This was originally posted on Cohost July 25th, 2024.

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Previously...

Let's begin at the beginning. The "city" of Vunder is young, less "a thriving metropolis with accessible happenings" and more "an aggregation of suburbs around a bar- and office-filled downtown." Its population was the result of slowly accumulated resources rather than any industrial boom, meaning no city government had ever cared to fund such lower-class institutions as "public transportation" or "community spaces." The service workers and starving artists of the city were thus left high, dry, and—most critically for your story—lonely. So it was that friendships, roommates, partners, and community were found not through face-to-face encounters, but everyone's necessary nemesis: dating apps.

This was originally posted on Cohost June 30th, 2024.

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Let's begin at the beginning. You took this job for the usual reasons: bills to pay, mouths to feed, rent to burn in a landlord's furnace somewhere. The fixer was professional, your fellow bandits charming behind arbitrary code names. You were brought in because you're small, small enough to fit through the industrial air vents on the roof. Not the first time your size has gotten you places, and probably won't be the last. The job itself was fairly standard, insofar as any organized crime was standard. Rooftop vents and a pair of bolt cutters would get you access to the top floor; from there you would find the fanciest office available, use your misspent youth to break in, then leave Glitch's creation plugged into the back of a computer. Repeat for a couple offices, just to cover bases, then make your exit before anyone was the wiser. Muscle was on overwatch on the roof, Eagle was keeping track of timetables, Glitch was on standby for tech support. Keep it simple, and the client would have their bounty in a week.

Unfortunately, no plan survives reality.

This was originally posted on Cohost August 24th, 2024.

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Previously...

Zephyr is not typically a “moderate danger” hero, but things click together when he gets to the address: Moss’s warehouse home and workshop. Punishment then, for improperly evaluating a threat – and if he gets killed in the process, well, he’s an object lesson for the next recruit.

… Presumably he has some kind of secret escort to keep him from dying too easily; UCCD wouldn’t let him die over one mistake, right?

This was originally posted on Cohost on June 9th, 2024.

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The Union City Capes Department was the best place for a person to end up at if they had superpowers. A person with the speed of the wind, manifesting at the impressionable age of 11, could get safe housing, some proper education, and steady employment as one of the city’s finest heroes. Such a person could contribute to society by scouting dangerous environments, supporting the fight against foes too strong for speed to tackle, and investigating reports of villainous lairs where higher profile heroes would stand out. Such a person could trust that UCCD’s intel was accurate, appropriately evaluated, and provides critical advice on how to approach the situation.

This was originally posted on Cohost September 3rd, 2023 in response to the @Making-up-Mech-Pilots prompt "Mech Pilot who is still standing."

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"Did you fuse your knee joints together again?"

"... No..."

This was originally posted on Cohost August 27th, 2023 in response to the @Making-up-Mech-Pilots prompt "Mech Pilot who is a little disappointed with the lack of practical, day-to-day applications of their psychic powers."

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"Yeah, yeah, everyone likes it when I shoot a bullet with a room-ice¹ core and guide it into the target with some psychic nudges, but do you know how much ice we routinely interact with on this Sandaria deployment? That's right: none."

This was originally posted on Cohost August 19th, 2023 in response to the @Making-up-Mech-Pilots prompt "Mech Pilot who has just been promoted to Abiotic Officer, First Grade."

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"You put the robot in charge of the kids?"

"Do you wanna try and take care of a handful of 6- and 7-year-olds—who, need I remind you, are pilots' kids—without access to thrusters & extra limbs?"

"... We can make do without Markov for a year or three."

This was originally posted on Cohost April 19th, 2024.

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Space. Space. Dear gods, he needed space. He had been slowly drowning under his fiancé's presence for years. His eyes reflected someone else's vision, his stomach filled with every word he'd ever swallowed. His performance of a quiet, obedient, sycophantic future husband had soaked his skin through, but no longer! Now, he was in open air once more, his passivity oozing out of every pore, every burst of defiance and fit of pique wringing more from his sodden bones. Every bridge was tainted with his ex's perfumes, every plank and nail touched by those hands, and he would have none of it. He would not accept visitors along those old spans, and was willing to set the beams alight if that's what it took.

So he passed his time alone, but a new sort of alone; he was alone without being on tenterhooks, alone without expectation. Alone, staring into mirrors and searching for the self that once shone from his face. Alone, shouting at uncaring walls as his swallowed spites turned emetic. Alone, and not accepting visitors, fuck off, I don't care what House you're from anymore, your scones were always shite and you were terrible at hiding your affair with your maid, Daryl.

Alone, as his fevered temper broke and the poisons of his once-lover no longer tainted his showers.

Alone, as his momentum faded and he realized only a husk remained.

Alone.

Raw.

Ready.

This was originally posted on Cohost over the course of September, 2024 as once-daily prompt responses. The original prompts are preserved as section headers.

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Girls who have words

Prima's in charge of the library; she keeps the polycule's books. On the bright side, she takes this role very seriously. On the down side...

"Ekti, your copy of Stone Butch Blues is a week overdue. Get it back to me soon, you already owe me $1.35 in fines."

... she takes this role very seriously.

This was originally posted on Cohost April 9th, 2024.

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Another face, another name, another introduction that lacks the bite to grip. The fear of feeling foolish held her off before, but the reality of her foolishness serves her little better. This one hopes for children, that one merely wants fucking with more steps, over there are the misaligned kinks like cogs' teeth. Her pencil is untouched all night, the flimsy contact sheet folded thrice but never marked. Bell, ruckus, repeat once more; she's bound for home alone all the same.

A new city was to mark a new era, a new self with new manners. Elaborate social rituals contrived to put her in contact with strangers, yet trust is never rewarded by chance. If life is a painting, she is mere pigment, ripped from her context and suspended in air. How cruel, that paint must find its own painting! How much the painter demands of their medium! Yet color sans comrades is mere sensation, moments in woods holding everything and nothing. Her domino stands tall, falls alone, stands once more, and the nights repeat endlessly, uniquely identical.

The cliff edge howls at her side, yet neither wisdom nor will presses her onward. She showers, she sleeps, curled cold in her sheets.