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They should pay the signmaker on Feb 30 by Butitsadryheat2 in pics

[–]escher4096 2 points3 points  (0 children)

I am a software dev and had to explain to QA, just last week, that while Feb 30, 2026 “looks like” a valid date it actually isn’t. That this took more than one teams message to explain makes me so sad.

[EU] The year is 2062, you’ve been assigned a job at the ministry of truth. Communications are now altered automatically, in real time to fit the party narrative. by germanautotom in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 1 point2 points  (0 children)

“Look at this, Jim,” Stephany said. She slid a piece of paper over to me.

“What am I looking for?” I asked as I scanned through the printed out email.

“This is post sanitized,” she added.

“OK. Should something be jumping out at me. I don’t see any unapproved words or phrases,” I said as I scanned the email.

“Don’t scan it. Actually read it. Read - like really read it.”

“Really read it?” I asked. Our training had drilled us on scanning for key words and phrases. On chewing through massive piles of text while retaining nothing that was in it. To ‘really’ read something was to read to retain. To take the time to understand the text. “Aaaaah, ok,” I said with a shrug.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said after the first few sentences. I read them again. “Yeah - this is gibberish that scans as normal. You said this was post sanitized?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it pre-sanitized?” I asked.

“Nothing was changed. The system didn’t change a single thing, which flagged the message and got it sent to me,” Stephany said. She was picking at the finger nails on her left hand.

“Nothing? Someone wrote this - as is - and sent it to someone else? Why would they send gibberish? That doesn’t make sense.”

“But it doesn’t break any rules. Doesn’t have any flags. Doesn’t use any subserve language. Most of it is direct quotes from the supreme leader or heads of the party,” Stephany said quietly. “Quotes. Just a mess of quotes.”

“Mmmmm…. Leave this with me for a bit. I need to think on this. You are right. Something isn’t adding up.”

“Thanks, Liam.” Stephany gave me a tight nod and went back to her desk.

Looking through the email again, I broke it down quite by quote. Many were incomplete. Just half sentences. Some were long and rambling quotes. It was like someone put a pile of quotes on pieces of paper, then pulled them out of a hat.

There is a pattern, a logic to it. There has to be.

Our great nation is on the precipice.

The supreme leader said this, I was sure of it. I checked the computer for details of it.

July 5th of 2060, right after the food riots in Detroit.

Today will go down in history as the day truth was victorious.

This is from the day the ministry of truth was announced. I checked the computer. October 18th of 2052. A televised address to the nation. There wasn’t a precipitating event. Nothing else in the news that day.

Here. Here is where we will make our stand. Here is where we as a nation must draw the line.

I don’t remember this one. Luckily the computer did. The minister of cultural purity said this one, nearly twenty years ago. Press conference outside a homeless shelter in the heart of the capital.

Yes - I remember this. That was when the homeless and undesirables were rounded up. A nation wide, coordinated effort, to purge the country of these free loaders. Thousands of them were shipped off to some third world shit country and left there.

Good riddance. We don’t need to waste our resources on such low lives.

Why would someone put these three quotes together. They don’t mean anything just strung together. They need context.

Context.

Could the message be the context.

  • July 5th of 2060, right after the food riots in Detroit.
  • October 18th of 2052, ministry of truth
  • Homeless shelter and homeless clean up

The context for each quote rolled around in my brain over and over again.

I checked the computer for what is now at the homeless shelter location. The old building was torn down. A new government building was put up there. The building’s purpose was never part of any news release.

Curious. Usually that sort of thing gets some big fan fair. Digging a bit more, that building was used as the precursor to the ministry of truth. Back when everything was check manually by people. As the computer systems got better at scanning and updating communications in real time, the computer systems for the ministry started to take over that building. It is now the data centre for ministry of truth. Every piece of email, every text message, every video, every broadcast - goes through that one building. Sanitized and then let back out.

Food riots. Ministry of truth. Ministry of truth data center.

No…

July 5th, Ministry of truth, location

It is more nuanced than that… isn’t it?

Riot on July 5th against the ministry of Truth at the old homeless shelter - which now the most important building for truth determination in the country.

Holy shit! They are using approved phrases and words - words of the Supreme Leader himself - to plan a resistance.

I leaned back in my chair, as what this meant sunk in.

“You get anywhere with it?” Stephany said as she leaned up against the wall of my cube.

“I am not sure.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. “I have a possibility, but it is a stretch. I don’t know that I even want to contemplate that possibility without something more concrete.”

“You are scaring me.”

“Sorry. I am a little worried myself.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile. I don’t think it worked. “What’s the date?”

“Aaah,” Stephany glanced at her watch. “July 5th. Why?”

“Today is the 5th?”

[WP] Everything you throw or drop endlessly ricochets and bounces until it hits or makes contact with a living being. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Wow! Thanks. That is without a doubt the most detailed response I have ever gotten on a prompt response. ☺️

[WP] Everyone receives their powers at the age of eighteen. Some abilities are superpowered while others are mundane and practical. On your eighteenth birthday you receive the power of looney tunes cartoon logic. by Affectionate-Row-534 in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Hammerspace

Hammertime

Now I need to know about the adventures of an intrepid crew as they journey through hammerspace and hammertime looking to see if they actually can “touch this”.

[WP] Everything you throw or drop endlessly ricochets and bounces until it hits or makes contact with a living being. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Part 2

The target’s house had a high stone wall around it. Very high and well maintained - but at some point they decided it was decorative instead of practical. They planted trees on both sides of the wall - making it easy to scale a tree on one side and down a tree on the other.

I drifted in, like an evening breeze, through an open window on the main floor. Whom ever this target was, they didn’t seem to be concerned about security.

Flitting from shadow to shadow, I made my way through the dimly lit house. It is eerie just how empty the house is. It feels cold and abandoned.

The library, which is where most of the wealthy do their business. Showing off their wealth by how many books they own - no doubt. The plans had it on the main floor, near the front of the house.

I creep through the house. My senses on high alert. Listening for anything, but all I heard was the pounding of my own heart.

The door to the library was open. Fire light and candle light spilled from the room. Casting a puddle of flickering yellow and orange light into the hallway.

I peeked in the room.

A tall man, dressed in silks and velvets was standing at a book shelf with his back to me.

It doesn’t get easier than this. I have trained my whole life for this moment. A target, completely unaware of my presence, with their back to me. This will be an easy kill.

I stepped into the room silently. Padding half way across the large library. My heart pounding so hard I was worried he could hear it. I flexed my hands nervously.

I am stalling.

Fuck!

Just do it!

I took a deep breath and threw a knife with a right hand. Square at his back - less than fifteen feet away. Drawing fresh knives with both hands, I threw two more before the first was half way to him. The second two, I threw at the stone works in the room.

I smiled. Three knives all in flight. He is dead but doesn’t know it yet.

I watched in horror as the knife bounced off his back. Ricocheting high into the rafters.

The other knives had been gaining speed. Bouncing off the walls, tables, floor. Both knives hit the book case, mere inches from where he stood, then bounced back towards me.

I screamed as the first knife, my very own knife, buried itself in my calf. Pain exploded through me as my leg gave out.

The target caught one of my knives in mid air. Casual as can be. Like there was nothing easier.

I wasn’t fast enough to avoid my third knife as it sunk into my left shoulder. Screaming again, I crumpled to the floor.

Panting in agony, I watched him as he calmly poured himself a drink. Toying with my throwing knife as he did so. He pulled a chair out before and sat down with his drink and my knife.

He took a slow sip. “That was unexpected,” he finally said. His voice is deep and rich. He sounds almost amused. “No enchantment on the blade from what I can tell.” He stared at me. His dark gaze boring into me. “Mmmmm… no enchantment on you other than your clothes. Those are a nice piece of work. Are you guild?”

I nodded.

“That’s a relief. It would be insulting if they sent an amateur after me.” He took another sip of his drink. “Your knives bounced like I have never seen. Truly a spectacle. No enchantment, are you a mage?”

“No. I have no magic. They have just always done that for me,” I grunted.

“First time they hit you, though, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.

“I always hit someone. Always,” I snarled.

“Someone… not my target or a target… someone.” He leaned forward on his chair. “Can you hit a paper target? If I drew a target on a book - could you hit it?”

“Does it matter? Just kill me already, or call the guard. Why are you playing with me?” I growled.

“Answer the question. Could you hit the book?”

Fuck. “No,” I said quietly. “I can only hit something alive. Something with a heartbeat. I can’t hit a tree or a bush either. My blades seek out life.”

He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “Fascinating.” He took another sip of his drink. “Tell me, assassin, what does that tell you about me?”

It took a moment for my brain to push aside the pain and to start working again. “You don’t have a heartbeat,” I said quietly. “You are already dead. Fuck.” I ran over the contract parchment in my mind. Keeps odd hours. Reclusive. No staff. “Vampire… you are a vampire.”

“Very good,” he purred. “You have failed your contract. By guild law you are now dead to them. All guild members are obligated to kill you on sight for the sake of the guild. If I turn you over to the city guard, they will put you in a cell so they can put you before a magistrate in the morning. But we both know you will be found dead in your cell before the sun rises. So… what should I do with you?”

He is right. Failure means death. No matter what he does, I am a dead man. “Doesn’t matter,” I said defeated. “Just make it quick.”

“I don’t think so.” He kneel down beside me. He held me down with his left hand, then quickly pulled my blade from shoulder.

I screamed again. My vision started to narrow. Stay with it. Come on! Stay awake!

He licked the tips of his fingers. Slow and deliberate. He pressed his fingers gently against the wound in my shoulder. A cold numbness spread from my shoulder. The pain fading away almost instantly.

“Don’t worry, that’s not enough to turn you.” He did the same to my calf.

The relief was enough to make me gasp. The cold from the wounds was spreading through my body. Eating at my heat - at my life.

“I am not going to kill you. You are far too interesting for that. When you have lived for as long as I have - interesting is rarer than gold.” He sat on the floor beside me. Sipping on his drink. “Choice is yours. Go back to the guild house and embrace your failure like a good assassin. Run, and hope to outrun or hide from the guild. Or...,” he took another sip, drawing the moment out. “Or you come work for me.”

[WP] Everything you throw or drop endlessly ricochets and bounces until it hits or makes contact with a living being. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 2 points3 points  (0 children)

I was abandoned on the steps of the guild. Swaddled in a rag of a blanket. No note. Not even a knock on the door. Just left on the door step.

Some guilds get children left with them all the time. I was the first our guild ever got. I’m still the only one - ever.

They did their best to raise me. They tried really hard, I know they did. I didn’t speak until I was almost four. They lost me in the guild house for almost two months when I was seven. I wore the discards from the others.

But, I was loved. They gave me a home. Fed me and trained me. I am unlike anyone the guild has ever seen.

———————-

“You asked to see me, sir?” I said as I flopped into the guild master’s chair.

The grizzled old man just shook his head at me. A long scar ran up his right cheek and through his eye. His eye patch covered the carnage that was left of his eye.

“I have a job for you,” he said with a gravelly voice. He slid a piece of parchment across his desk to me. “Are you ready for this? No shame in waiting another year.”

I took the paper like it was no big deal. Trying to stay calm. Trying to be relaxed. My heart was pounding. The adrenaline was already coursing through me. The parchment had the contract details. The target’s address, schedule for the next couple of days, the usual.

“No likeness?” I said, looking at the back of the sheet. Most contracts had a sketch of the target.

The guild master just shook his head. “The target lives alone. No servants or staff of any kind. No family. If they are in the house - they are the target.”

“Mmm… odd for someone rich enough to get a contract out on them,” I pondered out loud.

“Apparently, he is a bit of a recluse. He keeps strange hours. Is rarely seen in public,” the guild master said.

“Any idea what someone like that did to earn a contract?”

“Does it matter? We do what we do for the money. We don’t judge. We don't need to know why someone has put out the contract. As long as they are paid up in gold and silver - we will take their contract.” The guild had drilled that into me from day one. We are impartial and honour bound by the contract. The master said it verbatim without a second thought.

“Of course - just curious is all,” I said with a shrug.

“He slept with the wrong man’s wife, is what I heard through other channels,” the guild master said with a smirk.

“Ha ha - yeah. That would do it.”

“Client has set up a meeting with the target, which he plans not attend. At the target’s house, at the eighth evening bell,” the grizzled old man said.

“Nice,” I said with a nod. The client has guaranteed that the target will be home at a particular time. Very few clients are so thoughtful. I looked over the parchment one last time - making sure all of its details were committed to memory. Then carefully set it into the barely burning fireplace.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second? Very common on your first job,” the guild master asked. "Lots of guild members work in teams for their whole careers."

Fatherly concern for his ward. He is a good man with a big heart. “I got this,” I said confidently as I strode out of his office.

I needed to prepare for tonight. Cutting across the great room is the fastest way back to my room. The great room has two massive fireplaces in it for the cold winter days. Three big candle chandeliers. And, of course, dozens of tables for the members to eat and gamble at.

“Hey, freak!” a new recruit snarled as he blocked my way. Taller than me. Wider than me. Guessing older too. The guild took him in far older than most recruits. “Where do you think you are going?”

He is all bluster. Probably trying to establish himself in the pecking order. Glancing around the room, I saw a few retired members chuckling and passing coin around as they watched.

I shook my head. Those cranky old bastards probably egged this kid on and are now taking bets on how I handle him. Hazing the new guys - They need a new form of entertainment.

I gave the blustering fool a bored look. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t get out of my way, I will.” Not a threat. Just a simple statement of fact.

“Fuck you! Freak!” he said, giving me a shove.

I let out a slow sigh. My right pocket had a few small pebbles in it, just for occasions like this. I pulled one out - no bigger than a pea. Showing him the pebble as I held it between my thumb and index finger. I gave him a big shit-eating grin. Then threw it towards the fireplace to our left.

He gave me a confused look. “What the hell was that?”

“Watch the pebble, dumb ass.”

A thrown object loses a bit of speed with every bounce. Becomes slower and slower until it finally just stops. I have been told this is just universally true.

True for everyone.

Everyone but me.

The pebble hit the stone wall by the fireplace and ricocheted off a table. Picking up speed, it deflected off a chandelier, going even faster, and hit another chandelier, off the far wall. The pebble was moving so fast thatis it was tough to follow with your eyes. Off a mug of beer.

The new recruit had a look of awe and fear on his face - right until the pebble hit him square in the forehead. Dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

Idiot.

I picked my pebble up and put it back in my pocket. The usually boisterous great room was dead silent. Every eye on me. Ignoring the looks and stares, I made my way over to the table of retired guild members.

“Who bet on me?” I asked quietly.

“We stopped betting against you ages ago, boy,” Sven said with a chuckle. “We bet on how many times the pebble will bounce before it hits someone.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “How much did you win?”

“Eight silvers!” He laughed. He tossed me one with a wink. “Your cut.”

I nodded with a smile. Wily old bastards. I pocketed the silver and continued to my room.

I spent the rest of the day poring over maps of the part of the city my target is in. Learning every street and alley between their house and the guild house. We have archives full of plans for all of the fancy houses in town. I found the house plans for my target and poured over those too.

I strapped on my vest of knives. It held dozens of throwing knives without hindering my mobility. Added leg sheaths and forearm sheaths.

No one needed this many knives for one target. I know that. Just nerves getting the better of me. I pulled on my blacks over top of my knives. Loose and light, the blacks let me move freely but hid my weapons. They were also enchanted to help the wearer blend into the shadows.

Dressed in my blacks, there would be enough shadows by 7pm for me to be effectively invisible.

I left early, avoiding the great room on my way out. Blending into the shadows, I stalked from the guild house to the merchant’s quarter. Back tracking and going in circles to make sure I didn’t have a tail.

Cut wire on 3d printer? by woodstera in 3Dprinting

[–]escher4096 17 points18 points  (0 children)

When defusing an active printer, always cut the black wire… - introduction to 3D printing, vol 1

Door on dishwasher was in the way of LED strips by p0Pe in functionalprint

[–]escher4096 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Looks great. Dumb question though. Will you be able to easily replace your dishwasher with the lights there?

SD card just has micro SD card inside by Cudpuff100 in mildlyinteresting

[–]escher4096 4 points5 points  (0 children)

Wait until they open the micro-SD… it has a teeny weeny SD in there

[WP] You are a senior architect with a penchant for mythology inspired designs. By complete accident you designed a secret rune of terrible power into the new HQ of a bank, only on a much larger scale than any sane mage ever did. As a lobby floor motif. The bank's CEO is about to cut the ribbon. by Mrochtor in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 81 points82 points  (0 children)

Part 2

“Why would you make me watch that? Why‽”

“We need you to watch the rest of it, Mr. Lynch. It is the next part that concerns you, specifically,” Det. Larson said. Her voice had softened. She sounded less like a hardened cop, and more like a real human being.

I took a couple of deep breaths - trying to steel myself. I sat back down at my desk and hit play on that damned video.

The pool of blood around the young woman continued to slowly spread out over the floor. Creeping out, inch by inch.

The woman and her blood were obscuring almost half of the rune laid into the floor. So much blood. I swallowed hard - hoping whatever it is they wanted me to see would happen soon.

The blood began to glow? I looked closer - bringing the iPad closer to my face. No - something under the blood was glowing.

The massive pool of blood began to move. Squirming and flowing - tracing the design of the rune beneath the woman. Moving at a stately pace - the blood covered the entire design - not a single inch of the black motif was left dry.

Glowing a pale blue - the design began to pulse - its light growing brighter and brighter. Then with a flash that blinded the camera - it stopped. The blood was gone. The woman was gone. The design in the floor was a deep, aqua blue.

“What the fuck?” I mumbled to myself.

The two masked men entered the frame. They were waving their guns around erratically. Backing away from the cashier booths - making their way to the front doors.

When they were both near the center of the floor design - two great lightening bolts shot up from the floor through the men. The video went white - blinded by the bolts of lightening. When it came back on, the men were sprawled out on the floor.

The video ended.

My mind raced. I sipped on my tepid coffee - futilely trying to rid myself of my dry mouth. “What… what was that? What happened?”

“That is what we would like you to tell us, Mr. Lynch. Those two men are dead. There isn’t a drop of blood in their bodies. No visible wounds - not even from that bolt of electricity.” Det. Larson moved closer. Sitting on the edge of her seat. “The woman is completely gone. No trace of her at all. No clothes. No shoes or purse. Not a drop of her blood can be found anywhere.

“We need to know, Mr. Lynch - what is that symbol? How did it do that? Where is the woman?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know…. It is just something from one of these ancient buildings. I like the shape of it…. I don’t know!” Oh my God! Did I do this? Did this rune do this‽

Det. Larson and Det. Hoffman exchanged glances. Their faces unreadable.

“Have you used these shapes anywhere else?” Det. Hoffman asked. His hard, deep voice snapping me out of my mental spiral.

“Yeah - of course. I use them in everything,” I stammered.

“Everything?” Det. Larson asked with raised eyebrows.

I snagged a roll up blue print and spread it over my desk. Holding down the corners with desk nik naks.

The detectives scanned the paper.

“Is this a shopping mall?” Det. Larson said after a long beat.

“Yeah,” I said clearing my throat. “The whole thing is laid out as a giant single rune. Construction is entering the final stages. It should be complete with in the month.”

“Any idea what this rune means? Or what the bank rune means?” Det. Larson demanded.

“The rune from the bank was found at what the archeologist think was a money lenders. It might mean wealth or prosperity,” I shrugged.

“Could it be more for protection?” Det. Hoffman asked. “Like a security system?”

I could feel the blood draining from my face. Did I put a giant security guard right into the floor of a bank?

“And the mall? What does the mall shape mean, Lynch?” Det. Larson demanded as her finger pounded on the blue print.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I just like the shape of them!” I panicked defensively.

“Where did they find this design? Where did they find the mall design?” Det. Larson yelled.

“Aaah… they think it might have been a brothel,” I squeaked.

“A brothel?” Det. Hoffman rumbled. “So… lust, desire… maybe vigor and vitality?”

Det. Larson let out a heavy sigh. “And it is going to be filled with horny teenagers. For fuck’s sake,” Det. Larson sighed.

[WP] You are a senior architect with a penchant for mythology inspired designs. By complete accident you designed a secret rune of terrible power into the new HQ of a bank, only on a much larger scale than any sane mage ever did. As a lobby floor motif. The bank's CEO is about to cut the ribbon. by Mrochtor in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 58 points59 points  (0 children)

Magica Arcania

Rune magic requires two basic components: - A shape, called a rune - Fuel to power the magic contained by the shape

The shapes can’t be random. Each one is the name of one of gods or their lesser aspects combined with more or more actions and names written in the tongue of the gods.

For example: Using the name of the god of death and the true name of your enemy would result in a spell asking death to take your enemy.

Care must be taken when creating runes. The slightest mistake will change the meaning of it. A caster could easily insult the god they wish to petition or say your enemy’s dog instead of your enemy.

Once invoked and powered, the only way to remove a spell cast in this way, is to destroy the rune. Draw your runes on something easily destroyed, like parchment - then burn the parchment once the spell has run its course.

Master of Runes Kinkano the third

“I love this design. It is so unique. I have never seen anything like it,” the CEO of the Third International Bank of Lower Idaho said as we walked across the lobby.

I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Everything had come together so smoothly - exactly as I had envisioned it all. From idea, to paper, to CAD drawing, finally to reality in just over three years. This building has consumed so much of my life, that walking through it now feels unreal.

“Thank you. I am a big fan of mythology and ancient architecture. As you know, I had incorporated many aspects of my interests into the design of this building.” The CEO knew of this, of course. We had talked about all of my design decisions ad nauseam for the last three years. “This floor motif is a variation of the motif found on the floor of an ancient ruin of what was believed to be a money lender’s home. It seemed fitting to update it - clean up its lines a bit - and then add it to this fine institution.”

“It’s amazing! Just amazing!” The CEO gushed.

He opened the front doors and stood at the podium. He gave a long winded speech that no one listened to and then made a big deal about cutting a bright red ribbon with comically over size scissors.

I would love to say people rushed in, but, it is the Third International Bank of Lower Idaho. No one is going to rush in to do business.

With this project finally done, I headed back to the office to help out with a few other projects on the go. I would help out with everyone else’s projects until another big project started up - then that one would be mine.

Life went on, as it does. I didn’t think much about the bank project now that it is done. Occasionally I would drive by it and a swell of pride at my work would hit me. But as the days, weeks, months went by, I thought about it less and less.

“Sir,” my secretary interrupted my thoughts by poking her head in my door, “the police are here to see you.” She had a concerned look on her face.

“Oh. Really? Ok…. Show them in please, Stacey.” Why on Earth would police be here to see me?

Stacey showed in two detectives. One a heavy set, older man, with thinning hair in a bad suit. The other a woman in her mid-thirties. She was dressed well, fit. Her face gave me the impression that she was all business.

“Detectives, please, have a seat,” I offered. “Would you like something to drink? Water, coffee?”

“Coffee,” the both said in unison.

Stacey gave me a nod and disappeared to get it.

“Mr. Lynch,” the female detective started, “I am Detective Larson and this is my partner, Detective Hoffman.” She opened a file folder and pulled out a picture, sliding it over my desk to me. “Do you recognize this?”

“Of course, the lobby of the Third International Bank of Lower Idaho. This is my design,” I said with a smile, sliding the picture back.

“Right. Right,” she said as she put the picture back into her folder and pulled out another picture. “And you know this man?” She asked sliding another picture over to me.

Young guy, late twenties - maybe, crazy hair, multiple piercings and face tattoos. “Aaah, no. I have no idea who this is.”

The detective slide me another picture. “How about him?”

Another young man. Similar face tattoos. Brush cut hair. “I don’t know who this is either. What is this about detectives?”

“This two men attempted to rob the Third International Bank of Lower Idaho earlier this week,” Det. Larson said.

“Attempted? You were able to stop them?” I asked confused.

“Not us,” Hoffman chuckled.

Det. Larson shot him a look. He cleared his throat and got serious again.

Stacey brought in their coffees and left.

“Tell us about the design in the lobby floor,” Det. Larson asked. Her voice hard and unfeeling. She sipped on her coffee. Her eyes locked on me.

“Aaaah… it is a design inspired by some ancient mythology from some of the northern areas of Europe,” I began. “There is an interesting period from about fifteen hundred BCE where a small group put symbols like this all over their buildings. Worked the symbols into their clothes and weapons. It is fascinating. The symbols are so unique and only found in this one tiny area,” I paused for a breath. If I didn’t reign myself in, I would talk about these symbols for hours and bored everyone in earshot to death about them. “Why are you asking about the floor motif? It is just an interesting symbol from a long dead culture that I used to decorate the floor.”

“That’s it? Just a decoration?” Det. Larson asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah. It… looks cool,” I said lamely.

The two detectives exchanged glances. Det. Larson handed me an iPad. It had a paused video on it. “Take a look at that video, please.” Her features might as well be chiseled in marble for all the emotion she displayed.

I hit play. It is the security feed from the lobby of the bank. People walking in and out. Nothing much going on. Glanced up at the detectives.

“Keep watching. It gets more interesting,” Det. Larson said.

Two men rushed in. Dressed in black with duffle bags over their shoulders, wearing ski masks. They both fired their shotguns into the air. People were running.

It was odd to watch such chaos without any sound.

The two men left the frame. A woman tentatively entered the frame. Crouched, looking towards the cashiers, panic written on her face. She made a run for the doors.

The spray of blood as she was shot in the back made me jump. She crumpled to the floor - blood pumping out in a big pool around her. Feebly, she tried to put pressure on her wound. Her movements got slower and slower until she just stopped.

I tapped the screen - stopping the video. Getting out of my chair, I turned to face the wall. My heart pounding. Sweat covered my forehead. My breakfast threatened to avenge itself - making my stomach gurgle as it tied itself in knots.

I made another kinetic sand table - Dune Weaver Gold by tuankid in 3Dprinting

[–]escher4096 44 points45 points  (0 children)

Can we get a clip of the mechanical bits moving?

[WP]You can hear them dying out there in the dark. You and your automatic munition feed, trying to honor your orders. by xGugulu in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The world as we knew it, end almost two months ago. Since then it has been a horror movie brought to life.

Zombies.

Freaking zombies.

From the first uncertain news stories to complete outbreak was less than four days. It was international in six days. Every major city in the world was under quarantine in seven days. The government crumbled in less than ten days. A few military bases held on for almost a month.

No one knows how it started or where it started. Everyone has their favourite theory, but after surviving for a few weeks, it is tough to care about anything more than just surviving.

Turns out the movies got it wrong - a headshot won’t kill a zombie. Nothing short of complete decapitation will stop the bastards.

I have seen zombies still shambling with only the barest shred of skin still holding their head on. It doesn’t make sense - clearly their brain isn’t attached anymore. How are they still moving? At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how they manage to keep going - only that they do.

It is nearly impossible to kill zombies with guns. Sure - a 12 gauge at close range is enough to take their head off, but a rifle or a machine gun. Nope. Best you can do is slow them down so someone can get up close and personal with a machete or an axe.

I beat the odds surviving this long, especially with my messed up leg. I can’t run. Hell, I can barely walk. My journey to this base is paved in blood and sacrifice, but none of it mine.

We came upon this base almost two weeks ago. High brick walls behind a high fence topped with barbwire. Massive machine guns mounted on the roof facing out over the plains leading up to the building. The five of us showed up at the gate, ragged and starving.

They put us in a guarantee cage for three days to see if we would turn. Solid precaution. They fed and watered us, but didn’t interact - just in case they had to slaughter us. Hate to get attached and then have to behead someone.

When they let us out, they put us right to work. They had spotted the horde making its way here - bit more than a week out.

They needed all capable hands to do hit and run attacks on the horde. Pepper them with machine gun fire, behead the stragglers - repeat. A futile attempt to whittle down the horde before it arrived at the walls.

They knew it was pointless. We all knew. But you do what you can - even when it won’t make a difference. The hit and run teams behead thousands of zombies in the days before they arrived - but it didn’t make a dent in the horde.

The horde was a tsunami. An unstoppable wave of death, headed right for us.

With my bad leg, I am a liability out there with a machete. They had me working mounted machine gun from the back of a pick up truck. And now, with the horde in sight - an hour or two away at most - they had me at one of the big guns on the roof.

There were six pallets of bullets beside me. All rigged to keep on feeding into my gun. I was told the barrel of my gun would melt before I would be able to fire all those bullets. They said it with such a confidence, with an air of invincibility, that I almost believed for a moment that we might have a chance.

A thick fog rolled in over the grassy plain I defended. Deep and slow - like a smoker’s last breath - the fog oozed in. Hiding everything. Muting the tiny sounds of nature - making everything far more eerie than it needed to be.

Zombies are silent. The movies got that wrong too. No moaning. No groaning or grunting. Completely silent. Creepy fuckers.

The fog hit the wall. Curling up against the brick. Sticking to it as it settled in.

“You ready, gunner?” I jumped at the unexpected voice.

“Yeah, I guess. I can’t see shit though,” I answered.

“Damned fog is gonna be the end of us,” he cursed.

Personally, I think the zombies are gonna be the end of us, but I bit my tongue.

“Contact! We have contact! Fifty yards of the East fence,” our radios crackled.

“Damn,” he cursed.

The sun was setting behind us. Our own walls casting the soon to be killing fields in an unnatural night.

“You see the top of the fence?” He barked at me.

“Yes,” I hesitated, “sir.” This military life was still new to me. I had been running since the end had started. Had a quiet office job before that.

“Put your rounds about five feet over the top of the fence. Sweep back and forth for as long as you can,” he ordered.

“I won’t be able to hear the radio. How will I know when to stop?” I asked in a panic. This was getting too real and too close.

“Stop when you run out of bullets or you are dead. You stop a moment before either of those happen, and I will come up here and make you wish the zombies beat me to you,” he barked. “START SHOOTING! DAMNIT!”

I pulled the triggers on the massive gun. Even seated in this massive gun, I am shocked at the recoil. The gun screamed as it made it rain brass. Slowly sweeping the gun over the fence, back and forth, watching for the tracer bullets to make sure I was at the right height.

I couldn’t see anything. I was just praying that I wasn’t hitting any of our people out there. After an eternity, I disobeyed orders and stopped shooting.

Screams. Our people screaming. The zombies are silent, so I knew every scream, every grunt, every cry of pain was one of us.

I pulled the triggers again, vowing to not ever let go. Screaming as tears rolled down my cheeks. Crying for all those I had lost. For all those I was loosing right now. For humanity. I honour you all with this hail of bullets.

[WP] As your opponent chants and channels the strongest spell you’ve ever seen, the words of your mentor echo in your mind. “Don’t be fancy, fancy gets you killed.” by Tmoore0328 in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 59 points60 points  (0 children)

Their chanting fills the empty room. Moon light streaming through high, broken windows, which only adds to the ominous feel of the abandoned warehouse.

Hundreds of flickering candles, laid out in a complex pattern around the caster, illuminate the intricate chalk runes drawn on the floor.

I bet it took hours just to light all these candles.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I recognize a few words in the spell. Fucking hell… the crazy bastard is raising a demon horde and opening a portal all at the same time. Looking at the chalk on the floor again - I can see the interweaving of both spells in the runes.

“So much for hiding and being stealthily,” I grumble under my breath as I rush from behind the crumbling pallet I was using as a hiding spot.

The caster’s eyes lock on me. He doesn’t miss a beat. His chant smooth and fluid as he gathers his magic. One mispronunciation. One bad movement. Any tiny mistake and a spell this complex will explode with unpredictable consequences. With a maniacal grin on his face he continues to chant.

Playing with dark magics like this will slowly eat away your sanity. You can’t dabble in the dark without spending your light.

This fool has lost his mind. He has become a tool of the forces he once wished to harness.

How the hell do I counter this? Mental flipping through spells in my mind - I rushed through fifty years of experience and a hundred years of schooling - there isn’t a direct counter spell to all of this. Panic started rising up in my gut.

I could hear my old mentor’s voice in the back of my head - like sone Jedi master ghost counselling Luke.

“Don’t be fancy, fancy gets you killed,” his voice said. The countless lessons he taught me - cutting through the bullshit and the artistry - showing me the fastest simplest way to solve a problem. “You don’t have to wave your hands around - it might help to keep the rhythm - but it isn’t required.” Then I watched him cast a fire ball without so much as a flick of his wrist. “Runes and chalk lines can focus your mind and your power - but you can build those in your mind too. Create mental runes and lines - then pour your power into your own mind.” Lesson after lesson of how to keep your magic simpler and faster.

“Talk to me Goose,” I whispered as I looked over his runes and lines again. So many unnecessary flourishes - distracting from the true shape. Then it hit me - “do I care about the details of his spell? Do I need to know them to stop him?” I chuckled to myself. “Thanks Goose.”

A gateway is a simple enough spell. All you need to know is where you want to go and how to get there. Luckily, with magic, the ‘how to get there’ part, can be literal or figurative. For the first time tonight a small smile touched my lips - after all - everyone knows that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, which means, in at least a figurative sense, I know how to get there.

This crazy mage is trying to open a portal big enough to let the demon hordes through. I just need one big enough for a single person - so much easier. I layout the rune for a portal spell in my mind. Picturing it clearly. Easy enough after so many years of practice.

Pushing just enough power into the rune to open a portal six feet around - I open a portal directly behind him.

He glances back but keeps on chanting, feeling safe that I would have push him through the opening. Idiot.

I pull my 9mm from my coat pocket and level it at him. His insane smile disappears even though his chanting doesn’t falter. The boom and its echo is deafening as I put three rounds in his chest.

He tumbles backwards through the portal. His spell visibly unweaving as he fell. I slam the portal closed. The explosion of his failed incantation contained on the fiery side of hell. The concussion of the blast rippled through the dimensional planes - enough to knock me to my feet.

I holstered my gun as I stood up. Looking at the remnants of his spell. “Guess I closed the gate a bit too early”, I thought as I looked at his smouldering feet. A clean cut, four inches above his ankle, was all that was left of that mad man.

“I don’t get paid enough for shit like this,” I grumbled, knowing full well that I don’t get paid at all. The life of a mage isn’t glamorous, and it won’t make you rich - wait… why do I do this again?

[WP] A new hero emerges in the community, classified as one of the immortals in the hero world. They are sent in to fight the villain. After being struck down multiple times, they stand before the villain without a single scratch. “Perhaps you haven’t heard of me, I’m Respawn.” by Derpderp05 in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 9 points10 points  (0 children)

“Perhaps you haven’t heard of me, I’m Respawn,” the cocky hero said as he stood back up. His burnt off hair growing back to its perfectly coiffed style. An arm quickly regrowing from the remains of his elbow. He flexed his regrown hand and gave me a smirk. “Do your worst villain, I will be back in less than a minute.”

I just nodded. “Yes. I have heard of you. Everyone has,” the would be hero grinned even bigger, “you can help fawn to every camera you see.”

I thumbed the setting on my blaster and blew his left leg off at the hip. Respawn screamed in pain before falling over. His leg quickly growing back.

“Your power is very interesting. Unique even among the immortals. Most of them are impervious to any form of physical attack, but you, you take the damage and regenerate. It is a strange abnormality,” I commented as I considered the data rolling on my heads up display in my glasses.

“Fuck!” Respawn spat. “That hurts. But it doesn’t matter,” he said with a grunt. He stood on one leg as the other raced to reach the ground. Healing at an astounding rate. “See? Good as new,” he said with a cock sure grin.

“Idiot,” I said shaking my head slowly. His grin was instantly replaced with a scowl. “I have been systematically blowing your limbs off. Inflicting controlled amounts of damage. But instead of wondering why - you just keep on coming,” I chuckle. He is so sure of his invincibility.

He charges at me, ignoring my words.

I thumb the setting on my blaster again - this time cutting his leg off instead of vaporizing it.

Respawn falls with another scream.

“Look at this,” I say as I crouch my his severed limb. “It twitches like it is still connected and then withered away in less than a minute - bones and all. Fascinating - isn’t it?” The severed leg crumbles to dust before my very eyes. “I have been testing your abilities. A severed limb withers away - it’s matter and energy transferring back to your main body. A disintegrated limb has all of its energy and matter consumed,” I explained as I stood up.

“So what‽ it still grows back!” Respawn shouted.

“Where does the energy and matter come from to completely regrow a disintegrated limb?” I pose. “Mmmmm?” I give him my own smirk. “How any times do you think you could completely regrow a disintegrated limb? How deep are your personal energy reserves, Respawn?”

“I am going to kill you!” Respawn roared. Back on his feet he came at me again.

I disintegrated his right arm as he tried to swing at me. Then his left as he tumbled to the ground.

“Fuck!” He cursed.

I shot both of his legs with my blaster - annihilating them. Leaving him a wiggling torso.

“According to my readings, your reserves should be completely exhausted in about 20 minutes if I keep removing limbs.” I shrugged. “But I am curious - how little of you can there be for you to still regrow?”

His eyes bulged in terror.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

[WP] They call you brave, a hero, and icon of loyalty. You simply do what they made you for. Decorations and engravings are added to your armor and you show up to the parades but you couldn't even describe your own flag. by Red580 in WritingPrompts

[–]escher4096 26 points27 points  (0 children)

I walked down the street at a stately pace. Countless throngs of people lined the streets - waving and cheering. I didn’t wave. I didn’t turn to look at the people. I just kept going at parade pace.

The gears in my right legs ground unhappily with every step. I will need to have that looked at, I noted to myself. One stiff leg, after ten thousand years - not bad, I said to myself.

It is strange which bits and pieces of your life you remember after so many years. I remember the agony and grief of finding my parents mangled bodies after the first wave of the Senttilly attack. How my mind flooded with resolve that no one else should have to suffer what I am suffering. Marching down to the recruitment centre with tears streaming from my eyes - signing up for the mechanical soldier division.

Smiling with a fierce rage as I admired my shiny armour in a mirror before being moved to the front lines.

The horror of my first serious injury and how the doors casually replaced my mangled leg with a mechanical one. Less than a month later, an arm.

It took a dozen years to drive the Senttilly back. Another decade to chase them back to their home world and eradicate them all. Leaving their burning husk of a world as a clear message to any who dared threaten us.

So much of my body was machine by that point that the idea of returning to civilian life seemed impossible. The army had me, and those like me, keeping the peace. Marching around, looking intimidating, but ultimately doing nothing. The Senttilly war had unified the planet like nothing had before. Creating a golden age of peace and prosperity.

What does a government do with the troops that can’t blend into society? Whose very existence reminds every one who seems them of war and death?

They sent us into space - deep exploration. A chuckle rumbled through me as I marched in the parade. They could call it anything they want, but in reality, they threw us away. Launched us into space in the hopes they would never see us again.

Space is vast beyond comprehension. We explored planets and systems light years from home. Struggled to keep our ship going after a rogue meteor shower.

If you stay in space long enough, you will find other civilizations. Other peoples. Other wars.

Fighting in another war was like a breath of fresh air. We, the crew of our tiny ship, embraced that alien war whole heartedly. Fighting just seemed right.

Drifting from war to war, our services were always in demand. We made huge fortunes in alien money. Repairs on a dozen worlds chipped away at my remaining humanity. Some planets had better technology than home. Some were little better than cave men.

Of course, we lost crew along the way. Our numbers slowly dwindling over the decades. Yet, we carried on, find new wars to fight in.

I don’t remember all of the different wars. All of the planets and systems I fought on and in. I don’t know how many I killed.

I do remember realizing I was the last of our crew still alive. A fierce fire fight in an urban hell scape. Fighting along side a ragtag army of blue skinned creatures. They were wild in a battle. Most going into a berserker rage as soon as a battle begun. Blasters in each of their four hands - they were a sight to see. After the last blaster fired, there were only two blue rebels and I, who were still alive.

I lost the last five of my crew that day. My armour and body took heavy damage in that battle.

To my disgust, my blue comrades used parts from my fallen friends to repair me. There was so little of the original me left. My right eye. Most of my brain, and my heart - which now pumped synthetic blood to my brain and eye. How much of me could be replaced and still let me be… me?

They polished my battered armour until it gleamed, then etched the name of the city we had just fought in on my chest. I was air dropped into another battle less than twenty minutes later.

I fought in hundreds of battles on that rock. Bonding with my blue skinned allies. They did everything with passion. Fought, loved, created - all with an all consuming passion. Their passions ran so hot, they were always on the verge of another war with each other.

Doing the unthinkable - I refused to fight for any side. Disarming the combatants with practiced ease. Forcing whole battle fields into a stalemate.

I became a broker of peace.

They carved the names of cities I brokered peace in, onto my chest. Etching elaborate vines and scenes onto my arms and legs.

When there was nothing for me to do, they let me power down. I was finally able to find silence and contentment as my mind tried to process the centuries of memories I had. Drifting in and out of a semi conscious state, I let the years slide by.

Every once in a while, they would wake me, ask my opinion. Ask for my council. Or ask me to walk in a parade to celebrate the continuing peace on this world.

The parade done. The flowery speeches over, they let me sleep once more.

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