I was contacted for GISHWHES; since, as far as I’m concerned, every opportunity to create a story is an exercise, I was ok with it. (note that I had to include Misha Collins, Queen Elizabeth and an Elopus.)
The trouble that bugged me was the wordcount– no more than 140.
…I didn’t manage it, at first.
So here’s version 1, stripped to the bare bones and still way over count:
“If you can imagine it,” the sign proclaimed, “we have it.”
It isn’t visible, of course; when you take your eyepiece off the sign reverts to a plain “For Rent” placard, shorn of its illicit message with the loss of augmented reality.
The Warehouse wouldn’t last for long if it didn’t take measures.
You lean on the intercom. After a moment, an angel opens the door.
“You want the Warehouse,” Buchanan didn’t look at you; didn’t acknowledge your presence. Unspoken rules at the Speakeasy; you don’t look, you don’t pay attention, you keep everything impersonal and we all walk away professionally, trading money for knowledge. “Whatever it is you want, you can find it there.”
You slid over the envelope with the notes; received, in return, a business card with instructions and the address to a bulletin board, buried down into the dark depths of the Web with no links going in or out.
OTPs, Cargo Ships, Omnislash and more. No questions asked, no names needed. Call us for an appointment.
You’d not contacted them directly, of course. A single-use email address, a disposable Eye– the usual cutouts you use when you’re dealing with people you’re not sure you trust.
And they’d been professional.
Somehow, you expected furtive deliveries in the night, cash handed over in paper sacks.
Instead, you’d had to buy Bitcoin– the exhorbitant choice of paranoids– and then use it to pay them, and then they’d sent you an address– a physical address– to visit at a certain time.
The Warehouse moves. Of course it moves. So they’d sent you an Augment App, keyed into the GPS and camera of the Eye.
And you know what they do. Even then, they surprise you.
“Castiel?”
“Of course not.” He smiles. “Just a facial remod. And you must be Siva. Good name.”
The man with Misha Collins’ face leads you back into the building, past several holding blocks. A tank full of Tribbles. A Japanese girl eating metal out of a bucket.
And…
“A nurse?”
“Not just a nurse, Siva. Look more closely.”
After a moment.
“That’s… Queen Elizabeth?”
“In her younger years. Driving an ambulance in World War 2.” “Oh.”
“I don’t ask.”
“Are they… constructs?”
“You shouldn’t ask either. Let’s just say… some. If it’s easier to build from the ground up.”
The two of you reach your order.
“And here you go. One… elephant-octopus hybrid, midgeted and treated for docility. Care instructions have been transmitted to your Eye.” He nods to the tank. “I know we promise no questions, but…“
“Scavenger hunt.”
“It must be a big one, to be worth what you’re spending on this.”
“It is.” You smile, reaching into tank and stroking the elopus. “The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen.”
And then I got really vicious in the edit:
Version 2:
If you can imagine it, the sign proclaimed, we have it.
OTPs, Cargo Ships, Omnislash and more. No questions asked, no names needed.
You take your eyepiece off; the sign reverts to a plain brick wall, shorn of its illicit message with the loss of augmented reality.
The Warehouse wouldn’t last for long if it didn’t take measures.
An angel opens the door.
“Castiel?”
“Of course not.” He smiles. “Just a remod.”
He leads you past a tank full of Tribbles, a Japanese girl eating metal out of a bucket. And…
“A soldier?”
“Look again.”
Beat. Then–
“Queen Elizabeth?”
“As she was in World War 2.”
“Oh.”
“Yours. One… elephant-octopus hybrid, treated for docility. I know we promise no
questions–“
“Scavenger hunt.”
“A big one?”
“Oh, yes.” You stroke the elopus. “The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen.”
Final wordcount: 140. On the nose
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