Requirements: 400 word limit; SCARE: Time management; ACTION: Dueling; CHARACTER: A killjoy

The sky was a thick black— like a rot soup under a log in the woods. It seemed almost to churn: a pit of black vipers, pressing together, slipping apart. The year was 2038, and the world was slipping apart.

Mora stood atop a hill bordering a copse where the cobblestones ended. She had walked here in near darkness, still in her cocktail dress. She hadn't known anyone at the soirée, and the host was of that new generation, half her brain glued to generated content in her SlipStream implant all night. Eventually, the alcohol buzz had dulled to a vague heartache and a will to wander, and seeing a real life SlipStream head case had only served to remind Mora that her social work with content-addicted kids wasn't keeping up with the pace of technology, so she had left. The breeze was nice.

And then came Connie, romping up the hill.

“I knew I could catch you,” she said.

Mora raised her eyebrows. “Shouldn't you be hosting your guests?”

Connie looked up at her, and Mora saw that one iris whirled with SlipStream content even now.

“I think I realized I don't like my friends.”

“Oh,” said Mora. “They seemed nice.”

Connie frowned, then looked at her phone. She was silent for a moment. “My dad died,” she said.

“Oh, I'm sorry—” Mora faltered. “Is that why you threw the party? For community, I mean?”

“Huh?” Connie blinked up at her. “No, I mean I just got the text. He died a few moments ago.”

“Oh!” Mora repeated. “Are you okay? Was it age?”

“A duel,” Connie said, flatly. “Here, I'll replay the video.”

She held up her phone screen displaying an X stream of someone's Meta Glasses footage. Two men paced apart, turned, lifted an arm each: Bang!