Writing is Good, Actually
So I just published the first three vignettes in the fictional universe that has been living rent-free in my head for the last five or so years.
My polycule a few weeks ago goaded me into writing some of it down, and, uh, suddenly I find I have an entire account at Campfire Write filling up with characters and locations and maps and timelines and aircraft designs. I am asking friends questions about fictional-use callsigns for ham radio and aircraft tail numbers, researching the state of the art in generative design, and generally just finding the ideas pouring out of me.
This is fun! Hot damn.
The universe aims to be a hard science-fiction near-future that develops naturally (if, uh, aggressively quickly) from current technology. I really want to make sure that nothing in-universe is magic.
I am also having a lot of fun making these characters. The core three are already nearly as familiar to me as are my IRL friends. Hell, one of my characters has already taken the story in a different direction than I had anticipated at the beginning; that vignette is incomplete at the moment, but I will likely get it published in a week or so.
I am unapologetically releasing these vignettes in the order I write them; the in-universe chronology is indicated in a heading in each post. Maybe eventually Jamie will help me build a timeline generator for Nikola so there is a place where they are sorted in universe time.
Oh, and as we were joking on Fediverse: anyone not in my immediate section of the polycule deserves $100 to a charity of their choice if they guess what TLMC means before I end up revealing it in-universe. Hit me up on Fedi or elsewhere with guesses.
I close my eyes and lean back into the dingy couch, my fingers interlaced behind my head, stretching up and back. This place is a good place, a home away from home.
The pungent smell of laser-ablated leather mixes with notes of cutting fluid and oak sawdust. Over the powerful hum of the vent fan exhausting the laser cutters' noxious byproducts, I hear the crackle of a MIG torch making a beautiful noise, harmonizing with the drone of the planer in the woodshop. The venerable CNC mill takes another deep facing cut, adding its guttural spindle rumble and the tinkle of chips hitting the guards to the symphony of creation around me.
Breakfast at The Den
Janais padded sleepily into the kitchen, failing to stifle a yawn. She plonks her forehead into Kian's mid back, wrapping her arms around the woman's bare midriff.
"Hey cutie, breakfast is almost ready. Is the blue-eyed one up yet?" Kian rumbled, deftly turning several eggs over in her pan as her diminutive partner shook her head.
"No, she was still firmly wrapped around BLÅHAJ. You left!" She softly headbutted Kian, giving her a squeeze and then disengaged, heading for the kettle.
"I did! Poor Moira, she must have been having bad dreams. She kept kneeing me in the back all night, and I eventually had to get up and move to the couch."
"Aww. Unrelated, jasmine or rocket fuel?" Janais inquired, sifting through the assortment of tea bags, pulling out two red bags of Irish breakfast tea.
"Nah, I gots mine" Kian waved at a brilliantly green energy drink on the counter. "Had to do the drugs anyway, might as well wake up and make some breakfast."