An explosion of light in the cold emptiness above the world below. The entire surface of the planet awash in alien iridescence, thousands left temporarily blind and disoriented from the Administrative ranks to the lowliest Tradejack apprentice. It took mere microts for the order to be given before a flotilla of Imperial Gunships were sent to investigate.
Sheila had heard her mother’s over-dramatic screams in the past. Spoilt, shrill, nigh-inhuman screeches that were normally directed at the various passengers of Celia Torrance’s carousel of romance. Dirtbag boyfriends or fuck buddies who, more often than not, would either embarrass her publicly or invariably be caught stealing from the Torrance household in some manner.
Paul being the latest and longest lasting rider was neither a deadbeat or social oaf thus Sheila could assume one of two things:
1. Her mother’s legs have been spreading while Paul is gone at work
or
2. Celia was about to die.
Sheila assuming the latter, but almost hoping for the former, buried her face into her pillow and ventured back into sleep.
In what is commonly referred to as the ‘Enigma Vestibule‘ by the Apothecary Company, a massive room filled with dark-haired adolescents toil over vats filled with various solutions and meticulously sculpt and shape various material on spartan work benches. Others stand, stone still as they grind gritty materials with a porcelain crucible in one hand and make minute movements with their silver pistils with the other.
Every so often a quiet sob would cause the entire room of young women to lament and wail the names of their beloved friends and partners. Their very tears mixing into the liquids and powders of their trade. A klaxon sounded after one such fit, and with such a quickness most of them dove to the cold floor, save for two.
Both sported an eye patch, covering opposite deformities, one missing the left and the other missing the right ocular orb. Their eye patches nothing more than a small swatch of leather with a matching black thong to hold it to their skull. In rushed a handful of armored dragoons. Each helmeted minion carrying not rifles as their infantry counterparts sport but rather a single long slip of parchment bearing a striking sigil with a brief script scrawled beneath it in curiously, scarlet ink.
Each of their green eyes watched as the soldiers formed a semi-circle before them.
“8695554 and 287421 cease all unsanctioned activity at once,” the middle dragoon commanded, the parchment held stiffly between the fingers of her gloved hand.
The girls grinned dual empty smiles, devoid of teeth.
The unit stepped back in unison, holding true to their semi-circular formation, although one at the far end gagged at the sight.
“I warn you once more 869554 and 287421,” the officer’s voice squeaked out the designations with a once lost girlish tone.
The two bowed deeply and a quiet pop echoed in the silence.
“Ghastly,” said the dragoon that gagged.
The girls snapped up to attention and removed their eye patches to bare their eyeless sockets defiantly at their oppressors.
A dragoon shuddered, briefly, “I’m gonna hurl, 771284.”
the two eyeballs rolled about on the floor, weaving their way to within inches of the feet of the dragoon officer. The outer surface seemed to harden, and then crack, little green licks of flame poking out of the growing openings in the once eye-like casing.
“YOU - WERE- WARNED!”
