Vicarious Living through Fiction

Secret: I don't have lifetime milestones

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 00:02:43 GMT

Warning: This is a 100% non-fiction post!

Today, I wrote a list of "things I want to do/achieve" today, and I realized that the majority of mine are all ongoing lifestyle items as opposed to than one-time milestones. (Yes, lots of people write these lists. Ever done a "100 things I want to do before I die"? Because I haven't. I just wrote my first one ever! Maybe I should make an "inspiration board" next?)

It quickly became apparent that I've got three major life goals/foci:
1 - Friends
2 - Travel
3 - Creative projects

I do pretty well at 1&2, I think. You can't beat having social engagments 6.5 days per week and recently getting engaged for "Friends". Moving to Seattle mixed wth trips to Vegas, family, and Southern California might be a bit light for "travel", but they definitely flesh out the category.

So, for the rest of the year, I'm going to remember to work on "creative projects". That could mean more writing; it could mean spending a lot of time rehearsing with my band; or it could mean doing some dance or choreography work (as soon as my back heals).

What's on your your lists of things you want to do and achieve?

[fic] FanFiction in multiple fandoms - surfing based

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 03:00:47 GMT

As I mentioned over in servalan, I’ve been reading The Best of Surfer Magazine. I do not surf. I know nothing about surfing. I live in one of the few SoCal beach cities that doesn’t have surfing. (The city installed a break a few decades ago.)

Yet, The Best of Surfer Magazine is strangely compelling. There are travel stories, fictional pieces, weird rambles about Malibu from the 1960s. One article starts with a mention of men walking on the moon (it’s from November 1969), but then is really about some mid-level surf contest. One article is about avoiding insurgents in CentroAmerica when in search of the best East Coast surfing.

It’s wild, yet mellow. I’m madly in love with it. I may decide to read current issues of Surfer on purpose, but maybe not. They apparently skipped a lot of articles from the LSD years, and that may be a sign that Surfer is pretty hit or miss. At least, for the non-surfer.

How does this relate to fiction writing? Because the articles are so awesome, I’ve been struck by the urge to write short fanfic for every fandom I’ve ever written in, making characters go surfing. They’re probably all going to be similar, and will (drabble-like) have no point, but the urge is there. Hopefully, this will get me back in writing mode so that those of you on the right filter will see A God to Demons chapter 10 soon.

Title: Jack Knows Everything (a Nadia story)
Fandom: Alias, Season 5
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Nadia needs a vacation

“Nadia,” a voice called as she walked past an open office. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Jack. Of course it was Jack. Another big revelation today? Someone else dead? Another Rambaldi artefact about to ruin her life and destroy her father? She didn’t want to know. “What’s up?” She imagined that he was forcibly reigning in a twitch at her colloquial language. That was a perk of being here at least, a prisoner until lunch-time.

“I’ve been watching you these past few weeks, at your desk and at home,” he began.

And then she knew what this was about. Her work was getting sloppy, according to her results’ statistics. He was about to put her on probation or take her out of rotation, or something similar. “Please, Jack. This has been a difficult time for me, but I know…” She trailed off. There really wasn’t much to say that he didn’t already know. Somehow, Jack always knew everything.

He cocked his head at her, and shoved her shoulders lightly. Not expecting an attack in this situation, though it wasn’t much of an attack, she wasn’t at full combat readiness. She took a step back to steady herself. They both looked down at her damning new stance. Maybe she wasn’t running at capacity, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do her job.

She grinned into his stony face and shrugged. “Goofyfooted,” she explained, like that made up for everything.

Barely, barely, she kept the smirk off her face, loving that she must have thrown Jack completely. Had he ever even heard the expression? On the one hand, this was Jack, and Jack knew everything. On the other hand, would Jack ever use such a plebeian descriptor? He gave her a look which didn’t answer these questions, but suggested that maybe she should spend more time learning something useful, such as how to hotwire a Prius or make a grenade out of chewing gum and C4, and less time doing whatever it was goofyfooted people did.

Then he nodded at her. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Mid-afternoon, he came by her desk, shooing Eric away. He gave her a folder containing her papers to be “Silvia Martinez”, a college co-ed out to make friends and influence people before settling on a degree in English literature. Her mission was to find out whether the US should be worried about Panamanian insurgency.

He gave her a month, some contacts in Oceanside who should help her start to build her cover, and the keys to a beat-up Range Rover. The Rover had chipped green-brown paint, mud on the tires, and a bright yellow surfboard attached to the roof-rack.

Jack always knew everything.

Title: First Alias
Fandom: Alias
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Dixon moves to California to join SD-6

When Marcus first joined SD-6, he’d been happy, ambitious, impressionable. Of course he was. They recruited for those traits.

He’d also been new to California. Brought up in Washington DC, the sudden arrival of year-long summer (so it seemed at the time) and of nature lovers who weren’t hippies blew his mind. His first alias, a private one just for himself, was:

Marcus Dixon, Californian

So he learned how to do Californian things. To mix cashews with honey and wheatgrass. To complain about the price of gasoline but still drive everywhere. To let things ride and get figured out in due time. To surf.

He went down to Newport Beach first. Far enough away from SD-6 that no one would know if it went badly; close enough that he could visit every weekend. He took his first paycheck and rented a wetsuit, a board, and an instructor for four hours. The instructor made him promise to take at least three lessons.

Dixon took twelve in the course of one month.

After a while, he started to realize that Newport wasn’t the best of the beaches. Oh, the waves were good, especially for learning, but the vibe was all wrong. Too many tourists and rich locals, not enough real surfers. The real surfers came by, rode a wave or two, and then moved on to Santa Ana or Long Beach or Oceanside or even Malibu.

One day, he looked out at the water in Newport and was dissatisfied. The water was not quite still, but was definitely consistently boring. Where to go instead?

Eight lessons back, he’d bought his own gear which he stored in his VW bus, also bought for this alias. A meandering drive took him down past San Diego and all the way to Baja. He couldn’t cross the border, not like this, but the waves were looking good. Not too much, not too little, maybe 6 feet.

He grinned as he parked the bus and scrambled into his wetsuit. Oh yeah. He was a surfer now. The kind who drove miles to find the right kind of wave. First mission: accomplished. He was Marcus Dixon, Californian.

Title: Port Hueneme
Fandom: Buffy, the Vampire Slayer
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: How Xander ended up at the Fabulous Ladies Nightclub

Xander tried to avoid telling the story of his ill-fated road trip which stalled in Oxnard. Somehow, though, all the new Slayers kept hearing about it and begging for details. The more adventurous ones asked him for strip-teases.

If he ever found out who was spreading these rumors, well . . . he’d have Buffy beat them up. Or something. Seriously. They needed to let this thing die, die like a dead dead-thing-that-wasn’t-a-vampire.

The memory of his time in Oxnard made him smile, but it was a private memory. Sure he’d been a dishwasher and bartender in a strip joint (and wasn’t that useless for herding Slayers? No drinking and no stripping involved), but no one ever asked the really interesting question: How had he, Xander, gotten the job?

Because it was a good bet that he hadn’t just walked in and asked for work. Not that he minded doing dishes or anything, but he knew even before he started that he’d never live it down. Buffy and Willow would keep asking crazy questions about athleticism, and Giles would never look at him quite the same way. Or, that’s what he’d thought at the time.

So, if he hadn’t walked in, he had to have been approached. And who would approach klutzy Xander for a job there? How would they know he was looking even?

There were certain times Xander wasn’t a klutz. Sure, during high school he’d tripped over air, but didn’t everyone at that stage? Yeah, he’d never have the grace of a Slayer when Slaying, but did any normal human? Xander had balance (witness: skateboarding until Sunnydale High told him he couldn’t on campus); he could swim (witness: swim team); he could run (witness: all the time).

So it shouldn’t have surprised anyone that Xander could surf. When he took that road trip, he’d started out going up the coast on PCH. He’d hit Ventura State Beach, Pt. Mugu, and it was around Port Hueneme when Uncle Rory’s car had copped out. The guy who owned the surf shack he’d been holing up in looked at the patches on his wetsuit and sent him to a cheap auto shop further inland, in Oxnard, and the guy at the auto shop said, “Hey, dude,” completely ignoring that no one said dude anymore, “I think there’s some work at the Fabulous Ladies, and you’re going to need it if you want to pay for this. I know your type.”

Every now and then, Xander sent a postcard to the auto guy who’d turned out to be a way better friend than the guy who owned the surf shacks. Not surprising really. Maybe someday, when he wasn’t stuck so far inland, he’d get a chance to send a postcard from somewhere he actually was. With water.

Title: Perils of Pegasus
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Rating: PG
Warnings: Alternate Reality
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: John gives himself a month of vacation to find the best surfing in Pegasus. Shamelessy based on Bernie Baker’s 1970 article, “Perils of the Tropics”.

You are about to read a true-life adventure actually experienced by a Pegasus surfer. For the sake of Lantean sanity, he braved Genii revolutions and radiation, spent antibiotics like water, and survived strange cultures. We join John Sheppard at his starting point: Atlantis.

Long Overdue
One year, two months, a week, and six Lantean days after Elizabeth declared our independence from Earth, I gave myself a vacation. One whole month of bliss. Of not being the go-to guy when we were attacked or when the scientists wanted things turned on. Of only talking to people when I felt like it.

Of course, this meant I couldn’t stay on Atlantis or even the Athosian mainland. It’d be way too easy for someone to get in touch and say, “Supreme Commander Sheppard, please help me kill this Wraith I captured.” Way too easy.

Yes, I made them call me Supreme Commander. If I was going to be military leader of Atlantis, I was going to get the kind of cool title that would make me smile everyday. I’d originally thought, “Grand High Warlord”, but that didn't have enough syllables. As it was, most people shorted my title to “Commander” which was way cooler than “Warlord”.

The first day of my vacation, my team was heading out to some world Teyla had heard of. I had nowhere better to go, so I grabbed some gear, and walked through the Gate with them. We were greeted by an 8-person welcome committee, only three of whom trained weapons on us.

Immediately, Teyla began her overtures (“know my people”, “come to trade”, etc) and Rodney started mumbling over something he was detecting (“yes, yes, whatever”, “energy signature!!!”). Me, I ambled over to a guy dressed in the only wrinkled clothing I’d seen so far. “You guys have an ocean?” I asked, making pointed motions at my bagged surfboard.

The guy grinned. “Only twelve peccarn to take you there!” And immediately, he was every tourist cab driver I’d ever known.

“Hey, Teyla!” I called back, grabbing almost everyone’s attention. “What’s a peccarn?”

She started to explain, but quickly stopped. She knew what I didn’t want to know. A quick round of chatter and a bottle of penicillin later, and I was waving good-bye and on my way to an alien beach. Score.

The water was still that first day, so I laid out on the purple-tinged sand, baking my skin to a crisp and watching the light refract off the clear mirror-like molecules. Unlike the water around Atlantis, this water stretched and stretched, never broken or forced into doing something by some Ancient technology. It was natural. I saw the swells farther out and knew they’d make it in by morning.

Three weeks ago, I’d given myself a crash-reminder course in surfing on the West Pier. That was where all the Lantean surfers hung out. Ever since Sgt. Michelson, a bored Marine, had set up lifeguarding hours, the water bunnies had been much freer with their passions. Once we’d seceded, the West Pier was more like a local beach than a place to be fortified on base. Strange distinction since nothing had changed, but true.

Wastrels
Three days in on whatever planet that was, I’d gotten some good info from two guys also hitting the surf. I brought in a not-lobster thing my second night, and we set up a fire on the beach. They told me about the beaches on Irrandia (phonetic spelling because I don’t think those people have a Roman alphabet), gave me the Gate address and some vague directions, and then moved on the next morning.

Nothing better to do, I headed for Irrandia next. Same deal as usual, I came through the Gate with my pack on my back, my board over my shoulder, and a P-90 in my hands. The meet-and-greet crowd didn’t know a gun from a gazelle, so no one seemed too confused when Militant Me asked about the surfing.

No, they just looked at me disapprovingly. And, of course, they didn’t take peccarns. It’s a good thing everyone in this galaxy loves penicillin because I wasn’t giving up my chocolate bars just for the chance at some water.

I got waved in the general direction of a surf hotel, and then left alone. It was kind of weird because you’d think these people would be more careful. It turned out they just hated surfer tourists. No, really.

I found the beach pretty quickly, but after that, it was all disapproving looks and women who were upset I wouldn’t sleep with them. Ladies, I left that behind a long time ago, and I’m certainly not going to start again on some unknown and probably-disease-ridden planet. (Oh, God. I sound like Rodney.)

Anyway, I met up with some other surfers, and we made our way past the lines of beach kiosks where we didn’t buy anything and got the evil eye from the people who owned said kiosks. If we left early enough in the morning, we could avoid paying the tolls to get through the lines. If we waited too long, then sometimes we couldn’t even get to the water.

Those days that I did make it, though, were bliss. Just paddling around in the warmest ocean I’d ever known, letting the alien sun shine down on me and waiting for the waves to come. Waiting and ready, but not worried. The adrenalin when I had a ride remained untinged by fear of death or life-sucking.

But still. The vibe was all wrong. These people had been culled recently enough to want kids and long-ago enough to have infrastructure. They didn’t like us “Wastrels” on the beach who did nothing and contributed nothing and didn’t even spend money at the kiosks.

I was so over this.

Genii
A quick jump from Irrandia, you’ll find the Genii homeworld in all of its radioactive glory. I swear, I didn’t go there on purpose. But, you know how it is. I left with an Irrandiat surfer who waxed poetic about the unexplored outlands and amazing breaks on this world he know. He only had a wood slat board (shaped by his grandmother before the culling, he said) with a crude fin, but he was a knowledgeable guy for his region, so I took his word for it.

Yeah, maybe it was untouched for people who didn’t have Wanted posters with their names on them.

The first day was perfect, just like he’d said. We ignored each other for hours, watching the fish play in the water, the not-scorpions walk across the sand, the swells further out. The second day, things went all to Hell.

My buddy had moved on, but that hadn’t bothered me much, and there were a couple of dark-skinned locals on the beach with what looked like bodyboards. Just as I was inside a beast of a wave, the best I’d caught all week, I heard my name being called over what sounded like loudspeakers.

Of course, I fell off my board, but thankfully held on to the tether and didn’t go under too hard. By the time I found shore, I was dead tired from the swim and the pressure, and was still hacking up water. Which made it just great when I saw the polished black boots and militaristic uniforms. Genii.

Great.

“Hang loose?” I suggested to the leader whose right boot was soaking in my salt-water saliva.

He wasn’t amused.

I got taken back to the capital, talked to Ladon, and they decided “in the spirit of goodwill” to let me return to Atlantis. That decision made after, of course, driving me through irradiated streets where probably-mutated children looked down from rooftops and via underground conduits made of shiny silver metal. It was supposed to be intimidating, but I was just annoyed enough at my vacation’s being cut short that I didn’t notice. Besides, they’d already taken my P-90, and the fact that I was unarmed and had been breathing their air was intimidating enough.

The City that Never Sleeps
So, only a week and a half into my vacation, I found myself back in the City.

Elizabeth looked on disapprovingly as I came through the Gate and told me there would be no more joyriding for someone so important to the City’s continued well-being. She did, however, let me take off my radio.

“Sheppard!” a voice called to me before I’d even made it through the halls to my own room and my own shower. Already, duty was taking over my life. “Oh, no,” said the voice. “You don’t get to ignore me!”

“Rodney,” I sighed without turning to look at him. Nothing was going to keep him from pestering me, so it was better to just get it over with. Then I could take a shower and start in on The Brothers Karamazov.

“Fine. Then I won’t tell you about the machine I just installed on the South-west Pier and how it makes randomized waves within the parameters I set using research from Surfer magazine and talking to a few of the Marines,” he said huffily and started to walk away.

Trust Rodney to do research and engineer what I couldn’t find in nature.

I headed out to the pier without stopping by my quarters first. There it was, the perfect 10-foot swell, amazingly long and all mine.

Tourism in Pegasus
Remember that wherever you go, there will be a number of local customs for you to mess up. You won’t know them all, so smiling and nodding might get you through. Then again, it might not. For everything else, there’s penicillin.

But, frankly, it’s much safer and simpler to hit the water in Atlantis. We’re Lanteans, after all, the people of the City of the Ancestors, the people with the random wave machine that is (according to my Irrandiat friend) “made of awesome”. There’s a surf village on the mainland now, and you can choose whether to wait out the calm in order to get some natural waves or to beg one of Rodney’s lab assistants to turn up the weather.

Title: Dark Waters
Fandom: Forever Knight
Rating: PG
Warnings: set after Last Knight
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: LaCroix is going to have to be the reasonable one and help Nicholas move on in the wake of Dr. Lambert’s unfortunate demise.

He had, of course, just nicked the heart. Incapacitating his beloved child had long proven itself as the best method for getting Nicholas to go anywhere. No struggling, no whining, no accusatory looks, and no lashing out.

With the good doctor’s body still cooling on the floor, Nicholas was far too emotional to be reasonable, so it was up to LaCroix, the wise and benevolent father, to be reasonable on his behalf. Undoubtedly, Nicholas would not see it this way.

LaCroix sorted through his son’s belongings, picking and choosing what should go with them, hunting for a box to fit Nicholas into, all while ignoring the grisly scene on the loft floor. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. Death and despair, blood and bodies. The cycle continued, and he remained. Nicholas remained. Their kind remained. Would remain, whether Nicholas liked it or not.

His son had been happy once; he would be happy again. Even the mortals knew how to move on, to live after the deaths of others before themselves shuffling off the coil.

Aha! “Oh, Nicholas,” he said aloud, though the unconscious boy couldn’t hear him. “How sentimental.” He opened the steamer trunk, still covered in old customs stickers and fit Nicholas into it along with some knick-knacks, blood, paint, and – in a fit of whimsy – a lock of Doctor Lambert’s hair.

Of course, to make it all fit, he’d had to trim the piece of wood through Nicholas’s torso till it was flush with his body. Served the boy right to lose this piece of this remembrance; it wouldn’t have done him any good if he’d actually been killed.

It only took three trips for LaCroix to fly everything he was taking to his new car, a black PT cruiser that looked like a shortened hearse. Aristotle did good work, fast. A sprinkling of some blood to mingle with Doctor Lambert’s on the floor, an anonymous tip to the Toronto police department, and he was ready to go.

LaCroix drove through the night, stopped at an awful roadside inn that reminded him of everything he didn’t like about the Norman “invasion” of England, and drove through another night, always moving southward. Nicholas needed to get some distance between himself and Toronto, to give himself over to doing something new and different, to put space between himself and this latest pain. And if Nicholas wouldn’t do what was good for him, LaCroix would have to take control of his wayward boy.

It only took a third evening for LaCroix to find the perfect spot for them to set up. He’d thought of going down to Mexico, to Central America, to Argentina, but Nicholas’ Spanish was abysmal and he’d just driven into the perfect town anyway. It was a small town, full of aging hippies, with a beach that still allowed week-long camping and bonfires. Magnificent. There was nothing here for Nicholas to get himself into trouble with. Not in his usual ways at least. He’d have to be creative in order to find new paths of self-destruction.

Not one for camping unless he was on a campaign for the Emperor, and not even then if he could help it, LaCroix promptly bought an old motel near the campground. Water stains on the outside showed that structural upkeep had never been the previous landlord’s favorite thing, but the step-down in station he’d already taken to tavern-keeper – and thank you for pointing that out, Divia – made the difference to run-down-inn-keeper practically nothing.

Within two days, he’d already let rooms to campers, surfers, and parents of UC Santa Barbara students who didn’t want to stay too close to their freshmen. LaCroix liked the surfers best. They never wanted anything from him during the day, and none of them seemed to notice if he took a little nip at night. Plus, they didn’t care about the water stains on the outside of the building so long as the beds were clean and he put various sands and waxes in the complimentary bedside kits.

On the fourth day, LaCroix resolved to name his motel “Dark Waters” and only let rooms to surfers. On the fifth day, LaCroix took his son out of the traveling box and pulled the wood from his chest. Immediately, the boy ranted, railed, cried, and so on. LaCroix ignored the emotional outburst. It was to be expected. Slitting his own wrist, he pressed it against Nicholas’s mouth. Whatever the foolish boy might think, LaCroix was a good father, a good provider.

Nicholas opened his mouth after drinking his fill, probably about to start another harangue rather than to apologize for being such an arrogant teenager-y annoyance, when a knock came at the door. Fixing his son with a look warning him to behave for their company, LaCroix crossed the room and opened it.

“Hey, man,” said a surfer with wild hair and a wind-chapped nose. “Something’s wonky with our shower. Anything you can do about that?”

“I’ll have it fixed by the time you return,” LaCroix swore. This mortal had fed him the night before and deserved to at least get a shower in.

“Thanks.” The surfer turned away, but stopped after a few feet. “Hey, we’re having a party in our room tonight again. Not a lot of people. Just the guys from last night, some beer, maybe some hash, and a guitar Vic found in one of the second-hand stores. You want to come by?”

LaCroix smiled with his sharp teeth, and the surfer grinned widely at him in return. “I’d be honored.” The door closed and LaCroix turned back to his wayward child. “You want to join me later and play Vic’s guitar?”

For a moment Nicholas was speechless, a good look for him, but then he began to splutter. He was trying to get out the regular sort of thing. ‘How could you use someone this way?’ ‘Why do they like you?’ ‘What’s going on here?’ Nicholas had no sense of a grand plan, or what to do with yourself when there were no plans at all. LaCroix would have to teach him.

Ignoring the sounds that came out of his child’s mouth, LaCroix went hunting in the attached room for anything he might use to fix the broken shower. While he was at it, he began scripting the “Dark Waters Podcast”.

Title: What could go wrong?
Fandom: Sailor Moon – North American, first season
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Andrew has told Serena all about the wonders of surfing, and she wants to try it out. Mars thinks this is a stupid idea.

“You want to do what?” yelled Sailor Mars, continuing her fight with Sailor Moon even as they battled the Negaverse villain of the week. “You can barely stand on stable land without falling over, and you want to do what?”

Sailor Moon grabbed her tiara between her fingers and gave a quick “Moon Tiara Magic!” as she flung it at the villain who dodged and then ran away with the usual “I’ll get you later” lines.

“I want to go surfing,” she said. “It sounds so beautiful. The sun, the air, the waves. Very romantic and athletic. Andrew said---”

“Aha!” crowed Mars. “Now we see. This is about Andrew. Meatballhead, you’re not athletic.”

Sailor Moon began to sniffle, and Sailor Mercury’s eyes took on a worried hue. “Now, now, Serena,” said Mercury. “We can all go to the beach and try it out.” She turned to Mars. “And I’ll be right there in case anything happens. Right, Luna?”

Luna nodded vehemently. “A very good idea, Mercury. How can anything go wrong with the Sailor Scout of Water there?”

Mars just shook her head. “Don’t even say things like that.” She paused, already thinking about her swimsuit, no doubt. “Hey, Moonbrain. Are Andrew and his friend coming with us?”

Serena’s dreamy sigh was answer enough.

Title: An Interview with Britain’s latest surf star
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: An interview. When he walked into the café wearing his trademark colors of silver and green….

It was three pm on Friday when I met Britian’s latest surf star, Draco Malfoy, in a Coffee Republic near Camden. Our man is rarely in his home country, so it’s amazing I managed to meet him there at all. When he walked into the café wearing his trademark colors of silver and green, all smooth balance, impossibly blond hair, and surf-tanned skin, I knew this was him. Even if I hadn’t seen the grainy photos before, there was no way to mistake him. The man walking into CR was a surfer, fresh off the beach; he made me feel uncoordinated and inadequate just looking at him, even though I’d competed in some 3A’s just the week before.

Surfer Magazine: Hi, Draco. Thanks for meeting with me today.

Draco Malfoy: No problem. I’d just popped in to visit my mother, so it was no trouble making time for you.
Note: Isn’t that sweet? A man who loves his mother.

S: Today, I’d like to talk a little bit about your childhood. Get a picture of the man behind the up-and-coming surf legend.

D: (laughs) Legend? I like the sound of that.

S: So, how old were you when you started surfing? You must have started pretty young, right?

D: Actually, no. This is a bit surprising, but I only started surfing two years ago when I was 17.

S: (joking) I hate it when people lie in interviews.

D: No really. (laughs) I didn’t even know about surfing before I was 17. I mean, look around you. We don’t breed surfers, and I went to public school in Scotland where we were pretty landlocked. I was on some school sports teams, but nothing related to water at all.
Note: A “public school” in Britain is the same as a “private school” here.

S: So what happened? How did you get interested in surfing?

D: My parents started having some problems locally, and as I’d just finished school there was no reason for us to stay where we were. We took a short vacation to Portugal where the waves are absolutely magical. I was lonely, and there was a surf school affiliated with our hotel, so I went off one day to take a lesson.

S: And the rest is history.

…continued on page 75.

Title: Cylon Slapstick – a piece of first year fiction by Kara “Starbuck” Thrace, written on a dare for the Galactica Intelligencer
Fandom: BSG, season 1
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Starbuck writes fiction about a pilot who gets shot down and has to fight toasters on a planet in order to get back in the air and deliver some Cylon tech to the Admiral for analysis.

In my Viper, I’m a piece of the sky. I am black and strong and infinite. Also, I swallow Cylons for breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, and fun. If the Cylons don’t like that, it’s just too bad ‘cuz they ain’t got a choice. I devour their bodies, and I’d devour their souls if they had any.

Which they don’t. Frakkin’ toasters.

Sadly, while the sky swallows the Cylons, the Cylons are still shooting up my Viper. I’m frakkin’ good, better than any Cylon will ever be, but they outnumber me by too many. I blow up seven, and the eighth shoots me down. I press my panic button, painstakingly labeled by a pranking engineer.

Down, down, down I go, through my sky to a speck of something. Planetfall. My Viper hits the ground and splatters into a million pieces, but the Lords of Kobol don’t want the same for me. My Viper took all the damage, and I’m fine, fine, fine.

Just sharing the planet with a Cylon who lands smoothly behind me.

Three toasters get out of the cockpit and I laugh in their faces. I just survived a crash landing that killed my sweet baby Viper. They can’t touch me.

A whine as an energy weapon discharge lances past me and into the wreckage. Okay, they can’t touch me so long as I make an effort to get out of the way. I reach for my sidearm and take out two of the three Cylons in front of me before anything else can go wrong.

I hear a hum, and turn to see a Raptor landing across a huge body of water behind me. I’d call it a lake, but it’s got waves and eddies like an ocean. I turn back to the Cylon on my side of the bank, but it’s morphed from the tall toaster model into on of the creepy human models.

It looks like my mother, but that’s a toaster for you. It takes on the scariest form it can. Too bad for this sucker that I hashed it out with my mom years ago, and she’s too dead now to hold any power over me.

In the Cylon’s hand is some sort of device. It looks like a picture-frame that’s been folded over a few times, and I have to wonder how it stays in place on a shelf. She pushes a few sides, and morphs again from my mother into this guy that I knew in the fifth grade who always beat me up. What do I care about some kid from fifth grade? Nothing, that’s what. But it’d be nice to get that picture-frame thing to the Admiral.

I smile at him/her/it and walk forward, reaching out a hand. It lets me close, probably hoping I’m weakened by its psycho freakiness. Quick, quick, quick, I grab the picture-frame thing from its pudgy adolescent hands and then I run for the water. Behind me, the boy turns back into a huge Cylon again.

I grab a piece of my poor Viper and shove it into the water, hoping it floats, hoping I haven’t been spacelocked for too long. I’m a pilot now. When we die, we get swallowed by stars, not by sea.

The Cylon is moving towards me, but not fast enough. Those things can’t fly, and that model sure as frak can’t float. I watch the water and remember the beaches of Caprica. I can do this. I can do this in ways most of my fellow pilots can’t. I wasn’t always a bird in the sky.

There. Exactly. I lie on the piece of my Viper and grasp the picture-frame thing as tightly as I can. I’m bodysurfing my way over to the Raptor, and the Cylon on the shore is firing at me, but missing, missing, missing. Hah! It doesn’t know how to work around the water. It has no clue what I’m doing.

I make it to the Raptor, glad to see it’s the easy-to-commandeer model. No toasters get out of it though it does take a potshot at me. It’s clearly confused by the picture-frame thing in my hands or I’d be dead by now. I wave my piece of ill-gotten technology at it, and it subsides, opening a door for me. A quick paint of Galactica’s insignia on the wings so that everyone knows not to shoot me down again, and I climb in, setting course for what remains of home.

The Admiral better appreciate this.

Title: Better Luck Next Time
Fandom: The Prisoner
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Number Six comes up with a plan to escape The Village. Again.

He’d spent weeks painstakingly making the surfboard. Oh, yes. He could have bought one in town, but then they would have known.

They might have deduced his plans. Might have asked about it. Might have taken it away. Might have….

It was easy to come up with plans and motivations for Number Two and his masters. So long as he out-thought them, he would be able to escape.

So he cut, he shaped, he sanded, he waxed. And then the time came.

He picked up his finished board and ambled toward the water. He smiled at others as he passed, the same dopey grin they all seemed to wear. He picked his moment and began to run. He needed the momentum and the advantage of surprise.

He hit the water, and his board came down soon after. He paddled out against the strong current. He only had to make it past this part, and then he could gather outward speed, he knew. He’d been watching the water and the weather from his hut.

Off to his right, he saw a whitish balloon on approach. No! It was too soon. He was so close.

There! A wave. A swell going away from the balloon. Springing to his feet on the board, he road the wave—

straight into a second balloon.

It carried him back to shore and to his place in The Village once more.

Winner! Valentine's Day Erotica

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 18:26:12 GMT

My piece of Valentine's Day microfiction won (well, tied for) Circlet Press's V-Day contest! The prompt was: erotica on the Future of Valentine's Day. This just means space opera sex, right? And we all know I can do space opera (and I've finally learned to write sex, it seems).

Read the award-winning "Terran Export" by Victoria Pond (me!).

Totally not work safe, I'd accompany it with warnings if I posted it here.

Fic: Entanglement - a love story in quantumn physics, the manga version that didn't happen

Tue, 29 Jan 2008 01:14:33 GMT

I threatened that I wasn't going to write this on my regular LJ, servalan, but I couldn't help myself. Well, actually, I started drafting the comic/manga/graphic-novel version of it. But my illustative skills are sorely lacking. So, unless someone wants to draw this for me, it's going to be prose-ish. Or, y'know, just one scene. We'll see.

Title: Entanglement - a love story in quantumn physics
Genre: kitschy, manga-style romance
Rating: G
Warnings: bad science
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Wherein we meet Miriam, Bostonian PR agent who hasn't yet realized she's going to be traveling sans clothing.

Quantumn Entanglement

[title page: Miriam and Andrew, back to back, arms tied together with thick, trailing ribbons. One ribbon trails across the bottom of the page and reads: "Entanglement - a love story in quantumn physics"]

[opening panel: Boston skyline. Lower right corner of top panel, thought balloon: "Yes! Yesyesyes!"]

"Yes!" My mind screamed while I politely kept silent on the outside. "Yes yes yesyesyes!"

It was 5 o'clock when the call came in. They'd seen my work. They'd liked my RFP response. They wanted me to leave right this second.

"Of course I'll take it," I said into the receiver. "I'd love to be involved with such an exciting project. Do you need--?" the director cut me off for a moment. "Sure, I can leave now. Just let me go home and pack a few things." I motioned to a colleague in the hallway to share in my good fortune. She poked her head in, and I bounced in my chair. She raised her eyebrows, I bounced again. Oh, yeah. Life was good.

Wait. What? "What do you mean don't bother to pack?" I asked the director.

"This will be the perfect time for you to get experience with the QT," he replied. "And we haven't figured out inorganics yet. Not without complications If there's anything you need to ship over that we can't buy for you...?"

I contemplated my hard drive. Well, it wasn't like I had a plan yet for this project. It'd be nice not to be married to my equipment anyway. Freeing. "Nah," I said, making a joke of it, "you guys'll make sure I've got paper and toothpaste, right?"

He chuckled. "Of course. So you'll be here as soon as traffic allows?"

"As soon as," I agreed, already checking the T schedule on-line. I needed to be at MIT's quantumn teleport prototype station five minutes ago.

[half-page panorama: Miriam standing on T platform with bustling world around her, small bag on her shoulder, but no briefcase or computer]

My name is Miriam. I'm a Public Relations contractor with 8 years experience (if you count from my first internship). And ...

[last page: sunny quad at MIT, door to the left side of brick building say, "Authorized personnel only"]

... I just landed the coolest account ever.

TBC

FIC: Mates! - Harry Potter/Gargoyles - PG

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 04:53:42 GMT

Everyone has written a Harry Potter creature fic. You know the one: Harry (or other) is turns into a magical creature and then finds his mate. They have animalistic sex (on or off the page) and live happily ever after. Potions and poison may or may not be involved; same with jealous ex-lovers.

How could I resist?

But then, how could I do it seriously? I'm not good at serious sometimes.

Title: Mates!
Fandom: Harry Potter, Gargoyles
Rating: PG
Warnings: Post-DH (and epilogue compliant), crossover, not really slashy at all, completely unbeta'd
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Harry becomes a Gargoyle. Do Gargoyles even have mates?

Harry strode through Diagon, ignoring the stares. Every year, fewer people recognized and exclaimed over him. He tried to tell himself that this was a good thing, but in his most secret of hearts he kind of missed the attention. He'd never really got to enjoy being a special boy, but he'd also never really understood how many wizarding wheels his fame greased.

Anyway. This day was a day like any other. Go into Diagon, pick up a robe order for little Albus (they grow so fast!), stare wistfully at the latest brooms, grab something that would spoil his appetite for dinner at the Leaky. You know. The usual.

Not paying much attention to where he was going, Harry bumped into a beautiful woman. Err, a cute little girl. That is, an old hag. Who sprouted wings.

Oh dear.

"Ummm, terribly sorry," he mumbled to the woman/girl/hag/winged-creature.

"That's quite all right," she said in a chorus, and suddenly there were three of her. One with hair the color of a good licorice whip, one with hair the color of a Weasley's, and one with hair the color of muggle-style parchment. Huh. Weird.

"Ummm," he said articulately instead of simply passing by with a courteous nod. "I couldn't help but notice. That is, I really think you ought to know." This was so embarrassing. "Well, if it's not a fashion statement that is... Your glamour is flickering."

The three witches looked at each other and pulled out their wands, simultaneously casting spells. Harry belatedly remembered that his own wand was still in his pocket and then breathlessly realized no spells had been aimed at him.

"So we are," stated the red-head who was now fully a Weasley woman, from red hair to matronly tendencies.

"So we have been," chimed in the brunette who was now an eight-year-old girl to Harry's parental eye.

"So we shall be again," finished the lightning-haired now-crone/hag.

Ugh.

"Well, just thought you ought to know," Harry said affably enough. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go to the robe shop."

"Of course," the three said in unison. And vanished. Without the "pop" that came with Apparition. Harry wondered how they did that. It'd be neat to learn.

***

Harry tried and failed to get to sleep that night.

He had Ginny scratch his itching shoulder blades. He read a Marvin the Mad Muggle comic for the zillionth time. He watched a Penseive-player of Professor Binns' lectures on repeat.

Still awake. Still completely ignorant of anything about the Goblin Rebellions.

Ginny left for bed around the time some orcs were joining an uprising.

***

Finally! The sun was just rising over the Scottish hills, and finally Harry could get some sleep. He called into work, curled up on the sofa, and determined to stay still as stone.

***

With a mighty yawn, Harry woke. It was dark out and someone had shattered some crude looking pottery (from the looks of the pieces) on his living room floor.

"Sirius!" he bellowed, knowing for sure that his son was the culprit. Took after his namesake, that one.

"Yo," Siri replied as he popped up behind the couch.

"Don't 'yo' me, young man," Harry said, thoroughly enjoying the role of "stereotypical parent". He should have been a method actor. "Tell me about the vase you broke."

"I didn't do it!" Sirius immediately denied. Then again, Siri denied everything. "But why don't you tell me about what happened to you," he exaggerated Harry's parenting voice.

"What happened to me? Nothing happened to me! And don't think you can distract ----"

Harry was cut off by screeching. Err, Ginny's screaming, that was. "Aaaaah!" she continued. "Merlin's Fuzzy Whiskers! Oh, Harry!" she went from screaming to crying in a disconcerting manner that was utterly unlike her younger years when he'd first met her. "We'll find a way to fix this."

"Seeeeeee?" Sirius sing-songed.

In a trice, Hermione was through the Floo and had pronounced Harry: "Gargoyle. Quite common in Scotland, especially in the last millennia. Try flying later. Bye now."

"Wait!" Surprisingly, it was Ginny who stopped her. Harry was far too shocked to be able. "Don't Gargoyles have mates?"

Hermione rolled her brown eyes. "No, Ginny," she said with false patience. "They don't have 'mates'. They do have wings and turn to stone. That's really it. Most magical creatures don't have mates, you know. Read a book that's not a romance novel sometime."

Sirius snickered.

"No, no," said Ginny. "I'm sure Gargoyles have mates. Wait a moment while I call Ron."

Ginny called Ron: mates. She called Oliver Wood: mates. She called Neville: mates. And then, in a fit of worried genius, she called Draco Malfoy who was most certainly not a friend but still acted strangely like he owed Harry for something.

Draco looked very annoyed to be called out to the Potter house just as evening was starting on a Friday. He probably had plans. Or wanted to pretend he did. Whichever, he seemed quite disconsolate about the whole thing and almost immediately pronounced that of course Gargoyles have mates. Honestly! But added on, "Unless Granger says they don't."

And with that, he twitched his robes into place so that they'd billow Snapily as he crossed the room and flooed back out.

"Sooo," Ginny said slyly as she looked up at him through hooded eyes. "Mates. Am I yours then?"

"Errrr," said Harry. She pouted, and he quickly amended, "Well, I've got no idea actually. What does a mate feel like?"

They both turned to Hermione who informed them that since he didn't have a mate (and she didn't have one either and therefore no experience with the matter), he'd never know what it felt like to be mated. Harry thought that was a bit of a raw deal, really, but shrugged his winged shoulders. Hermione always knew best.

***

Weeks passed in relative normalcy, and people had started paying attention to the powerful Harry Potter again now that he'd turned into a creature by force of magic alone. He didn't have the heart to tell the Prophet that it was a spontaneous conversion and quite tiring. They'd never listen anyway.

One night as he flew about over the town of Hogsmeade, he saw a large winged shape flying closer. One of his own kind! Magnificent! Unless they wanted to kill him.

"Hello," he hailed the other Gargoyle.

"Hello," she replied in a cultured voice. Her reddish hair and stone-age fashion sense were strangely erotic, and Harry took a mental note to ask Ginny to dress up later.

"My name's Harry," he said.

"Demona," she replied.

They paused together in the air, wings beating like treading water in the air.

"Can I help you?" she broke the silence.

"Well, I'm newly a Gargoyle, you see, and know nothing about it."

She didn't look particularly happy nor surprised at this revelation. "Tell you what, Harry," she said. "I'm in a bit of a hurry just now, but after I've met up with my ex-husband at that castle over there, I'll come back and give you a basic course, hmmm?"

"Oh! Uh, great!" he agreed. She seemed so much more normal now that she had an ex-husband. Harry watched her fly away.

He waited. And waited.

An hour before dawn -- he'd learned to judge these things -- a big, huge, enormous purple Gargoyle almost barrelled into him. "Hi," said Harry.

"Have you seen a Gargoyle, female with red hair?" the big lug asked.

"Oh, yes. Went that way," Harry pointed. "Are you her ex-husband?"

The purple Gargoyle blushed. "Not, ah, quite."

"That's nice," said Harry, pretty much through with small-talk. "Say, I've only just become a Gargoyle and was hoping you could tell me about it."

Suddenly, he had the huge one's angered attention. "Did Demona do this to you?" Harry didn't have a chance to answer before Purple was in his face. "Did she?"

"Ah, no?" Harry squeaked out. "That is, no. Of course not. But she said she'd explain things to me after she'd talked to her ex, and I was just hoping you could give me a hand. A wing?"

"I am Goliath," Goliath said.

"Harry. And now that we're introduced," he began.

"I will tell you all that I can, but first: the Sun." Goliath gestured towards the horizon. "Do you have a place you can stay for the night?"

"Sure! Want to join me?"

***

Harry, Goliath, and the garden gnomes all yawned hugely from the roof of the Burrow. Well, Harry yawned, Goliath roared loudly enough to disturb the neighbors, and the gnomes did gnomish things.

Ginny ran out of the Burrow with the rest of the family. "Darling!" she cried, leaping into Harry's arms. "You're awake!" She turned to Goliath and demanded, "Tell him he's my mate."

"Ahm," Goliath said, but was cut off by cackling from the air.

Harry freed a hand and waved. "Hi, Demona."

"Hello, Harry," she replied, smirking at Goliath's confusion. "Introduce me to your mate."

"Now, Demona," Goliath tried for polite but came across as strained and disappointedly angry. Yes, disappointedly angry. It was a special emotion he'd been perfecting.

Ginny would have none of Goliath's interrupting. She leapt from Harry's arms and ran to Demona's hovering form. Demona drifted a bit higher. "I told him!" she crowed. "I told them both! Gargoyles do have mates."

"Oh, yes," Demona affirmed with relish. "Of course they do."

"But," Harry said nervously, "Don't you have an ex-husband?"

Goliath nodded his agreement to this sticking point.

"Clearly," Demona growled, "he wasn't my mate. In fact," she leaned forward as she related the story, "he was a magic user who falsely confused me into thinking that we were mates. But when the spell wore off, I saw him for the deceiver that he is and broke free of his grasp."

Ginny nodded viciously. "Men!"

Demona grinned at her, teeth on display.

"Knew it," Ron chimed in, just exiting the house. "Knew you had a mate, mate." He paused. "Not that I'm saying I'm your mate, just that we're friends and oh, bugger."

***

Three days later, the inane conversation was still going on after being interrupted for sunrises.

"I'm telling you," Goliath said earnestly and without any supporting evidence whatsoever. "Gargoyles do not have mates!" He roared with frustration. "Have you felt differently for anyone? No! Because you will not feel your mate."

"Hmmmm." To Harry, this seemed a good point. He'd certainly not felt any different. And no change towards his wife. Hmmmm.

"Of course he hasn't," Demona said. "Because Gargoyles do not recognize their own mates until they have," she paused for maidenly affect, "completed their mating. It is up to the Clan to do it for them."

Now that was far more interesting than mates. "The Clan?" Harry asked.

"Can you recognize his mate?" Ginny asked.

"I feel very close to young Harry," Demona began. "He is almost like Clan to me." She coughed a bit. "Yes. I can feel his mate. His mate. His mate." She trailed off into strange-sounding Latin.

Ginny whispered to Harry, "This is sure to work."

Goliath rolled his eyes. The lad wasn't Clan at all. In fact, as far as Goliath was concerned, Harry could have Scotland. Goliath was a New York Gargoyle now.

Demona's chanting crescendoed then abruptly stopped. She had summoned and was pointing at Harry's supposed mate.

***

"Do it again," Ginny demanded.

Demona looked through the witch as though she weren't there. "Humans are nothing to me," she said.

"You talked to me before," Ginny whined.

"I only barely deign to talk with other Gargoyle's mates," Demona told the air. Then she turned to the recently arrived Draco Malfoy. "So good of you to join us."

THE END

Here's your chance to get on the AGtD filter

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 17:40:18 GMT

A God to Demons, chapter 2, will be going up today. So, if you joined up to read it and don't know if you're on my AGtD filter, you ought to comment here so I'll know to add you in.

Since I've gotten amazing feedback already, the readership list while the novel is in progress is going to be extremely small. Turns out there is a market for it after all. (At least, so long as I manage to pull back a bit on the odd sub-plots I was planning.)

Fic: A God to Demons, contemporary version - Scene 1 - Newark, NJ

Sat, 25 Aug 2007 07:59:05 GMT

Right. I couldn't do it anymore. I was already bored with the fantasy medieval version. So I'm scrapping the old version in all of its seriousness (unless someone on my f-list requests a continuation) in favor of doing a novelette length contemporary version.

It's all very chick-lit paranormal romance and I like it tremendously better. Also, I don't feel half as weird about my pregnant heroine. Yes, I woke myself up for this.

Title: A God to Demons (alternate version)
Chapter: Scene 1
Genre: Contemporary paranormal romance, chick-lit, steampunk leanings
Rating: PG for adult themes so far
Warnings: none
Originally posted: August 25, 2007 here and at servalan
Summary: Scene 1 - Samantha Jones, New Jersey woman, decides to visit her grandmother. Unable to scrape together the $850 for a ticket to London, she pulls out some old-timey steam-coach tickets through the Shadowlands which her Grandma gave her ages ago. Thankfully, they have no expiry date.

A God to Demons
Contemporary Paranormal, the chick lit version
Short story version

Pregnant. That’s what the little blue box meant anyway. Seven kits in one hour couldn’t be wrong. Probably. Almost certainly. Samantha Jones groaned and gave in, admitting that she was indeed pregnant with her on-again-off-again boyfriend’s child and also that she needed to go to Wegmans for another crate of bottled water.

Pregnant. Well, that was just lovely. Now Josh would be all, “We have to get married” and “I need to take responsibility”. Not that he’d ever felt like taking responsibility before. That was why they had off-again phases. Back when they’d met, when she was just a junior analyst and he was the liaison to her consultancy, she’d thought they really might have something, that they’d get married someday.

After five years of his putting their relationship on hold to pursue an extra degree in Chinese, to follow that up by teaching English in Taiwan, to meet a local woman to whom he was briefly engaged, to cry about it on his mother’s best friend’s daughter’s shoulder . . . and, well, you get the idea.

Samantha almost felt bad for stringing him along, making Josh think she was still interested in anything more than just a fling. But, really? He’d never be ready for anything more than just a fling himself. Except that she knew how he felt about appearances when it came to family stuff. He’d grown up in Utah, after all. There was no way he’d let her pregnancy go unwedlocked.

So obviously she couldn’t tell him. Which was totally wrong of her. Was so unfair to keep the baby a secret. Unless she pretended not to know herself. Could a person be secretive if they didn’t know the secret? She could simply let nature take its course and then “oh I had no idea until the baby started to show! Come see me when you can.” Yes, that was the best thing to do. Okay, maybe not the best, but it was the best she could come up with at the moment. She could just start with this plan for now and change her mind later.

But where could she go that she wouldn’t have to deal with Josh until she was ready? He was always jet-setting around the world on the company dime, not that he spent significant lengths of time anywhere. She’d have to find somewhere so far off the beaten path that it was four hours from a convenient airport. Probably two hours was enough, but Josh could potentially decide to be romantic. It happened sometimes. Usually after he’d been dragged to a chick flick by “she’s just a girl I work with, Sammy. Honest!”

Grandma would know what to do. When Samantha was just seven, Grandma had taken over all the important care when it came to the little, mousy-haired girl Samantha had been. Mom and Dad made sure she was fed, clothed, and enrolled in school, but Grandma had told her stories, given her advice, and vetted all her prom dates. Plus, Grandma had plenty of time to spend with a pregnant woman. Hopefully, she’d think it was a grand adventure.

Better yet, Grandma wouldn’t mind if Samantha just showed up, no warning. Best of all, Grandma lived a three hour drive from London Stanstead. No one flew from the USA into Stanstead. No one. And that was the best airport. If Josh had any romantic impulses, they’d be quelled by the time he reached Kings Cross, if he could be bothered to try and figure out the train system.

The only problem: no one flew from the USA into Stanstead, and Samantha was still in the USA. Newark, New Jersey to be precise. Not that it would matter. Air New Zealand currently had the best rates from New York to London Heathrow, both terribly inconvenient airports, and at $850 that was way too expensive for her blood. Maybe if she’d kept that analyst job she’d met Josh at? But, ohmigod, it was so boring after the third month. Retail would be better.

Samantha opened the cupboard beneath her sink where the cockroaches liked to nest, put on the gloves she kept for this purpose, and reached around until she found the strongbox hidden there. If thieves ever put in the effort to find this box, they deserve its contents, she thought smugly.

Pulling the strongbox’s key off her charm bracelet where it was pretending to be schlocky Vera Wang, Samantha hoped that the old ticket Grandma had given her was still in there. She had vague memories of possibly getting rid of it during spring cleaning one year.

The box popped open, and some judicious digging once again found her in possession of an odd trio of travel tickets. Must’ve just thrown them all in the box, she discovered with a relieved sigh.

She ran her fingers over the topmost of the three tickets, wondering at the old-time feel of the paper. The thick paper possessed a pock-mocked surface that came from strange curing techniques rather than being folded or torn over the years. More strange was the knowledge that these tickets were individually printed on a press, maybe even by a stamp, rather than made to look “antiqued” by a font-and-layer-style in Photoshop.

It seemed almost a shame to use them. The tickets were clearly the work of an earlier time period, possibly belonged in the Smithsonian. But needs must.

Okay, she could probably sell one to make the $850 for the JFK to LHR ticket on Air New Zealand, but something about that felt wrong. Like letting them pass out of her hands to anyone other than the ticket master would be a breach of contract. No, stronger than that. Like an offence worth committing hara-kiri over.

Besides, they should get her where she was going. The ticket read:

This travel pass entitles the bearer to one (1) complete and transferable journey through the Shadowlands unto a specified and unchanging destination marked on the reverse (see other side). All necessary travel, by Company steam-coach or otherwise, shall be unimpeded under pain of oath and law. Demons, beware this protected travel pass holder and unto him or her let no harm come!

Please report to the TicketMaster at 10 Madison Avenue, New York City, NY to redeem this ticket and board your steam coach.

No expiration date. Perfect. It all seemed a bit weird, but Grandma swore up and down that she and her friends used to travel this way all the time as children. Apparently, only girls were 100% safe. Something about there being no female demons but never knowing if the guys who came and went were the same both before and after the trip.

After throwing some things into a duffel bag, Samantha grabbed her three tickets for the path through the Shadowlands and checked the Internet to see when the next bus was from Newark to New York. She could be at 10 Madison Avenue by start of business day if she left now, and from there it shouldn’t be more than a few days of travel to Grandma’s. Sure, steam-coach might take longer, but at least she could afford it. Samantha wondered if the company still used the steam-coaches. Just in case, she thought, I’d better bring my digital camera.

Soon enough, she’d be at Grandma’s place. Grandma would know what to do about this whole thing with Josh and the baby. And, if not, she’d have some great stories to tell about what other women had done about crazy men before.

Samantha double-locked the door to her apartment and called a taxi to take her to the bus station. A short Greyhound ride, and she’d be in New York. And from New York, England.

Next time: Meet Avrael, the smart and sexy demon who will lend his blade to Samantha's protection in scene 3.

Fic: Paranormal Romance - A God to Demons, chapter 1

Sat, 25 Aug 2007 02:23:07 GMT

Title: A God to Demons
Chapter: Chapter 1 - To Grandmother's house we go
Genre: Paranormal romance, medieval fantasy with steampunk leanings
Rating: PG for adult themes so far
Warnings: none
Originally posted: August 24, 2007 here and at servalan
Summary:
A God to Demons
His name has never been spoken in living memory, but that doesn’t mean he’s powerless!

When Samantha Jones takes a money-saving trip through the Shadowlands, she hears whispers from the demons along the path. Though her travel pass grants her amnesty, the fiends watch her with hungry eyes which grow strangely wistful as she nears her destination. Will she ever reach grandmother’s house? Or will the demonic uprising keep her stranded in the Shadowlands forever?

Either way, it’s a good thing she met Avrael, a quiet but powerful demonic tourguide who protects her from those who would ignore the sanctity of her travel pass. It doesn’t hurt that ’Rael is the hottest being she’s ever met. Too bad he's got a secret that could accidentally leave her dead.

Chapter 1 – To Grandmother’s house we go (Samantha)

There it was again. Another person looked pointedly at her stomach for the tenth time in the half as many days since Harvest Faire. When she saw pity in the eyes of the miller’s wife, Samantha Jones fought the urge to walk straight to the doctor’s house. Let the gossips look on that!

But, no. That wouldn’t do any good. Going to the doctor meant admitting guilt, which in turn meant giving lazy Joshua’s family ten days to trap her. Ten days where everyone in the village would be watching and whispering. Ten days where Joshua’s parents would be in talks with her parents. Ten days of hearing, “But you can’t leave the poor boy all in the cold! He’ll never be able to have a family without you. Men can’t have babies, you know. And he’s been ruined now.”

Hah! As if it were possible to ruin Joshua. As it stood, no woman wanted him anyway, regardless of his wheat-blond hair and wind-reddened cheeks. His chances were no better nor worse for their ill-advised tryst at Harvest Faire. Thinking on it, that drunken mistake was probably the most work he’d put into seducing a woman in his whole life. Joshua was slovenly, lazy, and impatient with children. It was no wonder women had no interest in marrying him and starting a family. Not that it’d stop his family from trying to convince hers otherwise.

Marrying him would be the proper thing to do, after all, especially if she really had ruined his chances with other women who’d have to contend with the memory of his ‘first love’. Customs weren’t created to protect men like Joshua, but he fell under their protection all the same. If a man was lucky enough to get a woman pregnant, he’d better be marrying her right quick before she could get away. And it was the woman’s duty to accept him as her husband.

Samantha would rather get away.

Which explained why the doctor’s house was right out. No. Everyone knew she’d had that moment with Joshua when the crops were bountiful and the fall incense permeated the air. There was no disguising that. She could, however, disguise whatever nature had wrought. There was no guarantee she was pregnant, and she certainly wasn’t going to marry Joshua based on one accident of atmosphere and persuasion unless she was!

Samantha Jones wouldn’t be trapped in a loveless and unfair marriage. With her strong arms on a five and a half foot frame and her plain brown-on-brown looks that housed an analytical mind, she was well sought-after as a practical match. What woman wanted a practical match? Especially when she was so free to do as she pleased until the match was made! Men always talked about women being afraid of commitment, and she happily fulfilled that stereotype in this case.

Not the doctor’s house, then, but the carriage station. She didn’t have the money for the boat ride which would take her far enough away to escape from both Joshua’s family and from local gossip-mongers. She didn’t have the time for a long carriage ride to foreign lands; she’d be full and round with child by the time she arrived anywhere.

If she even was pregnant. Samantha wasn’t sure, and there would be no way to tell until she was showing. By that time, however, she’d better be long gone or have had her second, third, and fourth experiences with men. Let them all fight it out for the privilege of her hand and hearth.

So no boats, no carriages, and no becoming the most sought-after woman in the area. This left only one avenue: The Shadowlands.

Everyone knew children’s tales of the demonic hordes that lived in the Shadowlands. “Eat your vegetables or the horn-winged shivlers will tear you limb from limb and use their teeth to rend the flesh from your bones,” Samantha’s mother used to admonish. She’d stopped using that particular threat after the year in which an actual horn-winged shivler broke the boundaries of the Shadowlands and gorged itself on the blacksmith.

Only rarely did a demon escape the Shadowlands. The protections that kept humans out also kept the demons in, usually. No one had ever explained how one or two got out every ten years or so, but typically the demons weren’t a problem. It wasn’t even possible to accidentally enter the Shadowlands; the wall of hot steam deterred the humans, and Samantha had seen demons bounce off an invisible wall when they’d tried to make it into the human world.

The woman who worked the ticket desk at the carriage station wore a bored expression. Very few people willingly considered taking the steam-coach through the Shadowlands, and fewer of those were from Samantha’s village. Those who did take the steam-coach would travel from miles around to reach this particular station which lay on the very edge of the human and demonic lands. A situation which was good for making money off the neighbours, but dead dull for an employee who wanted local gossip.

“I’d like one ticket through the Shadowlands, please.” Before the ticket-desk woman could so much as blink, Samantha amended, “Better make that two, actually.” If she were pregnant, the child would not be dependent on demonic mercies. Rumour had it that travel passes were honoured with an almost religious fanaticism, but an unprotected human would be fair game. Samantha shuddered to think what could happen to the potential child en route or to herself should a demon decide to cut the baby out of her on the philosophy that the child, at least, was unprotected.

The ticket-desk woman nodded towards Samantha’s soft but mostly flat stomach. “True then, is it?” she asked. Samantha knew at that moment that she’d better use those travel passes before this woman went home for the day or else she’d be just as trapped as if she’d gone to the doctor.

Samantha affected a quizzical expression while inwardly hoping she’d have enough time to get out of here, or else she’d be tied to Joshua and the village forever. She’d always thought she’d stay and marry a local boy, yes, but not yet and not because she was forced to. When the time came, she’d expected to take matters into her own hands, but this reeked of imprisonment and coercion. “I’m just visiting my grandmother,” Samantha replied as innocently as she could manage, holding up the most unassuming picnic basket that had been in her storage shed. “We got a message that she’d been sick recently.”

The ticket-desk woman snorted impolitely, but Samantha supposed that was all she’d deserved. Why should this woman be polite when Samantha was running out on her duty to a man?, unsavoury as that duty may be. “Well, you’ll be wanting the transferable, destination-based passes,” the woman said. “Them steam-coaches stop working all the time, and without a transferable, destination-based pass no one has to let you get on another one.” She paused for effect. “Or to leave you alone while you make your own way.”

Her body froze up at just the thought: stuck in the Shadowlands, surrounded by strong and hungry demons who were just waiting for her coach to stop. Then they’d pounce! Her stringy flesh hanging as surely from their mouths as the old blacksmith’s had. The smart ones, and there had to be some since the coaches existed, would be laughing at the irony of her travel pass that had ceased to be relevant.

“Yes, thank you,” Samantha agreed. “I’ll take all the possible protections on those, please.”

“Smart,” said the ticket-desk woman. “I’m not allowed to give out any advice besides that one upgrade, you know. But every protection is what you want. And complete transferability. Oh, and I can upgrade you to aristocrat-class seats.”

Even with all those protections and additions, two tickets through the Shadowlands cost far less than a single ticket in the meanest berth on an ocean transport. Samantha could actually afford to travel by steam-coach, and that worried her more than she could say. It did not, however, fill her with the same level of dread as the thought of remaining behind.

“Better the devil you know than the demon you don’t,” she whispered, almost talking herself out of the journey and into the arms of that unattractive lump who may have gotten her pregnant. But then she thought of spending decades keeping Joshua’s house, cleaning up after him, working the farm for him, organizing his life because he was too lazy to do it himself. The Shadowlands held promise. The village only offered a downward slope of the remains of her life.

She shouldered her small knapsack which contained only three progressively roomier pairs of trousers, another two linen shirts with matching short corsets, and extra soles for when her shoes got worn through. Between that and the innocent looking picnic basket which her blanket and some dried meat rested in, Samantha was ready to go and to be gone for a very long period of time.

With luck, she’d be through the Shadowlands in a few days and ensconced at her Grandmother’s small farm in the warmer countryside of Fellini before the week was out. She had her travel passes with their complete protections. No demon would harm her. This would be over in no time at all.

Next time: "Chapter 2 - There must be some kind of way out of here" where we meet Avrael, the smart and sexy demon who will lend his blade to Samantha's protection (in chapter 3).

FIC: Untitled drabble, Alias/Forever Knight, G

Thu, 26 Jul 2007 06:33:51 GMT

The crossover of smart, secondary characters who totally deserve a good day: I'd been meaning to write an Alias fic to the tune of "How Marcus Dixon spent Sydney's Summer Vacation". But tonight I was watching Forever Knight, and I'd really like to do something to the tune of:

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Alias, Forever Knight
Rating: G
Warnings: crossover
Originally posted: today in jani_s
Summary: Drabble. Dixon's first taste of protecting the public.

"Man, oh man!"

That wasn't an expression you heard very often in Los Angeles. Usually the words were much . . . cruder. The sound was out of place, and hearing anything out of place this near to APO could mean trouble.

Marcus Dixon looked around for the source while still keeping his cover as just a regular guy on the Metrolink. He adjusted his glasses, setting them to automatic video mode. There! On the left, by the magazine stand that had lost its license last week. It was a middle-aged man, maybe fifty, wearing a polyester suit and a hair weave.

"I'm so late for work. Darned train schedules! Man, oh man!"

Dixon remembered the first time he'd heard a real adult use that phrase. It was back before he was an agent, before he'd ever heard of SD-6. He'd just been a young man then, fresh out of high school and a bit of a problem child. His parents had sent him to an uncle on Toronto's police force, hoping that somehow he'd shape up.

Twenty-five years earlier
TORONTO

"Man, oh man! Look at this haul."

Detective Don Schanke, Vice Squad, was the most unlikely police officer Marcus had ever seen. Not that he'd seen many off the TV. Schanke was a typical middle-class white guy, and his only addictions were souvlaki and doughnuts. It was a miracle 'Donut Don' got anything done.

Right now, Det. Schanke and Marcus's uncle, Jimmy Dixon, were looking into a briefcase that they were keeping out of Marcus's line of sight. Not like he wanted to see what was in there anyway. This Vice gig was less than they made it out to be down at the station. Also, Marcus was now entirely sure he had no interest in prostitutes. Visiting Uncle Jimmy had taken all the fun out of being bad.

The Present

The rest of Marcus's visit to Uncle Jimmy had been equally as uninteresting, though sometimes Dixon wondered if his uncle had been protecting him from the seedier sides of Vice. He'd been sure then that police work was a waste of time and that Marcus Dixon was going to be a submarine engineer.

Funny how things turn out.

Over by the magazine stand, the man in the polyester suit tumbled to the ground. As he scrounged around for his briefcase, Dixon saw the flash of black metal and plastic. Polyester Suit had used the distraction to pull out a small handgun, quickly hidden again in a pocket. Yep, anything suspicious this close to APO meant trouble.

Wait. What?

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 05:33:36 GMT

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking:

Janine, you created this journal for fic posting. Why have we not seen anything in a month? Not even an old repost?

Answer: I've been busy.

Also, I'm writing a novella to an anthology prompt. I have a feeling the antho won't want it (they tend to like things with sex in them, even though they've said it doesn't have to have any), but it might be worth trying out on the YA/MG circuit before y'all see it here.

Anthology description: Must have shapeshifting cats central to the plot. Any "heat" level. (The publisher has non-romance novels available, and some few space-based ones, as well as fantasy.)

Janine's plot desciption: "The Menaechmus Twins" (by Plautus). As a Space Opera. With two species of shapeshifting cats. I've been dying to write "TMT" in space, and (now that I've finished plotting it out) I don't know how I ever managed to imagine it without the shapeshifting cats! Plautine comedy is hard to do in prose form, though. We'll see how it turns out.

Crossover Drabble - Prisoner/BSG - You Are Number Six

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 18:07:18 GMT

Title: You are Number Six
Fandom: The Prisoner, Battlestar Galactica
Rating: G
Warnings: crossover
Originally posted: today in jani_s, servalan
Summary: Drabble. The Sixes meet.

You are Number Six

She walked into his cottage like she owned it. Blonde, smug, an unusual outfit -- she was more than a little out of place.

“Who are you?” he demanded of the intruder. If she really didn’t belong here, maybe this one would have a name.

She looked out a window which had a view of other cottages, numbers over their doors. She cocked her head, listening to a particularly raucous group nearer the beach. (“Number twenty-two! Pass the ball to me!”)

She smiled at him. It didn’t put him any more at ease. “I’m Six,” she said.

She was Number Six? Not that he had ever wanted the number, but it did seem odd that The Village would replace him. Why?

“You’re Number Six?” He would get all the information he could from her about this new plan from Number Two.

And now she looked a bit sheepish. “I’m Caprica Six.” This meant nothing to him, so he gestured for her to continue. “You know. The one with Baltar. The other Sixes think that’s a bit silly,” she confided. Her smile had shifted to smugly ingratiating.

Ah, so that was the game. This was a ploy to make him accept a number. The woman in front of him was a plant, obviously, but a plant who had found a way to differentiate herself. She wasn’t simply Number Six. She was Caprica Six.

He supposed he would be Her Majesty’s Six or Retired Six. If he hadn’t seen through the plot, that was. It was ingenious, really. This Number Two was much more creative than the last.

--

Six woke up gasping for breath and fighting the resurrection gel. She wouldn’t tell anyone about this vision, not until she’d figured out what it meant.

Fic: Sailor Moon - "Never"

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 16:33:14 GMT

Title: Never
Fandom: Sailor Moon (North American)
Rating: PG-13 for adult themes
Warnings: attempted suicide
Originally posted: 1997 or 1998 at A Sailor Moon Romance (now available at Moon Romance)
Summary: When Darien breaks up with Serena for her own good, the pain of it becomes too much for her. Her attempted suicide drives the Moonlight Knight to become his own man – a man who will try to be enough to keep Serena among the living.

Never

"Prince Darien," the mysterious voice called,”you must keep your distance from Princess Ser ---"

Thankfully, Darien's horrendous nightmare was interrupted by a sudden knock on his apartment door. Still shaky, he called,”Just a minute."

"Good. You're awake. Don't bother to get up; I've still got a key!"

Darien groaned silently. He wasn't prepared for another confrontation with her. He'd crack under the strain. "Go away, Serena." He couldn't hear any signs of her leaving, so he said the one thing sure to make her depart . . . albeit in tears. "I don't love you, Serena."

He heard her gasp in shock and agony before she limped towards the door, quietly moaning. "I'm sorry, Serena," he pleaded with the emptiness. "So sorry, my love."

Cherry Hill Temple, after school:

"Oh praise the spirits," Rei muttered sarcastically,”the meatball scout is early for once."

"Of course, Rei. This is more important than detention. We need to train." Silently she thanked Luna for training sessions. For her plan to work, she had to be in a fight, and she couldn't put the world in danger by not killing a monster.

The other girls appeared, and Serena could hardly contain her impatience. Luna noticed her fidgeting and cut in,”No, Serena. You cannot share the 'juicy gossip' with the team. We have to train!"

"Right, Luna!" the blonde exclaimed. "Let's get going. Everyone against me." There were shocked expressions from every Scout. "I've been practicing. C'mon, let's go! Moon . . . Crystal . . . Power!" Sailor Moon leapt into the air and sent a Moon Kick at Lita.

The girls quickly transformed and began attacking. Surprisingly, Sailor Moon was easily beating them all. So, the Scout Team worked harder to overpower their leader. Forming a circle around her, they fired off their strongest attacks.

"Mars . . . Celestial . . . "
"Jupiter . . . Thunderclap . . . "
"Venus . . . Lovechain . . . "
"Mercury . . . Ice-storm . . . "

"Surround!" "Zap!" "Encircle!" "Freeze!"

There was plenty of time for Serena to jump out of the way.

She didn't.

There was screaming around her. She smiled. There was no fear, only relief. Darien didn't love her. There was no point in going on. Her friends would miss her, but they'd manage, and they'd understand. The attacks streaked towards her with joyful promise of oblivion, and she closed her eyes, waiting.

But, then, she was flying. She looked at the spot where she'd been standing moments before, watched as the girls' powers smashed together and dissipated. "No!" she screamed. "That was mine!" She was whimpering now. "Mine."

The arms around her tightened. "Hush now, love,” a familiar voice said.

Her grief momentarily forgotten, Serena looked at her 'savior'. "Moonlight Knight! What're you doing here? I thought you and . . . and . . . " Her eyes shimmered. She couldn't even say his name.

The man's jaw muscles contracted under their cloth. Her pain was so terrible, and that was the reason he'd created himself.

Seven Hours Earlier at Darien's Apartment:

"Oh, Serena,” her destined love whispered, tormented by the feelings that ran through both their hearts. "I hate to do this to you. To us. But it is your only hope. Someday, perhaps, I will tell you, and you will forgive me. Of course, even if you'll forgive me, will I be able to forgive myself?" The man was on the floor, his head in his hands, making no attempts to hide his anguish.

Then, there was a voice inside his head. Not the voice from the nightmares, but his own voice. **No! I will not forgive you. Not for another century at least! Look at what is happening to our Princess.**

Startled, Darien asked aloud, ”Who are you? How do you know all of this?"

**Poor pathetic, Prince Darien. You would be nothing without me.** The man was not given to maliciousness, but Darien was hurting the one person he held most dear in all the universe, and that made him harsh. **I am the powerful one. I am the one who lives only to love and protect the Princess. While you think of other matters, I am the one Serenity can count on.**

"But . . . ?" There was nothing to be said, no argument to hold. Darien hung his head, for he knew this other self spoke the truth.

**For your crimes against our oath, against your self, and against my love, I am leaving you. You will be powerless, mundane. Worse yet, you will know that our Serenity is happy with me, but you will no longer be able to feel her presence. I am the one attuned to our Princess; you will never know what is happening to her again. The soul bond that permits the empathy was part of your old life, your protector's ways. They will soon be gone. And me with them.**

"Why?" It was the only question left.

**What good is it to protect the shell, when the soul is gone?**

With a powerful wrench that forced Darien all the way to the floor, the Moonlight Knight tore himself from the body which had harbored him.

Soon, there were two Dariens standing face to face. "I had forgotten how liberating it is to work in a body all my own."

Darien made one last plea. "Please! You have seen the dreams. You know the reasons. You can't do this. It will only place her in more danger."

"Her body is in less danger than her heart. By mending that, she will save herself from destruction. Would she leave this world, knowing that you are in it?"

Darien sat glumly on his bed. Suddenly, he shot straight up. "You're not as powerful as you think you are!" he exclaimed smugly. "The princess and I are linked. I feel her, even without you."

The Moonlight Knight looked shocked, and felt for his own bond to the Princess. He looked back at Darien sadly, truly sympathetic. "You poor man. That link you feel isn't with the Princess; it is with the present-day Serena Tsukino. For the rest of your days, you will know when she is happy and when she is sad; you will pine for her constantly; and you will be completely alone when she finally learns how to manage life without you." With that the white-clad man turned on his heel to walk away.

"She will live without me?" Darien had known it was a possibility. It was what he had tried to convince himself he wanted, for her own safety, but he had never truly considered it.

“Yes," the Knight said gently, ”she will. You're going to lose her. I'll be reunited with my Princess, and Serena Tsukino will come along in the bargain. I truly am sorry for you, Darien. Yet, her pain is too great to go uncomforted, and I am the only available candidate. Console yourself with knowing that she could not love anyone but you, though it is a different you she will be loving." The Knight smiled kindly and walked out of Darien's door, out of his life, out of his soul, and out of his mind . . . this time, permanently.

Back to the present:

The Moonlight Knight landed on the ground, a crying Sailor Moon in his arms.

The girls mobbed them, concerned for their friend and surprised at the Knight's sudden appearance. Through the cacophony, very little could actually be heard.

"QUIET!" the Knight yelled. "I'm taking our Princess home. She needs to rest. We can discuss this tomorrow." He stared into Serena's tear streaked face. "Like the warm wind of the desert, my arms will surround you, Princess, and then both of us will truly be home."

Her Knight was with her again, her destined love was once more at her side, swearing himself to her, but she could not be happy. For all that she tried, Serena could only cry harder, causing the Moonlight Knight yet more anguish. He had come to alleviate her pain, not to augment it.

"What's wrong, darling?" His voice begged her to be joyful. "I'm with you again."

Still, she only sobbed. Finally, she whispered. "He doesn't love me."

The Moonlight Knight contemplated murdering his former body. She was still grieving for him. "But, I'm with you now, love. Look inside yourself. You have always needed only me, and I have come for you. Isn't that enough?"

Serena looked up at the pleading in his tone. Was he enough? Her crying stopped as she looked him in the eye, serious. "I don't know."

He closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself and teleporting to her bedroom at the same moment. "Please, darling, give me a chance. Let us do an experiment, together. We will be companions for one month, at the end of which time, we will discover whether you can love only me, and whether I can love the Serena Tsukino who is a part of you. If we are well with each other, we will remain so and be unutterably happy. If we cannot stand life together, this present you and I, I will not stop you from another attempted release . . . provided you allow me to die with you."

Serena wanted to leave this world now! Why was he forcing her to remain in it any longer? However, his words did have merit. If she could learn to love him, without the new Darien-persona, then a life together would be feasible . . . and then only if he wanted Serena to go with his Princess! If it didn't work out, nothing would stand in her way. It was truly a fair plan. Smiling brightly with hopes for a better future, she stuck out her hand for a handshake. "Deal!"

The Moonlight Knight picked up her hand, and kissed it.

The End of the Next Day's Sailor Meeting:

Relaxing against the wall, Amy smiled at the Moonlight Knight. "I'm really glad you came to this meeting. You've helped a lot with this strategy session."

A giggling Mina leaned over and whispered to her, ”Yeah, he can plan strategy against the enemy, but how about strategy against a tired wardrobe?"

"Mina!" Amy gasped.

"Actually,” the Knight began, ”the Princess of Venus is correct. I need new clothing so as to not be too obvious; anyone we are fighting can easily recognize this costume of mine. Also,” he said in an aside to the Sailor Scout of Love and Passion, ”looking more like everyone else will help me to watch over my Princess, on a date maybe?"

Serena laughed. "I declare this meeting over. Moonlight Knight, those pants aren't too bad, and I have two or three shirts of Darien's that should fit you,” she said, pulling one of the aforementioned shirts from her book bag. At the looks from the other girls she explained, ”I'd meant to return them today, but I didn't see him."

‘Probably still curled up on the floor, ' the Knight thought. 'That boy takes no initiative.'

"Anyway,” Serena continued. "Why don't you change into this shirt, take off your mask, and let us take you shopping!"

"Shopping?" the girls said in unison. "Way cool!"

As he walked to the bathroom, the warrior smiled as he heard the girls arguing over where to take him. Then he realized: he had no money; Darien was the professional, not he. Grinning, he remembered that he could create items, if need be, to protect his princess; blending with his surroundings seemed necessary, so he concentrated, letting his eyes go completely crystalline and clear. A wallet with some credit cards appeared in his hand. Filled with satisfaction he returned to the exuberant girls. "Don't we have a bus to catch?"

Serena sighed. He looked way dreamy, but the style wasn't right. She had to face it. He wasn't Darien. 'But that's the point!' she told herself. 'You don't need Darien.' It was a lie, and they both knew it. The charade was pointless, but if there were even a glimmer of a chance, she would make this last attempt at happiness. Snapping from her thoughts, she realized they had arrived at the mall.

She smiled; shopping was something she was good at. She looked to the Knight, and he beamed at her, happy to be by her side, thrilled that he could bring some joy into her life. They stopped, standing like that, staring into each other's eyes, not thinking, not moving, just staring, for a varied audience. The ring of warriors were overjoyed to see their friend and princess once again merry with a man. Another observer was Molly . . . Melvin in tow.

"Serena! Earth to Serena!" the red-headed girl yelled, her voice growing louder as the couple approached. "Serena!!"

Pulling her gaze from the Knight's, Serena blushed and looked towards the floor. 'That felt so right, so perfect, yet something was wrong. What's wrong with me? He loves me, I can see it. So why can't I just enjoy this?' "Hi, Moll!"

“Serena,” the girl said slyly. "I thought you and Darien weren't going out anymore."

At Darien's name Serena stiffened. Her eyes began to water, but she gained control. Overbrightly, she replied, ”We aren't."

Confused, Molly stared at the Knight. "Then, who's he?"

Serena was on the verge of a breakdown. The Knight could feel it. Darien could feel it. Thankfully, the Knight came to her rescue. "I'm . . . um . . . Darien's older cousin, um . . . Adrien. We look a lot alike."

"Oh." That was the only thing Molly could come up with. "We've gotta go! Call ya later, Serena!" And with that, she and Melvin were gone, vanishing into the mall crowd.

Serena, however, was still stuck in the conversation. "Darien and I don't go out anymore," she mumbled.

The Knight, Adrien now, took her cheek in his hand and lifted her face to him. Staring her in the eyes so that she couldn't lie to him, he asked, ”Can you go on? Do you want to go home, darling?" Her eyes shimmered, and he vowed Darien was going to get hit with a white rose, accidentally of course, one of these days.

"No, I'm fine, really. Let's go."

Unbeknownst to all, there was a third party watching this scene unfold. Darien hovered in the background, watching her, nearly dying from the need to reach out and hold her in his arms again, to tell her everything would work out in the end. He wanted to sweep her up close to him and never let her go, to swear his undying love in her ear that she may never doubt him, to stop being the one who caused her pain.

But he couldn't do that. Her life was in his hands. That precious gift was more important than his own happiness. But was it more important than hers? Was the Moonlight Knight right? He could sense that she was breaking apart inside. He heard her call his name in the night, begging him not to leave . . . 'linked minds are a terrible thing'. He didn't want to feel her agony, but he had no choice. He could end this separation, but the risk was to great. Still, he hadn't had the dream since the Knight had left him . . .

He looked up from his musings to see the crowd of girls and the Knight leaving, loaded down with bags. '5:30! I am so late for my night job!' The thought of how he sounded made him laugh. '"So late!"? I'm sounding like Serena, and acting like her too.' Suddenly, he was serious again. The girls' voices rang out. 'Oh, my love, why does this always happen to us? I love you. I need you.'

His mental plea reached Serena, but she shoved it away, not believing it was really from Darien. 'I'm dreaming again. He doesn't love me, he told me so. Still . . .' **I love you too, Darien, Muffin, wherever you are.**

Crying, he ran from the mall. Her thoughts fresh and tearing at his mind.

A Moondance Later:

Arms linked, Serena and the Knight, glided in through her bedroom window, laughing lightly. The star locket opened and played its melody, but some of the harmonics were missing; the pair did not give this the slightest notice. Decked out in a flowing poet shirt, black trousers, and a pair of lace-up boots, the Knight made a florid bow, swung her into his embrace, and whispered in her ear. "May I have this dance, my princess?"

Her reply was a quiet giggle of pleasure. His breath felt so warm on her ear, sending tingles down her spine. She shivered slightly from sheer delight at it, and pulled herself closer against him.

Adrien looked down at her, surprised, but his surprise quickly passed to extreme elation. She was with him, and all was well within his world. He spun her around fluidly, and then he was behind her, hands still linked with her arms folded across her body. She sighed and leaned gracefully against his chest, reveling in his warmth.

"You're so beautiful, my sweet, darling angel." His breath was but a gentle breeze across her shoulder. His lips strayed from her ear. Against her neck he murmured, ”You're so perfect, and I've missed you so much." Happily she arched against him. At her collarbone he confided, ”I love you, Serenity and Serena, for eternity." And as his mouth closed warmly over her shoulder, she knew perfect bliss.

Well, almost perfect. There was something amiss, though Serena couldn't quite place it. Sighing sorrowfully, she pushed her Knight away. "I know you love me, sweet, but I cannot . . . I can't do this!" she cried. "Don't you see?! You've learned to love Serena Tsukino as well. What if she were suddenly gone, and all you had was Serenity?!"

Her tears fell freely, unchecked, as his face blanched. Without both of the women inhabiting this body, the Knight realized, he would always be partially alone. He understood now. That was why the locket could never play wholly for the pair of them, there were the notes of a new personality missing.

Adrien hung his head, crying, and Serena came up beside him, and the two stood in the night, holding one another for the precious little comfort they needed. For soon there would be the end. They had promised to die together, and this was their last night upon this earth.

Darien's apartment:

He awoke, screaming. Darien had felt her passion, felt the Moonlight Knight's mouth on her skin, and he felt a hard surge of jealousy. 'She's mine! She's mine!' But she wasn't his. He had given up his right.

Then it hit him. Without her, he had nothing worth living for. Yes, it was fine to stay away from her, no matter how difficult it was, but to know there would never be a chance for him, to remain apart from her forever? It was too much. Never to see her sunny smile light her eyes at a level only he could understand. Never to hear his name on her lips. Muffin, Darien, Mamo-chan. Never to feel her touch on his skin. Never to tell her he loved her. Never. Never.

NEVER would he allow that to happen! This was wrong, very wrong, all wrong! He couldn't let life turn out this way! The dreams were gone with the Knight! The threat was gone! If anyone was endangering her, it would be 'Adrien', and nothing had happened to the pair of them yet.

The pair of them. The phrase wrenched at his soul. 'It should be, ”the pair of us".'

The point, however, was that the threat from himself was negligible. There was no reason to live in this agony. Elated, he screamed with joy, and then with anguish at all the pain his foolishness had caused. "Stay where you are, darling! I'll join you again and we will never be alone!"

Back in Serena's bedroom:

"Come, darling, it is time for us to leave all this sorrow behind," Serena whispered gently to the man who loved her. He looked at her in askance. "We cannot die here. There is no easy way. We cannot jump from the window. This one-story house was a blessing for jumping safely to the ground to get the monsters, but jumping SAFELY to the ground is not the object tonight.

“Come,” she repeated. "It is time for this sad charade to end. The tall towers of the office district await us."

The pair glided to the high rises, leaving the room, the world, and the star locket behind.

On the road:

'Why was I such a fool? Why didn't I see this sooner?' **Serena, my sweet, are you there? Answer me! Please!**

He sounded so desperate. Almost as desperate as she, but he received no answer.

'Oh, Darien. What do you require of me now? No, some minute task is no longer important. This is my last stand. I will be fighting the monsters no longer.' She smiled wanly at the Moonlight Knight.

"And still, my last thoughts are of him."

Eyes swimming with pain, Adrien closed the distance between them. The gentlest, sweetest kiss would be the last the pair would ever know.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Well, then . . ."

There was no more to be said. Taking each other's hands, they drew in a final breath, and crouched . . .

The star locket materialized in Darien's hand, and the harmony was perfect, once more. He smiled, knowing she hadn't forsaken him for his other self. He swore he could feel her soul, warming him against this frigid night with her love. Yet, there was something, a tingling sensation in the back of his mind. 'She's in danger! Serena, love, I'll be there, hold on until then!'

But his thoughts never reached her. She and the Moonlight Knight vanished over the tall building’s edge just as Darien came upon the scene. He was only in time to watch his love disappear to her death.

"Nnnooooo!" His cry was filled with the pain of his soul, a fear of living alone forever. "Nnnooo!" he cried again, and again, until he was hoarse. Then he continued to cry out silently, unable to stop. For the moment he stopped living in this moment, she would be truly gone. **Please, darling. I've been such a fool. Wait for me, that I may come to you and beg forgiveness at your feet.** And he proceeded to cry, as he had always refused to do, devil take whosoever happened to see him.

It was a long fall.

Serena and the Knight had been steadily dropping, but never gaining velocity, for much longer than they'd estimated it would take to hit the ground. Serena heard Darien's plea, and tried to answer, but the wind rushing into her lungs obstructed coherent thought patterns. 'He really does love me!' The thought filled her with immense joy, which she promptly shared with the Moonlight Knight.

He grinned broadly at her good fortune. 'Finally, the boy comes to his senses!' Then, he realized. They were still falling, and, finally, gaining speed. The moment they would hit, life would be over, but there was no longer a reason to die. Except, perhaps, to leave Darien to his misery for eternity, knowing that indirectly it was he who had killed his one true love. The Knight was not that cruel. He and Darien were friends, brothers, the same person, and he would not wish such a fate on his worst enemy.

Serena looked at the fast approaching ground with apprehension. For the first time, the fear reached her eyes as she thought of death, cold and slimy, the opposite of love. In supplication she rose begging eyes to her Adrien.

And, indeed, he solved her problem. He took her in his arms and floated with her back to the top of the skyscraper. Only to have her run from him to the dazed Darien whose soul was in the process of withering to nothing and attempting to fully comprehend life without her.

For hours she held him in her arms, whispering sweetly, promising that all would be well, that she forgave him, but still his eyes beheld her as a ghostly spectre. Until eyes met eyes and soul met soul and he saw that it was really she, alive, and he did not care how but that she was there.

He swept her into his arms, crying at the blessed relief of it all, especially at being whole with his entire self and his destined love again.

He cried, and cried, and kissed her fiercely, with all the pent up passion of the last long moments and past few months, rejoicing as her lips responded to his in a kiss sweeter than he remembered.

His strongest emotions spent, he wept softly, not allowing her to soothe him a second time. He fell on his knees before her. "Meatball head." The statement was not a jibe; it was a title, perhaps a prayer. "Serena, forgive me. The trouble, it was all because of a dream." He began to get angry with himself. "I shouldn't have listened! I should have told you! But all I could think of was keeping you safe. I know I was wrong, darling." He could barely talk for the grief. "Forgive me. Forgive me."

Eyes tearing once again, she let herself sink to the grass beside him. Kissing his forehead, she smiled, ”Of course I forgive you. How could you ever doubt that? I love you, Darien. I love you enough to forgive you anything. But . . . " His eyes looked up in fear. "Don't do this again, please. I couldn't take it if you left me again . . ."

She was crying too, and he hated himself with a virulence that was almost beyond bearing.

"Never, my love, never."

The End

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 02:54:46 GMT

With all the writing I do, I figured it was time to get a journal just for fiction.

Not that I do a lot of fiction writing, but there's definitely been enough to make it worth it.

This'll mostly be fanfic, since I always make a go at selling my original fic when I think it's any good. (So, that probably means whatever original stuff I put up here is horrid, permanently unfinished, or has no market. Probably the first.)

Recs posted here may or may not be crossposted to servalan . I really haven't decided.

I'm going to start by putting up a whole bunch of old fic. This will include at least one story from:
- Sailor Moon
- Harry Potter (way more than one)
- Buffy, the Vampire Slayer
- Forever Knight
- Art Marju Duchain (j-rock)

Some of these will be finished, some have been permanently abandoned.