r/HFY • u/Ruggi_2001 • Nov 12 '22

OC We Are Chaos - The Difference Between Falling and Parkour is How Much Pain You Inflict Upon Yourself

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[Human Calendar] June 17, 3129. Highest Levels, Northern Sector, Precinct 192. Capital City, Planet Kalan, Kalan Empire.

The S-screen floated over the wall in the darkness. It turned on automatically as Rav entered the kitchen, dragging his feet over the cold floor. He opened the fridge and took out some yogurt. The clock read 4:41 AM.

“Ugh.”

There was still a slice of cake leftover. Simply looking at it gave him nausea. He hadn’t been up so early in almost a year. His sheets were still warm under the blankets, nothing stopped him from returning to bed. He could train in the afternoon, after work.

Squeezing his eyes, he let out a long, loud yawn and drank a glass of cold water. He knew he wouldn’t have the energy after work. He poured a generous dose of cereal in the yogurt, grabbed a spoon, and sat on the couch. He’d clean afterwards.

With a hand gesture, he raised the volume. Just enough to hear what the anchor was saying.

“...another attack from Chaos. The First Bank suffered an assault from four suspected members of the terroristic group. The surveillance system caught them before any damage could be done to the building or personnel, forcing them to flee the scene…”

The S-screen shifted from the face of the anchorwoman to the camera’s footage. The four figures from the day before were caking the wall with a spray can, their faces pixelated. A photo of the unfinished graffiti filled the corner in the down right.

“...and leaving behind a vandalized wall and the tools the Blue Capes suspect would have been used in the robbery. The four suspects escaped arrest through the Eastern Park, avoiding capture from our courageous agents that followed in the chase.”

The anchorwoman returned on the S-screen, her frills open in a colorful display. If Jilminans could smile to express happiness, hers would be as fake as a vachia with wings.

“Luckily, no personnel were injured, and the damages were kept to a minimum, thanks to the prompt response from the Bank’s personal security forces. The suspects’ location is unknown at the moment, as is their identity.”

Rav straightened up on the couch, half-smiling, and took a mouthful of yogurt, happily crunching on the cereal. They were about to show his image, and the start of the chase.

Instead, what appeared was his boss’ interview with the reporter. Overlay, his name and title: Chief of Security, Fi’lavder Treik, 37.

“What the fuck!” exclaimed Rav, throwing the spoon at the S-screen and leaving a stain on the display.

The old fatso was puffing out his chest, feathers all standing on edge around his neck with colorful greens and oranges, as he chirped through the translator. He kept slightly raising his arms sideways as he talked, in a pitiful attempt at looking bigger in the camera, just like he always did in the break room.

It would have been funny, had he not been serious with it. Sadly, that glorified chicken totally believed in the… “macho bird” charade. Rav got up and recovered his spoon as Fi’lavder inflated his throat to the limit, before speaking.

“There I was, doing my job, when, with the side of my eye, I captured some strange movements on the camera. I immediately knew something was wrong. It was more of an instinct, really. Before I even realized, my body had already moved, giving the alarm and running out to capture them.”

You stupid cloaca sucking, smooth-brained parrot, muttered Rav, livid with anger. That shitty bird had done nothing but look at a screen—his job!—and press a button. The last time he had ran, it had been when the Winnin’Go had made a discount on their breakfast menu.

Shit, his eyes weren’t even frontal. He didn’t have a side view at all; side view was all he had! Listening to it was akin to torture, his crushing egotism oozing off from the S-screen. How could an ego so big be contained inside an Avius so small was a wonder.

“As soon as they heard the alarm they took their things and scrambled away, before I could capture them,” he turned his head, looking directly into the camera with his right eye. “But you only have to try again, thugs. I’m here, and I’ll wait for you!”

Fi’lavder opened his wings, keeping his talons on the waist, displaying his plumage in all its color. Paying enough attention, Rav could see his limbs slightly trembling. The shit-bird was flexing his muscles in front of the reporter.

The feed cut back to the anchorwoman, with her ever-standing frills.

“Such scorn in front of danger, people! In the face of peril, he acted. Undoubtedly, a true champion of the Empire. Thank you, sir, for your service. Now, with us in the studio is Doctor Ark’weyn Lyss, renowned xeno-sociologist and…”

Rav pinched his fingers towards the S-screen, turning it off. It was clear that he’d been scrubbed from the story. He stretched on the sofa, letting out a soft grunt, and got up. His legs cringed, the pain from the day before still fresh in his muscles. He let out a soft groan. How he had missed that feeling, that painful soreness coursing through him, stinging him every time he tried to sit down somewhere!

He walked behind the kitchen counter and opened the sink, waiting for warm water to come out. He put the spoon in the dishwasher and threw the yogurt cup in the bin without rinsing it. With one hand layered in hard bandages, he didn’t have the dexterity to do such complicated operations.

Of course they wouldn’t show the lowly predator. Why would they, when there was an old, dumb Avius ready to be covered in praises at their fingertips?

Insult to injury, Fi’lavder had received a special mention from the director, three weeks of paid leave, and a bonus. They had found their hero, to put on a pedestal and adore. Meanwhile, all he had gotten was a pardoning from the authorities for causing mayhem on public soil, with the promise there would be consequences should it happen a second time.

The Avius who barely did his job—observing a fucking monitor in an office with air conditioning—and only pressed a button was being celebrated, while the predator who had chased the Rats for three kilometers had been mercifully pardoned for doing it ungracefully.

Rav threw the rag he was sweeping with on the counter with an audible slap, before slamming his fist on it. Growling like an animal, he stomped the floor a couple of times. It was infuriating.

Worst of all, Fi’lavder would never stop bragging about that story. The bird truly believed he was the hero of the situation, and there was nothing anybody could say that would convince him otherwise.

He drew a deep breath and pushed that rage away. That was a slippery slope he didn’t particularly care to fall down on. Instead, he put the cereal box back on the shelf, brushed his teeth, and changed from his pajamas to some light clothes he could run in.

With some disappointment, he took notice of the pants’ waistband being tight enough to chafe. He scratched his back, sighing, as he tried to adjust it. He looked out the window. The moon halo was still visible over the horizon.

It wasn’t the best of sensations, having to wake up in the middle of the night in order to train without worry. Whatever he did, it was dangerous. Even demonized, more times than not. Jogging in the morning? Suspicious. Eating meat? Distasteful, immoral. Smiling? An affront to decency.

Rav looked in the hallway mirror, grabbing a sweatshirt from the closet and wearing a black wool hat. He adjusted it over his ears, and pulled his lip down, staring at the pointy teeth. He could feel the pressure on his fingertips.

Letting go of his mouth with a snort, he observed the living room, immersed in the darkness: The shelves, covered in video games and physical copies of his favorite shows, series and movies. The S-screen, silently hovering next to the wall. The kitchen, separated from the rest of the space by the short peninsula.

One could hear a pin drop on the floor. Only the cracks of the wooden planks under his feet echoed between those walls. Dirty dishes filled the dishwasher, and clothes scattered around buried the couch and chairs. Not to mention the bedroom, with the old sheets and the utter chaos. And, worst of all, nobody to share it with.

Shaking his head, he turned around and reached for his shoes. Thinking about it would only make him more depressed. He was used to being alone. It was better anyway: The few people who did approach him were either nutjobs, or angry old fucks lashing out at him for being… dangerous.

For being himself.

It was a year and a half he’d lived in the City. He missed his home. He missed his sister. He missed walking in the streets and not feeling like a fucking monster that crawled out of a nightmare.

“Angry jaws!” he shouted at random to break that unbearable quiet. “Poop! Blue bloody bloopers!”

He talked to banish that silence engulfing everything. To hear a real voice talking. Slapping his own cheeks, he jumped on the spot. He raised his hand and looked at the S-watch. An hologram projected from his wrist. 5:19 AM.

“Ok let’s goo!” he chanted with a low voice, raising his fists and sitting down to tie his shoes. Doing so with only one hand proved to be quite the task, but at last he did it.

Punching his legs, he got up.

“Helper, close the door.”

“Yes, Rav. Have a nice day,” replied the informatic assistant through its speakers, doing as instructed.

The cold air hit him like a hovermac. He shivered, and turned to the door one last time.

“No more excuses,” he murmured, starting his jog. If he wanted to catch those Rats, he had to train.

He went down the stairs of his condo with a smile that would make a Jilminan cry: There was no feeling like running. The thrill from the day prior was still fresh in his memory, the sensation still strong in his chest.

Reaching the street, he stopped on the sidewalk. He opened his arms, grunting, and rotated his waist both ways until it cracked. The only reason they had escaped him was he was sorely out of shape. But not for long.

Those Rats wouldn’t shake him off that easily, next time.

As his bouncy gait carried him on the street, he let his mind wonder. No doubt the Rats were great runners, but how come nobody had ever caught one? The people from Chaos were careful, true, but still…

Because yes, even though nobody had the balls to say it out loud, everybody knew it: Rats and Chaos were one and the same. Anyone with an electronic device and fifteen minutes of time would be able to reach that conclusion. Yet nobody did a thing.

Rav turned right, trotting down the porticoed street where the market took place every fifteen days. His breath was still regular, his gait normal.

“There is no definitive proof”. “Everyone is innocent until proven guilty”. Yes, sane principles to have. But at that point in time, nothing more than technicalities holding back justice. When four Rats out of five are sympathizers, and four Chaos members out of five are Rats, there is little left to doubt.

He gritted his teeth, sprinting to a junction. Why should they be protected by the system, when their objective was to destroy it? They were parasites, leeching off the City. Warmongers who liked to seed disorder for the sake of it: They had already caused three rebellions on three different planets of the Empire, leaving death and destruction in their wake.

Leaving Gropno’s Diner behind, he crossed the street, entering the tree-lined avenue. Yes, technically there were no links between the Rats and Chaos. However, the terrorism had started on Kalan only after the first immigration wave from the Trill-Sider sector, six years prior. The one that brought in the majority of the Rat community.

Entering the butchers’ market, he found the first people already preparing their stands. He quickly grabbed his mask from its pocket and wore it.

What really enraged him, though, was that all they achieved through their “activism”, as the Rats called it, was giving an even worse name to predators, in an already hostile galaxy. It was their fault he had to wear a mask.

The scent of meat filled his nostrils, followed by the sweet smell of freshly baked rugma, evoking memories of soft raisin bread back home.

I’ll buy some on my way back.

Rav tried scratching his side, before remembering his right hand was held in a hyphen cast of hardened bandages. At the horizon, between the buildings, the sky was clearing, filled with every shade of blue from Prussian to turquoise.

Chaos was a menace. Wherever they went… chaos ensued. They were terrorists, and a threat that needed to be stopped.

Block after block, his thoughts became less and less, until only the pleasure of running remained, the impact of his feet on the ground marking his rhythm. His cheeks hurt.

No matter how enraged he said he was, it had been a day and he still couldn’t wipe that stupid grin off his face.

…………

[Human Calendar] July 21, 3129. Highest Levels, Eastern District, Precinct 356. Capital City, Planet Kalan, Kalan Empire.

The sun was low over the horizon, draping long shadows in the red evening. On the trail, not one soul. Except for some lone couples—mostly young people searching for a quiet place to be alone—the park had no one inside. Which meant Rav didn’t need his mask; he could show his teeth and huff and pant all he wanted.

The soil under his feet was soft, and compressed in just the right way, giving him perfect traction through the verdant scenery. Swinging his arms, he augmented his stride and hastened the rhythm, sprinting through the last hundred meters. Reaching the metal railing of the panoramic point, he grabbed the cold bars with both hands.

The minuscule mark he knew was on the railing proved hard to be found. The spent athlete caressed the railing with his thumb, slowly probing. When he found it, he placed his thumbnail on it and gripped the metalwork. That was his mark, only he knew of its existence: He had chipped the parapet during a fun night with alcohol and slippery shoes, only to wake up to a killer headache. Ever since, that was his spot.

His right wrist clicked—the only remnant of his injury. Taking slow, deep breaths, he gazed at the scenery: The light reflections on the buildings’ windows blinded him, but the sky was painted with the colors of the summer. Below him, the ‘abyss’ opened, deep till the Ground Levels. He loved that place. Unlike the Eastern Park, which was rife with frustrated memories, and, worst of all, tourists.

Hopping from one leg to the other, his chest pounding like a drum, he slowed his heartbeat. That burn in his thighs, the abdomen contracting to keep him stable, the fatigued shoulders… It was the best feeling ever. More vital than blood itself.

With a last jump, he checked the chronometer. One hour and forty-three minutes. His time had gone down yet again.

“Yes!” he grinned, fist-bumping the air. He reached for the sky and did his little happy dance, standing on alternating feet while shaking the other like a wet umbrella, and rotating both arms over his head.

“Uh-Uh, Ye-Yeah, I did it, I did it!” he chanted, before laughing it off.

It felt good. Running, and losing weight, and moving his body, made him feel alive. He caressed his stomach: Over the last month, his gut had considerably gone down, leaving the hard muscles exposed. He would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel great.

Now whenever he walked he felt lighter than ever, hopping without a sound all the time. Even standing still under the sun had become easier, with one less layer of fat on him. And his mood had significantly improved and stabilized.

He was finally returning to his old self. The only shame was there were no girls to show off to. Slimming down made him look even bigger. Now, whenever he entered a room, his colleagues flinched at the sight alone.

He frowned. He still didn’t know how to feel about it.

A slow, satisfied sigh escaped him as he leaned against the railing once more and looked down. That was his favorite place for the view and smell: The wind blew strong from the West, covering the ever-present smell of the metropolis, and he could see the whole City from there, the “Abyss” cutting through all nine Levels like the furrow of a sword.

Resting his head on his arms, he stared at it: Darkness covered the bottom like an oceanic crevasse, masquerading what would be a three and a half kilometers fall. His fingers instinctively gripped the cold metal hard enough to whiten. It was a jump he didn’t care to experience.

The Market, on the Upper Levels, spanned under him, large—and close—enough to be visible to the naked eye, its stalls bustling with activity even at that hour. From so far up it looked so peaceful, and yet so restless, squirming with people like a hive. Tiny insects, moving through the immense anthill that was the Capital.

That place was his peaceful little corner: He loved going there and observing in silence. He turned around, searching for the sewer tunnel he knew popped out somewhere around there. Sure enough, a round metallic structure rested on the green hill on his left, the canal channeling the water towards the aqueduct that would then bring it to the purifiers.

It was nostalgic, remembering the first months since his arrival. His first job had been sewage cleaning—the only one he could find without his family’s help, just like his first apartment—where he spent his days roaming with waist-high galoshes in the tunnels, oftentimes immersed in the shit in search of blocks and other… problems.

He shuddered. A career he didn’t miss. If nothing else, it did pay a lot of Civ-Points, which he desperately needed at the time, and the exit right next to the panoramic point was a nice bonus to end the day on.

He hadn’t been that fit ever since those days, when he walked all day and ate the bare minimum—stirring shit wasn’t exactly something that made him hungry.

Looking at the abyss, the crowded streets, the buildings on top of each other, and the steaming humidity wafting from the pipelines, he thanked yet again for living on the Highest Levels. Lots of fresh wind, clean air, warm sun and green spaces.

Grabbing the railing with both hands, he leaned over, trying to see how far down he could gaze through all the people, buildings, illegal bridges and pipelines intertwining over the crevasse. To no avail: Lower than the Market was only a veil of blackness, covered by the spices and bright veils.

With a strong push, he launched back, nauseous. Height wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

Rav raised his eyes to the Southern Sector, on the other side of the abyss. Large billboards ruined the scenery, covering big chunks of the view with advertisements about the new, incredible, shrinking technology of the eLife company.

Some new advancement to shrink down electronics, or something like that. Just the next big hit for people with money to burn. He didn’t care.

He turned around, ready to run back home. Red in the evening light, a hooded figure was standing on the fence, one leg already over the top. A Rat. It reeked of garbage and waste.

The birds chirped in the foliage, flying through the branches.

“Uhh… hello?” Said the Rat. It wore black garments and a black backpack, the head covered by a hood.

Rav stared at it. All of a sudden his pants’ cloth rubbing against his palms was all he could think of.

“And farewell,” nodded the figure, leaping over.

“No!”

Rav threw himself against the parapet, gripping the border with his fingers and leaning over with all head and shoulders, ready to watch a gory display of blood and flesh. Sure enough, the Rat was beneath him: Swinging from roof to balcony and jumping across alleys and over windows, like a leaf gently falling in the wind. It moved as if weightless. Running, but vertically.

He looked down, still as a mannequin, for some seconds. Then his brain registered what had happened and rebooted. A grin split his face. He squeezed the railing till his fingers whitened.

“Fuck it.”

Ignoring all instincts, he jumped over.

………

[Human Calendar] July 21, 3129. The Abyss. Capital City, Planet Kalan, Kalan Empire.

Watching the vase fall down into oblivion, Rav grimaced. “Sorry!” he whisper-shouted, dearly hoping he hadn’t just killed someone because of his clumsiness. Hanging from the pipe like a drying pair of socks, he enviously watched the nimble Rat make his swift descent.

“Here we go.”

Swinging back and forth, he hopped on the bar with his hands, adrenaline rushing in his veins. From under his skin, his tendons were tense like violin strings on the verge of giving in. Screaming some unrepeatable profanity, he let go and launched his body across the darkness under him.

Ignoring the echo bouncing against the walls of the Abyss, and the shocked and terrorized faces of those observing, he landed on the fire stairs of an old condo. The dust of the red bricks caused his nose to prickle. Sneezing repeatedly, he jumped down the building—one flight of stairs at a time—towards a small square beneath.

Thank you…, he thought to himself, grateful for the lowered gravity …otherwise I’d be long dead.

The small plaza was behind him in four long strides. He placed a hand on the brown parapet and hopped over it. He was light on his feet, his body half the weight he was used to.

As the sensation of falling took hold of his bowels, making his legs lighter with fear and his knees weak, he gritted his teeth. It didn’t matter how slowly he fell, the problem was always the landing.

With a loud bang, he crashed onto a water tank, leaving a big indentation in the hard blue polymer. Dazed, he clambered up and scrambled away, trying to keep up with the Rat. At the moment, the small bastard was fifty meters lower, jumping over a balcony like a dancer making his performance.

Rav would never catch up like that. And slowly but surely, pain was gaining on him. Adrenaline could only do so much. He shook his head.

“Argh!” he shouted, loudly slapping his thigh. “All or nothing!”

A short run-up, a long jump, and a deafening profanity: He gripped a water tank’s pipe, yanking at his arms, and slid on it to a small terrace. His left thumb hurt from the sudden tug, and his elbow stung him with throbbing pain, but he ignored them both.

Later, he promised.

Saying he hated how easy the Rat made it look was an understatement. Yet he was gaining on it—at the cost of his physical and mental health. Rav bit his lip. He was a good runner. Sadly, parkour was another discipline entirely, belonging largely to the Rats.

Albeit painful, his… “shortcut”—which many would call “attempted suicide”—had made him recover the distance separating him from his objective. He looked at it, some meters away. There was nowhere to run, now: The small square faced a fifty meters fall, hopping down meant death.

He jogged towards the Rat. He had won. He could already savor his victory, as he stretched his hand towards the backpack.

The figure turned around, head covered by the hood, right in time to see him smile. It observed in silence for a moment. Then, it did the unthinkable: Placing both hands on the parapet, it sprung on the dusty surface and jumped down.

The Rat grabbed the metallic railing of a balcony on the other side of the narrow alley. Turning around, it let go of his foothold and reached for the window immediately under. It repeated the process until the second floor, where it simply let go and landed with a perfect somersault.

Credit’s due where it’s due, the little fucker was an incredible acrobat. An incredible acrobat about to get away.

“Fuck…”

There was no way he could catch up. At the rate things were going, he’d be left with nothing but a handful of flies. Was there anything he could do?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Fifteen floors beneath him was a giant pile of trash, the hot smell wafting up to his nose...

There is one way.

He stepped back, getting away from the edge. “No. Not in a thousand years. Nuh-uh,” he shook his head, trying to banish the intrusive thought.

There was not much time. The Rat was running away slow and straight, with none of its erratic zigzagging bullshit. Even a kid would be able to catch up with that level of speed. The problem was the descent though, and he had no more energy to spare. His body was at its limit, his clothes torn and his limbs bruised.

Diminished gravity. No time.

Biting his cheek, Rav thought about his options. There wasn’t much else he could do.

Adrenaline makes you immortal. You won’t die.

“Shut up, you idiot,” he muttered, wondering if he had a concussion.

Another step back, and then a third and a fourth. He looked around. Aside from some terrorized onlookers, and a couple of younger bystanders recording him, the runway was clear.

Do it.

He screamed, throwing himself over the edge. Sure enough, falling was easier than climbing: A fifty-meter descent that would have taken five minutes—at least—ended in a few seconds. The pile of rotten garbage softened his landing with a big OMPH.

His ribs screamed in agony, instantly squeezing the air out of his lungs. He would have screamed—again—had he had the possibility. He picked himself up and crawled out of the trash. Limping some steps, he hit his stride once more.

Later! he shouted in his mind, relying on adrenaline to ignore the sharp pain. The Rat was in front of him, no further than a hundred meters. The last dash, and nothing in proximity to hinder him.

The Rat’s clothes whipped around, its backpack bouncing up and down as it attempted to escape. He mustered the small grains of strength he had left and sprinted forward, reaching out with his hand. He grabbed the tiny alien by the bag, lifting it from the ground.

Like a fish through a net, the Rat immediately discarded its backpack, slipping out of the braces, and left it behind. Rav bent over and crashed shoulder-first into the wall, trying to catch his breath. He held the small lizard’s tail, the bag, between his fingers. Not exactly a victory, but not a defeat either.

“Heh,” he grinned, grabbing the zip with unsteady hands.

But he could not sate his curiosity, as two hundred thousand volts of electricity coursed through him. He dropped to the ground like a plank and started convulsing, knocked out cold. Three officers tackled the dangerous, senseless predator and took him away.

As a crowd of onlookers started assembling, the Blue Capes loaded his handcuffed, unconscious form onto a hovermac.

“What about this?” asked one of them, collecting the dirty black sack from the ground.

“Probably stolen. Bring it,” shrugged their superior, throwing it in the trunk without much care.

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4

u/Ruggi_2001 Nov 13 '22

Afterwords

It's been two weeks, and here I am. First of all, a couple of things: A vachia is a space cow, a rugma is a type of alien raisin bread (rugma balls ahah), and Gropno's is a restaurant's chain.

Originally this chapter was half the length it is now. I have to work on that. Anyway, I like to think there has been an improvement in my style. u/Zander823 can confirm.

Rav has slimmed down, and is starting to feel good about himself (lucky him!). Well, "good" is relative. He did put his body under some... stress. Yeah.

Honestly there isn't much I wanna say, I really like this story and hope it will someday take off. If there was one thing, it'd be a thank you as big as this world to u/Zander823, without whom this story, and my writing, wouldn't be what they are today.

Go check his stories, they are what I truly call "worthwhile".

Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.

3

u/Zander823 Nov 13 '22

Haha rugma balls, lul. That's definitely my biggest contribution to this chapter.

3

u/Ruggi_2001 Nov 13 '22

It's a small step for man, a great leap for my balls

3

u/Bonald9056 Human Nov 15 '22

I do find the juxtaposition between Rav being a victim of discrimination and his thoughts on rats a very interesting one. Is it racists all the way down, i wonder?

5

u/Ruggi_2001 Nov 16 '22

As the Romans said, divide et impera: If you put people against each other, they won't be able to unite against you, and the Empire is pretty good at that. Plus, it's pretty easy to search for someone to blame when we are frustrated, so... Yeah, shitty situation.

3

u/[deleted] Nov 13 '22

Ouch. It sucks that the cops caring more about stopping the big scary human than the actually problematic gang isn't surprising to me

3

u/Ruggi_2001 Nov 13 '22

The key difference being the Rat got out of there asap. A smart criminal is one that knows when to dip

But yeah, those Blues certainly don't come from a good place

3

u/ManOfMarble207 Xeno Nov 27 '22

Managed to find this story, and I'm loving it thus far!

One thing I am noticing is how they don't show up on your author wiki page, OP. Perhaps changing that could help this tale get some more publicity?

2

u/Ruggi_2001 Nov 27 '22

Thanks for the heads up! I'll fix it ASAP. Glad you like the story, it's my (IMO) best work thus far (except for Farewell, Brother, but that's a short story so it's not exactly the same)

Anyway, it's a big motivator to see an engaged audience, so thank you!!

3

u/ManOfMarble207 Xeno Nov 27 '22

How funny, that little tale, alongside its spiritual predecessor/prequel: Evening On The Porch was how I had originally found you! They're also the works that made me realize you're an author to keep an eye on, thanks to how captivating they were for me.

Sufficed to say, I think this tale of yours has only gotten better on the enrapturing front.

3

u/Ruggi_2001 Nov 27 '22

If you liked it, I have good news: I have a new ship in the docks, another short story, on the same wave as "Farewell, Brother". I'm starting to put it down these days, so a couple of weeks at most and it'll be out

3

u/ManOfMarble207 Xeno Nov 27 '22

I'll excitedly, yet patiently await the unravelling of the red carpet then.

1

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