Stories

The poison taster stands behind her queen’s throne, eyes downcast. She is the only thing in the hall that is drab and unadorned, denied even the fine livery that the serving maids and footmen wear with pride. Her purpose is to die, and when she does her thick black robes will contain the mess. Around her throat is a band of plain silver. The queen wears one too; gold, studded with polished bezoars and staring agates. It vanishes into her finery, just another thing to sparkle and shine; her courtiers easily forget it. The poison taster never does. ...

“Pathetic mortals! Hear my demands,” Corvina intones, feathers raised is a posture of challenge, “and despair, for the will of the night is unstoppable! Your compatriot has made a mockery of our alliance! You must,” her voice shifts, a faint squawk betraying a feather-covered blush, “make her let go of me.” Maria, Halberd of Noon, peers up at Corvina. The villainess, once barely taller than her, has grown beyond all reason in the weeks since the Tremorlord ate the sun and plunged the world into an eternal and moonless night. “Is Anne being a problem?” “Yes! I mean, uh,” she tries to compose herself, “yes. Remove her, lest a worse fate befalls her! I will drop her in the ocean to freeze, see if I don’t.”

Thistle’s ears ache each time the finger taps the glass. It’s a horribly large thing, nearly as tall as he is and as thick around as his waist, and its cruel long nail is decorated with flaking red enamel that Thistle can’t help but imagine as drying blood. He hasn’t seen Lion or Yarrow since they were all caught, after all … Flick. His wings twitch involuntarily, painfully, and he whimpers. They weren’t kind when they caught him; his right forewing is crumpled, useless. If he escapes he’ll never fly again.

“Mom?” Sarah blinks herself awake. She fell asleep on the couch again, watching late-night comedy reruns after putting Abigail to bed, with only a half-empty bottle of wine and a tin of weed gummies for company. She blearily blinks at the young girl; god damn it, she promised not to let her see her like this again. “Wha-,” she coughs, “what is it, dear?” “Auntie wants to come in but I can’t open the door.”

“You’re moving to another facility tomorrow, puppy.” At first you don’t understand. Your brain’s a bit hazy, with your head between her thighs and her taste lingering on your lips. And her fingers in your hair, again, longer than it was when you arrived. Not regulation. “… I am?” “Mhmm. Things are in motion. Your empire’s getting desperate, too,” a sharp-toothed grin, “maybe we’ll trade you for something good.” “… oh.” ...

“So,” you ask, “why am I still alive?” She’s sitting at the little table outside your cell doing paperwork again. The Liberation has more paperwork than you ever suspected. “We disabled your mech’s countermeasures,” she says, not looking up. “About an hour before you spotted us, in fact.” “That’s not what I meant—WAIT, an hour!? But I spotted you barely an hour into the patrol!” “Yes,” she finally looks at you, smiling, “your command/control system is full of holes, dear.” ...

“Has anyone ever done this for you before?” “No. Uh, a bit lower …” Sparrow barely holds in a moan as their hands find the right spot on his shoulders. “Really? A cute morsel like you … well, I’m honored you chose me, then.” “Um. Could you, uh.” “Yes?” “… u-use a different word. For me.” “Oh, of course! What would you prefer?” “U-um. Something, uh,” he hides in face in his hands, not that it matters much, “something masculine?” ...

“… this is an abuse of power.” “Is it?” She tilts her head, genuine curiosity flitting across her face. By now you know that she’s a perfect actor. On the table behind her, far out of reach, a bowl of soup—your dinner—congeals. “Yes. There are rules for prisoners of war.” “Hmm. No, I don’t think so.” “It doesn’t matter what you—!” She shushes you. When you’re able to breathe again she continues, “the purpose of power is in its exercise. It doesn’t care how it’s used. There’s no platonic ideal that I’m twisting out of shape, no laws written that matter more than how they are enforced. All hierarchy is unjust. That’s what this is about, dear.” ...

The first shot is cinematically wide, obviously an anamorphic lens with a slow aperture. Everything is in focus: the ruins of fallen skyscrapers. The rubble-strewn beach. The smoking carcasses of tanks and troop carriers, and the cloudless sky above. Silent except for the wind. The ground shakes. A massive machine strides out of the ocean, up the beach. Two-legged, four-armed, festooned with armor and shields; a massive claymore strapped to its back. The overall impression is a polished and heavily armed sphere, its sharp angles accented by red strips. Patriotic music swells. ...

Lily’s jaw aches, just below the corners of her wide lips. A full sensation, more like a bloated stomach than a sore tooth. It’s been there all day, ever since she woke from a dream of delicious release, but in the last hour it’s grown near intolerable.