Craig Anderson's Blog

Dr. Jasmine Bashir stared at the computer screen, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was short, barely creeping over 5ft, which resulted in her lab coat almost brushing the floor. It was as wrinkle free as a military uniform, and was a dazzling bright white that contrasted with her light brown skin. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, to keep it out of her face. A pair of protective goggles on the top of her head completed the ensemble. She had been told to dress up, but there was no time for fashion statements. There was work to be done. There was always work to be done.

The shadowy figures stared intently. She did her best to ignore them, but they grumbled and whispered between themselves. In the centre of the group was her boss, Jason Davies. Technically, he was everyone’s boss. The CEO stood in sharp contrast to the other members of the board. He was barely older than Jas, his spiky blonde hair a shade lighter than all the grey hair present on the other board members, at least for those that still had hair. He was broad shouldered and square jawed. Everything about him looked chiseled. In a cheaper suit he might be mistaken for a bouncer, but even with her limited fashion sense Jas could tell that it likely cost more than she made in a year. 

She was mistaken. It cost three times as much.

Jason said, “Thank you all for coming down here on such short notice. I’ve asked Dr. Bashir to demonstrate the process and answer questions. Within reason.”

A bulky gentleman with an impressive moustache said, “I have a question. Where’s Professor Jasper?”

The question was directed at Jas, but Jason jumped in before she could answer. “Truthfully, we don’t know. No-one has seen or heard from him in over a fortnight. The police are actively searching for him, but so far they haven’t found anything. The speculation is that he may have left the country.”

“Left the country? Do you have any idea what we’ve spent on this science experiment? Are you telling me that he could have just waltzed off with all our research, and taken it to the highest bidder?”

“I’m not concerned about that, and you shouldn’t be either,” Jason replied, his face calm and oozing confidence. “For three reasons. Firstly, Professor Jasper wasn’t well. Anyone working with him can attest to some of his more fantastical theories, and his behaviour was increasingly erratic. As such, we took precautions to limit his systems access, and monitor his communications. I reviewed those logs personally. There was no indication that he attempted to access or copy sensitive data. Which leads me to the next point. We segregate responsibilities here. Each team member only knows part of the process, so no single person can recreate it. Thirdly, this equipment is all custom built, using bespoke processors. Only three companies in the world have the fabrication equipment required to create the control chips, and we bought all three of them. So you see, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Your Father wouldn’t have let something like this happen, god rest his soul,” mumbled Mustache.

Several of the other board members took a step away from him, clearly expecting an outburst, but Jason kept a lid on his temper. “Well I am not my Father, as I’m about to demonstrate. He spent years working on this, but never could get it functioning properly. I have. Now Dr. Bashir is going to show you how.”

The entire board turned to stare at Jas, and she felt herself shrinking under their gaze. She fought the urge to scream the truth, that she was out of her depth, that they never would have made it this far without Professor Jasper and his staggering breakthrough with the transfer formula. She couldn’t do that though. These people were sharks, if there was even a sniff of blood in the water this would turn into a feeding frenzy, and she would be the chum.

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. What she was presenting was impressive enough that she could let the demonstration do the heavy lifting. All she had to do was point and talk. She cleared her throat and began. “Thank you Jason, and welcome esteemed members of the board. Please direct your attention to the small glass room over there, in particular, the table.” 

The board did as asked, and stared at the small plate of cheese. 

After a long pause someone said, “It’s cheese?”

“Yes. Watch carefully.”

They waited patiently. Several seconds went by. Jas shot a glance over at Miles, who was frantically typing away. Of course he’d messed something up, it was his default state. 

Murmuring started from the board members. It was an awfully long way to bring someone down here to show them a block of cheese that they’d spent hundreds of millions of pounds on.

Jason was the only one that looked calm. He wasn’t the sort to ruffle easily. He jumped to Jas’ aid. “While we’re waiting for the system to warm up, I should remind you all that you have signed very thorough NDAs. You may be tempted to tell someone about what you see today, but please resist that urge. I hate to give the lawyers any more money than we already do. You’re the first people outside of our very small team to witness this, so any leaks will be easy to track down.”

“What exactly are we going to bursting to reveal, that we saw a nice plate of cheddar?” Moustache grumbled.

A few chuckles lightened the mood just long enough for the blue lasers to kick in. They swept back and forth over the block of cheese, bathing it in light. A detailed model of the cheese slowly started to render on a large monitor above, with each progressive pass adding more and more detail.

There was a flash of light, causing several of the board to gasp. Jas shot a glance at Miles, who said, “Small power spike, but within acceptable tolerances. Ok to proceed.”

Ok to proceed.

That was Miles speak for whoops. His primary job was to smooth out the supply of electricity to the lasers. The power controlled the depth, a sudden jump like that could have unfortunate consequences.

Unfortunate consequences should be Miles’ family motto. He was at best useless, and at worst a danger to himself and others. It made Jas nervous just being in his general vicinity, incase the incompetence was contagious. 

He wasn’t the first colleague she’d bumped heads with. Jas went through assistants faster than most people went through toilet paper. She told herself it was due to her high standards, but Jason had finally ran out of patience when she tried to fire Miles. Apparently there had been complaints. HR were apparently spending more money interviewing new assistants than they were paying the actual assistants. They made the convincing argument that the company would be better off financially if Jas learned to live with with an idiot assistant, rather than trying in vain to find one she liked.

The timing of this revelation was particularly unfortunate because, of all her assistants, Miles was easily the worst. He made the same basic mistakes, over and over and over. His errors were so consistent that Jas was starting to think he was doing it on purpose, just to wind her up. To make matters worse, he had the personality of a ham sandwich. Either HR had slept through the entire interview or Miles was related to someone high up in the company. Every time he was late to work, which was most days, Jas assumed he was standing in the lift, waiting for someone to teach him how the buttons worked. This was the guy responsible for millions of pounds of complicated equipment.

“How much longer?” she asked, doing her best to keep any hint of frustration out of her voice. It was her natural tone with Miles, and dialling it back was proving challenging.

“Ten more seconds until transfer complete,” he replied, completely oblivious. 

Jas nodded, her face impassive. There was nothing to be concerned about. They had done this dozens of times. Even Miles could get it right every once in a while.

The blue light continued to intensify as the scans captured more and more detail. Soon they were at a level not visible to the naked eye. A few more seconds and they would reach maximum fidelity.

With a blinding blue flash the cheese disappeared from the glass room, and several of the board members audibly gasped. Someone said, “Where has it gone?”

Jas pulled up the image on the large TV next to them to show them the perfect render of the cheese, down to every minuscule imperfection. “It has been transferred to the digital world.”

Moustache said, “I don’t understand what you mean by transferred. You mean you scanned it?”

“No, I mean transferred. The cheese no longer exists in this reality. It has been moved to the virtual world.”

“It’s been destroyed?”

Jas sighed. It might take a while for the board members to understand the sheer magnitude of what they had just witnessed. She’d have to break it down for them. “Not destroyed. Destruction is a one way process. As I said, it has been transferred. The final stage of the scanning process is at the molecular level. To scan at that level of detail requires a large amount of power, and as such it destabilizes the molecules. In effect it captures the essence of the object and perfectly recreates it in the virtual world, at the same moment it is destroyed in our world.”

The old man’s moustache bristled. “What use is that? You had something of value that you could touch or eat, and now you don’t. Couldn’t you just create a virtual block of cheese without having to waste a real one?”

“Technically yes,” she replied. She looked over at Jason, and he nodded. It was time to pull out the big guns. “Perhaps things will become clearer after our next demonstration.”

Moustache huffed. “This better be good young lady, because right now I’m not impressed. I didn’t agree to spend all this money so you could build the world’s most expensive photocopier. We were promised something revolutionary.”

Jas moved over and grabbed the small metal cage that was tucked away under the cloth. She lifted it carefully and carried it over to the glass room. With a swipe of her key card the door slid open and she placed the cage in the centre. Then she quickly backed away, the door sliding back into place with the quiet hum of magnetic locks. 

The board members stared at the small mouse in the cage. Its fur was bright white, the only imperfection a small dash of black at the tip of its tail, as if it had been dipped in ink. Before they could ask any questions the blue lasers started to scan it, and with a loud squeak and a puff of white fur, it was gone. 

“You killed it!” bellowed moustache. 

“Not exactly,” Jas said. She changed the view on the screen to show the digital mouse running around in its virtual cage. With a few clicks she opened the cage door, and the mouse immediately escaped. It ran over and took a bite of the cheese.

Their response was a mixture of awe and confusion. Jason Davies slowly nodded his approval, and turned to face the other board members. “As you can see, this is a little more advanced that a photocopier.” He threw a quick glance at moustache and continued. “Not only is the physical object scanned, its memories and behaviours are also transferred. Think of the R&D potential. This is next, next generation. We are at the forefront of this technology, at least a decade ahead of anyone else.”

“How is this possible?” asked a wispy haired lady at the back.

Jason smiled, revealing a line of perfect white teeth. “I can’t go into specific details, the technology is proprietary. As you can imagine there are a lot of people that would like to get their hands on something like this. The possibilities are quite literally endless.”

“So is it still alive in there?” she asked. 

“In a matter of speaking, although it actually depends on your definition of alive. As you can imagine we’ve had some pretty deep philosophical debates as to the implications of something like this.” 

The shock had worn off, and moustache went back on the offensive. “You said its memories were transferred. How do you know that? It’s not like it can tell you.”

“We’ve run several tests where we conditioned the mouse on the outside, and they follow that conditioning in the virtual world, so we know that their memories remain intact. In addition, they continue to behave exactly as you would expect a mouse to behave, down to seeking food and shelter, despite hunger not being a thing in their new world. Their instincts are so ingrained that they cannot ignore them.”

“Would this same thing work on a person?” the wispy lady asked in a barely audible whisper. 

Jason answered at full volume. “Alas we don’t know that yet. We’re a long way from human trials. We’ve only just started the rodent testing, but even at that level, this technology has the potential to be a game changer. We conservatively estimated this will add trillions to our annual revenue, and only go up from there.”

Jas was relieved to see that the board members all looked suitably impressed. Any moral concerns had been quietly washed away by the tsunami of money that they all saw on the horizon. Jason had them eating out of the palm of his hand. They had been building up to this day for months, and it had all gone off without a hitch, even without Professor Jasper here to lead the charge.

Jason beamed, radiating confidence. “I think that’s enough to demonstrate where the considerable investment has gone. Hopefully now we can stop the constant balance sheet nit-picking.”

There was a lot of nodding.It really couldn’t have gone any better. Now he just needed to stick the landing and get them all out of here as quickly as possible. He gestured towards the lift. “If you’ll follow me back to the board room we can finalize the Q3 budget and let everyone get home.”

The back row of board members turned to leave. Then moustache cleared his throat and ruined everything. “Can you bring it back out?”

The expression on Jason’s face didn’t change, but Jas had worked with him long enough to recognize the subtle shift in his body language. It wasn’t panic, because Jason never panicked, but he did have contingency plans he’d really hoped not to have to use. He spoke slowly, as if choosing each word carefully. “We’re in the process of fine tuning the retransmission back to this reality. The team is still working through some complications. We expect to have more to share about that in the next quarter. Rest assured, you’ll be the first to know. Now if you’ll follow me…”

“What happens?” said moustache. “I want to know what you mean by complications.”

The other members of the board started to murmur. This wasn’t good. 

Jason sighed wearily and nodded at Jas. “Bring it back.”

“But Mr. Davies…”

“Bring it back.” He repeated more firmly, his eyes locked on hers. She had tried arguing with him before when he got like this. It rarely ended well for her. This wasn’t part of the demonstration, and for good reason.

Jas glanced over at Miles. He looked nervous. Actually, he looked more than nervous, he looked guilty. Like someone about to commit a crime. Which depending on your interpretation of certain laws may indeed be the case. 

All eyes were on her again, but this time she didn’t have reason and scientific method to calm her nerves. Quite the opposite. All their experiments had ended the same way, and statistically speaking, there was a very good chance the board members were about to witness something that would require several rounds of therapy to forget.

“Start the transmission,” she said, meekly. She was barely audible over the hum of the equipment. 

“You sure?” Miles said. It sounded like concern, but Jas knew exactly what it was. He wanted to make it very clear that this was her decision, that he was just following orders. 

This was it, her last chance to turn back. Jas glanced over to Jason, hoping that he might have changed his mind, but he nodded.

“Begin transmission,” she said, accepting her fate. 

Miles did as asked, and grid lines appeared on the mouse on the virtual display. The blue light in the glass box shifted to green, and shone just as brilliantly before, almost blinding the board members in the process. Jas instinctively pulled her protective goggles down over her eyes, but it wasn’t the light she was protecting her eyes from. She just didn’t want the board to see her closing her eyes.

The mouse briefly appeared, in one entire piece, which was a first. For a fleeting moment Jas let herself believe that this might be it, their one in a million chance, but it was dashed by the ear splitting sound of a small white rodent being forcibly turned inside out. That was quickly followed by an even worse smell. When the green light finally died down it revealed red smears on the inside of the glass box, with a handful of larger chunks. Jas noticed the presence of a fully intact perfect pink tail, which she chalked up as a small victory. It was the largest piece they had successfully transmitted, although it was highly doubtful the mouse would describe anything that had just happened as successful.

“Dear god, you killed it,” bellowed moustache, in a very deja vu kind of way. 

“Yes, this time your statement is accurate. The mouse is indeed dead.” Jas said with a sigh. She avoided making eye contact with Jason, but she could feel his glare burning into her. She was starting to envy the mouse. 

Jason attempted to turn things around. “As you can see, right now it’s a one way trip, but we’re working hard on the return journey. All the more reason why continued funding is so important.”

“But that mouse…” started the wispy lady.

“Has made a noble sacrifice in the name of science, like so many of its kind. You don’t get to live on the cutting edge without a few bumps and bruises along the way.”

His point was punctuated by a wet plop as the tail rolled off the table and onto the floor of the glass box. 

Even Moustache was speechless, and Jason saw his opportunity. “Now please, let’s continue this conversation upstairs and leave the technicians to troubleshoot.”

He ushered the still stunned board members from the room and threw a glance at Jas to let her know just how much trouble she was in. 

When the lift doors shut Jas finally exhaled and fought the urge to vomit. She only held on because she really didn’t want anything else to clean up. She glanced over at Miles, who looked considerably less traumatized. He grinned. “I think that went pretty well, until the end.”

“Until the end? You mean the part where we exploded a living creature in a small transparent box, in front of the entire board of directors?”

“Yeah. That part wasn’t great, but they seemed happy about everything else.”

An idiot. She was working with an idiot. He wasn’t qualified to operate a laser printer, yet they let him play with high powered lasers that could make your insides your outsides.

It was times like this she really missed Professor Jasper. He was the brilliant mind that had guided them through every bump in the road. After their initial rocky start, he was the one with the huge breakthrough, the simplification of the formula that allowed seamless scanning and transfer. He’d completely flipped their world upside down, and then vanished. No-one had seen or heard from him since. 

Which left her stuck with Miles. 

“Run a full diagnostic. Jason’s going to want to know what happened here, and we better have a damn good answer.”

“Already running,” he replied, in a demonstration of almost competence. It was telling that the part of the process he had the most practice with was the part why they tried to determine what went wrong.  

Once, just once, why couldn’t Miles have done something right? 

Jas paused. Perhaps some good might come of this, a silver lining in her stormy horizon. If she could prove unequivocally that this was Miles’ fault, then maybe, just maybe, she could break the spell and get Jason to fire him. She’d settle for no assistant over this walking catastrophe. At least that would give her one less thing to worry about. 

* * *

Jason Davies closed the door behind the last board member and slumped into a chair. Those people were exhausting. How did anyone get to such a powerful position whilst simultaneously being too afraid to do anything at all? It was an utter mystery. He promised he would never end up like that, terrified of every new technology that dared to peek its head over the horizon. 

He didn’t need them for too much longer. If his mysterious benefactor came good on his promise, he wouldn’t need anyone. He’d have more than enough money to run whatever experiments he wanted. There was just the pesky matter of ironing out the last little kinks in the process. 

Right on cue his phone rang. Not his normal phone, the one he’d been given. Only one person had the number, and he only had one instruction. Answer when it rang, no matter what. 

He cleared his throat and answered the phone. Before he could speak the heavily synthesized voice on the other end said, “State your timeline.”

Straight to business as always. Whoever they were, they certainly weren’t a fan of small talk. 

Jason cleared his throat. “We’re close. Very close. We just need another month to….”

“You have 48 hours.”

“But 48 hours isn’t going to be…” 

There was a sound as the other end disconnected. 

He had two days. 

A volatile mixture of emotions completed for his attention. Anger, frustration, panic and regret. He’d sacrificed too much for this to go wrong now. He would be ready in time, no matter what it took. 

Jason was walking back through the lobby when he noticed the solitary light on in the offices. He could easily guess who it belonged to. He strolled down the hallway and knocked on the door. 

A woman’s voice said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Jason.”

The door swung open to reveal a bedraggled woman in a gaming t-shirt that was in serious need of a wash. She brushed her strawberry blonde hair out of her face and said, “I know what you’re going to say.”

He smiled. “I’m going to say it anyway. Go home Sarah!”

“I can’t. I’m close. I’ve almost cracked the problem.”

“Look, I’ve been working hard to change the corporate culture around here. The industry still jokes that DAS will only employ insomniacs. It’s not helping when everyone sees you still working at 11pm. I know you’re still working through your break up, but take it from me, this isn’t the answer. If the CEO is telling you that you work too much, you might have a problem.”

She laughed. “Point taken. I promise I’ll leave just as soon as…”

“Now Sarah. Whatever you are working on will still be here tomorrow.”

She hung her head, defeated. “You’re right. I’m going.”

He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all going to be ok. You know where I am if you ever need to talk. I worry about you, I don’t want you to burn out. You’re one of our most important team members.”

“Thanks Jason. I really appreciate your support through all this. Most CEOs wouldn’t even know my name, let alone care that I’m working late.”

“Well I care Sarah, I really do. Now GO HOME!” He emphasized the last two words playfully. 

“I will. I promise. I’m shutting down now.”

Jason nodded and left. He made a note to have a chat with his head of security. They were under strict instructions to let him know that an employee was still in the building after 10pm. Things could have gone horribly wrong. 

He made his way back to the lift. He still had more employees to kick out before the real work could begin.

If you enjoyed this excerpt, the full book is available now on Amazon. Click the image below to grab your copy now!

“Ghost ship” photo by: olivier6973

For this week’s Flash Fiction we had 200 words to write about the prompt above, and include an inventor.

Off the deep end

“It’s just a little further!”
Dad’s enthusiasm is infectious. From the looks of the rotting wooden walls, it isn’t the only thing.
“Dad, what are we doing down here? This doesn’t look very safe.”
“Exactly! Where else would I find subjects?”
He’s not making any sense. It’s getting worse. Ever since Mum died, he hasn’t been sleeping. I moved back in to keep an eye on him, but I hear him wailing away out in the shed. He thinks I can’t hear him out there, but he’s loud enough to wake the dead.
The object in his hand starts to glow blue. It isn’t the only thing lighting up. I haven’t seen Dad this excited in as long as I can remember.
Perhaps I can follow him just a little further.
“What exactly is that thing?” I ask, trying to be encouraging.
“It’s an apparitional materializer.”
“A what?”
“It temporarily makes ghosts solid.”
That’s it. I have to call it. I can’t keep going deeper into this ship wreck with someone that is clearly out of their mind.
I turn and bump into someone, or more accurately, something. The squishy blue figure smiles at me with crooked teeth. “Welcome aboard!”

“Pescaria no Parque das Timbaúbas” Juazeiro do Norte, Brazil. CC3.0 photo by MacioFeitosa

For this weeks Flash! Friday we had 200 words to tell a story about the prompt above. We had to include a mischief maker.

Gone Fishin

There is an invisible line, under the hastily built lake in our town. On one side of the lake, the houses are large, and well maintained. We know, because we are the ones that maintain them. My brother spends all day pruning someone else’s hedges, and we don’t even have a garden. Our house is a tiny basement apartment. The only thing growing in it is despair. And mold.

We see the line, but so do the rich folks. The difference is, they are looking down. They don’t have the sun in their eyes, blinding them, making it hard to move. They think they see us clearly. To them we are lazy and stupid.

Works for me. 

I bring three of the boys with me to ‘fish’. 

The rich folks laugh at us. Stupid locals. Don’t they know the lake is empty.

We laugh too. We aren’t looking to eat for one night. We are the lookouts, our job is to spot the servants with the suitcases, to know who is heading back to their third home. Those are the big fish, the lunkers. When we see that, we know we will eat well for a month. 

Image Caption: Fantasia in Morocco. CC photo by Maxim Massalitin

For this week’s Flash!Friday we had to write 250 words about the prompt above, and include the theme of ‘love lost’

One Day

They said it couldn’t be done, that we had to wait for them to come to us. We proved them wrong. Why wait for the zombies to come out at night? We knew where they were. Underground, hiding in tunnels. They hid from the sun for a reason. They hated the heat. The only warmth they sought was fresh blood, but why give them the chance? We built flamethrowers on poles, so we could flush out their burrows. We attacked while they were dormant, just as they did to us. 

Some lessons we learned the hard way. If they felt movement above they would attack, bursting out like a trapdoor spider. One bite was enough, even on an ankle. So we adapted. No-one remembers who first suggested horses. Their hooves protected them, and us, trampling anything stupid enough to erupt from the dirt. We were cowboys, herding the undead away from our fair city. We rode in a line, pushing them back, watching the mounds retreat as they scurried away. We did the same thing, night after night, like the push and pull of the tide. Just like the ocean, they were endless, relentless, unforgiving.

It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes one slipped through. If they were buried deeper, or dodged the flames, then we missed them. We couldn’t be everywhere. It was a fact of life. We all accepted that. We just prayed it wasn’t our house they found.

Then one day, it was.

I’ll never forget the screams. 

Flash! Friday’s is back! For those that don’t remember (because it has been a while) FF is a weekly flash fiction competition where they post a photo prompt, a word limit and an element you have to include. A bunch of super awesome writers then post their stories as comments, so not only do you get to write fun stories, you get to read everyone else’s too! It really is an absolute blast, and I was thrilled when I heard FF was coming back. You can go check it out here.

For this week, we had to write a 75 word story that included a freedom fighter or a droid, about the following prompt:

Here was my take:

The Bag

The old man squints. “Who are you?”
“I’m Rob.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m sixteen.” I’m not, but I look older.
He sighs. “I suppose you’re the closest thing left to a soldier. Here.”
The bag is iridescent. I try not to stare. 
He snaps at me. “Focus boy. This isn’t a game. If the machines get hold of that, we’re doomed.”
“Understood. I’ll die to protect it.”
Because that’s what I’m programmed to do.

The ship sliced silently through space, its black hull shimmering as it passed the familiar yellow star. This section of the galaxy was known for its unusual peace and quiet, primarily because the Galactic Corp hadn’t bothered coming out this far yet. They would eventually, because that was what they did. They grew and grew, until there was nothing left to consume. Blurgon was simply the next planet on the menu.

Gargle stared out of the viewer, admiring the scenery. There was something calming about being out here, a sense of wonder that he had thought had long since been extinguished. This part of the universe was a blank canvas, so full of possibility, the exact opposite of himself. It felt like out here he could be anything and anyone, but that was not how the world worked. He was a courier, and that was all he would ever be, from the day he was born, to the day he gave up his shell and became permanently ethereal.

The thought made him smile. This was the longest he had ever had one shell. He was particularly pleased with this one and had taken great care of it, ever since he stumbled across it on Krogon. The previous inhabitant had only recently expired, though from what was unclear, but the body was in perfect working order and barely had a scratch on it. The tentacles were slightly longer than he would have liked, and the musk glands were a tad enthusiastic, but aside from that it was perfect.

He glanced at the pile of crates in the corner of the room and then checked his personal communicator. His Task Log was very clear, he was to deliver the crates to the Blurgon Law School personally, and wasn’t to stop for anything, particularly the Galactic Corp. He had no idea what was in the crates, nor did he want to know. The creature that he had met in the middle of deep space to make the trade was certainly not a registered G.C. vendor, that much was clear. It was undoubtedly something rare and valuable; lawyers wouldn’t send him halfway across the galaxy for some Claxion take-out, no matter how tasty the dipping sauce was.

Actually, knowing those arrogant jerks, that was absolutely something they would do. They would gladly risk his capture and imprisonment without a second thought. They were not known for their empathy. That was the advantage that came with being the last line of defence between Blurgon and a very hostile takeover.

Gargle was still staring out of the viewer when a red light started flashing in the corner. He glanced up at it, puzzled, then pulled up a menu on his communicator. When that didn’t provide the answers he was looking for, he spoke. “Computer, what are you doing?”

The A.I. was an optional upgrade on this model of ship, but well worth the price. Most of his fellow couriers refused to trust A.I.s after the incident, but Gargle had no such qualms. She effectively replaced the crew, allowing Gargle to travel across the known universe all by himself, which was exactly how he liked it.

She spoke softly, her voice coming from his personal communicator. “I have reduced thrust.”

“Reduced thrust? We are almost at a safe distance to jump, you know how those lawyers get if I’m late. Why are you slowing down?” He waited for her response, praying that she wasn’t going to start acting up again. They had already bumped heads a few times on the journey, figuratively speaking, to the point where he had muted her entirely for the second half of the outgoing trip. The dealership assured him that it was just part of her initialization period and that with time she would adapt to his unique style of leadership. Gargle suspected that was what they told everyone, right up until the warranty ended.

“That is classified.”

“Classified? You’re my A.I., how can anything be classified from me?”

Her voice changed, becoming more robotic. “Alpha Protocol override.”

“Oh great, why didn’t you say so. Just one quick follow-up question, what the heck is the Alpha Protocol?”

***

Josh slumped in his seat at the back of the class while Mr. Murray droned away at the whiteboard. The teacher had an amazing ability to speak continuously without changing his tone, which turned every lecture into a soothing lullaby. Josh fought hard to keep his eyes open as Old man Murray prattled on. “The challenge with fighting a guerrilla war is that your opponent has considerably more resources available to them. Your advantage is that you are small and fast, while they are large and slow. If they cannot hit you, they cannot hurt you, and after several failed attempts they will stop trying. Examples from history include…”

Josh stopped listening.

Old Man Murray was exactly as his name suggested. The running joke was that he was so knowledgeable about history because he’d been there. His tuft of grey hair was thinning, but he had complemented it with a thick grey moustache that twitched when he spoke. It was the only thing that got excited when Mr. Murray spoke.

The gravity in the room increased dramatically, or at least the gravity around Josh’s eyelids. He mumbled a curse to himself. It was his own fault; he should never have stayed up so late playing Shadow Souls. He vowed never to make that mistake again. Of course, if that particular vow hadn’t worked the last 36 times it was unlikely to do the trick this time. He was already daydreaming about getting home and booting it back up. Josh just had to endure fifteen more minutes of Captain Mono-drone until the final bell.

He opened his trusty notebook, the one that he’d been using for the entire Shadow Souls sadistic run. Page after page had notes that had been crossed out, problems that seemed impossible at the time that he had slowly figured out solutions for. He was currently up to Problem #147.

Josh was so close to fulfilling his life’s purpose: completing Shadow Souls on the sadistic difficulty setting, with all the Shadow Skulls turned on. The skulls each had their own unique effect, all of them bad, from giving every enemy triple the health, to doubling their DPS or increasing their movement speed so much they glided around the stages like a greased-up whippet on rollerblades. Thanks to the 3rd skull, a low-level enemy could one-shot his ninja avatar even if he was blocking, which meant that dodging was the only feasible strategy. That was only compounded by the 8th skull, which removed all checkpoints and save points, so every death sent him back to the start of the game. That didn’t even take into account how brutally hard the sadistic difficulty was before the skulls were turned on.

It was a fool’s errand, a pointless task, with no value except to prove just how stubborn he really was. All the Shadow Souls forums agreed that it was impossible. Even the game’s developers had gone on record saying as much, suggesting that the skulls were just fun modifiers that were never intended to be activated simultaneously, and certainly not at the higher difficulty levels.

The more it was declared unachievable, the harder Josh tried. Every death galvanized his resolve. He would be the one to prove everyone wrong, to push the boundaries of what was possible. Slowly but surely, inch by painstaking inch, he had learned the intricacies of survival. Which enemies hesitated for a split second before attacking, who feigned retreat, and who favoured sneak attacks from above. He had built up a mental map of the game over hundreds of hours of practice, his muscle memory honed to a razor-sharp point. He could practically play the game blindfolded. That might be his next challenge.

Last night he’d almost beaten it. He’d made it to the Shadow King’s bodyguard, the penultimate boss. He had even managed to whittle her down to under half her HP, a feat which took the better part of an hour, before an errant shuriken had clipped Josh mid-dodge and ended the run. It was the quietest rage quit in history, due to it being 3 a.m. His dad was a particularly light sleeper — he would jolt awake if a mouse farted two houses down — and Josh didn’t particularly feel like explaining why he was jumping up and down on his controller.

His trusty controller. They had been through a lot together. It had bounced off more than one hard surface and had the scars to prove it. The left analogue stick was slightly loose, the right trigger made a clicking sound, and his favourite gaming snacks had left a light orange tinge that no amount of alcohol wipes could buff out. It was his most cherished possession, at least out of all the items his mother hadn’t sold.

Tonight was the night; Josh could feel it. If he rushed straight home and started early he could finish the game right around midnight, which would give him time to kick off the upload before he went to bed. He would wake up in the morning a Shadow Souls legend. The fans would write books about today. Ok, maybe not books, but certainly blog posts, possibly even shouty videos.

This was it, the last day of being a nobody and the start of his new life as a…

A slamming sound jolted Josh awake, and his heart tried to escape out of his throat. He sat bolt-upright to see Mr. Murray glaring at him, along with several other students, who were busy sniggering. The teacher shook his head. “Mr. Harper, I had so hoped not to make good on my threat from your last solo slumber party. Please see me after class.”

“No, sir, I wasn’t sleeping, I was…” Josh scrambled for a plausible reason, anything to avoid the inevitable. “Meditating, to help me learn better?”

Mr. Murray smirked. “Meditating you say? Then I suppose you’ll be able to recall the name of the Chinese general that first proposed the use of guerrilla warfare?”

Only one Chinese general sprang to mind. Josh said, “General Tso?”

That earned a laugh from the students around him, but Mr. Murray failed to see the funny side. He said, “Perhaps if you made some notes in that notebook of yours?”

He leaned over to get a closer look and Josh quickly flipped to a blank page. He wrote GUERILLA WARFARE – FIGHT BIGGER BAD GUYS in large block capitals before realizing he had nothing else to add.

“I thought so. Let’s chat more about your favourite chicken dishes after class.”

Not good, but there was still time to formulate a plan. If he could just get out of the room without Old Man Murray seeing him, then he could feign forgetfulness and still make it home in time to start his sadistic run at a reasonable hour. There would be hell to pay tomorrow, but that was future Josh’s problem.

He jumped as the bell rang. Why was it ringing early? He checked his phone and sighed. It was 3:30pm. How long had he been asleep? Too long. He was out of time and out of options. He had no choice but to face the music. On tonight, of all nights.

The other students stampeded out of the room in a whirlwind of activity, some laughing, others nervously reviewing their notes from the lesson.

Josh scooped the contents of his desk into his tattered green backpack and slung it over his shoulder, the weight of the books threatening to topple him. He strained his non-existent core muscles to try and steady himself, with only his low centre of gravity saving him from a face-plant. Good balance was one of the few advantages of being short, along with paying less at the cinema and still being able to fit into an airplane seat.

Mr. Murray loomed over Josh before awkwardly leaning on the nearest desk. It was his attempt to look casual, which only made Josh feel more uncomfortable. His moustache twitched as he started to speak. “Josh, I know that you’ve had a lot going on at home lately, but that doesn’t excuse your behaviour in my classroom. You seem to think the rules don’t apply to you. You’re disrespecting me and your fellow classmates. I told you if this happened again I’d have to give you an after-school detention…”

Perhaps there was still a chance to rescue the situation. “I’m sorry, sir, really I am. I’ve been having a hard time sleeping since the divorce. I can’t help but feel like the whole thing is my fault somehow.” He wobbled his voice just enough at the end to be convincing. It was an Oscar-worthy performance.

Unfortunately for Josh, Old Man Murray had heard his fair share of sob stories over the many, many years he had been teaching. He’d developed an excellent bullshit detector, and right now it was lit up brighter than a hedgehog on Guy Fawkes night.

“Are you sure your anxiety isn’t due to the report card you’re taking home today?”

Damn, he was good. Josh had almost managed to forget about the dreaded document he was carrying around in his backpack. Each of his teachers had provided some very pointed feedback about areas Josh could work on before the upcoming exams.  There were a lot of areas for improvement, and he suspected his dad may have some choice feedback of his own.

“No sir, I always appreciate constructive feedback and I look forward to improving my behaviour.”

“You are out of time, young man. Your exams start in a couple of weeks, and they will determine your entire future. I can’t stress how important this is, you need to be taking it seriously.”

“Of course sir, I will rush straight home and study.”

Old Man Murray smiled. “I’m sure you will, but we had an understanding. The last time I caught you sleeping in my classroom you agreed that if it happened again I would have no choice but to send you to detention. How could you ever respect me if I didn’t keep my word?”

Josh did his best to keep the panic out of his voice. “I totally understand, sir, but does it have to be tonight? I have a prior engagement that is time-sensitive. I’ll happily do my detention tomorrow night, or any other day this week.”

“I’m sorry, young man, but that is not how a punishment works. We do not slot it in to your busy social calendar. Please head straight to detention, I will let Mr. Tucker know that you are on your way. If you don’t arrive there promptly I will be forced to call your parents to let them know. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Josh said, utterly defeated. He could slay a level 99 Demon Samurai with his eyes closed, but he couldn’t sweet-talk an old guy with a moustache. He braced himself, hefted his backpack up onto his shoulder, and then set off for the gym.

His dad was going to be pissed.

***

The hum of the engines slowly died down as the ship entered the strange planet’s orbit. Gargle admired the deep blues and greens that were scattered across its surface. “What is this planet? I don’t recall ever seeing it before.”

“There are no records of this planet in my database.”

“How is that possible? We have flown this way countless times, how did we miss an entire life-bearing planet?”

“Unknown. It is statistically unlikely that we would have overlooked it previously. The only logical conclusion is intermittent scanner faults.”

Gargle did not like the sound of that. “Run a full diagnostic. We can’t have scanners failing, we need to know what is around us at all times.”

“Affirmative. Running diagnostics now,” the Ship’s Computer said. She sounded mildly annoyed.

“I’m still unclear why we are delaying the delivery of this important parcel to make a stop at this undiscovered ball of colourful rock. This isn’t exactly a sight-seeing trip.”

“My long-range scanners detected radio signals, which suggests the inhabitants of this planet have reached at least a low level of technology. That creates a valid scenario to investigate, according to the guidelines outlined in the Alpha Protocol.”

“Yes, you keep saying that, but you need to tell me what it is. I have never heard of it before,” Gargle said, doing his best to keep his cool. Being late with a parcel delivery went against everything he believed in and would be marked on his record; if he was going to do it voluntarily then he really needed to know why.

“As you know the Galactic Corp is always expanding, looking for any signs of intelligent life that they can absorb into their construct. Alpha Protocol states that I must always do what is in the best interests of High Command. If this planet has useful lifeforms or resources, we must immediately attempt to stake our claim to it, for the good of Blurgon.”

“Isn’t that a lengthy process? I thought an official claim could take several orbits. What’s the rush? Surely we can drop these goods off first and then send a more suitable vessel back to this location to formally begin the process.”

“Negative. If I have detected the radio signals then it is likely that the Galactic Corp has too. They will send a vessel to investigate. We need to determine if this planet has anything of value, before they do.”

Gargle risked a glance at the timer on his personal communicator. If they left now he could still deliver the parcel on time. “How long is this going to take?”

“It depends on this planet’s current level of technology and my ability to interface with it.”

There was no sense in trying to argue; it would be like trying to convince the toaster to make ice cubes. Gargle said, “Fine, just hurry it up, I have places to be.”

There was a lengthy pause while several graphs and charts appeared on the viewer. There were various attempts to communicate with the planet, each of which failed. That was promising. If this civilization had not yet progressed far enough along its tech-tree then they would be forced to leave it alone. Fledgling entities were off-limits, even for the G.C. A minimum bar had to be met before a planet could be considered fair game, and right now this one was failing. His best chance of making it out of here was if that continued to be the case.

As the lines continued to scroll down the viewer, it suddenly stopped, leaving a blinking cursor. Gargle said, “What happened?”

“They responded using a rudimentary binary code. I have found an interconnected network of computing devices and am downloading relevant information to assess the overall technological progression of this planet. Please wait.”

That was bad news. Their technology may yet prove to be primitive, but now it required an assessment, and assessments took time. Time was the one thing he didn’t have right now.

***

Josh stared at the clock on the wall. Was it his imagination or had it stopped moving entirely? After what felt like an eternity the long hand ticked forward, begrudgingly surrendering one more minute of detention.

Mr. Tucker snored loudly at the front of the gym. The sound cut through the silence like a jackhammer. It echoed in the huge space, bouncing off the walls and coming back for another go. It was just irregular enough to be impossible to ignore. The moment you were about to tune it out there was a sudden pitch change or unexpected grunt to make sure you were paying attention. Sometimes it stopped just long enough to give the gift of silence, before starting up again even louder than before. It was the perfect torture.

Josh glanced around the room. The usual suspects were all present and correct, a rag-tag collection of the school’s most distinguished characters. It didn’t take a detective to determine why each of them was here. Big Pete had bloody knuckles, so he’d been fighting again. Sarah and Steve were holding hands under the desk and looking rather flush, which meant they’d been caught going at it in the library. Again. Even dodgy Brad was in today, no doubt for selling stuff he’d knocked off from the big electronics shop he worked at. His oversized duffle bag was carefully tucked under the desk, away from the prying eyes of teachers.

Brad leaned over and whispered to Josh. “How’s that new graphics card working out for you?”

“Yeah it’s awesome, thanks. It has made a big difference to my performance. I’m almost back to where I was before.”

Brad smirked. He had a very punchable face, but it remained pristine on account of Pete always being in the general vicinity. Brad said, “You still trying to beat Shadow Souls on sadistic?”

“Yep, I’m pretty close now.”

“Bollocks!” Brad said, a little too loudly. The snoring stopped for a brief moment, and the room collectively held their breaths, but then the snoring started up again. He tried again, but slightly quieter. “There’s no way you’re going to beat it. It’s impossible.”

“Actually it’s not. I’m going to do it tonight,” Josh said, whispering as confidently as he could manage.

Brad laughed and nudged Pete. “Get a load of this. He actually thinks he’s going to finish it. I thought you were one of the smart kids, I never took you for a blagger.”

“I’m not lying. I’m going to upload my run as soon as I beat it. You can see for yourself tomorrow morning.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. If you can prove that you did it by the start of school tomorrow I’ll give you fifty quid, but if you can’t then you admit you were talking out of your arse and give me fifty.” He held out his hand.

Josh hesitated. Fifty pounds was a lot of money. It was two full shifts at the Mega Burger. He didn’t exactly have that kind of money just lying around. “I’m not interested…”

“I get it, you need bigger stakes. Let’s call it a hundred quid.”

Now things were getting silly. There was no way he could afford that kind of bet. He was about to tell Brad that, when Brad said, “Ok, I’ve got it. If you lose, you give me a hundred quid, cash. If you win, and beat the game, with proof, then you can have five hundred quids worth of gear from my bag.”

That was enough to get Josh’s attention. Brad always had the latest computer parts in his bag, on account of the generous 100% employee discount he gave himself. Five hundred quids worth of parts would be enough to finish upgrading his computer back to the point that it was before, and all he had to do was the thing he was planning on doing anyway. Before he could overthink it he said, “Ok, deal. I’m going to stream the whole thing. I’ll send you the link tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you’d better have my money when you lose, or Pete here will be having a chat with you.” Pete loudly cracked his knuckles to emphasize the point.

Josh was about to reconsider when he felt his phone buzz. He pulled it out of his pocket, keeping it below the desk in case Tucker woke up. It was a text from his dad.

Where are you???

This would require some finesse. Lying to his dad was a recipe for trouble, but he’d learned to walk the tightrope between the truth and something less likely to get him grounded. His dad had enough to worry about these days without Josh adding to it. He thought for a second before tapping out his reply.

I’m at an after school program run by Mr. Tucker. I’ll be home by 5.

There was a pause and the dreaded flashing dots that indicated his dad was typing. Josh found himself muttering a mantra under his breath. Please don’t say it, please don’t say it…

Good. I don’t leave for work until 5:30 and I’m very much looking forward to reading your report card.

Crap. He’d remembered. Josh had hoped that with everything else going on his dad might have forgotten all about it.

That would have been too easy.

Life hadn’t been easy lately. Since his mum had ran out on them there had been a lot of adjustments. The only thing she had left behind was a mountain of debt. The new house was smaller, and smelled slightly musty. His dad had been forced to sell his car and buy a cheaper one, which was so rusty it required proof of a current tetanus shot just to be a passenger. There had also been a lot more crying. Up until recently Josh had never seen his dad cry, but now it was a nightly occurrence. He was too proud to do it in the living room; instead he locked himself in the bathroom. Josh could still hear him though; the house wasn’t big enough to be able to afford luxuries like privacy. It was also testing Josh’s bladder control as it was the only bathroom in the house, and the crying tended to last a while.

The bell rang, jolting Mr. Tucker awake. With a wave of his hand he dismissed the group before brushing his comb over back into place. As Josh was walking past he said, “Mr. Harper, don’t forget that you still owe me your algebra homework from last week.”

“Of course sir, it’s almost finished, I’ll pop it by first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Make sure that you do. It is important for me to be able to assess your abilities accurately before you go into your exams. Otherwise we won’t know what to work on.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Josh escaped before Tucker threw any more work his way. He wasn’t going to have time to finish it tonight, mostly because he hadn’t started it yet, but better to explain that tomorrow morning when he had already won his bet.

Now he had a new dilemma. On the one hand, he really wanted to race home to get started on his sadistic run, but on the other he wasn’t quite ready to face his father. He couldn’t avoid him forever, but if he could just miss him tonight then he could make it tomorrow’s problem.

The way things were going, tomorrow was going to be an absolute disaster.

“Please finish up your sandwiches and take a seat. Yes Dwayne, that includes you. I can wait…” Miss. Duckworth taps her foot to show she is serious. The ruckus dies down to a murmur. Satisfied that her authority has been established, she continues. “Thank you for stepping up at the last minute to fill in for poor Marcus, who was unexpectedly taken ill. As some of you may know, the Christmas Ball is a very prestigious event. A lot of important people will be in attendance. It is vital that we impress them. We cannot afford any more hiccups.”

She stares around the room to make sure everyone knows the gravity of the situation, before she continues. “The drums are a key aspect of our school band and there are a lot of very difficult drum solos. Marcus has been practicing for several weeks, but the individual that takes his place will only have twenty four hours to learn the songs. I have tried to explain to Principal Thistle that there simply isn’t enough time to train a replacement, but he is adamant that we try, so here we are. Consider this your warning that what I am asking you to do may well be a near impossible task, with the very real possibility of humiliating yourself in front of a room full of people. Are there any questions before we begin?”

One of the keener boys at the front thrusts his hand into the air. Miss. Duckworth does her best to maintain a neutral expression. “You have a question?”

“Is Jason’s Dad attending again this year?”

Miss. Duckworth made a show of checking her clipboard. “Yes, I do believe Mr. Jenkins will be in attendance.”

“He’s the one that gave Jill Jones that huge singing contract after last years concert!”

There was another murmur through the group and Miss. Duckworth hushed them again. “That should have no influence on your decision to partake in this years concert. You should be doing it for the love of music, not for some slim chance of becoming a celebrity. If you’re only here to try and become famous then now is the right time to leave.”

Nobody moved, but they all looked around the room to see who else was thinking the same thing. Miss. Duckworth sighed deeply. Kids these days only cared about becoming rich and famous. Not that any of the kids here would ever have to worry about money. The monthly tuition alone is enough to bankrupt a normal person, and that’s before all the school trips to exotic foreign locations. Oh to live like these kids, even for a year.

Somebody coughed and Miss. Duckworth snapped out of her daze. She said, “I’m sure you all have your reasons for trying out for the ball, but I will be basing my decision purely on your performance. This isn’t one of those talent shows on TV, please keep your life story to yourself. I won’t be providing individual feedback, there simply isn’t time. I will let the successful candidate know at the end of the day. Now if you could each come up one at a time. Let’s start right there.” She points to a pretty blond girl in the front row.

Everyone stares at me as I stand up, especially the boys. I’m used to it. I get it, I’m cute, with my long blond pigtails and my freckly face. People have certain assumptions when they see me. They think I’m going to be dumb, shallow, obsessed with shoes and boy bands. They couldn’t be more wrong.

I have seven brothers. Mum passed away three years ago. It’s made Dad a bit overprotective. I’m his little girl, his angel, his princess. I’m the last little piece of Mum that he clutches on to, afraid to lose me too. Unfortunately the harder he squeezes, the more I slip away.

I had to tell him I was auditioning for the flute. I haven’t been to my flute lessons in over two years, but it gives me an excuse to stay late at school twice a week. Dad keeps paying the instructor, so she’s not going to say anything. I don’t remember the first time I sat down at the drum set in the music room, but I do know that it gave me somewhere to channel my anger. One day I was busy releasing my frustration and a tune came out.

I reach up and tug at my pigtails until they are free, my hair flowing down to my shoulders. I swish my head back and forth a few times to mess it up. I’m not a princess. I am a rockstar. I don’t want to play with dolls, or pretend to do makeup, or bake cookies. I want to play loud instruments, create music, party hard. I want my Dad and brothers to see me for who I really am. I want them to come to this concert and see their little princess rock the stage.

I pick up the drumsticks and twirl them effortlessly around my fingers. I go straight into an epic drum solo, using every surface, every trick that I know. The other kids stares at me slack jawed. I’m not the pretty little girl they saw a few moments ago, I am the real me.

Miss. Duckworth nods and says, “That was certainly an interesting start. Let’s move on.”

How am I going to follow that? Charlotte struts off the stage like she owns it, as if the decision is already a foregone conclusion. I want to turn and run, to escape to the safety of my bedroom where nobody bothers me, but I made a promise to myself. No more hiding.

I can hear them whisper as I walk towards the stage. Who is that guy? Does he go to this school? Is he new here? I want to shout at the top of my lungs. I’ve been going here for five years. I have helped you all with your homework. I have carried your books. I have cleaned up after you. I have skulked in the shadows, afraid to speak up, afraid to be seen, but not today. No more lurking.

I reach the drum kit and turn to face the crowd. I can feel them staring at me, their eyes burrowing deep inside, poking at my anxiety, making it lash out like a frightened house cat. It tugs at my legs and squeezes my stomach, demanding that we get away as fast as we can. I plant my feet and grit my teeth. No more running.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words stay in my throat until it is completely backed up. Then they all tumble out at once. “I’mJakeILoveToDrum.” The sniggers from the crowd confirm my anxiety’s worst fears. This is going badly, but still I persist.

I pick up the drumsticks and try to spin them around my fingers, just as Charlotte did. I want to show these people that I can do this. The right drumstick gets away from me and clatters to the ground. In my mind it makes the sound of a tree falling down, an echoing crash that can be heard across the room. More sniggers.

I slowly bend down and pick it up. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This is it. This is my moment. I lift up my arms and feel the music flow through me.

I don’t have the showmanship of Charlotte, but I play flawlessly. The sniggering stops. Charlotte is the first one standing, applauding loudly. The rest of the crowd slowly joins her.

For the first time ever, they see me. I want to stand here forever, soaking in this moment. I already know I won’t get the part, but it doesn’t matter. I found a piece of my soul today.

Miss. Duckworth ushers me off the stage and points to the next in line.

I walk up to the stage slowly, checking the corners of the room for my parents. I am not supposed to be here. It is my petty act of rebellion. My parents do not believe in music, or any other frivolous activity. Life is not meant to be enjoyed, it is meant to be optimized with ruthless efficiency. They already have my entire future planned out. They are courting other families as we speak, trying to find a suitable wife to marry their darling son that is destined to become a world famous surgeon. They choose my lessons, my teachers, my lunches, the route that I take home. I’m surprised I am allowed to go to the toilet when I please.

The guilt washes over me as I walk towards the stage. They only want what is best for me. Who am I to question them? Their tough love seemingly works. My brother is a corporate lawyer and my sister is a rocket scientist. They are both happily married to partners that were selected long ago. I see that look on their faces though, the flickers of doubt in those moments when they think no-one is watching. They are living my parents dreams, not theirs. I once found an entire sketchbook under my sister’s bed, filled with beautiful hand drawn dresses and outfits, each intricately designed. The pages were dotted with wet splotches, tears of shame as she wasted her time doing something that she loved.

I’m on the stage. I don’t know what I am doing. I have never played the drums in my life. I’ve always wanted to though. I mentioned it once to my father and the look he gave me still haunts me to this day. I pick up the drumsticks, expecting them to burst into flames, but instead they magnify the shaking of my hands. I lift one high above my head and bring it down with a loud whoop. There is an immediate sense of relief. With each successive strike I can feel a little part of myself breaking free from the shackles of my perfect future. There’s no tune, not even any rhythm, but it’s the most beautiful music I have ever heard.

The faces in the crowd suggest this isn’t true for them. They are wide eyed, mouths agape. I drop the drumsticks and shout, “Thank you!” before bolting out of the room.

Mrs. Duckworth says, “Well that was…different. Let’s keep going please.”

I have to make this count. This needs to pay off. My parents are bankrupting themselves to send me to this school. I’ve heard them shouting at each other in the early hours of the morning, when I’m supposed to be sleeping. It’s always the same topic. Money. We get red envelopes in the post every week. They hide them before I see them, but I once opened the kitchen drawer they get stuffed into. If we get any more they are going to need a bigger drawer.

Dad can’t work any more overtime, he’s barely functional as it is. Mum hides it better behind a smile and a meagre breakfast, but I can see the hopelessness creeping in. I’ve tried talking to them, to convince them I would be happier at a normal school, but they are adamant. They never had opportunities like this when they were kids, and it has haunted them ever since. Every job they were turned down for, every promotion that passed them by, every layoff, all harsh reminders that they were expendable, easily replaced. They will be homeless and penniless before they let that happen to me.

This gig is my chance. If I can impress Jason’s Dad then I can get a music contract and drag my parents out of debt. It’s not the dream they had for me, but it’s what I need to do. How else is a teenager going to make buckets of cash? I will stride into the bank, slam down a fistful of red envelopes and tell the bank manager where to shove them.

I’m nervous as I sit down at the drum set. We had to sell my drums a long time ago, but I still remember how to play them, if I can just get my hands to stop shaking. It takes a moment for me to find my groove, for the old muscle memory to kick in. I miss the first cue, but I soon find the rhythm. Everyone’s feet are tapping along.

I just have to pray it’s enough.

Miss. Duckworth looks relieved that I did better than Jian. She gestures to the next in line, but he’s not paying attention, he is staring at one of the other kids. After a few seconds she shouts, “You’re up Paul.”

Did someone say my name? Oh god, everyone is staring at me. What am I supposed to do? I haven’t thought this through. My brilliant plan to impress Jason is suddenly feeling utterly ridiculous. I just wanted to strike up a conversation, pretend to have something in common. I didn’t know this was an audition. I have played the drums a grand total of once, on a video game, three years ago. Rockstar I am not.

I’m kind of committed now. If I bolt from the room Jason will remember me for all the wrong reasons. I’ll forever be a coward, a failure, a chicken. I’ll never get over that. It’s certain failure, or the minuscule chance of a miraculous success. I know which option I am going for.

As I stroll towards the stage I glance in his direction. He’s staring at me. Do I sense something else, something more? Does he feel the same way I do? Could this be the start of something?

Of course not. I am projecting. He is one of the most popular boys in school. Only a select few kids can afford to board here. He is one of them. I dread to think what it costs, not that he would be concerned about such things. The girls swoon around him constantly. He can have his pick. Why would he pick me? I am nobody.

Scarlett is my main competition. She follows Jason around like a lost puppy. I should know, I am right behind her most days. She strikes me as a real bunny boiler, the kind that wouldn’t take kindly to me stealing her potential husband. My only hope is that she ignores me just as thoroughly as Jason does.

I don’t remember picking up the drumsticks, but suddenly they are in my hands. I squint into the lights and wait for the music to flow through me. Come on Cupid, or whoever the gay equivalent is, it’s time for the magic to happen. Wait, is there a gay Cupid? Now I’m just being ridiculous. The kid is shirtless, has angel wings and a bow and arrow for crying out loud. He doesn’t exactly scream homophobic.

I’m still waiting for the magic to happen. Everyone is. I’m not sure how long I can sit here before someone escorts me from the stage. There is a polite cough in the front row. It’s now or never.

Never it is. I shout, “I refuse to sellout to big music! Rock on. Peace out.” Then I toss the drumsticks into the crowd and leg it out the back door before security arrives. I make eye contact with Jason as the door swings shut behind me. Was that a smile on his face? At least now he will remember me.

Miss. Duckworth shakes her head. “Oh dear, we’re getting all sorts tonight. Scarlett, please restore my faith in good manners.”

What the heck was that? That last guy was clearly insane. Why would somebody show up for something like this if they weren’t intending to play? Perhaps it was some sad attempt to impress me. Now that I think of it, he does always seem to be lurking nearby.

I get out of my seat and run my hand across Jason’s shoulders. He’s been so distant lately. I don’t know what has gotten into him. At first I thought he was cheating on me, but I’ve been checking his phone and occasionally following him and there’s no sign of infidelity. He hasn’t so much as looked at another girl since we started fooling around a few months ago. I had to fight off an army of skanks to get him, but I’m starting to wonder why I bothered. Half the time it doesn’t feel like dating at all. There’s no sex, barely any kissing and the occasional half hearted grope. He doesn’t even like us being seen together too often, he has some lame excuse about the paparazzi. Sure he’s good looking, and his six pack has a six pack, but most importantly he’s thirty-seventh in line to the English throne. That sounds like a long way down the list, but accidents happen, and besides the competition for those above him is even more fierce. There aren’t many eligible bachelors left in the royal line, and there are a lot of women trying to snag them.

Jason is the reason my parents sent me to this school. The moment they learned that he played the drums they found me a tutor so I could impress him. Now is my chance. I need to get his interest back. If I can put in a good performance tonight maybe he will let me give him a private show later on, and I can finally get the ball rolling. Princess Scarlett has such a nice ring to it. Preferably a diamond encrusted one.

I am technically a very proficient drummer, but it’s hard to muster much enthusiasm for a musical instrument that involves smacking it with sticks. I’d always dreamed of learning the piano or the violin, something a little more elegant. You would think the classical instruments would hold more sway with the supposedly sophisticated upper class, but apparently they no longer concern themselves about keeping up appearances. Now it’s all tweeting and selfies on private jets.

I’m doing the best that I can, but a quick glance up confirms that Jason’s not paying any attention. He’s staring at something on his phone. I wish I knew what it was. I best not find out it’s that tramp Sarah. She’s always sniffing around. I’ve come too far to let him slip through my fingers now.

A few people clap as I stand up. At least they appreciate the effort.

Miss. Duckworth makes a few notes and says, “Thank you. Next please.”

Oh god, Scarlett’s making that face again. The one where she is trying to impress me. It’s not a natural look, she looks almost constipated with concentration. I wish I knew how to make her stop. She is relentless. No amount of polite diversion seems to deter her. If anything it only makes her try harder. She is throwing herself at me with an ever growing enthusiasm, and yet deep down I know that I am stringing her along.

I’m never going to settle down, get married, add to the dwindling royal lineage. My interests lay…elsewhere. I glance across at the door that Paul stormed out of. I’m only here because of him. I want him to see how good I am at something, that I am not just an empty crown. Even just admitting that makes me feel foolish. He is a commoner, a nobody, so why can’t I stop thinking about him? He haunts my every waking moment. Every class without him feels like an eternity. I have memorized his schedule to improve my chances of ‘bumping’ into him. Each chance encounter gets me a little bit closer to him noticing me.

There was always an assumption in my family that I would follow the old ways, that they would have a say in who I love, who I marry. That my soulmate would have a certain pedigree. As if that is how it works. They have prepared themselves that I might love a commoner. The narrative is already in place for the rags to riches story that the public love, but I am not sure they are ready for my twist on the tale. I don’t care.

Everyone is staring and I realize it is my turn. I am distracted. I don’t even want to be here, I only came because Paul did. Why am I still pretending? It’s time I was honest with myself, and with him. I can’t stand the thought of him leaving for 2 weeks on Christmas break while I stay here stewing. I don’t know if he feels the same way, but I need to find out. I get up and stroll right past the drum set and out of the door that he left from.

Scarlett is right behind me. She shouts, “Where are you going?”

“I have something to do.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’m sorry, I need to do this alone.”

“Is it Sarah?” Her tone is accusatory. Where do I even begin? How can I make her understand that no matter how hard she tries, her charms will never work on me? Knowing her, she would consider a sex change if it got her one step closer. I place my hand gently on her shoulder. “Please, I just need a moment. I’ll come find you later and explain.”

She hesitates, stuck between grasping on to me and giving me my space. Eventually she nods and says, “Take as long as you need. I’ll be waiting in your room.” This is accompanied by a devilish grin and she saunters off. Such a shame.

I round the corner, hoping to find some clue as to which way Paul went, and I nearly trip right over him. He’s huddled in a ball on the ground, his face streaked with tears. I would know that look anywhere. He’s heartbroken. As we make eye contact he smiles and then chokes back the tears. He wobbles to his feet, clears his throat with a manly cough and says, “Damn allergies.”

There’s a lot I want to say, but before a single word escapes I lean in and kiss him. It catches us both by surprise. I wait for him to push back and thump me, but he leans into it. His mouth is softer than I was expecting. Suddenly everything feels right with the world.

There’s some kind of commotion going on upfront. The next lad up has bolted from the room without playing. Their teacher seems flustered and she’s doing a lousy job of hiding it.

I slouch in my seat, trying not to be noticed. I don’t belong here. I don’t mean that in an insecure way, I mean it in the literal sense. I don’t go to this school. I couldn’t even afford a day trip here. My school is on the other side of town, in an area that these people wouldn’t even dare to drive through. I’m supposed to be there right now, but I’m busy Christmas shopping.

My little brother is not excited for Christmas, why would he be. Every year Dad does his best to get us something, but there’s no money in the budget for toys or gadgets. You can’t eat a smart phone. He is doing everything he can since Mum left, but he’s already working every hour he can just to pay the bills. I couldn’t sit back and let another Christmas go by without Santa paying a visit, so I’ve taken matters into my own hands.

Getting a uniform wasn’t hard. The dry cleaners by my house is the cheapest in town, so of course all the rich people’s servants use it. The owner takes his smoke breaks very seriously, so it was really just a question of timing. He is going to cop it when some snooty kid realizes her blazer is missing, but it’s not like they can’t afford to replace it.

Security at the school is top notch, but they don’t dare look at the kids. One wrong glance can end a career. That may have encouraged me to let my guard down, and it almost cost me. It’s not hard to stock up on gifts here, every single room is packed to the rafters with the latest tech, some of it barely used.

I had almost finished filling my backpack when one of the kids walked in on me. He’d barely shouted the word security and there they were, three of them, ready to pounce. I’m quick on my feet, but I don’t know my way around here. I managed to shake them by hiding in a crowd, and that’s how I found myself in these auditions.

The teacher is staring at me now. She’s trying to remember my name. This strikes me as the kind of place where forgetting a kid’s name is a big deal, so I try to use that to my advantage. I jump out of my seat, still clutching my backpack. “Is it my turn?”

The teacher nods.

I can’t possibly do worse than some of the crazies that have already gone before me, but I don’t want to be memorable. The trick is to be average. Nobody remembers the middle of the pack. I’ve never touched a set of drums before, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not exactly hard to figure out how they work. I slowly tap out a rhythm with my left stick, setting a beat, and then I try out all the other drums with my right stick. It’s not going to win any awards, but it does the trick. Nobody looks impressed, which means it worked.

I shrug and casually stroll out the back exit, as if I already know I won’t be chosen. Nobody stops me. I walk around the corner to see two boys kissing passionately, completely oblivious to everything else around. I step around them and slip out the back door. I wave at a security guard as I nonchalantly stroll through the gate and back to the real world.

The nice teacher lady is pointing at me. She stares, waiting for me to do something. The truth is, I have no idea why I am here. I saw a line of kids outside the room and thought it might be for food stamps. Every time I see a line I am compelled to join it. It’s a hard habit to break. In Syria, standing in lines was the only way to survive. Sometimes I would stand in a line that turned out to be for another line.

The good news is I wasn’t wrong, there were a lot of delicious sandwiches. The teacher made sure everyone got one, so it was fair. When she turned around I snuck a couple of extras into my bag for later. Like I said, old habits.

Everyone else has gone to the front and banged on the drums. Perhaps this is some kind of British ceremony. I slowly make my way to the front, not wanting them to think I’m ignoring their culture. Things are strange here. These children have everything they could ever need or want, but they do not smile. I don’t understand the words they are saying, but I know enough to know they are complaining. About what, I have no idea.

I remember standing in the adoption agency a few months ago, tears running down my face as I am told I have a new Mum and Dad. It’s a hard thing to process. The lady was very nice and explained that my new parents were going to take me far away from the fighting and the death. It wasn’t easy to leave home behind, but everywhere I looked I saw darkness creeping in. All of my friends had fled or been killed. There was almost nobody left. I made my choice. I would start a new life in England and never look back.

Except my new parents immediately shipped me off here. This is supposedly for my benefit. My new Father used his computer to tell me this in a robotic voice that spoke broken Arabic. This school will set me up for the future. What it doesn’t do is stop the nightmares now. I can barely close my eyes without hearing the gunfire and the screams. So much screaming. It took all my self control not to run when the other children banged the drum. My legs twitched instinctively, like they always did when I heard gunfire in the distance.

I reach the stage and pickup the drumsticks. Such simple objects that wouldn’t exist in Syria. They would have long ago been used as firewood to stave off the cold in the winter months. I’m still staring at them when someone from the front yells something I don’t understand. Some of the other kids laugh, I am assuming at my expense. I tap the drumsticks on the nearest drum several times until I am satisfied that I have met my cultural obligation. Then I retreat back to the snack table and stash some extra cookies in my pockets.

Miss. Duckworth fires a warm smile in my direction and says a lot of words I don’t understand, ending in Sarah.

God, look at all these losers. As if any of them stand a chance. When did this school start letting in such uncultured riffraff? That last kid is from some war torn country and didn’t seem to have the faintest clue what was going on. Clearly she hasn’t assimilated to British culture yet, so why is she here? There really should be some kind of etiquette test as part of the entry requirements. That would solve so many of our problems. They will never go for it though, apparently we have to be politically correct now. Perhaps there is another way. I’ll have a chat with Daddy about raising the tuition fees again. That should at least thin the herd. I’m sure he can convince the board, they really don’t like to upset him.

It’s insulting that I even have to try out for this stupid spot. Granddad’s donations paid for every instrument in the band. Our family name is on the concert hall. Not on one of those stupid plaques that slightly rich people buy, I mean it’s called the Springer concert hall. Granddad cut the opening ribbon back in 1962. I’ve seen the pictures of him with his bowler hat and power suit. Everyone else in the picture looks terrified, as well they should. He has a terrible temper. I would know, I’m the current target of his scorn.

The only thing he ever loved was his music. How was I supposed to know he would assume we all shared in his passion?When he asked what instrument I was playing in the Christmas concert I thought he was joking. He didn’t take kindly to my muffled laughter. Next thing I know, my credit card was cancelled. I won’t be able to show my face in Tiffanys again for weeks.

I really don’t want to be any part of this, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I pick up the drumsticks and bang out a quick tune. It’s not as flashy as everyone else, but it doesn’t need to be.

I stroll up to Miss. Duckworth and pull the envelope out of my bag. I hand it to her and say, “Here is my assignment on economic stimulus, sorry it’s late Miss. I’ll look forward to you posting the results.”

She glances inside the envelope and smiles before tucking it in her pocket.

It’s the last of my pocket money, but if it gets me back on the gravy train it is worth it. Like they say, you’ve got to spend money to make money.

I stare around the room at the worried expressions, each kid distraught in their own unique way. What is the matter with them? Has nobody told them how lucky they are? We attend one of the most prestigious schools in the country. The waiting list is pages long. The connections required just to get in here will be more than sufficient to set every one of us up for life. Nobody here has anything even remotely worth worrying about, and yet I can see the stress written all over their faces. Whether it’s fame, fortune, winning at all costs or battling demons, they all have a reason to fight for this. I don’t. I just want to play the drums. There’s no hidden motivation, no deep dark desire, no life or death stakes. I just like playing the drums. It’s what I do for fun, which is what we are supposed to be doing. We are still kids, despite our trust funds and padded C.V.’s. When did we let someone decide we are just small adults, with all the burdens that brings?

I get told every day to grow up. I take it as a compliment. I’m in no rush. There’s plenty of time for responsibility, for pension planning and life insurance. That time isn’t now. Now is a time for making mistakes, figuring out who we are, and being in a rock band. I want a room full of people to scream my name, not because I’m the best drummer in the history of the world, but because I’m enjoying myself.

I smile as I pick up the drumsticks. I’m the only kid to do so. I know, I watched. This isn’t a job to me, or a stepping stone in some intricate 5 year life plan. Being up here is my reward. I play my heart out, because it’s the only way I know how.

I don’t get the same ovation as some of the others. I’m not gifted, well connected or even all that popular. Miss. Duckworth does look impressed though. Her eyes are wide open, a small grin on the corner of her mouth. She sees how much I enjoyed myself. I think it’s enough.

I’m about to sit back down when a couple of the other kids bolt from the room, clutching their stomachs. There is the distinctive sound of retching in the hallway, followed by an acidic smell. It’s enough to set a couple of the other kids off. Sarah manages to hold down the vomit, but it has to come out somewhere and she unleashes all hell from the other end. I start to laugh, but then I feel it too, that deep gurgle in my gut. I swallow hard, but it is only a temporary reprieve. I need to find a toilet, and now. I run past Rasha, who is the only one seemingly not affected. She simply shrugs and eats another sandwich. She is made of tougher stuff than the rest of us.

I stand before the Principal, my hands trembling.

Principal Thistle looks at me as if I forgot the olive in his Martini. “Food poisoning? All of them?”

“Yes sir. I have already alerted the kitchen and they have thrown away all their sandwich meat and have done a complete scrub down of all surfaces. The good news is, the children aren’t contagious.”

He shakes his head. “It won’t be good news when I start getting the phone calls. Do you have any idea how high maintenance these parents are at the best of times? They’ll demand someone’s head for this.” I can see him mentally rattling off the list of people to fire, a week before Christmas. I just hope I’m not on it.

After a moment he says, “Who is going to play the drums in tomorrow’s concert?”

“I don’t know sir. Every child in the school that had any interest was at that audition. There simply isn’t anyone else.”

He reaches for his phone. “I suppose we’ll just have to hire a professional.”

“I already tried sir. This close to Christmas there was very limited availability of the calibre of musician that the school would require. I recommend we just postpone the concert until after the holidays, when everyone is better.”

“Miss. Deckforth, we will do no such thing. This school has had a Christmas concert every year for the last 73 years and I will be damned if I am the one to break that tradition. I remember from your interview that you were a competent drummer. You will just have to play.”

“But sir…”

“My mind is made up. Do not make me repeat myself.” He returns his gaze to the newspaper that is sprawled out on his desk. My time here is done. I slink out of the room with my tail between my legs.

Every day I park next to cars worth more than my house. I got a flat tire last week and can’t afford to replace it. Fourteen years I’ve been working here, and the Principal still doesn’t know my name. That little shit Sarah gave me ten grand like it was chump change, but the sad part is it won’t even pay off my credit cards.

I make sure I wait until I am back in my room before I let the smile creep onto my face. That is all going to change. I will finally get my shot in front of Mr. Jenkins. After all the rejected audition tapes, all the failed talent shows, all the lousy bar gigs that paid us less than we spent to get there. I’ve stacked the playlist with the most epic drum solos. This is my chance to shine. It’s my ticket out of this joint.

I thought I’d only have to poison poor Marcus, but the Principal gave me no choice. In for a penny, in for a pound, or better yet a couple of million.

It’s going to be a very merry Christmas.

The last thing I heard was the blaring of a horn. Then there was a loud crunch, and finally darkness.

I open my eyes with a start, my heart racing. Well that’s good news, at least it is still beating. That is already better than I was expecting. It must have just been a dream, a very vivid and shockingly painful dream. I sit up, expecting to see my bedroom, but instead I’m lying in the road. What am I doing sleeping in the road? Was I day drinking again? I don’t remember, which isn’t really a conclusive answer.

A swarm of insects buzzes by. There are a lot of them, the most I have ever seen in one place. The swarm is so thick it looks solid, like I could reach out and pick it up. I resist the temptation, mostly because my head is hurting. Looks like another check mark in the day drinking column.

A quick glance around shows a mostly barren landscape. The only houses I can see look like a truck drove through them, and I’m not being hyperbolic. There are bricks scattered everywhere. What is this place?

I slowly get to my feet, waiting for the world to spin, but it remains surprisingly stable. That’s when I notice the person on the horizon. It looks like an old man, and he is staring right at me. I wave, but he doesn’t wave back. If I run I am pretty sure I can catch him up, he isn’t exactly blazing a trail out there.

As I start to run I swallow another mouthful of bugs. Honestly, how are there so many around here? Is nothing eating them? I’m busy looking for other animals when I almost trip right over the bird that waddles out in front of me. It is the fattest bird I have ever seen. It makes a turkey look skinny. It’s little stick legs are shaking with the effort of moving its podgy little body around. It stumbles forward, its mouth open, and chomps down some bugs. Then it collapses back to the ground, wheezing.

The old man has started hobbling away, but I catch up to him easily. He eyes me warily. “Unlucky there sonny. Let me guess, a truck hit you?”

“What? No, that was just a dream. Wait, how do you know about my dream? Am i still dreaming? Am i drunk right now?”

He chuckles. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in the 7,957th dimension, otherwise known as planet Truck Stop. Basically everything ever hit by a truck gets sent here.”

“Wait, you were hit by a truck too?”

“In a manner of speaking. Stage 4, terminal. I didn’t want to bankrupt my wife, and we didn’t have a gun, so i stepped out into traffic. Had to make sure I did it right. Was a nice truck too, big red one. I feel bad for the driver, but I’m sure he got over it.”

I blurt out, “You’re crazy. This is crazy.” As I look around this world makes a lot more sense. Bugs, derelict buildings and the occasional small animal. “Wait, how are you even alive? Like, what do you eat?”

He claps his hands together suddenly, making me jump. Then he shows me the dead bugs crushed onto his palm before he licks it. “They are surprisingly nutritious.”

Nope. Not happening. I can’t stay here. “How do I get out of here?”

He grinned. “Same way you came in.”

“Hit by a truck?”

“Yep. There’s one of those new fangled automated trucks out here. Must have gotten into an accident with another truck, but it still drives. The computer just has it driving in circles. Should be here in a couple of minutes.”

“Is that where you are heading?”

“What? No sonny, I just saw you coming and didn’t feel like making friends today. I’m a bit of a loner, I like having this place all to myself, you know? These bugs only go so far, I don’t want to be fighting someone for food at my age.”

As we continue on our path I see the plume of dust heading our way. The old man pulls out a pocketwatch. “Right on time. I have to hand it to the engineers, that thing runs like clockwork.”

“So what do I have to do? Stand in front of it?”

“No, that won’t work, it will detect you. You have to stand to the side and leap in front of it at the last second, before it can stop.”

It’s not everyday you get hit by a truck, and a rarer day still when you get hit by two of them. “Have you seen this work?”

“Oh yeah, at least a dozen times. Poof, just like that they are gone, no trace of them. Better to do it quickly though, who knows what will happen if your body has been cremated back in your dimension.”

The dust plume slowly fades to reveal a large black truck with no windows. It looks how I imagine death would look if he had 18 wheels. It is moving fast, in 30 seconds it will be upon us.

I stand there, ready to jump. What do I have to lose?

As it races closer I can feel the doubt kicking in. I’m not sure I can do this. What if the old man is wrong? What if this just kills me? I wasn’t ready for the first truck to hit me, why would I repeat the process intentionally. I can feel my nerves kicking in and my knees wobble. I can’t do this. Maybe next time. Maybe this world isn’t so bad after all. I haven’t even given it a chance.

The truck is about to pass me when I feel a shove from behind and then the familiar horn blaring and darkness. I can feel my consciousness moving this time, heading back to my world. I’m going to get a second chance. I’m going to live the life I always intended to live.

I open my eyes to see a group of people huddled around me. These must be the EMTs, trying to resuscitate me. I try to speak, to tell them I’m ok, but one of them shushes me. “It’s ok son, that sneaky bastard got us too.”

I sit up abruptly to see a barren landscape with a fading line of bugs bursting into existence. People are chasing after the black trail, waving their hands in the air. The old man leering over me laughs. “Welcome to the 435,112th dimension, or what we like the call, the truck stops truck stop. How is that old bastard anyway? I wished him dead for a long time, until I realized that when he dies he won’t send anyone else here so he can keep that place all to himself.”

Two words escape my mouth that sum up exactly how I feel about that. “Mother trucker!”

Note that this story is a response to a writing prompt on Reddit. Full prompt here.

Rookie Numbers

“What is that?” I ask, gesturing to the 4ft runt standing before me. He’s wearing tattered clothes and has goggles on his head.

Carlos grins. “That is our tank…”

“Our tank? He looks like a stiff breeze would kill him. We are heading into the deepest, darkest dungeon that Rithwir has to offer. The lowest level monster in there will be in the 200’s. We need someone capable of taking hits in the thousands.” I turn to the runt. “What is your current HP?”

“57.”

I turn back to Carlos. “He’s a total noob. I’ve had farts that did 57 damage. Go back to the tavern and find us a proper tank.”

“No can do. It is Friday evening. All the tanks are either out adventuring, or they are fall down drunk. This guy was the best I could find. Trust me, he will do just fine, won’t you Frank.”

Frank nods, his head bobbing precariously on his beanpole body, as if he is going to tip over any minute.

I resign myself to the fact that I will just have to tank. When Frank dies in the first 7 seconds of combat I can maybe use his frail corpse as some kind of shield. It is certainly the only way he’s going to be useful as a damage sponge.

Sarah is more patient than I am. “Nice to meet you Frank. Do you have any abilities that we should be aware of? Something we could maybe sync with?”

Frank nods. “Me tinker.”

A tinker? I have only heard rumours of them. Some kind of mechanical class. That explains the stature. Tinkers are usually small, makes it easier for them to fit inside machines. Still, what use is a tinker without a machine? It’s like a gnome without his hat, pointless.

Sarah says, “Ok, I’m not really familiar with tinkers, is there anything you need before we go in?”

“Shed.”

I exhale, trying to control my urge to kill Frank and then probably Carlos. “A shed? We are heading into a dungeon, not someone’s allotment. We aren’t going vegetable picking. Where do you think we are going to find a shed?”

Frank points. Just inside the entrance to the dungeon is a rickety old building, its walls pitted with rust and holes. You have got to be kidding me. It’s a bloody shed. “Ok fine, problem solved, you go hide in the shed and we’ll knock on the walls if we make it back alive.”

Frank ignores me and skips towards the shed. Have you ever seen a tank skip? Healer, sure. Bard, maybe. But not a tank. It’s not right.

There is a loud crashing and banging from the shed. I glare at Carlos. “Your new friend isn’t doing much for our stealth. He’s going to draw every demon for miles.”

Now Frank is whistling a tune. I vaguely recognize it. “What song is that?”

Carlos smirks. “It is from a Saturday morning tinker play called the T team. I’ve caught snippets of it when I am in the market square early. Something about a group of plucky tinkers that can build their way out of anything.”

“Sounds as lame as our tank.”

The whistling stops. I stare at the horizon and see the dark shapes forming. The shadow demons. We’ve got ten seconds before we are swarmed.

“Form up. Sarah’s on healing, Carlos, you’re our DPS. I’ll do my best to take the hits…”

The door of the shed explodes. Are tinkers magical? I don’t recall hearing about tinker wizards.

There is a loud thump as a metallic leg stamps its way out of the shed. It is followed by another. A mechanical knight, at least eight feet tall, steps out of the rickety building. It has a spinning lawnmower blade in one hand and a chainsaw in the other. There is a large metal tank on its back that is pouring steam out of two exhausts. I raise my shield. “What in the name of Grimdaw is that?”

Carlos cheers. “That’s Frank. Looks like he’s fashioned some Peiriant armour. Come on, lets follow him before he leaves us behind.”

Frank plows into the shadow demons, scattering them like skittles. They claw at him with no noticeable effect on his HP bar. I use my analyze skill and gasp. He still only has 57 HP, but he now has 10,000 points of armour and his DEF stat is through the roof. He swings his huge mechanical arm back and forth, sweeping the chainsaw through the demons, making them considerably shorter.

One of them throws a fireball his way and I close my eyes, expecting to see Frank incinerated alive in his contraption. Instead he turns his back and the fireball hits the water tank. With a high pitched whistle the jets of steam become a roar. He bends over and a jet of red hot steam blasts out of a lower exhaust pipe, doing damage in the thousands and killing the rest of the demons instantly. He stands back up and surveys the damage. A hatch opens and Frank grins at me. “57 fart damage is noob number, you got to boost numbers.”

Time Served

I stare at the young man before me and try to control the tone of my voice. “I’m afraid it isn’t the news that we hoped for. There are still signs of the cancer.”

He forces a smile, always putting on a brave face. “What does this mean doc? More chemo?”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, you’re already too weak. We’d be putting you at greater risk for a nominal chance of success.”

“Ok, so now what?”

“Now it is just a question of time.”

There’s that look. The one I see every day. The realization that all hope is lost. I wish I could tell him it will all be ok, but I can’t. Instead it will require a miracle. I don’t get to take credit. That’s not how this works.

“How long do I have doc?”

I reach out and touch his hand. “Right now, let’s say six months. Come and see me again in three months and we will see where you’re at. I might be able to give you more time then, depending on your condition.”

He just nods. No screaming, no blaming, just acceptance. I wish I could give him more time, but there are rules to follow. I need to see how he copes. Some people go the other way with only months to live, drugs, crime, debt. I have a good feeling though. Survival needs a positive attitude. If he’s still like this in three months then I can give him more time. He certainly deserves it.

He gets up to leave and holds out his hand. “Thanks doc. For everything.”

I hold back the tears as I shake it, his grip already feeling a little stronger.

As soon as he leaves I slump into my chair. I’m so drained right now. It has been a long day. I need a boost, something to get me back on my feet. I check my schedule for tomorrow. It is full. So many people to help. If only I had more time.

I get in my car and drive to my next appointment. I stand at the large foreboding gates while they buzz me in. The guard nods, “Hey doc. Back again so soon?”

“What can I say Jenkins, I can’t get enough of this place.”

They lead me through to the infirmary and wait outside the door. The prisoner is already there, chained to the bed. He snarls at me. “Are you the guy? The other prisoners have told me you can give me something to make all this go away. To end my life quietly.”

“I don’t know what you mean. It would be illegal for me to give you something to end your life. You are serving time, there is no easy way out.”

He grabs me and I smile. They always grab me. Makes it so much easier. I can feel the time flowing, topping up my reserves. He senses it too and he lets go, startled. Then he sees my smile and he understands. He holds out his hand and I take it, draining what is left. He says, “How long?”

“I’ll leave a couple of months. It can’t be too soon, or they will suspect something.”

He just nods, all fight gone now. He says, “What will you do with it?”

“I’ll give it to someone that needs it.”

He smiles softly, finally at peace. “Take as much as you can. I’ll get into a fight tomorrow, make sure it’s my last. Don’t waste two months.”

I nod. “Thank you for your donation.”

Note that this story was a response to a writing prompt on Reddit. The original post can be found here