Short Stories

This story was made using the solo RPG Last Dispatch, by Symbolic City.

“Mr. Holss?”

The pepper-haired man looked up from his meal, setting down his knife and fork. “Yes, Ms…Yoli, was it? Have a seat.”

Yoli sat down, making sure their hand-comp was in full view of Mr. Holss. “I wondered if I could talk with you about —”

“Professor Morliss and her protests?” Holss nodded his head. “Certainly, certainly. I think she’s fear-mongering, of course. both myself personally and Fresh-Co officially denies her suppositions as baseless at best and absurd at worst.”

Yoli gave a weak smile. “Yes, I suppose you would. Actually, I’m here on a more recent matter. A source has informed me that you were officially replaced as Regional CEO of Fresh-Co at the last board-meeting. Any comments?”

This story was made using the solo RPG Last Dispatch, by Symbolic City.

Yoli’s head throbbed. Their eyelids struggled to remain open as they stared at the glowing comp-screen, the words blurring together in a mash of nouns and verbs. It was garbage, all of it. They wanted so desperately to trash the whole file and start again — properly, this time — but they had a deadline, and important things were happening. It didn’t take Yoli’s usual clever nose for news to smell that.

Tethys Station was one of the most important Megastations from the old era. Its history was fascinating, its culture complex, and its daily life a drudgery of monotonous ritual. There was good reason for that; Megastations were carefully balanced ecosystems. All stations were, but the Megastations were at a crucial tipping point: not so robust that they could withstand sustained damage, nor so fragile that they couldn’t support untrained personnel.

This story was made using the solo RPG Bright and Terrible, by Rose on Mars.

Bright and Terrible succeeds mostly through its simplicity. All in all, there are only three aspects to each crisis: two factions, one object of desire, and a twist. From there, the player is free to construct whatever challenge or story they see fit. While there is no rule that only one roll can be made for each crisis, I felt it fit well in the confines of an episodic narrative.

I’ve spoken before about my struggle between writing the story either during or after playing the whole game, and in this case I did a kind of hybrid: I rolled up the situation and wrote it down, leading the Exile to their climactic action. Once I had decided what they would do, I rolled the dice and wrote the chapter’s conclusion. I think this process worked well, as it gave me the chance to play with the situation before I knew whether I was writing a successful action or a failure.

As time passed, Atlantis continued to die.

I sank deeper and deeper into the depths. What mattered the Laws of the Firmament if there were no Shining Towers to uphold them? What sense was there in the Ways of the Spiral if there were no dancers to herald them? Who cared for the Honor of Being when there were no people to celebrate them?

Time continued to kill Atlantis, as I, the only one who remembered their great and terrible beauty, slowly felt the images fade in my mind. The Dance of the Spheres became blurry in my memory. The Morning Songs sung by the Avian Choir turned muted. The murals made by painting colored lights in the sky, mere shadows.

Seated once more on my throne, listening to the whispers of my trapped heretic, I spoke again with the Ophidian Sisters. I condemned them for their actions, and demanded recompense. As ever, they laughed and shook their scaly hair.

“Retribution for what, dear sibling? For giving you the spark of fire you needed to solve your dilemma? For giving you the strength to bend the Pirates to your will? For allowing you to end an ancient curse long since past its use? All has come to pass as the Mother-of-Serpents claimed it would.”

I spent many a day and night with the rock salt pillar. Inside was the mind of a heretic, a villain who had been cast out of Atlantis for crimes greater than any mortal could fathom. I should have been repulsed by it, shunned its mad ramblings and distant thoughts, but by the Shining Towers of Apazil, I could not find disgust in my heart.

I did not feel pity; I was not so far removed from Atlantis that I had forgotten myself. At most I felt regret for myself, that I had come so close to another Atlantean — Oh! — only to find nothing but this eroding soul, a mockery of a companion.

In my lonely madness, I even tried speaking to it. I do not know why I tried; perhaps I imagined the process was not irreversible, that I could bring this heathen back to lucid thoughts. Surely, if any could, it would be I, master of the hammer, diplomat, and changer-of-minds. But no, such dreams were folly, and I soon quit my efforts.

Yet I did not quit my madness; the pillar remained beside my throne, and the whispers of the trapped soul came to my mind every day. I knew not if it soothed my mind or made my loneliness worse, but I was compelled. I turned away servant and petitioner for many a month, consumed with thoughts both terrible and divine.

Oh, how their words plagued me! To possess the love of the Ophidians was a darker curse than their hatred. Their poison was slow, eating away at their targets with unerring rot. They cursed not only those who wronged, but those who erred, those who mistook, and those who failed as well. Even those who committed no greater crime than to show mercy or charity to the undeserving were to be torn apart by the witches’ hexes.

I prayed they would find no cause to act without my word. I tempered my fury and ire with swift and just punishments, to spare the guilty a horrible fate. I corrected the innocent with hammer and word, and found my heart swollen sore with the every stroke. How easy it was to return to my place of glory atop a throne of gleaming brass! Where once I had thought the Isle of the Gorgons would be a place of solitude, now I sought to rebuild something of a kingdom of my own. Spurred by the fear of the witches’ passions, I sought to embody the promise of Atlantis, a place of light and music, as beautiful as it was terrible.

For many generations I toiled to polish the gray stones of the Isle, to return the luster of Atlantis to the world, but for all my efforts it was a mockery, a misshapen jest of an empire. The mortals knew it, too. I could feel the lies they told themselves, the pleasure they took from pretending that nothing had changed, that I was no less than the Indigo Empress herself. They praised their good fortune and privilege to serve, enjoying the fruits of my Empire that were the envy of Kings and Queens of the less-fortunate kingdoms.

I found for myself a lonely spot to live, a barren cliff overlooking the ink-black seas. There is a village of barbarians nearby; I thought it an amusement at best, but they have been strangely gentle and welcoming. Perhaps they remember the glory and grace that we could bestow on those worthy. Perhaps they remember our terrible fury. Whatever the reason, they do not hide from me as others have. Instead they bring me tribute in the form of minor gifts. A basket of sour food here, a shawl of rough silk there. They do not know how pitiful these offerings are, how much they burn my throat and skin. Their softest furs are scratching burrs and their sweetest fruits are acid compared to even the memory of what I lost.

Through their prayers they spoke to me, and so I learned of a child who sought me harm. Word of my survival had spread throughout the region, and the son of a barbarian general — who saw himself as a bit of a regional governor — wished to make a name for himself. The townsfolk didn’t know his plans, but the renown of one who slew an Atlantean would doubtlessly impress the locals, turning him into a God-General of everlasting name.

No matter. I was the only survivor of my people. He would find me very difficult to kill.

Drowning. There is nothing more terrifying, more soul-rending than the feeling of being in the midst of an endless dark, unable to breathe as you sink further and further away.

How piddling a word it was for the humans. ‘Drowning.’ They even had a different word for the same emotion; ‘Overwhelming.’ They used it like children, ignorant of the true breadth of horror such a word contained. They threw such words around without a care. ‘Starving.’ ‘Awe-struck.’

Lonely.

I know what it is to drown, to feel the weight of the world’s oceans crash down on not only your head, but the whole world. The humans would use words like ‘culture,’ ‘civilization,’ or ‘Empire’ to describe what had been lost. Small, useless words. The meanest words of my people are as birdsong to the clattering bones of human-speak.

I am the last of my people. I am lost. I am lonely. I am starving. I am drowning.

Jorgo opened his eyes.

The room was quiet. Clean. It reminded him of the medical dome in the Colony, but there was no clean white surfaces anywhere. Instead, the walls were rock and stone. The bed he lay on was soft and warm. and the air was perfumed with wildflowers.

“Brother,” the voice was warm and gentle, an echo from years ago. Jorgo turned to see Sika rising from the chair at the foot of his bed. She leaned over him, her face lined with worry, relief, and regret. “Brother, how are you feeling?”

Jorgo raised a shaky hand and gently poked and prodded his aching body. He felt numb, like the world had somehow gone gray and lifeless. Even the pain was distant, reaching to him from a body far removed from his actual self. He wanted to cry out in despair, but he couldn’t; even his despair was muted.

Jorgo stared at his reflection in the blade. He looked so different than he remembered. An awkward and sickly childhood had filled his memories with pale skin and sunken eyes, with matted hair and a weak back. Now, he felt stronger. Taller. More of a man than he’d ever been before.

The eyes that stared back at him were clean and bright, full of joy and focus. He grinned at the idea that this was the man his foes would be seeing, standing proud next to his family.

“They approach, love,” Karna’s voice broke through his dreaming. “We must be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he laughed, sheathing the curving sword at his side and turning to pluck his girl from off her feet, swinging her around in the air. “Let them come! There is nothing to fear from a bunch of rotten old lepers.”

Karna’s laugh mingled with his as she pressed her lips against his throat. “You are so brave and strong, my love, I hope you are right.”