Data broke in waves against the caged arena like high tide. Nuri’s green eye collected the feed, harvested it from the nanotech swimming in the crowd’s guts.
The women in the cage each bent, tensed, muscles corded, instructions from the chittering cortex rigs on their backs cracking through them like whips. They stalked each other like lionesses. Nuri and Marquez could see changes in the vitals, brainwaves, could see the enhancements spinning up and bodies overworking to compensate.
They’d been given ring names. Mojave, or at least his voice, called out each as she’d entered the ring. One with a red rig on her back grew claws. She was Bastet. Curved, braced titanium between each knuckle, enhanced speed. Bastet launched herself at Fury, a tattooed girl, green rig, with spiking adrenaline and strength bursts. Fury was sweating bullets and looking everywhere at once. She caught Bastet in mid-air and slammed her to the ground in a fluid motion. For a split second Fu
Memnalar
the tulip poplar of deviantARTBruja
Literature
Bruja 7: Panic Room
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Bruja 6: God Complex
It used to be an aircraft hangar, big enough for three C-130s to touch wingtips, occupying what used to be a GOSAZ emergency response airfield. Shot through with buckling tarmac and overgrown with brush, the airfield was now a fuselage graveyard, home only to coyotes and squatters.
Witch’s Night, the moon was pink and clouds scudded ugly across her. Nuri sat inside an empty air scrubber casing, itself inside the hangar, bolted just under the ceiling. She looked through the vent grille at the preparations below. Divebomb was setting up shop.
Divebomb was a guerilla venue. Not a place, a mobile concept. Sometimes it was a pitch-dark nightclub issuing patrons low-light goggles in the guts of a Venezuelan freighter in port. Sometimes it was a ten-minute obscene art gallery erupting in animated nanotattoos on the backs of a flash mob in the middle of the Cascade during the Christmas rush.
The collective had a Robin Hood reputation among the glitterati and the avant garde. Anti-corpora
Witch’s Night, the moon was pink and clouds scudded ugly across her. Nuri sat inside an empty air scrubber casing, itself inside the hangar, bolted just under the ceiling. She looked through the vent grille at the preparations below. Divebomb was setting up shop.
Divebomb was a guerilla venue. Not a place, a mobile concept. Sometimes it was a pitch-dark nightclub issuing patrons low-light goggles in the guts of a Venezuelan freighter in port. Sometimes it was a ten-minute obscene art gallery erupting in animated nanotattoos on the backs of a flash mob in the middle of the Cascade during the Christmas rush.
The collective had a Robin Hood reputation among the glitterati and the avant garde. Anti-corpora
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Literature
Bruja [interlude] - hexennacht
It used to be a GOSAZ emergency airfield, now an aircraft graveyard, and a haven for off-grid squatters.
The full moon glowed pink in the sky grime, and Nuri threaded her bike through without lights, her green eye bringing skeletal fuselages into view like great metal shipwrecks. She threw her leg over and hopped off, running the motorcycle up the cargo ramp of an old C-130 hulk. It creaked and banged with the wind. She knew the plane well, used it as an equipment drop often.
She leaned her bike against the side of the bay, threw a tarp over it and looked around. She had somewhere to be, but this place always made her pause. Wasn't that long ago when she'd stand alone, stock still, in cargo bays just like this, a couple miles over a drop zone, shuffling a toothpick from side to side between her lips, waiting for her go signal. Sometimes it wouldn't come, and she'd stand down for a long ride home. Sometimes the whole bay would go red, the cargo door would drop, then so would she, into t
The full moon glowed pink in the sky grime, and Nuri threaded her bike through without lights, her green eye bringing skeletal fuselages into view like great metal shipwrecks. She threw her leg over and hopped off, running the motorcycle up the cargo ramp of an old C-130 hulk. It creaked and banged with the wind. She knew the plane well, used it as an equipment drop often.
She leaned her bike against the side of the bay, threw a tarp over it and looked around. She had somewhere to be, but this place always made her pause. Wasn't that long ago when she'd stand alone, stock still, in cargo bays just like this, a couple miles over a drop zone, shuffling a toothpick from side to side between her lips, waiting for her go signal. Sometimes it wouldn't come, and she'd stand down for a long ride home. Sometimes the whole bay would go red, the cargo door would drop, then so would she, into t
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Literature
Bruja 5: Shadow Cat
Sound of a metal, segmented door rolling upward. Needs a hit of grease. Grunts of a man, tough but out of shape, with a lot of mileage on him.
“Hiiii, Gard-dog!” Girl’s voice, nine or ten. Sound of a chair squeaking, spinning.
Sound of the door rattling closed. Sound of a respirator’s elastic sliding off. Sound of a man’s heavy footsteps.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t with the ‘Hi, Gard-dog.’ I know you heard me coming. Could have opened the fucking door.”
“Aww. Don’t be poopy. What’d you bring to eat?”
“Thai.”
“A-gain?”
“Thai’s cheap. So’s my boss.”
“Yeah. Nothing I can do about that.”
Sound of the man walking up next to her, clearing a space on the workbench beside her. Sounds of parts, metal, lots of them.
“What is all this shit?”
“My STUFF. Well. Her stuff. You know.”
Sound of a bag hitting the workbench. S
“Hiiii, Gard-dog!” Girl’s voice, nine or ten. Sound of a chair squeaking, spinning.
Sound of the door rattling closed. Sound of a respirator’s elastic sliding off. Sound of a man’s heavy footsteps.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t with the ‘Hi, Gard-dog.’ I know you heard me coming. Could have opened the fucking door.”
“Aww. Don’t be poopy. What’d you bring to eat?”
“Thai.”
“A-gain?”
“Thai’s cheap. So’s my boss.”
“Yeah. Nothing I can do about that.”
Sound of the man walking up next to her, clearing a space on the workbench beside her. Sounds of parts, metal, lots of them.
“What is all this shit?”
“My STUFF. Well. Her stuff. You know.”
Sound of a bag hitting the workbench. S
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Literature
Bruja 4: Lily Eyes
Nuri showered away the rain toxins, and soon was helmeted, coveralled and back on her bike, this time with a pack slung under her arm, silently weaving her way through the mass of autocabs and drone-driven land trains snaking their way down the elevated GOSAZ commuter arteries. She exited and descended along the edge of the Brick’s huddled mazes, following a drainage culvert until she reached a cluster of grey-green domes hugging each other like muddy soap bubbles.
Cemeteries existed only in history. Those left behind created their own reliquaries where they could. Nuri volunteered here, the Brick’s semi-public arboretum, and planted lilies. Each bloom was a memorial, and more besides.
A woman looked up, her smile sunny in a way the sky never was. Her headwrap rivalled an Akumi and Akari display for color. “Good morning Noori,” she said in a Haitian accent. She handed Nuri her usual trowel and gloves.
“Gaelle,” Nuri said. She couldn’t help bein
Cemeteries existed only in history. Those left behind created their own reliquaries where they could. Nuri volunteered here, the Brick’s semi-public arboretum, and planted lilies. Each bloom was a memorial, and more besides.
A woman looked up, her smile sunny in a way the sky never was. Her headwrap rivalled an Akumi and Akari display for color. “Good morning Noori,” she said in a Haitian accent. She handed Nuri her usual trowel and gloves.
“Gaelle,” Nuri said. She couldn’t help bein
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Literature
Bruja 3: Flush the Sky
In a special post-playoff promotion, the glass walls of the Cascade, the canyon of capitalism that formed the heart of the Gulf Orleans Special Administrative Zone, all went opaque. A drone swarm projected titanic images of bubblegum virtual-idol twins Akari Moment and Akumi Realize, excitedly blazing post-game analysis in chirpy, focus-group tested voices.
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
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Literature
Bruja 2: Brick Witchcraft
The stadium roof was a steel spider web, lit pink and red from above by digital sakura falling from a passing promo airship.
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
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Literature
Bruja
Mister Curses was Gina's threadbare, stuffed black cat made of old t-shirts. Her abuela made him as a gift two Halloween-birthdays ago. Now abuela was gone, Mom was passed out again on the couch, and it was just little Gina, Mister Curses, the blinking security status panel, and the gunfire beyond the door outside.
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
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Stand-alone Stories
Literature
Unboxing
The children, as they always did, perched on the Stones for the Evening Telling. The Teller stood, face in white, Stick of Truths in his hands. When it was such, on the Teller could say stories and tell truths. All others were to stay silent unless called to respond. Even the Chief-In-The-Walls could not speak if he were in attendance, although tonight’s Telling was only for the children and Mums.
Behind the Teller, the Burning Mums tended the Telling Fire. It kept the Teller in silhouette, and the children’s faces sweaty with its heat, hotter than usual tonight. The girls especially scratched at the cloth over their mouths.
Further back, seated on wider Stones, the Mums heavy with child attended the Telling as well, mouths also covered.
Tonight, the Telling was of the Beginning, and the Teller was on a tear. He told, spittle flying, of death on the winds, of the Great Plagues that swept the world like a broom, leaving only dust and dead behind. WEH-POH-NY-ZED began the cha
Behind the Teller, the Burning Mums tended the Telling Fire. It kept the Teller in silhouette, and the children’s faces sweaty with its heat, hotter than usual tonight. The girls especially scratched at the cloth over their mouths.
Further back, seated on wider Stones, the Mums heavy with child attended the Telling as well, mouths also covered.
Tonight, the Telling was of the Beginning, and the Teller was on a tear. He told, spittle flying, of death on the winds, of the Great Plagues that swept the world like a broom, leaving only dust and dead behind. WEH-POH-NY-ZED began the cha
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Literature
Damned Kids
"You wanna see something cool, Peter?"
Marnie's hair was long, shaggy. She peered at me through it. Shy. Brown eyes behind black curtains.
Every time she said that, it was an adventure. Danny'd snicker at me. "Where'd she drag you off to this time, Pete? Catch a chicken and kill it? Pull the wings off butterflies?"
The whole town thought Marnie and her family were strange. Marnie was bullied at school. One time Danny shoved a cup of worms into her locker. Everybody thought that was real funny.
I didn’t. It was stupid. Marnie was just quiet. Her mom drank a lot, didn’t leave the house much. Her dad, well. He wasn't around.
Marnie drummed threadbare sneakers on my porch. One of her knees was scabbed.
"Sure," I said. We grabbed our bikes.
--
Marnie led me down a dirt road. She stopped, skidded up dust. I did the same. "There," she said, "We're going under the fence." She slipped her thumbs under the barbed wire and scooted under it like a raccoon. She held the wire up for me.
Marnie's hair was long, shaggy. She peered at me through it. Shy. Brown eyes behind black curtains.
Every time she said that, it was an adventure. Danny'd snicker at me. "Where'd she drag you off to this time, Pete? Catch a chicken and kill it? Pull the wings off butterflies?"
The whole town thought Marnie and her family were strange. Marnie was bullied at school. One time Danny shoved a cup of worms into her locker. Everybody thought that was real funny.
I didn’t. It was stupid. Marnie was just quiet. Her mom drank a lot, didn’t leave the house much. Her dad, well. He wasn't around.
Marnie drummed threadbare sneakers on my porch. One of her knees was scabbed.
"Sure," I said. We grabbed our bikes.
--
Marnie led me down a dirt road. She stopped, skidded up dust. I did the same. "There," she said, "We're going under the fence." She slipped her thumbs under the barbed wire and scooted under it like a raccoon. She held the wire up for me.
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Literature
Bruja 3: Flush the Sky
In a special post-playoff promotion, the glass walls of the Cascade, the canyon of capitalism that formed the heart of the Gulf Orleans Special Administrative Zone, all went opaque. A drone swarm projected titanic images of bubblegum virtual-idol twins Akari Moment and Akumi Realize, excitedly blazing post-game analysis in chirpy, focus-group tested voices.
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
It was dawn, but the sullen, pink sun couldn’t compete with the perpetual industrial fog and the Akari and Akumi show on fire among the skyscrapers below.
Nuri tied back her hair against the buffeting wind, adjusted her respirator and popped out her right eye. She was tethered to the satellite array on top of the Arcadia Sophia Hotel. About thirty floors down was Star Player’s suite. She already had the lay of the land in her flashbank, knew it was about time for golden boy and his agent to have a post-surgery face-to-face over breakfast, or whatever baby food they were letting him eat, given his new kidneys.
Nuri put he
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Literature
Bruja 2: Brick Witchcraft
The stadium roof was a steel spider web, lit pink and red from above by digital sakura falling from a passing promo airship.
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic
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Literature
Bruja
Mister Curses was Gina's threadbare, stuffed black cat made of old t-shirts. Her abuela made him as a gift two Halloween-birthdays ago. Now abuela was gone, Mom was passed out again on the couch, and it was just little Gina, Mister Curses, the blinking security status panel, and the gunfire beyond the door outside.
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w
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Literature
In Lieu of Flowers
She knew it made her father sad, how she always looked backward. Jenne would spend her time, when she wasn't studying, or even when she was supposed to be studying, face pressed into the eyeset, looking at the feeds from the left-behind telescopes that still made their journeys, like breadcrumbs between here and Earth.
Her sister would slap the back of her head, tsk, then say something about the boy she'd been talking to over the wave. That one on Charon, maybe. Seemed like a different one every time.
Josephine was a kid. She didn't remember Mom. She had no reason to look through Jenne's eyeset at the grainy feeds. Had no reason to glance over at the small box on the shelf, the one that the man from the Company had brought to Dad, along with the letter.
Jenne had looked up the procedure on her own when Dad evaded her questions. About how they bagged the remains, froze them, then vibrated them into powder. About how they vented the moisture into space. What was left was collected
Her sister would slap the back of her head, tsk, then say something about the boy she'd been talking to over the wave. That one on Charon, maybe. Seemed like a different one every time.
Josephine was a kid. She didn't remember Mom. She had no reason to look through Jenne's eyeset at the grainy feeds. Had no reason to glance over at the small box on the shelf, the one that the man from the Company had brought to Dad, along with the letter.
Jenne had looked up the procedure on her own when Dad evaded her questions. About how they bagged the remains, froze them, then vibrated them into powder. About how they vented the moisture into space. What was left was collected
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Literature
Interossicular Space
It wasn't that May's parents didn't love her, or wouldn't miss her.
She could no longer go to school, and every tutor and nanny they brought home just couldn't stop chewing or move slowly enough to do the job. And the breathing. May's parents went through training, used circular techniques, never did anything strenuous around May. Diet, house, everything was a cushion. Nothing clicked, knocked, groaned or collided with anything else. May's folks had the act down cold.
But anyone else, no matter the training, always that one time they'd forget and sigh, and May would clamp her hands to ears and make that face. Her silent scream. Then the shot and the pills and the worried faces over sign language. On and on. Years. Eighteen.
It was a blessing, almost, that day the Diplomatic Corps hovercraft arrived. They had contacted May's parents, done advance work. The craft rode in on a gentle cushion of air, and the Corps visitors disembarked wearing booties, gloves and bodysuits. No footsteps. Ta
She could no longer go to school, and every tutor and nanny they brought home just couldn't stop chewing or move slowly enough to do the job. And the breathing. May's parents went through training, used circular techniques, never did anything strenuous around May. Diet, house, everything was a cushion. Nothing clicked, knocked, groaned or collided with anything else. May's folks had the act down cold.
But anyone else, no matter the training, always that one time they'd forget and sigh, and May would clamp her hands to ears and make that face. Her silent scream. Then the shot and the pills and the worried faces over sign language. On and on. Years. Eighteen.
It was a blessing, almost, that day the Diplomatic Corps hovercraft arrived. They had contacted May's parents, done advance work. The craft rode in on a gentle cushion of air, and the Corps visitors disembarked wearing booties, gloves and bodysuits. No footsteps. Ta
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Literature
Not Today
It was time.
Between the serving periods. The shuffling lines thinned back to just a few stragglers, the older ones mostly. Sister Elene knew by their feet, mostly wrapped up in oilskin against the constant wet. She'd done the same, as much for the quiet as for keeping out the salted mud. She discarded her apron, grabbed her pack, a roughspun hooded robe and her lantern from their hiding place in the back of the storeroom. Under the robe, she belted on the knife. It pulled at the scars, her chest felt like strips of leather.
Elene wanted to look at the knife, say the prayer, but no time. It had to be now. She knew where he'd be, knew he'd be alone if that kid's information was right.
That kid. He went by Talent around here. Permanently-tousled brown hair, toes that pointed inward. A smile half sly and half shy. She'd lied to the kid, told him she wanted information on a lost straggler who never made bedcheck. She at least wanted to find the poor soul and bring him his rations.
Part of
Between the serving periods. The shuffling lines thinned back to just a few stragglers, the older ones mostly. Sister Elene knew by their feet, mostly wrapped up in oilskin against the constant wet. She'd done the same, as much for the quiet as for keeping out the salted mud. She discarded her apron, grabbed her pack, a roughspun hooded robe and her lantern from their hiding place in the back of the storeroom. Under the robe, she belted on the knife. It pulled at the scars, her chest felt like strips of leather.
Elene wanted to look at the knife, say the prayer, but no time. It had to be now. She knew where he'd be, knew he'd be alone if that kid's information was right.
That kid. He went by Talent around here. Permanently-tousled brown hair, toes that pointed inward. A smile half sly and half shy. She'd lied to the kid, told him she wanted information on a lost straggler who never made bedcheck. She at least wanted to find the poor soul and bring him his rations.
Part of
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Literature
Always-on
Paris::15d since last chat::0 New Messages
For months, I'd see her at the clinics for our injections, and online in the therapeutic forums. She kept the same odd hours as me. The others managed to find work on a routine schedule. Think-driving sanitation units, working the inbound tech support lines. Workaday, like regular humans. Safe.
Not us. We were always-on. It had been that way in the Gideon pilot pod, when we were all wired together, our minds fused into a single mosaic. I was intuition, stay a step-ahead of the enemy, guessing the next ten moves.
She was the logic center. She did the math. She was a cascade of formulae, speaking in burn calculations, fire rates, weapon heat signature ratios. She gave me the info I needed to make my lucky guesses.
The others got downtime during the long burns, then activated for combat. Not us. We were always-on.
Somewhere along the line, we got too old. All Gideon children get too old. Too big for the pods, too slow to adapt to the upgra
For months, I'd see her at the clinics for our injections, and online in the therapeutic forums. She kept the same odd hours as me. The others managed to find work on a routine schedule. Think-driving sanitation units, working the inbound tech support lines. Workaday, like regular humans. Safe.
Not us. We were always-on. It had been that way in the Gideon pilot pod, when we were all wired together, our minds fused into a single mosaic. I was intuition, stay a step-ahead of the enemy, guessing the next ten moves.
She was the logic center. She did the math. She was a cascade of formulae, speaking in burn calculations, fire rates, weapon heat signature ratios. She gave me the info I needed to make my lucky guesses.
The others got downtime during the long burns, then activated for combat. Not us. We were always-on.
Somewhere along the line, we got too old. All Gideon children get too old. Too big for the pods, too slow to adapt to the upgra
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Literature
Grommets for Hanging
The buildings so tightly packed that the roofs became a city unto themselves, new roofs erected from detritus hauled up from the streets below, built by human versions of same. Old rooftop was floor space now, shingled and tar-papered carpet subfloor under layers of cardboard bedding and lean-tos and currogated shacks thrown up against exhaust vents. The sun was blocked by endless tarpaulin of vinyl sheeting stitched with baling wire and shoestring and power cables from obsolete machines, held aloft by whatever the roof dwellers could prop up.
Cymbal was picking mushrooms under the blue light cast from noon sun filtered through the vinyl overhead. It had once hung on a commercial blimp advertising perfume, clear blue water in a crystal vial fashioned to look like intertwined lovers. Now the blue lovers were mildewed. Cymbal wiped dung from her gloves and hoisted her bag of harvest. It was lighter than she'd like.
She felt a furry brush at her ankle, and an impatient mreaow. Pud
Cymbal was picking mushrooms under the blue light cast from noon sun filtered through the vinyl overhead. It had once hung on a commercial blimp advertising perfume, clear blue water in a crystal vial fashioned to look like intertwined lovers. Now the blue lovers were mildewed. Cymbal wiped dung from her gloves and hoisted her bag of harvest. It was lighter than she'd like.
She felt a furry brush at her ankle, and an impatient mreaow. Pud
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Literature
Trunk Line
I watched the secondary pressure dial climb, ever closer to the primary. I kicked the lock away from the lever in the floor, the only one in the cabin unmarred from constant use.
"You sure about this?" I asked her. Hundredth time, easy. "You damned sure?"
She rumbled under me. Four blasts on the whistle, her assent. Firebox glowed as she primed her flames.
Didn't need me anymore.
Cabin door clanged open. Frost blew in like his namesake, slammed the door behind him, wheeled the seals closed. I glanced back at him.
"You're bleeding."
"Took one in the shoulder. Drones can't aim for shit. We're holding them two cars down from the coal, don't know how long we can keep them..."
"Don't need to, now."
He looked at me. I looked at the firebox. She was beyond the need for coal. Beyond the need for greasy hands in black gloves on levers, squinted eyes poring over dials.
Dials.
Primary and secondary matched. It was time.
I reached for the gleaming lever.
Frost yelled something, slammed into me as
"You sure about this?" I asked her. Hundredth time, easy. "You damned sure?"
She rumbled under me. Four blasts on the whistle, her assent. Firebox glowed as she primed her flames.
Didn't need me anymore.
Cabin door clanged open. Frost blew in like his namesake, slammed the door behind him, wheeled the seals closed. I glanced back at him.
"You're bleeding."
"Took one in the shoulder. Drones can't aim for shit. We're holding them two cars down from the coal, don't know how long we can keep them..."
"Don't need to, now."
He looked at me. I looked at the firebox. She was beyond the need for coal. Beyond the need for greasy hands in black gloves on levers, squinted eyes poring over dials.
Dials.
Primary and secondary matched. It was time.
I reached for the gleaming lever.
Frost yelled something, slammed into me as
Memnalar Memnalar
10
21
Literature
Prima Nocta
It doesn't happen how you think it does.
You're probably strung out, ducked into the wrong alley to hit the pipe. It waited there, watching you, biding time until you were good and fucked before ripping a new hole in your throat. Maybe your thigh if it's in a rush. You spray out all over the wall, all over yourself, all over it. You just see yellow eyes, fucking foot-long tongue lapping you up, and then nothing.
But then, something. Maybe you smell dogshit, old take-out containers, dried-out tampons and whatever else people threw away along with you. You reach up and around, wipe the maggots off your face. You find a door up there, push it open. Daylight. It feels like a blowtorch on your hand, and you smell your skin bubbling away as the lid falls closed.
No, you didn't smell it. You tasted it. Tasted your skin burning, just like you're tasting this dumpster and the filth you're swimming in.
Maybe you sleep.
Maybe you wake up just in time to hear the truck grab hold of your roac
You're probably strung out, ducked into the wrong alley to hit the pipe. It waited there, watching you, biding time until you were good and fucked before ripping a new hole in your throat. Maybe your thigh if it's in a rush. You spray out all over the wall, all over yourself, all over it. You just see yellow eyes, fucking foot-long tongue lapping you up, and then nothing.
But then, something. Maybe you smell dogshit, old take-out containers, dried-out tampons and whatever else people threw away along with you. You reach up and around, wipe the maggots off your face. You find a door up there, push it open. Daylight. It feels like a blowtorch on your hand, and you smell your skin bubbling away as the lid falls closed.
No, you didn't smell it. You tasted it. Tasted your skin burning, just like you're tasting this dumpster and the filth you're swimming in.
Maybe you sleep.
Maybe you wake up just in time to hear the truck grab hold of your roac
Memnalar Memnalar
25
43
Literature
Air-Fueled
Winter tore hell through the camp, and Serpentine blew into her palms so she could feel the dice in them. Old Taggert gestured at her with a bottle. She nodded at him as she blew. He poured, held up the glass. A half-rusted drone snatched it, buzzed its way to Serp, and sloshed half the drink on the floor before dropping it in front of her. She grabbed it, made a show of downing it, and kept blowing.
Across the floor, Paydirt sat puffing away on a three-tined pipe that smelled like creosote and dry moss. Around Paydirt sat the Payday Gang, sharpening knives, polishing pistols and looking tougher than Serp knew they were.
"You gonna throw those, doll," Paydirt said around his pipe, "Or you want I should give you something else to blow on?"
She smiled at him. There were a hundred thousand League notes on the table. About a week's haul for Paydirt, but a whole season's runs for Serp. She was good for it, if you counted the Aphrodite.
Her dad's ship before her. Hers now. Aphrodit
Across the floor, Paydirt sat puffing away on a three-tined pipe that smelled like creosote and dry moss. Around Paydirt sat the Payday Gang, sharpening knives, polishing pistols and looking tougher than Serp knew they were.
"You gonna throw those, doll," Paydirt said around his pipe, "Or you want I should give you something else to blow on?"
She smiled at him. There were a hundred thousand League notes on the table. About a week's haul for Paydirt, but a whole season's runs for Serp. She was good for it, if you counted the Aphrodite.
Her dad's ship before her. Hers now. Aphrodit
Memnalar Memnalar
3
17
Literature
Mechanic's Blues
I'm getting grease on my sandwich when she walks in. The whole hangar pretends to be busy while throwing glances at her.
She looks around, finds me, smiles. She's walking my way, but her eyes are all for her baby. I've been pulling extra shifts getting her baby ready to fly.
There's a monkey on her shoulder. It leaps off, and scrambles into the cockpit.
She tosses her goggles on top of my workbench, brushes a braid away from her shoulder. "How's she look?"
Perfect, I want to say, but that wasn't the question. "I patched your oil leak, unstuck your throttle problem. Had to replace your altimeter, but I told you that."
"Yeah, you told me that." Her eyes are brown. Could've sworn they were blue. They're blue in my dreams.
Those brown eyes are turning the ship over and over. My eyes? Well, I guess they're doing ungentlemanly things, but they snap back to attention when she speaks.
"Am I loaded?" she says.
I shake my head, grinning. "Yeah. The clockguns are all bolted in and to
She looks around, finds me, smiles. She's walking my way, but her eyes are all for her baby. I've been pulling extra shifts getting her baby ready to fly.
There's a monkey on her shoulder. It leaps off, and scrambles into the cockpit.
She tosses her goggles on top of my workbench, brushes a braid away from her shoulder. "How's she look?"
Perfect, I want to say, but that wasn't the question. "I patched your oil leak, unstuck your throttle problem. Had to replace your altimeter, but I told you that."
"Yeah, you told me that." Her eyes are brown. Could've sworn they were blue. They're blue in my dreams.
Those brown eyes are turning the ship over and over. My eyes? Well, I guess they're doing ungentlemanly things, but they snap back to attention when she speaks.
"Am I loaded?" she says.
I shake my head, grinning. "Yeah. The clockguns are all bolted in and to
Memnalar Memnalar
7
33
Literature
Ashen
I'd just finished cleaning the silt out of the last generator and dropped it back into the water when Pit found me.
"Up and running?" he asked.
"Spinning away. Lot of minerals in these rivers down here. Lot more than up on the surface. Fucks up the works."
Pit nodded. "Least there's no snow down here."
I didn't get into it with him. Last time we went topside, Pit left a hand in that snow. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the skin melting. "You need something?"
Pit looked past me, toward my boy. Jacob. He was scrubbing away at a filthy generator part, or at least pretending to be.
I gritted my teeth, then looked at Jacob. He looked back, with huge eyes that didn't miss much. So much of his mother there.
"Head out, kid," I said. "Take these last couple generators with you. Take 'em up to Zeb for cleaning, we can't do nothing for 'em down here."
After my kid was gone, Pit came down to business.
"There's a nooge up top," he said. "Crazy fucker walked right up to the picket line. Sa
"Up and running?" he asked.
"Spinning away. Lot of minerals in these rivers down here. Lot more than up on the surface. Fucks up the works."
Pit nodded. "Least there's no snow down here."
I didn't get into it with him. Last time we went topside, Pit left a hand in that snow. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the skin melting. "You need something?"
Pit looked past me, toward my boy. Jacob. He was scrubbing away at a filthy generator part, or at least pretending to be.
I gritted my teeth, then looked at Jacob. He looked back, with huge eyes that didn't miss much. So much of his mother there.
"Head out, kid," I said. "Take these last couple generators with you. Take 'em up to Zeb for cleaning, we can't do nothing for 'em down here."
After my kid was gone, Pit came down to business.
"There's a nooge up top," he said. "Crazy fucker walked right up to the picket line. Sa
Memnalar Memnalar
17
23
Literature
Bad with Time
Is this Waterloo? This is Waterloo, isn't it?
That was the question that sealed it for me. That bright day in Hyde Park, with the pigeons. It wasn't a great feat to hide the Professor's keys from him after that. The Apparatus, however, was another matter. Very hard to find good movers, especially in 1924. Bubble-wrap was a long time coming.
He came with me to the station, watched me watch the mules haul the crate aboard a flatcar. I'd catch up with it in Vienna, but not before a side trip.
I poured his tea as we steamed across the Channel, and often again on the train to Zurich. The Professor seemed lucid now and again, but he always came back to Waterloo. It was the horses. In his youth, his horse had been shot out from under him during the thick of the fighting. How he survived to get the Keys to the Apparatus, I still didn't know. He didn't like to talk about it.
He wouldn't talk about it even now, after the centuries he had crisscrossed, the things he'd seen. I would ask him, when
That was the question that sealed it for me. That bright day in Hyde Park, with the pigeons. It wasn't a great feat to hide the Professor's keys from him after that. The Apparatus, however, was another matter. Very hard to find good movers, especially in 1924. Bubble-wrap was a long time coming.
He came with me to the station, watched me watch the mules haul the crate aboard a flatcar. I'd catch up with it in Vienna, but not before a side trip.
I poured his tea as we steamed across the Channel, and often again on the train to Zurich. The Professor seemed lucid now and again, but he always came back to Waterloo. It was the horses. In his youth, his horse had been shot out from under him during the thick of the fighting. How he survived to get the Keys to the Apparatus, I still didn't know. He didn't like to talk about it.
He wouldn't talk about it even now, after the centuries he had crisscrossed, the things he'd seen. I would ask him, when
Memnalar Memnalar
5
16
Poetry
Literature
Citizens
They ignored their City's gleaming towers,
her rose-hued walls,
her sparkling streets,
her abundance.
They had eyes only for the other across the plain.
It was not until
her towers rusted,
her walls fell,
her people starved,
That they found the other across the plain
was a mirage.
her rose-hued walls,
her sparkling streets,
her abundance.
They had eyes only for the other across the plain.
It was not until
her towers rusted,
her walls fell,
her people starved,
That they found the other across the plain
was a mirage.
Memnalar Memnalar
8
9
Literature
Harvey's Halloween
There were a lot more trick or treaters this year.
Lot more spider mans, wonder womans,
little astronauts in their pressure suits,
more moms and dads carrying the helmets after a few blocks
this year.
This year, spider man is going to a new school,
one taking on lots of new spider mans,
and wonder womans,
and astronauts,
with the same teachers carrying the extra load
this year.
This year, wonder woman's mom washed her
magic lasso
with her school clothes
in a washing machine fixed up
by students, and dried them on a pole welded
by students and
maybe they'll be able to move out of this shed
this year.
This year, little astronauts spacewalked for candy
around the piles of fence that aren't fence anymore
but little mountains of weeds and lumber and dead vine chicken wire,
maybe the trucks and ones driving the trucks
working extra-long shifts
along with the mosquitoes
will pick up all the pieces
this year.
This year, there was a hurricane.
Wind, high water and rain
where whole towns used to
Lot more spider mans, wonder womans,
little astronauts in their pressure suits,
more moms and dads carrying the helmets after a few blocks
this year.
This year, spider man is going to a new school,
one taking on lots of new spider mans,
and wonder womans,
and astronauts,
with the same teachers carrying the extra load
this year.
This year, wonder woman's mom washed her
magic lasso
with her school clothes
in a washing machine fixed up
by students, and dried them on a pole welded
by students and
maybe they'll be able to move out of this shed
this year.
This year, little astronauts spacewalked for candy
around the piles of fence that aren't fence anymore
but little mountains of weeds and lumber and dead vine chicken wire,
maybe the trucks and ones driving the trucks
working extra-long shifts
along with the mosquitoes
will pick up all the pieces
this year.
This year, there was a hurricane.
Wind, high water and rain
where whole towns used to
Memnalar Memnalar
10
28
:origin()/pre00/6e80/th/pre/f/2015/061/9/4/the_office_i_hold_by_memnalar-d8k7reg.jpg)
the office I hold
Memnalar
8
33
Literature
crystalline
Counting days
sparkling water
clear eyes
seeing daylight
but not the other guy
so far.
sparkling water
clear eyes
seeing daylight
but not the other guy
so far.
Memnalar Memnalar
0
11
Literature
ark nemesis
Came out of the sand,
wind blowing hot
ruffling his hat brim
No wings.
They had wings, we thought,
but the Good Book
never said anything about that.
Just a long chain
A long chain,
A chain as long as we've been here
crawling across His skin
until today.
A long chain,
holding a big box
tight
on his back,
pine,
fine grain,
if you've a mind
for detail.
Along his chest,
leather.
He pulled it,
Sam Colt
in each claw,
and he dared the horizon
Draw,
you Sons of
Sons of
Bitches,
And as we started,
we ended,
rats, crawling over the dirt
scrambling
for water
for sun
for a dark hole away from
the storm
we'd made.
One
by one
by one he raised his hands
and squeezed
and turned that wheel
amidst the gun
never stopping,
never running dry
and the box on his back
held there by the chain,
every link our lives,
put there since the start,
every link we died
until the box was full.
And then one day,
one drunk in a dark room
encased by clay
wrote it down as a flood
of water
when two by two every beast of the
wind blowing hot
ruffling his hat brim
No wings.
They had wings, we thought,
but the Good Book
never said anything about that.
Just a long chain
A long chain,
A chain as long as we've been here
crawling across His skin
until today.
A long chain,
holding a big box
tight
on his back,
pine,
fine grain,
if you've a mind
for detail.
Along his chest,
leather.
He pulled it,
Sam Colt
in each claw,
and he dared the horizon
Draw,
you Sons of
Sons of
Bitches,
And as we started,
we ended,
rats, crawling over the dirt
scrambling
for water
for sun
for a dark hole away from
the storm
we'd made.
One
by one
by one he raised his hands
and squeezed
and turned that wheel
amidst the gun
never stopping,
never running dry
and the box on his back
held there by the chain,
every link our lives,
put there since the start,
every link we died
until the box was full.
And then one day,
one drunk in a dark room
encased by clay
wrote it down as a flood
of water
when two by two every beast of the
Memnalar Memnalar
4
9
Literature
Zero One
So choose.
To take what we will,
we will take
a knife to your child's throat
to stay warm in youngblood.
To serve the will which keeps us,
we keep safe
from enemies foreigndomestic
as long as we stay told.
So choose.
Take your
guns, or
take your
indenture.
We'll wait.
To take what we will,
we will take
a knife to your child's throat
to stay warm in youngblood.
To serve the will which keeps us,
we keep safe
from enemies foreigndomestic
as long as we stay told.
So choose.
Take your
guns, or
take your
indenture.
We'll wait.
Memnalar Memnalar
4
1
Literature
Watered down
I asked the old sailor
as he sucked on suds
my coin had brought him,
I asked again
the question that had brought me.
Yea, he spat.
He didn't say Aye,
Yea, you whelp, I saw one once.
Hair like the sun topping the waves
at dawn,
Scales like the calmest blue
around the islands where coconuts grow,
and speaking of coconuts, she had...
But what happened, I pressed him,
another coin down, another glass down,
'We'd gone down,' he said, a Spring gale
ripped our sails, and sent us breaking
over the breakers on the Eastern coast,
rocks like teeth, the Devil's tits.
I coughed at the color.
Another coin down.
And the man went on.
Water was black, he said, wiping
beer from stubble
"I followed the bubbles up," but something grabbed
him then.
What, I leaned forward, was it, man?
It was black as night, I told you whelp
it grabbed my foot, I gulped a mouth of
sea and yanked my knife from my sheath
and stabbed.
And hit nothing,
and then I saw her.
Her? I half stood, and he smiled, and tapped his glass
n
as he sucked on suds
my coin had brought him,
I asked again
the question that had brought me.
Yea, he spat.
He didn't say Aye,
Yea, you whelp, I saw one once.
Hair like the sun topping the waves
at dawn,
Scales like the calmest blue
around the islands where coconuts grow,
and speaking of coconuts, she had...
But what happened, I pressed him,
another coin down, another glass down,
'We'd gone down,' he said, a Spring gale
ripped our sails, and sent us breaking
over the breakers on the Eastern coast,
rocks like teeth, the Devil's tits.
I coughed at the color.
Another coin down.
And the man went on.
Water was black, he said, wiping
beer from stubble
"I followed the bubbles up," but something grabbed
him then.
What, I leaned forward, was it, man?
It was black as night, I told you whelp
it grabbed my foot, I gulped a mouth of
sea and yanked my knife from my sheath
and stabbed.
And hit nothing,
and then I saw her.
Her? I half stood, and he smiled, and tapped his glass
n
Memnalar Memnalar
5
14
Literature
gin ration
The boards in this dive,
soaking up my blood
just like they soaked up dad's
and granddad's before him,
and it's like they say.
Thicker than water,
'cause water would clean up
easier.
soaking up my blood
just like they soaked up dad's
and granddad's before him,
and it's like they say.
Thicker than water,
'cause water would clean up
easier.
Memnalar Memnalar
2
4
Literature
I reckon
Weeds tumble
over my headstone
until the Day.
one Day
a man was weary
too many mouths, too
hungry, loud
decided to shut them mouths
for better or worse
one Day
a general made a truce
swords to plows, but
orders are orders
decided to take that land
for better or worse
one Day
a rich man laid track
hands and hammers, all
crossed the sea for pay
but bullets are cheaper
for better or worse
one Day
Weeds tumble
into a broken hole
next to my headstone
Got my bullets,
Got my orders,
And I'm hungry
And for better or worse,
Hell's coming along.
over my headstone
until the Day.
one Day
a man was weary
too many mouths, too
hungry, loud
decided to shut them mouths
for better or worse
one Day
a general made a truce
swords to plows, but
orders are orders
decided to take that land
for better or worse
one Day
a rich man laid track
hands and hammers, all
crossed the sea for pay
but bullets are cheaper
for better or worse
one Day
Weeds tumble
into a broken hole
next to my headstone
Got my bullets,
Got my orders,
And I'm hungry
And for better or worse,
Hell's coming along.
Memnalar Memnalar
3
6
Literature
bicycle mortuary
We rode together once
but I've no time for you now,
so I've hanged you
to forget you,
as the air leaves you
rarefied.
Rust in peace.
but I've no time for you now,
so I've hanged you
to forget you,
as the air leaves you
rarefied.
Rust in peace.
Memnalar Memnalar
6
8
Literature
Easterween
Don't they get it
how six feet
of white fur
sharp teeth
dead eyes
terrifies
how no shadow
under the stairs compares?
how six feet
of white fur
sharp teeth
dead eyes
terrifies
how no shadow
under the stairs compares?
Memnalar Memnalar
2
16
Literature
alarm
Welcome to another perfect day aboard the Citizen Ship!
Our sun is bright, and our temperature is just-fine.
Do we have enough points for window privileges?
Don't forget to redeem them, the lot resets at the
end of the cycle,
and we wouldn't want to miss the sunlight
that we have programmed for us.
Have we had a chance to listen to
the newest shout?
It's all over the Wave Net, and
we want to be first with the news!
Infant Recycling is at an all-time high!
Thirty-two million units of contraband were incinerated
last quarter!
We will all receive an extra Yummy Pill in celebration.
We will all have a pleasant light-period! Productivity Is Law! Law Is Life!
Our sun is bright, and our temperature is just-fine.
Do we have enough points for window privileges?
Don't forget to redeem them, the lot resets at the
end of the cycle,
and we wouldn't want to miss the sunlight
that we have programmed for us.
Have we had a chance to listen to
the newest shout?
It's all over the Wave Net, and
we want to be first with the news!
Infant Recycling is at an all-time high!
Thirty-two million units of contraband were incinerated
last quarter!
We will all receive an extra Yummy Pill in celebration.
We will all have a pleasant light-period! Productivity Is Law! Law Is Life!
Memnalar Memnalar
0
9
Literature
Overheard on Pinterest
Original document
showing coat of arms given to Joan of Arc
and other styrofoam structures
to make them look like best office prank.
I'd just die.
London Leather Briefcase
flesh and blood just like any other animal.
Packaged in plastic they hang on retail shelves
one of the longest underwater caves in Texas
Mysteriously Beautiful Abandoned Places
Maryland mom charged with stabbing murders
OMG the cuteness!
showing coat of arms given to Joan of Arc
and other styrofoam structures
to make them look like best office prank.
I'd just die.
London Leather Briefcase
flesh and blood just like any other animal.
Packaged in plastic they hang on retail shelves
one of the longest underwater caves in Texas
Mysteriously Beautiful Abandoned Places
Maryland mom charged with stabbing murders
OMG the cuteness!
Memnalar Memnalar
1
3
Literature
#footprints
Two lanes up
two lanes down,
crispy brown in between
where once were couples
pointing cameras
at kids and dogs and
buttercup dogwood
dandelion bluebonnets.
All gone ghosts,
but for twin rubber lines
and online timelines.
two lanes down,
crispy brown in between
where once were couples
pointing cameras
at kids and dogs and
buttercup dogwood
dandelion bluebonnets.
All gone ghosts,
but for twin rubber lines
and online timelines.
Memnalar Memnalar
1
0
Literature
war priest's tale
Before, I was a war-priest.
I know what you've been told.
You heard about spiked maces and
tattered robes,
dented armor and a necklace of runes
smeared in the blood of enemies.
Heathens.
Monsters.
I belted on the mace.
It hung rusting like a old man's balls.
I used it once,
to mash rotten corn into pulp
from one of the few fields Milord hadn't burned.
My robes were tattered, oh they were
torn to shreds
by wind and snow, miles of thorns
and egg-laying flies.
My armor saved me once,
from a starving farmer's dagger.
He wanted my tattered robes
and my rotten meal.
The runes about my sunburned neck,
were caked in red and brown
smeared there
by my dying countrymen,
pleading with me
to ease their passing
to forgive them
for what brought them to this field
or from which they ran.
Heathens.
Monsters.
They flocked to me,
Before, when I was a war-priest.
I know what you've been told.
You heard about spiked maces and
tattered robes,
dented armor and a necklace of runes
smeared in the blood of enemies.
Heathens.
Monsters.
I belted on the mace.
It hung rusting like a old man's balls.
I used it once,
to mash rotten corn into pulp
from one of the few fields Milord hadn't burned.
My robes were tattered, oh they were
torn to shreds
by wind and snow, miles of thorns
and egg-laying flies.
My armor saved me once,
from a starving farmer's dagger.
He wanted my tattered robes
and my rotten meal.
The runes about my sunburned neck,
were caked in red and brown
smeared there
by my dying countrymen,
pleading with me
to ease their passing
to forgive them
for what brought them to this field
or from which they ran.
Heathens.
Monsters.
They flocked to me,
Before, when I was a war-priest.
Memnalar Memnalar
3
18
Literature
vaprous
You'll have to look close
to notice the ghost, but it
will always see you.
to notice the ghost, but it
will always see you.
Memnalar Memnalar
2
4
Webcam
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Visitors
- Sep 18, 2018 @ 9:57 amTheSkaBoss
- Sep 17, 2018 @ 2:40 pmBeccaJS
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Donate
Oh, is it that time already? I guess I have a few things to tell you about.
The first, is that BATTLEFAIRIES is out to kill you all with this year's litany of terror inspire you to even greater heights of artistic endeavor with this year's Gauntlet.
Sharpen your pen, ink your pencil, gird your loins, put your therapist on speed dial, and get cranking, because this sucker is a doozy.
The second, is that once again, I'm adding cobwebs to the rafters, feeding the black cats and polishing up the car in preparation for this year's ALL HALLOW'S TALES CONTEST.
AND, as usual, this is the point when I start prostrating myself SHAMELESSLY asking for early donations.
PRIZES, JUDGES, GROUP SPONSORSHIPS (Which is a fancy way of saying PRIZES, but on behalf of your Group), etc.
If you are interested in Judging, please drop a comment or send me a note and let me know if you are interested in judging Prose, Poetry or both. In broad strokes, the contest usually runs the length of October. I can give you more specific dates later on if you are interested.
If you'd like to donate a Prize, please drop a comment or send a note and let me know what you'd like to donate. I'll take just about anything but llamas. Points, features, critiques, core memberships, commissions, and/or art that you've made yourself are all welcome, but if you have a different idea, I'm happy to hear it.
Since I'm always asked: Prizes donors are eligible to enter. Judges are not eligible to enter categories they are judging.
I cannot say this enough. This contest depends on prize donors and judges. Without them - without YOU - this contest doesn't happen.
This year marks the TENTH ANNIVERSARY of the All Hallow's Tales Contest.
Thanks to TEN YEARS of volunteer judges, points and prize donors and a TON of awesome, creepy entries and wonderful writers, this thing marks a full decade of injecting an annual shot of pumpkin spice and spiderwebs into Deviantart Literature.
You did that. I'm proud of you, little goblins.
See you in October.
Activity
Oh, is it that time already? I guess I have a few things to tell you about.
The first, is that BATTLEFAIRIES is out to kill you all with this year's litany of terror inspire you to even greater heights of artistic endeavor with this year's Gauntlet.
Sharpen your pen, ink your pencil, gird your loins, put your therapist on speed dial, and get cranking, because this sucker is a doozy.
The second, is that once again, I'm adding cobwebs to the rafters, feeding the black cats and polishing up the car in preparation for this year's ALL HALLOW'S TALES CONTEST.
AND, as usual, this is the point when I start prostrating myself SHAMELESSLY asking for early donations.
PRIZES, JUDGES, GROUP SPONSORSHIPS (Which is a fancy way of saying PRIZES, but on behalf of your Group), etc.
If you are interested in Judging, please drop a comment or send me a note and let me know if you are interested in judging Prose, Poetry or both. In broad strokes, the contest usually runs the length of October. I can give you more specific dates later on if you are interested.
If you'd like to donate a Prize, please drop a comment or send a note and let me know what you'd like to donate. I'll take just about anything but llamas. Points, features, critiques, core memberships, commissions, and/or art that you've made yourself are all welcome, but if you have a different idea, I'm happy to hear it.
Since I'm always asked: Prizes donors are eligible to enter. Judges are not eligible to enter categories they are judging.
I cannot say this enough. This contest depends on prize donors and judges. Without them - without YOU - this contest doesn't happen.
This year marks the TENTH ANNIVERSARY of the All Hallow's Tales Contest.
Thanks to TEN YEARS of volunteer judges, points and prize donors and a TON of awesome, creepy entries and wonderful writers, this thing marks a full decade of injecting an annual shot of pumpkin spice and spiderwebs into Deviantart Literature.
You did that. I'm proud of you, little goblins.
See you in October.
303 deviations
:origin()/pre00/8d29/th/pre/f/2017/090/a/8/mtg__mighty_leap_by_sidharthchaturvedi-db44dtk.jpg)
)I off-handedly remarked that I should feature some non-white portraits, and that quickly turned into "yes, let's do this." So here's a collection pulled from my favourites, showcasing faces from around the world and speculative imagery of all kinds: futuristic, fantastic, sci-fi-tic, and more. Enjoy!
Data broke in waves against the caged arena like high tide. Nuri’s green eye collected the feed, harvested it from the nanotech swimming in the crowd’s guts.
The women in the cage each bent, tensed, muscles corded, instructions from the chittering cortex rigs on their backs cracking through them like whips. They stalked each other like lionesses. Nuri and Marquez could see changes in the vitals, brainwaves, could see the enhancements spinning up and bodies overworking to compensate.
They’d been given ring names. Mojave, or at least his voice, called out each as she’d entered the ring. One with a red rig on her back grew claws. She was Bastet. Curved, braced titanium between each knuckle, enhanced speed. Bastet launched herself at Fury, a tattooed girl, green rig, with spiking adrenaline and strength bursts. Fury was sweating bullets and looking everywhere at once. She caught Bastet in mid-air and slammed her to the ground in a fluid motion. For a split second Fury looked like she was trying to back away, but the thing on her back flashed in argument. Instead, Fury drove her heel down into Bastet’s face, again and again, coming up bloody.
The scene played out in pairs across the cage. They went at each other like polar opposites, the crowd got louder and the fighters’ vitals rose with the noise. A purple-rigged fighter covered in iridescent hexagonal scales - She was Ariel - hurled herself in a series of spin-kicks into Medusa, a fanged nightmare with serpentine eye implants. Calypso had a segmented tentacle prosthetic where her right forearm used to be, using it to strangle Morgana, a girl with devil horns.
The projected landscape boiled and shifted and the fighters reacted to it as reality. So did the crowd. When one of the women in the cage fell into an illusory pit of blue flame, a section of the crowd shrieked along with her. Nuri heard the shatters of dropped glass.
Nuri glanced at Marquez, whose attention was riveted to the fighters and their vitals. Nuri nudged her over the shared link. [Talk to me.]
[If they don’t kill each other in there, they’ll start going into shock. You said there were more of them chained up backstage? They’ll most likely bring them out as these drop. This is bullshit, Snowball.]
Nuri ran her tongue over her teeth. She toggled through the fountain of data feeds pouring through the place, found the thread she wanted.
Mojave. Once the fight started, he’d gone quiet. Her subroutines had broken his countermeasures. It had taken longer than she’d expected, now she knew why. He was shipping data parcels from this event directly to a Bellerophon biomech lab.
Desi Mojave hadn’t stolen a damn thing. This was the pegasus’ show all along. Which meant Nuri was here because either a rival outfit was trying to shut this down, steal the tech or both.
Or it was an inside job. Internal competition among executives certainly wasn’t uncommon, and that could get just as ugly just as fast.
Nuri watched the fight in the cage and the datastream overhead. She followed Mojave’s trail until she finally found him. Miles away.
Marquez was right. This was bullshit.
[He was never here.]
Nuri dropped into tactical. Her vision became a data curtain, the flames, stars and Mayan illusion vanished behind wireframes and target acquisition. Everything fell into bullet time. Immediately, her threat assessment routines picked up guns. Lots of them. Everywhere. Every mook in the shadows with a bomb logo on his facemask was strapped, and every inch of the place was covered.
[TALK TO ME, FREEBIRD.] Gardener’s presence on the link became a square icon in the corner of Nuri’s visual field, like an anchor.
[Yeah, ditto that, Snowball. Your back is arched and everybody’s packing. I suddenly feel very underdressed, here.] Marquez’ link presence was now a black star outlined in red, pulsing. Her own wetware’s contributions to the shared link were overlayed in red outlines.
But there was something else, briefly, at the edge of Nuri’s vision. A blue flash, then gone. No register, no trail. A glitch? Someone trying to break in? She set a hunter subroutine to chase it; her hunter looked like a black dog in her tactical data curtain.
[Snowball? You with us?]
[Yeah. We’ve been had. Mojave’s running a game for Bellerophon.] She brought them up to speed.
Meantime, Marquez was right about the cage. Broken bodies twitched. Mermaid, Bastet and Calypso were on the ground while their cortex rigs still tried to jolt them into standing.
Meanwhile, Divebomb mooks were frog-marching new contestants in from the back, where the bus was parked behind the partitions. They hung new rigs on their backs. The machines gripped the women like some kind of alien, wrapping six articulated spindles around their shoulders and torsos, and driving interfaces into their spines in eight places.
As each one came online, a fighter prone on the floor went dark and stopped twitching. Left for dead. But not yet dead.
Fury, Morgana and Medusa were still on their feet, and three more fighters entered the game. One, called Charlotte, didn’t even touch the floor, but came in clinging to the cage cieling. The second, called Athena, was a giantess, was obvious musculoskeletal enhancements, and the third, named Kiss, seemed completely normal until Fury closed in to tussle.
Fury jerked her head to the side, her hands to her face.
[Tongue.] Nuri slowed down the feed so Marquez could register the three-meter-long thing come from her mouth and dig a gash just under Fury’s eye.
Shaking her head, Marquez turned her attention to the crowd. [The drinks weren’t just laced with nanoware,] Marquez guessed, [Had to be some kind of amphetamine. That wasn’t alcohol. Look at their eyes. No one’s paying attention to anything but that cage.]
Marquez was right about the crowd, too. Some of them were even drooling on themselves. Blood mad.
Then Gardener and Marquez realized what Nuri had already figured out, what the guns and the microwave emitters were for.
[YOU TWO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE. NOW.]
Nuri knew that was the right move. She glanced at Marquez. [Doc, Mojave is my target. He’s flown. The pegasus is about to clean house of anyone who has feelers out for their stolen tech. We’re out of here.]
The doctor shook her head, mouth set.
[We have to get the prisoners out. If the crossfire doesn’t kill them, the rigs will.]
Nuri pressed her tongue into the roof of her mouth. She thought of Daraja. Saving her while getting Rask was one thing. This was something else. Her target wasn’t here. Her business wasn’t here. If she could get the job done and do some good on the side, she’d always sleep better. But this?
[Marquez, I know it’s shitty, but even if we could blow this thing open, extract all the fighters alive somehow, where would we go? This is Bellerophon’s show, which makes them all CoreCorrect. Company property. Like I was in CorpSec, except they don’t get paid.]
[They get spent.] Marquez was ice. [I understand, Snowball. Bellerophon will come to collect. CorpSec and lawyers don’t bother me. Leaving these women to about three or four ways to die bothers me. And if it doesn’t bother you, then why did you bring me here? To watch?]
The exchange had taken only a second or two inside the link, but Nuri still registered the power signatures of the microwave guns spinning up. The crowd was a surge of adrenaline and rage. The fighters took the brunt of both and spent their own blood on the floor of that cage. Hundreds of cameras hummed along, catching all of this for a global audience.
Nuri pressed her tongue to her teeth.
Then her green eye caught a blue flash from the ring, gone in an instant, but long enough for her to notice something else where the flash had been.
In the cage, Fury, broken and bloody, chest heaving, the shoulder of her bodysuit torn away by another one of Kiss’ kisses. Nuri’s attention was nailed to the tattoo on her shoulder, spattered with blood but unmistakable, made clearer by auto-zoom.
The tattoo depicted a witch. Pale white skin. White hair. Green, burning eyes. Riding a broom wreathed in green flame, a black cat with an arched back seated behind her.
There was code on the fighter’s neck. Nuri’s eye grabbed a file from it.
GOSAZ Corporate Corrective Transferee.
Are you a witch?
CASTELL, EUGENIA M. Age 17. Terrorism. Conspiracy. Fraud. Theft. Unlicensed bioware.
I’m not Nari. I’m Gina.
Nuri’s green eye went black, with a bright green mote in the center.
[TALK TO ME, FREEBIRD. STATUS.]
[We’re leaving, Garddog.]
Marquez cut in. [The hell we are, Snow-]
[Right after we shut this down.]
Marquez grinned her there’s-my-girl grin. Gardener groaned strangling noises into Nuri’s earpiece. Nuri just stared at the cage, at the little girl in her mind’s eye with the black cat made of t-shirts.
[Doc, you have medivacs on standby already, don’t you?]
Marquez nodded. [They can be here in five.]
[Give them the greenlight.]
[This place is too hot, Snowball.]
[It will be cool soon.]
Marquez smiled, shook her head, sent her call-out signal.
[Gonna need UAS support here in a sec, Garddog.]
A sigh. [BURNING A LOT ON THIS ONE, KID.]
[Are you telling me no?] Nuri shrugged out of her jacket, tossed that to Marquez.
He was quiet for several heartbeats.
[John. Are you in this with me?]
[I’m not going anywhere, Freebird. What are the targets?]
[Anyone with a bomb logo and a gun.] Nuri’s data curtain lit up, outlining every Divebomber in the hangar. She’d tagged and tracked them all while sitting in that air scrubber housing. [I’m not worried about the stagehands. I’ll handle the microwaves and the ones around the bus.]
Nuri strapped on her respirator.
Marquez stared at her. [This place is huge. That’s a lot of ground to cover.]
Nuri handed Marquez her shoes. [Then I’d better get moving. It’s about to get loud, Doc. You good?]
[Always. Be in touch.]
Nuri winked, and sent a signal to the roof.
Where she’d planted her bombs.
The air scrubbers along the ceiling vanished in in a parade of fireballs that flung debris across the floor and sent people scattering in panic. Partition curtain caught fire. Fire retardant automatically engaged, dousing the room in foam, and the toilet sky crashed the party. In seconds, the hangar smelled like a burning septic tank.
Marquez uncovered her eyes, turned to deliver the mother of all curses for what had just happened to her dress, but Nuri was gone.
Nuri’s thighs, calves and arches extended and contracted like springs, launching her forward, catlike, hugging the perimeter of the hangar like a white bolt. Her feeds caught the panicked chatter among the Divebomb crew as she barrelled through the confused crowd. She swept through them like a white storm, breaking Bomber bones, punching windpipes, smashing skulls against walls, the floor, each other. Guns hit the ground. She didn’t pick one up.
The hangar was a shitstorm. Some in the crowd were still fixed on the ring, others coughed up a lung and struggled to find their respirators. Still others panicked in a drugged haze. The confusion bled into the cage. The fighters were now unfocused. Attention split between killing each other at the bidding of the electric teeth in the backs, and trying to draw a breath not filled with toxins.
Nuri sifted through more network and radio chatter. The Bombers were starting to coordinate, get over the initial shock. Some fixating on her. Others gearing up to carry out their plan, locking and loading.
She sent another signal to the roof. Topside, cases unfolded, spat out flat discs the same way a casino dealer flung cards. Each disc hung in the air. Seconds later, A few hundred tiny drones swarmed in from the roof through the holes made by Nuri’s bombs.
[Show’s yours, Garddog. Here are your bunnies.] Nuri updated and highlighted target information she’d gathered from her lap around the hangar.
They were like bees. Three-inch-wide assassin drones, all printed from the same pattern, each one rigged to deliver a single charge to a target’s forehead with the punch of a .40 caliber slug. One shot only, kill the target, destroy the drone. Around the hangar they went off like popcorn, dropping Divebombers who never saw them coming. Nuri tallied them in a background routine.
The microwave guns spun up. Nuri marked Marquez’ location in the shared link. She was in range. [Doc, hit the dirt. They’re about to cook the room. Sorry about your dress.]
[It’s okay. I’ll lay on your jacket.]
[Bitch.] Nuri extended her legs like pistons, pushed with the magnets in her feet against the ferroconcrete floor and took a running leap at the cage, fired herself up to the top of it, knees drawn up to her chest, then down again to land in a run on the wire roof. She magnetized her bare feet as she went, thunking her way across.
Screaming from the floor. The microwaves were on-line, and the crowd of people all forgot the cage as their skin cooked. The fighters in the cage dropped to the mat, catching the rays full-force and from all sides.
Nuri tracked the power signature. Generator was outside. Take too long to get to it. Six projectors. All around a huge, crowded hangar.
Fuck it.
[Cover your ears, and shut your eyes, Doc.]
[Snowball, what the hell-]
[MARQUEZ. DO IT.] Gardener co-signed, realizing Nuri’s play.
Nuri targeted all six projectors, opened irises in both palms. Automatically, a protective blast lens slid into place over her natural left eye, and dampener plugs swelled in her ears.
She held a palm out to a projector. A thin laser pencilled a line between her and the machine, connecting her to it in a line of charged ions for a single fraction of a millisecond.
Then, the hangar exploded in white light and a sonic boom. The walls shook. The cage shook. Nuri’s hair rose. The projector became a pillar of smoke and melted components.
Five more times, rapid succession. Target, laser, boom. Six melted projectors. The hangar vibrated like a bass drum.
Nuri blew on her finger.
Gardener sighed over her earpiece. [NEED A CIGARETTE?]
[Interesting, Snowball. I’ve been meaning to buy new ears, anyway. What in the hell was-]
[Electrolaser. I’ll explain later. Too out in the open up here-] Nuri was cut off when her threat assessment gave her a red ping on her six o’clock. She dove forward off the cage, somersaulted, landed on the floor, putting the arena between her and whatever the problem was. Just in time, as a hail of bullets roared past where she’d been and followed her down, shredding the chain links.
Nuri hit the ground in a squat, keeping the raised arena floor between her and the threat, which was now also between her and the buses holding the rest of the prisoners.
The gunfire had quit. Nuri clicked into the satellite feed again, toggled around until she found the hangar’s cameras. She surveyed the room.
In the cage, the fighters struggled to stand, the cortex rigs still goading them to go at it. Clusters of moaning people surrounded the ring, hugging themselves, still jacked up from the microwaves and the nanotech-amphetamine cocktail, coughing from the fetid air and covered in fire retardant foam. Ridiculously, The hologram projectors kept repeating Mojave’s Mayan temple program against the smoke from destroyed air scrubbers and the slagged microwave guns. The hangar looked like an apocalyptic dream.
She caught sight of Marquez. Somewhere she’d found herself a rifle and a pair of low-light goggles from a Divebomber. She’d made it most of the way to the bus curtain, but now she stayed put behind the corner of the arena’s raised floor, eyes on the gunman.
Nuri saw him, too.
Apollo, the door bouncer. Ex-CorpSec. He’d be hardier than the Divebomb crew, harder to take down. He’d taken cover behind a light rig. Didn’t look as if he knew Marquez existed.
[Doc. That Kalishnikov clashes with your shoes.]
[Your Frankenstein boyfriend from the door is pining for you, dear.]
[I noticed. Do you have a shot?]
Nuri watched Marquez sight down, her back against the cage.
[Negative.]
[I’ll work on it.]
Threat ping. Six o’clock, again. Nuri turned, palm out.
Inside the cage, inches away, Fury/Gina was laying on the mat. Her face was a wreck. She gripped the chain link with one hand. She squinted against the bright ion laser from Nuri’s palm, which put a feiry white dot on Gina’s forehead.
Nuri clutched her hand and killed the laser.
“It’s you.” They said it in unison. Gina’s voice burbled, liked she’d been punched in the throat. Nuri’s eye was scanning automatically. Gina’d taken a beating in addition to what the rig was doing to her.
“Try not to move,” Nuri said. "Trauma team is coming."
“Can’t help it.” Gina coughed up some blood. Broken ribs. Punctured lung. “Thing on my back won’t let me stop.” Illustrating the point, the rig pulsed with light. Gina’s legs spasmed. She winced, gripped the chain links with both hands, tried standing.
Nuri gritted her teeth. [Doc. These cortex rigs. What if I EMP them?]
[You might as well rip them out with a magnet. We have to do it carefully, Snowball. Surgically. Like taking out shrapnel.]
Gina was on her feet, still clutching the cage. The mat rumbled. Morgana, the devil-horned fighter, was running up on her from behind.
It happened so fast that even Nuri almost couldn’t follow it. Gina stayed motionless, her head against the cage until the last second, then jumped straight up, clinging to the metal as Morgana slammed into it below her. She planked her legs straight out and dropped, catching a devil horn in each fist and twisted like a drill bit as she went down. She hit the mat with her back. Morgana hit it with her face. She didn’t get up. Gina rolled, slowly, with an agonized expression and a weak thumbs up.
Nuri returned it. Message received. Gina could take care of herself. For now.
[Garddog. How many bees do I have left?]
[ABOUT 30. MAYBE TWO MINUTES ON BATTERY.] Gardener lit up the assassin drones for her on her display, hovering without targets.
Nuri reached out with her green eye again, toggled through her feeds, this time found the projection server. She’d broken through it earlier. Wouldn’t do any good to change the hologram; Apollo would have his own tactical system, could see through projections as well as she could.
But Apollo wasn’t her audience.
The projection beacons swerved and clicked, and the Mayan temple vanished. The hangar went dark except for small fires where the air scrubbers and microwave guns used to be, and the multicolored pulses from the cortex rigs in the ring.
[Snowball?]
[Stand by.]
Then she toggled through her feeds again, found a different server. She smiled. [Garddog. If I give you the keys, can you drive one of those?]
[ALWAYS WANTED TO.]
Nuri bolted. She sprang, thighs and calves extended and contracting, bounding over piles of Divebombers, destroyed equipment, and party guests coughing and hacking, now trying to run or crawl toward the exits. She opened the irises in both palms, let flow with a dialed-down electrical release, no target. It glowed around her like an aura.
She moved like a pinball, magnetically bounding from support pillar to floor to the fighting cage to the hangar cieling and back down again.
Apollo waited as long as he could, but Nuri jerked aside when the muzzle flash started. She drew him out, bounding wide right and high, forcing him to follow with his aim. Anti-armor shredded the walls and ceiling of the hangar in Nuri’s wake.
She hit the floor in a crouch. Apollo, confused, took aim. But then he noticed the threat ping in his own tactical display, suddenly twisting to swing his huge rifle around.
Not fast enough. The teamster drone smashed into the pillar, forks at eye level. Ripped it out of the floor and shoved the structure into Apollo, knocking him prone. Rifle skidded from his grip.
He was big, but fast, on his feet almost instantly, only to find his entire torso and face covered in tiny projections.
Little bomb logos.
The bees had their targets, and bit him all at once.
Marquez had her target, too. She emptied her magazine.
Nuri opened one palm iris all the way. [Get clear.]
She put the laser on Apollo’s center mass. The hangar thundered white one more time.
Then it was quiet.
Apollo was on his knees, looked like cooked hamburger. As much metal as muscle showed beneath shredded, smoking skin, and he bled in more colors than red. His heart was beating. Nuri could see it. One of four backups. Heavy assault models carried them. The Bellerophon logo swelled and contracted in steady rhythm.
Apollo raised his head, sideways, grinned sideways. Half his face was gone, titanium skull beneath. Looked at Nuri with a flickering red eye, the CorpSec signature. He hadn’t switched his out. She wondered who else might still be looking through it.
Then again, she was starting to suspect.
“I got you.” Apollo’s voice sounded like a garbage disposal.
Nuri glanced down at the pooling red on her shirt, under her other palm. She was gut-shot. Twice, clean through.
“Dammit, Nuri. Let me see.” Marquez stepped up, pulled Nuri’s palm away to look.
“S’okay,” Apollo burbled. “She’s got…same nano I do, right? Sew her up good.” He had a slight trace of an accent. Somewhere British. “Only mine can’t work fast enough….”
Nuri killed her laser and let her arm drop. He wasn’t capable of anything now. She looked at the ring, where the women were still fighting, or trying to. “How do we shut the rigs off?”
Blood fell out of his mouth. “No idea. I was…door.” He nodded his head toward the bus curtain. “That way maybe. Equipment.”
Nuri started to move.
“Wait,” Apollo grunted. “You…were in the Life, right?”
Nuri stopped. Nodded.
“Knew it. Famous. White Witch.”
He labored to take another breath.
“Do…something for me.”
Nuri scanned him. He could be stalling. She checked her feeds. Checked the cameras. No bombs in his guts. No one sneaking up behind her with a bazooka. But every second she stood there, those cortex rigs were killing the women in the ring, or paralyzing them for life.
“What?” Nuri bit off.
“I…have a daughter. Crystalline. She’ll be…fixed for money. Flashbank…behind my ear. Could you. Make sure. She.”
He was gone.
Minutes later, Marquez’ medivac teams started tearing up dust clouds outside, along with a few police response units Gardener could find that Mojave hadn’t paid off. Marquez herself was a sight, EMS jacket over her party dress, directing traffic like an incident commander.
Party guests scattered. Bigger fish got away, but the minnows were rounded up and hot-lighted. Still twitching from the drug and nano cocktail and all half-deaf and starry-eyed, some told the cops a wild story about a glowing white lady with green eyes that killed the Divebomb crew with a swarm of hornets from her mouth and lighting bolts from her hands. Some said she was a dragon. Some said she was a white rabbit.
Nuri found the main transponder for the cortex rigs, hidden in an airscrubber unit on the roof of one of the prison buses. It was as big as an old gaming console. Nuri powered it down, put it under her arm, took her own cue and melted away before a cop saw her and put a kernel of truth to the mass hallucination. But not before she glanced back to make sure Gina was making it into an ambulance, along with the other women from the ring.
Gina, strapped into a stretcher, was looking around for something. Someone. Then they put her into an ambulance.
Nuri pressed her tongue to her teeth when she saw the Bellerophon logo on the side of the ambulances. Of course it would be there. The company owned the women. Owned the prison they were going back to. They owned everything.
Terrorism, Conspiracy, Fraud, Theft, Unlicensed bioware? What the hell were you doing the last ten years? Nuri thought, running Gina’s file again. I’m sorry, girl. I’ll find you.
This was not over.
She pulled her hand from her pocket, and looked at the flashbank she’d extracted from the slot behind Apollo’s ear. She thought of his daughter. Crystalline.
No, not over.
But something else gnawed at Nuri as she crunched across the gravel to where she’d stashed her bike, wincing with each step at the pain in her side. That blue flash at the edge of her vision, always chasing across her data field. It showed up once, then again right where she’d first noticed Gina. Like it was trying to guide her?
Wait, she’d set a hunting routine to chase after it, what the hell happened there? She ran down that routine, found it. It had been a black dog when it started. Now it was a cute brown puppy making adorable whining noises, scratching perpetually at nonexistent fleas. It had a ribbon on one ear.
Nuri stopped walking. She tapped the brown puppy. It dissolved into bright motes of blue light and vanished.
She shook her head, I’m going fucking crazy.
Her side throbbed. Apollo had been right. Her nanoware was sewing her up as fast as it could, but that would still take time. Marquez had given her two injections of that foam they used in the field for bullet wounds. She carried the damnedest things in that car of hers.
At least she wouldn’t bleed out. She still had one more errand to run.
The women in the cage each bent, tensed, muscles corded, instructions from the chittering cortex rigs on their backs cracking through them like whips. They stalked each other like lionesses. Nuri and Marquez could see changes in the vitals, brainwaves, could see the enhancements spinning up and bodies overworking to compensate.
They’d been given ring names. Mojave, or at least his voice, called out each as she’d entered the ring. One with a red rig on her back grew claws. She was Bastet. Curved, braced titanium between each knuckle, enhanced speed. Bastet launched herself at Fury, a tattooed girl, green rig, with spiking adrenaline and strength bursts. Fury was sweating bullets and looking everywhere at once. She caught Bastet in mid-air and slammed her to the ground in a fluid motion. For a split second Fury looked like she was trying to back away, but the thing on her back flashed in argument. Instead, Fury drove her heel down into Bastet’s face, again and again, coming up bloody.
The scene played out in pairs across the cage. They went at each other like polar opposites, the crowd got louder and the fighters’ vitals rose with the noise. A purple-rigged fighter covered in iridescent hexagonal scales - She was Ariel - hurled herself in a series of spin-kicks into Medusa, a fanged nightmare with serpentine eye implants. Calypso had a segmented tentacle prosthetic where her right forearm used to be, using it to strangle Morgana, a girl with devil horns.
The projected landscape boiled and shifted and the fighters reacted to it as reality. So did the crowd. When one of the women in the cage fell into an illusory pit of blue flame, a section of the crowd shrieked along with her. Nuri heard the shatters of dropped glass.
Nuri glanced at Marquez, whose attention was riveted to the fighters and their vitals. Nuri nudged her over the shared link. [Talk to me.]
[If they don’t kill each other in there, they’ll start going into shock. You said there were more of them chained up backstage? They’ll most likely bring them out as these drop. This is bullshit, Snowball.]
Nuri ran her tongue over her teeth. She toggled through the fountain of data feeds pouring through the place, found the thread she wanted.
Mojave. Once the fight started, he’d gone quiet. Her subroutines had broken his countermeasures. It had taken longer than she’d expected, now she knew why. He was shipping data parcels from this event directly to a Bellerophon biomech lab.
Desi Mojave hadn’t stolen a damn thing. This was the pegasus’ show all along. Which meant Nuri was here because either a rival outfit was trying to shut this down, steal the tech or both.
Or it was an inside job. Internal competition among executives certainly wasn’t uncommon, and that could get just as ugly just as fast.
Nuri watched the fight in the cage and the datastream overhead. She followed Mojave’s trail until she finally found him. Miles away.
Marquez was right. This was bullshit.
[He was never here.]
Nuri dropped into tactical. Her vision became a data curtain, the flames, stars and Mayan illusion vanished behind wireframes and target acquisition. Everything fell into bullet time. Immediately, her threat assessment routines picked up guns. Lots of them. Everywhere. Every mook in the shadows with a bomb logo on his facemask was strapped, and every inch of the place was covered.
[TALK TO ME, FREEBIRD.] Gardener’s presence on the link became a square icon in the corner of Nuri’s visual field, like an anchor.
[Yeah, ditto that, Snowball. Your back is arched and everybody’s packing. I suddenly feel very underdressed, here.] Marquez’ link presence was now a black star outlined in red, pulsing. Her own wetware’s contributions to the shared link were overlayed in red outlines.
But there was something else, briefly, at the edge of Nuri’s vision. A blue flash, then gone. No register, no trail. A glitch? Someone trying to break in? She set a hunter subroutine to chase it; her hunter looked like a black dog in her tactical data curtain.
[Snowball? You with us?]
[Yeah. We’ve been had. Mojave’s running a game for Bellerophon.] She brought them up to speed.
Meantime, Marquez was right about the cage. Broken bodies twitched. Mermaid, Bastet and Calypso were on the ground while their cortex rigs still tried to jolt them into standing.
Meanwhile, Divebomb mooks were frog-marching new contestants in from the back, where the bus was parked behind the partitions. They hung new rigs on their backs. The machines gripped the women like some kind of alien, wrapping six articulated spindles around their shoulders and torsos, and driving interfaces into their spines in eight places.
As each one came online, a fighter prone on the floor went dark and stopped twitching. Left for dead. But not yet dead.
Fury, Morgana and Medusa were still on their feet, and three more fighters entered the game. One, called Charlotte, didn’t even touch the floor, but came in clinging to the cage cieling. The second, called Athena, was a giantess, was obvious musculoskeletal enhancements, and the third, named Kiss, seemed completely normal until Fury closed in to tussle.
Fury jerked her head to the side, her hands to her face.
[Tongue.] Nuri slowed down the feed so Marquez could register the three-meter-long thing come from her mouth and dig a gash just under Fury’s eye.
Shaking her head, Marquez turned her attention to the crowd. [The drinks weren’t just laced with nanoware,] Marquez guessed, [Had to be some kind of amphetamine. That wasn’t alcohol. Look at their eyes. No one’s paying attention to anything but that cage.]
Marquez was right about the crowd, too. Some of them were even drooling on themselves. Blood mad.
Then Gardener and Marquez realized what Nuri had already figured out, what the guns and the microwave emitters were for.
[YOU TWO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE. NOW.]
Nuri knew that was the right move. She glanced at Marquez. [Doc, Mojave is my target. He’s flown. The pegasus is about to clean house of anyone who has feelers out for their stolen tech. We’re out of here.]
The doctor shook her head, mouth set.
[We have to get the prisoners out. If the crossfire doesn’t kill them, the rigs will.]
Nuri pressed her tongue into the roof of her mouth. She thought of Daraja. Saving her while getting Rask was one thing. This was something else. Her target wasn’t here. Her business wasn’t here. If she could get the job done and do some good on the side, she’d always sleep better. But this?
[Marquez, I know it’s shitty, but even if we could blow this thing open, extract all the fighters alive somehow, where would we go? This is Bellerophon’s show, which makes them all CoreCorrect. Company property. Like I was in CorpSec, except they don’t get paid.]
[They get spent.] Marquez was ice. [I understand, Snowball. Bellerophon will come to collect. CorpSec and lawyers don’t bother me. Leaving these women to about three or four ways to die bothers me. And if it doesn’t bother you, then why did you bring me here? To watch?]
The exchange had taken only a second or two inside the link, but Nuri still registered the power signatures of the microwave guns spinning up. The crowd was a surge of adrenaline and rage. The fighters took the brunt of both and spent their own blood on the floor of that cage. Hundreds of cameras hummed along, catching all of this for a global audience.
Nuri pressed her tongue to her teeth.
Then her green eye caught a blue flash from the ring, gone in an instant, but long enough for her to notice something else where the flash had been.
In the cage, Fury, broken and bloody, chest heaving, the shoulder of her bodysuit torn away by another one of Kiss’ kisses. Nuri’s attention was nailed to the tattoo on her shoulder, spattered with blood but unmistakable, made clearer by auto-zoom.
The tattoo depicted a witch. Pale white skin. White hair. Green, burning eyes. Riding a broom wreathed in green flame, a black cat with an arched back seated behind her.
Are you a witch?
There was code on the fighter’s neck. Nuri’s eye grabbed a file from it.
Are you a witch?
GOSAZ Corporate Corrective Transferee.
Are you a witch?
CASTELL, EUGENIA M. Age 17. Terrorism. Conspiracy. Fraud. Theft. Unlicensed bioware.
I’m not Nari. I’m Gina.
Nuri’s green eye went black, with a bright green mote in the center.
[TALK TO ME, FREEBIRD. STATUS.]
[We’re leaving, Garddog.]
Marquez cut in. [The hell we are, Snow-]
[Right after we shut this down.]
Marquez grinned her there’s-my-girl grin. Gardener groaned strangling noises into Nuri’s earpiece. Nuri just stared at the cage, at the little girl in her mind’s eye with the black cat made of t-shirts.
[Doc, you have medivacs on standby already, don’t you?]
Marquez nodded. [They can be here in five.]
[Give them the greenlight.]
[This place is too hot, Snowball.]
[It will be cool soon.]
Marquez smiled, shook her head, sent her call-out signal.
[Gonna need UAS support here in a sec, Garddog.]
A sigh. [BURNING A LOT ON THIS ONE, KID.]
[Are you telling me no?] Nuri shrugged out of her jacket, tossed that to Marquez.
He was quiet for several heartbeats.
[John. Are you in this with me?]
[I’m not going anywhere, Freebird. What are the targets?]
[Anyone with a bomb logo and a gun.] Nuri’s data curtain lit up, outlining every Divebomber in the hangar. She’d tagged and tracked them all while sitting in that air scrubber housing. [I’m not worried about the stagehands. I’ll handle the microwaves and the ones around the bus.]
Nuri strapped on her respirator.
Marquez stared at her. [This place is huge. That’s a lot of ground to cover.]
Nuri handed Marquez her shoes. [Then I’d better get moving. It’s about to get loud, Doc. You good?]
[Always. Be in touch.]
Nuri winked, and sent a signal to the roof.
Where she’d planted her bombs.
The air scrubbers along the ceiling vanished in in a parade of fireballs that flung debris across the floor and sent people scattering in panic. Partition curtain caught fire. Fire retardant automatically engaged, dousing the room in foam, and the toilet sky crashed the party. In seconds, the hangar smelled like a burning septic tank.
Marquez uncovered her eyes, turned to deliver the mother of all curses for what had just happened to her dress, but Nuri was gone.
Nuri’s thighs, calves and arches extended and contracted like springs, launching her forward, catlike, hugging the perimeter of the hangar like a white bolt. Her feeds caught the panicked chatter among the Divebomb crew as she barrelled through the confused crowd. She swept through them like a white storm, breaking Bomber bones, punching windpipes, smashing skulls against walls, the floor, each other. Guns hit the ground. She didn’t pick one up.
The hangar was a shitstorm. Some in the crowd were still fixed on the ring, others coughed up a lung and struggled to find their respirators. Still others panicked in a drugged haze. The confusion bled into the cage. The fighters were now unfocused. Attention split between killing each other at the bidding of the electric teeth in the backs, and trying to draw a breath not filled with toxins.
Nuri sifted through more network and radio chatter. The Bombers were starting to coordinate, get over the initial shock. Some fixating on her. Others gearing up to carry out their plan, locking and loading.
She sent another signal to the roof. Topside, cases unfolded, spat out flat discs the same way a casino dealer flung cards. Each disc hung in the air. Seconds later, A few hundred tiny drones swarmed in from the roof through the holes made by Nuri’s bombs.
[Show’s yours, Garddog. Here are your bunnies.] Nuri updated and highlighted target information she’d gathered from her lap around the hangar.
They were like bees. Three-inch-wide assassin drones, all printed from the same pattern, each one rigged to deliver a single charge to a target’s forehead with the punch of a .40 caliber slug. One shot only, kill the target, destroy the drone. Around the hangar they went off like popcorn, dropping Divebombers who never saw them coming. Nuri tallied them in a background routine.
The microwave guns spun up. Nuri marked Marquez’ location in the shared link. She was in range. [Doc, hit the dirt. They’re about to cook the room. Sorry about your dress.]
[It’s okay. I’ll lay on your jacket.]
[Bitch.] Nuri extended her legs like pistons, pushed with the magnets in her feet against the ferroconcrete floor and took a running leap at the cage, fired herself up to the top of it, knees drawn up to her chest, then down again to land in a run on the wire roof. She magnetized her bare feet as she went, thunking her way across.
Screaming from the floor. The microwaves were on-line, and the crowd of people all forgot the cage as their skin cooked. The fighters in the cage dropped to the mat, catching the rays full-force and from all sides.
Nuri tracked the power signature. Generator was outside. Take too long to get to it. Six projectors. All around a huge, crowded hangar.
Fuck it.
[Cover your ears, and shut your eyes, Doc.]
[Snowball, what the hell-]
[MARQUEZ. DO IT.] Gardener co-signed, realizing Nuri’s play.
Nuri targeted all six projectors, opened irises in both palms. Automatically, a protective blast lens slid into place over her natural left eye, and dampener plugs swelled in her ears.
She held a palm out to a projector. A thin laser pencilled a line between her and the machine, connecting her to it in a line of charged ions for a single fraction of a millisecond.
Then, the hangar exploded in white light and a sonic boom. The walls shook. The cage shook. Nuri’s hair rose. The projector became a pillar of smoke and melted components.
Five more times, rapid succession. Target, laser, boom. Six melted projectors. The hangar vibrated like a bass drum.
Nuri blew on her finger.
Gardener sighed over her earpiece. [NEED A CIGARETTE?]
[Interesting, Snowball. I’ve been meaning to buy new ears, anyway. What in the hell was-]
[Electrolaser. I’ll explain later. Too out in the open up here-] Nuri was cut off when her threat assessment gave her a red ping on her six o’clock. She dove forward off the cage, somersaulted, landed on the floor, putting the arena between her and whatever the problem was. Just in time, as a hail of bullets roared past where she’d been and followed her down, shredding the chain links.
Nuri hit the ground in a squat, keeping the raised arena floor between her and the threat, which was now also between her and the buses holding the rest of the prisoners.
The gunfire had quit. Nuri clicked into the satellite feed again, toggled around until she found the hangar’s cameras. She surveyed the room.
In the cage, the fighters struggled to stand, the cortex rigs still goading them to go at it. Clusters of moaning people surrounded the ring, hugging themselves, still jacked up from the microwaves and the nanotech-amphetamine cocktail, coughing from the fetid air and covered in fire retardant foam. Ridiculously, The hologram projectors kept repeating Mojave’s Mayan temple program against the smoke from destroyed air scrubbers and the slagged microwave guns. The hangar looked like an apocalyptic dream.
She caught sight of Marquez. Somewhere she’d found herself a rifle and a pair of low-light goggles from a Divebomber. She’d made it most of the way to the bus curtain, but now she stayed put behind the corner of the arena’s raised floor, eyes on the gunman.
Nuri saw him, too.
Apollo, the door bouncer. Ex-CorpSec. He’d be hardier than the Divebomb crew, harder to take down. He’d taken cover behind a light rig. Didn’t look as if he knew Marquez existed.
[Doc. That Kalishnikov clashes with your shoes.]
[Your Frankenstein boyfriend from the door is pining for you, dear.]
[I noticed. Do you have a shot?]
Nuri watched Marquez sight down, her back against the cage.
[Negative.]
[I’ll work on it.]
Threat ping. Six o’clock, again. Nuri turned, palm out.
Inside the cage, inches away, Fury/Gina was laying on the mat. Her face was a wreck. She gripped the chain link with one hand. She squinted against the bright ion laser from Nuri’s palm, which put a feiry white dot on Gina’s forehead.
Nuri clutched her hand and killed the laser.
“It’s you.” They said it in unison. Gina’s voice burbled, liked she’d been punched in the throat. Nuri’s eye was scanning automatically. Gina’d taken a beating in addition to what the rig was doing to her.
“Try not to move,” Nuri said. "Trauma team is coming."
“Can’t help it.” Gina coughed up some blood. Broken ribs. Punctured lung. “Thing on my back won’t let me stop.” Illustrating the point, the rig pulsed with light. Gina’s legs spasmed. She winced, gripped the chain links with both hands, tried standing.
Nuri gritted her teeth. [Doc. These cortex rigs. What if I EMP them?]
[You might as well rip them out with a magnet. We have to do it carefully, Snowball. Surgically. Like taking out shrapnel.]
Gina was on her feet, still clutching the cage. The mat rumbled. Morgana, the devil-horned fighter, was running up on her from behind.
It happened so fast that even Nuri almost couldn’t follow it. Gina stayed motionless, her head against the cage until the last second, then jumped straight up, clinging to the metal as Morgana slammed into it below her. She planked her legs straight out and dropped, catching a devil horn in each fist and twisted like a drill bit as she went down. She hit the mat with her back. Morgana hit it with her face. She didn’t get up. Gina rolled, slowly, with an agonized expression and a weak thumbs up.
Nuri returned it. Message received. Gina could take care of herself. For now.
[Garddog. How many bees do I have left?]
[ABOUT 30. MAYBE TWO MINUTES ON BATTERY.] Gardener lit up the assassin drones for her on her display, hovering without targets.
Nuri reached out with her green eye again, toggled through her feeds, this time found the projection server. She’d broken through it earlier. Wouldn’t do any good to change the hologram; Apollo would have his own tactical system, could see through projections as well as she could.
But Apollo wasn’t her audience.
The projection beacons swerved and clicked, and the Mayan temple vanished. The hangar went dark except for small fires where the air scrubbers and microwave guns used to be, and the multicolored pulses from the cortex rigs in the ring.
[Snowball?]
[Stand by.]
Then she toggled through her feeds again, found a different server. She smiled. [Garddog. If I give you the keys, can you drive one of those?]
[ALWAYS WANTED TO.]
Nuri bolted. She sprang, thighs and calves extended and contracting, bounding over piles of Divebombers, destroyed equipment, and party guests coughing and hacking, now trying to run or crawl toward the exits. She opened the irises in both palms, let flow with a dialed-down electrical release, no target. It glowed around her like an aura.
She moved like a pinball, magnetically bounding from support pillar to floor to the fighting cage to the hangar cieling and back down again.
Apollo waited as long as he could, but Nuri jerked aside when the muzzle flash started. She drew him out, bounding wide right and high, forcing him to follow with his aim. Anti-armor shredded the walls and ceiling of the hangar in Nuri’s wake.
She hit the floor in a crouch. Apollo, confused, took aim. But then he noticed the threat ping in his own tactical display, suddenly twisting to swing his huge rifle around.
Not fast enough. The teamster drone smashed into the pillar, forks at eye level. Ripped it out of the floor and shoved the structure into Apollo, knocking him prone. Rifle skidded from his grip.
He was big, but fast, on his feet almost instantly, only to find his entire torso and face covered in tiny projections.
Little bomb logos.
The bees had their targets, and bit him all at once.
Marquez had her target, too. She emptied her magazine.
Nuri opened one palm iris all the way. [Get clear.]
She put the laser on Apollo’s center mass. The hangar thundered white one more time.
Then it was quiet.
Apollo was on his knees, looked like cooked hamburger. As much metal as muscle showed beneath shredded, smoking skin, and he bled in more colors than red. His heart was beating. Nuri could see it. One of four backups. Heavy assault models carried them. The Bellerophon logo swelled and contracted in steady rhythm.
Apollo raised his head, sideways, grinned sideways. Half his face was gone, titanium skull beneath. Looked at Nuri with a flickering red eye, the CorpSec signature. He hadn’t switched his out. She wondered who else might still be looking through it.
Then again, she was starting to suspect.
“I got you.” Apollo’s voice sounded like a garbage disposal.
Nuri glanced down at the pooling red on her shirt, under her other palm. She was gut-shot. Twice, clean through.
“Dammit, Nuri. Let me see.” Marquez stepped up, pulled Nuri’s palm away to look.
“S’okay,” Apollo burbled. “She’s got…same nano I do, right? Sew her up good.” He had a slight trace of an accent. Somewhere British. “Only mine can’t work fast enough….”
Nuri killed her laser and let her arm drop. He wasn’t capable of anything now. She looked at the ring, where the women were still fighting, or trying to. “How do we shut the rigs off?”
Blood fell out of his mouth. “No idea. I was…door.” He nodded his head toward the bus curtain. “That way maybe. Equipment.”
Nuri started to move.
“Wait,” Apollo grunted. “You…were in the Life, right?”
Nuri stopped. Nodded.
“Knew it. Famous. White Witch.”
He labored to take another breath.
“Do…something for me.”
Nuri scanned him. He could be stalling. She checked her feeds. Checked the cameras. No bombs in his guts. No one sneaking up behind her with a bazooka. But every second she stood there, those cortex rigs were killing the women in the ring, or paralyzing them for life.
“What?” Nuri bit off.
“I…have a daughter. Crystalline. She’ll be…fixed for money. Flashbank…behind my ear. Could you. Make sure. She.”
He was gone.
Minutes later, Marquez’ medivac teams started tearing up dust clouds outside, along with a few police response units Gardener could find that Mojave hadn’t paid off. Marquez herself was a sight, EMS jacket over her party dress, directing traffic like an incident commander.
Party guests scattered. Bigger fish got away, but the minnows were rounded up and hot-lighted. Still twitching from the drug and nano cocktail and all half-deaf and starry-eyed, some told the cops a wild story about a glowing white lady with green eyes that killed the Divebomb crew with a swarm of hornets from her mouth and lighting bolts from her hands. Some said she was a dragon. Some said she was a white rabbit.
Nuri found the main transponder for the cortex rigs, hidden in an airscrubber unit on the roof of one of the prison buses. It was as big as an old gaming console. Nuri powered it down, put it under her arm, took her own cue and melted away before a cop saw her and put a kernel of truth to the mass hallucination. But not before she glanced back to make sure Gina was making it into an ambulance, along with the other women from the ring.
Gina, strapped into a stretcher, was looking around for something. Someone. Then they put her into an ambulance.
Nuri pressed her tongue to her teeth when she saw the Bellerophon logo on the side of the ambulances. Of course it would be there. The company owned the women. Owned the prison they were going back to. They owned everything.
Terrorism, Conspiracy, Fraud, Theft, Unlicensed bioware? What the hell were you doing the last ten years? Nuri thought, running Gina’s file again. I’m sorry, girl. I’ll find you.
This was not over.
She pulled her hand from her pocket, and looked at the flashbank she’d extracted from the slot behind Apollo’s ear. She thought of his daughter. Crystalline.
No, not over.
But something else gnawed at Nuri as she crunched across the gravel to where she’d stashed her bike, wincing with each step at the pain in her side. That blue flash at the edge of her vision, always chasing across her data field. It showed up once, then again right where she’d first noticed Gina. Like it was trying to guide her?
Wait, she’d set a hunting routine to chase after it, what the hell happened there? She ran down that routine, found it. It had been a black dog when it started. Now it was a cute brown puppy making adorable whining noises, scratching perpetually at nonexistent fleas. It had a ribbon on one ear.
Nuri stopped walking. She tapped the brown puppy. It dissolved into bright motes of blue light and vanished.
She shook her head, I’m going fucking crazy.
Her side throbbed. Apollo had been right. Her nanoware was sewing her up as fast as it could, but that would still take time. Marquez had given her two injections of that foam they used in the field for bullet wounds. She carried the damnedest things in that car of hers.
At least she wouldn’t bleed out. She still had one more errand to run.
...meaning National Novel Writing Month. Not nanotechnology, which is all I think of when I see the term these days. I should probably write something other than this cyberpunk thing for a minute or two.
ANYWAY, if you are one of the brave and the few going all out in November, you might need some help with that. I can personally attest that writing doesn't always grow best in a vacuum, and sometimes, you need people. WhiskeyDreamer is here for you with this year's NaNo Squads Project. So take a look and sign on:
Oh by the way...something else happens between now and November.
Don't think I haven't been thinking about that.
...because I have.
I've been writing, though! I just finished a whole 4,000-word Nuri section last night that took me about a month to do, then read it the next day and HAHAHAHAHAHA GOOD GOD THAT'S CRAP.
So it goes. How are you all?
Comments
Thanks for the fave on One Drum... 
Absolutely! 
So! Wanna come and
a question?
a question?
A watch from the fabled Memnalar? E-gads! Here: have a point! They're quite useful in arguments. 
Heh. Correcting an oversight; I thought I was watching you a while back. Thanks for the point! They usually sail right over my head. 
Thank you for the watch! I will do my very best to make it worth your while! 
Thank you for watching me, I appreciate your support! 
You're welcome, and the very same to you!
Thank you so much for the watch, my dear Jay!!! 
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