Ok, thank you for the book recommendation anyway, I'll definitely check it out and (if I don't forget by then) come back and write the fight

Brilliant! I like the way it builds, from passive to determined. I feel you've written my own life story

I like the way you gradually untangle the programming. And also show an understanding, both of depression and of responding to depression. The bot has experienced failure and impossible challenge - not the same as the human but there are millions of ways people can feel inadequate, so the ways a bot feels inadequate are definitely on that spectrum

Chicken soup for the soul?

Up to you!

Sorry, as in an OC or an established fictional character?

Excellent build up of character and tension. Are you writing professionally?

that's alright. it's a cool magic/superpower system so i thought it could be interesting, and I 100% recommend the series, but i'm not going to ask you to write a character you don't know.

She is, clearly, a psychopath. Especially without knowing why she hates him so much, she seems clearly unhinged.

A "supervillain" whose villain name is The VIP. A billionaire with too much money and free time who also loves fighting over the top battles with superpowers. They don't care much for achieving any villainous goal though, they are only in it for the fighting and only joined they side of the villains because heroes are much more inclined to play fair and so make for much better opponents if you do not actually intend to win.

Are... We suppose to sympathize with Carly here? She sounds like a fucking psychopath.

The alpha is the leader and the leader is usually the parent. It's kind of like how we have presidents wolves have alphas it's just another name for the leader of the pack.

Alphas are just straight up not a thing.
The packs are usually family, but thats about it.

This is very specific, but maybe that's interesting.

I have a politician, who hates cyborgs and one day he runs his car over one that's using the road, he has legal immunity. In my story I'll let him be abducted, converted to a cyborg and sent to mars: Lower legs being replaced by chains, skin replaced by something appropriate for the place and solar power will allow his body to generate nutrients. His programmed-in task is to build a mars station (and robots / machines to help him) so he learns to stop hating cyborgs. He's fond of being like that but his weakness would be warm rooms, he'd need to stay out from most parts of that station.

SpongeBob’s brother, SpongeBill.

I do not kill. My blade does not find a neck to cut. My hands do not rip open the bodies of my foes, tearing out their hearts. No man has been put into his grave by my actions. Against a thousand foes I have fought with vigour and great victory on my side, and I have felled none of them. I have not placed any skulls into piles as a mark of my conquest. And yet, I am feared. Foes flee me, dread my coming, and many would rather surrender rather than facing me in combat. When their eyes behold my dull grey armour, when they see my long thin blade, they pray to feeble gods for salvation. Strange, isn't it? I do not come to kill them. I have never slain anyone. Yet still, I am the dread champion of the Dark Lord. I am his herald, his dark hand reaching out into the world to crush the throats of his enemies.

How can this be? When I have never slain a single man? When no hero has been skewered upon my sword? When surely, bloodthirsty berserkers, killers with hundreds of souls sinfully taken abruptly to their bloody names, and mad mages who kill without thinking, would be more suitable for that role. Indeed, the witch that cursed me thought that I would be left incapable of fulfilling my purpose. That since I cannot stab fatally, cannot rip and tear with abandon, find it physically and psychologically impossible to strike the final fatal blow, I would be destroyed. That I, a dark monstrous Minotaur knight, bred from a cursed line of mortals and monsters, would not be able to be the right-hand man of the half-demonic Dark Lord, who is destined to crush the world underneath his black iron boots. I taught her otherwise. Death I cannot grant. But there are fates that are worse than death. Fates that makes death seem like a blessing, a kindness, the ultimate mercy. The witch who cursed me will never die. But she wishes, deep within the enchanted magical cube in which I placed her, that she could. She can feel nothing in there; but hunger. She can see nothing, but empty night. She can drink nothing, but cold void. For a thousand years.

Her supreme arrogance, in not simply killing me when she had me on the ropes, has proven to be her undoing. Such is the path of many of my foes. So many who fight against my Lord, find me and my inability to kill them, to be their ultimate undoing.

The Highlord Paladin who led the greatest counterattack against my Dark Lord, who in his arrogance came to strike down my beloved Lord in a final attack, paid for his mistake when I carefully broke him. Wrestled him away from my Lord just before he could strike him down for good. I took that man to the depths of the pit-realm. To the black seas beneath the world. Where there is only blind fish, cold waters, and ancient dread monsters that roam the forgotten world. There, I carefully chipped away at him, imprisoning him within an enchanted cage. Siphoning away the divine powers of this most holy paladin; and channeling them into a weapon that can break the most powerfully enchanted walls. He pays for the arrogance of harming my beloved Dark Lord, the arrogance of attempting to murder the rightful ruler of reality, by being a living battery for our sieges. The spells on the cage keeps him fed, keeps him alive, keeps him tethered to the divine power of our godly enemies, so that we can siphon and abuse the powers of the weak gods that oppose my master.

That is only fair. Oh the days when I stood by my wounded lord, guarded his sickbed from would-be usurpers or opportunistic heroes. Fed him carefully, his severely wounded flesh slowly mended by my tender care. I am loyal. I was made to be loyal. Such dreadful days, yet still the iron in his voice as he gave commands was striking. By following them, by doing as he wanted, I proved well to him that his trust in me, despite my inability to slaughter his enemies, was well-founded. Still, even near death, incapable of even being healed by magic as it might grow his body back wrong, he was indomitable. That such a Paladin dares to do that to my Lord, it makes me want to ask the Dark Lord to tear apart my soul and bind it completely and fully to his will so that I can kill for him. Part of me desires this. Desires that I can kill for him. Desires to throw away my free will utterly, make myself little more than a devoted flesh golem designed to protect him. But alas, I cannot serve my function as his bloody right hand without a will of my own. So I do the best I can with what I've got.

And so far, he has not complained.

I break their legs. I tear the flesh. I wrestle and I strike. But I cannot give that last attack. Cannot give that final death. Indeed, the curse even compels me to save the lives of my foes; which given how weakened they are, how close I've brought them to death, means that once they're no longer in danger of dying, they've already been captured, and will be shown the full hospitality of my Lord. Some are taken by the warlocks, and taken to have their brains rebuilt through spellwork to serve the great Dark Lord. Some, the important ones, are taken by me to be interrogated, something which due to knowing exactly when I can stop before killing them, I've become exceptionally good at. And a few, are asked after by the Dark Lord himself, who corrupts them with sheer force of will. It is a marvel to behold that, when an enemy I've defeated is taken to the throne chamber. When the Dark Lord thanks me for doing my job so very well; that is bliss. Seeing his black-void eyes staring into the souls of our most powerful enemies, breaking them on every level, turning the most stalwart heroes and doers of good deeds, into loyal servants of the Iron Crown of the Dark Lord.

He then gives unto me the charge to use them well; and by the old gods do I ever find great use for them. I cannot kill directly. Always, my Lord smiles warmly as he compliments me on what I do with them. Having defeated the great heroes in combat, I know exactly how to best use them in the Dark Legions. How to send the warriors back to their homelands to lead the conquering armies. How to use the sorcerers to turn their old friends and colleagues into ash. How to turn the sneaks and rogues into our most useful assassins. Sure, sometimes I have to break them further, after all they've still got their morals, even if they have been turned to the side of the Dark Lord, but knowing the exact limit of pain I can drive them to before they die, is an excellent way to force these former heroes to become truly determined to serve the cause of the Dark Lord. Almost as much as I am devoted to him and his cause.

Though I doubt anyone else can ever be that devoted. That loyal.

/r/ApocalypseOwl

John Doe, an boring man with a boring life ignored by everyone

Thanks m8, it means a lot!

A gent named Jack who is stalking a girl or maybe a few girls (or guys, genders are fluid) but genuinely believes that he is just being a kind gentleman who is basically courting this woman in his mind

Connor thought he had outdone them all. His latest caper did not feel as transactional as all of his other crimes. This instance involved the life of another person. Rather than simply stealing someone else's money or property, he had now impacted the future of someone's life.

But it was Patricia Lewand. She wasn't a person in Connor's eyes. Patricia had been part of a family fortune that was a heavy hitter in the railroad empire in the late 1800s of the United States.

Unlike Connor's upbringing, Patricia had no idea what struggle was like. People who grew up with a gold spoon in hand were not human in Connor's eyes. They had no brain and they couldn't function outside of their own small pack of wealthy elites.

So there was no issue of morality when it came to swindling her out of some fortune by marrying her. The old witch he met in New York City indeed sold him a love potion that worked. But their wedding was over, and the potion was starting to wear off.

Connor and Patricia cuddled each other on the couch in their living room in the mansion that her parents bought for the two of them. Patricia lay next to Connor, but she got up suddenly and said, "Something's not right..."

Getting up from the couch, she wandered to a chair in the corner and gazed out the window. She was practically on the other side of the room.

Connor had a devilish grin. "Is everything all right, darling?" It was around the time and day that the witch had predicted the love potion would wear off.

"Yes. Everything is fine... I'm just starting to have some thoughts."

"Oh? And what about?" Connor was excited because he knew she was thinking about divorce, and that would lead to him getting his fortune through a settlement since she would want to end things with him, and they didn't sign any sort of prenuptial agreement.

Patricia pulled out a long filter and put a cigarette at the end of it and struck a match. She drew in an inhale and blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'm just confused that you didn't try and pursue my sister. She's a little older than I am, and it's well known that she's not going to be alive for much longer due to her condition... So by marrying me for my fortune, you might not get away with it. But you could have married her and waited for her to pass, and then you would have forever been part of this family and you forever would have received monies and you probably could have married me too."

Connor was stunned. He tried to think of something to say but his lips fumbled.

"You think you're so smart but I can see you right through you."

"I'm sorry," Connor said, and he actually meant it. In the process of making her take the love potion, he also developed some feelings for her. In his head, the plan was to get a divorce, but in his heart, he actually wanted to see if maybe they could work.

"You have some considerable talent, I'll give you that. But I still think you do more and do better." Patricia shrugged. "I have an idea for a score myself... Would you be interested to hear it?"

"Yes, absolutely. What are you thinking?"

Patricia's head tilted to the side. She was still gazing out the window, and didn't look at Connor. "Hm. We'll have to stay married for a little while longer. Are you still interested?"

"Yes, yes, yes, please tell me."

Patricia had a devilish grin much like Connor's and she took one big puff from her cigarette. Connor leaned forward, waiting to hear the details of the next potential caper.

r/randallcooper

Steve Larson, a call center "associate" sick and tired of the monotony of his life. He has done nothing to be proud of and today is the day that changes.

Granny Scorpion-shoes, and her pet scorpion, Pneumonia

Those Who Hunt Elves is kind of this prompt.

Thank you! I'm pretty proud of this one.

My first thought was Murderbot.

"I just wanna watch my shows"