Convenire Aliquem

     Closing his comic book, Gabriel Seagrass sighed, “we have to wait until the next one comes out.” He stood up from the chair, leaned over the bed and gave Clara Darin a peck on the forehead. “Night Tampon Lady.” If he’d paid attention, he would have caught the slight movement of her brow and the wild look that filled her eyes. He might even have recognized that as shear disgust at the nickname. As it stood, the teenager saw none of that. He rushed out of her little piece of the world and disappeared behind the flowery curtain.
     “Easy, Gabs,” a young woman ordered. “You almost knocked me down.”
     “Sorry,” Gabriel called.
     “What’s the rush?” she asked.

Videri Debet

     Certain atmospheric aromas fill the air before and after a rain. While Commander Randle Dante, Sr. stood on the balcony of his 10th floor suite staring out at the lights in the small town below that fresh ozone smell rushed through his senses. He inhaled deeply. Held it. And then, exhaled completely. He straightened up, pulled his shoulders back, thrust his chin forward, and stretched his hands multiple times. The old grandfather clock, in the suite’s Sitting Room, chimed the bottom of the hour. Since he was now appropriately late, he swept into the room, closed up the balcony, and then crossed into the bedroom where his things waited. With a flourish, he spun the cape into position and tied it off. The mask he carefully slid on before donning his top hat. From the edge of the bed, he snatched a small yet heavy metallic box.

Spem Alere

     The scent of pine cleaner burned her nose hair and made her eyes water. Clara “Chondee” Darin blinked at the eggshell white, pock-tiled ceiling, then rolled her eyes around. A hideous pink and yellow flower print privacy curtain looped out of the wall to surround her. Though its proximity encroached on her space, she wasn’t ready to face the shadows that passed by. The left side of her head felt as if some asshole had taken a jackhammer to it. Between the throbbing bursts of deep nerve pain, her throat ached. She vaguely recalled someone choking her. That’s what you get, Chondee told herself. Should have kept walking. Should have… She groaned under the weight of her lips. No. No. No. Repeating in her mind as she sent command after command to her uncommunicative lips. Dear Mercury, please not paralyzed. Not paralyzed. To her great dismay and infinite joy, her ocular muscles functioned normally.

Nunc Sciunt

     “What kind of beans are these?” Captain Dante, Jr. asked as he inhaled the delicious aroma wafting from his mug.

     The staff secretary adjusted her uniform shirt, straightened her shoulders, and met his curious gaze with a steely, “Donian Dark Roast.”

     Closing his eyes, Captain Dante sipped the coffee, and then said, “tastes more like Montisi Black.” He took another sip, “you may want to talk to your guy. If he can’t sort that out, let me know.”

     “You going to report me, sir?”

     “Listen carefully, Staff Sergeant: the best coffee in the world comes from just north of Baroport, Poterit Don. It’s the original Donian Dark Roast. Many knockoffs have been peddled across Dan and we, poor Danians, have been subject to every manner of black market treachery thanks to current import controls.” After taking another sip, he sighed, “our only problem is backwards law.”

Scholam Frequentare

     Standing in the Observation Tower listening to Major Derrick Peters’ monotone lecture on the importance of proper documentation was enough to make Tech Sergeant Rydel question his will to live, but more importantly his loyalties. Since Major Peters’ father happened to be the General of the Southern Battalion—renown master of the fine arts of diplomacy and deception—it had seemed like a good idea to ingratiate himself. But, every good idea comes with at least one moment of doubt, and in the weeks since the prisoner’s disappearance Rydel had found the doubtful moments were adding up at an abnormal rate. Whatever feud existed between the major and the commander had only been exasperated by the pothole’s disappearance, the recovery drone’s bird strike, and the commander’s psych-eval (meant to be a private affair, which naturally meant that the entirety of Camp Polkner knew). Rydel stared out the western window at the snow-capped, rolling blue and purple Iphigenia Mountain Range. Somewhere in those hills was the escaped prisoner. For the umpteenth time since the disappearance, Rydel longed to be anywhere but Camp Polkner. The hair on the back of his neck came to attention seconds before a private barged into the room bellowing, “ATTENTION ON DECK!” Without thinking, Rydel and the rest of the soldiers popped to and swung toward the door where Commander Randle Dante, Sr. entered.