The Agents of F. R. U. M. P.

This is my entry for Inktober Day 2. Today’s prompt is the word “wisp.” Hannalore Bruce has been at the back of my mind for some time, and I think it’s time to at least begin the story of an unlikely superhero–or group of superheroes–who live in Dakota Territory in the mid-19th century.

Hannalore Bruce removed her spectacles and massaged the bridge of her nose. The afternoon was warm, too warm for October, and the humidity made her head throb.

She glanced at the clock. 3:45. Fifteen minutes left, and then she could return home. Putting her glasses on once more, she turned her gaze to her pupils, whose heads were bent over their books, diligently working on their lessons. All except one.

Sally McMillan sat staring out the window. As usual. Hannalore shook her head. She knew Sally was a bright girl, but she lagged far behind some of the younger students because she didn’t apply herself.

Just as Hannalore opened her mouth to upbraid the girl for her woolgathering, her sharp eyes caught something in Sally’s expression. Instead of the usual vacant dreaminess in her gaze, there was rather the suggestion of fear. 

Hannalore quickly glanced out the window by her desk and immediately saw what concerned the girl. On the horizon, a thin wisp of black smoke rose into the air. Indians.

At the same moment, the locket the matron wore around her neck began to vibrate. She quickly covered it with her hand and looked at her class. Satisfied that none of the pupils had heard the vibration, she opened the locket and then glanced at it and frowned.