This weeks fff. It's actually a perfecta, coming in (unintentionally) at one thousand words. In all the near fiction fff I've got stored in my trunk, it's the first time I've actually 'set foot' on the moon.
There were fifty of the Serens, standing there in the field, golden grains and green grass swaying around their lithe bodies. Men and women from Serenity City, the first and last line of defense: bare-chested and dressed only in brightly colored loincloths and handmade headdresses with swords, spears and shields held in various states of readiness.
If you knew their tribe, and my time there had made me loosely familiar with them, then you understood that the paints and patterns which illustrated their bodies told stories of allegiances, families, hopes and fears. Their paints indexed them within the technosocial milieu that was their city.
But the paint was not only decorative: it was also ablative, designed to turn, for a precious few seconds, the lasers of their sworn enemies, John Laws in service of the Grand Jurist.