The thing about curse objects is they rot.
Hollis Verne knew this the way other people knew the sky was blue or water was wet—a fundamental truth that shaped how he moved through the world. He could see it now in the discarded fortune frog at the bottom of the recycling bin, black veins spreading across its bio-synthetic skin like cracks in old porcelain. Nobody else noticed. They never did.
"Welcome back! Free fortune frogs for the new semester!"
The staff member's voice carried the aggressive cheer common to anyone whose mood moss had to stay blue for eight hours straight. Her uniform blazer sparkled with the standard-issue plant pocket over her heart, the bioluminescent moss inside pulsing a steady, professional azure.
Hollis watched students surge forward, eager for that first hit of predicted luck. Their parents' cars lined the drop-off zone—sleek vehicles with dashboard terrariums glowing every shade from confident blue to anxious green. A few parents checked their wrist watches obsessively before releasing their children, ensuring their emotional scores were high enough for a proper goodbye.
Above, a shadow fell across the courtyard. Government transport. The other students looked up with practiced envy as the vehicle descended into restricted airspace, depositing someone's spawn in a flutter of permits and privilege. The transport's plants glowed so blue they were nearly white.
Hollis walked past it all, his fingers trailing along the gate's living vines. They pulsed with a softer blue than the artificial displays, something honest in their biological simplicity. He preferred them to the engineered specimens.
The fortune frog station was expertly designed to create a bottleneck—force the students together, start those social bonds early. Hollis waited until the initial rush passed, then approached.
"Oh, a new face!" The staff member's smile widened. "Sector transfer?"
"Yes."
"How exciting! Here, take a frog. Just cup it in both hands—gently now—and it'll give you your luck reading for the semester."
The frog was heavier than it looked, its skin slightly warm and unpleasantly moist. Hollis cupped it properly, feeling the mechanism inside activate. The frog's eyes illuminated, a thin blue tongue extending with his fortune printed on the biofilm.
Blue 1.
The lowest possible luck on the positive spectrum. A hair above falling into the negative...
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