slipstream
-
Faded off white plastic. Rubbing alcohol. Scratchy fabric. “Sergeant Anson?” a female voice crackled over the speaker, pulling him into reality. Fane woke to the inside of a scanning bed, his head strapped into a white cage.
-
Of the pair of automatic doors at the clinic entrance, one opened part way and the other twitched, stuck in it’s slide. Zephyr let out a sigh, shoulders sagging. “I swear, we need that funding soon.”
Chapel Orahamm 