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Bubble242
1 18,165 M Progress Road 6
PathStep 4 Compassion hearts1,321 Forum posts15 Forum upvotes22 Current upvotes22 Age GroupTeen Last activeOctober, 2026 Member sinceApril 10, 2026
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Hi, how you doing?

You can call me bubble




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For Me and Enthusiastic Bunny
Pen Pals / by Bubble242
Last post
 October 20th
...See more @enthusiasticBunny5234 Hi Bunny, its been a while since we last spoke which isn't really normal and I just wanted to see if you were okay and everything, I miss you bestie, hope I can see you online again soon. Wishing you all the best, hugs :) 
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Viral Justice
Reading & Writing / by Bubble242
Last post
 April 24th
...See more I love writing dystopian stories but wanted some feedback on this one before i add it to my collection, if u have the time id love for u to read over it and lmk what u think:  Astrea Larva had just been brought in for questioning after her friend was found dead not long after a small argument between the two. Astrea swore she could never, but the police believed that the motive for killing was intent enough after their argument. Astrea could not believe she would have to spend the night in a jail cell, but the police did as such. Astrea sat on the cold bench, the minutes ticking away toward her ten-minute window. The walls of the cell felt like they were closing in, and a small digital screen on the door showed a number that kept climbing: 8,400,210. It was the viewer count for her upcoming trial. She kept visualizing the petrol station, the flickering neon lights of the pump, and the exact time she tapped her card. If she could just get the log from her car’s tracking system, the viewers would see she was miles away when it happened. But the police had confiscated her phone, and she was trapped in a room with nothing but her own thoughts. She wondered if the 10 million viewers already had their minds made up before she even spoke a word. She wondered if her daughter was one of them, watching the screen from their living room, waiting to see if her mother would disappear for the next two decades. She was the next case, she desperately waited, hoping someone would come running holding the tracking data, but nobody did. The cell door hissed open. Two guards led her into a room that was mostly empty, except for a massive array of cameras and a glowing holographic podium. "Ten minutes, Astrea," a voice boomed over the intercom. "The world is watching. Convince them." Astrea stood before the lens, her throat dry and her hands shaking. She began to explain her case, her being at work from 6 in the morning until 7 at night and then heading to the petrol station to refill before finally heading home to her husband and daughter. She spoke about the graduation, trying to make the viewers see her as a mother, not a murderer. During cross-examination, however, the prosecutor appeared as a floating head on a screen beside her. He asked which petrol station she had visited. The issue here was that she went to the petrol station which has around 10 located in her city, one of which was close to the scene of the crime. Astrea began to sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stated that she had the car tracking data if she was just allowed a bit more time. She looked at the timer on the wall: 2 minutes left. "The data isn't here, Astrea," the prosecutor sneered, his voice echoing for the millions of viewers. "Without proof, you're just another person with a grudge and a missing hour." The viewers' live comments began to scroll across the floor in glowing blue text: She’s lying. Look at her hands shake. Guilty. The court were not lenient, but as the voting procedure was about to take place and the timer hit zero, the heavy doors at the back of the room burst open. Her husband ran in, breathless and dishevelled, holding a stack of car tracking details. Astrea grabbed the documents, waving them at the primary camera, and asked if she could please share them before the viewers voted. "Time is up," the judge said, his face cold. "The poll is live." Astrea watched the screen in terror. The bar moved back and forth, Blue for Innocent, Red for Guilty. It surged and dipped as 10 million people clicked their screens. When the timer finally stopped, it was a perfect 50/50 split. A dead heat. The silence in the room was heavy. The judge looked at the data in the husband's hand, then back at the screen. He decided that he would be the final determiner of this case. He stood up, walked down from his bench, and took the papers. He scanned the GPS coordinates and the timestamps of the petrol pump. "The tracking matches," the judge muttered, his voice finally softening. "She was three miles away at the time of the stabbing." He looked into the camera, addressing the millions of disappointed viewers who had voted for blood. "I determine Astrea Larva not guilty." Astrea collapsed to her knees, the air finally returning to her lungs. The cameras cut to black, the livestream ended, and the millions of strangers moved on to the next video. She was free, but as she hugged her husband, she knew she would never forget how close she came to being deleted from her daughter's life by a thumb-up or a thumb-down.
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Total disconnect
Reading & Writing / by Bubble242
Last post
 April 19th
...See more Hi, i like writing short stories in my free time, especially dystopian stories and thought i would share my favourite creation, so here it is: Jacob Brayzbee crouched behind a broken slab of concrete, dust clinging to his jacket as bullets snapped above his head. The VerseGov building loomed ahead, its black glass sides reflecting the chaos of the battlefield outside—fires burning in the streets, players screaming in combat, explosions echoing across the virtual city. He took a deep breath and ran, weaving between rusted car shells and sandbag walls. His boots thudded against the asphalt, each step bringing him closer to the front doors.  He crashed through the entrance, glass shattering around him as alarms shrieked to life. Armed guards turned at once, red visors glowing through the haze. Jacob dove behind a reception desk, heart pounding, sweat slipping down his temple. He clutched his rifle tighter, his knuckles white, and rose just long enough to return fire. One guard dropped. Then another.  But he was hit. Chest lit with plasma, his screen flashed red, and the world blinked to black.  He respawned back on the pad.  This time, he moved slower. Through alleyways. Behind dumpsters. Up fire escapes. No more frontal assault. He then entered the building through the back and manged to reach the 27th floor via the stairwells before someone spotted him. The shot was clean through the ribs.  Respawn. Again.  He decided to take the elevator. It stank of electricity and digital sweat. At the 77th floor, a woman entered and saw him. She didn’t hesitate. Shot him between the eyes.  Respawn.  Hours passed. Or minutes. Time was hard to measure here. Each death only made his determination harder, sharper. He stopped counting the floors. Stopped breathing heavy. Stopped blinking when he pulled the trigger. On his fifteenth run, he made it.  Floor 125.  The VR core hummed in the centre of the room, a pulsating machine of wires and light. Tubes ran up into the ceiling, snaking across like metal vines. The floor glowed beneath his boots. His reflection shimmered in the polished steel.  He walked in, gun drawn. No mercy this time.  The room erupted as guards poured in from all sides. Seventeen of them. Men. Women. One even wore a tuxedo. Jacob dropped into a roll and fired. The echo of gunfire rattled the glass walls. The air smelled like ozone and scorched data. Bodies dropped. Screams turned digital.  A figure remained. On the glass bridge above, President Gregor Stinsky stared down at him. His eyes were heavy. His voice rang out.  “Jacob. Don’t do this.”  Jacob didn’t lower his weapon. He stepped forward and placed the mega bomb beneath the VR core. Its shell clicked open, and a countdown began to blink in red:  10… 9… 8…  “You have no idea what you're doing,” Stinsky yelled, stepping onto the staircase. “We’ve found a cure. A formula. A way to keep people alive without food, without water. They don’t need to unplug. Not anymore.”  Jacob’s face twisted. He didn’t shout. He just looked up at the president with tired eyes.  “Then give them the cure,” he said quietly. “Give them a reason to survive, not an excuse to die.”  “They don’t deserve it!” Stinsky barked. “They’ve chosen this world. You think they’ll go back to reality willingly?”  7… 6… 5…  “Then they don’t deserve this server anymore.” Jacob said.  Stinsky drew his laser rifle, desperate now. “Stop it! If that bomb goes off, everything I’ve built—everything we’ve built—will be gone. You’ll destroy an entire future!”  Jacob turned away from him.  3… 2…  “You should’ve thought of everyone else first.”  1.  The screen turned white.  Then silence.  Outside, the lights inside the houses flickered. One by one, they turned on. People stumbled out, shielding their eyes from the sun they hadn’t seen in years. They walked barefoot across their front yards, blinking at the trees, the wind, the real sky.  A boy picked up a clump of dirt and stared at it as though it were alien. He sniffed it, bit into it, and immediately spat it out. His sister laughed, unsure why. Across the street, a man sat on the curb and sobbed.  Jacob Brayzbee stood in the middle of the road and looked around. People were coming out of their houses, confused and pale, clutching at their heads, trying to remember how to walk without the help of a joystick.  He’d done it.  But now the real work would begin.    
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Man, Be Kind
Poetry / by Bubble242
Last post
 April 18th
...See more He stands just like a steady wall, To catch his friends before they fall. He listens well to every grief, And offers them a quick relief. He plays the role of counselor friend, On whom the broken souls depend. He heals their hearts and clears their view, But no one asks, "How are you?" They tell him of their love and strife, The messy pieces of their life. He gives them strength and all his time, While up a mountain he must climb. But when he tries to share his weight, He meets a cold and silent fate. He speaks a word of his own fear, But finds there is no listening ear. They nod their heads and act so kind, But leave his heavy thoughts behind. They turn the talk back to their own, And leave him standing all alone. Behind the smile he’s forced to wear, Is more than any man should bear. He waits until the room is still, Then lets the tears begin to fill. He cries in shadows, out of sight, Away from every peering light. Because he knows if he should break, The pillar of their world would shake. But Man, be kind and see the truth, You’ve spent your strength and all your youth, Fixing hearts that won’t fix yours, While you are bleeding through the pores. You deserve a listener too, Who sees the man inside of you. Don't let your spirit slowly die, While living out a hollow lie.
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