Week I
001. New Beginnings
It was pure luck that Jasiid stumbled along the body when he did. He was walking down the alleyways, looking for somewhere out of the way to lay his head, when he heard shouting, and then a shot. It wasn't enough to get his hopes up just yet. Too often people would fire a gun without any intention of aiming it somewhere fatal, and Jasiid would show up to the scene with nothing for his troubles but a few spent casings and some new holes in the alley walls, but this time when he turned the corner he could see the silhouette of something lying on the ground. Whoever had shot it had already fled, and when Jasiid approached the body he could see that it was still breathing, if barely. In other words, this was all around an auspicious night.
The body, a young, Hispanic looking man, was clutching at the bullet wound in a futile attempt to keep the blood inside his body, but when he saw Jasiid approach he held his hand out in supplication. "Am..." he gargled. "Call... Am..."
"Mm, no. I'm sorry." Jasiid said. "I'm not here to help you." The soft, feminine voice of his old host had broken down a while ago into the growl of a lifetime smoker. The voice of the young man lying before him was much more pleasant, and once the bullet hole was taken care of Jasiid would have a perfectly serviceable body again. He was near giddy with anticipation.
"If there's any last wishes you have, now's the time to express them." Jasiid had no intentions of carrying them out, but sometimes people died easier thinking he would. This one, however, clung to life with an annoying persistence, and even if he wanted to, the blood bubbling in his throat was keeping him from saying much. It was a good two minutes before the spirit finally left the body with a shudder. Jasiid shrugged off the body he had been wearing for the past three months with a sense relief, and was testing out his new home before the old one had finished crumpling to the ground.
Not bad. The hole in the lung would be easy enough to patch up, its previous owner had kept everything relatively healthy, not that that sort of thing mattered any more. Healthy or no, once a body was dead it would start rotting after a month or so, no matter what Jasiid did to keep it going, and then it would be time to find another poor victim of intercity violence to occupy.
But that was a worry for another day. At the moment it was time to clean up and enjoy himself in a host that didn't smell like rotten eggs anymore.
002. Cause/Effect
Then years ago the son of the Earl of Receleu had given the son of the Earl of Dorches a bloody nose. Now the then son of the Earl of Dorches was sitting outside the castle of the Earl of Receleu astride his finest warhorse, five hundred of his best fighting men in tow. The Duke of Receleu was not quite sure what to do. His son was on the ramparts next to him, in full armor, just in case it came to that, and the both of them were frowning down at the new Earl of Dorches as he made his demand.
"All I want," said the young Earl of Dorches, "is to give the lord of the castle a bloody nose. If he comes out and submits to a single punch to the face, I shall be satisfied and will return to my estate. If he refuses I will fight my way into your castle and take my satisfaction that way."
"He's mad," said the Duke of Receleu.
"And determined," added his son, who leaned over the ramparts and shouted back. "Alright then, I'm coming down!"
The Duke of Receleu was not happy with his son's decision to meet their attack unarmed and alone, but his son simply shrugged and gave his father a hug.
"If he kills me, I expect a good war out of it. But I doubt he will. A bloody nose isn't so bad."
The old Duke blinked away his tears and nodded.
The young Lord of Receleu left the protection of his castle walls, and rode forward to meet his childhood enemy. The two of them dismounted and shook hands.
"Very thoughtful of you to come out like this," said the Duke of Dorches. "I'm sorry to make such a show of it but that sucker punch has been nagging at me for some while now."
The Lord of Receleu pulled off his helmet, and the Duke of Dorches pulled off his glove.
"Not a problem," said young Receleu. "We were brats back then."
"Indeed we were," said the Duke of Dorches, and threw a fist straight into his opponent's nose. Receleu reeled back, blood sputtering out of his nose, and put a kerchief to it before it could stain his armor.
The two men shook hands again, and Receleu rode back to his castle.
003. Peace of Mind
There was a package waiting outside David's room one day: an interstellar delivery from Leo 1242, his home planet. Considering the prohibitive cost of shipping, there weren't many people he knew who would pony up the money to have something delivered to a satellite colony, and it was with a great deal of excitement that he brought the package inside and began to cut through its vacuum seal with a pocket knife.
Once open, the box revealed a letter neatly folded over a mess of packing peanuts. David dug into the peanuts until his fingers brushed against something smooth a metallic. It was a drone, a few generations old, with one arm and an led screen across the front along which the red letters "Hello, David," scrolled.
The excited expectation that had built up inside him disappeared. He knew exactly who this was from, and the letter confirmed his suspicions.
"Dear David," it read. "We are all so proud of you out there in space, but you know how I worry about you and how you are doing, and since it is so hard to get in touch with you all those light years away I have sent you this present. He is a very nice drone and I am told will be very helpful, and he will send me back a report once a tick so I know you are doing all right. Take care of yourself, and if you are feeling sick or want to come home no one will think less of you for that.
"Love, Mommy."
David groaned and gave his new companion a glare. "Have you eaten yet?" It's little red screen inquired.
004. Childhood Memories
Drive by update here.
Do you remember when we were children, and there nothing in us but the future? We'd look at ourselves and see only ourselves, as heroes and masters of everything we sought to conquer. We'd play at success and achieve it without recognizing the power in our games, and we'd fall asleep at night with plans that could be discarded in the morning, if our tempers shifted.
And now we sit, heavy, remembering, two parts past, unsure and hesitant in a future that may have taught us not to claim our victories before we made our attempts. We flinch at the thought of a skinned knee, or a bruised ego. To what cost is our wisdom earned? And to what lengths must we go to give it away, to shake off what was and be children again, seeing ahead of us only what must be, because we wish it?
005. Speed
The raptor races of the southern chasm are one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Originating further north with the ridge couriers, legend has it that the first race was between two lovers who quarreled endlessly. They were both extremely competitive, and would fight over every little thing - who made the best spice bread, who had the best handwriting, who could climb the banyan's faster, and who was the better courier. Both worked as raptor couriers, and took parcels and correspondence to the settlements along the chasm. Most couriers stayed as high above the chasm as they could and only took advantage of the wild winds enough to let their birds drift on the draft, but this was a couple of daredevils. They challenged each other to a race down in the wildest part of the chasm, where the wind is so strong that it can break your bones if you don't know what you're doing.
The entire town came out for the competition, as the rivalry between these lovers was famous, and the race was a deadly one. The racers donned their leathers, mounted their birds, and then dove into the screaming wind. Within minutes they were out of sight, flying between the stone walls of the canyon faster than arrows.
The man won that race, but only by a few seconds. The next year his lover challenged him again, and this time other townsfolk wanted to join in. The races now sport about 50 of the best, most daring couriers throughout the region, who brave the mad wind for a chance at fame, and lately, cash prizes. Dropouts are common, as many times a raptor will decide its life is not worth its rider's ego and bail out of the slipstream. Fatalities occur almost every year, but this does little to dissuade the contestants, who take their lives in their hands every time they take to the wind for courier work anyway.
006. Mayhem
007. Gilding a Lily
