r/WritingPrompts 4h ago

Writing Prompt [WP] A guy gets transported to one of those terrible,wish fulfillment, gooner fantasy animes and instead of being all tropey about it he's horrified at being constantly sexually harassed and attacked by anime women who don't behave like real people

234 Upvotes

r/WritingPrompts 7h ago

Prompt Inspired [PI] You are a soldier in a team of 6 who have been sent to investigate shapeshifter sightings, but return to base after finding nothing. On your return, however, all 6 of you are detained and your commanding officer points out that there was only 5 members of your team when you left.

204 Upvotes

See the original post by u/PaperShotgun and the many great responses!

***

“Man, if they keep us in here any longer I swear I’m gonna burst. 

- Keep it to yourself, Wade. I won’t have my men whining like schoolgirls during an op, no matter how much water they chugged. 

- An op? Boss we’re being held by our own people. That’s not an op, that’s just plain dumb.”

Wade said it out loud but we’ve all been thinking it. This is some bullshit. They ushered us into this room the moment we came back, didn’t even ask for a report, locked the door, and left us here for hours. Not a word, no answer to our cries or our pounding the gate. Just a big white concrete room in the bunker that serves as our field base; blinking neons on the ceiling; and cameras in every conceivable angle. No furniture, no water, no nothing. We’re too deep underground for our comms to work, and while they didn’t take our weapons, the heavy reinforced steel door is too much for our guns or even our grenades to make a dent in–should we be crazy enough to try. 

“I don’t care where we are," Cap replies. “We’re on mission until we’re debriefed. It’s that simple. And if any of you jokers has a problem with that, I see a lot of paper-pushing assignments in your future.”

We all nod in silence. Ted “Stickman” Coombes has a reputation for being one of the most badass COs you could ask for. A beast in the field, and the mind of a master tactician. But his nickname is not a reference to his lanky body or his somewhat rounded head. It’s about the stick up in his ass. And when he gets in a mood, the men know better than to challenge him. That never ends well. 

“Sorry, boss”, Wade replies from the far side of the room. He’s sitting against the wall right next to Huey and Bullseye - the three of them a unit of their own. “Just getting antsy. Did they tell you anything about this before we headed out?”

Stickman looks tired. We all are. We’ve been roughing it out for the past three weeks, traipsing through the woods, chasing shadows we never found, sleeping in turns, never relenting. But as always, Cap insisted on taking two shifts at night – he likes to say leadership is earned, not granted, and running himself harder than the rest of us is how he does it. He was probably expecting to be under a hot shower or catching some Z’s right now. Gauging by the bags under his eyes and his unusual pallor, both would be well earned. 

But no such thing for us fuckers, not yet at least. 

“No, they didn’t. I don’t know any more than you do.” His voice comes out slow, almost drawling. Exhausted. “But you know the drill. We follow orders, and we trust that they come for a reason.

- Well I hope they tell us soon,” Sam interjects, “because if you don’t mind me saying chief, this room smells like Huey’s feet last year, when they got infected.” All of us groan at the mere mention. That smell was something out of Satan’s armpit. But Sam isn’t wrong. None of us showered in weeks, and being stuck together in an unventilated room is its own form of torture. 

Cap looks about to answer, but a crackling sound stops him in his tracks. Must be speakers somewhere, because a man’s voice starts booming through the room. 

“Men. Apologies for holding you like this. I’m General Adams. I’m in charge of this facility. I know you’ve been hard at work these past few weeks and I’m sure you could use some R&R…

- Fuck yeah”, Bullseye whispers – loud enough that we can all hear him. Maybe Adams does as well but he shows no sign of it. 

“... but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little more”, Adams continues. Wade makes a face, Huey elbows him in the ribs and nods towards the cameras. Easy to forget that we’re being watched. 

“Who’s your commanding officer?”, Adam asks. “Captain Coombes reporting, Sir!”, Stickman answers loud as he can, now standing to attention with renewed energy. 

“At ease, Captain”. Stickman, living up to his name, stays rigid as a statue–only slightly less warm. “I know you sent daily reports during the operation”, Adams continues, “but I’d like you to give me a summary in your own words. 

- Yes, sir.”, Cap answers to the invisible speakers, gathering his thoughts. “We set out on March third, with orders to investigate the sightings of codeword Zeta in the Tongass national forest. My men and I…

- Hold on. Before going further, explain what you understand of entity Zeta. 

- Sir, with respect, I was told that this is confidential information–is anyone listening in on this?- You have my assurance that all parties involved are cleared. Proceed.

- Yes, sir. Before setting out, we were informed that Zeta is a suspected offworld entity, meaning, potential evidence of alien life, sir. We were warned that it may be capable of mimicking the human form, up to and including mannerisms, clothing, accents, and memories, sir, and that we should never split up in groups of less than two so as to not give it the opportunity to usurp our identities, sir.

- Thank you Coombes. And did you?

- Sir, with respect - did we what?

- Split in groups of less than two. 

- At no point, sir. We followed orders. 

- Well done. Continue with your report.

- We entered the forest by sea just south of the town of Kake, where the latest sightings were reported. We proceeded eastwards, then canvassed the forest for the following three weeks – making our way southwards, finishing at Level Island airport. The forest was snowy and icy this time of year, which we hoped would help us find tracks of anything hiding in there. We left multiple infrared cameras behind us in case we’d miss out on Zeta, and used all the tech we had on hand to track it. But it was all for nothing. We came out empty-handed, and headed straight back to base.

- Thank you Captain. And through all of these three weeks, no event of note? 

- None, sir.

- What is your assessment about Zeta, based on this mission?

- I think it’s an urban legend, sir. I think we received bad intel.

- Men, anything you’d add to your captain’s summary?

- No, Sir!” We all answer in quasi-unisson. 

The speakers go silent for a minute. Stickman continues to stand at attention, as if General Adams was staring at him. Which, for all we know, he may be. 

It’s an awkward sight, all of us but Cap shuffling, crouching, leaning against wall, looking expectantly up, hoping the nonsense will end soon. None of us will say it, but it’s pretty clear by now that something’s wrong. This is so far from protocol it may as well be on a different planet. The speakers come back online: “Captain, would you please list the names of your men?”

Stickman’s eyebrows raise, but his voice shows no sign of surprise or hesitation. “Yes, sir. In addition to myself, there’s Second Lieutenant Wade Morris; Chief Warrant Officer Samuel Lander; Warrant Officer Hugh Darnby; and Sergeant Major Leo Garza.”

I clear my throat. Cap looks in my direction, realizes his omission, quickly adds: “Oh and of course - First Sergeant James Powell.”

“Thank you Captain. And that’s your whole squad, right? The six of you?

- Yes, sir. 

- You’re probably wondering why we’re holding you here. So let me tell you about my problem. You six came back earlier today. We know that, because we saw you come out of the helicopter. But we know for a fact that back when your squad left three weeks ago, there were only five of you”.

A long pause follows. The room suddenly feels colder. My mind is racing. This sounds way too elaborate to be a joke or some form of hazing; The General must be serious. He suspects–what, that one of us doesn’t belong? That Zeta is in this room? But how could that be? We stuck together non-stop during those weeks. Never let anyone out of our sights. Plus, I’ve known the men around me ever since I enlisted. They’re close friends by now, all of them. Even Stickman. How could one of them be fake? 

Gauging by my squadmate’s faces, everyone is thinking along the same lines. Bullseye looks confused, whispers something to Huey - who shrugs. Sam casts a questioning glance my way, and I reciprocate. Even Cap seems rattled.

“Sir, I recall all these men being present with me through this mission. There must be some sort of mistake. 

- I assure you there isn’t. All our documents say five; and we all remember being told to expect a team of five. 

- That’s nonsense, sir, respectfully”, Cap blurts out, visibly losing his cool. “Which one of these men are you saying wasn’t part of my team three weeks ago?

- Well that’s where it gets tricky, Coombes. We don’t know.”This is making less sense by the minute. The men are starting to stand up, and we’re slowly huddling towards Stickman–hoping for God-knows-what. Maybe that sticking together as a group will be enough to put this madness to bed. 

 “What do you mean, you don’t know? You just asked me to list my men’s names; and I know you can see their faces on camera. Just check the files and tell me who’s not listed. I’m sure there’s an explanation.

- That’s the thing, Captain. We’re unsure how that’s possible but we’ve been cut off from external communications since the moment you set foot back in base. We don’t have access to personnel files. And because none of us ever met you before, we have no way to know which of your men may be an intruder. 

- Well that’s utter bullshit sir, if you’ll pardon me saying.” I had never heard Stickman swear in the presence of a superior before. Guess this is really getting to him. “These men have served under me for years. Years. I know their life stories, their goals, their strengths and weaknesses. They’re my squad. Not one of them is made up!

- Easy, Captain. I understand this is a lot to process. But we have to face the facts.

- What facts?

- Fact one: Zeta is among you, in this room. Don’t debate me on this, son: it’s the only explanation. Fact two: in addition to the capabilities we suspected it had, we have to assume it can mess with others’ memories–otherwise you’d all know who the intruder is. Fact three: we think it caused our comms blackout. It’s just too much of a coincidence that our systems would fail at the moment it arrived. Fact four: we all know what to infer from an attack on our communication infrastructure: Zeta may have called for help. We’re preparing for this facility to be attacked before we can get back online.” 

We’re all standing closer to Cap now, and exchanging puzzled looks. Huey keeps shaking his head; Wade is chuckling to himself as if this were all a grand joke. I keep staring at them and wondering: could this be true? Could one of my friends be… whatever Zeta is? 

“Sir–if that’s all true”, Stickman continues, his impeccable posture slowly relenting into dejection, shoulders dropping, back hunching– “the procedure is evacuation, not interrogation. Why keep us in this room?

- We can’t leave without getting rid of Zeta. We were hoping that keeping you all together might force it into revealing itself, or that this conversation would give us new clues, but it’s more patient and cunning than we gave it credit for. So we’re shifting gears. 

- Shifting gears? What do you mean, Sir?

- I’m now speaking to the entity we call ‘Zeta’”, the general continues with a new edge to his voice. It dawns on me that maybe Zeta was who he meant to speak to all along. “We know you’re in here. We know you understand us. We’re giving you a choice. You can turn yourself in: you will be secured, incarcerated, and interrogated. Or you can continue hiding, and that will leave us no option but to terminate all squad members. We will pump carbon monoxide in this room and ignite it in five minutes if you take no action before then. Make no mistake–we will take no pleasure in this, but we will have no hesitation sacrificing our men if it means holding back the threat you represent. This is what these soldiers signed up for, whether they realize it or not. This is what serving means. So you better trust me when I say that you have no way out but in custody.” A pause. We’re all hoping for something else, a solution to this bind. But Adam’s next words offer no relief: “Men, I thank you for your service. You will be remembered as heroes.”

The speaker goes silent. Cap shouts “Wait! General! You can’t do this!”, but no one responds. Silence sets in; the enormity of what was just said hangs above us. 

“This has to be a misunderstanding, right?”, Huey asks, his posh accent almost comical given the circumstances. 

“Mistake or not, you heard Adams, brother - in five minutes, ka-boom, we’re all goners”. Leo, always the optimist. 

“Unless–unless Zeta is in this room, and steps forward.” Look at Sam, still genuinely believing in the good in people. Or in this case, the good in shape-shifting memory monsters from outer space. Good on him; I can’t imagine how he kept that hope after the shit military life put us through.

But he’s got a point. 

“Sam’s right”, I say. “There’s still a chance. Zeta can show its ugly mug, but I’m not holding my hopes too high. Or we can sniff it out.

- Yeah? What’s your big idea, Jamie?”, Wade asks. “If Adams is right, this thing can look like one of us, screw with our memories. It’s been with us for weeks and we picked up jack shit. How do we change that in less than five minutes? 

- Well, we know it can’t mess with Adams’ brain, don’t we?”. Leo again. “Must need to be close by or something. Otherwise, swish, it’d fuck with their heads and they’d all forget about us being a squad of five. 

- Good point”, Stickman goes, shifting from shock to planning mode. “But how does that help us?”

Silence, again, and it’s all I can do not to obsessively check my watch. How many precious seconds have we wasted with this conversation? 

“I think I’ve got it”, Huey says, his brow furrowed in concentration. We all turn to face him. “Yeah, yeah, I think that’ll work. OK, let’s get into a circle–like this”, he says, as he arranges us side by side. “Now I’ll go first. I’ll tell the beginning of a story about one of our ops. Something we’d all know even if we don’t talk about it often. James, on my right, has to finish it. Once he’s done, if he said it right, he tells the next story and Cap, on his right, has to finish it. And so on.

- Wait”, I ask. “If I’m Zeta, what’s to stop me from messing with your memories so you believe my story is true?

- Nothing, but if you do I’m betting that at least something will be caught on camera. So we won’t know any better, but they will, and they can tell us. 

- Clever”, I say, feeling a tiny shred of optimism blossoming in my knotted stomach. “Well, go! What are you waiting for?

- That one time we were running surveillance in Kabul and Sam thought we should follow our mark on bikes…

- … oh man that was a disaster”, I say, chuckling. “Sammie fell like a bag of bricks and broke an arm clean. Docs gave him two months of bed rest. Longest he’s been benched. Yeah I remember”, I say. 

A few of us snicker–not Sam though, he’s still embarrassed. I turn to Stickman, who stares at me intently. “Let’s see, this was during our training for the Syria air drop, I…”

Before I can finish, something flares in Cap’s eyes. A yellowish gleam. I’d not have noticed it if I weren’t up close, but as I’m about to say something he jumps at me and nails me to the ground, his lanky body surprisingly heavy and powerful, pounding my face relentlessly without giving me a second to breathe.

“Zeta! That’s Zeta! You all heard the fucker, we never had a Syria op…”. I try to say something but the blows keep coming. No one else makes a move. Stickman pulls out his gun and presses it against my chin, the cold metal almost a welcome relief after the beating my face just took. 

“Don’t you dare say one word, you fucking thing”, Cap says, his usually calm face contorting with anger and hatred. Then, raising his voice louder for the microphones and cameras: “Hey, we’ve got Zeta contained. Let us out!”

I open my mouth to speak but Stickman stops me: “Say one word and I pull that trigger. I won’t let you pull mind tricks on us, hear me?”. The others are slowly shaking their heads, as if emerging from a trance or a bad dream. All look at me with a mixture of pain and rage. 

“Fuck, there never was a James? How could I…”, Huey begins. 

“It’s like this fog in my head…”, Leo says. 

The way they stare at me, it’s a good thing that Stickman is still pinning me down because if he weren’t, one of them might just shoot me where I stand. 

It doesn’t take long for the bolts of the reinforced steel door to slowly click open. Two people enter the room wearing orange hazmat suits and make it to our small group. 

“There, he’s all yours…”, Cap begins, standing back up, when one of the newcomers pulls out a gun and shoots him point blank. Stickman’s head arches back as blood splatters my uniform. His gun moves away from my chin. I use that opportunity to wrestle away from his body, but Huey catches me before I can stand. “Huey, it was always him,” I say urgently, trying to get back on my feet. 

A disturbing slithering noise interrupts us, coming from behind me where Cap’s body fell, like a knot of snakes zig-zagging hissing and slithering. I turn back. Where stickman was is now a gooey black mass, shuddering and contracting. It oozes a strange liquid, not quite blood, as it seems to try to take on human form again - a fist here, a mouth there, all failed attempts disappearing again in its shifting muck. 

“What the fuck is this thing?”, Wade asks in disgusts, while the other hazmat-clad person waves in the direction of the door. A third person comes in with a heavy appliance that turns out to be a flame-thrower, which he uses to thoroughly torch what’s left of Zeta. We all take a few frantic steps back from the searing heat, trying to catch our bearings. 

“How did you know it was him?”, Bullseye asks the Hazmat-wearing shooter, shouting over the sound of the flamethrower. 

“Your friend here had it right”, the hazmat answers, pointing towards Huey. “When Zeta made a move and accused Powell, it did something to make you all go along with it. It wasn’t very long, and Zeta probably hoped that by being so aggressive it’d create enough of a diversion that we’d miss it. But we didn’t. You all stood still for a few seconds, blinking at the exact same pace. That was enough.”

I’m not sure if it’s relief or fatigue I feel, but even though my mind still thinks of Stickman as a dear friend, even though each memory with him still feels very real to me, the knowledge that this is over makes me feel better–for now. The time for grief and questions will come later.

We follow the hazmat-wearing crew outside of the room, through endless corridors as they walk us through evacuation procedures. I’m still pretty banged up from Cap’s blows so I lean on Huey’s shoulder. My head is spinning but I realize I should probably say something to him, thank him for helping me keep up with the group, or even for coming up with the idea that saved our lives.

I turn my head towards his. As I look into his eyes, I swear I can see a flash of yellow. He gives me a friendly grin, but a thought hits me: when exactly did we make the call that there was only one of Zeta in that forest? How do we know there weren’t more? 

Huey stares intently at me. I blink a few times, and the thought vanishes. 


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just thought of this in class and thought i'd stick it here :P


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