This story was created for Scoot’s ‘Flash Fiction Friday’ event. It’s a fun way to worldbuild and expand this vast fiction landscape. This is the 800 words or less ‘Orion’ challenge.
“Is this absolutely necessary?” Payton asked.
I nodded. “The lawsuit has nothing to do with the FAF, but they wanted your testimony on record anyway.”
Payton frowned. “But you’re a historian, not a court stenographer.”
My grin grew bigger than I wanted it to. “Drinking money is drinking money, “ I said. Setting the recorder on the table between us, I pressed the red button. “From the beginning. In your own words.”
———————
The weather surge arrived twelve minutes early.
That may not sound like much, unless you’re responsible for a city that breathes through vents and lives on pressure balance. Twelve minutes is the difference between a celebration and a casualty report.
I stood on the signal balcony with my hands resting on the brass rail, feeling the vibration before the instruments admitted it. The air tasted wrong. It was too warm. Too metallic. A pre-storm flavor the city only produces when systems argue with each other.
The Founders’ Festival was already in full bloom.
Banners stretched between towers, bright fabric snapping in a wind that wasn’t scheduled. Food stalls glowed with heat coils. Music drifted upward in cheerful, poorly tuned defiance of reality. Children ran between adults who believed, sincerely, that today was protected by tradition.
Tradition is not a load-bearing structure.
A junior tech leaned over the rail beside me, goggles fogging. “It might pass.”
“It won’t,” I said.
He glanced at me. “You’re sure?”
Sharp bluntness saves time.
The anemeters began to spin faster. Pressure differentials climbed, small at first, then with purpose. This is why I was hired. I know these things like my own bulbous nose. Heat rose from the lower ducts, colliding with cooler upper drafts and creating pockets of unstable lift.
The weather was building leverage.
Somewhere below, a string instrument squealed into tune and failed.
Laughter followed.
I opened the control ledger.
“Protocol says we shut it down,” the tech said, voice tight. He already knew. That was the problem. But knowing doesn’t make obedience easier.
“Yes,” I said.
“But the Founders’ Festival only happens once every six years.”
“Yes.”
“If we seal the turbines, the lifts stop.”
“Yes.”
“The food stalls lose heat.”
“Yes.”
“The light rigs go dark.”
“Yes.”
Each confirmation landed heavier than the last. The tech swallowed.
“That’s going to turn ugly,” he said.
The weather howled through the vent stacks. It had an opinion about that, telling me what had to be done.
I pressed the seal key.
The response was immediate and absolute.
Lights dimmed in visible tiers, rolling outward from the control core. A held breath finally released. Music faltered, then collapsed into confused silence. Heat coils powered down with a collective hiss.
The crowd noise shifted in stages.
Joy turned to confusion.
Confusion shifted to anger.
…and anger loves an audience.
A gnome charged up the stairs two at a time, face flushed. I remember his hair was immaculate, completely unbothered by the wind.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted.
“Preventing casualties,” I said.
“You just killed the festival!”
“The weather is doing that,” I replied. “I’m limiting its success.”
He scoffed. “This surge wasn’t on the forecast!”
“Forecasts predict,” I said. “They don’t decide.”
As if to punctuate the point, a sudden gust slammed into the tower. The pressure gauge spiked hard enough to make the needle rattle. Below us, one of the festival banners tore free and snapped through the air like a blade.
If the turbines had still been running, it would have been pulled straight into the intake.
Fabric, rigging, possibly people.
The supervisor stared at the wreckage in stunned silence.
Then he turned back to me. “You didn’t have to be so cold about it.”
I closed the ledger. The brass cover clicked shut, final and impersonal.
“Warmth is for celebrations,” I said. “This is infrastructure.”
The rain came moments later.
It was hot and heavy, mixed with soot and steam. It soaked the festival square in seconds, flattening decorations and sending the remaining crowd scattering toward cover that suddenly felt inadequate.
Arguments broke out.
Accusations followed.
Names were taken.
Mine, among them.
Obviously.
The tech beside me exhaled shakily. “They’re going to file complaints.”
“Yes,” I said.
“They’ll say you overreacted.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll say you ruined something important.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me, searching for something. Regret, perhaps. Or reassurance.
That’s not my job.
The city groaned as pressure equalized. Systems stabilized. No alarms sounded.
No explosions. No screams.
“That’s going to cost you,” the tech said quietly.
I nodded. “That’s acceptable.”
We watched the square empty, steam rising from stone.
The city shedding tension.
No one thanked us.
That’s fine.
The city didn’t explode.
That’s better.
————————
When Payton finished, I stood up without a word, collected my things and headed for the door.
“I was just doing my job, you know.” He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything wrong. The only thing you’re going to get from that recording is drinking money.”
Turning back, I smirked. “That’s acceptable.”
