a Web of Thieves

A dull voice looms by the skylights, its words pressing down on the fiery haired woman beneath it. Her eyes are raised up, regarding the chair with spider legs, suspending an obese creature in the air impossibly.

She replies that the engineers had been contacted, the offer given. The man above seems pleased, but it is difficult to tell. He is one of the Transfused, and emotions are hard to read when a blush brings ash to one’s cheeks. The twinkle in his eye is there, though: a single sparkle amid his dull complexion.

The tips of the spider legs tick against the marble floor, a soft skitter in the present silence.

Sustephanie stands idly, fingers twisting her red curls. The graceful curves of the spider’s articulate limbs catch her attention. Her gaze follows them down to the floor, spilling their silver sheen onto the stone floor, which is polished to a point of almost mirror-like reflection. She sees her own face there, overcast in the metallic shadows and echoing the skin of the fat creature above her.

She shudders.

The man’s voice again tumbles down from his perch, asking when his ichor was arriving. He was feeling a little faint, he claimed, as it was a full day past his monthly transfusion.

Her eyes roll at his melodramatics; his body is simply attempting to replenish his supply of blood, as organic bodies are prone to do. That construct, however, would never need a second dose, and could go on forever with the same ichor in its fabricated veins.

She dismisses herself, assuring the man that new ichor will be coursing through his body soon. Red hair sways behind her as she leaves, her head shaking, hating the men who’ve been thieving her people’s creations.

He’d have his ichor, but he’d lose so much more.

The End

7 comments about this story Feed