One Last Cup of Pod-wine

Scifi, 489 words

Angor had dreamed of a place to call home; a still, quiet, boring place where life dragged on from day to day into monotony.

It was a lucky day when he’d found it, a little cottage nestled in a wide valley between two mountain ranges on a malapod-shepherding planet in the far corner of the system.

So he’d settled in, made a few local friends, and left his old life behind, thrilled with the immensity of the overwhelming dullness.

Then she came to town.

She pretended not to recognize him. The nerve.

Pretended like she didn’t remember all those times they had been hired to kill each other. They both failed, obviously, but not for not trying.

Now here she was, in the midst of the perfectly mundane life he’d found himself.

It wasn’t long before she knocked on his door.

He went to it, swung it open, and returned to his chair by the hearth without a word.

“My time is up, I understand.” He said to the fire, accepting his fate. He was tired of the battles. He preferred to end it this way than return to his old life.

He waited for the joyous monotony to stretch into eternal nothingness.

She walked into the cottage and sat on the chair opposite him. “You’ve always been prone to egotism.”

He finally looked at her at this. He quirked his brow.

“It’s not always about you, or your death.” She grins flashing her pointed canines. “Though I did always enjoy it when it was.”

Though they had chased each other across the system attempting to cut short the other’s existence, lying had never been their M.O. She’d always been honest with him, and he with her.

I’m here to kill you, a shame, the light of Almera’s moons really highlight your eyes tonight.

I’ve poisoned your drink, but a round of star-chess before it sets in?

Qilak wants you dead so I plan on sinking this knife under your ribcage, though I could be convinced of a dance first.

Many of their conversations over the years had begun or ended similarly.

“Go on then,” he said, “why are you here?”

“I’m tired.” She let out a long breath and stared into the flames. “And I miss my only friend.”

He laughed at this. “Is that what we are? After all these years?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps not, but you’re the best I’ve got.”

Angor pondered over her words. “Hell, you’re serious, aren’t you? Either that or you’re planning my demise.” He stared at her. “I could use a drink either way,” He said standing. “Pod-wine?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

Angor poured two tall glasses and splashed them with local grass-cat oil. He handed her a glass and raised his. “To retirement.”

She clinked her glass against his. “To retirement.”

They sipped at the pod-wine, a note of sweetness the only indicator of the poison he’d added to both their drinks.