The Red Mother
by PulpPistil
Ten years after the second blow, no man can father a child. Five intersex survivors of a wiped tribe take a hire from a juice-farm town: find the masked raiders who have started keeping women, and the name of their new goddess. The five already use each other, mother and grown daughter included. They have held their seed as a secret. The job is supposed to buy them a home. Produced with AI tools.
Competiton is in the Heir
by PulpPistil
A house needs an heir and will not leave it to bloodline talk. Succession is run as a contest: intake first, then scored trials, with a public voice keeping the tally while the rooms stay polite. The tests use sex and violence as the evidence. Bodies are measured, compared, and sent into field rules. Advantage moves. People who are not in the running get used as part of the protocol. The feed calls it selection. Someone is supposed to take the chair. The house already has plans for everything that does not. Produced with AI tools.
The Case in Red
by PulpPistil
The Lower Decks never really sleep. They just get quieter when something expensive lands. Umbriel Vega steps out of the first hatch like the ferrocrete already belongs to her: living void-metal at her throat, black ichor moving over dark skin, tentacles tasting the air. Lortha and Entha come with her. They are not here to blend in for long. The second shuttle opens on a cleaner lie—another team, another reason to want the same object, the same climb, the same city that still thinks it is only a city. Between the landing pad and the upper stacks: yard guards, street crews, broadcast heat, and rooms where bodies are the product and the cover. Public sex and public killing share the stairwells. The case moves slow. The people carrying weapons toward it do not. The Virago Games are on. Produced using AI tools.
Ghost Signal
by PulpPistil
Tes is already underground when the signal wakes up. Six hours. A dead operator’s last map. The kind of score people kill for, according to the voice in her ear that never shows a face. The trunels under the data blocks are narrow, hot, and full of gas that does not care who fires first. Bodies from an earlier fight are still cooling on the way in. Gear is lying where it dropped. Other crews are already moving—city muscle, a loud little cell with a cause, and someone who has a personal reason to be on this channel. Tes came for the cache. Getting to it is not the same problem as leaving with it. The clock does not stop because the tunnels get crowded. Produced using AI tools.
Night Drop
by PulpPistil
Iri Sune Kahn was mid-kill when the storm took the courtyard. She lands on wet concrete under a humid sky, nearly naked, weapon still in her hands, and the creatures scatter into the ramps. Sloane Keller was leaving work for the gym. Expensive car. Crowbar. A pistol she has already used. Gym clothes stuck to her with heat and adrenaline. The first thing she sees of Iri is blood, skin, and a problem that does not belong on this floor. Monsters in the stairwells. Bodies on the decks. Two women who cannot stop looking at each other between the fights. The ground is a long way down, and anything that leaves the building will not stay a local problem. Produced using AI tools.
Dragon Slayers
by PulpPistil
The settlement is already sweating when the cameras go live. Vendors, odds boards, bodies on display. Four runners enter a dungeon grown through fungus, crystal, and old violence. One of them talks. One of them performs. One of them shops first and says almost nothing. Public sex and public killing share the same broadcast. The gates are open. The odds are moving. Whatever waits at the center is not explained in the square. Produced using AI tools.