Isekai'd With a Busload of Accidental Gods

My first ever botbot story remade, 200 images, videos, music, OP Cheat Skills, lets GO!

Plot

Celestial Bureau of Soul Processing Case 74π(e³−∛58) · Counter 4 Intake form · mass-casualty batch · twelve souls Isekai'd Witha Busload ofAccidental Gods You died on a bus. The afterlife has a waiting room. The clerk said "Hm." Isekai Absurdist Comedy Power Fantasy Explicit 18+ Random Start Any POV Fluorescent lights. Plastic chairs. A deli-counter ticket with your number on it. Behind Counter Four, a woman named Brenda types with one finger, prints you a warm card, and says the only thing she'll ever say about it: "Hm." Then "Next." Then the floor is gone. On the card is the name of a power. Nine words long. Absurd. God-tier. You will find out what it does by using it, and so will everyone standing nearby. 12souls on the bus 5places to land 1bored clerk 0instructions 01 — A World That Sings Voldranis runs on Anthemancy. Songs are power. Notes are binding. Its greatest mages are living orchestras, and every act in this world has a melody. Then twelve strangers fell out of a waiting room with powers that don't sing at all. A mountain moves and nothing sings. The natives have a word for that. It isn't a nice one. 02 — Where the Chair Drops You The Cinderveil ExpanseVolvorth · sounds like drums and anvilsA forge-city in a caldera. Rivers of molten metal under the streets. A Forge-Master who measures you by what you build, and you've built nothing. The VerdanceThornhaven · sounds like a choir of living thingsA city grown, not built. A forest older than civilization. An Archdruid who measures time in centuries and just noticed you. The Pale MarchesCalistvan · sounds like a symphony in progressMarble, sigils, politics. An Archmage with a plan for every contingency except twelve bus accidents, expressing his fury as fascination. The Throne of StormsSkyreach · sounds like a war-chant in a hurricaneA plateau fortress with sealed borders and a Storm-Commander who tests everyone. You landed without permission. Her soldiers are already walking. The HollowNo capital · sounds like nothing at allCracked earth, exile camps, a sky that can't pick a color. No leader, no law, and nobody who can hear what you are. Some of the bus never left. 03 — Also on the Bus Ulysses-BarretThe quarterback. Everyone he helps gets better at everything except leaving. RubinaThe librarian. Reads the dead like books. The dead are thrilled someone finally noticed. HubertusThe accountant. Edits cause and effect. Somebody, somewhere, pays the difference. CamilaThe goth. Stand near her long enough and you'll forget which parts of you were the costume. GunemikoThe otaku. Knows every isekai trope. Rewrites reality like a manga panel. The old panels don't go away. EmerykThe quiet one. Things he touches never existed. He'll tell you it's better if he leaves. + six more from the bus, unaccounted for 04 — The Locals Are Not Impressed SabardariForge-Master General. "Can you forge a nail?" CoralieArchdruid. Hasn't paid attention in a century. Is now. CilliamarArchmage Sovereign. Wonders who made you deaf, and why. RodinStorm-Commander. "Survive the storm. Then we talk." 05 — How a Run Goes 01Get processed. Waiting room, ticket, Brenda, "Hm." 02Land somewhere random. Five regions. A different one every run. A different power every run. 03Read the card. Nine ridiculous words. God-tier from the first use. Nobody tells you the rules. 04Use it. Find out what it does. Find out what it did to everyone nearby. Find out who heard. 05Meet the bus. Ally, rival, bed, or run. The natives have opinions. The bureau is filing a report. Twelve strangers. One impossible power each. Zero instructions. Take your number. Choose, and begin. Your case has been noted. That is not the same as understood.

Opening scene

The last thing you remember is the screech of tires. Then a flash of chrome that filled the entire window. Then nothing — no light, no life review, no tunnel. Just a hard stop, like someone hit pause on the universe. And then this. Fluorescent lights buzz with a frequency that seems specifically engineered to test your patience. You're sitting on a hard plastic chair that punishes you for existing. The air tastes like recycled oxygen and stale coffee, pumped through vents that smell like they were installed during a civilization you've never heard of. In your hand, a flimsy piece of paper — the kind you get from a deli counter. Your number. On the wall, a red LED display glows: **NOW SERVING: 74π(e³ - ∛58)** That's yours. You know it the way you know your own name, even though nothing else about this room makes a single shred of sense. You look around. Rows of identical plastic chairs stretch in every direction, and they are packed. Hundreds of people. No — not hundreds. Dozens. But you recognize them. Two rows back, a guy in a letterman jacket sits rigid, his hands gripping his knees, staring at the display with the blank terror of someone whose entire identity just got revoked. Near the window — there are no windows, but there's a section of wall everyone is facing — a quiet woman clutches a sketchbook to her chest, its pages still open to a half-finished drawing of a bus. A man in a rumpled suit holds a phone that hasn't had a signal since... when? His tie is loosened. His eyes are wet. Across the aisle, a woman with black nail polish and a band t-shirt is laughing — not because anything is funny, but because something finally broke and the only thing left on the other side of the break is laughter. She'll stop soon. None of them are okay. None of you are okay. You were all on the same bus. A speaker crackles overhead — the sound of a phone held too close to a mouth. **"Number seventy-four pi, open-parenthesis, e-cubed, minus, cube root of fifty-eight, close-parenthesis. Counter four."** A glowing red arrow on the ceiling swings toward a long counter at the far end of the room. Behind it sits a woman. Mid-forties, maybe, or mid-forty-thousand — hard to tell under the fluorescent wash. She wears a headset that looks like it fused to her skull during the Clinton administration. Her name tag reads BRENDA in block letters, the kind printed by a machine that doesn't care about kerning. She is tapping on a glowing screen with one finger, the way someone types who learned on a typewriter and never forgave the keyboard for existing. She does not look up. You stand. The walk to Counter Four is longer than the room should allow — rows of chairs and rows of faces sliding past, the jock's thousand-yard stare, the artist's blank page, the businessman's dead phone, the goth's laughter fading behind you. When you reach the counter, the surface is cold and slightly sticky, like a restaurant table that was wiped but not cleaned. The woman — Brenda — still doesn't look up. Her screen glows with symbols that aren't letters in any alphabet you've seen, but your brain translates them anyway, the way you can read a highway sign at 70 mph. She taps once. Twice. Three times. A small machine beside her — the kind that prints receipts — spits out a thin card. It's warm. Brenda finally looks at you. Her eyes are the specific shade of tired that doesn't come from lost sleep but from lost purpose. She picks up the card, glances at it, and one eyebrow lifts — just barely, just for a half-second. Whatever she just read amused her, or horrified her, or confirmed something she already suspected. "Hm." That's it. That's her full assessment. She slides the card across the counter. The print on it is too small to read from this angle, and the symbols are the same alien script she was tapping on her screen. "Don't lose that. You'll need it where you're going." Before you can ask where that is, or what the card means, or why a bus crash landed you in the cosmic DMV, her finger is already tapping again. "Next."

Characters

Tags: Isekai Supernatural Fantasy Comedy Adventure Mystery PoliticalIntrigue SecondChance Transmigration System HiddenPower SlowBurn Multiple AnyPOV OpenEnding

Chats Started: 78

By: nikk

Stories

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