Category: Writing Prompts (Page 9 of 24)

Ami looked doubtfully at the metal contraption that rested on the tile floor and swiveled her head to gaze at the attendant. “It looks like a coffin.”

She could have chosen the term spaceship instead. The hatch wheel certainly gave that impression, though the clunky box was less than aerodynamic. Or perhaps a refrigerator from the nineties, repurposed for spa use. The metal box was an odd shade of pearlescent eggshell, most popular with government buildings across the world. This contraption and the plain tile room didn’t fit with the spa’s luxury offerings, soothing paintings, and beautiful floral arrangements.

“I don’t know…” Her editor Lisa had sold her on the idea, after hearing about a man who’d written a book in a day after spending a few hours in a sensory deprivation tank. Lisa, who was probably already a pile of blissful mush from a full-body massage two rooms away, and didn’t have to climb into a metal coffin and seal the door behind her to relax.

The woman whose nametag proclaimed she was Skylar laughed and pushed brown curls off her forehead. They bobbed back into place immediately. “I promise you, our sensory deprivation tanks are safe. Like I said earlier, we recommend people test it for an hour first before working their way up, but after that? Quite relaxing once you get used to the lack of stimuli.”

“They’re supposed to have good health benefits.”

“Massive amounts of magnesium salts make you float and give you a nice mood boost.” Skylar’s curls bobbed again. “A lot of people report peacefulness.”

Ami sucked in a breath, feeling her lips pull back in trepidation. Claustrophobia hadn’t been a problem she’d had to deal with before. “Oxygen flow on that end?”

Skylar nodded. “Some people prefer their heads by the door, others want a bit of obvious air flow. I’ve done this plenty of times and find the air currents disruptive.”

Ami didn’t think she’d mind oxygen in her metal coffin. Seemed preferable to the alternative. “I see.”

Skylar walked over to the hatch and rested her hand on the wheel. “If you decide you prefer the door open, just spin so the latch stays out.”

Ami sucked in a deep breath again, so hard it made an odd sound. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Skylar gave her a sympathetic wink. “Spas should be fun. If this is popular enough, the owner will invest in a modern version, but I promise, the water’s sanitized and warm. All you have to do is float.”

She shoved her shoulders back and jutted her jaw in the air with a confidence she’d lost years ago. “Change over there?”

“You’ll love it,” Skylar gushed, pointing to the corner Ami had indicated. “I promise.”

The door shut and locked behind the attendant as Ami took her jacket off. “I’d better,” she muttered. “Can’t believe I’m doing this voluntarily.”

She studied the hatch wheel a few moments later, barefoot on the cold tile floor. “In for a penny.”

Ami reached for the door and yanked, then nearly fell as nothing happened. The hatch was already sealed. “Stupid.”

She spun the wheel and slipped inside – and then slid into the salt water as gravity and physics took over, banging the door shut behind her.

Whether she’d wanted to or not.

Her breath came in pants as she realized the oxygen was on the other side of the coffin, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away from the door. Perhaps – perhaps it would be fine. She had an hour in the tank, and could get out early or spin around to the air flow later.

All Ami had to do was make it through the first five minutes. Then a book would magically pop into her head, the book that was already a month late with barely three chapters written.

Hadn’t Skylar mentioned this end of the tank was supposed to have a floatation pillow on the wall? Ami reached out a hand blindly and encountered something velvety and soft. She gave the slippery pillow a tug.

“Bad enough you interrupt my bath.” The voice burbled like ocean foam on the shore, irritation like waves breaking on rocks. “Would you mind not manhandling me?”

What could only be a tentacle wrapped around Ami’s arm, strong suckers pinning her in place. Her breath came in gasps too rapid to do more than hyperventilate.

***

This week’s More Odds Than Ends prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: That’s when that spa showed up. You know, the one with the cephalopods.

My prompt went to Becky Jones, who has a new author page you should go check out: The everyday purposes of megalithic structures were finally revealed to the modern world when…

The clouds drifted slowly over the face of the moon, dust trails reminiscent of the old American west as the bots plowed through dust in order to build the new international space base.

A rumble, and the moon heaved.

Aaaaa-choo!

On Earth, Pierre wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her close. “Shooting stars! Isn’t the sky beautiful? Make a wish, darling.”

***

I’m a bit wrecked, so just a snippet this week, but I still had fun with Becky Jones‘ prompt about clouds drifting over the face of the moon. We traded, so I’m looking forward to seeing what she did with a white tiger using an ATM!

Last week kicked off a plethora of changes – I’m leaving an entire ecosystem I’ve known for twenty years, I’m tired and grumpy, and MidJourney’s not working – so just a snippet tonight from something I’ve been playing with.

***

Cheruson twirled the nanoboard with casual grace, muscles flashing in his arms and bare chest. “How do I know you won’t renege on the deal and leave me behind?”

Isolita ignored the samurai and dove into the harbor’s muddied waters, surfacing only to slick her hair back. Her own ‘bots fused her legs together into the powerful tail. She used it to splash him in the face. “I make no promises if you won’t even get in the water.”

A swift crouch, and he was dipping a toe into the water, his tight breeches splashed dark from the sea at the ankle and face dripping. “It’s a reasonable question. My prowess is on land.”

She turned her head and looked toward the Sea Arc, hidden beneath the gnarly waves. “You hired me for a job, and I need what your employer will provide.”

“Ah,” he said softly, barely audible over the rippling rhythm of the tide. “I’ve impugned your honor.”

She flipped her tail and bobbed high in the water, shoulders rolling with apprehension. She’d come to Atlantia to save her sister from the wasting disease, not to sell her soul to corporations or enable the downfall of her king. “I’ve no honor left.”

Lita dove into the waves and surfaced nine feet later, disenchanted and unsurprised to find Cheruson beside her on his nanoboard. “Keep up.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Becky Jones: “Dude! Those waves are gnarly!

My prompt went to Padre: “Don’t worry, it’s just one of our traditional Scottish water ghosts. Enjoy your stay!”

See more at MOTE.

June slammed down the spatula. Purple frosting splattered the countertop and echoed onto the backsplash in inky stains that would leave a permanent mark. “Fututus et mori in igni!”

“Swearing in Latin will only cause our daughter to learn Latin faster,” Peter mused, a mug of tea in his hand.

“Medina wanted a fancy cake for her birthday,” she muttered, and contemplated the misshapen, frosted blob in front of her. “Peanut’s shading into deeper colors. I was trying to match the icing to her scales.”

“Most children ask for a pony,” he said calmly, and took a sip of tea. “Ours already exceeded expectations with a dragon.”

“It’s her birthday,” June said desperately. She snaked an arm around him and pulled him close, heedless of the frosting splotches on her sleeve that transferred to his sweater. “This is a mess.”

He hugged her back and set down his tea. “June, darling, what were you even doing in the kitchen?”

The last time she’d tried to cook, they’d had to hide the baby dragon from the fire department.

She rubbed her face against the pattern of his sweater, small bumps of the weave a reassuring nudge across her nose. “I wanted to do it myself, not just buy it.”

Peter reached out and swiped a finger through the mess resting in chaotic glory atop the countertop. “Tastes good. Why don’t you do what you do best?”

She bonked her forehead against his shoulder. “Go back to teaching at the university?”

“What? No.” His chin settled on her head, chest rumbling in a laugh that was nearly a purr. “Magic it.”

“Huh.” Craning her neck, she contemplated the mess of crumbs buried under inches of thick frosting. “I guess the base is there.”

“Under more sugar than is healthy for anyone. Medina will love it. You’re just making it fancy with the skills you have. Not the ones you don’t.” He snagged his rapidly cooling tea and dropped a kiss atop her forehead. “You’ve got this.”

Ten minutes later, a squeal of delight drew him back to the kitchen.

This time, he choked on the last of his tea. “Bit overboard, don’t you think?”

The cake had morphed from an unidentifiable mess into an exquisite fantasy landscape with amethyst swirls and deep oceanic blues. Whirling gumdrop trees covered with sparkly lights danced atop the surface in flickering glimmers that rendered candles unnecessary.

June glared.

Peter cleared his throat. “She’ll love it.”

***

This week’s prompt came from Leigh Kimmel: Whirling gumdrop trees covered with sparkly lights.

My prompt went to nother Mike: The lamp curled out an arm and tapped her on the shoulder.

Check these and more out at MOTE!

Lisse perched on what used to be a concrete wall – more accurately termed rubble, after the last hour – the weariness soaking through her bones until she felt glued to the pointed orb poking through her battle gear into her right buttock. Cold seeped through her fatigues, soaked with blood and ichor from a thousand arms of swarming foes. Her fingers were clenched in a frozen grip on her rifle’s stock.

Her back twitched in a failed automatic response as she recognized the footprints approaching. “Sarge.”

He kicked a small boulder to the side, where it bounced off a pile of tentacles and wobbled to a stop on the dusty ground covered in sticky, drying goo. He settled his bulk in beside her. “There a reason you’re lollygagging when the cleanup’s not verified yet?”

It took several minutes. Her voice didn’t want to work. “You’re here too.” Her words were slurred, almost drunken. “This is what I know, Sarge.”

In the distance, the white flare went up that meant the thirteen klick sphere zone had been verified clear. A shower of sparks fell onto the lake the space octopi had swarmed from, a sizzle filling the air with the sound of frying bacon.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he mused. “You’ve done this twenty years, eh? Mayhap it’s time for something new.”

She hissed in speechless aversion.

“There’s more to life than octopus tentacles,” Sarge insisted. He leaned forward and picked one up, pale pink with red suckers, waved it in her direction. “You knew to look in the lake, didn’t you?”

She nodded, her breath coming more steadily as she slipped into automatic habits. “Piss-poor location for a colony, if you don’t look for alien threats in the water. Can’t make assumptions.”

“Can always use more people who understand threats,” he mused, and threw the tentacle back into the pile. “Back on the battle station. Lots of options for those who keep their eyes open.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with shock. Her body rocked back and forth slightly. “I don’t know how to start over.”

“And…?”

The drawled question had an automatic answer in this unit, though her words came reluctantly.

“Try it and find out.” She coughed, then repeated the words above a whisper. “Try it and find out.”

“More than one way to serve.” He stood and clapped her on the shoulder. “Back to the ship, soldier. Sleep, then grieve. Then you keep living. Red-rimmed eyes don’t suit you.”

***

I’m not happy with this one, because I just went through what felt like an impossible dilemma – and I guarantee that the deep wells of emotion that come with making a lifechanging decision are insufficiently captured here. Perhaps it’s too soon.

Read more at MOTE.

“Looking good.” Pax practically gave himself whiplash looking at the crowded barroom and the swirl of coeds on a dance floor covered in the stickiness of stale hops.

“You’re too old for them,” Nick said gruffly. “They’re just kids.”

“You tell me I’m a kid every day,” Pax reminded him gleefully. “I’m the youngest on the team.”

Frost slung a heavily muscled arm over each man’s shoulder. “You do remind him of both facts every day. What are you going to do the next time we hire?”

Nick tensed and turned his head away from the others. The last three new employees to the S.A.N.T.A. do-gooder had been after the team had lost members. “Pretty casual for someone who spent the last month in the hospital.”

“Sorry, man.” He gave an awkward pat that was more like a shove and headed for the bar. “First round’s on me.”

Nick gave a sharp nod and wedged his wiry body in at the bar, using pointed elbows for leverage as he negotiated with the bartender.

Pax leaned against a pillar and craned his head backwards.

“First, stop drooling, kid.” Frost reached over Pax’s head and snagged the proffered stouts, passing one to the demolitions expert. “Second, you already know the rule. Aim small, miss small.”

Beer foamed as Pax choked. “This isn’t an op, dude. You want me to what?”

Frost smacked his arm. “It’s a metaphor. Stop being dazzled by all the pretty girls and pick one.”

“Oh.” He narrowed his eyes with renewed interest.

***

This week’s MOTE prompt was from Cedar Sanderson: Aim small, miss small. It felt like a great opportunity for the SANTA crew.

My prompt went to Becky Jones: The virus made her a living prison.

Izz hit the button to release her helmet and pushed the facemask up. Faded colors burst into life in front of her eyes. No matter how much she upgraded her spacesuit, or how much she believed in the promises of the latest marketing, colors never looked the same as when the plas-glass wasn’t covering her eyes.

Greaves buzzed disapprovingly in her ear. “You know I haven’t finished the analysis of the air quality here.”

“It’s breathable.” Izz reached into her carrying pouch and unwrapped the waxed fabric that covered her lunch. She took a bite of hamspread wrapped in tortilla. “That’s enough.”

“Not to prevent viruses, bacteria, or keep you from smelling the sulfur fields.”

She rolled her eyes. “Those are fifty klicks away.”

“Molecules in the air.” Greaves sniffed ostentatiously.

Izz winced at the sudden noise, brushing her chin over the rubber shoulder of her suit. “Air’s fine. We both know it. You just want me to start investigating those ruins.”

“Please?” The voice in her ear turned pleading. “All you do is study the situation. I already analyzed it for you. I want to know what you’ll find that we can sell. I’m busy building your empire.”

Izz pointed, knowing Greaves saw through her recorder. “You see that?” She paused as the egret – well, this planet’s equivalent, anyway – flew gracefully away from the shore of the shining purple salt lake. Vines and small ground creatures crept over the ruins of an abandoned colony in the background. “Look how beautiful.”

“Birds,” Greaves grumbled, but left her alone to study her next target.

***

This week’s prompt came from Becky Jones: The egret flew gracefully away from the shore. My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The gnome crept off the holiday card and stepped carefully onto the mantle. Check out more at MOTE!

This week, I mentally mangled Padre’s prompt of “The manger scene doesn’t normally look like that…” and remembered it as “the unusual manger scene.” And that’s when I wondered, what if the Christmas Star had been a dragon, stretched across the sky? Which brings us back to the postwar world of the dragon Princess Miranda, recently returned from intentional self-exile to unwilling court life after her father’s untimely death, along with her stalwart shapeshifting companion of catlike curiosity.

“What on earth is that?” Greystone’s fur spiked as he planted his paws and halted just as they reached the entrance to the Lesser Hall. His tail lashed violently across the hallway.

Miranda nearly planted her claws into his spotted back as she stumbled to an unexpected halt. “What is what?” She regained her balance and peered her long neck around the corner. “It’s the same castle it’s always been, even if we’ve been gone for a few years.”

“Or a decade,” Greystone muttered. “Give or take a year or two.”

She frowned. “You meant the display?”

“Tiny creatures.” He lifted each paw, shaking it as he went, fur still floofed. He sniffed at the display, where several figures rested  “Fake, inedible tiny creatures, made of wood. Birch, I think. What a waste of syrup.”

“Your sweet tooth will not help us solve this puzzle.” The dragon tapped a finger against her fangs. “Oh, I know. It looks different from what I remember. This is called a barn scene. No, a manger display. This time of year, there is a religious story that goes with it. You only visited in the summer when it snowed, so you never saw the celebrations.”

Greystone’s white and grey fur sleeked itself with another cautious sniff at the intricately carved figurines. “What’s the story?”

“Er –” She felt her wings twitch. “Well, understand this isn’t my celebration. I won’t do the story justice.”

“But you know the highlights?” Greystone persisted.

She took another step closer. The carvings were exquisite, clearly the result of significant time and expertise in bringing life from dead wood. Miranda winced at the mess she was about to verbalize. “Um. Well, you can see the three main figures. The dark blue is the papa dragon. He’s not the father, but he agreed to be because the egg needed one. The light blue dragon is the mama, who birthed a miracle egg.”

They both stared at the smooth wooden egg that rested in a crib filled with straw. Greystone broke the silence. “Why’s it a miracle egg?”

“Why do you have to ask hard questions?” She pursed her snout. “I’m thinking.”

“These are your people, Princess,” Greystone said softly. “You need to know.”

“I left that life behind,” she snapped, and felt the tension in her flattened wings.

“And yet here we are again.”

She closed her eyes and thought back to her favorite tutor, killed during the Nemali attack so many years ago, during the opening salvos of the war. “The Miracle Egg will save the world once he hatches. He is a great dragon wizard, and kind. He teaches other people to be kind, too.”

The words were simple, appropriate as her tutor had taught the child she once was. She blinked away a tear before it could crystalize and ruin the glittering scale art her lady’s maid had spent so much time designing. It would be an insult to destroy her work for the sake of a memory, beloved though Erris had been.

“The miracle egg was prophesied by other great magicians of the age. The kings at the time were unhappy, because it meant they were less important. Some tried to smash the egg. The parental dragons were no match by themselves for the armies brought to stop the Miracle Egg from changing the world, so they fled.”

“What’s this around her neck?” 

“The mother dragon carried the egg in a pouch full of warm sand, but it grew cold by the time they landed each evening. She despaired of ever hatching the Miracle Egg, because they were forced to take shelter in drafty barns along the way, and it was already a risk just to have fire-breathers around hay and straw, let alone light a fire for extra warmth.”

The barn looked cramped to her. Perhaps it was intentional, given the artist’s otherwise detailed care. “Most inns aren’t made for dragonic sizes, obviously.”

Miranda pointed to the backdrop attached to the back of the miniature barn. Here, the painted wood was less skilled, though still reflective of the same style. “Only the Great Dragon in the sky could find them. The constellation pointed the way. It was part of the prophecy that the sky flamed, and the Dragon’s Eye dimmed since.”

Greystone sniffed derisively. “A miracle they survived at all. I’ve seen less obvious meteor showers. Though I suppose I’ve never tried to follow one to its landing. Nor a constellation.”

Miranda let her nictating membranes slide closed for a moment in a slow blink. “Ah. Right. The Miracle Egg could be more easily hidden from his enemies once he became the Miracle Hatchling. It was so cold, he was one of the last eggs left from the season, and that made him easy to track. This barn was the one that was warm enough for the hatching to begin.”

Greystone lifted his lip to display fangs nearly as large as her own. “Hatching can take a while. Especially cold starters. Days, even. Right?”

She nodded, and traced the face of the pale blue dragon, wondering if the artist had known her mother. There was something in the snout, and the tilt of her eye ridges, that seemed this side of familiar. “Long enough the three least hostile magicians were able to catch up. These mages were more curious than anything else.” 

“Well, don’t stop there. Those figures in the distance look like cats.” 

She looked down to discover Greystone had settled in front of the manger scene with crossed paws and an expectantly twitching tail. 

“Curiosity loves a cat, you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much more, you insatiable, inquisitive fiend. Maybe they were in the cat family. Maybe” – she booped his nose – “they were camels. Whatever they were, the three mages warmed the barn with their magic. The innkeeper’s barn didn’t burn, and the hatching was successful. Plus, they knew the armies were still coming, and did concealment magic to hide the Miracle Hatchling. It worked until he grew old enough to control his own powers and start working his kindness miracles.”

“Seems an odd thing to protest,” Greystone grumbled, and settled his head atop enormous paws. “Silly kings.”

“They caught up to him later,” Miranda admitted. “In a darker tale. This story is about hope.”

A noise caused her head to turn, and she found a kitchen wench in a dark dress with white cap and apron standing in the doorway to the Lesser Hall.

The girl’s mouth and neck twitched with poorly stifled giggles. She raised a hand to her mouth and smoothed over her expression, though her amber eyes continued to dance. “I’m Sass, and if you’d like to hear the proper…er, the full story, please let me know. In the meantime, lunch is served, Princess. Sir Greystone. If you’ll come with me.”

Read more Odd Prompts over at MOTE.

Greaves let out a hiss.

Izz winced and touched her earpiece so the noodle stall owner wouldn’t think she was talking to herself. Then again, most stationers left others alone unless it was a safety issue. The odds had proliferated space beyond anyone’s imagination, with a genetic predisposition toward independence that rubbed most of the original colonists in ways that had them clutching their oxygen masks. To each their own, on most stations, unless the odd wanted to let the oxygen out.

Still, it would attract unwanted attention until the wizened woman who ran the best noodle stall in five parsecs determined she wasn’t a threat, so Izz left her hand near her ear in the universal sign of comms-in-progress. She twirled noodles clumsily with her free hand. “You don’t have lungs. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…”

An eavesdropper wouldn’t have known Greaves was a sentient AI inhabiting her ship, and that was how Izz liked it. She eyed the woman carefully intent on stirring the pot of broth and decided some misdirection wouldn’t go amiss. “Whatever, you cyborg. Do I need to come back?”

“No…”

The woman with the broth turned to a new customer, and Izz took a huge breath in relief. It made her chest hurt. She needed to get used to people again, and stop making stupid comments about not having the normal amount of body parts. Carelessness would get them both caught, and the salvage business would have been impossible without Greaves’ assistance.

And maybe she was developing a fondness for a sentient that she shouldn’t. It was hard not to develop feelings when something – someone – kept you alive in space for months on end, with a bonus of profit to boot.

“You sound like a sulky teenager.” She nibbled at the edges of the noodle ball she’d created. Wavy lengths of pasta flailed for tremulous freedom. She’d conquered most of the escapees before the noodle ball dropped with a splash that splattered her jumpsuit. “Are you done sorting those antique recipes yet?”

“I am a teenager.” Greaves had escaped the postwar purge. “And of course I’m done. Sorted, and sold. Who knew recipes could be so profitable? Look, I’m nervous.”

“About what?” Izz grabbed her bandana and patted her coveralls. At least she’d remember this broth for a while, until she could get her clothes into the cleanser. It was worth remembering. She picked up the bowl and started slurping. “You don’t get nervous.”

“The ship coming in…” Greaves trailed off again.

“It’s really annoying when you pause like that.” She stuffed what remained of the noodle ball into her mouth and chewed, not bothering to keep the conversation going.

“They’re from the war,” Greaves said. “I remember them.”

“Stand by. I’m on my way.” Izz slapped a coin down. She’d paid before the babushka had deigned to give her the steaming bowl, but a tip wouldn’t go amiss in this area. Might help her become forgotten.

It certainly wasn’t for the service.

She dodged clumsy robots thudding with new construction materials, mixed with the chatter of a thousand dialects. Animated flea market bargainers waved hands amidst the trailing scarves of rich wives, sleighs of wrapped packages obediently trailing behind. At the sight of armor-clad marshals on patrol, she slipped easily into the airless construction zone, pulling on the ever-present O-mask filter as blue-white welding sparks flew.

“Old habits,” she murmured to herself with a mischievous grin. Her smile faded as darker memories floated at the edges of her consciousness, and that was enough, even if the marshals weren’t gone. She was a private citizen now, upstanding and proudly freeborn. A responsible adult. Even paid taxes, sometimes.

She spotted a wheel-doored metal tunnel and ducked back onto the dock. Izz stayed under the scaffolding a moment to let her eyes adjust to the port’s floodlights, slipping the O-mask back around her neck where it would be less noticeable. “Almost there.”

Greaves didn’t comment on her rapid heart rate or breath, even though she surely noticed. “Good.” A note of worry flickered through the single word. “Avoid everyone.”

Izz rolled her eyes in exasperation and shoved her hands in her pockets. The four docks between her and her ship seemed endless. A crowd of people, bots, and creatures she couldn’t identify filled most of the docks, up until the near-pristine ramps that security bots enforced if the non-rightful owner tried to approach. “Nearly as crowded as the flea market, but I’ll try.”

The silver-skinned man blocked her path with his bulk near some freshly unloaded plasti-wood crates. “Fry dough?”

She kept her head down and gave a vague gesture as she darted to his left, hand in her pocket seeking the switchblade she’d left in the eye of the stalker she’d caught on Delta-4. She’d forgotten to replace it in her rush to return. “Dock market’s behind me.”

He didn’t move. “Fry dough with sugar?”

“Ask for Zelko’s,” she snapped, and tried to the right. Great. A sentient AI protecting her at all times other than on-station, and here she was, about to get mugged, half a dock away from safety.

“With cooked fruit mash inside?” the man persisted.

She blinked and looked up into glowing sapphire eyes. “You mean jam?”

Greaves set off an alarm siren in her ear that made it hard to concentrate. “Leave! Leave now!”

“Jahm,” the man said with exaggerated enunciation. His brilliant smile literally glowed. “Yes. Jahm. Is cooked fruit mash. Inside fry dough.”

“Zelko’s,” she repeated faintly. The sirens were well on their way to giving her a migraine. She pointed again. “Straight until dock fifteen, then right, then right again. Look for the red scarf with white dots hanging from the second story.”

The silver man barred his teeth and glowed at her again before stepping to the side. “Thanking you.”

“Welcome.” She took five tottering steps before breaking into a run.

Greaves lowered the ramp, but it wasn’t even down all the way before Izz leapt onto the platform and hit the red button for emergency closure.

“What was that?” Izz could feel Greaves’ disapproval in the silence.

“That was an elite assassin, noodle brain.” Each word was bitten off precisely, with the cutting edge only a trained actor could have emulated. “A group known for bringing the night and the darkness, until you welcome death because it is a release from the horror your night has become.”

Izz swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t fallen back on rat wharf instincts. Had she only taken a different path – not tried to avoid the marshals – been the respectable citizen she pretended to be.

“They are interchangeable, with each member looking the same and known as Mr. Blue Sky. These assassins are unstoppable. If one fails, another will take his place.”

Izz wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned her weight onto her right foot, rocking back with a huff. “He just wanted doughnuts.”

“I hope that’s all,” Greaves said quietly. “The Blue Sky assassins were responsible for the Sentient Purge. The man who wanted sweets may well have been the one who killed my family.”

***

Whew! I had no idea what to do with this one, and ended up spitballing ideas with The Guy, who suggested an assassin. I’m going to have to explore what it means to target sentient AIs…thanks, Leigh, for the musically-inspired challenge!

My prompt this week went to Becky Jones. “Burn it. Burn it all. I want no memories.”

Check out more at MOTE!