So Piccolo is an Orc? It does kind of make sense.

Absolutely adore your R and G are Dead take on this prompt!

Seconded.

"Awfully quiet today..." Dr Achebe said to her colleague on the same bench in the courtyard. They seemed to care more about their sandwich than how quiet today was.

Dr Achebe was not used to such a boring day. The usual stresses and problems she dealt with refused to come up. She knew she didn't miss them, but you cannot just go cold turkey on these things without feeling something was missing. It would just be a boring weirdly memorable day...

If all her problems just weren't there today, that meant there was no need to escape them. Which in turn meant she had nothing to do. She was just beginning to think that her luck was holding when out in the distance came a familiar but not comforting sound....

A faint muahahaha

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I also enjoyed Sonic and the Black Knight

It seems things don't have to be eventful for them to matter.

...even then, I guess seeing Mordecai himself is worthy of note.

Good job.

“You realize who you kill back there, yah?”

Vincent Esposito set his briefcase and ID on the table in the interrogation room. “Vincent”

“Seventy-four” the interrogatee replied

“What an odd name.” He spoke with a comically over saturated European accent. “Seventy-four… your ah…”

“Experimental designation. Number 74.” He spoke robotically.

“Yes we are aware. You are most effective Hitman in organization.” Vincent leans back into his chair. “Just barely human. Blank slate.” Gesturing towards 74's face. “Your three piece suit is stylish. Black fit, bright red tie. Well suited man.”

“Thank you.” He said sitting completely still

Vincent leans in. “If I look away from you right now. I forget. Every. Facial feature. I could leave. You could slit my throat on lunch break. Yah? Walk away. Place the weapon in my hand and tell them I kill my self withit, yah?”

“Correct” he replied flatly.

“So this is what you do? In Italy, yah?”

“Correct”

“You freeze time. Thatis what you do. Speed walk through the crowd. The reporters. The bodyguards” He said with mad gestures. “Stab Rosella Mazzanti.” He flew rhythmically.

“Correct”

“And you give the weapon to brown man in turban. Perfect set up. They blame the blacks. The Muslims. The immigrants. For murder of lovely Italian white woman. The media shall eat it up! Ey?”

“As planned.”

“EXCEPT!” He howled. Leaping from his chair toward the table. “Except you stab 17 in chest!”

…

He settles himself, sitting in his chair again. “… number seventeen. While she assisted you.”

“My apologies” every so emotionlessly.

“IDIOTA!” He throws his briefcase to the wall in rage. “She sneezed!” He yells, pounding wildly. “She was fellow enhanced agent. She was assisting you!”

“I needed no assistance”

“She sneezed!”

“My ability deactivated as a result of that. It was… gross.”

“You Idiotic motherfucker! You realize what they will do to you! What they will do to me, as handler? For killing our own!? Yah!?”

“I would have been… compromised…”

“Ohh!” Vincent springs up from his seat “This game to you? Imminent death is game to you?” He forces himself closer to 74's face. “We are dead men walking. Dead fucking men!”

“I will not die”

“I have no doubt my friend. I will die!”

“… I will not allow you to die.”

“So what, yah? We live in dumpster by York road? By fast food place? Eating shit pizza till we are old men?”

“… Correct.”

Vincent slowly loses his zeal, and settles back into his seat. With his head down on the table. Behind his hands.”

“Fuck you”

When I took my nightly walk, I noticed two people out of the corner of my eye. They sat, side by side, on a park bench. A tree was planted behind them, its leafy branches reaching out to cast soft shadows over the couple.

They spoke in quiet voices as if breaking the fall silence would shatter them into pieces.

Gentle words whispered for only their ears. Secrets between two souls, shared on a chilly evening. A conversation that would never be told to another.

They huddled closely together, as though the brisk autumn wind could rip them apart.

A hand resting on the opposite shoulder, keeping a partner close. A head settled where the other's neck meets their collarbone. Two people who fit in each other's shape snugly, like puzzle pieces.

Two silhouettes on a bench in the park, out in the open, but in their own little world.

I smiled to myself, and continued my walk.

I want to read a different ending in which he misunderstood and started running towards her.

Thanks :)

The prompt was very fun to work with!

going slightly rogue here

This is it. This is really what my life has equated to. A cage, amongst dozens of other cages. Cages full of MUTS. I Cant count how many of these I’ve eaten in the past hundred years. Labradors, Great Danes, Beagles. You name it, but you stray just a little too close to the U.S boarder and they snag you like you’re just some loose house hold pet. Does no one else think, maybe, just maybe I look a little bizarre to be here??? I could always wrap my tongue around the next person that walks by? Maybe they’ll think “oh yes that’s clearly not a dog but in fact a mythical cryp-“ no no no this is America, they’ll shoot me and serve me at a barbecue.

Before I could finish my thought, I’d the entree door opened and a rush of voices, adults, children, men, women. Clamoring like the annoyances they are. Each one passed me, degrading me in a number of ways that I would reciprocate ten fold if it weren’t for these bars. This went on for hours, I curse adoption day.

As the last one leaves, I curl myself in a ball when all of a sudden a soft voice at my cage causes me to rise, in defense I hiss and snarl to the back of my prison.

“Wait I like this one daddy” The voice is coming from a girl child, bound to some sort of rolling chair, her tiny head shaved, her frame exposing through the skin.

One of my captors rushes over. “Oh no not that one, he’s green. We think he’s got the mange”

The father of the girl approaches. “He has spikes too, I’m not really sure that’s a dog honey”

The girl presses against my cage. I can’t help but get closer, she draws me in like a siren, I’m not sure why but I think I would die for this human. She reaches her tiny hand in and as if by design, without fail I butt it with my head. I’ve lost control of my body.

“Of course he’s a dog, he’s the best boy there ever was, arent you??!?!”

And to this day, I will defend this home. I will defend my family. I WILL eat scraps from the dinner table. I AM MANS BEST FRIEND.

I am Fluffy.

Faster than a Firebolt?

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Well, if you believe him in book 1, Dumbledore desires socks above all else.

nice!

We have to consider whether or not we believe him when he says his vision in the mirror of erised is a warm pair of socks.

"What if"

At first those words sounded intriguing. So curious. And the answers I have gotten felt so lifelike. So lifelike indeed that I just went ahead to ask about certain decisions I was unsure on how to appraoch. And when I went with what was answered back to me, the outcome was just as that god forsaken typewriter had predicted. At first I thought that this was it, that I had stricken the proverbial pot of gold so many poeple were loking for.

I went ahead to write many fictional history books on how famous events would have turned out if the circumstances were shifted.

What if the attempted hit on Hitler was succesful?

What if Columbus had actually found a faster route to get to India?

What if the Titanic didn't sink?

What if....?

What if...?

WHAT

IF

Even though the lifelike nature of all of my novels have made me wildly successful and rich, those two words are what haunt my nightmares now.

I have become obsessed with those two words that seem so harmless. And even if I try to take a break or just enjoy another activity, I somehow always end up in front of that same typewriter, asking about the outcomes of every scenario crossing my mind.

What if...

Lately it seems like reality has shifted. Sometimes when I look outside of the window I see a world that I don't know. Sometimes when I go to bed I don't recognise the sheets. On the rare occasions I go out to spend time with my friends I have a hard time recognising the people I am meeting up with, yet they still seem to know me and many of the personal memories I think (?) I have never shared.

And at the end of all this confusion there is only one thing that keeps me going.

What if...

I am now incapable of making any choices on my own. I need to ask my trusty typewriter what the best course of action would be. Could you image what would happen if I made a wrong decision?

What if...

I don't remember how I was ever able to live without every possible answer to those two simple words. Does it really matter that the seasons seem to change on a daily basis? Does it really matter that I have now met at least 216 people that are my parents? Does it matter that I get up every morning and look into a different face when I walk up to the mirror?

What if it actually mattered? I better go ask my beloved typewriter.

No matter how many unfamiliar rooms I walk into, no matter how many pairs of hands I look down on while typing, this trusty machination is my only remaining constant in life.

The golden letters spelling out "what if" engraved on the side of it are my only comfort.

And then it hit me. What if... I did something different about my own life? The anxiety on what to do next suddenly vanished. I don't need to leave my houses or families or realities or whatever nonsense I exist in that revolves around that typewriter. I can just go through my whole lives inch by inch figuring out what could have been if I just.... changed it a bit.

And so I waltzed towards one of my desks with a newly found disregard of the obsceneties that are my lifes. I have a new purpose now. I need to find out what would have happened, if... The hammering of the keys is my last resort of sanity. Everytime I think I have explored every possible solution I just seem to have a new perspective I have not yet discovered. I need to know now. I need to know the answer to "what if".

​

The obsessive hammering of the keys can be heard throughout the entirety of the underworld. Looking throgh the small window in the door you can see a simple chair and a table with a typewriter sitting on top of it. On the side of the typewriter you can see the words "what if" engravid in golden letters. The floor, the walls, every possible surface is covered in pages and pafes of paper. The only thing that is written on each page are the words "what if". The man who started out in this room is barely recognizable anymore. He has a constant look of obsession in his eyes and even though he seemed to enjoy just existing in this room, sometimes doodling on the blank sheets of paper, sometimes writing and performing songs to audiences only he could percieve... But the only thing that is still left of him is a husk of a person, glued to a useless typewriter that is only ever typing out the words "what if".

Please don't feel sad for him. This is the afterlife he has chosen for himself and it is not up to us to decide wether this choice is making him happy or not in the end. But maybe you are curious about him and are wondering yourself...

What if?

Well I’m not very confident that take is supported by the silmarillion….

He'd probably think they're house elfs and try to make them clean up.

International Fantasy Assistance Center The best place for any fantasy creature finding themselves in the ever changing world.

We offer many programs to ensure that some of the oldest species on earth can continue to live in peace. Trade Schools and Universities, and Job Assistance programs for those interested in integrating into the human world. Identity Protection and Safety Zones for those wanting to hide. Our newest program was opened in the 1960s, something highly sought after and always full. Please click here to view our classes on navigating fantasy to human relationships

Connor sighed and put his coffee cup back down. The emails may be quiet now, but the cases have been piling up. He had been looking back at the IFAC website for ideas, hints, clues. Anything for where he could look next. Something other than just looking at more case files.

Connor is head of the investigation team to find out why fantasy creatures have been having so many new problems, more ever before. More than when humans evolved to be the apex species. More than all the wars - human against human, or human against fantasy. More than during the industrial revolution, damn you!

The higher ups had started sending cases, tear-inducing cases, proving the point that the IFAC is struggling, and they want to know why. So now the investigation team has access to every single file the IFAC has on anything, for the sole purpose of finding a cause to the increase in cases and complaints.

Connor and Emily started working on this maybe a month ago, but it quickly became too much for just the two of them. So they requested a team. Connor was placed in charge, and the team was made up of Emily, James, Christopher, Winnie - a Wereraven, and Lavender - they are a Nymph.

Connor was especially thankful for Lavender to be on this team. They have been with the IFAC from its infancy, something like 380 years after its founding. Lavender basically helped build this institution from the ground up. Their knowledge is indispensable.

Connor hunched over and knocked his head on his desk a few times. He is starting to get frustrated. Lavender asked if he needed another cup of coffee. "Ulg. Yeah." "I'll head out. Everyone want their regular order?" Lavender is so helpful, sometimes it's hard to remember not to say thank you or use any of the other regular human respects. Most Fae have changed over the years, but it is still unwise to say these things to them. At this point, it's mostly because it's disrespectful to their history.

Connor looked across the room, stack and stacks of paper files that had never been digitalized. It looks like only a small fraction have even been touched. Connor and Emily were the only ones going through the digital files, and everyone else had been doing their best with the physical case files.

Connor stood up and walked over to each of the team members.

"Winnie. What case are you looking into? Anything sticking out?" Winnie looked up. She obviously had a depressing case. It looked like she was about to cry. Connor patted her shoulder and reminded her she could take a break if she needed.

Walking over to a double desk, "James? Christopher? Anything?" The only response was defeated head shakes.

"Emily, please tell me you have something!" "Actually, this one does seem different than everything else I've read. Come look." Connor sat at the chair next to her and looked at the file on her computer. She was looking at an essay application for the Friendships With Humans class.

Those classes really were always so full, in order to get into one of these classes, you must now submit an application with an essay as to why you need this particular class.

Emily showed Connor where she was reading. The essay was written by the parents of a young boy, who would go off playing, and then tell his parents that he had been playing with Pixies. They detailed in the essay that their son was bullied in school and didn't have friends, so they would like to attend the friendship class so they can help foster the friendship between their son and the Pixies and maybe even meet and become friends themselves. It went on.

Emily watched Connor read and waited for him to make the realization. "A PIXIE??"

Connor reassigned everyone. Search for anything the IFAC would have on Pixies.

Lavender walked back in with so many drinks and bags of baked goods from their favorite local coffee shop. "Pixies? Are you silly?" Lavender laughed as she started handing out food and drinks. "No one has seen Pixies in ages. Goodness. 500 years after the last one.... Well, we assumed they didn't make it. It was a sad time when they were placed on that list. Why are you all looking up Pixies?" they asked, their iconic smile seeming to fade a little when Connor told them that one was spotted.

"Impossible" they whispered, barely audibly.

Emily emailed Lavender the essay to read. As they read, their purple eyes filled with tears.

Lavender seemed to be the one to take over the investigation team after that. They knew a lot more than Connor and he knew it. He didn't mind stepping aside.

Lavender immediately assigned each team member to different areas to search if there might be any more Pixie sightings. Emily looked into job assignments, Connor checked in the universities and trade schools, Christopher searched the Identity Projection files, and James looked at the Safety Zones. Winnie and Lavender joined forces to search all essays for any other mention of Pixies.

Everyone realized how important and urgent this was, because once Lavender caught their breath after realizing Pixies may be back, they told the team what Pixies really are.

Pixies in history books could be tricksters, little pranksters. It's easy to see tricksters and pranksters to be the cause of all the commotion that the IFAC has been plagued with lately.

But really, it's much worse.

Yes. Pranks were played, but they were sinister. They were deadly. Tricks that would somehow make entire Elven metropolis desolate overnight. Pixies were responsible for more fantasy creature extinctions than any other earthly lifeform.

Lavender then said the worst part. "The saying is actually Rabbits multiply like Pixies. So we have to find every last one and we have to find them NOW."

Lavender fidgeted and would get up and pace the floor while the team all worked hard. After about an hour, they said, rather agitated, "I need to call the main office. I didn't finish the job."

While it may have been over two years since the seventeen year old intern at Mannered Cat Inc used his gaming skills to save the other world he was summoned to and open a permanent portal back home, one still doesn't expect a "Mr. Green, G." to have green skin. The sapient races immigrating in from that other world is still confusing. It was tough enough to hide the look of shock at the sight of his scarred face, but I had to save face to not appear racist. For all we know, Mr. Green really is the most qualified candidate, and at the very least his stench has been less offensive than some of the other coworkers I've had the pleasure to deal with.

I've been terribly busy due to the short staffedness—I'll take whatever help I can get.

Pleasantries and introductions were played out. The usual, "Master Green was me father, call me Goog" and explaining what the job is. Why someone so used to dealing with large beasts and prolific magic would want a career in something so mundane was beyond me, although when I candidly asked later it was revealed that Goog took this path because he was under the impression it was for honorable men. Given the dozens of "Urgent!" in my email queue, I decided to offload Goog into his first task which was to help with Mark in Sales. I had a little concern about a misunderstanding when he stormed off saying "I will find my mark" but he came back a few minutes later saying "I fix it."

I asked what did Goog do, and he told me "I turn off and on again." Classic. He may not have the best grasp over human language but at the very least he knows the fundamentals. I commended for him as such. I had so much to deal with, I just let him the ringing phone to our department and deal with the next issue while I updated the server.

...

I heard a bonk sound followed by clatter in the distance. Such a loud sound could only have been produced by the tree trunk thick arms of Goog, who was saying some Orcish words carried over by his stentorian voice. I was worrying that my risk in character judgment might have back fired and I was getting up to investigate were it not for the elated "It works! Thank you, Goog." I heard shortly after.

When he came back I asked what happened, and Goog said "Mefinks problem's fix like at home, human word 'z Percussive Maintenance. P'bit'kak Ingrid-Santiago not know, but Goog does. 'Z like squigglies."

And so it kept going. I was worried Goog might not get the more complicated problems on call, but he would type with his sausage thick fingers while on call and resolve the issue. We've received nothing but thanks and commendations from our feedback.

I asked how did he learn so much about computers in the last couple years of which the portal has been opened. "Goog'el is like me boss at home. When Goog not know, Goog ask. Goog'el tell Goog what to do, and Goog'el don't hit me on head like big Green."

Goog just googles everything like anyone at I.T. I don't know why it felt like such a plot twist. Weeks go by, not a single complaint about the hunched hulk. While his reasonings and explanations may be off beat in the logs, he got the job done. For example:

Another computer frozen, "Goog reset."

New scanner in the department needs installing, "P'bit'kak. Mark know not how to deal with grey wizard like an Orc of the Scorpion Sting tribe."

We're setting up the router. "Sorting wires z no harder than sorting bitey snakes at home."

There was one time he mentioned saving things to a backup drive is like making a soul copy on a rune in Grobdingog, but I definitely felt like I was missing some context for that.

One day, when code was compiling, I asked Goog "P'bit'Kak, what does it mean? It's the one Orcish word I keep hearing you repeat."

Goog responded "Problem Between Chair And Computer."

Sounds like they're watching the theatrical cut.

I've typed it for the thousandth time today. The same sentence, over and over. Hour after hour.

I found it, a few years ago. I'd decided to downsize after... Well, I was moving to a smaller place, and I stumbled on the typewriter in the attic. I thought it was Maggie's, and part of me just didn't want to leave the sentence unfinished, something from the both of us.

No, that's a lie. I was more bitter. It's funny though, that first sentence I typed. It's the same one I'm typing now.

Once I realized what it could do, I started using it to help my writing. I wrote so many science fiction scenarios into this machine. I made so many worlds for people to enjoy, and as I did, so many little discoveries were made that lined up with my tales. I figured that's just physics. The typewriter made worlds that followed our rules.

Then I started the fantasy story: What if there was a society of assassin wizards?

The books sold like hotcakes. It had a great romance subplot that people just ate up with a spoon. And last night, one of those wizards was caught. The FBI brought me in. Thankfully, my book money pays for a good lawyer.

I did a couple tests, what if I had a cup of coffee?, what if my coffee wasn't cold?, what if I had a donut?, and such. And with a couple tries, it would always work. The typewriter doesn't just show these possibilities, it makes them.

So here I am. I could write anything in here. Maybe I will some day. But in the world I see each time, I don't have the typewriter. I suppose I won't need it. That version of me seems truly happy.

I type in the sentence, once more:

What if Maggie hadn't died?

And the meaning of shadow.

Did you know that the outer part of a shadow is called the penumbra?