drabble aka procrastination
I am supposed to be writing something else, but I am avoiding my homework, so... you get this. Just read Neuromancer (a twenty-three-year-old book!) for the first time, and I haven't read any of the other novels in this world, so I have no idea if this works in that world. But I thought it'd be an interesting time and place for the two 'verses to touch. No arc, just throwing together two people I thought might like each other.
BSG/Neuromancer
Lee/OFC, G
No spoilers really, but an oblique reference to 3.18 and after. AU after S3.
~
Sometimes he thinks they found Hades, instead of Earth, and his particular torture is waking up in Phelan’s bar. Except this one's a lot smaller.
Most days, though, he likes his life well enough. No one knows or cares what his last name is, and he can spend entire days comparing the Caprican and Terran legal codes if he likes. Not that lawyers are worth much, in Chiba. Perhaps if he had found a post on one of the artificial-grav colonies. But he likes the grittiness of this place - makes him think of Galactica in the early days, when all they were doing was outrunning the Cylons.
One night he looks up and finds his face reflected in mirrored lenses. Sometimes customers wear them into the bar - a liability, really, because even without shades it’s hard to see through the smoke most nights. But this one… those have got to be optic implants. No earpieces, plus she made it across the room without touching a single person. He'd say Yakuza if he was a betting man.
“What can I get you?” The bulk of her jacket fortunately does not conceal the taut front of her black tank top.
“Sake.”
“You remind me of someone.” He must be getting sentimental. He doesn’t usually initiate the small talk.
She studies him, and despite himself he's amused by the wealth of expression in her one cocked eyebrow. “You too. Ex-rustler?”
“Me? Oh no,” he says, as he sets up the tiny carafe and cup in front of her. “Only an ex-pilot.”
“But you like speed,” she replies, taking the space that has magically cleared for her at the bar.
“Liked.”
She tips her head a moment, like she’s listening to something. “No. No rider. At least, not on broadcast rig.”
“Sorry? Hold on - ” he raises a finger, one second, as he fields a request from the other end of the bar. He’s still not used to all the jargon here, and anyway it all changes too fast for him to stay abreast of the fads. Everyone’s from somewhere else, though, and they’re all going nowhere soon, so no one ever catches on to his alien accent, his odd turns of phrase.
“You’re not plugged in.” Somehow he’s drifted back to her end of things. He looks at her, trying not to stare at his own reflection.
She taps her temple.
“What - oh. Simstim. No, never had much use for secondhand experiences.”
She shrugs. “Some people like to sell their days. Easy way to make money.” She laughs when he can’t hide his distaste. “S’not that bad. But I understand if it’s not your - cup of sake.” She brushes crumbs off one hand, holds it out. “Molly.”
“Lee.”
~
Maybe if I keep procrastinating have some more time, I'll keep playing with these two.
BSG/Neuromancer
Lee/OFC, G
No spoilers really, but an oblique reference to 3.18 and after. AU after S3.
~
Sometimes he thinks they found Hades, instead of Earth, and his particular torture is waking up in Phelan’s bar. Except this one's a lot smaller.
Most days, though, he likes his life well enough. No one knows or cares what his last name is, and he can spend entire days comparing the Caprican and Terran legal codes if he likes. Not that lawyers are worth much, in Chiba. Perhaps if he had found a post on one of the artificial-grav colonies. But he likes the grittiness of this place - makes him think of Galactica in the early days, when all they were doing was outrunning the Cylons.
One night he looks up and finds his face reflected in mirrored lenses. Sometimes customers wear them into the bar - a liability, really, because even without shades it’s hard to see through the smoke most nights. But this one… those have got to be optic implants. No earpieces, plus she made it across the room without touching a single person. He'd say Yakuza if he was a betting man.
“What can I get you?” The bulk of her jacket fortunately does not conceal the taut front of her black tank top.
“Sake.”
“You remind me of someone.” He must be getting sentimental. He doesn’t usually initiate the small talk.
She studies him, and despite himself he's amused by the wealth of expression in her one cocked eyebrow. “You too. Ex-rustler?”
“Me? Oh no,” he says, as he sets up the tiny carafe and cup in front of her. “Only an ex-pilot.”
“But you like speed,” she replies, taking the space that has magically cleared for her at the bar.
“Liked.”
She tips her head a moment, like she’s listening to something. “No. No rider. At least, not on broadcast rig.”
“Sorry? Hold on - ” he raises a finger, one second, as he fields a request from the other end of the bar. He’s still not used to all the jargon here, and anyway it all changes too fast for him to stay abreast of the fads. Everyone’s from somewhere else, though, and they’re all going nowhere soon, so no one ever catches on to his alien accent, his odd turns of phrase.
“You’re not plugged in.” Somehow he’s drifted back to her end of things. He looks at her, trying not to stare at his own reflection.
She taps her temple.
“What - oh. Simstim. No, never had much use for secondhand experiences.”
She shrugs. “Some people like to sell their days. Easy way to make money.” She laughs when he can’t hide his distaste. “S’not that bad. But I understand if it’s not your - cup of sake.” She brushes crumbs off one hand, holds it out. “Molly.”
“Lee.”
~
Maybe if I keep procrastinating have some more time, I'll keep playing with these two.