You’re Not Your

Maykirk’s attention drifts past the tattoos unraveling from Your gently curled fingers and palm to Your neck and breasts. He looks into Your eyes, but doesn’t see his death—not certain anyway. He knows Your unseen hand carries a bolter.

The synthetic bedsheets actually smell like cotton; the pillows fluff like down. Maykirk hadn’t expected such niceties on this floater, but guesses any city this large must have an array of services. He’s glad he spring for the room.

“How much time do you need?” Maykirk asks.


Maykirk laughs. “How much time do you need me to wait before I report my cred stolen so that I can get out of this alive? Or are You still pretending this isn’t a Romp and Rob?”

“I am,” You say. “Or I haven’t decided. Last night was pretty good.”

“I guess I should thank you for that?” Maykirk pulls himself up in the bed. You slides the bolter under the sheets and cranes her neck.

Ok. That’s taking too long to get off the ground this morning, and I’ve discovered something about writing You that I hadn’t realized before: you can’t do it in second person unless you’re in that person’s POV. That seems obvious now, but until I tried it—for wahtever reason I tried it—it hadn’t occured to me. It looks like I’ll need to get a name for my You character if I’m ever going to write outside her POV. Or not write outside her POV.

247 words on day 771