Extract meme - fanfiction
Gakked from heikki_cheren:
"If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction etc, post an extract from your WIP in your journal."
So I guess now's the time when you guys realise exactly how many ongoing projects I have. Let's start with fanfiction, I'll do original fiction in the next post.
The much-talked about Firefly/Highlander/Carnivale crossover. From the first scene:
Mal twisted in his grasp, just enough to be able to land a powerful punch to his stomach. That caused a great amount of pain, unfortunately not so much to Pile-Of-Muscles as to Mal's hand. The captain grimaced painfully when his knuckles crashed against the steely wall of Pile-Of-Muscles' abs.
The bottle crashed on top of the stupid, Alliance-friendly head, Ng-Ka-Pei pouring down his face. Pile-Of-Muscles remained standing for a few seconds, then toppled to the floor.
"Waste of a good bottle," Impressive-Nose remarked with the hint of a woebegone look at the broken bottle top in his hand.
"Can I point out the more pressing matter of our good friend's many, many friends?"
Everybody in the bar had gotten to their feet, looking non too pleased with Mal and Impressive-Nose.
"You can, but I feel quite certain the situation speaks for itself."
"Oh well. This is my kinda party," Mal answered with a grim smile.
And so the brawl began.
Then later on...
The room was a black cube. The dim light did not seem to come from anywhere, and yet it was. There was no furniture and the light fell equally on the bare black walls, apparently devoid of any door. A handsome brown-haired man was seated with his back against one of the walls, clutching his knees to himself. He pressed his hands hard against his legs to keep them from trembling, but his dark eyes glinted harshly in the middle of his gaunt, stubbly face, seeming to say that he was not ready to go yet. Another man, blond and once beautiful, was pacing nervously across from him, with fluttering fingers and occasional shudders, muttering to himself. His whispered words sometimes broke the silence, otherwise intact but for sporadic screams or moans of pain and much more that echoed down the hallway they knew to stand outside of their cell.
The blond man stopped abruptly, facing the other. "I'm slipping."
The brunette forced his gaze onto his cellmate. "We all are." As if to bear witness to his declaration, an anguished scream ripped through the air. The dark-haired man clenched his teeth and ignored the dead man he could see hovering behind the blond, a dead man he would have once given everything to see again. "Bit by bit. They're stripping us of our defences by attacking our emotional weaknesses, no matter that they don't care about that. Typical procedure. They want to break us."
A humourless smile. "They must be good at their jobs."
"They are." The brunette looked at his hallucination, the face of the dead man he had loved, right beside the head of his very real, if only half-living murderer. He did not know when the hallucinations had started, did not know how long he had been here, nor when the blond had joined him. Time was irrelevant in here. Only space mattered - whether you were in your cell, or in the White Room. Binary. Here or there. Two different kinds of agony. "The best I ever met."
And just to give a bit of Carnivale...
"Move outta my way!"
River sidestepped just in time for the dwarf to pass. Her beatific smile turned into a compassionate expression as she watched him waddle away, leaning on his cane with each step. He barely reached her hip and his grotesque little face was a mask of grumpiness.
"You'll hafta excuse him, miss," said a man that limped up to her side, chewing on a match, one of his hands clamped on his cap. His limp spoke of a rigid leg he could not bend. He was dressed in shabby-looking clothes, brown pants, a dirty shirt, suspenders. His face told a tale of hardship and willpower. "Bad time o'the month and all."
River looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "You haven't had luck on this moon. Too few customers."
"Is it that obvious? Ah, I s'pose we shoulda seen it comin'. Paradisio ain't renowned for its warm welcome to the likes of us, and we got th'same bad luck in Hancock all right." He pulled his cloth cap on top of his head and grinned at her with a nod. "I best be seein' to th'men before hair grows from their palms, eh?"
And a bit o' Ben Hawkins.
River cocked her head to the side, swinging her legs off the side of the trailer. Her bare feet swished through the air, one slightly later than the other but both at the same speed. She smiled in the sun and looked at the vibrant grassland outlaid in front of her.
"I been lookin' for you."
She looked down at the boy. Farm boy, Jonesy called him most often. Ben Hawkins, she knew his name to be. There was something about him, he had one of the best stories to tell but unlike the rest of them he kept it to himself. She had never met anybody so silent, so private - well, apart from management. It was a relief. "What for, farm boy?"
He scowled and she frowned. Connections were made and she realised what was wrong with calling him that. There was no point in correcting herself, though, so she waited for him to answer and made a note not to use the moniker again. "Whaddaya know about Scudder?"
She drew her long legs back to her and stood up on the trailer, arranging Jonesy's overly-big jacket that she wore more like a shawl, arms slipped in the sleeves but shoulders bared. The trailer's roof was hot from the heat of the sun, a delicious kind of hot that warmed up the soles of her feet. She raised her arms almost to shoulder length on either side of herself and took a few delighted steps, eyes closed. Silence. "Can't tell ya."
"You'll tell me awright!" How could silence be coupled with so much anger? "I'm gorram sick of all these secrets!"
The Alias fic - just so you guys know when it is, I'm taking it AU during the S2 finale, Sydney does not wake up two years later but goes on with her life instead. And the whole fic is bad-guy-POVed.
Sloane walks to his desk and so does she. They study each other from either side of the piece of furniture. She purposefully sits on its edge, one foot on the ground and her other thigh propped on the desk. Nothing is said for a long while and on they appraise each other. Irina leans on the hand she lays next to Sloane's day planner. He looks at her for a moment longer, then sits in his armchair, leaning back comfortably with his hands steepled in front of him. His eyes have not lost their calculating glint. "I always thought you cared for Sark. Why give him to the CIA?"
She did not have to think about her answer. "He was expandable and he earned me Sydney's trust. He will be extracted when I have use of him. As for what he told them about your facility, I trusted you would have the time to hear the telling and get away."
Sloane allows himself a small smile. "Such faith in me is touching."
"What did the telling have to say?"
She does expect to get an answer; Sloane is not a stupid man. He knows as well as she does that she is a great asset to him, in more ways than one, not the least of which is the trust Sydney continuously places in her, despite her daughter's better judgment. Irina is not anxious as Sloane contemplates his next words. The benefits of having her as an ally far outweigh the risks. She knows he will tell her.
And so he does.
Now, a special something for twixou. Enjoy, honey!
He steps out of the shower and towels himself dry. He stands in front of the mirror and wishes they would let him grow his hair back; a close crop is not to his liking. There is nothing remotely smug about his hair now. He remarks too that despite his tai ji exercises, his push-ups and his sit-ups, everything he does in his cell to keep himself in physical shape, he looks as if he has lost some sheer strength. The impression is not helped by his pale complexion, that of someone who does not spend enough time in the sun. He secures the towel around his hips and walks back into the room.
He did not think that Sydney was this puritan, but she actually looks at him in shock for a second, before recovering and glaring at him instead. She is seated on the bed with her back to the wall, a magazine open on her lap. "You took your time. Are you always so precious?"
"It's been a long time since I could shower without two pairs of eyes watching my every move," he answers truthfully as he walks over to his suitcase to pick something to put on.
He will be damned if he abides by her modesty. After all he took a good, shameless look at her splendid body after raining acid down on her a few months ago, and he thinks it only fair to return the favour. So he turns his back on her and drops the towel, forcing himself not to give in to curiosity and glance back to determine whether she is checking him out. He turns around after pulling on a pair of trousers to find her staring stubbornly into the magazine. He smirks, but hides it away before she can see him.
In case there are any other Adam Carter fans here (yes, I know, I love Tom too, but Adam works better with Sydney and Sark than Tom would), here's a snippet.
A knock sounds on the door, as if on cue. "Room service!"
Sydney hangs up the phone, shoots a meaningful glance at Sark and goes to open the door. "There must be a mistake, we didn't order anything."
"Compliments of the house," the waiter answers as he pushes the trolley past her into the room. Once the door closes behind him, he straightens up. He is a tall man in his early thirties, fairly handsome, whose manner suddenly speaks of professionalism. "Adam Carter, MI-5. I'd fairly like to know what you think you're doing, mounting an operation on British soil without consulting us."
"We're just following orders, Agent Carter," Sydney answers a little defensively, and Sark takes advantage of her handling this for the moment to button up his shirt. "I'm sure our respective bosses are having this argument as we speak. Must we do a repeat?"
The man breaks into a smile that speaks of acting. "Granted, I'd rather not. Can I count on your cooperation then?"
"It depends what you mean by that exactly," Sark answers before Sydney can speak up. He sees her shoot him a surprised glance at his suddenly American accent and is obliged to add something to make sure that Carter focuses on him. "What do you expect from us?"
And one last bit - that's a talk I'd been wanting to see them have for ages, but it's not like they truly ever talk on the show.
There is a need in him to instruct her, so he explains steadily. "Yes, I am a dog. I was taught to respect authority, to know when a better man or woman ought to be in charge. I'm not yet at the height of my capacities, I'd rather improve myself than throw myself headfirst into the game and blow all my chances. If that makes me a dog, so be it. Dobermans are fascinating creatures."
Her face is set in a mask of coldness as she opens her suitcase. She takes a towel and a pair of handcuffs out. "I never saw one figure out how to form an original thought."
She handcuffs him to the bed. He grabs her wrist with his hand, not a painful grip but enough to keep her in place, their faces so close. Her eyes are even more expressive from up close. "Dogs might surprise you, Agent Bristow. Best not to turn your back on one."
She pointedly wrenches her arm free of him and picks up the towel she had left on the bed. "Can't see much danger in a Yorkshire thinking himself a pit-bull."
And there, now, something for her to think upon while she is in the shower. He hopes his words will haunt her after she walks into the bathroom, because she does not even slow her walk when he speaks. Yet he knows she heard him. "At least I choose my own masters."
The Wat/Kate fic I'm hopeless stuck on because I can't help feeling it sucks somehow. Something isn't clicking.
He was sitting on a wooden fence, looking as contended as a man could be as he licked his fingers clean. She called his name crossly, causing him to look up with pleased surprise, into which swept a hint of smugness. He swung his arms wide as he hopped off the fence. "Katie! Changed your mind after all?"
"Is there anything you like more than food?"
The arms dropped as he frowned. His true measure showed in his response. "Huh?"
"Is there anything you like more than food?" she repeated, finding that she showed much more patience than he deserved. She stopped her foot tapping on the ground and kept her arms resolutely crossed. "You spoke once of a woman that you missed as the sun missed the flower in winter. Did you like her more than food?"
The frown did not clear any. "Is this some strange sort of foreplay talk? I'm not sure I-"
Kate stepped closer to him, the discontent of having to look up at him heightening her anger as she poked him in the chest with each word, backing him up against the fence. "Did. You. Like. Her. More. Than. Food?"
"Ow!" Wat whimpered on the last poke, which had been much more violent than the others. He batted her hand away, rubbing the spot she had aimed at. "What the devil's got into you?"
Frustration edged deeper into her. "Just answer the bloody question!"
Wat paused, his face a sudden mask of concern as he made those famous puppy eyes of his at her. "Are ye all right, Kate?"
She sighed with exasperation and turned away, striding back to the camp, leaving him standing there on his own. She could well picture his look of confusion clearing into untroubled resignation as he shrugged, thinking to himself, "Oh well." Bloody fool that he was.
'Cause I'm a Chaucer slut and I couldn't not have used him.
"What's that got to do with me? I don't even want her anyway! I need to find myself a good cook of a woman who won't be half as troublesome."
Chaucer's features hardened considerably, into a look Wat had never seen on him. "Do not jest, Wat. I care for Kate very much and do not wish to see you hurt her."
"How could I do that? She'll not let me get close to her!" The expectant look on Chaucer's face told Wat that he had just said something important, touched upon a key notion in the understanding of Kate. He suddenly made the connection. "Oh. You mean to say..."
"Yes," the writer agreed with much relief. "I mean to say."
"But what about the cream bun?" Wat tried again.
"A test," Chaucer replied as it were the most evident thing in the world.
"A test?"
"A test."
"A test of what?"
Chaucer made a sorry face, clapping Wat on the shoulder in a friendly, if somewhat condescending manner. "Most men wouldn't have chosen the pastry, Wat."
"I didn't choose it, I got it! She gave it! Gave it and walked off, there was no choice in that but hers!"
"Oh well, let's see... could you maybe have gone after her instead?"
"But she walked off! And there was the cream bun!"
"Yes," Chaucer agreed contritely. "There was the cream bun."
No, I haven't given up on Willow and Haldir's kid. I just haven't been able to work on the story much lately, but here are a few excerpts anyway.
Colin's mother was, as was regularly the case, waiting for them with some hot chocolate and marshmallows. "How'd the slaying go?" she asked with a smile as she tousled Colin's hair.
He batted her hand away mechanically and grabbed his mug of hot chocolate as he settled down at the kitchen table; he had long since stopped hoping she would ever quit that habit. "Just a handful. Nothing major."
"He used his magic again," Haldir remarked.
Willow smiled. "That's my boy."
"I'm not your boy."
"Are too."
And he was supposed to be the child? "Am not, mom. I simply needed a far-reaching weapon. Woulda been a shame if dad had brought his bow for nothing, big and obvious as it is."
"I think we will need to work some more on his focus," Haldir spoke on, ignoring his son's pique. "On Sunday, we can -"
Colin shot to his feet, spilling a bit of chocolate. "We can nothing at all, dad. I'm going over to Jul's, band practice, remember?"
Willow threw the sponge at him, which he barely caught. "Still can't believe you can sing. It's beyond me. I can't get two notes straight, and you're not exactly a great singer either," she teased Haldir with a smile.
Haldir seethed in silence for a few seconds, then reluctantly accounted for it: "He has that after his grandmother." His eyes lost their cranky glaze and softened some. "She had one of the loveliest voices of Lothlórien..." His voice caught on the last word and his gaze hardened immediately as he turned to Colin. "I wish you wouldn't waste such a gift on this thing you call music."
"Haldir," Willow said threateningly.
And in another corner of the same 'verse, Fan' could not have done without using those two characters... (Who said that about dying being a promotion in the Buffyverse?)
He didn't look up from his beer when the door was pushed open, letting in a chilly breeze and someone Connor was positive he did not want to meet. He hunched over, having perfected the art of appearing inconspicuous. No such luck, he thought to himself as the guy sat down across from him at the table. If only the barkeep hadn't been such an annoying, nosy bastard, Connor would have been at the counter, less likely to be joined for a private chat.
"Fuck off," he told the guy, demon or whatever it was without looking up.
"We need to talk, Connor."
He looked up immediately, ready to leap. "You know my name?"
The guy looked human, as unkempt as Connor was, dirty long hair and unshaved face, hollow eyes and dark clothes, but his smell was - off. He also looked fairly annoyed at something, but seemed to rein it in. His tone was restrained, bitter. The accent was English, but Connor could not place it with any more accuracy. "That, and much more."
Connor rose, letting his contempt show on his face. "I'm not interested."
Out of Memory and Time - will I ever actually revise it enough to publish it? Who knows. Faith and Kate (as in Lockley) get sent to Middle Earth. Here are a few snippets from here and there.
Kate was going to wake up any minute now. This was obviously a dream cooked up by her deranged mind. It had started with an unconscious death wish, and then she'd brought Faith along to self-flagellate herself with memories of a time when she was a cop and convinced that things were simple. Now those three - they obviously were a product of her repressed libido. She hadn't had sex in far too long, hence the making up of blond guys with bows - the arrows were phallic symbols, to be sure - sexiness and deadliness oozing out of their very skin.
Sexiness and deadliness? The time when she had considered Angel as a possible romantic interest was long gone, thanks very much, she reminded her unconscious.
"What is it?" Faith asked, standing up and out of the fur cloak.
"Uruk-hai," Haldir replied without turning away from whatever they were staring at.
"They anything like Orcs?" Haldir nodded sharply and Faith hopped up to the three Elves. She could hear something now, too. "Sweet. Let's go kill 'em."
Truth was, from what Haldir had told Faith of those Rohan guys, the Slayer really was not looking forward to visiting. "Why are you so gung-ho on goin' there anyway? Haldir says -"
"I'm sick of Elves," Kate bluntly cut in. "They're so perfect all the time. They glow, they live forever, they sing like gods and they're skilled for about everything you can name. I don't get Elves, and I don't like it. We might be stuck in this world, it doesn't mean I wanna live my life here with them. Okay?"
Faith slashed the throat of the last Uruk and only then seemed to realise she had an audience. She wiped her blade clean of the dark blood as if she had not a care in the world. Scowling, Éothain strode to find Éomer.
"This is unnatural, my lord," he told his captain urgently. "No woman should be that good."
Éomer's brow was frowned with worry. "Indeed, Éothain. But so long as her unnatural skill is turned against the Orcs... Set someone to watch them closely. The King will decide what to do with them." He looked at the fallen corpses around them. "We lost only one Rider this night. We were lucky."
Éothain followed his captain's gaze. Young Haleth had been struck down; his red hair was matted with blood and his open eyes saw no more. "Ay, my lord. Lucky." Éothain turned to carry out his orders.
His intense dark eyes seemed to try to drill holes into her. "Perhaps more than ever, Kate of Lockley. Your sister and you combine extraordinary fighting skills with exceptional beauty. Would you not say that Nature is scarce so plentiful in her gifts to one person?"
Kate bristled. "I do not know that I am as beautiful as you make me to be, nor do my fighting skills rival those of any of your Riders, my lord." She paused. "Does not your very sister combine both beauty and skill with the blade? Would you call her a witch as well?"
To her surprise, Éomer smiled warmly in approval. "Well answered, Kate of Lockley."
"What manner of a feast is this?" Théodred suddenly said for the whole Hall to hear, and clapped his hand down on the table in mock-outrage. "No dances?"
"Ay, dances!" a Rider took up in the crowd.
She had waited long enough to meet the man of her life, she decided. She had built up enough defences along the way. It was time to let him tear them all down, one by one. She felt certain he would do a great job of it. He was, after all, an excellent warrior.
And he kissed as he fought, she was reminded as he drew her into another embrace.
"Spies?" Théodred repeated. "I will not believe this. Spies from whom?"
"The Witch of Lórien," came Gríma's reply.
Kate whipped her head to him. How did they... She schooled her features into a look of pure disbelief. "This is ridiculous, my lord," she pleaded with Théoden.
"Do not try to deny it, spy," Gríma hissed. "Your sister was seen slipping off to a secret meeting with one of the witch-queen's servants."
"Liar!" Faith snarled, stepping forward.
One of the men guarding her put his hand on her shoulder and brought her down, hard. Kate was thankful that Faith did not take them out as she could have, but remained on the ground, looking down at the tiles with barely suppressed rage.
"Who are they? Your pursuers?"
"Riders in black," Strider replied, leaning back in his chair. "Once we are gone, watch out for them. If you spot them, I suggest you run."
Kate went to check on the stew. She felt a strange peace come over her. Now that her decision was taken, all seemed eerily quiet within her. No more dissent. No more anguish. Only determination.
"There will be no need for it. I will come with you to Rivendell."
He had deemed her his friend. There had to be a reason to this... madness. Glorfindel trusted his judgement of people; one did not come back from the Halls of Waiting without some measure of wisdom. Still not trusting her to the point of physically coming closer, he took great pains in softening his voice, ignoring the pinpricks of pain where she had bitten his neck. "Tell me."
"Tell you what?" Her voice shook with rage.
"Why did you attack me?" He squared his jaw. His voice sounded hard again.
The slightest pause. "'Cause I'm bad." Her voice trembled on the last word.
Kate held his gaze as she replied. "There's not as much mystery to me as you seem to think. I'm just another member of the Fellowship."
She turned to go when his hand on her arm stilled her. She met his inquisitive eyes calmly. "Is there naught else to you, híril bein?"
Kate froze. Those were the words... weren't they? As if she'd ever forget them. "What does it mean?" she asked coldly.
Legolas frowned. "Fair lady."
"Don't call me that. Ever."
She strode away. Legolas stayed in place, wondering who could have hurt her so.
Celeborn walked down the last few steps to stand by Kate's side. He looked off the talan at the city around them. "Galadriel is right. Hope remains. There is much strength yet in Elessar..."
"And in Frodo," Kate added. "You never told me about Hobbits."
"There are many a thing I never told you about, meldisamin," the Elf replied on a chiding tone. "Do you truly think a few hours in my study would teach you all there is to know of Arda?"
Kate grimaced. "A few hours? You forget I'm mortal. Those few hours were a great deal of time to me."
Celeborn turned thoughtful eyes on her. "I forget not."
Thank you, a.k.a. the episode I wish they had shot after AtS' "You're Welcome." I don't know whether I'll ever finish it, but it's the thought that matters. And the thought is more or less "Give me back the Lindsey I know, gorrammit!"
Angel shot to his feet as the clouds suddenly formed near the ceiling of his office. Lightning bolts shot downward, apparently harmless, and a rift appeared. Out of it fell, face down, a body Angel thought he would never see again. The rift closed and the clouds vanished as quickly as they had come. Angel stalked around his desk to make sure the bare-chested figure sprawled on the floor was who he thought he had seen.
Lindsey spread his hands on the carpeted floor, trying to function past the pain. He looked up and his eyes fell on Angel. "Dammit." The unconsciousness caught up with him before nausea did, and he fainted.
The Small Print, a.k.a. another take on what S5 of AtS could have been like.
The phone rang, startling her out of her murderous thoughts. She picked it up. "Lilah Morgan."
"You’d better come down, someone claiming he’s a friend of yours in the lobby," a security man told her.
She switched her television on to the security camera in the lobby. Oh no. How dare he. The son of a bitch. He’d pay alright. She should have known it was him. "Tell Mr McDonald I’ll be with him shortly,” she replied, then hung up.
"Oh, right." Lindsey smiled a bit, thrusting his hands in his pockets. "Because there’s never any backlash, never any consequences. Nothing ever goes wrong. I’m the living proof of that, ain’t I?"
"You are the living proof that everything can go wrong," Angel countered.
Wesley swallowed uneasily. "I couldn’t find any prophecy about this sort of event, -"
"What do you mean, no prophecy?" Rona interrupted. "It just means your evil law firm doesn’t have them all."
"’Cause it’s him," Vi supplied. "It’s totally him. Completely, totally, wholly him, memory-less, and pulse-full. Everything fits."
"Yeah, come on," Angel agreed. "There has to be a prophecy about it. That doesn’t happen every Tuesday, a souled vampire... becoming... human..." It had hit him at last. Incredulity and pain marred his features as he looked up at Wesley for confirmation.
"Yes," the Englishman simply said, nodding his head.
"I don't see why Angel would suddenly want to break the contract," Wesley insisted.
"It’ll be clear once it's broken," Lindsey replied without looking up from the said contract. "Then you can be all pissed at Angel for what he did. Can you let me work now?"
Wesley folded his arms over his chest. "Need I remind that you were very much on their side the last time we met? This could be another trick of theirs."
Lindsey looked up, very much annoyed. "Angel told you it was okay. I thought you were supposed to trust him with your life, that kinda thing."
"Angel can be fooled."
"And you realise that now?"
The blue eyes were filled with tears again. He looked so lost. David was wearing the body of Spike, and bearing the memories of Spike, and sharing the soul of Spike, and he looked like a lost little child. His breathing was ragged, heavy and loud, his heartbeat frantic.
"Can we please not talk of ways to make Angel suffer in a good light?" Fred asked sharply. "He's my friend."
Lindsey smirked at her. "Don't worry. Everybody has issues."
Tapping into that Darkness (BtVS/HP), such a huge fic I seriously doubt I'll ever have time to revise it enough to publish it. It needs some *major* reworking and changes. Here are the first few paragraphs, anyway.
The sun shone pleasantly on the grasslands. There was a soft breeze in the air. The oak's branches stretched out in all directions, offering a wide perimeter of cool shade. A horse nearby neighed in what might as well have been anger or satisfaction. The earth was breathing and alive in the July afternoon. The steps came closer and she closed her eyes for half an instant, wishing to hold this moment forever.
"You've come earlier than usual," she said in an even voice. An even voice was her default setting now. She knew emotions were still whirling around somewhere inside her, she just felt as if she'd lost contact with that somewhere.
"It's my first visit, in fact," replied an English-accented voice she didn't know.
She slowly turned to the man. His features wore the lines of exhaustion; he almost appeared sickly. But she could feel the strength within him, just as she could feel the grass grow or the sap run through the trunk in her back. His eyes were soft and sad and the scent of magic lingered around him. She did not trust him; she did not trust strangers. For a long while, she did nothing but stare. Taking him in. She had become a very quiet creature. "Who are you?" she eventually asked.
He had been standing a few feet away from her; he walked up to where she was seated. "My name is Remus Lupin. Pleased to meet you," he said earnestly, and extended his hand to her.
She looked down at the hand, then back up at him. "Who are you?"
"If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction etc, post an extract from your WIP in your journal."
So I guess now's the time when you guys realise exactly how many ongoing projects I have. Let's start with fanfiction, I'll do original fiction in the next post.
The much-talked about Firefly/Highlander/Carnivale crossover. From the first scene:
Mal twisted in his grasp, just enough to be able to land a powerful punch to his stomach. That caused a great amount of pain, unfortunately not so much to Pile-Of-Muscles as to Mal's hand. The captain grimaced painfully when his knuckles crashed against the steely wall of Pile-Of-Muscles' abs.
The bottle crashed on top of the stupid, Alliance-friendly head, Ng-Ka-Pei pouring down his face. Pile-Of-Muscles remained standing for a few seconds, then toppled to the floor.
"Waste of a good bottle," Impressive-Nose remarked with the hint of a woebegone look at the broken bottle top in his hand.
"Can I point out the more pressing matter of our good friend's many, many friends?"
Everybody in the bar had gotten to their feet, looking non too pleased with Mal and Impressive-Nose.
"You can, but I feel quite certain the situation speaks for itself."
"Oh well. This is my kinda party," Mal answered with a grim smile.
And so the brawl began.
Then later on...
The room was a black cube. The dim light did not seem to come from anywhere, and yet it was. There was no furniture and the light fell equally on the bare black walls, apparently devoid of any door. A handsome brown-haired man was seated with his back against one of the walls, clutching his knees to himself. He pressed his hands hard against his legs to keep them from trembling, but his dark eyes glinted harshly in the middle of his gaunt, stubbly face, seeming to say that he was not ready to go yet. Another man, blond and once beautiful, was pacing nervously across from him, with fluttering fingers and occasional shudders, muttering to himself. His whispered words sometimes broke the silence, otherwise intact but for sporadic screams or moans of pain and much more that echoed down the hallway they knew to stand outside of their cell.
The blond man stopped abruptly, facing the other. "I'm slipping."
The brunette forced his gaze onto his cellmate. "We all are." As if to bear witness to his declaration, an anguished scream ripped through the air. The dark-haired man clenched his teeth and ignored the dead man he could see hovering behind the blond, a dead man he would have once given everything to see again. "Bit by bit. They're stripping us of our defences by attacking our emotional weaknesses, no matter that they don't care about that. Typical procedure. They want to break us."
A humourless smile. "They must be good at their jobs."
"They are." The brunette looked at his hallucination, the face of the dead man he had loved, right beside the head of his very real, if only half-living murderer. He did not know when the hallucinations had started, did not know how long he had been here, nor when the blond had joined him. Time was irrelevant in here. Only space mattered - whether you were in your cell, or in the White Room. Binary. Here or there. Two different kinds of agony. "The best I ever met."
And just to give a bit of Carnivale...
"Move outta my way!"
River sidestepped just in time for the dwarf to pass. Her beatific smile turned into a compassionate expression as she watched him waddle away, leaning on his cane with each step. He barely reached her hip and his grotesque little face was a mask of grumpiness.
"You'll hafta excuse him, miss," said a man that limped up to her side, chewing on a match, one of his hands clamped on his cap. His limp spoke of a rigid leg he could not bend. He was dressed in shabby-looking clothes, brown pants, a dirty shirt, suspenders. His face told a tale of hardship and willpower. "Bad time o'the month and all."
River looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "You haven't had luck on this moon. Too few customers."
"Is it that obvious? Ah, I s'pose we shoulda seen it comin'. Paradisio ain't renowned for its warm welcome to the likes of us, and we got th'same bad luck in Hancock all right." He pulled his cloth cap on top of his head and grinned at her with a nod. "I best be seein' to th'men before hair grows from their palms, eh?"
And a bit o' Ben Hawkins.
River cocked her head to the side, swinging her legs off the side of the trailer. Her bare feet swished through the air, one slightly later than the other but both at the same speed. She smiled in the sun and looked at the vibrant grassland outlaid in front of her.
"I been lookin' for you."
She looked down at the boy. Farm boy, Jonesy called him most often. Ben Hawkins, she knew his name to be. There was something about him, he had one of the best stories to tell but unlike the rest of them he kept it to himself. She had never met anybody so silent, so private - well, apart from management. It was a relief. "What for, farm boy?"
He scowled and she frowned. Connections were made and she realised what was wrong with calling him that. There was no point in correcting herself, though, so she waited for him to answer and made a note not to use the moniker again. "Whaddaya know about Scudder?"
She drew her long legs back to her and stood up on the trailer, arranging Jonesy's overly-big jacket that she wore more like a shawl, arms slipped in the sleeves but shoulders bared. The trailer's roof was hot from the heat of the sun, a delicious kind of hot that warmed up the soles of her feet. She raised her arms almost to shoulder length on either side of herself and took a few delighted steps, eyes closed. Silence. "Can't tell ya."
"You'll tell me awright!" How could silence be coupled with so much anger? "I'm gorram sick of all these secrets!"
The Alias fic - just so you guys know when it is, I'm taking it AU during the S2 finale, Sydney does not wake up two years later but goes on with her life instead. And the whole fic is bad-guy-POVed.
Sloane walks to his desk and so does she. They study each other from either side of the piece of furniture. She purposefully sits on its edge, one foot on the ground and her other thigh propped on the desk. Nothing is said for a long while and on they appraise each other. Irina leans on the hand she lays next to Sloane's day planner. He looks at her for a moment longer, then sits in his armchair, leaning back comfortably with his hands steepled in front of him. His eyes have not lost their calculating glint. "I always thought you cared for Sark. Why give him to the CIA?"
She did not have to think about her answer. "He was expandable and he earned me Sydney's trust. He will be extracted when I have use of him. As for what he told them about your facility, I trusted you would have the time to hear the telling and get away."
Sloane allows himself a small smile. "Such faith in me is touching."
"What did the telling have to say?"
She does expect to get an answer; Sloane is not a stupid man. He knows as well as she does that she is a great asset to him, in more ways than one, not the least of which is the trust Sydney continuously places in her, despite her daughter's better judgment. Irina is not anxious as Sloane contemplates his next words. The benefits of having her as an ally far outweigh the risks. She knows he will tell her.
And so he does.
Now, a special something for twixou. Enjoy, honey!
He steps out of the shower and towels himself dry. He stands in front of the mirror and wishes they would let him grow his hair back; a close crop is not to his liking. There is nothing remotely smug about his hair now. He remarks too that despite his tai ji exercises, his push-ups and his sit-ups, everything he does in his cell to keep himself in physical shape, he looks as if he has lost some sheer strength. The impression is not helped by his pale complexion, that of someone who does not spend enough time in the sun. He secures the towel around his hips and walks back into the room.
He did not think that Sydney was this puritan, but she actually looks at him in shock for a second, before recovering and glaring at him instead. She is seated on the bed with her back to the wall, a magazine open on her lap. "You took your time. Are you always so precious?"
"It's been a long time since I could shower without two pairs of eyes watching my every move," he answers truthfully as he walks over to his suitcase to pick something to put on.
He will be damned if he abides by her modesty. After all he took a good, shameless look at her splendid body after raining acid down on her a few months ago, and he thinks it only fair to return the favour. So he turns his back on her and drops the towel, forcing himself not to give in to curiosity and glance back to determine whether she is checking him out. He turns around after pulling on a pair of trousers to find her staring stubbornly into the magazine. He smirks, but hides it away before she can see him.
In case there are any other Adam Carter fans here (yes, I know, I love Tom too, but Adam works better with Sydney and Sark than Tom would), here's a snippet.
A knock sounds on the door, as if on cue. "Room service!"
Sydney hangs up the phone, shoots a meaningful glance at Sark and goes to open the door. "There must be a mistake, we didn't order anything."
"Compliments of the house," the waiter answers as he pushes the trolley past her into the room. Once the door closes behind him, he straightens up. He is a tall man in his early thirties, fairly handsome, whose manner suddenly speaks of professionalism. "Adam Carter, MI-5. I'd fairly like to know what you think you're doing, mounting an operation on British soil without consulting us."
"We're just following orders, Agent Carter," Sydney answers a little defensively, and Sark takes advantage of her handling this for the moment to button up his shirt. "I'm sure our respective bosses are having this argument as we speak. Must we do a repeat?"
The man breaks into a smile that speaks of acting. "Granted, I'd rather not. Can I count on your cooperation then?"
"It depends what you mean by that exactly," Sark answers before Sydney can speak up. He sees her shoot him a surprised glance at his suddenly American accent and is obliged to add something to make sure that Carter focuses on him. "What do you expect from us?"
And one last bit - that's a talk I'd been wanting to see them have for ages, but it's not like they truly ever talk on the show.
There is a need in him to instruct her, so he explains steadily. "Yes, I am a dog. I was taught to respect authority, to know when a better man or woman ought to be in charge. I'm not yet at the height of my capacities, I'd rather improve myself than throw myself headfirst into the game and blow all my chances. If that makes me a dog, so be it. Dobermans are fascinating creatures."
Her face is set in a mask of coldness as she opens her suitcase. She takes a towel and a pair of handcuffs out. "I never saw one figure out how to form an original thought."
She handcuffs him to the bed. He grabs her wrist with his hand, not a painful grip but enough to keep her in place, their faces so close. Her eyes are even more expressive from up close. "Dogs might surprise you, Agent Bristow. Best not to turn your back on one."
She pointedly wrenches her arm free of him and picks up the towel she had left on the bed. "Can't see much danger in a Yorkshire thinking himself a pit-bull."
And there, now, something for her to think upon while she is in the shower. He hopes his words will haunt her after she walks into the bathroom, because she does not even slow her walk when he speaks. Yet he knows she heard him. "At least I choose my own masters."
The Wat/Kate fic I'm hopeless stuck on because I can't help feeling it sucks somehow. Something isn't clicking.
He was sitting on a wooden fence, looking as contended as a man could be as he licked his fingers clean. She called his name crossly, causing him to look up with pleased surprise, into which swept a hint of smugness. He swung his arms wide as he hopped off the fence. "Katie! Changed your mind after all?"
"Is there anything you like more than food?"
The arms dropped as he frowned. His true measure showed in his response. "Huh?"
"Is there anything you like more than food?" she repeated, finding that she showed much more patience than he deserved. She stopped her foot tapping on the ground and kept her arms resolutely crossed. "You spoke once of a woman that you missed as the sun missed the flower in winter. Did you like her more than food?"
The frown did not clear any. "Is this some strange sort of foreplay talk? I'm not sure I-"
Kate stepped closer to him, the discontent of having to look up at him heightening her anger as she poked him in the chest with each word, backing him up against the fence. "Did. You. Like. Her. More. Than. Food?"
"Ow!" Wat whimpered on the last poke, which had been much more violent than the others. He batted her hand away, rubbing the spot she had aimed at. "What the devil's got into you?"
Frustration edged deeper into her. "Just answer the bloody question!"
Wat paused, his face a sudden mask of concern as he made those famous puppy eyes of his at her. "Are ye all right, Kate?"
She sighed with exasperation and turned away, striding back to the camp, leaving him standing there on his own. She could well picture his look of confusion clearing into untroubled resignation as he shrugged, thinking to himself, "Oh well." Bloody fool that he was.
'Cause I'm a Chaucer slut and I couldn't not have used him.
"What's that got to do with me? I don't even want her anyway! I need to find myself a good cook of a woman who won't be half as troublesome."
Chaucer's features hardened considerably, into a look Wat had never seen on him. "Do not jest, Wat. I care for Kate very much and do not wish to see you hurt her."
"How could I do that? She'll not let me get close to her!" The expectant look on Chaucer's face told Wat that he had just said something important, touched upon a key notion in the understanding of Kate. He suddenly made the connection. "Oh. You mean to say..."
"Yes," the writer agreed with much relief. "I mean to say."
"But what about the cream bun?" Wat tried again.
"A test," Chaucer replied as it were the most evident thing in the world.
"A test?"
"A test."
"A test of what?"
Chaucer made a sorry face, clapping Wat on the shoulder in a friendly, if somewhat condescending manner. "Most men wouldn't have chosen the pastry, Wat."
"I didn't choose it, I got it! She gave it! Gave it and walked off, there was no choice in that but hers!"
"Oh well, let's see... could you maybe have gone after her instead?"
"But she walked off! And there was the cream bun!"
"Yes," Chaucer agreed contritely. "There was the cream bun."
No, I haven't given up on Willow and Haldir's kid. I just haven't been able to work on the story much lately, but here are a few excerpts anyway.
Colin's mother was, as was regularly the case, waiting for them with some hot chocolate and marshmallows. "How'd the slaying go?" she asked with a smile as she tousled Colin's hair.
He batted her hand away mechanically and grabbed his mug of hot chocolate as he settled down at the kitchen table; he had long since stopped hoping she would ever quit that habit. "Just a handful. Nothing major."
"He used his magic again," Haldir remarked.
Willow smiled. "That's my boy."
"I'm not your boy."
"Are too."
And he was supposed to be the child? "Am not, mom. I simply needed a far-reaching weapon. Woulda been a shame if dad had brought his bow for nothing, big and obvious as it is."
"I think we will need to work some more on his focus," Haldir spoke on, ignoring his son's pique. "On Sunday, we can -"
Colin shot to his feet, spilling a bit of chocolate. "We can nothing at all, dad. I'm going over to Jul's, band practice, remember?"
Willow threw the sponge at him, which he barely caught. "Still can't believe you can sing. It's beyond me. I can't get two notes straight, and you're not exactly a great singer either," she teased Haldir with a smile.
Haldir seethed in silence for a few seconds, then reluctantly accounted for it: "He has that after his grandmother." His eyes lost their cranky glaze and softened some. "She had one of the loveliest voices of Lothlórien..." His voice caught on the last word and his gaze hardened immediately as he turned to Colin. "I wish you wouldn't waste such a gift on this thing you call music."
"Haldir," Willow said threateningly.
And in another corner of the same 'verse, Fan' could not have done without using those two characters... (Who said that about dying being a promotion in the Buffyverse?)
He didn't look up from his beer when the door was pushed open, letting in a chilly breeze and someone Connor was positive he did not want to meet. He hunched over, having perfected the art of appearing inconspicuous. No such luck, he thought to himself as the guy sat down across from him at the table. If only the barkeep hadn't been such an annoying, nosy bastard, Connor would have been at the counter, less likely to be joined for a private chat.
"Fuck off," he told the guy, demon or whatever it was without looking up.
"We need to talk, Connor."
He looked up immediately, ready to leap. "You know my name?"
The guy looked human, as unkempt as Connor was, dirty long hair and unshaved face, hollow eyes and dark clothes, but his smell was - off. He also looked fairly annoyed at something, but seemed to rein it in. His tone was restrained, bitter. The accent was English, but Connor could not place it with any more accuracy. "That, and much more."
Connor rose, letting his contempt show on his face. "I'm not interested."
Out of Memory and Time - will I ever actually revise it enough to publish it? Who knows. Faith and Kate (as in Lockley) get sent to Middle Earth. Here are a few snippets from here and there.
Kate was going to wake up any minute now. This was obviously a dream cooked up by her deranged mind. It had started with an unconscious death wish, and then she'd brought Faith along to self-flagellate herself with memories of a time when she was a cop and convinced that things were simple. Now those three - they obviously were a product of her repressed libido. She hadn't had sex in far too long, hence the making up of blond guys with bows - the arrows were phallic symbols, to be sure - sexiness and deadliness oozing out of their very skin.
Sexiness and deadliness? The time when she had considered Angel as a possible romantic interest was long gone, thanks very much, she reminded her unconscious.
"What is it?" Faith asked, standing up and out of the fur cloak.
"Uruk-hai," Haldir replied without turning away from whatever they were staring at.
"They anything like Orcs?" Haldir nodded sharply and Faith hopped up to the three Elves. She could hear something now, too. "Sweet. Let's go kill 'em."
Truth was, from what Haldir had told Faith of those Rohan guys, the Slayer really was not looking forward to visiting. "Why are you so gung-ho on goin' there anyway? Haldir says -"
"I'm sick of Elves," Kate bluntly cut in. "They're so perfect all the time. They glow, they live forever, they sing like gods and they're skilled for about everything you can name. I don't get Elves, and I don't like it. We might be stuck in this world, it doesn't mean I wanna live my life here with them. Okay?"
Faith slashed the throat of the last Uruk and only then seemed to realise she had an audience. She wiped her blade clean of the dark blood as if she had not a care in the world. Scowling, Éothain strode to find Éomer.
"This is unnatural, my lord," he told his captain urgently. "No woman should be that good."
Éomer's brow was frowned with worry. "Indeed, Éothain. But so long as her unnatural skill is turned against the Orcs... Set someone to watch them closely. The King will decide what to do with them." He looked at the fallen corpses around them. "We lost only one Rider this night. We were lucky."
Éothain followed his captain's gaze. Young Haleth had been struck down; his red hair was matted with blood and his open eyes saw no more. "Ay, my lord. Lucky." Éothain turned to carry out his orders.
His intense dark eyes seemed to try to drill holes into her. "Perhaps more than ever, Kate of Lockley. Your sister and you combine extraordinary fighting skills with exceptional beauty. Would you not say that Nature is scarce so plentiful in her gifts to one person?"
Kate bristled. "I do not know that I am as beautiful as you make me to be, nor do my fighting skills rival those of any of your Riders, my lord." She paused. "Does not your very sister combine both beauty and skill with the blade? Would you call her a witch as well?"
To her surprise, Éomer smiled warmly in approval. "Well answered, Kate of Lockley."
"What manner of a feast is this?" Théodred suddenly said for the whole Hall to hear, and clapped his hand down on the table in mock-outrage. "No dances?"
"Ay, dances!" a Rider took up in the crowd.
She had waited long enough to meet the man of her life, she decided. She had built up enough defences along the way. It was time to let him tear them all down, one by one. She felt certain he would do a great job of it. He was, after all, an excellent warrior.
And he kissed as he fought, she was reminded as he drew her into another embrace.
"Spies?" Théodred repeated. "I will not believe this. Spies from whom?"
"The Witch of Lórien," came Gríma's reply.
Kate whipped her head to him. How did they... She schooled her features into a look of pure disbelief. "This is ridiculous, my lord," she pleaded with Théoden.
"Do not try to deny it, spy," Gríma hissed. "Your sister was seen slipping off to a secret meeting with one of the witch-queen's servants."
"Liar!" Faith snarled, stepping forward.
One of the men guarding her put his hand on her shoulder and brought her down, hard. Kate was thankful that Faith did not take them out as she could have, but remained on the ground, looking down at the tiles with barely suppressed rage.
"Who are they? Your pursuers?"
"Riders in black," Strider replied, leaning back in his chair. "Once we are gone, watch out for them. If you spot them, I suggest you run."
Kate went to check on the stew. She felt a strange peace come over her. Now that her decision was taken, all seemed eerily quiet within her. No more dissent. No more anguish. Only determination.
"There will be no need for it. I will come with you to Rivendell."
He had deemed her his friend. There had to be a reason to this... madness. Glorfindel trusted his judgement of people; one did not come back from the Halls of Waiting without some measure of wisdom. Still not trusting her to the point of physically coming closer, he took great pains in softening his voice, ignoring the pinpricks of pain where she had bitten his neck. "Tell me."
"Tell you what?" Her voice shook with rage.
"Why did you attack me?" He squared his jaw. His voice sounded hard again.
The slightest pause. "'Cause I'm bad." Her voice trembled on the last word.
Kate held his gaze as she replied. "There's not as much mystery to me as you seem to think. I'm just another member of the Fellowship."
She turned to go when his hand on her arm stilled her. She met his inquisitive eyes calmly. "Is there naught else to you, híril bein?"
Kate froze. Those were the words... weren't they? As if she'd ever forget them. "What does it mean?" she asked coldly.
Legolas frowned. "Fair lady."
"Don't call me that. Ever."
She strode away. Legolas stayed in place, wondering who could have hurt her so.
Celeborn walked down the last few steps to stand by Kate's side. He looked off the talan at the city around them. "Galadriel is right. Hope remains. There is much strength yet in Elessar..."
"And in Frodo," Kate added. "You never told me about Hobbits."
"There are many a thing I never told you about, meldisamin," the Elf replied on a chiding tone. "Do you truly think a few hours in my study would teach you all there is to know of Arda?"
Kate grimaced. "A few hours? You forget I'm mortal. Those few hours were a great deal of time to me."
Celeborn turned thoughtful eyes on her. "I forget not."
Thank you, a.k.a. the episode I wish they had shot after AtS' "You're Welcome." I don't know whether I'll ever finish it, but it's the thought that matters. And the thought is more or less "Give me back the Lindsey I know, gorrammit!"
Angel shot to his feet as the clouds suddenly formed near the ceiling of his office. Lightning bolts shot downward, apparently harmless, and a rift appeared. Out of it fell, face down, a body Angel thought he would never see again. The rift closed and the clouds vanished as quickly as they had come. Angel stalked around his desk to make sure the bare-chested figure sprawled on the floor was who he thought he had seen.
Lindsey spread his hands on the carpeted floor, trying to function past the pain. He looked up and his eyes fell on Angel. "Dammit." The unconsciousness caught up with him before nausea did, and he fainted.
The Small Print, a.k.a. another take on what S5 of AtS could have been like.
The phone rang, startling her out of her murderous thoughts. She picked it up. "Lilah Morgan."
"You’d better come down, someone claiming he’s a friend of yours in the lobby," a security man told her.
She switched her television on to the security camera in the lobby. Oh no. How dare he. The son of a bitch. He’d pay alright. She should have known it was him. "Tell Mr McDonald I’ll be with him shortly,” she replied, then hung up.
"Oh, right." Lindsey smiled a bit, thrusting his hands in his pockets. "Because there’s never any backlash, never any consequences. Nothing ever goes wrong. I’m the living proof of that, ain’t I?"
"You are the living proof that everything can go wrong," Angel countered.
Wesley swallowed uneasily. "I couldn’t find any prophecy about this sort of event, -"
"What do you mean, no prophecy?" Rona interrupted. "It just means your evil law firm doesn’t have them all."
"’Cause it’s him," Vi supplied. "It’s totally him. Completely, totally, wholly him, memory-less, and pulse-full. Everything fits."
"Yeah, come on," Angel agreed. "There has to be a prophecy about it. That doesn’t happen every Tuesday, a souled vampire... becoming... human..." It had hit him at last. Incredulity and pain marred his features as he looked up at Wesley for confirmation.
"Yes," the Englishman simply said, nodding his head.
"I don't see why Angel would suddenly want to break the contract," Wesley insisted.
"It’ll be clear once it's broken," Lindsey replied without looking up from the said contract. "Then you can be all pissed at Angel for what he did. Can you let me work now?"
Wesley folded his arms over his chest. "Need I remind that you were very much on their side the last time we met? This could be another trick of theirs."
Lindsey looked up, very much annoyed. "Angel told you it was okay. I thought you were supposed to trust him with your life, that kinda thing."
"Angel can be fooled."
"And you realise that now?"
The blue eyes were filled with tears again. He looked so lost. David was wearing the body of Spike, and bearing the memories of Spike, and sharing the soul of Spike, and he looked like a lost little child. His breathing was ragged, heavy and loud, his heartbeat frantic.
"Can we please not talk of ways to make Angel suffer in a good light?" Fred asked sharply. "He's my friend."
Lindsey smirked at her. "Don't worry. Everybody has issues."
Tapping into that Darkness (BtVS/HP), such a huge fic I seriously doubt I'll ever have time to revise it enough to publish it. It needs some *major* reworking and changes. Here are the first few paragraphs, anyway.
The sun shone pleasantly on the grasslands. There was a soft breeze in the air. The oak's branches stretched out in all directions, offering a wide perimeter of cool shade. A horse nearby neighed in what might as well have been anger or satisfaction. The earth was breathing and alive in the July afternoon. The steps came closer and she closed her eyes for half an instant, wishing to hold this moment forever.
"You've come earlier than usual," she said in an even voice. An even voice was her default setting now. She knew emotions were still whirling around somewhere inside her, she just felt as if she'd lost contact with that somewhere.
"It's my first visit, in fact," replied an English-accented voice she didn't know.
She slowly turned to the man. His features wore the lines of exhaustion; he almost appeared sickly. But she could feel the strength within him, just as she could feel the grass grow or the sap run through the trunk in her back. His eyes were soft and sad and the scent of magic lingered around him. She did not trust him; she did not trust strangers. For a long while, she did nothing but stare. Taking him in. She had become a very quiet creature. "Who are you?" she eventually asked.
He had been standing a few feet away from her; he walked up to where she was seated. "My name is Remus Lupin. Pleased to meet you," he said earnestly, and extended his hand to her.
She looked down at the hand, then back up at him. "Who are you?"