Cohost Sapphic September 2024 writing prompt: 13 — Girls who are radical
“Why are we meeting out here?” Night-Flight whines, looking around the sunny park uncomfortably.
“Because we’re trying to look inconspicuous, asshole,” Insidia says, punching her in the arm. “Also because I invited someone who’s gonna help us with our whole oh shit that security system is really good problem, and she’s — well, this is better for her.”
They round a corner, and find a woman in a sundress sitting on the grass, smiling with her face upturned to the sun.
“There she is,” Insidia says, and Night-Flight gives her extreme sceptical side-eye.
“The fuck’s her deal?” she mutters.
“Her deal is that she can get into the place and shut off the security system,” Insidia says. “Which is what we originally brought you in for, so maybe you don’t wanna throw rocks from your glass house?”
“I’m just saying,” Night-Flight mutters sullenly. “She looks a bit hippie for our crowd? What’s with that dress, anyway, looks — funny. Is she doing some kind of, I dunno, vintage cottagecore thing? Because if she turns out to be a neo-Nazi—”
“Oh my god she’s not a neo-Nazi,” Insidia says. “She likes sundresses, okay, you may be familiar with the idea from girls, if you fucking know any?”
Night-Flight looks pointedly down at her black leather catsuit, sideways at Insidia’s own all-black getup, and raises an eyebrow.
“Look, does her personal style matter as long as she can get it?”
“No,” Night-Flight admits, and turns her attention to the woman, who’s still sitting and shows no sign of getting up; smiling up at them, clearly listening, eyes twinkling. “Can you?”
“Yes,” the woman says, matter-of-factly.
“Night-Flight,” Night-Flight says grudgingly, extending a hand.
“Radical,” the woman says, taking Night-Flight’s hand and gently kissing her knuckles. Night-Flight snatches it back, face flushing brilliant red.
“Radical? Is she some kind of terrorist?” she says accusingly to Insidia.
“No,” Insidia says.
“When do you need me to shut off the security?” Radical says.
“Friday night,” Insidia tells her. “That okay?”
“I’ll make a start,” Radical says. “I’ll be in there in time.”
“That’s in, like, three days,” Night-Flight says. “You’re gonna start now? I mean. I guess. Smart to do it slow and below their notice, but is it gonna be below their notice? For three days?”
“Yes,” Radical says, smiling still.
“Look, I’ve just got concerns, is all,” Night-Flight says, over Insidia sighing audibly.
“Well, speaking of attention,” Radical says, “there’s a superhero attempting to approach from the upper path to eavesdrop.”
“Shit,” Night-Flight says. “Sid, I’m gonna split, see you at that place in a couple days, if not before, yeah?” She hesitates, looks down at Radical. “Are you—”
Radical’s smile turns dazzling. She raises her arms.
“I’m fine,” she says, and a trick of the light turns her face into an Arcimboldo for a second, before she falls apart: sprays of flowers splaying apart, stalks drooping in all directions, petals abruptly dropping on the breeze. There’s no woman sitting there; there never was, only a densely tangled clump of bright plants.
“What,” Night-Flight says, staring.
“Told you this is more her scene,” Insidia mutters smugly, already striding off.
