Short Story Contest V [ENTRY THREAD]

[Sulkdodds]

After repeated demands from the lizardman royal family, welcome to the fifth Halflife2.net short story contest!

The Rules
- Entries must be between 500 and 5000 words.
- Entries should be in prose form, though abberations are acceptable.
- Entries must be originally created for the Short Story Contest (tm)
- Contestants may write about anything they wish as long as it conforms to the stated topic.
- Closing date is midnight on Sunday 11th December.
- NO discussion in this thread, only entries.
Discussion thread here.

The Prize
At worst, a custom title and +++respect. At best, a fragment of the holy flesh of Saint Jerome, which I bit off from his hand myself.

The Topic

A simple subject this time around (OR IS IT): first chapters.

You are charged with creating from scratch the first thousand or few words of a hypothetical novel. Please note that you are not required to actually write the novel. Instead, you have to introduce it, creating an opening which is striking, or interesting, or that draws one in, or that repulses one (if that's your bag), and, if you really want to get into it, which sets up and demonstrates the themes and concerns that would dominate the full work!

You are allowed to include a very brief summary of the full book, for the purposes of pointing out details or echoes in the intro that would (in an ideal world) become relevant later.

Remember that voters will be instructed to vote on the basis of how good an intro you have written - not how good they think the full novel would be, but how your piece stands on its own!

Begin the beginning.

Resources:
- none at all, screw you

 

[DEATHMASTER]

Starting out actually as just a late night ramble with Shamrock, he told me to enter it here. I flushed it out to 500+ words but don't know if it actually meets any of the other criteria. It was amusing to him so at the least I hope it is the same for ya'llz. So here it is, "The Unholy."





After a long, hard fight, they had finally made it to the rooftop, waiting for the helicopter. A loud roar resounds and a figure speeds up behind Zoey. She feels the most numbing pain ever, SMACKED INTO SHITSVILLE sent flying away. No time to scream, just a loud SMACKCRACK is heard throughout the area. Left for dead; Zoey lay helpless. Only barely alive, unable to move, she was only able to look on as the Tank sped toward her friends.

It climbs up close to the machine gun, grabbed Francis who was caught by surprise, opens its mouth wider than imaginable and bites his head off. It then throws his body at Louis. The corpse and Louis fly off the building. Bill tries using the M16 on the tank while staying afar. The Tank dies from a headshot. Bill walks over and carries Zoey to the helicopter. The two later get married. But as it would turn out Louis is actually Mace Windu and survives the fall. He recovered his long lost memory since his first close encounter of death many years before. He goes on a killing spree, slaughtering the zombies with his lightsaber which was hidden in his pant leg. There are too many zombies for him to kill alone; so he starts making a force generator from scratch which he then uses to amplify his force push to the power of 10 Hiroshimas and utterly destroys everything around him.

It is 10 years later. Mace has destroyed many zombies on the planet. Humanity is slowly starting to come out of hiding and attempting to rebuild. But as it would it turn out Windu’s blood was at one point stolen after a battle and used to make a super Tank which was made to combat him. Mace breaks out his saber and leaps toward the beast. The Tank is faster than he looks and has a tough skin, the saber isn’t very effective. The battle is fierce and Mace is about to die. Just then Zoey and Bill's son appears, young Adrian. He tries to drag Mace away but he stops him saying it is futile. He gives him his lightsaber as a gift for his courageousness and tells him to flee. He does as told. The super Tank comes over and is about to deal the final blow. Just then Adrian leaps from atop a nearby crane, inserting the saber into the beast’s skull. The beast falls.

Adrian helps Windu to his feet and over to where his mother was. Windu meets up with Zoey, who recognizes him as Louis but Mace explains the truth. Bill had passed away a couple years ago, which saddens Mace. Mace suspects that a Sith lord may be behind the global crises that plagued Earth. They plan to find out who the Sith lord who made the virus and super tank is. The fight will not be easy and it will not be fast, but through perseverance, humanity still has a chance to recover.

 

[ríomhaire]

I woke up facing the window with the light tapping against my eyelids. I rolled over but it wasn't any use; I was already awake and I wasn't going to get back to sleep. I made a note to buy a new pair of curtains, those ones never close properly, or maybe some blinds instead. After a minute I experimentally opened my left eye to have a look at the clock. It wasn't even after noon yet. Cursing, I threw the quilt off me and rolled out of bed. I dragged myself to the bathroom; went to the toilet, brushed my teeth, had a shower and did the other usual stuff.

In my bathrobe I carried a bowl of Coco Pops into the living room and poured the last of the milk over it. Turing on the TV I went to the recorded programmes menu to see had it recorded last night's wrestling. It hadn't. Typical. I only ask it to record three things a week and it always fails to record one. Why? I don't know and customer support don't care and I was going to have to torrent it now and I hate torrents. That's when I realised it was Tuesday. The Tesco delivery van comes on Tuesdays. I looked at the TV's clock. They'd never been this late before. Had they gotten sick of waking me up with the doorbell or had they tried and failed? I checked the post slot and the front step; they hadn't left me any kind of message saying they'd been here. Did they do that for people?

I decided it was probably just late and I wouldn't start doing anything until the delivery arrived and started flicking through the channels. Two hours of Top Gear later I got bored and dug out my laptop. After three forums of nothing interesting I said to hell with it and put on Trackmania. Once I was sick of switching between different games every half hour I turned off the laptop and started dinner. I had two fillets of chicken left so I decided to put off ringing Tesco till the next day. I chopped up some garlic and bell peppers and threw it over the chicken with some sweet chilli sauce and had it with boiled rice. I tossed the dishes into the sink and ascended to the study.

Turning around the swivel chair I sat down and turned on the computer. I had to clear the discs and Transformers toys off the desk to get at the keyboard. Waiting for Windows to warm up I flicked through a couple of notes and half-finished prose that were lying on the desk. After logging in I double-clicked the Firefox icon, to be met with an error screen. I'd forgotten I'd unplugged the network cable to avoid distraction. Start, Recent Items, owlface.odt. The story was two pages into its first draft, not counting notes. I started reading over it to recall what the hell the actual thing was. I remembered then. It was that one I was writing while drunk the previous week. Probably the most I'd managed to put to paper in the previous three months (and surprisingly well-written considering the bottle of Paddy) before I'd realised the whole thing was just a rip-off of Nightmare at Twenty- Thousand Feet.

After closing that I opened up blank document and pulled over a notebook that was stuck between the monitor and the side of the desk. It was an old one but I kept flicking anyway. About half-way through I paused on a page. It was an early copy of my vows. I threw the notebook against the wall and stared back at the screen. Another notebook. This one only has about ten pages with writing, mostly rubbish. One piece was promising; a story outline I'd started: An AI that is accidentally given administrative access to its own programming (inspired by all those “you need permission to open this JPG” pop-ups in Vista) and practically going on a drug trip while altering it.

The idea wasn't near ready for a first draft yet so I took the notebook back downstairs and started divining for ideas; reading my previous (two) robot/computer stories, messing with settings in Vista (it did give me the idea, so maybe the annoyance could become my muse) and reading through AI and programming articles on Wikipedia. I realised I was having the most fun I'd had in ages but it was already late and I wanted to go back to sleeping at reasonable hours. I went to get myself a cup of tea before bed and, after having already added the sugar, realised I had no milk left. I chastised myself for not calling Tesco earlier, but it was too late now, emptied the cup into the sink and had a pint of water instead. I cleaned up and washed the dishes lying around and headed to bed.

The next morning (well, afternoon) after my usual routine I picked up the phone to ring Tesco. The line was dead. I pressed down on the button for a few seconds and listened again. Still dead. Checked to see was the phone-line plugged in, it was. I pulled out my laptop to see was the broadband working, it wasn't. Annoyed, I had bread with butter and pesto, and orange juice for breakfast, due to lack of milk, and cursed myself for not having called yesterday. I pulled out the notes from yesterday but after staring at them for fifteen minutes I realised I was in no state of mind to do any more work on the story so I just turned on the damned idiot box. The entire day consisted of Top Gear, QI and getting my Green Beret killed repeatedly. I tucked into bed that night bored and frustrated.

I awoke to the sound of a storm. It was the middle of the night and I a pulled aside the curtain for a peak. I always liked watching storms, provided it was from behind double glazing. I could barely make out what was going on though, it was too dark. There was something off and it took me a minute to realise what it was: All the street laps were turned off. I turned around to check my alarm clock. It was blank, the power was off. It occurred to me that I had no idea what the hell was going on. The phones down the day before and now there was no power. The weather's been bad, was there flooding? A bad wind knocking power lines? I hadn't read or heard a piece of news in weeks. I took a few deep breaths. It was the middle of the night so there really wasn't anywhere for me to go but I probably wasn't going to get back to sleep either.

With a bit of fumbling I got the candles out of the press and the matches off the mantelpiece and brought them into the conservatory. Taking a candle with me I fetched a book of sci-fi short stories from my room (and checked the fuse box on the way, just in case) and on my way back I decided to grab a bottle of wine from the kitchen. I sat down on the sofa in conservatory, poured myself a glass of red and opened the book. On the inside cover there was a note scribbled from Julia. It was her Christmas present to me the previous year. I forced myself to turn past it but half way through the introduction I found myself going back to it. I read over it twice before I moved on. I started on the first story but I was three pages in when I realised I hadn't really been taking in the words, just running my eyes over the lines. I couldn't think. I tossed the book to the floor and knocked over the wine that was sitting on the armrest.

I spent the rest of the morning alternatively in fits of crying and anger, venting my frustrations. I don't know how long I was but by the time I came to my senses it was bright and the rain was after clearing up, although a fog had rolled in in its place. The power still wasn’t back and I was tired of waiting. I went upstairs and got dressed, a t-shirt and jeans, lamenting the fact that the hot tank and shower were both electric. I gathered some things; my phone, wallet, keys, a pen, a box of matches and a towel (just in case). I grabbed my coat and went for the door.

The weight of this suddenly hit me. I hadn’t been properly outside in weeks. I greeted the delivery men and shouted at the neighbours’ dogs, but I hadn’t left the property in weeks. I hadn’t been fully dressed in days. I reached for the front door and I realised I was shaking. I was agoraphobic and I couldn’t believe it. I almost went back to the bottle of wine I’d left out, but no I needed to drive into town to see what was happening, it was no time to drink. I wanted to do anything but turn that door handle. Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes and pressed down hard on the handle. When I opened my eyes I saw something moving in the fog outside.


___________________________________________________
___________________________________________________


There is no intended direction for this story. Before this competition was announced I had this already as a rough idea for a stand-alone story, but I thought it served as a nice introductory chapter too. The shadow could be anything, a wild dog, an alien, a zombie, a triffid. The power cut could have been caused just by the storm. The shadow could even be the narrator's neighbour who will help the protagonist overcome his agoraphobia and the depression over the death of his wife. I didn't even originally intend to have that shadow, the story was to end with him opening the door, but I added in the little cliffhanger on the insistence of my father who thought there needed to be something to get the reader to want to read the next chapter/buy the book.

 

[lame-o]

CHAPTER 1: My Life - the first beggar

"God what the hell was that?" I whispered to myself after watching the final moments of Juno, alone in my bedroom. It was a great movie, but god damn. Right there, I made a point to never watch any movie that had the potential to needlessly show a world much better than the one I live in. I grabbed a handful of chips and stuffed my face then brushed away the single tear sliding down my cheek with a greasy finger. Did I just fall in love with Ellen Page too? Holy shit, not this again.

I always had the tendency to fall in love with on-screen characters, which always pissed me off because I knew it was pointless and painful. Also, stupid. That didn't stop me from going on google images and searching up all of Ellen Page's pictures then reading any information that those pictures were posted with. Interviews, gossip, "hottest actress" threads, all of that crap. After reading about her entire recorded life on wikipedia I looked at the time and decided that it would be enough for the night. I wanted to do something productive.

I had learned to infatuate myself in moderation, from my previous experiences. Staying on YouTube until four in the morning on a Sunday night watching a Kirsten Dunst appearance for the sixhundreth time, just to see her expression at the second minute into it or whatever, was a little overboard. For about two months I even felt depressed whenever someone said her name. In retrospect, all of her magic disappeared after I found out she was kind of lame. She was in Saturday Night Live, after all. That was probably one of the first one-way relationships that I've had.

Eventually I think it will just get to the point where I fall in love with some on-screen goddess and I'll forget about it the second I stop watching.

Then my cell rang. Must be Gerald. I quickly wiped my greasy fingers all over my pajamas and tried to unblock the keypad forgetting that I didn't need to do that when receiving a phone call. So, after I accidentally hung up on him I decided to wait until he called back since I didn't have any more minutes on my account. Five minutes later I thought it was odd that he hadn't called back and I found out my phone was dead. I frowned, turned my face towards the window, and grimaced at my own reflection. It's just too hard for you isn't it?

I left the phone to charge for a couple of minutes, and he called again. This time I turned it on without a hitch. Goodie.

"Hello?"
"Hey Kevin, you ****ing ******, why isn't your phone ever on?"

I looked around, scanning my desk for a possible excuse.

"Sorry man, what's up?"
"Ahh... Not much. Was just wondering if you wanted to go grab a beer or something. I'm bored as ****."
"Yeah, I don't know. Sure. You wanna go to The Old Couch?"
"Alright. Meet you at my place?"
"Sure, call me in fifteen. See ya."
"Okay, later."

I hung up and grimaced again. Why did I agree to this stupid proposition on a school night? I have to study or something. This just makes me feel uneasy. Whatever.

I put on a hoodie that I found laying around on the floor that stank of cigarette smoke and put on some sweat pants over my pajamas. After grabbing my ipod, I went out the back door to avoid my parents. It was colder than I thought, and I should have put on a jacket, but I tuned my ipod to some Velvet Underground and walked through the empty street with my head down. I had listening halfway through "Perfect Day" and dazedly stumbled through my agoraphobia towards the park when the first beggar appeared. She was a dirty old lady, probably poor, possibly even homeless.

"Can I have a cigarette, boy?"
"Um... Sure."

Smiling, I took out my pack of Milky Smoothes and handed her one firmly. Milky Smoothes are my favorite brand of smokes, mostly because they have a touch of menthol and a caramel-like aroma. Also because the packaging looks a bit like a dairy product's packaging. White with brown spots, a cow's head logo, and "Milky Smoothes" written sideways in gold handwriting across the front. I always found that amusing.

The old lady walked off, and I continued stumbling through the park while listening to my ipod. Ellen Page was constantly on my mind. Ten minutes later I was nearing Gerald's home, and the chill was starting to get to me. He called and I told him to meet me at the bus stop near his place because I've never really bothered with remembering his address.

I waited quietly at the bus stop and watched the people and cars go by. Shifting and fidgeting I observed and felt the presence of everyone I saw and changed the music on my ipod to Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir". Slut, slut, douche-bag, sammich maker, retard, geezer, normal guy, douche-bag, mousy person. I sighed. Why did I agree to this? I don't even feel like drinking right now. I bitch too much...

------------------

That night, after finally getting Ellen Page out of my head, I drifted off to sleep and had a dream...

I'm in a clearing in a very dark forest. Tiny white specks fly between the trees and swirl around with the breeze. In this clearing there is a very big flower that's shaped a bit like a tulip but not quite. The flower crumples, turns dark blue, and its petals are stripped from its head by the wind. Floating away into the woods they become part of the darkness. A six foot long centipede crawls through the muck. A bed with red sheets. I'm in a small room with no discernible features. A naked girl writhes on the bed. She's malnourished, looking like a skeleton covered in skin, and her head is shaped like an infant's skull with no hair and no eyes. She looks like she's flaunting herself at me. I feel myself coming closer, almost wanting her.​

**************************************************
I'm aware that not much really happens in the plot, but I just didn't feel like adding anything :S

 

[Sheepo]

Apogee

William stood with his hands behind his back, peering through the glass membrane that covered the ship, as it descended upon Polaris. The steel arms created a massive and intricate web, each end leading a ship to a safe landing. The rising Sun reflected off the surface of the floating city, searing a blinding white spider web of ancient power into his vision.

Will had read once of ancient cultures, long before man left the Earth, which believed in groups of gods that controlled Earth and the heavens. They had built colossal statues in their honor and had them watch over the harbors of their cities. To enter a harbor was a sign of submission to their will, to leave was a demonstration of gratitude. Now, Will thought, we construct massive floating tributes to our own ingenuity. We live inside their sacred sky as if to say, you are old and weak and rather than crawl to you on our knees we soar above you like hawks. All this passed through Will's mind as he watched the city he'd adored as a child grow nearer and as his ship hooked gracefully onto a steel claw.

---

William took a deep breath. He was not a nervous man. He had a confidence and ease of speech attributed only to born leaders, but right now it was clearer to him than it ever had been before, the argument he would make today would determine the purpose of his life and quite possibly impact the fate of mankind. He began:

"My proposal, sir, is that the Union fund the creation and deployment of a vessel built to my specifications and launched under my command to be sent to search for and colonize a habitable region of solid Earth."

Graff looked at him for a long moment, eyebrow raised, and then chuckled quietly. "I should've known."

"Known what, sir?"

"There was more to this than idle research. You are a man on a mission. Radi levels are meaningless to you. You just want to save the world."

"Not entirely accurate. The radi levels are very important to me. You see, they're dropping, and if they drop low enough... well, that's where saving the world comes into play."

"I've seen all your research. The radi levels are lower. Apocalyptically low they are not. The data is no where near supporting the conclusion you've reached. These could be fluctuations, cycles, a random trend of air currents that happened to follow your trajectory."

"But it's not. You and I both know that. Those explanations are incredibly improbable, and still have very dangerous implications if they're there!"

"Okay, you and I both know that radi levels are dropping. And at this rate, it should begin to be a problem in... about a millennium. If I could convince anybody with this research, they still wouldn’t care enough to give me a grant. It's just going to seem like a wild goose chase proposed out of irrational fear."

"They don't get it. They've grown forgetful, they've grown complacent. Look, when they first launched this rock, it was little more than a floating city block. That was how close humanity came to dying: billions of lives extinguished in a second and our future left in a rickety balloon powered by the destruction itself. Now we have a fleet of shiny and strong balloons that'll crash and burn just as quickly when the wind takes them the wrong way. We weren't meant to live this way. It's not natural. It cannot last forever. The radiation will decrease and Earth will become habitable. The Sky will cease to be so. In a few hundred years we'll be rushing to do a risky, half-assed job of what could be done easily and safely today. They'll call us crazy now and visionaries in a few centuries."

Graff looked at him for another moment, shook his head, and chuckled again. "Well are you perfectly comfortable with me having this conversation taped? Because I think I could use some of those less blasphemous lines."

"So you'll push it?"

"I will leave my career in the hands of a mad man, yes." Graff smiled and reached his hand over his barren desk and Will shook it. "Don't think you'll be able to go crazy with this power though. We need approval of the plan to save the human race, but we also need approval of you."

"I would never in a thousand years dream of letting you down."

---

William stood around a table with a group of experienced engineers. The plans were laid out before them, being twisted, and marked upon, and torn. The future was taking shape on that table and Will watched as it happened, too excited to stop, too frightened to speak.

 

[Sloth]

Something to keep you interested...

It was just before 7am.

The early morning light streamed through the thin curtains, bathing the bedroom with a gentle light. Poets from the ages past would have said the image invoked that of an Angel’s touch. The tinge of a new day was soft and peaceful, the light danced around the slovenly room.
However not all would have given over to such bright and hopeful imagery.

After all, you must remember, it was almost 7am.

After hours of music blaring in one’s ears and the screen in front of you filled with hovering code, eyelids heavy and mind drained. At that early hour, as the screen slowly blurs into a sea of moving digits and the bass of the music melts into a solid beat then the uneasy sleep becomes a hollow option.

It was less than a minute till 7am.

At this not-quite early hour – the occupant of the bed held no weight to the images and ideas of heavenly poets. In this sleepy mind, that subtle morning light had the power of a freight train, a freight train on fire – manned by demons and mischievous imps ready to force open his eyes and taint them with the sun’s most evil rays.

To ward off the legions of the sun’s hell, the sleeping beauty threw the sheets over his head – delaying the assault by the Imps of sunlight for a few more brief moments. At this point in time all mental energy was focused solely on rolling over and grappling at scraps of sleep. Sadly he wasn’t given that grand opportunity.

Somewhere in the mess that passed for his bedroom, an alarm rang out. Not a simple ring and buzz, heavy metal began to boom through his currently quiet ears – the phone vibrated until it fell off the bedside table, the alarm and the music ending with a thud. After a few irritated seconds of contemplation Douglas broke through his slumber and rolled out of bed with such a flounce that royals would be proud.

Somehow he managed to drag himself towards the bathroom, his mind slowly waking up all the necessary functions. His boxers fell to the bathroom floor and quickly after the pause of a good scratch his hands turned the taps. The water was almost blissful, the warmth caused his eyes to flutter further awake - A jolt of alertness ran through him, gone were the gremlins of snooze and slumber. He quickly washed his body and ran his fingers through his hair, facing into the coming water. Awake and now feeling alive, the morning began to speed up.

He hobbled out of the shower, hair wet , ears waterlogged and a towel wrapped around his waist. Douglas certainly wasn’t a man in top shape and being a computer systems programmer doesn’t lend itself well to being fit. The rest of the morning routine went in a flash; clothing donned, an apple in pocket and a piece of toast in teeth. The door shut behind him and Douglas quickened his pace, sure already that he would be late for work and surer so that he didn’t want to miss the next tram.

As he waited at the stop the chill of the winter’s morning air slowly cut into him. As he felt the warmth drain from his cheeks and as he knew his knuckles were purple; Douglas wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and tucked his hands into his armpits. Just as he was considering dancing on the spot to warm up when the tram appeared from over the crest of the hill, saving himself from possible embarrassment. He slung his bag over his shoulder, waved and jumped into the steamy tram as soon as he could.

It was just past 10am that Douglas was fired.
​

 

[StardogChampion]

Random pulpy sci-fi...

Brody Feigh's store was on Column 3, Row 6, Prime Block. Roberts knew Brody would cut him a good deal on some tech; after all, they had history.

Outside the store, startled by sirens, Roberts turned and saw two aerofficers chasing a suspect through the block. They swerved maniacally through the air, left and right, their jet-pack's thrusters blaring — in control — but coming straight towards Roberts. He shuffled in between two rested vehicles and watched as the suspect dodged them skillfully; it was as if he was two steps ahead. A small, clear, spherical object fell out of the suspect's hand, and in trying to grab it, he lost control, scraped against the side of a building — knocking his left thruster off — and tumbled down in a heap of metal. The spherical object smacked the ground and rolled down the sidewalk.

Roberts stopped it under his foot and picked it up, took a good look and thumbed every crevice. It looked like one of those worthless glass sculptures that his great-great-grandma handed down to him. Before he could alert the aerofficers they had hoisted the suspect up and away. Making a mental note to hand it in later, he slipped it inside his pocket and went into the store.

"How's it going?" Roberts said, letting the door slide closed. The security sentinel buzzed in the corner as it scanned him. There was the usual musky smell and the store was void of customers, a fact highlighted by the in-store advertising being targeted solely towards Roberts. Brody Feigh was stood behind the counter. He looked like a fat rat with that "love me" demeanour of a dog. The guy was a carpet, but one of those carpets that had seen so many stains and you'd owned for so long that you couldn't help but like it.

His eyes widened when they caught him. "I heard y-you didn't c-come down here no m-mor—"

"Lets just say I had a change of heart. I'm looking for a new PDA. The old one packed in."

"Oh! I-I-I can cut you a good deal!"

An expecting smile appeared across Roberts' face. "That's what I thought."

As Brody's chubby digits tapped away on the counter's input screen, Roberts nodded to the security sentinel in the corner. "That thing's getting old."

"So old it detected that antique firearm on you."

"You know I like older kit — there's no stun mode."

"Heh," he grunted as the surface of the counter exploded into life with an array of swirling, coloured gradients.

"Very swish," Roberts said, pressing the visual of the standard model, wondering how many germs had just collected on his finger. Almost immediately, the new PDA appeared and synced to all his streams and inboxes. There was a new secure communique from police HQ.

Roberts quickly digested the info. An agent on the run with a PN-205 cloaking device? He didn't realise those were in use already. It was new tech that only special agents had access to.




The agency building rose high, the top half disappearing under a thick layer of smog.

As Roberts headed through reception, a humourless man offered his hand. He was around sixty with a saggy neck, and what little hair he had left was slicked back.

"Mr. Roberts, I presume," he said, shaking Roberts' hand and presuming nothing — Police chest plates were slate blue, agents dark gray. "I'm Nikolai Vidic. The bots have already collated the data. I'll take you to the crime scene."

Roberts took some time to survey the scene. Vidic had explained the circumstances on the journey there, but Roberts was still shocked when they entered. Special agents were the guys you called when a job had to be done, but three of them were splayed across the floor like rag dolls, dead. He fiddled with the spherical object in his pocket while going through the health and safety checklist. "What do you think the motive was?" Roberts asked Vidic, "It's not often—"

His voice trailed off, his body all of a sudden frozen to the spot.

Feeling strangely detached, a warm sepia hue washed over Roberts' eyes. He no longer felt inside his own body. He watched himself walk over and examine one of the murdered agents, unaware that a small vent above the row of terminals had creeped open. Footsteps? Roberts listened closely. Soft, but he was sure of it. There was someone else in the room. Before he could figure out where, behind him, Vidic grasped at his own neck, fighting an invisible hand, and let out a whimper before falling to the ground in a heap. Was he a fly on the wall to Vidic's murder... and possibly his own?

Able to move again, Roberts looked around agitatedly, his hand burning, his vision returned to normal. What the hell had he just seen? He looked as Vidic stood, arms crossed, in full health. Then he clocked the vent. Closed. The room had returned to its initial state.

"Everything alright?" Vidic said.

"Yeah," Roberts said, sharply. It wasn't, but he had quickly regained his bearings. He looked inside his pocket. The once clear sphere was now glowing a warm red. It couldn't have shown him the future, could it? No. Surely not, he decided. Then he remembered who the sphere had once belonged to — the man being chased by the aerofficers outside Brody's store; the man who had only lost control after dropping the sphere. Roberts' mind was spinning.

Then the vent swung open, but this time Roberts was ready.​

 

[Sulkdodds]

Thank you to everyone who entered!

Entry period is now done with, and voting begins. To vote, send a PM to me with your choice of story (ie, entrant) in the subject line. I'll count up all the votes and bring them in in the small hours of the morning of Wednesday 20th January (which gives you till the end of Tuesday, ie midnight).

 

[Sulkdodds]

I'm going to extent voting at least another week, as three votes isn't really enough to decide.

 

[Sulkdodds]

And another!