DAKKA PRESS presents: THE STALKING SUNBEAR

We love stories here. We also love words.  Sometimes we make up our own words.  Like Kinderwurst.  It means child sausage in German.  But when we looked it up it was a real thing.  Germans are scary people.

The Stalking Sunbear is what happens when you let your love of words go too far.  That and sausage-children.

The Stalking Sunbear

The rapping on the door at three in the morning wasn’t unexpected. Or if it was, only in the way of a sudden spring rain. There had been a rising, a cool certainty, but no indication when it would break.

She stood in the portico, arms crossed around herself in the dusky cool of the night air.

It was never really dark here in the city, just a twilight break between the sun’s crossings. “I thought I’d surprise you,” she said, head down, a dubious pitch.

She didn’t know I looked forward to these visits. She didn’t know the cabinet I paced to, the door that hid the things I kept for these visits, black spiced tea and pirouettes, kept fresh for her. She didn’t know the cups I pulled out, mismatched solitary survivors of three sets of dishware purchased since college. Continue reading “DAKKA PRESS presents: THE STALKING SUNBEAR”

DAKKA PRESS presents: SPACE MYSTERY DANGER FORCE

SPACE MYSTERY DANGER FORCE

When there’s a space mystery these irresponsible mercenaries and bounty hunters are the last folks you want to hear from.  But like they always say, the danger is free!

I

(Interview Acoustics)

Deputy Lang: Okay boys. We’ve got you down for breaking and entering in Treaty Protected Space. I don’t need to remind you how serious a charge this is. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?

Kenji: Nooo! but but-but …

Shane: Well…

II

(Standard Acoustics)

Narrator: Kenji Yamato was enjoying a blissful summer day. He was not your average 11 year old boy. But he was completely unaware that he was fourth in the line of succession to the feared Yamato clan Yakuza syndicate. To him, this last bit of childhood was just another lazy summer day.

Kenji: I’m bored. Bored. Booorreeed. Bored.

Narrator: A day that he fully intended to take advantage of. Currently he was doing this by lying on his back and kicking his feet against the bed.

Kenji: Today is boooring. Boorrred.

Narrator: Not much happened in the small town where he grew up. Which could be why he wasn’t expecting a team of uparmored space mercenaries to breach his bedroom wall and expose it to the harsh vacuum of outer space. [explosion, subsequent wind]

Kenji: Ah-What.

Red Omega: Breach successful. Move in and keep sharp people. (sound of boots hitting over rushing air)

Delta Blue: Is that a kid?

Red Omega: Stick to the mission Delta Blue.

Blond Bombshell: Aw man! Look through these windows Captain, 1990’s retro colonists.

SHK pilot: [radio] Okay girls, this is a non-militarized Heinmann AI. You have roughly 10 minutes to get in and exfiltrate the anchorpoint before it pegs you as hostile actors and spins up countermeasures.

Narrator: The Space hornet Killers were renowned for being an entirely female band of mercenaries.

Blond Bombshell: Boy! We need to free you from the man.

Kenji: … aaaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaAAAAAAaaa! [sound of child being ejected out the side of a space station] Continue reading “DAKKA PRESS presents: SPACE MYSTERY DANGER FORCE”

DAKKA PRESS presents: REDFIELD

Welcome to the first episode of DAKKA PRESS presents. REDFIELD asks what we look like in the mirror of our own ambitions.  Will we have feet?  Will our mirror be tall enough to tell? We find most mirrors are a little too short.

REDFIELD

A man wakes up.  Around him sit machines humming with power, their tubes tendrils, sewing him back into the world.  The liquids they carry rebuild him.  He rebuilds himself.  It is an unnatural symbiosis.  Thought comes back in fits and starts, growing tentatively in iterations.  He wakes just long enough to register the process, but once again unconsciousness claims him.

A new cycle starts.  Someone enters.  He is recognized, John Clay, an old memory given flesh.  John Clay is then the reason he is here, slowly sleeping back to life.  He should be a husk lying in the field slowly returning to dust, but Clay had other plans for him.  This place has been abandoned.  The nameless man can tell from the silence of the city around him.  He does not belong here, nor these machines but each for different reasons.  The miracle of these devices in humanity’s abandonment sustains him who abandoned humanity.  This is Clay’s doing.  He has always been fond of a paradox.  The nameless man asks what year it is.  The date is seven years to the day since the last time he walked with men on mortal limbs.  Less since he stalked them without. Continue reading “DAKKA PRESS presents: REDFIELD”