Young Writers Society

“Is that acid?” Cyra snorted. “It won’t work. Besides, you don’t want it to work.”

“Oh?” The scientist raised an eyebrow. “And whyever not?”

“You’re wondering what kind of blood I have? I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He snorted. “It’s fucking magma.”

Sage’s eyes widened. Magma? Finally, something that reminded her of home! Ah, what she wouldn’t give to be back home, even if the magma pools were rather inconvenient and the air was filled with smog… At this point, she was even missing the delivery demon who occasionally dropped off materials she ordered.

Cyra watched the scientist, daring him to have a witty response to that. She bet he had none. Checkmate.

The scientist tilted his head. “How curious. How is it heated, pray tell? What is your fuel source?”

“My skin keeps most of the heat in. And what the hell do you mean by fuel source? Like, water?”

The scientist tutted disapprovingly. "Water as fuel was a promising idea when it was first conceived, but it's rather expensive. Perhaps you have some kind of solar panels? Or a nuclear fusion reactor?"

Cyra took a deep breath. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. But look, I have the blood of magma and a diet of solely mineral water. That’s how I survive.”

The scientist typed rapidly. "Hmm. Tell me more."

Despite herself, Sage was listening carefully, intrigued.

Cyra shrugged. “What the hell else is there?”

The scientist blew out a sharp breath. “Of course there’s more! How were you created? When? By who?” He ran a hand through his hair.

“And we’re back to the creator questions.” Cyra rolled their eyes. “You see, when a mommy subterra and a daddy subterra love each other very much-“

“There are more of you? Where?” The scientist’s eyes narrowed.

"Plenty of us in London. Most of us are in Africa, though. Scattered underground. Never been to a real Underground, just the British bullshit."