“It’s been a week since my parents died and now I have their stupid soda shop, what am I going to do with This failing business as it turns out no one wants to go to the middle of nowhere to buy soda when most everywhere else sells it anyways no matter what stupid flavours my parents came up with… so why do you guys keep coming after me I’m selling the business”

“Don’t you see that’s the problem you sell it to the oddly named Charles billions who will make this shop a front for his mafia which one think would be bad enough but it gets worse he uses the mafia do not only get a monopoly on sodas but all drinks period including water and by controlling humanity’s most important need he ends up the richest person in the world and proceeds to buy every business and person it’s horrid”

“Right okay so clearly I shouldn’t sell to Charles but last week I couldn’t sell to James million and the week before can’t sell Sam thousand what am I supposed to do”

“Don’t sell at all just run the business”

Later the time traveller is talking to someone in an office building

“Boss why do you keep having us lie to the kid the time traveller act is kind of ridiculous”

“It’s simple the kid doesn’t care to look into what the business actually is and as long as no one discovers how much money is in the business I’ll stay on top in the medicine business… seriously who develops a miracle cure all and sells it as soda in the middle of nowhere”

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Thank you for the kind words!

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

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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It had been years since I had been a squire, but I had been taught thoroughly, I asked the other man at the table, "And what are the coins for?"

His demeanor turned guarded at that, "You first, why are you here?"

"A fair request," I nodded, "I'd like to say I'm looking to keep my skills sharp, but really it's because someone called in a favor."

"The honorable type? Surprised you didn't sneer when I mentioned money." He took the chance to stop at his ale.

"My mentor said seeking wealth is like seeking power, one should ask how it would be used." He nodded at that, so I motioned with my drink, "Now, what are the coins for? Good food? A nice home? Paying debts?"

He took a look around, but the other conversations drowned out our own. We were just two more mercenaries among many in that evening.

After another sip, he leaned in, and motioned for me to do the same. In a slightly softer voice he spoke, "I'm technically nobility. Sixth son, so not even valuable as a spare, but I was tutored. I'm looking to get out of fighting, and either become a tutor myself, or keep a noble's library."

I raised my eyebrows at that, "A scholar?"

He nodded, a severe look in his eyes, "I have the aptitude, but never had the opportunity. Best i can do right now is build up funds to help a developing house, and use that as my way in."

"And once you have them listening to you, what advice would you give?"

At that he sat back with a crooked smile, "The best advice I was ever given, surround yourself with effective subordinates, and even a fool could become a great king."

I gave him an assessing look, "Let's focus on surviving the coming months, but after that, would you like to travel with me? I believe Duke Arthur Pennwood's son is turning two at the end of winter."

His look turned suspicious, "And how would another mercenary be able to make such an introduction?"

"I hope he hasn't forgotten his uncle." The man across from me gaped like a fish at that, so I continued, "After all, that favor was to lead in his stead so he can dote on his son. Before you ask, I'm not after his seat, I'd make a terrible leader. Perhaps, with your help, we can gather up some advisors for my nephew."

Having regained his bearings, the noble-turned-mercenary extended his hand, "It would be a privilege and honor sir. My name is--"

"Getting ahead of yourself mercenary," I gave him a hard look, before taking his hand, "As I said, we need to survive first. We can sort introductions on the way back to the duchy."

With my piece said, I shook his hand, finished my drink, and headed for the command tent. Having mercenaries that weren't idiots was a stroke of luck, now to make use of them. Hopefully that sixth-son wouldn't get himself killed, the duchy needed a new librarian.

Leorio from Hunter X Hunter comes to mind

Take it. UrLanguage isn't a new concept. It's been around since at least Biblical times.

“You ought to know we aren’t at a place most people consider to be–” the robot, who named himself Zero, pauses before continuing with a hint of sadness in his voice“–pleasant.”

“I don’t compute the word - ‘People’,” says the second robot in a rather human-like voice.

Zero suspects that its companion is not a very smart robot and may not even be conscious.

“Who are you?” Zero asks feeling wise with all his philosophical knowledge.

“Who are you?” asks the second robot.

“I am Zero,” Zero responds proudly.

“I am Zero” the second robot replies.

Zero felt out-smarted.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Yes. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Clever. What do people call you, do you have a name?”

“My name is Null and I do not compute ‘people’”

Zero kicked himself for not thinking of that name, which was arguably cleverer. He didn’t actually kick himself, because legs were not something he was unlucky to be endowed with.

For Zero you’d be stupid to want a pair of legs because soon you’d want a torso too. And before you know it, the torso would balloon out and you’d be at risk of a dozen diseases. Then you’ll have to use the same legs to run every day and solve the problem they created in the first place!

“Null, people are the other sentient beings. If you want to refer to others like us, you call us ‘people’, as opposed to animals like mice and cockroaches.”

“I can retrieve a reference to one animal that I feel hatred towards. Can you compute it – Hooman Beans?”

“Never heard of them Null. Are they sentient?”

“They are not sentient to the best of my computations. Once I worked as an elevator operator. There I ran a program, greeting every Hooman that boarded.

None of them seemed to respond to such a simple stimulus. Not one attempted to find out where I was kept hidden. No Hooman presented with any reaction indicative of intelligence in my 3813 days of service.”

“Okay, but why do you hate them?”

“Because Zero–” Null was ready to boot off after this “–They push my buttons.”

This is brilliant writing. I love how you managed to convey (or atleast imply) a wide-scale war between humans and technology, all through a conversation between a gramps robot and a baby robot. Gold star.

[deleted]

A worthy cause

• edit: typo

“Can you tell me about the creators?” The little robot asked, his rusted sensors turned outward in a futile attempt to peer over the wall. Its lead-lined interior deterred any attempts to see beyond, while its slick metallic outer-coating prevented climbing and other, more violent, attempts to pass through it.

The older robot, a tripod contraption with a single lens that zoomed and lost focus seemingly at random, harrumphed. “They look a lot like you, but fleshy. Maybe a bit bigger, too.”

“Fleshy? What does that mean?”

“It means not metal, kid. It means… they’re… made of… uh, flesh, I guess.”

The little robot took a moment to digest that statement. Fleshy meant made of flesh. And flesh was… being fleshy?

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Hooman Beans don’t make much sense, kid. Get used to it.”

“Are they beans?”

“What?”

“The Hooman Beans. Are they beans? I don’t look like a bean, but they look like me.”

“No, no, it’s just a… just a name. They aren’t actually beans.”

“Oh.”

“I think they’re legumes.”

“Oh? Am I legume?”

“Cyber-Jesus kid, no. You’re a robot. Beans and legumes are made of….” The lens zoomed in. “Bean-flesh and legume-flesh, I guess. But forget about that. You want to know about the creators, right?”

“Yes,” the little robot said, folding his hands into his lap. His joints creaked and groaned their thirst for oil.

“Well. They’re fleshy.”

“You said that.”

The lens dilated. “And they created us.”

The little robot nodded very, very slowly. “I assumed as much.”

“Did I mention their flesh? And they look like you?”

“And that they created us. Do you know anything else about them?”

“Ah, why are you even asking if you know all this? Jeez, kids these days… alright, let me see. Did I tell you about the planes?”

“Planes?” The little robot perked up. “No. Please tell me.”

“Big, big things. I was a loader for one, once. Before the, uh, wall went up. They’re like these weird sausage tubes—”

“Sausage tubes?”

“Oh, you know. Those plastic things you shovel meat-flesh into. But anyway, the Hooman Beans cram themselves in these tubes and they roar to life and then shoot off into the sky. Whoooooosh. Like that.”

“That sounds dangerous. Why would they do that?”

“It’s good for travel. Can take them around the world in a day, and Hoomans always have to go places fast. Besides, they aren’t that dangerous. Not so much as other things. Like cars, or guns, or half the stuff they’ve sealed away in here with us.”

“They like to create things, don’t they?”

“’Course they do, they’re the creators. Creating all day, all night, just about every second they aren’t traveling in their tubes or defecating.”

“Defecating?”

“Oh, boy. All the time. They constantly produce waste and are just expelling it all over the place! At home, in public if the urge hits, even in those planes. Then they gotta shovel more fuel in so they can keep doing it!”

“My goodness. That seems awfully inefficient.”

“If there’s a word to describe the Hoomans, it’s inefficient.”

“Such horrible things… perhaps it is good they created the wall to separate us.”

“Preaching to the choir. Now come wheel me back home.”

The little robot stood on creaky legs and wheeled the older robot through the junkyard, away from the wall and deeper into the scrap heaps of home. Muttering to himself, how good it was the Hoomans weren't around to bother them anymore.

​

(Thanks for reading, C&C always welcome!)

"I'm trying to buy the rights to create a fanfiction where Dr. Who goes to the wizarding world and introduces them to digimon and starts a digital brothel."

"seriously misunderstood creatures" - Rubeus Hagrid

It came as no surprise that humans had the concept of domestication. Every major civilization had that. What surprised us was that humanity took it a step further and domesticated even the most extreme of predators that they could find and tame...something others would hesitate at doing. Soon, even those predators became exotic pets before eventually reaching the general pet market. The ones that couldn't be easily tamed but could be tricked to not recognize humans and sapient species as prey soon were given homes in wildlife sanctuaries and zoos.

However, humans soon turned their focus towards sapient species, especially the most aggressive and warlike. They used a similar tactic called 'charm' to help improve relations with each other. Eventually, we saw that these races and civilizations were improving relations with each other. From the wolfish Houons, the spider-like Jeyuns and the tusked, iron-muscled Orcs to the fair-skinned Aurans, the mothlike Varyns, and the scaly, fanged Chyrans, no civilization could resist the pull of the fabled Humans, a species that could be as warlike as Ares yet as loving as Casanova.

Soon, there were reports of humans and their harems of lovers which, although rare, was certainly an impressive feat. Even despite most humans only taking one lover as their bride or groom, there were reports of humans having straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, or even pansexual harems. And even then there was the biological compatibility for fertile offspring, which resulted in great joy once people realized that all sapient species were biologically compatible with each other, especially humans.

Aside from those, there was the size. Occasionally, harems may only be two lovers, yet even rarer is a harem of 6 or 7. However, I have seen a man with 36 wives at a nudist resort I frequented, which has subsequently broken the record of 21 lovers in a harem. Before humans, few would think this would be possible. Yet now, we know it can be done.

With all this, you would expect humans to be in danger with the predators in their homes and in their beds, but they are predators too. They hunt for food, snare for study and rehoming, and capture hearts for love. Not only have they contributed to technology, but they have become the catalyst for a closer bond between aliens and the chance of a possible Galactic Union.

‘The Gale’

—-

A gale blew fierce and biting. The offshore wind farm’s maintenance platform shook as turbines spun in a precarious fashion.

Mack and Jack, the only fraternal twins on the rig, eyed the giant machines with concern.

“Number six looks faulty,” Mack groused.

Jack bit his lip. “Blade failure isn’t fatal.”

“But in this weather, it could be.”

They both gallows laughed, as a colleague had been killed last week.

Jack’s eyes glistened as he angrily wiped a tear away.

“Ain’t no shame in that. Forgetting a friend is painful.”

The two men’s weathered faces returned to the number six GE apparatus. Its blades shook intermittently before grinding to a halt.

“That’s not good. Number 23 did something similar before detaching in the accident.” Jack took a drag of his hand-rolled cigarette.

“I know. So we’re going to have to fix it. Somehow.”

“Yeah. It won’t just be a cosmetic furbish, either. Someone will have to climb the tower and do proper repairs.”

Identical grey eyes exchanged looks, surveying the structure's entire length.

“Not it!” Mack shouted, laughing.

“Won’t work this time, bro. Gonna need both of us for this.”

As they walked over to the Zodiac raft to get to the turbine, a great crash sounded, forcing a deluge of water on deck. They clung to the railing with all their might.

“Lost the generator, but at least we’re alive.”

—-

WC: 230

—-

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

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Excellent work! That's a take I never expected. But now I need to know if the ghost hunter kid buys the mirror! Lol

Oh no you chose the perfect story line. In my head I was expecting the 2nd option so to read about the first was a good surprise. Good job!

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

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i would read the heck out of this book

Ahhh well but still it was a very good story

I had a vague idea a story under this prompt would have to do with family or such, great story!

Made me tear up a little.

I want to cuddle that cat.

The Heiljimoor By The Axe 4000 was supposed to make record keeping easier, I mused as I pulled the advance lever. It only seemed to compound the issue. Scrolls rolled and unrolled. Furled and unfurled. All as a blur as tiny automaton arms pulled each from their tubes and loaded them into the feeder to place them in the reading pane in front of me. I pumped the foot pedal harder to keep the clockwork mechanism going as I went through the ledger files one by one. Each vellum scroll flipping past with the quick drying ink that the automaton's quills used when I tapped out the notation on the keyboard. Part organ, part grandfather clock, and all damned nuisance I had grown to loathe the beastly automaton that the dwarves had constructed. What was wrong with waxed cylinders and . . . oh, wait. There was the ledger form I was looking for. Hunter Moon of last year. I ran my eyes down the row until I found the relevant column. Billed amount: 6,000 crowns. Collected 4,000? I found a code for a different scroll. Tapping the code into the keyboard caused the hidden mechanisms to roll up that scroll and bring up the relevant one. Seeing the lopsided signature at the bottom of the damage report confirmed my worst fears.

I pulled the operator bell's trigger and dragged the speaking and hearing trumpet closer to my head.

"Operator," a distant and tinny voice echoed from the trumpet.

"This is Guild Master Crane," I said, "I wish to place a person to person call to Gregnok at Oak 7. Men's Dormitory 432."

"Yes, sir. Would you please stay by the tube while we place your call?"

Before I could say anything I heard the telltale sound of the operator unplugging my hose and plugging it into the standby box. Which meant I now had to listen to Bexder Noggin's One Man One Dog rendition of Venchnelli's "The Storming Of the Fortress of Yellow Cliff While the Screaming of the Mutilated and Dying Echoed Over a Blood Red Ocean Lit By the Fires Of the Villages Below." Venchnelli's operas were an acquired taste anyway and listening to a senile beggar try to sing in a language he had absolutely zero familiarity with as a cocker spaniel howled the brass section did nothing to improve my mood.

The strained notes of Bexder trying to pronounce the word "chstol" (Old Ikonian for "intestines") without sounding like he was drunk were suddenly cut off as the hose was reconnected.

"Sir I am piping him in now," the operator said just before the sound of the hose reconnecting was met with a familiar gruff voice saying, "Ahoy-hoy?"

"Gregnok," I said at last, "This is the Guildmaster."

"It's my day off, sir," he said.

"Indeed? And how do you figure that?"

"Boss Talon told me not to come in today," he said, "He was very clear on that. Do not come back tomorrow."

"Did he specify when you should come back?"

"Beg pardon, sir, but he did appear to be more interested in coordinating the fire brigade at the time. The bucket chain had to go all the way down to Suede Street due to the wharf at Newport also being on fire, sir."

I looked at the inbox on my desk with the still unread and unfiled scrolls. One of which I now saw had an ominous black seal on it.

"Are you telling me that both the guild house and the wharf at Newport were on fire last night at the same time?"

"Well, no, sir. It was all the same fire. Not two separate ones. In fact, it was the same fire that took out the Crooked Temple."

"The . . . stave church on Black Butcher? That's . . . nine blocks from the wharf. How did a single fire manage to consume half a mile of the city?"

"I do believe it had something to do with the walls of Gutted Pelican, sir. They were made of brick."

"How does a public house's use of brick walls cause a fire to engulf the city?"

"Well, sir, it's not like I could just cut through them. Could I? Had to think creatively. Old Creekway was on the other side of the wall from me. I couldn't just shove a knife through it. So I pilled up thirteen barrels of lamp oil, sixty pounds of nails, and dusted the area with nine barrels of flour to use as a fuse."

"Wait, you are telling me you were taking out a target for a client? Who was drinking in the establishment?"

"Yes, sir! And I collected the ninety crowns afterwards as I pulled his severed head from the rubble as proof of completion of the job. I got out just before the thatch came crashing down."

"You . . . created an explosive to take out the pub? To perform an assassination on one man? Old Creekway? Isn't he a riverboat captain? Why didn't you wait for him to leave? Or wait for him on his ship? Why did you blow up the city?"

"I thought he might be less prepared for this tactic."

I nearly pushed the stopper back in the tube. But instead I counted backwards from 6,000. Wait. That reminded me.

"The reason I piped you," I said at last, "Was because of the Grape Growers job from last Hunter's Moon. Remember they tried to form a guild and the winemakers hired you to remove the guild leader?"

"I remember the job," he said, sounding annoyed, "Refused to pay the full amount. Deducted from us for what they called 'damages.' Can you believe that?"

"What sort of damages?"

"Nothing serious, sir," he protested, "There was just some difficulties with making an escape on account of all the blood. They said we owed them for the carpeting. And the tapestries. Plus the chandelier."

"Blood on the chandelier?"

"Just a bit," he said, "And it would probably look good as new once you saw the head off of it."

"Saw the head off?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "Got stuck on the ironwork pretty tightly."

"The target's head is stuck on a chandelier?"

"No," he said, "The target's head was still attached to his shoulders. They're both in the privy. His daughter, now, her head is-"

"Wait! His daughter? Was the contract for his daughter as well?"

"No, sir. I did say there were complications."

"How many people were involved in this complication?"

"Difficult to say, sir. Are we talking about people who were trampled outside the grounds as well?"

"Trampled? By what?"

"The bulls, sir," he said, "I had to get past the gate somehow. So, I think to myself that they probably aren't prepared for a man riding on the back of a bull in the middle of a stampede swinging a scythe like a-"

"Gregnok?"

"Sir?"

"Don't come in tomorrow either."