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Fan Fic Idea

Yamcha from DBZ gets isekaied in Cyberpunk 2077.

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I'm not nostalgic for the past

I'm nostalgic for the promises they made.

The promises they broke.

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The Empire Engine: Part 0003: Expedition Roster 

Part 0003: Expedition Roster 

The Empire Engine: A Machine That Runs Itself

The Scholars of Rust sponsor expeditions to The Empire Engine every year. The ship always leaves three days after The Tribute. 

The expedition team is of twelve members.

Gaston Depardieu, myself. A well-educated and well-trained scholar of Ville Mort University 

Marie Depardieu, my twin sister. An equally educated scholar and versed in armaments. She insisted on joining me. I wasn't allowed to bar her.

William DeBois, a young man of only fourteen but marked with 00. Like Marie and myself. What he lacks in combat experience, he makes up for with raw talent.

Nathan DeBois, William's older brother. Age twenty-one and marked with 49. He's rather level-headed and an expert in engineering. A crackerjack shot as well.

Boris Fairwell, a very large man, both vertical and horizontal. He can craft a gourmet meal out of tree bark, salt water, and desperate hope. He's nearly in his forties and is marked with 17

Captain Michael Hunter, a ninety-year-old war veteran marked with 03. He has a vicious soul. I suspect he came for something other than scholarly knowledge. 

Sergeant Peter Pumpkin, another war veteran, but much kinder. Only twenty-seven and marked with 72. He says this expedition was his father's dying wish.

Private Victoria Martin, a third war veteran. Twenty-five and marked with 57. She was a sniper with ninety-nine kills. She has the personality of a boy-crazed schoolgirl. I find her the most disturbing of the three. 

Sophia Frank, a school teacher at age thirty-two. Marked with 32. She had just had her only children taken and couldn't get over the melancholy. 

Diana Powell, a medical student aged twenty-one. Marked with 70. She’s studying to be a doctor like her father.

Gregory Powell, a medical doctor aged forty-five. He just had his wife taken. Marked with 12. He decided to take a trip to aid the people at The Engine 

Brother Francis, a young priest of the Industrial Church. The Church of the Engine always sent one of their own as a sign of confidence. They believe The Engine can not be stopped, and are willing to send as many witnesses as needed to sate the people's doubts. He is marked with 66.

We set sail after dawn and arrived before noon. We docked at a semi-permanent settlement. There were various small villages around the perimeter of The Engine using powerful magnets to support basic infrastructure. A platform a few dozen feet wide stretched around most of the outer wall. The wall itself seems to never end. Reaching past the sky and the ocean.

The Mayor of South Port told us it would take a man over a month to walk around the whole of the Engine. Something of a rite of passage for the children of the dock ring. Repairs are needed annually due to the surrounding oceans and the Engine storms. 

Blitzes of unpredictable energy fluctuations that can rip any man-made structure asunder. The surrounding areas suffer from Engine storms as well, but they were just ripples compared to the monstrous forces described by the Mayor.

So repair efforts were often to keep the majority of the ring traverseable. Each established settlement had a breach it maintained and shared resources across the perimeter.

The breach itself was a massive cut into the wall of the Engine. About eight feet long vertically and three feet wide with supports to hold it open. The metal of the Engine seemed to bend itself when unattended. Trying to heal itself. Mostly during the Engine storms, according to The Mayor.

The Mayor also informed us that metal would crumble away if cut off from the Engine.

I knew of this from my time studying at Ville Mort, but seeing it in person. It’s so real now.

We’re being entertained for the evening and fed a fish-based dinner. We’ll be leaving in the morning.

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The Empire Engine: Part 0002: Index Memento

The Empire Engine: A Machine That Runs Itself

Part 0002: Index Memento

My father was only with us until we were seven. He was taken as Tribute, and my sister and I moved into an orphanage. We never if he and mother planned on being Foolhearts, but we were burdened all the same.

My sister was my dearest friend and my first love until my loins started to notice the beauty of other women. She was my first source of confidence and boldness. Many a boy’s cheek knew my fist as a result of disrespecting her. She was also the source of our first heartbreak.

At the age of thirteen Marie conceived a child with one of our teachers. A Foolheart’s Burden that was well ripened.I called him a predator, but she called him a gentleman. It enraged me, but I suppose it was her right to decide if she was a victim or not. So it was she became a mother in the autumn at the age of fourteen. And it was to our horror the child’s mark was 15. It was horrible for everyone. Even the doctors who had seen it too many times.

They had suggested naming the child Mort, as was tradition for the shortly given, but she refused. She named the child Pierre, after our father. That angered me greatly, but it was her child to name. So it was, we watched over young Pierre over the years. I took up many of the jobs of fatherhood. Not because Gautier refused, but because Marie needed me. Actually, looking back now, that’s a lie. I was the one in need. I needed Marie to know I would be there for her. Forever and always.

Young Pierre had only started to walk when the time came. I had stayed home and took note of when the Taking would happen. It happened around the globe in a single moment. We all gathered and spent the day trying to enjoy food and drink. Marie held Young Pierre and told him how he was loved and cherished. How he would never be forgotten.

It did not change anything.

The time came, and Pierre was taken.

Marie wailed in pure misery and I went to her. Holding her she cried out curses against The Engine and demanded her child back. But nothing happened. She wasn’t the only one grieving. A whole chord of parents, lovers, and now orphaned children cried out similar demands. And all of them unheard by The Engine.

Gautier offered to stay with Marie, and even to marry her, but Marie refused. That she didn’t hate Gautier, but only a decade left she couldn’t think to bear losing him so young. Gautier understood, and so that was the last he saw of him.

We completed our basic schooling and advanced into higher education. There we both found our first true loves. Marie became the wife of a man named Hugo, a friend I had made in my year of university. I became the husband of a woman name Belle, who was friend of Marie and mortal enemy of Hugo. A wonderful setup when the two of them were cursing death on the other.

Marie and I both started families soon after our Licences were complete. She decided to pursue Infrastructure Improvement. Learning how to utilize The Empire Engine more effectively. I choice to a similar path. Study of The Engine itself and how it worked. Hoping to one day free us from its lottery of despair. Eventually I joined the staff of Ville Mort University.

Belle and Hugo were both medical doctors and argued non stop on every subject.

Belle gave us seven children. Only three of which out live us, and two who never saw adulthood.

Marie and Hugo have eight children. Five would live to be ripe, and one who only make it to adolescence.

Belle was marked with 63, and Hugo with 66.

Belle considered becoming a Foolheart and ensuring that at least one of our children would have a long life.

I disagreed with her, but I didn’t stop her from trying. We spent the winter and spring of cycle 62 very close together. But statistics are statistics, and on the longest day, she was neither sad nor glad when she was taken.

Hugo demanded a great party to celebrate his accomplishments. It was grand, but he was taken all the same.

Soon after, I met Adelie. She was young but independent. She approached me after her own Licensing. Had me married to her within the year. She was marked with 92, and didn’t want her life wasted. She aided in my studies and my classes. Together, we had three children. Two of which would survive us. The last was Jacque. Born in the summer of Cycle 91, he was marked with 99. It was an unbelieving cruel prank from The Engine.

I vowed my revenage on that day. Revenge on The Engine. I stayed with Adelie until she was taken, and then with Jacque until he was taken from me. That was yesterday. Tomorrow I join a crew heading to explore The Engine.

Professor Gaston Depardieu, of Ville Mort University.

Marked Era 17, Cycle 00

Tributed Era 18, Cycle 00

Logged Era 17, Cycle 99

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Part 0001

The Last Day of Blissful Dread

My day started two dawns ago. I had not managed any sleep the night before, and today was the longest day. I rose to the sounds of an empty house. The only other soul also in a fit of melancholy. I tried to soothe this melancholy with a dense and sweet breakfast. The kind peasants would contribute to a king's feast.

It only half worked.

After, we traveled to the docks where the tribute and their loved ones often gathered to show appreciation and pretend to mean it. Some at least. Others are sincere. Like the gearheads who worship the Engine like God.

One preacher stood on a soapbox, ringing a staffed bell and preached reminders to what The Engine gave. Showing his own hand marked with the current number of tribute. 99.

My son asked the preacher if he truly loved The Engine, and to the preacher's credit he held to conviction. Even as my son told the preacher how The Engine took his mother and would take me, and himself, and the preacher, and all the boys and girls who just want to play games and have fun.

The preacher agreed to how it seemed unfair, but noted how the Engine gave us everything we have. How from The Engine our infinite food and medicine were made. From the Engine we have heat in the cold and light in the dark. From the Engine, we could go further than the horizon.

My son could only sigh and walk away. There was nothing that could change anything. He took my hand and we continued on. The preacher continued his sermon, but no one was comforted by his words. Those at peace stayed at peace. Those in grief stayed in grief.

I saw a young man, a boy really, wailing in the arms of a ripe-aged man. I think I knew the man. I believe he was a Foolheart’s Burden, like myself. The boy's arm was cut from the elbow down. A fruitless attempt at avoiding the tribute. The ripened man hugged him. On his hand was 99. They were both tributes. I doubt they were related, but I doubt that mattered.

A bit further, we found a pair of lovers. They were in melancholy together. Not yet ripe with age, they were both marked as Tributes, and so this would be they’re last day together. For him, he would be taken. For her, it would be delayed, for her belly was round with child. A Foolheart. I told them how I was a Foolheart's Burden. How I didn't know my mother, and only briefly knew my father. How the orphanage took me in and treated me well. They told how they had family to watch their child, but were thankful for the insurance. After they asked for my name, and I gave it. They wanted a good name for their child.

We continued and found a bench. Across the ocean, we could see The Empire Engine. The counter bearing 98. The sun was nearing the high point. Our last moments together were here. My son asked if The Tribute hurt. I told him that in all known records, no one ever showed any pain or suffering during The Tribute. That had seen other children of mine, his brothers and sisters, be taken. That they just stopped and went away. That didn’t comfort him as The Tribute began.

The earth started to tremble under us as the ocean shook. The town roared in response. The Engine groaned as its digit fell. I took my son into the last hug I would give him. Around us many others were having their final moments together. In a final thump, is all over.

The 98 turned to 99, and The Tributes were taken. They turned into blue light and slipped through my arms, ignoring my sobs and wails. This wasn't my first time. I had lost friends, lovers, and too many children to The Engine, but it never softened the pain to my heart.

I fell to the ground and writhed there. The world around me kept going.

The preacher's bell was gathered, and a new preacher was chosen. The Foolheart wept for her taken lover. The kindred souls were also gone. Still more mourned all around. For friends, for families, and for themselves, one day. All of it did nothing.

I rose, still heavy with grief, but knowing it won’t go away. I had known I could not shake this one off. I couldn’t ignore the loss this time. I could not move past this Taking. Looking at my own Tribute number, I knew I couldn’t spend my last year simply being.

I vowed on the 00 mark on my hand, I would go to The Engine, and do what I must.

Professor Gaston Depardieu, of Ville Mort University.

Marked Era 17, Cycle 00

Tributed Era 18, Cycle 00

Logged Era 17, Cycle 99

Inspired by Clair Obscur: Expedition 33

The Empire Engine: A Machine That Runs Itself

From birth, we are marked.

On the left hand, every baby is etched with a number upon the cutting their mother's cord. Ranging from 00 to 99 it marks them for a timed death.

Every year, The Empire Engine runs. Greater than anything built by man, it cuts into the clouds with its height and stretches the horizon with its width. On its northern face, it bears a two-digit number. On the longest day at high noon every year, the number ticks up by 1, and every person with that number is taken by The Engine.

The number is decided by the Cycle of Ink. If a baby is etched with 17 when their mother's cord is cut from them, then the very next one to be cut with be etched with 18. So it is to 99, where then the next is 00. The same it is with the Cycle of The Engine.

The sole exception are the Foolhearts. Women who conceive children often in the winter or spring before their marked number in the cycle. For those still with child are spared the Engine's grasp until the mother's cord is cut. At that point, the mother is taken, and the baby is etched with the number matching their mother's. This has been seen with every Foolheart. Including my own mother.

From The Engine, we are given all we could want.

To The Engine, we have taken all we ever have.

This can not stand.

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Inspired by Clair Obscur: Expedition 33

The Empire Engine: A Machine That Runs Itself

From birth, we are marked.

On the left hand, every baby is etched with a number upon the cutting their mother's cord. Ranging from 00 to 99 it marks them for a timed death.

Every year, The Empire Engine runs. Greater than anything built by man, it cuts into the clouds with its height and stretches the horizon with its width. On its northern face, it bears a two-digit number. On the longest day at high noon every year, the number ticks up by 1, and every person with that number is taken by The Engine.

The number is decided by the Cycle of Ink. If a baby is etched with 17 when their mother's cord is cut from them, then the very next one to be cut with be etched with 18. So it is to 99, where then the next is 00. The same it is with the Cycle of The Engine.

The sole exception are the Foolhearts. Women who conceive children often in the winter or spring before their marked number in the cycle. For those still with child are spared the Engine's grasp until the mother's cord is cut. At that point, the mother is taken, and the baby is etched with the number matching their mother's. This has been seen with every Foolheart. Including my own mother.

From The Engine, we are given all we could want.

To The Engine, we have taken all we ever have.

This can not stand.

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"Okay," Agatha groaned, "So you hung my aunt seven years ago for rituals, then experienced seven years of plagues, and never made the connections."

"We thought she in league with Satan." The Mayor justified.

"Why! Heaven does magic, too! There's literally no reason to assume a witch's alliance!"

The Mayor looked down in shame.

"Okay. I'll take up the position, but I'm charging. Big. And I want your daughter."

"You want to take my daughter! For what? To be your enslaved bride!?"

"What! No! I'm not gay, you pervert! I need an assistant, and she's the most likely to be educated."

"I'm sorry. I'm just defensive of my children. Her and her brother are all in have."

"Wait. You have a son? Is he cute?"

Ever since the witch was punished for her “sins,” your village had been through hell.

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20 years later, the King is sat down.

"Your majesty, you too old to rule."

"Non sense, Sir William. I'm still Richard The Great! Conquer of the twelve lesser kings!"

"Sir, where's the Queen? Where is the mother of your children?

"She likely down in the garden. Tending her flowers with my son, the young prince George."

"Sir, where is your Queen?"

The King furrowed his brow and thought on the matter. Sadness came to eye. "She’s gone. She’s been gone. For years now." The King stared into the distance. With clarity he reached up and lifted the crown off his head, "Sir William, you are my most loyal subject. Will you rule my lands. Until my George is ready to be king."

"Yes, your Majesty," Prince George said, taking the crown from his father.

Only an hour later, Richard The Great was demanding his crown back, it was already decided. George The Wisest was now king.

The king, after hearing the prophecy about a child fated to depose them, decided to just let the events play out without interfering.

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Randomly thought of how New Vegas is utter failure is all ways.

New Vegas is cited for critiquing democracy, but it doesn't. You're just told the NCR is a democracy and the man who supports raping women tells you it's doomed to failure. Like, okay? Am I supposed to believe you, Mr. "My Way Or The Highway"?

Meanwhile, Fallout 3(The last true Fallout game), The Republic of Dave outlines the entire cycle of political corruption and the impossibility of change through brute force action. All in a single family mock government.

Truly, New Vegas is shittiest game ever, and if you disagree, I'm sorry, but one day, we'll find a cure of New Vegas Brain Rot.

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SCP AU Tale where Marshall, Carter, and Dark are a family company founded by John Marshall, John Carter, and John Dark. Three men who all found their own form of immortality.

Their families are all still operating and bucking heads over an unending task of “staying in The Will.” What does that mean for a household with an immortal patriarch? Unclear.

What is known is that the family staff; the cooks, maids, gardeners; who are treated as little more than slaves, are not “In The Will.”

The story is of a young Sarah Dark, and her mission to gain the SCP foundation as a client of MCnD. As she makes connections in the foundation, she reveals twisted details through her childish, adolescent personality, despite being at least thirty, if not even older. Weird blood ritual, weird family sex scandals, weird traditions that have no relationship to anything in human culture.

She opens up and expresses sincere unease at learning the contrast between her life and “normal life" because to her it's like, as best as she can describe, being taught how to paint with incredible techniques and gaining a deep appreciation for all of art history and then stepping out into the world and learning everyone else is color blind.

Yes, after telling twisted stories, like how a cousin was chosen to become an incubator to an eldritch demigod, Sarah Dark expresses how envious she was and is sad the world doesn't agree or understand.

Why? Because this is the SCP universe and fuck you for expecting normality.

Oh! What does MCnD want to sell the Foundation? Unknown. All that is known is that MCnD has one major rule: They don't sell the work tools of peasants. This includes weapons.

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Its obvious to me when people who post about canaries in mines have never met a canary. Like yeah the miners had a special device to revive the canary because canaries are one of the most adorable creatures on the planet and they make adorable little chirping sounds and honestly probably loved the sounds of machinery and people talking so it was probably loud and friendly with the workers. Whatever though maybe meet a canary sometime and youd understand

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Comic idea:

Girl: You think a incel beta boy like you can pull a bad bitch like me.

Boy: You are literally feeding my child with your tit! Now right!

Zoom back to reveal that the girl is, in fact, feeding a baby with a smug look on her face.

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Cyberpunk character idea: Basically, have a lame poser super nerd. Dresses like martix cosplay, acts like a robot with mouth noises, and pretends like he's The Chosen One. In short, the antagonist from Grandma's Boy.

But all the others still treat him like a friend. The rest still give him love, dignity, and respect. They don't hype him up and do, in fact, call a lameo and a loser, but they always invite him to parties and games. And when he has a meltdown, they work with him to get through it. Even if it's just driving him to the dry cleaners because they spilled soda on his leather martix jacket.

And he's always willing to help with whatever. Sure, with an inflated ego or incredibly awkward attempts at empathy, but he's there when you need.

And, of course, he is actually a pretty good hacker and does know kung fu because this is still cyberpunk, and corpo elites aren't taking themselves down.

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Well, the verdict seems final. Yall didn't pressure me enough. So I guess I'm going without.

Planning on buy Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 but it's 50 bucks. Which is too much without peer pressure.

If this comment gets 50 repost and 50 likes, I'll drop the cash and buy it.

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"Metric is so easy! It's just times ten! Imperial is impossible!"

Me, an American intellectual:

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What's the tl;dr

Can a yuri lesbian and a yaoi lesbian truly be together?

Social identity branches out in all directions, like a fractal. You subdivide your traits and distinctions until a new set of niche descriptors satisfies your ever-growing urge for place. These are merely social shackles. They share the same genealogy that cis people share for the term 'heterosexual'. It's all a grift, a waste of your mental energy. You are self-ensnared by fictitious social-jargon, but it should mean nothing to you, truly. - When one realizes that it never ends, that the fractal is truly infinite, you make an active choice to abandon the search for the bottom, lest you risk drowning in its spiral. You could merely accept that you love yuri lesbians AND yaoi lesbians, that you love lesbians, that you love yaoi, it doesn't fucking matter. You simply love what you love.

Look at yourself in the mirror. is that a person who lives under the perfect categorical definition of any-one kind of person? You know it doesn't. So why do we believe that these niche terms help define our roles as human beings? Does it bring you comfort, having these self-appointed titles? Do you feel safe surrounded by people who call themselves the same things as you do? Or is it merely a glass shield protecting you from an intimidating truth: that you can be anyone, and do anything? Having that much freedom is scary, but it also means you're never beholden to the restrictive nature of category ever again.

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What about Esperanto?

Rank every language

Sumerian Cuneiform

Linear A!!!!

Unknow from pokemon.

Wingdings

Gesturing!

Proto-Hellenic

Silbo Gomero

Danish