Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 13 - Plot & Excerpts
It's not going to look like 'The Terminator,'" Prajit said. "It's going to be a cold war." He chucked the coffee grounds off the porch, over Donna's abandoned briefcase and sensible heels, none of which were Prajit-approved. He gave the woods a wily squint–left, right, left–shut the door, and reacquainted Donna with how damn dark his cabin was. The tin foil on the windows kept all light out and all smells in–solder, ramen, stale coffee–Eau de Paranoid. The slippers he loaned her itched like a nightmare; discreetly, she scratched her freckled feet together. This hot lead was a hot mess. "What do you mean?" she asked. With both hands, Prajit ruffled his hair to vertical. Thin as he was, he still had to turn sideways to squeeze between bookshelf and humming BlueArc storage system. "The Signal doesn't want to kill us." He dropped the filter in the kitchenette sink. "Not this early, anyway." With his bathrobe sleeve, he cleaned off some real estate on his white board.
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