She gripped the ancient relic tightly, feeling the power running through it. There was a faint glow emanating from the object, casting an eerie glow on her face as she examined it. It fit in the palm of her hand, and though not particularly heavy, it felt weighty for its size. Cassandra ran her fingers over its surface. Smooth. Almost like marble. Interrupting the smooth landscape were occasional features that added the only textures of the object. A bump here, an indentation there, a slight roughness over here.
There was also the inscription. One surface was marked with what were probably characters or letters. Cassandra was well versed in several writing systems but these symbols were unfamiliar to her. They curved and swooped, each symbol seeming to connect with the next. She turned the object around in her hands, looking for any other markings that might reveal something about its intended purpose or origin. What ancient civilization (or alien beings?) had created this, Cassandra wondered, and what was it for? Could it be a weapon? Or some kind of defensive device? But defensive devices were often weapons themselves. Just as likely though, it might be something as mundane as a child's toy. Cassandra stood up from where she had been kneeling and brushed the dirt off her knees. She had been squatting there too long, she realized, when she swayed unsteadily for a moment. Dizziness clouded her senses while blood tried to make its way back to her head. Her hands spread instinctively as she fought for balance, and the object slipped from her suddenly unclenched hand. Cassandra's body reacted to her panic of losing/breaking/detonating the object. Oxygen-rich blood surged into her brain. Her hand shot out and caught the object before it could collide with the ground with undesired results.
Cassandra breathed heavily, her heartbeat starting to return to normal. As she gripped the object firmly she felt a slight give under one of her fingers. Her index finger had pushed against one of the slight protrusions and caused it to depress with a soft click. The object's curious glow intensified. A melodious chime sounded, and simultaneously the device vibrated in her hand. The vibration was brief, lasting less than a second, but its strength and abruptness startled her. Cassadra let out a yip, and jerked her hands upward, causing the object to fly out of her hands. Panicking for the second time in less than a minute, she hot-potatoed the object several times until finally catching it in both hands.
"Cassie?" A distant voice echoed in her ears but it felt unreal.
She took another heaving breath to calm her nerves, and swayed again.
"Cassie!" The voice came again, clearer this time.
Cassandra turned to the source of the voice and found a familiar face. "Jan?" Cassandra croaked. The cloud of confusion had returned and she was having trouble focusing again.
"Cas, what are you doing?" Jan sighed, cocking her head at Cassandra with an almost sympathetic look. Her gaze fell on the object in Cassie's hand. Jan scoffed. "You dropped your phone again, didn't you?"
Cassie looked dumbly from Jan to the thing in her hand. "Phone..." she intoned, speaking the word as if for the first time.
Jan huffed a laugh. "Cas, seriously. You are so weird when you're drunk. Have you even called your Uber yet?" She took out her own device and started tapping the screen absently.
The object in Cassie's hand let out another melodic chime as a vehicle rolled up beside them.
A friendly voice called out, "Cassandra?"
"Yep," Jan said without looking up, pointing at Cassie. "That's her. Go home Cas. Sleep it off."
Cassandra slid into the back seat of the vehicle and let her body fall across the full length of the back seats. "Home," she said in a half whisper. She hugged the object -- her phone -- to her chest and closed her eyes. "Yeah. Let's go home."

{In this story, the passenger is the danger, perhaps}

I sank into the seat and closed the door. Leaning my head back against the headrest, I heaved a sigh. That couple might have been the chattiest passengers I've ever had. They spoke nonstop with each other and me for the entire 70 minute trip from the airport. Truly exhausting, they were. Nice pair though, and rich for sure. The Ballantine is the most expensive hotel in the downtown area; or anywhere really. Everyone who came here was practically made of money.

I picked up the clipboard from the passenger seat and recorded an entry for the last fare.

"Airport --> Ballantine. 70 min. 217 Credits. Chatty couple. Honeymoon?"

Twelve rides so far today, and it was only 3 PM. Not bad for a weekday. I tossed the clipboard back onto the passenger seat and grabbed the falafel sandwich that was supposed to have been my lunch 3 hours ago. No rest for the weary, I thought as I unwrapped it, savoring the fragrance of the herbs and spices within. Dimitri's Kitchen is hands-down the best food establishment in the city. No-nonsense all-vegan menu, local ingredients, excellent service, great atmosphere. I raised the sandwich to take my first bite, but was interrupted by a sharp knocking on the window.

"Y'can't park here, sir," the valet kid scowled.

Before I could respond, I heard a deep, smooth voice say, "It's alright, kid. He's waiting for me."

The rear passenger door opened and in slid the owner of that velvety voice, an immacuately dressed gentleman with apparently no luggage. Black sports jacket, black shirt, black bowtie. Not exactly my style, but he wore it well; not a single fiber out of place.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry sir," the valet stammered before scurrying off to attend to a waiting hotel patron.

I stared at my new passenger through the rearview. My lunch was millimeters from my mouth which now hung open in confused disbelief.

"Let's go," the man said firmly, meeting my gaze in the mirror.

I blinked several times, trying to bring reality into focus. After a second or two I shook the confusion out of my head and blurted out, "Mister, I'm on my lunch break."

The man narrowed his eyes, continuing to glare at me through the mirror. His eyes were not unkind, but there was a darkness in them that conveyed absolute seriousness and a "don't-f___-with-me" confidence that I definitely lacked. Without shifting his gaze, he reached a hand into his jacket. I felt a moment of panic. He's got a gun! I started to protest and plead for my life but before I could make a sound he threw something at me. It landed precisely between my hands, knocking my overdue lunch into my lap, from where it tumbled onto the floor.

"Hey! What the --" I started, then saw what the mystery man had tossed at me.

It was a stack of cash, complete with currency strap. The denomination on the bills said 500, and the currency strap indicated the value of the bundle at 50,000 Credits. The 500 Cr bill, known as the Quint, did not often come my way. Occasionally some clueless foreign tourist would use it to pay for a quick 20 Cr ride and I would have to give back a ridiculous stack of change. This guy, though, did not look like a clueless tourist. 50,000 Cr was nearly what I made in a whole year. And here it was. A full year's pay right in my hands! I glanced back at at him in the mirror. His piercing eyes seemed to nudge me telepathically.

"Drive," he said, more gently this time but with an air of expectation.

I pulled my eyes aways from his and looked down at the bundle in my hands. For a split second I contemplated my options, but this was a decision that made itself. I tucked the cash under the clipboard beside me. Quietly lamenting the bits of dust, dirt, grime, and grit that now adhered to its surface, I collected my former lunch off the floorboard and tossed it onto the wrapper that lay in the passenger seat.

"Where to, sir?" I asked automatically, shifting into gear.

"North Valley."

I felt a slight shiver in the back of my neck. North Valley was situated on the outskirts of the city. Despite its bourgeois sounding name, it was a notoriously rough neighborhood; car-jackings, robberies, kidnappings, murders occurred there at more than 3 times the national average. Most cabbies, myself included, avoided this area like the plague. On the other hand, 50k might be worth the risk. Just this one time.

I pulled out of the hotel driveway, glancing in the rearview again. I heard a clacking sound and saw that he had pulled out a gun from the other side of his jacket. So he did have a gun!

"Hey, look, I'm doing like you asked. I'm driving, ok?" I strained to get my words out, my throat tight with panic.

"Relax, it's not for you," the man said gruffly. "Keep your eyes on the road." More clacking sounds as he loaded the magazine.

We drove in silence for some time. Every so often he looked down at a small device that occasionally emitted some beeping noises.

"Left here," he said, indicating a small alley.

I turned into the alley as instructed, and saw there was a black SUV in the middle of the street. Lights on, facing us. I started to put on the brakes.

"Uh ..."

"Keep going. Drive right up to them," the man urged, racking his gun.

I swallowed nervously, dreading what was about to go down. I let the cab slowly roll forward until we were almost bumper to bumper with the SUV. I turned around to look at my passenger for the first time.

"What ... what is this?"

Ignoring my question he reached into his jacked once more and produced another stack of Quints. This time he handed it directly to me.

"You're mine for the day," he said with a smile. He paused with the door half open, turning back to look at me. "Go back to the Ballantine and wait for me there. Tell Sammy at the bar you need a suit. He'll take care of you."

It looked like he was about to say something more, but just nodded and stepped out of the cab. He closed the door and stood casually facing the other car, hands (and gun) behind his back. I hastily shifted into reverse and started backing out of the alley. Through the glare of the headlights I saw three people step out of the SUV, all dressed in black. Nope, I didn't want to stay for that. I made it out of the alley without hitting any of the dumpsters, turned toward the city, and floored it. As I neared the end of the block, I thought I could hear, over the groan of my weary engine, 5 or 6 faint popping sounds. Did he just kill them? No matter. They'll get lost in the sea of North Valley victims. I pushed my foot down, willing the cab to go faster. I felt a sudden urge to sit in the Ballantine bar and order everything on the menu. I could afford it now, at least.

{ self-criticisms: Plot holes:

• why would he take a cab
• how is he going to get back to hotel
• why not just have cabbie wait }

In the sky, in the air, above the misty clouds, the moonight casts a silvery glow O'er the land that floats around.

Buoyed by magic unknown to those who live within its bounds, The floating city of ____ escorts the Moon on its Earthly rounds.

Its days are each one Earth-month long; its noon sun an eclipse. Bound in lunarstationary orbit the city endures constant wind.

The westerly wind of hurricane force flattens all things: plants, homes, and folks. So life in the floating city of ____ evolved in two dimensions, it's said.

If you care to visit the city of ____ remember the mantra of those who've survived: "Take grappling hooks with you; You'll need them for sure.

"Also a helmet, goggles, jacket, gloves, harness, rope, and shoes. "On second thought -- Just stay home. It's safer down here."

Rachel absent-mindedly brushed some dust off the plinth. She glanced at her fingers before wiping it off with her other hand as she continued, equally absent-mindedly and on auto-pilot, reciting her speech to the visitors. About 20 tourists were gathered around her, examining the curious object that stood on the plinth in the middle of this large room. They listened intently as she spoke about the artifact. Rachel was the sole employee at the Museum of Egonian Culture and Historical Artifacts. The plural "Artifacts" in the name was misleading, as there was, and had always been, only one artifact in the museum's "collection". The museum was usually called by its acronym MECHA, often pronouced "metcha" so as not to confuse it with the destination of religious pilgrimage, Mecca.

The MECHA artifact was believed to be 2.5 billion years old, pre-dating the oldest known animals on Earth. Its extremely intricate structure suggested it was not a naturally occuring object, rather created by some intelligent being. It initially theorized to be of extra-terrestrial origin, but this idea was discarded after research and testing showed only terrestrial compounds in the artifact's makeup.

Such was the gist of the explanation Rachel recited to the group of tourists now gawking at the object. She had said the words so many times that she could recite them in her sleep. In fact, once she did fall asleep while speaking to a tour group, but that particular group was from some middle-eastern country. They didn't speak English so they didn't understand what she was saying. But her sleepy mumblings were just as truthful as the "real" explanation anyway.

It was somewhat amusing to Rachel to know that if the truth about the MECHA "artifact" ever got out, the public outrage might rival that following an act of terrorism. The MECHA object was actually just a large rock found on the beach by Dennis Lingon (previously a failed con-man with multiple arrests for fraud, generally unknown to the world). He had bought a warehouse, dressed it up, and put the funny looking rock in the middle of the space. The he invented an elaborate history with the ficticious Egonians at the center of it. The lie worked. People came from all over the world to see this mysterious "historical artifact" from a lost civilization. With the planet in chaos and the world at war, there was just an eagerness to believe in ... something. Rachel had discovered the truth a few months ago, when Dennis let had let it slip during a drunken stupor. Now Rachel was biding her time until she could escape this mundane job and sell her story for millions of dollars. On the other hand, the fervor for the "artifact" was so strong that there was a non-zero chance she could be lynched for blasphemy. She just had to find someone she could trust, to break the story.

Sally looked up abruptly from her desk, suddenly aware that someone was walking toward her. She gasped as she saw Jeff making his way down the hallway toward her. She hastily shoved the papers she had been focused on into her desk drawer. She cursed under her breath when the drawer caught the edge of some of the papers, causing them to crumple slightly. She pulled out the drawer again and quickly but carefully pushed the papers down and nearly slammed the drawer shut. She looked up and, putting on her best cheery, nonchalant voice, she almost shouted, "Hi Jeff! How was your weekend?"

Jeff had been lost in thought as he walked in to the office, his feet operating in autopilot as they navigated him toward his cubicle. He snapped out of his daydream at Sally's voice. He froze mid-stride, feeling the heat of panic rising into his face. He probed his unconscious for what Sally had just said, but couldn't find anything. He mentally shook his head to clear the panic from his face, and said as brightly as he could muster, "Oh hey Sally. How are you?" Was she the one? He was sure someone had seen him last night. He had run out of plastic sheeting so he had to use the curtain to wrap the body. He could swear he had seen someone walk by just after he had taken down the curtains. Was it Sally? She was certainly acting fishy this morning.

"Oh, I'm great," Sally let out as she surreptitiously put a hand on the drawer to make sure it stayed closed. Had he seen what she was looking at? Her mind raced as she searched for something to say. She tried to push the thoughts of the stolen top-secret documents out of her mind. "Have you tried the coffee this morning? It's really good. I think Brad brought it back from his vacation in Brazil." The words fell out of her mouth in a rush and Sally felt her cheeks flush, realizing that she didn't have a cup of coffee on her desk to back up her small talk. She let out a quiet sigh when Jeff didn't seem to notice.

"Brazil, eh?" Jeff narrowed his eyes, recalling that his last victim - the one wrapped in that ugly floral curtain he always hated, the one wrapped in not-plastic and probably bleeding all over his kitchen - was from Brazil. What was she getting at? Was this her subtle way of telling him she knew something? "I've never been to Brazil," he continued cautiously. "I'm not a big fan of the heat." He stared intently into Sally's eyes, trying to read her expressions. For a moment he thought he saw what looked like suspicion, and then it was gone. She knew. She was the one that saw him last night. That was the only explanation. He made a mental note to add her to the list of loose ends to get rid of.

"Well, it's nice, I've heard," Sally said, trying not to let her apprehension show. Jeff was staring right at her, as if he knew something. He must have been the one she heard walking by while she was rummaging around in the Archive room last night. She couldn't take any chances. No one could know what she had done. She made a mental note to add him to the list of loose ends to get rid of.

"Alright, well, I gotta get to work before they fire me," Jeff chuckled.

"Yeah, me too. I'll see you at lunch time," Sally responded sweetly.

They waved genially at each other, inwardly plotting their next moves.