Cripple

"Good Lord!" Vio leapt back from the puddle of slime and debris. He gasped when it extended a febrile eyestalk. "What is it?"

Yotl flushed a darker orange. "A homeless veteran of the Shhshs wars. Pass him by."

"Hunh," Vio said, glancing over his shoulder. "I've never seen a Shhshs without a shell."

"He is Zssvhs. He saved the last remnants of his kind when he shed his shell to slip between the joints of the flagship and manually eject the core."

"A hero!" Vio was aghast. "And he just lives on the streets?"

"He shed his shell," Yotl said.

Pledged to Service

The swordsman bowed. "What would you have, milady?"

"Perhaps some olives?"

"At once!" He saluted and ran off, leaping silverware and soup bowls. At the olive bowl, he encountered another thumb-high man. "Avaunt, varlet! The lady desires olives."

"Thou'lt wait thy turn," sneered the other.

"Cad!"

"Poltroon!"

In a flash, both needle-sized swords were drawn. The ensuing duel left an overturned wineglass, a trampled biscuit, and gravy-soaked bootprints behind.

"I could just reach over there," said the lady.

"Nonsense," the swordsman gasped, clasping his wounded side. He extended his sword, tipped with a speared olive. "I shall return with another."

Inexorable Foe

Biru clicked the stopwatch, puffing and sweating. He was down three seconds from yesterday. Was that enough?

He made himself walk, cool down after the obstacle course. He couldn't afford an injury now. He was barely keeping even as it was, his performance slipping daily. Old age comes to everyone, even the Bound. There was no guidance in the Codex for this; it was a matter of honor for a Bound One to destroy himself when he became flawed.

What was flawed? Where was the line of imperfection?

Biru clenched his fist around the stopwatch. He would run again tomorrow.