The Last to Comment Wins
- Thread starter mrsimple
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AmbreaTaddy
Your Local Strange French Woman
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My brain does things I can't begin to comprehend. The same day I can write chapters for 3 different stories, and all of them are in a different genre
Anonjohn20
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JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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My Kakuna is a futa as well, I make it harden to the max!
Anonjohn20
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Wah!
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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I just used the prompt inside spoiler and let AI do its thing unedited.
The man with the frayed cuffs checked his watch again. He leaned against the chipped brick wall, ignoring the drizzle. His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm on his thigh. "Should've been here," he muttered, scanning the empty street corner. A bus hissed to a stop across the road, doors slamming open. No one got off.
He pushed away from the wall, footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. His reflection warped in a rain-slicked shop window—pale face, dark circles. The clock above the bank glowed 3:47. Not late. Not yet. He adjusted his collar, fabric stiff with yesterday's starch.
A car alarm shattered the stillness. He flinched, hand flying to his coat pocket. Across the street, a tabby cat darted from an overflowing dumpster, scattering wet newspapers. He watched it vanish into an alley. His own pulse hammered against his ribs, too loud.
The bank clock flickered: 3:49. He pulled out a crumpled envelope, edges softened by rain. Inside, a single train ticket. The ink had bled—platform seven, departure time obscured. His thumb traced the smudged numbers. Platform seven was always deserted. Always.
Footsteps approached from behind, sharp and deliberate on wet pavement. He didn’t turn. The scent of wet wool and stale tobacco cut through the drizzle. A voice, low and graveled: "Tick-tock, Mr. Vale. He’s not coming." Vale’s fingers tightened around the ticket. The paper tore.
Across the street, the bank clock flickered again—3:51. Shadows pooled in the alley where the cat vanished. A flicker of movement there. Not feline. A glint of something metallic catching the dim streetlight. Vale’s breath hitched. He’d been too focused on the clock. Too focused on the emptiness.
The graveled voice spoke again, closer now. "He’s discovered the weight of absence, Mr. Vale. How absence bends time." Wet wool filled Vale’s nostrils. Stale tobacco. His knuckles whitened around the torn ticket stub. Platform seven. Always deserted. Always. Why? The question clawed at him louder than the car alarm’s echo.
Across the street, the metallic glint shifted. Not a watch. Too long. Too thin. A blade’s edge catching the sickly yellow streetlight. Vale’s pulse hammered against his ribs. The alley shadows seemed to breathe. A shape detached itself—tall, angular, moving with liquid silence. Rain slicked its dark coat. It didn’t walk. It *unfolded*.
The man behind Vale exhaled; the scent of stale tobacco sharpened. "He’s learned that lateness isn’t an accident," the graveled voice whispered, almost conversational. "It’s a weapon. A vacuum." Vale felt cold steel press against the base of his spine. He froze. The ticket stub dissolved into pulp in his clenched fist. Platform seven. Not deserted. A trap. Always.
Across the street, the unfolding figure paused beneath a flickering streetlamp. Rain slid off a wide-brimmed hat, shadowing its face. One gloved hand held the thin, gleaming blade loosely—a stiletto, needle-sharp. The other hand tapped a rhythm against its thigh. Tick. Tock. Tick. Vale’s own watch felt like a bomb strapped to his wrist.
The pressure against Vale’s spine vanished. The stale-tobacco voice murmured, "Observe the elegance." The alley figure tilted its head, studying Vale with unnerving stillness. Rainwater dripped from the brim of its hat onto the pavement, each drop echoing like a tiny hammer strike. Vale tasted copper—he’d bitten his tongue. The metallic tang mixed with the damp wool stench.
Across the street, the figure’s gloved hand stopped tapping. It raised the stiletto slowly, deliberately, catching the flickering light along its deadly edge. Vale’s breath fogged the air. Platform seven wasn’t just a trap; it was a stage. He understood now—the lateness, the waiting, the frayed cuffs—all threads pulled taut by absence. Tempokai wasn’t coming late. He’d made *time* itself late.
He pushed away from the wall, footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. His reflection warped in a rain-slicked shop window—pale face, dark circles. The clock above the bank glowed 3:47. Not late. Not yet. He adjusted his collar, fabric stiff with yesterday's starch.
A car alarm shattered the stillness. He flinched, hand flying to his coat pocket. Across the street, a tabby cat darted from an overflowing dumpster, scattering wet newspapers. He watched it vanish into an alley. His own pulse hammered against his ribs, too loud.
The bank clock flickered: 3:49. He pulled out a crumpled envelope, edges softened by rain. Inside, a single train ticket. The ink had bled—platform seven, departure time obscured. His thumb traced the smudged numbers. Platform seven was always deserted. Always.
Footsteps approached from behind, sharp and deliberate on wet pavement. He didn’t turn. The scent of wet wool and stale tobacco cut through the drizzle. A voice, low and graveled: "Tick-tock, Mr. Vale. He’s not coming." Vale’s fingers tightened around the ticket. The paper tore.
Across the street, the bank clock flickered again—3:51. Shadows pooled in the alley where the cat vanished. A flicker of movement there. Not feline. A glint of something metallic catching the dim streetlight. Vale’s breath hitched. He’d been too focused on the clock. Too focused on the emptiness.
The graveled voice spoke again, closer now. "He’s discovered the weight of absence, Mr. Vale. How absence bends time." Wet wool filled Vale’s nostrils. Stale tobacco. His knuckles whitened around the torn ticket stub. Platform seven. Always deserted. Always. Why? The question clawed at him louder than the car alarm’s echo.
Across the street, the metallic glint shifted. Not a watch. Too long. Too thin. A blade’s edge catching the sickly yellow streetlight. Vale’s pulse hammered against his ribs. The alley shadows seemed to breathe. A shape detached itself—tall, angular, moving with liquid silence. Rain slicked its dark coat. It didn’t walk. It *unfolded*.
The man behind Vale exhaled; the scent of stale tobacco sharpened. "He’s learned that lateness isn’t an accident," the graveled voice whispered, almost conversational. "It’s a weapon. A vacuum." Vale felt cold steel press against the base of his spine. He froze. The ticket stub dissolved into pulp in his clenched fist. Platform seven. Not deserted. A trap. Always.
Across the street, the unfolding figure paused beneath a flickering streetlamp. Rain slid off a wide-brimmed hat, shadowing its face. One gloved hand held the thin, gleaming blade loosely—a stiletto, needle-sharp. The other hand tapped a rhythm against its thigh. Tick. Tock. Tick. Vale’s own watch felt like a bomb strapped to his wrist.
The pressure against Vale’s spine vanished. The stale-tobacco voice murmured, "Observe the elegance." The alley figure tilted its head, studying Vale with unnerving stillness. Rainwater dripped from the brim of its hat onto the pavement, each drop echoing like a tiny hammer strike. Vale tasted copper—he’d bitten his tongue. The metallic tang mixed with the damp wool stench.
Across the street, the figure’s gloved hand stopped tapping. It raised the stiletto slowly, deliberately, catching the flickering light along its deadly edge. Vale’s breath fogged the air. Platform seven wasn’t just a trap; it was a stage. He understood now—the lateness, the waiting, the frayed cuffs—all threads pulled taut by absence. Tempokai wasn’t coming late. He’d made *time* itself late.
Anonjohn20
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Every time I see AI slop I eat beef.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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It's funny, reading through it seems okay at first but it's mostly a metaphor soup without substance. Though how coherent this scene remained surprised me.
Good thing I decided to join the trash pandas.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Did you get stolen from?
Anonjohn20
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JayMark stole from you. Its what racoons do.
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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My phone is bombarded with verification numbers and the statement above was exaggerated
Anonjohn20
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Anonjohn20
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What next? You're going to go collect Nirnroot, gather the stones of Barenziah, join the Dark Brotherhood, or kill a dragon?