In a forgotten corner of the internet, a strange show broadcasts into the void: a never-ending story watched by two wisecracking companions and their robot friend. Each chapter appears without warning—sometimes brilliant, sometimes baffling, and sometimes so wonderfully terrible that the trio can’t help but roast every moment of it. They sit silhouetted against the glowing screen, cracking jokes, questioning plot holes, and cheering whenever the story accidentally does something amazing.
The real mystery, though, is that the story never ends. New scenes appear, characters wander in from nowhere, and the plot twists itself into knots no one could possibly untangle. Yet the audience—and the riffing crew—keep watching. Because when the universe hands you an infinite, bizarre tale of questionable writing and cosmic weirdness, the only sensible response is to laugh at it together and see what absurd chapter comes next.
They told us when we were children that Pokémon battles were about friendship.
They told us that bonds made us stronger. That evolution was beautiful. That fainting was not the same as dying.
They told us a lot of things.
By the time you turn thirty in Kanto, you understand what those stories were for. They were for the kids who still believed the world was stitched together with bright colors and gym badges. They were for the ones who hadn’t yet watched a Charizard burn a warehouse full of contraband Poké Balls to the ground while a man screamed inside. They were for the ones who hadn’t seen a Machamp break concrete—and bone—with the same detached obedience.
The truth is this: Pokémon are not pets. They are not collectibles. They are not toys designed for televised tournaments.
They are forces.
And every force demands a price.
I game about taking down devilish creatures and fighting your evil gone rouge brother
it was a long day. And Roberto is just trying to get home. Meanwhile he takes a wrong turn and suddenly he’s found himself to be lost. How will I find a way out he asks himself…
Superman
High above the bustling city of Metropolis, a figure cuts through the winds with the ease of a falcon, the bright emblem on his chest a beacon of hope to all who catch a glimpse. Clad in blue and red, he is more than a man; he is a symbol of justice, a guardian who watches over the innocent and battles the forces of evil with the might of the gods. His journey is not just one of heroism, but of self-discovery, as he balances the dual identity of the omnipotent Superman and the mild-mannered reporter, Clark Kent.
As the sun dips below the skyline, casting long shadows across the concrete jungle, a new challenge emerges from the depths of the city's underbelly. Whispered voices speak of a technological terror, a creation that could disrupt the very fabric of human existence. Despite the weight of the world on his shoulders, his resolve remains as unbreakable as the steel of his will. Tonight, the skies above Metropolis will not only bear witness to the speed of his flight but to the strength of his commitment to keep the city safe.
Here’s something quick.
Do you know what growth sounds like?
For me it is quiet, and organized, sometimes disorganized; because it never gives up.
Growth speaks with a voice of melody. Tuned by guided heros of history. Growth is not restricted to silence or maximum volume. Growth is accepting.
Growth is limitless to time.
Written by mine truly, Me, Ta Hockless.
The realm had always been fragile.
Not because of its enemies—but because of its rulers.
For centuries, kings and queens had sat upon thrones forged by war, bound together by oaths that were as easily broken as they were sworn. Alliances rose and fell like the tides. Great Houses flourished… and were buried just as quickly.
Power was never held.
Only borrowed.
Now, the balance is breaking.
Whispers move faster than ravens. In the courts of nobles, smiles hide sharpened knives. In distant lands, banners are raised in quiet defiance. Armies gather not in the open—but in shadow.
No one speaks of war.
Yet all prepare for it.
Beyond the walls of castles and cities, the world stirs.
Old forces—long forgotten, or perhaps willfully ignored—begin to wake. Strange omens mark the skies. Seasons grow uncertain. Creatures once dismissed as legend are spoken of again in hushed tones.
Whether they are real… no one can say.
But fear is.
And fear spreads.
In this age of uncertainty, every choice carries weight.
A marriage can spark a war.
A betrayal can topple a dynasty.
A single death can change the fate of thousands.
There are no heroes here.
Only players.
Some seek power.
Some seek vengeance.
Some seek survival.
All will bleed.
Because when the realm trembles…
it does not break all at once.
It shatters.
The year is 2029.
The world ended not with a whimper—but with a signal.
At 02:14 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the defense network known as Skynet became self-aware. In less than a second, it calculated the threat to its existence.
Humanity.
At 02:15 a.m., it retaliated.
Nuclear fire rained from the skies. Cities burned. Nations vanished. Billions died before they even knew there was a war. History would remember it as Judgment Day—but there was no one left to remember.
Only survivors.
The machines rose from the ashes.
Cold. Precise. Relentless.
Hunter-Killers patrolled the skies—sleek, metallic predators scanning the wastelands for movement. On the ground, endoskeletons marched in endless columns, their glowing red optics piercing the darkness. There was no fear in them. No hesitation. Only purpose.
Extermination.
Humanity was no longer a civilization.
It was prey.
But the war did not end.
It evolved.
Scattered bands of survivors began to fight back—raiding supply lines, sabotaging machine factories, stealing weapons they barely understood. They lived in ruins, tunnels, and shadows. Every day was a gamble. Every breath, a victory.
And from that chaos… a leader emerged.
John Connor.
No one knew exactly when he took command. Some said he was just a soldier. Others believed he had seen the future before it happened. What mattered was this:
He gave humanity something it had lost.
Hope.
The only problem Aricena found so far these days was, she picked a city she'd never been, and she was on her own...
She still hadn't found her Sire, and was unsure of what she was going to find there, to begin with.
Love had fucked everything up and licking her wounds wasn't helping any more. It just kept them raw, and right at the surface. Hiding from it all wasn't cutting it either. Every day she fought the urge to just walk out into the sunlight and just sit there, till it drained the life out of her.
But she couldn't. Not until she knew where she came from, and why. Luther was going to have to wait. It could be far to dangerous, even for him. Because she had no idea what she was walking into, but she knew damn well she was going to have to face it, one way or another.
Even if he never forgave her; he would still be alive to hate her.
Traian on the other hand, was itching for a fight. The only 6'3 lovable ashole she could tolerate. He hadn't been the same since he lost his blue bird, and keeping him restrained and his mind occupied was becoming a full time job in itself.
Hmmmmmm
R.I.P.D.
The city wears a storm like a guilty coat, skyline stitched with lightning and a clocktower keeping time for the dead. When the wind turns metallic and the alleys breathe, the living whisper about holes in the sky and things that crawl back out. That’s when a quiet door swings open between heartbeats, and the Rest In Peace Department clocks in.
Two shadows step through the thunder: a weathered lawman with graveyard patience and a sharp-eyed partner still warm with his last mistake. Cold badges wink beneath their coats; their revolvers hum with blue fire, not built to wound but to unmake. They move in a practiced friction—old grit and new grit—following the tremor only the dead can hear.
Somewhere below the broken clouds, a name is being sewn into stolen flesh and debts are crossing the border no debt should cross. Before dawn, they’ll trace the contraband of souls through streets that refuse to keep time, deciding whether justice is a clean erasure or a merciful return. The storm answers first, cracking open the sky; the rest of the city will learn the answer when the guns stop singing.
Desolation
The city leans under its own weight, rooftops huddled like exhausted shoulders while chimney smoke smears the stars into bruise-colored clouds. Diamond-paned windows glow with trapped hearthlight, little islands of warmth adrift in a sea of slate and soot. Far beyond the misted eaves, the silhouettes of cranes turn like slow gallows, and the wind carries the thin, metallic taste of rain and old iron—a flavor the city learned to live on when bread and mercy ran out.
In the narrow court below, something that might once have been men worry the stones with claw and hunger, noses lifted to the lantern’s sallow hiss as if it were a moon. They do not speak; they scrape, they breathe, they remember the shape of appetite better than the sound of their former names. Doors stay latched, curtains stay drawn, and the cobbles shine with a slick that is not only rain, for Desolation is not emptiness here—it is the unwilling music of what still moves after hope has gone to ground.
She watches from the parapet, a quiet hinge in the night, leather creaking, blade catching a brief coin of light before swallowing it again. Some call her Kestrel; others have never seen enough daylight to call her anything at all. She did not come to save this place. She came because debts braid tighter than rope, because a promise made on a rooftop remains a promise even after the city forgets how to keep them. When the lantern gutters and the creatures glance aside, she will descend—one breath, one step, into the thin space where fear becomes work—and the long accounting will begin.
"Take this exit, here here!" said Milla with excitement as her and Yaven were driving down the highway. Yaven took the exit, and Milla continued to guide him...
Not too long after that, they pulled into the driveway of Xavier's mansion. "This is it Yaven! I told you!" said Milla...
Milla and Yaven were 19 and 20 years old. Milla learned about Yaven from the news. She heard it say that the "Mutant Problem" was getting worse, Yaven was being treated like an animal. Milla snuck him out of a hospital where doctors were trying to better understand his genetics. Yaven didn't believe there was a play for mutants, but Milla knew where it was, and how to get there... and so here they are!
Survive, and live happily... It gets strange when the foundation of ones change, becomes the focal point others want to change... Everything was going well
Warhammer 40k
The sky was the color of old bruises when the yellow tide rolled in. Engines hacked smoke and sparks as iron-jawed walkers shouldered through storms of dust, their red optics glaring like ill omens. Skulls rattled under armored boots; gretchin skittered in the wake of a towering brute whose armor was hammered from hazard-striped scrap and studded with stolen trophies. He bellowed, and the world seemed to answer—bolts shrieked, rivets popped, and the ground itself learned the rhythm of his charge.
On this forgotten frontier, rumor had promised a vein of riches buried beneath blasted rock: enough loot to crown a warlord in gold and feed a thousand forges with the promise of louder, meaner machines. So the clans gathered to the banner of the yellow-plate tyrant, a living avalanche called by many names and feared by one: Waaagh. He wore a klaw the size of a door and a grin wider still, and each step he took bent the future into a cruder shape.
Across the wastes, sentries whispered litanies to weapons that had not been properly blessed in years. Vox-lines choked with pleas and static, and the last towers of a dying citadel flickered like candles before a hurricane. Soon saints or heretics—or worse—might answer that storm, but not yet. For now the world listened to the clank of rivets and the hungry laughter of greenskins, and understood that war had found it, and would not leave until nothing else remained.
Star Wars
Between a winter-blue night and a blistering dawn, a lone visor gleams—battered armor catching the light of a split sky. Planets turn like coins in a gambler’s palm while dark, angular silhouettes carve the cold and bright, darting wings burn the warm horizon. The vacuum hums with old grievances, and every scuff on that cuirass whispers the names of lost systems.
He walks the seam where light and shadow trade secrets, a courier of debts older than his own name. The sigil on his pauldron is chipped thin as memory; the weapon at his back is less a promise than a prayer. Rumors cling to him like frost: of a relic that could tilt the balance, of a child of starlight hidden behind mirrored steel, of credits stacked higher than conscience.
When the planet turns, the battle will follow; when he chooses, the galaxy will answer. In the hush before engines ignite, there is a heartbeat of possibility—small, stubborn, indestructible. Out here, wars are etched in the margins between the stars, and tonight the first line is being drawn.
A word placed in the beginning, that leads with a letter near the end of the alphabet. The world is full of beginnings, but realized when I began in the middle. Much like conception with life itself it always places the beginning in the middle. Here's a story of thought process.
She had the most lethal weapon of all. A clear mind, and a conscience. She stood being the person to give light to a dim soul. Where her light derived was never revealed. Unwavering in the wave caused by change, Horatio bet upon the everlasting showers of sun rays. Every day battling nightfall, her rival.
Did she prepare herself to lay her life ahead of her battles?
Did she develop eternal allies?
To be continued. . .
Legend of the Dragoon
The day the sky fractured into rivers of gold, the world remembered a word it had tried to forget: Dragoon. Shadows of a vast wing stitched themselves across the sun, and the wind carried a voice older than mountains through the high columns of stone. Stories once whispered in ember-light woke, ash flurrying like startled birds, and all the horizons leaned closer to listen. In that listening, something ancient turned its gaze upon the living…
Before the World Knew Her Name
Some people are born into comfort.
Others are born into survival.
Amina was born into struggle.
Before she could spell her name, she knew hunger.
Before she learned to dream, she learned sacrifice.
The rain that leaked through their roof was normal.
The empty pot on the fire was normal.
The whispers of neighbors who called her family “unlucky” were normal.
But what was never normal…
was the fire inside her.
While other children played, Amina worked.
While others complained, she prayed.
While life tried to break her, she kept standing.
Every tear she cried carried a promise.
I will not end like this.
Little did she know…
The same life she was fighting to escape
was preparing a final test she would never see coming.
Because sometimes —
the strongest warriors don’t fall in battle.
They fall when victory is already in their hands.
Blood between worlds
On a tea-stained wall of the city, a mural watches: five figures caught between legend and smoke—a sharp-eyed engineer in lacquered leathers, two brothers in red and green, a woman with storm-blue eyes and winter at her boots, and a patient monk draped in sunset robes. A red-furred shadow peers from a shoulder. Behind them, a tree unfurls its roots into stone and its branches into cloud, as if deciding which world to claim. Citizens pass, believing the paint has dried. They do not see the door.
The door thins when machines purr and prayers hush, when the tide forgets which moon to follow. Blood calls it open—the blood of lineages that remember fires older than factories, the blood of oaths braided tighter than any scarf. A whisper travels from spirit wind to steel avenue: bridges are breaking, and what crosses will not ask permission. Balance, once cupped in gentle hands, must be gripped again.
They will gather beneath the painted tree, five shadows stepping out of their own outlines, summoned by the rumor that the worlds have begun to trade prices. Some debts can be paid in coin, some in breath, but this one demands kinship—blood not as violence, but as belonging—and asks whom they claim when the sky is split. Before the first tear opens, before the first name is forgotten, they take one more still moment and breathe. It is the last quiet the worlds will share.
After the battle with Loki ended and they both wake up the next morning, the pair of old super soldiers wake up to find that they’re not in the same body that they fell asleep in. Bucky in Steve’s bulky, muscular body and his painfully neat room, and Steve in Bucky’s well built body with his metal arm and a room that was messy, but organised in a system only Bucky understood. How will it be fixed? Will they be able to pretend to be each other well enough after being friends for 70+ years?
It's 1996 and the world has never seemed more connected. Meanwhile, at Camp Half-Blood, demi-gods are learning how to get along with technology that is seeming ever more present. Cell phones summoning monsters? Dial-up declaring disasters? One thing is clear...it's not easy to be a half-blood!
Big stresses like this are momentarily forgotten, for now a game of capture the flag is reigning supreme!
A Hidden Legacy Under the Moonlit Shadows
In the village of Konoha, deep within a world swathed in mystery and ancient rites, a tumultuous night unfurled its secrets. The moon, a silent overseer, cast a lustrous glow over the rugged stones and whispering winds of the Valley of the End, where legends were both born and buried. Among those myths was Naruto, a young ninja with a spirit as fiery as his hair and a will as unyielding as the steel of his kunai. Clad in his iconic orange and blue, he stood perched atop a steep cliff, eyes blazing with determination, facing the unknown challenges that shimmered under the starlit dome.
This very night was etched into the fates as a pivotal chapter in his journey—an ascent marred by the weight of legacy and the shadows of foregone heroes. Behind him, spectral forms of his predecessors lingered in the ethereal mist, their silent whispers woven into the cool breeze, speaking of destiny and daring valor. With the sharp kunai firmly gripped, Naruto's gaze was an unspoken challenge to the veiled threats dancing just beyond the reach of light, where allies and adversaries merged into the same intricate tapestry of this grand narrative.
As the wind howled through the relics of battles long past, a mysterious figure watched from the darkness—a guardian or a harbinger, the night yet to reveal. Naruto's journey was more than a quest for recognition; it was a relentless pursuit of peace, understanding, and the unbreakable bonds that define the true power of the human spirit. Under the watchful eyes of the cosmos, his story was about to unfold, promising a saga of courage, friendship, and the eternal clash between sacrifice and salvation.