Archive No. 41,573. Provenance confirmed as an early journal entry of General Barstein, dated 01.05.2037 (rank at the time of documentation: Captain, United States Space Force).

5 January 2037

In retrospect, there’s no good way to explain the horror of the Toy Wars.

Retrospect. As if the nightmare’s already over. Let me add a snort of derision here.

I’ve barely made Captain, and I’m still hung over from the promotion party, but Trace was right. Once you’ve pinned on, nobody knows if you’re brand new or six years in and about to pin on Major. And even the newest of us Captain types (yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the “double Lieutenant” jokes) can tell this’ll go on for years before we’re close to winning. The older O3s – what’s left of them – are starting to look cynical, with creases at their eyes a few years too early.

Well, us noobs* can also tell that we let the propaganda get away from us.

*Editor’s note. Noobs: An archaic term referencing a participant’s newness to a task at hand. Often seen in groups known as swarms, and easily identifiable by the “noobs'” lack of practical knowledge regarding task completion or desire to complete the task by themselves. Contextual meaning: Likely self-mockery, given Gen Barstein’s company grade officer (i.e., low) rank at the time of data entry.

Toy Wars. Come on. Like it’s as low-stakes as those cartoons that my mom used to go on about.

It sounds wild, doesn’t it? Absolutely ridiculous.

Whatever pixie dust sprinkled on those first bits of plastic, from the day the first toy dragon came to life…I bet it was before then, and someone only noticed because a fire started. We couldn’t stop it, because patient zero was never found. Some idiot played with DNA computing, and boom, cross contamination.

Dolls strangling children in their cribs. Plastic toy soldiers found in veterans’ libraries, studying strategy and running field exercises. 3D-printed dinosaurs biting your ankles, which sounds hilarious until you realize the teeth are real, and you’re bleeding, and that little bastard’s ready to eat you alive.

Little kids, blinded by toys that go pew-pew, run over by trucks blaring ice-cream happy music, lured into traps to catch one last virtual critter that turned out to have too many teeth.

Even squishy toys got in on the action, stuffing themselves into open mouths at night.

Kids of the Last Generation having developmental delays, because what kid doesn’t use play to learn? You keep them away from plastic and a wooden stick serving in place of a poppet stabs them in the eye.

Against it all, the mothers screaming.

I remember the last year people had kids. The gullible believed the news, and swore off procreation. Others scoffed, and found out for themselves. Shattered the birth rate.

Annoys the crap out of me when people write down what everybody already knows, so why am I joining the hordes of people annotating their lives before they die in text as well as vids?

I aim to survive. Assuming I can accomplish that, I’m convinced the Space Force will have the solution. You’d think our size would help us win, but we’re outnumbered, but they don’t need to sleep, so they don’t stop.

It’s not like space lasers will help us win the fight. They’ve got those, too.

No, we’ve got to get off planet. And we’ve got to do it before we’re all too old to have children. And the lack of science lab proliferation in the toy departments finally works in humanity’s favor.

I think I made a discovery in the lab today. A big one. We’ll see if I’m right.

Because if I am, this changes everything.

Gen Linsey Bernstein (2015-2103) was the founder of the original Adeona asteroid belt colony and the inventor of early rapid terraforming technology.

The Verona Museum is grateful for the support provided by our generous sponsors that enable this special exhibit of early Toy Wars history:
The Honorable and Mrs James Persistia
Adelaide Ornstini
Smithers Horace and Family
Lady Winifred Jones and Sir Estegal Jones-Winfrey
The Mars Colony Society for the Preservation of Early Space History
The Toy Wars Veterans’ Association, Lodge No. 1105

***

This week, AC Young suggested I explore the day the toy dragon came alive, and I took it in a darker direction…even though I really wanted a live toy dragon as a kid!

My prompt went to nother Mike, who explored half a riddle. Find his response, and more, over at More Odds Than Ends – and don’t forget to get your entry in for the last prompts of 2023!

“But Mira-aaaan-da,” Greystone whined. “It’s freezing outside.”

The crimson dragon snorted — as if she’d never been to Court Etiquette and felt the wrath of Madame Harbison, may her soul rest in peace — and settled her head upon her claws, which in turn poked through the thick silk fibers of a hand-woven rug.

“We’re inside,” she pointed out. “In front of the castle’s great hearth, which has a merry fire crackling and popping. In fact, I’ve seen you jump at least once every minute. Isn’t that keeping you warm?”

“But I’m a cat,” he wheedled. “I wouldn’t get startled with the embarrassment of a kitten on a failed hunt if I was in a cozy, warm spot. I’d give it a good death glare and fall back asleep.”

“Your primary form is a snow leopard,” Miranda continued. “Thick fur. Mountain home. Bouncing through snow-covered rocks like your tail were a pogo stick.”

Greystone yawned, showing sharp fangs as his tongue extended. “And here I thought we were friends. What’s a bit of dry air between friends? So warm. Toasty, even. Come on, just a little breather?”

She pulled her head up and hissed at him, stretching her neck until she loomed over his fuzzy blue floor cushion. “You. Are. Flammable!”

***

This week’s prompt was from Cedar Sanderson – what’s a bit of dry air between friends? – and I didn’t quite know what to do with it, as apparently that’s slang I either don’t understand or identify with all too well.

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel, who’s dealing with the aftermath of forgotten answers. Check out her response (and more! you, too, can play along!) over at More Odds Than Ends. And if you’re enjoying these stories, feel free to leave a comment over at the MOTE site on whether 2024 should keep the prompts coming, or if we shake things up a bit.

Mikhail thought the baker’s glittering black eyes were one of the most ominous pairs he’d ever seen, and he was used to the solid yellow glare of the turquoise puffball clinging to his shoulder. It was odd, what he’d grown used to at Wizurg Magical Academy.

Pepper cheeped in agreement.

Odd. I didn’t even say it out loud. The bite that had given him the trick to understanding the deadly creatures seemed to be ever-drawing the two nearer.

“Pies!” Liza whispered excitedly to him. The floating fire extinguishers hovering over her shoulders gave a clanking dance. “I love hand pies.”

“Not pies,” the beady-eyed man sniffed haughtily, and burst into a flurry of rapid French that Mikhail didn’t follow. “Pastry. I am a pastry chef. And nothing so mundane as hand pies when I will show you the most beautiful tart.”

Someone near the enormous kitchen door snickered.

Chef ignored the juvenile humor, which was inevitable given the pack of adolescent wizards staring at the man. “Next year, you make your own crust. This year, basics.”

He pursed narrow lips together and used air quotes around the last word.

“Bah. Leaving out the most important step, as if it were not the most basic building block to a good pastry, as if you should not start with good fundamentals, but no, anything beyond biscuits is too hard for first years. Filling only. D’accord.“

At least, that’s what Mikhail thought the chef said, but he was soon too busy to notice the eccentric chef’s quirks. Instead, he was covered in flour, rolling premade dough and creating a filling from the directions on a small white card.

Liza was similarly sprinkled across the table, while Pepper taking a nap atop the pile of satchels that overflowed the entrance cubbies. “Seems weird to take a cooking class.”

“Pastry,” she corrected him without looking up rolling out from her own dough. A half-grin gave her away. “Besides, he’s not wrong. Can’t get to kitchen witchery without having the basics down.”

“Is that why the ingredients are so unusual? I don’t recognize half of what’s on the list.” He didn’t want to, either. The item listed as “hiwort” had resembled a slug far too much for his taste. It had even wiggled.

It would, however, have been nice if he’d known kitchen witchery existed. Most days, Mikhail carried a serious disadvantage, not knowing anything most of his peers considered normal.

“Oh, it’ll be delicious,” she murmured. “No matter how odd the ingredients are. That’s Chef’s gift. The question you should be asking isn’t whether it will taste good.”

She paused to fold her circle of dough into quarters and lifted it into a pie tin.

He couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “No?”

“No,” she agreed, her fingers flying around the edges to flute the crust, nearly as fast as Chef’s had been during the demonstration. “The question you should be asking is, what will happen after you eat the pie?”

***

A slight twist to Padre’s prompt this week: Despite the unorthodox ingredients, the pie was delicious.

Mine went to Becky Jones: The classroom came alive with each lesson…unfortunately.

Check out more, over at MOTE!

“Pirates,” Greaves announced, interrupting a perfectly normal game of holochess with a display of the fleet’s formation, a flicker of a glorious ship fluttering across the faceless queen’s crown before fading entirely from view. “Dragon class.”

“About time,” Izz muttered, and reluctantly untangled herself from the delightfully warm nest she’d made amongst the metal-and-grease scent she associated with the hold of full of antiques salvaged from early spaceships and colonies.

Izz snorted. It was certainly better than the lingering scent of burnt onion roots. She held her breath and hurried in sock feet through the galley and into the cockpit.

“Good electronic warfare capabilities,” Greaves continued. “Laser defenses. I like those. You should upgrade me so I can have some.”

“Shush, you.” Leaning over, she hit the red button and hopped on one foot to tug her abandoned boots on. “You’re late, Grigg.”

A holo popped up in return, a miniature but perfectly formed – if showing off far too much chest via his unbuttoned jumpsuit – man posing for her view. “Aye, lass, but m’here, no?”

“Been waiting,” she returned, waving a second boot at the flexed muscles masquerading as a pilot. “Near a week now.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, love.”

“You’ll comp the extra supplies?” She raised an eyebrow and held it there, hoping he’d break before she wobbled.

Her eye muscles were barely strained when Grigg gave his answer.

“Acourse, love. I’ll have Pan see to it straightaway.”

“Then we’re five by five.” Her father had always said that phrase. She’d have to ask the AI about the origin. Speaking of…she jabbed the black button to pause the transmission.

“Greaves, keep it low profile, will you?”

A sniff was the only response from the illegal AI.

Izz jabbed the red button again, tabbing up her boots and wondering whether getting mixed up with Griggs and his lot was a good idea.

“Sorry, cut out there.” She gave a real smile of welcome. “Good to see you again, Grigg.”

“Someone’s got to get to the surface,” he said. “My fleet shelters you from the meteorite storm, you sneak us down planetside while the radar’s taken offline. You get the booty, I get my contact and his info out.”

She frowned, worried about last-minute changes sneaking into the agreement. Grigg was a pirate, no matter that he was also a childhood friend who’d called in a mark she couldn’t ignore, not if she wanted to return to familiar ports again. “As we agreed.”

“Be over shortly, love.” Griggs glanced over his shoulder and nodded to someone she couldn’t see. “These dragons’ll shelter you through the storm. Quick and easy in’n out, yeah?”

The transmission fizzled.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of…” Izz’s whisper turned into a whistle of surprise. “Greaves, those ships are packing more than meets the eye, aren’t they?”

“Affirm,” the AI noted. “Hidden weapons detected in expected and unusual locations, newly installed. Do you have reason to believe this mission is more dangerous than the pirate suggested?”

Izz returned the sarcasm. “Only my entire childhood.”

***

Becky and I traded prompts this week. I received dragons surfing the storm (and took some liberties); she found Chaos in a puppy. Find more over at MOTE!

“Thanks for helping me again,” June said, trying to hide her guilt. “I should be able to figure this out on my own…”

Should, but couldn’t seem to get it right, and her class’ start inched closer with each wonky cable and blank screen.

“Perfectly reasonable,” Peter reassured her from inside the podium, voice echoing oddly. A muffled sneeze followed. “Unlike your message.”

Heat flushed her face and neck. “Um. I, ah, have no idea what I sent. Not exactly. Just some combination of desperation and despair.”

He pulled his head out, dusted his hands, and raised his eyebrows before reaching for his back pocket.

“‘Help,’” he read aloud. A long finger raised for dramatic emphasis. “‘I broke the internet. Student swarm of destruction imminent. Urgent help requested ASAP.’”

He tucked his phone away. “Ay-Ess-Ay-Pea,” he repeated, though he’d pronounced the acronym as ay-sap the first time.

“Student ratings,” June mumbled. “It’s not like I have tenure. And the dean hates me.”

“They switched the room,” Peter said. “You’ll be lucky if anyone shows at all.”

She groaned. “I forgot to put a sign up.”

“Relax,” he reassured her, and crouched by the wires. “I’m almost done. I’ll post a notice on my way back.”

“Really?” Hope rose, and she fought it down before it betrayed her. “It’s like magic. I couldn’t get any of the projectors to work.”

“No magic needed, just technology. The room’s archaic, but it’ll do until the construction ends.” Peter’s head disappeared again. “Try it now.”

June pressed a button, and all three screens filled with a brightly lit diagram. “It worked!”

Peter abruptly let out a sneeze. Suddenly the screen display appeared on the wrong screen – all three showed different slides from her presentation.

“What just happened?”

Peter huffed his way into another sneeze. “Pardon, it’s rather dusty.”

“Not that. What are you pressing?” June bit down on her finger, wondering if she should it back on coffee. “Every time you sneeze, the screens change”

Another explosion.

“Yes, like that!”

Peter wiggled his way upright, eyes watering. “I’m not – achoo! – touching any – achoo!”

“Wait, I like this,” she mused. “I mean, bless you and all. It’s almost right, though. Try one more time?”

“What-choooo!”

“Perfect!” Each screen displayed a different slide. She’d be able to lecture with just these three slides. “Now out! Before you sneeze again.”

“But -” He sucked in a deep breath. “Ahhhh.”

She planted a hand on his back and steered him out the door. “Thanks, I’ll see you later, bye!”

***

Needs some tweaking, but had fun writing it!

Thanks to Cedar for the screen swapping prompt! Can’t wait to see what nother Mike does with a fruit basket! Find more at MOTE.

Elizabeth felt the tromping of the men’s boots reverberating in her ribcage long after they vanished down the long double ribbon of highway that stretched onto the horizon. She felt their absence with each boot landing in unison, each forthcoming loss ringing in her chest where her heart should have rested.

“Clockwork precision,” OctoBot murmured, wrapping a tentacle around her shoulder. “Their steps, your heart. Both strong. Hold firm, apprentice.”

She dropped her hand from where she’d held it pressed to her chest with a guilty twinge. Control of her expressed emotions was paramount. Mannerisms that should have been ingrained by now, but her wrinkled cravat told another story, one she would take pains to hide this evening when she returned home. She tucked the crumpled fabric into her corset, heedless of observers or further damage.

“Come now.” OcotBot’s gentle voice concealed piercing insight from casual observers, a fact Elizabeth had discovered within several hours of beginning her apprenticeship. “The balcony isn’t safe.”

A tentacle drifted upward, and Elizabeth let her eyes follow, finally tearing them away from where the soldiers had marched to war.

Above their heads, angular dots annoyed an enormous oval, biplanes pecking at the airship protecting the city like jays chasing a hawk. Faint flashes of light came before the buzzing and faint sirens penetrated her consciousness.

“Come,” OctoBot repeated, and wrapped several tentacles around the girl’s waist to pull her inside the factory.

***

Something I’m playing with, inspired by Leigh Kimmel: The long double ribbon of highway stretched on to the horizon — and overhead an airship battled a swarm of biplanes.

My prompt went to Becky Jones: “As if average means anything to those of us who are odd,” she perused aloud, “except perhaps to determine how far outside it we might venture.”

Check more out over at MOTE!

The voice began as soon as June’s key rattled into her office door. And the door was worse than glued, every time, no matter what she did.

“Today!” the voice proclaimed, and she threw her hip against the door like the hockey player she’d seen lurking hopefully outside Michelle Archer’s office door moments before.

“Stop it!” she hissed.

Her voice echoed in the hallway, enough to catch the hockey player’s attention.

The hulking student frowned and headed her way. “Need a hand, Prof?”

“Door sticks,” she muttered, giving it a kick with one booted foot. It popped open. From the corner of one eye, she saw movement inside her office and pulled the door back to block the student’s view.

He looked dubiously at her from underneath a fringe of shaggy nut-brown hair. “You are a professor? Not just breaking in?”

Dr. Michelle Archer chose that moment to arrive in a blur of cool poise and expensive perfume. The other woman let out a glib laugh. “How droll. June just looks too young to teach, but the university did hire her.” Her tone questioned the wisdom of that decision. “Come along, Lars.”

The others turned away and headed down the hall — just as the voice began to warble again.

“I have counted the stars and heard the fate of dark worlds,” caroled the voice from inside her office.

“Laptop must have malware,” June offered glibly, fingers crossed. “I’d best see to that. Shall I?”

She slipped inside the door and slammed it shut. Sliding to the floor with satchel and coffee still mostly intact, June leaned against the cool, stubborn, sticking wood and rubbed her forehead with her free hand.

“Pytho, we’ve had this conversation!”

The skull on her bookshelf was mere feet away in the obvious part of her office. It lacked a body, and yet the expression Pytho turned her way gave every evident sign of having his hands on his hips. “You said, and I quote, ‘Would you mind not trying to get me killed on a daily basis?’ Nor have I done so since.”

“Professionally embarrassed counts as killed,” she muttered.

“This generation,” the skull tossed back at her. “As if you know war, for all that you study it.”

“Enough, Pytho. Must you prophesize every day?”

This time, his expression looked like a slightly apologetic shrug. “Purpose of existence.”

She held up a finger and took the lid off her paper coffee cup. June drained half its contents, then carefully put the plastic lid back on to keep the warmth inside.

“Hit me with today’s doom, then. Let’s get it over with.”

***

This week’s prompt was from Padre: “Would you mind not trying to get me killed on a daily basis?”

Mine went to Becky Jones: They were waiting to use the last of it for a special occasion.

Find more at MOTE!

Dr. June Porter pressed her lips firmly together to keep from saying anything to the lurker outside her office door. She did not have to like her thesis advisee; she merely had to get him to produce satisfactory work sufficient to get rid of him.

Watching him slouch against the narrow faculty hallway wall reading a glossy periodical known for its style advice for men and the latest trendy whiskey did not give inspire confidence that she’d be rid of him anytime soon.

“Score,” Christian sang out with smug satisfaction, and tucked the item in question into his backpack. “Someone left money in the magazine.”

June rolled her eyes and unlocked her office door. Her eyes drifted to his hand reaching for the floor as she put her shoulder into the usual spot to dislodge the perpetually stuck corner.

“Wait!” She blurted, gaze glued to the floor. Above the worn industrial carpet, the bill burned to her sight with a sickly red glow. It might be masquerading as a fifty — enough to tempt even the students from richer families, as Christian had just greedily proved — but that alluring piece of paper screamed “trap” louder than last week’s drunken space movie fans who’d pew-pewed their way into an overnight jail cell.

“Tell me why?” he drawled, not bothering to hide his disdain as he rose. “Need it to pay the bills?”

She forced a fake smile and a shrug while tugging on a thread to unravel the complicated knot on the parchment. It wasn’t like she could tell him what he thought was a windfall was filled with poisonous magic. “Didn’t you hear about the counterfeit bills making their way onto campus?”

He sniffed and reached toward the floor again. “I’ll risk it.”

Out of time, June went for the Gordian knot approach and sent a spark of magic straight at the paper.

“Ouch!” Christian rubbed his fingers.

“Static’s been getting everyone lately,” June murmured, and set her satchel next to the tray she used as a desk.

He followed her into the tiny room, still muttering.

If he only knew. Nothing good came from lures that attractive.

***

The email I thought I sent, well, didn’t! This week, I snagged a spare instead: Someone left money in the pages of the magazine.

Find more and play along over at MOTE!

“Political weddings,” Lilibeth sighed in disgust. She slapped her clipboard down on the counter and disappeared underneath the aged walnut beams.

I leaned over, wondering what she was doing, but all I saw was a mass of skirts and quickly averted my eyes.

“Right,” came a muffled version of her usual dulcet tones. “Welcome to Castle Steinbeck, Pika.” Her voice became clearer as she emerged, treasure in hand. “I’m sorry to start your first day of work with what we normally won’t do, but it’s all hands on deck for political weddings.”

I accepted the clipboard with a red sheet of paper hesitantly. “The reputation was compelling.” The words swam in front of my face, and I averted my eyes with haste. “You’re saying the castle doesn’t guarantee the marriage will last?”

She paused in the process of securing her own scarlet sheet, the red rippling underneath a fan in an ominous warning. “The castle guarantees nothing,” she said sternly. Lilibeth’s eyes crinkled. “We just make sure it’s too uncomfortable for the poor matches to go through with the deal.”

“I thought…” My lips moved without sound for a moment before I gave up and waved an arm.

Lilibeth took pity on me. “If the bride can’t make it to the altar because she’s trapped in a maze until she meets a better fit, or if she happens upon the groom trysting with another in the gardens, are you suggesting that the castle shifts paths to accommodate a marriage filled with love and partnership rather than misery and doubt?”

“Um, when you put it that way.” I tried to study my clipboard, but my fingers betrayed me and it clattered to the ground.

“Because you’d be right,” she said softly.

I bonked my head on the huge wooden beams of the counter overhang at that. Fortunately not with great force. The castle saved marriages, not head wounds.

When I made it back to my feet, Lilibeth gave me a sad smile. “Political weddings, though. We don’t usually accept them, because the castle doesn’t like unhappiness. The couples often wind up living separate lives, for instance, only kept together for reasons that can only be described as nonsense. As if anyone with a head on their shoulders cares what the press thinks.”

I followed her down the hall toward the soaring cathedral. Our footsteps echoed as we walked, and I started to understand why walking softly had been part of the job qualifications.

“So the political couples – they’re special, somehow?”

“Paying for it, more like.” Vinegar was less acidic than her words. “We don’t take many customers like them, as mentioned, but those we do, are well aware they get the reputation of a solid match without the Marriage Guarantee.”

Her voice grew hard. “I make sure of it, and at least when they enter into the deal, they believe the consequences. I won’t have fools ruin our reputation.”

“Consequences?”

She paused and turned, barring her teeth. “They’re unable to separate without repercussions.”

As we entered the cathedral, I suddenly wondered with trepidation if I was the one who now got to dust the intricate alcoves and statues, two-thirds masked in the soft morning light. Yipes! I’d be here a week trying to get dust under control.

“It’s all on the checklist.” She blew out her breath in what the generous might label a sigh and sounded remarkably like my neighbor’s brown and white cow. “First off, get the screaming candles. They warn of a poor match. We can guarantee the couple already knows that, and they’ll go through with it anyway. No need to interrupt the service.”

“For which I thank you,” a soft voice came from – below?

I blinked, and a mouse in black garb but for a priest’s collar twinkled beady eyes and twitched his whiskers in greeting. Crouching down, I extended a hand, then rethought it into a finger. “Ah, greetings, Father?”

“Pika, this is Father Windfolk.” Lilibeth’s sharp eyes were watching my reactions, even more than during my interview. “He came to us one day by way of the sacramental garden – a door just popped into view on a tree, and suddenly the hawks stayed away. We don’t hold weddings in that area, either, only the others.”

His paw was warm and dry on my fingertip. “I wouldn’t want weddings in my yard either,” I managed. “I’m glad the hawks leave you alone. Will yardwork be part of my duties?”

***

This didn’t come out quite how I’d like, but I’m leaving it here for now. This prompt incorporated a spare from last week about screaming candles as well as Becky Jones’ prompt this week about a tiny door in a tree. My prompt about the Linear City went to Leigh Kimmel, and I can’t wait to see what she does with it.

Find more at MOTE!