TBD

A hooky tagline

Lambda base has been burning for days. The smell of death fills my lungs, putrid and wrong. I wipe my brow, spreading the blood of the Overlords across my face. It is a good day, a red day. I check the cartridge in my XLV Repeater. Enough for one more push. I know I’ll never see my home again, the rolling his of Elmara, and or taste the sweet waters of the [name] river. If this is my fate, then I am happy to give my all will take more of them with me.

The author leaned back in his chair and stretched his back. He’d been woken up by his cat’s fascination with some horny cat outside and he decided to work on his newest short story. He was resolved to keep this one under 2500 words. No title yet, that should come to him at some point. He typed “TBD” at the top of the page along with his usual space holder tagline.

He bent over his desk, staring at the blinking cursor. How does the first line read? He frowned. It was decent. The line would make him want to read more. Good enough, for now. He still needed a name for the protagonist. An “M” name sounded good to him, maybe something with a “Mc” … McMillan … McDaniels … McCoy. No. Too Star Treky. He poised his fingers over the keys.

I crouch low against the outcrop in the needle grass, moving like a serpent [snake name?], slow and deadly. I pluck a blade of the rough grass and chew on its root. A habit I picked up in the Academy. The sky overhead lights up [better description show don’t tell asshole] and the green blasts of orbital bombardment. I hope my brother my sister [name? love interest instead?] is still up there somewhere, still fighting. The Overlords took everything from her—from both of us—and now we were here to make them pay. In another life we’ll be together. This life is for vengence vengeance and blood.

The teakettle started to whistle. It was already four in the morning, so he reached for the black tea, resigned to start the day. He steeped the P&G Tips and considered a title for his story. “Attack on Lambda Base?” He liked the “Attack on” part but still wasn’t sure what to call the base. Part of him was tickled by the homage to Star Wars but then he worried he did that too much in his writing. He pulled out the tea bag and dropped six sugar cubes in followed by the milk. If he could just name the protag more would click into place.

He blew the steam rising off the tea and took a sip. Mc … McGregor, that’s too Rob Roy … McGrath … McShit … McDonald. His stomach groaned. He could go for a morning combo number three with a Mickey D’s latte. The one open twenty-four hours wasn’t too far away. Maybe later. He walked back to his computer and pulled up his bookmark to fantasynamegenerators.com and clicked into the StarCraft tab.

He clicked through a few dozen name options. Nothing jumped out. He Googled “last name start with Mc,” and scanned the list. McGowan looked good. Was that a name in anything else? He typed in another search. Who is Zach McGowan? He looked so familiar—a bit like Bradley Cooper after a few years of doing meth. He scrolled the page. Oh, he was in Black Sails!

The author sat back in his chair. Now for a first name. He rubbed the back of his neck and thought. The cursor blinked at him, judging his lack of creativity. It should be a word, not like a normal name. Maybe a verb. Crush. Crush McGowan. The author stared at the name. It felt right.

Static filters into his earpiece. “Crush, can you hear me?” [name’s] voice is a balm.

“I’m here. How is it up there?” I whisper the stalk of blade grass playing at the corner of my mouth.

“They knew we were coming.” The sound of

I can hear in her voice the fear and resignation. I take a deep breath, I don’t want to tell her, but I owe her the truth. “I know. I’ve lost everyone the entire squad.”

“Damn them! What now?”

“I can see the control tower from here.” I know what she is going to say.

She knows what I’m planning. “Crush McGowan. No. You will not die today!”

Hello?

The word appeared on the screen. The author tilted his head. What the fuck? He deleted it and continued typing.

“We’ve got this one chance to make it right. To make it all worthwhile. You know I have to try.” I don’t want it to be true.

The silence stretches between us. She knows in her heart that I’m right.

This seems like a really stupid plan.

The author stared at the words on his screen. He held his hands away from the keyboard. He picked up his tea cup and smelled the warm liquid.

I’m alone here and you expect me to go in there? I don’t even know who these Overlords are. I have no interest in dying on this planet.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the screen hoping for the sentences to be gone. A hallucination he could laugh about later. But the words were still there. Not his words. Thoughts that weren’t his. His hands were trembling. He reached out for his mouse and closed the program. He popped up from the desk and walked to his bathroom. The cold water felt good against his face. He brushed his teeth and laughed at himself. No more middle of the night writing. He poured himself a glass of water and headed back to his computer. He pulled up Scrivener and cracked his knuckles.

Where’d you go?

His stomach lurched as the words typed themselves.

Everything went dark and I couldn’t move or talk. Don’t do that again!

This can’t be real. He’d been hacked. He punched the power button and listened as the computer fans died down. His cat jumped on the desk and took her favorite spot in front of the keyboard. He scratched her neck. “I’m losing it.” She yawned and settled down onto her paws. “This is your fault, ya know.” She shot him a side glance.

He paced the room, tapping his hand on his thigh. Maybe some fresh air. He pulled back the curtains to the world he hadn’t stepped into in months. Squeaking tires, a jack hammer in the distance, and the warning beep from a truck in reverse all flooded in to his sanctum. The breeze blew in, kicking up the layer of dust he’d carefully cultivated on the windowsill. He took a deep breath, but the stench of gasoline and marijuana turned his stomach.

“This isn’t helping.” He turned to his cat. She offered her slow blink in reply. Should I take an edible? It might help or it might make it worse. Cold sweat crept up his spine. “Chill out, fucker. You imagined it.” He squeezed his hands. “Just, sit down and turn on the computer. You’ll see it wasn’t real.” He stared at his blurred reflection in the dark monitor. He clenched his fist, pumping courage into his fingers and pushed the power button.

HOLY SHIT! I can’t breath … please … don’t put me back there. I didn’t mean to make you angry … I’m sorry. Please, just … I can’t …

His eyelid twitched as his fingers reached out to the keyboard.

Who are you?

What do you mean, who am I? I’m Crush McGowan. Who the fuck are you? Sorry … sorry I didn’t mean to yell. Please, don’t put me back into that void.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

Are you a hacker? What do you want?

What’s a hacker? All I know is I’m covered in blood, I’m chewing on a piece of fucking grass, I’m in love with someone I can’t picture and don’t remember, and I hate these Overlord people, whoever they are.

The author tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. He let his mind touch the possibility that what he was seeing was real. Could this be?

I don’t understand how you’re doing this. Are you really Crush?

Who else would I be? Listen, I’m not sure who you are and how you are controlling everything, but at least I know my own name.

A dull throb started to pound behind his eyes and his damned eyelid wouldn’t stop twitching.

You’re my main character.

I’m your what?

I’m writing a story and you are the protagonist.

The author watched the cursor, unsure if he wanted it to move on its own with Crush’s response or to keep blinking forever. A minute passed. Then more.

Are you there?

I’m here. I don’t want to be, but I’m here. I could use a drink.

Me too.

This is your story how about you write me one?

His brows furrowed. Could that work?

I’ll give it a try, anything you want in particular?

I’ve got no idea, I don’t think I’ve ever had a drink before. All I know is that I’m craving one.

OK. Hang on.

The author leaned into the keyboard.

I am crouching against a half-ruined wall, hidden from view. I reach into the satchel slung around my shoulder and pull out my favorite flask. The sweet aroma of the brown elixir fills me with memories of home and the courage to go on.

Did it work?

Hell yes, it worked. This is delicious. It’s exactly what I needed.

Good. I wasn’t sure if I needed to write it into prose or if I could just type that you were holding a flask of alcohol.

Whatever you did was the right call and now I’m wearing this satchel. What else can you give me?

The author considered this. Why couldn’t he give Crush whatever he wanted?

I suppose, whatever I can think of.

Well how’s about we call off this fight and you put me on that ship up there with the girl I’m supposed to be in love with?

He scratched the back of his neck.

I guess I could. That’s not really what this story is about.

A story? A fucking story! Shit man, screw your story. I’m not dying in the mud down here!

Yeah, that’s fair. I’m still having trouble believing all of this.

Fuck me. I’m the one losing it, talking to a voice in my head.

Is that how you hear me?

Yeah, how do you hear me?

I see your words on the page of my story, and that’s how I talk to you.

Damn. This is weird.

Right?

What now then? Are you going to make me fight these Overlord fuckers?

The author didn’t know what to say. He was waiting to wake up any second, but if this was real then he wasn’t about to kill a sentient life.

That doesn’t make much sense now. I don’t really like the idea of being responsible for another life, other than my cat.

And you won’t put me back into the darkness?

No. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would happen.

Thank you. That’s something at least.

Let me see if I can put you up on the ship

OK, good. Go for it.

I look around, suddenly I’m on board the Cyclops. The battle is over and [name] is standing before me. She looks as shocked as I feel. Somehow we’ve won. Somehow we’ve always been free. We fall into each other’s arms. Life will never be the same.

Thank you, but she’s just staring at me. She isn’t moving or responding to anything. It feels weird to love … a puppet.

Maybe you are the only one that can hear me and can think for themselves?

Yeah. What if you gave her a name too? That’s when I first woke up.

That’s a good idea. OK, hang on.

The author cracked his knuckles and stared at the screen. He’d named thousands of characters but none were real. None could talk and think for themselves. The weight of the choice paralyzed him.

Nothing’s changed.

Give me a minute, this isn’t as easy as it used to be.

I turn to her. “Zori Hawkins, we have our whole lives together.”

He waited. Minutes passed and the cursor blinked without a response from Crush.

Did it work?

More time passed. The author stood and paced the room sure that whatever trip he was on or acid flashback he was having was finally over, and then the cursor started moving.

Hell yes it did, sorry I’ve been a little … busy. Zori and I have been talking. We don’t want to be here. Could you send us to the real world? Could we come there with you?

Here? The author considered this. He didn’t like the idea of being responsible for them and maybe he’d finally have people he liked talking to.

OK, I’ll try.

Zori says thank you. I guess you can only see me talking?

Well yeah the story is in your POV.

OK, man. I have no idea what you’re talking about. But we are ready when you are.

I take Zori’s hand. We are leaving this place. We are going to the real world. There is a squeezing pressure—lights and sounds streaming past. All I can feel is her hand in mine. I look at her, she says something I can’t hear. Then darkness.

The author pushes himself up. He’s been face down in the darkness. He looks around but what he sees doesn’t register. His desk is gone. His apartment. His cat. He’s on the battlefield. He looks down. He’s been passed out in the mud, the XLV repeater in his hands. The battle rages around him. He can smell the blood and death in the air.

He screams.

A voice in his head.

Don’t worry man. We’ll take good care of your cat.

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Thanks for reading my level three submission to

Bradley Ramsey

’s Power Up Prompt #13. And check out his fantastic podcast where he talks about all the other submissions.

Voice over by the incredible

Anthony Michael Malec

! Available for your voice acting needs here on Substack.

Power up Prompt #13: 9.13.25

If you’d like to check out my other stories from the Power Up Prompts, take a look at these:

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Cover illustration from Adobe Stock, by grandfailure, listed as non-GenAI.