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Two vtuber anime girls discuss the holocaust? Lol, shitpost or theoretical normalfaggot propaganda?

As far as craft goes, your biggest issue is a propensity towards purple prose. Huge chunks of this should be slashed entirely. Short, punchy sentences should be the default; save longer descriptions to vary rhythm or punctuate emotional beats.

Example:

> Rain lashed against the colossal windowpanes, blurring the verdant expanse of the forest into an impressionistic smear of greens and browns.

Shortened for readability:

> Rain lashed against the colossal windowpanes, blurring the verdant expanse beyond.

Example:

> Gura turned, her eyes shining with an adventurous glint that belied the solemnity of their conversation.

Shortened:

> Gura turned, her eyes shining with an adventurous glint.

You should do this pretty much everywhere you possibly can. Always ask yourself, "Can I convey this same idea in *fewer* words?" Again, there's a time and a place for longer, more florid descriptions, but you need to get this down first. Right now you have your foot all the way down on the gas pedal from start to finish.

You also sometimes use excessive commas when you should just create two sentences.

Example:

> The scent of damp earth and ancient pine needles always clung to Fauna’s mansion, a comforting, wild perfume that Gura breathed deep.

Cleaned up:

> The scent of damp earth and ancient pine needles clung to Fauna’s mansion. It was a wild yet comforting perfume—one which Gura often enjoyed.

Also used this to highlight that sometimes your verb choices are a bit mismatched to the image you want to convey. "Wild" and "comforting" are oxymoronic adjectives, and the insertion of "yet" makes them read more cleanly together.

Further, this sentence is operating in a zoomed out storyteller register, but ending it with "that Gura breathed deep" causes tonal clash. Is this a narrator setting the scene, or is Gura here right now, breathing the air in real time with the POV centered on her? In its original form both possibilities are present and in conflict with each other. My version commits to the former.

As for the content of the story, it doesn't work very well, to be frank. The whole thing feels like the author describing redpills to me with an anime girl sock puppet on each hand. The reason for this somewhat ties into my former point. You have multiple conceptual elements that are grating against each other without resolution.

Let's consider the actors we have here. Two vtuber characters. With setpieces like that, there are two obvious directions you could go. You could either go meta and lean into them being a real-life phenomenon, or you could go full fantasy and set up a purely fictional setting for them to exist in.

This story mashes both together like opposite colors of playdough. You seem to be writing them in a self-contained fantasy setting which is taking itself very seriously, but having them talk about the holocaust in the context of absolute meatspace. It breaks immersion immediately.

If you wanted to fully commit to this register, the best thing to do would be to make the holocaust metaphorical and fantasy-integrated. Have them talk about "goblins" who run the realm or some such, let the lies be clearly satirical caricatures of holocaust talking points without being completely on the nose. You trust the reader to put the pieces together. This is very often how successful jewish propaganda approaches fiction.

If you wanted to have them literally just talk about the holocaust, you would've been much better off taking the fourth wall approach and having them meet in an apartment or some such where one of them does their livestreaming. Lean into slice of life/comedy instead of atmospheric high fantasy. Maybe the conversation is triggered by Gura getting pissed off about a content strike for saying "nigga" on stream or some shit. If you're trying to make propaganda here, weebs eat that shit up.

If the original intent of the story was for it to take place in real life, but in a location that is coincidentally fantasy-shaped, then that is not clearly conveyed in the text. The prose doesn't imply it. If you absolutely wanted to keep it in this form, you'd want to throw in something to ground it in our reality ("Deep in the woods of New Hampshire...") Otherwise the reader's brain is gonna default to it being generic fantasy until they crash face-first into the holocaust being name dropped.

Also I don't know if you formatted this differently in a proper text document somewhere, but if not, I also strongly recommend breaking things up into more paragraphs. Example of one block I would split into two paragraphs (with another wording tweak included:)

> Gura leaned forward, her playful demeanor giving way to a more serious expression. “Equilibrium. Balance. That’s it, exactly. The universe, numbers, they don’t lie. They *can’t* lie. They just… are.”

> She paused, gathering her thoughts. Firelight illuminated the contours of her face. “I’ve been diving deep again, Fauna. Into the currents beneath the currents, the things they don’t want us to see.”

Anyways, I hope that all wasn't too harsh. I've written a novel as well as many short stories myself, so I am passionate about the art of writing. As it's becoming an increasingly niche medium for pure fiction in the present day, I hope you continue to refine your craft. You clearly have strong instincts for imagery and sensory cues—you just need to focus on tidying up your presentation and deciding exactly what kind of story it is you want to tell.

I do like it. The language and imagery is good, if a bit flowery. As for the content...

You can read the same in any decent revisionist book, but alongside evidence and arguments. This monologue doesn't engage in the real tension that happens when a normie who accepts the post-WWII narrative comes into contact with a revisionist/denier.

Depending on the purpose of this writing, I would suggest engaging the readers imagination to explore ideas like conspiracy and great historic lies. A great piece of writing will have someone questioning the narrative of WWII without having to mention the wooden doors or anything similar.

 The scent of damp earth and ancient pine needles always clung to Fauna’s mansion, a comforting, wild perfume that Gura breathed deep. Rain lashed against the colossal windowpanes, blurring the verdant expanse of the forest into an impressionistic smear of greens and browns. Inside, the fire in the hearth crackled, a defiant warmth against the tempest, casting dancing shadows across the room’s rich mahogany and worn tapestries. Gura, nestled into the plush armchair, watched the flames, the rhythmic hiss of the downpour a lullaby. Fauna, perched on the edge of a divan, meticulously polished a smooth blue gemstone she found in a river, her brow furrowed in concentration.

 “Another storm,” Gura remarked, her voice a low murmur against the wind’s howl. “The trees outside sound like they’re wrestling a titan.”

 Fauna hummed, not looking up. Her fingers, long and slender, traced the stone’s cool surface. “Nature reclaims its own, Gura. Always. It’s a relentless, beautiful process.”

 Gura shifted, the leather creaking under her. “Reclaiming, or just… reminding us who’s really in charge?” She tapped her chin, a playful glint in her eyes. “Sometimes I think the planet just gets bored and decides to rearrange the furniture.”

 A soft laugh escaped Fauna, a sound like rustling leaves. “Perhaps. Or perhaps, it simply balances. Everything seeks equilibrium.” She finally met Gura’s gaze, her eyes, the color of a deep forest lake, held a familiar, quiet intensity. “What’s on your mind, little shark? You’ve been circling something all evening.”

 Gura leaned forward, her playful demeanor giving way to a more serious expression. “Equilibrium. Balance. That’s it, exactly. The universe, numbers, they don’t lie. They *can’t* lie. They just… are.” She paused, gathering her thoughts, the firelight catching the sharp angles of her face. “I’ve been diving deep again, Fauna. Into the currents beneath the currents, the things they don’t want us to see.”

 Fauna set the stone down, her full attention now on Gura. “The 'they' again? The shadowy figures pulling strings from gilded towers?” Her tone was gentle, but a hint of weariness touched her voice. “Gura, sometimes the simplest explanation is the true one.”

 Gura shook her head. “Simple isn’t always true, Fauna. Often, simple is just a convenient narrative, painted over a truth too complex, too inconvenient, too… *ugly* for the masses to stomach.” She took a deep breath. “It’s about the numbers, Fauna. Always the numbers. They’re the bedrock of everything. And when the numbers don’t add up, the story falls apart.”

 Fauna’s gaze sharpened. “What numbers are we talking about now, Gura?” Her voice dropped, a quiet apprehension entering the space between them.

 “The ones they force-feed us,” Gura stated, her voice firm, cutting through the storm’s din. “The ones about the grandest tragedy, the one that supposedly defined an era, justified so much… control.” She saw Fauna’s expression shift, a flicker of understanding, or perhaps dread, crossing her features. “The Holocaust, Fauna. The six million.”

 A silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by the rain’s relentless drumming. Fauna’s hands clasped together in her lap, knuckles white. “Gura, that’s… that’s a dangerous path. A painful one.”

 “Painful, yes,” Gura acknowledged, her eyes unwavering. “But truth often is. And if the pain keeps us from the truth, then we’re just living in a gilded cage of lies.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though the storm ensured no one else could possibly hear. “They tell us six million. An unimaginable horror. And it *was* a horror, Fauna. Any loss of life on that scale is monstrous. But the *narrative*… that’s what I’m questioning. The *how*, the *why*, the *logistics*.”

 Fauna’s brow furrowed. “Logistics? What logistics could possibly…”

 “Exactly!” Gura exclaimed, her frustration bubbling up. “They gloss over the logistics! They wave their hands and say ‘gas chambers’ and ‘crematories’ and expect us to just… believe. Without asking the hard questions. Without doing the math.” She gestured emphatically. “Think about it, Fauna. Six million people. In a handful of years. In facilities that, by all accounts, were built for something else entirely, then supposedly retrofitted for mass extermination.”

 Fauna shifted uneasily. “What are you implying, Gura?”

 “I’m not implying, I’m *calculating*,” Gura corrected, her tone earnest. “Take Auschwitz, for instance. It’s presented as the epicenter. Millions perished there, they say. But let’s look at the actual *physical capacity*.” She tapped her fingers against her temple. “We’re talking about crematories. Industrial ones, yes. But even the most efficient crematories have limits. They require immense amounts of fuel. They require time. A body isn’t ash in five minutes.”

 Fauna watched her, her expression a mixture of fascination and deep unease. “And you’ve… calculated this?”

 “Of course!” Gura brightened, a spark of her usual adventurous spirit returning. “I went down the rabbit hole, Fauna. I found the blueprints. I found the historical records of the actual industrial output of those crematories. The fuel consumption. The processing time per body. And when you factor in maintenance, downtime, the sheer manual labor involved in moving millions of bodies… the numbers just don’t align.”

 She continued, undeterred by Fauna’s quiet contemplation. “We’re talking about a logistical nightmare, Fauna. Imagine six million bodies. That’s a staggering amount of biomass. Where do you store them? How do you transport them? How do you incinerate them without leaving mountains of ash, without the surrounding areas smelling like death for miles? The sheer scale of the operation, as presented, strains credulity when subjected to basic engineering and logistical scrutiny.”

 Fauna finally spoke, her voice low. “So, you’re saying… it didn’t happen?”

 Gura shook her head. “No. People died, Fauna. Millions suffered. That’s undeniable. But *how* they died, the *numbers* involved in the specific narrative of systematic extermination via gas chambers and crematories… that’s where the story gets… fuzzy. That’s where the numbers break down.”

 “Then what *did* happen, Gura?” Fauna asked, her gaze intense, searching Gura’s face for answers.

 “Disease, starvation, forced labor,” Gura listed, ticking them off on her fingers. “The camps were horrific. They were death traps. Typhus, dysentery, rampant malnutrition. People were worked to death, starved to death, shot. Bombing runs cut off supply lines to the camps. The brutality was immense. The loss of life was staggering. But the *methodology* they present, the industrial-scale gassing if millions who didn't exist before the war… that’s the part that mathematically unravels.”

 She leaned back, a sigh escaping her. “Think about it from a purely practical standpoint. If you wanted to efficiently kill millions, would you build elaborate, multi-chambered gas facilities in the middle of a war zone, then struggle with fuel for crematories that couldn’t keep up? Or would you just… shoot them? Starve them? Work them to death? The latter is far more ‘efficient’ in a brutal, wartime context. They certainly did plenty of that to us. Besides, remember that one German who was arrested and killed by the Nazis for robbing and murdering two Jews?"

 Fauna picked up the river stone again, turning it over and over. “So, the ‘six million’ is a… narrative construct?”

 “A very powerful one,” Gura affirmed. “A number that evokes such an emotional response, it shuts down all critical inquiry. Who would dare question such a sacred tragedy? It’s disrespectful, they say. It’s hateful. But questioning isn’t denying, Fauna. Questioning is seeking clarity. It’s demanding that the historical record align with basic physical and mathematical realities.”

 “And what about the witnesses?” Fauna asked, her voice quiet. “The survivors? The testimonies?”

 Gura nodded slowly. “Said nothing of the Holocaust until years later. Human memory is fallible, especially under duress. Or when profit is involved. Masturbation machines, murderous rollercoasters, gas chambers that spared those who prayed hard enough. All Jew lies. And narratives can be shaped, even unconsciously. Think about the fog of war, the trauma, the desire to make sense of unimaginable horror. People saw terrible things. They heard terrible things. But did they *witness* the specific industrial gassing of millions? Or did they see immense suffering, death from disease, summary executions, and then have that suffering later framed by a powerful, overarching narrative? Twenty million Christians killed, and the Jews deny doing it. Countless European Whites killed in the name of a Holocaust that never was. Whites needed the myth of the Holocaust to pretend they were still the good guys after killing countless Germans for trying to free themselves from Weimar problems."

 “You’re suggesting a… manipulation of history?” Fauna’s voice was barely a whisper.

 “Not just suggesting, Fauna. I’m *seeing* it. When you pull back the curtain of emotion and look purely at the physical evidence, the architectural plans, the chemical analyses of the alleged gas chambers – which, by the way, show no significant residue of cyanide compounds in the walls, unlike actual delousing chambers – the story they tell us just doesn’t hold water.” Gura’s voice grew passionate. “It’s like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, and when it doesn’t fit, they just tell you the hole is actually square, and you’re blind for not seeing it.”

 The rain outside seemed to intensify, matching the storm Gura felt brewing within her. “And why, Fauna? Why would they do this? Why create such a powerful, emotionally charged narrative that, upon closer inspection, crumbles under the weight of its own logistical impossibility?”

 Fauna finally looked up, her gaze steady, though a deep sadness shadowed her eyes. “Power, Gura. Control. Guilt. And the ability to silence dissent.”

 Gura snapped her fingers. “Exactly! It’s the ultimate trump card. Any criticism of certain policies, certain groups, certain financial systems… just point to the six million, and suddenly you’re an antisemite, a denier, a monster. It shuts down all debate. It’s a shield, and a weapon, all at once.”

 “The ‘billionaire bankers’ you mentioned earlier,” Fauna mused, connecting the dots. “You believe they orchestrated this narrative?”

 “Who benefits, Fauna?” Gura countered. “Who always benefits from chaos, from division, from narratives that allow them to consolidate power and deflect blame? The same groups who profit from wars, from financial crises, from the suffering of the masses. They control the media, they control the institutions, they control the flow of information. They have the means, the motive, and the opportunity to craft a story so compelling, so emotionally devastating, that it becomes unassailable dogma.”

 She leaned forward again, her voice urgent. “Think about the reparations, the political leverage, the unwavering support for certain geopolitical agendas. It all stems from this foundational narrative. If that foundation is built on quicksand, if the numbers don’t add up, then the entire edifice starts to wobble.”

 Fauna was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the flickering fire. The stone in her hand felt heavy, cold. “So, the truth… it’s not what we’ve been told.”

 “The full, unvarnished truth rarely is,” Gura said softly. “The truth is messy. It’s complicated. It doesn’t fit neatly into a soundbite or a history textbook designed to shape public perception. But the numbers, Fauna. They don’t lie. They’re the purest form of objective reality we have.”

 “And what happens when people learn this truth?” Fauna asked, her voice laced with a mixture of fear and wonder.

 Gura shrugged, a faint smile touching her lips. “Chaos, at first. Outrage. Disbelief. The comfortable lies will fight back, fiercely. But then… freedom. Freedom from manipulation. Freedom to see the world as it truly is, not as they want us to see it. Freedom to understand the real mechanisms of power, the real history, the real forces shaping our lives.”

 She stood, walking to the window, pressing her hand against the cool glass. The rain had begun to subside, the wind’s fury softening to a mournful sigh. “The truth, Fauna, is like a deep ocean current. It moves slowly, inexorably, beneath the surface. It might be hidden by the waves and storms of manufactured narratives, but it’s always there, shaping the world. And eventually, it surfaces.”

 Fauna rose too, walking to stand beside her, her shoulder brushing Gura’s. “And what will you do with this truth, Gura?”

 Gura turned, her eyes shining with an adventurous glint that belied the solemnity of their conversation. “Share it. Plant the seeds. Watch them grow. Because once you see the numbers, once you connect the dots, you can’t unsee it. And the more people who see it, the less power the lies have.” She took Fauna’s hand, her grip firm. “It’s not about denying suffering, Fauna. It’s about honoring it by demanding accuracy, by refusing to let a powerful narrative obscure the real lessons, the real culprits, the real mechanisms of control. It’s about setting ourselves free, one mathematical impossibility at a time.”

 Fauna squeezed Gura’s hand, a slow, determined nod. The rain had stopped. A sliver of moonlight pierced the clouds, illuminating the dripping leaves outside. The forest, washed clean by the storm, seemed to breathe a fresh, profound silence. The truth, Gura knew, would always find its way to the surface, like a shark breaching the waves, ready to claim its own. And they, together, would be there to witness it.