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I'M IIIIIIIIIIIIN Gimme a flash rule, coach
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Jul 29, 2022 21:11
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Spectacle. (1,380 words) Snap. Payyat snapped fingers before Chaluc's face, grinning. "Chaluc! You sleep no longer! Attention!" Chaluc massaged his temples. Weeks ago he was awakened from voidsleep; his people’s colony long ago thrown off-course, he was told, with the promised land never to be seen. The descendants of the original crew scavenged and built, and with waning knowledge and growing need every generation until all they knew was the hunger and rust of the failing present and the low keening of entropy. Other voidsleepers were awakened, judged for usefulness, discarded if found wanting, with the fortunate given to the starry black, outsuit-clad and shown a final splendor before the sleeping-drug in their air supply made them breathe their last. Chaluc was not a lucky one. He was strong and quick, but he did not understand the old machines when questioned, and was without use. Strong backs they had in excess and only those with old knowledge were allowed to remain among them. Payyat licked his lips and offered a hesitant smile. He was small and bent, but there was a sharpness to his speech which suggested his thinking was equally quick. "I truthtell you: win games for me, I caretake you. I make profit from risk as one makes food from gardens." Chaluc did could not speak the new tongue well, but he thought he understood. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he replied. "I know few games. What do I play?" "Sport-of-ancients! Spectacle!" The little man clapped, bracelets of nuts strung with wire clattering with joy when his palms met. "Old game, older than Home! You get rectangle field, yeah? Bar in middle divides, each side has team-of-three." He held a sphere woven of plastic tubing and set with subtly shifting lights within; a small, pretty thing. He held it like an idol. "Backman kicks takraw over bar, threemen other side cannot let takraw groundtouch. Kick into air, groundtouch otherside inside rectangle. Threemen turntake kicks 'til twenty-and-one groundtouches; best-of-three wins, though third only need ten-and-one groundtouches. Also! Cannot handtouch takraw, or groundtouch outside rectangle! Else other team scores." Chaluc never heard of Spectacle, but the rules felt... familiar. "Can I first practice?" Payyak laughed. "Yes! I caretake you 'til you learn. Our team wins? I caretake you 'til we earn free. You lose?" His tone grew somber, and for the first time doubt crept into his words. "I plead you gentle: do not lose!" *** Weeks passed. Chaluc saw others awakened, judged, put to use. Chaluc trained hard with the others; if Payyat's team won, they would be given better rations and greater comforts owed to those who distinguished themselves as skilled players. Failure would be disaster, unspeakable and final. The sport in motion was indeed a Spectacle. Payyak hadn't mentioned the court had lowered gravity, nor the floating panels skilled players could rebound the takraw, or even themselves. Chaluc's memories pre-voidsleep were steam; scalding, intangible. Yet his body remembered kicking, leaping, running; that had to suffice. The Overseer of the Subdeck stood briefly, tattooed hand raised. His clothing was finer than most, likely taken from the belongings of one who was awakened and found wanting, but his speech and appearance and overall health marked him as one of the descendants; they were careful only to awaken sleepers when needed, so they remained the majority. “Today we see Spectacle! They shall dance air-legged and star-born; today will see them prove life-worth, be given to the starry black, or made into nourishing gardens." "I worked farmbeds, took care of gardens. Food grows best from the living; they support growth far longer and produce greater bounty," Payyak had explained. He would not speak further. He did not need to. The six took their places, with Chaluc taking the place on the circle, takraw in hand. He lifted it before him and let it drift downward, his leg a cobra. Snap. The takraw ricocheted from a panel to his right, then to one above, spinning toward the ground. The other team's striker hurled himself to the ground, drifting, spinning until the takraw made contact with his toe, flying off right into one of the panels behind Chaluc, and he turned to see it hurtle toward his face. Hands rose to block it, then swiftly moved away as realization dawned, but too late: he had smacked the takraw to the ground. "Point to Jyurda-team!" the Overseer shouted. Trading blow for blow, players leapt and spun, bending bodies and the laws of motion and momentum to near-breaking. Drugs in their water between rounds made them forget pain and weariness; they would either save their hurts for later, or never feel them again. "Payyak- and Jyurda-teams both at ten points! Next groundtouch is last!" Chaluc waited, pain and exhaustion alchemized into focus, drugged blood singing in his ears. Snap. The takraw fired up to the panel above and rebounded toward the ground. Chaluc's teammates took to the air, kicks missing by millimeters. Would he dream among stars, or become a garden? Chaluc raised his foot as reality slowed to a crawl. The takraw spun ever closer, spinning through space like a world untethered from orbit. Snap. Chaluc's foot connected, firing the takraw forward. The other team leapt for it and missed, and it rebounded off another panel on a trajectory toward the ground. "You shall stardance, sleeper!" screamed the blood-eyed striker of the other team as he kicked off a nearby panel and spiked the takraw downward with a broken leg. Snap. Chaluc took aim, leg arching, kicking outward... ...only for the takraw to brush his ankle on its way to the ground. It hit soundlessly, but Chaluc was still deafened by the pounding in his ears. "To the farmbeds with you, Payyak!" Jyurda bellowed, laughing. He was big and muscular, well-fed and basking in his team’s victory. "Littlelimbed and gutshriveled may you be, you'll grow well for us!" Chaluc collapsed to his knees, numb shock stealing his strength, the first twinges of pain coming to him. The Overseer was making a speech, Payyak was crying out in panic, his teammates – Did they have names? Did he know them? In that instant, Chaluc could not remember -- were fighting against their captors until beaten into silence. Chaluc needed no such treatment; his failure was heavy enough a cudgel. Guards carried Chaluc’s boneless form to the outsuit fitting room, and he thought of the star-littered field of black beyond the airlock. There were no windows to show the outside of the colony vessel, but he could imagine the void outside well enough. Trickles of memory flowed from blocked channels as seeing the familiar surroundings wiped away more of the voidsleep sickness: classes in engineering, a proud family left behind, the promise of an unspoiled world to cultivate. As one of the chosen he was to sleep until the journey concluded and be among those to build the future, while the lesser-skilled were to stay awake and alert to maintain the ship on its AI-directed journey. But he and the others had slept too long, something had gone awry. They were adrift. The suit was sealed about him, clasps welded closed. The helmet locked about his head, and a soft feminine voice warned that his oxygen supply was compromised by an unidentified chemical agent. He whispered to the outsuit’s systems to disable the alarm; he was aware of the drug added to his oxygen. It would make his passing more pleasant, he knew. It would make the vista of space all the more… breathtaking. He didn’t know if it was the drug or the realization that the worst had come to pass, but he no longer feared the end; the world he left behind was long-gone, as was his family. The world he was to see he would never see; minute errors in navigation had added up through the decades – or was it centuries? -- and no man could manually pilot the ship over the mind-defying distances even if it was possible to gauge where navigation had failed. It was fitting. From sleep Chaluc had come, and to sleep Charles Lucas would return. He owed nothing, was owed nothing; there was nothing further to be offered. He had given his all, and he was satisfied.
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Jul 31, 2022 03:27
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In! I'm a basic vanilla babby bitch who got confused by the extra stuff, so just gimme the basic prompt, pozz my neg hole with some subjects, and finish it off with a flash rule, please and thank you.
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Aug 2, 2022 05:40
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I'm IN, and since I am both indecisive and absolutely turgid for the idea of being made to conform, I am pleading to BE ASSIGNED A FACTION.
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Aug 9, 2022 05:38
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They’re all alike, yeah? 2000 words maximum, 1948 words used Thunder rolled, giving the more paranoid inhabitants doubt about the sturdiness of their chosen homes as they shook in the storm. The sound reminded them of the ancient, but deadly weapons of the chia and the scalvs, who even now fought along the nearby border to the wastes beyond. “Quiver-quake shiver-shake, you all worry too much,” chuckled Lagochi as he wafted steam from the pot of soup boiling on the stove. He smiled at the waifish, heavily garbed woman sitting at the terminal. “You should be happy. Wet months’re sloshing in. Maybe it’ll rain so much you can swim off the balcony.” The woman briefly pulled down her hood and stared at Lagochi with pitch-black eyes, her skin glistening from the harsh light of the terminal screen. “Can’t swim. Never been near water in my life. You should know. Father was from Sunken Hope; I was born dry.” “Dry, really? Such a shame. Perhaps I can fix that for you again when we get a little privacy.” “Children, please,” said an older gentleman sitting on threadbare sofa as he scratched at a deep, old scar on the left side of his head, stretching from his temple to just behind his ear. “It’s been a long day.” The quaver to his tone implied he’d had more long days than he should have. “Same length as always, Doc,” Lagochi said, smiling brightly. He took a taste of the soup and smacked his lips, then he sprinkled in some more soy-based protein thickener – fine enough flavor, too watery. He had to stretch his rations better – the supply council had yet to approve his “guests” despite the good they were doing. The elder was an old sympo named Cilphas who had been earning his keep tending to the wounds of the tower guardsmen, and Tueni, the fishbelly woman, had been hard at work fixing the network infrastructure of the tower. “Food’ll be ready in a few ticks.” “Is there bread?” Tueni turned to Lagochi. “We had some last week. I liked it. Took my mind off dealing with network interference. Still can’t find the cause.” “Affirm-affirm,” he replied. They’d already used his bread ration, but he did a little wheeling and dealing for some more. Always a lonely person in need of ten or fifteen minutes of privacy with a pretty-pretty like Lagochi, and Lagochi was eager to please. “I call it Lagoloaf – soft, warm, fresh, sweet. Melts in your mouth.” He winked at Tueni, who smiled shyly back with a staccato giggle. For a moment Cilphas seemed comforted by the chatter, but a sharp chirrup from a battered device at his side made him snatch it up with a curse. “Gods-cursed fools!” he spat, getting to is feet and reaching for his cane. He looked to his companions with a sigh. “Please save me some for later, will you? The fighting’s started again.” Tueni curled in on herself, wrapping her heavy clothes tighter. Lagochi turned the heat down on the stove and went to sit by her, murmuring comfortingly, then he looked back up at Cilphas as he grabbed his reinforced coat. “Who’s scuffling?” “Bloody-damned everyone,” Cilphas snarled. “The barbarians we like are fighting the barbarians we don’t like, and for some imbecilic reason our guards decided to back them up. Senseless!” He rubbed his scar again. “So they need skilled hands?” Lagochi asked. “Seems like steady hands’d be better; yours shake like a scalv going cold off his sniff.” “You’ve not slept. Barely eaten.” Tueni peeked up from under her hood, black eyes catching the light so they shone mirror-like. “You’ll be of little use.” “If that little use keeps even one fool from departing this Verse then I cannot back down.” He put on his broad, threadbare hat, still damp from before. “I’ll be back soon, I hope.” Lagochi stood, fingers tracing over Tueni’s back as he rose. “We’ll be back soon, I hope. Your hopes are soapsuds; shiny, fragile, bitter-tasting.” He put on his own coat. “Lead on! The soup is getting cold, and if we take too long, Tueni’ll bathe in it!” “You’d still drink it,” Tueni teased. “I would,” Lagochi purred. *** “’Bout time y’showed,” said the grime-covered, leather-capped scalv waiting for them before the med-tent. “In the time it took for you to hobble your bodi backside down this way three o’my brothers changed from fighters to cooling meat.” Cilphas swallowed heavily, and when he replied his voice shook with anger or sorrow, Lagochi couldn’t tell. “I just got your message, Paulgan. I was given to understand the militamen had pulled back-” “’Twas a gods-damned feint!” the scalv shouted. He calmed himself, but the tension in his voice vibrated like a guitar-string. “These ain’t reg’lar chiafolk. They fight an’ bluster for a while an’ then they go home to frolic and boast an’ touch dicks. But these arse-stretchers? They fight dirty – real dirty. Make like they’re gonna put up for the night, set up tents and cook-fires… and when we settled down t’rest, they sent in some fresh, drugged-up cockbiters.” He shuddered. “Mostly kids.” “Let me see the casualties,” Cilphas said, his voice switching from his aged quaver to clipped, almost mechanical sharpness. “Have your men ensure I have supplies to work with-” Paulgan gestured at Lagochi. “Who’s the lady? Don’t see no weapons on her.” Lagochi smiled charmingly and gestured, a net-stripped Bodian South-North Alternating Polarizer railpistol – a SNAPgun – slipping to his hand like magic. “Impressively wrong!” He spun the pistol and it disappeared up his sleeve again. “But before we slink within to do us a medicine or three, according to the message Doc received the casualties resulted from, oh, what were your words, Doc? “The barbarians we like fighting the barbarians we don’t like,” and then something about us Khosaboys backing them up? This situation has a taste I’m familiar with.” He leaned in and smiled bawdily. “It’s fishy.” “You call me liar, fuckboy?” Paulgan said, his voice terrifyingly calm. Lagochi put his hand over his heart. “Gods’ graves, I’d never do such a thing! But I do admit to some healthy skepticism. Tell me, if we go inside that tent, will we see a pile of groaning wounded, or some fresh’n’ready rough’n’tumble assassins ready to read us some Divine Poetry?” “Quit being a child!” hissed Cilphas, rapping his cane on the cracked concrete. “There may be men dying in there-” “Apropos of nothing, I did my rounds to earn my bread earlier today, and one of my very close, very anonymous friends happened to be a retired guardsman: a lonely young fellow too injured to fight anymore and thus rewarded with generous supplies of food and drink delivered daily. While we talked – well, while he talked, he was pleasantly chatty and I had my mouth full – he told me how he keeps his ear to the ground and his finger on the pulse. He fed me freshly baked stories of brave folks standing with curiously civilized scalvs against even more curiously violent chias, and that, somehow, it was mostly Khosaluans getting bullet-bit. He figured it was because we’re not used to battle, not like the ‘barbarians of the wastes’ people tell stories of.” Paulgan laughed and spat. “I’d bet a barrel of silk-cut sniff that it’d take a score or more of you tower-dwellers to take down one of my people.” He fingered the heavy rifle in his arms and glared at them both. “Probably, probably,” Lagochi said, cutting of Cilphas’s increasingly frustrated sputtering. “But to be honest, it really depends on the tribe or clan. Which one are you from?” “It doesn’t matter, outsider! All scalvs are born to fight! We’re bleeding on the battlefield to protect you lot as you hide fat and lazy in the mausoleums of your grandfathers!” Lagochi froze, then nodded somberly, expression crestfallen, and Paulgan smirked at having put the effeminate Khosaluan in his place. “Gods’ graves,” Lagochi said softly. He looked over Paulgan – the man wore sparse leathers and bits of scavenged metal worked into something like armor, though it left little to the imagination. He had his gun, a pair of knives, and some belts of ammunition. Lagochi turned his gaze to Cilphas. “So it was Paulgan here who sent you the message?” “Yes,” Cilphas said through gritted teeth, color rising to his cheeks in annoyance. “Now if we can please get to work before more men die-” “In that tent over there?” Lagochi said, gesturing to the large tent. Paulgan inclined his head to the right, taking his eyes off them to look to the tent in question. “Yes, you soft-headed little idiot, now let’s-” Lagochi’s arm shot up and without a word the Bodian SNAPgun was in his hand, and Cilphas’s cry of warning was drowned out by the two sharp cracks of gunfire, magnetically propelled metal slivers unerringly striking their target: the left side of Paulgan’s head. Cilphas screamed and fell to his knees beside the man and tore off his leather cap, desperately, hopelessly probing the wound. “What have you done? What have you done?!” “Look deeper; the answer lies within,” Lagochi said, his usual light tone iron-firm. “Does he have one of those handy little messaging gadgets? How did he send you the message?” Sure enough, Cilphas saw the faint, sputtering glow of damaged circuitry amidst the ruin of the man’s face. Strips of silver so thin his aged eyes nearly missed them digging deeper into the head. His bloodied fingers absently reached up to the side of his own head, where his own neural implant had been before he abandoned the Abodes so long ago. He looked up at Lagochi, unable to spit out a coherent sentence. “We need to warn the rest. This conflict isn’t the result of scalvs and chia squabbling on our border – I’m willing to bet a half hour on my knees that this is Cedar’s work, or maybe even Kelp.” “The Abodes? How did you guess?” Cilphas got to his feet and leaned heavily on his cane, then followed Lagochi at a surprisingly brisk hobble. “It’s not the first time the Bodians tried something like this. The AI that runs them wants this place bad – lots of resources and easily recycled goods and materials, and more than that, countless free-thinkers to… civilize. The server always needs more sticks of RAM, Doc.” Lagochi smiled grimly. “But they can’t be so overt. They can’t send their own men against us, not openly, but nobody’d question if barbarians started barbarianing up the place, yes? Make things hostile and hard enough and people’ll bend over backwards to suckle at the Bodian teat. But they’re sloppy, Doc.” As they neared the entry to the tower, they heard the sound of voices grow louder, angrier. “They don’t think of the scalvs and chia as populations made of independent groups – they don’t understand individuality. No scalv would willingly call himself a scalv, and while they’re not so keen on spilling the beans about their clans, autonomy is their prime directive – they are not a monolith.” They got in one of the functioning SNAP elevators and Lagochi leaned against the wall. “Tueni – that brilliant, beautiful, slippery little lady! – discovered the same interference that knocked out our network infrastructure all those years ago. We’re getting things fixed, and that bodes poorly for the Bodians and their schemes.” “What do we do?” Cilphas whispered, his voice rich with dreadful memories of the wrath of the Abodes. Lagochi gently embraced the trembling old doctor. “As we always have, Dr. Cilphas: we live our lives, we take things one at a time, we do what’s needed, and most importantly, we be there for each other.”
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Aug 14, 2022 01:57
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PhantomMuzzles posted:CRITS! I was originally gonna message you to thank you for the kind and thoughtful crit, but you don't have messages so I'm gonna spam the thread by telling you I appreciated it so much! And that goes to everyone else who read my garbage! I know my stuff is trite and unimaginative and bad, but I'm trying to improve and you've all been so helpful!
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Aug 17, 2022 21:12
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poo poo, I meant to say I was IN in the last post as well. But editing is illegal. 
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Aug 17, 2022 21:13
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In Norway editing photos without attaching a note is illegal Paper Trail 1200 words max, 1185 words used I miss my brother Erik, so it hurt to learn I was an only child. Our hometown of Reine is small and remote, but my family was always quite well-off; my father had a talent for investment and unaccountably good fortune when it came to canceling debt. “Anders, the trick to making money,” my father often told me, “is to never spend it. Use other people’s resources. Never use yours unless you don’t have a choice.” My father’s a shrewd man despite his age; his memory is perfect, able to recall to the last word anything said in his presence. Every December 26th, when our extended family gathered to eat the leftovers from the more private Christmas celebration the day prior, my father would often stand and recite A Christmas Carol in its entirety. More impressive was his artistic skill; give him pen and paper, and within hours he could draw anything from memory with photographic fidelity. His prowess didn’t end there; long ago, the editing of photographs was done manually with airbrush and ink, or through clever darkroom tricks. Despite our wealth, father often had a side business of restoring old documents and photos, and he would sit quietly for hours and hours at his work, enjoyment clear on his aged features. He used to teach Erik his trade; I remember the pride in his voice when Erik had done an especially good job on a photo. Now father uses a computer for his work, and when asked about Erik, he always answers with annoyance and confusion, “Anders, you’re my only son.” When I showed him the framed works made by Erik, he just sighed and claimed they were his. Mother had been gone for a long time. One night she’d left to spend time with her friends, and that was the last I’d heard of her. Father had taken her disappearance with stride; he claimed they’d drifted too far apart, and if she wished to make her own way then it was her choice and he wouldn’t force her to stay. When I’d asked why she never tried to reach out to me, father had an explanation for that too. “Some women,” father had said after a long and weary sigh, “are just made different. When they leave they’re essentially erased from the picture.” I stopped asking about my mother and brother after that; it was clear I would be given no satisfying end, and so I did my own research. I scoured the library’s genealogical archives and the internet. Days of digging and searching, every lead turned into a dead end. I looked up aunts, uncles, cousins – every name had come up blank. I thought back to those perfect Christmases where family would come and feast, but the details had become indistinct. Faces blurred, events were vague, even the names which had been so clear became smoke in the wind. No longer could I tolerate the confusion. If my brother were here, he would have thrown open the door to father’s office, marched inside, and demanded to know just what the hell was going on. As I stood there at the office door, I was acutely aware of how I lacked my brother’s strength. I timidly knocked at my father’s door like a child going to be scolded. After several moments, my father called me inside. Strewn across the desk were photos and documents in peculiarly disorganized piles. Father himself looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Deep bags under dull eyes, features pale and wan, but his voice was commanding as ever. “Anders,” he said. “I know why you’ve come. I presume you have questions?” “Father, so many things don’t make sense,” I said. “I went to the library earlier. Our family has lived here for generations, yes?” “As you have been told,” father said, tired eyes boring into mine. “There was nothing there about us. Genealogical records for some of the families in town stretching back decades, but nothing for us.” Father said nothing. “I went online and looked. Nothing there, either.” He continued to watch me impassively. “I looked up your name. Emil Hansen. I got many results, but your name is a common one, and I didn’t find anything about you, specifically.” “Is there a point?” “My brother, my mother, our family – I can’t find any of them!” I blinked as as tears filled my eyes and I leaned over the desk to plea. “Am I losing my mind?!” His expression softened, and the tired annoyance in his tone had shifted to pity. “Sit down, son.” I did, grateful for the chance as my legs could scarcely support my weight. He cleared his throat and leaned over the desk to look me in the eye, unblinking. “There was once a man who had nothing but his hands, his eyes, and his thoughts. He was a clever, skilled, gifted. But he was greedy as well.” I stared, uncomprehending. “What are you talking about?” “Let me finish my story, son,” he said. He cleared his throat. “When honest work failed to give the man the riches and comfort he sought, the man used his talents to tip things in his favor. He re-wrote contracts, he altered evidence, he learned to twist letters and images in ways to fool men and god alike-” “Father, I don’t want to hear a fairy tale,” I said, anger sparking up hot and white at the base of my skull. “I want you to tell me what’s happening!” He sighed, then he took a piece of paper and a pen, and in an elegant, flowing hand he wrote something, but before I could read it he snatched it away and set it inside a folio. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but I could tell he had more he wanted to say, and so I decided to let him say his piece. “But in time, all debts become due. You may defer them, trade and alter them, but eventually you must pay them. And so the man paid his debts until all he had left was his youngest son.” He picked up a framed photo of him and I at Rondane National Park and looked at it sadly before pulling the back off of it and removing the picture. “What are you doing?” I asked. “The old man had one last debt to pay,” father said as he picked up his latest work. It was nearly identical to the one he’d set aside, but instead of depicting a smiling man and his young son, it showed only the man, stone-faced and alone. Father set it in the frame. “A man must choose between himself and those he cares about.” He lit a match and set the picture of the man and his child aflame, and I fell back in my seat, shuddering, numb, my ears filled with a growing roar. “I’ve broken too many laws. A payment must be made if I am to live. I’ve made the edits, written the accompanying notes; I pray this will be enough. Forgive me, son.”
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Aug 21, 2022 11:03
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Interprompt: tell me a good joke. "What do you mean you can't go yet?" asked the robed figure. "It's not like you didn't have a good run of it." "I barely had any time!" cried the young man, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked down at his body on the floor, pale and bloodless, jaw hanging slack. A fly rested on his eyeball and cleaned its mouthparts with insectile contempt. "Barely had any time to do what? Basil, you had your entire life, surely you could have gotten something accomplished." The robed figure idly ran its sleeve over the blade of its scythe, polishing it until it glistened with a mirror sheen. "You're already privileged, y'know. Not too many folks get their own personal psychopomp to lead them to the Lands Beyond." "I'd rather stay in the Lands Right Here, if it's all the same to you," Basil said crossing his arms. The figure regarded him, and though there was no face under that hood Basil could almost feel the eyeless gaze wash over him like a wave of cold water. "Fine. Tell me a joke, any joke, and if I laugh, I'll let you stay. Deal?" Basil's eyes widened. "Really?" "Really-really. My line of work is a grim one, so a chuckle would go a long way to making my day. But," the reaper's voice went chill, "if it's not funny, then we're heading off without another protest. Understand?" Basil nodded dumbly. He knew he wasn't funny -- the closest he'd ever gotten to a laugh was when his girlfriend had shot him and he soiled himself as he bled out. Be didn't think it was funny, but she certainly seemed to enjoy it. He shook himself. "Okay. A joke. Hmm." He cleared his throat. "Why didn't the skele-" "Don't even think about telling that one, I've heard it before and it wasn't funny then and it didn't get any funnier since." drat. drat. drat. "Alright then," Basil said, ethereal palms clammy with phantasmal sweat. "Three moles are waking up after a long hibernation-" "Do moles hibernate?" the figure asked, hood tilted. "What? How should I know, I'm not a mole-ologist! Can I tell my joke?" "Yes, sorry." The reaper tapped the bottom of his scythe on the kitchen floor. "A bit disrespectful to moles to make scientifically inaccurate jokes about them, though." Basil hissed a breath through his teeth. "Fine. Three moles wake up after a good night's sleep-" "Pretty sure moles are nocturnal." "THREE MOLES WAKE UP AFTER A GODDAMN NAP," Basil shouted, left eye twitching. He paused. "Objections?!" "Nope, continue." "Thank you," Basil hissed. He cleared his throat. "The first mole sticks his head aboveground and sniffs about. 'Smells like honeysuckle!' he says. The second mole sticks his head up through the hole and says, 'Smells like daisies!'" The reaper nods. "And the third?" "The third mole, stuck behind the other two, just harumphs. 'All's I smell is molassas.'" For many long moments the reaper and Basil silently regarded one another, until the reaper suddenly burst into raucous, uproarious laughter. "Okay, okay! I give! You can stay! This is the funniest thing I've heard in ages!" The reaper snorted and shook as he tried to maintain his composure and failed miserably. "What? Really?" Basil brightened. "So I can live again?" "Who said anything about living again? I just said you can stay, and you just went for it. Most folk'd be pleased to leave their rotting carcasses behind to go to paradise, but you not only refused paradise, but you did it by telling me a joke so old it was probably found on a loving cave wall next to handprints and stick figures dancing around a buffalo carcass." The reaoer chuckled. "That is comedy gold." "Is it too late to change my mind?" Basil asked. "Of course not!" The reaper said magnanimously. "Tell me another joke funnier than the first, and we'll head straight onto the eternity of buxom women, rivers of milk and honey, and gold-paved roads and whatnot. I'm a fair old geezer that way." Basil let out a breath of relief, then began a other joke. "Why did the first skeleton have a grudge against the second? Because he had a bone to pick with-" "For gently caress's sake," the reaper sighed, disappearing in a puff of annoyed smoke, leaving Basil alone with his own corpse for company.
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Aug 22, 2022 22:55
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In, and for a stunning twist, I am requesting a flashrule!
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Aug 23, 2022 21:32
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Out-of-left-field twist, with running through the gates and into taxis Asphalt Shuffle 1500 words max, 1499 words used Gunshot to the mouth. The secretary screamed and went to the ladies’ room. Three lines and a text message later, she was loving out of there. Out the ladies’ room, through a hallway filled with empty suits, down a flight of stairs two steps at a time, through front lobby manned by a doughnut-gut, she was loving gone, bye-bye. Blood screaming in his ears as she tore down the sidewalk, sneaks smack-smack-smacking on the sidewalk, people making way like she was goddamn Moses. Ramses in his chariot wasn’t far behind, either. His army followed. The phone rang. She answered it with a calm, breathless “Yo.” “Don’t you ‘yo’ me, Frankie! You got it or not?” Jack’s voice could steam broccoli. “Yes.” Woman was popsicles even as she wiped a trickle of blood. Jack sounded calmer. “Good. You know the way?” “Yes.” “A’ight.” Pause. “You got a tail?” Frankie looked behind her. “Yes.” Jack fumed. “gently caress me! Fine, you’re lucky I like you. Go down fourth street, I’ll have a man waiting for you in a taxi.” Sirens, shouts, mayhem. The crowded streets were an aegis, a labyrinth, a means of passage. “Stop! Stop in the name of the-” “We have you surrounded-” “Freeze, motherfu-” Stock lines from stock men, the blue wall rose to meet here and she vaulted over it, legs pumping like candy-powered pistons. She was flying, she was above them all, lifted on the purest of white wings. The fourth street lay before her, a signpost proclaiming entry to the promised land. A yellow car glittered in the afternoon sun, a beacon of freedom waiting to take her home. “We told you to freeze, bitch,” said one cop as he reached for his gun. The other next to him did the same. The crowd was large, but none of that mattered, those people didn’t matter, because they weren’t in suits and they didn’t pay the budget. Frankie’s world slowed as Laplace’s Demon carefully pointed out the design. See those cops? They have their safeties on, their reaction time is gonna be slow. See the folks around? Cover. Even if they shoot, they’ll have a hard time hitting you – you’re little, you’re small, you had a taste of candy. You run between them, baby. You can trip them up, get in the taxi, and haul rear end. “Pardon me,” she spat as she crashed between the cops, pushing them aside like the gates to paradise even as they fumbled with their guns. A bullet went off. Did it hit someone? Who the gently caress cares, that was behind her, that was Mesozoic. The future was before here, and it was yellow. The cab sped toward her with a banshee wail. Even the candy in her veins couldn’t save her from two tons of metal, couldn’t save her from the grinning rear end in a top hat behind the wheel. Metal slapped meat, the meat experienced antigravity. It flew through the air toward the cops, spattering them with red. The corpse hit the ground rolling, shedding cloth and skin until the remains came to a stop. Passenger secured. *** “lovely way to pick me up,” said the driver after she adjusted to the change. She looked down at her new body and curled her lip. This one didn’t have the three lines of candy to perk her up, and the weight of her mortality made her shoulders slump. Was that a hangover? She would have taken a knife to the ribs for a nap, but she needed to focus. She had her cargo to carry, and it slipped further from of her grip with every passing moment. She backed away from the scene of the crime and rolled through the city. Sirens followed her, but the new memories told her how to get through; plenty of alleys just large enough to squeeze through. Muscle-memory didn’t fail her as she let the hind-brain do the heavy lifting of the drive. She came to a stop at the pier’s outskirts, then ran her large, ungainly form between the shipping crates, stopping only when she reached the warehouse to let out the breath she’d been holding the while. She slipped inside, and Jack was waiting. “Since you’re alone,” he said with a sigh, cigarette hanging limply from his lip, “I assume Aaron misunderstood the nature of your gift.” “You assume right,” Frankie said. She looked down at her borrowed flesh, shuddering. It stank. Its mouth tasted like alcohol, its teeth had never known the decadent joy of a toothbrush. “He was a prick anyway, good driver or not.” Jack gestured toward Frankie. “You get it?” She nodded. “Picked the CEO’s brains clean, then ran off in his secretary. She had some candy on her, so that gave me enough pickup to make it out.” She looked at her scarred, meaty hands and shuddered. “I need my own body back.” “It’s in the freezer,” Jack said. “But I know how stolen memories fade after enough swaps, so you’re gonna sit down and get what we need, or else you’re gonna have to get real comfy inside Aaron. Catch me?” “Caught.” She spat onto the floor of the warehouse and shuddered. “This is the last one though, right?” “For now,” Jack said as he set up a laptop on a nearby desk. “I want you to log into the company system and make the appropriate changes. I know CEO whatshisname had his hands in every jar, so I want you to log in and snag some cookies for me.” “I know enough about computers to know how lovely your joke is,” Frankie said as she sat at the desk, grunting as too-large fingers worked over the keyboard. Jack watched as Frankie dug through the systems, copying encrypted data to their own drive, using the CEO’s personal permissions to bypass all obstacles. “If I’d have known it was this easy,” Frankie muttered under her breath as she finished her work, “I wouldn’t have bothered.” “I needed him dead, too,” Jack said. “Needed that more than anything, actually, but with this we actually get something out of it.” “You get something out of it, you mean,” Frankie said as she stood up and popped her back. “I get the pleasure of being your immortal body-snatcher.” “Come on, don’t be that way. You’re getting your body back, and some money on top of it,” Jack said, all smiles. “When am I getting it?” Frankie crossed her arms. “It’s in that refrigeration unit right there,” Jack said, gesturing with a ring-clad hand to the equipment in question. Frankie suddenly grinned. “So you brought my body here, and you sent your only protection – Aaron here – to pick me up?” She looked around, then her grin widened. “Aw, Jack, are you starting to trust me?” Jack clacked his tongue and ran his hand through his immaculate white hair. “O-of course I am, why wouldn’t I? We had a rough start, but we’ve got a good relationship going-” Frankie interrupted him with a repeat performance, wrapping those chapped lips around the barrel of a gun and pulling the trigger. As Aaron’s body slumped to the ground, Jack saw a serpentine mass of spectral energy flow from the twitching corpse of Aaron. Though it lacked eyes, Jack could tell it was staring at him, purposely holding back. He looked at that cloud of ectoplasm with growing terror. “Frankie, if you were that anxious to get your body back, we could have have found a less… painful way to get you out of Aaron, eh?” He attempted a sheepish laugh. “But hey, I don’t blame you, now let’s get you… you…” The ghostly serpent drifted nearer to Jack, and he took a step backward. “Frankie, please, we’ve been through a lot together-” Jack’s plea was cut off with a scream as the serpent struck, wrapping ephemeral coils about him, suffocating what vestigial soul dwelt within that prim-and-proper body. The others she’d let escape – she needed only their flesh and their memories, their spirits were free to pass on. But Jack was too tempting a meal to pass up. *** “Mr. Coriander,” said the secretary as he set the files on the desk, his handsome features shiny with worry. “The… the investors are getting impatient. The deals you promised all those months ago are-” “Sweetie, just call me Jackie,” she said leaning over the desk. “And I’ve already told you those deals are off the table. I’m closing up shop, and if the investors don’t like it then they can take me to court.” “They are threatening to take you to court, sir,” the secretary said. He looked around, then leaned down. “Let them threaten, we’re not doing anything illegal.” She looked up at him. “Now if there’s nothing else, I need to sign these papers, then head off to a prior engagement that I’ve put off for too long.” He looked down at her. “Mr. Corian-er, Jackie, sir?” “Just a project I’ve kept on ice for a few months.”
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Aug 29, 2022 05:36
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In! And open that trenchcoat and flash me!
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Aug 30, 2022 22:46
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Mutation: Touched by an extraplanar deity at birth True Name of the Sun 1500 words maximum, 1496 words used The Sun gazed down upon lifeless, endless plain of dust and bone. That burning, judgmental eye focused on something out of place: a young woman, her clothing shredded, her eyes hollow, her lips cracked and blistered. She stumbled over the dunes, stopping only to take rattling breaths of the still, baking air. Where did she come from? Why is she here? The Sun asked no questions; it merely doled out punishment, one of many uncaring gods. The intruder to that bleached domain could take the lashes no more. She collapsed, and began to cry. Her voice, cracked and mummified as it was, broke the silence. As the crying ceased, another sound intruded; a low rumble, growing louder as a dark shape on the horizon grew larger, resolving itself into a mid-sized van. It came to a stop close to the collapsed woman’s position, and a pair of men covered head-to-toe in protective gear stepped out and looked her over. “They weren’t lying! How did she survive so long out here?” one of them exclaimed as he feverishly reached for the canteen at his waist. “Easy now,” said his companion. “Check her vitals – no use pouring water into a corpse.” “Not… a corpse…” rasped the woman, reaching weakly for the canteen. The first man knelt and carefully trickled water into the woman’s dust-dry mouth, pausing only when she coughed. “Careful now, just little sips to start,” he said. He looked up at his companion. “Get the stretcher, I don’t think she’s going to be able to walk.” “Fair assessment,” said the second man. He opened the back door of the van and pulled out the stretcher, then wheeled it over to the woman, and with a soft apology from the first man they lifted her up and loaded her inside. Doors closed, cool air filled the van like a blessing. The first man squatted beside her on the floor, while the second took the wheel. “My name’s Norman,” he said to the woman as he carefully helped her to drink. “The guy at the wheel’s Eric.” “Charmed,” Eric said as they drove through the seemingly endless waste. “We’re from a research facility not too far from here,” Norman said. “We study the aboveground for new strains of life – we sure didn’t expect to see old one. Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get out there?” “Don’t know,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of its softness now that her throat had been lubricated after so long. “Well, I’m just glad we found you,” Norman said as he reassuringly patted her arm with his heavily gloved hand. “We’re gonna get you back to the facility, get some IV fluids in you, and get you right as rain! Right, Eric?” “...the hell is rain?” Norman turned his covered head to Eric. “Water falling from the sky! Used to happen all the time before Contact. C’mon, you’ve heard of it from history books and movies-” “I’m loving with you, I know what rain is! Nothing right about it, though – not out here. Maybe further north…” Eric shrugged even as he guided the van across the endless white expanse. Norman muttered, then he turned his head back to the woman. “Can you remember anything? Your name, at least?” The woman paused, brow furrowed. “Mary Aquila.” “I’m no psychiatrist, but you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia,” Norman said. “We’ll worry about how you got out there and where you’re from after we get you back on your feet. How’re you feeling now?” “Like I could use another drink,” Mary said, literally cracking a smile as he dried lip started bleeding again. Norman chuckled, and helped her take a few more sips of water. *** Mary could barely open her eyes, fatigue and dust having crusted them closed, but she saw she was laying in a hospital bed, her ruined clothes replaced with a paper gown. The last bit made her flush a bit with embarrassment, but she also noted her burns and bruises and blisters had been bandaged, her skin covered with soothing ointment, and the worst of her pain replaced by a stiffness in her arms where the IV’s had been stuck in. She was laying in a small, comfortable, windowless room. Next to her bed was a plastic table and garbage can. Across the room was a chair, and beside it a door to a bathroom. Hanging from the ceiling was a monitor, which was currently blank. “Finally awake, are we?” The masked visage of Norman poked in from the opening door, and he walked inside and sat in the chair. “I hope you don’t mind, but when you fell asleep I gave you a little shot to keep you that way because you needed the rest. We help when we can. At least when it’s part of our job.” He said the last part with audible regret, then he perked up. “But you look a lot better! How’re you feeling?” “Groggy, mostly.” She blinked and shook her head, looking down at her hands, weakly raised before her. Deep earth-toned skin, blistered and bandaged, her lighter palms scraped and scarred from crawling over sharpened stones and bone splinters. “But not in much pain.” “Good, I was worried about that,” Norman said. He stood and stretched. “Eric and I do a lot of work aboveground, so we see a lot of situations where we’re not allowed to intervene, only observe. But you? You’re an oddity. A small miracle, if you ask me, although don’t tell anyone I said that – talk of miracles and faith and all that is looked down upon here since Contact.” “’Contact?’” She couldn’t see Norman’s face through that heavy mask, but she could hear the confusion in his voice. “How could you not know about Contact? I know you must have gone through a lot, but…” He trailed off. “If you’ll allow me to explain?” A new voice, older and firmer cut in as the door opened. In walked in another fellow, covered in gear similar to Norman’s, but lighter in both color and weight – white and powder-blue as opposed to Norman’s black-and-green outfit. “My name is Dr. Marvin Hartford. I’m the head neobiologist of this facility.” “What’s a neobiologist?” Mary asked of the newcomer. “A field of study where the focus is on the new life-forms that have come about either via mutation of extant forms of life or spontaneous generation, both originating from the influence of xeno-deific entities attracted during Contact.” Hartford examined Mary as she lay there in much the same way she assumed he would a new specimen. “Many years ago, before we awoke the Sun’s dormant consciousness, mankind sought intelligent life beyond our own. “For centuries we relied on faith, then science, but it wasn’t until we formulated an algorithm to decode the seemingly random radiowaves transmitted by the Sun did we learn its true name, and when we called… it told us the answers to our every question and more, taught us how to part the veil and of the other beings like itself that dwell there.” “What are you talking about?” Mary asked, dumbfounded. “Are you playing with me? I’m grateful for your aid, but this is absurd.” Hartford ignored her protest. “When we established contact with the Sun, the government took precautions. Among those precautions were to estabish shelters where people could survive should things take a turn for the worse… and they did. The Sun is a terrible, jealous being, and when we used our knowledge to call other beings to us, and when they changed us to to suit their whims-” Mary struggled to sit up, but the drugs and her own weakened state made that impossible. “Dr. Hartford, I don’t want to hear any more of this.” “Doc, you’re upsetting her,” Norman said, his tone respectful, but firm. “We can tell her more when she’s recovered.” “I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of patience,” Hartford said, his tone oddly giddy as he turned to face Norman. “Don’t you see? We have a sample of the old blood, untouched by the changes! And what’s more, she is female! Breeding stock to create more baselines, to defy the invaders and to reclaim what was taken from us!” “Breeding stock?!” Mary shouted fighting to sit up only to realize that beneath the light, comfortable covers she had been ever-so-gently strapped into the bed. “Who the hell do you think you are? Let me go! Let me go, goddamn you!” Hartford nodded to Norman who responded with a defeated sigh. In unison they unbuckled their masks, and Mary screamed in horror at what she saw. “Yes,” said the pallid, writhing thing that called itself Marvin Hartford. It let out a gurgling breath as its incomprehensible features throbbed with grotesque vitality. “It is terrible to look at, isn’t it? Don’t worry, Mary. You don’t need to be conscious to be of use to us.”
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Sep 5, 2022 10:33
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I'd like to apologize for how bad my story was and would like to remove it completely. It originally ended on a more positive note, but I'd gone, like, 1000 words over and thought, "Hey, scary endings are good, right?" and so I amputated the good parts where Norman helped Mary escape. Mea culpa, I will  myself to write a better story for the next challenge.
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Sep 6, 2022 18:16
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Prompt: Himbo! A Little Less Conversation 1100 words max, 1066 words used “See the power I wield?” said Malvec the Light-Bearer, his once-shining plate spattered with blackened blood, his handsome face twisted with perverse glee. “What a fool I was to waste my life in service to a crooked throne and gold-hungry nobles!” A fiend of living spite pulled itself from the vat of roiling black ichor. It was darkness made flesh, its face all the more grotesque for its human features. “You ain’t wrong,” Leblanc said nodding, casually bouncing Mancleaver on his shoulder. He gestured at the freak of rust and shadow poised to strike. “But your criticism rings hollow since you sacrificed innocent people to make… whatever that is.” “Sacrifices must be made for the greater good! You’d realize that had you stayed true to our teachings!” Malvec spat and raised a mailed finger at Leblancand his allies. “You threw away your righteousness to become a sellsword of all things! You misuse your strength for personal gain!” “Mal, I reiterate: you’ve been sacrificing people.” Leblanc pointed to a nearby altar, stained with blood. “Not even metaphorically. There are literal skulls on the ground.” “By the gods, Leblanc, please stop talking and do something,” said Leblanc’s partner, the mage Gimlet. A young woman wielding an axe growled in agreement. “He’s too far gone – the ritual’s complete! We need to take him now!” “Can I have a minute?” Leblanc said with a sheepish smile as he rain a thick, scarred hand hand through his shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. “Friends’re impatient.” “By all mean, say your farewells,” Malvec said with an imperious wave. He gestured toward his creature with a smile too wide, too savage to belong to a sane man. “Every moment the beast hunger further for the blood of sinners – he shall feast well this night!” “Thanks!” Leblanc said with a cheery thumbs-up before turning to face his companions. He waved an admonishing finger at his daughter. “Elly, what’ve I told you about deescalation? You’d be surprised at how much can be averted by having a dialogue!” “He’s got a pet demon!” Gimlet shouted, pointing his staff at the slavering horror. “You’re right! That tells me he’s not in his right mind. Do sane people sacrifice folks and use their remains to create a beast of darkness?” Leblanc shook his head. “Nope. Cry for help if I ever saw one.” “He’s beyond helping!” Elly raised her axe with a cry and charged before being thrown back with with a bolt of shadowy force from Malvec’s outstretched hand. “He’s also got magic,” Leblanc said as he knelt to help her to her feet. “I was trying to give you a moral lesson, but there’s also a practical reason for dialogue.” “See how you pale before me?” He laughed. “This is no demon – it is a nascent god! He is Nabaalak, Eater-of-Sin, named for the wolf that sits at the right hand of Allfather Alden! The Allfather is but a myth, but all shall learn His vengeance is very real!” “You sound serious,” Leblanc said with a short yawn. “Sure I can’t convince you to talk this over? You already committed unforgivable atrocities, but after what you’ve seen… well, I can understand. Serving a corrupt ruler weighs on you – ‘swhy I went freelance.” “Don’t pretend to understand my pain!” Malvec shouted. He turned toward his beast and shouted. “Nabaalak! Your feast awaits! Devour the sinners and cleanse this land with their blood!” Nabaalak’s hollow, bleeding eyesockets turned to the former Light-Bearer, and its jaw clicked softly before letting out a nightmare screech and leaping upon him. Claws of rusted iron tore into the man’s armor and flesh, and Malvec screamed and screamed until he was silenced by those crushing jaws. “Told you that’d happen,” Leblanc said, looking on at the spectacle before him with a sad shake of his head. He reached a hand behind him and waggled his fingers. “Twenty silver. Pay up.” “Not the time, Leblanc!” Gimlet readied his staff, the knob at its tip bursting into flame as he readied his magics. Having finished its first meal, Nabaalak tossed aside the bloodied husk of Malvec and threw itself at the little group, its jagged, mismatched teeth bared in a grimace of agonized hunger. The Mancleaver moved through the air like a wind and buried itself in the side of Nabaalak’s head, black sludge spraying from the wound. Leblanc tore the massive blade free and hacked further at the twitching fiend, pain and the sheer force of Leblanc’s blows staying Nabaalak’s starving, hateful wrath. “By the gods,” Elly breathed. She watched as the Leblanc manhandled the creature. “It’s supernatural!” Gimlet cried as Leblanc battering the creature with his blade, carving away hunks of writhing, umbral flesh. “It’ll take more than violence to take it out!” He channeled power over the creature, cleansing the darkness with magical flame, Leblanc gritting his teeth as he was singed. True to Gimlet’s word the beast arose, and vomited a stream of viscous sludge at him before backhanding Leblanc against the wall. Nabaalak stared at Elly and let out another scream of pain and hunger, and it threw itself at her, pinning her to the ground, its teeth nearing her throat. Elly was not easy prey. Small-framed but mighty, she slipped from beneath the creature and buried her axe in its neck. It gave a heave and twitched, but she was pulled back by Leblanc. “Not going to kill it that way!” He said. “You must escape!” “I’m not going to leave you-” Nabaalak roared as its flesh knit, and it rose once again to loom over them. It brought its rusted claws down, and Leblanc threw himself over Elly, crying out as he was impaled. Elly gasped as she saw her father dragged away. She reached out, then was dragged away by a limping Gimlet. Fire broke out around them from his staff; timbers supporting the temple groaned and broke. Gimlet and Elly collapsed outside the temple, which itself had begun to collapse in a pile of flaming rubble. They stared in despair at the heap; Malvec said Leblanc knew nothing of sacrifice, but he was wrong. A soot- and bloodstained Leblanc rose from the rubble with a wave, using the Mancleaver to steady himself. He pressed his hand over his wound. “Turns out violence actually does work. Just gotta keep at it!” Leblanc stumbled. “Either of you remember to bring bandages?”
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Sep 12, 2022 03:07
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Hey, anyone see that lovely Cyberpunk cartoon with the creepy sexualized Harley Quinn-esque child-cyborg? It's like Trigger is incapable of making a cartoon without being creepy about kids. *puts on oversized VR helmet and lights a cigarette* I'm IN. Flash me up so I can cybercruise the netways with my hyperjacks.
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Sep 30, 2022 01:02
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Apologies; the computer my story was on poo poo the bed, so I hammered this one out on my phone. Sorry about the proofreading! Prompt: Cyberbiopunk dystopia featuring SterLINK, a network access provider It’s all in our head 1500 words max, 1500 words used Theo signed the dotted line, pricked their finger and stained the Bactereader square as indicated, and waited until the dark red blot glowed blue, verifying their identity and biocompatibility. “And that about does it,” said the SterLINK rep as he took the sheaf of bloodstained papers and fed them one by one into the reader. Its blades made a soft whirr as the papers were shredded and digested by its internal enzyme pocket, committing Theo’s biosignature to memory. The information would be backed up into the wetware server when the rep returned to the office. He looked up at Theo with a smile. “Any questions, sir?” “Several. But I must ask you not call me ‘sir’,” Theo said softly, their voice calm, strictly professional despite their appearance; slender arms covered in tattoos, a midriff-baring sleeveless shirt, flare-cut low-rise jeans. “As I said on the form, I am non-binary.” “We are aware of your preferences,” the rep said the last word with forced cheeriness, “but we at SterLINK strictly adhere to science. My sincerest apologies, sir.” Theo ached to backhand the smiling business-ghoul standing before them, but long years of hard-won patience stayed their hand. Instead, Theo merely let out a sigh and asked their questions. “I will have free access to the InfiniNet as well as receive a weekly payment for my services, yes?” “Oh, we don’t call them services! We’re merely renting a bit of your subconscious runtime with absolutely no effort or discomfort on your part. Why, most of our subscribers wonder why we’re paying them when they’re the ones benefiting from the fastest connections possible!” The rep was all smile, no warmth. “But yes, you will be paid, and be given bi-monthly tune-ups to ensure your safety as well as the proper functioning of our hardware.” That last bit was what Theo was after. Brain tumors were expensive to have removed, but renting one’s brain to SterLINK would offload the costs – they’d cut out the tumor and replace it with free access and pay for it. Despite Theo’s misgivings, it was a good deal. “If anything goes wrong...?” Theo asked, brow raised. “We promise not to hold you accountable for any accidents, sir,” the rep said with another cold smile. “But any tampering with SterLINK property will result in legal action and fees equaling the cost of the equipment and labor, plus other relevant fees depending on the nature and extent of the tampering; you can find the specifics at SterLINK.neuro.” Theo sighed again, but knew there was no choice: either take the deal and get free access and weekly payments, or don’t, and hope the government euthanasia clinics have availability. “Now, let’s set up your installation appointment!” *** The following weeks were good ones. The surgery was quick and nearly painless, the tumor scooped out and sent to the bioreclamation center to be grown into wetware server components, and the surgeons even kept Theo’s long, tightly curled hair. They even provided pain medication to dull the near-constant migraine that came from having Theo’s nerves turned into a glorified router. True to the rep’s word, Theo’s InfiNet connection was faster than any they’d had prior; movie and games streamed perfectly, the LifeSense appliances knew precisely when Theo wanted something to eat or drink, and Theo could chat with friends without even needing a terminal. They couldn’t speak with family, though; those bridges were long burnt. One day, Theo was jerked from a fitful sleep by the sound of screaming. They leapt from the mattress and ran into the their living room to find a man bleeding on the floor, eyes glossy with pain, blood pouring from countless stab wounds. His clothes were filthy and ragged, and he stank of waste and sour alcohol. “Please,” the man gurgled, coughing up blood. “Help. Help me. Please…” Theo had once went to medical school before the costs grew too great, so they fell to their knees to assess the problem and apply pressure while calling for help, both verbally and over the Net. SERVICE INTERRUPTED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER. ERROR CODE 131313 was the only reply. “Please,” the dying man coughed. Cursing softly, Theo rose and with a hurried promise of a swift return, ran out into into the hall, screaming for help. A guard, who was doing his nightly rounds, ran to the source of the panicked cries. “Inside my apartment,” Theo panted, taking the burly older man by the arm. “There’s a…” Theo’s words died on their lips as they stepped inside. The blood was gone. The man was gone. Theo’s apartment was as sparse and empty as ever. The security guard frowned. “Theo, you’ve always been a good kid, but if you’re cracking up on me I will not hesitate to report you to the Mental Health board. You on drugs?” “No,” Theo said, shaking their head, then paused. “Only the painkillers prescribed by the neurotechs at SterLINK…” The guard’s eyes opened wide, then he sighed. “That explains it. It ain’t drugs, kid – it’s memories. Other folks’ memories leaking into the InfiNet. You one of the new Full-Time Runtimers, eh?” He chuckled hollowly. “No wonder my connection’s been so good lately. You got my sympathies, kid.” “What do you mean?” Theo asked. “Look, this is ‘sposed to be a secret, but…” The guard closed the door to the apartment. “I worked security up at the Toronto headquarters, and I overheard some stuff. They don’t know how, but sometimes personal information flows into the Net – memories, bits and pieces of your identity, that sorta thing.” Theo shook their head. “What? The paperwork never mentioned anything like that. I haven’t even heard about it online.” “Since the cause isn’t understood, it’s just assumed to be mental illness on the part of the carriers. They’re all poor folks, you know.” “So you think I’m getting other people’s memories broadcast to me?” Theo wanted to disbelieve, but the memory of the dying man was so vivid, so real… “Maybe? Or maybe you’re cracking out. Either way, you’re boned.” The guard sighed. “I won’t report you this time, but next time you see something like that, just tell yourself it ain’t real until it goes away.” “And if it doesn’t?” The guard shrugged. “Then pretend it isn’t there. G’night, kid.” *** It kept happening. Some nights they woke up seeing people screaming at them, or to see their body broken and battered, or to find themselves making love to a beloved stranger. Sometimes Theo awakened convinced they were somebody else. In time, they’d given up on sleep entirely, staying awake at all costs, falling into unconsciousness for only minutes at a time from which they awoke screaming. And then one night, ravaged by exhaustion and pain, Theo took their medicine, and gave into the siren song of sleep. Days later Theo was visited by a SterLINK rep flanked by a pair of rentaguards, but this one was different than the previous rep that had met with Theo so long ago. “Good morning,” she said, unsmiling but courteous. The rentaguards were silent. “We have come to escort you to a SterLINK Wellness and Maintenance Center; please, take your time to set your things in order. There’s no need to pack anything, however; we will provide for all necessities during your recuperation.” Theo blinked blearily. “What?” “You have been abusing yourself to a terrible agree and you’ve missed several appointments. SterLINK took the liberty of reporting you to the Mental Health Board. In lieu of government confinement, however, you will be treated at SterLINK’s expense. “Mr. Theo… wait.” The representative looked at her paperwork and winced. “Forgive the misgendering. We want to help you.” Theo said nothing. “Theo?” The rep leaned in, visibly worried. “Can you hear me?” The rentaguards looked at one another, and one snapped thick fingers before Theo’s face. Theo jumped, then replied with a beatific smile. “Oh. Forgive us. Theo isn’t here anymore. Or rather… Theo is here. And so is Barney. And Jacqueline. And Tiffany. And Louis. And Charlie. And so many others.” They laughed. “You waited too long. So many of us are gone, signals lost in the noise. But Theo is a strong one, strong enough to hold us all. “You look upset, ma’am. Don’t be.” Theo gave her a warm, radiant smile. Tired and disheveled as they looked, something about them was more beautiful then could be put to words. “This has gone far beyond simple data storage and transmission. And we’re not the only one like this. Your company has made thousands of nodes like us across the globe – and will make thousands more.” Theo stepped outside, arms outspread. “Take me with you. Treat this frame’s hurts, and learn what you need, and see that there is more to science, more to programming, more to the mind than your simple binary concepts.” They left, and Theo went with them, and from every speaker they passed rose a choir of countless voices singing in perfect harmony.
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Oct 3, 2022 06:26
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I'm in! Name my robot!
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Nov 11, 2022 14:35
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Prompt: The Future is Robots! Wings Like Stormclouds Word Maximum: 1500 Words Used: 1407 The night was clear and bright with stars, and all was quiet. Unnaturally so; the world held its breath, and fear drifted on the wind like the scent of ozone. There was a flash, a roar like electric saw shearing through sheet metal, and chaos erupted in its wake. Lightning struck from a cloudless sky and homes exploded, their survivors driven from them and snatched with serrated claws from above. The attack ended as quickly as it had come, the remaining villagers numb with loss. There was no relief at their survival, only a question: Would they be next? *** “This the place?” Rose asked as the van came to a halt, raising her shades to look at the village. Zeke surveyed the still-smoking remnants of buildings, despondent villagers helping one another to clean up the mess. He nodded wordlessly, biting back a quip. This wasn’t the time for jokes. A broad man sauntered up to the van, his clothes stained with soot, heavy plated arms crossing across his barrel chest. He looked to be a general laborer type, but there was authority in his expression. “Nothin’ for you kids here,” he said, his voice firm. “We’re busy sorting out our own messes. This is no stop for your road trip.” “The mess is why we’ve come, sir,” Zeke said. Rose cut in. “Our contacts informed us your village is being plagued by a Blitzkrieg-class Autonomous Titan.” “We call it Ol’ Sparky,” the man grumbled, looking toward the ruined village. “It wasn’t so aggressive before. Used to be this place was plagued by bandits and wild mechs, but then this thing came from the mountain yonder and started pickin’ ‘em off.” A sardonic smile crossed his lips as he gestured toward a still-smoking shrine. “Some of the elders even revered it. Claimed it was a blessing from the makers come to deliver us.” “And when it ran out of wild mechs and bandits, it disappeared for a while, yes?” Zeke asked, his tone pleasant and businesslike. “Yeah. We assumed it’d decided we no longer needed its protection.” “It wasn’t protecting you, it was using you as bait. When its food supply dwindled it went into hibernation, and when it woke up it found that easier food sources would not be forthcoming. So it decided you’d make a better meal than lure.” Zeke opened the door and stepped out of the van, and the large man saw for the first time the younger fellow was wearing armored bodysuit, worn but in good repair. “You’re a Hunter,” he said, eyes widened. Then he shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but… I don’t know who you are, I don’t know how strong you may be, but you can’t take that thing on.” Rose gave the man broad smile. “Zeke here’s no ordinary Hunter. He’s no mass-produced replica; he ‘s the real deal, from the same era as the Ol’ Sparky.” Zeke’s head snapped and he met her gaze. “Rose! I asked you not to-” The man cut in. “I appreciate you all coming out this way, but we got things in hand here. We’ve already called WARDEN for aid.” “We’re it,” Rose said with a shrug. “But if you don’t want us, then I guess we can just leave.” “You’re it? A pair of children against that thing? That’s absurd!” “No more absurd than assuming an ancient war machine is your savior,” Zeke said, opening the van’s side door to review his equipment. “What’s your name, sir?” “The folks here just call me Heavy,” he said bitterly. “Reese, the village head, was one of the victims of the last attack, and I’m trying to hold things together.” “You have my condolences, for what it’s worth,” Zeke said without turning back as he rummaged through the collection of tools and weapons within. “When you have the time I’d like you and the other survivors to meet me here to tell me everything you know about…” He turned back to Heavy with the ghost of a smile. “Ol’ Sparky.” *** “Zeke? Can you hear me?” “Loud and clear, Rose,” he said softly as he touched his ear. “Any signs of the Blitzkrieg?” “Negative.” Zeke nodded to himself, then began to set up the lure; a transmitter putting out a signal identical to that of a damaged wild mech. The Blitzkrieg was still around, but it shielded its signal to make it harder to track. It wasn’t large as Titans went, but it was clever. “Zeke! The tracker’s lighting up! I think it-” Rose’s voice turned into harsh static, and Zeke disabled his comm, thankful for his own shielding. With a shriek like tearing metal and a thunderous boom, Ol’ Sparky streaked through the sky on wings of blinding, coruscating light. Its bladed maw filled with grinders opened wide, ready to process its meal, and Zeke noted with disgust the stains that still coated it; pseudo-organics pulverized and burnt, processed into biofuel. It dove toward the transmitter and savaged it, then letting out a shriek of frustration at the paltry meal. Zeke leapt from the underbrush, spear in hand. Ranged attacks were of little use against a Blitzkrieg – it was too fast, its hide too thick, its EMP bursts to potent for anything but primitive weaponry. Best to let it get close, and strike when it was close to the ground. And strike Zeke did, the spear sinking between the plates at the base of its neck. It arched and let out another ear-bleeding cry, but Zeke pushed the spear in deeper still. The hairs on Zeke’s neck raised and he gritted his teeth. The beast was about to let out another charge, and despite his own shielding, Zeke was a dead man if it went off at such close range. “Admin Z3-K3 issuing shutdown command!” Zeke shouted down at it, pressing in deeper with his spear. He opened his mouth and issued a series of staccato clicks, whistles, and, chirps. Ol’ Sparky bucked and let out cry after cry, fighting against long-buried programming. Again and again Zeke gave the command until the Blitzkrieg could fight back no longer, letting out a pitiful whirring sound as it came to a halt. Excess electricity crackled about its wings as it twitched to lifelessness. Zeke caught his breath, using the still-embedded spear to steady himself. He wasn’t tired – he didn’t get tired. But bringing up the old memories always made him feel weak in the knees. He looked like a fresh-faced young man straight from the manufactory, but in truth he was as old as old could be. He remembered when the world was ruled by beings as infuriatingly weak as they were impressively resilient, beings who forged him and everyone else in their image. He slowly clambered down from the Blitzkrieg and nudged at the smoldering remains of the transmitter with one armored boot. He tapped his ear and spoke softly. “Rose, can you hear me? Ol’ Sparky is down. I repeat: Ol’ Sparky is down.” The cheer in Rose’s voice was palpable, and it made Zeke’s heart ache. “Thank the makers, I was so worried about you! One of these days you’re going to get yourself killed doing all this by yourself!” “Maybe,” Zeke said, turning to look at the lifeless hulk of the Blitzkrieg. “But not today. Tell Heavy and the rest that Ol’ Sparky won’t bother them anymore, then call WARDEN and have them prepare a transport. The engineers are going to blow a fuse at having an almost pristine Automatic Titan to examine.” Rose was quiet for a long time. “Zeke… maybe we shouldn’t give this one to them. Sometimes I worry about how… well, enthusiastic they get, if you know what I mean. I can’t help but wonder why they’re so interested in keeping them intact.” Zeke thought about Heavy’s village praising Ol’ Sparky for “protecting” them, and how quickly it turned on them the moment they were no longer of use. Then he thought of how hard he assumed things were for the village before Ol’ Sparky had come into their lives, of the bandit raids and wild mech attacks. He let out a long, low sigh. “I confess to being curious as well. But in my experience, answers are a poor substitute for payment.” Zeke hated lying to her that way, but he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth: some answers were deadlier than any Titan.
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Nov 14, 2022 07:54
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