sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow

Now, I could just make a joke about this and move on (“arrived at the harassment training and the instructor insulted me and grabbed my ass. I have so much to learn”) but I CAN’T, because of the linguistic implications of this…

The thing is, these phrases are not remotely ambiguous! People consistently interpret “safety training” to mean “pro-safety training” and “harassment training” to mean “anti-harassment training,” so much so that when the meanings of these types of phrases are inverted, it’s seen as a joke (eg this story) because of its unexpectedness.

By this logic, people hear the word following “training” and instinctively classify it as good/netural or bad, and assign the meaning of the whole phrase on that basis. So I could come up with two completely new “[noun] training” phrases (“divination training” and “nausea training,” say) and you would immediately conclude that the neutral/positive one probably trains you to do the thing, and the negative one probably trains you to prevent the thing (or at least to lessen the negative impact of the thing).

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Prompt: “Shouldn’t be done”

Fandom: original work

Martian steel, I hear, is worth a fortune on Earth. Not so on Mars, where I can scale a fence made of the stuff in half a minute and not even blink as my bolt cutters snap barbed wire. Little shards flake off, and I brush them away, to let them flutter down to the regolith below— dust they are, and to dust they shall return.

I hop down. My canvas shoes kick up a cloud of rusty silica, and I cough— my breather’s cheaper than I am, and even good-quality ones are only supposed to last half a Martian year. This was the first one I bought at the spaceport, an hour after I touched down, four years ago.

Still, silicosis and perchlorate poisoning are long-term problems for people with cash in their pockets. I swallow another cough and trudge through the dust to the foundry door. Steel again. I yank it open.

This place is a crime. Shouldn’t have been built, when I get potato-and-algae slop for every meal and I have to buy my own oxygen masks— but the only thing more expensive than forging Martian steel is getting it down to Earth. And since launches are a once-a-year splurge, it just piles up here. Our dirt is rust, but our factories and warehouses are pure steel. It’s not like it’ll corrode in our carbon dioxide air.

But building barbed-wire fences and industrial facilities out of the most expensive substance known to humanity isn’t a crime. You know what is a crime? Breaking and entering. My indenture has a clause about that. Oh, they can’t kill me, but they “reserve the right to bar company employees from company housing for any reason, including but not limited to failure to follow company, local, or planetary laws and restrictions.” But “homelessness” isn’t really a thing when your atmosphere is a light dusting of CO2. You either have housing or you’re dead.

The forge went out a while ago. I start up the bellows with a touch of a button, and the pure oxygen ignites. I turn it up until I can feel the heat even through my pressure suit. Then I get to work.

My gloves are scorched and sweaty by the time I’m through, and even in my suit, I’m flush with the thrill of these eighteen illegal, tiny, sharpened pen nibs. I shouldn’t have done it. But, for the first time in four Martian years, I feel like I did something right.

My steelworking training, the scraps in the bin— I was just putting them to good use.

Leaving the foundry is trickier than getting in. There’s a guard who does his rounds, and I have to be smart about waiting for his buggy to get out of sight. Hoping he doesn’t catch my IR signature with his goggles, I scale the fence the way I came in and hop down.

In the centre of town, there’s a church, attached to a canteen and a mission school. Nice place. Good if your job kicks you out on your ass and you want a last meal before your O2 runs out. The missionary who runs it, Deneb, isn’t an indenture; he came here of his own accord, on his church’s dime. Nevertheless, he’s not sanctimonious about it. He understands the urges and ugliness of humanity.

I meet him in the alley behind the church, under the window of his little bedroom. From down here, I can see the lamp’s still on. He hurried downstairs to meet me. I can’t help but grin.

“Here,” I say, and before he can respond, I shove the box of pen nibs into his hands. His smile is dark and gleaming in the shadows under his visor.

“Thank you,” he says in amazement, running his gloved hands over the box before opening it up. “The kids will love these. They’ve been begging me for more art supplies for weeks. How did you get them?”

“Made them myself,” I boast. “They’re Martian steel.”

“That’s expensive,” Deneb marvels. “You really bought the ore and everything? For this?”

“Didn’t have to. The shop has piles of scrap.”

Deneb’s adorable smile disappears. “So you stole it.”

I scowl. “It’s not stealing if I’m donating these to charity. Isn’t it you who’s always telling me to do what’s right?”

“I can’t accept them if they’re stolen. You know that.”

This is where he draws the line? “Look,” I say, “Mars has stolen my money and my lungs, and pretty soon it’ll probably take my life too. I’ll take what I want from the foundry, damn it.”

Deneb flinches. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he says coldly, and he holds the box out to me.

Fandom: original work

Prompt: "One more chance"

[content warnings: harm to animals, torture]

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Khi adjusted his rifle sights and squinted into the lowering sun. All day he’d been waiting at the crest of these cliffs, crouched among the scrub and staring out at the glare off the sea until a harpoon headache pierced him between the eyes. Verune had said there wasn’t enough cash for more time, so this was it: his last shot…

A loud bark interrupted the silence. Khi glanced down the shore. Two bodyguards marched down the beach, two spear-lengths apart. Only two.

Behind them, ambling with a nobleman’s genteel nonchalance, came Prince Sounder— his target. Khi hunched lower.

The prince’s dog, a medium-sized, long-coated beast, trotted over the sand, bouncing between the surf and the prince’s side. Backlit by the setting sun, the prince smiled. Khi levelled his rifle.

The dog would be a problem. The prince had been deaf since childhood, and though he wouldn’t hear any missed shots, his pet would. So Khi had one last shot, to bring down the man who had ordered the invasion of his homeland…

He took aim.

~~

“So,” the interrogator says gruffly, “why’d you do it?”

The palace dungeon has a rhythm. Good days, bad days. Today is a good day. They gave him a comb, a bowl of water, even some bandages to bind his wounds, and they took him to this small room, the flickery electric lighting supplemented by a lantern on the table.

“Fuck you,” Khi says, enunciating clearly around his swollen jaw.

The interrogator smacks him across the face, and Khi’s head snaps back. “No need to prove to me that your people are troublemakers,” the man snarls, and Khi cups a hand to his cheek and swallows his scream. “Come on. Who sent you?”

“I could’ve shot him,” Khi mumbles. “I was merciful. You should thank me.”

“If you won’t cooperate, we’ll send you back to your cell,” the interrogator warns, and damn it, Khi can’t help it if he starts shaking at the thought.

“I know nothing,” he whispers, his voice suddenly deserting him. “I’m a pawn. Nothing more.”

The interrogator snorts. “Sure. A pawn who tries, all of a sudden, for checkmate.”

~~

Between the dog’s butterfly-like darting and the sunset behind the sea, Khi couldn’t hope for an accurate shot. He couldn’t aim at the prince, either— if he missed, the dog would take swift action to protect its master. And it was likely he would miss.

No, the dog would be his first target. He’d take it out while it frolicked in the surf, out of sight. Then, when Prince Sounder noticed his favourite beast’s absence, he would hesitate. And Khi would fire.

The party was moving farther down the beach now, away from Khi’s spot on the cliff. He had but a few moments— the sun would only get more distracting as it set. This was his one last shot.

The kickback drove the stock into his shoulder; ringing split his ears. The dog, ankle-deep in surf, whined and fell, the white-and-scarlet sea foam submerging its muzzle.

Khi reloaded. A moment later, Prince Sounder turned.

The prince’s eyes landed on the dog, on its side in the bloody surf steps away, and he screamed: a long, high, keening sound like a steam train off the rails, steel scraping steel. Khi levelled his rifle and—

Fire, he thought, staring at Prince Sounder. This close, he could see the seething grief on the prince’s face, outlined by the setting sun. Fire, damn it!

His trigger finger was frozen. The bodyguards ran back over the damp sand, their pistols drawn— but one paused to scan the cliffs.

The sun was behind him. He didn’t need to squint.

“Assassin!” he shouted, and suddenly all three figures were in motion, one dragging the prince to his feet, signing urgently, the other making for the cliffs. Khi could shoot him, could reload— he had his finger on the trigger, he was a good shot…

He did not move as the second bodyguard reached him, hauled him from his hiding place, and yanked the still-loaded rifle from his hands. He did not move as he watched the expression on the prince’s face: shock and blunt agony and a desire for revenge as deep as the sea that lapped at his heels.

~~

In the dark, Khi hears, rather than sees, the bolt on his door sliding aside. Should he run? No, he’s too weak to make it far; today was one of the bad days. Better to take what they have in store for him.

In steps Prince Sounder. The light from his lantern glints off his shoes and the buttons of his coat. Khi can’t bear to look at him.

He can’t bear to look away.

The prince passes Khi a stiff pad of paper. A few words— in Khi’s own tongue— are written across the top in elegant script. Who do you work for?

Khi looks up at him. Wordlessly, the prince places a fountain pen and a jar of ink on the table.

Khi could refuse. But he’s been tied up for so long, been beaten and burned and bled so many times, he’s not sure what the point is anymore. By now, Verune and Shona and the rest have almost certainly moved to another safe house, their ties with the would-be royal assassin irrevocably cut. He is just a pawn. And a pawn should recognize a king.

He thinks of the prince’s dog, lying dead on the shore. He thinks of the expression on the prince’s face, how perfectly it captured how it felt to feel chains snapping around his wrists, to know this was his one last shot at seeing a sunset.

But if this man tries to seek out his employers, all hell will break loose.

Dainix from Aurora x “The Boxer” (Paul Simon)

Been a while! But this one was fun to write.

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Iteration #748

You roll through the portal like a Coke can out of a vending machine. Within seconds, you’re on your hands and knees, fighting for breath on the muddy ground— but it’s no use. You’ve been here before. The demons rise out of the bushes, and you close your eyes.

Sometimes it’s quick. Sometimes the loop restarts just moments after you land. The demons are vicious enemies, and you can never be sure if she will come save you.

You hear a thud, and raise your head. She stands over you, her gold eyes broken by slit pupils. She sticks her sword in the demon’s corpse and puts out a hand.

“Need some help?” she asks.

Those are always her first lines. You take her hand and pull yourself to her feet.

She doesn’t always join you on your quest. Sometimes, you explain your objective (the Shadow Lord’s silver key, to open the portal) and she scowls, wishes you luck, and beats feet. This time, though, she offers to stick around, and you accept her offer. It’s almost worse, that you do— you know how it will end. The runs always last longer with her at your side, though.

Whenever you remember, you ask her name, and she always tells you something different— Sagrada, or Bolt, or Melancholy, something achingly sharp and familiar that sounds like a slit throat. This time, she’s Helia. She narrows her eyes as she says it, hand on her hip.

You say, “That’s a beautiful name.”

She blinks, off guard. “Thank you.”

You journey through the wilderness for weeks, growing in strength, training with Helia to use the weapons you find rusting in abandoned guard posts. Demons hold sway over this region, she explains (verbatim, every time), led by the Shadow Lord. If you want to get to his castle alive, she says, you need to stay sharp. And watch your back.

The night on the cliff, you’re resting when a gang of wolf-demons sneak up on you. You’re too slow, and they back you right up against the edge, snarling, fangs gleaming with black saliva. You shut your eyes, and think— you don’t care if you survive, you know you’ll come through the portal again— you just hope that Helia—

And there she is, cutting down the leading wolf-demon with fire in her golden eyes. You dispatch the rest of them and catch your breath under the cool, silent stars. Helia has a bite on her shoulder; you clean the torn hash of skin and carefully wrap it up, feeling her battle-breathless heartbeat under your fingers.

“I told you,” she says gruffly, looking away, “to watch your back.”

Sometimes this is when she does it. Not tonight, though. “Helia,” you ask, “why are you here? On this quest with me?”

A smirk slides across her face. “You just seemed like you could use the help,” she says. It’s a line you’ve heard dozens of times before.

“No,” you say, “really. Why join me? Don’t you…” Don’t you know how this ends?

She shrugs, then winces. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You’ve asked her about the loop before, and she’s always blown you off, confused. But even still, in the back of her mind…

There is no room in your mouth for the words, I love you. So you keep quiet.

The castle is surrounded by a moat of bubbling blood and shrouded in smoke. You and Helia leap across the moat— your new magic sword lets you fly— and slash your way through the halls until you reach the throne room.

You pause outside the door. Helia’s pale, her golden eyes uncertain. On impulse, you squeeze her hand, and she looks at you in surprise.

“Ready?” you ask her.

She nods. The line of her jaw trembles. “Ready.”

You burst through the door. Sometimes, the Shadow Lord has assembled his armies, but this time your infiltration was quiet enough that it’s just him. He sits on his throne, his fingers steepled under his hound-dog grin.

“Daughter,” he says, “you’ve brought me a fine hero indeed.”

You look at Helia. Her jaw is clenched. But her golden eyes— same as her father’s— are steady.

This is where she betrays you. Where she throws off her sheep’s clothing and joins her father, and you fight them both at once— and not even your magic sword can save you. Always, you’re thrown to the ground, and blackness slams into your vision, and then you’re through the portal again, wondering if this time will be any different, knowing that it won’t be.

Helia glances at you. Her eyelashes are fairy-fine over her slit pupils. Then she turns, raises her sword, and charges the Shadow Lord.

At first, you’re frozen with shock. But then you draw your own sword and leap up to parry the Shadow Lord’s blow.

You fight. It’s long and grueling. You lose an arm, and Helia holds her palm against her stomach to keep her intestines inside her. But when the Shadow Lord staggers and falls to the ground, the light going out of his golden eyes, you— both of you— are still standing.

The village celebrates that night. You drink enough that your head starts to go foggy, so you lay it on Helia’s shoulder. She puts an arm around you, carefully avoiding your stump. Blood lines her knuckles.

“Thank you,” you say, not sure where the words are coming from. “I thought you were going to betray me.” Like you always do.

She strokes your hair and considers this for a long time. “I almost did,” she says. “But I decided against it.”

“Why?” you ask.

She kisses your forehead. “You’re too nice to betray,” she says.

You think of the silver key around your neck. Your next stop is the portal, where you’ll slot it into the keyhole and turn it, to move on to whatever comes next.