Reclamation: Noodle Stall III

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

Behind the counter, a serious faced Jin watched them while he used his apron to wipe his hands. She needed to finish her business here before he called a street team to investigate. She didn't want to tangle with them. The violent thugs thinly disguised as a heavily armed security force would tear her apart first and ask questions later.

“What's my name? I remember having one. Now there's a gap in every memory, conspicuous silence where my name used to be.”

“You don't have a name, you have a model number. It's printed in the crease of your left elbow.”

She remembered differently. She used to have a name and a nickname but both were gone. Taking a half a step back to extend her arm, she kept a hold of the fat man's neck and looked down. There, printed on the curve of metal that shrank away from the ball socket that made up her elbow, were the alpha-numerics MX-3113.

M. X. Emmex? It didn't sound right but it would serve as a name for now.

“You each took something from me, a souvenir you said. Where is it?”

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