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.
Southlight Oasis
by PulpPistil
A damaged explorer ship puts down at a lush oasis because the hull will not last another jump. The air is breathable. The water is real. The women who live there come out unarmed and already touching each other. They feed the crew. They pour. They undress the way other people shake hands. Sex is part of the welcome, not a side offer, and most of the ship takes it. The captain does not. He sleeps on the metal, eats what he must, and treats the oasis like a delay that should already be over. Repairs keep failing. Days stretch. The women stay close whenever the work is discussed. One crew member starts leaving her suit open and spending her off-hours in the halls. The oasis is very good at making leaving feel unnecessary. 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.