Born a Bloodhound (Detective Mystery Flash Fiction)

Hello Super Sleuths,

This work on fiction is based on last week’s post, the 5 archetypes of fictional detectives. Enjoy!


In every lifetime, I’d been born a bloodhound.

The city was a graveyard, grey and cold and deadly silent. It was near midnight. On a lonely street corner by the museum, I stood there in the pouring rain. Fedora and trench coat drenched. Smoke rose from the sewer grate.

She stood beside me, a viper in heels. Eyelashes sharp like butcher knives.

“Finn, darling,” Her hands slip inside my coat, warm as a shot of ice cold whiskey. She whispered into my ear. “Let’s forget about this little museum jewel heist. The robbers are probably long gone by now,” The minx kissed me, full and feverish. Lips were red like a stop sign. “Couldn’t we just run off together instead? It’d be so easy.” Easy, she says. Easy like a bullet to the head.

I lit a cigarette and eyed the moon. “A dame like you is going to be in a world of trouble someday.” She snickered, her fingers inched towards the gun holstered on my hip. I snatched her wrist. “Quit playing games and fess up already. I know about your little scheme. Now, you want to tell me where that million-dollar diamond is? Or do I have to search you myself?”

Eyebrow raised, she offered a wide wolfish grin, full of teeth and poison. “Please do, inspector.”
———————————————————————————————————–

Every incarnation, there is a trail I’m bound to follow.

That sunny summer morning on Cherry Blossom Lane, I sat cozy in my armchair. On the coffee table, there’s a tray of tea and oatmeal cookies. The rain would arrive later, my bones could sense it. 

“Miss Finnegan, are you feeling alright?” The aid, Gloria, handed me a porcelain teacup embellished with golden roses. Accepting the cup, I nodded with a smile. Looking out the window once more, I watched the new neighbors shuffle cardboard boxes. Lady Whiskerdown, my faithful companion, leapt into my lap.

“Dear? Did you hear about Mister Massey next door?” I asked.

She hummed. “They said it was a robbery gone wrong, yes? Poor thing.”

“His son moved in so quickly after his father’s death, don’t you think?” I pondered. As soon as the yellow police tape was removed, the son was quick to move into the lovely estate. How odd. Lady Whiskerdown thought it odd too.

“Miss Finnegan, you are being nosey again,”  The nurse teased, wagging her finger. As Gloria left the room to fetch my afternoon pills, I gripped my walker, hoisting myself up. “Where are you off to now?”

I may be retired, but an old dog like me can sense trouble when it’s around. Like the rain, my bones could sense it. I gave her a sweet, harmless smile. “Only saying hello to the new neighbors. Where’s the harm in that?”


Every breath dedicated to unraveling the most tangled of life’s mysteries.

After hours, school gave me the heebie-jeebies. Once bustling with classmates, the hallways were eerily empty. Flashlights in hand, my pals and I the snuck around. With the janitor’s permission, of course. He wasn’t thrilled about the recent hauntings and kidnappings either. Our sneakers squeaked against the linoleum tiles. A heavy mini backpack strapped to my back, full of everything a good detective needs to catch a ghost. Fishing net included. Scrunchie on my wrist, in case of emergency.

We found locker #66G. I pried open the metal locker with a screwdriver, its contents spilling out on the floor. Let’s see. A stack of overdue homework. A half-eaten cheeseburger. A bag of glow-in-the-dark powder. I gulped. “Guys,” I turned to my gang of cohorts: The mathlete with thick rimmed glasses, the blonde vixen in a cheerleader uniform, the skater with the tie dye shirt, the dog. “I think I found something.”

Above us, the lights flickered. A strained, moaning sound rang through the halls. Suddenly, a specter in white rags with a phantom mask appeared, floating and glowing a ghoulish green. Rattling chains looped around it’s arms.

“It-it-it’s the Grahamsville G-G-Ghost!”

“Yikes!”

“Finley, run!” My friend called out to me. The Grahamsville Ghost hovered towards us.  

Real ghost or not, I wasn’t looking to become the next missing victim. New plan: Run!


I tried experimenting with different tones here, different subgenres of mystery fiction. Sometimes, It’s good to write outside your comfort zone. In the first part, I was aiming for noir vibes, second part was more a cozy mystery and third part was based on Saturday morning cartoons. Let me know what you guys think in the comments. I’m open to feedback.

Happy sleuthing!

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

The Brawn Man of Brooklyn (A Superpowered Short Story)

They called it an extraordinary phenomenon.

A regular Hercules, Dr. Rabinowitz on 3rd street claimed. Frankie was born with the capabilities of lifting objects 100 times heavier than his body weight. Super strength, as the kids would say. His mother said Hail Mary in Italian ten times a day and cried, as if her son was some kind of devil. She constantly scolded him out of fear of his destructiveness. “Don’t touch that!” and “Don’t touch anything!” and “Don’t you dare touch the baby!”

He was a toddler. And his strength was something unexplainable, something that should remain a secret. If he pressed his hand into wall too hard, the wall would crack. Toys, if not handled gently, would be crushed or broken into pieces. Even the metal handle of his bicycle was indented with his fingertips. He couldn’t control this, even as he got older, his power grew more dangerous. On the kindergarten playground, he pushed a kid out of the sandbox and cracked his rib. When he was seven years old, he threw a baseball and it landed three blocks away and through a car windshield.

He couldn’t touch anything. He wasn’t safe.

When his sister, Camilla, was an infant, Frankie would hold his small hands behind his back and peek into her crib. He was afraid of breaking her too.

His father owned a deli under the train tracks, Berardi’s Deli. Behind it was a dead patch of grass they called a backyard. And above it was a shoe box apartment they called a home. His father wore a stained apron as he sat on the sidewalk’s edge, smelling like fennel seed and sweat. He smoked a cigarette and watched the kids in the street play. Frankie, now a small boy with small hands, sat beside him.

“Pops, why can’t I play with them?” The boy asked, watching the kids play stickball. “I promise I’ll be good. I won’t hit so hard. Honest.”

His father gave him a side glance, taking a long drag and rubbing his stubbled chin. “Last time, you knocked a kid out.”

He looked down at his small hands, discouraged “I-I didn’t mean to, Pops, he was….”

“Your mother with have a heart attack if she finds out you hurt someone else with your…” Trailing off, he stood up and stomped his cigarette out. The few remaining embers in the curb fizzled into the cement. “Don’t let nobody see you doing that. You hear me?” He warned. Frankie’s eyes wandered to the window to the apartment above the deli, where his mother, with tired eyes, looked out.


“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Camilla.” He said, looking down at his feet as they walked home from high school one crisp autumn afternoon. His black hair fell into a perfect greased curl.

“Sure it is,” His sister grinned, holding her biology textbook in her arms. “You love baseball.”

“Watchin’ baseball, sure. Not playin’ it,” He shrugged, still unsure “Pop’s will be mad. And Ma’s gonna be in hysterics if she finds out.”

She nudged him with her elbow. Her long wool skirt matched her mint green sweater. “Come on, don’t worry about that stuff, Frankie, you’d be amazing and you know it.”

Frankie sighed, shoving his hands in his Letterman jacket. A chill blew between them. A police siren blared in the distance. The sun was setting, burning orange and gold.

“What if I hurt someone?”

“What if you only hit home runs?” She countered with a laugh.

“I’m serious, Camilla,” He grabbed her arm lightly, as if he was holding a feather. They stood on the street corner across from their family’s deli. “I can’t control this. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

“You can control it. You don’t have to be scared. You’re strong… super strong, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You can do something good with it.” The sirens grew louder.

As they crossed the street, a car screeched around the corner, being tailed by red and blue flashing lights. A police chase. Frankie was in the middle of the street, frozen for a moment. Camilla screamed, pulling at his hand. “Frankie, move!” He wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to be scared anymore. The car barreled towards him. He pushed his sister out of the way, and braced for impact, with an arched back and outstretched arms.

The car slammed into Frankie, metal crushed against his chest, pushing him back a couple of feet. His sneakers skid against the pavement. The vehicle was stopped completely, with three bewildered robbers wearing ski masks sitting inside. The next day, the headline in the newspaper dubbed him “The Brawn Man of Brooklyn”.


Hello Writer bees! I’ve been feeling gross this week. For the record, it’s not COVID. While I’ve been under the weather, the Mister and I have been on a nostalgia trip, revisiting shows and movies from our childhoods. High School Musical One and Two were involved. Since I love that nostalgia feeling, it seemed fitting to share this short story I wrote back in 2017. Back when I was a newbie writer. Hope you enjoy!

—Lady Jabberwocky

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The Sleepless Queen – (Fantasy Short Story)

“Is it wise to disturb her majesty so late in the evening?” The young page asked the guard, his voice shivering.

The guard yawned as pounded on the chamber door. “Course. There’s a reason she’s called the Sleepless Queen, you know.” Almost instantly, the torch lights illuminated the stone hall. The double doors swung open of their own accord, bidding entrance into the King and Queen’s private quarters. Carefully, he stepped inside the room. A question rattled in the child’s head. Why do they call her the sleepless queen?

The Queen sat in a grand canopy bed – wide awake, as her moniker suggested – reading a leatherbound book. Her skin dark and warm like cinnamon. Ears pricked and pointed, a mark of her magical lineage. Rosy pink hair tied into a braid. Beside her, the King snored, his arm slung across her stomach.

“Apologies for disturbing you, your highness.” He bowed.

The book snapped shut. “No apologies needed.” She smiled, beckoning the page to her bedside. With a nervous tremor, he stepped closer and handed her the note. Her amber eyes skimmed the paper. Looking back to the child, her smile returned. Slowly and softly, the Queen climbed out of bed and out of her lover’s embrace. Her satin white nightgown shined in the lantern light. “A beast was seen in the forest. All the kingdoms are on alert.” Her fingers reached for the jagged crystal sitting in the windowsill. The Jagged gem began to glow. A thin silver shield, like a thick fog, covered the entire kingdom. With a resolved nod, her majesty seemed content with the shield protecting their realm.

Bowing again, the boy took a few steps towards the door then stopped. Curiosity clawing at his throat. “Forgive me for asking, but do you have trouble sleeping? Is that why they call you the Sleepless Queen?”

With a light, fluttering laugh, she shook her head. “No, little one. I’m not human like my husband. My kind do not require sleep to survive.” She explained, the gentle tone of her voice soothing like an ocean breeze. A twinkle of adoration in her eyes as she glanced over at the sleeping King. “Though I use the time well. I read. I help maintain the barrier. I protect the King when he rests.” In a playful movement, she grazed his freckles with her thumbs. “Speaking of rest, off to bed with you. Thank you for delivering this message, my good sir, you have done well.” She whispered her praise before shooing him away. The young messenger scampered off. The Sleepless Queen returned to bed, returned to her lover’s side. A book floated into the Queen’s grasp, opening to the page where she left off. “I can tell when you are feigning sleep, dear heart. Unbecoming for a king.”

Enveloping his wife in his arms, he held her in an embrace. Both of them falling into the comfort of closeness. “The Sleepless Queen. Haven’t heard that name in ages.” He hummed into her neck.

Her lips found the crown of his head. “I will gladly take up the title. Being by your side, in the quiet moments, is a blessing in itself.” Waving her fingers, the lanterns dimmed.

“Is there trouble?” The King mumble, drowsiness slowly overcoming him.

“Trouble that can wait until the morning, do not fret.” Golden eyes flicked towards the window, checking the barrier one last time. “If a dragon comes knocking on our walls, we will be protected, to an extent. Go back to sleep, my love. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

“Goodnight, my sleepless Queen.”

“Goodnight.”


I couldn’t get this idea of a queen that does not need to sleep out of my head. And I had no real plot for her to play in. So, I did some freewriting. Let me know what you think.

Stay safe and stay creative.

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

The Wonder of Wintertime – Fantasy 100 Word Story (Repost)

“I love wintertime, Mama.”

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh. I like how the snow sparkles.”

Curled up in their den, the mother watched her child and the snowfall. A forest of evergreen trees coated with a thick layer of shimmering white. The little one skirted the entrance of the cave, sticking his forked tongue out to catch snowflakes. Icicles hung like jagged teeth above them.

“Can I catch one someday?” Claws reached for the sky. Snowflakes instantly sizzled, melting against red scales. “And keep it until the springtime comes?”

The dragon mother smiled at her youngling, “Of course you can, dear heart.”


(I’m taking a sick day and reposting an old short story. Thanks for understanding! Hope you all enjoy. – Victoria)

Happy holidays everyone! Stay safe and keep writing!

— Lady Jabberwocky

A Victim At Midnight – (Short Horror Story)

“Poor kid. Didn’t stand a chance.”

There’s yellow police tape hanging across the doorway. Boot prints stained into the rug. Rain pounds against the windows. Sirens are flashing outside.

“What are you talking about?” I ask the detective. He looks through me, fishing for a cigar in his trench coat pocket instead. An entire department of police officers is surveying my living room. Furniture is toppled over. A discarded butcher knife on the floor. “You all need to leave. The landlord will kill me if….”

“Time of death?” The detective lights the cigar, takes a long drag. He stomps up the stairs, I follow. Feet barely touching the ground, as if I were floating. They don’t see me. None of them do.

“Around midnight,” A rookie cop supplies the answer, peering down at their notepad. “Friends say she insisted on walking home alone last night.”

“With a killer on the loose? Smart.”

Scratch marks on the wall leading to the bedroom. Picture frames with family photos are shattered.

“There’s been a mistake. I’m right here. Listen to me.” I plead with them, standing in their way. The detective passes right through me. “I’m here, I’m alive. I’m…”

A body –my body – is sprawled across the floor. A puddle of red soaks the carpet in the bedroom. Two puncture wounds in my neck. Anemic white skin. Eyes and mouth open, a face frozen in horror. I’m staring at my own corpse.

What happened to me? Think. I don’t remember much of last night. I don’t remember dying. But I remember fangs.

Her fangs.

Her claws.

Her voice.

I can’t breathe. Lungs emptied of oxygen. No pulse, only stillness. My chest is hollow. My skin is translucent rice paper. I begin to cry. Tears fall and I can’t feel them roll down my cheeks. I can’t feel anything. I am a wisp of air. A wandering soul trapped in Hell itself.

“P-Please. You have to help me!” I look the detective dead in the eye. “Please.” The lamp light flickers above us. Thunder rumbles.

“Think it’s the same one that killed the others? That’d be 5 deaths this week.”

The detective pulls a silver cross from around his neck. He nods. “Each one attacked around midnight. Each one drained of blood. Each one with lipstick on their face. It’s her, all right.”

They don’t hear me. I scream anyway. “It can’t end like this. My family, my friends, they need to know I’m okay. Tell them I’m okay.” The light flickers again. A chill enters the room.

“At least this kid put up a fight.” The detective remarks as they drape a sheet over my corpse.

The lights go out.


Hey Writer Bees! This week, I’m playing around with the horror genre. A genre I don’t have much experience writing in. But I do love a good challenge and a good ghost story. Let me know what you think of this short story in the comments. As always, I love to hear from you guys.

Stay safe and stay creative. (And watch out for vampires!)

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

Hamburgers and Horoscopes (100 Word Humor Fiction)

In a pink sunset, the girl with thunderclouds on her thighs pulls into the drive thru. Sunglasses raise to her forehead. A muffled voice comes from the speakerbox. 

“Yeah, hi,” She eyes the menu. “My horoscope told me to indulge in life’s simplest pleasures. So lemme get two cheeseburgers, easy on the lettuce, heavy on the cheese. Lemonade, no ice. Large fries, extra ketchup packets. And for dessert,” She licks her glossy lips. “One of those fudgy brownie things. You know the kind.”

She pays and receives a greasy paper bag. BTS blasts through the car radio. “Thank you, astrology.”


Haven’t written flash fiction in a long time, figured I should this week. I was in the mood to write a fun, lighthearted 100 word story. Hope you all enjoy!

Anyone want to take a guess as to what her astrological sign is? Also, what’s your go-to fast food order? Talk to me in the comments, I’d love to hear from you.

Stay safe and keep writing!

Love,

Lady Jabberwocky

Scream For Ice Cream and Murder (Mystery Short Story)

Hello Writer Bugs!

For this post, I’m sharing my response to one of the mystery prompts of the week, describe a crime scene. Here’s a short story, featuring the detective duo from my WIP. Let’s go back to the scene of the crime.

Warning: This scene may be disturbing for some readers. Contains blood and a dead person.


I’m not going to sugarcoat this. There was too much blood for an ice cream parlor. No pun intended.

The cops needed an extra hand on this one. It was a curious case. And curious cases in Coney Island tend to fall under Mister Barnaby’s territory.

As the detective and I entered, the little bell by the door jingled. It was what you’d expect from your classic ice cream corner shop. Squeaky linoleum floor. Squeaky red barstools. Buckets of dairy. Cash register full of dough. Dusty chalkboard that listed all their sweet treats.

I checked out the menu. “15 cents for a sundae? The crooks. Though a chocolate cone does sound pretty good.”

Oscar, now is not the time.” He sighed, eyes inspecting the shattered front window, glass shards on the porch steps. Thick eyebrows pinched together on his wrinkled face. “Someone broke this from the inside, not the outside.”

“What’s that mean?” I shoved my hands in my pockets and took a guess. “Someone was locked in?”

His shoulders shrugged. “Perhaps to make it appear as though there was a break in. Our culprit is none too bright. The world is full of imbeciles.” Leaning on his walking stick, the detective teetered towards the bar. Behind the counter, a trail of blood drippings. A red handprint stamped on the doorway leading to the backroom. The temperature plummeted. In the cluttered storage, jars of sprinkles and candies lined the shelves.

“Didn’t Officer Lester say the body was back here?”

More splashes on red on the floor. A path of drippings led to the ice locker. Strange, the walk-in fridge was locked from the inside. Like something out of a locked room mystery we’d listen to on the radio. It took some fiddling, but eventually, I heaved the heavy vault open.

Between tubs of cream and cake boxes, a round man – Sal Pellegrini – slouched on a chair, with an ice pick lodged in his neck. “Jesus Christ,” My stomach twisted into a knot. “Yikes, right in the jugular. What happened to you, big guy?” Apron splattered with red and brown mess. Skin turned blue. Dark purple fingernails. Frost lingered on his thinning hair. He smelled like vanilla and death. In his left fist, a crumpled piece of paper. A recipe card. I handed it to the old man. “Any ideas on this one, boss?”

His eyes flicked back and forth, like he was reading something. “I remember this. Newspaper article published on September 29th, 1921. Mr. Pellegrini’s family recipe was deemed the best Strawberry Shortcake in New York.” He teetered closer to the body, a shaky grip on his walking stick. “Well, everything make perfect sense now.”

“It does?”

“Of course. It would seem someone tried to steal the famous cake recipe. When Mr. Pellegrini refused to hand it over, his attacker stabbed him in the parlor room.” The detective hummed, glancing around. “Somehow, he fled from his attacker, but was losing too much blood.”

“You got all that from a blood trail and a crumpled piece of paper?”

“Certainly.” He pointed to the brick wall that Mr. Pellegrini’s back was leaning against. “Move that one.”

A single brick disconnected from the wall. When I pulled the loose brick out of its place, we found a hiding spot of more recipe cards. Chocolate fudge, Vienna cake, Lemon sponge cake. Old recipes passed from generation from generation. “He locked himself in, to protect his family’s heirlooms, I’d imagine. Hid his prized possessions in plain sight. Quite impressive.”

“Or absolutely insane.”

“Regardless, a killer is still out there. There is more work left to be done.”

Mister Barnaby turned to leave the ice cream parlor. As always, I followed him, like a shadow. But not before I helped myself to a chocolate ice cream cone, with extra sprinkles.


This is the last post for May of Mystery. Thank you all so much for sticking around. Hope you all enjoyed!

Stay safe and keep writing.

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

The Tale of a Boy and a Mermaid (Parts 1-5)

(Written 4/16/21 – Hey Writer Bugs! It’s been a stressful week for me. So I decided to repost this old short story I wrote back in fiction writing class, in 2016. Don’t judge, every writer starts somewhere. Appreciate your early work, they’re a representation of how far you’ve come as a storyteller. Keep writing my friends! – Love, Lady Jabberwocky. )

The Tale of a Boy and a Mermaid

[Part One]

[Part Two]

[Part Three]

[Part Four]

[Part Five – Finale]

“I have an important task for you, lad,”

The knight commander was intimidating, over six feet tall with a thick beard and a scar on his forehead. Behind him was the kingdom of Eros’ flag, a deep purple with the emblem of a griffon, wings spread proudly. “I’m sure you have heard of the recent number of casualties out at sea, correct?” Many ships coming into port were either facing horrible storms or being sunken by unknown forces. Some in the village believed it to be a mermaid’s doing. “Take this message to the water’s edge tomorrow morning. Their messenger should meet you half way”The message was a scroll in a glass bottle, sealed tightly with a cork. “Is this…A declaration of war, sir?”

“Just negotiations,” The commander replied shortly, placing a large hand on by shoulder. “This will be a test, to prove if you are worthy of becoming a true knight someday,” He shooed me away with a wave of his hand. “Now, go attend to your other duties”.

I bowed and took my leave, examining the glass bottle in my hands. My brown leather boots shuffled along the dirt path that led to the stables. There were three large stallions, the noble steeds of the warriors of Eros. I began to brush one of the horse’s smooth coat. The sound of metal feet stomping towards me broke me from my daze. Sir Roger entered the stable, removing his helm. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, most likely returning from sparring.

“Have you finished with my sword?” Sir Roger approached me, removing his gauntlet. I nodded quickly. “With haste, mouse” He said impatiently. I dropped the brush and went to retrieve the knight’s sword. Yesterday, the blade was splattered with blood after a day’s quest. Now it shined like a sunbeam. I returned with the sword tucked into it’s leather sheath a moment later. “What do you have here?” He asked, examining the scroll in the glass bottle next to my satchel.

“A message I must deliver,” I informed “Tomorrow morning, to Crescent bay”.

“Well then you’re as good as dead, little mouse,” He laughed. “Have you ever seen a Mermaid before?”


Write with Heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

The Charlatan (Fantasy Flash Fiction)

“Excuse me, kind sirs. Could I borrow a moment of your time?” A plump gnome woman approached a table with three half orcs clad in leather armor. Cradled in her arms were three cork-topped bottles, filled with burnt orange liquid. The opal ring on her finger winked at the weary adventurers. “I’m selling home brewed health potions.”

The group exchanged looks, grunting and crossing their arms. “100 gold for the whole lot.”

A sigh in surrender as she glanced over her shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything but… See that fellow over there?” Stationed at the lonely table near the tavern door was a figure wearing a dark cloak and a crow like mask. He appeared to be entranced by the lute playing bard across the room.

The trio of warriors leaned closer, now intrigued. Her tragic tale of woe began. “Would you believe it? A bolt of lightening set his house on fire. Left his home a pile of ash.” After setting all three vials on the table, she dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. ” Left his face severely burned and hideous scarred. 100 gold per bottle would greatly help him get back on his feet.” Coins clattered onto the table.

….

Hooking her arm in the crook of his elbow, the two strolled into a secluded alleyway, embracing the shadows. “Severely burned and hideously scarred,” He mocked while he counted the coins in the pouch. “You really laid it on thick this time, Poet. Those poor fools.” His cape enveloped her, eyes faintly glowing silver behind glass windows. Autumn leaves skittered across cobblestone streets.

For a brief moment, the opal ring shimmered. Her entire body transformed. A sly grin spread across burgundy lips as she snickered like a conniving witch. Lavender painted her skin. On both sides of her head, ram horns curled. No longer a mere gnome, but a roughish Tiefling.

“The world is built on poor fools.” Poet kissed the beak of his mask, her devilish tail swishing like a pendulum. “Come along, Endymion. We need to make a new batch of Poppy flower tea.” With her masked companion trailing behind, the charlatan disappeared into the night.

“On to the next town.”

————————————————————-

Since our DnD is suspended until further notice, I’m reposting this short story I wrote during quarantine. Inspired by the game and characters my boyfriend and I plan to play, someday after the pandemic.

Stay safe and stay healthy out there, everyone.

Lady Jabberwocky

This is BEN-G567 (100 Word Sci-Fi Story)

This is BEN-G567. Robot of Earth.

1,340.50 miles to target.

Total duration of flight since launch: 199 days, 20 hours 36 minutes. 24 seconds. 25 seconds.

986.72 miles to target. Energy levels sufficient.

Probability of successful landing: 95%.

Incoming unknown mass. Brace for impact. Impact. Emergency. Emergency.

Plutonium power source damaged. Leak detected. Wheels down.

This is BEN-G567. I am lost.

Navigation damaged. Current distance from target: Unknown.

Propulsion engage. Engine failing. Repeat. Engine failing.

Entering planet atmosphere. 100 miles to target.

Probability of successful landing: Less than 5%. Landing preparation sequence activated.

This is BEN-G567. BEN-G567 programmed to endeavor and discover. Spare jets engaged. Accelerate.

Lost. Lost connection. Lost.