Basile the Heron

A black curtain hangs in front of Basile’s face, moving as he moves, one ginger-footed step after another, feeling by inch, by hairsbreadth, his path through the dismal cave. The hobthrush begs no illumination. Neither does its hunter. He can sense it’s presence. An overpowering odor, the zzzrup of hard spines dragged filewise against the honing strop of stalagmite and ledge.

At the final moment it becomes aware of the interloper stalking on pointed toe. One confused grunt in the pitch darkness, an instant’s stillness, then Basile thrusts with the killing gleam of his narrowed eye translated to the swordpoint.

Huffer Ramjet

Huffer Ramjet banks into the turn at speed. He hears bolts vibrating, bolts tightened with a pneumatic wrench that requires a team of two to operate and has to be strapped down itself for safety. Fog creeps in at the edge of his vision. He bites down on the g-force, tastes orange peel and black licorice.

The kaiju on his tail is nasty. It came out of a fissure in the earth and can (absurdly) breathe pure plasma and fly to the moon and back in a day.

But, thank god and his infinite wisdom, monsters don’t have braking jets.

Regno

An unknown drink comes over the bar. Regno seizes it in the spirit of revelry and community trust. Also, whatever was in that pill he bought by the bathroom has got him sweating and slightly worried over the waves of red magma heat radiating outward from his torso.

The drink is blue. That’s cold, right? He leans closer (hard with the room tilted, double damn that pill), thinks it might be fizzing. He imagines a science fair volcano. Could be a gamble. He places his bet and swoops in delicate as a hummingbird to begin with a single, gentle sip.

Phoebe

Phoebe decides in like fourth grade that her spirit animal will be (and, in fact, always has been) the chupacabra. It makes school difficult. Later, though, when it counts, it’s still waiting for her, a soft growl rising from the darkness to teach her the old wisdom.

“Jesus Christ,” the guard says, “where’d she go? I swear to god she was right—”

Strength and speed. Phoebe snatches the radio out of the air as the body falls.

“Never mind,” she says in gruff impersonation. Obfuscatory cunning wells up within her like an endless, bubbling pool. “False alarm. Nothing to report.”

Iseult

Hauntings, in some cases, are like a Claymore mine rigged to a tripwire. It’s a quiet piece of junk in the corner you don’t even notice. That is, until you step in the wrong spot.

Iseult reaches into her jacket and produces a pair of Sixte’s cufflinks. She shakes them like a pair of dice and drops them on the table. The kitchen door crashes open as a cleaver, spinning like a sawblade, flies out and buries itself in the back of a chair. The head waiter whimpers.

“Watch it,” Iseult says. “These things don’t always blow all at once.”

Eiko

Access to the executive corridors is gated (shrewdly, Eiko thinks) by analog methods. Digital credentials are well and good but carry very little water when you aren’t one of the twenty-odd people the man with the gun is expecting to see.

Chrysoprase thinks they should chop the guard in his carotid and drag him into a closet somewhere. Chalcedony agrees in principle, but suggests waiting until shift change to get two at once. While they shoot rock paper scissors to decide, Eiko steps back between two waxy-looking artificial plants and opens her terminal.

“There,” she says. “We have an appointment.”