“In retrospect, I wish I’d come in sooner,” Glia said to the back of the lab coat that was topped with a blond bob. “Six months ago was when this started.”

The bob nodded and clicked through some screens. “Yes, you mentioned. Short term memory loss can be a sign of lots of things. You said you’ve been particularly stressed lately?”

“Oof,” she muttered. “Well, my routine got disrupted. I’m a bit of a homebody. Made me rather twitchy, I’m afraid. Upset with my husband, too. It just took so long to get everything done because I kept forgetting what I was doing.”

A wave of clicking followed, more than Glia thought necessary, and her lips tightened. Couldn’t Doctor What’s-her-name turn around and have a conversation for a few minutes?

“Any confusion? Trouble recognizing people?”

Glia kicked her leg restlessly and wondered if forgetting the right words counted. The antiseptic smell made her look longingly at the door.

“Mrs. Leopold?” The blonde bob finally turned around, spinning on the brown wheeled stool.

“What?” she snapped. Her eyes ran over the lab coat’s embroidery. Dr. Falstaff, the blue letters read, but the other woman looked far too young to have gone through medical school and years of residency. Where was Dr. Pikelstein, anyway?

“Any trouble with things you’ve known for a long time? Maybe another language, or problems recognizing someone you’ve known a long time?”

“Where is Dr. Pikelstein, dear?” Glia smiled at the young woman. “I’d love to hear about your skincare routine sometime.”

“Hmm.” A spin, and that dratted clicking. “I’m ordering some blood tests and several types of scans. You’re a little young for Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, so we’ll look into whether this could be stress related, or perhaps a vitamin B12 deficiency.”

“The tests will take so long,” Glia said wistfully. “I don’t suppose I could go see the sunlight for a while?”

“We can do the bloodwork right now in just a few minutes.” The woman’s voice was firm. “Did someone drive you here?”

“My Harold,” Glia whispered with a smile.

“I’ll go get him from the waiting room and send in the nurse for the bloodwork, all right?” The blonde bobbed her head one last time, and exited. She left the door cracked.

Glia could see sunlight atop the hallway’s industrial carpet. Perhaps her Harold would be in the sunlight, where it was warm and comforting, just as he was.

He’d been especially soothing that time he’d found her wandering the neighborhood, even cleaning off her face with a wet washcloth and helping her change out of ruined clothing. One of her spells, he’d called it.

She did wish he’d relax, although it was probably too late for that worry crease to fade.

She edged her shoes onto the room’s tile floor and followed the sunlight, hoping for Harold. She was cold, so cold, inside this industrial prison that looked like every other doctor’s office across the United States.

“Glia!” The baritone was still strong, after all these years.

His voice penetrated her fugue, and she shook her head. Warm again, with her feet planted firmly in the grass, with a large lump in her peripheral vision. Vaguely, her face and shirt felt wet, but that wasn’t what mattered now. She swiped a hand over her mouth and turned with a wide grin to greet her husband and a blonde woman in a lab coat.

The woman let out a shrill scream and backed away, tripping over the curb and landing on an outstretched arm on the hard asphalt parking lot surface.

Glia looked down, ashamed, although she couldn’t have explained why. Brains glistened amongst spring grass stems at her feet. She crouched, letting the remnants squish through her fingers.

“Glia! No!”

The blonde lunged for Harold’s arm, holding him back.

Glia growled, unblinking gazed fixed upon her next meal.

***

This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with “scatter brained took on a whole new meaning,” and I’d just had a conversation with Spouse about a zombie virus that manifested like normal (and abnormal) aging, taking its time until it was too late…how’d I do?

My prompt went to Becky Jones, about ink suspended within stone.

June stopped draining her water bottle with a sputter and scrambled to catch the vessel before it splashed onto the arid ground. “Peter.”

“What is it, love?” He didn’t look up from fiddling with the settings on his DSLR camera.

“You wanted a sign on where to find the weapon.”

“Quite unlikely, I’m afraid.” He settled the strap around his neck and joined her. “The sources Halima found in the archives were rather vague. I’m sure the terrain has changed since then, even here. Assuming this mysterious magical weapon even existed.”

She raised a hand that shook only slightly and pointed. “It’s that way.”

“Pardon?” He lifted his chin to follow the line of sight she’d indicated. “West?”

“The journal said, ‘infinite sky shows the way.’ We’d assumed that meant stars. But the clouds blocking sunlight do just as well.”

Before them, on the cracked ground, pointed an arrow made of shadow, aiming west.

***

This week’s prompt was sparked by AC Young: The sun and clouds make pictures on the ground.

Mine went to nother Mike: The rock-stretching man finished his latest piece and…go read the rest!

This week, we tried something different at More Odds Than Ends. And I goofed, but it worked! In adding a randomly assigned emotion, I listed enough for the usual crew…and over-emoted, listing a prompt when none was to be had.

Which means my combined prompt was blank satisfaction. Lots of possibilities. A blank canvas, ready to come to life with vibrant color? Daydreaming contentedly of nothing in particular? A well-lived life, slipping into nothingness? A grinning bride, the soon-to-be Mrs. Blank?

Or…

Miffles licked her lips with satisfaction, content that the annoying noise had ceased at last. Two long years, she’d put up with the noise. Endless clanging metal, the squeaking swing, bells ringing day and night.

For two long years, she’d heard nothing but cheeping and chirping. And Mama cooing back, when Mama’s time would have been better spent on the the blue couch with fuzzy pillows, petting Miffles until she was tired of her fur being ruffled.

But this day, it came to a head at last. Today, Lemondrop escaped her cage, swooping just out of reach for well over an hour as Miffles danced on her back paws, fangs on display. Her front paws stretched just not far enough, until she pretended to take a nap.

And that’s when Lemondrop had let down her guard. The brilliant yellow canary had been worn out from teasing the black tabby, and settled in for a nap of her own.

It had been just long enough for Miffles to pounce. She rolled around in the cloud of feathers, exulting in her victory. And the silence. And the attention that would soon be hers, all hers, as soon as Mama got back from –

And there it was! Keys in the lock! Mama was home!

Miffles trotted to the door, a trail of feathers drifting behind her from where yellow dotted her fur.

“Hi, kitty.” Keys dropped into the bowl beside the door as Mama shoved it closed with a hip, a brown paper bag in her arms.

Miffles mewed in response, awaiting her well-earned praise and petting.

The bag crashed to the floor a moment later. “Miffles! What the ____ did you do? Bad ____ kitty!”

Mama stomped by a suddenly confused Miffles and headed into the room with the blue couch. Wails emerged, louder than Lemondrop had ever been. “Bad kitty! _____! _____ _____ _____! Bad!”

Miffles poked her head into the bag and curled up inside to wait out the wailing. And if the cold creamy box melted, it smelled as if she would have another snack soon enough.

***

Check out what Cedar Sanderson did with the fury of the llama!

Ariana clanked to a jolting halt as she wheeled in trays of sterilized equipment for the morning customer prep. The neon “Closed” sign still glinted along with streaks of moonlight, shadows from the building across the street mimicking elongated parapets. An incandescent bulb burned next to the brick wall covered with flash art intermixed with canvas prints of the shop’s best American traditional and geometric work. It wasn’t enough lighting to see the latest new school addition to the wall clearly.

It was exactly enough lighting to see moonlit tears streaming down her boss’ cragged face from ancient eyes that had seen too much. The same face that had weathered the loss of Constantinople along with the torture and evisceration of his family, if Diana was to be believed.

Ariana was still coming to terms with how her life had changed in the past two months. But she hadn’t changed enough to walk away from someone in need.

“Boss?” He didn’t respond, but his fingers twisted upon a handheld speaker clenched between long, thin fingers. An acapella soprano evoked teasing promises through the airwaves before leading into a haunting wordless melody. “Haugh?”

He turned away then, and she realized he must have come down from the loft above the shop. He wasn’t the type to show off his physique or scars, and – again, if Diana was to be believed – his tattoos served a functional purpose. The realism of the hawk wings made it easy to succumb to what must be a fantasy, the delusion of a woman whose eyes had also seen too much.

“You’re in early.” His voice was rough and low, barely carrying over the woman’s mournful song.

She shrugged, knowing he couldn’t see it. She wasn’t about to tell him that the midnight downpour had leaked through her cheap apartment’s roof again. “I like being early.”

“This song,” he muttered. “Impossible. Sophia created this song. I was the only one she sang this for, before she died. This sounds exactly as she sang it.”

“It wasn’t done yet, she said.” He threw the speaker, which rolled unharmed to the locked glass door. The melody continued.

She shifted her weight, hands still on the cart’s handle. “Maybe she recorded it and you didn’t notice?”

He barked a laugh and rested his elbows on his knees. The wings rippled – more than a twitch of muscles should have, but she was ignoring that as hard as she could – before growing still. “They didn’t have that technology then.”

Ariana had no idea what to say, so settled for rocking upward onto her toes, a nervous habit her mother had never drummed out of her. “Um…”

The woman’s song stopped, and said something in that musical language, her tone laughing.

Haugh turned only his head, long grey-streaked black hair shining as he turned. His jaw was stiff and furious. A wordless cry erupted from his mouth, and golden light filled the room with it.

Blinking away spots of light, Ariana stared at the tray, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and wondered for the thousandth time if this job was too good to be true. And if her bosses were as harmless as she thought. Fear and gratitude had kept her silent until now, that and the lack of a plan. But she could get another job. Somewhere. They owed her a reference to counter the last hag’s lies, jealousy ginned up as an excuse to fire her.

She opened her mouth, ready to say the words, “I quit.” The words died in her throat as Ariana looked up.

Haugh’s wings were real, burst forth from shoulders even more powerful than they’d previously seemed, glistening, grey-streaked black under the neon moonlight.

***

This week’s prompt challenge came from nother Mike: As he/she listened to the radio playing a song that it could not be playing, tears rolled down his/her face…

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: A duel of hissing electric eels.

Are changes afoot for More Odds Than Ends? Come find out – and join in, if you’re so inclined!

“Are you excited, Leila?” The man with the precise mustaches crouched down in front of her, his uniform as neatly lined as his facial hair and covered with gold braid. “Today’s an exciting day for your father.”

She nodded, clutching her blue squishy Floofbear. Mama had insisted on giving him a bath, which was just as bad as the slippery shoes that pinched her feet and the scratchy dress that was supposed to be fancy. But she did have to admit Floofbear was bluer than usual.

Just not out loud, where Mama could hear. Instead she put on her serious face that she’d practiced in the mirror and said her line. “I am very excited to be part of the first colony ship.”

Eyebrows creased nearly as much as the symmetrical divide between the mustache halves. “Are you now? Well, it is an honor for your family. It will be very different from what you knew on Earth.”

She studied the dock beneath her feet and tried to think of something that wasn’t insulting, like why are you talking to me like I’m three instead of five?

“I don’t know you,” she blurted, studying his mustaches and wondering if he’d let her pet them before returning her gaze to the dock. Her so-shiny shoes were already scuffed from trying to keep up with the adult crowd that never looked down for obstacles. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

The man laughed, and dropped his fancy bus driver hat onto her head. “You’re right. I’m Michael. I’ll be on the colony ship, too. I work for your father.”

“I’m Leila,” she said, and offered a solemn hand. “This is Floofbear. He’s cuddly but trouble, Mama says.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Leila.” He took her hand in his much larger one and shook it, then extended his hand to her blue, fuzzy friend. “And you, too, Mr. Floofbear. Delighted to have you aboard.”

“Michael’s my new XO,” her father said suddenly, with a hand on her shoulder. She grinned, because nothing could go wrong when he was there, not with the amount of gold braid on his shoulders. “Remember Javier? He decided to retire on Earth, so Michael replaced him. He’ll be teaching you quantum physics this year, too.”

This time her grin was wider, showing off the missing tooth Mama had told her to hide in the photographs. “Cool.”

“Quantum…” Michael’s mouth was a round O beneath the mustaches. “Ahem. Well, Zeke, have you told her the good news?”

“I have not,” her father announced proudly. “Leila, it’s a tradition to christen a new ship by giving it a name and breaking a bottle of champagne.”

“Is that why so many people are here?” She studied the ornate dress and loud noises. “I think these people are important. They have nice shoes that aren’t scuffed.”

“See that man?” Michael pointed, still in an easy crouch. “He’ll offer a blessing. Then the officers head on board. The crew is already there.”

“We just need the name, Leila. And that’s your job, in just a few minutes.”

She tipped her face up in awe. “Mine? Really?”

“Really really.” Her father’s neatly trimmed beard seemed wild in comparison. “Anything you want.”

She danced until she slid, Michael and her father each catching an arm. “I know the perfect name!”

“Excellent,” Admiral Farmanzeh said, and squeezed her hand. “Just a few more minutes.”

An hour later, Michael waited for the final order to uncouple Earth’s most expensive spacecraft and first colony ship to a viable planet. Leila’s father still red-faced in the command seat behind him.

“Cuddly But Trouble, you are go for launch,” crackled port control.

“Awaiting your order, Sir.” Michael hovered his hand over the giant red button, a photobot hovering over his shoulder.

“This is Cuddly Actual,” the Admiral growled. “Launch.”

***

It’s take two of this week’s odd prompts, where this week I apparently make up for last week’s pass (okay, find, gotta catch up on that one sometime, too). Find version one here.

“Someday,” Miranda began, and cleared her throat with a bob of her long neck as water splashed into her face from the stone ceiling. “Someday, you’re going to have to explain how we ended up here.”

“In the dungeons?” Greystone was far too cheerful about his assessment of their location.

“My father’s dungeons, hiding from a rampaging murderer and a diplomatic riot, yes.” She dusted off her forearms, leaving claw marks in the gold stickiness that smeared her limbs now that the damp had seeped its way through her scales. A violent sneeze erupted with a snort of flame. “Oh, I’m ever so sorry. I’m unused to grand events after my tenure in the countryside.”

A chuffed laugh was as close to a snort as the shapeshifting snow leopard ever got. “All right, princess. I see your protocol training is still there.”

“We have some work to do if we want to catch the killer,” Miranda said with a reluctant settling of her shoulders. “Like getting out of here. Now, about that explanation?”

“Well, first there was the gentleman with the feathered hat who smelled like gooseberry wine.” Greystone curled into a C-shape with all four paws overlapping primly, clearly proud of himself.

She hissed in spite of herself. “Too easy to hide poisons.”

“Which everyone knows, so the security trolls were already alerted and following him.” The cat twisted his head around and stared at the wall for a moment. “So I shifted to following the woman in the enormous dress that looked like a cake. The yellow one.”

Her tongue was glued to her fangs. “Queen Elderian from Avenia? You followed the ruling monarch of our greatest ally under suspicion of murdering my father?”

“She had stabby sticks in her hair,” Greystone muttered. “The King is dead. An invading army appeared from nowhere within our borders. Your brother is terrified to be King, and I’m worried his councilors will try to overthrow him before he’s even crowned. And we have no leads on what happened, other than a few indications it will happen again.”

She didn’t relax but dipped her head apologetically. The diamonds on her tiara glinted in the dim lantern light. “You’re right.” Miranda wrapped her tail around Greystone and leaned gently against her smaller friend. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“I always am,” he said smugly. “Now, if I may continue?”

Miranda gazed at the scattered straw beneath her claws and blew it out of the way. “It’s a good thing you’re cuddly, you know. Trouble, but darned cuddly.”

“Language, princess, tut tut.” He stretched out a paw and extended his own retractable claws. “And I’ll have you know I’m darned adorable.”

***

This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with: Cuddly, but trouble.

Find version two here, because conversation skewed this in a better direction.

My prompt went to nother Mike: The aftermath of playing fetch with a fish.

“Nice of them to leave you anything,” Greaves sniffed. The derision was audible even through the speaker Izz wore, and echoed with every other word as she passed rooms filled only with the rubble of early space life.

“Sarcastic AI commentary is always appreciated,” Izz murmured. “Perhaps you could knock it off until I verify the station is clear?”

A crescendo of laughter rolled down the hallway in response.

Izz stopped and winced. Her gloved hand clenched the doorway. “Please.”

“I already did thermal scans,” Greaves said. “As if I’d let you off the ship if you were in any danger.”

“You’re supposed to,” Izz argued. “AI is supposed to do what the ship’s owner says.”

The shrug was audible in the silence. She heaved a sigh and kept going.

“Fine. You get more than basic life support functioning yet?” Waiting twenty-four hours had been worth the wait, to enter into strange stations without a helmet. Oh, it was clipped to her belt in case of emergency, but having Greaves on her side certainly made life easier.

Almost easy enough to be worth the hassle and low-grade fear of hiding a sentient. But Greaves’ mumbled swearing at ancient operating systems had been entertaining last night. It had been like listening to a sulky teenager on a rampage. Probably because Greaves was about the equivalent, since the Synthetics War and the ban.

“I’m in,” it responded with a cool tone that meant Greaves knew exactly what she was thinking probably from the biometrics readings via her utility gear. “Basic file access. I’m afraid the jumpgate has been inoperable for over 422 years. It’s unclear why. And you would not believe how many operating systems I had to download just to talk to the AI here.”

“Considering I dreamt in binary, I do in fact believe it.”

“Poor, unfortunate, primitive soul. Not even a hint of life within it. Such a robot.”

Izz came to a still-sealed door and set her bag of tools down, examining the locks. “Don’t be snobby.”

“I am the epitome of kindness,” Greaves proclaimed, and the lock in front of Izz thunked open.

She jolted backward. “That was you, right?”

“As if you’d really doubt it. I also have obtained access authorities.” Izz scanned the room slowly as Greaves continued, her headlamp skimming over the preserved clothing and detritus of someone’s life. A male someone, if she had to guess by the sizes. “The files also indicate this was one of the original jumpgates. You might even find dehydrated food still in packaging, or old N-A-S-A logos. Those are still popular with a certain crowd.”

“You think anyone would ever want the files?” Izz asked idly. “I don’t see anything that explains why this guy’s door wasn’t cut open.”

“Records indicate uneven evacuation,” Greaves stated. “As for the files, perhaps. It lends a certain cachet to affairs, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think that sentence made sense in context.” Izz ran a finger over a short-sleeved, collared shirt labeled JOHN in bright blue letters over a chest pocket. “Very well-preserved.”

“Alas, the files are not.”

Izz’s headlamp suddenly beamed an image rather than the steady, soothing light she’d grown used to. She whacked her lamp, which meant only that she hit herself in the head. “Did you just hack me rather than getting the power back?”

“An example of the gaps in files, I’m afraid.” A red circle appeared around some coordinates. “A starting point, indicated here.” A green circle flashed. “Then here, nonsense. ‘Twenty steps north, then twenty east. Dig between the two crosses.'”

“Ah.” Izz let a soft smile come over her face. “X marks the spot, twice. Dad would have loved this. Show me that nonsense again?”

An odd image brightened. A spiraling circle rested above the image of a horned creature. Surrounding it was an enormous circle, and a ring around it at a cocked angle. Three dots in the upper left completed the image. “A children’s game, perhaps.”

“Almost looks like a petroglyph,” Izz said. “Didn’t they revert back to a highly symbolic language for early galactic space travel before universal standard was developed?”

“Scanning,” Greaves said, and for once sounded like the bits and bytes it comprised. “Yes. I have placed a worm in the archives to scan for matches and interpretations.”

“Could be an interesting place to check out, if we could get a solid course plotted.” Izz folded the clothing she found into a plasti-canvas bag and began opening lockers.

“Alas, course records are currently also corrupted.” Greaves paused. “It looks like someone may have intentionally damaged the records. I believe I can reverse engineer to the original data. Especially if I can fill in the gaps with the not-nonsense.”

“Great,” Izz said. “Now back to work. Our real work. Salvage pays for your fuel, after all.”

Days later, Izz walked through the station a final time, the beam of her headlamp indistinguishable from the blazing LED lights Greaves had struggled to power on initially. “I think we’re good.”

“Storage can’t hold much more, and I’m already scanning for profit margin estimates to determine the best buyers. Those files were an interesting idea. I’m glad you thought of the hard drive.”

“You don’t have to sound so horrified.”

“Brain in a jar,” Greaves hissed. “Brain. In a jar.”

“How is that different from brain in a ship?” Izz hit the bottom square, which depressed slightly and dimmed the lights as she headed for the ramp.

A rude noise greeted her instead of an answer.

“Fine. You drive, I’ll clean. Unless you want to manifest hands and come help me etch off a few centuries of hard water buildup?”

“Coordinates are already programmed. Please strap in for takeoff, which will occur in precisely five minutes.” The mimicry echoed the ridiculous video pulled from station files, where uniformed women informed departing passengers of spaceflight with exaggerating hand gestures and cheery smiles. “Thank you for flying the Seven Seas.“

“Renamed yourself again, did you?” This was at least the fourth name in six months. Izz didn’t mind, since Greaves filed the paperwork on her behalf every time. “Appropriate for a salvager, isn’t it? Dad would’ve liked this one.”

“Then this is the one that sticks.” The ship shuddered as the ramp closed. “There. You can see the new nanocoat when we get to Isendorf Station.”

Fumbling the familiar four-point harness, Izz rolled her eyes. “I can’t wait. Can we go, so I can get back to getting our haul ready for sale? Clean means higher prices.”

Pressure pushed her backward. “Why do you think we’re headed for Isendorf?”

The bickering continued as the station’s remaining lights powered themselves off. The Seven Sea’s spotlight flickered over the station’s dim outline, a brief darkness illuminated less by starlight than by its absence.

Greaves and Izz were hours away by the time the jumpgate behind them activated, triggered by the search worm planted and forgotten a week before. An explosion of purple and green lights flashed, an obsolete anti-piracy measure intended to protect inbound starships transiting the system. The jumpgate flickered and died at the spectacular burst of energy, a move that could have been intentional had it been a few seconds delayed.

Three hunter droids appeared within the jumpgate. Each droid faced outward, red lights shining like eyes, whirling into a triskele before triangulating. One of the hunter droids moved into point, its black nose shining as it bobbed, sniffing a trail. The other droids spun, moving into a V behind the leader. Upon a silent signal, the hunters began to move with unrelenting precision, following the Seven Seas.

***

This week’s prompt was from AC Young: Twenty steps north, then twenty east. Dig between the two crosses. Mine went to nother Mike: The rhino chased the butterfly at full charge.

Izz swallowed hard as soon as the ship swayed with an uncharacteristic dip. A ping followed, as did the sound of a throat clearing.

“Captain, I regret to inform you – ”

She cut Greaves off before the sentient AI could go further. “Air displacement always means a sway like that. Don’t sound so apologetic or formal, you nincompoop.”

“Izz?” This time, the voice was shocked.

“Look, you can run the gamut of emotions you’re not supposed to legally have, or you can help me with port patrol.” She headed for the cockpit, the false lightheartedness in her voice belied by the sinking weight in her abdomen.

The cracked leather seat was surprisingly comfortable, and nearly as familiar as her old hammock had been back home, once. It had been barely two months, but she’d grown used to the unorthodox nature of her ship – and grateful for the profits that kept her from being a permanent port rat, surrounded by the stench of poverty.

“Being poor smells like cheap noodles,” she muttered. “Delicious, until it’s all you’ve had in three months. Worse, when you can’t even afford the noodles.”

“You do realize port patrol is shadowing us, correct?” Greaves was downright testy now. “On task, captain. Or we both die.”

“Get me ideas, ship. You’re the genius.” Izz bit her lip. She did need to study the scans, but the gleaming purple and red tones of the nearby nebula were just as distracting as the tourism brochures had promised. “I don’t suppose you can fake being normal for long enough to get by their scans?”

“I don’t suppose you could try getting into less trouble at the port itself?”

***

A quickie, prompted by the image over at MOTE, after forgetting to send in a prompt last week.