Random Writing #2

I mentioned previously making attempts to get over my writer's block, so here's another piece. I used the Story Engine, which is a delightful way to generate story prompts. (Have I mentioned I love random generators? I really do. Patrons get access to use a bot in my Discord server that will generate all sorts of fun things.) One of the ways that I am attempting to help with that writing block is to write things out longhand, with a pen, in my journal. When I'm at the computer, the blinking baleful eye of the cursor staring at me, I either freeze up or immediately go into editing mode. So far, so good, and I kept thinking about this prompt even well after I ran out of time.

Prompt: A salvager wants to get revenge on a prophetic hospital, but it will make a hypocrite of them.

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The Sibyllan Clinic was a non-descript storefront, bland and unassuming. The flat, ubiquitous gray metal of the space station blended away any identifying features. The only evidence that this was a clinic at all was the softly illuminated sign: open-palmed hands, in teal, a blood drop in lurid red. The sign managed to highlight everything around it--the food vendor across the walkway, the secondhand clothing shop, and the toughs hanging out near a maintenance door.

Kephtor rubbed the back of his head, the too-hot and prickling sensation lessening as he did so. The dull throb of pain had been with him ever since he had left this clinic. He had tried numerous pain killers, some legal, others less so. He had even gone so far as to find a Nyxian chemist, who had only laughed when he had tried to find a solution for his woes.

"You have been given a gift that most warmbloods would dream of having. I won't be giving you anything that would dull it."

Kephtor had left the chemist's pharmacy, the pressure behind his eyes growing worse, and the whispers in his head growing louder. The Nyxian's laughter was mocking behind them, but Kephtor had not missed the jealousy that marred their face.

Kephtor had never longed for anything beyond what he had. Mildly successful at gleaning useful items from the detritus of the thousands on the station, Kephtor was content with his lot.

Or had been.

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So this entry (and the other one) is part of a larger whole, the Neolympus setting that I am (very slowly) developing. If you want to see more of that setting (or the writing), please let me know, I crave validation.

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Originally published on my Patreon--thank you patrons!

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