“Where did you get that?” I asked the woman with the long red braid, eyeing the blaster in her hands. My blaster; modified to my exact specifications. There was none other like it, and I never let it out of my sight.
“You gave it to me.” She raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, do you—“ She stopped as she realized what I was holding. “Scotty’s going to kill me,” she moaned.
“Not my Scotty.”
The door opened.
“What’s wrong, Ginge?”I stared. It was bad enough this girl had my gun. The man who entered had my face.
Today's Novel Idea Prompted by: "Today's Horoscope: Your prized possession will end up in someone else's hands." Courtesy of WonHundred Word Wednesday! Read the other responses: