His steps (so precise) break the thin crust of ice in the grove of dark, bare cherry trees. It’s silent and cold. His father once told him the hunter must move like the breeze.
His hands have gone numb; he carries no gun, but a warped, unreliable bow. He’s searching for tracks, but the matter of fact is that some paws leave no mark on snow.
His quarry’s aground, curled up warm and sound in a burrow deep under the frost. He’s a fool to give chase. Yet he does, with the pace of a man who denies that he’s lost.
Brought to you by Ben Wray
“Okay, what about exceptions?”
“I need your exceptiona-” but then Kay’s rudely interrupted.
“Notimetoexplain!” Mario grabs her and spacetime rearranges itself in a flash of light. They’re just in time for the closing words.
“Omnia mutantur, nihil interit,” solmenly quotes Toe. “Death is but a door, time is but a window…”
“Is he quoting Ghostbusters 2 or 8-bit theater?” asks Jake, but Dylan kicks him, hard, and he shuts up.
Everybody’s there. Zach, Rob, Asuka’s doctor, Zaganza, Shelly, your favorite character not already mentioned… everybody.
Then Millicent’s paw thrusts triumphantly out of the ground suck it Brendan I win forever.
A story by John Dixon
“Sarge is hit!â€
“Where’s the medic?â€
“He’s dead, sir.â€
“Push forward, men! Take that outpost with grenades!â€
Clusters of green and tan collide with grim finality.
The guns are silent. Not a single figure moves.
The man shifts a faltering lad to the nearby couch and gently pulls a sheet halfway up his small form. Marty slides the remaining distance into slumber within a minute. Surveying a random terrain of wadded blankets and shattered wood-block fortifications, his grandfather leaves the door ajar. Battle’s aftermath in the raking shafts of dawn will provide a more satisfying morning picture than tidied carpet.
A story by Holly Gramazio
“Nothing lasts for ever,” Lewis says, and watches a fat pigeon as it hops. “It’s like, sometimes three seasons is enough, you know?”
Abigail doesn’t look up. “This is a friend-dump, right?” she says, finally.
“No!”
“It’s okay if it is.”
“No, of course not. It’s not that. I was just wondering if,” and he trails off. The pigeon compresses each time it lands, like a beach ball. “When you think you might stop playing Drop7.” Even for an hour. It’s been weeks. He’s worried.
“You shut the fuck up about Drop7, pigeon boy,” she says, and touches Play Again.
A story by Laurie J Rich
Elua expected a job with the One World Shadow Government™ would be conspiracy and magic. Turns out, it’s kind of a drag.
If you’re the best in the world at anything, they’ll find you. She didn’t hesitate to sign after hearing that. They sell you on jobs for spies, historians, authors — they don’t mention some are downright mundane. And once you’re in, there’s no variety, no advancement, no reprieve.
The pay is great but the contract’s terrible. The door beeps and she turns to greet her customer, one hand on the register, smile aching. Twenty years to retirement, and she feels every minute.