Howdy!

I almost didn’t make it this week and then Rachael suggested Frankie and Fyrn take a stab at this week’s word. They were only too happy to oblige. 🙂

As always, you can find the rules here on Rachael blog, as well as this week’s stories waiting for you to vote on your top THREE favorite!

The word: DIVE

The genre: Sci-fi

Not familiar with Frankie and Fyrn? Read about their galactic shenanigans here!

Captain Frankie Baum grimaced at the pained wheeze his ship emitted as they set down on the surface of the red moon. He’d be lucky if the hasty repairs done on Cristol lasted another week. He flipped off the engines and the wail subsided for the moment. He pressed the comms button.

“We’re here. You ready?”

“Yeah,” Fyrn, the rebel leader and his current cargo, replied over the system.

They met at the airlock. Fyrn was wearing a tank top, newly smeared in grease stains, paired with her military style pants and boots. She completed the look with a plaid shirt stolen from his berth. She finished tucking her purple hair under an old ball cap and spread her hands to ask for approval.

“Great disguise. If you’re going for the hillbilly look,” Frankie said.

Her oversized eyes narrowed slightly. “Hillbilly?”

“Never mind. You sure there’s no warrants out for you here?”

“There’s none for you either, right?”

“Point taken. But I’ve got to make a stop at a disreputable bar known to attract the officer types.” He pulled on his leather jacket and tucked a revolver into his belt holster. His knife settled into the sheath in his boot.

“It’ll be fine,” Fyrn reassured him. Frankie shrugged his shoulder and punched the airlock button and led the way off the ship.

“Where are we going?” Fyrn asked.

“To a place that makes a dive bar look like a fancy establishment.”

“A dive bar?”

“Forget it. Point is, I need to see Radar’s cousin. We’ve run into a police patrol and ticked off the head of Cristol, so I’d like to know if we’re making waves. You’re kinda high profile. I wouldn’t put it past Rathson to spill the beans.”

“Ah.”

“Yep.”

Frankie led the way through a myriad of streets filled with people from the reaches of the galaxy. The moon basically functioned as a rest stop for intergalactic travel. It was too far out from the central planets to have a big police presence, and the chief officer was an overweight fellow known to take the occasional bribe. He preferred Greshen whiskey if one could get their hands on a bottle. Frankie kept a supply in a hatch behind a kitchen cabinet.

They heard the bar before they saw it. Tinny speakers blared the wild jangle popular on some backwater planet. The building sprawled along the street, cobbled together from the scraps of derelict spaceships. Frankie shoved open the pair of unexplainable wooden doors and gestured for Fyrn to enter. The smell wasn’t the worst in the galaxy. The patrons, the same motley mix as the rest of the town, gathered around precariously balancing tables and filled the place with hundreds of conversations.

“Frankie!” the swarthy bartender shouted and showed a smile full of pointed teeth.

“Hey, Jax!” Frankie waved and pushed their way to the bar.

“Been too long, m’friend,” Jax said.

“Yeah. Is Crasher around?”

“Sure. Upstairs. First you gotta try m’ new brew.” Jax poured two shots of a dubious blue liquid.

Frankie tossed his back and almost spit it all up. Fyrn merely smacked her lips and eyed the glass.

“What’s in it?” she asked.

“That was horrendous!” Frankie accepted a different shot from a laughing Jax. “I’m not paying for that.”

“On the house. Been waiting to test it on someone before I start selling it.”

“Typical.”

“I’ll let Crasher know you’re here.” Jax went to the back of the bar and knocked twice on a metal beam that disappeared into the ceiling.

“Thanks.” Frankie left a tip on the counter and led the way around the corner to a hidden stairwell. The door at the top was open and they stepped into a room filled with screens.

“Frankie!” Crasher beamed, rising from his arm chair. His impressively spiked hair made him look taller than he actually was. “You bring it?”

“Sure did.” Frankie pulled a chocolate bar from his jacket pocket and tossed it over. Crasher caught it and reverently smelled it before tucking it away.

“What can I do for you?”

“You can start by telling your cousin to give me a warning before he puts a fugitive on my ship,” Frankie crossed his arms.

“He told me you might be by.” Crasher chuckled. “I’ve been keeping an eye on all the feeds.”

“And?”

“Nothing on her.” He nodded at Fyrn. “Did you know that you’re wanted on Cabresh now?”

“Really?” Frankie stepped closer to view the warrant Crasher obligingly pulled up. “Freakin’ double crosser. I’ll never trust that jolly green giant ever again. That was even an honest job.”

“That stings, man.”

“I’m going to need to change the registration number on my girl just in case.” Frankie handed over a slim disc.

“Sure thing. It’ll take a minute or two.”

“Ok, we’ll be downstairs.”

Five minutes later, Crasher descended the stair to see Frankie and Fyrn in the middle of the biggest brawl to grace the establishment in some time. Frankie was holding his own against two of the larger patrons, while Fyrn tore through a Nester crew in a series of fluid kicks and punches. A well landed punch sent Frankie skidding across the floor. Crasher helped him up, tucking the updated disc in his back pocket.

“They sure are excited to see you again. Go get ‘em, champ,” Crasher patted his shoulder.

“Thanks, Crasher. See you next time.” Frankie winked and jumped back into the fray.

Ten minutes later, Frankie and Fyrn staggered out of the bar. Fyrn clutched a flask of Jax’s blue liquor and Frankie pressed a cold pack against a swollen lip. Frankie waved to the Nester crew as they headed off to their ship.

“I can’t believe you knew almost everyone in there,” Fyrn said.

“Yeah, great guys. It’s been a while since I’ve been by,” Frankie said.

“You are strange, you know that, right?”

Frankie laughed. “Come on, you didn’t want a boring trip, did you?”