Yet another Silly Saturday · AI Pro Writers Studio

Yet another Silly Saturday

We had a midnight deadline to start packing up for the Poppy Festival in Paris Kentucky this morning.. Almost 3AM and still up. We only had 4 show up for the preview class tonight and quick 5th that didn;t stay. I like teaching small classes. They're more interactive and I get to learn as well. I like questions because I am an old school notebook guy and if the sink in with me I write them down for perusal and noodling later.

And doing run throughs with software inevitably turns up interesting things. There are a LOT of moving parts to WCP and some of them I don't catch unless people ask me questions or I use it myself. Tonight's class caused me to do a code review on some of the parts because things weren't quite right.

Turns out one issue spawned a dozen small important fixes, a new version of the short story studio, a new version of the short story planner, and an update to the way genre's work and a bug there I didn't notice that the chosen genre for a book wasn't being saved with that book. UGH!

The reality of it though is that I took the Brainstorm idea we worked with for a very cute and fun science fiction romance story was run through the system three ways tonight and the final version is a huge improvement. Because short stories are pretty easy. now I'm going to spend the next two days testing cheaper models with this same story idea to see what kind of output we get.

If anyone has suggestions for models to try let me know below. And please keep asking questions, make requests, question everything. It really does help!

******

This is the first scene from tonights short story idea

SCENE 1: THE SHOOTOUT & BAR ACCIDENT — REVISED

[FISK POV]

The bar smelled like it always did — recycled air, fried protein, and something vaguely alcoholic that had probably soaked into the floor years ago. Fisk sat in his usual spot, third stool from the corner, close enough to the exit that he could leave without making a production of it. The stool wobbled. It always wobbled. He'd offered to fix it once. Marro told him to mind his own damn business.

Fisk minded his own damn business.

His drink sat in front of him, amber and forgettable, the kind of rotgut that tasted like someone's idea of whiskey filtered through a recycler twice. He took a sip. It tasted like station life: functional, unpleasant, reliable.

The first blaster shot cracked through the air like a docking clamp snapping under pressure.

Fisk didn't flinch. He set his glass down carefully, one finger still hooked around the rim to keep it from sliding off the bar's sticky surface. Around him, the usual afternoon crowd reacted with the practiced efficiency of people who'd done this before. Chairs scraped. Bodies dropped. Someone swore in a language Fisk didn't recognize but understood perfectly.

"Must be Tuesday," he muttered.

He slid off the stool and ducked under the nearest table in one smooth motion, glass still in hand. The air smelled sharper down here — ozone from the blasters, dust kicked up from the floor vibrating under the chaos. The table's underside was scratched with years of bored patrons' initials, carved into the cheap composite with pocket tools and fingernails. Fisk had read them all before.

Another blaster shot. Closer this time. The neon sign behind the bar flickered, buzzed, and went dark.

"Of course," Fisk said to no one.

Then someone slammed into him.

Hard.

Their skulls cracked together with a sound like a wrench dropped on deck plating. Fisk's drink sloshed but didn't spill — a minor miracle, considering the chaos — and he found himself face-to-face with a woman he'd never seen before.

Wide eyes. Flushed cheeks. Breathing like she'd just run a sprint in full gravity.

New.

"Oh no oh no oh no—" She wasn't talking to him. She was talking to herself, or the universe, or possibly the table. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the floor, slipped, found the edge of the tablecloth hanging down.

Fisk saw it happening in slow motion.

"Don't—"

She pulled.

The tablecloth came down like a collapsing sail, and with it came a full tray of shot glasses Marro had been prepping for the evening crowd. They hit the floor in a cascading symphony of shattering glass, each one louder than the last, echoing through the sudden silence between blaster shots.

Every head in the bar turned.

Fisk closed his eyes.

"What the hell!" Marro's voice cut through the chaos like a cargo hauler through atmo. "You trying to get us all killed?"

Fisk opened his eyes. The woman was staring at the broken glass with an expression of absolute horror, her hands still clutching the tablecloth like it was evidence she couldn't quite believe she was holding.

"I didn't— I wasn't— It was an accident—"

Another blaster shot. Someone shouted. The sound of boots on deck plating — running, fast.

Fisk sighed, shifted his weight, and took a deliberate sip of his drink.

"First time on the docks?" he asked.

[TANSY POV]

This was it. This was how she died.

Not in a cargo hold explosion. Not in a navigation failure. Not even in a real, honest-to-stars space battle with pirates or hostile ships or something that would make a good story later.

She was going to die under a sticky bar table on her second day at this station because she pulled a tablecloth.

The man next to her — the one she'd just head-butted hard enough to see stars — was drinking. Calmly. Like people weren't actively shooting at each other six meters away.

"First time on the docks?" he asked.

Tansy stared at him. He had grease on his knuckles and the kind of face that looked like it had forgotten how to be surprised. His coveralls were station-issue, patched in three places, and he was holding his glass like it was the most important thing in the room.

"Are you—" Her voice came out higher than she wanted. "Are you seriously asking me that right now?"

"Yeah."

Another blaster shot. Tansy flinched. The man didn't.

"People are shooting," she hissed.

"They do that." He took another sip. "Tuesdays, mostly."

"Tuesdays?"

"Sometimes Thursdays. Depends on the cargo schedules."

Tansy's brain was still trying to catch up. The shootout. The tablecloth. The glass. Oh stars, the glass. She'd pulled an entire tray of shot glasses onto the floor and now everyone was looking at them and someone was definitely going to shoot them because she'd made them a target and—

"Breathe," the man said.

"I'm breathing."

"You're hyperventilating."

"I'm breathing."

He gave her a look that suggested he'd seen this before, many times, and it always ended the same way.

Tansy forced herself to inhale. Hold. Exhale. The way her instructor had taught her during flight certification: Panic doesn't help. Panic makes it worse. Breathe.

The shootout was already winding down. She could hear it — the blaster fire growing sporadic, someone shouting orders, the sound of boots retreating toward the docking bay. It had probably lasted ninety seconds. Maybe two minutes.

It had felt like a lifetime.

The man shifted slightly, peering out from under the table. "They're gone."

"Gone?" Tansy's voice cracked. "Just like that?"

"Cargo dispute. Happens every other week." He stood, unfolding from under the table with the ease of someone who'd done this exact routine too many times to count. He offered her a hand.

Tansy took it. His palm was rough, callused, warm. He pulled her up without effort.

The bar looked exactly the same as it had before the shootout, except for the shattered glass glittering across the floor like tiny stars and the flickering neon sign that now only showed half the bar's name: ARR'S.

And Marro — thick around the middle, mustache bristling, apron stained with something Tansy didn't want to identify — was glaring at both of them like they'd personally insulted his ancestors.

"You," he said, pointing at the man. "I expect this from the regulars. But you—" He turned the finger on Tansy. "You're new. You don't get to break my glassware on your second day."

"I didn't mean—"

"Three months' worth of shot glasses." Marro crossed his arms. "You know how hard it is to get glassware out here? Real glass? Not synth-mold?"

"I'm so sorry, I just—"

"And you—" Marro's glare swung back to the man. "You let her pull the damn tablecloth."

The man raised his glass in a mock toast. "Wasn't fast enough to stop her."

"Fisk, I swear—"

"Put it on my tab."

Tansy blinked. "You don't have to—"

"I know." Fisk drained the last of his drink and set the empty glass on the bar with a soft clink. "But if I don't, he'll lecture us for an hour, and I've got a conduit to fix before end-of-shift."

Marro muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, then turned and pulled two fresh glasses from under the bar. He filled them both with the same amber rotgut Fisk had been drinking and slid them across the counter.

"Surviving a Tuesday shootout is worth something," Marro said. "Drinks are on me. But you—" He jabbed a finger at Tansy again. "Clean up the glass."

Tansy opened her mouth to protest, caught the look on Marro's face, and wisely closed it again.

"Yes, sir."

Fisk picked up his fresh drink, took a sip, and glanced at her. "You know how to use a broom?"

"I'm a pilot, not a janitor."

"Close enough." He nodded toward the supply closet in the corner. "Broom's in there. Don't cut yourself."

Tansy stared at him. At the bar. At the shattered glass glittering on the floor.

Then, inexplicably, she started laughing.

It bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest, sharp and a little hysterical, the kind of laughter that came after adrenaline crashed and left you shaky and light-headed. She pressed a hand over her mouth, but it didn't help.

Fisk raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"I just—" She gasped for breath between giggles. "I just survived my first dockside shootout by hiding under a table and breaking a month's worth of glassware. This is amazing."

Fisk stared at her like she'd just spoken a language he didn't recognize.

Then, to her surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile. But close.

"Welcome to the station," he said, and handed her the second drink.

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Yet another Silly Saturday