Sam Bianchi has never been second in her life. At least, not since she was a kid. So can anything make her feel better about getting rejected by the team she’s dreamed of being a part of for as long as she can remember?
Blue Devil, Vol. 2
Sam paced back and forth, her mind moving almost as fast as the rest of her. The room was small and had a warmer feel to it than the other rooms in the complex, with half-dressed mannequins and rolls of various fabrics thrown about in bins. Sam felt foreign in it.
At twenty-two years old, Sam had been the fastest human in history for eight years now. But regardless of that, the Olympians had opted not to recruit her right out of Prometheus. “Hot-headed,” they’d called her. “Temperamental.” So, Raves had opted to have Sam picked up by the West Coast Olympians, along with her twin sister, Emily. Anyone else would’ve been thrilled to be a part of the team.
But not Sam. She hadn’t been second-best since she was fourteen years old. Raves had spent eight years whisking her all around the world, showing her off, only to stick her in second place once she received her American Vigilante Association certification. It wasn’t fair. And now all the company wanted from her was for her to see a glorified costumer, because apparently eight years in the suit she’d been in wasn’t good enough for them. Just like everything else wasn’t good enough for them.
Her brooding was interrupted by an overweight man in his thirties. The man took one look at her, pursed his lips, and cocked his head to the side.
“No, that’s not going to do at all,” the man said.
“Excuse me?” she said, bristling.
He gestured to her running suit. “This is the big leagues, honey, not college. That suit is just not gonna cut it.” Sam frowned, looking down at herself.
“I’ve been wearing this same suit for almost ten years.”
“And that’s just the problem, honey. This is the new you we’re trying to design here, not just a cheap rehash of what everyone already knows.” Sam scowled at the man. Today had already been bad enough, thanks to how the meetings with the Raves suits had gone. She and Emily were stuck in Los Angeles, it seemed. And now this man was telling her that her beloved running suit was no good.
“And you’re the ultimate authority on this because…” The man looked surprised for a moment.
“Right, yes. Avi Kamal. I’m your new designer, now that you’re AVA certified and on a team.”
Sam nodded her head slowly. “So, you’re here to redesign my running suit.”
“Actually, I’ve already redesigned it. I’m here to see what I need to change. I don’t think I’ll need any, though. But let’s give it a try.”
Avi strutted over to a closet, pulling out several layers and pieces of costuming and laying it on the table in front of him. Sam flitted over to him, examining the outfit carefully. At least he’d kept her colors, blue and white.
“So, Kamal, tell me what I’m looking at.”
“Two-layer nylon/spandex weave body glove. I noticed when you’re running, you have an unfortunate tendency to burn out, so I added a cooling system to the first layer. That’s those ridges you see there. Second layer houses all your suit’s electronics. The outer white layer is a silica fabric weave; that should be resistant to melting or burning when you’re running at high speeds. I kept the royal blue for the plating, it’s a silica ceramic for heat dissipation. Same stuff they use on spaceships. Helmet’s teardrop-shaped to prevent drag and has noise-canceling headphones built in to minimize further hearing loss from your sonic boom.”
“I… don’t hate it,” Sam admitted. She actually rather liked the new design. A part of her wanted to instantly throw it on and run a round-trip from Los Angeles to New York and back. Possibly stay in New York. But she held back her impulse.
“I’m glad.”
Sam pointed to the white outline of a smirking face with devil horns emblazoned on the left breast plate. “You even kept my little devil smiley.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, honey,” Avi said with a grin.
“Can I try it out?” Sam asked, trying to hide her excitement.
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” Avi indicated towards the suit and stepped behind a changing curtain.
In less than half a second, Sam had fully changed into her new suit. She put the helmet on, and instantly the HUD lit up. The HUD had more detail than she was used to—yes, there was the standard speedometer, vitals display, and map that she could drop points onto. But there was also a communications readout. A weather readout. And something else she didn’t recognize.
“What’s this last one, by the vitals?” Sam asked. Avi tapped a button on the side of her helmet.
“If you need to talk to anyone off comms, hit that button to toggle your noise-canceling headphones. That last display is how many calories you’ve burned. I figured it’d come in handy to be able to track how much longer you can go before you starve to death, given how fast your metabolism runs. There’s a dispenser for the calorie injections Raves designed for you right by the plate on your left bicep, so that you can refuel when you need to. Your belt has a pouch that can store up to eight of them.”
“Any features for my hibernation, if I ever need to sleep in the suit?” Avi looked surprised.
“I… didn’t think of that. I’ll make sure that’s in the first software update we run.”
Sam nodded. Sure, the suit had all the bells and whistles she’d come to expect from a professionally made suit. But there was still one thing she wanted to see.
“Can I give it a test drive?” Sam asked.
“Don’t go more than five hundred miles. We still haven’t uploaded all the first gen software into it.”
Sam grinned. “You got it.”
THE END
Hope you guys enjoyed getting to know Sam a bit better!
You find your small, isolated village suddenly under attack. Can the powerful hero Raven save the day, or is all hope lost? Raven, AKA Daniela Ortéga, is one of my favorite characters in the Olympiansuniverse– she’s actually the mother of the main character in the novel I’m working on! So, you guys will definitely get to see more of her, one way or another. But for now, buckle up and enjoy the ride.
Raven, Vol. 1
The acrid smoke burns your lungs as you sprint for cover, small explosions blasting you with fragments of rock and sand. Your ears ring from the concussive blasts, but you can still make out the sharp rattle of guns firing. You knew guns were loud, but you had no idea they were this loud. They weren’t this loud in the movies.
Finally, you find some shelter. You’re not sure which of your neighbors’ house it is; you’ve lost track of where everything is in the fray. But it doesn’t matter. It’s cover. It’s protection. At least, you hope it is.
You try to steady your racing heart, try to catch your breath. But it’s no use. Panic has gripped you like a vice. It’s all you can do not to curl up and cry. The war wasn’t supposed to come here. Your village is too remote, too far from the fighting. Why would anyone want to fight here? There’s nothing of use to anyone. Just some goats and chickens and a few dozen people. There’s nothing anyone would want.
Over the sharp, repetitive cracks of gunfire and through the ringing in your ears, you hear a whistling sound getting louder and louder. You’ve heard the stories about that sound—mortar fire. Death from above. The house next to the one you’ve hunkered down in explodes; the force of it blasting away most of the house you’re in and forcing the air from your lungs as you’re pelted with pieces of plaster and wood.
You curl up tighter and say a prayer. You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that you probably won’t make it out of this alive. There’s no one here to help you, nothing to save you from this situation.
That’s when you see her slowly descending from the sky like an avenging goddess, clad in her jet-black armor. Raven. You’ve heard tales of her before and seen her on your television. But those always seemed like stories. Fiction. You never actually believed half of what Raven could do was true. There was no arguing that Muts existed; you’d seen them with your own two eyes. You didn’t believe Raven could be as powerful as they said, though. No one could have that power.
But here she was, descending from the sky. All the invaders turn their attention towards her, firing their guns and their explosives at her. To your amazement, she just casually reaches out, stopping everything in its path.
“Everything will be okay. I’ve got you,” you hear inside your head. How could everything be okay, though? You’ve just watched your village get destroyed, your friends killed. “Yes, but you’re still alive. And I’m going to make sure it stays that way.”
Could Raven hear what you were thinking? Was she the voice you heard in your head? You’ve heard the stories, but why should you have believed them?
“There’s a river two kilometers to the southwest of the village. When I say so, I want you all to run there as fast as you can. I’ll cover you all.”
You know the river well—you grew up washing in it, cleaning your clothes in it, fishing in it. What safety is a river supposed to bring you right now, though? It’s too deep to walk across, and too wide to swim in a short time.
“It’ll be okay. Trust me.”
What other choice do you have but to trust her? She’s holding back a small army’s worth of bullets and explosives with nothing but her mind. Your only other alternative is to stay curled up where you are and pray that you somehow make it through, unlikely as that would be.
“Okay, everyone. On three. One… Two… THREE!”
You run faster than you’ve ever run in your life. You take a glance back over your shoulder. Raven stands there, right at the edge of your village, her hands outstretched. Bullets shatter against an invisible wall she’s erected with her mind, her face hard with a stern concentration.
Your village quickly fades from view as you run down the hill towards the river. Your sides and feet are aching, but you need to keep running. You need to ignore the thousand tiny cuts and bruises from the explosions. You’ll have time to feel later. Right now, you need to run. Right now, you need to survive.
You find several of your friends and neighbors once you reach the riverbanks. They’re all as breathless as you are. All as terrified as you.
“What are we to do now?” one asks you.
“Where can we go?” asks another.
They all look to you for guidance. But you have nothing to say. No answers. You’re just as lost as they are, just as hopeless. You open your mouth, trying to find something to say to ease their fears. Anything. But no words will come to you.
The sound of gunfire and bombs seems so much more distant now. Now that you’re not standing in the thick of it. But you still feel the weight of it. The sorrow. As you look around, it hits you how few of you there are standing around. Not even an hour ago, there were almost a hundred people in your village. Now, fewer than twenty are standing here with you.
Then, as quickly as it began, the gunfire stops. The explosions stop. You strain to hear what’s going on, but all that there is is the sound of running water and your friends consoling each other in hushed tones. There’s no one to console you, no one for you to console. You just stand there looking as lost as you feel.
A figure emerges from over the hill. It’s Raven. There isn’t a scratch on her.
She slowly makes her way down the hill towards all of you and takes off her helmet. She’s younger than you thought she would be—by the looks of it, she isn’t even thirty. If it were under different circumstances, you might even have thought she was pretty, with light brown skin, dark brown almond-shaped eyes, thick, wavy black hair, a wide nose, and a slim, wiry build. But you’re not thinking about that right now.
You walk over to her hesitantly. You want to thank her, but you don’t know how. How do you thank someone for saving your life? For saving your friends’ lives?
“Miss Raven, I would like to offer my most sincere gratitude—” you start, in broken English.
“—Daniela,” she interrupts. “You can call me Daniela. Daniela Ortéga.” You nod.
“Miss Ortéga, I would like to offer my most sincere gratitude. I don’t know how I will ever be able to repay you,” you say, stumbling over your words. She merely holds up a hand to stop you with en easy-going grin on her face.
“Please, it’s what I do. You don’t have to repay me for anything. I’ll see to it that the damage team helps you and your friends get back up on your feet. Who’s the best person here for me to coordinate that with?” she says.
“Me. I am,” you say. She nods, pulling out a business card from a small pouch around her waist, and hands it to you.
“Here are the people you want to contact. If you need a phone, I can help you get that figured out before I head out.” You nod, and she pulls out a large cell phone and hands it to you. You look at her, hands trembling.
“Please, Miss Ortéga, I must repay you somehow—”
“—No,” she says, her voice adamant, putting a gloved hand on your arm. “You guys are safe now, and that’s enough for me. Got it?” You nod nervously.
“Will they come back? Are we safe for good now?” you ask after a moment.
“Their cell knows you’re under the protection of The Olympians now. They won’t be coming back anytime soon. And if they do, I programed our emergency info into that phone. We can have a local team on site within an hour.” You nod. “Anything else?”
Suddenly, it hits you just how tired you are. Your limbs all feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, and everything hurts. You shake your head and she smiles at you, giving you a pat on the arm.
“You guys are gonna get back up on your feet. I’ll make sure of it. It won’t be easy, and getting through this trauma is gonna take time, but eventually you guys are gonna be okay.”
Hope you guys enjoyed the story! You’ll definitely get to see more of Daniela in the future.
Short story time! Today you guys get a short story about one of my very favorite characters in my current work in progress, several years before it takes place. Today you guys get to meet Claire Kimura, the Kitsune. She’s one of the most powerful Muts (a group of super-powered people, or ‘mutants’) to have ever been on the Olympians. It’s a lot of fun writing for Claire, you’ll probably get to see more of her here and there.
Kitsune (Vol. 1)
Claire Kimura sat on the bench of the dropship, feeling the rhythmic thrum of its engines. A twenty-three-year-old daughter of two Japanese immigrants, she was the first Mut in her family to be a member of a vigilante team. And not just any team. The Olympians. The most well-known, most prestigious team in the world.
She opened her eyes, running a gloved hand through her close-shorn jet-black hair, and tightened the straps on her harness. It never escaped her how the benches were always built for someone considerably larger than her slight frame. Ryan Powell, a forty-something tall, muscular man with lightly tanned skin, blond hair, and piercing blue eyes, the team leader, stood near the jump door, barking instructions to the team. She could see his mouth just enough to make out something about ‘not handing,’ whatever that was supposed to mean.
Claire knocked on her teammate, Vanessa Johnson’s shoulder plate, a very slender, average-height dark-skinned Black woman in her early forties, nodding towards Powell. She was Powell’s second in command, a fearsome woman who could shatter steel with just her voice. Johnson nodded back at her, signing what Powell had said for Claire.
“Drop time two minutes. Everyone, prepare your gear and get ready for a hot landing. Remember the plan. Anyone have questions?” Claire nodded in thanks.
“What’s the situation on the thunderstorm?” she signed. Johnson relayed her question to Powell.
“Why do you think there’s a hot landing?” he replied. She grinned devilishly, rapping the golden nine-tailed kitsune insignia on her left chest plate twice. Her namesake. A thunderstorm is always a good sign, she thought. Not that the mission should be hard. Provide cover for the team to get into the compound, rescue the governor, and get back out. Should be five minutes. Ten, tops.
The red light next to the jump door flashed three times, then turned green. All eleven of them that were seated stood up, grabbing onto the handgrips suspended above them.
“I guess we’re jumping early,” she signed.
“Guess so. Helmet up,” Johnson signed. Claire pulled on her hair-sock and her helmet, tapping a button on the side to activate the HUD. Instantly, her faceplate lit up with her vital signs, tags for all her teammates, weather conditions, and so much more. The information was almost enough to be overwhelming. A blue indicator light popped up in the upper left hand of her HUD. She opened it with her eyes.
“Drop order: Kimura, Johnson, Winston, Gold, Mendelssohn, Delgado, Chao, Kovalenko, Adjei, Perez, DeAngelo, then me. Kimura, light the area up on your way down; don’t let them get off any shots at us,” Powell said. Claire grinned wickedly as all twelve of them formed a line. She was the vanguard. Just where I want to be, she thought, without a hint of sarcasm.
The jump door opened, and the green light flashed three times. Claire rapped twice more on her kitsune insignia for luck, then dove head-first out the jump door without a second thought, a look of pure exhilaration on her face. She watched altimeter on her HUD rapidly count down, then closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the wind ripping through her armor.
Right as the altimeter hit three thousand feet, her eyes shot open, crackling with yellow electricity. Claire extended her hands, using the Earth’s electromagnetic field to slow her descent. She then reached out with her mind, feeling for the static electricity building up in the air. It was a lesson she’d learned long ago. You had to gently coax the electricity. You couldn’t force yourself onto it. Not if you wanted it to cooperate with you.
She willed it into a bubble around her, firing out arcs towards the ground, creating a flak screen for her teammates to land in. She had complete control of every volt. Not a single arc would go where she didn’t want it to.
As she landed gently, she reached out again, feeling the static build in the surrounding air. The militia opened fire on her, but their bullets dissolved in the force field the static electricity around her was creating. Arcs fingered towards each of them. Claire was careful not to hit anyone- she wasn’t here to kill anyone, just provide cover for the rest of the team to make it inside the compound. Another blue indicator pupped up on her HUD.
“Kimura, watch out for the group approaching from the south-west, about one klick out. Overwatch says it’s around fifty or so. I’ll drop the coordinates on your HUD,” the readout from Powell said, a blinking red indicator popping up on the mini-map to the lower right side of her display. Claire grinned. Fifty will be fun. She closed her eyes, feeling the static building up in the air above her.
One out of every ten thousand Muts, give or take, had the ability to harness electricity. Electricity you had to be gentle with. If you wanted it to do your bidding, you had to work with it. Not against it. It was like a river- it needed to flow, you just could try to direct where. But lightning was something else. Lightning was chaotic, random. It had no sense of direction, no sense of purpose. Lightning was just untapped chaos. And if you wanted to control it, you had to dominate it completely.
Out of those one in ten thousand, only a dozen or so had that ability.
And she was one of them.
Her eyes flew open, electricity crackling through them. She reached up to the sky, feeling a familiar tug in her gut. With a cry, she ripped a massive bolt of lightning from the sky, scattering the approaching militia forces. The force from the thunder was enough to shatter the surrounding windows, the shattering glass dissolving in her static bubble. She felt the blast reverberate through her whole body. Imagine how bad I’d be out if I could hear, she thought, grinning.
“Militia scattered,” she signed, her armor’s motion trackers interpreting her signing into text for the rest of the team to read.
“Good job. We’ll be out in ninety seconds. Hot exit,” Powell said. When isn’t it? she thought. Claire glanced at the mini-map on her HUD, tracking the Olympians’ path towards the LZ she had laid a marker down on. She might have to get a little aggressive, maybe risk sending a few of the militia members to the ICU. But the thought of a few less of the skinheads out there wasn’t a thought that sat poorly with her.
Claire ran towards the spot she marked, careful to keep her static bubble around her. She wasn’t bulletproof, after all. She wasn’t the legendary La Fortaleza. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. This was the part she hated. Landing, she could always know exactly what was around her, who was where. But once she was on the move, the entire map shifted. She never knew who was approaching from behind. There was no way for her to know if someone was flanking her.
Three militia members popped out in front of her, about a hundred feet away or so. Close enough that she could see the 88 badges on their vests, far enough she couldn’t make out the details of their faces. But it didn’t matter. With a running windmill kick, she sent a three-pronged arc of electricity hurtling at them. They instantly crumpled when it made contact. Good.
Just as she rounded a corner, a young man with a swastika tattooed on his neck, holding a large rifle, jumped out. He was pointing his gun at her and shouting wildly. She could read his lips just well enough to gather something about surroundings. Looking around, she saw over a dozen of his fellow militia members slowly surrounding her.
Claire took a deep breath, trying to keep her nerves from betraying her. They were too close for her bubble to have any effect. But she had trained for this. This wasn’t a situation she couldn’t handle.
She quickly dropped into a full sweep kick, a whip of electricity arcing off her leg, knocking everyone off their feet. Before any of them had a chance to react, she reached up, ripping a lightning bolt into her body. It wasn’t nearly as powerful as the last bolt- that much electricity would fry even her. But it was enough. Dispersing it out from her body in a wave, she sent everyone flying. Whether they were dead or unconscious, she didn’t know, and cared even less.
Another blue indicator.
“Waiting on you, Kimura. ETA?” Powell asked.
“Ninety seconds,” she signed, taking off towards the LZ.
Reaching the dropship, Claire saw Powell waving for her to hurry furiously. She saw Delgado gripping Winston’s leg like a vice, blood soaking through her gloves. He had been hit. Of course it had to be him. The one Olympian who had any sort of healing mut.
She jumped onto the dropship, and Powell turned to the pilot, yelling something.
“Hey, bud, you gonna be okay?” she signed.
“Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll be okay. Johnson’s on the line with Hernandez back at the tower for the Healers,” Winston signed back.
“Make sure they take good care of you. We need our team Healer,” she signed, grinning. His body shook with laughter.
“Hey, Kimura, don’t make me laugh. That hurts.”
“That’s what you get for being shot.” Winston said something to Delgado, who rolled her eyes. She could read just enough of what he was saying to get something about sympathy. Either that or something about someone named Cathy. Delgado’s reply was completely unreadable. If Claire had to guess, she was probably speaking Spanish.
“Ana María says to be nice to me, I just got shot,” he signed.
“And I got shot last week. Are you really saying a little five-foot nothing girl is tougher than you?”
“Yes.”
“Then yeah, you’re right,” she signed, grinning at him.
I told you guys it was a special week! You get not one, but two original stories. The lasttwo stories you guys have gotten are from the universe I’m building for a future project. But today is even more special- today you guys get the origin story to one of the characters in my main work in progress. Today, you get to join Samantha Bianchi on a breakneck race for the title of World’s Fastest Mut. Will she win, or should she try again when she’s older and more experienced?
Olympians logo design by Anna Maeve Ellis
The Race
The locker room was hot and muggy and smelled of body spray and old gym shoes. Sam sat on the bench running down a row of lockers, tapping her foot anxiously. She was fourteen; short and pretty, with olive skin, hazel eyes, and ragged, dark brown hair that barely met her shoulders. Empty bags and boxes of various snack foods surrounded her as she frantically ate the last box of Oreos as quickly as she was able.
“Ten minutes to go. You should get ready,” she heard her twin sister, Emily, say in her head. Sometimes the psychic bond the two of them shared drove her crazy. Right now, it was a comfort.
“Less than half a second to get dressed, and only around fifteen seconds to get there. I’m good.”
“Don’t wear yourself out getting there. Save some juice for the race. Remember, Hummel is gonna be there too. And every single Olympian is gonna be observing, too.” She gulped nervously. Drew Hummel, the Jackrabbit, the fastest man alive; the second fastest to have ever lived. Logically, she knew Hummel would be racing- this was, after all, the Fastest Man Alive race. It merely hadn’t occurred to her he’d actually be racing. She supposed she should take an extra minute to get ready.
She flitted over to her locker. Her nerves made it take seven failed attempts at opening the lock before she decided simply to grab it and vibrate her hand until it fell to pieces and pulled out her running suit. It was a spandex speed skating suit she’d coated in silica fabric she’d pilfered from the scrap piles at one of the local factories near her hometown of Paterson, with ceramic plating she’d spent countless hours taking pottery classes after school for, attached to it like an exoskeleton.
It wasn’t much to look at, but she’d learned that normal clothes either melted or burned from the heat created from her running. She’d learned that the hard way and had the scars to prove it. At least she’d thought to paint it blue, her favorite color. The little smirking devil emblazoned on the left breast was courtesy of Em.
It took her less than a second to get changed, and less than fifteen seconds later she was four miles away at the USS Midway, where the race would start in San Diego, California, with its finish in Rochester, New York.
It was what the locals would consider chilly outside that day. Although, being from New Jersey, she more than welcomed the sixty-degree temperatures in the middle of January. She came screeching to a halt right outside the museum’s entrance, where several hundred people had gathered, most waving flags with their favorite speedster’s insignia or wearing their apparel.
More than half were displaying some sort of Jackrabbit paraphernalia. But not a single Blue Devil anywhere. This is more than a little intimidating, she thought. But why should anyone know who I am? I’m no one. Not yet.
Looking around, she spotted a few desks of people in official Raves Fastest Man gear registering racers. She flitted over to the nearest booth, right next to the start line; a dotted line only a foot or two in front of a massive two-story tall solid concrete block.
“Name?” the fifty-something woman at the desk asked without even looking up.
“Samantha. Samantha Bianchi.” The woman scanned through her list, circling her name.
“Age?”
“Fourteen.” Pause. Another scribble.
“Occupation?”
“Uh… high school?” Scribble.
“Any secondary mutation?”
“A psychic link with my sister.” Another pause. Then another scribble.
“Grab a number.” Sam grabbed a number placard and pinned it to her abdomen. “Do you have a helmet, mask, or other face covering?”
“… No. Should I?”
“If you don’t have a helmet, we have goggles and face coverings in a bin by the start line for competitors to borrow. The goggles are connected to GPS and will monitor your speed, as well as show you the approved route. Any major deviation from said route will result in your disqualification. Any tampering with another competitor’s equipment will result in your disqualification. And physical interference of any sort with another competitor will result in your disqualification. Do you understand?”
“Yes?” The woman, still without looking up once, pulled out three forms and a pen.
“Please sign this form here to show that you have had the rules verbally explained to you and that you agree. Sign this form here, to agree that any injury, no matter how slight or grievous, obtained during the race, is not the fault of Raves Industries. Last, sign this form here to agree to partake in any publicity Raves Industries may require you for, and or have your photo and or likeness used in any future promotional materials or other publicities.” Sam signed all three forms.
“Is this, like, legally binding or anything? Cuz I’m under eighteen.”
“California state courts have ruled that the Fastest Man Alive race is a form of entertainment, and therefore minors can, in a limited capacity, enter into contracts.”
“… Oh. Okay.”
“The speaker system will announce thirty seconds, ten seconds, and then the final five seconds will be counted down on the HUD on your goggles. Do you have any other questions?”
“Uh… nope. No. Not really.” Sam then realized just how hungry she was. She had had nothing to eat in nearly five minutes, and the hunger was nearly unbearable. “Oh, wait. Yeah. Do you have any food?” They have to have something, right? After all, everyone else competing is another speedster. The woman rolled her eyes and sighed. I bet she’s gotten that more than a few times already.
“Right next to the goggles and face covering bin, there’s a snack bin. Take up to three items.”
“Great. Thanks.” She flitted over to the two bins. Grabbing the three biggest bags of the most calorie-dense candies she was able to find, she scarfed them down as quickly as she could. She searched through the goggles and face coverings bin, trying to find the smallest ones she was able to. Even those were loose-fitting.
And then she spotted him. Drew Hummel, surrounded by an entourage. He was even taller and more handsome in person than in photos. Her heart raced. She had to introduce herself to him. She just had to.
“Hey, Em, what’s my record again?” she asked her sister.
“I have no idea; you broke that radar you stole from that base at fifty-three hundred.”
“Hummel’s record is like sixty-five hundred, right?”
“A little less, but yeah.” Sam grinned. She bet she could take him.
“Think I have a chance?”
“Sixty-five hundred is the speed to beat.” She snorted.
“Thanks for not answering.”
“Bitch please, you know you can beat him. Who knows, maybe you’ll even beat your precious Varma one day.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice…” Putting on a brave smile, she walked over to Hummel and extended her hand.
“Hi, Mr. Hummel, I’m Samantha Bianchi. It’s an honor to meet you.” He slowly turned from his entourage, smiling at her. He looked down and slowly shook her hand. Fuck, how is he so cool? And calm? I wish I could be cool and calm like that.
“Ms. Bianchi. It’s always nice to meet a fan,” he said with a sly, practiced smile. Fan?! She supposed she was, but still. It stung. She was here to compete with him. To beat him.
“Actually, I’m also a racer.” She tried to match his grin, but somehow, she sensed it wasn’t as natural as his. He looked surprised.
“Really? How old are you?”
“I’m fourteen.” She smiled as broadly and confidently as she was capable of. She noted the snickers and not-so-quiet snide comments from his entourage. They wouldn’t shake her. She could do this. Watch and see them laughing after the race is over, she thought, grinning wider to hide her annoyance.
“Fourteen, wow. What’s your top speed?”
“I broke the radar.” He nodded slowly.
“You know, Sally, was it?”
“Samantha.”
“Well, Sandra, almost every one of us here has broken the radar guns. Now, I’m sure you’re the fastest kid in your grade, but this is the big leagues here. So, just try to stay back and don’t choke on our dust. Okay, sweetheart?” Oh, he did not just call me sweetheart. She clenched her jaw.
“Easy, Sam,” Em said.
“Did you just hear him?!”
“Sam, you know I can hear everything you can. Just disengage.”
“You know I have no idea how to do that. Can’t you take over?
“You sure?” She felt her clenched fist shaking with anger.
“I know you can feel how much I want to hit him.”
“Fair enough.” A warmth flush through her whole body as Em’s consciousness rushed into her mind.
“I’ll do my best. Thank you very much for your kind words,” Em said through Sam’s mouth, adding a sweet, innocent smile to top it all off, before skipping off to the start line.
“I think that might’ve been just a bit much,” she thought, as Em’s consciousness faded from the forefront of her mind.
“Hey, you were the one who put me in charge.”
“Bitch.”
“Love you too. Now, no distractions. See you in Rochester.”
“See you in Rochester.”
“Thirty seconds to go. All competitors, please make sure you’re at the starting line and that your goggles and face coverings have been secured,” a voice crackled over the PA system. She realized that everyone not a competitor had moved several hundred feet away from the start line. That’s gotta be for their own safety, she figured. Sam put on her goggles and secured her face covering. Oh, that’s so neat, she thought, as a computerized HUD illuminated the goggles. There was a readout for everything- temperature, speed, body temperature, even wind speed. There was also a translucent blue line running right down the middle of the road. No matter how she turned her head, it always stayed the same. That must be the GPS guidance.
“Ten seconds to go. All competitors to ready.” She braced herself against the massive concrete block, crouching into a ready position.
“You got this. Remember, sixty-five hundred is the speed to beat.”
“Sixty-five hundred.”
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
BOOM!
Sam kicked off from the concrete hard. The force was enough to cause a massive crack to run all the way through it. She didn’t look to see how many other competitors had cracked the wall. That didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore now. Nothing except that blue line and sixty-five hundred.
The city quickly faded, and in no time all that there was around her was desert. The running was hypnotic. Surroundings flew by so fast even she, with her enhanced perception, was barely able to keep track. All that she heard was the continuous thunder of the sonic boom she made. She kept half an eye on her speedometer- rising fast with no hint of slowing. There was a small rush of satisfaction as she blew right past fifty-three hundred miles per hour.
Barely a couple minutes later, when she blew right through Phoenix, she realized she’d completely outstripped most of the other runners. Only five remained in front of her, with Hummel at the lead. I don’t care about all the others. I want to beat him. Peeking up at the speedometer, she saw she was hovering even around six thousand.
But she didn’t feel tired. She knew she had more. Blasting through Albuquerque, the only person left in front of her was Hummel. How much more would she be able to push it?
She laid it all out, seeing the speedometer inching up until she and Hummel were neck-and-neck at just under sixty-five thousand. Sixty-five hundred is the speed to beat, she repeated to herself over and over.
Passing by town after town after town, the landscape quickly transitioned from the yellows and reds of desert to open fields with sparse smatterings of trees. But she still couldn’t pass Hummel.
Sixty-five hundred is the speed to beat.
Sixty-five hundred is the speed to beat.
Sam looked over at Hummel, neck-and-neck with him. He looked back over at her. And he looked angry. Angry and straining.
But Sam wasn’t straining at all. For her, it was just pure exhilaration, and the wind in her hair.
Sixty-five hundred is the speed to beat.
She laid it on, and the speedometer slowly began to rise again.
Sixty-five hundred.
Sixty-six hundred.
Sixty-seven hundred.
Beat his ass. Beat his fucking ass, she thought. I can’t just beat him. If I just beat him, then I’m the little girl who got lucky. Grind his fucking ass into the dirt.
“Quick- Jiera Varma. Seventy-one hundred, right?” she asked Em.
“One second.”
“I’m moving at almost sixty-eight hundred miles per hour. I don’t have a second!”
“Okay, according to Raves databases- ‘Jiera Varma, the fastest human to have ever lived, 1949 through 1993, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, seven thousand one hundred nineteen.’” Sam gritted her teeth. Would she be able to do it? Well, coach always says go big or go home.
Seventy-one hundred is the speed to beat.
Pouring it on, her muscles protested. She was getting tired. She’d been running full tilt for almost ten minutes. The running was so hypnotic, she barely perceived blowing right through St. Louis and running straight across the Mississippi River.
Seventy-one hundred is the speed to beat.
The air grew colder and colder. Each breath hit her lungs like a freight train. Every muscle in her body was screaming at her. She took a quick glance over her shoulder and was pretty sure she saw Hummel catching up to her. But maybe it was just her imagination. She wasn’t sure in the heat of it all.
Seventy-one hundred is the speed to beat.
Sixty-nine hundred.
Seventy-one hundred is the speed to beat.
Seven thousand.
Seventy-one hundred is the speed to beat.
Her legs screamed in protest. Every mile per hour added was torture.
But she had to.
All or nothing.
“Be careful, Sam. I feel how tired you’re getting.”
“I… can… do… this!”
Seventy-one hundred is the speed to beat.
With a scream of defiance, she poured everything she had out. She didn’t even make note of the speedometer anymore.
All she saw was the path directly ahead of her, illuminated by the blue line. She couldn’t even feel her legs anymore.
She couldn’t feel anything.
All she felt was the rhythmic pounding of her heart, beating over a thousand times per minute.
All she heard was the roar of the sonic boom.
Bright red flashed across her HUD, warning her that the finish line was in fifty miles. She couldn’t slow down, though. She had to win. Even if no one would be able to catch up to her, she had to beat Varma’s record.
Another warning. Ten miles.
She didn’t even see the crowds as she plowed right through the finish line, running right into the Genesee River, using the water to stop her momentum. As soon as she hit the water, all her ceramic plating, which she had spent so many hours lovingly crafting, shattered to pieces as they instantly went from glowing red-hot to meeting icy water.
The cold water hit her like a truck, and she instantly her body seized up. Oh, fuck.
She couldn’t move her arms or her legs and quickly realized she was sinking rapidly.
“Em…” she pleaded as her head sunk below the water.
But then, a million invisible hands lifted her gently out of the water and placed her just as carefully on the icy banks of the river. She wasn’t sure if she hallucinated it, but she thought she saw Em floating down from the crowd above to her before she passed out.
Sam slowly came to, lying on a cot.
The first thing she noticed was an overwhelming sensation of hunger. Judging by the intensity, it had to have been at least an hour since she’d last eaten.
The second thing she noticed was that someone had peeled off the outer layer of her suit and laid it next to her, the shattered ceramic barely holding onto the half-shredded silica fabric. There was a small twinge of sadness at the loss of the suit she had put so many hours into crafting. But it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be replaced. She was fast enough to find whatever she would need.
The last thing she noticed was the roar of the cheering crowd. She groaned. Hummel must have passed her without her realizing, somehow.
She slowly sat up, muscles groaning in protest. A handful of medics attended to more than three times as many other competitors. At least I’m not the only one who burned out.
“Hey, you’re awake. How’re you feeling?” Em asked her.
“Sore. And hungry. Where are you?”
“They wouldn’t let me in to see you.”
“Hey, does anyone have a snack?” she called out. One medic, a woman somewhere in her forties whose nametag identified her as Brenda, looked over at her and hurried over.
“Hey there, sweetie, how are you feeling?” Brenda asked.
“Hungry.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. Brenda smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder.
“There’s a snack table over by the entrance. And I think you’ll want to head outside as soon as you’re able to.” Sam nodded with a small smile, slowly getting to her feet. I suppose it’s time to congratulate Hummel on his win today.
“I’ll be out in a minute, Em.”
“Thanks.” Sam hobbled over to the door, pulling open the curtain —
“—Listen, before you head outside—”
—Only to be instantly greeted with dozens of flashing cameras, and countless microphones being shoved in her face, countless reporters instantly bombarding her with questions she wasn’t able to catch over the chaos of it all. She barely made out Em’s voice in the back of her head trying to tell her something, but with all the chaos, she wasn’t able to make out what her sister was trying to tell her. A hand grabbed her, pulling her back from the mob. The hand belonged to a pretty young woman not much taller than her, with long, braided black hair, pale skin, large, hooded dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline.
“My name is Christina Liu. I’ve been assigned to be your new manager and handle your publicity,” the young woman said.
“Manager? Publicity?” Sam asked, dazed.
“Given the circumstances, Raves Industries figured it would be best, and I jumped at the chance to offer my services.”
“Sam.”
“Circumstances? What circumstances?” Sam was just more and more confused as one thing after another was thrown at her with no explanation. What place had she come in? What place had Hummel come in? What about any of the other competitors?
“Come on, let’s go talk to the press now,” Christina said, grabbing her arm again and walking her over to a podium. The young woman stayed glued to her side. “Yes, you, from NTVN.”
“Sam!”
“Ms. Bianchi, how does it feel to now hold the all-time record for fastest Mut in history?” the reporter asked. The question hit her like a ton of bricks. Me? Fastest human in history? That’s got to be a mistake, right?
“I, uh, I—” she stammered.
“Is today’s top speed of seven thousand, seven hundred and eighty-one miles per hour your personal record, or have you achieved faster speeds in practicing for the race?” asked another reporter. Seven thousand, seven hundred and eighty-one miles per hour? That would mean —
“—Jiera Varma previously held the record for fastest Mut in history at seven thousand, one hundred and nineteen miles per hour. How does it feel to have beaten her speed?” asked another. Sam blinked, at a loss for words.
“You finished the race in first place with a record-setting time of sixteen minutes and fifty-one seconds. How do you feel?” another reporter asked. She turned to Christina, confused.
“I… I won?” Someone who looked identical to her was pushing their way through the crowd, making their way to the front. It was Em. Finally. She flitted over to her, pulling her past the last of the reporters. Em wrapped her arms around her tightly.
“Please tell me what’s going on,” Sam said.
“You’re gonna want to hear it out loud.”
“Then say it.” Em took half a step back, looking right into her eyes, sharing with her psychically her memories of watching the live satellite footage of the race.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, dumbass. You won. You beat Hummel. You beat Varma. You won.” Sam blinked slowly. Through Em’s eyes, she saw herself easily beat Hummel, barely past Santa Fe. She watched the distance between them grow greater and greater, entire states between the two of them as the race went on. She watched herself cross the finish line more than a full minute ahead of him.
“I beat Hummel?” She still couldn’t believe it.
“And Varma.”
“So, who do I beat now?” she asked, dumbstruck.
“Yourself,” said Christina. “The only person left for you to beat now is you.”
THE END
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Hey y’all, welcome back. This week is a special week. This week, both posts will be original works of fiction! “The Relighting” is a short story from a universe I’ve been developing for a future project, the same one that the previous short I posted is from. A word of warning for the faint of heart, this is not a G-rated story. I’m not sure I’d label it a hard R, but maybe like a soft R, high PG-13. It’s got some elements of blood and violence.
“The Relighting”
The light from the bonfires crackled in Coira’s violet eyes as she swayed to the music, standing on the outskirts of the celebration. At thirty years old, she still had the mind and body of what humans would consider to be that of a teenager, as the elves aged at roughly half the speed they did. And at thirty, this would be her last year to be eligible for the boru’achai, the most honorable way to serve the Old Gods, until she turned one hundred and twenty-four. Much to her chagrin, she had been passed up for the opportunity, which would instead go to her best friend, Ealasaid.
She looked around the festivities to see if she could find her friend, but Ealasaid was nowhere to be found. With a pout, Coira figured she was probably being cleansed and prepared. The process was long and intensive, involving being bathed in the Sacred Lake, having your hair shorn off, and then being fitted with the finest jewelry and intricate body art, before being fed hallucinogenic plants from the Sunken Forest, and then having your senses dulled with alcohol. All to strengthen your connection to the Old Gods.
As much as it stung that Ealasaid had been picked, and not her, she wouldn’t let the disappointment get to her. Ealasaid would be honored, and she needed to be happy for her friend. It would, after all, be the last time she saw her friend. Ealasaid, along with one of the clan’s elders, would have the honor of being sacrificed to the Old Gods to ensure the new year would be prosperous, with a good harvest, and no troubles from the Naedyrians or Pantal, nor anything else. So, she pushed down her disappointment and put on a smile, making her way towards the festivities.
Coira could feel the beating of the drums in her bones as she made her way into the massive stone circle, its towering monoliths of granite three times as tall as anyone else. The beating of the drums becoming louder and louder, she couldn’t help but join in the tribe’s frenzied dancing. Everyone was flailing their drunken bodies around wildly. Many of them had long since shed their clothes, naked bodies glistening with sweat in the light from the fires. Heart pounding with exuberance, she couldn’t help but let out a trilling whoop as she threw her body every which way.
Then, Tomag, the clan elder, stepped up onto the platform that lay in the center of the circle. He raised his hands slowly, and the drums beat faster and faster, everyone’s dancing growing more and more frenzied, until all at once the drums stopped.
“Sach’meah clan, elves of Morai, today is the winter solstice. Today, the Relighting, marks the end of one year, and the birth of the new. We have had our feast, we have had our festivities, and now it is time for the boru’achai. Tonight, we bring forth a new year of plenty and prosperity! Tonight, we honor the Old Gods, and gain their blessing! Tonight, we perform the sacred boru’achai!” he exclaimed, growing more and more animated as he spoke. By the time he finished speaking, Coira could barely hear him above the roar of the crowd. Without his magical amplification, his voice would have been completely lost in the excitement.
The feeling was contagious, and before she knew it, Coira was shouting and whooping with everyone else. The drumming started back up; a fast rhythmic beat Coira could feel resonate through her whole body. Then Tomag quickly raised both his hands again, and the drumming and shouting stopped all at once.
Coira’s mother, Maighread, the clan’s moiroch, or emissary to the Old Gods, led out a lamb and an elderly bull. Coira’s two older sisters, Shona and Innes, followed her, each carrying a long, thin, curved knife made of bronze, enchanted with Old Magic by the Serilians themselves. All three were clothed in plain long white dresses, with a thin golden belt and golden serpentine bracelets. Coira wasn’t sure who she was more jealous of- Ealasaid for being selected for the boru’achai, or Shona and Innes for the chance to help her mother with the early stages of the ceremony.
Her mother brought the lamb and bull into the center of the circle, handing the lamb to Shona and the bull to Innes. She stepped up onto the platform with Tomag.
“Tonight, for the Relighting, we close the old year with the gift of one who has been spent,” she said, her voice ringing through the crowd. “Innes, the bull.”
Innes carefully led the bull up the platform to her mother. She handed her the lead and her silver-handled knife, head bowed in respect. Her mother raised the knife into the air for everyone to see before slitting the bull’s throat. The bull immediately collapsed, its warm scarlet blood quickly soaking the platform and surrounding ground. Not a sound was made by anyone in the crowd. Everyone was transfixed on Maighread.
“We thank you for the years of service you have given us, and for your sacrifice, which will ensure that future generations may prosper,” her mother said quietly into the bull’s ear. She carefully handed the silver-handled knife to Tomag, before beckoning to Shona to bring her the lamb and her gold-handled knife.
“Tonight, for the Relighting, we open the new year with the gift of one who is new to this world,” Maighread said. With one quick motion, she slit the lamb’s throat, and as it collapsed, she leaned down to whisper in its ear. “We thank you for the years you have sacrificed to us to ensure that others may thrive.”
She handed the gold-handled knife to Tomag again, before exiting the platform herself, her white dress now stained bright red. The crowd started to cheer once again before Tomag held up his hands to silence everyone. All Coira could hear was the slight rustle of the trees a few hundred meters away.
“And now… the boru’achai!” he proclaimed. The drums started again, a slow, deliberate beating. Coira looked around, desperate to see Ealasaid. Then, she spotted her being led to the platform by Ealasaid’s father, her hands bound. She looked beautiful; her auburn hair shorn close to her scalp. Elaborate golden necklaces and bracelets inlaid with rubies and sapphires and emeralds adorned her neck and wrists. Intricate blue, red, and gold body paint and runes decorated her naked body. Her usually vibrant but now glassy amethyst-colored eyes were accentuated with gold paint, delicate strands of gold wire wrapped around her long, pointed ears.
One of the clan elders, Veren, was being led up as well by his son, hands also bound. Veren had once been a proud and valiant warrior, but age had gotten the better of him. He was similarly adorned in the finest of gold jewelry, inlaid with the rarest of gems, his naked body painted in green, orange, and silver, with similar runes painted onto him as well. Once the four reached the platform, they stopped at its base. Tomag looked at Ealasaid and the elder carefully. Coira noted that both Ealasaid’s father, as well as Veren’s son, were carrying a small club.
“Do you, Veren, in the sight of the Old Gods, willingly give your life so that the Morai may persist?” he asked. Coira wasn’t sure if Veren could hear or understand him, his eyes were so glazed over from his preparation.
“Aye, I do.” Tomag nodded gravely.
“We thank you for your sacrifice. Tonight, for the Relighting, we close the old year with the gift of one who has been spent,” Tomag said. He nodded to Veren’s son, who raised his club and swiftly struck his father on the back of the head. Veren crumpled to the ground, still conscious, but dazed. The young man proceeded to beat and kick Veren as the crowd cheered. After all, the Old Gods were fickle creatures, and craved violence. Once it appeared Veren could take it no more, Tomag raised his hand, and instantly the crowd silenced and Veren’s son stopped.
“We thank you for the years of service you have given us, and for your sacrifice, which will ensure that future generations may prosper,” Tomag whispered in Veren’s ear, before swiftly raising the silver-handled knife and plunging it into the old man’s heart. He reached into Veren’s chest, and with some difficulty, pulled out his heard, holding it aloft. The crowd cheered as he tossed it into one of the braziers surrounding the platform. He then turned to Ealasaid.
“Do you, Ealasaid, in the sight of the Old Gods, willingly give your life so that the Morai may persist?” he asked. A small, selfish voice inside Coira hoped for almost a full second that Ealasaid would say no. But she quashed the feeling. Ealasaid was about to be honored above all others, except maybe Veren. Who was she to want otherwise?
“I do,” Ealasaid said. Her voice was much flatter than Coira was used to. Tomag nodded.
“We thank you for your sacrifice. Tonight, for the Relighting, we open the new year with the gift of one who is new to this world,” he said, nodding to Ealasaid’s father. He raised his club, striking Ealasaid on the back of the head. She crumpled to the ground.
Coira turned away. Even though she knew Ealasaid was being honored above all others, she couldn’t watch. She tried to force herself to, but she couldn’t.
“We thank you for the years you have sacrificed to us to ensure that others may thrive,” she heard Tomag whisper before she heard him thrust the gold-handled knife into her best friend’s chest. She heard the cracking of ribs and the cheer of the crowd.
Finally, she forced herself to look up. Ealasaid’s body lay there at the base of the platform next to Veren’s, both of them bloodied and bruised, chests ripped open. Coira swallowed hard, fighting back tears. What right did she have to cry? Ealasaid made the most noble of sacrifices. And maybe, if she was lucky, one day she would have the same honor, when she was too old to be a spear-maiden any longer.
Today, I decided to write a little flash fiction for you guys instead of one of my regular posts on disability. This takes place in a universe I’ve been building for a future project. Enjoy!
Pull. Back. Forward.
You feel the cold, salty sting of the sea air as your shackled hands, raw and blistered, grip the oar tighter. You’re not as young as you once were, and the aching in your muscles and bones extends beyond your rowing.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
You thought you no longer had the energy to keep up with the rhythmic beating of the drum, but you’re no longer you. You’re just a shell of a person, strapped to the oar of a Faaral raiding ship.
The drum beats faster and faster, signaling an attack. Already? You just left port what feels like hours ago. How has it already been the three days to Surring? You shake your head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear it. It doesn’t matter. Each pull of the oar is what matters.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
The whip cracks and you hear someone grunt in pain.
“Faster, thrall!” the quartermaster shouts. You grimace; you don’t want to be the subject of his attention. Or his whip.
Looking up through the cracks to the deck, you see the warriors ready themselves. This far out from shore? Something must be wrong.
“Hard to port!” the quartermaster shouts again, cracking his whip at any who don’t obey. You pull even harder, determined to stay out of his focus.
“Arrows!” The command comes from up on the deck. Arrows? You know that’s not the Faaral way to storm the shore. You know they’re proud warriors, who will charge fearlessly with their spears and axes and shields. Everyone else seems just as confused as you are, and there’s a momentary lapse in the rhythm. The quartermaster cracks his whip again and again, trying to get everyone back to rowing. You feel the sharp pain of it on your back. He cracks it again and again until you are all back in rhythm with the drum.
Pull.
Back.
Forward,
And then you hear it. Two short blasts, followed by three long blasts. A horn you’ve heard before. It’s been decades, but you’d recognize that sound anywhere. After all, you grew up hearing it every day in Anandale.
The war horn of Naedyria. For a moment, you’re hopeful. Perhaps you haven’t made it to Surring. Maybe the Naedyrian vessel spotted the wolfshead bowpiece and were interceding. Maybe you would be saved. It was a long shot, but still. You haven’t had all the hope stripped from you. A part of you has always believed one day you’d be rescued.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
You know it isn’t likely—after all, the Faaral are fearsome warriors and cunning seamen. But you’ve heard the rumors that have been spreading like wildfire among the Faaral about your people. Secret armies composed solely of magic-users.
You’ve never quite believed these rumors. Magic users are the lowest rung of society, and the use of magic has been all but outlawed by the Crown. But you don’t know for sure. And it sounds oddly chaotic on deck. Perhaps these rumors are true.
All wondering is brought to a halt immediately as suddenly, a hole twice as big as a man is blasted through the side of the hull. Half a dozen men are sent flying across the compartment. Icy cold water instantly floods the interior of the ship. Even though you grew up in the warm and sunny ports of Anandale, you never learned to swim.
Panic immediately grips you as you struggle to keep your head above the ever-rising water. It’s cold enough that it would be difficult for someone who did know how to swim, even if they weren’t shackled to the bench you had been sitting on just a moment ago. As your head slips below the waves, you think to yourself that the rumors must be true. No weapon forged could cause such damage. The Naedyrians have weaponized magic-users after over two centuries of all use of magic being illegal.
