Muses, Mishaps, and Murder!

Chapter 1: The Bad Muse

Muse Paisley

I'm waiting for Mason to die. It should happen tonight, and his death will be spectacular.

My code name is Paisley, and I'm a muse. It's my job to tell my chosen creative if they should give up and he should've years ago.

Sadly, I have to guide and narrate a creative idiot who should've been on a date with the hot elf who has been flirting with him. I'm unseen by most civilians, and usually only the select and worthy hear my spectacular voice.

Suffering through his writing is terrible enough, but now he's trying to play action hero and failing.

"You're four planets away in your comfortable recording both, and I don't listen to your worthless opinion," Mason said through my gold-painted speakers.

I fumbled for the crystal nobs on my computerized lounge chair.

Mason's image appeared, and it felt so real that it seemed as if I were an unseen phantom instead of in my booth.

"Will you shut up?" Mason asked me.

"But I wasn't speaking; you're not supposed to read my thoughts. You're supposed to be guided by my wisdom."

"You think too loudly, and I don't want to listen to you. The only thing I want is to survive the night." Mason Crawley peered out into the darkness.

An unseen business cultist raised his weapon.

"You won't survive," I whispered into my microphone.

This would be the temporary ensign's last dream, last breath, and his finale on the stage of life. Mason traded success for love, and stale kisses didn't linger on his lips because his romantic relationships were distant memories.

I made sure my microphone was off, so the losers surrounding Mason couldn't hear me. Static covered half the scene. My holographic video stream glitched. I adjusted the knobs to search for the face of the man destined to kill Mason.

Only Mason knew I was there, watching the attack unfold.

Twisted trees, rusted vehicles, and abandoned factories were the only evidence that a colony once lived there. The cultists stole everything of value, and only brokenness remained behind.

Mason ran past a charred van and could only see anything around him because dragons flying above him lit the sky with their fiery breath.

"I'm going to live," Mason said as he gasped for air.

"Mason, it's not going to happen. Your mom will miss you, but I won't," I said to him.

The less-than-gifted crew members of the flying clutch couldn't hear Muses, but they weren't creative. They weren't writers, artists, or related to a chosen one.

I don't know why I was assigned to a man who wasn't that special and waited for him to die.

Mason shoved his mother out of the way of enemy laser fire.

Why did he keep surviving? I have it right here in my file. He is a temp, and space temps always die because they are careless and unprepared.

"I don't plan on dying today." Mason rolled his sleeves down with his free hand to cover the moon-shaped freckles on his wrist.

"Come on. Theater troupes and high schools might perform productions of your sickly sweet musicals in tribute. Your funeral will be epic, and I wrote notes to record later."

"Paisley, leave me alone," Mason accidentally said out loud.

Commander Babette Nickel walked briskly behind, despite wearing an obvious back brace underneath her black uniform. Her painted lips stretched into an uneasy smile. "Who are you talking to?"