Pride Goeth Before the Fall

A bit of flash from Fictionistas May Prompt

The Prompt: “Your enemies have backed you against the edge of a cliff. Far below you is a treacherous torrent of water. What happens next?”

There’s only one square between me and endgame—my sorry corpse to be thrashed to bits in the rocky river below unless I can defend it. ‘STIG’ steps onto that square. His booted heels click against the surface which turns orange to match his name tag?

I’ve never seen this guy on the board before. And no one’s ever worn a name tag.

Most importantly, I’ve never been pushed to the edge of the board before.

It’s not agreeing with me.

I fold my arms across my chest and summon my best “I have something up my sleeve” grin.

I don’t. I can’t get a bead on this guy.

He looks like a n00b. No clan tats for Frantic, no braids for Zen, and there’s not enough muscle on him to feed a baby shark, so he isn’t Lunk.

This anonymity thing is clearly how he’s made it so far.

I’m about to open my bag of tricks and start assessing pre-attack options when a little flash of movement on STIG’s shoulder catches my eye.

A tiny orange thing has just landed there. A closer look with my aug goggles and I see the thing fold tiny mechanical wings back under a glittering carapace, then scuttle up to STIG’s ear.

I barely stop myself shouting, “Cheater!”

Player augmentations aren’t allowed to be covert, but if I speak, the game ends.

I’ve never lost, and I’ve never folded.

I cue my goggles to take thermal mapping, amplify and record audio, then snap an x-ray of STIG and his illegal beetle bot.

The bot doesn’t seem to be actually saying anything audible to STIG, but STIG nods like he’s just learned the best secret.

I put my hand to the pommel of my sword and push my coat aside. STIG’s smile fades.

I think he’s bluffing. He’s bluffing to get me to reveal how I’m going to attack. The bot is meant to trip me up. Thermal map and x-ray reveal STIG’s just a guy with a tiny bot and no other metal on his person.

The bot leaps from STIG’s shoulder at the sound of my gun.

But its tiny wings are all my eyes will focus on. Did my shot land?

STIG’s form blurs and my head swims. Somehow I’m on my knees.

The air in my lungs seems to liquify and drag me down with the weight.

I’ve never died in the game before.

Is this how it goes?

I force heavy eyelids open to look up.

That orange name tag is looming above me—now the only thing I can focus on are those stupid all caps letters.

With my last breath I laugh.

There’s the tiniest ‘n’ wedged between those capitals.

Death by poison, or if I’m honest, pride.

STInG kicks my quickly-evaporating carcass off the last square and over the cliff, but I don’t experience the fall.

I wonder if anybody does.

Author’s Note

I’ve never done flash before, and this was my first time taking part in the Fictionistas monthly contest. Excited to be involved—many thanks to the organizers!

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May's Flashy Fiction Thread