Please read the OOC thread first (and post all out-of-character comments/questions there!)
The Chronicles of Elidel has space for 6 players.
Post Order!
1. @Whiskii
2. @Louanne Learning
3. @Dark_Indigenous_Prince
4.
5.
6.
Last edited:
Chronicles of Elidel (Official Story)
- Thread starter Whiskii
- Start date
Please read the OOC thread first (and post all out-of-character comments/questions there!)
The Chronicles of Elidel has space for 6 players.
Post Order!
1. @Whiskii
2. @Louanne Learning
3. @Dark_Indigenous_Prince
4.
5.
6.
The Chronicles of Elidel
In the bare wastelands of Akyros, torn asunder by storms of magical energy, Elidel rises like a bloated blemish. The city thrums with an apparent life, and with every breath it spews 11 trillion metric tons of carbon dioxide and carcinogenic gases into the atmosphere yearly, to the detriment of the population. It is home to countless quadrillions, the majority of whom are downtrodden by the ruling elite in their rising spires in the sky.
Food is ultra-processed, and water is filtered many times over to make it even remotely drinkable. The weather is unpredictable and extreme, bringing ice storms and the occasional random heatwave only mere hours apart.
It is in this monster of a city that our story begins.
Elidel, Lev 345, Human Quarter
The only requirement was that he knew how to drive.
Ricky didn’t think he was a particularly good driver. But at least he knew how to drive a basic grav-car. So he was hired; the company had no qualms about paying some elf adolescent to shuttle people around in the middle of the night.
If they even paid him at all, that is. His paycheck from last month hadn’t come.
The humans said he was perfectly an adult at the age of 18, and since they ruled this city, everyone had to go along with it, even if he would be considered ridiculously young by elf standards.
His assigned company cab was a beat-up piece of junk that stunk of cheap tobacco and those perfumed synthetic recreational stimulants often smoked by fancier passengers. The engine always felt like it was going to fall out of the back when he turned it on, and it shivered whenever he ascended or descended. But he tried to keep himself positive about it.
I’ve been doing this for three years. I know what I’m doing.
The city flew by in a blur, the lights from countless advertisements and windows seeming like the stars in the paintings of the night sky he saw at the local museum as a small child. Music blared from the radio, a generic array of the latest heavily synthetic pop songs that he admittedly found appealing. Wipers carved a path through the raindrops on his windshield before more took their place. The janky hologram display on his dashboard was silent and dark, typically the telltale sign that his shift was over. The time on the clock was 5 AM, and he was ready to go home and take a nap.
When he finally parked his cab at company headquarters — a warehouse that could only be accessed through a discreet alleyway, he made a beeline for the train station. The rain soaked his hair as he struggled to pull his jacket’s hood over his head, hiding his pointed ears from the biting cold that came with the weather.
The station at this time was crowded, mostly with those who needed to report to work early. The crowd huddled together to stave off the chill, with Ricky among them.
When the train came, the platform shook with the ear-splitting scream of dying wind sprites as it flew through the portal. This was inconsequential to Ricky. He knew some of the more sensitive sorts didn’t like that the sprites had to die for the trains to move, but why change something if it worked?
The cabin’s doors slid shut behind him. His hand found its way to one of the grab handles hanging above from the ceiling as soon as the train’s engines hummed to life.
An automated voice announced the next station over the screaming sprites.
Elidel, Lev 345, Elf-Town
Kieran’s shoes left footprints on the tiles. His forearms and the front of his scrubs were doused in red.
When an orc lost an arm, they bled buckets.
But besides the puddle of blood at his feet and the injured orc on his operating table, his night was quiet otherwise.
“You’re going to need a new one, bud,” he said.
But orcs were sturdy creatures. Kieran reckoned the guy would live. Just to prove it to himself, his neural interface’s display flickered to life, showing that the orc’s vitals were relatively steady.
His patient’s companions kept their distance. Among them were two humans and a dwarf; not only were they bloodied and battered, but when they arrived two hours ago, the barrels of their guns were still smoking from what he presumed was a previous firefight.
Mercenaries, he thought.
They must have heard of him somewhere along the grapevine. He preferred it that way; three centuries of impeccable, honest service got you places. Though not as fancy as the overpriced corporate hospital, he got the job done for a decent fee while keeping it clean and professional. But as much as Kieran would have preferred, healing didn’t pay all the bills. Sometimes, some blood money was needed to put food on the table.
A bone saw was needed to get the rest of the arm off. He was plugging a chrome-plated, orc-sized cybernetic arm into his patient’s useless stump when a clatter in the direction of the garage door gave him some pause. He glanced up only for a moment to clarify that it was Khelrik coming home before turning back to his work.
After he welded the last tendrils of wires and flesh, Kieran stepped back,
“All done! You test that arm and see how it feels.”
The orc seemed quite satisfied with it, and the merry little merc-band paid him extra on their way out.
With his night’s pay in hand, Kieran retired for the evening — or morning, seeing as it was coming to 6 and the sun was beginning to rise. The sunlight in Lev 345 was cold, filtered through layers of clouds and smog. He relished in the fact that they at least had some light, better than the darkness of the underground Levs. Memories of venturing deep into Lev 1029 for a paid hit flitted through Kieran’s mind — of plasma flashing through the dark and the hum of enchanted blades. It was close to the very bottom of the city.
He should tell Ricky about it sometime.
He found his son in the garage’s adjacent living area, fixing himself breakfast. The place they called home was evidently made for one occupant, with only a single bedroom and a small kitchen. So Kieran slept in the living room and let Ricky have the bed.
He spoke in their Elvish dialect, “Has that bastard paid you yet?”
“No, Dad. He’s been quiet about it.”
Ricky handed him a hot mug of coffee — or at least, a dark liquid constructed to have the same taste and effects as coffee. Neither of them had had real coffee before.
“Want me to make him pay?” he took a sip and made a face.
“You won’t be able to find him.”
Ricky passed him with a plate of freshly-warmed nutrient bars and took a seat at their small dining table. Kieran helped himself to some. Nothing like a compressed block of freeze-dried carbohydrate mulch to end his work day.
He eyed Ricky over the rim of his coffee mug. His gut twisted in worried knots.
Ricky did not notice, too busy chewing on his nutrient bar and watching a video on his neural interface.
In the bare wastelands of Akyros, torn asunder by storms of magical energy, Elidel rises like a bloated blemish. The city thrums with an apparent life, and with every breath it spews 11 trillion metric tons of carbon dioxide and carcinogenic gases into the atmosphere yearly, to the detriment of the population. It is home to countless quadrillions, the majority of whom are downtrodden by the ruling elite in their rising spires in the sky.
Food is ultra-processed, and water is filtered many times over to make it even remotely drinkable. The weather is unpredictable and extreme, bringing ice storms and the occasional random heatwave only mere hours apart.
It is in this monster of a city that our story begins.
Elidel, Lev 345, Human Quarter
The only requirement was that he knew how to drive.
Ricky didn’t think he was a particularly good driver. But at least he knew how to drive a basic grav-car. So he was hired; the company had no qualms about paying some elf adolescent to shuttle people around in the middle of the night.
If they even paid him at all, that is. His paycheck from last month hadn’t come.
The humans said he was perfectly an adult at the age of 18, and since they ruled this city, everyone had to go along with it, even if he would be considered ridiculously young by elf standards.
His assigned company cab was a beat-up piece of junk that stunk of cheap tobacco and those perfumed synthetic recreational stimulants often smoked by fancier passengers. The engine always felt like it was going to fall out of the back when he turned it on, and it shivered whenever he ascended or descended. But he tried to keep himself positive about it.
I’ve been doing this for three years. I know what I’m doing.
The city flew by in a blur, the lights from countless advertisements and windows seeming like the stars in the paintings of the night sky he saw at the local museum as a small child. Music blared from the radio, a generic array of the latest heavily synthetic pop songs that he admittedly found appealing. Wipers carved a path through the raindrops on his windshield before more took their place. The janky hologram display on his dashboard was silent and dark, typically the telltale sign that his shift was over. The time on the clock was 5 AM, and he was ready to go home and take a nap.
When he finally parked his cab at company headquarters — a warehouse that could only be accessed through a discreet alleyway, he made a beeline for the train station. The rain soaked his hair as he struggled to pull his jacket’s hood over his head, hiding his pointed ears from the biting cold that came with the weather.
The station at this time was crowded, mostly with those who needed to report to work early. The crowd huddled together to stave off the chill, with Ricky among them.
When the train came, the platform shook with the ear-splitting scream of dying wind sprites as it flew through the portal. This was inconsequential to Ricky. He knew some of the more sensitive sorts didn’t like that the sprites had to die for the trains to move, but why change something if it worked?
The cabin’s doors slid shut behind him. His hand found its way to one of the grab handles hanging above from the ceiling as soon as the train’s engines hummed to life.
An automated voice announced the next station over the screaming sprites.
Elidel, Lev 345, Elf-Town
Kieran’s shoes left footprints on the tiles. His forearms and the front of his scrubs were doused in red.
When an orc lost an arm, they bled buckets.
But besides the puddle of blood at his feet and the injured orc on his operating table, his night was quiet otherwise.
“You’re going to need a new one, bud,” he said.
But orcs were sturdy creatures. Kieran reckoned the guy would live. Just to prove it to himself, his neural interface’s display flickered to life, showing that the orc’s vitals were relatively steady.
His patient’s companions kept their distance. Among them were two humans and a dwarf; not only were they bloodied and battered, but when they arrived two hours ago, the barrels of their guns were still smoking from what he presumed was a previous firefight.
Mercenaries, he thought.
They must have heard of him somewhere along the grapevine. He preferred it that way; three centuries of impeccable, honest service got you places. Though not as fancy as the overpriced corporate hospital, he got the job done for a decent fee while keeping it clean and professional. But as much as Kieran would have preferred, healing didn’t pay all the bills. Sometimes, some blood money was needed to put food on the table.
A bone saw was needed to get the rest of the arm off. He was plugging a chrome-plated, orc-sized cybernetic arm into his patient’s useless stump when a clatter in the direction of the garage door gave him some pause. He glanced up only for a moment to clarify that it was Khelrik coming home before turning back to his work.
After he welded the last tendrils of wires and flesh, Kieran stepped back,
“All done! You test that arm and see how it feels.”
The orc seemed quite satisfied with it, and the merry little merc-band paid him extra on their way out.
With his night’s pay in hand, Kieran retired for the evening — or morning, seeing as it was coming to 6 and the sun was beginning to rise. The sunlight in Lev 345 was cold, filtered through layers of clouds and smog. He relished in the fact that they at least had some light, better than the darkness of the underground Levs. Memories of venturing deep into Lev 1029 for a paid hit flitted through Kieran’s mind — of plasma flashing through the dark and the hum of enchanted blades. It was close to the very bottom of the city.
He should tell Ricky about it sometime.
He found his son in the garage’s adjacent living area, fixing himself breakfast. The place they called home was evidently made for one occupant, with only a single bedroom and a small kitchen. So Kieran slept in the living room and let Ricky have the bed.
He spoke in their Elvish dialect, “Has that bastard paid you yet?”
“No, Dad. He’s been quiet about it.”
Ricky handed him a hot mug of coffee — or at least, a dark liquid constructed to have the same taste and effects as coffee. Neither of them had had real coffee before.
“Want me to make him pay?” he took a sip and made a face.
“You won’t be able to find him.”
Ricky passed him with a plate of freshly-warmed nutrient bars and took a seat at their small dining table. Kieran helped himself to some. Nothing like a compressed block of freeze-dried carbohydrate mulch to end his work day.
He eyed Ricky over the rim of his coffee mug. His gut twisted in worried knots.
Ricky did not notice, too busy chewing on his nutrient bar and watching a video on his neural interface.
Last edited:
Louanne Learning
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Winner: 4th Contest August
Winner: June Flash Fiction
The day before Miranda Montague, an attractive twenty-five-year-old, was to start her management trainee position at Interface Industries, she had lunch out with her father. As Chief Technology Officer, Carter Montague had gotten her the job at the megacorporation.
The restaurant in the upper levels at which they dined, Chez Margot, was elegant and refined, as to be expected. Only the best could ever do for Dad. Miranda hadn’t the heart to tell him that she would have preferred a simple hamburger. But she was grateful for the opportunity to spend time with him. He was a busy man. Even then, at the linen-covered table, he seemed distracted.
Miranda leaned forward, as if the narrowing of the physical distance could bridge some gap between them. “I had a dream about Mom last night,” she said.
Carter looked up from his plate. “Oh?”
“She was pulling me in that little red wagon we used to have, but I was grown up, like I am now.” She grinned. “Not sure how I fit in that wagon, but I did. And then she says, we’re going up that hill. She starts to pull me up this green hill spangled with flowers. But Mom starting getting tired, so I said, Mom, I’ll pull you up instead. And we traded places. It was like—it was like, I had to take over for her. Like, follow in her footsteps, while keeping her along for the ride.”
Carter blinked. “Do you have many memories of her?” he asked.
Miranda tried to not let the fact that her father could be so clueless bother her. “Of course,” she replied. “I was seven when she died. I’ve got lots of memories of her.” She smiled. “All my memories seem to be of her cooking.”
“Oh, yes, that was Helene.” He rolled his eyes. “Always trying to domesticate herself.”
The dig at her mother hurt. “They’re good memories,” she retorted. “Her homemade donuts were the best. And singing. Oh, how she loved to sing. Our favorite song was You Are My Sunshine. She used to wake me up with it.” She closed her eyes, to lose herself in the recollection, and softly, sweetly, slowly, sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey—”
“Stop it,” Carter commanded.
Miranda’s eyes popped open at the sternness in his voice. “Dad, I—”
“I want better for you.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. He glanced around, as if to ensure no-one had witnessed the moment, and then looked her dead in the eye. “Get your head out of the clouds. You’re going to be a killer, not a pushover. You’ve got a brain that will get you to the top. Do not squander it with distractions.”
Saucer-eyed, Miranda was speechless.
He relaxed, and blew out his breath. “Look, Miranda, I don’t mean to be so hard on you, but you must stay focused. Understand me? You’re entering a world where you must stay focused. And tough. You have got to be tough.”
She nodded.
In her mind, she beckoned Brigit, the cybernetic implant in her brain. A lattice of nano-filaments threaded through her neurons, her own personal AI, Brigit only answered when called. Sometimes, her return messages came in words, other times in images, but always they were followed by a warm afterglow that made Miranda feel like it was something she had known all along.
Brigit?
The sensation of her brain being stretched filled her awareness. Her other-me responded. I’m here.
Does Dad even love me?
Love means different things to different people, but all forms of love have one thing in common, and that is the desire to do the very best you can for the person you love. That is what your dad is doing. The best he can.
Miranda had insisted that Brigit be trained with only positive sources that embodied the best characteristics of the human species. She wanted no darkness to influence her. She wanted to be uplifted, not smothered. Brigit did not disappoint.
“I get it, Dad,” she said.
Carter placed his hand on Miranda’s arm. “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s go crazy, and get dessert.”
She took in her father—the slicked-back grey hair, the strong jaw, the piercing eyes. A smile came to her lips. “I hear they make their own pies here,” she replied.
“Pie it is!”
“That would be lovely.”
And wasn’t everyone doing the best that they can?
***
Tall and willowy Lioriana Crowley, a twenty-year-old elf-human hybrid, ran her hand over her cropped, blue hair. Sitting at a table in a cavernous room, she glanced about at the indigent slurping up their meals. A twinge of nervousness clenched her jaw. It wasn’t being in Kindness Kitchen, on Lev 345, that brought the butterflies to her gut. No, she had no reservations about getting a free meal. Nothing like shame, for anything at all, polluted her. In fact, her mantra was—If it’s free, it’s for me. And if it wasn’t free, she could always steal it.
Her apprehension stemmed from the plan she was about to put into action. A row of coat hooks lined the wall bookended by the main door and the kitchen door. On the hook closest to the kitchen, a white leather jacket hung. Lioriana wanted that jacket. The thought that it belonged to someone else did not enter her mind. The cogs in her brain were turned by her wants, which usually involved acquisition and possession. She was always looking for something to call her own.
The trolley upon which the clientele placed their dirty dishes stood by the kitchen door. Lioriana inserted her tray onto the middle shelf, and then scrambled to the white jacket. A quick grab and go, and she turned, jacket in hand, intent on beelining for the door. She stopped short. A young woman blocked her path. “That’s my jacket,” she said.
“What? Oh? Is it? Oops, I must have made a mistake.” Lioriana hooked the jacket back up.
“My name is Miranda. What’s yours?”
She felt no threat. “Lioriana,” she replied.
***
Miranda beckoned Brigit. What should I do?
She probably needs the jacket more than you do. Let her have it. It is better to give than to receive.
“Do you—do you like that jacket?”
Lioriana shrugged. “S’alright.”
“You can have it, if you want it.”
She narrowed an eye, inspecting Miranda as if she were strange. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just a gesture of generosity, which I hope one day you can pay forward.”
“Oh well, who am I to argue with generosity?”
She snatched the jacket and put it on. “It fits! How do I look?”
“Smashing.”
“Okay, well, see you later.”
Lioriana walked past Miranda, and out the door.
***
On the street, a note of disquiet pricked at Lioriana. It had crossed her mind to thank the woman, but damned if she would lower herself to ass-kissing. No-one would put any obligation on her, not for gratitude, not for anything. She got the jacket, that’s all that mattered.
She stuffed her hands into the pockets, and her fingers found a card. Lioriana pulled it out and read it.
Miranda Montague, Innovation and Integration Fellow, Interface Industries.
The cogs in Lioriana’s brain turned. There was an opportunity here. She just had to figure out how best to make use of it.
The restaurant in the upper levels at which they dined, Chez Margot, was elegant and refined, as to be expected. Only the best could ever do for Dad. Miranda hadn’t the heart to tell him that she would have preferred a simple hamburger. But she was grateful for the opportunity to spend time with him. He was a busy man. Even then, at the linen-covered table, he seemed distracted.
Miranda leaned forward, as if the narrowing of the physical distance could bridge some gap between them. “I had a dream about Mom last night,” she said.
Carter looked up from his plate. “Oh?”
“She was pulling me in that little red wagon we used to have, but I was grown up, like I am now.” She grinned. “Not sure how I fit in that wagon, but I did. And then she says, we’re going up that hill. She starts to pull me up this green hill spangled with flowers. But Mom starting getting tired, so I said, Mom, I’ll pull you up instead. And we traded places. It was like—it was like, I had to take over for her. Like, follow in her footsteps, while keeping her along for the ride.”
Carter blinked. “Do you have many memories of her?” he asked.
Miranda tried to not let the fact that her father could be so clueless bother her. “Of course,” she replied. “I was seven when she died. I’ve got lots of memories of her.” She smiled. “All my memories seem to be of her cooking.”
“Oh, yes, that was Helene.” He rolled his eyes. “Always trying to domesticate herself.”
The dig at her mother hurt. “They’re good memories,” she retorted. “Her homemade donuts were the best. And singing. Oh, how she loved to sing. Our favorite song was You Are My Sunshine. She used to wake me up with it.” She closed her eyes, to lose herself in the recollection, and softly, sweetly, slowly, sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey—”
“Stop it,” Carter commanded.
Miranda’s eyes popped open at the sternness in his voice. “Dad, I—”
“I want better for you.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. He glanced around, as if to ensure no-one had witnessed the moment, and then looked her dead in the eye. “Get your head out of the clouds. You’re going to be a killer, not a pushover. You’ve got a brain that will get you to the top. Do not squander it with distractions.”
Saucer-eyed, Miranda was speechless.
He relaxed, and blew out his breath. “Look, Miranda, I don’t mean to be so hard on you, but you must stay focused. Understand me? You’re entering a world where you must stay focused. And tough. You have got to be tough.”
She nodded.
In her mind, she beckoned Brigit, the cybernetic implant in her brain. A lattice of nano-filaments threaded through her neurons, her own personal AI, Brigit only answered when called. Sometimes, her return messages came in words, other times in images, but always they were followed by a warm afterglow that made Miranda feel like it was something she had known all along.
Brigit?
The sensation of her brain being stretched filled her awareness. Her other-me responded. I’m here.
Does Dad even love me?
Love means different things to different people, but all forms of love have one thing in common, and that is the desire to do the very best you can for the person you love. That is what your dad is doing. The best he can.
Miranda had insisted that Brigit be trained with only positive sources that embodied the best characteristics of the human species. She wanted no darkness to influence her. She wanted to be uplifted, not smothered. Brigit did not disappoint.
“I get it, Dad,” she said.
Carter placed his hand on Miranda’s arm. “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s go crazy, and get dessert.”
She took in her father—the slicked-back grey hair, the strong jaw, the piercing eyes. A smile came to her lips. “I hear they make their own pies here,” she replied.
“Pie it is!”
“That would be lovely.”
And wasn’t everyone doing the best that they can?
***
Tall and willowy Lioriana Crowley, a twenty-year-old elf-human hybrid, ran her hand over her cropped, blue hair. Sitting at a table in a cavernous room, she glanced about at the indigent slurping up their meals. A twinge of nervousness clenched her jaw. It wasn’t being in Kindness Kitchen, on Lev 345, that brought the butterflies to her gut. No, she had no reservations about getting a free meal. Nothing like shame, for anything at all, polluted her. In fact, her mantra was—If it’s free, it’s for me. And if it wasn’t free, she could always steal it.
Her apprehension stemmed from the plan she was about to put into action. A row of coat hooks lined the wall bookended by the main door and the kitchen door. On the hook closest to the kitchen, a white leather jacket hung. Lioriana wanted that jacket. The thought that it belonged to someone else did not enter her mind. The cogs in her brain were turned by her wants, which usually involved acquisition and possession. She was always looking for something to call her own.
The trolley upon which the clientele placed their dirty dishes stood by the kitchen door. Lioriana inserted her tray onto the middle shelf, and then scrambled to the white jacket. A quick grab and go, and she turned, jacket in hand, intent on beelining for the door. She stopped short. A young woman blocked her path. “That’s my jacket,” she said.
“What? Oh? Is it? Oops, I must have made a mistake.” Lioriana hooked the jacket back up.
“My name is Miranda. What’s yours?”
She felt no threat. “Lioriana,” she replied.
***
Miranda beckoned Brigit. What should I do?
She probably needs the jacket more than you do. Let her have it. It is better to give than to receive.
“Do you—do you like that jacket?”
Lioriana shrugged. “S’alright.”
“You can have it, if you want it.”
She narrowed an eye, inspecting Miranda as if she were strange. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just a gesture of generosity, which I hope one day you can pay forward.”
“Oh well, who am I to argue with generosity?”
She snatched the jacket and put it on. “It fits! How do I look?”
“Smashing.”
“Okay, well, see you later.”
Lioriana walked past Miranda, and out the door.
***
On the street, a note of disquiet pricked at Lioriana. It had crossed her mind to thank the woman, but damned if she would lower herself to ass-kissing. No-one would put any obligation on her, not for gratitude, not for anything. She got the jacket, that’s all that mattered.
She stuffed her hands into the pockets, and her fingers found a card. Lioriana pulled it out and read it.
Miranda Montague, Innovation and Integration Fellow, Interface Industries.
The cogs in Lioriana’s brain turned. There was an opportunity here. She just had to figure out how best to make use of it.
Elidel, Lev 411, Human Quarter
"One, two, three, GO!"
Alasdair Brontez grunted as he pushed against his opponents arm, some bald jerk who challenged him to an arm wrestling duel. It was obvious by the jealous glint in his blue eyes that he was angry a pretty white-haired Elf girl had complimented Alasdair's biceps in his sleeveless tank top. So Alasdair agreed to the match if the winner gets fifty credits.
Might as well make a little money before I head to my next work assignment.
All the thieves and hoodlums in the shadowy, half-lit room cheered around them. They had wondered over from the dusty liqueur bar and quit playing magnetic darts on a faded, worn dartboard to come watch. There were many rooms like this one in the decrepit abandoned office building that they used as their hang out spot. Alasdair was currently sitting at a rust-spotted chrome table in the middle of the room, straining and breathing hard. Just when Baldy started to lose, his arm lowering to the tabletop, Alasdair felt his work phone buzz in his pocket. He was more concerned about what message his boss had sent him than this testosterone contest, so he decided to let Baldy win.
"Awh, you got me," Alasdair said, wiping sweat from his brow. Baldy jumped to his feet with a huge smile, pumping his fists, and ran around high-fiving everyone. When he returned to the table, Alasdair had taken out his solid steel wallet and handed over the fifty credits that was owed.
He could use it more than me. I saw the holes in shoes and the oil stains on his jacket.
Alasdair stood to leave and watched as the white-haired Elf girl walked up to Baldy and said, "You wanna buy me a drink?" Baldy grinned saucily and put his arm over her thin shoulders, leading her to the bar. Good thing I didn't fall for her pretty face, Alasdair thought. She's a no-good sleaze.
"Where you goin'?" asked Mark, one of Alasdair's first gangster friends.
"Oh, I just need to get some poison pellets for the mutant rats in my apartment," Alasdair lied smoothly. "I don't want to wake up to them biting my toes again!" Mark laughed and they hugged briefly before Alasdair grabbed his off-black trenchcoat from where it was hanging on the back of the chair and headed out.
When Alasdair was walking across a rickety bridge towards the train station, he finally felt safe enough to look at his work phone. No one had any idea that he was a working man, or that his family used to be rich as piss. They thought he was just another lowlife like them, born and raised in the lower levels. He didn't want to risk them finding out so he always made sure to put his phone on vibrate mode when he was with them and not to wear any of his nicer clothes.
'Schedule Update: Mrs Darling wants you to clean her dining room sooner because she's expecting company this evening. She won't be there, she's out shopping. Be there by 5pm and be done by 5:45pm when she returns. The elevator code is 5680. Your pay will be $850.00. Message COPY if you accept these terms.'
Alasdair texted 'Copy' and made it to the train platform just as it arrived. The sound of the screaming sprites always made him shiver, so he quickly inserted a pair of foam balls into his ears as soon as he stepped inside. First he went to his dingy apartment to change into the white uniform folded neatly on the closet top shelf and gathered his cleaning supplies, then he took his hover bike to Mrs Darling's establishment, all in less than thirty minutes. He knew the area well. He had cleaned her apartment several times before, got a good look at all her valuables, and tonight felt like a good night to execute a heist.
The building where Mrs Darling lived was a huge, gold-painted structure with a tight guard detail. It was more like a fortress, massive and intimidating. The guards knew him by now, but they still asked why he had come and where he was headed. "Mrs Darling's penthouse, cleaning services," he droned in a bored voice. Then they let him in and he walked straight through the lounge to the gold-plated elevator doors. The carpet was rich wine-red, there were gigantic chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and dozens of richly dressed people swarmed around him. It was all so extravagant and over the top, like walking in a dream. Even the air smelled better, crisp and clear, as if it was pumped in from the upper atmosphere just for the rich people.
Once in the elevator, Alasdair tapped in the code that his boss had given him and the elevator zoomed silently to the highest floor, so fast that the doors open in just two or three seconds. He stepped out into a circular sitting area with four sofas along the walls, one of which was occupied by Mrs Darling's ugly little dog, a grizzly black-and-grey ball of fur and razor teeth. The creature growled at him, but he ignored it and kept going to the dining room. It was an ovaloid space with wood paneled walls, a massive glass cabinet full of fancy plates, and a large, heavy wooden table surrounded by high-backed chairs that looked like thrones.
Alasdair quietly half-closed the doors to block out the surveillance camera in the hallway that was pointed directly at the entrance. Then he got to work dusting every corner, sweeping and mopping the floorboards, sprayed cleaning fluids and wiped down the table with a cloth rag, and spritzed a generic perfume into the air that his company had given him. It was supposed to be "scent of wildflowers" but it just smelled like a freshly washed carpet to Alasdair.
Now that everything was done, and the dining room sparkled and glowed, Alasdair snatched off his used rubber gloves and pulled on his black thieving gloves. His target was a safe box behind one of the decorative plates inside the glass cabinet on the middle shelf. The safe box was unnoticeable to the naked eye, hidden behind the plate as it was, but Alasdair's hitech lens allowed him to see through the plate and inside the box. He couldn't make out the colors or details (the box was made of some kind of dense material that didn't allow his lenses to see clearly) but he could see the shape and forms of the priceless jewelry it contained.
Alasdair opened the cabinet door without any fear of it squeaking; he had thoroughly greased the hinges the last time he had come to clean in preparation for this moment. Then he slowly lifted the plate and set it aside before peering closer at the safe box. There was no keyhole or fingerprint scanner, only a small keypad with numbers on the lid. Alasdair smirked as he blinked and his emerald green lenses glowed softly. They switched from x-ray mode to infrared mode and he could see which buttons had been pressed the most by Mrs Darling. In his vision, the most used buttons had grey smears on them: buttons 2, 1, 6, and 9. Now he just had to figure out the order of the configuration, so he immediately got to work pressing the buttons before he ran out of time. It was 5:40pm so he was already cutting it close. Mrs Darling would be back any minute now.
"1, 6, 2, 9,....no....9, 1, 6, 2....ugh! No again!" Alasdair was beginning to become frustrated when suddenly the safe box BEEPED and popped open. He stood in abject shock for a moment. "I guess 1, 2, 9, 6 was the correct order," he murmured before snapping out of it and leaning over the box. Inside he could see three diamond bracelets, a large pair of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, a ruby ring, a diamond ring, and a chocolate diamond ring, a yellow diamond necklace, and a diamond choker. He shifted the jewelry with his finger, trying to discern which one Mrs Darling wouldn't notice was gone, until his finger poked something at the bottom that had somehow escaped his vision. He pulled it out and it was a simple stone ring with swirly patterns carved around it. "What the heck is this?" Alasdair muttered in confusion. It certainly didn't look like it fit among all the other treasures.
"Hello, my lovely pet! You were waiting for me, weren't you? Yes you were! Yes you were! Is the cleaning person still here, my dearest?"
Alasdair nearly jumped out of his shoes upon hearing Mrs Darling return. He had been so absorbed that he hadn't heard the elevator doors opening, but now he rushed to close the safe box and carefully recenter the plate that covered it, closing the cabinet in a rush and jumping away from it. As he pulled off his black thieving gloves and stowed them away in his cleaning bag, he stuffed the plain looking stone ring inside one of the gloves to keep it from rolling around or getting damaged,
All that work for just an ordinary-looking trinket....pfffft.
~~~
On his way home, Alasdair stopped at a fastfood restaurant to pick up something for dinner. He didn't feel like cooking and his work phone had buzzed when he left Mrs Darling's penthouse, letting him know that his payment had been deposited. While he waited in the drive-thru lane on his hover bike, wedged between a hover van and a hover car, a cloud of toxic fumes wafted by. He coughed and hacked as he hurried to put on a pair of goggles and a face mask. I can't WAIT to get home! It's disgusting out here! Finally, Alasdair was next in line and he took out his phone to pay for his meal electronically. When he opened his banking app, he gasped at the amount: $1,250.00. Mrs Darling had tipped him four hundred dollars on top of his $850 flat rate.
She had also left a compliment: 'Good work. Five star quality.'
Alasdair smirked. The heist may have been a dud, but Mrs Darling had made up for it.
"One, two, three, GO!"
Alasdair Brontez grunted as he pushed against his opponents arm, some bald jerk who challenged him to an arm wrestling duel. It was obvious by the jealous glint in his blue eyes that he was angry a pretty white-haired Elf girl had complimented Alasdair's biceps in his sleeveless tank top. So Alasdair agreed to the match if the winner gets fifty credits.
Might as well make a little money before I head to my next work assignment.
All the thieves and hoodlums in the shadowy, half-lit room cheered around them. They had wondered over from the dusty liqueur bar and quit playing magnetic darts on a faded, worn dartboard to come watch. There were many rooms like this one in the decrepit abandoned office building that they used as their hang out spot. Alasdair was currently sitting at a rust-spotted chrome table in the middle of the room, straining and breathing hard. Just when Baldy started to lose, his arm lowering to the tabletop, Alasdair felt his work phone buzz in his pocket. He was more concerned about what message his boss had sent him than this testosterone contest, so he decided to let Baldy win.
"Awh, you got me," Alasdair said, wiping sweat from his brow. Baldy jumped to his feet with a huge smile, pumping his fists, and ran around high-fiving everyone. When he returned to the table, Alasdair had taken out his solid steel wallet and handed over the fifty credits that was owed.
He could use it more than me. I saw the holes in shoes and the oil stains on his jacket.
Alasdair stood to leave and watched as the white-haired Elf girl walked up to Baldy and said, "You wanna buy me a drink?" Baldy grinned saucily and put his arm over her thin shoulders, leading her to the bar. Good thing I didn't fall for her pretty face, Alasdair thought. She's a no-good sleaze.
"Where you goin'?" asked Mark, one of Alasdair's first gangster friends.
"Oh, I just need to get some poison pellets for the mutant rats in my apartment," Alasdair lied smoothly. "I don't want to wake up to them biting my toes again!" Mark laughed and they hugged briefly before Alasdair grabbed his off-black trenchcoat from where it was hanging on the back of the chair and headed out.
When Alasdair was walking across a rickety bridge towards the train station, he finally felt safe enough to look at his work phone. No one had any idea that he was a working man, or that his family used to be rich as piss. They thought he was just another lowlife like them, born and raised in the lower levels. He didn't want to risk them finding out so he always made sure to put his phone on vibrate mode when he was with them and not to wear any of his nicer clothes.
'Schedule Update: Mrs Darling wants you to clean her dining room sooner because she's expecting company this evening. She won't be there, she's out shopping. Be there by 5pm and be done by 5:45pm when she returns. The elevator code is 5680. Your pay will be $850.00. Message COPY if you accept these terms.'
Alasdair texted 'Copy' and made it to the train platform just as it arrived. The sound of the screaming sprites always made him shiver, so he quickly inserted a pair of foam balls into his ears as soon as he stepped inside. First he went to his dingy apartment to change into the white uniform folded neatly on the closet top shelf and gathered his cleaning supplies, then he took his hover bike to Mrs Darling's establishment, all in less than thirty minutes. He knew the area well. He had cleaned her apartment several times before, got a good look at all her valuables, and tonight felt like a good night to execute a heist.
The building where Mrs Darling lived was a huge, gold-painted structure with a tight guard detail. It was more like a fortress, massive and intimidating. The guards knew him by now, but they still asked why he had come and where he was headed. "Mrs Darling's penthouse, cleaning services," he droned in a bored voice. Then they let him in and he walked straight through the lounge to the gold-plated elevator doors. The carpet was rich wine-red, there were gigantic chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and dozens of richly dressed people swarmed around him. It was all so extravagant and over the top, like walking in a dream. Even the air smelled better, crisp and clear, as if it was pumped in from the upper atmosphere just for the rich people.
Once in the elevator, Alasdair tapped in the code that his boss had given him and the elevator zoomed silently to the highest floor, so fast that the doors open in just two or three seconds. He stepped out into a circular sitting area with four sofas along the walls, one of which was occupied by Mrs Darling's ugly little dog, a grizzly black-and-grey ball of fur and razor teeth. The creature growled at him, but he ignored it and kept going to the dining room. It was an ovaloid space with wood paneled walls, a massive glass cabinet full of fancy plates, and a large, heavy wooden table surrounded by high-backed chairs that looked like thrones.
Alasdair quietly half-closed the doors to block out the surveillance camera in the hallway that was pointed directly at the entrance. Then he got to work dusting every corner, sweeping and mopping the floorboards, sprayed cleaning fluids and wiped down the table with a cloth rag, and spritzed a generic perfume into the air that his company had given him. It was supposed to be "scent of wildflowers" but it just smelled like a freshly washed carpet to Alasdair.
Now that everything was done, and the dining room sparkled and glowed, Alasdair snatched off his used rubber gloves and pulled on his black thieving gloves. His target was a safe box behind one of the decorative plates inside the glass cabinet on the middle shelf. The safe box was unnoticeable to the naked eye, hidden behind the plate as it was, but Alasdair's hitech lens allowed him to see through the plate and inside the box. He couldn't make out the colors or details (the box was made of some kind of dense material that didn't allow his lenses to see clearly) but he could see the shape and forms of the priceless jewelry it contained.
Alasdair opened the cabinet door without any fear of it squeaking; he had thoroughly greased the hinges the last time he had come to clean in preparation for this moment. Then he slowly lifted the plate and set it aside before peering closer at the safe box. There was no keyhole or fingerprint scanner, only a small keypad with numbers on the lid. Alasdair smirked as he blinked and his emerald green lenses glowed softly. They switched from x-ray mode to infrared mode and he could see which buttons had been pressed the most by Mrs Darling. In his vision, the most used buttons had grey smears on them: buttons 2, 1, 6, and 9. Now he just had to figure out the order of the configuration, so he immediately got to work pressing the buttons before he ran out of time. It was 5:40pm so he was already cutting it close. Mrs Darling would be back any minute now.
"1, 6, 2, 9,....no....9, 1, 6, 2....ugh! No again!" Alasdair was beginning to become frustrated when suddenly the safe box BEEPED and popped open. He stood in abject shock for a moment. "I guess 1, 2, 9, 6 was the correct order," he murmured before snapping out of it and leaning over the box. Inside he could see three diamond bracelets, a large pair of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, a ruby ring, a diamond ring, and a chocolate diamond ring, a yellow diamond necklace, and a diamond choker. He shifted the jewelry with his finger, trying to discern which one Mrs Darling wouldn't notice was gone, until his finger poked something at the bottom that had somehow escaped his vision. He pulled it out and it was a simple stone ring with swirly patterns carved around it. "What the heck is this?" Alasdair muttered in confusion. It certainly didn't look like it fit among all the other treasures.
"Hello, my lovely pet! You were waiting for me, weren't you? Yes you were! Yes you were! Is the cleaning person still here, my dearest?"
Alasdair nearly jumped out of his shoes upon hearing Mrs Darling return. He had been so absorbed that he hadn't heard the elevator doors opening, but now he rushed to close the safe box and carefully recenter the plate that covered it, closing the cabinet in a rush and jumping away from it. As he pulled off his black thieving gloves and stowed them away in his cleaning bag, he stuffed the plain looking stone ring inside one of the gloves to keep it from rolling around or getting damaged,
All that work for just an ordinary-looking trinket....pfffft.
~~~
On his way home, Alasdair stopped at a fastfood restaurant to pick up something for dinner. He didn't feel like cooking and his work phone had buzzed when he left Mrs Darling's penthouse, letting him know that his payment had been deposited. While he waited in the drive-thru lane on his hover bike, wedged between a hover van and a hover car, a cloud of toxic fumes wafted by. He coughed and hacked as he hurried to put on a pair of goggles and a face mask. I can't WAIT to get home! It's disgusting out here! Finally, Alasdair was next in line and he took out his phone to pay for his meal electronically. When he opened his banking app, he gasped at the amount: $1,250.00. Mrs Darling had tipped him four hundred dollars on top of his $850 flat rate.
She had also left a compliment: 'Good work. Five star quality.'
Alasdair smirked. The heist may have been a dud, but Mrs Darling had made up for it.
Last edited:
“Your uncle called me.”
Ricky glanced away from his neural interface. From his place on the living room sofa, he spied his father emerging from their shared bathroom. Clothed in black, the older dark elf was armed to the teeth, with an armoured vest peeking out from under his polyfibre coat. An assault rifle hung from his shoulder, while a elven-style short sword — slim and lithe with a razor-sharp edge — was sheathed on his back. The blade hummed with some magic, but Ricky could not remember which particular enchantment it was this time. There were probably a few smaller weapons on his person somewhere, tucked away out of sight.
“Which one?” he said.
“Uncle Theoluin.”
Ricky sat up, eyes widening. His neural interface shut off in response.
“Isn’t he a crime lord?” he said.
He watched his father make his way over to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee in silence.
“Yeah, he practically runs this level. He’s got his fingers in many pies, from healthcare to law enforcement.” Kieran said.
His father paused to drain his cup, before washing it in the sink.
“You know he offered to land me a nice cushy job as a real doctor long ago. I wanted to know how he was going to do it, but he never told me.”
“You said no?” Ricky said.
“Of course. I wanted to make it out there on my own, so I did. Look at where I am now.” Kieran said, closing the tap and cutting off the hiss of running water, “Theoluin and I don’t talk much anymore. Not since a few centuries ago.”
Ricky was silent. He always felt a sense of dread when his father left for one of his “jobs”, because what if he didn’t come back? Yet, he always returned home, sometimes battered and sometimes without a scratch. But always alive.
However, Ricky could not help but ask anyway,
“What if you don’t come back?”
His father was already at the door,
“You go to your uncle. He’ll take care of you.”
The door swung open, and his father was halfway out when he turned around as if he was looking back for the last time,
“I love you, Ricky,” his father said in Elvish.
Ricky felt the pit of dread in his gut grow bigger.
“Love you too, Dad. Come back safe.”
Theoluin looked far older than when Kieran saw him last. Ageing was not a bad thing, especially for an elf, but it was simply different to see one so old. His brother lived in a finer part of Lev 345. It didn’t compare to the lavish establishments of the skyward elite, but it certainly came close. An expensive penthouse with walls and furnishings made of carved real wood and stone, located at the top of the tallest building on the level. Long, elegant lines and tall arches invoked the feeling of old elven architecture from millennia past.
Theoluin himself was dressed in a distinctly Human way: a three-piece suit patterned in pinstripes. His silver hair was pulled back stylishly with an ornate golden pin, and he evidently made sure his cufflinks were gold to match.
“I’m sure my request came out of the blue, Kieran,” his brother eyed him from across a desk, “but you came quite prepared, as I expected. Maybe a little… overenthusiastic, perhaps. But I’m not complaining.”
Kieran sighed,
“Who needs to die, Theoluin?”
Theoluin grinned sharply, his violet eyes glinting like how a hungry predator’s would.
“I’ve always liked your bluntness. Very well! I shall be straightforward…” he said, “… a little human has gotten on my bad side. She has run squealing to Lev Triple-4. Find her, and bring me her head. I’ve arranged some discreet transport for you downstairs.”
Kieran nodded and thought of leaving, though not before Theoluin shot him another grin,
“Oh, and feel free to have a bit of fun with her before she goes.”
Kieran scowled and stood to leave,
“I will do no such thing.”
Theoluin laughed in a manner that lacked mirth,
“How boring you are! I’ve always envied how you walk in the light.”
Kieran refused to look at him as he paced towards the door. His gut twisted and his heart ached,
“I do this for my son, you do this because you find it fun to see the weaker race struggle.”
He could feel Theoluin’s grin on his back,
“You’ll be paid handsomely. And give Ricky my love.”
Kieran ignored him as he shut the office door.
Rhaem walk with me, he thought.
He swore he heard the faint echo of the god’s laughter in his skull a little after that, as he stepped into the elevator to take him down to the ground.
Ricky glanced away from his neural interface. From his place on the living room sofa, he spied his father emerging from their shared bathroom. Clothed in black, the older dark elf was armed to the teeth, with an armoured vest peeking out from under his polyfibre coat. An assault rifle hung from his shoulder, while a elven-style short sword — slim and lithe with a razor-sharp edge — was sheathed on his back. The blade hummed with some magic, but Ricky could not remember which particular enchantment it was this time. There were probably a few smaller weapons on his person somewhere, tucked away out of sight.
“Which one?” he said.
“Uncle Theoluin.”
Ricky sat up, eyes widening. His neural interface shut off in response.
“Isn’t he a crime lord?” he said.
He watched his father make his way over to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee in silence.
“Yeah, he practically runs this level. He’s got his fingers in many pies, from healthcare to law enforcement.” Kieran said.
His father paused to drain his cup, before washing it in the sink.
“You know he offered to land me a nice cushy job as a real doctor long ago. I wanted to know how he was going to do it, but he never told me.”
“You said no?” Ricky said.
“Of course. I wanted to make it out there on my own, so I did. Look at where I am now.” Kieran said, closing the tap and cutting off the hiss of running water, “Theoluin and I don’t talk much anymore. Not since a few centuries ago.”
Ricky was silent. He always felt a sense of dread when his father left for one of his “jobs”, because what if he didn’t come back? Yet, he always returned home, sometimes battered and sometimes without a scratch. But always alive.
However, Ricky could not help but ask anyway,
“What if you don’t come back?”
His father was already at the door,
“You go to your uncle. He’ll take care of you.”
The door swung open, and his father was halfway out when he turned around as if he was looking back for the last time,
“I love you, Ricky,” his father said in Elvish.
Ricky felt the pit of dread in his gut grow bigger.
“Love you too, Dad. Come back safe.”
Theoluin looked far older than when Kieran saw him last. Ageing was not a bad thing, especially for an elf, but it was simply different to see one so old. His brother lived in a finer part of Lev 345. It didn’t compare to the lavish establishments of the skyward elite, but it certainly came close. An expensive penthouse with walls and furnishings made of carved real wood and stone, located at the top of the tallest building on the level. Long, elegant lines and tall arches invoked the feeling of old elven architecture from millennia past.
Theoluin himself was dressed in a distinctly Human way: a three-piece suit patterned in pinstripes. His silver hair was pulled back stylishly with an ornate golden pin, and he evidently made sure his cufflinks were gold to match.
“I’m sure my request came out of the blue, Kieran,” his brother eyed him from across a desk, “but you came quite prepared, as I expected. Maybe a little… overenthusiastic, perhaps. But I’m not complaining.”
Kieran sighed,
“Who needs to die, Theoluin?”
Theoluin grinned sharply, his violet eyes glinting like how a hungry predator’s would.
“I’ve always liked your bluntness. Very well! I shall be straightforward…” he said, “… a little human has gotten on my bad side. She has run squealing to Lev Triple-4. Find her, and bring me her head. I’ve arranged some discreet transport for you downstairs.”
Kieran nodded and thought of leaving, though not before Theoluin shot him another grin,
“Oh, and feel free to have a bit of fun with her before she goes.”
Kieran scowled and stood to leave,
“I will do no such thing.”
Theoluin laughed in a manner that lacked mirth,
“How boring you are! I’ve always envied how you walk in the light.”
Kieran refused to look at him as he paced towards the door. His gut twisted and his heart ached,
“I do this for my son, you do this because you find it fun to see the weaker race struggle.”
He could feel Theoluin’s grin on his back,
“You’ll be paid handsomely. And give Ricky my love.”
Kieran ignored him as he shut the office door.
Rhaem walk with me, he thought.
He swore he heard the faint echo of the god’s laughter in his skull a little after that, as he stepped into the elevator to take him down to the ground.
Louanne Learning
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Winner: 4th Contest August
Winner: June Flash Fiction
The elven kids annoyed Lioriana, though they were her half-brother and half-sisters. The oldest of the one-boy, three-girl crew, fourteen-year-old Kimmie, covetously side-eyed the white leather jacket as soon as Lioriana stepped into their apartment.
“Nice jacket,” Kimmie said.
“Fuck off,” Lioriana replied, hanging the jacket on a hook. “You’re never getting your grubby paws on it.”
“You’re mean.”
“Whatever … Where’s Mom and Dad?”
“Out.”
Lioriana ignored Kimmie’s pout and marched to the bedroom she shared with two-year-old Donal. The toddler was alone, sitting on the threadbare rug, playing with his blocks. “Who’s watching you?” Lioriana asked him.
“I’m a big boy,” he replied.
She popped her brows and then, Miranda’s card in hand, threw herself to lay on her back in the bed. The gold, embossed letters, in bold script, earned an internal well, la-di-da.
Miranda Montague, Innovation and Integration Fellow, Interface Industries.
There had to be some gain to be made in this new connection. She’d seen the woman at the soup kitchen before, and probably would again. A story—that’s what she needed, some sort of sob story. The sophisticated woman had probably never sobbed in her whole entire life, but she sure liked to drown herself in the sobbing of others. Soup kitchen volunteer—yeah, right, what a saint, Lioriana thought with a purse of her lips. There was only one reason anyone would feed the lowly, and that was to feel better about the emptiness of their own high-falutin’ lives.
Donal came toddling over to the bed. “Up,” he said.
Lioriana pulled him up and opened her arm for him. His head lay in the crook of her shoulder. She sniffed, then crinkled her nose. “Oh, man,” she said, “you need a diaper change.”
“I pooped,” he replied.
“You’re too old for diapers.”
With a sigh, she got out of the bed and picked Donal up in her arms. “The shit I have to put up with,” she muttered, “—literally.”
She washed his bum in the bathroom sink. He splashed, slapping his little chubby hands in the water between his legs. “Quit it,” Lioriana snapped. “You’re getting me all wet.”
Instead of quitting it, he giggled, and slapped the water harder. Lioriana rolled her eyes. “You’re a little terror,” she muttered.
An idea struck her. What could be more heart-wrenching than a young single mother without resources? Yes, she would play mushy Miranda for all she was worth. “Hey, champ,” she said.
“Champ,” Donal repeated.
“How’d you like to pretend I am your mother?”
***
Miranda couldn’t believe how full her email inbox was, and it was only her first day on the job. The survey from Human Resources was excruciating. She got welcomes from fourteen different departments, and the Policy and Procedures of the Department of Innovation and Integration bored with minutiae. But it all made her feel kind of important.
She leaned back in her sleek, ergonomic chair. Her office was small, but bright. She might have chosen wood over the glass-topped, stainless-steel-framed desk she was assigned, but she would make do. She preferred traditional over industrial, but she had to adapt.
Her father, Chief Technology Officer Carter Montague, stopped by in the late morning. He halted in the doorway, and leaned on the door jamb. “Settling in?” he asked.
She smiled. “Yes, Dad, just getting the preliminaries taken care of.”
He nodded. “The big guy will come see you after lunch with one of our major investors.”
“Yeah, I know. Great.”
“Listen, more than you talk.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Don’t contradict anything they say.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“If you screw up, it’s hard to recover—”
“Dad—”
“Your best strategy is to agree with anything they say, at least for now—”
“Dad!” she interjected, and gave him the bug-eyes. “I know how to act.”
“Okay, okay, see you later.” He blew out his breath. “Good luck,” he summed up, then strode away.
Miranda tried not to let her father’s harassment dampen her sense of confidence, but she wished he’d come with encouragement, instead of dire warnings. Did he really think she was so incompetent?
She went down to the first-floor cafeteria for lunch and had a roasted chickpea, tomato and chicken bowl. When she returned to her office, the CEO of Interface Industries himself, Myron Pritchard, was sitting before her desk. Beside him sat a middle-aged elf dressed as a human, in a three-piece-suit. His silver hair was pulled back with a golden pin which Miranda thought gaudy. He turned a smarmy grin to her, a mixture of inspection and judgement, which made her uncomfortable.
She rushed to her chair. “So sorry,” she said, “if I have kept you waiting.”
“Na, na,” Myron replied, coming forward, “quite alright. You’re not late, we’re early.”
Settled, she clasped her hands on the desk, and began, “Mr. Pritchard—”
“Myron, please.”
“Okay, then, Myron—I just want to say how very excited I am to begin my duties.” She swivelled her regard to the other guest in the room. With eyebrows raised in question, she went on, “Very pleased to meet you—?”
“Theoluin Yorezhan,” he answered, then eyed her as if she were gourmet food. “So, you’re the new girl.”
Miranda dropped her chin. “I assure you, Mr. Yorezhan, that you’ll be pleased with my services.”
“Call me Theoluin … Hard worker, are you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but hard work is not enough. You need someone with vision. I have vision.”
He recoiled, with a smirk of amusement. “Ah, good to hear. I have the ideas, and you’ll run with them.”
Her face lit up with a genuine smile. “If it’s a challenge you bring to me,” she said, “then I’m your girl.”
The two men exchanged a hooded-eye glance. “That’s great to hear,” Theoluin replied. “I’m looking to market a neural upgrade. Tell me, what do you think of enhanced cognition?”
“Nice jacket,” Kimmie said.
“Fuck off,” Lioriana replied, hanging the jacket on a hook. “You’re never getting your grubby paws on it.”
“You’re mean.”
“Whatever … Where’s Mom and Dad?”
“Out.”
Lioriana ignored Kimmie’s pout and marched to the bedroom she shared with two-year-old Donal. The toddler was alone, sitting on the threadbare rug, playing with his blocks. “Who’s watching you?” Lioriana asked him.
“I’m a big boy,” he replied.
She popped her brows and then, Miranda’s card in hand, threw herself to lay on her back in the bed. The gold, embossed letters, in bold script, earned an internal well, la-di-da.
Miranda Montague, Innovation and Integration Fellow, Interface Industries.
There had to be some gain to be made in this new connection. She’d seen the woman at the soup kitchen before, and probably would again. A story—that’s what she needed, some sort of sob story. The sophisticated woman had probably never sobbed in her whole entire life, but she sure liked to drown herself in the sobbing of others. Soup kitchen volunteer—yeah, right, what a saint, Lioriana thought with a purse of her lips. There was only one reason anyone would feed the lowly, and that was to feel better about the emptiness of their own high-falutin’ lives.
Donal came toddling over to the bed. “Up,” he said.
Lioriana pulled him up and opened her arm for him. His head lay in the crook of her shoulder. She sniffed, then crinkled her nose. “Oh, man,” she said, “you need a diaper change.”
“I pooped,” he replied.
“You’re too old for diapers.”
With a sigh, she got out of the bed and picked Donal up in her arms. “The shit I have to put up with,” she muttered, “—literally.”
She washed his bum in the bathroom sink. He splashed, slapping his little chubby hands in the water between his legs. “Quit it,” Lioriana snapped. “You’re getting me all wet.”
Instead of quitting it, he giggled, and slapped the water harder. Lioriana rolled her eyes. “You’re a little terror,” she muttered.
An idea struck her. What could be more heart-wrenching than a young single mother without resources? Yes, she would play mushy Miranda for all she was worth. “Hey, champ,” she said.
“Champ,” Donal repeated.
“How’d you like to pretend I am your mother?”
***
Miranda couldn’t believe how full her email inbox was, and it was only her first day on the job. The survey from Human Resources was excruciating. She got welcomes from fourteen different departments, and the Policy and Procedures of the Department of Innovation and Integration bored with minutiae. But it all made her feel kind of important.
She leaned back in her sleek, ergonomic chair. Her office was small, but bright. She might have chosen wood over the glass-topped, stainless-steel-framed desk she was assigned, but she would make do. She preferred traditional over industrial, but she had to adapt.
Her father, Chief Technology Officer Carter Montague, stopped by in the late morning. He halted in the doorway, and leaned on the door jamb. “Settling in?” he asked.
She smiled. “Yes, Dad, just getting the preliminaries taken care of.”
He nodded. “The big guy will come see you after lunch with one of our major investors.”
“Yeah, I know. Great.”
“Listen, more than you talk.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Don’t contradict anything they say.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“If you screw up, it’s hard to recover—”
“Dad—”
“Your best strategy is to agree with anything they say, at least for now—”
“Dad!” she interjected, and gave him the bug-eyes. “I know how to act.”
“Okay, okay, see you later.” He blew out his breath. “Good luck,” he summed up, then strode away.
Miranda tried not to let her father’s harassment dampen her sense of confidence, but she wished he’d come with encouragement, instead of dire warnings. Did he really think she was so incompetent?
She went down to the first-floor cafeteria for lunch and had a roasted chickpea, tomato and chicken bowl. When she returned to her office, the CEO of Interface Industries himself, Myron Pritchard, was sitting before her desk. Beside him sat a middle-aged elf dressed as a human, in a three-piece-suit. His silver hair was pulled back with a golden pin which Miranda thought gaudy. He turned a smarmy grin to her, a mixture of inspection and judgement, which made her uncomfortable.
She rushed to her chair. “So sorry,” she said, “if I have kept you waiting.”
“Na, na,” Myron replied, coming forward, “quite alright. You’re not late, we’re early.”
Settled, she clasped her hands on the desk, and began, “Mr. Pritchard—”
“Myron, please.”
“Okay, then, Myron—I just want to say how very excited I am to begin my duties.” She swivelled her regard to the other guest in the room. With eyebrows raised in question, she went on, “Very pleased to meet you—?”
“Theoluin Yorezhan,” he answered, then eyed her as if she were gourmet food. “So, you’re the new girl.”
Miranda dropped her chin. “I assure you, Mr. Yorezhan, that you’ll be pleased with my services.”
“Call me Theoluin … Hard worker, are you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but hard work is not enough. You need someone with vision. I have vision.”
He recoiled, with a smirk of amusement. “Ah, good to hear. I have the ideas, and you’ll run with them.”
Her face lit up with a genuine smile. “If it’s a challenge you bring to me,” she said, “then I’m your girl.”
The two men exchanged a hooded-eye glance. “That’s great to hear,” Theoluin replied. “I’m looking to market a neural upgrade. Tell me, what do you think of enhanced cognition?”
Elidel, Lev 350, Human Quarter
Alasdair loved when his schedule was wide open. He didn't have a job assignment with the cleaning service for the next five days, so almost a full week to do whatever he wanted. He checked his secret stache (inside a carved-out dictionary on the bookcase) and was momentarily confused why there were only seven hundred Elvish notes and five hundred Human credits. Then he remembered all the groceries, tech, and clothes he bought online and would be arriving at various times throughout the week. He had also sent a hundred to his gangleader friend Mark, who would probably wake up from a drugged stupor and be surprised by the bank notification on his cracked old phone. Alasdair left a comment with the bank transfer that read, "Got the bag!!!" This would make Mark think he had stolen something good, when in reality all he'd gotten was a grubby old stone ring and a big tip from an obscenely rich woman.
Heck, she could afford to send me a couple more hundreds, Alasdair thought as he stuffed the money into beige leather passenger bag that he slung across his torso. As he put on some blue-tinted gold glasses and a fluffed his lanky curls in the mirror by the door, he began to wonder about Mrs Darling. She was married to a high ranking Elf, rumors said, but Alasdair had never seen him. But it was also entirely possible he worked all day or he traveled for work, or maybe he had been there one of the times he cleaned and they just didn't bump into each other. It crossed Alasdair's mind that the stone ring may be of Elvish make. Hmm, Alasdair thought as he glanced back towards his room where the ring was hidden along with his other stolen goodies in a secret compartment nailed to the wall just outside of his bedroom window. It was disguised as a rusty old electrical engine to power the floor, but inside it was lined with filled with jewels and gold. And just like his money dictionary, the "engine" was lined with lead to prevent snooping. Plus, Alasdair had installed an especially loud alarm that would trigger if anyone tried to break into the disguised safe. That was more than likely enough to scare away even the most hardy burglars.
Elidel, Lev 266, Human Quarter
Alasdair picked a fleck off his cream white sweater before heading out on his hov scooter, zooming through the skies at an urgent pace. He was still thinking about the stone ring as he soared higher and higher, ever higher, through the faint fog of pollution and into a cleaner, less stinky atmosphere.
If the ring is of Elvish make, does it follow that it is also ensorcelled? Does it belong to Mrs Darling, or Mr Darling? Who is its Master? Vague notions of Ring Masters and sorcery flitted through Alasdair's mind as his soaring speed came to a halt in a traffic jam. Dozens of hovering transports were jammed in the entrance of the MegaMall where Alasdair was headed for a bit of shopping. (Yes, he had bought some things online, but he still had the shopping bug.) While Alasdair waited for the damn vehicles to start moving, and several traffic security droids appeared to try to alleviate the situation, he decided to put thoughts of a magical ring out of his mind. He had taken a few magical coarses, but hardly retained much information about it. He Major was always Psychology and didn't give Sorcery Studies much attention. It wasn't like he had ever shown any great talent with that sort of stuff. No, he could barely produce a ball of light when his old tutor, Mr Humphrey, told him to.
Finally the jam was released, the traffic droids fell back, and Alasdair flew into the mall, flanked on both sides by elevated walkways an countless shops and eateries. He parked at the first book shop, a quaint little place called 'Ye Olde Ink Shoppe' with a trained grey wolf-dog at the entrance. Alasdair sighed at the joyous smell of fresh paper as he used a silver chain to secure his scooter on one of the many rails along the walkways. It was Mr Humphrey himself who introduced Alasdair to Ye Olde Ink Shoppe and would take him here for all of his educational supplies and such like. Well... until his parents vanished and he had no more expensive personal tutors, of course.
That was a painful thought. It made Alasdair freeze up at the store entrance and stop breathing for a second. He had to take a deep inhalation and hold back tears for a moment. The wolf-dog (who's name Alasdair currently couldn't remember) raised its large head to look at Alasdair for a half second, probably wondering why he had stopped. It made a little "whuff" sound and went back to staring at the traffic outside and slowly wagging its huge curly grey tail.
The wolf-dogs behavior made Alasdair grin, which helped him swallow the pain that was lodge in his chest. He adjust his shoulder strap and cleared his throat before continuing into the shop. If there was something Alasdair never wanted to discuss, it was his parents abandoning him as a reckless, devil-may-care young adult. The subject always made him emotional and invoked tears. Every single time.
But shopping was perfect for distracting him and evening his mood. Ye Olde Ink Shoppe was his favorite place to spend money, as well. He stayed there for hours, browsing the writing supplies and checking out the fancy leather journals. (He already had two unfinished journals, but why not get another one?) There was even a section of the Shoppe in the corner with a coffee bar and high iron stools and a few square tables. When he left, with two heavy parcels under each arm, the store owner Ms Kategorie rushed out from behind her wide desk to tell him they offered a new same-day delivery service. Ms Kategorie glanced sideways at his hov scooter, indicating she knew that it would slow down my ride if I took all those bags with me. Alasdair's cinnamon brow face turned a little red with embarrassment as he smiled and accepted her offer. It's past time I got a bigger vehicle, he thought while ruffling through his passenger bag for some notes to pay for the delivery. Ms Kategorie stopped him by touching his wrist and saying "the first time is free".
Next, Alasdair watched a new action movie called 'The Gods Return', went to get a massage, then went to sit at the Tea Spot and write in his new journal about his day while sipping a perfectly chilled guava-passionfruit-kiwi-lime confection. He wrote:
'Hello Journal. Today was brilliant. I like spending time alone, just me and my thoughts, to rejuvenate my Spirit, if there is such a thing. I was never overly religious but I do pray sometimes. Speaking of, I "found" this ring that might have an enchantment on it. An Elvish ring, perhaps. I should look into that, it would sell for a pretty penny, I bet. Then I could get a fancy ride and take some women back to my place. Or some boys, if the opportunity arises. But I can't have my friends over, sadly. They would ask too many questions about how I can afford a place and all my other belongings if Im supposedly a street rat like them. I would send Mark more money if it wouldn't make him suspicious. I wish I could give him three hundred dollars. Hmm, maybe I'll think of a way to secretly transfer him some cash later. Whatever, I guess I'll return to these thoughts at another hour, my drink is gone and I feel like going home for a quick nap. Goodbye Journal.'
Alasdair hurried home and found his Shoppe items huddled on the small landing porch of his place. Below him, he could hear the laundromat machines rolling and banging. A glance at his phone let him know that it was midday, the highest time of laundromat activity, so he planned to turn on some waterfall sounds on his wireless speakers inside so he could sleep better. After putting all his shopping things away in his closet and planning to rearrange them after his nap, he stripped nude and plopped into bed, yanking the soft linen blanket over himself. Right before nodding off, he got a buzz on his phone and it was a text from Mark.
It read: 'Thanks for the cash my mans. Good looking dawg.'
Grinning sleepily, Alasdair responded: 'You deserve it Twin. Much love.'
Mark texted back: 'All love my brutha. You're my main one, like for real for real. I appreciate you.'
Alasdair smiled wider. He better stop being so flattering or I'll fall in love. Chuckling softly, he rolled over after hooking up his phone to his laptop on the bedside table. Alasdair decided to reply to the message when he woke up, but there was another buzz and after a long moment, slipping in and out of consciousness, Alasdair drowsily reached over without looking to grab his phone. He opened one eye to see what the text was about, then opened both eyes in shock.
'You know Theolin?'
Everyone deeply involved in the crime world knew of Theolin. He was like the boogieman. The Big Boss. Some called him the Final Boss.
'What about him?' Alasdair replied swiftly.
'I've heard tell that he's on the move,' Mark explained. 'He may be close. Stay safe. His men will kill you just for getting in his way. ▄︻テ══━一
BOOM BOP BAM! Hahahahaha! 𓆩
𓆪'
Alasdair smiled even harder and sent back one more text before cradling the phone like a baby and falling completely asleep.
The text read: 'Thanks for the warning. I'll be careful. You're my heart.
❤
'
~~~~~~~
Across town, in the lower, lower levels, Saintmarc Lucio was walking a slime-covered bridge heading to the local market to buy whatever wilted vegetables he could when Alasdair sent the last message...and the emojis? Saintmarc stopped walking for a whole minute before shaking his head and continuing on. Alasdair wasn't gay, or was he? Nah, he was just being funny. We tight like that.
Alasdair loved when his schedule was wide open. He didn't have a job assignment with the cleaning service for the next five days, so almost a full week to do whatever he wanted. He checked his secret stache (inside a carved-out dictionary on the bookcase) and was momentarily confused why there were only seven hundred Elvish notes and five hundred Human credits. Then he remembered all the groceries, tech, and clothes he bought online and would be arriving at various times throughout the week. He had also sent a hundred to his gangleader friend Mark, who would probably wake up from a drugged stupor and be surprised by the bank notification on his cracked old phone. Alasdair left a comment with the bank transfer that read, "Got the bag!!!" This would make Mark think he had stolen something good, when in reality all he'd gotten was a grubby old stone ring and a big tip from an obscenely rich woman.
Heck, she could afford to send me a couple more hundreds, Alasdair thought as he stuffed the money into beige leather passenger bag that he slung across his torso. As he put on some blue-tinted gold glasses and a fluffed his lanky curls in the mirror by the door, he began to wonder about Mrs Darling. She was married to a high ranking Elf, rumors said, but Alasdair had never seen him. But it was also entirely possible he worked all day or he traveled for work, or maybe he had been there one of the times he cleaned and they just didn't bump into each other. It crossed Alasdair's mind that the stone ring may be of Elvish make. Hmm, Alasdair thought as he glanced back towards his room where the ring was hidden along with his other stolen goodies in a secret compartment nailed to the wall just outside of his bedroom window. It was disguised as a rusty old electrical engine to power the floor, but inside it was lined with filled with jewels and gold. And just like his money dictionary, the "engine" was lined with lead to prevent snooping. Plus, Alasdair had installed an especially loud alarm that would trigger if anyone tried to break into the disguised safe. That was more than likely enough to scare away even the most hardy burglars.
Elidel, Lev 266, Human Quarter
Alasdair picked a fleck off his cream white sweater before heading out on his hov scooter, zooming through the skies at an urgent pace. He was still thinking about the stone ring as he soared higher and higher, ever higher, through the faint fog of pollution and into a cleaner, less stinky atmosphere.
If the ring is of Elvish make, does it follow that it is also ensorcelled? Does it belong to Mrs Darling, or Mr Darling? Who is its Master? Vague notions of Ring Masters and sorcery flitted through Alasdair's mind as his soaring speed came to a halt in a traffic jam. Dozens of hovering transports were jammed in the entrance of the MegaMall where Alasdair was headed for a bit of shopping. (Yes, he had bought some things online, but he still had the shopping bug.) While Alasdair waited for the damn vehicles to start moving, and several traffic security droids appeared to try to alleviate the situation, he decided to put thoughts of a magical ring out of his mind. He had taken a few magical coarses, but hardly retained much information about it. He Major was always Psychology and didn't give Sorcery Studies much attention. It wasn't like he had ever shown any great talent with that sort of stuff. No, he could barely produce a ball of light when his old tutor, Mr Humphrey, told him to.
Finally the jam was released, the traffic droids fell back, and Alasdair flew into the mall, flanked on both sides by elevated walkways an countless shops and eateries. He parked at the first book shop, a quaint little place called 'Ye Olde Ink Shoppe' with a trained grey wolf-dog at the entrance. Alasdair sighed at the joyous smell of fresh paper as he used a silver chain to secure his scooter on one of the many rails along the walkways. It was Mr Humphrey himself who introduced Alasdair to Ye Olde Ink Shoppe and would take him here for all of his educational supplies and such like. Well... until his parents vanished and he had no more expensive personal tutors, of course.
That was a painful thought. It made Alasdair freeze up at the store entrance and stop breathing for a second. He had to take a deep inhalation and hold back tears for a moment. The wolf-dog (who's name Alasdair currently couldn't remember) raised its large head to look at Alasdair for a half second, probably wondering why he had stopped. It made a little "whuff" sound and went back to staring at the traffic outside and slowly wagging its huge curly grey tail.
The wolf-dogs behavior made Alasdair grin, which helped him swallow the pain that was lodge in his chest. He adjust his shoulder strap and cleared his throat before continuing into the shop. If there was something Alasdair never wanted to discuss, it was his parents abandoning him as a reckless, devil-may-care young adult. The subject always made him emotional and invoked tears. Every single time.
But shopping was perfect for distracting him and evening his mood. Ye Olde Ink Shoppe was his favorite place to spend money, as well. He stayed there for hours, browsing the writing supplies and checking out the fancy leather journals. (He already had two unfinished journals, but why not get another one?) There was even a section of the Shoppe in the corner with a coffee bar and high iron stools and a few square tables. When he left, with two heavy parcels under each arm, the store owner Ms Kategorie rushed out from behind her wide desk to tell him they offered a new same-day delivery service. Ms Kategorie glanced sideways at his hov scooter, indicating she knew that it would slow down my ride if I took all those bags with me. Alasdair's cinnamon brow face turned a little red with embarrassment as he smiled and accepted her offer. It's past time I got a bigger vehicle, he thought while ruffling through his passenger bag for some notes to pay for the delivery. Ms Kategorie stopped him by touching his wrist and saying "the first time is free".
Next, Alasdair watched a new action movie called 'The Gods Return', went to get a massage, then went to sit at the Tea Spot and write in his new journal about his day while sipping a perfectly chilled guava-passionfruit-kiwi-lime confection. He wrote:
'Hello Journal. Today was brilliant. I like spending time alone, just me and my thoughts, to rejuvenate my Spirit, if there is such a thing. I was never overly religious but I do pray sometimes. Speaking of, I "found" this ring that might have an enchantment on it. An Elvish ring, perhaps. I should look into that, it would sell for a pretty penny, I bet. Then I could get a fancy ride and take some women back to my place. Or some boys, if the opportunity arises. But I can't have my friends over, sadly. They would ask too many questions about how I can afford a place and all my other belongings if Im supposedly a street rat like them. I would send Mark more money if it wouldn't make him suspicious. I wish I could give him three hundred dollars. Hmm, maybe I'll think of a way to secretly transfer him some cash later. Whatever, I guess I'll return to these thoughts at another hour, my drink is gone and I feel like going home for a quick nap. Goodbye Journal.'
Alasdair hurried home and found his Shoppe items huddled on the small landing porch of his place. Below him, he could hear the laundromat machines rolling and banging. A glance at his phone let him know that it was midday, the highest time of laundromat activity, so he planned to turn on some waterfall sounds on his wireless speakers inside so he could sleep better. After putting all his shopping things away in his closet and planning to rearrange them after his nap, he stripped nude and plopped into bed, yanking the soft linen blanket over himself. Right before nodding off, he got a buzz on his phone and it was a text from Mark.
It read: 'Thanks for the cash my mans. Good looking dawg.'
Grinning sleepily, Alasdair responded: 'You deserve it Twin. Much love.'
Mark texted back: 'All love my brutha. You're my main one, like for real for real. I appreciate you.'
Alasdair smiled wider. He better stop being so flattering or I'll fall in love. Chuckling softly, he rolled over after hooking up his phone to his laptop on the bedside table. Alasdair decided to reply to the message when he woke up, but there was another buzz and after a long moment, slipping in and out of consciousness, Alasdair drowsily reached over without looking to grab his phone. He opened one eye to see what the text was about, then opened both eyes in shock.
'You know Theolin?'
Everyone deeply involved in the crime world knew of Theolin. He was like the boogieman. The Big Boss. Some called him the Final Boss.
'What about him?' Alasdair replied swiftly.
'I've heard tell that he's on the move,' Mark explained. 'He may be close. Stay safe. His men will kill you just for getting in his way. ▄︻テ══━一
BOOM BOP BAM! Hahahahaha! 𓆩𓆪'Alasdair smiled even harder and sent back one more text before cradling the phone like a baby and falling completely asleep.
The text read: 'Thanks for the warning. I'll be careful. You're my heart.
❤' ~~~~~~~
Across town, in the lower, lower levels, Saintmarc Lucio was walking a slime-covered bridge heading to the local market to buy whatever wilted vegetables he could when Alasdair sent the last message...and the emojis? Saintmarc stopped walking for a whole minute before shaking his head and continuing on. Alasdair wasn't gay, or was he? Nah, he was just being funny. We tight like that.
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