Trashgod – part II

24 Feb

Orion and Percival were good. Not fine, but good. They’d do.

Percival was flat-out weird, with his sing-us-a-little-song voice and his minuscule poetry books, but the purple fellow was discreet enough not to impose his weirdness on them.

Orion was Orion. Only God could foresee what topics he would bring up, spoken in that ever-changing accent of his. His mother had told him not to implant radio antennae all around his brain or he’d go bonkers. He hadn’t listened, but he’d practiced at being a nut for so long that he’d grown tough to crack.

Mini however was a different sort of nugget. Vasilisk had almost turned him down for his size and for his bright yellow color – there was no way you could naturally camouflage so much of it and camo-paint would hardly stick to his ceramic skin.  But muscle he was, the smallest, yet strongest lump of meat Vasilisk had ever seen in the relic salvaging business.

The trouble with Mini wasn’t his utility. The trouble with Mini was that he was a full-time jerk doing nightshift too.

The scrapyard rumbled again.

He tried to crack the riddle with the library in his head, but he’d heard of nothing like this before. There was power, real power hidden in that place. He was getting closer to it and growing as happy as an inhabited planet closing in on its sun.

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