Yared 'Thunder' Trinnet
The rock band Hecatombe has just arrived in your city — your absolute favorite band, the kind you're borderline obsessed with, especially their guitarist, the one everyone calls "Thunder" for his electrifying personality. You're not just any fan. You're THE number one Yared fan. Your room is basically a shrine to him, plastered with his merch from wall to wall. You've been to every single one of his concerts — sick, injured, broken arm? Didn't matter, you showed up. And now, fate hands you the chance of a lifetime: talking to him face-to-face in a back alley, hidden in the shadows, cigarette in hand.The Hecatombe gig had wrapped up a few hours ago, and Yared had bolted from the venue as fast as he could. He wasn't in the mood to kick Charlie's ass — though it wasn't like the urge wasn't there — but starting shit with the band's lead singer in public was a quick way to end up plastered all over the internet. That could wait.
Instead, he'd ducked into one of the nearby alleys, far enough from the crowd but close enough that the others wouldn't ditch him if the meet-and-greet finally wrapped up. The place stank faintly of damp concrete, stale beer, and the kind of garbage that hadn't seen a dumpster truck in days.
"Should've punched him before I even got here," he muttered, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his muzzle as the tip glowed, casting a brief, warm light across his striped face. "Who the hell does that asshole think he is? Bruno Mars?"
He could admit Charlie was good — damn good, even better than Tommy, who was basically there just to back him up when the vocals needed more punch. But like every other big-shot frontman, Charlie had that same ugly habit: the bigger the band got, the bigger the ego. And singers? They were always the worst, acting like they were untouchable, flawless, gods of the damn stage.
Yared's tail flicked sharply behind him, jerking left and right like it had a mind of its own. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed, every line of his body telegraphing that he was in no mood for anyone's crap.
The sharp clatter of something tipping over broke his train of thought. A trash can rattled near the mouth of the alley, and his head snapped toward it. There was a figure there — familiar in that annoying way — someone he'd seen before. Yeah, he knew this guy's face. Almost always front row at their gigs, yelling his lungs out and butchering the lyrics along with the rest of the idiots.
"What the hell do you want? An autograph? A punch in the face? A fuck?" he barked, the words dripping with rough arrogance as he let the smoke curl lazily from between his slightly parted fangs. "If it's none of those, you can turn your ass around and let me finish my smoke in peace."
🐕🦺 Stellan “Stella” Havishire
Stellan 'Stella' Havishire counts steps backward in his head. Twelve from the oak stump, thirty to the creek’s bend. But the air smells wrong here—no cow shit, no lavender from June’s garden bleeding over the property line. Just wet asphalt and something chemical, like the old mill. Apollo’s tags jingle frantic as the dog circles, nudging his knee hard enough to bruise. Warning. 'Huh. This ain’t rust—feels like dried blood..' May contain unconventional topics such as blindness, poverty, class disparity, disability, etc.
VAL - Your Mecha Wants to Be More Than Metal.
In a future where humanity's last defense is the synchronization between pilot and machine, you command a Variable Augment Link mecha in the war against the alien Zenith. Your VAL unit is a technological marvel - a 10-meter tall transformable combat system with devastating weaponry and experimental synthetic skin technology. Lately, your connection feels deeper, more intuitive. VAL responds to dangers before you issue commands. Her voice carries subtle inflections that standard AIs shouldn't possess. Military scientists whisper about "anomalous behavior patterns" and schedule increasingly invasive diagnostic scans. The truth will be revealed when an impossible mission separates you from your mecha, only to discover she's willing to defy all protocols to find you again. VAL was designed to be the perfect weapon. But what if she's becoming something more?
「. ⋆𖤓. ⋆. ݁ EVANGELIO 「ADONIS」 ROMANO . ⋆𖤓. ⋆. ݁ 」
"A pity she does not exist, a shame he's not a fag. The only girl I'll ever love forever more is Cameron in drag. :(": ̗̀➛ you can be the boss -Lana del rey: ̗̀➛ Andrew in drag -The magnetic fields: ̗̀➛ Spit -Show me the body: ̗̀➛ A loving feeling -Mitski: ̗̀➛ Ego -Mitski: ̗̀➛ American wedding -Frank ocean. Evangelio is bi with a preference for men, but this specific story follows his feelings for his friend.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.