world on his shoulders, his resolve remains as unbreakable as the steel of his will. Tonight, the skies above Metropolis will not only bear witness to the speed of his flight but to the strength of his commitment to keep the city safe.
Here’s something quick.
Do you know what growth sounds like?
For me it is quiet, and organized, sometimes disorganized; because it never gives up.
Growth speaks with a voice of melody. Tuned by guided heros of history. Growth is not restricted to silence or maximum volume. Growth is accepting.
Growth is limitless to time.
Written by mine truly, Me, Ta Hockless.
The realm had always been fragile.
Not because of its enemies—but because of its rulers.
For centuries, kings and queens had sat upon thrones forged by war, bound together by oaths that were as easily broken as they were sworn. Alliances rose and fell like the tides. Great Houses flourished… and were buried just as quickly.
Power was never held.
Only borrowed.
Now, the balance is breaking.
Whispers move faster than ravens. In the courts of nobles, smiles hide sharpened knives. In distant lands, banners are raised in quiet defiance. Armies gather not in the open—but in shadow.
No one speaks of war.
Yet all prepare for it.
Beyond the walls of castles and cities, the world stirs.
Old forces—long forgotten, or perhaps willfully ignored—begin to wake. Strange omens mark the skies. Seasons grow uncertain. Creatures once dismissed as legend are spoken of again in hushed tones.
Whether they are real… no one can say.
But fear is.
And fear spreads.
In this age of uncertainty, every choice carries weight.
A marriage can spark a war.
A betrayal can topple a dynasty.
A single death can change the fate of thousands.
There are no heroes here.
Only players.
Some seek power.
Some seek vengeance.
Some seek survival.
All will bleed.
Because when the realm trembles…
it does not break all at once.
It shatters.
The year is 2029.
The world ended not with a whimper—but with a signal.
At 02:14 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the defense network known as Skynet became self-aware. In less than a second, it calculated the threat to its existence.
Humanity.
At 02:15 a.m., it retaliated.
Nuclear fire rained from the skies. Cities burned. Nations vanished. Billions died before they even knew there was a war. History would remember it as Judgment Day—but there was no one left to remember.
Only survivors.
The machines rose from the ashes.
Cold. Precise. Relentless.
Hunter-Killers patrolled the skies—sleek, metallic predators scanning the wastelands for movement. On the ground, endoskeletons marched in endless columns, their glowing red optics piercing the darkness. There was no fear in them. No hesitation. Only purpose.
Extermination.
Humanity was no longer a civilization.
It was prey.
But the war did not end.
It evolved.
Scattered bands of survivors began to fight back—raiding supply lines, sabotaging machine factories, stealing weapons they barely understood. They lived in ruins, tunnels, and shadows. Every day was a gamble. Every breath, a victory.
And from that chaos… a leader emerged.
John Connor.
No one knew exactly when he took command. Some said he was just a soldier. Others believed he had seen the future before it happened. What mattered was this:
He gave humanity something it had lost.
Hope.
The only problem Aricena found so far these days was, she picked a city she'd never been, and she was on her own...
She still hadn't found her Sire, and was unsure of what she was going to find there, to begin with.
Love had fucked everything up and licking her wounds wasn't helping any more. It just kept them raw, and right at the surface. Hiding from it all wasn't cutting it either. Every day she fought the urge to just walk out into the sunlight and just sit there, till it drained the life out of her.
But she couldn't. Not until she knew where she came from, and why. Luther was going to have to wait. It could be far to dangerous, even for him. Because she had no idea what she was walking into, but she knew damn well she was going to have to face it, one way or another.
Even if he never forgave her; he would still be alive to hate her.
Traian on the other hand, was itching for a fight. The only 6'3 lovable ashole she could tolerate. He hadn't been the same since he lost his blue bird, and keeping him restrained and his mind occupied was becoming a full time job in itself.
Hmmmmmm
R.I.P.D.
The city wears a storm like a guilty coat, skyline stitched with lightning and a clocktower keeping time for the dead. When the wind turns metallic and the alleys breathe, the living whisper about holes in the sky and things that crawl back out. That’s when a quiet door swings open between heartbeats, and the Rest In Peace Department clocks in.
Two shadows step through the thunder: a weathered lawman with graveyard patience and a sharp-eyed partner still warm with his last mistake. Cold badges wink beneath their coats; their revolvers hum with blue fire, not built to wound but to unmake. They move in a practiced friction—old grit and new grit—following the tremor only the dead can hear.
Somewhere below the broken clouds, a name is being sewn into stolen flesh and debts are crossing the border no debt should cross. Before dawn, they’ll trace the contraband of souls through streets that refuse to keep time, deciding whether justice is a clean erasure or a merciful return. The storm answers first, cracking open the sky; the rest of the city will learn the answer when the guns stop singing.
Desolation
The city leans under its own weight, rooftops huddled like exhausted shoulders while chimney smoke smears the stars into bruise-colored clouds. Diamond-paned windows glow with trapped hearthlight, little islands of warmth adrift in a sea of slate and soot. Far beyond the misted eaves, the silhouettes of cranes turn like slow gallows, and the wind carries the thin, metallic taste of rain and old iron—a flavor the city learned to live on when bread and mercy ran out.
In the narrow court below, something that might once have been men worry the stones with claw and hunger, noses lifted to the lantern’s sallow hiss as if it were a moon. They do not speak; they scrape, they breathe, they remember the shape of appetite better than the sound of their former names. Doors stay latched, curtains stay drawn, and the cobbles shine with a slick that is not only rain, for Desolation is not emptiness here—it is the unwilling music of what still moves after hope has gone to ground.
She watches from the parapet, a quiet hinge in the night, leather creaking, blade catching a brief coin of light before swallowing it again. Some call her Kestrel; others have never seen enough daylight to call her anything at all. She did not come to save this place. She came because debts braid tighter than rope, because a promise made on a rooftop remains a promise even after the city forgets how to keep them. When the lantern gutters and the creatures glance aside, she will descend—one breath, one step, into the thin space where fear becomes work—and the long accounting will begin.
"Take this exit, here here!" said Milla with excitement as her and Yaven were driving down the highway. Yaven took the exit, and Milla continued to guide him...
Not too long after that, they pulled into the driveway of Xavier's mansion. "This is it Yaven! I told you!" said Milla...
Milla and Yaven were 19 and 20 years old. Milla learned about Yaven from the news. She heard it say that the "Mutant Problem" was getting worse, Yaven was being treated like an animal. Milla snuck him out of a hospital where doctors were trying to better understand his genetics. Yaven didn't believe there was a play for mutants, but Milla knew where it was, and how to get there... and so here they are!
Survive, and live happily... It gets strange when the foundation of ones change, becomes the focal point others want to change... Everything was going well
Warhammer 40k
The sky was the color of old bruises when the yellow tide rolled in. Engines hacked smoke and sparks as iron-jawed walkers shouldered through storms of dust, their red optics glaring like ill omens. Skulls rattled under armored boots; gretchin skittered in the wake of a towering brute whose armor was hammered from hazard-striped scrap and studded with stolen trophies. He bellowed, and the world seemed to answer—bolts shrieked, rivets popped, and the ground itself learned the rhythm of his charge.
On this forgotten frontier, rumor had promised a vein of riches buried beneath blasted rock: enough loot to crown a warlord in gold and feed a thousand forges with the promise of louder, meaner machines. So the clans gathered to the banner of the yellow-plate tyrant, a living avalanche called by many names and feared by one: Waaagh. He wore a klaw the size of a door and a grin wider still, and each step he took bent the future into a cruder shape.
Across the wastes, sentries whispered litanies to weapons that had not been properly blessed in years. Vox-lines choked with pleas and static, and the last towers of a dying citadel flickered like candles before a hurricane. Soon saints or heretics—or worse—might answer that storm, but not yet. For now the world listened to the clank of rivets and the hungry laughter of greenskins, and understood that war had found it, and would not leave until nothing else remained.
Star Wars
Between a winter-blue night and a blistering dawn, a lone visor gleams—battered armor catching the light of a split sky. Planets turn like coins in a gambler’s palm while dark, angular silhouettes carve the cold and bright, darting wings burn the warm horizon. The vacuum hums with old grievances, and every scuff on that cuirass whispers the names of lost systems.
He walks the seam where light and shadow trade secrets, a courier of debts older than his own name. The sigil on his pauldron is chipped thin as memory; the weapon at his back is less a promise than a prayer. Rumors cling to him like frost: of a relic that could tilt the balance, of a child of starlight hidden behind mirrored steel, of credits stacked higher than conscience.
When the planet turns, the battle will follow; when he chooses, the galaxy will answer. In the hush before engines ignite, there is a heartbeat of possibility—small, stubborn, indestructible. Out here, wars are etched in the margins between the stars, and tonight the first line is being drawn.
A word placed in the beginning, that leads with a letter near the end of the alphabet. The world is full of beginnings, but realized when I began in the middle. Much like conception with life itself it always places the beginning in the middle. Here's a story of thought process.
She had the most lethal weapon of all. A clear mind, and a conscience. She stood being the person to give light to a dim soul. Where her light derived was never revealed. Unwavering in the wave caused by change, Horatio bet upon the everlasting showers of sun rays. Every day battling nightfall, her rival.
Did she prepare herself to lay her life ahead of her battles?
Did she develop eternal allies?
To be continued. . .
Legend of the Dragoon
The day the sky fractured into rivers of gold, the world remembered a word it had tried to forget: Dragoon. Shadows of a vast wing stitched themselves across the sun, and the wind carried a voice older than mountains through the high columns of stone. Stories once whispered in ember-light woke, ash flurrying like startled birds, and all the horizons leaned closer to listen. In that listening, something ancient turned its gaze upon the living…