The Man With Two Souls

I was hoping to write a sci-fi collab about an orphaned teenager who roams the streets looking for trouble. But sci-fi stories are quite hard to write collaboratively so if you want, take a look.

Sef was crouching, ready to spring.

The night was one of the most overcast for the whole year so far. Thick clots of fog hung admonitory over the city, putrid smelling and dirty. Plasma lamps shone feebly through the haze, struggling to illuminate the silent streets. Every now and then a lev would hover past, shining eerily like a lonely ghost. The moon threw voluminous, bleach-white shadows over the surrounding buildings.

Sef barely coughed as he stole through the fog. His lungs, like many other street-dwellers, had become used to the cloying infusion of air. Those housies were wimps; shuffling along with white masks plastered to their well-fed faces.

Sef was gaunt. Tall for sixteen, with a spark of raven hair which glistened with grease from lack of washing. His face was pinched, with hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes. He wore a tattered leather jacket and jeans, coated in grime and barely intact. That was the only flaw in Sef's tactics: he always had to approach his prey away from the wind, else he would be smelt from a hundred yards.

And it hadn't been long before Sef had spotted his first target: a dumpy man, sweating slightly, in a suit that was ridiculously too big for him. He had close cropped, neatly combed hair, a greying toothbrush moustache and disgustingly polished shoes.

Sef frowned with concentration as he prepared to make his move.

The man had stopped to talk on his PI. Sef hated it when that happened: the rush of adrenaline that came before his attack was interrupted, and his expectation was cut short. But still - he was moving again. Sef gripped the handle of his knife -

- and jumped clean off the plasma lamp, landing on the man's shoulders and tackling him to the floor. The man gave a squeal of pain as his legs collapsed under him and his back pressed into the pavement. Sef's knife darted to his throat.

"Give me everything you've got," said Sef quietly, as the man's face contorted with terror.

"Wha - what would I have that you would want?" he stammered, in a weak, doddery old voice.

"Don't pull that one on me," growled Sef, feeling his way into the man's bag, searching for an ID card, or PI, or anything.

"Look, mate, you don't know who you're dealing with."

A deep gruff voice had sounded from behind. Sef whipped his head round  to face this new presence, and found the barrel of a shotgun thrust into his face.

Instinctively, Sef ducked out of the way. The gun was fired, barely missing the suited man on the floor. Sef dived into an alleyway as the shotgun man followed him, hastily reloading.

Sef grabbed the lid of a dustbin and held it aloft, catching one round clean on its middle. The force of the shot knocked him backwards, but before the man had time to reload Sef charged him, jamming the rim of the lid between his legs. He collapsed in agony. Sef spun round, kicking the shotgun away under a parked lev, and driving the handle of the lid into the man's head, knocking him out.

The suited man was up, and running away. Sef pursued him, feeling his dilapidated trainers falling apart with every step - but caught up with him before he could reach the main street. He grabbed an ankle and the man tripped. Sef grabbed his bag before the man had hit the floor, and suddenly was gone, like smoke on the breeze.


The suited man got slowly to his feet. His face was twisted with anger as he searched for his protector. He found him, a hundred yards away, covered in rubbish from an overturned dustbin.


The man called Alven struggled to his feet, brushing orange peel off his clothes.

"Yes, Chief."

"You have no idea what you've just let that boy make away with."

"I'm sorry, Chief, it won't happen again."

"No, it won't."

And the suited man pulled out a plasma gun, and shot Alven between the eyes.

Turning away contemptuously from the mess of rubbish and blood, the Chief made for the nearest taxilev station, keeping one hand on the trigger of his pistol. He wasn't being caught off-guard again tonight.

The End

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