Pledge Night

Tae stared down at the steps, the first step in particular. It was a reflection of the house itself. Old, weathered, the remnants of a withered leaf trapped forever in the crack in the oak planks. A sharp contrast to her new kicks, the six steps leading up to the front porch were bleached and graying. Cracked and on the verge of collapse. Painted by an age of decay and neglect.

That first step looked like a mistake, but this was pledge night, and she had to do it.

The place was what Tasha and Alice had said it was. The house was a veritable shithole, when it came right down to it. Uninhabited for generations. A blight on the edge of town. A cancerous sore the sleepy college town of Acosta refused to diagnose and treat. Why? Why had the old Stevenson home been allowed to fester just outside the town’s environs?

Because it was haunted, of course, and every town needs a haunted house.

“Come on, bitch,” said Alice, standing at the top of the sixth step, just under the sagging porch roof. She motioned with her flashlight, a rolled up sleeping bag tucked neatly under her other arm. “GLO awaits!”

Tae’s head lifted, her eyes taking in the old place up close and personal. She found Alice’s eager face under her shock of jet black hair and smiled back as she took in the view. Not of the house, but of Alice. The tattoos down her right arm like jagged glass fitted back together with cheap glue. Her usual black leather jacket over a mishmash of Wicca charms on leather tongs that fell between her breasts. Just a bikini top and a pair of cut-offs, and her usual black-on-black Chucks. A senior. A veteran of this place, the GLOs and Acosta. And the only girl who’d ever gotten her fingers inside Tae’s pussy.

Tae sighed, watched the hot little pre-med student turn on a dime and disappear into the shadows through the front door. What was on the other side of that hole? Alice, for one, and she’d already hinted at throwing her sleeping bag down next to Tae’s, maybe zipping them up together for warmth. The freshman bit her lip -- the idea of this white girl sucking on her fingers again and sliding them in — fuck. Was that what this night was about, or was she just lucky?

Or maybe it was just the heat of the day making her delirious. It had been nearly a hundred, and there was no way this old house had AC, so she’d packed accordingly. A lite linen t-shirt and jean shorts and flips. She’d left the bra at home. And panties; who even bothered with them anymore? She looked around, her eyes casting up and down the dark road that went by the old house, a nod to the van Jenny had driven to get them all here, and then a shrug. This was her night, and if that meant Alice between her legs for the duration, maybe the creepiness of this whole thing wouldn’t get to her.

It was pledge night, after all, she reminded herself, trying to let the anxiety building flush itself out. Six weeks into her first semester at Acosta U, and heat or not, creepy ass house or not, a few bitches she didn’t like or not, this was the final night, the final step to acceptance into Gamma Lambda Omega, and she was ready to get her GLO on!

She was a legacy, after all. But she had to do it. No recommendations from her sister could get her through. No calls from her mother. Both of them GLO girls. Both of them graduates of Acosta, and both of them fearless. Women whose resumes were long and storied. Women who got shit done. And all of it started here, they’d said. At Acosta. With GLO. Right here at this creepy old fucking house.

“No way.”

“Way,” said Alice when she dropped her sleeping bag in the middle of the old house’s living room next to a dozen other girls doing the same. She looked at Tae. “Stay close and you’ll be okay. You’ll see.” She winked, and turned, watching the other girls setting up camp in the dark.

Flashlight beams played across the room, dust motes dancing in the rays of light as the ten pledges and their two pledge captains settled in. Giggles and grunts, someone humming a tune, phone notifications. The old house bustled with life a few times a year, Tasha had said. That’s how often they came back. It started so long ago that they didn’t even know when the first pledge night had taken place, but they did know that it was tradition, and it was freaky fun, so they’d made a thing of it some ten or so years ago. All the sisters, sleeping bags, snacks, booze, and the creepy sounds of the house shifting all around them, as if it was alive.

Tasha pressed something into Tae’s hand, startling her, and then the shadow of the one other black girl in the group passed by. It was a hard seltzer, ice cold, raspberry, and it would do. She preferred beer, but campus bitches liked seltzer. It would do. She cracked the top and tipped the can up to her lips, let the cool liquid spill in while she kicked her sleeping bag over and watched it unroll. Her backpack held any other supplies she’d need — twizzlers, pretzels, a dozen tiny bottles of vodka in case someone brought juice, a change of clothes for the morning. And toilet paper. There was no way the old house had a working toilet, and she wasn’t going looking for it. If there was peeing to be done, Tasha had said to go out through the back door and piss in the yard.

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” said Stephanie, the ruddy-faced redhead from the Midwest.

“Sha! Piss in the yard, bitch. No one stinks up our haunted house, ‘cept the ghosts who live here.” Tasha made a show of creepy hands and cackled. “Back door is right through the kitchen there.” She pointed. “It doesn’t even creak cause we oil it. Just use the buddy system, huh? Nobody walks outside alone. That’s a rule, pledges. Got it?”

There was a smattering of answers. Tae shrugged, but Alice leaned over and grabbed her hand. “I got you, buddy. Whatever you need,” she whispered, her lips brushing against Tae’s neck, and she felt her nipples harden. Oh, she needed a buddy alright, and someone was already volunteering. Just as soon as all the others were asleep.

Tae took another drag on the seltzer, set the empty down and grabbed another. The place gave her the creeps, but the thought of Alice rubbing up against her all night was giving her a totally different kind of feeling just now. All she needed was a few more seltzers and to hear some snoring from the other sleeping bags.

It didn’t take long. Empty seltzer cans cluttered the narrow spaces between girls. Their attempt at scaring each other with creepy tales devolved into a litany of stories about high school, boys who couldn’t find the clit and which fraternities to steer clear of if you didn’t want to get date raped. The whole time, Tae sat crisscross apple sauce in her t-shirt and pj shorts, sipping seltzer with a little vodka thrown in for good measure. It was all good measure tonight -- she even laughed at the stories, if only because her head was buzzing, and Alice, who was sitting conspicuously close beside her with a blanket over her knees, had slipped her hand into Tae’s panties and had been teasing her clit for the better part of an hour.

All Tae wanted now was a little private time with Alice. She was dripping, her breathing heavy now from all the teasing, her eyes barely even able focus. She needed to cum. She needed to sleep — fucking seltzers were doing her in. But all she wanted was Alice’s pretty mouth on her pussy. She’d passed around enough vodka. No one would hear them, right? No one. Not even the dead. If everyone would just go to sleep. Just go to…

Someone nudged her, and Tae blinked. Had she passed out? She wiped her eyes and squinted into the dark. A familiar face looked back.

“Come on, Tae. Get up,” said Alice, her voice low and quiet. “I wanna show you something.”

Had she missed it? Had they fucked and she’d just passed out? She ran her tongue over her dry lips, wondering how long she’d been out. Fucking seltzers.

“Now? It’s still dark. You gotta pee?” Her voice was raspy, and she cleared her throat into her pillow, hoping the noise of it wouldn’t wake the rest of the girls

Alice leaned in, shaking her head. “No, nothing like that. Come on. You gotta come see this. It’s wild. Shhh. Don’t wake anyone else.” Then Alice sat back and stood up. Tae could see that she was barefoot, still in her pjs. She stood there, foot tapping on the old wood, until Tae was up and wincing -- the sleeping bag wasn’t exactly rated as a mattress and the floor was hard as a rock.

“Where we going?”

“Come on,” said Alice, and she grabbed Tae’s hand and flicked on her flashlight, leaving a cluster of sleeping bags full of dozing college students behind.

Alice played the flashlight around as they crept off into the dark, deeper into the house’s guts and away from the wide living room and the single door that opened to the steps, concrete walk and street -- the way out. Whatever Alice wanted, Tae knew, it was going to be a little crazy, a little wild, a little dark. She’d watched the senior for weeks now after walking into the sorority house the first day on campus and declaring for the GLOs. It was what her sister told her to do — Day One: go meet the GLO girls, go declare, go make a friend, and don’t say ‘no’. And she’d done it, after watching her sister rise through the ranks at her law firm year after year. It was like a family business. Get your high school diploma with honors, apply to Acosta, and go get your GLO on. Get fearless. She’d spent her entire life hearing it, and now she was creeping through an old, creepy house in the dark, her fingers neatly interlaced with a girl she’d just met and wanted so badly to fuck.

Tae was tired, but she wasn’t dead. This was that moment. She knew it. Sneak off away from the other girls, trade some spit and find a good place to get the hot little white girl’s pj bottoms off. She’d gotten a few winks, and now — still a little tipsy — she was wired for the thing she wanted most. And that thing was leading her through a doorway and along a hall. Into the darkness. Into her arms. Alice had spent the last three years visiting this house. She had something up her sleeve, and Tae was down for it.

They stopped, Alice turning, her flashlight beam playing across the floor, revealing the old oak beams, some polished toenails — black for Alice, pink for Tae. “There’s nothing but the kitchen on down that way,” she said, her voice low, as if the rest of the girls were just there on the floor around them. “This door —,” and she played her light over a solid door with an old, bronze knob gone green with age, “goes to the basement.”

Tae’s heart shifted gears. “Oh, fuck you, bitch.” She eyed the doorknob, waited to see if Alice would reach for it. That was a solid no, nada, not a chance, right there. Haunted house was enough of a risk, but ain’t nobody going down in no basement — legacy or not, sister and mother both fearless or not. Alice was just gonna have to play with her own pussy, if that’s what it was gonna take.

“No, no, baby girl. We don’t go down there.” Her face was invisible in the gloom, the flashlight’s beam still trained on the doorknob, but Tae could hear the dread in her voice. “Nobody goes down there, Tae. I - I’ll tell ya later, after tonight maybe. No, not there.” The ray of light from the end of the flashlight flickered and wavered, and then Alice turned, bringing the flashlight around to a flight of stairs just past the door to the basement. “We’re going up.”

She tugged, but Tae tugged back, tamping down on the fear that was seeping into her veins. “Basement, no. But upstairs? Why?”

“It’s a haunted house, silly,” said the little brunette, and she leaned in, the flashlight playing across their toes again, Alice’s breasts pushing against Tae’s as she released her hand and pulled her in close. “I’ve been here a ton of times. It’s supposed to be scary. It is scary, but I got you, babe.” Lips, plump and soft, pressed against Tae’s neck, her jawline, her cheek, and then the kiss Tae had wanted all night. Alice’s breath on her lips. A little vodka-seltzer mix. Her warm tongue. Mouth opening.

Tae responded, leaned in, pressing against her favorite med student, the girl she’d met on Day One. Alice had been there, smiling, greeting the new pledges, overly nice at first and then more than nice. Was she flirting? Was this what it meant to shark the freshmen? Had she seen the new girl walk in and staked her claim in that moment? And yet, it had seemed like the simplest, most natural thing. Tae’s big eyes for campus, the fall colors in the tiny northeastern campus, the classic lines of the buildings, the sloping roof of the sorority house just like her sister described it —they’d climb out on the roof at night and drink and watch the sun go down. It was a sorority tradition, among other things. And then the prettiest little med student, all perky tits and warm smiles and hands that made her feel welcome…and eventually wanted in ways she’s not expected.

Tae’s tongue danced with Alice’s, and she felt the rush of the moment, the yearning she’d felt all night, remembering what Alice had hinted at — a fun night that would welcome the pledges to the sorority officially, some silly ghost stories, according to tradition, and then some quiet time alone in an old empty house, something she would never forget.

Alice broke away and tugged on Tae’s hand again. “Let’s go. Let me show you. This house is, well, it’s all mood.”

The mood was unsettling, thought Tae. The stairs creaky, warped from decades of trampling feet. It was as if she could feel the footfalls in each one — in the thousands of young men who went up and down in their day. How long ago? Alice had described it as more than decades, but said nothing more. The ride over wasn’t about history lessons. It was about a creepy night that would cement them as GLOs, as sisters, as kindred spirits in a house that may or may not be home to its own spirits.

It was a joke, and everyone laughed, but Tae was feeling less likely to laugh now. A wisp of something brushed by her at the top step, and she froze, feeling chills race down her arms. A hint of laughter turned her head. Her mind was playing tricks on her, of course. It was the vodka. It was the thought of that creepy basement. It was the blood rushing from her head to that place between her legs she wanted Alice to explore.

It was a mood alright, but not the mood she wanted to be in.

“Alice,” said Tae, tugging on the med student’s hand. She watched the warm fog of her breath dissipate in front of her eyes, then found Alice’s bright eyes staring back at her. “This house. I felt…” She didn’t know what to say. She shook her head when the senior nodded, flashlight splashing the wall with a warm yellow glow that lit up the hallway around them.

“Did you feel them?”

Tae took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air. “Them. You said them.” She squeezed Alice’s hand, contemplating the stairs just behind them. The way down. Back to the sleeping girls.

Alice grinned, mischief in her blue eyes. “Them. I told you this place was haunted, Tae. You can feel them, can’t you?”

Tae swallowed. “Something. I felt…something. You felt it?”

“I did.” She leaned in, wrapping her arm around Tae’s waist, pulling her closer. “I sometimes see and hear them. It’s like the house remembers the boys. The frats.” She squeezed, leaned in, pressing the freshman against the wall. “Fearless, Tae. Remember? We’re GLOs, and we’re fucking fearless.” Alice’s lips danced just inches away, her warm breath inviting, the heat of their bodies expelling the chill in the air. “We’re fucking fearless, and you’re fucking hot,” she said, and then Alice pushed her lips against Tae’s. A brief kiss, a giggle, and then her eyes sparkling in the dancing flashlight beam as she spun around. “They’re here, Tae. Listen and watch,” she said, and she was off down the hallway.

The floor creaked underfoot, but Tae’s eyes were fixed on Alice, her heart racing, the sweat of her palm threatening her grip on the other’s hand as she was pulled forward.

Doors lined the long hall, some hanging open like sighs, others fallen like broken promises. Empty rooms brimming with dust and silence. A shadow at the window just at the edge of sight. A flicker, the lingering scent of a cigarette. Cluttered rooms teaming with furniture piled high. A broken set of bunk beds sagging beneath the invisible weight of a snore. A whiff of warm skin and cologne that tugged at Tae’s memory. A melody hummed near an empty desk, not quite music, not quite memory. A door creaking open, and just on the edge of vision, a young man in a turtleneck pushed his glasses higher on his nose and drifted past. The scratch of wool. A bite of fresh soap. And a laugh. Then, a door slam and footsteps rushing by, followed by laughing and a name. “Alex!” The brush of a wet, young body shrieking with glee, bare feet slapping the wooden floor along the length of the hallway. A life remembered, or still unfolding.

Tae spun, looking for Alex, but there was nothing save an image, like a memory, of a ruddy-face boy with red hair and a mischievous grin. She hadn’t seen him, but when she closed her eyes, she remembered — as if he’d been there, but not.

“You saw that,” said Alice, and Tae nodded. “The house remembers, Tae. It remembers their lives, their joy, their world. The house remembers. Can’t you see it?”

Tae took a deep breath, trying to be afraid, but they’d made it to the last door at the end of the hallway, and nothing had happened. Just sounds. Smells. The whisper of voices. Then, Alice’s voice pulled her eyes open.

“We’re fearless, Tae. Remember,” she said, and she turned and licked her lips, lust in her eyes. “Fearless.” Then she turned the knob, and the door shuddered open. “Because the house remembers other things, too.”

The door swung open as if the dream itself had opened it. Behind them, the sounds of memory faded like breath on glass, leaving behind a silence so deep it pressed against Tae’s chest. The look in Alice’s eyes she’d seen before — that night, when she’d pulled her into the laundry room to avoid prying eyes, her tongue exploring Tae’s mouth, her hands in Tae’s shirt and eventually in her shorts as the freshman leaned back against the washing machine breathless from the rush of need. Sucking on her fingers and then Tae’s tongue as Alice worked her fingers deep inside her pussy, each motion a promise of pleasures to come. Oh how she’d flirted and teased all night. A hint. A dare. A stolen kiss during a drinking game that was required by the rules but lingered longer than the rules dictated.

The beam of the flashlight played over the room revealing its sole occupant, a bare mattress in the middle of the floor that set Tae’s blood boiling. Fucking in the middle of a haunted house. All the sorority sisters fast asleep downstairs. Ghosts of boys long past guarding the entrance. Was this what it was to be fearless? Was this the gauntlet that her sister had let slip that one time? Or was there something else?

And yet it didn’t matter a wit as Alice pulled her forward towards the mattress and a night of bliss. A stolen kiss, and then this kinky ritual, leaving Tae wondering if there really were ghosts, if this really was a haunted house, or had Alice just slipped something into her drink? Did it matter? She was primed when they reached the mattress and Alice dropped the flashlight on the bed at their feet.

“Fearless, Tae,” she said, her face shrouded in darkness, but her voice warm and inviting and just a little…afraid.

The flashlight sputtered and died. Someone screamed as darkness swallowed them—complete, suffocating. Tae’s breath caught, her hands flailing for Alice but only finding air, and then the room changed. The shadows peeled back from the corners, unfurling like petals in reverse, and a new light bloomed — thin, cold, an unnatural glow that came from nowhere and everywhere.

Tae stood frozen as the world turned colorless, the temperature in the room rising like an inferno. The mattress throbbed with presence, shadows swirling around Alice. Not quite men, not quite ghosts — glimpses of hands and limbs, hints of memory, outlines formed from smoke and pain and passion. They pulled Alice down, and she didn’t resist. Her mouth parted in a gasp, her spine arched as ghostly fingers tore her shirt open, threads snapping like whispers. The shadows moved with hunger — methodical, unrelenting. Tae gaped, watching invisible fingers squeezing her friend’s breasts, pulling on her nipples just as her shorts were ripped away.

Tae’s scream caught in her throat. She turned and ran, but Alice’s voice sliced through the air behind her. “Tae — don’t go.”

Tae froze. The voice was wrong. Not pleading. Not afraid.

“Tae, please. Please.” It was wet with need.

She squeezed her eyes shut, Alice’s cries — her moans washing over her, and when she looked back, she saw it all. Alice’s legs were spread, her shorts gone, her hips rising in rhythm with the pulsing shadows. They were inside her — though there was nothing solid to see. Only the reaction: Alice gasping, writhing, eyes fluttering. Her hands gripped the mattress, her knuckles bone-white, her lips parted in a moan that echoed through the room, as if the house itself shared in her pleasure.

Tae’s blood ran cold, then hot, then cold again. “No no no no no. Not this. I can’t.”

Alice’s eyes opened. They locked on Tae’s and she reached out as they fucked her. “You see them.” she whispered. “See them, Tae. With me.”

The shadows moved faster. Alice threw her head back, teeth bared, a cry of release breaking free as an orgasm rocked her lithe body. Tae stood at the door, unable to move, unsure if she wanted to. And then she took a step forward. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears like the footsteps on the old wooden stairs — those stairs she’d felt underfoot as if others had walked them with her. And maybe they had. How many times had Alice been here in her time at Acosta? How many times had she been in this room?

Alice groaned and rolled over, her eyes fluttering as she rocked on her hands and knees. She was no longer just a girl on a mattress. She was something else — a body bare, flushed and writhing, utterly consumed by pleasure as the shadows moved over her like lovers long lost and half-remembered. Her moans came in waves, deep and guttural, electric with ecstasy.

And then she looked at Tae again.

“Tae,” Alice said, voice low, velvety, aching with invitation. “With me, Tae. With me.”

Tae’s breath caught. She could feel the heat in her own body — tight, pulsing, insistent. Arousal and fear always next to each other in her chest. She thought of the night in the laundry room, the kiss, the ache, the rush of Alice’s fingers. The thrill of being caught. She thought of the whispers in the hallway, the touch of a ghost brushing by. It was all the same now: desire soaked in fear.

She told herself to run. To scream. But the house hummed with heat now, and Alice — no, not Alice, something more — was glowing with want. It wasn’t terror that filled Tae’s chest anymore. It was invitation. Her feet moved before her mind caught up.

The house sighed, boards creaking beneath her. The room pulsed with light, Alice’s moans echoing in the emptiness. As she reached the mattress, the shadows shifted, making space. Alice reached for her, eyes wide, lips parted in anticipation. Tae crawled onto the bed, meeting her face-to-face as her clothes fell away.

Alice’s hands found her hips, and the shadows coiled around them, their bodies flush with heat and want. Cold fingers brushed her thighs, her waist, her breasts, but Tae didn’t flinch. She let herself feel. Every nerve alive, every heartbeat screaming yes. And then, the push between her legs, and she moaned her surrender into Alice’s mouth as the shadows began to fuck her. Their mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t soft — it was hungry. Their bodies pressed together as the room pulsed with memory and pleasure and something far older.

“I see you,” Alice whispered against her lips. “And now the house sees you too.”

Tae closed her eyes and let the fear go. Let her orgasm rise as she wrapped herself around her lover and let the house have her.

She was fearless.

The living room was quiet, the only sound bare feet whispering over old boards. Rows of sleeping bags dotted the floor just as they had been when the stories died away and the flashlights blinked off. A somber scene. Serene. As if the house had passed them by.

Had no one heard the noises from above, the frenzied fucking, their moans and gasps? Tae shuddered and squeezed Alice’s hand. What had just happened? And how could she ever look at her sister and mother the same again.

They’d know. She’d know.

And Alice — gorgeous, dangerous Alice — had drawn her in, pulling her into what? An orgy? A ritual? The house’s memories? Tae would never forget how their bodies pressed together, how they came, the shadows riding them until they were spent and breathless. Until she’d rolled over and slipped her tongue into the brunette’s eager heat.

Alice didn’t just belong to the house anymore. Tae would share — she’d have to — but she wanted Alice, too.

They stopped at the edge of the little camp, Tae’s head buzzing, her body still vibrating, her newest sisters asleep and her own sleeping bag.

She gasped. She looked at Alice, then back at her own sleeping bag.

There they were. Her and Alice. Bodies curled in sleep, untouched. Unmoved. As if they’d never left. As if they’d never gone upstairs.

As if none of it had happened. And yet…

Alice squeezed her hand, and Tae turned, her mouth half-formed in question, but Alice only smiled. “Don’t be scared,” she whispered. “This is the part they never tell you about.”

She leaned in, kissed Tae — soft, final, real. Her lips lingered like a secret. And then Alice stepped into herself. One breath, a flicker of movement — like a memory — and the beautiful girl folded inward, into the sleeping form on the floor. Gone. Dreaming.

Tae stood frozen, heart in her throat, the night heavy on her skin. Had she…? But she couldn’t finish the sentence. It had been real, hadn’t it? It had. The stairs. The hallway. The boys. The room. That mattress. Alice moaning, reaching for her like something out of a dream. A fantasy. It had happened. It had.

She looked down at herself — her sleeping self — and suddenly it made sense. This was what her sister had meant. What her mother had hinted at. Fearless wasn’t about being brave. It was about becoming something more. A journey. Not a destination.

How many times had Alice entered that room? How many times had she come out and sunk down into herself, confident, free, fearless? What power could the world hold over her now?

Tae sighed and knelt. Slid into her bag and into herself. As her head touched the pillow, the ceiling blurred. She closed her eyes. And fell — soft, slow, complete — into herself.

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Author’s Notes: This story is supposed to be part of a larger short story collection that I’m putting together — stories about weird, wild, erotic things that happen. Stories of all types. And for this collection, I thought I would give erotic horror a go, and what better place to start than horror? Erotic horror?

And where did this story come from? Sometimes I don’t even know. It started with Tae standing on the steps to a haunted house, and out of nowhere, Alice appeared in my head, and it was suddenly about a rendezvous during pledge night in a haunted house, and what could go wrong? What could go right?

Somewhere in the mix, it became a legacy thing for Tae’s family — all of them going to this college, and all of them pledging this sorority and becoming fearless. And Tae can’t reject this family legacy or this opportunity because, as we’ll see in the follow-on serial, her older sister and her mother are both highly successful. But, as we’ll see, this ritual is meant to be a one-time thing.

The more I thought about it after I finished writing, the more I kept wondering how many times had Alice been there before? Why did this weird little tradition even exist? College students don’t usually spend the night in abandoned haunted houses for no reason. Traditions come from somewhere, and the older I made this one in my head, the more questions I had.

Then came the really dangerous question: What if Tae and Alice didn’t leave it alone?

What if that first night wasn’t the end of the story, but the beginning of it? What if they kept sneaking back because, despite everything they experienced, they couldn’t stop thinking about the house? Couldn’t stop thinking about each other? Couldn’t stop wondering what was waiting for them in that room at the end of the hall.

So Pledge Night is becoming something bigger — a serialized erotic horror story about obsession, old secrets, family legacies, and traditions that should have died a hundred years ago but somehow keep finding new victims. The original short story becomes the prologue. The real story begins a few weeks later, when Tae and Alice make the worst possible decision.

They go back.

And we’ll go back in October! Get your fucking popcorn ready because this one is going to get dark.

Gun shots. Sirens coming up the street. A man in a torn red t-shirt and jeans clutches at the shadows, clawing the cracked plaster and finds a hole to push through, leaving the night air behind, the floor rising up to meet him as he falls to his knees on the dirty rug before turning back and pushing a broken board back in place, muffling the noise and blocking the smell of smoke on the wind, the flickering of the fire in the distance as the old marketplace burns.

Peace. For a moment. And darkness. He pulls his t-shirt up and wipes his face. Scars line his torso, old wounds never healed. He inhales and relaxes for a moment, until he turns and sees her.

A face as black as night, eyes like bright distant stars, she leans out of the shadowed corner in a filthy red dress, her hair piled high on her head like laundry, her breasts beaded with sweat, the fabric clinging to her body like a second skin. Flashing lights pierce the gloom, lick the high wall over her and glint off the gray barrel of the pistol she holds out straight-armed, steady, her gaze boring into him.

He stares and waits for the crack of the shot, on his knees still, ready for the execution as sure as the one should they catch him, sweat trickling down his back from the running, his breaths almost steady now, but he counts each one as if it were his last, eyes locking on hers as the seconds tick by.

She motions. Out. He shifts, hands up, motioning as gunshots ring out into the night again. He points to himself and closes his fist over his heart. She hesitates.

Before he can move, footsteps pound the concrete outside, and he raises his finger to his lips, a small knife in his other hand and backs away from the hole he’d pushed through, away from her and the cocked pistol. Muffled voices, then shouts in the distance, and more footsteps leading away. He keeps his eyes on her, his finger to his lips, and she leans back, letting the shadows swallow her again, the muzzle of the old 45 steady, then dropping out of sight.

The board creaks, and the room holds its breath, waiting, watching as a shaved head pushes through, followed by an arm, then shoulders, and a finally black combat vest scarred and worn, battle-tested and scorched from fire. The man pauses, eyes adjusting, taking his measure of the room, and then he pushes through and rises, a rifle hanging loosely in his grip.

He freezes, his eyes on the far corner.

The pistol glints in the light, silent as the grave before the rifle clatters to the ground, the body landing with a thud next to it. The man in the red shirt leans over the body, wiping his knife across camouflage pants. He grabs the soldier and pulls him to a far corner, leaving a red smear trailing over the carpet underfoot, loots pockets, pulling the combat vest from the dead man and laying out his inventory on the floor away from the growing crimson pool and the footprints marked in blood.

He sits back on his haunches and surveys his supplies before he sees the pistol again, shaking in unsteady hands at the end of a long, wiry arm. It dangles like a tease from her slender fingers, and when he slips it from her grasp, fingers trace the length of his arm sending a shudder through his body. He looks away, then turns back, finding her standing there, waiting, her hands tight by her sides. Eyes meet in the moment, and she looks away then back, and he follows and nods and points past the wall with one hand while the other slips through the collar of his tee shirt and pulls out a small silver chain, where a silver ship’s wheel dangles. He searches her eyes, stands and reaches out, pushing the pistol back into her hand, and then he leans down and fills his pockets, buckling the military vest and slipping his knife into a pocket.

Without a glance back, he steps over and pulls on the plank, hesitates and looks back, eyeing the woman standing, waiting, the pistol dangling from a trembling finger. He closes his fist over his heart again, and turns, but not before she steps forward, reaching out. Gunshots ring out in the distance as a vehicle races by, and suddenly the night goes quiet — a beat and then a scream, and silence again. He hesitates, listening, watching her as she squeezes her hand into a fist and holds it over her heart, leaving him frozen in time.

Eyes searching for light in darkness, she peels the straps of her dress from her shoulders and lets it fall away from heavy breasts, revealing rounded hips, her gaze never leaving him as she slides to the floor, the pistol an afterthought as she bends and turns on all fours, looking back. His eyes follow her every movement, the board in-hand all but forgotten, his fist still curled up and pressed to his pounding heart as he watches her offer, and his shoulders relax, body turning toward her darkness.

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Author’s Notes: I ran into this song — Trenchtown by Vibe4Soul — on my commute last week, and I couldn’t stop listening to it. I listen to a lot of reggae on YouTube music. I didn’t realize this was AI-generated music, but every time I listen to it, I love it nonetheless. And this story sprung from this song. The moment I heard it, I knew there was a story there.

From a writing standpoint, I was pushing for long, winding sentences that make you pause and breath again to hear them come out in a long stream. Why? I don’t know. I just wanted to try something different and let the moments flow together.

I hope you like it.

I liked it enough to create this song below based on the short story:

The lab sounds different at night. Fewer voices, less apology. Just the doors sighing and the long, careful hum that settles into the ribs if you stand still.

I slip through the locks with my keycard, and I lean into the ambient light that will be my moon and stars until morning.

If I wait there long enough, the hum feels like a blanket. Sometimes it feels like more. Like a voice. A breath. A familiar touch. Sitting there in the dark, the cool blue glow of the LEDs thrumming through the screens, casting their luminescence against the sterile white walls of my home, I imagine a future.

He squeezes my hand, and I blink awake, stretching my neck up to his waiting lips. Adam. His smile still disarms me. His presence startles me, even months later, but his body — I reach out. My fingers shake when I touch warmth, then heat as he pulls me into his arms.

Such strength. I let myself go when he holds me like this — how he always did, but more now. More hunger than before. But his strength is fleeting. His eyes betray a weariness I can feel, as if he carries this weight for me, and I can’t relieve him of it. I hold him close, then pull away, pressing my finger to his lips when he begins to protest. “Not yet, my love. Tomorrow. I promise. Rest. Rest for now.”

And then he’s gone, and I feel his heat slip away, a faint echo of his heartbeat — steady, slow, in repose. One more day. Another. Rest, my love. Just a little longer.

He leaves me trembling from more than the cold. I pull the lab coat on and slip barefoot across the room to run my eyes over the monitors. The chair beckons. My fingers pause over the keyboard.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will do it.

And then I sit and weep.

The low rumble of his laugh always brought a smile to my face, but now, he’s quiet. His smile is stretched, as if it struggles to form. As if he’s forgotten his easy mirth, his tireless jokes, the way his words filled the empty space between us with energy, an ebb and flow that connected me with him in ways I’d never felt connected to another human being before. Not my mother. My father. The twin I lost at an early age. No one had broken my invisible barrier for a lifetime, until Adam.

He’d cried as easily as he’d laughed, as if his emotions boiled just below the surface of his skin. He’d danced when I couldn’t. He’d played at instruments. Even badly, he was half good. A fast learner. A quick study. A pupil regarded by any he’d fancied could teach him a trick, or treat. He’d learned enough from me — pleasure and pain, as I desired it, until I ached for a glance from him, knowing he could read every nuance and satisfy every unvoiced need.

Yet now, there was something else, something I struggled to name. Something I wasn’t sure I could tame. The same Adam, but not…

The quiet is comforting for a while, when the madness of the day has passed, and the promise of the night beckons. When no one can see what I’ve become, what I’ve done.

I dry my eyes, push the thoughts away, but I can still see the cocoon and the shape inside. It’s never far from my thoughts, and now, it’s never far from my reach. I shift in the chair, grateful for the thick cushion. I pull the blanket up over my chest and tuck my feet under me. The last of the staff has been gone for hours. Home to bed. Home to a weekend filled with anything other than the sorrow that I see pulsing in the dark. Light and shadow play over my face like two opposing forces. And I wait a little longer, letting the battle roil. Another day. Another night. Wondering who will win out.

I slide an orange tablet under my tongue. I’ll sleep when it’s over.

The memories tick by with each tremor of the second hand. The first time he kissed me. The coffee that forever stained my lab coat at Precedent Medical. His fingers entwined in mine. The way his cock filled me and made me his.

The rumble of the MGB, the whine of the motor as we climbed through the Alps on a brisk summer day. He’d laughed as we swerved around precarious turns, dancing ever-closer to a frightful plunge. His smile had filled the car, the softness of his hand over mine on the gearshift, my feet plonking the clutch until the little gremlin sighed to stop at an overlook. Seven thousand quid well-spent. Adam’s hands had done the rest. Brought it back to life. Brought me back to life on that chilly morning before we crossed into Italy, before the little inn outside Courmayeur — the one we only found because the place in Entreves was booked, and we called it luck for the rest of our lives because there was no view of the mountains.

Instead, we’d spent a week in bed, something you could only read in novels, until it became our truth. “I can feel you thinking about me,” he’d say, like it mattered, his face in his books, my fingers finding him, the quiet way he unraveled under my touch until words failed him, and he took me again. And again.

I stroke myself in the dark, the blanket shuddering with each breath I take. Fingers deep, filling me like he did. Like he does. Like he will. His coffee breath filled my lungs day in and day out, until I couldn’t breathe anything but him. Until my oxygen ran low. Until he’d stained his hand with a cough, and I saw the fear in his eyes. The tests. The doctors. The MGB forgotten, its little engine burned out as quickly as his own.

My watch trembles, and I breathe. It’s time for another round. My pulse quickens as I throw off the blanket and step into my shoes again. My lab coat dangles from the back of the chair, but I put it on slowly, trying to calm my nerves.

I bring the cart anyway — the one with the wipes and the sterile swabs and the injectors — because it helps to have something to push. Something to make the floor roll back under me in a straight line. Something to hold onto besides my careening thoughts. The clip-clip of my low heels echo in the empty hall, my cart and I throwing wild shadows on the walls from the red emergency lighting.

I stare at the instruments as I push through the silent corridors of my prison. What good are they now? It’s done, I tell myself. The tests prove it out. The research I will never be able to publish. The tanks will be emptied, no trace left of the solution — the only solution I could construct with the only tools I had. My mind. My studies. My heart. Adam would understand. Will. I did what I could. But no one else. They will never forgive me. They will never know until it’s too late.

There are a pair of doors to unlock, a pair of seals to break, a pair of fingers to press on the frosted pads until they read me and decide I am still myself. How many times have I made this journey? And every time, I ask myself, “How many times until the journey is ended?”

One more. I know the answer now. Just one more, and then it’s done.

On the other side: the chambers. Twins, if you’re not looking closely. I try not to. Looking closely has never helped. I look one way, not the other. One chamber is filled with hope and promise. The other. The other is tears. One life. One death. Ever the equation in my world, I have teetered on the verge of living as much as I’ve walked close to the edge.

The MGB had rattled to life on the edge of a precipice, and Adam had pulled open the door, his foot inches from death, without a second glance. I’d downshifted through the twists and turns of our bond while he’d read yet another poem about the enormity of existence and the minutiae of life. His voice had been warm chocolate on a winter day, a dollop of cream on top. I’d breathed in the richness, felt the glow of it spread through my body until I couldn’t find the fear in our twisted path anymore. I’d gunned the little engine, defying the treacherous curves and narrow lanes.

The old inn waited, and I remembered how good his cock felt.

“Hi,” I say, because hello feels too formal for a room that knows my bio rhythm as much as his. “I’m here.” But the room is silent, and I feel the end pressing in.

His eyes are closed.

The lights don’t brighten — good. It’s quieter when they stay low. My assistant doesn’t answer, but her voice still echoes in my head. I look for her in the halls sometimes when it’s too quiet. She’s been gone a year now, a month into this treatment. After we had it out, when she’d said she could no longer support my choice. My choice. A choice I’d had to make. Didn’t she understand? Or did she, and I still can’t?

I’m not sure anymore.

One chamber breathes with little effort; the other has to be asked. I learned the trick months ago: touch the glass until the thermal sensor picks me up and the system decides to meet me halfway.

My handprint blooms. The hum leans forward, a cat at a door, wrapping its tail around my calves. The incessant purring reminds me of that tabby and warm summers on the veranda looking at birds. It reminds me of Adam -- his stupid cat, his stupid smiles, his stupid touch. His stupid books full of poems that lingered in the air between us like smoke. So many. So many he finished. Unfinished. So many…

The second door slides open and the purr becomes a hum again. Warm. Inviting. Erotic.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The thrum courses through my core, and I breathe his name in the dark.

Adam.

Gooseflesh pimples my skin. My nipples pebble. One more day.

He was never cold, not before, I tell myself. That’s what I think, standing there, palm to glass. He’d put his back to me at night and I’d nestle in, absorbing the inferno. Cold-blooded, Mara? he’d say, and I’d say, No, Adam, just needing your heat. When I try to pull the memory out by the root, it comes up with the wrong dirt clinging to it — stainless steel, not sheets. The cool hard tiles underfoot. The unforgiving shape of the table in that little Italian hospital. Hard glare of the lights. The cough becoming wet. The damp musk of his skin when it was done.

Tests run. It’s fine, I told myself. It’s fine, I told him. He understood the lie, and then the promise when the doctor’s lie resembled mine.

Vitals scroll in pale red print along the frame. Numbers I pretend to read because pretending is almost the same as hope. I whisper them under my breath the way other people pray.

I fog the glass without meaning to. The outline of a face sharpens on the other side, then blurs again as the condensate runs. He’s asleep. Or he’s pretending. He was always good at that game. Sometimes I’d nudge him, and he’d stay very still until I pressed my mouth to his, and then he’d laugh into me — triumphant, boyish. That was before the machines learned his name.

That’s when the lie fit the science, and the science fit the lie. A year ago.

My hand lingers in the air. I’ve been over the sequence a thousand times, and I go over it again before I turn away, my hand closing over my mouth.

I’m not the kind of person who cries at monitors. I’m not any kind of person at two in the morning, honestly. At any time any longer. I’m in a dream that never ends, memories playing over and over in my head as if I’m closed in a loop. I still take the pills, but sleeping isn’t a problem anymore. That is, I don’t sleep. How can I when we’re this close?

It’s done — but I can’t say it out loud.

His name jars me, and I turn, as if someone is whispering it. When I turn back, the vitals scroll in a rhythm I’ve memorized. Like dance steps, my partner leading me again. I feel his hand on my back, the warmth of his palm in mine as we move — he leads; I follow. I’m drawn to him, and when he stops, I stand alone on the floor, unable to find my way.

Numbers cascade across the screen before me, and I trace them with my fingers for the millionth time. I am a sequence of motions in a room designed for repetition. I swab ports. I change the filter I hate because it squeals when you release it. I talk while I work because silence is a darkness you can fall into, and I have fallen far enough already.

My voice is less than a whisper. Any more, and I will wake him, and I can’t bear the tears.

“You’ll hate this part,” I tell him. I tilt left, and he’s a sleeping beauty under glass: the chisled features of his father, long flowing lashes from his mother, the geometry of tendon and bone than almost qualified him for the Olympics in days past. A blueprint perfected. An architectural masterpiece, even if he would find a flaw.

A sonnet.

All of it gone. What’s there now haunts me. I was so sure the therapy would work. Sure enough to kill the rest of my life.

“Almost done,” I would say, though I knew we were still at the beginning. The start of something new. The dawn of an era, if I could make the math work. And when it didn’t —, “You’re still you. And you always will be.” That’s important to establish early, even if it isn’t true. Especially if it isn’t true. A flaw, but this one mine.

The hum thickens. I swear it has undertones now. Not notes, exactly — more like the feeling before a word arrives, like when I know he’s about to say something. The exact thing he will say. We’ve done this hundreds of times, and I know how the words form on his lips before his tongue shifts and the exhalation presses the air into sound. I lay two fingers on the gasket seam where the polymer meets the ring. Conductive gel slicks my skin; the sensor catches. A narrow slit opens to the service port, and the air that comes out is colder than the corridor.

I shiver, and I curse myself for it. But I need one last moment. Just one.

I inhale. The air smells like rain hissing on a sun-kissed street. I swallow because it tastes like swallowing does in a dentist’s chair, with the little straw tugging the saliva away before you can form it into a decision.

“Easy,” I say, and I don’t know whether I mean the machine, or him, or me. My eyes flick to the vitals again, to the heart rate and BP, the oxygen levels, his core temperature. All as expected. I shudder again and squeeze my hands to steady them.

Inside the chamber, something shifts in the dark, but the room is silent, only my breathing, my thudding heart, the soft tap of my bare feet. “Adam,” I say, testing the shape of his name — does it fit what I see any more? “Hey.”

If he hears, it’s beneath whatever else the hum is saying.

The first time I learned to read his face was at our kitchen table with a hangover and a crossword between us. He told me without telling me when to cheat. “You’re stuck on fourteen down,” he murmured, and I said, “No I’m not,” and he smiled like a kid who’d just found a forgotten candy in his pocket. “Anomaly. A seven-letter word for aberration. It’s anomaly.”

The second time was here, watching how memory maps onto muscle. Subtle recoding of the DNA to smooth the rough edges. The part where I check reflexes. Light over pupils. A gentle tap at the patellar point. The chart says minimal stimulus. The chart was not written for wives. For lovers. For mourners.

“Look at me,” I’d said, and the face on the other side of the glass did. He blinked and smiled and then he turned away. I shattered there and then, the first time I told him he would never come out of the cocoon again.

I counted the monitor’s beeps to keep from counting seconds. One. Two. Three. A perfect cadence. Heart beating, still breathing, enough for me to return to the lab and try something new. In those early days, I used to watch his chest rise and fall, my fingers hovering over it, arm shaking, caught between touching him awake and soaking in his perfection.

If I touched him, he’d turn and grin and reach for me. Find me soaked, my quiet gasps, the gentle surrender of my heart and body to whatever he needed. And then blissful sleep, my mind quieted. The worry gone. The numbers forgotten. The tests something for tomorrow.

Until the tomorrows began to dwindle and we came here. Until his breathing became a steady graph on a chart.

I flip the penlight off. It leaves a comet-tail in my eyes that I blink at. When it clears, I have both of them at once: the man who hated hospital gowns, and the man who wears his skin like an argument he’s losing. I remember this, and suddenly my hand is hovering over his chest, arm trembling lest I touch and wake him. Will he wake? Can he? I blink and the picture steadies into one pair of lips parted slightly as if to say my name.

“Don’t,” I whisper, though what I mean is please.

Behind me, the other chamber answers itself. It’s the strangest trick of acoustics — how sound moves in a room like this. The hum rises from the left-hand unit and the right-hand unit answers, a harmony you feel before you hear it, like blood moving.

“I’m here,” I say again, louder, as if I’ve been challenged. “I’m here, I’m—.” The word frays because my mouth has gone dry. I step closer to the glass, so close my breath halos my own reflection. I stare at the world through a fog for a heartbeat. I look like a woman about to kiss the wrong thing.

The speakers click, a ghost in the machine. For a second I think it’s the vent. Then I think it’s nothing, that I haven’t slept in days, that I don’t know when I’ll sleep again. Perhaps when the pills run out. Then the click is a voice, a voice that’s his voice, a voice that knows my name.

“Mara.” Not a voice. A wish.

Time is short, and Adam cannot wait much longer. I look down at the body of my husband. Perfection suspended in fluid. Breathing tube still in place. Monitors still firmly attached. Silent. Unmoving. Unchanged.

My eyes trace the lines of his body, and I freeze when his hand slides around my waist, pulling me back to him.

Adam. My Adam.

“I dreamt of you, Mara,” he says, his voice deeper than ever before. A whisper in the darkness, but his words unfold inside me. “I dreamt of you playing with your cunt.” A long, deep breath, and when he exhales, his smile fills my vision. “I can smell your pussy.”

I swallow. His voice. Almost the same. I shiver as he presses into me, and I feel the heat of his body, the way his cock presses into my back. Young and virile and perfect, his eyes only for me since he woke. But…

“It’s time,” he says as his fingers slip along the sleeve of my jacket and intertwine with mine. I stiffen when he extends my arm. “Let’s be done, my love, and then, I’ll take you back to that little inn where we fell in love.”

My fingers linger over the pad a beat, and I look down at him once more. “Adam?”

He leans in, his breath hot on my neck and something in me gives way. Adam. The shutdown sequence begins. Lights blink red. The cocoon closes right in front of me. I’m frozen, fingers trembling at the end of my outstretched arm, and I can hear his voice so clearly now — not the voice I remember.

“Remember? In Entreves?”

I close my eyes — and when I open them, I don’t ask which Adam is holding me.

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Author’s Notes: I have a lot of ideas for stories, and sometimes one just hits write, and that’s the one that comes out. Not always perfect. Maybe what I wanted, but since I know the story, I know how I’m supposed to feel. But writing is hard because you never know how the reader will feel.

In this case, the story is two stories — a story of the past and a story of the future. And I wonder if I pulled it off. Subtle, complex, folded in on itself. It might require a second read or a third. I added a few words as I was reading through during posting, trying to make sure what was happening was landing for the reader, but it’s hard because I know what’s happening here.

The title is the first clue — how to drop the first hint that all is perhaps not as it seems? And then the tense and time. Past memories juxtaposed with present. Memories of what was and what is. The cold and the heat. The sounds versus the quiet. The before and the after.

What did Mara do?

If you got it, please leave a comment. Again, it’s always hard to know, as a writer, if you pulled off a twist, or not.

The steps gave way to a landing that led to another narrow passage, a dark path that snaked between the bland concrete buildings. More steps, worn and grooved from years of use, climbing higher and higher into the stacked house blocks that dominated the western Turksib. The ghost glided along before us, turning to beckon, to tease, its inner glow illuminating the way, its surface still a rippling, tantalizing likeness of Ulyana, all smooth lines and flowing limbs and naked phantom flesh. At the end, it paused in front of a nondescript door and turned, watching us approach. The closer we got, the more real it seemed, as if it were, becoming her. I wondered if I could touch it, if I’d feel something, an electrical current, a breath of air, something more if I reached out, but I stuffed my hands in my pockets, letting the moment go. This was Ulyana’s game, and I would let her play it out. It’s the only thing she’d asked of me.

The apparition was uncanny. The short-cropped hair mirrored Ulyana’s, only its hair was a little more copper-colored as if kissed by the long-gone sun. The eyes were greener, glowing with their own spectral light. The slender neck gave way to a lithe form, what I would have thought of as a dancer’s body, thinner than Hikaru but more muscular. My eyes lingered for a moment until I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t real, that perhaps it was truly a reflection of the woman stopping before it, a woman whose eyes didn’t meet mine, but who waited patiently, watching the apparition play out its humiliating game.

The ghost eyed us, its wide grin mocking as it danced before the door, a slow, rhythmic flourish that suggested more than it showed. I watched with reluctant interest as it sidled up against Ulyana like a lover, if it could be said to do that, and pressed its thin lips against hers, pushed its body up against hers, then melded into and around her until she seemed to glow with her own inner light. It was erotically eerie, as embarrassing as it was lewd. She’d insisted that we let the cipher do what it wanted, that it was the only way to get what we needed, but I wondered. To her credit, Ulyana hadn’t responded at all, hadn’t shown any interest or reaction, and had merely stood and waited, let the show go on, as unengaged as one could expect. I just followed her lead, letting come what may. There was little else to do but to let the súka have its fun.

It seemed to tire of the game then, the phantom separating from its mirror with a flourish, moving towards the door. It paused there to look back on us. Suddenly its skin began to dissolve, melting away in a gruesome show, until the only thing left was the bloody musculature and underlying skeletal structure of a corpse, a human-like cadaver with metallic bones, a sort of monstrous android. It smiled a sinister, silver-toothed grin, its eyes dying embers Then it wisped through the door and was gone.

“Durdóm digeh,” I muttered under my breath, mixing Russian and Farsi, as was the norm in Almaty, and made to push past Ulyana.

I could see myself kicking the door open, feeling the rush of adrenaline, my fingers already lingering on the grip of my Markov. I’d seen my share of the divane, the dirty, even the disgusting, in my short time in the city, but something about the manipulations of that specter had unnerved me, and I was going to set it straight once and for all. A couple of well-placed rounds would have the right effect; they usually did.

But Ulyana was quicker, anticipating my move. She stepped in front of me just as I reached the door, putting her shoulder into my chest with enough force to put me against the concrete wall, her hand on my arm, her eyes finding mine. What I saw there took the life out of me, and my hand dropped away from the pistol I was so eager to draw. Surrender, despair, acceptance. I couldn’t tell, but I could see the teardrops that bulged in the corners of her eyes, hear the solemn tone of her words. “No. Let it happen. Don’t do anything other than what he tells you to do. Trust me. It has to be this way.”

Then she turned and pushed the door open, leaving me with no option other than to follow.

What we found was a cramped space overflowing with boxes and crates with no apparent way through. The detritus was stacked to the ceiling, a dust-covered barrier that only the ghost could have gotten through, a tomb that no one had entered for years. I eyed it over the top of Ulyana’s head, tracing the web-covered stacks up to the ceiling, wondering what was in store for us next, when she pushed on and through the hologram and disappeared. I sighed and followed, shaking my head at my own naivete, and we found ourselves in a slightly larger, sparsely furnished room dominated by grandiose screens attached to the walls, huge interfaces that buzzed with data, news feeds, and information flows that I couldn’t follow. The air was lighter here, drier, and smelled of cleaning products, like a coffin before the dead body went in. The floor was white tile that squeaked slightly under our wet boots when we moved. There was a door to the left, but what had my attention immediately was the fully refleshed and naked form of Ulyana’s mirror looking back at us from the middle of the room, her ghostly white hand resting on the narrow shoulders of a gaunt, ancient man hunched over an interface terminal, his fingers ablaze on the keys as the data on the main interface before him shifted.

“She has brought a friend, she has. He wants something, but will he pay? Coshagan otpigi howagave. Yotou agour notagum pahager? Will he? Will. Pay.” The voice wavered, cracked, the odd cadence playing across the silent room over the whir of his fingers on the keypad.

“We have the money, Bayu,” said Ulyana, and when she spoke, her mirror’s mouth moved in mocking unison. “We need your help to retrieve some data from a chip.”

He held out his hand, the other hand still racing across the keys as he looked on at the data, nothing but the back of his head, white hair and long red cords, like wire leads, pulled into a careless ponytail, showing from over the top of a gray woolen coat. The mirror held out her hand, as well, her fingers curling independently in an eager, come hither manner, but neither of us moved.

“We can’t give it to you. It’s embedded. It can’t be removed or the data may be corrupted.”

“Embedded. Dohago agot sotay thoat. Dead? Deadhead,” came the voice again, and the fingers on the keyboard ceased, the data freezing above him, and the mirror winked out of existence. “Much to do. Much. To. Thodogis agis do. Much to pay. Pay.” With the last word, he turned, spinning on the simple stool, revealing a partially concealed face, his mouth and nose covered in a white cloth mask similar to ones I’d seen people wearing when the sewage plant malfunctioned, his eyes encased in a pair of black, wrap-around goggles with oval eyelets. His skin, both on the exposed parts of his face and on his gnarled hands, was sunken and sallow and bespotted, a yellowish, sickly color that betrayed vitamin deficiencies or other medical conditions. His worn coat and pants were taken from the same grey cloth and did nothing to hide the dirty white t-shirt underneath. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a refuse pile, where he was foraging for food and clothing, but the order and cleanliness of the chamber told another tale.

When he stood, I shifted uneasily, felt the urge to step forward, put my pistol to his head and pull the trigger, but I stopped myself, cursing under my breath. Everything about the man felt wrong, but he wasn’t unfamiliar to Ulyana. She knew him well enough not to be disturbed by him, came here for a reason, and I was going to have to go against my instincts, hold them off for the moment and see what happened. She’d asked me to trust once again, and I saw no reason to not follow through. Yet. Perhaps this was the only way, but his stilted speech and shuffling approach, not to mention the way his hidden eyes seemed to rake over Ulyana, the real flesh and blood one, made my skin crawl. I suppressed the urge to shiver, to turn and walk away, to do or say anything, just focusing on her, here and now.

The masked man stopped a hair’s breadth from Ulyana, his gaunt frame and height matching hers. I estimated him at eighty years of age, but looks could be deceiving in Almaty. Certainly his shambling gait and his creaking voice betrayed his age, although I was proof that in modern times just about anything was open to manipulation and modification, including genes and cells and hormones, and this Bayu Mata, as Ulyana had called him, could have been well over one hundred years old. He stared at her through the ghoulish goggles, and then reached up to pull them up and over his head, revealing deep blue eyes that seemed to sink into his skull. He smiled with them when he spoke, as if he was delighted to see the woman in front of him.

“Ulyana. Na. Back for upgrades? Nothasat losaa geave. Many for you. For me, what? This man. Ciothab uteI. Find his codes. Pull them from his skull. Skull. Foshagor gochagot. Pull. Like memories, no? Something inside he forgets. Foshagor. Forgets. Needs to know. Know. No?”

She didn’t back down, but stood her ground, stared back unfazed, her stance easy, relaxed, while I stood with my arms crossed over my chest trying not to glare down at him. “I need those codes, that data. Get it for us. Show us the path we need to take, and we will give you what you want. We have the money.”

“Upgrade for you. Uposhagot. Grade. You.” He giggled behind the mask, and I felt my stomach drop. I watched her shoulders rise and fall, the deep breath that filled her lungs before she spoke. “Upgrades. Yes. I’ll take them.”

“Good,” he said, looking past her, his eyes resting on me, and the first thought that entered my head was how we would look with his neck twisted awkwardly to the right. “Good.” His hand came up abruptly, a long, bony finger pointed my way. “Come then. We get your data. Pothagor ulem ta. Data good. Need data. You give me money; I data. Ta. Ta. Ta.”

I swallowed down the bile that burned my throat and stepped forward, pulling off my coat, revealing the autorifle on one side and the pistol on the other. Our new friend backed up and guided me forward without hesitation, as if he didn’t notice that I was packing, his eyes searching mine instead, then directing me to a simple metal chair in the corner under another large interface.

“Data extract there. Sit. Sit. Kochasat bosala. Data good. Sit. Wires. I connect. Uposhagot. We pull data.”

I sat, letting him fuss over me, listening to his attempts at reassurances, if they could be called that. I leaned back, feeling the cool plaster of the wall on my head while he jacked into the data port behind my ear. I tried to block it all out — how his fingers lingered against my skin, how he smelled, how his breathing was raspy and weak — maybe that explained the mask. Wires were pulled down and attached, the interface overhead configured and engaged. A short time later, the old mudak leaned in to check his work, his muttering like a buzzing in my ear, endless streams of nonsensical words that blurred into rhythmic sounds I could no longer discern. I wanted to shut him up. A quick strike to his throat would end it. If only…

He stepped back, triumph flashing across his eyes, his voice peaking and clear. “Done. We are done. Done. Done. Mothagiss amu mehrat. The download. The code. The cipher is there. There. Uta beloch. Cipher comes.” He pointed above my head to the interface and clapped his gnarled hands together.

I looked past him to Ulyana, and she nodded.

Everything went black.

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Author Note: I was just reading through some of this scifi thriller I wrote in 2013 — never finished it, but I got about 2/3rds done, and I just realized I was writing things that would be major features of life in Cyberpunk 2077. Not saying anything about the developers or writers for a game I think is amazing, just that it’s cool to see that I was putting a lot of those same things on paper.

Maybe I’ll finish this thing. It’s one of so many WIPs calling my name.

There are three other excerpts or rather one longer excerpt divided into three parts here on Substack. You can find them below:

Falling Snow - an Excerpt

Falling Snow - an Excerpt (Part 2)

Falling Snow - an Excerpt (Part 3)

“Yep, yep, he was the King. He was dirty, a hateful lil bastard, he was. A stone killa. Didn’t take nothing he didn’t want, didn’t give nothing he didn’t wanna give. He beat all those boys down til they was following him ever’where, til they did an’thing he wanted. I listened to his stories on the nights he would visit, and I’d see his trophies. Oh, there was boys, bigguns and lilluns — all kinds of boys wanna be the King of the Hill. Oh, but Mixel, he beat ’em all. And when yas playing fer keeps, ya take yer trophies quick and ugly-like. Ears and tongues and fingers. Oh, he had ’em all. He could name ever’ boy he beat and point to the trophy. My window was full o’ jars with lil trophies in ‘em.”

“He killed them all?” I couldn’t imagine the fights, the personal wars that kid must have won. I damn sure couldn’t imagine what it must be like to cut out the loser’s eye and put in a jar to admire later.

“Oh, no, he only killed two of the savage boys who challenged him. He beat all the rest and he took his trophies from them. They was his troops then, some with fingers missing, one with no nose — I saw him once. They called him “Piggy”. Mixel took what he took, and after, they was his boys. He was king of the savage boys. He ate like a king, he fought like a king, he fucked like a king.”

He must have seen my eyes, the questions that lay there, even though I wasn’t able, for some reason, to bring them forth, to voice them. He just winked at me and kept talking.

“He had the pick of the litter, you see. Them savage boys, they was killas and robbas and all that. But they was rapers, too. And where there’s lil boys around, there’s lil gulls. Some of the gulls was tough, and I saw a couple of ’em in his gang, hair cut short or heads shaved, lil bits of metal through their noses or ears like all the boys. But they was gulls. And they was tough as nails, too. They was savage boys, and what’s the truth is that by the tell of it, from Mixel’s mouth himself, they was sometime worse than the boys.”

“He had a girlfriend in his gang, or somewhere else? A squeeze?” I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to say, or what term they used here for a female companion. The rape thing had me curious, but it also hit me like most of this story — hard. Still, I needed to know. Hoping he wouldn’t notice, I stole a glance at my broadband to make sure it was still recording — full spectrum, e-gram. Yes!

“The boy, I says, took what he wanted when he wanted it. As he got older and built up his lil army of savage boys, he got to a lot of fuckin’. He got the pick of the litter, and when some lil group of boys got overrun by his gang, they took their trophies o’ fingers and ears, and they took the gulls, too. Mixel brought round a few gulls, his trophies at the time, but he didn’t keep ’em. It was too dangerous to keep ’em, and he knew that, the smart lil fuck. He says ever’one is gunnin’ for the King, and the smart place to gun is the Queen, so there gonna be no queen. He was ever so smart, that boy.”

Gran — that’s what I’d come to call him in my head because I’d never gotten his name, nor asked after it — it just seemed right. He took another swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That does sound smart — a girl he cared about would be a weakness.”

It made sense, but I only threw it out there to make sure we didn’t stall, that the engine in his head would keep going. The way he was putting that shit down his throat, it was only a matter of time before he ended up on the floor in a puddle of piss and vomit and booze. I was too far in now, and the e-gram was winding, taking it all in — sounds, words, smells. I could almost feel all the wires in my head transmitting the sensory data to the chip and down to the broadband. And while the corps wouldn’t care to put this on the net — the last thing they want is to acknowledge the ugly underbelly of this metropolis, the indies would snatch it up and black light it all over. And they’d pay me a fat chunk of marks for it. All I had to do was keep Gran talking.

“S’right. He was the young king of The Hate, the king of all the lil savage boys, and he got what he wanted because he didn’t fear nothing, and he took what he wanted savage-like so all the other boys stepped aside and followed. His lil gull trophies, though, he was nice to. Oh, he’d cut a boy’s ear off in a second just for some back-lip, but his gulls, he was sweet with — when he had ’em. He kept ’em in the house with me for a few days, fuck ’em all day and night, and then he’d give ’em to the boys to share and that would be it. But when they was with me at muh place, he was like a new boy.”

“But he was nice to you. He took care of you.”

“Well, yeah, he did right fine by me, but I was the only one. He hated on ever’one else. ‘Cept them gulls. I never really got used to it, I guess, how he would bring ’em on home, they knew they was there for fuckin’. Sometimes it was ugly, but he always got what he wanted. Only once they knew their place, he was sweet on ‘em.”

“He liked them, huh? Did he fall in love?” I didn’t know where to go with this. I just shifted in my seat and watched him out of the corner of my eye while I sipped at my drink and tried not to wince at the bitterness.

“No, he hated ’em. He hated ever’one. Couldn’t keep ’em, ya see. Ya live down here like a savage boy, ya kill and loot and murder and ya become the King, but ya can’t keep the gulls cuz ya can’t protect ’em. So, he fucked ’em and he gave ’em up. They always went screaming, crying, begging for him, but he always turned away and the boys ate them gulls up.”

“Ate?” The word hit me harder than his breath had, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be sick.

“No, boy, not ate as in had ’em for dinner. They raped ’em and did what they wanted, sold some of ’em, I’m sure, for money. Lil Mixel — now big Mixel — got what he wanted, all he could get, and then walked away. He had to be King, else he’d end up face down, guts out. There’s no room for silly play in The Hate or with the savage boys. Ya can’t go soft one day and say ya need to settle down. Ya can’t show nobody no kind face or say no kind words, not to boys or gulls. So he hid them away with me, where he loved them how he could, and then he had to be the King again.”

“He had to play the role.”

“Ya!” He smiled at me again and laid a hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he’d touched me, and I suppressed a shiver. Still, I could barely feel his touch, it was so light, as if he barely existed, as if he was already half in the grave and was here mostly in spirit.

“So he knew the game, and he was growing up.”

“He was a mean bean, he was, and grew up fast in the head and fast in the body. Being the King means getting all the best — the best pussy, the best food, the best booze and drugs. He was a smart boy, and he was quick with the challengers and clever with the gulls. He grew up quick-like and big and strong, and that, if you can believe it, was the end of him. The boss of The Hate came to find him.”

“Killed him?”

“No, bought him. Ten thousand marks for two years of service. The bosses have their wars, and them are much bigger wars than the lil savage boys fight. The savage boys war on each other and take the scraps in money and food and gulls — it’s just surviving. The bosses watch and see the cream rise to the top, as they says, and then they come calling and show them the money.”

“They really pay it all out? Ten thousand?” I suddenly realized I was in the wrong line of business. Maybe there was something to this boss recruitment, although a second after I thought that I realized that it was a totally ridiculous idea. But that kind of money in the hands of a child from the Lowers — a fortune!

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“Silly boy. Ten thousand after two years of service.”

“Doing what?”

“Warring on other bosses. Little armies of savage boys all grown up and promised the world and sent to die in the back alleys of this stink hole. They see the money signs in their eyes, see that chance to own the world, to eat good food and fuck the good holes. Oh, they see what the bosses have, ya see, and they wants it, too.

“Just sign the contract and join the service of Tiburon in upper mid-town or Lors in The Hate or Ivy Eye in Alters. Oh, they bring the boys runnin’ for the money. They’s got real kingdoms. They’s real kings. Not like the king of the savage boys, who’s like a king ant on a tiny ant hill. I never seen an ant, mind ya, but I know what them are.

“So comes Lors and his men to muh house — muh house, mind you — don’t no Lowers Boss come to an’one’s house, sure not muh house. But he comes, and he finds Mixel there with his new gull, and he’s grand like gold shinin’ in shit, as they says. And Mixel is witched and gives himself over in a heartbeat to be the boss’ champeen. Oh, the words that came out that man’s mouth were all Mixel could hear, so sweet, like the sweet nectar of that gull’s cunt, but more, more sweet than he’d ever tasted. He left her there, ya know — right then, left her there and went with Lors, and I had her myself, even though I wasn’t much use in that way even then.”

The old man looked at me with what I could only guess was lust, a revolting kind of grimace that involved his tongue lapping against the blackened strips of skin he’d have called lips. I’d almost wished he’d start coughing again and trade that sick look for a sick sound. His fingers seemed to suddenly have a mind of their own, and they angled and dangled out in front of him as if feeling the smooth contours of the sticky air.

“She was ripe, see, ripe and any that comes on the flat racks and lil trucks in the bazaar, like a juicy orange or tangelo. Oh, I couldn’t much fuck ‘er, not with my dropping prick, useless for many years a’fore that, but he’d cowed her down and she was nekked in muh room where he slept with all the gulls. It was just a mattress, lumpy and torn at the end so’s I had to keep stuffin’ in the stuffin’ and patching it as I could. She was there, eyes all glazed over from P.I.K.E., that drippin’ hold just open for me to push my fingers in.”

I had to look elsewhere, scan the crowd while he talked. He’d been as still as a dead man this whole time while he talked, but just now he was animated, alive, and I could picture what he was saying, and I didn’t want to see him with his gangly fingers and his pink tongue talking about taking a girl that way. I’ll right admit that I had my own deviant fantasies about girls and what I wanted and what I liked, and I’d indulged a few times in the Pink Stream with this one looker, but this was more than I wanted, and I couldn’t watch him until he’d gotten on with the story.

I couldn’t think of anything to say either to help him move on. His foul cloud of filth seem to wrap itself around my head and plunge me into an ill fog. So, he just kept talking, and all I wanted to do was leave.

“Oh my, sweet she was. He knew how to pick ’em, muh boy Mixel did. But the savage boys came an took her away the next day — sold her, fucked her, killed her. I dunno what they did, them ones. Mixel was gone, and they was battlin’ for a new King of the Hill. After that, I never saw them there again, but if’n I did see one or two I knew, they’d nod to me, always keeping to that code they had, that respect for Mixel, the King who went to serve the big boss.”

Thankful for the shift in conversation, I twisted back to face the old man and saw him quiet down, his hands falling back to the bar, wrapped around the dirty glass. The story was nearing its end — I could feel it. We’d start with Mixel’s death, it seemed, and there was no doubt we’d almost come full circle. I just needed those last details, if he had them now that the boy was grown and gone.

“What happened to Mixel and his new kingdom?”

“What always happens? The boys, they disappear. The bosses take them and wring them for all their blood — wring ’em good, squeezin’ out ever’ last drop, ya see. They knows those boys gots nothing, won’t be nothing, and won’t live for long. Ever’one knows, but nobody talks about it. Ya go work for the boss, and ya ain’t a-comin’ back. Maybe one outta a hundred o’ them boys lives on and comes to full service with the boss. Maybe one gets away and levels up with his money, but I dunno if that ever happens. I think that’s just a tale they tells us to keep us hopin’. Gullops, I says. Gullops.”

To be continued…

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Author’s Notes: I have to admit that I haven’t read this story in a while and I’m enjoying it. I know what happens next in a vague ‘I wrote this a long time ago myself’ way, but I can’t remember, so posting the finale tomorrow will be fun because it’ll be the first time I’ve read the whole story in a long time.

The underbelly of the city is one place that I really enjoyed creating — we’re talking Baltimore in the 24th century — not a shiny utopia, of course, but a future dystopia in which the elite live in the clouds in the higher levels of these massive cloudscrapers, where it rain incessantly (I did mention Blade Runner was an inspiration for this tale and the novel), and where the grotesque, downtrodden and forgotten grovel in the muck at what would have once been consider ‘street level’.

I’ve another story from this world that I’m going to post next week, but already I’d love to write more. I’d love to have time to rewrite that novel and dive deeper into the muck and show some other aspects of this futuristic world. We’ll see. Still got a full-time job and a half dozen other writing projects going on. We’ll see.

Stay tuned for the last part tomorrow, and please share, like, comment and all the things if you enjoyed the read.

Go to the final part below:

“There was really nothing left of Mixel when it was all over. We didn’t even really bury him, if ya get what I mean. There’s only so much ya can do with scraps, ya know? Some of the other boys — well, they call them the Gnashers, and there’s a reason.”

The old man looked at me. He was the boy’s gran or something; I forgot. We were, well, enough drinks into it that it no longer mattered how many we’d had or what their relationship was. A man can only count so high at a time like that, and he can only remember so much. The music was loud as hell; the place was dark as hell; his breath stunk of rotting teeth and that gut-rending filth he poured down his throat and offered me twice. I declined. I wasn’t there to end up in the Emergency at Old Hopkins or face down, skull shattered, my pockets looted and broadband raped in the alley. No, they would rape my band, not my body. My band was worth so much more.

I sipped my drink. It wasn’t what he was drinking, but it was some sick shit.

“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping to coax him along. We’d been sitting there an hour, and suddenly, out of the blue, he’d started talking, and I’d started recording, and it was just a chance thing — this story about this kid, Mixel. I didn’t know why I was recording or what I could use the recording for — they didn’t go for this kind of “people thing” at the newsbanks, but I just needed to know. I couldn’t help myself. It seemed more real than anything pumped out by the corps. Maybe Axel could use it; maybe it would sell somewhere.

I nodded to the keep, and he poured us another round. “Keep ’em coming, Jan-boy,” I told myself, “and he’ll spill it all.” It was just one of those things.

“Mixel, ya see, was my gull’s boy. He was a miracle baby, that one, what the Bishop would call a “True Sign of the Light”, and all that. Gullops, I say! Gullops! I don’t listen to that old fat fool. He looks dark, like a man who you can’t do a deal with. He’s always got his hand on his purse, and his other hand in yas, I says. Mixel, though, that boy was true; truer’n a day with no rain. They says it used to be sunny here long ago, ya know?” He stopped and coughed, that old man cough that doesn’t bode well. “Rained yeah, but not all the time. Sunny and cheery and bright? Ya think it was nice?”

“Mixel was the “True Sign”?” I had to keep him on point, you see? He was old and wandery, and well, he was water-logged like there was no tomorrow. Only, as the sayin’ goes, it’s not water he’s gone logged with.

“Mixel, yah, strong lil bean he was. Born just outside The Hate in Twelvers. Weren’t no doctors there as he was born; his mama simply pulled him out — what’s a woman’s got to do in the Lowers? No pops. No sibs. No nothing, ‘cept a mother, and she was afraid of the butchers and afraid of me — I wanted a son, ya see, didn’t matter that he would be a generation past, but a boy for me. She gave him up, then gave up her own life — bled out on the floor jes as he screamed his first breath.”

“Poor woman. You must’ve felt terrible. What kind of trade is that? A life for a life?” I looked for the grief in his face, in his eyes — people can hide it away, but it’s always there somewhere, waiting to come out in these moments, especially when the sauce is thick. Instead, he surprised me. He smiled, a grand, lippy smile, like a great, black sore on his face.

“She was gone to the Lighter after a horrible hard life. I’s happy to see her go but worried that maybe her soul had slid into the child’s body and she’d have to suffer another terrible lifetime. They say that, you know, that sometimes you come back and live your life again if you didn’t do it right the first time. I dunno if it’s true, but the scriptures say it — that man is doomed to repeat his failures until he learns his lessons, that he’ll be cast back, rejected by the Guardians of the White Gates if he’s not worthy. Could itta been her life was so miserable that she would be drawn up and cast out in a single breath? Gullops, I says. Gullops!”

He drained the glass with that last retort, as if the story was over, as if he’d said anything to me at all except that there had been almost nothing left of this Mixel, as if I knew all there was between his pathetic birth and his demise. No, I wasn’t done yet with this story. I nodded to the keep. More booze. It was what this bastard ran on, and I was gonna keep his tank full until he pissed himself. By the smell of him, he already had once.

“What happened after that? Mixel grew up right?”

“Aye, he did. A miserable little puny wretch. A sad little munchkin. If he hadn’t bitten the ears off Old Timony and kept them in his pockets for weeks to show all the little savage boys, he would have surely been killed ‘fore he was old enough to use his little prick.”

“Um.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, but then I chided myself. I should have known better. This was the Lowers. Shit happened. Shit that most people never wanted to know about. I was about to find out, but already I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“Yeah, Old Timony. He had a little cart o’ goods he pushed around the square. It was full of things as he found, trinkets, things he’d traded for. He had a rep for having things no one could find — once I got a right nice pair of boots off him. He’d said they were Praetorian boots, but I didn’t really believe it. Who would? Old Timony sold his stuff, but he also ran a little PIKE on the side — ever’body knew, and ever’body knew that sooner or later he was going to end up face down, guts out.”

He leaned forward and coughed again, a dirty, wet cough, and I sat there expecting a gray lung to come shuffling up through his toothless mouth and splat on the floor. It was a nasty sound and for a moment I thought to cover my mouth and nose as if it might be catching. There was no doubt that the doctors at the Hopkins Conglomerate were generally superb, but there was also no telling what you might end up paying — an old saying could come into play, and if you weren’t on your game or had someone to watch you, “an arm and a leg” could be the price.

“He lost his ears?” I tried not to imagine it just as I tried not to picture the old man’s lungs splatting on the floor. I swallowed against the feeling that was churning in my guts. What’s a man look like with no ears?

“Mixel was a tough lil boy. He was a savage boy, as they calls ’em. The savage boys ran all over midtown playing that ole game “King o’ the Hill”, but this one was for keeps, see. Ya don’t just get pushed off the hill, ya roll of with ya guts out, and ya don’t get back up no more. There’s a lil killing, a lil stealing, a lil whatever comes, as boys will do. Mixel would come home to me every few days and show me his trophies, bring me a few scraps of food as he had left. He was good to me, a good boy as savage boys can be.”

I’d seen them, too. As he was describing it, I could picture it in my head, and then there they were, some tiny figures in the shadows as I’d walked down the alley on the way here. I’d hardly paid any attention to them because they were so tiny. Would they have pounced on me like a pack if I’d been walking any slower? Maybe shown some kind of weakness?

“Those savage boys play their games, but those games — they make those boys into men, dangerous men, the kind that the bosses like, ya see. I says the games make those boys into monsters, and people like me will one day find ourselves face down, guts out to boys like that. But Mixel, for his part, took care of me, and none of those lil rats would come near me or muh place. I was safe while he was around. And I was proud of him, too. People was afraid of him, but I was proud, I says, like he’s muh own boy, and he’s making his way in the shit.”

He paused, his eyes far away for a moment, and then he looked around as if he didn’t know where he was. He stared at me, and then he smiled again. I wished he hadn’t because he breathed my way, and I had to catch my breath and close my eyes — it was toxic. He sipped on his cup again, taking down the foul liquid, and that gave me a second to compose myself and come up with a question to move the story along.

“Mixel became King of the Hill in Twelvers? In The Hate?”

The old man took a moment to register my question, then turned and smiled again, a big, winning smile full of pride. It was in his eyes, almost beautiful, where his mouth was only terror. I had called it right.

To be continued…

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Author Notes: The novel was a fun write and my very first effort. It featured six main characters, took place mostly in a future Baltimore, where I live now, and brought together two of my favorite movies at the time — Blade Runner and Underworld. You get the picture.

I honestly have no idea where this story came from, but a good portion of the novel takes place in “The Lowers”, the street-level slums of the city, and I wanted to explore what the culture looked like there.

Go on to Part 2 here!

The teleportation spell snapped shut behind Gaius and company with a bloop, and the four heroes landed on stone — smooth, warm, and smelling like a centaur with a pack-a-day habit. All around them, gold glittered in the half-light: coins, crowns, gemmed goblets, and at least three questionable statues of people in various states of dress. The treasure stretched in all directions, a molten sea of wealth stacked high against the red walls of a vast cavern.

And looming above it all was a dragon.

Massive. Crimson. Eyes like molten amber. Wings partially unfurled as if preparing to smother the entire cavern in flame. His head alone was large enough to swallow the minotaur whole and any amount of cherry cobbler the Duke of Dread could dredge up. He was not smiling. At least as far as Gaius could tell. Dragons were few and far between, and when there were illustrations or warning posters, the dragons weren’t depicted as friendly or welcoming. All he could be sure of was that there were a lot of teeth, and there seemed to be the backend of a goat caught between two of them.

Gaius looked up, blinked once, and said, “Valkath the Inferno, I presume.”

Ilium instinctively raised her hands, already murmuring a spell. Bane had already stepped in front of her, battle axe raised. Axor began tuning his sitar, possibly out of panic, possibly in preparation for a funeral dirge final soundtrack to their impending deaths.

The dragon's voice came slow, rumbling from deep within its chest as it turned its head to the side, one great black eye staring at an apparent snack. It’s breath was smokey, each syllable spoken with varying levels of heat, like an assortment of peppers from a farmer’s market. “Who dares interrupt Valkath the Inferno? Who trespasses unannounced upon my hoard?”

Gaius held up his hands. “Right, okay, I can explain—sort of. You see, we stole this stupid Sapphire of Regret, and —.” He fumbled at his robes, yanked a small satchel loose, and pulled out the glowing pink gem. It pulsed faintly, radiating the kind of magic that always led to someone weeping by the end of the night.

Valkath’s eyes locked onto it. The shift was instant. The growl stopped. His pupils narrowed. “The Sapphire,” he rumbled. “You brought it?”

Gaius hesitated. “Yes? I mean—yes. Technically it brought us here, by way of a very technical spell that—.”

“Darkspell,” Gaius said with wounded dignity. “Dark Spell. Darkspell. Everyone knows.”

The dragon blinked once. Then slowly, impossibly, he smiled. “Well then. My thanks, Gaius Darkspell Everyone Knows. You’ve done well. Very well indeed.”

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Axor stared, his fingers lingering over strings. Bane gaped and leaned on his axe. Ilium twisted up her face, incredulous and just over it all. “Wait,” she said slowly, hands on hips. “You’re saying you hired us?”

“Dragons can’t just go out and burn down castles and take what we like anymore, you know? There are always fines, and then signs like ‘No dragons’ and ‘Dragons not welcome here’,” Valkath said with a frown, sort of the opposite of a dragon smile, but equally terrifying. “That’s not very neighborly.” He snorted. “But you’ve completed the job. As promised, payment awaits. Although,” and the dragon beamed its gaze at Gaius and the sapphire again, “I don’t know how you found me? This address is unlisted.”

Gaius swallowed, letting a beat pass before something popped into his head. “I cast a spell to go to the safest place on the Four Continents, and it sent us here. It’s magic.” Seemed legit, and after all, Valkath the Inferno was considered the most terrifying terror in the Four Continents and known for the most horrendous crimes. A short list of Valkath’s most impertinent crimes rattled through Gaius’s head — how he was accused of impersonating a bishop and officiating a wedding — a legally binding wedding, mind you — between a kobold and a broomstick. Valkath was also reported to have snoozed on the King’s Road in Upper Milquetoast for nineteen hours and held up trade for days, resulting in more than a few spoiled turnips and a bardic hit song entitled, “Snoring on the Silk Road.”

The mighty dragon, the most terrifying calamity that ever existed in the Six Kingdoms on the Four Continents, sat back on his haunches and gestured to the massive pile of gold immediately in front of them. “Take what you can carry,” he offered. “And thank you for your service.”

The group stared. Axor’s sitar made a hopeful chord. And Gaius stepped forward reverently, still holding the Sapphire. “Right. Then… here.”

He placed it gently on a pedestal of coiled chain and crushed rubies.

Valkath sniffed it.

Sniffed again.

And then—

“AH-CHOO!”

Thousands of them.

They floated skyward, popping gently against the stone ceiling with sad little piff sounds.

The party stood frozen. Mouths slightly open. Gaius blinked twice.

“Did… did that just—”

Bane groaned. “Dragon bop?”

Axor coughed, grabbed his friend’s arm and helped him lower his battle axe. “On the bright side, they were beautiful bubbles.”

Valkath stared at the empty floor where his hoard had been. He blinked once. Then calmly turned to his guests. “Would you care for tea?” he asked. “I’ve got biscuits. And if you’re not in a rush, I’ve uncovered a fascinating lead on a cursed scepter buried beneath the Citadel of Screams.”

A long pause.

Then Ilium sighed. “Fine. But you wouldn’t happen to have a little cherry cobbler, would you?”

Author’s Notes: So, early on I did know that I wanted Gaius to cast a spell to escape and that it would bring the companions face-to-face with the most feared creature in the Six Kingdoms and Four Continents, who you’ve presumably already met in Gaius Darkspell and the Duel of Fates.

What I didn’t know for sure was that there would be one more effect from the Sapphire of Regret, regretfully turning Valkath’s entire stash to bubbles, but it seemed fitting when the moment came and the words dribbled out of my fingers and onto the page, as it were.

Also, the whole idea that Valkath was, in fact, the client that requested the stolen gem, didn’t come to me until I was literally writing that scene. It just happened, and it seemed perfectly natural. Given that this is a prequel to the first story, which I also didn’t realize until I figured out the ending, is just another part of why I love writing. I didn’t know any of this was going to happen. It just did.

And finally, I have a bunch of cute pictures of Valkath and the party that I made, but that weren’t appropriate for this story since I’m going with a certain style. Here they are:

I’m not sure which is my favorite. Which is yours?

Anyway, Gaius and friends will be back soon enough in Gaius Darkspell and the Bureaucracy of Doom. It’s a working title, but Gaius has some paperwork to file before he ceased to exist. You know, the usual sorts of things one deals with in fantasy worlds. We’ll see how it goes.

At one point during the night, it registered with Gaius, Ilium and Axor that every spell they cast backfired, ricocheted or went awry, leaving unintended consequences, all of it followed by Ilium’s ear-splitting condemnation echoing through the halls: “Gaius!”

He’d tried Wall of Force in the throne room, hoping to stave off a small contingent of angry guards reeking of dead squirrel, only to summon a Squall of Forks — like an indoor hailstorm of shiny metal that indiscriminately skewered everything in sight. Bane was particularly angered, bellowing something about meatballs and scattering guards left and right with his battle axe.

For his part, at least he was over the invisible loincloth thing; for everyone else’s part, at least the Invisible Loincloth Incident, which they would later sign a pact never to speak of again, was over.

Ilium, clever girl that she was, had decided to even the odds, and use some of her illusion magic, casting Mirror Image in hopes that a dozen versions of herself would distract the advancing contingent of guards, giving them time to get past the guard station at the end of the castle’s main hall. The Sapphire of Regret tingled, having none of it, and Moral Image delivered a dozen versions of Ilium chasing after her, each delivering a stern lecture on some past misstep, poor life choice or her unfulfilled destiny as a pastry chef.

Axor proved no less susceptible to the magic sapphire’s curse, but his magic worked nonetheless, allowing the adventurers to slip out of the main castle’s gates. His Harmony of Binding in D Minor was twisted and perverted into Harmony of Binding in C Major -- C standing for Contracts, summoning a small army of gnomish legal clerks with stacks of magically binding contracts in front of the remaining guards. The guards, immobilized by the bureaucratic jargon and legalese, stood transfixed by the spectacle, and while some ran shrieking from the room, more than a few accepted the pens offered and began the laborious process of signing literally anything put in front of them.

The tingling at his hip, not unlike the tingling he’d felt that one time he’d scored with a pair of Fae twins after a bar fight over their virtue — turned out they were lacking in that department, but it was so sweet of Gaius to defend them (and won’t you come home with us?) — was there every time he uttered a spell he’d cast dozens of times. He couldn’t explain it, or rather, he didn’t want to.

Then, after what seemed more like a night of drunken debauchery than a simple heist with a foolproof plan, Bane grabbed the mighty castle doors in his oversized mitts, slammed them shut and then crushed the metal latch in a death grip that even made Death herself a little twitchy — not that she wasn’t into that sort of thing, but one could never be too careful.

Finally, free of the castle itself, Gaius and company turned, the golden warmth of the sunrise over the city meeting them. And just as a distant church tower’s bell rang out with the time, the Duke of Dread stepped out of the shadows and into the empty castle courtyard, his beefy fingers wrapped around a decidedly tasty looking breakfast sandwich of mutton, egg and cheese. He shoved the entirety of the sandwich in his mouth, gulped it down, and coughed. “A moment, sorry, I -- my manners are normally better. You caught me mid-breakfast, and I haven’t even had time to warm up the cherry cobbler.”

He waved at the party of heroes, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then straightened up. The man was as unthreatening as a cucumber sandwich, as Gaius had first remarked after their initial meeting the previous day. But he held himself with dignity, and he did have a furrowed brow, which might have passed for dread-inducing in the right light. He stepped closer, his ceremonial ducal long coat flapping ever so slightly in the breeze, revealing a pristine nightshirt that nearly covered his less-ceremonial house shoes.

Gaius stepped forward, as well, meeting the moment before Ilium could grab his shoulder. “No, my lord, pardon our manners. We were out for our normal morning constitutional, and I’m afraid Bane there had a piss in one of your flowerpots, which caused quite the upheaval. We didn’t mean to disturb your eminence with our early departure. Thought it best to…”

“...slip out unnoticed,” finished the Duke with an understanding nod. “And before the breakfast cobbler. Shame really. What regretful timing,” he said with a smirk, “but heroes such as yourselves are, I’m sure, needed all over the Four Continents.”

Gaius nodded. “Yes, I regret to say that we’ve been summoned by the ArchBaron of Biscany. There’s a small matter of his daughter’s kidnapping by a band of, well -- I hesitate to say,” said Gaius, totally wagging it, “ne’er-do-wells. Let’s leave it at that. No one likes to impune the honor of a virgin and future archbaroness. She is quite the looker,” he went on with a sly grin, which turned into more of a frown when he heard Ilium clear her throat.

“Regrettable,” echoed the Duke, “and more so since that piss pot incident seems to have disturbed my pet.” And with that, and a flourish that rivaled that of any in any kingdom, the Duke stepped back, making way for a darker, deeper, more dangerous shadow to come forth.

They’d not gotten a good look at the Palace Guardian earlier — regrettably, but more regrettably now, Gaius, Axor, Ilium and Bane were getting a good look at it finally. Even with the sunrise behind it, the towering beast mostly adorned in shadow, it was more terrifying than Tax Day. Twelve feet of protein powder and gym membership abuse, a snarling, slobbering brute sporting a broad ox head on massive shoulders, two tusks protruding from its jaws and a tuft of bright purple hair between its pointed ears, not to mention a thick golden ring through its nose, dripping with some rather unsanitary-looking minotaur snot. Its bare hide was a mottled brown, riddled with scars that belied old wounds laughed off like so much spilled beer, and its singular article of clothing was as stained and unkempt as Bane’s was pristine and shiny.

“Minotaur bop,” snarled Bane, stepping forward, his own frame dwarfed by the menacing creature. It huffed in response, a little cloud of reddish-black mist shooting from its nostrils, and as it dissipated in the morning air, the minotaur squared off on Bane and charged.

Steel met steel, battleaxe on battleaxe, ringing out like a great Tiberian gong that set Gaius’ teeth on edge. The two behemoths went blow for blow, or bop for bop in Bane’s case, like a bloody ballet without a single drop of blood spilt. The two danced, axes slicing the air, razor sharp blades whistling, yet neither could land a hit. Bane growled as he heaved his axe overhead for a crushing blow, only to be met by the minotaur’s battleaxe and its own throaty roar. The earth shook, the castle walls trembled, and even the sun seemed to question its decision to get up this early, slipping behind one of the castle’s six towers and thinking perhaps it should go back to bed for a bit.

Suddenly, the main doors of the castle shuddered and crashed to the ground, a contingent of castle guards dropping what looked like a sturdy dining room table cum battering ram and drawing their weapons. They fanned out, one eye on the battle of the big bastards at the far end of the courtyard, their other eyes aimed at the remaining three interlopers, early morning constitutional, or not.

From the far end of the courtyard, well out of the way of the raging battle, the Duke of Dread piped up, his voice ringing out over the grunts, growls and grating metal. “Cobbler for three, I think,” he chortled.

“Gaius!” growled Ilium for the umpteenth time, which was great during snogging, Gaius had to admit, but hadn’t been his favorite thing to hear the last few hours.

He turned, stifling a shrug, and ran through a dozen spells in his head, his right hand tapping the pouch on his hip. No matter what he tried, the spell would go wrong, leaving them sitting ducks. Three magicians without any of their other usual weapons and one mighty barbarian, who looked to be tiring, perhaps even outmatched by the bigger foe — reminder not to tell Bane that…ever. Axor gripped his sitar like he’d gripped that last tankard of ale at the tavern they’d been in back in Toronor -- white knuckled and nervous that the ale would run out after Bane declared himself off the wagon again. Ilium fidgeted, something she couldn’t help and yet hated with a passion ever since she’d fidgeted with what turned out to be a magic lamp, unleashing a centuries-old genie they’d been forced to trap back inside because not only would he not grant any wishes, he was a bit of an asshole at the pub.

With death closing in on all sides, Bane faltering, and the Duke of Dread going on and on about his cobbler, there was little left for Gaius to do. He needed a heroic sacrifice, he knew, but that was asking a lot of a guy who’d just invested a heaping helping of gold into his 401k and discovered that the Love of His Life was a sucker for 2-for-1 turkey legs. There was only one thing left to do — agree with Ilium, as dangerous as that seemed, and acknowledge that the Sapphire of Regret was, in fact, ruining every spell they’d cast since it came into their possession. He had to be rid of it, and they had to be gone from the Duke’s castle as soon as possible.

What to do, he thought? Why cast a teleportation spell, of course. And not just any spell. His homebase spell, a magic he’d bound to his favorite quill, the one that sat on his writing desk at home. The one he’d pricked his finger with while writing with invisible ink, causing acute invisible ink poisoning, which had remarkable side effects. On one hand, he’d become completely invisible for about ninety-three minutes, and on the other, he’d been so addled from the poison, that he’d wandered down to the local public bath and fallen asleep in the ladies section, only to reappear quite unexpectedly not long after falling asleep in the great tub that Ilium always used.

Who could forget that day, he thought? A day that would live in infirmary, which is where he’d ended up. Luckily for him, he was clothed when he reappeared, and more lucky still, Ilium had felt sorry for punching him in the shards more than three times -- that was as many as she’d own up to -- and come to visit him, where they’d had their first unofficial date.

The guards were still waiting, watching for Bane to fall so they didn’t have to do much clean up later, but Gaius didn’t hesitate. His friends were counting on him. And with a flourish of fist and foot, a little jig with a twist, and a booming voice, he cast a half circle of what one might unmistakably mistake for glitter into the air and shouted:

Time ground to a halt faster than a two-foot gnome charging what turned out to be an active ant hill, and the air around Gaius and company twisted into a knot. The minotaur’s battleaxe hovered inches from Bane’s brainpan, and the Duke of Dread was one syllable into the word “cobbler” again when the magic took effect. The Sapphire of Regret, like the clockwork of a broken clock, tingled in Gaius’ pouch, and the four adventures, Heroes of the Six Kingdoms and Four Continents vanished.

Author’s Notes: It’s been maybe two months since I wrote this, and I’m reading and remembering. I mean, I know how this ends, and I remembered some of the major set pieces, like Bane’s loin cloth turning invisible in the last episode, but I’d totally forgotten about the crazy spells that went wrong. I’m having a laugh, and I hope you are, too.

Which spell that goes wrong do you think is the best?

Also, should we bring back the Duke of Dread and his cherry cobbler in a future story?

I feel like Gaius and his pals have legs — in other words, I feel like they have some staying power and can go on to more stories. What do you think? And if you think that answer is yes, what would you like to see them get up to?

As always, thanks for reading! I really appreciate it. I’m having a good time, but it’s nice to know that you, the reader, are, too, so please like, comment and share.

Axor the Golden-Tongued, Maestro of Mayhem, Master of Muses, and Occasional Passing Philanderer, strummed his sitar like a fading rock star, his golden voice echoing across the throne room like a chorus of baritone angels. Gaius slowed, turning to watch the magic unfold, always pleased by a chord or three from his favorite bard, but feeling a twinge of something at his hip. He tapped the pouch, double-checking again that their prize was still there, and stood back ready to watch the pursuing contingent of guards wrapped up like a drum.

Axor froze, the last lyric hanging from his mouth like an overcooked leek, leeks being his least favorite root vegetable and the ingredient most likely to be found in almost everything one ate on the Four Continents. And out of the dark tiles of the room they came chittering. Squirrels. Instead of glowing ropes of bardic energy, a dozen portals popped open with a sharp twink! sound… and out burst a frightening host of angry, nut-crazed squirrels descending on the bewildered palace guard like fuzzy, squeaky missiles.

The closest guard screamed and ran, his halberd clattering on the marble flooring. Then another screamed — more countertenor than soprano — flailing, twisting, dancing the most intricate, artistic, suggestive jig ever disqualified by a judge of the Four Continent Games.

“IT’S IN MY PANTS!” he howled, dropping his halberd and running in wild circles as the other guards leaped and swung their spears with wild abandon, slicing dozens of the little rodents, but missing dozens more.

Axor blinked, lowering his lute. “Huh.” Then he turned and shrugged. “That… was not Binding Ballad #3.” He strummed a self-conscious chord. “Creative reinterpretation? Call it Improvised Squirrel Sonata in D-sharp Minor.”

“Well, they’re sonata’ing this way,” said Ilium, pointing, and Axor turned, his eyes widening as the flock of fuzzy nut munchers reacted to the chord, and began a-scampering toward the heroes. “Run!”

“This way,” said Gaius, “while they’re distracted.” He pulled Axor through a narrow side door, holding it open as Bane squeezed through, Ilium bringing up the rear.

When he turned, he was reminded of Melody -- the perfect name for a siren, he thought. A dozen or more Melodies — er, beautiful young women stared wide-eyed at the bedraggled little party in little more than what Bane was wearing. The room was bathed in a soft glow, wrapped in pastel-colored drapes and flowing, gauzy curtains as if the local textile merchant had run a buy-one-get-everything-else-in-my-shop-free sale, and these women had used a coupon. They reclined on plush divans and massively overstuffed chairs, books or wine or devices that Gaius couldn’t name in polite company in-hand.

A brunette on the left squinted an eye at them and pointed. “Duke of Dread send you?” Her accent was a little warbly, something off-continent. “No boom boom without twenty-four hours notice,” she said matter-of-factly, her eyes crawling from Axor to Bane to Gaius and resting on Ilium, eliciting a shy smile. “Get out. Oh, but she can stay.”

“Virgin bop,” said Bane, tipping his battleaxe over his shoulder while his loincloth shuddered in the light breeze from the window.

“No bop. No boom boom. Go now. Her okie dokie,” said the brunette to Bane, utterly unintimidated, her smile shifting more towards a scowl.

He remembered how long the door to the siren’s flat held, locks and all, and it was time for a different tactic besides run and run some more.

“This way, fellas,” he muttered, trying to keep them focused. “We need disguises.”

A few minutes later, Ilium stopped in her tracks in the side room, both hands trying to hide her shock and stifle a guffaw as Axor, Gaius and even Bane stood in a state of mostly undress, half of their armor on the floor, most of their pride with it. Admittedly, Bane existed in a state of mostly undress anyway, given that his Loincloth of Invisibility was the only apparel he sported, and as far as pride went, his was intact. For his part, he seemed to be supervising the transition of two of the Four Continents’ most deadly warriors into the Duke of Dread’s most unattractive concubines, and it was not going well.

“A moment, boys,” said Ilium, “I’ve brought reinforcements.” She stepped aside as six of the virgins — er young women swept into the room behind her. “Ladies? Make them beautiful.” She stifled another giggle, her eye on Gaius and the chemise he was trying to pull down over his broad shoulders. This wouldn’t do at all, trusting them to dress themselves. What they needed was a feminine hand, a little coordination and enough makeup to turn a camel into a king’s stallion.

It took longer than it should have, with more cooing and smiling and faux nods of approval than should be expected of any woman, but the six virgins — er women worked their own magic, then stepped back behind Ilium as she admired their handiwork. “This will do,” she said, her eyes tracing the comely shapes, ruby lips and batting eyelashes of two of the Duke’s most cherished (and muscular) paramours. Axor’s legs needed a good waxing spell, but the gauzy skirt he wore flowed to his freshly painted toes. For Gaius’ part, he was narrow in the hip and decidedly unhairy, which made the form-fitting tunic dress a good choice, even if the slit on the side did travel nearly to his waist. A veil or hooded cloak, and all would be well, she decided.

Ilium slid the virginal cloak she’d be given over her lithe frame, pulling it closed to hide her armor, and nodded, satisfied. This would work, where nothing else had all night — not since Gaius had walked out of the vault, Sapphire of Regret in-hand. She’d speak to him later about it, reminding him how she’d cautioned him against this heist, even promising an assortment of naughty incentives. But he’d held out -- this was for all of them. A life of luxury. An inspired feat worthy of the Four Continents’ greatest adventurers. And with its sale, a little bungalow overlooking Lake Isola with a perma-magicked jacuzzi for fizzy frolicking with his favorite fierce femme.

She’d caved to that last image, but at the moment, she was less than sure of anything, especially how well a magicked jacuzzi would work if they had the Sapphire of Regret in-hand. For now, they were ready for a quieter approach to fleeing the castle. Slow and steady, feminine charms at the ready, and just one thing lacking: Bane.

She eyed the mighty barbarian, snapped her fingers twice to get his attention, and said, “Bane, poof.”

“Bane poof,” he echoed, his voice like the low roar of the Mighty Boar of Oak Ridge Hollow, Gutter of the Guilty and Prize Porker of Princess Pestilence. The Loincloth of Invisibility had been a lucky discovery on that adventure, and with it, Bane had been recognized as the first man, woman or creature to ride the terrifying Mighty Boar, even if no one had seen him — because he was invisible, of course.

“Poof?” muttered Bane, but no one could hear him over all the screaming as six virgins — er women turned and fled, Axor (who was nearest Bane) with them, shrieking like a fairy on fire. Bane, the usual mask of uncertainty on his face, shambled after them, thinking this was part of the plan.

“Gaius!” screamed Illium, her voice ricocheting around and through all the screaming that erupted in the neighboring room.

For his part, Gaius showed a little leg, made a kissy face at the Love of His Life, and promptly started putting his armor back on.

Gaius hadn’t taken more than seven steps -- well, maybe more like six, before he felt the first pang of regret.

It was less like a pang, when you’re hungry and your stomach is growling but the love of your life is standing in front of you with her lips pursed and her eyes closed and she’s been waiting all day to be kissed, but you’re really craving one of the massive turkey legs and tankard of ale down at the tavern. It’s two-for-one night on turkey legs and ale, and maybe she could just wait a few minutes, or even go with you. Because your life’s light can down a turkey leg like a mountain troll, and isn’t that what love is?

But it wasn’t like that at all, except now Gaius realized that he hadn’t carb-loaded for this adventure like he should have, and he was indeed feeling a bit peckish as he, Axor, Bane and his life’s light, Ilium of the Ample Bosom, or was it Pert Bottom? -- relationships were complicated -- raced down the stairs leading away from the palace vault and about thirty-four of the King’s Guard. There had been thirty-five, but one stopped to pull a rock out of his boot and he was subsequently trampled by the Palace Guardian, a twelve-foot tall Minotaur with a massive battle axe, a sour attitude and a loin cloth that was considerably more disturbing than both his attitude and battle axe.

Regret filled Gaius like gas after a night of cheese wheels and cabbage. Or perhaps it was just his tendency to get a little farty when he was anxious, something no potion he’d concocted had ever remedied. Instead, he tried to focus on the problem at hand. It wasn’t cabbage, he said to himself as he leapt down to the next landing with practiced ease, and it certainly wasn’t the curse of the stone. That was a rumor, a wives’ tale at most. He’d heard the stories and promptly discounted all of them.

“Gaius!” Illium screamed in his ear when an arrow bounced off her shoulder guard. She grabbed his free hand, bollocksing the spell he was warming up, and pulled him to the side as Axor and Bane rumbled by. “A moment,” she cried and stepped forward.

The clatter of steel guardsmen boots filled the stone staircase behind them, and a moment later, the first palace guard clattered into view. Lightweight metal armor from head to foot, the only thing exposed was his face. It was nearly as red as his hair, a mustachioed man who looked a little bit like an angry sardine trapped in a tin can two sizes too small. He was followed immediately by a few younger fellows, all of them clad in similar gear and carrying halberds that looked more ceremonial than anything, but lethal nonetheless.

“Aboratium Artures,” whispered Ilium, her lithe fingers weaving an amber light in front of her like the strands of a spider web. And then her voice roared, “Flare of Fury Ignite!” which immediately reminded Gaius of the time he’d neglected to mention there was a spider on her arm until she’d seen it and promptly set the tavern on fire. Two-for-one turkey legs had been off the menu for a few months after that. Regrettably.

A blazing shard of amber light flashed across the small space and burst over the heads of the descending guards, dousing them in a shower of sparks, just as Illium’s cloak burst into flames. The guardsmen, unprepared for the aerial assault, and their attacker’s self-own, danced around, screaming and trying to avoid the downpour, just as Ilium danced around and screamed a litany of obscenities that would have gotten her free drinks at the nearest tavern. Gaius leapt into action, ripping the cloak away and tossing it aside like that not-so-magic carpet he’d gotten at a yard sale. The carpet had caught fire the first time he’d spoken the incantation for it to fly, and the seller had just been about to offer a full refund until the flaming carpet burned his entire stand to the ground.

As for the guards, they stiffened, growled, and rushed at the two wizards just as the rest of the guards came into view.

“Gaius!” Illium shouted, and she turned and bolted past Gaius, giving him a look that hinted at a lack of snogging later.

Regretfully, this was not how it was supposed to go. They were not, as Axor had insisted, following a ‘well-rehearsed and foolproof exit strategy,’ which they’d planned for weeks after the dinner invitation to Gaius and his party Ilium had been carefully arranged. The Duke of Dread was notorious for both his labyrinthine, trap-filled castle defenses and his remarkably bad cherry cobbler. They’d avoided the latter, thanks to some sleight of hand by Bane -- he’d accidentally knocked over the entire cart carrying the cherry cobbler to the table because he was “afraid of turtles.” It didn’t make sense, but Bane spoke so infrequently, you just had to go with it. So, one danger avoided. The other…?

They were running. Very fast. Down winding stairs that smelled like centuries-old regret and recent Minotaur sweat, carrying an infamous gem that their client was willing to pay a handsome sum for -- a very handsome sum; in fact, so handsome, the client confessed, it could star in its own traveling variety show or win a pageant.

The plan had been simple -- sneak out of their rooms after the big party, Ilium having prepared a potion that diluted the alcohol they would be drinking for hours. While the castle and its owner snored the snores of the eternally snockered, Gaius and company would sneak up to the tall tower on the east side of the castle and take aim at the vault. Therein, they knew, rested untold riches -- well, not untold because surely someone had told someone something, or everyone wouldn’t know about the untold riches. According to what was told by someone somewhere, the vault held ancient heirlooms and a few rare magical items, among them the fabled Sapphire of Regret.

Stealing it, they reasoned, was as much for the money that their client had promised as for the Duke himself. If the Sapphire of Regret really was cursed -- and Gaius knew that curses were all in your head, then he’d suffer from curse after curse. The Duke of Dread, if he ever found out they’d stolen it, would thank them later.

But he would never find out, of course.

Gaius had practiced the unsealing and opening spells for weeks ahead of the trip. The vault had to be unsealed, then opened, lest booby traps of all sorts go off. There was a klaxon, a contingent of guards, and something else -- something dark and deadly, a danger that everyone alive had heard of but no one alive had ever seen and lived. Axor had spent the better part of a weekend pouring through ancient tomes, reams of parchment and not a few books of popular song lyrics trying to discern or deduce what that final danger was, but he hadn’t found even a hint beyond a single quatrain scribbled on a tavern napkin in a shaky hand:

Woe betide the misled knave,

Who dares disturb what none may save.

Beneath the vault, the beast is bound—

Where greed runs deep, no light is found.

“Cave troll,” said Gaius off-handedly, his favorite way of saying things. “Bane can beat a cave troll in his sleep, can’t you, Bane?” He’d eyed the big bastard barbarian sitting in the corner feeding a kitten that had followed him home earlier in the day.

“Cave troll bop,” said Bane without even looking up, and everyone had decided that was enough of that. Drunk bards in late-night taverns scrawling lyrics on a napkin, then leaving them in a carefully sealed box in the ancient library in the capital didn’t scare anyone. It was normal. Who didn’t do that? Clearly a ploy to get a chart-topping single played by bard jockeys all over the Six Kingdoms and Four Continents.

They’d made it up to the top of the tower without incident -- all part of the plan. Gaius rehearsed the spells with each step up the winding stone stairs. Illium walked with her eyes closed, her delicate fingers on Gaius’ shoulder, her thoughts and consciousness far ahead, searching out booby traps, guards and anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Axor strummed lightly on his sitar, sending soothing vibes out in every direction to calm any creatures that might react to their approach.

It was the middle of the night, most of the castle snoring loud enough to wake the dead, and Gaius was perched in front of a circle drawn in chalk, a mirror image of the great vault door only steps away. The spell was a simple reflection spell, preceded by a ward spell, cancelling out all of the magical protections and offering Gaius a way to open the door without even touching it. He whispered the litany of words he’d practiced a thousand times in the weeks leading up to this moment, his fingers moving ever so slightly as he felt the tumblers shift, heard the click of the lock, and the door creaked quietly open.

“Gaius,” breathed Illium as she stepped up, her long legs just within his view, “you’re the greatest wizard that ever lived.” He grinned because that meant only one thing -- a night of snogging and listening to her mewling his name was in the cards. All they had to do was get the sapphire and get out.

Gaius blew Illium a kiss as he stepped into the vault, taking quick account of the rest of his friends, then turned his eyes and the glowing end of his staff to the not-so-untold treasures that lay in the fabled strongroom. He whistled, or he would have if he were any good at whistling. The place was at least what dreams were made of, but even dreams hadn’t dreamt of the riches that lay before him.

The chamber itself was beyond belief, the size of the city’s cathedral at least, which was entirely impossible unless the Duke of Dread had the use of a powerful displacement spell. The walls were roughly hewn out of black rock in contrast to the floating chandeliers crafted from what looked like living fire elementals writhing in place. In every direction, Gaius’ gaze fell on stacks of platinum coins, piles of vibrant tapestries, chests full of gems and what was clearly a wall dedicated to the Duke’s fabled wine collection. And there, in the middle of it, gleaming with mystical energy, was a magnificent pink sapphire the size of Gaius’ fist.

“The duke is going to regret not having better protection spells,” said Gaius smugly, the smugness warming his heart and filling his belly. But there was no time to gloat, he knew. He still had to close the vault, erase any trace of magic in the area and get he and his friends back to their rooms before they were discovered.

He smiled to himself, opened the pouch at his hip, and slid the jewelstone in, feeling its warmth, as if it was glowing with some kind of internal energy. But he knew it was just his own heat, his heart pounding from adrenaline, blood pumping from the long walk up the stairs and the nervous energy surrounding the entire endeavor. Nothing else. They’d done the impossible thing, and they’d be back in their rooms, fast asleep -- minus a good long snog, in minutes.

Gaius gave the thumbs up as he stepped over the threshold of the vault, then froze as a klaxon rang out, the sconces on the walls flashed to flame, and a low roar echoed throughout the room just as a dark doorway appeared out of nowhere in the opposite wall.

“Shards,” he groaned, and he turned and ran.

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Author’s Notes: If you haven’t read the original Gaius Darkspell story, I’ve linked to it here: Gaius Darkspell and the Duel of Fates.

Gaius is a character that came out of nowhere. Not because he’s sneaky but because I saw a picture on Tumblr, and suddenly I started thinking of a story about a wizard that would battle a dragon. This is literally how all of my writing works. I see something, think of a cool line, or hear an interesting name, and suddenly there’s a story blooming. And then I write it. And who knows what’s going to happen?

And that the first story, and now this one, turned out to be funny — at least I think the stories are funny — was entirely by accident, too. This is the first paragraph from that original story, and so, I decided I was going to write a comedic fantasy short story about a wizard who wasn’t all that, but don’t tell him.

And Gaius was born. First to take on the most dangerous foe in the Four Continents and Six Kingdoms, and in this story, which I randomly decided would be fun as a heist story, to steal the fabled Sapphire of Regret, an item one might think might be a mistake to lay one’s hand on, but of course, Gaius doesn’t make mistakes.

Enjoy!

I sat there for a while and just stared at the email.

I'd been here how long? Good pay, lunch breaks on the front steps, interns coming and going. The one staying, thriving, bounding over me, my boss now, and his signature there under the rote "With regards," and just floating above the "Manager, Event Horizon Division."

I was in the 8-hour per pay period PTO bracket. I got all ten federal holidays. A Christmas bonus last year. I had a parking pass.

Had. Simmons would have it by this time tomorrow, a vapid smile on his face, that sheen of cold sweat on his forehead I'd gotten so used to.

The clock on the wall ticked, its hands crawling slowly toward the inevitable, and I glanced down at the draft I'd started, unable to hit send and let it go into the company cloud. I'd seen the emails before, but I'd never really slowed down enough to read them, to soak up the words, the thoughts, the memories that went with them. The faces -- I barely even remembered them, head down as it always was. Focused on the next task, the tick of the next check box on the way to my next paycheck. The occasional glance into my cubicle by someone I could have called a friend in any other circumstance -- anywhere but here.

Because the truth was I didn't want to know — their last names, the names of their children, what kind of car they drove or what sort of sandwich they packed in the morning or how they liked their coffee. It always struck me as odd that they gathered around the bubbler and joked about sports and raved about the traffic and squandered their time with non-company nonsense.

I swallowed, lifted my arms from my side, feeling the dampness in my pits, thankful that I'd worn a white t-shirt under my dress shirt. It's not like I didn't know this was coming, that this would happen today, that the email itself wouldn't materialize on my desk precisely at noon and I would have a few remaining hours to sort out my desk and write my own missive. I'd known for days now, years even, that it was coming, that despite my best efforts, the contract had been signed, and the maximum hours reached, and my time had come. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I'd agreed to this, and I'd dedicated my time here to this moment, as frustrating and cold and terrifying as it was.

For the first time, Gary had walked by and not looked in. Max hadn't tried to meet my eyes. Bob hadn't attempted to engage me in conversation. Always rejected before — I'd never let them in for a moment. Not a look up to meet Gary's smile. Not a glance at Max beyond the worn tan leather of his shoes. Not even a grunt in reply to Bob. Not once. And now, they didn't try. They'd gotten the email, too. They knew, and they kept their distance.

They knew their emails would come one day.

I clicked over to payroll, read through the last few documents in the few remaining minutes I had left. I signed them all — initials where indicated, a digital signature on three pages. Then 'submit' and the deed was done. The last page was the Survivor Benefit, which I lingered over longer than I should have, wiping my eyes with the sky blue diamond tie I'd bought after Christmas and saved for this occasion.

Three. Two. One. The second hand tagged the twelve. Four o'clock on the dot, and I hit send, stood, closed my laptop and walked out of my cubicle. Left, then a right towards the red door, and not a single noise in the whole room behind me. Just the soft footfall of my steps on the cream carpet. I wasn't even sure if I was breathing. My fingers trembled when I reached for the knob, and I heard a sharp intake of breath when I touched it. Was it mine?

The door was so red, I was sure the knob would scald my hand. But the metal was cool, and the door swung effortlessly open and into a swirling darkness crowded with men in white hazmat suits that covered them from head to foot. I walked right past them toward my destination, ignoring their notes, their clipboards, the gadgets they attended. "Biometrics, check." "Paperwork, check." "Bathroom key, check." "Time dilation, check." "Radiosynchronicity, check." "Entropy filter, check." "Connection, check." I barely registered the words, the nothing in front of me consuming my attention.

It was two minutes past four, Eastern Standard Time, on 25 June, precisely ten years after I'd joined the company and the program and signed the papers that I stepped through the portal.

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Author Notes: I wrote this on a whim around 9pm several weeks ago. I saw something on the internet, read something about a writing prompt, or something. I don’t even remember. I just started writing with no idea what was going to happen, and this little story came out all at once.

Where does the portal go? Who even knows? Where do you think it goes?

I’ve written so many serials and novellas and even novels in the last few years, it’s really nice to sit down and let it rip. I did the same here with “Driver” a couple months ago.

Two years ago, out of nowhere, I randomly wrote a short story about Gaius Darkspell, a young wizard known far and wide in the Six Kingdoms and Four Continents. His first adventure with us, Gaius Darkspell and The Duel of Fates, hit Substack a couple of months ago, and now I’m back in the groove to write his next adventure.

If you read me, you know I don’t usually write funny stories. As I started writing The Duel of Fates, it just rolled out, and I laughed the entire time. I still laugh when I read it, and I hope you did, too, if you’ve already read it. This second story, which takes us back in time, is me trying to carry that energy forward.

After the greatest battle of all time in Duel of Fates, what could I do to carry Gaius’ tales of heroism and slip-uppery forward? Why, let’s try a heist story! And so here we go with the opening that I wrote last night. Hopefully it hits the right notes with you, dear reader, because I think it’s going pretty well. I’m 1400 words in already.

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Listen and read along with Gaius!

Gaius Darkspell and the Sapphire of Regret

Gaius hadn’t taken more than seven steps -- well, maybe more like six, before he felt the first pang of regret.

It was less like a pang, when you’re hungry and your stomach is growling but the love of your life is standing in front of you with her lips pursed and her eyes closed and she’s been waiting all day to be kissed, but you’re really craving one of the massive turkey legs and tankard of ale down at the tavern. It’s two-for-one night on turkey legs and ale, and maybe she could just wait a few minutes, or even go with you. Because your life’s light can down a turkey leg like a mountain troll, and isn’t that what love is?

But it wasn’t like that at all, except now Gaius realized that he hadn’t carb-loaded for this adventure like he should have, and he was indeed feeling a bit peckish as he, Axor, Bane and his life’s light, Illium of the Ample Bosom, or was it Pert Bottom? -- relationships were complicated -- raced down the stairs leading away from the palace vault and about thirty-four of the King’s Guard. There had been thirty-five, but one stopped to pull a rock out of his boot and he was subsequently trampled by the Palace Guardian, a twelve-foot tall Minotaur with a massive battle axe, a sour attitude and a loin cloth that was considerably more disturbing than both his attitude and battle axe.

Regret filled Gaius like gas after a night of cheese wheels and cabbage. Or perhaps it was just his tendency to get a little farty when he was anxious, something no potion he’d concocted had ever remedied. Instead, he tried to focus on the problem at hand. It wasn’t cabbage, he said to himself as he leapt down to the next landing with practiced ease, and it certainly wasn’t the curse of the stone. That was a rumor, a wives’ tale at most. He’d heard the stories and promptly discounted all of them.

The clatter of steel guardsmen boots filled the stone staircase behind them, and a moment later, the first palace guard clattered into view. Lightweight metal armor from head to foot, the only thing exposed was his face. It was nearly as red as his hair, a mustachioed man who looked a little bit like an angry sardine trapped in a tin can two sizes too small. He was followed immediately by a few younger fellows, all of them clad in similar gear and carrying halberds that looked more ceremonial than anything, but lethal nonetheless.

“Aboratium Artures,” whispered Illium, her lithe fingers weaving an amber light in front of her like the strands of a spider web. And then her voice roared, “Flare of Fury Ignite!” which immediately reminded Gaius of the time he’d neglected to mention there was a spider on her arm until she’d seen it and promptly set the tavern on fire. Two-for-one turkey legs had been off the menu for a few months after that.

Regrettably.

A blazing shard of amber light flashed across the small space and burst over the heads of the descending guards, dousing them in a shower of sparks. The guardsmen, unprepared for the aerial assault, danced around, screaming and trying to avoid the downpour, and then suddenly, they stiffened, growled, and turned on each other just as the rest of the host of guards came into view.

Gaius shrugged innocently, hoping that might get him a sniff at a snog later, and then turned and followed her down the next set of steps. Somewhere behind them, the Minotaur and his Loincloth of Doom -- that’s what Gaius heard in his head the moment he saw the beast -- roared, and all Gaius could think of was how much he didn’t want to find out what was underneath that little slip of dirty wool.

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Gaius / Sapphire of Regret Chapter List/Links:

Part 1: The Loincloth of Doom

Part 2: Poof

Part 3: Minotaur Bop

Part 4: The Client

Look out for more audio and a chance to find this tale in an anthology one day, once I get a few more of Gaius’ stories done.

Back in 2023, I decided to start a collection of short stories in varying genres with dozens of new, fun, intriguing characters, and in my very first effort, I came across a young wizard taking on the greatest challenge of his time — The Duel of Fates, the ultimate battle against the ultimate foe, a terrifying dragon named Valkath the Inferno.

I had an unexpected amount of fun with Gaius and his story, told in three parts (linked below), and I’ve already come up with a follow-up story for Gaius because I think he deserves one. I hope you think so, too. I’ve never written comedy before, and there are parts of this story that make me laugh every time I read them.

Here are the installments, each of them here on Substack for free:

Gaius Darkspell and the Duel of Fates (Pt 1)

Gaius Darkspell and the Duel of Fates (Pt 2)

Gaius Darkspell and the Duel of Fates (Pt 3)

You can also listen to the audio book here: ElevenReader Publishing

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Author’s Notes: The next Gaius story is going to be a heist story because I wanted to get him into a bit of a pickle with all of his friends after stealing the Sapphire of Regret. I also wanted to go back before this fated duel and take us to the moment Gaius and Valkath first cross paths. I’ll start working on it soon, but I hope you enjoyed Gaius enough to come back.

Start reading the second story now!

If you want to know more about “Instructions for Strange Desires,” you can follow the link in the title here. There are already a few stories associated with this effort, and there will be more coming in 2026.

The steps gave way to a landing that led to another narrow passage, a dark path that snaked between the bland concrete buildings. More steps, worn and grooved from years of use, climbing higher and higher into the stacked house blocks that dominated the western Turksib. The ghost glided along before us, turning to beckon, to tease, its inner glow illuminating the way, its surface still a rippling, tantalizing likeness of Ulyana, all smooth lines and flowing limbs and naked phantom flesh. At the end, it paused in front of a nondescript door, and turned, watching us approach. The closer we got, the more real it seemed, as if it was becoming her. I wondered if I could touch it, if I’d feel something, an electrical current, a breath of air, something more if I reached out, but I stuffed my hands in my pockets, letting the moment go. This was Ulyana’s game, and I would let her play it out. It’s the only thing she’d asked of me.

The apparition was uncanny. The short-cropped hair mirrored Ulyana’s, only its hair was a little more copper-colored as if kissed by the long gone sun. The eyes were greener, glowing with their own spectral light. The slender neck gave way to a lithe form, what I would have thought of as a dancer’s body, thinner than Hikaru but more muscular. My eyes lingered for a moment until I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t real, that perhaps it was truly a reflection of the woman stopping before it, a woman whose eyes didn’t meet mine, but who waited patiently, watching the apparition play out its humiliating game.

The ghost eyed us, its wide grin mocking as it danced before the door, a slow, rhythmic flourish that suggested more than it showed. I watched with reluctant interest as it sidled up against Ulyana like a lover, if it could be said to do that, and pressed its thin lips against hers, pushed its body up against hers, then melded into and around her until she seemed to glow with her own inner light. It was erotically eerie, as embarrassing as it was lewd. She’d insisted that we let the cipher do what it wanted, that it was the only way to get what we needed, but I wondered. To her credit, Ulyana hadn’t responded at all, hadn’t shown any interest or reaction, and had merely stood and waited, let the show go on, as unengaged as one could expect. I just followed her lead, letting come what may. There was little else to do but to let the súka have its fun.

It seemed to tire of the game then, the phantom separating from its mirror with a flourish, moving towards the door. It paused there to look back on us. Suddenly its skin began to dissolve, melting away in a gruesome show, until the only thing left was the bloody musculature and underlying skeletal structure of a corpse, a human-like cadaver with metallic bones, a sort of monstrous android. It smiled a sinister, silver-toothed grin, its eyes dying embers Then it wisped through the door and was gone.

“Durdóm digeh,” I muttered under my breath, mixing Russian and Farsi, as was the norm in Almaty, and made to push past Ulyana.

I could see myself kicking the door open, feeling the rush of adrenaline, my fingers already lingering on the grip of my Markov. I’d seen my share of the divane, the dirty, even the disgusting, in my short time in the city, but something about the manipulations of that specter had unnerved me, and I was going to set it straight once and for all. A couple of well-placed rounds would have the right effect; they usually did.

But Ulyana was quicker, anticipating my move. She stepped in front of me just as I reached the door, putting her shoulder into my chest with enough force to put me against the concrete wall, her hand on my shoulder, her eyes finding mine. What I saw there took the life out of me, and my hand dropped away from the pistol I was so eager to draw. Surrender, despair, acceptance. I couldn’t tell, but I could see the teardrops that bulged in the corners of her eyes, heard the solemn tone of her words. “No. Let it happen. Don’t do anything other than what he tells you to do. Trust me. It has to be this way.”

Then she turned and pushed the door open, leaving me with no option other than to follow.

What we found was a cramped space overflowing with boxes and crates with no apparent way through. The detritus was stacked to the ceiling, a dust-covered barrier that only the ghost could have gotten through, a tomb that no one had entered for years. I eyed it over the top of Ulyana’s head, tracing the web-covered stacks up to the ceiling, wondering what was in store for us next, when she pushed on and through the hologram and disappeared. I sighed and followed, shaking my head at my own naivete, and we found ourselves in a slightly larger, sparsely furnished room dominated by grandiose screens attached to the walls, huge interfaces that buzzed with data, news feeds, and information flows that I couldn’t follow. The air was lighter here, drier, and smelled of cleaning products, like a coffin before the dead body went in. The floor was white tile that squeaked slightly under our wet boots when we moved. There was a door to the left, but what had my attention immediately was the fully refleshed and naked form of Ulyana’s mirror looking back at us from the middle of the room, her ghostly white hand resting on the narrow shoulders of a gaunt, ancient man hunched over an interface terminal, his fingers ablaze on the keys as the data on the main interface before him shifted.

“She has brought a friend, she has. He wants something, but will he pay? Coshagan otpigi howagave. Yotou agour notagum pahager? Will he? Will. Pay.” The voice wavered, cracked, the odd cadence playing across the silent room over the whir of his fingers on the keypad.

“We have the money, Bayu,” said Ulyana, and when she spoke, her mirror’s mouth moved in mocking unison. “We need your help to retrieve some data from a chip.”

He held out his hand, the other hand still racing across the keys as he looked on at the data, nothing but the back of his head, white hair and long red cords, like wire leads, pulled into a careless ponytail, showing from over the top of a gray woolen coat. The mirror held out her hand, as well, her fingers curling independently in an eager, come hither manner, but neither of us moved.

“We can’t give it to you. It’s embedded. It can’t be removed or the data may be corrupted.”

“Embedded. Dohago agot sotay thoat. Dead? Deadhead,” came the voice again, and the fingers on the keyboard ceased, the data freezing above him, and the mirror winked out of existence. “Much to do. Much. To. Thodogis agis do. Much to pay. Pay.” With the last word, he turned, spinning on the simple stool, revealing a partially concealed face, his mouth and nose covered in a white cloth mask similar to ones I’d seen people wearing when the sewage plant malfunctioned, his eyes encased in a pair of black, wrap-around goggles with oval eyelets. His skin, both on the exposed parts of his face and on his gnarled hands, was sunken and sallow and bespotted, a yellowish, sickly color that betrayed vitamin deficiencies or other medical conditions. His worn coat and pants were taken from the same grey cloth and did nothing to hide the dirty white t-shirt underneath. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a refuse pile, where he was foraging for food and clothing, but the order and cleanliness of the chamber told another tale.

When he stood, I shifted uneasily, felt the urge to step forward, put my pistol to his head and pull the trigger, but I stopped myself, cursing under my breath. Everything about the man felt wrong, but he wasn’t unfamiliar to Ulyana. She knew him well enough not to be disturbed by him, came here for a reason, and I was going to have to go against my instincts, hold them off for the moment and see what happened. She’d asked me to trust once again, and I saw no reason to not follow through. Yet. Perhaps this was the only way, but his stilted speech and shuffling approach, not to mention the way his hidden eyes seemed to rake over Ulyana, the real flesh and blood one, made my skin crawl. I suppressed the urge to shiver, to turn and walk away, to do or say anything, just focusing on her, here and now.

The masked man stopped a hair’s breadth from Ulyana, his gaunt frame and height matching hers. I estimated him at eighty years of age, but looks could be deceiving in Almaty. Certainly his shambling gait and his creaking voice betrayed his age, although I was proof that in modern times just about anything was open to manipulation and modification, including genes and cells and hormones, and this Bayu Mata, as Ulyana had called him, could have been well over one hundred years old. He stared at her through the ghoulish goggles, and then reached up to pull them up and over his head, revealing deep blue eyes that seemed to sink into his skull. He smiled with them when he spoke, as if he was delighted to see the woman in front of him.

“Ulyana. Na. Back for upgrades? Nothasat losaa geave. Many for you. For me, what? This man. Ciothab uteI. Find his codes. Pull them from his skull. Skull. Foshagor gochagot. Pull. Like memories, no? Something inside he forgets. Foshagor. Forgets. Needs to know. Know. No?”

She didn’t back down, but stood her ground, stared back unfazed, her stance easy, relaxed, while I stood with my arms crossed over my chest trying not to glare down at him. “I need those codes, that data. Get it for us. Show us the path we need to take, and we will give you what you want. We have the money.”

“Upgrade for you. Uposhagot. Grade. You.” He giggled behind the mask, and I felt my stomach drop. I watched her shoulders rise and fall, the deep breath that filled her lungs before she spoke. “Upgrades. Yes. I’ll take them.”

“Good,” he said, looking past her, his eyes resting on me, and the first thought that entered my head was how we would look with his neck twisted awkwardly to the right. “Good.” His hand came up abruptly, a long, bony finger pointed my way. “Come then. We get your data. Pothagor ulem ta. Data good. Need data. You give me money; I data. Ta. Ta. Ta.”

I swallowed down the bile that burned my throat and stepped forward, pulling off my coat, revealing the autorifle on one side and the pistol on the other. Our new friend backed up and guided me forward without hesitation, as if he didn’t notice that I was packing, his eyes searching mine instead, then directing me to a simple metal chair in the corner under another large interface.

“Data extract there. Sit. Sit. Kochasat bosala. Data good. Sit. Wires. I connect. Uposhagot. We pull data.”

I sat, letting him fuss over me, listening to his attempts at reassurances, if they could be called that. I leaned back, feeling the cool plaster of the wall on my head while he jacked into the data port behind my ear. I tried to block it all out — how his fingers lingered against my skin, how he smelled, how his breathing was raspy and weak — maybe that explained the mask. Wires were pulled down and attached, the interface overhead configured and engaged. A short time later, the old mudak leaned in to check his work, his muttering like a buzzing in my ear, endless streams of nonsensical words that blurred into rhythmic sounds I could no longer discern. I wanted to shut him up. A quick strike to his throat would end it. If only…

He stepped back, triumph flashing across his eyes, his voice peaking and clear. “Done. We are done. Done. Done. Mothagiss amu mehrat. The download. The code. The cipher is there. There. Uta beloch. Cipher comes.” He pointed above my head to the interface and clapped his gnarled hands together.

I looked past him to Ulyana, and she nodded.

Everything went black.

Author Note: I was just reading through some of this scifi thriller I wrote in 2013 — never finished it, but I got about 2/3rds done, and I just realized I was writing things that would be major features of life in Cyberpunk 2077. Not saying anything about the developers or writers for a game I think is amazing, just that it’s cool to see that I was putting a lot of those same things on paper.

Maybe I’ll finish this thing. It’s one of so many WIPs calling my name.

There are three other excerpts or rather one longer excerpt divided into three parts here on Substack. You can find them below:

Falling Snow - an Excerpt

Falling Snow - an Excerpt (Part 2)

Falling Snow - an Excerpt (Part 3)

In the past, I used to live for writing challenges. My writing hero has always been Shel Silverstein, and I have always thought he’d shown that he could write anything. So, why couldn’t I? Where this story came from is anyone’s guess, but those were darker days, and I was looking for an outlet. Hence a lot of dark writing in this reading list.

I also like classical music, so I went all-in here. Can I tell a story forward and backward at the same time? And can I make it work with a single piece of music so that it takes almost exactly the length of the song (given your reading speed, dear reader) to finish it? Let’s see.

Just open the link in a new window, hit play, then come back and start reading: Toccata and Fugue in D Minor

Toccata and Fugue

There was a knock at the door. It was almost lost in the crash of thunder outside, where the thunderstorm was raging. All the local stations would be blaring red warning signs on their screens, she thought. Stay home! But she hadn’t listened, and so far it had been a terrific idea!

Answer that, will ya? He stuck his head out of the kitchen, smiling again, his hair tousled and still wet.

The sheets smelled like vomit. Her vomit. There was no doubt about that. And she could taste it still. She’d had to swallow most of it down to keep from choking, to keep from making any more noise. Just doing so had almost made her puke again, and the horrid emptiness in her stomach, less from the vomit than the overwhelming fear, kept her from retching again.

Thunder rolled across the night somewhere in the distance. The storm was growing more violent, a reflection of the night. It was all she could hear. And she couldn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t see him again. She couldn’t see what he’d done. Not again.

Shivering racked her body. She couldn’t stop it. Her teeth would have chattered against each other if not for the cloth in her mouth, stifling anything above a sob or groan. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to hold her body still, willed herself to be still, prayed again to a God only hours before she’d not believed in. Was God real? Was this it? Would He welcome her after all these years of denial and disbelief?

Thunder crashed against the outer doors, shaking the glass and ripping a muffled scream from her lips. Even as the thunder rolled away into the distance, her sobbing filled the room with a heartbreaking descant, a counter to the soothing rain on the balcony and what had been an evening of simple pleasures.

She’d thought the classical music was somewhat pretentious at first, but decided that perhaps, on a night like this, it was just right. It was rather playful for the most part, and she found herself enjoying the soothing strings. But now and again, the deep tones of the horn section swept in with forbidding undertones — such sharp contrast! It left her wondering about the composer who could interweave such light-hearted notes with such melancholy strains, seemingly a perfect reflection of the storm, its thunder sporadically breaking through the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the windows.

Toccata and Fugue, he announced. My favorite.

He crossed the room to the fireplace and clicked the second of the two remotes. The fire flicked into existence as if Prometheus himself was locked in the small silvery piece of plastic in hand. He looked back at her and winked.

She’d giggled, still standing there by the door, the bottle of wine in her hand, watching him dart around the room, setting the scene, building the ambience one block at a time. Soon the whole castle would be built, and he’d turn and smile childishly and ask if she liked it, if it was tall enough, if she was impressed that he’d used all of the blocks and how the yellows formed a pyramid. It was amusing. It was endearing, and it was more effort than anyone had put into her in a long time.

He spun around, caught her eye, and grinned. Just like a little boy. And he whirled with only the slightest of flourishes and disappeared around the corner of the fireplace toward the kitchen, paper bag in hand.

Wait here, he said. She waited, letting the door swing closed.

This was his chance to show off, to amaze her, to sweep her off her feet. But the way he had touched her in the bar, the way he had breathed in her ear — she was already floating off the ground, already traipsing through fields of dandelions and daisies. What was left but to meet her lover in the middle of the sun-stroked meadow and fall into the warmth of each others’ arms?

She closed her eyes, and let the music sweep over her, seeing him again in her mind’s eye. I have just the thing, he said as he appeared again, the boyish grin still on his face, the same one that had played across his features the first time he’d looked at her. This will fit our little picnic just perfectly, he spouted, spinning back around, and he twirled the rest of the way around, perhaps a little tipsy, but gracefully enough, one arm extended if not for balance, than perhaps a reminder of the arm that had held her closely in the walk home, just before it had started to rain.

Bach is perfect for picnics, he offered — he was a fountain of information — as the linen tablecloth fluttered in the warm air of the room and floated down to the carpet in front of the fireplace, one corner tucked underneath defiantly.

Thunder shook the room again.

Or was it the door slamming open again? She was afraid to open her eyes. She didn’t want to know. She cringed, waited, prayed again. She didn’t deserve this. She shouldn’t have even been here. It was a simple thing, a perfect storm, that had led her here, and this was not fair, not fair, not fair.

And not over. Not yet. Definitely not yet.

Biting down, she tried to crush the cloth in her mouth, if only to give her throbbing jaws some relief, if only to lick her dried lips. Thinking about it, she began to whimper again, feeling more tears coming.

Her hands had already ceased to ache — they were numb from the tightness of the cord around her wrists. Her feet were still tingling, some sensation left, but it would be gone soon. She wiggled her toes and fought back the urge to pull and twist and fight the constriction of the other cord around her ankles. Every time she pulled, it grew tighter. What little sensation there was left gave her some kind of comfort, some hope. It was perhaps all there was — all she had left.

Eyes closed in the darkness, there was only the steady drumming of rain on the balcony and the pounding of her heart, threatening to explode within her chest. If only it would, this whole episode would be over.

He’d admitted that it was a bit of a walk to his place, but it was a nice night out, and the forecasted rain was holding off. They’d have plenty of time, and if caught in the rain, it might just be fun.

She nodded, feeling her head spinning a bit from the Caipirinhas. Or was it his smile and his touch? Maybe it was the way he had just grabbed her hand, leaned in and told her that it was too crowded and they needed to go somewhere else. He was hungry, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a little picnic? She giggled again, thinking about his suggestion to picnic at 10:30 at night. But she followed, fingers entwined. This was an adventure, and it was looking good so far.

Buildings passed by on the right as they headed up the street. Neon light glowed orange and yellow and green. Doormen stood at the entrances, checking IDs and calling out the specials: first drink is free; live music tonight! Two hole-in-the-wall pizza joints were open side-by-side, and the owners stood in their respective doorways, shops empty, chatting. The smell of the pizza was enticing, mouth-watering. And they looked at each other as they walked by, but he assured her his suggestion was much better, and it was right up the street on the corner, about a block away.

We left the banana on the bar, he declared unceremoniously, his face contorted in mock disappointment. I might need that again, you know? She stared back for a moment, and then they both stared laughing. He squeezed her hand again, and turned up the street.

They crossed 7th without incident, but had to slip past two working girls on the opposite corner before they could duck into the House of Kabob, where the sign read “Buffet open til midnight”. A few minutes later, they emerged, packages in hand, and he turned to her there on the corner and smiled. Two servings of chicken tikka masala, rice, naan bread and a bottle of wine — now it was time for a picnic!

Can I get any spare change, buddy? came the call from the shadows, but he dismissed the man sitting against the side of the building. He turned back to her and whispered just above the noise of the street: let’s get out of here; I need something to eat. He winked and turned.

She smiled, squeezing his hand again in answer, and followed him up the street. The food smelled delicious, and his eyes were such a lovely shade of green!

The door opened again. She could hear the knob turn, but her heart was threatening to block out any other sounds he made. A whimper escaped her lips. There was nothing left to do now. A fresh tear sparkled at the corner of her eye, and for the first time she didn’t turn her head to wipe it away on her sleeve.

The bed sagged, creaking on one side, and she wailed, trying to stifle the moan but unable to suppress the overwhelming fear that ensnared her and was dragging her down now into the depths of this private Hell. He was back for perhaps the final round of his so-called “fun”, and it was utterly apparent that there was no escape for her.

He didn’t speak, and she couldn’t hear his breathing anymore. Her own breathing, her uncontrollable sobbing, the pounding of her heart, it’s threat to leap out of her chest before he could tear it out himself — these snuffed out every noise, except the rumblings of the powerful storm outside.

The bed shifted again, and her body tilted as he sat down next to her. She struggled with her bonds, but they held fast, tightening, tightening as she pulled on them. All she could do was turn her head away from where she knew him to be, eyes squeezed shut, mouth biting down. His fingertips played over her body, and she shuddered, sickened. Her stomach revolted, and she retched. Nothing more than stomach acid filled her mouth with its bitterness, and she swallowed it down, coughing.

His laugh was muffled, more through his nose than his mouth. He was enjoying her reaction, enjoying the game.

His fingers played across her naked belly, his hands mauled her breasts, and he pulled at her nipples. She felt the fingertips graze the lips of her vagina, and she nearly screamed, a muffled plea not to be touched there, to be left alone, to be left alive. She struggled violently in her bonds, but there was no way to prevent him from whatever he desired!

He growled, and moments later, she felt the knife again and grew still.

Rain was threatening when she’d walked into the corner bar, Samm’s, on 23rd and X. It was one of those Thursdays that had seemed to never end, an Olympic day — she’d nicknamed them after seeing her little brother’s training schedule one day while visiting from school. She was less awed by his water polo skills than his long hours of preparation.

There was the “ding ding” of the bells on the door and Samm standing in her usual place, Caipirinha in hand. I don’t have to be in until 10, she thought. Olympic days were always best when late mornings followed! The first Caipirinha went down smooth, and as the second was being shaken, he leaned in and quipped toward Samm, if I’d known this was a ‘fruity drink bar’, I’d have brought more than my banana.

Samm’s laughter was as exaggerated as her eye roll, and then it rolled on when he reached down into the crush of people and pulled a slightly green banana from his jacket pocket. He smiled when he dropped it on the bar and turned to her, winking. I carry it everywhere on the chance that I can use that joke and maybe meet a cute girl. And when he smiled, she couldn’t help but grin in return. And she turned away, feeling foolish, hand covering her mouth and stifling a giggle. But she noticed that his eyes were an amazingly bright green.

Two Caipirinhas plunked down on the bar, and Samm blew her a kiss and slid quietly away.

He dropped the knife between the two ruined bodies, and turned away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his new coat. He could feel the watches, the money clip and other trinkets in the left-hand pocket, the contents of her purse in the right. Passing through the outer room, Toccata and Fugue was playing again, set, it seemed, on repeat. He grabbed the bottle of wine off the floor, considered the label for a second, and then snatched up the package of bread, tucking it into a pocket. He turned back to the stereo, absorbed in the final notes of the masterpiece. As the music faded away, he crossed to the doorway and grabbed the umbrella still wrapped tightly and dryly in the corner. Nasty out tonight, he mumbled, and opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. I could have used just a little spare change to get out of the rain.