Scene Prompts

Prompt “Deck of Tarot Cards”:

No limits on characters or plot, but the scene must feature a deck of tarot cards. 

There it was. 

Arthur had tramped through wild overgrowth for nearly an hour, and just when he was quite sure he was lost beyond all hope, he had found the creature’s hovel. 

Just as he felt he would. 

Inexplicably, the tree looked exactly as he had expected. Faded cloth that may have been purple at one time hung across an arch naturally carved into an enormous tree trunk. The cloth waved in a breeze, though Arthur felt no wind on his face. He tried again to rack his brain for memories of how he knew to come here, but they remained out of reach. God above had left him with only the frustration that he couldn’t remember why He had sent him here, why he needed to fear this place, nor why he needed to enter. 

Despite the fear that grew with each tentative step, he approached the hut. When he finally reached out and touched the tattered cloth his otherworldly Déjà vu left him abruptly. He could no longer feel the sense that he should be here— that he needed to be here. The importance of this visit slipped away, and he continued not because he felt he was being guided by the Lord above, but because he was a boulder, rolling wherever gravity took him. He pulled the cloth aside. 

Within the hollow tree, shadows danced upon the dank wood, light cast by a single wax candle placed at the center of a small table. Across the table sat a hooded figure, bent with age. The candle light did little to reveal the woman’s visage, if it was indeed a woman, Arthur couldn’t be sure. All he could really make out were two bright pin-prick reflections the flame illuminated in her eyes. 

“You have come,” she said in a whisper. 

The rasping sound of her voice was almost enough to make Arthur turn and flee, but instead he nodded and sat on the floor across from her, trying his best to remember the confidence he had felt when he knew God himself had sent him to this place.

She smiled, her teeth reflecting uneven yellow and black. She wheezed an eerie chuckle that she struggled to contain as it became hacking coughs. “I did not expect you to come so early,” she said, now struggling to breathe. She reached into her robes and pulled out a long, thin pipe that arced sharply down. She snapped her thin fingers and the bowl glowed a bright red, revealing her pock-marked face of sharp and unkind features. She inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of relief as her breathing became smooth. “I did not expect you to come so early,” she repeated with a shake of the head. “Do you know how unbelievably rare it is for me to say that? I did not expect…” she scoffed and spat something wet on the ground. “I always expect. I always see. Foresee. Predict. I know because I am, have been, and will be in tandem. But you…” she paused to take another drag of her pipe, letting sour smelling smoke waft into Arthur’s face. “You are a spot in my vision. I have stared at the sun, as it were, and am left with you as my blind spot. Do you know how that feels?”

Arthur did not answer. He wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say, and his short years of experience told him it was always better to be quiet than to be wrong.

“What do you call yourself, in this life?”

”Arthur of Cornwall. And what should I call you?”

”Arthur?” The woman frowned. “I don’t remember you ever using that name before or after.” She leaned forward nearer the candle, the shadows harsh on her sunken face. “You are an itch I cannot reach. I scratch where you should be and find no relief.”

”Arthur has always been my name, My father gave it to me. What name do you have?”

”Bah!” The woman shook her hand dismissively. “Call me what I am. Call me Witch.”

Arthur shook his head. “What is the name your mother gave you?”

The witch let out a fearful shriek before cackling madly, quickly coughing and taking deep inhales of her pipe to regain control. “If you want a title, call me the Witch of Daphne.” She smiled then, as if she’d just told some clever joke. “But enough of this. You came here, just as you were supposed to, albeit a bit prematurely. This means you are still in the River. This is good, for both you and me. There may be some relief yet.” From within her robes she pulled out a thick deck of cards. She absent mindedly began breaking the deck and pressing it together time and again. “Do you know the Tarot deck?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. Older men use it to gamble in places of ill repute, and women dress up in costume at the local faire to tell fortunes.”

The witch shook her head with a coy smile. “As is so common in all times, fools hold gems and think them stones, for they do not know how to make them shine.” She splayed the cards out across the table, showing only the perfectly identical white backs. “Pick one,” she said. 

Arthur looked down, wondering if this was some kind of trick. Was there a right card to draw? Was this some kind of game? Slowly, he reached out and pulled forward a card. The witch nodded, and pushed the deck back together, leaving his choice on top. 

”Are you ready?”

Arthur nodded. 

“You must speak aloud,” the Witch of Daphne said. “You must invite them. Are you ready?”

Somewhat tentatively, Arthur answered. “Yes, Witch of Daphne.”

An unnatural breeze caused the candle to flutter and become dangerously weak, but slowly, it regrew, stronger than before.

The witch drew the top card and placed it in front of Arthur. It depicted a young man inspecting a birch staff. 

“The Page of Wands,” the Witch of Daphne said. “This is you, as you are now.” She left the card in front of Arthur and picked up the deck, breaking and shuffling it seven times before fanning the cards out again. “Pick,” she commanded. 

This time Arthur’s trepidation grew. He reached out his hand to a card, but then hesitated, feeling that it was wrong. He moved to another, but again recoiled his hand before drawing. He did this again with a third card before returning to the first of the three. The witch let out her high pitched cackle.

”I see, I see,” she said. “Go ahead, take all three.”

A bit hesitant, Arthur pulled forward each one he had been drawn to. The witch flipped them over one at a time. 

A young man inspecting a golden cup. A young man inspecting a glittering sword. A young man inspecting a five pointed star in the sky. 

She slid the cards half under the Page of Wands, obscuring them so only the tops were visible beneath the initial card. 

“The Page of Cups. The Page of Swords. The Page of Pentacles,” she whispered, her smile growing as each was revealed. “I did not expect this, but as so often happens with time, I see now that I should have seen then. Twice now you have surprised me.” She gestured to the four page cards in front of Arthur. “These are you. As you are now, and as you will be, in tandem.”

She left the stack of pages in front of Arthur and shuffled the remaining cards another seven times before laying them out again. “Pick.”

This time there was no indecision. Arthur reached out and selected a card, sliding it toward him. As he did however, the card separated, revealing that there was another perfectly beneath it. 

The Witch of Daphne snorted as she drew on her pipe, causing another coughing fit. She leaned forward, still coughing, and flipped both cards Arthur had selected. 

One depicted white eyes floating in a sea of black, and the other showed a man inverted on a pole. “The Devil, and the Hanged Man,” the witch said in awe as she placed them on either side of Arthur’s stack of four pages. “Unexpected, unexpected. Your life will be defined by another. You will both doom yourselves- hunter and prey, prey and hunter. Which will you be, I wonder? And which of you is the Devil…”

Again, the witch shuffled the cards and bid Arthur choose. He reached out, but slowed, going back and forth between two cards.

”Just take them both. It seems tradition is out the window with you,” the witch said with amusement. 

The two cards were pulled forward, and the witch placed them face up on the table.

A face smiling up at the night sky. A wooden carriage drawn by two horses.

“The Fool and the Chariot. You are both hunter and prey.” She looked up and her sickly smile returned. “You are both the Devil.”

Arthur stood from the table, feeling unnaturally upset by what he heard. He was scared, and wanted to flee. Anger filled him, but he sat back down and said, calmly, “You are wrong. I am no Devil, nor will I ever be. ‘I will always do what is right, and if I fail it will be through no will of my own, but through the will of oppressive evil.’” He knew the words were not his. He had heard Sir Talon say this before on the holy day. The words had always stuck with him as powerful, though maybe it was Sir Talon who held the power, not the words themselves. 

The witch’s smile grew. “And who says that the Devil does not do what is right?” She laid out the cards again, ignoring the indignation on Arthur’s face. “Choose two now. Let us see how this will end.”

With newfound conviction, Arthur pulled forward two more cards. The Witch of Daphne placed each on either side of the burning candle. 

A perfect circle surrounded by stars. A skull.

The witch recoiled in what could only be fear. “The World and Death. We are seeing more than your life. We are seeing the life of all.” With trembling hands, she shuffled the deck another seven times and placed the cards on the table. “Please,” she urged. “Choose another. One last card.”

Arthur reached out, this time feeling a pull from two cards and pulling both forward without waiting for approval. He flipped them over himself. 

Two figures in an embrace. A spiral.

”The Lovers, and the Wheel of Fate,” The Witch of Daphne said with reverence. As she said the names of the cards aloud, the candle went out. She snapped her fingers, but nothing happened. She did it again, to no avail. They now sat in darkness, lit only by the regular pull of her smoking pipe. “So it will all come down to you in the end. You will have to choose between love and the world.”

Arthur frowned. “What does this all mean? You say I will be a hunter? Prey? A Devil? This makes no sense.”

”No, it doesn’t,” the witch agreed. “I am not used to being on this side of time. The feeling has somehow become worse after reading with you.” She reached out her hands. Slowly, Arthur reached out and grabbed them, happy to be mostly in the dark, for he feared he could not bring himself to touch the creature if he could see her clearly. They sweat and shook within his.

”You will live many, many years. Too many. Many lifetimes. You will both hunt and be hunted. How the hunt will end I do not know. Evil will either prevail or it will not, and it will be your choice. You will have to choose. Love and evil. The fate of us all. I cannot see the choice.”

Smoke wafted forward into Arthur’s face. He inhaled and for a brief second, he saw this moment. He saw himself within the hollow tree, holding the witch’s clammy hands. He remembered this moment, though he was still in the midst of living it. 

“It may be unclear to you, Witch of Daphne, but for any aspiring knight, the choice between love and evil is a simple one.” He was met with laughter from the witch, and a tightening of her grip. 

“Who says love and evil are not the same thing? Who says the Devil does not do what is right? Will you do what is right? What will you choose?”

”I will make the right choice,” he answered plainly.

”You are naive. I hope you will learn, across your many lifetimes. I hope for all our sake.” She let go of his hands.

Prompt “Country Road”:

Characters:

Character 1: Abigail Guerra. 

Info: An indecisive journalist 

Character 2: Shane Ho

Info: A fearful pharmacist 

Setting:

A country road.

Background:

An accusation has brought them together

The sounds of laughter and screams died a little more with each slow step Abigail took. No longer able to rely on the blinking neon lights of the fair, she was now forced to point her dim phone display at the ground in front of her. 

“Goddamned country-ass bumpkins can’t even pave their shit…” she mumbled to herself as she stepped around rocks and holes, each threatening to send her to the floor. She leaned on her cane a bit too much and the end of it pierced the soft dirt, forcing her to put weight on her leg, feeling that old pain come back with spiteful glee. 

“FUCKING GODDAMN POOR-ASS SONS OF BITCHES!” She sat down and rubbed her leg, knowing the pain wouldn’t go away for weeks. She scowled into the darkness.

“Hey!” She called out. “Whoever you are, I ain’t gotta deal with this shit!” She waited for a moment, but heard no answer. “To hell with this! And to hell with you!” She slowly got back to her feet and turned back toward the fair.

“Wait!” Someone called out from the darkness. 

Abigail redirected her frown toward the voice. “Why the fuck am I out here?! Who the fuck are you?!”

From the darkness emerged the silhouette of a tall man, one that twitched about this way and that as if expecting to be attacked at any moment. “You are Ms. Guerra, correct? Abigail Guerra? Lead pen with the Bright Line?”

“You’re goddam right I am. Which means I get paid way too goddam much to spend another second on this primitive-ass planet!” 

“I am sorry, Ms. Guerra. Please, um, may I ask if you’ve received my correspondence?” 

“Why the fuck you think I’m here? Look, I’m sorry, I know you may be used to this shit but I ain’t. Now, can you explain to me, what the fuck is going on?”

The man stepped forward, barely illuminated by the dim lights in the distance. He was human— and seemed to be unaltered, at least at a glance. “My name is Shane Ho. I work for the Interplanetary Physicians Consulate.” He reached out a hand.

“Alright, Ho,” Abigail said as she shook the man’s hand, which was so sweaty she immediately pulled her hand back and wiped it on her pants. “So you got my attention. I got your message. Explain.”

“Oh, yes well, oh my. Where do I even begin?”

“How about you start with why the fuck you made me walk my old ass all the way out here in the boonies? This planet ain’t even got Thru-Lines. You realize I had to travel in a car? Like, an actual car? A freakin’ death trap!”

Dr. Ho rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, well, I fear I needed to. Earth is one of the few planets I’ve been to with no quantum technologies. They don’t have Thru-Lines or Gates. Specifically, they don’t have Senders.”

“Yeah, I already know this place is as backward as hell. So why are we here?”

“Well, since they don’t have Senders, we can’t be tracked here. They have something primitive using electricity, but it’s really just for information sharing.”

“Alright, so we can’t be tracked. I saw the readout on this place though— it’s got decent enough civilization. Why ain’t we sitting back in a building? With climate control at least?”

“Well, you see, they use electricity to send signals, including something they call the internet to share media. They can produce video- sorry, that’s like a moving picture- and audio. Once they save these forms of media, our Senders can pick them up. So we had to find a place that didn’t have access to their electricity. I’ve been stationed near here, and this is a ‘silent spot’, so to speak.”

“Ok, makes sense. Listen Ho, I’ve been a pen for a long time. I can tell when a story is bullshit. I know your message was the real deal. So, let’s get down to business. Why am I here?”

Dr. Ho looked around again, despite there being nothing but darkness behind him. “I am the first, Ms. Guerra. Before the IPC sent me here, Earth was considered class B. That means that nobody had ever-”

“I know what it means. The place is full of innocents. Get on with it.”

“Well, that’s just it ma’am. I checked and double checked the IPC records. I even reached out to Hallus. That’s the waypoint for this galaxy– near the outermost point of the spirals. Their records confirm it: nobody other than me, and now you, have ever had access to this planet.”

Abigail tightened her grip on her cane. “Go on doctor…”

“That message I sent,” Dr. Ho continued. “The DNA signature is a match.”

“What was the percentage?”

“99.99 repeating, ma’am.”

Abigail swooned and held herself up, only thanks to her cane and the fact that Dr. Ho grabbed her shoulder. “I already know the answer, but you’re sure?”

Dr. Ho nodded in the dark. “We found him, Ms. Guerra. He’s here, on this planet.”

Abigail looked up at the stars and tried to catch her breath. “Now what?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you would know what comes next.”

“What comes next?” Abigail paused for a moment. “What does come next? I don’t know. I have absolutely no idea what to do. I’m not used to that.,” Abigail gazed up at the stars and took a shaky breath. “Why here?”

“I don’t know, but he’s pretending to be an Earthling. As far as I know, he hasn’t impacted the planet in any significant way. It was pure chance that I happened to pick up his DNA signature at all.”

Abigail looked backward at the fair. She stared at the slowly spinning ferris wheel, powered by electricity, of all things. She could still hear the faint echoes of merriment, Earthlings delighting in simple electric amusements. “So, we finally found him,” she said. “But why would God pretend to be an Earthing?”

Prompt “Steampunk Cafe”:

Characters:

Character 1: Callie Doherty. A doctor from overseas.

Quirk: Is here to learn about unusual practices.

Character 2: Father Mariam Chapman: A priest born and raised here.

Quirk: Fearful of confrontation.

Setting:

A bustling steam-punk cafe.

Background:

One character has received a postcard and asked to discuss its contents with the other person. 

Plot: 

The conversation they have becomes violent. 

“Another blitz, madam?”

Callie looked down at the copper cup and felt her nose wrinkle. “I’m afraid I can’t have another. I’ve work to be about tonight.”

”Understood, madam. Is there anything else I can get you?”

*Ding*

A silver bell jangled over the door. Callie’s eyes shot forward, and she sneered when a woman came in, bouncing a baby on her hip. 

Overweight. 

“Madam?” The server prodded with a bow. “Is there anything else I can-“

”Just give me the damn blitz.” Callie snatched it from the tray and frowned at the piss-yellow contents before taking a large swig. The sour tang shook her from head to toe and she felt its effects almost immediately. “And bring me another.”

”Right away, madam.” The server left with an exaggerated bow. 

Callie studied the server as he walked away. Male. 43 years? About six foot six. Very handsome. In good shape. Sufficient muscle…

*Ding*

The door ripped Callie’s attention from the server. Father Chapman stood in the doorway, gawking at the pipes running along the ceilings and walls. His awe broke when his gaze worked its way down to meet Callie’s.

”I’ve been waiting,” Callie said as she gestured at the chair across from her. 

“Yes, yes, I am so sorry, Dr. Doherty. It’s quite a walk you know.”

”Quite a walk, but an instant zip, Father.” She pointed with her eyes toward a large glass cylinder in the corner of the cafe. It was illuminated with a faint green light from its base. 

“Oh please, call me Mariam. And yes, that may be true, but I’m not one to zip.”

”Something about zipping against your morals? Is God unhappy that we can get where we need on time?”

Father Chapman forced a smile. “Um, yes, actually. Kind of. There’s something in the File about the tube’s disintegration and reintegration process. The soul is found within-“

”I’m not here for a File lesson, Father. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m here. I was hoping you would tell me. And I was hoping you would tell me concisely.” Callie took another sip of her blitz which was followed by stifled coughs. 

“Yes, yes, I am sorry. You’ve been waiting, and I will make this quick.” Father Chapman reached into his jacket and withdrew a postcard. “I received this late last night.”

Callie laughed through her coughs. “Is that paper? Blind God what’s the point of that?”

Father Chapman tried to hide a frown. “Please don’t use God’s name in the same breath as a curse, Dr. Doherty.”

”Good afternoon, sir. May I get you a drink?” The server asked as he placed another blitz in front of Callie.

”Oh, no, but thank you. Well, perhaps yes, actually. Do you have water?”

Callie raised an eyebrow.

”Yes of course sir, but unfortunately our local supplier is out of district for now. We only have imported, and it’s quite a bit more expensive than the local supply.”

Father Chapman reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a thin silver ring, which he affixed over his finger. “Very well, how much?”

”Ahem, it’s 120 credits, sir.”

 “Very good, I’ll pay now if you don’t mind.”

The server shared a glance with Callie before pulling out the paytab. He held it out to Father Chapman’s ring until it let out a soft boop. ”Thank you, sir. I’ll go get that water right now.” The server left quickly, not seeming to notice that Callie had pushed a now empty cup his way before starting the next.

”Church donations must pay pretty well these days.”

”Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. This ring is tied to my private finances.”

“Look Father, I know you church types. I’ve known your kind for a looong time.” She let a smug smile peak out, laughing at her own private joke. “I don’t care who you’re stealing money from, or how you justify it.”

”Yes, well, anyway,” Father Chapman held up the postcard. It was covered in tiny dots and lines. “Do you know what these are, Dr. Doherty?”

Callie squinted at the card before nodding. “Yes, Morse code. Used to speak in the old days. Back when we had radios and the like.”

“Yes, indeed.” Father Chapman looked at the card with a solemn expression. “Do you know how to read it?”

”I do, actually.” Callie held out her hand for the card. Perhaps she shouldn’t have let him know that, but the effects of the blitz were starting to overshadow her senses, and she didn’t like hiding her intelligence, even when sober.

”I do not need a translation, Doctor. I know what it says.” His hands trembled almost imperceptibly as he placed the postcard on the table, covering it with one hand. 

“Well, what’s it say?” 

Father Chapman wiped the moisture from his brow. He looked up at the pipes on the ceiling, occasionally flinching when one let out a gentle burst of ruby steam. “Um, well it says that- or rather someone has reached out- that is, what I mean is-“

“Sightless above, spit it out Father.”

Please, do not refer to our lord with a curse, Dr, Doherty.”

”Your water, sir.” The butler removed a slim transparent glass from the tray. The scent of the water seemed to clear the entire table from the effects of the humid air. 

Callie furrowed her brow and leaned back in her chair. “That stuff is too damn clean. I feel like it’s sobering me up from here.” She punctuated the sentence by downing the last of her blitz. She looked down at the Morse code on the postcard, which was now uncovered. 

Attention: Father Mariam Chapman

I pray under the All Seeing that your work goes well. I regret to tell you that I write this message in warning. We have been in the search of a man who goes by

Father Chapman covered the postcard again. ”If you don’t mind, Dr. Doherty, can you tell me a bit about your studies? I’ve heard your work is mostly independent.”

Callie tried to take another sip of blitz, only to realize her glass was empty. “So, what’s this about, Father? A missing man, or my work?”

Father Chapman took a long sip of water, closing his eyes and sighing in relief. “Both, perhaps. Maybe your work can assist me.” He raised a hand and gestured to the server, pointing down at Callie’s empty cup.  The server approached and replaced the empty cup with the new almost immediately. 

“Please, I can’t have any more,” Callie said as she sipped from the new copper cup. She closed her eyes and sighed as well, though she seemed more in pain than relieved. “Yes, my studies. My focus is in blood. Specifically postmortem. But if this is a crime thing you’re better off talking to an official. Like you said, I’m… independent. I’d rather not get involved”

Father Chapman took a ragged breath. “Dr. Doherty, may I ask, where did you study, before coming here to Lightdale?”

Callie took another sip of blitz. “You mean before? I studied at Singular.”

”Before…” Father Chapman looked into his glass. “Did you know a Doctor John Wesson?”

Callie failed to hide a smile. She looked at her thin hand and gave it a flex, remembering Dr. Wesson’s muscles. “Yes, I worked… closely with him at Singular.”

“Yes, well, it seems that Dr. Wesson is missing.”

This time Callie hid her smile well. “I see. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t spoken with him in nearly a decade. I won’t be much help in his whereabouts.”

Father Chapman picked up the postcard and studied the tiny dots and dashes. When he did, the back was revealed to Callie. A photograph of the spire at Singular. 

“So,” Callie continued. “If there’s nothing else, you’ll have to apologize to those folks at Singular for me. Good luck finding Dr. Wesson.” She pushed back as if to leave when Father Chapman began reading aloud from the postcard. 

“I pray under the All Seeing that your work goes well. I regret to tell you that I write this message in warning. We have been in the search of a man who goes by the name Doctor John Wesson for the better part of eight years.” He paused and met Callie’s eyes. “When did you say you left Singular, Dr. Doherty?”

Callie felt something, but the effects of the blitz seemed to mask it. One of the best parts of a blitz was how it simply covered any negative feeling. “In year forty-two, Father.”

“Eight years ago,” Father Chapman nodded before continuing to read. “I regret to say he was found, or rather, his body was found. Drained of bl-” Father Chapman stopped suddenly, and took a breath that made his lip quiver. “Drained of blood.” He stopped to look up at Callie again.

“Terrible,” she answered with little emotion. What’s this feeling the blitz is covering? Is that fear?”

Father Chapman continued. “It would seem that our records show Doctor John Wesson had been trained at Wirecross, but under a different name. He had worked alongside a woman there named Tyla Everett.”

Tyla… I remember Tyla. Callie looked down at her hands, remembering the way Tyla’s had always ached from arthritis, near the end. 

“Ms. Everett’s body was identified recently. It had also been drained of blood.”

Pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place. Callie jumped from the table, knocking an empty copper cup to the floor. The blitz wasn’t strong enough to cover this much fear. “What are you saying, Father?” She whispered from across the table.

Father Chapman tucked the postcard back into his pocket. He was breathing even harder than Callie was. “We think- or rather, the folks at Singular think, that is, the officials at Singular believe that maybe, it’s possible-”

“Sightless above Father, spit it out.”

Father Chapman took another patient breath. “Do not curse our lord, Dr. Doherty.”

“Spit. It. Out.”

With another sip of water, Father Chapman met Callie’s eyes. “They think these were murders. They think the murders have something to do with you.”

Callie looked around the cafe. No officials. She looked out the window of the front door. Nothing unusual. 

“Please, please,” Father Chapman ushered Callie back down to her seat. “You don’t understand, Dr. Doherty. I’m your friend.”

Callie stared into Father Chapman’s eyes and was surprised to see fear more than anything. “Why have you called me here, Father?”

“I want to help you, Doctor. Of course if this is true you will turn yourself in to the officials, but I wanted a chance to speak with you— to offer you redemption in the eyes of the All Seeing.”

Callie felt her fingers clench into fists. She wondered if Callie’s body was strong enough to best this priest in a fight.

“No, no, Doctor,” Father Chapman waved his hands in a calming motion. “Please, no violence. I come as a servant of the All Seeing. I come because I must. Please, tell me what happened. Is what this postcard says true?”

Callie shook her head, trying to fully kick any lingering effects of the blitz. Why did I have so many?

“Doctor, please,” Father Chapman urged. “Please, speak with me. The All Seeing is here for you, as He has always been.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tablet. He tapped it to life to reveal a page of the File. He held it out to Callie and began reciting from memory. “None are lost. Even the nameless, having given away themselves, can be brought back to the flock. State your name unto the heavens and as our lord sees all so does He hear all. If you have no name to speak, you always have a soul.” He hesitated there before continuing. “Speak your soul unto the heavens and the All Seeing-”

“Fuck you.” Callie stood again, knocking her chair to the floor. “Fuck you and fuck your blind god.”

Father Chapman rose from his seat. “Please, there is no need to-”

“Your god is blind and deaf and you are more lost than I. I was there, Father. I was there when all this File nonsense began. I was there when technology took religion and I’ll be here when the next big religion comes along.” She began walking to the door. “And I’ll still be here long after you are dead and buried.”

Father Chapman called after her. “Please Doctor, this is your last chance!”

“Fuck you, blind man.” Callie struggled to walk straight as she staggered to the door. She grabbed the handle, but it did not turn. She gave it a tug, but it had been firmly locked. In a panic she whirled around and charged across the cafe, knocking a few tables over in the process. She reached the large glass cylinder in the corner and jumped inside. When she did, the dim green light turned red, indicating it was now in use. She pulled out the tablet from her pocket and pressed a button.

Nothing happened.

She pressed it again, confused. The tablet read that the zip was active and in her use. She tried with futility to activate the zip again before giving up and trying to open the tube. The tube door was now fused together and did not budge at her frantic tug.

“Callie Doherty,” a muffled voice said from outside the tube. It was the server, seeming to have lost all propriety in his voice. “Or should I say, John Wesson? Or Tyla Everett? Or any number of previous names?”

Callie hammered at the inside of the cylinder with her fists, ignoring any pain. She dove at the wall to no avail. Like a caged animal, she attacked her confines, ramming repeatedly into the glass. 

The server pulled off his overcoat to reveal an official’s vest. “Don’t hurt yourself now. That’ll come soon enough. I’ll be taking you now, Doctor Doherty.” He leaned toward the glass as if observing a unique specimen. “Oh yes, I’ve work to be about tonight.”

The morning rush left little room for quiet in the bustling cafe, but that didn’t stop the silence between them from stretching on and on.  After a few painstaking minutes, Callie sighed and let her shoulders sag.  She wanted to give Mary a chance to come clean—to be the one to break the silence for once—but she should have known better.  Ever since they were kids, Mary had been a bit of a coward.  That’s probably why she ended up in the Rookery with all the other precious doves.

“I got your postcard.”  Callie said it as casually as she could while she stirred her drink.  She knew that saying it too eagerly—or even making eye contact—might make ol’ Mare hit the bricks, but she still had to say it out loud.  Ever since they were kids, she had never been one to let secrets lie.  That’s why she had flown the coop.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Mary said unconvincingly.

“Mare…” Callie ventured a knowing glance.

“It’s Father Chapman now.  Please.”  Mary threw a nervous glance around the cafe.  

What was she so goddamn nervous about? All the servers were mechies, and all the patrons were Highsteppers, which is exactly why Mary had made them meet up at this gaudy spot in the first place.  Neither group was like to care an iota about whatever a doctor from the Ravages and a Rookery priest had to say to each other at the bar on a Tuesday morning.

God, it sounds like the start of a bad joke.  Is that all we are to each other now?

“Father Mary Chapman.”  Callie blew a raspberry with her lips.  “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?  How many ‘Fathers’ have big ol’ titties like you?”

Mary blushed, and for just a millisecond, Callie saw the silly little chipmunk girl she used to love.  She even looked on the cusp of one of the effervescent giggle-fits that used to get them in trouble in class.  But instead, “Father Mary Chapman” swallowed it down.  The color faded from her cheeks as she cleared her throat and straightened her collar.  

“There are a lot of women at the Rookery now.  You know that. It’s different, since we…”  Mary trailed off, and cast her eyes down.

“Since we what?”  Callie leaned down and tried to catch Mary’s gaze, but it was no use.  Mary swiveled her neck away, avoiding Callie’s stare with a shameful shrug that she had apparently perfected in her Years of Contrition. 

Callie scoffed and took a sip of her drink.  At first, she had thought it too sweet, but with each sip it went down easier.  “Can’t even say it out loud anymore? I thought honesty was a policy for your type.”  Callie waved her hand at Mary’s garb dismissively.  “This ain’t you.  How this little outfit doesn’t burst into holy flame every second…”  She chuckled.  “I mean, that right there is proof enough for me that your little book is a bunch of hogwash.  You can lie to yourself about it—you can even lie to Him about it too, I guess.”  Callie gestured vaguely upward.  “But it hurts for you to lie to me.  You know, after everything…”  Another drink.  “That really stings, Mare.”    

Callie tried her hand again at some eye contact, but Mary deftly avoided the confrontation of her gaze. 

Callie didn’t blame her, really.  Cowardice was just her nature.  In fact, if anything, Callie was a little jealous.  Hiding out in the Rookery was probably easier, in the long run.  It surely beat running halfway around the world like Callie had, snapping bones here, and stretching skin there—doing whatever she had to do just to scrape two pennies together.  Nah, for a gentle little sheep like Mare, graduating to the Rookery was a smart play. She always had a soft bed and three hot meals.  Besides, wasn’t the best place for a sheep to hide smack dab in the middle of a big flock?

Callie threw back another sip.  She could tell her drinking was getting reckless, and a little angry, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.  This all had started to hurt a little more than she expected.  Callie had been telling herself that she had come purely out of professional obligation,  but the pounding in her chest and the warmth rising in her cheeks were calling her bluff.  

To everyone else involved, it was all business—the North Ravages College of Internal Medicine had received an anonymous postcard alleging inhumane medical practices at the Brethren Prestentine Rookery, and Callie, one of the college’s most promising medical investigators who happened to have grown up in Brethren, had volunteered to look into it.  In response to an official request from the Academy Board of Medical Investigation, the Rookery had no choice but to cooperate, and they had sent a fresh, sweet-smiling Father to make first contact with the investigator.  It was all above board, and there was nothing personal about any of it.

Except between her and Mare, it would always be personal.  Mary hadn’t signed the postcard herself—hell, it hadn’t even been addressed to Callie by name—but she had to have known it would come across Callie’s desk, and she had to have known exactly what Callie would do when it did.  

Of course, Mare hadn’t asked her to come.  She could never be so bold. The postcard was barely a whiff of a suggestion—an echo of a chime of a single wag of the tiniest bell on the planet that might not even exist, and yet it had been enough.  Enough to send Callie running through all of Division, sailing across the Oran Sea, all just to end up back in the one place in all of After she swore she would never come back to.  All to help her sweet little Mare, who never asked for a thing from Callie, but had always gotten everything she wanted out of her anyway.  

And now the bitch had the gall to sit there, playing coy, arms crossed, wearing the garb of all the women who beat the shit out of them their entire childhood, and she couldn’t even do Callie the decency of looking her in the eyes?  

Another sip—a gulp, this time.  “Fine.  I can see this is unpleasant for you Father Chapman.  But excuse me for having a hard time feeling sorry.  You wanted me to come, so I did—all the way from the fucking Ravages, I came to meet you at this nightmare, ‘m’lady’-ass clown show cafe.  And now you won’t even admit you sent the damn postcard?  You know that I know you sent it.”  Callie slid the postcard from her jacket pocket across the table and pointed at the script.  “You couldn’t possibly think that I wouldn’t recognize your cutesy little handwriting?  Nobody else loops their ‘i’ like this.”

Mary grabbed the postcard, crumpled it up, and shoved it in her robes.  “What are you doing, bringing that out here?  If they knew I told you, I…”  She eyed the room nervously and lowered her voice to a whisper.  “You know what the punishment is for Vowbreakers at the Rookery.”

Callie scoffed.  “You don’t actually believe that, do you?  Some secret dungeon full of praying mummy statues?  That’s just what they tell naughty little girls like us, to make ‘em behave.”  Callie started to take another sip but held the drink at her lips, smiling cruelly to herself.  “You know, it might not have been so bad, if they froze us in the position they found is in that one time, in the east wing—”

Callie saw her drink fly and crash against the bar before she felt the sting of Mary’s slap.  She brought her hand to her cheek and felt the heat of the contact.  She turned to see Father Mary Chapman, in all of her righteous anger—cheeks flushed red, brow furrowed, teeth clenched. For just a moment, she felt the fear of God again.

The moment passed, and Callie let out a spiteful chuckle.  “Alright, I see it now.  You look just like Sister Spiers.  Hit like her, too. Maybe you’re right where you belong, after all.”  She grabbed a napkin and spit some blood into it.  She cracked her neck, straightened her shoulders, and let Dr. Doherty take over.  “I’m staying in Jay Town.  At the Loop.  If you or anyone else has any information about the alleged bloodletting going on at the Rookery, please refer them to me there.  I’ll be in town through the end of the month. At that point, I’ll present my findings to the board, and leave this black fucking hole forever.  For the second time. For the last time.”

Callie stood, and gently placed down a couple coppers on the bar to cover her drink. She watched the automated bartender roll by and swoop it up non-chalantly.  Behind him, in the reflection of the mirror on the back of the bar, Callie saw Mary looking at her.  It wasn’t Father Mary Chapman—it was her sweet little Mare, with her little chipmunk cheeks twisted into a pout, and her perfectly rounded eyebrows twisted in gentle confusion.  That look had made Callie ruin herself time and time again, but right now it wasn’t enough.  She had come halfway around the world—a hell of a lot more than 90%.  She’d gone 99 for Mare, just like always.  But this time—this last time—she was determined to make Mare go one.  Not even the ten she was supposed to—just one god damned percent.

Callie noticed Mare was holding the crumpled up postcard in one hand on the bar.  Mary opened her mouth, but then closed it again without speaking.

Callie whipped around and headed for the exit.  For all her show of being spurned, if Mare would have rang the bell, Callie would have turned around and returned to her in a second.  Callie timed her steps to the rhythm of her pounding heartbeat so she could listen for the slightest ring, but it never came.  By the time the door shut behind her, she was resigned to it.  So long as she lived, that was the last time she would ever see Father Mary fucking Chapman.

“Is there anything else I can get you, Father?” The robot waitress asked as she placed the sandwich and steaming coffee on the table. Her wooden gears creaked as she bent over, but any sound was smoothed over by the loud and myriad conversations in the café, all coming from the other robots.

“That’ll be it for now, my child,” Father Mariam said with a nod of his head; unlike the café patrons, Father Mariam was human. “Thank you Fir-Tungsten, and may the Almighty Steel be with you.” 

The waitress suddenly paused, along with every other robot in the café, as all went silent. 

Father Mariam nervously eyed the room. “What is it, my child?”

Fir-Tungsten’s head tilted to the side, and then a slow vibration traveled down her walnut body. “We have an outsider, Father. A woman. She’s on her way here.”

Father Mariam wordlessly narrowed his gaze. 

“What shall we do?”

He rubbed his chin in thought. “‘Those who seeketh, shall come’, as our great Diadorus once said. Let her in.” At his words, the entire café roared back to life.

Fir-Tungsten bowed, then clunkily spun around with her wooden gears shifting left and right as she left the table.

Father Mariam bowed his head and closed his eyes as he heard the door to the café open. He whispered a silent prayer, the words of which could not be heard above the din. He pulled the medallion from his neck to his lips: it was a cog overlaid atop a cross, a symbol for the Church of Saint Steel Diadorus. 

As he raised his eyes, he saw the outsider sitting at the bar, and he knew she had turned away before he could notice her. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his brow, then picked up his coffee. As he raised it to his lips, the woman looked at him, and he nodded towards her. 

She got up from her seat and came over. Without a word, she took out a chair from the table and sat down, staring intently at Father Mariam.

The priest quickly cleared his throat as he set his cup down. “Ah, hello. Uh-um-and you are?”

“Doctor Callie Doherty,” she said coldly.

“Doctor?” He gave a pleasant raise of his eyebrows. “Of what practice?”

“Common.” Her tone conveyed that there could be no other.

“Now, common isn’t all there is to this world you…”

“Are you Father Mariam Chapman?” she asked, cutting him off. 

“Well…yes,” he said with a small chuckle. “It appears my reputation precedes me. As they say, Saint Diadorus works in mysterious ways.” He cleared his throat and adjusted the collar of his robes. “Now please doctor tell me, what brings you to our small village of New Diam?”

Before Callie could answer, the waitress was at their table. “Is there anything I can get you, hun?”

Callie locked eyes with the robot for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Are you…Fir-Tungsten?”

The waitress shifted nervously beneath her grinding gears. She looked to Father Mariam for support, and he nodded. “Yes,” she said.

Callie’s face melted into anguish. “Samantha?” Her voice cracked on the name, and her eyes began to glisten.

Fir-Tungsten backed away in confusion.

“There’s nothing to fear, my child,” Father Mariam said in a comforting tone. “Callie has had a long journey and is in need of much rest.” He then smiled towards Fir-Tungsten, and the waitress fled.

Callie quickly wiped her eyes, then her face twisted into a seething scowl. 

“Is-is everything okay?” Father Mariam stammered. “How do you know Fir-Tungsten?”

Callie reached into her jacket pocket and placed a postcard on the table. She spun it around, and pushed it over to the priest. 

Father Mariam glanced down then reeled back in horror: it was a picture of a body – a woman – with the top part of her skull removed. 

“Do you know who this is?” Her voice was cold and solemn.

The priest pushed the postcard away with revulsion. “I will not have this blasphemy in my…”

“It’s her.” She then flipped the postcard over and pointed to the text on the back: “New Diam. Fir-Tungsten. Father Mariam.”

The priest’s mouth fumbled for words. “Whe-where did you…who…”

“Did you do this to her?!!”

The whole café hushed to a quiet. 

“Please Callie, you’re disturbing my children. I’m going to have to ask you to…”

“She was my daughter!!!” Callie screamed. “And her name is Samantha!!! What have you done to her!!!”

“Now, now, let us all calm down here…” Father Mariam began to rise from his chair.
Callie leapt to her feet and pulled out a gun, taking aim at his chest.

The robots of the café instantly turned on edge, but Father Mariam held out a consoling hand to them. “You may be upset Callie, but trust me when I say she wanted this. She told me that her mother couldn’t understand her, always wanted more out of her, pushed her away. Fir-Tungsten never wanted to be a doctor like you, yet that’s the path you refused to let her stray from. That’s when she came to me, seeking salvation.”

“You…lie…” she barked through gritted teeth. “You don’t know anything about her!!!”

“Please, put the gun down and we can talk,” he said as he slowly began to move towards her.

“Not…another…STEP!!!”

Father Mariam paused, then eerily smiled. “My children,” he said, speaking to the room, “it is only through Him that we may live.”

“It is only through Him that we may live.” They all chanted back.

Callie looked around nervously.

“Flesh dies, wood decays, steel rusts. In what form will we find salvation in this life, Callie? Only Saint Steel Diadorus knows the answer to that question, and I will chase his form to the end of this world.” He walked closer until the barrel of the gun touched his chest. “My lord and savior protects me from your mere mortal worries, as he does all my children.”

Callie’s hand was shaking, unable to pull the trigger. Father Mariam put a hand on her finger and pushed.

She screamed as the round fired into his chest. A hollow thud rang out and she backed away, but Father Mariam didn’t even flinch. She watched in horror as he put a hand to the bullet hole in his robes, but when he showed her his palm, it was clean.

 “The blood of flesh is a fate I know no longer. It is only through Him that I fear not death.”

“It is only through Him that I fear not death.” The room chanted back again.

“What are you?!” Callie’s voice shook uncontrollably in her throat.

“Ah, yes,” he said with a wry smirk. “You, Callie, are a doctor of flesh, while I…I am a doctor of Steel!”

She took aim again, but a strong wooden hand quickly disarmed her. She turned and saw Fir-Tungsten holding her weapon.

Father Miriam grinned. “Now then, let us discuss who sent you this postcard.”