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The House is what they call it. I know it as The Mess. The Noise. The Mayhem. Was a time when these parts were calm and fruitful. Young fella might make a space for himself, get allowed on the couch, free roam of the yard and all the toys were his.

There was a time.

Nowadays The House is crowded and over populated. Noisy gangs have taken up shop and made their own messes and marks. Used to be be that I could do it all alone — keep the squirrels off the fence, put the mail man in his place, clean the crumbs off the carpet...find the best times to throw up in the middle of the night.

Then...wham. I got old. And they came. No way a hound of eight years can get it all done anymore. This was going to be my last big case, then: retirement. Spending my days on my electric blanket. Afternoon walks. And I’d sleep and fart under the desk in Man’s cave to my hearts content.

One. Last. Case.

And as I walked on to the scene, I knew it would be a doozy. Custom Kitchen had been clean once, a bright part of town where almost every night new smells bubbled out of every pot. Now-a-days...chicken nuggets.

That’s all the Little’s Gang wanted. Man and Lady had tried, but they were out numbered and out-youthed. Little bastards had the benefit of inexperience and endless energy on their side.

The victim's body was shattered on the floor. Pieces of Turtle Jar were everywhere, but there was shell enough for me to identify him. None of his cookies, though.

Murder and robbery.

I put my nose to the floor and find the old snout picks up...a faint mess of...there’s...socks? Aw, hell. The old girl ain’t what she used to be.

Them damn diapers done me in. Damned stink-butt Little’s.

Let’s think. Four suspects. Biggun is out off to wherever makes him smell of other Little’s and paint. Big-gal, too. Snotty is home, but he's napping.

Grub? He’s strapped to Lady. That could be a ruse, though. The Little Gang pull that one a lot. Latest Grub getting all Lady’s love and pets and treats and then Wham! They’re on all fours and biting your tail.

Little Bast—wait.

Fifth suspect. The phantom. Hissbert. Sneaky, scaredy, black as night, burglar.

And worse...cat.

“Where are you hiding, cat!”

“Get stuffed, coppa!” Said a voice from atop the cabinets. “I ain’t done nuffin!”

Isn’t this just Mass Effect? I feel like this exact concept was brought up in Mass Effect.

Hmmm. Let’s see now. What have we got here...

Drive. Lot’s of it, too. Oh, yes. You could do great things with that. Terrible or terrific things — great either way. Hmm. A good dose of unearned, unburdened power, too — but...smart as well, it seems. Lucky, lucky you. Willingness to learn...however, unwilling to be chained down and yoked by...rules.

A deft hand. A keen mind. A heart aflame with want.

“Place me hat. We both know where I need to be.”

No.

“No?”

No you want to be in Slytherin, Boy. But, what I and I alone know is...“You shall be!...In therapy!”

“What!? That’s—there’s no—you can’t!”

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Thank you very much, kind user!

Beautiful! Brought a smile to my face.

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The winged git was in his classic form: a sphere of light surrounded by eye-covered rings that turned and twisted about the central blinding ball. All of this was kept afloat in the air by three wings that did not flap and instead turned slowly about the creature — the wings were made of feathered light (and more eye-balls) and were mounted somewhere behind the hovering, ocular-orbited, over-bright orb.

Me? Think: handsome guy in a suit. Pick your man-crush and make him dapper (ie: plop that hunk in a good suit), wrap a pair of dark shades over his eyes and add a little stubble if he doesn’t have some already. Got the image?

Yo.

It’sa me, man-crush. Wanna fu—

“I need your help, demon.”

The Angels voice echoed about the empty valley and bounced around the rocks and trees and rattled my damned rum-addled demonic head.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and crushed my vision with a brow-crushed clench. Hopefully it would stop my brain from bouncing around my skull. “Could you use your inside the realm of mortals voice, please?”

“Oh, sor—”

“And form. You look like a mess and it’s making me dizzy.”

The eyes on the rings and wings closed, and then the golden hoops merged and floated to the top of the orb as the light at the Angels center stretched and unfolded into a sleak and still shinning humanoid form. The wings wrapped the angels body as he descended and landed before me... barefooted but clad in a white-suit that had been pressed into impeccable and indestructible crispness.

The angels skin was a radiant golden shade, as though a mortals olive skin had been gilt from within. White hair spiralled from the creatures head and fell about at shoulder length, the chaos and order of waves and waterfalls came to my mind.

Her face holds a pair of worried eyes the shade of a glorious and golden autumn afternoon. A pretty pair of lips are pressed into a pout, puckered by whatever sour source had sent her seeking and summoning a demon.

“Demon?” A question on her lips, though worry remained welded to her miraculous mug.

“Hm?”

“You were whispering ‘hummena-hummena-hummena’ under your breath.”

“Ah. No, I just said ‘Hm’.”

“Before that, though. Is. Was it a warding incantation? To protect yourself?”

“Nah.” I scratched my chin, yawned and made a show of my hunkier stretches and flexes. Surreptitiously, of course. “Just a song stuck in my head, friend. Also, protect myself? From what?”

“I...I could smite you with His holy light, Demon.”

“Sure you could, kitten.”

The sky was blue and cloudless, but that didn’t make the lightning bolt that had blasted me hurt any less. I was flat on my back and she hadn’t moved. Pain throbbed from my every atom and my suit smoked.

“Point taken.” Inspired by my charcoaled clothing, I pulled a packet of cigarettes out of my smouldering smoking jacket, shook a stick into my lips and then lit it with a snap of my fingers. “So,” I took a drag and exhaled: “what’s the job, Kit—”

Thunder rolled in the distant empty sky. I like a bit of a frisky slap as much as the next guy, but I’ll take the hint.

“What’s the job...Angel?”

“You may call me Saliestra, Demon.”

“Kilbern, Sally.”

“Saliestra, Demon.” She leaned over and I saw her wonderful face had not changed its worried woeful expression. Zapping me had been as simple and natural as brushing away a pesky horse fly. She’d been taught not to give us demons an inch...

Rather rightly, I must admit.

But, she’d probably been told not to summon us...and yet...

“The job is this. I need you to get me into and then back out of Hell.”

“Sightseeing?” I said, still on the ground, with a smouldering smirk as my suit jacket continued to smoulder from the smiting I had received.

She was still looking down at me, but rarely met my eyes. “Not sightseeing. A...a Rescue.”

“Unseen?”

“I hope so.”

“How deep?”

“...” The Angel stood upright and looked away as a manicured hand lifted and began to tug at her bottom lip. “Mmfph mphl.”

“Pardon?” I sat up. She had started to pace and was even more beautiful when worked up. If she ever smiles I’m going to be smitten and smotten.

Saliestra showed me her wingless back, clenched her fists and lowered her head. I heard a softly muttered mantra of self assurance and then wham!

She turned, chin up and eyes wide, a creature of confidence...one that was also scared as hell: “Ninth level.”

“Fuck off.”

“What?”

“Smite me. Send me back. Don’t care. You get a pot of gold, ‘cause I will not make that deal. Fuck. Off.”

“But-but-but-but-”

“Getting an Angel down there and then back out! Unseen? Clandestine styles? No chance in my home town, Saliestra. Way-way-way outside my paygrade. Peace.” I stood brushed my knees off and subtly showed her my fine-toned arse as I brushed away any stuck grass. I turned back to her, no longer singed and back to full handsome. Jaw a little bigger. “Look. I’m sorry. Level three, maybe —maybe— four...I could possibly do that. But, nine? Nine! You’ll need someone higher up the food chain or lower down the shithead shaft.”

“If I go for a more powerful demon, this will leak and become a much bigger problem—”

“Look, you seem like a nice enough entity. I won’t sugar coat it. Hell is hell. Would not recommend. This coming from a guy who works there and has benefits. This...rescue mission...we would both end up up to our necks in an eternity of damnation the likes of which—”

“I’ll sign any contract you offer.”

“Cool, you got a pen?”

The apparition was terrible to behold. Its chest was filled with bullet wounds, which oozed monochromatic blood, and his face was contorted in pain. He floated over the foot of my bed, making terrible, gurgling gasps.

"You are not welcome," he wheezed. "Leave this place! I died here, and here I will stay!"

"The hell you did," I replied testily.

There was a long moment where the two of us stared at each other.

"I did so," he said finally, but the fire had gone out of him.

"During what? A costume party?" I pointed a shaking hand at his clothes. "Circa... what? 1920s?"

"1924," he admitted.

"OK," I said, "and this house is victorian-style. It was built in 2004, on previously undeveloped land. So you... what, drove out in the middle of the woods and got gunned-down?"

"No," he replied sullenly.

"OK then, where did you actually die?"

He sat there, oozing and gurgling, with a sour expression, for what seemed like several minutes. "Gas station," he muttered.

"Then why don't you go haunt the gas station?" I demanded.

"C'mon, fella," he replied. "What sort of ghost would haunt a gas station?"

I'm invested, please continue!

Lol was not expecting a Mistborn fanfic.

Beautifully done, and I loved the ending.

"Jackaboy! How ya been? Can I ask a simple eensy weensy tiny favour??"

First of all, no one had called me "jack a boy" before, it was jack, or "fire knight" (I never much liked that name).

"Drop the act" I said calmly, "this is a containment facility not a prison or an asylum, I won't lash out or something". The man's smile faded into all a grin and his shoulders lowered. "So, Ice dude went rogue, and we need all the fire people we can get. We can spruce the place up if you help." He extended his hand, I did mine and he yelped "AAGH FUCK!". I gave him a sly grin as if to say, "there a reason the league of heroes keeps me here and content"

Please continue!

Dang this was great. I love imagining the vengeance Superman could visit upon a rogue CIA.

I'm glad you enjoyed it that much. For a story that starts off void of emotions, I'm happy at what it has inspired.

Thank you :)

Do you know what a sorting hat does all day?

You see, I don't have legs or hands, but I am fully conscious and sentient. When most people realize this, they grow a little horrified, which I appreciate. Most people never think about it. For a long time, I didn't either.

I was sitting on the shelf in Headmaster Dippet's office staring at the wall, which is what I did 364 days out of the year, when Amicus Tosser sauntered into my life for the third time. He was a fat, bespectacled boy with poor posture and two muggle parents, who had the marvelous ability to oscillate his expression between keen, almost predatory intelligence and bewilderment, as though he were rarely sure exactly how he had gotten to be where he was. Indeed, I had found him exceedingly difficult to sort; he was ambitious and coldly-calculating, but was also muggle-born; brave, though usually accidentally so; and of course, highly intelligent. I had put him in Ravenclaw.

The second time I saw him was brief. Dippet had been in at the time, and they had a brief conversation that none-the-less grew quite heated about whether or not owls were suitable message carriers. Amicus insisted that using the muggle post would be much more efficient in the majority of situations, and that if we insisted on continuing to use birds, we could at least switch to something more suitable to the task, like carrier pigeons. It ended in Amicus getting detention.

Overall, it had been quite entertaining.

This time, though, Dippet was not in. Amicus looked around until he spotted me.

"Hullo, hat," he said amiable, shuffling over to the shelf. "Do you know where the Headmaster is?"

"You'll be waiting a bit," I said. "He's gone off on some business at the Ministry of Magic."

"Fine by me, then," he replied, and looked around. "Out of curiosity, do they often let students wander in here unaccompanied?"

"Might as well," I replied, "as everything is warded anyway."

"Not against being read, though," he muttered to himself, wandering over behind the headmaster's desk. Careful not to touch anything, he peered through his glasses at the various letters and notes scattered about it. I wondered again if I had put him in the wrong house.

"Do you know you have a strong streak of Slytherin in you?" I asked him.

"I actually don't really care," he replied, without looking up. "It's all rubbish anyway."

This hurt my feelings a bit, and in my mind he moved a bit closer to Slytherin. "I just didn't know if I could justify putting a muggle-born into that house," I pressed on. "For some reason, they tend to be very concerned about bloodline over there."

He looked up then, as though really seeing me for the first time. "Fascinating," he said, after a moment. "Are you a genetic determinist, then?"

I had never been asked this before, and honestly had no idea what he was talking about.

"Do you believe that a person's capacity is determined at birth," Amicus pushed on, "or do you believe people can substantially change?"

"I... well, I suppose I had never really thought about it," I replied. "Personally, I don't see much significant change after I sort people, for instance."

"Of course," he countered, coming out from behind the desk, "because you group them by type." He paused. "You know, I'm suddenly doubting your credentials. By what criterion DO you sort?"

That was even more offensive, and I'll admit I got a bit snippish. "I was enchanted by the four founders of Hogwarts to have their intelligence," I replied. "When I sort a person, I sort them as accurately as would the founders themselves!"

"Ah," he replied, "and suddenly things make so much more sense. You're basing your decisions on reasoning that hasn't been updated in a thousand years." He looked around disdainfully. "Which is much the problem with this whole school, actually. Very condescending to muggles, despite the fact that 'muggles' keep improving, and wizards really don't."

"Young man!" I reprimanded him. "Do you want to get expelled?"

"I'm honestly not sure," he said. "It's been quite difficult to keep up with muggle high school and Hogwarts at the same time. But they tell me that if I don't learn to use magic, I'll become dangerous, so..." and he shrugged. "Anyway, not important. Do you read?"

"Of course I can read," I replied defensively.

"Not 'can you,' DO you?" Amicus pressed.

"How would I turn the pages?" I growled back. "I don't exactly have hands, you know."

"Huh," Amicus said, as though just noticing. "Can't you use magic?"

"I am an enchanted object, boy, not a person. I can't use magic beyond what I was enchanted with."

[NOTE: I am realizing this is far more ambitious than I had originally thought, and it is 3 am. I'm going to go back to bed, but if you're invested, let me know and I'll write more.]

"A lifetime is of achievement in just under 100 years...." doctor Arkengarth said. Most cuil considered dying at 500 to be infant death. Most people called "earth" the "rock of infant death" since longevity seemed to only be present in some plants.

However here stood the fleet of 1000000 human warships full of humanity's best pilots and landing teams. They had "eaten" an entire resort planet, built a absorption spheres around 4 stars, and were tenfold bigger than when they were dismissed as a threat by the galactic war suppression effort. They did this in the time most would take a short vacation.

Dr arkengarth had been trailing the human conquest, originally sent ahead to warn other planets, but every one he got to had been completely conquered and altered to fit human design. It seemed that the humans learned how to travel past the speed of light (not that anyone else needed to go that fast, they were patient enough to wait 1000 years).

The humans were fast, faster than light, communication, lifespan, but just as expirenced

“Ah, well...actually!”

“Oh, for crying out—”

“I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who...knows a guy...what was the problem, again?”

“You’re stuck in an amnesiatic associative loop.”

“Ah...well. Actually! I can solve that, I know a—”

“Stop! Just...stop.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re having an episode.”

“An episode?”

“An associative loop—wait!”

“No worries! I know a guy who knows a g—”

“Shut up! Shut. Up.”

“Jeez. What’s up your keister?”

“You...we need to get going.”

“Going?”

“Going where?”

“The hospital?”

“Why?”

“...to visit a friend.”

“Oh.”

“Now hurry up, we’re running late.”

“Late! I can get us a ride! I know a guy who knows a guy who—”

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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"Humans are spechul" prompt #583737

Damn, that hit hard! Great job writing it!

“Humans are so weak, can’t even accomplish one thing in their lifetime.” Lo snickers. “That’s what makes them so dangerous, we get millions of years to mature, it takes atleast 5000 years for us to simply choose our career.” the queen of the house explains. “They simply know how to choose their career already at 18 because they have such a short time.” “Yet they can’t even get out of their own solar system.” Lo shrugs. “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, in probably just a 10000 years, they’ll already be colonizing nearby planets.” the queen responds. “All because they have to work quickly and efficiently.” “THEY’LL WHAT!?” Lo questions. “THAT FAST!?”

The queen of the house turns from the orb and faces Lo on the metal floor. She reaches out her gold like tentacle so Lo can get up. Infact, what the queen just said is simply a sugarcoat for what the humans can actually do in 10000 years.