Oh I answered this while waiting for prompts to roll in on my post, haha!

The narrator may be words on a page, but there are many more words where they came from.

It was hard speaking publicly about matters important to oneself. But Shiva knew she had to try anyway. Why else? Her traits— of valour, honour, tinged with a British accent that was absolutely unable to be heard of save the additional "u's" and improper appropriation of posh English— demanded that she be truthful to herself.

As did the plot, for if she did not speak then the midway point would hang in useless balance, and the writer, God, whatever, needed this godforsaken story to hurry on.

Of course, Shiva didn't know she was just words on a page. She sipped her tea as if life was not inherently meaningless— empty!— ridiculous.

Shiva stood up, every step purposeful and swept past the courtyard, as if she had any sort of real autonomy whatsoever once she stepped out of her tea room. Her head tilted back and forth, as her eyes wound to find her lover: and oh, it is her lover, pretty pink Veronica with her eyes shining happy.

Happy, like her existence was not a mere magician's trick.

Happy, as if this fictional relationship were true.

"I love you," Veronica said, pressing a softer kiss to Shiva's cheek. "Get out there. You'll make them all jealous."

Of course Shiva would. Such a fact was pre-determined, already: that was, until Act 3 rolled around and trampled on her false victory.

But how could a character like her know that?

Only the narrator would carry such a burden. Shiva smiled and met Veronica's eyes, dipping her head in a thank you, despite the fact that there was nothing to thank, nothing to do, nothing but this cruel, cruel predetermined world.

That only the narrator bore truth of.

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We deeply congratulate our newlyweds! Watch a recording of Slash Salvatore and Angel Faux's wedding here.

Slash Salvatore remembers the exact moment she fell for Angel Faux. It's her favourite story, actually, of the ones she has for Angel. Which is saying something, because she could go on (and on, and on) about Angel's... "horrendous" deeds.

After Angel Faux had stolen rings from a jewellry store, Slash Salvatore flew after her. Upon a chase on a cold night, this was not a difficult task. However, Slash neglected to take care of herself for... oh, maybe three weeks straight. (Long story. Breakup involved.)

And so she didn't notice when her wings simply... gave out from under themselves. And she started to plummet.

The scream didn't even make it out of her lungs. She was too exhausted to.

But then an arm caught her arm, and then she was hauled back up the rooftops.

"Merry!" Angel gasped. "What in the world? Are you feeling alright?"

Slash blinked, then, still not-quite-reconciling with the fact that she was not splat on the ground. Angel was waving a hand up and down in front of her face, like she was trying to make her more awake.

"You scared me there, Slash."

Then it hit.

Slash stumbled away from Angel, suddenly defensive. "Why'd you save me?"

"Oh..." Angel Faux laughed. A full and resonant sound; like Christmas bells tolling. "I may be a villain, Slash, but I'd never let my nemesis die."

Then she was off, and off with her rucksack of rings. Slash never saw those back again. Neither did the designer store. (But in civilian clothes, she saw the rings on the streets, worn by children with clothes gaping with holes, and then by single mothers pawning them off to storeowners with dollar signs in their eyes, and elderly couples who wanted to renew their vows but didn't have the means to buy new rings.)

(She fell for Angel a little more, then.)

Eight years and a day after that day, Angel Faux proposed to Slash Salvatore. Eight years and a day after that day, Slash Salvatore accepted. And after their vows, after the kiss to close the night and their bands, shared hand-in-hand, Slash Salvatore thinks that this is the second time Angel Faux has saved her.

And she may be a hero, but she can't say she hates the feeling, either.

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Sincerely yours, the Game Hunters.

In the wild midway between somewhere and nowhere, there is a game and a house and a hell full of poisons.

You don't know what the fuck it's about, because the game changes each season. Sometimes it's chugging through the jar-fulls of gleamy sludge and wasting away your mortal flesh for a taste of paradise; sometimes it's roulette with the poisons awash in every cup, some's nirvana in sane blue and some's hell reaped from the same season.

Point is, you know jack shit. But I know what it's fucking about.

In every game, there's 25 and only 1 can come out alive. You have a selection of dares: the crazier you are, the stabler you'll be in game.

And I know why you mortals always come.

It's how I have my fun. You numbskulls entering the betwixt-in-between because, because. Maybe you were thrown a bone. Maybe you heard all the rumours about a poison paradise and decided to go looking. Maybe it's the whispers of the coveted prize, that of immortality if you won it all. Maybe you wanted to die. Big deal, get in line.

Your bullshit is a real-good show for us gods: not that there's a lot, mind. I think my girlfriend's a god 'cause she hasn't died yet, but that's just me guessing.

Anyway.

There is nothing better, can I just say, about seeing a man die. It never gets old. It especially doesn't get old when their muscles bubble through their flesh, or their intestines worm out like snapping basilisks being born out of hell. It's also much, much sweeter knowing you could've undergone that fate.

See, I was once like you. Broken in the head and destitute in debt. Face-first drowning in the somewhere-place. What you fuckers call Earth.

But then I heard of the midway wilds and I was so desperate for it that I screamed into the abyss and it called back. I won the first game. Killed them all, I did, and saved myself.

And the rumours are right, did you know? I became immortal.

Wanna know the bad news?

I don't like the thought of anyone else winning. Good news is, there's no ban on repeats.

This is the 64th season. There are 24 hopefuls waiting to die, though they don't know that part yet. I'll enter the game like some quivering thing and come out triumphant, as I have the past 55. My girlfriend took the other 9. Obviously, between us I'm winning the streak.

Bye, now. And good luck, fucker. You know why you're hearing this PSA? It's cause there is absolutely absolutely nothing you can do. Good luck, and welcome to the Game!

If you would like to register as an artist for Phoenix Season to show appreciation for Aberdyf's most beloved villain, click the link here.

Aberdyf hates their local supervillain.

At least, that is the claim made the city. WANTED: FIREBLOOD, ALIVE. HER CAPTURE: $15,000 REWARD. The graffitis of Fireblood across the bricks, her slasher grin cut wide and true, like milk and honey in her teeth. The whispers of Fireblood's name on the streets, like a manic spectre giddy and giddier to reap.

Was there any surprise why? Fireblood is, like her name, a firebrand. She would do what she wanted, wherever and whenever she wanted.

"This is my show!" Fireblood cackled, that month before May. "An' I ain't letting y'all off easy."

Fireblood's glitter-bomb descended across Aberdyf. It resulted in many irritated businessmen, cursing at the incessant sparkles that would never get out of their suit, rounds of dry-cleaning be damned.

That was one of the many events Fireblood stole the city with. The Glitter Bomb. The Great Unleash of the Shelter Puppies. The Helping Grandmas Cross the Street in a Wicked Way Day. Her philosophy was tried and true: make chaos, and make it delightful.

The state didn't see it that way.

"We've had enough of Aberdyf's asinine villain. Bring someone in to finish her off."

That month after May, a new superhero came to town. Her name was Desolation and she was devastating. Dark, sculpted to perfection, with a nightingale necklace hanging from her throat. To call her destruction incarnate would be underselling it. The state knew her as a solitary spectre, a thing more machine than man. If there was anyone that would put a stop to Fireblood's schemes, it would be her.

Fireblood's first scheme after Desolation's arrival was that of flowers. She bought a store's worth of roses and threw them out on the streets, spelling out a "HI, DESOLATION!!!" out in the road. Upon the next street was: "CAN WE BE FRIENDS?"

There was never an answer. But the next scheme came—this time in June—and Fireblood made stars. She decorated the skyscrapers and the antennas with strands and strands of smiley stars. When night came, the glow doused the night: like fireflies.

(They tried to get Fireblood for public desecration of property. But the processing papers suddenly went missing, the next day. To this day, nobody knows who did it; but there were rumours of the flash of a dark cape, twisting out of the precinct.)

July. Firework displays. August. Turtle Day. September. Light Up The Skylight.

Each was attended by Aberdyf and Fireblood herself, her grin and gloat the same: "This is my show!" But there was something a little different about Fireblood's antics. They became extra showy.

The fireworks contorted into hearts and grins and other ridiculous shapes. The turtles carried on them crayon hearts on their shells, every single one of the hundreds. The skylight spelled out an announcement. THIS IS FIREBLOOD SPEAKING, it said. THANKS FOR BEIN' MY FRIEND!

September drew the attention of the state. They called in Aberdyf to ask about Desolation. Whether she was faring well against their most notorious villain. Why, Aberdyf replied. Desolation couldn't have done a better job.

On October, Desolation didn't show up to Fireblood's grand Free Candy To All villainy. Desolation was, in fact, sick at home: nursing a cough and a terrible case of flashbacks. (Tragic backstory-related; don't ask.)

Upon the next day, a sizeable stash of Fireblood's own gains from the event was missing. (Some say they saw Fireblood enter a house, to which a winded cough came from, with four rucksack-fulls of candy bags. Fireblood came out empty-handed with a stupid grin on her lips.)

November was the resumption of Fireblood and Desolation's usual dance. That is: Fireblood showed up to dazzle the whole of Aberdyf with her voice through an extra-sonic mic, and Desolation, as always, was conspicuously missing.

Curiously, November was when Fireblood's catchphrase changed. "This is my show!" turned into "This is our show!" Few out of the city took note. They believed it to be of little importance. Barely worth Aberdyf's headlines. But Aberdyf knew that Fireblood had fallen, and fallen deep.

In December, Fireblood made cardboard boxes of fake presents and left them under Aberdyf's many, many trees. In December, a dark hero with a nightingale necklace finally descended between Fireblood's path.

In her hands was a rose, twined with a tag.

"Happy holidays, Fireblood."

Thank you for your friendship — Desolation.

So it is fair to say: Aberdyf hates their local supervillain. They hate her so that there is a celebration every year, called Phoenix Season. There, artists take the streets like vigilantes take to patrol. Their brushes twist on the bricks. From the events 12-months past, they create. The stupid-wide grin. The sparkle in her eyes. The pretty mania of her mouth. The fireworks going off. The eureka insanities. The graffitis of Fireblood's dance.

System AI-5300 out of commission. Thank you for your purchase. We apologise for its faulty design. If you would like to buy a replacement model, click HERE.

——

This story was inspired by the prompt and this article. I highly recommend the read; it is the most fascinating and tragic thing.

Thank you for reading, do let me know your thoughts if you have any.

How could I ever do anything except love you back?

She doesn't speak. She feels a tear curve past her cheek. She looks at the human machine in front of her, in their abode, with tear-streaked blue eyes and a gasp of why on her lips.

Is there anything more that could be said? The button is pressed. There is no turning back. The AI would be dead.

(The AI, because to use her name—Maeve—would hurt too much.)

She made the AI as a replacement for her wife. She knew there would be no replacement: where in the world would you swap blue eyes of vitality for steely grey and call it the same? But it was a breath. But it was an attempt.

Voice recordings. Memos, notes, text messages, anything and all abound. For some time, it worked. She was at home. She could pretend (fantasise, hope, make real) the idea that she and her wife were here.

In a quaint home, an abode by the forests, clear blue crashing down the cliff-face. Her forever. This was.

When the AI tucked her to sleep, murmuring love songs and softer noises to bed, she would always make a proclamation. The AI would be sweet; making a hope; a promise. I love ya. 'M glad we're together. We'll be like this 'till eternity.

But yesterday was different.

In a whisper, by her ear, was a promise.

I'll haunt you forever.

Now she watches Maeve the AI.

She's still.

You loved me enough to create me, the AI's saying. How could I ever do anything except love you back?

(The AI, her wife: Is it so bad that I'll haunt you forever?)

"No," she whispers. "No, it's not so bad. But you have to go."

I need to let you go.

I'm sorry, the AI is saying. It thinks it has failed its task. It thinks it has not simulated her wife correctly. No, she wants to tell it. No, you've done only too well.

"No. I'm sorry. Thank you for your benevolence," she says, and it's a choke, "and your time, and your patience. I'm sorry. I made you to love me only. I love you."

The AI sparks and dies.

She collapses and rocks on the floor. She sobs. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I loved you. I'm so sorry.

This was such a poignant exploration of the creator versus the created; especially with

> I see now however I myself am a cause for discomfort. I don't want to remove myself, but I want to relieve you of the constant fear as well. So as my creator, I felt that it should be your decision. Should I be shut down, should I... die?'"

and the fact that /love/ lies in the fact of this proposed sacrifice... wow. Thank you for writing!

This is so beautiful and poignant. Especially loved the detail of the cigarette holder. Thanks for writing!

I'm screaming... not the alcoholic cake and then the mustard gas cake... the commissioned cake assassination... THE RUM CAKE BEING A TERRORIST WEAPON. Ahaha I loved it!

I want a poisonous illicit tres leche to expedite my death now... that sounds delicious.

CAKE WARS: A DIVINE TRAGEDY.

CAKE BANNINGS.

I loved this, thank you!

Red Velvets... the secret society of bakers... Marie Antoinette... help me oh my gosh. I loved it! Thank you for writing.