thriller
Wrong Identity
"The diner," Curtis whispered. "Which one?" "The Rusty Spoon," the man replied, leaning back against the wall. "About two hundred yards from where you were lounging in the mud. You had a fever that would have melted a lead pipe, kid. I gave you some aspirin and a glass of water before you passed out. You’ve been out for two days."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Let go!" Curtis screamed, though the sound that left his throat was a distorted, electronic screech. He could see the Enforcer advancing through the haze, its movements fluid and devoid of doubt. It didn't hate him; it didn't even see him as a person. To the machine, Curtis was simply a misplaced piece of equipment, a tool that had fallen behind a workbench and needed to be retrieved. The Enforcer reached out a ceramic hand to grasp his shoulder, and in that moment of proximity, the tether's signal peaked, attempting to force a hard reboot of his consciousness.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Don't celebrate yet," Soren cautioned, though he was limping toward Curtis with a look of fierce pride. "The signal didn't just break; it rebounded. We’ve effectively shouted our location to every satellite in the quadrant. This was a skirmish, Curtis. The war is just starting."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Soren led him deeper into the brine-pools, his boots making a wet, sucking sound against the mineral crust. He didn't speak for a long time, allowing the silence to act as a decompression chamber for Curtis’s frayed nerves. As they navigated the labyrinth of salt pillars, Curtis noticed that the bioluminescent fungi weren't just growing randomly; they were arranged in clusters that resembled a map, tracing the contours of the cavern in a soft, emerald glow. It was a biological index, a way for those who knew the language of the cave to find their bearings without the need for a digital compass.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
The man didn't lower the rifle, but he didn't aim it either. He stepped forward, his boots making a heavy, honest sound on the earth, unlike the gliding efficiency of the charcoal suits. "Names don't matter much out here. What matters is that you’re a 'glitch' in a very expensive suit, and you're currently trespassing on a patch of land that the facility thinks they own. I’m the one who makes sure the things they lose stay lost."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
