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In for this, haven't posted in a long time so here we go.
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Nov 24, 2020 15:05
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What Was Needed 1,445 words Jim posted for the first time two weeks after the funeral. — I swear this isn’t a troll and I know you guys aren’t gonna believe me, I’m just saying I saw it last night, I was cleaning my truck and it had these glowing red eyes and big fangy talon things and it looked like a hosed up dog with lizard scales and wings and I think it was the Jersey Devil. He lay on a twin bed with his tablet inches from his face. He smelled old socks and deodorant, and stared past the screen toward the ceiling where star decals glowed green. The replies started right away. — Looks like we got a case of mental illness boys. — Let’s see the proof if you’re so sure. — I bet this guy doesn’t have any outdoor cams. Can’t prove poo poo. — I believe you brother for wat it’s worth. — The Jersery Devil is bullshit and u all know it. The CHUPACABRA is real u fukin moron. He felt something unfurl inside of him, retched and ugly, and he knew that he couldn’t turn back from the certainty of what he’d have to do. He read each comment, sometimes twice, before typing his only response. — I saw it and I’ll get proof. He hit send, turned the screen black, and stared up at the glowing stars. # The bed of his truck felt freezing under his thin jeans and sweatshirt and the darkness pressed in like water. He watched the tops of scrubby, twisted pine trees flash past on his tablet screen. The pines were so dense that he couldn’t see the sandy ground below, and the trees themselves looked like ancient mushrooms forming dense vistas in the night-vision. He wanted to weave his way between them, but the drone would never fit inside. The smell of sap and dirt blew in from the west. The Devil was out there, he knew—and sooner or later, he’d find it, hidden in the deepest sections of the barrens. His back was sore from lying on the hard-plastic lining, and his arms hurt from holding the tablet up for so long. The drone didn’t have much battery left, but he’d driven two hours to this spot and he wouldn’t give up until he had something. Headlights cut across the side of his truck then illuminated the dense forest beyond. A white SUV with the words Park Ranger painted on the side stopped a few feet away. He turned his head and sat up as a door slammed and an older man in a black jacket walked toward him. “Hey, you,” the ranger said, holding up a hand in greeting. “Everything okay?” Jim let the drone hover. “Everything’s fine.” “That your drone flying out there?” “Don’t know what you mean.” “Got a call about a drone buzzing the pines.” The ranger looked at him strange. “Can’t have drones flying around like that.” “What do you mean? It’s a national park.” “Designated no surveillance zone. Bring the drone back in, please, sir.” He thought about resisting—thought about telling the ranger about the Devil, how he’d seen the eyes, the wings, the scales, considered pleading with the man, but instead he looked down at his tablet, sucked in a breath, and hit the recall button. The ranger stayed until the drone landed on the grass nearby. Jim drove home on the Parkway. He passed cameras, so many cameras, dangling from branches, perched on light poles, hundreds of cameras watching every inch of the road, each with its own memory, each filled with image after image after image, so many of them stretching back for years. Jim knew he’d be in there, somewhere, lost in the surveillance, locked away on inaccessible hard drives, and he wasn’t sure what that meant—if he would last forever in some database, remembered but anonymous, or if it was a second way of being forgotten. # News scrolled past on the TV. He sat at the far end of the couch, feet up on the coffee table. Katie sat at the other end, hair piled in a messy bun, pods in her ears, face buried in her phone. She took a long drink from her third glass of wine. “I went searching for it last night,” he said. She looked up, seemed to realize he said something, and took her pods out. “What?” “Last night. I tried to find it.” She tilted her head. “What were you looking for?” He leaned toward her and realized this was the most they’d spoken in two weeks. The house was dead quiet and so still it felt like the center of an impossible labyrinth. Sometimes he thought if he could only break out—but there was no beyond for them anymore. Outside, his motion-activated spotlight burst on. He suppressed the urge to get up and walk to the window. “The Jersey Devil,” he said. “I drove out to the pine barrens and—” “You went looking for the Jersey Devil?” She seemed to pull back. “You’re joking, right?” He shook his head. “Took that drone out. The one we got him for Christmas last year. Flew it out over the pines.” She opened her mouth and looked like she wanted to say something, and for a moment he saw her again—the Katie from before, that one that used to laugh and dance with her elbows, but he knew that Katie was gone, just like he was gone. She closed her mouth and put her pods back in. “Good luck with that,” she said and hunched over her screen. He stood up and walked to the back door. The yard looked flooded with too-white light. The grass lay still and he wondered if he saw red eyes peering back from the bushes. # The green-glowing stars shone down as he typed on his tablet. — Went searching for the fucker again, wanted to get you boys proof, but the park ranger told me I can’t fly my drone over the barrens, anyone else think that’s really sus or what?? Guy straight up told me it was illegal, all those cameras posted all over and there’s not a single shot of anything, seems really fishy to me. I swear I saw it and I’ll get proof. Replies ticked past, one after the other. — Real sus, but what can u do. Gotta follow laws. — gently caress laws. And gently caress the cams. You have to go out on your own two feet and be part of nature. That’s the only way you’ll find the monster. — He’s right, you gotta get out there. Forget the ranger, man, he’s probably part of the cover up. How’d he even know you had a drone out there? Sounds fishy as hell. Jim closed his eyes and could taste the rotten pine scent again. He imagined rough wood under his fingers and thought he heard laughter, high pitched and on the verge of breakdown, until he opened his eyes and saw the empty room. He shifted positions, rolled onto his side, and went fetal around the tablet. More responses came in, one after the other, and he knew what he had to do. He typed, — You’re all right I gotta get out there and make something happen since nobody else will. # The headlights showed trees, so many trees, and he sat in his truck with the radio turned low, thinking about the hunt. The Devil was out there, somewhere in the damp darkness, and he’d find it. He got out and grabbed his bag. It was packed with granola bars, a pair of plastic children’s binoculars, an LED flashlight, the drone, and his tablet. He pulled the shotgun from the passenger’s side floor and made sure it was loaded. It felt solid in his hands, heavy and dependable. He had to do what was needed. Needles crunched under foot as he walked to the edge of the barrens. He thought of the way Katie always kept her pods in now, and the house, too small to fit them both along with their grief, and he wondered how he’d never noticed how many stars there were. He walked forward, switching off his flashlight, into the shadows cast by the thousands of scrub pines, pushed his way through the needles with his shotgun on his shoulder, and he felt more lost than he ever had before—but around him, in the black, he thought he saw thousands of little red eyes, shinning out from every corner, peering around every twisted trunk, and he wanted to get closer to them, as close as he could, right up to that edge, and maybe past it.
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Nov 29, 2020 12:37
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In, assign me please
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Dec 1, 2020 11:54
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HOT POINT 1,487 words When My Boy Walks Down the Street One kidney was necessary. Two kidneys seemed excessive. I figured love was worth the inconvenience. I lay face-down on the operating table. Dr. Hsieh crouched and stared up at me through his protective polycarbonate eye gear. A breathing apparatus covered his mouth like a tentacle. The room was light gray, the floor a damp tile, the walls almost pulsing with dim light. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, words coming out muffled. His tube hissed and sighed. “I’m sure,” I said. My naked back was exposed to the room. I felt sunburnt and lightheaded from the drugs they’d given me. He nodded and stood. I watched as his shoes moved away and were replaced by a new pair. “Take deep breaths now, dear,” a female voice said. A wrinkled hand pressed a plastic nozzle against my face. I sucked in air and tasted antifreeze. These people, they came highly recommended—their reviews online were impeccable, their waiting room looked modern-contemporary, their receptionist gave off a comforting mix of polite condescension, and I thought, what was the worst that could happen? Two kidneys was one too many. I sucked in another breath and the world slowed, spiraled, went away. # Cordie leaned across the uncomfortable hospital bed and put his hand on my knee. I blinked a few times, getting used to the smell of antiseptic. He’d been there when I’d woken, and I wondered how long he’d waited. I dreamed of fields of organs, growing on trees that climbed into the air like monoliths. “How do you feel?” Cordie asked. “Okay. Fine, I think.” My back ached and I wanted to puke my guts out, but I couldn’t tell him that—not him, not my blue-eyed boy. He forced a smile. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.” “I know that. But I wanted to.” “Yeah. Well.” He pulled his hand back and his smile disappeared. “How much will you get for it?” I moved onto my side and felt the thick stitches along my flank. The market value of a kidney was around thirty grand, but nobody got market value unless they had serious connections. “Fifteen, after expenses,” I said. Cordie nodded as if to say, that’s not enough and you know it. But it would be. I could almost feel the gleaming steel beneath my fingers, the metal smooth and cold, something solid in a world dominated by a flexible, pock-marked plastic. I wanted to taste the hum of its motor, feel the cold rolling from its insides—it was all I’d thought about for months, for years, and now finally, I could make it mine. I leaned back in my pillow, grimacing through a smile that Cordie didn’t return. # The room was a riot of junk stacked floor to ceiling. I basked in the sheer weight of it all, glowed in those forgotten things, the sort of physicality most people had given up on. Cordie seemed desperately bored as he tapped at his tablet. I followed the dealer along paths carved into the piles and stared at his long black ponytail bobbing against his back. He stopped in front of a teal monster, chrome handle gashed across its front, a logo emblazoned in black: HOTPOINT. He smacked a palm against its side. “This is from 1948, comes with all the original parts, minus a few of the finnicky internals. Drawers are original, ice trays are original, minimum scuffing and rusting.” He pulled the door open and stepped aside. “Go ahead, take a look.” I ran my fingers down the wire racks and thought I might cry. My side pulsed a deep rotten beat, and I leaned on a cane for support, but this was it, the perfect refrigerator. I stuck my face inside and breathed deep, smelling chemical wash and the tang of metal. “Seems like you’ve made up your mind,” Cordie said. I looked at him and blinked back tears. “It’s exactly what I wanted.” “Will it work?” Cordie crossed his arms and gave the dealer a look. The dealer beamed. “Absolutely. Redid the plug so it’ll run off the new grid, otherwise it’s good to go.” I shut the door and let my fingers slide down the smooth exterior. It was a dream, the culmination of years, of organs, and now—it would be mine. “I’ll take it.” “Thirteen thousand. You make delivery arrangements.” I nodded and Cordie let out a sharp breath from his nose. I looked back at him as he sighed and touched his fingertips to his temples, and I knew that meant he’d given in. I pressed my cheek against the door and felt a deep groan emanate from somewhere inside the beast. # Two men carried her up the steps and dropped her into position. I cringed away, every jolt and movement sending electric arcs down my spine. Cordie lounged nearby, his face buried in his tablet, a glass of red wine dangling from his fingers. “Let them do their job,” he said. “Stop hovering.” I lingered, unable to help myself, and when the movers were done I shoved cash into their hands. Cordie stood as I plugged my girl into the wall and we listened breathless when the motor turned over, and it began to hum. “It works,” I whispered. “Better work. That guy ripped you off.” Cordie tossed his tablet onto the counter and studied me with that discomforting stare. The lights dimmed based on our moods and the side screen played media updates, but none of that mattered, none of it registered—there was only my Hotpoint, her electrical beauty, her steel austerity, and I wanted to crawl inside its guts and let it preserve me forever. “Do you know how many of these still exist?” I asked. “No, but I’m guessing you do.” “Fifty, at most. Fifty, Cordie, and I have one of them.” “Great.” Cordie walked to our wine rack and took out a bottle of white. “Shall we chill this then? I got it special for your new obsession. Call it a refrigerator warming present.” I took the bottle, gingerly opened the door, and placed it down on the rack. It looked like heaven. “Amazing.” I shut the door and stepped back. “How long will you be out there?” Cordie asked, turning to the living room and flopping back down on the couch. “A little while longer.” I leaned against the counter and stared. “Just a little bit longer.” The refrigerator stared back, droning its deep, throaty drawl, and I rubbed my back where the stitches pulled against my shirt, and wondered if maybe one day I’d afford a pig-grown kidney to replace the one I sold, but that would cost another three-months wage, and even then, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t reject the thing—and it didn’t matter. Even jaundiced and half-dead, I’d prostrate myself at the feet of this behemoth, and pray it always ran. “You’re a sick man.” Cordie peered at me from behind his tablet. “Come spend time with me when you’re finished with your new toy.” It wasn’t that simple, but I didn’t expect him to ever truly understand. # At night, for weeks, I heard it out there, belching and popping, metal expanding and contracting, plastic giving off slow fumes, its filament bulb gone cold, its freezer section covered with ice crystals, its steel frame glowing—and I wanted to crawl beneath it like some broken creature. Cordie rolled over onto his side and snorted. I could barely sleep. # “You haven’t talked about it in a few days.” Cordie peered at me over his sunglasses as we lounged lakeside and watched kids splash in the shallows. “Talked about what?” “You’re losing interest.” He sounded oddly hopeful. I laughed and ignored him. On my tablet, images of ancient grand pianos stretched along in a grid pattern. I tapped them, pinched and zoomed, and stared at their wood grain, their ivory keys bright and clean, their blacks so deep my screen had trouble reproducing their beauty—and I knew I had to have one, or maybe two, stacked like kindling. “How much do livers go for?” I asked off hand, and Cordie didn’t answer. He stood and walked to the water’s edge, his toes in the surf, not looking back. “I’d only need to sell a piece. Nobody needs an entire liver, right? They grow back, sooner or later.” I kicked my feet against the sandy rock and held the tablet closer to my face, and thought of Dr. Hsieh’s shoes, of that soothing waiting room, of Cordie’s never-ending patience, and of the weeks it took me to recover—the scar still raised and patterned on my skin—and I knew they’d take care of me, slice it out with precision, and the black piano skin could wrap itself around my dining room, packed into a corner, perfect and there.
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Dec 6, 2020 12:37
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In with Week 297: And Now For Something Completely Different
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Dec 8, 2020 12:23
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Monopoly Status 1739 words Prompt: Shakespearean Week 297: And Now For Something Completely Different Hugh tuned his implants to the coup in Norway when his dead father appeared at the end of his bed wearing full plate armor. The specter stood over six feet tall, imposing in Hugh’s cramped room. LED lights glittered off the polished steel. His father came toward him and leaned down, familiar bushy black eyebrows knitted together making that anger-crease between his eyes, and the ghost reached out to place his gauntleted hand on Hugh’s bare knee. It felt freezing cold, and Hugh jerked back “You’re dead,” Hugh said. “Twenty years now.” “I know.” “You can’t be here. This can’t be happening.” “But I am and it is.” “What do you want?” Father’s face relaxed. “We need to talk about the vote.” “The vote?” Hugh couldn’t understand what he meant. His chest felt like it might crack open, and he’d never been so ruffled before in his entire life—not even during debates that got rambunctious or speeches that went off-kilter. He shook his head and tried to clear his mind, but his implant wouldn’t stop streaming. “The vote,” his father said. Hugh suddenly recognized the armor: it was one of his favorite sets from the collection at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He’d spent hours in there as a boy, staring at the ancient weapons, imagining what it must have felt like to wear all that metal on his body—and now there was his father, standing at the side of his bed, dressed like something from his boyhood fantasies. “Speekr.” He barely managed the word. “You have to vote yes, son.” Hugh reeled back. “But—” “You have to vote yes. You know the future of this country depends on it. You have to do the right thing here, son.” Hugh looked away. He only partially understood the broad strokes: Speekr was an enormous online platform accused of monopoly status. The court cases stalled, but congress took up the issue themselves, and the vote was tomorrow. Everyone told him to vote no. His party, the lobbyists that funneled money into his campaigns, his business contacts, they were all adamant. If Speekr got broken up, then they’d be next. Hugh believed in business and the sanctity of the dollar. He couldn’t vote yes and risk all that. And yet. His father stared and Hugh felt a lump in his throat, something he hadn’t experienced since he was a child. He swallowed back against it. “I can’t,” he whispered. “You can, son. And you will, for me, and for the world. You must vote yes. That platform is wrong, and no matter how much money they give you, it must be broken up.” He choked once, then cried. The tears came out, hot and painful, as he sobbed. God, he missed his father, missed the hours they’d spent fishing together, the still lake, the sun in the trees, the sounds of birds alighting off branches. He missed being that boy. It took him a few minutes, but when he was composed, he looked up at his father. “I’ll try. I’ll do what I can.” His father stepped away from the bed. Hugh wanted to reach out and beg him to stay. “Avenge me,” his father said, his voice a hoarse whisper as he faded. Hugh’s eyes went wide. “Were you—?” His father smiled. “I’m just kidding. I died of cancer, remember?” And then he flickered once and disappeared. Hugh’s implant played the coup in Norway again, and things looked dire, but things always looked dire on the Net. # The motherfucker ate that poo poo up. They always did. Their dead parent or pet or whatever appeared out of thin air doing that ghostly crap and they’re always all like oh yes mommy I love you so much I’ll gladly forgo my inheritance!! Even though it’s so clearly a trick. And that idiot swallowed the dead dad bit and now he’d do exactly what Stern wanted, no doubt about it. The armor was a good touch. Mika said not to go with the armor, but he was like, the motherfucker spent lightyears in that museum, his browsing history was packed full of knights and castles and poo poo, so why not? Throw the dead dad in a suit of armor and call it a day. Stern shoved the hardcoded controller back into his pack and exited down the back stairway. He had to be within spitting distance of the guy to get this particular hack to work, which turned out to be simple: the apartment complex across the street had poo poo-all for security. Once on the sidewalk, he dropped the controller down a storm drain and looked around as it clattered into the sewer. Nobody was watching. He was stealth as hell. Six months. It took him six loving months to program that sequence. The armor added an extra three weeks, and yeah, it was totally worth it, but drat. Six entire months to build an immersive download lifelike enough to fool that stupid bastard up there, six months of Stern’s life he’d never get back, and for what? A bank account filled with billions of rupees he couldn’t touch, not until he was sure the feds weren’t looking for him. But worst of all, his best zero-day, down the drain. They’d figure it out sooner or later, that the dinosaur’s brain got hacked, and they’d patch that poo poo toot-sweet. He figured it would be a week tops, which was fine, so long as the craggy old poo poo had time to vote. Stern hiked his backpack further up, tightened the chest straps, and stalked down the street, already trying to picture the look in Mika’s eye when he told her the story of how it all went down. He’d be a total legend. She’d be impressed, he was pretty sure. God drat suit of armor was a nice touch. # Mika lounged with her feet in Stern’s lap. The couch smelled like body odor and ozone. The hackerspace was quiet, which she liked, only a few coder-bros tapping away on mechanical boards. Stern had bragged all day about his alleged hack, but she was skeptical. He was smart and all, probably into some really dark-web advanced stuff or whatever—but not smart enough to break into a politician’s brain implant. He was cute though, and his little immersive experiments were pretty fun, so she went along with it. “And then the dumb old fart started crying over his dead dad. It was the most hilarious thing I’d ever seen,” Stern said for the third time. Mika plastered a smile on her face. “Totally,” she said. She’d met a hundred guys like him at the ‘space, guys with egos the size of mountains, that thought they were geniuses because they tested into the gifted class in second grade. They were boring, and sometimes dangerous, but Mika liked Stern anyway, even if he was such a total cliché. The flatscreen played C-SPAN and Stern looked enraptured as congress voted on Speekr’s breakup. She secretly didn’t want it to happen but could never say that out loud, since all the ego-boys at the ‘space loved to out-leftie each other, and she didn’t want to hear the lectures. Anarcho-capitalists, stateless socialists, whatever, she thought Speekr was fun, and anyway there were a ton of totally wild groups she spent time laughing at, like that one about lizard people, and those MLM-moms that kept begging her to sell supplements. She leaned her head back, stared up at the tin roof, and wondered idly if she could get some coffee on the way home, and maybe spend a few hours painting if the light was good. She was about to ask Stern if he wanted to go camping with her, since maybe getting him out of his element would loosen him up a bit, when he sat up straight and pushed her feet off. “Hey—” she started, then saw his expression. “Hold on,” he said. She looked at the screen and cocked her head in confusion. An old guy in a navy suit clutched his chest as more old guys crowded around him. She realized it was that congressman Stern was obsessed with, Hugh Something. He staggered once, then fell, and a woman in a reddish pant suit barely caught him before his head bounced off the carpet. “Isn’t that your guy?” she asked, frowning, and she felt her heart do a double-take. “That’s not supposed to happen,” Stern said, eyes wide, on the verge of flipping out. He couldn’t be for real. Stern had to be full of it, like all the other ego-boys. She had played along, and even helped a little bit when he made that totally crazy brain-vid of the Ronald-Reagan-looking guy in the silly armor, but she thought it was all some game to impress her. It couldn’t have been real. But Stern’s face was ashen white. “Did you do that?” she asked. “He’s not supposed to—” He was cut off by a shout from a coder-bro sitting up front. The door to the ‘space popped open, the wood splintering like a disease, and Mika shoved herself sideways, putting her hands over her head. Stern leapt up, staggering, shouting something wild. Mika risked a look as men in black body armor streamed into the room, guns aimed everywhere. It was chaos, total freaking chaos. Coder-bros and terrified libertarians and anarcho-syndicalists dove for any available exit. Stern yelled something again, but she couldn’t hear over all the shouting. Some stormtrooper grabbed her, yanked her arm back, and she thought she her shoulder might pop from its socket as the trooper shoved a knee into her spine. She groaned in pain and looked up as Stern backed away from two more troopers that advanced on him. “Put it down,” one trooper screamed. He sounded like her high school gym teacher, Mr. Luger, with his puffed-up red face. “Put it down now.” “I don’t have anything,” Stern said, eyes wild. He looked at Mika, hands above his head, completely empty. “I don’t have anything.” “Drop the weapon,” the other trooper said. “Drop it now.” “I don’t—” Stern started. But then the gunshots blared and Mika screamed even louder, and she watched Stern slump backwards onto the bare concrete of the ‘space, and he stopped moving. She never would’ve believed it, if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. Totally crazy.
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Dec 13, 2020 12:30
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In. I hate when I only read an author after they’re dead.
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Dec 14, 2020 15:06
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Bad Craft 1193 words Water overflowed the old curbs which meant the city’s pumps had failed again. Marjoram sloshed through puddles and kept her head down as she shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers. The contact surfaces kept her fingers busy as she trawled the net for pie recipes, leaving troves of data trails in her wake. She swiped through advertisements for sweaters she couldn’t afford and let the profile build—it was better than staying quiet. Around her the chatter of private nodes mixed with the slosh of her shoes, and it kept her focused. She was transmitting like everyone else, and her noise mixed in with the noise all around, and helped to keep her hidden. The craft was changing. Years ago she dealt mostly with wetworkers, nameless, voiceless, young constructs with enhancements she only ever glimpsed from afar, and prayed she’d never learn about in detail. Now though, the workers were out, and the jackers took over. She had no direct implants herself, too many years of paranoia kept her from taking the leap, but they’d become so ubiquitous that base had decided this new method of disposal was faster and cleaner. Her day had started like any other: breakfast, exercise, check the drops, which were normally empty, except taped beneath the railing of an abandoned warehouse nearby she’d found a small chip barely larger than her pinky nail. It contained an image coded with a set of instructions. She read the message then burned the chip and wiped her hard drive. This had to be done in person, which was why base sent for her. Encryption wasn’t good enough. The existence of a signal could tip them off as well as the content itself. She stopped near Rittenhouse park, her back against the wall of an apartment building, barely beneath its portico overhang. She had clear lines of sight, and an escape through the door if necessary, but she hoped it wouldn’t be. She looked down at her wrist like she was engaged with another surface, but watched the crowds stream past, all their data practically screaming at her. That’d been the first thing she had to get used to, back when she was a young field agent: all that data all the time. Civilians could choose to shut it out, but she had to be wide open to the world. Messages pinged around her and she was tempted to intercept them. She was technically allowed to gather anything that was “relevant to craft and other tradecraft during specialized field outings,” whatever the hell that meant, but nobody would check either way. She watched the water roll down along the street instead, and spotted her buddy from a mile away as he turned a corner, swept his vision left to right, then stalked toward her with his hands shoved into his pockets. He was young. She knew he would be, but it surprised her all the same: fluffy brown hair, light brown skin, boring eyes, plain clothes. His hands brushed over a contact surface and she felt him transmitting something, probably a smoke screen of data like her own. He leaned up against the wall next to her and let out a breath, almost as if he was uncomfortable. “Not a bad morning,” he said. “Rain never bothered me. Makes my bones aches though.” He nodded once and shifted closer. She tried not to cringe, but couldn’t quite manage. If anyone was watching—but then that was the point. His hand reached out and brushed against the contact surface on her thigh. He held it there for the briefest of seconds, and she felt the data pulse: transfer complete. The file was encrypted with her public key. That was good, it would’ve been foolish to walk around with this out in the open. Still, no jacker would be able to intercept a direct transfer like that, as if over wire. He pulled his hand back and put it in his pocket. “I hope later today’s a little better,” she said. He nodded once. “The sun will come out tomorrow. You know that old saying.” He flashed a smile, all teeth and awkwardness, then turned and walked away. She let out a sigh and squeezed her eyes shut. Bad tradecraft made her want to scream. The buddy probably had no clue how awful that’d been. He was green, and she bet this was his first assignment, given how twitchy he seemed. She gave a silent ten-count, waiting for him to put some distance between them, then pushed off the wall and followed. He walked head-down through crowds, shoulders hunched, and did a fine enough job blending in. She kept her distance, stopped once or twice, crossed the street, and kept him in her peripheral. He wasn’t transmitting: that was good and bad. Meant he wasn’t the final mark, but he also wasn’t keeping up his data cloud. Bad craft all around. He led her down a few blocks and around a corner, heading toward the bridge that led into west Philly. She hesitated—the bridge lacked cover. He’d have to cross first, and her second, and she’d hope to find him on the other side. But he didn’t make it that far. When he stepped toward the footpath, she felt it: huge data, nearly overwhelming. He stopped dead in his tracks, paralyzed by the transfer. It would only last seconds, she knew. Whoever it was, the jacker had to be nearby. That was her drat mark, making his move. Direct uploads of that size and speed had to be local. She scanned the area, dropping all pretense, her heart hammering in her chest, sweat beading along her underarms. There: a ping twenty feet off the path, lurking between the buildings. She ran, sucking in breath hard as she went. The upload continued, and her buddy’s face was locked in a shocked grimace. She almost felt bad. She could’ve warned him. But this was the whole point. She turned the corner and almost crashed into a stack of trashcans. She stumbled forward and felt the connection break off. Ahead, a person turned, dark hair, light eyes, and began to run. She held her wrist to her mouth and transmitted. “Mark moving north along the river, away from the South Street bridge.” She ran hard, chest heaving. Ahead the mark barreled into a dense pack of people out for an early afternoon walk, sloshing through the overflowed Schuylkill along the river path. She gritted her jaw and waded into the polluted water, shoving people aside wildly, only to come through the other side to nothing. “Lost him on the river path,” she transmitted. “Overlord, copy?” Silence from the Overlord, which was standard operating procedure. She wanted to chase, but she knew her role: honey pot, then support. She turned from the river and gingerly stepped back out, heading to check on her buddy, and hoping that jack hadn’t been too aggressive. Otherwise, she’d have a body to lug back to a safe house, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Let Overlord deal with the double, the bastard. Her part was finished.
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Dec 20, 2020 12:23
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In And about the losertar, as an outsider and someone pretty new to TD, I came back because of all the weird quirks. I want fear of failure and ridicule to motivate me to write dumb little stories every week, and the losertar is a part of that. I like it and look forward to getting it for the first time, even though I never will, because I'm not a loser (except for that one time five years ago but that doesn't count okay). Maybe make it easier to get the losertar removed? Only one person at a time has the losertar each week, and it moves from person to person? I actually sort of assumed that was how it worked but I can see how that might be a pain. brotherly fucked around with this message at 12:21 on Dec 23, 2020 |
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Dec 23, 2020 11:57
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Good Cheer Forever 1212 Words When the separatists went rogue and doubled down on Christmas, the Little League wouldn’t stop playing. I stood at my kitchen window and caught glimpses of the field through the trees that lined the edge of my back yard. In the suburbs, trees were less natural occurrence, and more demarcation. The kids were out there all day and all night, throwing, running, sliding, hitting. The coaches brought them meals on tiny trays, and they ate huddled in small groups scattered around the diamond. The dugout became their home, and the sounds of rifle fire and low-flying drones couldn’t stop batting practice. One afternoon, the separatists dropped bright blue ornaments onto the field. Fake snow and tinsel exploded outwards, covering everyone. Their clothes turned green; their ears swept back into long, sharp points; their tiny voices chirped about toys. I went out there, a few days later. The tinsel still covered the grass. Dew reflected off the strands in bright glitters. I could still smell gingerbread and pine in the air, but all the children were gone, and the coaches had been rounded up by then. I wondered about the noise in the distance, the groaning, thumping, chest-curdling bass that rattled in the night, and the rumors about workshops churning out necessities: bread, milk, cheese. I wondered about those kids, and those coaches, but went back home, careful not to track any tinsel with me. # Their tanks were bright green and red with twinkling white lights wrapped around the bodies. Mel stood in the front doorway and watched them roll down the street. “It’s propaganda,” she said. “Christmas?” “All of it.” She gestured. “They’re starting a war.” “They just want year-round Christmas.” I didn’t know why I defended them. Life was harder with the constant ornament bombings. She looked over her shoulder, big brown eyes sad and angry, and shook her head. “You’ll see. It’s propaganda.” Maybe she was right. That night, the tanks kept coming, long lines of them wrapped in festive garb like so many sleighs. They crawled along until I heard the heightened percussive report of cannon fire, and I knew they were attacking the government depot a few blocks away. I sat in the living room and played Christmas music to try and drown it out, even if that was dangerous these days. Christmas was subversive. I just wanted to feel festive. # In line at the grocery store, a man smashed another man in the chest with a frozen ham. A woman howled about reindeer. Most folks gathered whatever non-Christmas food was left, studiously ignoring tree-shaped sweets and candy canes, and tried to get out of there without too much hassle. In the parking lot, the separatists handed out their literature: Christmas today, Christmas tomorrow, Christmas forever. I was a tempting offer. I declined a pamphlet. Mel wanted to move up north. “Christmas isn’t such a big deal there. They have a tree, and some lights, but nobody’s trying to the turn the population into mindless elf slaves.” “That’s an exaggeration.” “You saw it happen. You saw them take the Little League.” “I don’t know what I saw.” I turned away from her and made myself a plate of cookies and poured myself a tall glass of milk. “And besides, it’s not like those kids are dead. They’re just— changed.” She stared at me and shook her head before leaving the room. A difference of political opinion, was all. We’d be fine. I was positive. # The separatists released films on all the major channels: How the Deep State Stole Christmas was my favorite. I sat back in my recliner and flipped through the channels. Reindeer running through a clear blue sky, their sleigh bells jingling. Presents stacked miles high under enormous redwood trees. Cheerful boys and girls with their pointy ears icing Christmas cakes in an enormous factory somewhere in the Midwest. The planes flew lower than usual three days later. I heard from a neighbor that the separatists bombed the government position along the river. I hadn’t heard any explosions or gunfire, I told my neighbor. There was only Christmas music in my house these days, merry and jolly and joyful. My neighbor gave me an odd look and want back inside. There were no wreaths on his door, which I thought was strange. News came fast in those days: separatists overran government defenses in New Mexico. It was going to be a white Christmas in Milwaukee, indefinitely. Santa Claus had come to town in Pensacola. The world looked jollier by the day as more cities fell all around us. “You have to turn that off,” Mel said one night as I reclined in front of an open fire while Mariah Carey sang her Christmas best. “The music?” I frowned at her. “It’s just music.” “You know what that stuff means now.” She knelt down next to me, eyes pleading. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” “It’ll be okay. Once the deep state is gone—“ “There is no deep state.” Her voice turned icy. I wondered if she’d been watching too much Frosty the Snowman. “Listen to yourself. The world’s going insane and all you can do is buy into this crap. We need to get the hell out of here before things get worse.” “I don’t see it that way.” I stretched my legs and yawned. “And besides, without the Little League playing all day, it’s quiet around here again.” She stood and moved a few feet away, staring down at me like I was the monster. “I’m leaving tomorrow. If you want to come with me, you can. But I’m going.” “Don’t be dramatic. Relax. It’s Christmas.” “It’s July.” She went upstairs. # I showed my ration card to the little elf. He beamed up at me and tapped at his nose. “Merry Christmas, brother.” “Merry Christmas.” He moved on to the old man behind me. Drones hovered overhead, formed and reformed Christmas shapes: a drummer boy, a star, a wreath, Santa’s laughing face. The light show kept me occupied as the line moved forward, bit by bit, until I reached the elves manning the food. I recognized the boy on the right. He played in the Little League, back when that was still going. I smiled a little; I barely remembered that time. It was months ago, before Mel left. He thrust a loaf of bread into my arms. “Merry Christmas,” he said, avoiding eye contact. Before, there had been no Christmas. Now, there was only good cheer. I took the rest of my rations, a bit of butter, half a cupcake, a jug of potable water, and carried it back to my home. The lights on my porch twinkled. The wreaths on my door and windows were dirty and brown, dead from months of exposure and weather. I should’ve taken them down and replaced them with something new, but the wreath market was absurd and I couldn’t afford it. I sat down in front of an open fire and stretched out my legs. I turned on my stereo and used a bit more of my electricity ration to put on Mariah Carey. That meant the lights might go out later tonight—but it was totally worth it. ‘Tis the season, after all.
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Dec 27, 2020 12:45
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| # ¿ May 10, 2024 12:45 |
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IN
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Dec 30, 2020 12:41
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