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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

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Mama,

I have news that I find greatly disturbing. I cannot find the words to express my shock and disgust at events that have proceeded since my last letter. It would appear that there were, in fact, a great many more rats aboard the ship than previous estimates accounted for, and that, congruent to such terrible estimations, the cat had performed a far greater purpose in keeping said rats mollified and afeared. They have grown in confidence and have affected the most brazen and disastrous raids upon the ship’s stores.

This, of course, led to accusations of perfidy among the crew, the captain accusing certain members of dereliction of duty in the face of an implacable and relentless foe. Further, that they these crew members may have been in cahoots with the rats in order to further their own agendas, in that they were found with hidden stores of food in rat-proof lockers and … oh, Mama! I fear I cannot relate what followed.

But I shall. Father did not raise a girl of my standing to show fear under the shadow of such circumstances. The crew members thus accused were placed under the courts martial. Their guilt proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. Witnesses professed seeing the crew members consulting with the rats and, furthermore, conspiring in heathen practices. Though through gentlemanly decorum, the captain and officers refused to elucidate on those particular charges. Guilt was a given and the crew members suffered at the lash! Glad am I that I did not witness such brutality, for I do not believe I could have held my tongue. To think such barbaric practices could ever be performed upon one of His Majesty’s ships. I am not afraid to say I felt quite faint at the screams.

She gasped and shot upright, her eyes widening. For years she had done everything she could to erase the raid from her memory. Now she closed her eyes and held her breath, turning the memory over and over until a cold sweat prickled across her skin and nausea settled heavily in her stomach.
Oh, fuck.

Mel Waverly - Wishing You Knew, chapter 5

“You’re sleeping in a ditch?! Why not just bite the bullet and go home?” Phil looked at his friend as if he was a different person.
“I need the ditch, I have another problem. Not just these shackles. This taser. It didn’t just stick me in that world making escape difficult. It actually reset my homeworld to that one and I have absolutely no intention of ever going back there in an uncontrolled drift. If I fall asleep, that’s where I go and if they capture me, it’s dead time. They don’t like slaves escaping, instant execution.”
The blood drained from Angie’s face. “Executed?”
“Yes. They don’t take slaves back, give them a slap on the wrist and send them back to their cell without any supper. Anyway, I think you’ve seen enough to convince you I’m not demented. We can drift back here so you can see how everything changes between here and home or we can go back to the courtyard so we appear in the clearing, your choice.”
“Courtyard” Ian chipped in “I don’t want anyone seeing me pop out of nowhere.”
Phil shook his head. “Here, I want to see this place change.”
“Angela, deciding vote...” Mike grinned.
“Here. Anyone sees us, tough. Just accuse them of being drunk.”
Yi-erwu let go.
The three stared in awe as the clouds danced in the sky. Then, without even a flicker, everything instantly transformed from cobbled streets populated by horses to modern tarmac and heavy traffic.
A short walk and they were back in the clearing. Yi-erwu appeared a moment later.
Phil’s awestruck expression seemed to have stuck solid. “Why didn’t you tell us! God, Mike, you can go anywhere, do anything!”
“Not quite. It takes a lot of walking to get most places where there’s a significant difference. I stumbled onto what look like the exact opposites of each other within a couple of days, tranquil, technology free versus hell on post-nuclear bombed earth. That’s another thing I need to do, check myself for radiation. No idea how long fallout sticks around, how long it takes to get washed away.” He …

Text excerpt describing Antonio, known as El Chino, from his childhood in a convent to his life as a street thief and drug courier, eventually becoming a wealthy and feared figure in Santa Cruz’s criminal underworld.

“Words started to form the closer I got. Attack, pain, hurt, blood- my legs moved faster, propelling me to the entrance of the castle.”

"How familiar are you with the Nereus incident?" she asked.

"A little?" Nereus was an out-of-the-way ocean planet that had been colonized by corporate interests hundreds of years ago. It entered the spotlight recently after the discovery of nerephite—an incredibly useful mineral in energy production—and, of course, the inevitable fighting over it that followed. "Civil unrest on a formerly immaterial planet, at least in the galactic-political sense, over starship fuel?" Jorryn offered.

Every time Hannah thought that she’d reached a stage of numb acceptance, of resolve to just survive through whatever was coming—and make the bastard pay in blood—a noise would sound in the distance and she’d panic again.
She was freezing, shaky, and unlike the day before when she’d had the room to search for tools or escape, today she had nothing. At least the panic meant that hunger was a distant and intermittent sensation.
The only time she’d ever felt this helpless was when raiders had attacked her family’s homestead, burning it to the ground. She’d hidden in the cellar at her father’s command, been trapped for three days until the fire had burnt itself out and neighbors could dig her out.
Of course, then, she’d had access to food and water stores. Even though the bathroom was improvised. And sounds of people coming were a positive sign.
She’d cried her eyes out then.
Grief stricken and terrified.
She was terrified now too, but she refused to cry. She’d never give the bastard the satisfaction.
It gave her something to focus on.
Her heart kicked up to high gear before her brain caught up with the sound of a jumpbike in the distance. Havoc? Or someone else?
And would it really matter anyway?
Half the opportunists on this fucking moon would take a bound woman—or man for that matter—as a fucking invitation.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Breathing too shallow. Pushing back tears.
The Ravens wouldn’t be using bikes. They’d be sweeping likely locations for her, silently. If they caught Havoc, if they knew where she was, the whole flock would swoop down. It wouldn’t be just a single bike.

Alison reached out and took her hand. Slip let her lead her back to her room.
“Sorry. You mustn’t have seen anything like that before. It’s harmless.”
“I know,” Slip mumbled.
“Well, things can seem worse in the dark. Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”
“No.” They reentered Slip’s room and Alison helped her back up onto the bed. She didn’t join her, but crouched down on the floor.
“You didn’t have a nightmare or anything like that?” she asked.
Slip thought of the dream she’d been having, of her and Stitch fleeing the raiders. “No.”
“You sure?”
“It’s not a nightmare if it actually happened.”
“I think that still counts.” Alison frowned. “About anything in particular?”
Slip didn’t know why that specific memory had popped into her head tonight. Maybe she was still thinking about what Franklin had said. It was stupid, of course, he hadn’t known what he was talking about…
…Except what had Stitch’s plan been back there on the hillside? They’d gone off the cliff, and then the Shift had come. They’d both had new bodies afterwards, as if none of it had happened. Such a stroke of luck, it had seemed at the time. A miracle, Stitch had said.
If there was something keeping her alive, had Stitch known about it? If she had, why hadn’t she told her?

Her door opened. The noise shattering the silence of her room. Down below would be in chaos by now. Hidden chaos. Controlled. A storm and dance well-known even if they were caught off guard.

“Mother,” she greeted.

Mother was in her formal wear. Perfect with not a thread or hair or speck of makeup out of place. A storm grey dress with silver detail of lightning bolts.

“Harriet,” she sighed in relief. “There’s been a change of plans for today. You are to stay in here until the earl has left. He shouldn’t be here too long. Supposedly he’s merely passing through before moving on to visit with his cousin.”

With Benji driving, Tank used the journey to talk tactics. Or try to. With no idea what we’d face, go in, be aware of weapons, look to him or Wolf for guidance, respond fast, was about as good as it got. I would look for Ash, with Piper watching my back. Steel, Tank, and Wolf would deal with any obstacles to getting him out of there.

The place was creepy, wearing the signs of age and obvious neglect. Secluded and shadowy, set back in the treeline with no other houses visible. If he’d got away, tried to run, searching these grounds for him would be hard work in the fading light.

We tried knocking on the door, but there was no answer. Ash’s phone was in that building, so he was either in there or had been, and we were going to find out which. Standing six-four, I was used to being the tallest and broadest in most groups. In this one, I was barely average. Every one of us wore the benefits of long-term lifting, so theoretically in good shape to deal with whatever we found.

Happily, the ancient-looking front door put up surprisingly little resistance to Steel’s six-five wall of muscle. The place appeared deserted, but Tank already knew the dungeon was in the basement, so that’s where we headed. The first thing that hit you, after the crash of Tank taking the door off its hinges, was the smell. Human excrement overlaid with rank sweat and sex.

I was still gathering my senses in the dim light when Tank commanded, ‘Carver, corner,’ and I saw him.

If it had been anyone else, I’m not sure I’d have recognised him. He was blindfolded, with a gag strapped to his face, but even with the majority of his face covered I could see bruising and dried blood. His arms and legs were clamped in place with thick steel clamps, and he was in a position that would have significantly reduced his blood flow. He was also unconscious.

Please let him just be unconscious.

Niwa had known the terror of a Marauder attack a few times in her life.
The first time, she was so small that all she remembered was the taste of fear from her hiding place in a cabinet.
During another raid, age nine at the time, she hid with other children in the hideout in the hills. On that hazy afternoon in October, she could feel all the emotions creating a feedback loop. Confusion and terror had bounced and reflected around the room.

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