Plan 9 from Suck Space - PG-13
Title: Plan 9 from Suck Space
Fandom: Blade: The Series
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Blade: The Series was all Spike TV's. Not mine. Plan 9 from Outer Space is in the public domain (no, really!) but belonged to Ed Wood originally.
Pairings: Gen (Krista Starr, Shen, mentions of Blade)
Word Count: 920
Notes: Written for my au_bingo card. Prompt - Other: Actors. Krista Starr: veteran, CW actress, alcoholic.
Krista's apartment in the wilderness of Vancouver needs some quality time with a Hoover. There are cobwebs along the crown molding in all four corners of the pocket-sized kitchen. She knows this because she is currently flat on her back on the slightly sticky linoleum, staring up at the ceiling in hopes that it holds the answers to life, the universe, and everything. So far, it's disappointing her.
(It's also disturbing her how easily Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy references slip into her every day thoughts. She blames it on that three-month posting out in the middle of the fucking Iraqi desert where the only entertainment they had was Kill Bill, vol. 2 and the Hitchhiker movie with Mos Def on Oswald's Nintendo DS. They'd watched both films so often that she still has nightmares about being shot at point-blank range with a shotgun a la The Bride.)
Her phone is vibrating somewhere behind her. She can feel the buzz through the back of her head. It's either her sponsor or Shen. Neither of them deserve being sent to voicemail, but she's not exactly sure if it's safe to move. The tequila shots and Mike's Hard Lemonade are rushing through her veins at such a high velocity that she's pretty sure any attempt to stand up will result in her right back on the floor.
And there's the broken glass.
"Fuck," Krista mutters, the word slurred thick with booze and self-recrimination. She says a little prayer (in Arabic, because not everything that got drummed into her head before the trip to the Big Sandbox fell out when she moved to Canada to start her acting career) and blindly flings her hand over her head, flailing for her phone. Luckily, her hand locates it before any potential shards of the tumbler she chucked at the wall in frustrated rage before assuming her current prone position. It's Shen--Blade seems to be MIA tonight, right when she needs him the most. "What?"
"Hey, Ms. Bitchy, you called me," Shen shoots back.
"Our movie sucks," she says because she'd rather not admit upfront that she has taken a total nose-dive off the wagon.
"Our movie is a remake of the often-vaunted Worst Movie Ever… of course is sucks." For someone who wrote the script, Shen sounds remarkably cool with the suckitude of their current project. Krista knows most of it was written during an epically bad acid trip, and he'd only floated it around as a joke. No one had expected a studio to pick it up, least of all him. Her being cast as the protagonist lesbo airline pilot who first spots the flying saucers is only a marginal step up from her recent guest appearance as a Girl of the Week on Supernatural or her recurring bit part on Smallville. "Hey!" he says as realization hits him, "You're drunk. You're not supposed to be drunk."
"'Bandwagon's full--please catch another'..." she sings into the phone, pressing it hard to the side of her face until the buttons beep under the pressure. Her cheeks feel prickly and numb from the alcohol.
"You're singing Fall Out Boy? Shit, I'm coming over."
She can hear him moving around through the phone, the chains he wears twisted around his wrists like bracelets clattering against his keyboard. "At least it's not Metro Station," she mumbles and rolls over onto her side so she can curl into a fetal position. There are more cobwebs and grosser, less identifiable things under the dishwasher. When she'd leased this place, she hadn't planned on staying, but Vancouver had turned into a convenient place to fall into a pit of despair and then drag herself out with broken, bleeding fingernails. And now she’s fallen right back in. "You know what Chase told me today?" she says, switching gears in vain hope of distracting herself.
There's traffic noise in the background now--he's outside, probably fumbling for the keys to his bike. He'll have to hang up soon to make the ride over, and she really, really doesn't want to lose this connection to him, no matter how tenuous. "I have no idea what the blond skank told you," he replied. "Please, enlighten me." Her costar, Chase, is a vicious, backstabbing bitch who fucked her way into playing the female head of the alien invasion force that Krista's character is battling against. Both he and Krista hate her with the passion of a thousand burning suns.
"She told me she thinks she can parley this role into a cult following and successful horror film career like Elvira did."
Shen snorts. "Elvira wasn't even in the original--Vampira was. Anybody who's watched at least the first thirty seconds of the movie could tell you that. Chase is an idiot. Now, I'm going to have to let you go. It'll take me maybe ten minutes to get to your place. Just hang in there, Star, okay?"
She nods and then realizes he can't see the motion. "Just hurry, please."
"I will." The click signaling the end of the phone call is almost enough to bring her to tears, but she forces the lump in her throat down. Shen is ten minutes away. He'll come over, clean up both her and the glass, and track down Blade's infuriatingly not-reachable ass. Then Blade will come over and wrap his big hand around the back of her neck and shake her like she's an unruly but pathetic kitten. All she has to do is lie here and keep breathing.
Fandom: Blade: The Series
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Blade: The Series was all Spike TV's. Not mine. Plan 9 from Outer Space is in the public domain (no, really!) but belonged to Ed Wood originally.
Pairings: Gen (Krista Starr, Shen, mentions of Blade)
Word Count: 920
Notes: Written for my au_bingo card. Prompt - Other: Actors. Krista Starr: veteran, CW actress, alcoholic.
Krista's apartment in the wilderness of Vancouver needs some quality time with a Hoover. There are cobwebs along the crown molding in all four corners of the pocket-sized kitchen. She knows this because she is currently flat on her back on the slightly sticky linoleum, staring up at the ceiling in hopes that it holds the answers to life, the universe, and everything. So far, it's disappointing her.
(It's also disturbing her how easily Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy references slip into her every day thoughts. She blames it on that three-month posting out in the middle of the fucking Iraqi desert where the only entertainment they had was Kill Bill, vol. 2 and the Hitchhiker movie with Mos Def on Oswald's Nintendo DS. They'd watched both films so often that she still has nightmares about being shot at point-blank range with a shotgun a la The Bride.)
Her phone is vibrating somewhere behind her. She can feel the buzz through the back of her head. It's either her sponsor or Shen. Neither of them deserve being sent to voicemail, but she's not exactly sure if it's safe to move. The tequila shots and Mike's Hard Lemonade are rushing through her veins at such a high velocity that she's pretty sure any attempt to stand up will result in her right back on the floor.
And there's the broken glass.
"Fuck," Krista mutters, the word slurred thick with booze and self-recrimination. She says a little prayer (in Arabic, because not everything that got drummed into her head before the trip to the Big Sandbox fell out when she moved to Canada to start her acting career) and blindly flings her hand over her head, flailing for her phone. Luckily, her hand locates it before any potential shards of the tumbler she chucked at the wall in frustrated rage before assuming her current prone position. It's Shen--Blade seems to be MIA tonight, right when she needs him the most. "What?"
"Hey, Ms. Bitchy, you called me," Shen shoots back.
"Our movie sucks," she says because she'd rather not admit upfront that she has taken a total nose-dive off the wagon.
"Our movie is a remake of the often-vaunted Worst Movie Ever… of course is sucks." For someone who wrote the script, Shen sounds remarkably cool with the suckitude of their current project. Krista knows most of it was written during an epically bad acid trip, and he'd only floated it around as a joke. No one had expected a studio to pick it up, least of all him. Her being cast as the protagonist lesbo airline pilot who first spots the flying saucers is only a marginal step up from her recent guest appearance as a Girl of the Week on Supernatural or her recurring bit part on Smallville. "Hey!" he says as realization hits him, "You're drunk. You're not supposed to be drunk."
"'Bandwagon's full--please catch another'..." she sings into the phone, pressing it hard to the side of her face until the buttons beep under the pressure. Her cheeks feel prickly and numb from the alcohol.
"You're singing Fall Out Boy? Shit, I'm coming over."
She can hear him moving around through the phone, the chains he wears twisted around his wrists like bracelets clattering against his keyboard. "At least it's not Metro Station," she mumbles and rolls over onto her side so she can curl into a fetal position. There are more cobwebs and grosser, less identifiable things under the dishwasher. When she'd leased this place, she hadn't planned on staying, but Vancouver had turned into a convenient place to fall into a pit of despair and then drag herself out with broken, bleeding fingernails. And now she’s fallen right back in. "You know what Chase told me today?" she says, switching gears in vain hope of distracting herself.
There's traffic noise in the background now--he's outside, probably fumbling for the keys to his bike. He'll have to hang up soon to make the ride over, and she really, really doesn't want to lose this connection to him, no matter how tenuous. "I have no idea what the blond skank told you," he replied. "Please, enlighten me." Her costar, Chase, is a vicious, backstabbing bitch who fucked her way into playing the female head of the alien invasion force that Krista's character is battling against. Both he and Krista hate her with the passion of a thousand burning suns.
"She told me she thinks she can parley this role into a cult following and successful horror film career like Elvira did."
Shen snorts. "Elvira wasn't even in the original--Vampira was. Anybody who's watched at least the first thirty seconds of the movie could tell you that. Chase is an idiot. Now, I'm going to have to let you go. It'll take me maybe ten minutes to get to your place. Just hang in there, Star, okay?"
She nods and then realizes he can't see the motion. "Just hurry, please."
"I will." The click signaling the end of the phone call is almost enough to bring her to tears, but she forces the lump in her throat down. Shen is ten minutes away. He'll come over, clean up both her and the glass, and track down Blade's infuriatingly not-reachable ass. Then Blade will come over and wrap his big hand around the back of her neck and shake her like she's an unruly but pathetic kitten. All she has to do is lie here and keep breathing.