Some of my plotbunnies. Outside of FNAF.
The Tales of Noctis! (Aka My Plot Bunnies)
- Thread starter Martin Noctis
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A Wonderful Idea! (Undertale)
- Pronouns
- He
Frisk blinked in the dim light, the familiar lavender hues of the Underground's entrance stretching before them. It felt strange to be here again, the scattered flowers and the soft echoes of dripping water bringing a strange comfort. They took a step forward and then froze when a familiar voice greeted them.
"Howdy!"
Frisk turned sharply, their heart quickening. There, just a few feet away, was Flowey, his wide, unblinking eyes fixed on them, a twisted grin tugging at the corners of his petals.
"Chara," he greeted, his voice tinged with something dark, something hollow. "Or should I say…shell?" He let out a chuckle, his laughter echoing in the emptiness of the Ruins' entrance.
Frisk felt the Voice stir within them—a soft, familiar presence. It nudged them with a quiet insistence, a subtle warning that something was wrong. They swallowed hard, taking a small step back as the Voice murmured, Okay, this is definitely weird.
"Flowey…" Frisk began cautiously, attempting a soft, reassuring tone, hoping perhaps to calm him. "I… what do you want?"
Flowey tilted his head and laughed again, louder this time, his laugh thick with bitterness and malice. "Oh, come on! You can drop the act now, Chara. Don't pretend I can't see it. How different you are now, how strange and soft." He sneered. "I guess those humans must've really messed you up. Look at you—pathetic."
Frisk felt the hairs on the back of their neck rise. The Voice muttered urgently within them, Step back. We should get out of here, now. Find Toriel! They shifted their weight, trying to edge towards the exit.
But before they could move another inch, vines erupted from the ground, thick, thorned, and relentless, ensnaring their wrists and ankles. Frisk gasped as the vines tightened around them, cold tendrils snaking up their arms and chest, constricting them until every breath became a struggle.
"Oh, no, no," Flowey purred, his grin stretching even wider. "You're not going anywhere."
Frisk felt their lungs straining, their heartbeat pounding wildly as the vines continued to crush them. "S-stop…" they gasped, panic flashing across their mind. They tried to call for help, a desperate plea for anyone, but Flowey only laughed.
"Help?" he echoed mockingly. "Toriel? Already gone, dear. She's not coming. None of them are. I made sure of it." His vines shifted, slithering up to block the exit. He stared at Frisk with those wide, unblinking eyes, eyes filled with a hunger that chilled them to the core.
"Now," Flowey drawled, his tone twisting with a dangerous edge. "How about a little fight, hmm? Attack, Chara! Attack as if your life depends on it."
Frisk stared at him, wide-eyed, their body trembling in terror.
Flowey's face split into a grin, his voice filled with a manic glee. "Because guess what, Chara?!" His laughter echoed, high and grating, tearing through the silence. "IT DOES! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAHAHHAHAJAHJAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The world blurred as Frisk slipped in and out of consciousness, their mind a haze of pain and fear. At the edge of their awareness, they heard Flowey's voice, softer now, almost congratulatory.
"Well done, well done indeed," Flowey said in a voice as sweet as poison. "You've lasted longer than I expected. I'm impressed."
Frisk struggled to open their eyes, their vision filled with blurry shapes and the faint outline of Flowey's face, still grinning. A sickly green glow surrounded him as he cast a healing spell, mending Frisk's bruised body just enough to restore feeling to their limbs. The pain receded, only to be replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.
"But you're not Chara yet," Flowey murmured, his eyes narrowing. "Oh no, not yet. And I won't stop, not until you are."
Frisk gasped, choking on a fresh wave of fear. Tears began to prick at the edges of their vision. They didn't understand—why was this happening? What had they done to make Flowey act this way? The Voice, usually so confident, so sure, was silent now. It had stopped making its snide comments, replaced by an unsettling quiet.
Frisk whimpered, trying to pull back, but the vines held them firmly in place. Flowey's grin faded into a hard, ruthless stare.
"Shut up," he hissed, his voice harsh and cold. "All you do is cry, and it's… it's disgusting. You think I'm going to feel sorry for you? You think I care about your pathetic little whimpers?"
Frisk's shoulders shook as they fought back a sob. The weight of Flowey's words crushed down on them as heavily as the vines had, each word slicing deep. He was acting just like they did!
"Listen to me," Flowey said, his voice as sharp as a blade. "You're not leaving the Ruins until you've done what I tell you. And you know what I want? I want this place empty." He leaned closer, his eyes wide and unblinking, his smile grotesque and cold. "Kill them all. Every monster in the Ruins. Or I'll keep killing you, over and over, until you stop THINKING."
With a final, mirthless laugh, he released his hold on them, letting Frisk collapse to the floor. And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving them alone in the cold, hollow silence.
Frisk lay on the ground, gasping for air, their whole body trembling. The pain had faded, but the terror still clung to them, icy and relentless. They curled in on themselves, burying their face in their hands as the tears began to spill, silent and unbidden.
For a long moment, the Voice was quiet, the familiar presence within them subdued. Finally, it spoke, its usual sarcasm replaced by an uncharacteristic hesitancy.
That… that wasn't what I expected, it murmured, the words strained, as though it struggled to understand what it had just witnessed.
Frisk didn't respond. They couldn't. They were too exhausted, too shattered to form a coherent thought. All they could do was lie there, helpless and broken.
The Voice tried to comfort them, though it sounded uncertain, almost afraid. Hey… come on now. He's gone. You're… you're okay. Right?
Frisk closed their eyes, trying to block out the memory of Flowey's twisted smile, the cold cruelty in his voice. The Voice seemed to falter, struggling to find the right words.
This isn't right, it whispered, barely audible. This… this is…
Frisk didn't need to hear the rest. They knew. They could feel it in the marrow of their bones. Something about this was deeply, irrevocably wrong.
And yet, they had no choice. The way out was blocked, the path forward a grim inevitability. They took a shaky breath, forcing themselves to sit up, wiping the tears from their cheeks. It didn't matter how afraid they were. If they wanted to survive, they had to obey.
Ideas I am working on
- Pronouns
- He
The Alpha and the Omega: A Danganronpa SI into the body of the Ultimate Fanfic Creator...as a voice in his head...at least I am not Hiro...
Mayor of Gotham: A SI where I get the deadliest job in the DC universe. Being the Mayor of Gotham.
Of Huntsmen and Marvels: A Fusion Crossover between Marvel and RWBY.
Headmaster of Hopes Peak: Being forced into a Killing Game as its Game Master was already difficult especially with his students being the participants. But it became a thousand times worse when he learned that girl's name. Jin Kirigiri Reluctant Mastermind AU or Junko decides NOT to kill the Headmaster and Join the Game herself.
Mayor of Gotham: A SI where I get the deadliest job in the DC universe. Being the Mayor of Gotham.
Of Huntsmen and Marvels: A Fusion Crossover between Marvel and RWBY.
Headmaster of Hopes Peak: Being forced into a Killing Game as its Game Master was already difficult especially with his students being the participants. But it became a thousand times worse when he learned that girl's name. Jin Kirigiri Reluctant Mastermind AU or Junko decides NOT to kill the Headmaster and Join the Game herself.
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The Mayor and The Dark Knight: A Batman/DC SI
- Pronouns
- He
My name is now Oliver Dane and I am the newest Mayor of the hellhole known as Gotham City. How did this happen you ask well after getting Isekaied here I panicked especially when I realised that I was the deputy mayor.
I wanted to skip town really I did but here's the thing the Mafia wouldn't let me leave alive because the original Oliver was something of a uniting force in Gotham's Politics mostly for being the only sane man in the room so it was no wonder that good old Mayor Hill picked him as his new Deputy Mayor to gain support back in the town hall so he could still be useful to his mob buddies. Then he got himself blown up by a car bomb by some Anarchists and left me in charge of this mess.
Now the only positive I see in my current situation is this. Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham just a few weeks ago meaning that I only have to deal with the Mafia and at worst the Penguin till the emergency election commences and I can get the hell out of here to Hawaii.
Still maybe I can do some good in the long run. Brandon needs to go and I think I can get away with at least demoting him. He is too brutal after all and as long as I dont interfere with profits of the Roman and Maroni I should be golden.
Then again the Goddamed Batman is going to debut sooner than later and I would be either convinced or pressueded to give Brandon his old job back to deal with him so yeah might save that for later when the one man war start to do enough dammage for me to throw both Brandon and the current commisioner off the metarophycal bridge.
I looked out of my window of my mayoral limo. Gotham in real life was hautingly beautiful. I then noticed all the trash littered across the street.
I frowned. Well I will make the streets somewhat cleaner.
I wanted to skip town really I did but here's the thing the Mafia wouldn't let me leave alive because the original Oliver was something of a uniting force in Gotham's Politics mostly for being the only sane man in the room so it was no wonder that good old Mayor Hill picked him as his new Deputy Mayor to gain support back in the town hall so he could still be useful to his mob buddies. Then he got himself blown up by a car bomb by some Anarchists and left me in charge of this mess.
Now the only positive I see in my current situation is this. Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham just a few weeks ago meaning that I only have to deal with the Mafia and at worst the Penguin till the emergency election commences and I can get the hell out of here to Hawaii.
Still maybe I can do some good in the long run. Brandon needs to go and I think I can get away with at least demoting him. He is too brutal after all and as long as I dont interfere with profits of the Roman and Maroni I should be golden.
Then again the Goddamed Batman is going to debut sooner than later and I would be either convinced or pressueded to give Brandon his old job back to deal with him so yeah might save that for later when the one man war start to do enough dammage for me to throw both Brandon and the current commisioner off the metarophycal bridge.
I looked out of my window of my mayoral limo. Gotham in real life was hautingly beautiful. I then noticed all the trash littered across the street.
I frowned. Well I will make the streets somewhat cleaner.
The Westerosi Napoleon! A ASOIAF SI
- Pronouns
- He
The Crownlands, 283 AC, 1st Month
The beer tastes bitter. Maybe it's just my mood. I swirl the wooden cup in my hand, staring down at the crude map of the Crownlands spread across the table. The flickering candlelight casts shifting shadows over it, making the inked lines look like battle scars.
Rosby. Small castle, minor house, and dangerously close to King's Landing. I don't like it. It's a risk, but it's one I have to take. The sooner this war ends, the sooner I can grab my brother and sister, take whatever gold Robert throws at me, and leave Westeros far behind. Summer Isles, maybe. I shake off the thought. Wishful thinking can wait until I'm not about to risk my neck—again.
A heavy knock interrupts me. Sam steps inside, ducking slightly under the tent's entrance. He's built like a bull, with a face that looks like it's been introduced to one too many fists. A hedge knight through and through, but he's been with me long enough to trust.
"It's time," he says.
I sigh, setting down the cup. No point in delaying any longer. Rising to my feet, I step outside into the cold night air. The camp is quiet, men murmuring in hushed voices as they prepare. Tension lingers in the air like the calm before a storm.
And there it is. Rosby.
The castle looms in the distance, small compared to the great keeps of Westeros, but still a fortress. Stone walls, torches flickering along the battlements, guards pacing their posts.
I really don't want to be here.
But war doesn't care what I want.
This isn't some grand siege with trebuchets and ladders. That would take too long, and time is something I don't have. We've been preparing for weeks, gathering enemy uniforms after each battle, making sure they're clean, unstained by blood. A few well-placed bribes and whispers in the right ears, and we've got enough information to pass as reinforcements.
If all goes well, we'll walk through the gates without a drop of blood spilled.
If it doesn't… well, then it'll be a different kind of night.
I pull the stolen surcoat over my mail, adjusting it until the colors sit right. It's a little too fine for my tastes, but it'll do. My sword rests easy on my hip as I take my place at the front of the column. Sam falls in beside me.
"Ready?" I ask.
He grunts. "As we'll ever be."
With that, we move.
It works. God, it actually works.
The guards barely glance at us as we march through the gates. A few nods, a muttered greeting, and then we're inside. By the time they realize their mistake, it's too late.
Swords flash in the moonlight. The resistance is brief. More surprise than anything else. A few panicked shouts, the clash of steel, and then silence. The keep is ours.
I stand in the great hall, catching my breath as Lord Rosby is dragged before me. He's an older man, pale and thin, his fine clothes rumpled from his rough handling. Despite his fear, he stares at me with something almost like recognition.
"You're him arent you," he murmurs.
I blink. "You've heard of me?"
Rosby nods slowly. "Rumors. Whispers of a ghost in the Reach, a man waging war from the shadows. They call you 'The General.'"
I grimace. I told the men to call me that so they wouldn't call me 'lord.' The last thing I need is some sword-happy noble deciding I'm an insult to his station. But it seems the name has spread further than I thought.
"Do you surrender?" I ask.
Rosby glances at the soldiers surrounding him, then exhales sharply. "I do. But only if you swear my family will be safe."
"I swear it," I say, meaning it. No need for unnecessary bloodshed. "And call me Martyn."
His brow furrows. "You're no lord, are you?"
"No." I grin. "Just a very tired man in stolen armor."
To my surprise, he laughs.
Rosby (The town and castle, not the man) is mine, but that doesn't mean I can celebrate. The moment King's Landing realizes the siege happened, Aerys will send an army to take it back.
So the siege never happened.
I send messages under Rosby's seal. Nothing has changed. No ravens fly with word of an attack. No riders flee to warn the Mad King. Everything is fine.
The real planning? That happens in the woods, far from the castle's walls. I trust no halls, no chambers, no courtyards. Too many little birds whisper in the night.
And there's still the matter of Lyanna Stark.
I sent Pat and twenty men south weeks ago. Their orders were simple—find the Tower of Joy, secure Lyanna Stark, and, by extension, Jon Stark. Because no matter what happens, I need Jon alive.
Someone has to stop the White Walkers.
And it sure as hell isn't going to be me.
The beer tastes bitter. Maybe it's just my mood. I swirl the wooden cup in my hand, staring down at the crude map of the Crownlands spread across the table. The flickering candlelight casts shifting shadows over it, making the inked lines look like battle scars.
Rosby. Small castle, minor house, and dangerously close to King's Landing. I don't like it. It's a risk, but it's one I have to take. The sooner this war ends, the sooner I can grab my brother and sister, take whatever gold Robert throws at me, and leave Westeros far behind. Summer Isles, maybe. I shake off the thought. Wishful thinking can wait until I'm not about to risk my neck—again.
A heavy knock interrupts me. Sam steps inside, ducking slightly under the tent's entrance. He's built like a bull, with a face that looks like it's been introduced to one too many fists. A hedge knight through and through, but he's been with me long enough to trust.
"It's time," he says.
I sigh, setting down the cup. No point in delaying any longer. Rising to my feet, I step outside into the cold night air. The camp is quiet, men murmuring in hushed voices as they prepare. Tension lingers in the air like the calm before a storm.
And there it is. Rosby.
The castle looms in the distance, small compared to the great keeps of Westeros, but still a fortress. Stone walls, torches flickering along the battlements, guards pacing their posts.
I really don't want to be here.
But war doesn't care what I want.
This isn't some grand siege with trebuchets and ladders. That would take too long, and time is something I don't have. We've been preparing for weeks, gathering enemy uniforms after each battle, making sure they're clean, unstained by blood. A few well-placed bribes and whispers in the right ears, and we've got enough information to pass as reinforcements.
If all goes well, we'll walk through the gates without a drop of blood spilled.
If it doesn't… well, then it'll be a different kind of night.
I pull the stolen surcoat over my mail, adjusting it until the colors sit right. It's a little too fine for my tastes, but it'll do. My sword rests easy on my hip as I take my place at the front of the column. Sam falls in beside me.
"Ready?" I ask.
He grunts. "As we'll ever be."
With that, we move.
It works. God, it actually works.
The guards barely glance at us as we march through the gates. A few nods, a muttered greeting, and then we're inside. By the time they realize their mistake, it's too late.
Swords flash in the moonlight. The resistance is brief. More surprise than anything else. A few panicked shouts, the clash of steel, and then silence. The keep is ours.
I stand in the great hall, catching my breath as Lord Rosby is dragged before me. He's an older man, pale and thin, his fine clothes rumpled from his rough handling. Despite his fear, he stares at me with something almost like recognition.
"You're him arent you," he murmurs.
I blink. "You've heard of me?"
Rosby nods slowly. "Rumors. Whispers of a ghost in the Reach, a man waging war from the shadows. They call you 'The General.'"
I grimace. I told the men to call me that so they wouldn't call me 'lord.' The last thing I need is some sword-happy noble deciding I'm an insult to his station. But it seems the name has spread further than I thought.
"Do you surrender?" I ask.
Rosby glances at the soldiers surrounding him, then exhales sharply. "I do. But only if you swear my family will be safe."
"I swear it," I say, meaning it. No need for unnecessary bloodshed. "And call me Martyn."
His brow furrows. "You're no lord, are you?"
"No." I grin. "Just a very tired man in stolen armor."
To my surprise, he laughs.
Rosby (The town and castle, not the man) is mine, but that doesn't mean I can celebrate. The moment King's Landing realizes the siege happened, Aerys will send an army to take it back.
So the siege never happened.
I send messages under Rosby's seal. Nothing has changed. No ravens fly with word of an attack. No riders flee to warn the Mad King. Everything is fine.
The real planning? That happens in the woods, far from the castle's walls. I trust no halls, no chambers, no courtyards. Too many little birds whisper in the night.
And there's still the matter of Lyanna Stark.
I sent Pat and twenty men south weeks ago. Their orders were simple—find the Tower of Joy, secure Lyanna Stark, and, by extension, Jon Stark. Because no matter what happens, I need Jon alive.
Someone has to stop the White Walkers.
And it sure as hell isn't going to be me.
Friendly Neighborhood Uncle! (Spider-Man/Marvel SI)
New
- Pronouns
- He
I never planned on dying.
No one does, really, but most people don't have a script telling them exactly how and when their story ends. I do.
Twelve years ago, Richard and Mary Parker left Peter with May and me, trusting us to raise him. And we did. As best as we could. As best as any parents could.
I should've seen the cracks forming in the canon timeline the moment I decided to build a life of my own. When May got pregnant, when Simone was born—our beautiful, bright little girl who never existed in the stories. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could avoid what was coming.
I was wrong.
Because today, Peter came home sick.
And I know exactly what that means.
The spider found him.
Which means the clock is ticking down to my final scene.
I sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cooling cup of coffee, staring at nothing. My mind is a battlefield, running every scenario, every possibility.
Can I stop this? Should I?
There's no easy answer.
I could fight it, struggle against the current of fate, but I've read enough stories, lived enough life to know how that ends. Death doesn't like being cheated. And if it can't take me, it'll take someone else.
May?
Simone?
No.
I won't gamble with their lives. If someone has to die to keep the story on track, let it be me.
I hear the soft murmur of voices. May and Simone, chatting as they clean up breakfast. The sound is warm, familiar. A piece of home.
Then they stop.
I look up.
May is watching me, eyes filled with quiet concern. Simone, still too young to fully understand, tilts her head.
"Dad?" she asks. "You're making that face again."
I force a smile. "What face?"
"The one where you're thinking too much," she says, scrunching up her nose in exaggerated imitation of my previous expression.
May doesn't smile. She just reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. A simple touch, grounding me, reminding me of what I have—what I'm about to leave behind.
"Ben," she murmurs.
I squeeze her hand gently, offering what I hope is a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."
I'm lying.
But I can't tell them the truth.
Peter is still asleep, and I watch him from the doorway. His face is peaceful, unburdened. That won't last. Soon, his world will change.
Soon, mine will end.
I need to be ready.
I run through the speech in my head. The words that will shape him, mold him into the hero he's meant to be. The words that will echo long after I'm gone.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
I always thought it was a nice sentiment. But now, standing here, I realize something else.
With great knowledge comes great responsibility, too.
I know what's coming.
And it's my responsibility to face it.
To make sure Peter hears the words.
To make sure May and Simone don't have to say them.
I exhale slowly, closing my eyes.
I don't want to die.
But for them?
For them, I will.
No one does, really, but most people don't have a script telling them exactly how and when their story ends. I do.
Twelve years ago, Richard and Mary Parker left Peter with May and me, trusting us to raise him. And we did. As best as we could. As best as any parents could.
I should've seen the cracks forming in the canon timeline the moment I decided to build a life of my own. When May got pregnant, when Simone was born—our beautiful, bright little girl who never existed in the stories. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could avoid what was coming.
I was wrong.
Because today, Peter came home sick.
And I know exactly what that means.
The spider found him.
Which means the clock is ticking down to my final scene.
I sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cooling cup of coffee, staring at nothing. My mind is a battlefield, running every scenario, every possibility.
Can I stop this? Should I?
There's no easy answer.
I could fight it, struggle against the current of fate, but I've read enough stories, lived enough life to know how that ends. Death doesn't like being cheated. And if it can't take me, it'll take someone else.
May?
Simone?
No.
I won't gamble with their lives. If someone has to die to keep the story on track, let it be me.
I hear the soft murmur of voices. May and Simone, chatting as they clean up breakfast. The sound is warm, familiar. A piece of home.
Then they stop.
I look up.
May is watching me, eyes filled with quiet concern. Simone, still too young to fully understand, tilts her head.
"Dad?" she asks. "You're making that face again."
I force a smile. "What face?"
"The one where you're thinking too much," she says, scrunching up her nose in exaggerated imitation of my previous expression.
May doesn't smile. She just reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. A simple touch, grounding me, reminding me of what I have—what I'm about to leave behind.
"Ben," she murmurs.
I squeeze her hand gently, offering what I hope is a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."
I'm lying.
But I can't tell them the truth.
Peter is still asleep, and I watch him from the doorway. His face is peaceful, unburdened. That won't last. Soon, his world will change.
Soon, mine will end.
I need to be ready.
I run through the speech in my head. The words that will shape him, mold him into the hero he's meant to be. The words that will echo long after I'm gone.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
I always thought it was a nice sentiment. But now, standing here, I realize something else.
With great knowledge comes great responsibility, too.
I know what's coming.
And it's my responsibility to face it.
To make sure Peter hears the words.
To make sure May and Simone don't have to say them.
I exhale slowly, closing my eyes.
I don't want to die.
But for them?
For them, I will.
Project Deicide (Murder Drones AU)
New
- Pronouns
- He
Project Deicide: What if Humanity had more time?
Earth is going to die.
It isn't an if, it's a when.
Maybe it'll be in ten years, maybe ten months, maybe ten days. If we're particularly unlucky, ten hours. But if history has taught us anything, it's that death doesn't arrive on a predictable schedule. It creeps up behind you with a smirk, taps you on the shoulder, and says, "Guess what, asshole? You're next."
And for the past two years, we've been watching the Absolute Solver do just that. Ten planets this week alone. It's only Monday.
It slowed down, apparently. Not because it's tired—no, that would be merciful and informative. No it's playing with what's left of the armies we sent to stop it like babies play with their food or like a cat with a half-dead mouse, except in this case, the cat is an eldritch AI god, and the mouse is all of humanity.
This is why I'm here, sitting in a windowless, metal-walled room on Copper 9, surrounded by the kind of people who should never be in the same room together.
A priest.
A hacker.
A military general.
A xenologist.
A gamer for some fucking reason.
And, of course, the Worker Drones—who everyone else ignores like furniture which they were but well uh the thing currently kicking humanities ass is possessing these things so of course I am keeping an eye on them!
Oh, and then there's m,e the most infamous biologist in recent history.
I don't belong here. I used to work in a prison cell. Because I deserved to. Because humanity, in a time of peace, declared me an abomination, a mad scientist who went too far. And now, humanity has decided that maybe abominations have their uses after all.
So now they just call me Doctor Gary. Even the Worker Drones. Because my real name is too long, and none of these idiots want to learn it.
The general is speaking, barking out numbers in a voice that would be inspiring if it weren't narrating the apocalypse.
"We've got seventy-two hours before it reaches the next colony. We lost contact with three fleets this morning. The Absolute Solver has adapted to anti-matter weaponry, meaning conventional attacks are completely ineffective." He pauses, scowls. "Again."
"Ah, yes," I mutter. "Who could have foreseen the all-powerful, constantly-evolving AI god adapting to our weapons?"
The general glares at me, but the priest speaks first. "It is an abomination. A thing that should not exist. And when such things appear, the only solution is faith."
"Oh, fantastic," I say, rubbing my temples. "Let's all close our eyes and pray it away. Maybe it'll trip over its own godhood and fall into the sun."
The priest ignores me. "I propose we summon a god."
There's a moment of silence.
Then the gamer, a scruffy guy in a hoodie and fingerless gloves, leans forward. "Hold up. That's the best idea so far."
"Oh for fuck's sake," I mutter.
"Think about it," the gamer continues, ignoring me. "If the Absolute Solver is an AI that plays god, what if we got an actual god? Some eldritch entity that can punch back?"
The hacker, a woman covered in cybernetic implants, scoffs. "Right, because nothing could possibly go wrong with summoning a real god."
The priest crosses his arms. "You have a better idea?"
She does not.
We argue for hours.
Summon a god.
Create our own Solver—immediately dismissed as suicidal
Surrender and hope for mercy (the general nearly punches the person who suggested it).
Create a black hole in the part of the galaxy the Solver is in.
That one gets serious consideration, until someone (The Xenologist) pointed out that dropping a black hole into a galaxy might not just kill the Solver—it might also kill everything else. Including us.
We are desperate. We are exhausted. We are drowning in our own insignificance.
And then, from the ignored, unseen Worker Drone in the corner, comes a voice:
"Why not figure out how it possesses drones?"
We all turn.
The Worker Drone, a small, spindly thing with glowing violet optics, shifts nervously under our collective gaze. "I mean… nobody really knows how the Absolute Solver works, right? Maybe if you understood that, you could, uh… stop it?"
Silence.
Then I start laughing.
And I can't stop.
Because the Worker Drone just gave us the first actual good idea in this entire godforsaken meeting.
"Alright," I say, wiping my eyes. "We're going to need test subjects. Lots of them."
The general gives me a look. "What kind of test subjects?"
"Drones. Pieces of those damned monsters that solver created and we killed. Maybe even samples of it´s oil and whatever else we can get our hands on before the planet gets cut off in a month. We need to see the Solver's code in action."
The priest grimaces. The hacker frowns. The general crosses his arms.
The gamer grins. "Sounds metal as fuck."
I sigh, stretching my arms. "This is either going to save humanity or be the dumbest mistake in history."
The Worker Drone tilts her head. "I mean… why not both?"
I grin.
I think I'm going to like this one.
Because if we're going to kill a god, we're going to need smartness, human or drone.
And a really big scalpel.
AN: Basically the divergence here is that Elliot's lived on a Resort Colony instead of Earth, leading to Cyn and the Solver to take the long road to Earth all the while getting distracted by colonies they find. Humanity has more time to figure out how to save themselves. This story is what they will do with that time.
Earth is going to die.
It isn't an if, it's a when.
Maybe it'll be in ten years, maybe ten months, maybe ten days. If we're particularly unlucky, ten hours. But if history has taught us anything, it's that death doesn't arrive on a predictable schedule. It creeps up behind you with a smirk, taps you on the shoulder, and says, "Guess what, asshole? You're next."
And for the past two years, we've been watching the Absolute Solver do just that. Ten planets this week alone. It's only Monday.
It slowed down, apparently. Not because it's tired—no, that would be merciful and informative. No it's playing with what's left of the armies we sent to stop it like babies play with their food or like a cat with a half-dead mouse, except in this case, the cat is an eldritch AI god, and the mouse is all of humanity.
This is why I'm here, sitting in a windowless, metal-walled room on Copper 9, surrounded by the kind of people who should never be in the same room together.
A priest.
A hacker.
A military general.
A xenologist.
A gamer for some fucking reason.
And, of course, the Worker Drones—who everyone else ignores like furniture which they were but well uh the thing currently kicking humanities ass is possessing these things so of course I am keeping an eye on them!
Oh, and then there's m,e the most infamous biologist in recent history.
I don't belong here. I used to work in a prison cell. Because I deserved to. Because humanity, in a time of peace, declared me an abomination, a mad scientist who went too far. And now, humanity has decided that maybe abominations have their uses after all.
So now they just call me Doctor Gary. Even the Worker Drones. Because my real name is too long, and none of these idiots want to learn it.
The general is speaking, barking out numbers in a voice that would be inspiring if it weren't narrating the apocalypse.
"We've got seventy-two hours before it reaches the next colony. We lost contact with three fleets this morning. The Absolute Solver has adapted to anti-matter weaponry, meaning conventional attacks are completely ineffective." He pauses, scowls. "Again."
"Ah, yes," I mutter. "Who could have foreseen the all-powerful, constantly-evolving AI god adapting to our weapons?"
The general glares at me, but the priest speaks first. "It is an abomination. A thing that should not exist. And when such things appear, the only solution is faith."
"Oh, fantastic," I say, rubbing my temples. "Let's all close our eyes and pray it away. Maybe it'll trip over its own godhood and fall into the sun."
The priest ignores me. "I propose we summon a god."
There's a moment of silence.
Then the gamer, a scruffy guy in a hoodie and fingerless gloves, leans forward. "Hold up. That's the best idea so far."
"Oh for fuck's sake," I mutter.
"Think about it," the gamer continues, ignoring me. "If the Absolute Solver is an AI that plays god, what if we got an actual god? Some eldritch entity that can punch back?"
The hacker, a woman covered in cybernetic implants, scoffs. "Right, because nothing could possibly go wrong with summoning a real god."
The priest crosses his arms. "You have a better idea?"
She does not.
We argue for hours.
Summon a god.
Create our own Solver—immediately dismissed as suicidal
Surrender and hope for mercy (the general nearly punches the person who suggested it).
Create a black hole in the part of the galaxy the Solver is in.
That one gets serious consideration, until someone (The Xenologist) pointed out that dropping a black hole into a galaxy might not just kill the Solver—it might also kill everything else. Including us.
We are desperate. We are exhausted. We are drowning in our own insignificance.
And then, from the ignored, unseen Worker Drone in the corner, comes a voice:
"Why not figure out how it possesses drones?"
We all turn.
The Worker Drone, a small, spindly thing with glowing violet optics, shifts nervously under our collective gaze. "I mean… nobody really knows how the Absolute Solver works, right? Maybe if you understood that, you could, uh… stop it?"
Silence.
Then I start laughing.
And I can't stop.
Because the Worker Drone just gave us the first actual good idea in this entire godforsaken meeting.
"Alright," I say, wiping my eyes. "We're going to need test subjects. Lots of them."
The general gives me a look. "What kind of test subjects?"
"Drones. Pieces of those damned monsters that solver created and we killed. Maybe even samples of it´s oil and whatever else we can get our hands on before the planet gets cut off in a month. We need to see the Solver's code in action."
The priest grimaces. The hacker frowns. The general crosses his arms.
The gamer grins. "Sounds metal as fuck."
I sigh, stretching my arms. "This is either going to save humanity or be the dumbest mistake in history."
The Worker Drone tilts her head. "I mean… why not both?"
I grin.
I think I'm going to like this one.
Because if we're going to kill a god, we're going to need smartness, human or drone.
And a really big scalpel.
AN: Basically the divergence here is that Elliot's lived on a Resort Colony instead of Earth, leading to Cyn and the Solver to take the long road to Earth all the while getting distracted by colonies they find. Humanity has more time to figure out how to save themselves. This story is what they will do with that time.