||[Jun. 2nd, 2006|10:58 pm]
Fast Fiction Friday
Mary had a little lamb, but its fleece was not white as snow. It had been locked into a dull-grey armored chassis some two years earlier, when she had begun its training, and it had remained there ever since, it's wet little lambykin eyes forever hidden behind a polarized targeting shield. Mary was seeing through those very same eyes right now, the tiny transmitter piggybacking on her little lamb's optic nerve. Mary was comfortably seated under a shady tree most of a mile away, monitor unrolled on her lap, nowhere near the well-hill. Her little lamb crouched at the base of the hill, well camouflaged among the rocks, target reticle trained on the two figures currently working the well. NOW? her little lamb queried. No, she reassured it over the wireless, not yet, you know the instructions. The lamb waited patiently, but it didn't have to wait long: after a couple more minutes, the two figures began the long slow trudge down the slope. The reticle sharpened on one of them: male. Range. Lock. Fire.|
The projectile was high velocity, small, but very fragile. It struck the boy in the leg and instantly pulverized, leaving no wound of its own, but the impact was perfectly targeted: his leg gave out suddenly and, carrying the heavy load that he was, he could not help but fall hard. The loose rocks of the trail gave way and soon he was going end over end down the stones in a shower of fragments and dust until he finally landed at the bottom, his head cracking hard against a protruding piece of granite. Near the top, the girl began to scream -- "Jack! Oh shit, Jack!" -- as she began a precarious-looking scramble down the hill.
Return to deployment, Mary told her little lamb. Nice shot. The monitor view went blurry as the lamb began to move; she rolled it up and put it back in its case with a satisfied smirk. Nobody dumps me for some little water-carrier whore and lives happily ever after, she thought.