Death by Bingo, HL/Discworld
I did it -- I finished a fic again! Spook_Me for the win!
Highlander/Discworld, and enjoy! Or you can read it at the AO3 here. (Off now to try and finish the MCU/HL one for Spook Me, too.)
Death By Bingo
The black marble floor reflected the charcoal-striped (black) wall paper lit by a smoky grey crystal chandelier and various hourglasses mounted around the ballroom where there would normally be light sconces. The glasses didn't hold sand or candles; they were full of crackling, luminescent lightning.
Ebony legs supported small tables and chairs. They were almost invisible against the floor, which meant the ivory upholstery of the chairs seemed to float in midair. So did the silver cups and crystal glasses of wine that rested on tablecloths made from a damask so black it threw blue highlights. Discerning eyes (and many of those appearing around the tables had such) could just make out patterns of skulls and bones in the fabric.
The various pirates at the table, still active or retired, sighed with relief when they couldn't find any crossed bones.
Standing behind the podium*, an old man in rumpled clothing puffed on his hand-rolled cigarette. Unlike everything else around, he was a dingy yellow-brown, from the smoke-stained hair to the tunic in dire need of washing. He smelled of fried meat and fried eggs and, well, fried everything. He pulled a piece of paper out of a night-dark crystal punch bowl.
* -- Yes, black, why even ask?
Albert puffed out a smoke spiral before he intoned, "Next up: Run over by car, cart, or carriage."
A blond man waved his pipe before asking, "Does Ramirez count?"
That got him a disbelieving look. "Ramirez killed you by running you over?"
"Well, I certainly died," the blond said indignantly. "He knocked me out of a window. He was in a bit of hurry, mind. The lady's husband was coming."
Albert sighed. "That's defenestration or jealous spouse." He puffed a smoke spiral over murmurs of commiseration and amusement, then repeated, "Run over by car, cart, or carriage." He considered his audience and clarified further. "Not by horse, camel, llama, pony, donkey, elephant or any other four-legged embarrassment. That's under stampede, killed in. I didn't call that one."
Eight hands went up at various tables, getting a few people mocking or sympathetic looks. "Well, mark it down," Albert said. He also raised an eyebrow at the rest of the constantly, ridiculously variable crowd.
A rail-thin woman fidgeting at a back table said, "Some of us know to dodge out of the way."
One of the men who'd admitted to being run down in some fashion said quite cheerfully, "Some of us learned the hard way about Kastagir's boom-boom." He marked something on the card in front of him, raked a hand through greying curls, and disappeared.
"Save his card," Albert sighed. "He'll be back."
"Terrence isn't half bad with a blade," a redhead pointed out, marking her card even though she hadn't raised a hand.
Albert said pointedly, "Food poisoning," and groaned when almost every hand in the room went up.
* ~ * ~ *
Methos lounged by the back door, table and chair relocated there despite protests from Albert and interest from the other immortals. He'd simply smiled at them. Even for the lighting in this room, his smile made the bones of jaw and cheek stand out shockingly under his skin.
Most of the other immortals had backed away, just in case, leaving Methos in sole possession of his table, a full set of bingo cards, and a now-empty beer stein. It also left him gate-keeping, but he didn't mind adding something to the right side of his ledger here. Besides, as ways to pass the time went, this was oddly entertaining. He just hoped he remembered some of these stories when he revived.
"SQUEAK?"
Methos looked around the charcoal walls, up at the ceiling painted black but at least tastefully adorned with jet and hematite beading, and finally down to the floor when he heard an impatient click of wood on marble.
A small, skeletal rat in a hooded robe was holding a miniature walking scythe in the bones of its paws. Twin blue glows in the skull regarded him quizzically under the folds of the hood. Well. That was different.
Methos shrugged and answered the question. "I'm just not admitting to some of those deaths, that's all. And the food poisoning was bad, but the contaminated beer was much worse. I can wait. Albert will work around to liquid poisoning. I don't think we've met. Are you new around here?"
"SQUEAK." The Grim Squeaker tipped his scythe back to rest on a bony shoulder and waited, patiently, for Methos to lower a hand. Instead of shaking it, he pushed, gently.
Rather than find out how sharp those little bones were, Methos went along with the motion.
When his palm rotated up, the Grim Squeaker stepped on. He accepted the ride up to the table top with a great deal of dignity for a half-foot of anthropomorphized force, shook his head, and sat down to use the empty mug as a backrest.
"Nice to meet you, then. I knew someone who would have - well, never mind." What Kronos would have thought of a Death of Rats should go unspoken around here.
At the podium, Albert unfolded another piece of paper. "Next death: Jellyfish."
Two hands went up.
Methos absently marked a card. "That stung nastily, yes." He glanced down at his new acquaintance. "Hopefully Binky is still doing well?"
That got a nod and an enquiring, "SQUEAK?"
"That's a long story even for us. Among other things, Binky sired one of my favorite mares ages ago. I should stop by with some mint later. Surely even around here you can't kill all the mint fast enough?"
Squeak clapped a paw over his eyes. "SQUEAK."
"And it still manages to be a little green? Nice," Methos said admiringly. "Have to admire weeds. Amazing tenacity." At a huffed sound, he explained, "Herbs are just useful weeds, really."
"SQUEAK," Squeak agreed. "SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK!"
"Datura would, yes. I suppose you always get some idiots."
In the background, Albert read out, "Precision counts on this one. Poisonous gases, natural."
"So, not mustard gas?" called a man dressed as a stage magician. He had a lean and hungry face, the kind that made Methos turn the other direction and keep walking - preferably with his wallet firmly in his pocketed hands.
"No, no, naturally occurring pockets of gas. The kind the dwarves send the knockers in for?"
Several heads nodded understandingly and a few raised pens. One youngster said, "A better way to die than in the explosion if it blows."
"I'll take explosions of it, too," Albert said generously. A few more people nodded.
Methos marked his own pages and went on, "So do you just do rats and mice or do you get the entire rodent family?" At an enthusiastic nod, Methos winced. "Even the capybaras?"
A surprisingly expressive motion of spread claws up, over, and downward (fast) answered that.
"Well, now that you say that, I have noticed the bigger ones land harder, yes. So, how long ago did you take over that part of the business? I hadn't…?" He broke off to listen to the assortment of squeaks with great interest, only shifting and ducking when the raven swooped down.
* ~ * ~ *
"Not a good idea," the strange immortal warned coldly. He must be the right one; his bones were really showing through the skin now, and the voice was even getting right.
Quoth considered him, deliberated over the last few black eyes* on the table, and ruffled his feathers for preening as if he'd never thought about it. He hadn't liked the glint of eyes on the man. A little too blue. All to the good, he supposed, but still. Leave it to mostly-humans to interfere with food….
* - Kalamata olives, but ravens are always optimistic about possible offal.
Squeak, however, turned, stared at Quoth, and then snapped claws at him, a disquieting rattle of noise. The only noise, actually; the bingo game had frozen in place, leaving the steady shadows through Albert's smoke Mobius strip and another man's less ambitious pipe puff. Not a bad smoke ring for a non-wizard, and Quoth should know.
"Oh. Yeah." Quoth started to preen a wing feather back into place, then froze; he hadn't expected the immortal to wrap fingers around the back of his neck. "Binky wants you, mister. He came back without his usual boss, says some nut pulled him off and is managing to keep hold of him. somewhere. Something about he tried to warn the big D about another horseman around? Don't see the point myself; lots of men ride horse. Can't see why the horses put up with it."
"Another-" The stranger held his hand out, frowned at the translucence of the flesh over the bone. Damn. Now he didn't look to really have enough meat on him to feed a raven. Well, not meat even Quoth could actually get to. "You're saying - badly - that Binky had to leave Death somewhere?"
"Yeah. He's on his way in, but his hooves don't like the marble here. Albert gets pushy about that."
From behind him, Quoth heard Albert add, "And about sheep guts in my frying pan." His attention shifted before Quoth lost any feathers - this time. "So. You will go handle this, won't you, Methos? Or are we going to have that discussion about what you owe and who you'd have to cheat to get out of paying it?"
Methos looked up at him, eyes glinting blue through the pond-green eyeballs Quoth wanted to snack on. "I'm sharp enough to cut myself, Albert, not fool enough to cheat myself. So." He smiled a little. "Death again, and by permission this time?" He held out a hand to Squeak. "I need to go deal with a pestilence. Care to come along and help?"
Squeak settled his robe with every evidence of dignity, strapped on the sword that appeared in his paw, and stepped onto the new Death's* hand. "SQUEAK," he said firmly and pointed at Methos' hip.
* -- In Quoth's world, battles are things that a. happen to other people, b. exist to feed ravens, and c. don't happen all at once because Time is cruel to carrion-eaters like that. He'll find out later what's going on; what else is new?
"Oh, I'll stick with mine. A new sword against an old enemy is bad enough. Against a brother who's playing silly buggers, it could be disaster." He looked at Quoth. "No. You're not welcome."
Quoth stalked over to the unclaimed eyes after they vanished, prepared to be disappointed in the things humans - or almost humans - ate.
Behind him, Albert said, "Next death: Poisoned food." Groans rose up around the room, as well as stories of enemies, lovers, and science gone wrong.
Quoth spat out the hard center and reflected, again, on the many amazing ways people could ruin perfectly good offal.
~~ finis ~~
Comments & Miscellanea:
Sparked by the problem of needing some short fic for Spook Me, and the idea of a bingo of ways to die, and the question of what happens to immortals while they're reviving. I kind of like the idea of them wandering around Death's ballroom because Albert keeps them from getting into the library. And I do wonder how many ways to die he listed, and how precise he got about it all.
And it's 'Death by (what)' Bingo, and (An Immortal) Death by (the) Bingo (game), and, quite possibly, Death by (showing up at) Bingo. It seemed to make sense at the time.
Datura: hell's bells, jimsonweed, etc. Highly poisonous flowers and seeds, and just the sort of thing a young rat might kill himself with.
Death's vanishing: no, I don't know what Kronos is up to, and yes, that was Kronos as the other Horseman/Pestilence. (Trying to stop a death, maybe? Get the other Horsemen back?) Neither do I know how many favors Methos owes. I suspect that if you use the name Death, you can expect Death to claim some recompense sometime.
Last, written for my HL Crossovers, prompt #99: forever. (I wanted to work in Henry Morgan from Forever, but it wasn't quite working out. Feel free to assume he's in here somewhere, though.)
Any other questions, drop me a comment and ask. Happy Halloween!
Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
comments on DW
Given the new LJ 'design' decisions, please comment on DW if you can.
Highlander/Discworld, and enjoy! Or you can read it at the AO3 here. (Off now to try and finish the MCU/HL one for Spook Me, too.)
Death By Bingo
The black marble floor reflected the charcoal-striped (black) wall paper lit by a smoky grey crystal chandelier and various hourglasses mounted around the ballroom where there would normally be light sconces. The glasses didn't hold sand or candles; they were full of crackling, luminescent lightning.
Ebony legs supported small tables and chairs. They were almost invisible against the floor, which meant the ivory upholstery of the chairs seemed to float in midair. So did the silver cups and crystal glasses of wine that rested on tablecloths made from a damask so black it threw blue highlights. Discerning eyes (and many of those appearing around the tables had such) could just make out patterns of skulls and bones in the fabric.
The various pirates at the table, still active or retired, sighed with relief when they couldn't find any crossed bones.
Standing behind the podium*, an old man in rumpled clothing puffed on his hand-rolled cigarette. Unlike everything else around, he was a dingy yellow-brown, from the smoke-stained hair to the tunic in dire need of washing. He smelled of fried meat and fried eggs and, well, fried everything. He pulled a piece of paper out of a night-dark crystal punch bowl.
* -- Yes, black, why even ask?
Albert puffed out a smoke spiral before he intoned, "Next up: Run over by car, cart, or carriage."
A blond man waved his pipe before asking, "Does Ramirez count?"
That got him a disbelieving look. "Ramirez killed you by running you over?"
"Well, I certainly died," the blond said indignantly. "He knocked me out of a window. He was in a bit of hurry, mind. The lady's husband was coming."
Albert sighed. "That's defenestration or jealous spouse." He puffed a smoke spiral over murmurs of commiseration and amusement, then repeated, "Run over by car, cart, or carriage." He considered his audience and clarified further. "Not by horse, camel, llama, pony, donkey, elephant or any other four-legged embarrassment. That's under stampede, killed in. I didn't call that one."
Eight hands went up at various tables, getting a few people mocking or sympathetic looks. "Well, mark it down," Albert said. He also raised an eyebrow at the rest of the constantly, ridiculously variable crowd.
A rail-thin woman fidgeting at a back table said, "Some of us know to dodge out of the way."
One of the men who'd admitted to being run down in some fashion said quite cheerfully, "Some of us learned the hard way about Kastagir's boom-boom." He marked something on the card in front of him, raked a hand through greying curls, and disappeared.
"Save his card," Albert sighed. "He'll be back."
"Terrence isn't half bad with a blade," a redhead pointed out, marking her card even though she hadn't raised a hand.
Albert said pointedly, "Food poisoning," and groaned when almost every hand in the room went up.
* ~ * ~ *
Methos lounged by the back door, table and chair relocated there despite protests from Albert and interest from the other immortals. He'd simply smiled at them. Even for the lighting in this room, his smile made the bones of jaw and cheek stand out shockingly under his skin.
Most of the other immortals had backed away, just in case, leaving Methos in sole possession of his table, a full set of bingo cards, and a now-empty beer stein. It also left him gate-keeping, but he didn't mind adding something to the right side of his ledger here. Besides, as ways to pass the time went, this was oddly entertaining. He just hoped he remembered some of these stories when he revived.
"SQUEAK?"
Methos looked around the charcoal walls, up at the ceiling painted black but at least tastefully adorned with jet and hematite beading, and finally down to the floor when he heard an impatient click of wood on marble.
A small, skeletal rat in a hooded robe was holding a miniature walking scythe in the bones of its paws. Twin blue glows in the skull regarded him quizzically under the folds of the hood. Well. That was different.
Methos shrugged and answered the question. "I'm just not admitting to some of those deaths, that's all. And the food poisoning was bad, but the contaminated beer was much worse. I can wait. Albert will work around to liquid poisoning. I don't think we've met. Are you new around here?"
"SQUEAK." The Grim Squeaker tipped his scythe back to rest on a bony shoulder and waited, patiently, for Methos to lower a hand. Instead of shaking it, he pushed, gently.
Rather than find out how sharp those little bones were, Methos went along with the motion.
When his palm rotated up, the Grim Squeaker stepped on. He accepted the ride up to the table top with a great deal of dignity for a half-foot of anthropomorphized force, shook his head, and sat down to use the empty mug as a backrest.
"Nice to meet you, then. I knew someone who would have - well, never mind." What Kronos would have thought of a Death of Rats should go unspoken around here.
At the podium, Albert unfolded another piece of paper. "Next death: Jellyfish."
Two hands went up.
Methos absently marked a card. "That stung nastily, yes." He glanced down at his new acquaintance. "Hopefully Binky is still doing well?"
That got a nod and an enquiring, "SQUEAK?"
"That's a long story even for us. Among other things, Binky sired one of my favorite mares ages ago. I should stop by with some mint later. Surely even around here you can't kill all the mint fast enough?"
Squeak clapped a paw over his eyes. "SQUEAK."
"And it still manages to be a little green? Nice," Methos said admiringly. "Have to admire weeds. Amazing tenacity." At a huffed sound, he explained, "Herbs are just useful weeds, really."
"SQUEAK," Squeak agreed. "SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK!"
"Datura would, yes. I suppose you always get some idiots."
In the background, Albert read out, "Precision counts on this one. Poisonous gases, natural."
"So, not mustard gas?" called a man dressed as a stage magician. He had a lean and hungry face, the kind that made Methos turn the other direction and keep walking - preferably with his wallet firmly in his pocketed hands.
"No, no, naturally occurring pockets of gas. The kind the dwarves send the knockers in for?"
Several heads nodded understandingly and a few raised pens. One youngster said, "A better way to die than in the explosion if it blows."
"I'll take explosions of it, too," Albert said generously. A few more people nodded.
Methos marked his own pages and went on, "So do you just do rats and mice or do you get the entire rodent family?" At an enthusiastic nod, Methos winced. "Even the capybaras?"
A surprisingly expressive motion of spread claws up, over, and downward (fast) answered that.
"Well, now that you say that, I have noticed the bigger ones land harder, yes. So, how long ago did you take over that part of the business? I hadn't…?" He broke off to listen to the assortment of squeaks with great interest, only shifting and ducking when the raven swooped down.
* ~ * ~ *
"Not a good idea," the strange immortal warned coldly. He must be the right one; his bones were really showing through the skin now, and the voice was even getting right.
Quoth considered him, deliberated over the last few black eyes* on the table, and ruffled his feathers for preening as if he'd never thought about it. He hadn't liked the glint of eyes on the man. A little too blue. All to the good, he supposed, but still. Leave it to mostly-humans to interfere with food….
* - Kalamata olives, but ravens are always optimistic about possible offal.
Squeak, however, turned, stared at Quoth, and then snapped claws at him, a disquieting rattle of noise. The only noise, actually; the bingo game had frozen in place, leaving the steady shadows through Albert's smoke Mobius strip and another man's less ambitious pipe puff. Not a bad smoke ring for a non-wizard, and Quoth should know.
"Oh. Yeah." Quoth started to preen a wing feather back into place, then froze; he hadn't expected the immortal to wrap fingers around the back of his neck. "Binky wants you, mister. He came back without his usual boss, says some nut pulled him off and is managing to keep hold of him. somewhere. Something about he tried to warn the big D about another horseman around? Don't see the point myself; lots of men ride horse. Can't see why the horses put up with it."
"Another-" The stranger held his hand out, frowned at the translucence of the flesh over the bone. Damn. Now he didn't look to really have enough meat on him to feed a raven. Well, not meat even Quoth could actually get to. "You're saying - badly - that Binky had to leave Death somewhere?"
"Yeah. He's on his way in, but his hooves don't like the marble here. Albert gets pushy about that."
From behind him, Quoth heard Albert add, "And about sheep guts in my frying pan." His attention shifted before Quoth lost any feathers - this time. "So. You will go handle this, won't you, Methos? Or are we going to have that discussion about what you owe and who you'd have to cheat to get out of paying it?"
Methos looked up at him, eyes glinting blue through the pond-green eyeballs Quoth wanted to snack on. "I'm sharp enough to cut myself, Albert, not fool enough to cheat myself. So." He smiled a little. "Death again, and by permission this time?" He held out a hand to Squeak. "I need to go deal with a pestilence. Care to come along and help?"
Squeak settled his robe with every evidence of dignity, strapped on the sword that appeared in his paw, and stepped onto the new Death's* hand. "SQUEAK," he said firmly and pointed at Methos' hip.
* -- In Quoth's world, battles are things that a. happen to other people, b. exist to feed ravens, and c. don't happen all at once because Time is cruel to carrion-eaters like that. He'll find out later what's going on; what else is new?
"Oh, I'll stick with mine. A new sword against an old enemy is bad enough. Against a brother who's playing silly buggers, it could be disaster." He looked at Quoth. "No. You're not welcome."
Quoth stalked over to the unclaimed eyes after they vanished, prepared to be disappointed in the things humans - or almost humans - ate.
Behind him, Albert said, "Next death: Poisoned food." Groans rose up around the room, as well as stories of enemies, lovers, and science gone wrong.
Quoth spat out the hard center and reflected, again, on the many amazing ways people could ruin perfectly good offal.
~~ finis ~~
Comments & Miscellanea:
Sparked by the problem of needing some short fic for Spook Me, and the idea of a bingo of ways to die, and the question of what happens to immortals while they're reviving. I kind of like the idea of them wandering around Death's ballroom because Albert keeps them from getting into the library. And I do wonder how many ways to die he listed, and how precise he got about it all.
And it's 'Death by (what)' Bingo, and (An Immortal) Death by (the) Bingo (game), and, quite possibly, Death by (showing up at) Bingo. It seemed to make sense at the time.
Datura: hell's bells, jimsonweed, etc. Highly poisonous flowers and seeds, and just the sort of thing a young rat might kill himself with.
Death's vanishing: no, I don't know what Kronos is up to, and yes, that was Kronos as the other Horseman/Pestilence. (Trying to stop a death, maybe? Get the other Horsemen back?) Neither do I know how many favors Methos owes. I suspect that if you use the name Death, you can expect Death to claim some recompense sometime.
Last, written for my HL Crossovers, prompt #99: forever. (I wanted to work in Henry Morgan from Forever, but it wasn't quite working out. Feel free to assume he's in here somewhere, though.)
Any other questions, drop me a comment and ask. Happy Halloween!
Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
comments on DW
Given the new LJ 'design' decisions, please comment on DW if you can.