Ficlets

Shrouded in a cloud of swirling grey-blue dust, I leaned against the shop window and took another drag on the glowing filtration stick. Been trying to give ‘em up for years and upgrade to an internal model, but I like to have something to do with my hands.

I blew a dust ring and pierced it with an arrow as I glanced up and down the street. Finny’s part of the Hub wasn’t the best, but what was these days? Four-credit pleasure droids hummed under the corner streetlight. Shrill binary voices shot into the street from some apartment. Probably arguing about exorbitant electric bills.

I checked the sign over my head again. Flashing red: “Finny’s Spare Parts.” I shook my head and wondered if anybot could logically prove that for nanosecond.

What was taking Finn so long? I re-ran the audio recording. “Meet me outside at 11:45.22, ya lousy bastid. I gotta check on inventory.”

11.47.29. I jimmied open the back door. The rusty runt was on the floor—nothing but a pool of wires and cooling fluid.