One Full Year

A piano plays in an empty club. The tables are all crowned with chairs, the stage is dark. The bar glistens, the floor glints with fresh wax.

A clock strikes five am, and a young man in rolled up sleeves takes a hearty draft of his drink. He grimaces, and shakes his head. He's sitting on the floor, back leaning up against the bar he just finished cleaning. The song echoes through the empty club. He closes his eyes and lets it echo through him as well.

"We did it, Cas. One full year." He hoists the remains of his drink at the stage, where the piano sits. The only reply is the mournful tune that comes out of the instrument.

He opens his eyes, and surveys the work of the last year. A beautiful establishment meets his eyes. Clean and new. The kind of place that he and Cas had talked about for years. His hands play on the wood of the bar behind him. Original. As old as the building itself. A concession he'd insisted on. It didn't quite match the aesthetic of the rest of the club but...

Well it was a talking piece at least.

And in the end it didn't really matter. After a year business was booming. Better than he'd hoped, better than anyone had expected.

"Told you we should keep the bar." He smirked.

The piano played.

The man sighs, and hoists himself off the floor. He takes the last of his drink, something expensive that he hates, and leaves the glass upside down on the bar. He walks over to the stage, and stares at the instrument.

Eventually the song comes to an end, and he unplugs the player piano.

"Thanks, Cas. Let's hope next year is even better." He smiles to the stage, with wet eyes. He walks out of the club, locks up and calls a cab.

A neon sign blazes in the darkness, welcoming people to Cassie's Club.

Let Her Go - Passenger

You only need the light when it's burning low, it seems. While the flickering dimness is dying, and your eyes are frantically flicking across the room desperately trying to memorize everything. And your head hurts from the strain. Your eyes burn with the effort you didn't even realize you were putting in.

The darkness is growing.

Growing into the room around you, winning control of the space, edging out the fading light. And some ancient, primal part of you feels the fear that all men fear in the darkness. You know there's nothing there, you know there's nothing to fear. But that prehistoric section of your psyche will not relent.

The darkness is growing, and the light is almost gone.

And suddenly there is no more light. Your eyes strain against the blackness, your heart pounds, your body is about to tense.

And you feel her hand slide in to yours. It squeezes, and you feel her breath on your shoulder. You are not alone in the dark,

And as sleep takes you, you realize that like the light before it in the morning you will miss the fading dark.

Cursed of Light

"Because I am cursed by Pelor, the god of Light and Good." The cleric replied, matter-of-factly.

"But... you're a cleric of Pelor." The thief retorted, pulling himself off the floor and dusting himself off.

"Indeed, for his grace is as boundless as his mercy, and the light of his knowledge should shine in all the dark places of this world." The cleric nodded as he spoke. He let his warhammer's head hit the floor with a resounding thump, but kept a hand on the haft. The thief understood implicitly that this meant the conversation would not be over until the cleric decided so.

"So... you're a devout cleric of Pelor... so why did he curse you?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically at the holy man.

"Ahh, that would be a sweet thing to know, yes." The cleric scratched at his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps I made some grievous error in my prayers, perhaps my actions led to some dark happening that I've not yet come to know. Perhaps he is simply testing me. Alas, I was not granted this knowledge." The priest shrugged, his breastplate heaving heavily as he did so.  "At this time, it is not for me to know. It is for me to punish the wicked," he bowed his head wryly to the cleric, "to enlighten the ignorant, and to heal the sick. And so I shall." He smiled.

"Rrrrrright..." The thief felt his chest gingerly. Definitely a few cracked ribs. "Well since we've already finished with the whole 'punishing the wicked' thing, I hope..." He looked up to the cleric hopefully. The cleric waggled his hand, maybe. "Let's maybe skip ahead to healing the sick." And he indicated to his injured chest.

"Ah ah ah... to everything an order, and in its order all things. Now..." The cleric pushed a chair towards the thief and indicated he sit while he pulled out a book. "About the word of Pelor..."

The thief groaned and sat, painfully. He listened to the clerics words off and on, but was mostly distracted by the man's two shadows, who were constantly fighting each other across the floor and walls. What a weird priest.

Tick Tock

There is a clock that ticks but never moves.

That's not a riddle, by the way. It sounds like a riddle, I know, but it's not. Trust me. It's the source of my madness.

I watch the pendulum swing, back and forth, hour after hour, day after day, and the hands move not a second.

I thought they moved once, but I was wrong. I cried.

I used to think it was just broken, but now I think they do it on purpose. I think they engineered it like that. Just to drive us mad. To keep us occupied. To keep us... unfocused.

I had a plan once... A way out. I could have done it, I think, but I can't... I can't quite remember the specifics. There was a hallway, and some... shoes... I think... but... the ticking is there now. It's in my mind, in the space where thoughts belong.

Where thoughts belong the ticking lives. It beats like a heart in my mind, but the clock doesn't move.

Why don't you move? Why don't you move!

I could move. I should move. But I'm the clock now. I tick, I tock...

But I don't move.

I can't move.

I'm broken.

The Space Is Still There

Wednesday morning, 3am.

I roll over, and look out the window.

The stars are still there. This is good.

I roll back.

The empty space is still there. This is no good.

I reach out into the space, try and fill it with myself. It is not the same.

Nothing is the same.

I pull the pillow down to fill the space. It is not the same.

But it is... similar. The pillow still holds her scent. Perhaps it will be enough.

I hold the pillow close to myself, feel it grow warm with my touch.

It is not the same.

Her smile plays across the surface of my mind, dancing through my thoughts like she would.

I kick at the pillow, pushing it out of the bed. I roll over in a huff, eyes shut tight.

When they open, she is gone from my mind.

But so are the stars.

This is no good. No good. No.

Greater Fey

"Oh but the forest is so beautiful today, it is yes." The words echoed out from a porcelain boar's face atop the body of a mighty bear. Tella froze.

The creature did not move. It continued to stare at her with empty eye sockets. The mask was terrible and beautiful, perfect in its craftsmanship and utterly inhuman.

"Do you not think, it is yes?" The thing moved with grace to put its face next to the young girl's. With only a few hands space between them, Tella was now quite sure it was her the thing was speaking to.

"Yes." She said calmly. No sudden movements. Agree to no bargains. Trust nothing.

"Yes it is, it is yes!" The thing danced back, it's head not moving up or down, left or right as the whole body rotated around it and bounced. No expression was worked into the mask.  Tella was terrified.

The thing suddenly stopped.

"Why are you in the Feasting King's kingdom I wonder... perhaps it is a runaway? It is yes." The mask tilted quizzically.

Tella nodded.

"Yes it is, it is yes!" The creature positively beamed. It danced around her, and everywhere its feet fell the ground was painfully colourful for a moment. "Why do you run winterlet? Is it seeking of adventure? Is it seeking monies? I think it is not, it is no." It stood behind Tella, craning its body impossibly over her, and twisting to be face-to face with her. She was enveloped in the Fey's body.

Tella thought hard about her answer. Give him nothing to play with. Make him bored.

"I'm leaving my home... because... I have... left my home." She replied, and hoped it was good and bad enough.

"Ooooohoo hoo hoo, you know of me winterlet!  Or of my brothers perhaps. You think to bore me, it is yes? You have left home because you have no power, and home is no place for a winterlet with no strength in her arms."

Damnit.

"It is on your face why you left your home, it is yes."

Thrice damnit.

"Worry not, winterling! The Feasting King is a happy king! Have this, and return home!  Or find adventure. Do as you will!  The Feasting King is busy feasting." And he danced and danced, and the world spun with him around Tella until she was sure she would vomit.

She closed her eyes, hoping it would pass. Everything hurt like a terrible pressure, and she was sure her stomach would explode, but shortly it passed. All save for the feeling in her gut. That remained.

She opened her eyes, and the world was normal again. It was indeed a beautiful day in the forest.

The Feasting King was nowhere to be seen.

Tella sat down on the ground hard, and exhaled deeply. She tried to remember stories of people who had survived encounters with the greater fey.

She could only think of two.

They didn't end well.

Her stomach still hurt, despite the rest of her having recovered from the experience. She put her hand on her stomach, and probed at the pressure inside her.

Oh no. Oh please no.

She pressed a little harder, and felt a belch work its way up and out her throat.

She felt physically much, much better after that. However, the glittering motes of fey magic that hung in the air after her expulsion told her one terrible, horrible thing.

There was fey magic stuck to her soul now. And there was no-way she could think of to get rid of it.

No way at all is it, it is yes.

Nothing To See Here

The rain is heavy today, and that's fine with me. Soak me to the bone, sky. Try and make me clean.

You can't.

I've tried.

I bend down, and wash my knife in the ankle-deep water that runs everywhere. The water turns a shade of red, and then swirls back into its usual brown-black. Nothing to see here.

"Your friend wasn't very helpful." I call out to the body sitting leaned up against a wall. It coughs, and stares at me. "I only have one question. It's not hard."

I stand up, the rain sloughing off my form. I stand for a moment, letting him drink in the power I have. Then I walk slowly, calmly over. His broken body tries to move, but there's no strength left in him. Nothing works.

I place the tip of the blade gently against his chest, and press. Not hard enough to pierce, not yet. Just enough so he knows what's happening. I stare into his wide, fear filled eyes.

"So tell me." I twirl the blade around, and a bead of blood forms on his chest. It immediately washes away in the rain.

"Who did this to you?"

A Rare Breed

Death rang the doorbell, and waited patiently on the step. It was a lovely autumn night, and the stars were bright and numerous. Death liked stars.

The door opened wide, and an old man in a green cable-knit sweater was standing inside. He smiled widely at Death.

"Fancy seeing you here!" He pronounced cheerily.

Death smiled back, although since death is a skeleton in a hooded robe he didn't actually move at all. But the man knew that Death was smiling.

"You're awfully chipper for a dead man." Death rumbled sarcastically as he made his way inside. His voice carried through the house, vibrating every pane of glass coldly. The man took Death's scythe and hung it up on the wall by the coats before directing Death to the kitchen.

"Oh you know, it's just nice to be up and about again." He followed the black bulk of the Reaper into the kitchen. A small table was the centrepiece, with a bottle of wine, two glasses and a loaf of bread on it. "Been in bed too long. Everything hurt. Not the best. But now... I feel so much better!" He beamed, and indicated for Death to take a seat.

The Grim Reaper settled comfortably into the wooden chair. His titanic size somehow managing to nimbly fit in the human-sized furniture with ease.

"You do realize you are dead, yes?" Death raised what would have once been an eyebrow at his host.

"Oh yes. I hope you like Jackson Triggs, it was all I had in the cupboards apparently." The man began pouring out two glasses. He slid one over to the spectre at his table.

"Not going to try and weasel out of it with a game or some such silly thing?" Death took the glass, and swirled it to check the wine's legs. Not bad. He sniffed at it. He had had worse.

"Oh heavens no. I've seen plenty of this life, thank you. I know there's always more to see, always more to do... so much I've missed, so much I will miss..." He drifted off, his eyes hanging on a picture of his grandchildren, "But, there's so much more beyond. I hope." And he winked at Death, who smiled back, revealing nothing. "It's an adventure, isn't it? A risk. Who knows what I'll find when you take me... wherever you take me! Very exciting." He took a sip of his wine.

Death took a sip of his own, and put the glass on the table.

"You're a rare breed, Mister Edgwin." Death pronounced. "I do wish there were more of you." And there was a warmth in his words that clashed very harshly with the cold, deep, mystical nature of his speech.

"Squash players?" Edgwin joked.

"Explorers." Death intoned, sighing. He reached for the bread, and paused. "May I?"

"Please! And some for me, thanks."

And the two broke bread, and talked until it was time for Mr. Edgwin to leave. Or a little after time, if Death was honest with himself.

A Natural Gift

"The boy is very impressive. How long have you been teaching him?" The Prince asked his companion in the stands.

"Only a month. Just enough to know which end of the sword to hold. Everything you are seeing here is his... natural gift, I suppose you could call it." The companion folded her hands into her sleeves.

"A month? That's all?" The Prince raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed."

"I suppose his heritage is to thank for his nimbleness, but still... he moves like water. I've never seen an elf that fast, or that sure footed... and I've seen the dangerous ones up close." He scratched idly at the scar on his shoulder, buried deep beneath layers of royal clothing.

"Of course, your eminence. Like I said, he is naturally gifted in the art of combat. But, I'm afraid he might not be what you are looking for." The teacher shifted nervously on her feet. "His gift comes at an unusual price, it seems."

The Prince looked sideways at the trainer, a woman who was usually very straightforward. It was odd to see her so evasive. He returned his gaze to the boy on the field. The child was simultaneously fighting three of the Prince's royal guard, each more than twice his age and likely thrice his weight. And he was winning. They could make not an inch of ground on the boy. His blade flashed like lightning, punishing every misstep, capitalizing on every shift of weight, slipping inside every dropped guard. It was like a beautiful dance. With a twist and a snap, he sliced off one of the guard's breastplates, leaving his midsection fully exposed. The look of shock on the guard's face was worth the expense of the entire trip here, thought the Prince.

"Aturar!" the trainer called out, stopping the fight. When the word reached his ears, he changed in an instant. His stance shifted from a low combat crouch to the straight backed posture of a court noble. His face shifted from a perceptive grimace into a relaxed, unfixed gaze. He almost dropped the sword. But the most fascinating thing the Prince noticed, was that the boy began breathing again. Calm, deep breaths. Had he not been breathing for the entire match?

"Good work, Elumene. Come here." She waved the boy over. He nodded, and began to stride over before remembering at the last moment to bow to his opponents. They were all breathing in ragged gasps, and nodded back. One of them handed the fallen breastplate to his compatriot, and they looked on with awe at the boy as he strode off. The Prince waved them away.

"Report, Elumene." She questioned him.

"Skilled opponents, Teacher. Poor footwork on the largest one. Very experienced to make up for it. Strong, but lack speed. All excellent swordsmen." He answered, expressionless. He continued to breathe deeply and quickly.

"How did you survive the match?"

"Using their bulk to my advantage. Not allowing them to get full swings of their sword by keeping them together. Fighting from inside reach. Most importantly, they were hesitant about striking a child. A weakness easy to exploit." His eyes remained cold and emotionless during his entire response. The Prince felt a chill run up his spine.

"How do you feel?" The teacher asked, surprisingly softly.

The boy looked at her. His face contorted into a mask of mild confusion.

"I don't understand."

"How do you feel? You've just successfully defended yourself against three of the King's Guard. How does that make you feel." She pressed.

His face maintained the mask for another few seconds. He shifted his gaze to the Prince, and then back to his instructor. The mask fell away, and all that remained was the cold stare of the elf child.

He shrugged.

"Very well. Go, clean up. You have a meal soon, I believe. Good work." She waved him off. He bowed to both of them, and hurried away.

"So you can see... his skills are impressive but he would do ill in a court setting my liege." She offered, starting to turn away. The Prince's gaze was fixed on the child leaving.

"No. I will take him."

"But..."

"I have not, in my life, seen skill like that. I will take him, and make him into a gentleman myself if I must. If nothing else, I will not allow power such as that into the hands of anyone else. Have him packed and ready to depart for the city tomorrow morning."

"Yes, your eminence." She bowed lightly to her Prince.

"And... thank you, Meleen. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention."

"My pleasure of course." She smiled to him. He smiled back, an action which she knew was well practiced but no less beaming.

"Now, did I hear you mention something about a meal? I'm famished." He offered her his elbow, and they left the training pits together.

Not So Hard A Thing

"What, what in the nine hells do you think you are doing?" Saiyo hustled over, shouting at the girl with the knife.

"I'm practicing, Doyen." She replied, indicating the target dummy. It had been hacked to pieces, with straw poking out everywhere. Her face was a beaming beacon of pride.

"Practicing what, exactly, child? How to ruin a perfectly good training tool?" he ran his hands over the ruined dummy, pulling straw out of one of the slashes in the burlap. "Not to mention a knife.." he snatched the blade from her hands, and held it up to his eyes. It was full of notches and scratches. To be fair, most of them had been there when she got her hands on it. But he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.

"No, I was practicing my fighting." She stubbornly replied. Her face was no longer beaming but instead scowling. Everyone else had been practicing knifework, and she'd been stuck doing pickpocketing all day. Again.

The Doyen looked at her, and sighed.  He shouldn't be surprised. She was young still, too young he had thought to teach about the blade. But, alas, it seems that too is beyond his control. Children.

"Okay child. Pretend this is a man." He indicated to the dummy. "How is he now that you have hacked at him like a mad cook?"

The girl squinted at the Doyen, expecting a trap.

"He's dead."

"Yes, precisely." The Doyen clapped. "Now... why have you made him dead?"

The girl was thoroughly perplexed.

"Becuase he was... evil?" She ventured.

"What is evil?" The Doyen immediately asked.

"It's... very bad. People who are terrible and do terrible things."

"Like killers?"

"Yes!" She agreed.

"But you have just killed this man."

The girl opened her mouth, and her mind caught up.

She closed her mouth.

"So you see this is a problem, little one. But, you are fortunate! You are learning from the Doyen. Take this." He offered her the blade, handle first. She took it gingerly, still thinking about the verbal trap she'd been caught in. "What have you in your hand child?"

Now she was really wary. But, alas, she could not see where he was headed, so on she moved.

"A knife?"

"Yes, good, top marks child! And lucky again you are, that you have a knife. For a knife is not some clumsy weapon like an axe, or heavens forbid a sword. No!" He moved around behind the dummy while he spoke, letting an arm drape across what would be its shoulders genially.

"No, no, this is a knife! A subtle blade, a tool not a weapon. With this you can be careful, you can be sure of your work. You can be quick, you can be precise!" And he produced a knife seemingly from nowhere, and with a strike like a snake he pierced the side of the dummy. He pulled his hand away slowly, leaving the knife buried in its side.

She looked back and forth, from him to the blade.

"This is a place that will not kill a man. Right away." The Doyen indicated. He took her hand, and put it on the handle of the knife sticking out. "Feel it's place. Memorize it. A knife that enters here, will bring a man great pain and much suffering, but he will live. And often, that is enough."

She nodded, and focused on the blade. She felt its place in relation to her arm, and her arm in relation to her legs. Every part of her she commited to memory. She would know how to strike here again.

"If you steal something child, you can always give it back. We are thieves, not gods. We make mistakes. It is known. So be careful, always, with what you take. If it is a life, which to take is not so hard a thing, you cannot give it back." He smiled at the little girl, and she nodded. Good.

Perhaps she will not be a killer like me, thought the Doyen.

Good Morning

I'm in the observation capsule when my watch beeps out the six am alert. I lazily move my hand over to silence the device while I float.

There's nothing to observe, of course. Just the stars. The same stars that were there yesterday, and the day before, and all hundred and eighty six previous days of the journey. There hasn't been a single visible phenomenon since the day we left. And no-one was in the observation capsule to watch our world shrink then, that's for sure.

Some of the people on the ship find it unsettling. The inky nothing. The idea that we're travelling at unimaginable speeds but seem to be standing still.

I find it peaceful.

I twist in the air, rolling to look out another window.  Different stars. Sirius twinkles happily at me. Hi Sirius.

I don't come here every day, but I try. Today will be busy, full of struggle and conflict and hard work. But not yet. Now it's just barely morning, and I can float and watch the stars not go by.

A hand snakes its way into mine, and gives it a gentle squeeze. The warmth is nice. I look down and see Diego.

"Sorry Claire. Battery 33 is developing a sputter." I smile at him, and nod. We slide towards the ladder and I feel gravity start to pull at me again.

Good morning stars. I'll see you tomorrow.

Blink

When Quel awoke everything in the world was exactly the same as when he had fallen asleep, save for three things.

First and foremost, he hurt everywhere. His spine was a nest of needles, and his legs were agony from the core of his bones to his skin.

Second, the sun was high in the sky. It must, he measured, be nearly noon. Before noon. After? Maybe after. Meh, it doesn't really matter.

Finally, and perhaps most pressingly, was the animal skull perched no more than a foot from his face, attached to a towering black shape with stick-like antlers protruding from behind the skull.

No good, no good.

Quel tried not to move. Maybe it doesn't know I'm still alive. Maybe it only eats living things. Yes.

I am not that lucky, thought Quel.

The creature's hide was jet black, a slick skin covered in light-grey sigils and symbols. It walked on its hind limbs, dragging a thin tail and lumbering with heavy, long forelimbs. Each set of appendages was a long, thin, tapering... flipper? Almost? Quel had never seen anything with a body like this, but... that was not unusual for Quel. He saw a lot of things for the first time.

The thing still had not moved. Quel's eyes settled on the animal skull where the thing's face would be. The skull... a dog's skull, he thought, seemed to be bound on to the creature. It was as though the skull belonged to the creature, it was the right size and in the right spot, but all the flesh was... gone. And the skull was strapped on with ropes made out of the thing's flesh.

And the antlers... were definitely sticks. Not antlers. Sticks. Strapped on. Hmm.

"Are you rested, thing?" The creature asked. Quel jumped, startled by the voice. It was low, a rumbling but kind tone. It was very nearly human. But not quite.

Well, the jig is up anyway. Quel nodded.

"That is good, thing." The creature nodded slowly, and turned its head. At that moment, Quel noticed there were more of them. A half dozen, spread out across the plain. "The thing is rested, brother." it called out to another.

"That is good, brother." Came the reply, with the same low, rumbling humanish voice. That creature turned, and repeated the message to another, and so on until they were all nodding.

The creature turned its head back to look at Quel. There were no eyes in its socket, but you could feel its gaze.

"Tell me, thing..." Quel tensed in his little cobbled together tower. The pain was gone from his body, replaced by fear. "Where did you get your antlers?" It indicated with a fore-flipper his tower.

Quel looked down at his lashed-together tower, a post and two tusks he'd found yesterday. He looked up at the creature, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction he'd come from.

"Yes, good." It nodded slowly. "And are there more antlers, thing?"

He shook his head. It turned to the other creatures.

"Sadness. There are no more antlers, brother." It boomed.

"Sadness, brother." Came the reply, and the chain began again until all the creatures were nodding.

It turned its head back to face Quel, no more than a forearm's length away.

And paused.

Quel breathed slowly.

The creature didn't appear to breathe at all.

Quel blinked.

The creatures remained still as statues.

Quel scratched his nose.

"Thing." The voice echoed out, startling Quel again. "Can we have... your antlers?"

Quel thought about it for a moment.  This was his only means of sleeping here on the plains. Without it he would either die of exhuastion, or worse.  He looked over the shoulder of the creature. He was still many days from the end of the plains. However, they didn't seem to be affected by the plains.

He looked at their legs. For some reason, they were safe. He shrugged, and looked into the eye sockets of the creature.

"Trade, for a lift out of the plains?"

The creature stared at him for a moment, and then craned its neck to its brother again.

"Thing wants to trade for travel out of the plains, yes brother?"

"Very nice antlers, brother. Yes." The first replied, and turned to repeat the question to the next creature. Again, they slowly all wound up nodding at the first creature.

"Yes thing. We trade." And Quel could almost feel the skull-face smiling.

It picked him up with its flipper-hands, and placed him on its back. He reached out, and grabbed its antlers for stability. He looked down, and saw the thing carefully collect his temporary structure, cradling it gently in its arms. Almost reverently.

"Prepared, thing?" It asked

"Yeh." Quel spoke, and as soon as the word was out of his mouth the entire pack began to run.

They were so fast, Quel almost went flying off the back of his ride. Clutching to the antlers, he swiveled his head to see all of the creatures. Some were running on their hind limbs, some had descended to a four-limbed stride. But all of them were travelling with tremendous speed.

And then some of them dissapeared.

And then they re-appeared, the distance of a field ahead. Startled, Quel bent down to ask his ride what had happened when he suddenly felt himself go hollow and pop back to normal. The place that he was was far behind, and still he was moving.  He looked back at where he was, and shook his head.

This was how you travel, Quel thought.

Lucky Sweater

Please don't get too close, don't look inside of me. That's where the demons are.

"The coffee here is... terrible." She smiles, and the demons claw at my insides. I can feel them twisting and turning in my stomach. I smile back.

"Yeah... but the company is pretty good." Oh my god who said that? Did I say that?

She laughs a little laugh, and pulls her hair back from her face.

Oh my god I did say that. I think that's the smoothest thing I've ever said in my life. The demons writhe in my abdomen, and I want to throw up.

Instead, I turn red and look away.

"I uh... I like your sweater. Very festive." I indicate with a gesture the knit christmas tree pattern.

"Oh, really?" She pulls the sweater out in front of her to examine it, like it's the first time she's seen it. "My grandmother knit it for me as a gift. When I told her I had a date she insisted I open it early. She asked me to wear it, for good luck." She's turned a similar shade to me. She lets the sweater snap back and shrugs. "I know knit sweaters are a little goofy, but... I couldn't let my grandma down." She puts both her hands on her coffee cup, and I guess finds something incredibly interesting in the foam.

I bite my lip.

"Is it working?" I venture. What am I doing? Who is saying these words? My entrails do a somersault while I await her answer.

"Huh?" She looks up at me, puzzled.

"The lucky sweater... is it working?" My face is a rigid mask of confidence.

"Oh! Heh, well... You tell me." She says coyly. Oh man, coyness!  Calm down.  Shut up stomach. We can do this.

"Well, like I said... I like your sweater." I look into her eyes, smile, and feel the bottom drop out of the world as I get lost in their gorgeous green depths.

She giggles. It's the greatest sound of all time.

"If only the luck had extended to the quality of the coffee..." I say, absent mindedly.

"Tell you what," She says, putting her cup on the table. "I'll pick the coffee place next time." And she looks back into my eyes.

My demons melt into butterflies. Everything is suddenly a buttery dream. Everything in the world is amazing.

There's going to be a next time.

Avenue Daimyo

I'm breathing in the chemicals, the rotten mechanical effluence of the world around me. Lucky I won't live long enough to get cancer.

Wait, what?

"Hoooooeeeeeeh! That was a good one!  Right in the ten ring." My vision starts to clear, and I hone in on the voice yelling at me.  It's Squeaker, grinning ear to ear. It looks terrifying with the huge scar that cuts down across his face. He offers me a hand up.

"Ow." Is all I manage to reply.

"Yeah yeah, boo hoo. Trust me, you want this life you'll have worse. Heehee!" He reaches down a hand to pull me up, which I happily accept. My chest feels like it's on fire.  "So tell me, kiddo... how many rounds did I fire?"

I look at Squeaker stupidly.  What?

"What?"

"How. Many. Rounds."

I feel at my chest. There's three holes in the kevlar, diagonal from the bottom left. He must have raked up and jeez I almost got shot in the head! This guy's insane!

"Uhhh... three?"

"EEEEEHHHHH. Wrong. And now you're dead." He pokes me hard in the forehead with his fingers, which almost knocks me over. "Seven rounds, full auto burst. How many are left in the mag?"

Uhhh... shit.

"Four.... teen?" I guess wildly.

"Oooh, ladies and gentlemen thank you and goodnight! Now you've put the rest of your team in bodybags, kiddo.  Thirty-three left in the box. H&K MP5, you can tell by the click at the trigger pull. Were you even listening?"

My ears are still ringing from the impact, but to be honest... no I wasn't.

"Of course I was listening.. just... not used to the gun. I'll get it."

"You better... hehehe..." Squeaker puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me. It hurts like hell. "Everyone knows being a Street Samurai is about being fast. That's why they're all chromed up the wazoo kid. New hands, new feet, new arms. Faster, faster, faster. But, if you 'aint got it up here," he pokes me in the temple hard, "Then it doesn't matter how fast you are down here." And he pats me on the chest. I almost collapse. "SO! We train. Get that grey matter worth something, hehe, make it valuable to a team. Make you some moolay." He releases me and steps away.

I stand up straight, try not to show how much pain I'm in. I'll live. I'll pass. I'll be the best. If I survive.

"So what else have we got here..." He shouts while rummaging through a pile of guns. I pry my hand under the armour, feeling my chest. Yep, definitely cracked at least one rib. "Oooh this'll be good. Hehehe... Alright, what did we learn?"

"Uhh... listen?  Count the shots?" I venture, pulling my hand out to check for blood. Oh good, at least all of that's still inside me.

"That's right! Step one done already, you are a quick learner." He says as he levels some new gun at me. I step back in shock, and throw up my hands.

"Shouldn't I be wearing a new vest for this?"

"Probably. Hehehehe!" He cackles as he fires exactly thirteen rounds.

The Descriptions Strike Back

Frasco's Pouch of Grief

Reaching into this ornate belt pouch lets you pull out any number of devastating things with which to ruin your enemy's day. Just be careful not to put anything in it.

The Melluvian Light

"I asked the Abbott where he had gotten the lamp in his office... He told me that light can come at times from the very heart of Darkness, but when it does it comes at a terrible price. Then he stared at the lamp for a while, and wept."

Arm of Kerembor

Bear me in battle, and know no pain! No know fear! Know only death!  That of your enemies... for now.

The Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon

"What is important, Initiate?" The voice of Knigh-Exalted Kras boomed through the gale. Wind whipped at the words, and snow weighed them down.

"The Word of Bahamut, Sir!" Came my reply through the cutting cold. I was ankle deep in snow, wearing only my trousers, my shoes, and my faith.  Clutched to my chest was The Divine Book Of The Platinum Dragon.  A tome I was given at the onset of my training in the order of the Champions Transcendent.

"Correct!" Kras' voice boomed back. He was dressed in his full battle-armour, wrapped in a cloak made of a bear. Around his neck dangled a medallion that kept the cold from affecting him. I envied that medallion. Oh, very much so.

"How much farther do we have to march, Sir?" I requested through chattering teeth. I could no longer feel my chest, which worried me.  When I lost feeling in my hands, I knew I was on the right path. Struggle breeds greatness. When I lost feeling in my arms, I knew I was on the right path. A paladin is forged in suffering. When I lost the feeling in my legs, I knew I was on the right path. To protect the innocent from harm, one must know harm. When I lost feeling in my chest, I became convinced I would die here in the cold.

"That depends, Initiate." Kras smiled. I think he smiled. It's getting hard to see.

"On... on what Sir?" I asked, exhausted.

"Tell me... what is most important?"

I sighed. I had said the same thing, every time he had asked. Was he testing my faith? Still? Would he wait until I passed out from exhaustion to be sure of my reverence for the Book? If he did... would I survive the night? Or would he trust my fate to Bahamut... A shiver went through me that was not from the freezing.

"Thththe Word of Bbbbbbahamt, Sir!" I shouted, as best I could.

Kras shook his head, and smiled. I think. It might have been a sneer.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yyyyess, yessir." I nodded forcefully.

"More important than your life, these words are?"

I was confused. I cocked my head, and furrowed my brow. Of course they were... these words are divine. They have sheltered the faithful since before I was born and will long after I am dead. They are the truth, the light, and the shield of the righteous.

"Off cccccourse Sir."

"I see." he put his hand to his face. "Cold out tonight. You're a tough one, Initiate, I'll give you that. But..." He shook his head again, "Not the brightest, hmm?"

In place of words, I shivered angrily.

"Why are the words important, Initiate?"

"Thththey are the shshshshield of the righteous, and thththe banner of the jujujujust... Thththe words that thththe willing can fffffind strength and unitttttty in..."

"Right, yes, good," he waved his hand impatiently in the air. "And who exactly is going to bring those words to those who need them, if you're dead from the cold Initiate?"

I stared at him blankly. I shivered.

He reached into a pouch on his belt, and held out to me a box of matches.

I stared at them, and back to him.

Huh.

As I sat by the fire of the burning book, I warmed myself in Knigh-Exalted Kras' bear coat and realized that a life is worth more than a book.

Even if it's a really, really good book.

Green Is Good

My lover's got problems.  She's screaming at me, and I'm having a hard time trying to care.

My eyes glass over while I stare at her pretty face.  She's real mad this time.  Not like last time. Not like the time before. So many problems. So much struggle.

I can't hear what she's saying. No, that's not right. I can hear it. I just... don't care. Why don't I care? I should care. I count on her for so much. For... everything. She's my whole world. I should care.

I have to care.

I force myself to care. I shut my eyes, and let the sound into my mind.  I know that voice.  I know those words.  They mean something.

Why is it so hard to think?

Who cares. Just... It's not... Who... what's the point?  There will always be more problems. Let go.

No. We care. We're caring now. THINK.

I open my eyes. They hurt, and the brightness of her beautiful face isn't helping. So much light. All red. Oh boy she's real mad. What is it. Focus.

Ox... oxy... Oxygen. I hear it. She's screaming at me about the oxygen system. Life support critical. Route additional power. Duh.

I shake my head slowly, and the whole console smears in my vision. That's what it is. Oxygen starvation. Hah. Duh.

I reach up, and flip the aux power routing switch on the big, beautiful face of my ship console, and she quiets down.  Oxygen starts flowing back into the cabin, and she stops whistling the oxygen warning at me. The console moves back from red to yellow, settling once more in green. Good.

Green is good.

Thanks babe. You're the best.

Adrift

In the ur-times, before Coyote found his humour and before She Who Longs For The Darkness had anything to long for, Leviathan was adrift.

And Leviathan spoke to its brother, Behemoth, though in those times words had not yet come.

Brother Behemoth I am adrift and cannot feed.

Brother Leviathan I am no better.

At this point, the Joy That Comes From Failure passed between the two and was eaten. Leviathan and Behemoth tore wildly at it, and bumped into each other many times making Sounds. From their titanic struggle Thunder was born, and the Groaning In The Deep, and these two children knew of their parents and fled lest they too become a meal.

All that remained of the Joy That Comes From Failure was a scrap that drifted away, beyond the reach of the two great beasts. It fled, and became Learning.

Brother Behemoth I am yet hungry.

Brother Leviathan I am yet hungry.

We cannot fight for food like this, Brother Behemoth. We are sure to starve.

We shall make a great surface, and tread upon it and walk far away from each other Brother Leviathan. Then we need not fight.

No, we will create a great water, and swim in it far from each other Brother Behemoth. Then we need not fight nor tread.

And the two drifted while they thought, a process that took so much time because of their titanic minds that Light came and met The Sun, and they began their courtship and were wed.

Brother Leviathan, make your water and live in it. Feed on those that swim. I will make my surface, and feed on those that walk.  Then we need never fear each other.

And Leviathan saw that this was wise, and made the great ocean while Behemoth made the earth. And as they parted they feasted on all that stood or swam in the new world, robbing the future of many things.

And A Wizard Besides

Shasson was a liar, and a wizard besides. As the sandstorm raged on around him, he began to wonder if that was really such a distinction.

Standing over a half-closed haversack, the wizard fought to maintain his wards and keep the stinging sand at bay. He had pushed his defensive spells harder and further than he’d ever thought possible, a feat that (if he survived) no one would believe.

Well, some people would believe. Not the important ones. Not anymore.

A speck of dust streaked through the glowing bubbles of protection Shasson was keeping up, moving with such force that it cut his face before shooting out the other side. He shook his head and refocused on his spells. For a moment.

A spell is just a lie the universe believes, really. It’s an act of convincing the natural forces of the world that they don’t exist, that they should bow to your will and not that of nature. And being convincing was always one of Shasson’s gifts. One of Shasson’s few gifts.

Shasson’s only gift.

A look of horror settled into his face as the fact sunk in.

The exterior blue orb, his first line of defence flickered and went out before he could refocus. Damnit.

Shassan was forced to his knees, the two remaining wards serving only to slow the sand. He closed his eyes. Everything was terrible. Not even he could convince himself that was false.

At least his companions won’t die here with him, he’d seen to that. Accidentally, of course. Having told them the artifact they’d been seeking for the last year was a good thirty kilometers south, he had been able to sneak off to claim the prize for himself without too much trouble. They were probably still hoping to catch up with him.

Idiots.

Shassan couldn’t see it, but he felt the second ward drop. Sand was rapidly piling up at his feet, and sliding inside his robes. He couldn’t talk his way out of this. There were no more spells to cast. The sand was going to kill him, and that was the truth.

The thought brought him comfort for a reason he couldn’t quite understand. He knelt, curled up inside his final ward, and smiled as the sand tore at his skin. The sand was truth. The storm was truth, a truth he couldn’t obscure or deceive. An ultimate truth. The wards were gone, or going.

His lies were being stripped away by truth, and before long he himself would be blown away by it.

He stood, a smile fixed on his face. The inevitability was simultaneously terrifying and beautiful. His skin was on fire, his robes whipping and ripping in the wind. The final ward dropped. His last lie.

The only thing left was himself. A man in the sand. Not a wizard, not a liar, just a man. Flecks of sand buried themselves into his skin at a thousand miles an hour, shearing away his body an inch at a time. He could see a light approach through his closed eyes. How long had he been waiting for this? How long had he been alive?

He passed out, collapsing into the sand. The last thing he felt was the storm’s savage embrace loosen and disappear. Of course.

A heavily armoured man stood over the liar and wizard besides, who was barely recognizable. The man bent down, and uncovered the haversack. He checked inside, nodded, and slung it over his shoulder.

“It’s here!” He called back to his two companions, one holding a torch that seemed to keep the swirling sands at bay wherever its light touched.

“Great! Can we get the hell out of here now? I don’t know how long this torch will last.” One of the figures called back.

“Hm.” The armoured man nodded. He stood over the unconscious body of Shassan, scowling. He nudged Shassan with his foot and sighed. “You are such a dick.”

The armoured man hefted Shassan’s sleeping form over his shoulder, and the four of them set off into the storm.

Run - Awolnation

There's lightning striking all over the world.  Constantly. Which, I guess, out of context is not that unusual. Storms happen everywhere. But things are different now.

There are no storms.

Only the lightning.

Everywhere.

Fires are rampant. The world is crackling with energy from... somewhere. The news can't say, or won't say. Remain indoors. Stay away from electrical appliances. Tell your family you love them.

Do not touch the energy.

Do not let it inside.

Do not let it inside you.

Do not look at the lightning, do not enjoy it's radiant brilliance.

Enjoy the flash.

Let the light in.

Let it inside.

Let it inside your family.

Everything is under control.

Profoundly Simple

It is in the eyes of the predator, that you can see its intent. There is no telling a hunter's designs from their movements, or the sounds they make, or the look upon their face.

It is true for wolves, it is true for people.

Once you know what to look for, it becomes a profoundly simple task.  You'll find yourself doing it with everyone you meet.  Everyone's hunting something, whether it's a meal or a promotion or the life of another.  The look is more or less the same. But you get better at it.  You start to see the tiny changes, the minor differences.  Before long you'll be able to tell just how much of a threat they really are.

But it doesn't always take that much practice. Sometimes, it's profoundly obvious. Painfully obvious. Sometimes, even the uninitiated can look into a man's eyes and see exactly what he intends.

So look into my eyes and tell me... what do you see?

The Belemorn

Humanity's trek across the stars has been an amazing adventure.  In the last few hundred years, we have gone places, and seen things our ancestors could not have even conceived of.  The fernships of Feremolius, the Lightmoon, She That Speaks in the Silence...

But put aside the wonders of technology and the mysteries of the galaxy. The thing that has always amazed me, the thing that has always filled me with wonder, are the people we've encountered. The multitudinous orders of life we've discovered, and in most cases, befriended. The utter differences in the types of life we've met yet we've still, somehow, found common ground. It makes me proud, to know that humanity has been able to put aside differences and grudges to create a better galaxy.

Take, for example, my friend here across the table. A Belemorn. No eyes, no mouth, no discernible orifices of any kind. They're basically giant, floating jellyfish with space cruisers. They communicate mostly by complex tenticular motions beyond the comprehension of humans, but when they have to speak with us they vibrate their outer membrane to create sounds. It's a beautiful system, and shows how hard everyone has worked, on both sides, to create a peaceful galaxy.

That said, this son of a bitch is taking me to the cleaners today because I can't read his goddamn non-existent pokerface.  No-faced, floating little bastard.

An Agent of Her Grace

"What is it you are trying to do?" Abbott Keremor asked his pupil.

"Smite the target, Abbott." Rankin replied.

"So why isn't it smote?"

"Well..." Rankin kicked at the dirt sheepishly. "Maybe... the target isn't... evil? Enough? You know, to warrant Erathis' wrath?"

"Ugh, if only it worked like that... no. It is not yet smote, because you have yet to smite it." Abbott Keremor shook his head, but smiled warmly.  "Remember, you are not just a conduit for the power of Erathis, not some wand used to direct her righteous fury or her benevolent love. You are an agent of her grace, an operative of her might. You must earn her trust, and her power."

"Right..."

"She is not working through you. You are not some mere puppet of her Holiness. She does not reach through you to strike down her foes, she's busy boy. She needs to trust you to find her enemies, root them out and strike decisively. She needs to believe that you will give her blessing to those in need, not those who want."

"Okay... so... how do I convince a god that I'm worthy of her time?" Rankin asked, more perplexed than ever.

"You start the same way you do when you ask Brother Lawrence for seconds, child."

And Abbott Keremor lifted his hand to the target, and spoke with a booming voice a word as ancient as the gods themselves. His whole body shook with the deep timbre of his voice, and the walls echoed with the clarity of his speech. The target was engulfed within a column of flame as high as a house, a twisting torment of fire as hot as it was divine, which dissappeared as quickly as it came. All that remained of the target was a pile of embers, glittering red. Abbott Keremor smiled.

"You ask nicely"

Definitely Up

Qeul had traveled six days and five nights over the plains.  He had stopped to rest only twice, and had nearly died on both occasions.  The plains were not safe. No height. Can't stay off the ground, so you have to keep moving.

He was carrying two tusks, each nearly as long as he was tall, behind him.  There had been the skull of some kind of elephant creature a few kilometers back, and if Quel could just find a stick, or some kind of post he could construct a tower. Three legs, very sturdy.  Sleep on that.  Up. Off the ground.

He looked at his blistered, bleeding feet.

Yes, definitely up.

He scanned the horizon.  Quel had never seen so much nothing in his life, and would be most glad never to see it again.  For the third time, he questioned if he had gone mad. That's what happens to people without sleep. They go mad. Everyone knows that.

His feet started to tingle, and he realized he had stopped moving. No good, no good. He trudged forward, dragging what he hoped was his salvation behind him.

He thought of home while he walked. Of Vanya, and her blessed smile. Of the smell of roasted vegetables and the taste of cooked meat.  He smiled, and his face hurt. He rubbed his cheeks with a hand. How long has it been since I did that?

He blinked, and the world tumbled for a moment. In an instant he was on his feet again, a fighter's reflexes popping him into a defensive crouch in the instant of threat. But there was no threat. He had simply... fallen.

Fallen asleep.

Only for an instant, but the realization struck him hard. He was falling asleep while he walked. And death comes to those who sleep on the plains.

No, I will not die here.

He grabbed his tusks, and walked on.

And walked.

And walked.

Could I make a stand with the two tusks?  No... no it would fall. It needs the third support, or it will fall and I will be on the ground.  Bad.

And walked.

And walked.

And as the sun began to set on the sixth day of Quel's quest through the plains, he fell to his knees in despair. He watched the sun fade down below the horizon, and the moon peek out of the darkness while his knees began to burn beneath him. And soon, he fell forward, his body slumping face first into the soft, deadly ground.

Only it wasn't soft. Not at his face. In fact, it was painfully hard. The pain jolted him awake, just enough to realize his fortune. He crawled up onto his feet, blood seeping out of a dozen wounds on his knees, and ran his hands over the ground. There was something... something metal.  Metal is good.

It was long, and thin. Oh, sweet praise yes it's perfect!  He got his hands around it, and pulled. It was caught in the roots of the grasses, but he pulled and pulled and it tore free.

Perfect.

A metal pole, half-hand wide and more than a man tall. There was some kind of flat shape on one end, with eight sides. Might make a decent shovel, if he bent it right.  But that's tomorrow's problem.

He reached in to his pack, and pulled out some rope.  In a few moments, he had constructed a three-legged structure with the pole and tusks.  At last.

It looked like a giant caltrop, a collection of sharp points bound in the centre. He gave it a test shake, and it appeared to be sturdy enough. He climbed up, and rested his back against one of the protruding tusks, cradling himself in the middle. At last.

I will not die here, he thought. Instead, I will sleep.

And so he smiled, and fell asleep.

Two Shy

The coffee steamed in front of them, it would be too hot to drink for some time still.  The coffee shop's vintage table was dotted with ancient rings of similar cups from the last dozen years.  No part of Stanley's attention was invested in either the coffee or the decor, however.  Stanley was watching the door.

Martha was pointedly looking at the steaming cups, on the other hand.

"They changed the design." She said, lifting her paper cup up between them.

"Hmm?"

"They changed the design, on the disposable cup.  It used to have fourteen swirls from the top to bottom, now it has twelve." She indicated to her partner across the table.

"Hm." Stanely rarely admitted that he was envious of Martha's attention to detail. And not once did he ever mention it to her. But it was a remarkable gift, to be sure. And very, very helpful in their line of work.

"Why do you think they changed it?" She asked.

"Save on ink, maybe. Less to print."

"Hm.  But it probably cost them more to re-design it than they'll save on the new ones."

"Perhaps." Stanley admitted, tilting his head slightly in agreement. The door opened, and his body became alert with lightning speed, belied in no way by his outward appearance.  In fact, he moved not at all, save for the immediate dilation of his pupils as they locked on to the person entering the coffee house. "A discussion for another time, I'm afraid Martha. Our job is here."

Martha didn't turn to see, she knew what she would find. The dossier had been quite explicit, and Stanley was rarely wrong.  She slipped her gun out of her purse, and rested it on her lap.

"Very good," She said. "I was afraid if we had to wait much longer we'd have to actually drink some of this god-awful coffee."

The Argument of Magic

"So what's it like?"

"What, magic?" The mage replied, smiling at his brother.

"Yeh." The younger one prompted. He wiped the soot from his hands on the blacksmith's apron he wore before scratching at his short beard.

"Hmm." The mage stroked his chin, and pulled his hood back.  He was young, for a wizard, and his full head of black hair was a source of some jealousy among his peers. Which caused him no end of confusion, considering they were wizards and could change their hair into, I don't know, snakes or something if they wanted.  How hard could black hair be? "Well... you know when you're having an argument?"

"Shasson, I have a wife. Yes, I am familiar with arguments." He said wryly. Shasson smiled back, and continued.

"Ok, well, when you're arguing with someone about something with which you have absolute certainty, when you're filled with the conviction of the righteous... and they suddenly come to understand you're right and shift their opinion to support you? That's what magic is like."

"Huh."

"Except you're arguing with the laws of gods and nature and physics, and you might not be right after all but you've still managed to convince everything that exists that there should be fire right here, in the palm of my hand... whether it's true or not." Shasson continued, conjuring a small orb of flame in his palm.

"Huh." The blacksmith repeated. Shasson grinned proudly at his magical prowess. His brother stared at him, unimpressed.

"I was expecting something a little more... fantastic.  Oh well. That's nice Shasson. Chicken for dinner tonight." And he turned back to his work, crafting a new set of horse shoes.

Shasson fumed behind him, lifting the flame up as though to throw it... before extinguishing it and heading in to the house, muttering about conjuring chickens of doom.

Not So Bad A Thing

It is not so bad a thing, the flames. The pain is great, but not unimaginable.  And better to face the pain of the fire than the pain of loss, of losing her.

Does that make me a coward? To force her to take the harder path, to live without one's heart for the rest of her days, while I get to pass through the veil seeing her face through the shimmering heat?

Perhaps. The decision is long since made now.

I cannot feel the heat anymore.  Or rather, I have chosen not to feel it, I suppose.  My mind can take only so much. Thank you, mind.  The world crawls past at a glacial rate while I burn, unfeeling.

There is the disengage console.  I key in the compartment vent sequence ponderously with shrinking fingers.  The heat is replaced by dragging thunder, and I am blown out into space. The Dark Man wraps his fingers around mine, and then around the rest of me, and I have done it for her.

It is not so bad a thing.

Vicar and the Corp

Can’t sleep.  Had too much coffee already.  So tired.  Gotta keep the eyes open.  Don’t these assholes ever go home?

Vicar yawned, and rubbed at his exhausted face.  He’d been crammed into a supply closet for the last twenty-three hours, staring at a set of augmented reality windows. They were patched into the security feed of the office he and his crew were waiting to raid.  His job, for the moment, was to keep an eye on the drones working away in the office, and tell his crew when the floor was empty so they could infiltrate.  He’d slipped in shortly before quitting time yesterday, expecting the place to clear out quickly.  Instead, he was stuck waiting while a bunch of corporate wage-slaves worked their assess off all night for a corp that would kick them to the curb the moment they stopped being useful.  Gross.

He yawned again, and slumped his face in his hand.  One eye he kept open, watching the screens.  The floor was starting to clear out again, people grabbing their coats and bags.  

After another hour, there were only a few stragglers remaining.  Two drones having a chat in a cubicle, and one asshat hunched over a terminal.  Don’t you have lives? Vicar stared out at these last peons, squeezing the sides of his head and trying desperately to kill them with his mind.  That wouldn’t help, they’re supposed to ghost this mission.  No witnesses, no bodies, or no pay.  
But damn, would it make him feel better.  

The Chatty Twins grab their coats and head towards the elevator.  Yes!  Go!  Get yourselves something to drink.  Get drunk!  Get alcohol poisoning and die, you corprate stooge bastards!  Don’t come back.  Vicar stretches his neck out and leans back, resting his head against the wall.  Maybe I’m being too harsh.  

He opens his left eye, and stares angrily at baldy.  Last one, asshole.  Go home.  Go hooooooome.  Gooooooooooo hooooooooome.  I’m sure you have a perfectly acceptable corp approved hovel, with some nice soycaf and ramen waiting for you. Go, go you glorious bastard, go home and eat.  

Sigh.

Vicar waits.

He pulls a pair of energy bars from his vest, and for the hundredth time this day debates the qualities of vanilla versus those of peanut butter.  Sigh.  Fuck it.  Peanut butter. He puts the vanilla back, and tears into the peanut butter bar.  Damn that’s tasty.

Shit!  Baldie got up!  Vicar lurched forward, putting his face almost against the intangible AR screen.  Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeave.  Leaveleaveleaveleave.  

Baldie shuffled some papers, and grabbed his coat.  Yes!  Finally!  Aaaaahahahahahaha! Baldie starts shuffling towards the elevators, and Vicar gleefully starts punching up his crew’s contact in the matrix.  Almost go time.  Vicar watches as the wageslave slides his coat on, and shuffles his pages into what he can only hope is the right order.  The guy’s so intent on whatever he’s got on there.  Reading paper like a chump.  Who uses paper?  Corps that have the nuyen to spare, I guess.  Oh, hell no…

Baldie stops in his tracks.  He shuffles a page into a different order, and then turns to the supply closet.  No no no no nonononono.  Go home.  Do it at home.  You don’t need supplies.  You need to sleep.  We both need to sleep.  Damnit you stupid…

Vicar slips the strap off his Ares Predator, and thumbs the safety off.  Damnit, a whole day wasted.  Not even getting paid.  Stupid rules.  Stupid Mr. Johnson.  Stupid bald corp drone.  He levels the pistol at the door, and shuts off his AR windows.  

Baldie opens the door to the closet and flicks on the light without looking.  He’s got his face buried in his papers.  A tortured, confused look on his face.  Vicar’s pistol tracks the guy’s face unerringly.  Baldie’s free hand reaches up, and starts flopping around on the shelf, searching while he reads.  Jesus, what’s this guy’s problem?  His hand passes back and forth over pens, reams of paper, datajacks, you name it.  What does he want?  

Vicar’s face twists with incredulity.  Does this guy seriously not see me?  What the hell?

The drone keeps reading, nodding his head while he scowls.  He re-straightens the sheets of paper, and continues to read.  It dawns on Vicar.

“Stapler?” He asks, grabbing the red swingline stapler on the bottom shelf and handing it to Baldie, his Predator never twitching away from the guy’s head.

“Mmm.” the drone grunts in reply, taking the stapler without looking up.  He staples his papers, places the stapler on the shelf, and shuts off the light as he leaves the closet.

Vicar, alone in the darkness, stares with disbelief at the shut door.  The elevator dings, and he hears Baldie get on and disappear into the night.  

Un-fuckin’-real.

Vicar’s comlink chirps.  It’s Behir.  

“Hey Bee… place is finally empty.  Let’s do this, I want to get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”