![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Nano Writing Month, 2017.20
Every day, write some bit of fiction. Preferably over 50 words, but there will be no standard beyond "something". Posting is entirely optional.
She was stuck in the trench. The automatic sniper came by again.
Do it, the voice said in her head.
She did not move.
The droid moved on, looking for targets with digital precision. In the wrong direction.
Do it, said the voice again.
She did not move.
Fuck, what is wrong with you, you stupid bitch!? Just get up and shoot, let your combat instincts kick in. Same thing you've been doing all month.
She thought about - no, that suggests too much voluntary, discrete action. A smog of anxious, unactionable impressions pressed on her head of her old landlord, her last month's rent, the outstanding damage deposit, the missed opportunities when she gave away her .50 cal, some skin-crawling things Hébert said he'd do to her if only she'd let him love her, better people she met and forgot to follow up with, some other crap she didn't get around to doing she should have done, people she left behind in Vancouver, shots she didn't take--
With a forcibly extracted battle cry she leapt out of the trench, charging the droid, all guns blazing under the blood red 3 PM dusk. The droid fell apart under her blaster fire. She ran over and grabbed a surprisingly intact battery from its now-exposed core and ran back into the trench before any of its buddies were alerted.
Another voice started taking over once she was safe. What the fuck was that!? You stupid cunt, you stupid piece of shit, you could have gotten the entire squad killed if you'd been fuckin' shot out there and the Noodles got in! How could you do that to them, you stupid, selfish bitch!? ...
She emptied her cell pack firing over the ridge to drown it out, then reloaded with the one she'd just captured.
Oh, that was super smart! ...
Once she was able to give the all-clear she let the berating voice chatter itself into an undifferentiated grey darkness as she watched the motion sensor. Nothing.
Eventually over the haze she managed to remember some of the good things people have said about her recently.
Not a suicide risk, they said. Can tolerate extended periods of isolation out in the field. Highly resourceful given sufficient motivation. Some history of substance abuse, but generally manageable. Excellent trigger control while under stress.
We do not recommend Ms. Alvarez for starship service.
Fuck those assholes. Fuck them in the ass with a fuckin' Nudibranch two-man plasma flail. Two fuckin' points off, and that was seven years of training down the goddamn toilet.
It turned out Zombag had a family. A fuckin' wife. Not, like, he married her and then died and became a zombie, but he was already a zombie when they got hitched, she recognized him immediately even though someone (not her) had turned him into a couch those years back. How did they even--no, don't even. Anyway, what was her name again, Irony Sanpedro or something like that? Some insanely rich, super-eccentric half-Japanese half-Haitian woman twice her age, heiress of some car company guy or whatever.
Hope he's having fun with her wherever he is.
She wondered if these noodles ever stored booze in their patrol droids like the Vancouver ones did.
no subject