My Misguided Fairytale

[fanfiction] Homecoming

mymisguided — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 23:31:25 GMT

Title: Homecoming
Genres: Mystery, Angst
Word Count: 3,240
Summary: There are a great many things she can think of that are in need of rebuilding, and this house is the least of them.
A/N: Written for the Unconventional Courtship Harlequin AU fic challenge, using summary #15, The Officer and the Lady, as my inspiration. I’ve changed two things about the original prompt, namely giving it a Regency England setting and switching the gender roles. This features the YGO pairing of Obscureshipping (Ishizu x Shaadi). There are no canonical names for Mr. and Mrs. Ishtar, but I have given them the names Nassor and Panya, respectively. I hope you enjoy the story.

Homecoming
When she first leaves the Ishtar Estate, she swears she will never return. There is nothing left there for her— not in the immaculately kept gardens, not in the large, sprawling brick house, covered with ivy on one side, not in the family who lived within it or those who served them. She burns the letters they send and uses her inheritance to build a life for herself, intending to send back the money once she can do so. Rishid had stayed behind to care for Marik, still under Nassor’s iron grip, and that had been the last she’d heard of them.

The letters are always written in Nassor’s hand. They never mention her brothers. She remembers the day she had left—it was raining, and the sky seemed to suck all of the life out of the tall grasses and rolling hills, painting the world in the drabbest shade of gray. Now, as she returns, to a sunrise so majestic it seems like the sun and stars are returning the life they’d stolen, it seems less like an apology and more like a condolence.

The house has fared poorly in her absence, and as it first comes into view she barely recognizes it. Columns are cracked and stained from water and the evidence of the fire that had taken Nassor and her brothers’ lives. The ivy has grown uncontrollably, and seems to overtake the entire left wing of the house in a verdant, roiling curtain. The carriage rolls to a stop.

She enters the house with a valise in one hand, instructing her driver to unload the rest of her boxes and cases. In the entryway, she stands and looks down the darkened corridors, each step creaking over dusty wooden floors.

“Hello?” she calls out, stepping into the parlor and looking past the neatly kept shelves and dusted tables. This room has been repaired, she realizes, and well kept. She had been told that there would be staff on hand to meet her, but excepting this room, the house seems entirely vacant.

She tries again. “Hello?”

She hears more floorboards creaking several rooms over, and when a dark-suited figure appears in the doorway and bows before her she is gripped with a sudden wistfulness, remembering how the very same man would bow to her when they both were children, her the oldest of the Ishtar family, him the son of her father’s valet. Each member of the Estate’s staff was entirely devoted to their charges, and just seeing one person she remembers is enough to make her forget about how much she barely recognizes the house, if only for a moment.

“Miss Ishizu Ishtar, I apologize,” he says, before rising and walking over to a side cabinet and pulling out a large metal candlestick. “If I had known you were coming today I would have done more—prepared a meal, or cleaned more of the upper rooms. Your old room is ready for you if you want it, as well as the master’s rooms, if those would be more to your liking.”

“Shaadi.” She says his name with a smile, and when he holds out the candlestick, lit with three blazing tapers, she sets her valise down and takes it. “It is good to see a familiar face. I am glad you are here. Where are the others?”

Shaadi’s own smile is sad, and he walks around her to pick up her valise, taking his time before he speaks. “There are no others. I am the only one who remained behind after…” He swallows, and his fingers tighten around the valise’s handle. “This house is as much a part of me as I am of it. I live for your family, so I will try to serve you to the best of my ability, if you would have me.” He bows again.

“You have already done much,” she says, knowing that the restoration of the parlor and the two bedrooms he mentioned must have been his work. “I would be my honor.”

“Let me show you the rooms.” He crosses the floor, and she follows him back into the hallway. “It will not be as you remember—the fire destroyed much of the back of the house, and I have determined that while it is safe to live in, it will take a lot of work and money to rebuild.”

“I won’t be staying for that,” she says, and he stops before the stairs.

“Why not?”

“I’m only here to see to the settlement of my family’s affairs,” she tells him. “I know I…missed the funerals, but there is still the matter of what to do with the house and the money Nassor left behind. I am sure there are debts to be settled, and once my business is complete here I will be returning to London. There is nothing for me out here, Shaadi.”

“I see.” He turns and ascends the staircase, taking each step slowly. The candlestick in her hand burns bright, and she uses it to study the house—the blackened wallpaper, the particles of dust floating in the light pouring in from open windows, and the straight back and unyielding determination of the man walking in front of her.

He opens a door, and she can see how beautifully the room has been restored—the furniture is simple, just the basics, and it looks very different from how she remembers it—there is barely a trace of Nassor left in this room. The large mantle above the hearth is the only recognizable feature.

When Shaadi speaks, his voice is guarded. “You are the master of the house now. It is only fitting that this should be yours, if you want it.”

She wavers for only a second, her eyes sweeping across the room, to the large window overlooking the back gardens. From her place by the wall, she can only see the bright blue of the cloudless sky.

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “I’ll take this room. You’re right—it is mine now.”

“I’ll have your things brought inside. Please excuse me.” He bows again. “I’ll be in the library, if you wish to find me.”

After he closes the door and leaves, she walks to the bed and sits down. She looks at the hearth, and wonders if it was in this room that the fire began. She wonders who lit the flames.

The rest of the room may be immaculate and clean, but the hearth is still full of soot and ash, stuck in time. It is not something that would have been easy to clean—it is the sort of thing that lasts, a tribute to the lives lost.

She does not allow herself to cry, but she cannot bring herself to do anything but collapse on her side and draw her arms in close, taking deep shuddering breaths until she feels calm again.

She wonders if she’s doing the right thing, in coming back. The house survived for so long without her, and she always believed she could survive without it, and everything it stood for.

Ishizu rolls over again, sitting up and facing the window that shows nothing but clear blue sky. She stands and walks towards it, resting her arms on the sill, and looks out at all of the land for miles. Below, she can see that the damage was at its worst on the left wing of the house, and while it is blackened and vacant, it has not fallen.

It is still standing, and so is she.

--
When she walks into the library, she doesn’t know what she was expecting. Certainly not this—the room looks to be midway in restoration—the ceilings are bare and discolored by the evidence of smoke, but the rugs and what little furniture remains in the room are new.

Catching sight of the far wall, covered in bookcases, her heart falls. Shaadi is working near the corner, cleaning an empty shelf, newly constructed out of a dark stained wood. There is no ornamentation, and the construction is rough; she wonders if he has built it himself.

The shelves closest to her, however, are still full of whatever they had held prior to the fire. Ishizu walks closer, and when Shaadi hears her footsteps, he turns.

“Nassor hated books,” she says, reaching out towards a row of cracked leather spines. Her fingers hesitate, and she withdraws them. “But Panya loved them, so he built this for her.”

“I know.”

She feels silly for even bringing it up. Of course he would know her family better than she does.

“There are so many missing.” Ishizu notes the empty shelves, and remembers the volumes that filled them. First editions, books of a dozen different languages, and historical artifacts had filled these shelves, relics from every corner of the globe, combining both Nassor and Panya’s loves. And all of it reduced to ash. Their love could not save her life. Their love could not stop a fire. She has not ever tried to love, for fear of having something so precious to lose.

“Paper burns fast,” Shaadi says. “I was in this room. Before long, I could not see through the smoke, but I grabbed as much as I could. I…” And he hesitates, shoulders slumping. “I had to sell many things to settle your family’s debts in your absence, and to begin the restoration. I admit, however, that I have financed the majority of it myself. All of the work has been mine.”

She looks up so sharply her head spins, her study of the blackened books forgotten. “You—”

“Many of the titles and grants burned. Bribes had to be paid. We had not heard from you in so long, we did not know if…” His voice breaks, and he exhales sharply to conceal a shudder. “I did not want to believe you were dead.”

She had never stayed in one place for long, running from one salon to the next while in London and taking ships bound for France or Portugal when the government had need of her language skills.

“I am taking my time with this room,” Shaadi continues, his tone almost reverent. “I want to make its restoration perfect.”

“It was my favorite,” Ishizu admits softly. At Shaadi’s glance, she gives him a sad smile. “I learned so much in this room. I learned to read, but I also learned to hate.”

“I am sorry,” Shaadi offers. “for your brother’s cruel treatment.”

“And now he’s dead, and so is Nassor.” It’s refreshing, to know that everyone responsible for her brother’s pain is dead, but it sickens her to know that she is the last of her name. “I left him. Nassor burned something into his skin and I left him.”

“If you hadn’t, you might be dead too,” Shaadi reminds her, his voice as cold as the air, and as still as the resulting silence.

When she finally speaks, he has to strain to hear. “At least I wouldn’t be alone.”

“You’re not alone. And you’ll never be alone again,” Shaadi tells her. “Unless you wish for me to leave.”

“I…have grown accustomed to loneliness,” she says. “It is how I have survived, all these years.”

“You could learn.” He turns back towards the wall, giving his attention now towards cleaning the windows.

“This room was never my favorite,” he continues, and Ishizu is grateful for the change.

“Which one was?” she asks. At her use of was, he frowns in disapproval; she can see it in his reflection in the glass.

“You’ll see my favorite soon enough,” he says. “I’m not ready to show it to you yet.”

She’s seen most of the house on her own explorations, and it puzzles her that there could be a space he has finished that she has yet to see. Was it in one of the cellars? Or by the carriage house?

“So it’s a surprise, then?”

He nods, and she leaves, walking back towards the front of the house and thinking about searching for whatever surprise he has planned. She’s never liked when other people keep secrets.

She thinks about going for a walk, but the weather is almost too nice for that. She wants a storm, something she can lose herself in, something that can match her anger.

So instead she unpacks, wondering the entire time why she’s doing it if she’s just going to have to pack everything up again a few days later. It makes no sense to move in, to treat this room as anything other than temporary.

But then she stares at the bottom of her empty bags, and doesn’t feel so empty herself anymore.

--
He’s cooked dinner for the two of them every night, something basic and bland, and she can’t bring herself to even provide small-talk across the table that used to seat a dozen comfortably. She’d have to shout to be heard, and already the clinking of spoons against bowls is loud as gunfire to her ears.

So they do not talk, and every day progresses the same—Ishizu leaves to visit with various local officials and family friends, and returns late in the evenings. Too late to watch Shaadi work, and while he waits during their dinners for her to break the silence and ask him about his progress, she stumbles over words that never even leave her throat.

She doesn’t want to talk about the past, so she refuses to ask him about it. After their prior conversation, he’s not keen to ask her questions about her future. They end up saying nothing at all, and for some time, that suits her perfectly.

She lets two whole days pass after her last meeting without arranging for transportation back to London. Some part of her doesn’t want to leave, although the majority of her business is complete. There is still the matter of the house—it would make more sense to sell the property than to keep it if she did not intend to live in it, but then she watches Shaadi hard at work, rebuilding the house room-by-room, and something in her chest tightens. She wonders why she cannot have the same dedication to it that he has. She wonders what she has at all in her life that she can say she is as devoted to.

She postpones packing her things, but that morning she tells Shaadi to arrange for a carriage to take her back to London the following day. There’s no sense putting it off, she tells him, and smiles to make herself believe it. He bows, and leaves her, and she does not see him for the rest of the day. She waits for him in the dining room, at the end of that long table, and still he is not there. When the sun touches the edge of the horizon, he appears, looking out of breath, and declares that her surprise is finally ready.

He takes her by the elbow, leading her towards the back of the house, and asks that she close her eyes.

“I’ll tell you when you can open them again,” he says. “Just follow me. I won’t let you fall.”

She takes uneven steps, and wraps her hand around his arm a bit tighter. The level changes as they go from one room—the kitchens? She can smell whatever was cooked here recently—and outside to steps and eventually, grass. The air is cool, and the breeze blows her hair against her face, but she makes no move to brush it away. She does not need her eyes when she has Shaadi to guide her.

She has no time for curiosity, but when Shaadi lightly releases her arm and settles both his hands on her shoulders to turn her body to the side, she wonders just what he has done to this space. Ishizu has little memory of the gardens as they had existed before the fire, but she remembers it had been very neatly ordered—well-trimmed hedges, controlled flowerbeds, none of the ivy that plagued the left wing of the house.

“Open your eyes,” he tells her, and she does, gasping at the transformation. It is clear to her that when he spoke of his favorite part of the house, he was speaking of this garden. It is beautiful in a wild way, and he has combined the brokenness from the ruin with the new life from blooming flowers and sprawling grasses. Cracked flagstones serve as their path, and Shaadi leads them to a table lit by candles, with a dinner set for the both of them. The table sits at the base of a tall tree, its branches covered with winding vines, and through the cover of the branches she can see the setting sun.

“I wish you could see this house as I see it,” Shaadi says, his voice soft. “Please reconsider leaving it.”

“You could come with me.” Ishizu grasps his hands in hers, ignoring his astonishment, surprised herself at how suddenly fierce she sounds. Some part of her wants desperately to run, but even as her feet remain rooted firmly to the ground she wonders just what she is trying to escape. There is nothing left of the painful place of her memories here, and although she can never break away from the shackles of her family's name it's startling to realize that she has control over it now. It will never control her again. “You could come with me to London. We could travel the world together.”

“But this is my world,” he says.

“Is that really what you want?” At first, it is hard to imagine—imagine anyone not wanting to run from this place—but then she looks at him again, and realizes that when he looks at it, he sees something very different from what she sees. He looks at her with that same dedication now, and Ishizu tightens her hands around his. She needs that stability, more than she realizes.

“I told you once, I live for you. I will serve you however you choose, and wherever you go.” She can see how his throat tightens as he swallows, and he bows again, over their joined hands.

“This is not the same place it once was,” he continues. “That is not what you want, right?” When he looks up at her, his smile is kind and warm. “We can rebuild it, however you like. It can be better than it ever was. I have already started, but…without an Ishtar, it has no meaning. Please stay.”

There are a great many things she can think of that are in need of rebuilding, and this house is the least of them. “Something better,” she says. “I think I’d like that.”

She looks around the garden; it combines the best of what is broken and new, and when she turns back towards Shaadi, she knows that there is no one she trusts more to help rebuild it than him. Perhaps he can rebuild more than just this house.

“The garden is beautiful,” she tells him. “I can barely even recognize it.”

“Then let me reacquaint you,” he says, and leads her forward.

End.
-----------
Notes: The original prompt is as follows: An officer in the East India Trading Company, Matthew Beresford has made a life a world away from England and his father’s malevolence. Now it’s time for Matthew to return home.
There, he finds Miss Imogen Priestley, who’s worked tirelessly to save the Thornfield estate from ruin. Cold and aloof, Matthew gradually thaws as he begins to imagine a new life – with Imogen. But he’s torn – the blistering heat of India will wilt his English rose, unless he can vanquish his demons and find his home at last with her…

[drabble] Carbon Copy

mymisguided — Sat, 23 Feb 2013 00:37:06 GMT

Mission archive-old-drabbles is complete! Next mission: masterlist!

Challenge Name and Number: #068, Technology
Drabble Title: Carbon Copy
Word Count: 600
Warnings (if applicable): none
Pairings (if applicable): Rishid x Kisara
Summary: One day he entered the library to see a new installation.
Author's Note: Semi-AU, could be seen as post-canon? I hope you enjoy.

Carbon Copy
The building was absolutely beautiful, with giant cavernous ceilings and windows that stretched to align with the sky, letting in soft light and, on rainy days, the sound of raindrops and the sharp crack of lightning above the rafters and tall bookcases.

Rishid was grateful for the windows on most days; the library’s traffic was slight, and when there were no customers to help or books to re-shelve he could spend his time reading. He would gladly read all day and night, if the changing light did not jolt him from his reverie and remind him that he had to lock up, eat, and sleep, in order to return the next morning to do it all over again.

As with most things in the city, the library operations had been privatized to Kaiba Corporation, who were determined to integrate technology with the existing record-keeping systems, digitizing books and documents from the city’s registers, keeping it on-hand in the event it was needed, letting it rest in digital storage instead of gathering dust on physical shelves.

Not that Rishid would have given the shelves the opportunity to collect dust, he kept the place clean—far cleaner than his own apartment, he had to admit, but it was clear enough which place he truly considered home—and one day he entered the library to see a new installation. A circular device was set in the middle of the entrance, projecting blue light from which formed a woman, hovering above the ground with translucent arms outstretched in salutation.

“Welcome,” she said, bowing her head slightly. She was fashioned in varying shades of paleness, from her hair to the ruffled hem of her dress. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”

“Who are you?” Rishid stared at her in wonder, circling the holographic disc set into the floor.

“I am the interactive AI,” was her answer.

“I asked who you are, not what,” he said, and was rewarded with a smile.

“My creator named me Kisara.” He did not have to ask who her creator was, he could see the KC logo emblazoned into the device, plain as day. “I was created to catalogue and manage data, as well as complete any tasks you assign me.”

He was beyond impressed, and told her so. “Are you already familiar with the library’s systems?”

She looked thoughtful. “I need to run routine maintenance before I can sync myself with the servers. As you are aware, this is the first day of this project. But I am confident things will run smoothly.”

The next day, Kisara greeted him when he entered the library for work with an, "Is there anything I can assist you with this morning?" There weren't any patrons that early and all he had to do was re-shelve books, but he smiled at the flickering hologram and said, "Yes—you can keep me company."

The AI gave him an odd look, but followed him dutifully as he carried a stack of books towards the shelves, her long hair shimmering behind her to reflect the names of a thousand different titles with a thousand different plots; Rishid had read them all, and saw his own life echoed in the texts. He hoped that his own would have a happy ending.

Beside him, Kisara smiled.

“Have you read this one?” he asked, selecting a favorite.

“Not in the way that you do,” she said, “but I have memorized its contents.”

“I think you’ll gain something through a different approach. May I read to you?” She nodded, and he opened the book to the first page.

Also, massive thanks to YGODrabble and Silsmile for the banner! I admit, sometimes I write wacky pairings just to see what they can come up with if I win, and this banner is absolutely beautiful. <3

Challenge #068 – Technology

[drabble] Cohesion

mymisguided — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 07:12:26 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #066, Rebellion
Drabble Title: Cohesion
Word Count: 592
Warnings (if applicable): none
Pairings (if applicable): Mischiefshipping (Mana x TKB)
Summary: “Just imagine what else you could make, if your thoughts were clear?”
Author's Note: AE. I hope you enjoy!

Cohesion
Mana stared at her hands, determined to make them cast the spell properly this time. She could manipulate the sand cupped in her palms into various shapes, streaming it through the air to hover, motionless, but anything more advanced seemed beyond her reach.

Her instructor wasn't helping matters, try as he might. For their lessons, Mahaado often stood behind her, enveloping her in the long reach of his shadow, and offered a stringent assessment of her technique and progress as she worked at their lessons.

Mahaado had told her, “You must learn so that one day you may defend the Pharaoh and his Kingdom as I do.”

The sand wavered limply in the air before dropping back to slip between the cracks of her fingers. The pressure was getting to her, none of it was helping her learn any faster. As long as she practiced her magic in the rooms or courtyards of the palace, the reality of it was too hard to grasp.

So, one day, she decided to do something about it, slipping outside to the city beyond, alone, dressed in plain clothes in varied shades of brown to blend in. Sand was ubiquitous in Egypt, after all, and as long as she had access to it she could practice anywhere.

Mana eventually settled beside a building, out of the way of most who traveled the busier streets but still close enough that she could hear their voices, let the chatter wash over her and calm her in the way that strict commands and expectant silence could not. She gathered a handful of sand and began to work with it, shaping it and trying to solidify it. Mahaado had done it for her, once, creating a lump of clear glass without imperfections.

A voice, deep enough to be undeniably male, broke her reverie. “What’cha doing?”

Mana looked up to see him standing there; he looked to be about as old as Mahaado, but the speaker was rougher-looking in all ways, from his ragged clothes to the dirt smudged over his nose and cheeks, seeming to highlight the prominent scar crossing one. He dropped down beside her without invitation, leaning against the wall at their backs and propping one arm up on a knee.

“That’s magic, isn’t it?” he continued to ask. “You’re a magician. Like the ones that work for the Pharaoh?”

She knew it wouldn’t be smart to tell him that she was one of them, but confirmed his first question. “Magic, yes. I’m working with sand.”

“Good choice of weapon.”

“Weapon? No, I’m only to learn defensive magic,” she said. “And what do you know of magic, anyway?”

“I know enough to know why it’s not working for you.” His smug grin grew wider as she gaped at him, disbelieving. “You’re trying to solidify it, aren’t you? But it’ll never work unless you have a clear image in mind. What would you like to make? Here…” And he grabbed her hands, settling them over the ground to shape the sand there. “You see the shape? Can you transform it?”

She nodded, and in a puff of smoke, a thick blade of glass appeared before her, its edge ugly and jagged.

“Congratulations, magician,” he said to her, closing her fingers around the top. “Just imagine what else you could make, if your thoughts were clear?”

She did not want the knife. “You keep it,” she told him, drawing her hands away and moving to her feet, stumbling away to the sound of the man’s laughter ringing in her ears.

[drabble] 14 Gift Drabbles

mymisguided — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 04:18:59 GMT

Even more old drabbles from the YGO Fanfiction Contest Forums, courtesy of this meme:

1) Give me a pairing
2) Give me an AU setting
3) I will write you a three-sentence (or more!) fic

Some of these are ancient! From April of last year...gotta dust off those cobwebs! The Foreignshipping might make a future YGO Drabble appearance ~~if it's not dead? D:~~

Behind the cut, in order: Jadeshipping, Foreignshipping, Manipulashipping, Softshipping, Antagoshipping, Rewindshipping, Bayshipping, Puppetshipping, Exoticshipping, Stubbornshipping, Staffshipping, Sparkleshipping, Ettushipping, and Lingershipping.

As always, if you'd like a drabble, leave me a comment with a pairing and an AU/prompt!

Pairing: Jadeshipping (Otogi x Ishizu) | AU: Company Party
For: Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker

She had thought it odd at first when he showed up at the entrance to the party and took her elbow, leading her through the crowds and inside with a grin and a whispered greeting. She found it odder still when he fetched her a drink and offered to show her around, moving them through rooms and across several floors packed with dancing couples, remarking upon a few pieces of art - at which point she realized that he was purposefully avoiding someone, and using her as a shield - and instead steered him onto the dance floor, where he couldn't escape.

"You weren't invited to this party, were you?" she asked, and he scowled at being found out so easily, mumbling, "must've gotten lost in the mail."

Pairing: Leon x Rebecca (Foreignshipping) | AU: Fairy Tale
For: Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker

"Where did you get an axe?" Leon jumped back as the girl in red struck out at him again; her aim was poor, and he was grateful for the few extra seconds of respite when she embedded the axe deep in a tree and had to yank it loose. Really, was walking in the woods alone at sundown such a crime? "What's your problem?"

"Look at those wolf ears! You're clearly dangerous! And you were following me!" the girl shrieked, and advanced on him, switching the axe to one hand when her hood slipped over her eyes. "Damn this jacket!"

"There's only one path through the forest! And don't flatter yourself, I was visiting my older brother!" Leon didn't know why he was trying to explain himself to her, but then he remembered the snacks his brother had packed for him - Leon was his only visitor, and he always gave him way too much food. Was he trying to fatten him up or something? He hoped a peace offering would help diffuse the situation.

"Would you like some cookies?"

His eyebrow began to twitch at how easily the girl seemed to recover her sanity, storing the axe somewhere on her person, but as she snatched the cookie with one hand and wound her other through one of his arms, he gave up and resigned himself to whatever she had in mind. It couldn't be worse than being attacked out of the blue with an axe, right?

He was wrong, as she began to pet his ears, dragging cookie crumbs through his hair. "Hey, that cottage in the forest wouldn't happen to be yours, would it? Can I visit sometime? How about tomorrow?"

Leon began to understand why he and his brother typically kept to themselves. The rest of the world was crazy.

Pairing: Anzu x Marik (Manipulashipping) | AU: Wonderland
For: Princess-Kally

"Move down, move down!" Marik shouted, and Anzu slipped into the next seat over, folding her hands over the armrests. Marik had taken up her half-finished cup of tea and was sipping it contentedly - and for that she was glad, as he had a horrible propensity for overbrewing it, and no matter how much sugar she heaped into it, it still tasted bitter.

"Move down!" He shouted again, spinning the now-empty cup on the table. Anzu glanced to her right.

"There aren't any more chairs--"

Her complaint was lost on him as Marik settled himself in her lap, reaching for the teapot to pour himself a new cup. He leaned back and she watched the steam rise from over his shoulder.

"You better not spill that," she said.

Pairing: Ryou x Shizuka (Softshipping) | AU: Regency
For: Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker

"Shizuka, your hair!" Her best friend, Anzu, reached out to pull a loose curl over her shoulder, checking and adjusting the elaborate updo. "Your ribbon is gone! Did it fall out?"

"It couldn't have." She reached a hand back to check for herself, but Anzu snatched it away.

"You'll mess it up! The pins are still holding, so you should be fine. I wonder where it went?"

She didn't voice her opinions aloud, but it was far more likely someone had stolen it. There was a bit of a game going among some of the boldest among them, trading favors as small as pins to as large as gloves or fans, and she wondered who had ended up with her ribbon - who had been nimble enough to take it without her even noticing.

Was there anyone she had slighted? There were plenty who pursued her, but a singular moment stood out to her - there was a man, a newcomer, who had asked her for a dance when a second later her brother's friend had whisked her away with no mind to her protestations. And there he stood, off to the side, dressed in a sharply tailored suit of blue, his white hair standing out among the plainer colors of the others in his company. Her own expression deepened into a disapproving frown when she noticed her own hair ribbon binding his queue.

"I'll give it back to you for a dance," he told her.

"Keep it. I don't want it back anymore."

"I would still like a dance." He offered his hand, and when she settled her own over his he slipped something into her palm. She recognized a button, one of the beautifully decorative silver ones from his cuff. "If you won't let me return your ribbon I'd like you to have something of mine, in exchange."

He took her elbow instead, and with her fingers locked around the button, she had no choice but to slip it in a pocket; it would have been too rude to drop it on the floor.

Pairing: Seto Kaiba x Yami Bakura (Antagoshipping) | AU: Employees
For: Princess-Kally

He didn't know what he had expected when he agreed to work for Seto Kaiba - thankfully temporarily, although he figured getting paid to find chances to annoy Seto was a win-win situation - but he had thought it would be a bit more glamorous than this. Was a helicopter ride over the city too much to ask? Apparently, as Bakura set the coffee cup down on the desk with a clink. Half a day into the job, and he hadn't done anything more interesting.

"So," he drawled, "I'm your personal assistant...anything else I can do for you?"

Seto didn't even look up from his laptop, gesturing to a stack of paper on the edge of his desk. "Copy those."

Bakura sighed as he collected the files. Well, his current efforts were being wasted; Seto was more into his work than he thought, and to make any impact at all he would have to be about as subtle as a brick wall. He wanted to make things interesting...it was only his first day, but he didn't like to waste time. Seto should at least be able to appreciate that much.

Pairing: Yami Yugi x Priest Seto (Rewindshipping) | Prompt: Habits
For: Azhdarcho

A light knock on the door startled him, and when he turned Yugi - the other Yugi, the one who looked so much like his Pharaoh - was there, standing in the doorway. Where the others approached him awkwardly, unsure what to say, making odd attempts to console him for what had happened when he found himself among them in the present, this Yugi was different, and his approach was always direct.

"Am I interrupting you?" he asked.

"I was meditating." Further explanation was not required, but he found himself continuing regardless. "I used to take the afternoons around this time for personal meditation, before..." He paused. "I find continuing the practice helps."

"Join us," the other Yugi continued. "Friday evenings, Jonouchi has a movie night, and Honda brings the pizza...it's a fun tradition. We don't want you to be so alone."

He did not have to extend the invitation, and it was for that reason that Set found himself accepting. "Far be it from me to break your habits."

Pairing: Priest Seto x Noah (Bayshipping) | Prompt: Abacus
For: Azhdarcho

When Noah had found himself suddenly stranded in Ancient Egypt - the result of an experiment gone horribly wrong, the machine was only supposed to transport him through space, not through time - the threat had been very clear: make himself useful to the Pharaoh, or he would be kicked out into the streets, where people were less kind to foreign strangers. The closest he had been able to describe his occupation so they would understand had been mathematician, and one day when the Priest who was his overseer had visited him, he brought along a familiar device and placed it before him.

Noah stared at the series of beads strung on wooden sticks, and absently flicked a few with his thumb.

"It's an abacus," Priest Set explained. "You use it to count."

"It's crude," he answered. "I can count in my head just as well, and to higher numbers than I can with this."

Set knew he was being insulted, but let it slide, preferring to ignore the strange man entirely while he worked on whatever project the kingdom assigned to him. Set considered himself a perceptive man, but when weeks later he noticed Noah carrying around the abacus, he couldn't understand why, and resolved to ask.

"If you do not need it, why do you value it?" he asked.

Noah looked at him, and his fingers tightened around the wooden frame. "It was a gift," he said slowly, "and it is the only possession I own. That gives it value, to me."

When the Ring Priest asked Set why he had stopped complaining about having to watch over Noah, he couldn't provide an answer, and refused when the Priest offered to give Set a break from it.

Later, he went through his belongings, and selected another gift.

Pairing: Malik x Strings (Puppetshipping) | AU: Pirates
For: Sierra's Darkness

Marik turned to the captain of the pirate ship they'd captured, one hand never leaving the hilt of the sword at his hip, just in case; he'd heard stories before, of other ships with lesser captains who had allowed their captives to rise up and take over their own ship, a keen strategy that he could appreciate, if not respect. They had been standing on the deck of the ship for almost an hour now, and throughout his verbal dressing-down, the other captain had refused to say a word in his defense, to the point where Marik turned to the others standing behind the pale, piercing-laden man and barked, "Why does he not speak? Is he mute?"

The second-in-command stepped forward, speaking up. "He is not mute, but he has taken a vow of silence. He will not say a word to you, not now, or ever."

"We'll see about that," Marik said, motioning for his officers to take the others to the brig. "If he will not speak, we will try to make him scream."

Pairing: Yami Bakura x Ishizu (Exoticshipping) | AU: Laundromat
For: Graces of the Child

The man throwing his clothes into the machine across from her wasn't wearing a shirt. Or socks, she noticed after a closer look, but at least he was wearing pants. Ishizu collected her clothes, folding them briskly and sliding them into a paper bag, pausing after she closed the dryer door to turn to the man who had by now lifted himself to sit on top of an adjoining washer and was watching her.

"Spare a few quarters?" he asked.

"Let me guess - you need detergent, too?" Rolling her eyes, she dug in a pocket, coming up with seventy-five cents; she held them out, but refused to move closer, making him have to lean forward to take the coins from her, bracing his toes against the floor to keep from tipping off the washer.

"I'm in luck," he said. "If you can spare it."

The detergent she had with her was a flowery, feminine scent, and she set the bottle on the counter, watching his expression with a smile. "Lucky you."

Pairing: Honda x Seto (Stubbornshipping) | AU: Fight Club
For: Graces of the Child

In school, he had tried to hide the bruises with a jacket, but gym class made that impossible, and the others had crowded around him, asking questions.

"Where did you get that?" Yugi asked. "What happened? Does it hurt?"

"Watch it-!" And Seto jerked away when Yugi poked the flowering bruise, dark against his pale shoulder.

Behind him, Honda hid a smirk, rolling his own shoulder with the memory of it - his own marks were confined to his back, mementos of the prior night and the empty parking lot behind that one club where people met to duke it out for cash and the thrill. He knew where those bruises came from; he had been the one who had inflicted them.

Pairing: Yugi x Malik (Liberashipping) | AU: Nurse's Office
For: Graces of the Child

"Say ahhh--"

"Yugi, shut it. I'm fine! You didn't have to bring me here," he said, frowning. "But now that you did, I'm going to get aid from a real nurse, not you."

"But she's busy! Let me help." Yugi dragged Marik to one of the cots, and waited for him to take a seat. He lifted a hand to Marik's forehead, eyes widening at how hot it was. "Marik! You've got a fever!" He waved the nurse over, all but stumbling over his words as he relayed the story of how Marik had collapsed in class and Yugi had volunteered to bring him to the nurse's office.

"I'll need to take your temperature, then," the nurse said, grabbing a thermometer and replacing the tip with a new one. "Say ahhh."

Marik stared daggers at Yugi, but did as requested, knowing he couldn't stay mad at the other for long when Yugi looked that worried.

Pairing: Marik x Mana (Staffshipping) | AU: Gangster AU
For: Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker

"Where's the boss?" Marik asked, looking over the rim of his dark sunglasses. It was easier to see with his own eyes, especially through the dim light and the fog. It was all for appearances, though, and his new employer sure enjoyed the spectacle, if what he'd heard were true. The communicator around his wrist beeped, and he lifted it to his mouth. "It's all clear over here."

"Great!" The girl skipped up to him from behind, and Marik's heart missed a few beats as he tried to figure out just how she had approached him without his knowledge. She was dressed like him, in a dark suit with her hair slicked back, away from her face, and she grabbed his arm and tugged on it, in the direction of the back doors to the theatre. "Come on! I don't want to be late!"

At his expression, the girl continued, "You haven't been working long, have you?" Her excited grin widened. "Don't tell me this is your first job?"

He nodded, once, flinching again when the girl continued to tug on his arm. "Well, then, let me introduce myself. I'm Mana - I'm the one who hired you!"

"You mean..." His boss had turned out to be this girl? He turned, slipping his arm from her grasp and sliding it around her instead, leading them towards the doors. "Then let me do my job. Let's go."

Pairing: Mana x Kisara (Sparkleshipping) | AU: Cooking Class
For: Graces of the Child

"Tell me how it is, and don't hold back!" Kisara said as Mana raised the fork to her lips.

"It's...great."

Mana looked up at Kisara's hopeful face; how could she say anything else? The food was overcooked and oversalted, but Kisara had been so enthusiastic preparing it that Mana would have hated to crush her spirit. The cooking class had even been her idea - Mana would have preferred to take the two to McDonald's instead of slaving away on fish and vegetables, and paying for the privilege to watch the other people around them make it better. This style of cooking was far too serious anyway, and she thought that when it came to cooking, if they couldn't have talent they could at least have fun. The staff hadn't agreed - really, you throw a carrot one time - and with the way they were watching her from the front of the room she figured she had better not chance even the most inadvertent 'accident' with the jar of flour on the back shelf.

"Really?" Kisara practically glowed at the compliment, and hastened to check the timer on the oven. "Are you sure? Did I season it enough?"

"Oh yeah. It was great." She made sure to keep her voice flat enough to praise but not enough so to encourage any future culinary experiments.

"Yours will be done soon! I can't wait to try it!"

When the oven beeped, Mana pulled her own dish out, feeling a slight stab of pride at how nice it looked. Was it supposed to smell like that? At least it wasn't burned! She could chalk that up as a success.

"So...? How is it?" Mana leaned across the table. "Be honest, now."

Kisara took a bite, taking a few moments to think about it.

"Mana..." She set the fork down and pushed the dish away from her, sighing. "It's...terrible."

Pairing: Seto x Jonouchi x Mai (Ettushipping) | AU: Laser Tag
For: Graces of the Child

He'd lost track of the others soon after they entered the maze. It was so dark, and the sound effects from the laser gun in his hands made him feel like he was really in some kind of alien battle, and not just in a game. He was sure that somewhere Honda was doing combat rolls, right in the thick of the action.

If he could, he should take a position of high ground, tracking and sniping. Charging forward blindly would only make himself a target. He'd never live it down if he lost to someone like Mai, or God forbid, Kaiba. Or Mokuba. Or his sister.

Really, he just had to beat all of them.

The sensors on his shoulders buzzed, and he instantly surged to the right, hiding behind a low wall. He'd been hit! He checked the ID on his gun to find the codename of the shooter.

Dragon.

Oh, hell no. Kaiba thought he could shoot him and get away with it? Hah, he'd find out just how wrong he was. Jonouchi knew the shot had to have come from behind him; he knew this maze well, and he could double back on the shooter and take him down. He dashed to the side, keeping as low as possible as he ran up a side ramp to the higher level, checking the corners as he went. He turned, gun poised, and nearly ran into another player at the top of the tower.

"Wait...Kaiba?" That couldn't be possible; Kaiba was on the opposite side, wasn't he?

"Jonouchi. You have three seconds to get out of my tower before I shoot you."

"What?" Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. "What's your ID?"

"Find out for yourself." The sensors on his shoulders lit up again as Kaiba shot him.

"What the--?" He glanced down at his gun for the ID.

"You used your name? Who uses their name in laser tag?" Jonouchi took a step closer, pushing Kaiba aside with his shoulder to peer out through the windows. He could see thin dots of red on the other towers, identifying the other players' guns. A difficult shot, but the one that racked up the most points.

"Get your own tower."

Jonouchi ignored him. "Someone's pretending to be you down there. Has a player named Dragon shot you yet?"

Kaiba glowered. "I thought that was you."

"Ha, no. I'm Jinzo." He raised the gun to his shoulder, spotting movement below. When the face came into view, he knew just who was playing them.

"I've got a proposition for ya, Kaiba." He watched Mai as she expertly navigated the maze, staying in the shadows and using the walls and columns to keep herself shielded. "Let's work together to take her down."

Kaiba gave him the barest of nods. Well, that was enough. And when they were done, he'd get his chance to pay him back for that earlier shot.

Pairing: Atem x Isis (Lingershipping) | Prompt: Makeup
For: Graces of the Child

"Hold still." She dragged the brush beneath his eyes, winging the color out at the side. At the last second, he turned his head back, and the brush skittered across his cheek. Isis pursed her lips, reaching out a thumb to try and wipe the streak of black away without smudging the rest. "I told you not to move!"

"If I turn away, I cannot watch you." He grimaced as she reached for a sponge and used that to wipe away the traces of black on his cheek with a little more roughness than was probably required. "You look so...focused. I so rarely get to study you this close."

A light blush spread across her cheeks, and she picked the brush back up. "In order for me to finish you must close your eyes."

His face fell, but he did as requested. The next time she did his makeup, he let her work without protest or interruption.

[icons] Grimm Challenge #13 - 20in20

mymisguided — Sun, 28 Oct 2012 04:59:37 GMT

10 THEMES

Negative Space	Close Crop	Friendship	Comfort	Soft


Smile	Simple Life	Rival	Passion	Enemy

5 CATEGORY – Favorites

Episode	Ship	Main Character	Side Character	Moment/Scene

5 ARTIST'S CHOICE

Artist's Choice #1	Artist's Choice #2	Artist's Choice #3	Artist's Choice #4	Artist's Choice #5

Created by mymisguided for the 20in20 challenge over at Grimm-Challenge.
Caps from 1|2.
Comments are welcome and loved!

[fanfiction] Toxicity

mymisguided — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 02:19:12 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #03, Rewrite
Story Title: Toxicity
Word Count: 2338
Warnings (if applicable): Mild horror
Pairings (if applicable): None
Summary: The strongest magic is in blood. There is nothing that powerful blood cannot accomplish. It can construct and deconstruct. You will make such things some day when you are older.” Catherine smiled fondly at her daughter. “I cannot wait for that day.”
Author's Note: Some things I wish we would have seen in episode 1.17, “Love Sick,” as flashbacks; I found it fascinating that Grimm blood could cancel out Hexenbiests’ identities, so I wondered if perhaps the powers could be given in a similar kind of ritual. The quote is from the original Grimm version of Little Snow-White. First-Place Winner of the 3rd Grimm Challenge! I hope you enjoy.

"You specimen of beauty," said the wicked woman, "now you are finished."

Toxicity

When she was born her mother had hastened to grab the screaming infant from the nurse, halting the cries by grabbing her daughter’s tongue and turning it to spy the birthmark on the underside, puckered and dark. It was good, she said, that she had been favored and marked in such a way, and Catherine passed a hand over the top of the infant’s head, where what little bit of hair that had already grown in was downy and so light that it looked silver to her eyes. She was pleased at that much, but the squalling cries and the wrinkled face of her daughter were hardly beautiful, and so she ignored the child as she grew, delegated her to nannies and their extended clan, neighbor women with other girls of the same age who had less demands on their time.

“Adalind, my dear,” Catherine said, “come and help your mother get ready.” And the little girl, now seven, complied, white-blond hair bouncing as she hurried up to the vanity in her mother’s room, spread with foreign cosmetics and even stranger concoctions in rows of glass jars.

“This color, don’t you think?” Her mother held up a dark lipstick. Adalind nodded, watching her mother apply it. Catherine studied her own face in the mirror so intensely, giving so much of her attention towards the simple and inconsequential act of preparing her face for work.

“You too, dear.” Satisfied with her own appearance, she turned and grabbed Adalind’s face with slim, perfect fingers, gliding the lipstick on. It tasted waxy and was altogether too heavy, but when she stood on tiptoes to see in the mirror she looked like her mother. “Beautiful. I have such a beautiful daughter.”

She sounded proud of it.

She was often made-over alongside her mother, watching as she colored her face in the mornings or applied leeches in the evenings. Catherine would beckon her over and comb red-lacquered fingernails through her hair, talking to the vanity mirror before them about what she should do that evening. Minutes later, a green cream was spread over her neck and face, the smell so strong and repellent that it took all of her willpower not to scrape it off with her fingernails and heave the contents of her stomach into a bin in the corner. As she worked, she talked to her daughter, telling her the ingredients in each of her salves and solutions, turning even this into a lesson.

“You will have to do this for yourself one day when you are older,” she said. “You must learn to do it properly. My mother was very strict in my education, and I will not be lax with yours.”

Adalind hovered around her mother in the evenings, watching her work at her tables and her potions, mixing and fashioning different concoctions and disclosing the instructions.

“This one, dear, is a poison, to be injected into a person’s food. I think I’ll put it in an apple. Perfectly concealed, yet toxic only to the target from the way it is brewed. The strongest magic is in blood. There is nothing that powerful blood cannot accomplish. It can construct and deconstruct. You will make such things some day when you are older.” She smiled fondly at her daughter. “I cannot wait for that day.”

“When?” She looked up from the pestle she had been playing with, eager at the thought of pleasing her mother, of gaining the favor that she so infrequently bestowed. “What must I do?”

“It is a secret, my dear,” Catherine said. “You will learn when you are older, when you come into your inheritance. All of the secrets of our order shall be yours on that day. Then you will be able to truly help me serve our royal family.”

For a second, panic and terror seized her heart in an iron grip. “They will like me, won’t they? I won’t disappoint them?”

Her mother reached forward, white powder sticking to the edges of her fingers, and brushed a lock of hair behind Adalind’s ear. A bit of it smudged against her skin, but she refused to wipe it off, enjoying the gritty feel of it; it helped her keep Catherine’s touch in her memory longer.

“How could they not like you when you are so beautiful? One smile, and they will not be able to refuse you. I see big things for your future, my dear.” Her smile turned downwards, and she dismissed Adalind with a wave of a hand. “Now leave me, darling, I must do this next work in private.”

The years went on, and Adalind suffered under her mother’s auspices as she learned more and more of what she referred to as the family craft, making potions that hurt and healed and learning the names of every herb and plant in their stores.

“I remember it myself,” Catherine told her, days before her sixteenth birthday, “when I was given my birthright. We call it that for a reason, you know.” And she winked, as though she was sharing a joke.

“I cannot wait,” Adalind replied. And she couldn’t—after everything she had been told, after everything her mother had promised her, taking the final step seemed like a choice as natural as breathing. “I would like nothing more than to make you proud of me.”

Her birthday came and passed, and she was given nothing. “You will get your gifts,” her mother said in a low whisper. “Soon. I am working on something for you.”

One otherwise ordinary evening her mother came to her and led her to their car, holding the door open as she slid inside the passenger seat. “It is time.” Catherine’s smile was luminous, and she chatted as they drove. “You remember Serena Dunbrook? You will be sharing your initiation with her.” Her expression turned disapproving for only a second, the frown bringing out the wrinkles around her mouth. “I would rather you have the spotlight to yourself, but there isn’t anything I can do about that. As if she could compare to you, anyway.”

The word initiation filled her with trepidation and glee. “How many people will be there?” she asked carefully.

“Our number is smaller than you think. A few families. The one you will serve—the young Mr. Renard will be very taken with you, I think.”

She nodded, and they passed the remainder of their trip in silence; Adalind stared out the window, watching the trees get taller as they headed into more rural lands and the sun dropped closer to the ground, burning red against the horizon.

Catherine pulled the car over in a gravel lot off of a side road, on the edge of the forest. “We walk from here, darling,” she said. “Don’t twist an ankle.”

Her heels were unreliable on the uneven ground, sinking into the dirt and turning on the rocks, but as the two walked, Adalind kept an eye out for anyone or anything out there to give her an idea of what was about to happen. The air had grown chilly, and as they walked the trees seemed to split the low-lying sun. Anticipation hummed through her, heightening her senses, making each step measured.

She recognized a particular tree whose bark would produce a soporific effect when brewed in a tea and a kind of vine whose thorns were a main ingredient in one of her mother’s favorite potions. Before them, the path sloped, and a small wooden building came into view. It seemed as much a part of the landscape as the trees around them, and she raised a questioning eyebrow towards her mother.

“A bathhouse?”

“Come along, dear.” Her mother took her arm, then, and led her towards the bathhouse; the wooden siding was edged with moss, and smoke rose in a thin coil from a spout at the top of the sloped roof. She could hear voices inside, and as Catherine opened the door a strange, pungent smell wafted from inside.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, but when she did she saw a cadre of women, gathered over a circular table upon which rested a large, iron bowl. The room was filled with steam, obscuring the faces of the people there and making her feel slightly dizzy. Her mother pushed her towards Serena Dunbrook and went to sit down at a bench alongside the wall, next to a young man in a dark dress shirt.

“Adalind Shade.” An older woman called her name first, and she stepped forward, into the center of the room. If anything, it seemed to grow darker, and the woman offered her a goblet of whatever was in the cauldron. The liquid was thick and red, and smelled so strongly of iron that she knew it must be from blood.

“Today, you come of age to join the ranks of our order and receive your birthright. Once this passes your tongue, you will be one of us. Do you accept this?”

The strongest magic is in blood, her mother had told her once. As the woman handed her the goblet, she noticed the cut in the woman’s hand. Her blood had gone into the potion, she knew. Glancing around the room, Adalind wondered if each person there would have such a cut.

She hesitated with the cup at her lips, staring at the thin film that had begun to develop on top of the liquid. Her stomach turned, but she kept her voice strong as she murmured an assent and slid her lips over the rim of the cup. She had endured worse than this; she could down this mixture and keep it down. She could do it.

The drink was thicker than she expected, and slid down her throat like syrup. She coughed at the first sip but refused to break, keeping the cup at her lips as she swallowed it all down. Draining it, she returned it to the woman’s waiting arms, coughing again, wiping her lips with the back of one hand and watching with detached horror the streak of red against her pale skin.

Sweat began to prickle along her body, from her arms to her neck, and her limbs felt weak. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, and her mother was by her side in an instant.

“Show her,” the old woman commanded, and Catherine led her from the room, into one of the baths, another room of aged wooden walls and steam. Basins of water lined one wall, while a freestanding mirror was placed against another.

“I feel…different.” It was a struggle to get the words out. “What…happened to me?”

“I made such a beautiful creature,” Catherine said. “Now, you are at the pinnacle of beauty! Look at yourself—look, dear. I am so proud of you.”

She looked as the mirror was tilted forward, as her face shifted and changed. She felt it beneath her skin, felt the bones waver and shift as the skin sank and tightened around her mouth. Her skin, ash-gray, stood starkly against her dark eyes and brittle hair, lightened to the point of being colorless. She had never seen something more hideous in her life.

“What am I?”

Her lips were pulled back to reveal her teeth, jutted at odd angles, and her mouth ached as she tried to speak. “What is this? What have I—”

“You’ve become beautiful, Adalind. You’ve become powerful. You’ve become a Hexenbiest.” Her mother’s face shifted then, too, and she could see the resemblance between them all the more clearly now that their faces were just bone and tightly stretched skin. “Now come. You must add your blood to the cauldron with the rest of ours. Serena cannot drink without it.”

She allowed herself to be led back, her hand raised, palm up. It was cut with a knife so sharp she barely felt it, and wrapped without concern. Three drops of her blood had trickled into the mix with the rest, and she watched as Serena accepted the goblet and choked it down, gasping and changing as she had.

Adalind watched the other women; now she saw them for how they really looked, like creatures of nightmares. Sweat mixed with the cut in her palm and stung; the taste of blood was still strong in her mouth.

“Welcome, my dear,” Catherine whispered in her ear. “We welcome you.”

::
Nick Burkhardt’s hands gripped hers tightly, pinning her to the ground as he brought his face to hers. With no other way to defend herself she bit. She felt it the moment the skin broke, and went limp as the familiar taste of blood invaded her mouth.

Only this time it was different—instead of her own blood, it was Nick’s she tasted—Nick’s mouth pressed firmly to hers to ensure she received his blood. It passed her tongue and she swallowed almost reflexively, realizing in a sudden, dazed instant just what she’d done.

“You killed me,” she said, her powers gone. “I’m nothing now. You’ve taken everything.”

At least when her mother had done the same, she had gotten something from it. Now, she had only her tears, and her mother’s voice ringing in her ears, “I had such high hopes for you, honey,” even as a door painted a mockingly bright red slams behind her.

When her powers had risen out of her like a spectre, she would have gladly drank a gallon of her kind’s blood to restore them—but the strongest magic was in blood, and there was no blood stronger than a Grimm’s.

Thank you to grimm_challenge for the beautiful banner and to everyone who voted on my entry!

[fanfiction] Ace Kicker

mymisguided — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 03:53:55 GMT

Title: Ace Kicker
Genres: Western, Drama
Summary: Famed bandit Mai Valentine's Wanted posters don't do her justice. / Wild West AU, Bribeshipping Mai x Rex, Arrogantshipping Mai x Seto
A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Season 10, Round Four, with the pairing of Bribeshipping (Mai Valentine x Rex Raptor), although the story also features a hint of Arrogantshipping (Mai x Seto Kaiba). I'm using the dub names as this is a Wild West AU, so expect plenty of bandits, stagecoach robberies, and general lawlessness. =) This is a story I've wanted to write for awhile now, so I hope you enjoy it! The notes at the end are expanded from the FF-posted version.

Ace Kicker

"So you see," the man said, spreading his arms wide, palms facing down. "We require your…particular expertise."

Across the table, Rex pulled at his bandanna to scratch at his chin; he hadn't shaved in a few days, and what little had grown in was starting to itch. "You're right—a shipment of that size would certainly attract the kind of attention you're not looking for. So you want me to travel with you and protect it?"

The man straightened. "Not exactly. It's Valentine's reputation we'll be trusting to keep the others away, not yours. Although the thought of equating trust with a thief does put a sour taste in my mouth."

The gibe dented his pride, and while Rex certainly wanted to put the man in his place he knew Mai wouldn't appreciate it once she heard what he had done. The man's suit looked expensive, and when he flipped open a pocket-watch to check the time, Rex sighed. Pure gold, from the shine of it. He supposed he couldn't loot their clients any more than he could intimidate them. That was a true shame, although he supposed the deal only included the trip from Goldfield to Chandler, and that they'd made no conditions regarding their safety or that of their cargo once they reached their destination. Perhaps he could convince Mai to steal it then. He'd always wanted a watch like that, too. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from it to return to the businessman, and nodded.

"We'll take it. When would you like to leave?"

"Three days. We'll leave at sunrise—I'll expect the two of you to bring your own provisions for the trip. I won't be joining you, either—it'll be another representative of my company. A Mr. Johnson. He'll meet you at the entrance to town, beneath the gates. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Rex stood first; the lunchroom of the Golden Eagle had been all but empty at this hour, and as he crossed the room, planning to leave out the back door, he passed a waitress carrying a plate with a steak on it. As she set it down, the businessman gestured towards the seat Rex had just vacated.

As he walked out the door, heading down one of the side streets towards the town center, he wondered where he might find Mai. If she wasn't sleeping off a hangover, he'd find her in one of the saloons, thoughtlessly wasting away what little money they had to their names. He checked the seediest one first, and as luck would have it, spotted a familiar mass of curled blond hair in the crowd. He could recognize her anywhere, from as much as that to as little as her scent. None of the posters could do Mai Valentine justice.

He found her at the poker table, and as he approached he saw the man to her left folding, sliding the cards face-down across the table.

"How about you, sugar?" Mai turned to the next. "Are you going to raise? Or are you going to go the way of this smart fellow?" She cocked her chin in the direction of the other player.

He folded too, and when Mai showed her cards the entire table groaned.

"You bluffed with an inferior hand. Nice steal." Rex settled a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

"You here to join me? Hey, you, deal him in next round," she said, snapping her fingers at the dealer.

"—No, I'm not. Mai." He pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and sat down, leaning closer. "It's three in the afternoon."

She glanced upwards, tapping her nails against the wooden trim of the table, before suddenly sitting up, snapping her fingers again. "You met with—that guy—"

"Mr. Crump, yes," Rex said, making a face.

"I can see he didn't have you arrested." The dealer paused at her, but Mai waved her hand, and he passed her to deal in the rest of the table. "I was worried at first that it was a trick. Still, I'm glad I didn't go."

Rex watched her yawn, inelegantly, into the back of her hand. "I agreed to help. Should we talk about this somewhere a little more private?"

"Probably." Mai got to her feet, gathering the coins she'd won into a handkerchief. "Thanks for doing business with me, boys."

The first time she stumbled, Rex had his hand under her arm, steadying her. "Don't you rent a room at the Rose and Crown? Want me to help you back there?"

"I don't like it there. It's too noisy. You've got a room here, right? Upstairs? Just let me rest for a bit."

For a bit might as well have meant for the rest of the day to Mai, but he had never been very good at saying no to her before, so he helped her up the stairs with only the barest of complaints.

"Good God, what have you been drinking? Your breath smells almost as bad as the rest of you. And stop pulling on my hair."

His room was the last door off a long hallway, and he shut the door behind them while Mai sprawled on his bed, tucking her hands beneath her chin. "So, tell me about the job."

With nowhere else to sit, Rex leaned against the wall. "It looks solid enough, and we need the money. We just have to accompany their party and make sure no one else gets to them or what they're carrying."

"What's the cargo?" she asked.

"He implied it was illegal. I didn't ask any further."

She yawned again, and shifted to dangle her feet off the edge of the bed. "So—hiring bandits to protect against bandits. What's next? Are pigs flying? I am in your bed, I suppose anything's possible."

"Don't remind me." Rex shifted again, sliding down to sit on the floor. It was dusty, but empty—he didn't own enough to clutter the place. "We leave in three days."

"Hey, Rex?"

He glanced up. "What?"

"Wake me up at eight, would you?"

"Sure." If she was even half as tired as she sounded and a quarter as tired as she looked, she needed far more sleep than that. He didn't wake her.
.
.

Mai was discontented and surly as they rode out that morning, loaded down with enough supplies for the two-day trip and ammunition for the outlaws they'd been assured would be after their patron. Johnson met them beneath the tall posts that marked the town's entrance, as decided; he was a tall, thin man with glasses, and looked every bit a businessman, ungainly next to the large stagecoach, where another man was finishing loading and securing boxes inside.

"You'll be riding alongside our wagon and making sure no one else attacks us and steals the goods and money we're carrying," Johnson said, and through the open door Rex could see a series of stacked trunks and boxes; the boxes were too large for stacked bills, but the trunks looked about the size. "In return, you can have one trunk for your efforts."

"Each?" Rex asked.

"Hardly."

"Worth a shot."

"This is Mr. Howard. He's my personal security and my driver, although in an emergency situation he will defer to you." Johnson straightened his jacket; already, spots of sweat were visible on his skin, sticking his shirt collar to his neck.

"If you're ready?" It was Mai who took the lead, and before long the group was making good time across the prairie, following the thin, wilderness roads. Rex followed, keeping an eye out for animals and other travelers, but their path was surprisingly empty of each. Their only stops were quick breaks for water or to rest the horses, but when the sun dropped below the horizon they pulled over to make camp, and Rex finally got a chance to talk to Mai again.

"Hey, you're not still mad at me for getting you all caught up on your beauty sleep, right?"

She scowled. "Like I need it."

"Stop repaying my kindness with contempt, Mai. That stopped being cute a long time—" He quieted when the one named Howard approached them, nodding to each in turn. It didn't escape Rex's attention that he stared at Mai much longer.

"So you're the notorious Mai Valentine, huh? The posters don't do you justice."

A muscle in Rex's jaw twitched, but Mai winked at him and answered, "It's flattering they think I'm worth so much."

"Worth every penny," he agreed, before turning to Rex. "And who are you?"

"Nobody, apparently."

"I just wanted to let you know that you can include me in the watch—"

"That won't be necessary." Mai cut him off smoothly, somehow managing to steer him in the other direction back towards his horse and the stagecoach, where Johnson was setting up his own tent. "We'll take care of it."

She returned, setting up her own bedroll next to Rex's. "I don't trust him," she whispered, her hair falling over her eyes as she leaned forward. "Either of them. You shouldn't either."

"Don't worry—"

"And I'll take the first watch. Time to return the favor."

"Wake me, later," he mumbled into the arm serving as his pillow, already knowing she wouldn't.
.
.

The following day passed by in a blur; Howard had insisted on letting the stagecoach lead even with Mai's disapproval—she knew that the coach, with more horses, could travel faster than her and Rex could on their own, and their pace was more brisk as a result. When they stopped that evening, Mai once again insisted on taking the watch on her own.

She sat up against a tree, waiting until she was sure the others were asleep before lightly poking Rex in the shoulder. "You awake?"

He was in a second. "What is it?"

"I…It's nothing. I don't want to bother you. Go back to sleep."

He couldn't, not for a long time after that. He stayed still, making every attempt to sleep, but his concentration always seemed to swing towards Mai, focusing on every sigh, every off-key song she hummed under her breath. At one point she got up and walked off, and he listened to every footfall until he couldn't hear them any longer. He wanted to wait until she returned, but before he knew it the sky wasn't nearly so dark and Mai was shaking him awake to take the watch so she could catch a few hours of sleep.
.
.

"Something's strange," Mai whispered to him as they rode on; they were far enough behind the stagecoach that there was no danger of being overheard, but he recognized the caution and unease in her voice masked by the volume. "Have you noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"Of course. Howard isn't driving today—Johnson is. Don't look! Or at least don't be obvious about it." She sighed, and continued as Rex confirmed her words. "I also looked at what's in the boxes. Last night," she added, as if sensing his unspoken questions. "Whiskey and weapons, among other things. Military models—Kaiba Corporation manufacturing. That must be Johnson's employer. Which makes me wonder why the transport is this secretive…they must be selling to the Indians."

"How is that our problem?" Rex asked.

"Two reasons—one, I figured out why Howard wanted to lead. They've taken us off the main road—I've traveled these paths before, and we're headed right towards a mountain pass. There's a deep cut in it for coaches to travel, but it's pretty steep. I'm not sure why he'd take us on this path, but I don't like it."

"And the second one?"

"I'm not sure, but—" She stopped as the carriage came to a halt, and they watched as Howard jumped down from the coach.

Rex steered his horse forward. "I'm going to go check it out," he told her.

As he got closer, he saw that they had already reached the pass Mai had spoken of, and Howard was adjusting the traces to disconnect one pair of horses.

"As you can see, it's going to be a tight fit to get the coach through—you and Mai should go on ahead of us. I'm gonna disconnect the leaders here—things are more precise with just the two. Johnson can take them on his own."

Rex nodded, waving Mai forward as he approached the pass. When Mai reached them, Rex related the instructions, and she grumbled. "This is almost too steep for a coach. I hope he knows what he's doing. I'll go first—try to follow the path I set."

Rex was glad that his horse seemed to know what to do better than he did, and he followed the abrupt path until he and Mai had reached the bottom of the pass. He looked around, then back towards the stagecoach, then at Mai.

"Why aren't they following us?" he asked, and had no sooner got the question out of his mouth when Mai shouted back, "Take cover!"

The sound of a shotgun blast echoed through the cavern, and Rex's horse started; he lunged for the reins, grabbing them and trying to maneuver the horse out of the way, and slipping out of the saddle to get better footing and control on the ground. Mai already had a revolver in one hand and was firing back.

"Where's cover?" he yelled. Out in the open, there were few rocks to use as shelter that weren't integrated into the surface of the pass, and with the others at the high ground, they gained the advantage. "Why are they firing at us?"

"Shoot first, we'll figure that out later!" When she went to reload, Rex grabbed his own gun, a Schofield revolver. He could see Howard over the top of the outcropping, and fired. He looked to aim again, but Howard had disappeared.

"Did you get him?"

"Don't know!" Rex shouted. Another gun blast drew their attention, but it was Mai's horse that went down, shrieking. Rex spun, catching sight of Johnson over the top of the cliff, and fired. He knew for sure he'd made a hit that time, when he saw the way the man crumpled.

"Mai!" He knew she would berate him for it later, something like, why take your eyes off the attackers and make an already bad situation worse for yourself, but he had to make sure she hadn't been hurt. She had been on the horse when it went down, and he could tell by the glassy stare in its eyes that it was already dead. Mai had rolled out of the way and escaped injury, but accepted Rex's hand when he offered it to pull her to her feet.

"Johnson's dead," he said.

"Won't know for sure unless we check."

They both recognized how silent it had gotten, and knew that Howard was likely waiting for them to investigate, or—as they hoped—dead or dying from a bullet wound.

"Should we?" he asked.

"I'll stay with the horse. You go." Before he could dissent, she continued, "I can cover you. You're the better shot, anyway."

He would appreciate the compliment later; he nodded and fixed his eyes on the ridge. "Four shots left."

"I've got three."

"Hopefully we won't need any." He began to climb, trying to keep his footing as soft as he could, wincing every time a rain of pebbles tumbled against the rocks. A few minutes and he had reached the top, glancing first to where he had last seen Howard. The man had disappeared.

That wasn't good, he knew. Next was to check on Johnson's body, which was still draped over the rocks. He was most definitely dead, and was still clutching a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun in one hand.

Also not good—that meant that wherever Howard was, he was armed. Otherwise he would have taken the gun before hiding himself somewhere. That also probably meant that he was using Johnson's body as a trap, and as he turned back his eyes landed level with the barrel of another shotgun, pointed straight at him.

He resisted the urge to shout for Mai, but on instinct his hand moved to lift his revolver.

"Don't even think about it," he hissed. Howard had the gun raised to his shoulder, but Rex could see how he was shaking—the earlier shot had definitely been a hit.

"Johnson was never going to pay us, was he?" Rex spat onto the ground, and instantly regretted it; his mouth felt far too dry, now. "I'm not sorry I killed him, then. Just a shame you don't get to share the same fate."

"We had planned to collect the bounties on your heads—give us a nice profit on top of what we'd already get from that." He gestured with a tilt of his head towards the stagecoach. "You're worth the same dead as alive. The lady, too, though that really is a shame. If she was smart, she'd be running. Leave you here. You're barely worth the effort it'll take to haul you in."

"Oh? And I suppose you're worth something?" Howard had just delivered the biggest insult yet, and sure, Rex may have been staring at his killer, but he didn't have to take the offense. "What'd you think, a dime?"

"My bounty isn't nearly as big as Valentine's, but it will be once I kill her. Oh, that got a reaction, did it?"

Rex hoped his silence—and the lack of any gunfire—had alerted Mai to the actuality that Howard was alive and kicking. He wondered, briefly, if she would save him, and clung to the thought. Or if not, at least she could avenge him. Yeah, that he knew with certainty she would do.

"I told you not to think about it," Howard continued; Rex's fingers had tightened again around the revolver, almost on instinct. "If you think there's a thing you can do to save your life, you're wrong. Now drop it."

"Worth a shot," he said, and complied, setting it down instead of tossing it. As he did so, he got the opportunity to look underneath the stagecoach, and his heart sank when he couldn't see any signs of someone hiding behind it. Looked like Mai wasn't coming for him.

Howard adjusted the gun against his shoulder. "Let's see what else is worth a shot—"

The blast seemed louder up-close, but when he realized it wasn't him who had been shot, Rex dived for his gun, grabbing it and aiming to watch Howard slide to the ground, a growing circle of red spreading over his chest. From the side, Mai came into view, and slid her revolver back into its holster.

"You—you—"

"Thank you would suffice." Mai's smile looked thinner than normal, but when she moved to stand over Howard's body Rex was just glad that he wasn't the one bleeding onto the dirt.

"Thank you, then," Rex said. "So looks like he was a bandit, too."

Mai shrugged. "Must not have been too memorable, I've never heard of him."

Suddenly remembering, Rex snapped his head back up to stare at her. "You left my horse! What if it ran off?"

She gestured towards the stagecoach. "There's four right here. I would suggest that we drive it in, but the man who hired us will probably be waiting for it. Instead, let's bury the boxes here, and come back for it later."

"I suggest that we go after him. Crump. I don't believe this was just some idea the two of them cooked up." He pointed with one thumb towards the two bodies.

"I suggest we go after the root of the problem," Mai said. "I learned a lot from him, you know. Howard let slip that their boss is traveling by train to personally accompany a money transfer next week. He was supposed to serve as their security—and if who they hire to replace him is the same, this should be easy."

"So we're robbing a train?"

"Exactly," Mai said.
.
.

Chandler was a big enough city to merit a stop along the Southern Pacific railroad, and Mai knew a hotel and saloon owner that let them hole up in an unused room in exchange for some of the money they'd taken off the stagecoach to finance their new operation. Train tickets and disguises were the least of it, but the proprietor had gladly obtained anything they wanted with the proper compensation, and Mai sent them through the city in search of everything from perfumes to a new holster for a stocking gun. Rex, for his part, asked for nothing more than what he needed, and spent most of their time inside their room while Mai played cards in the saloon, losing and winning back what money they had. They didn't go outside often, and never to the more respectable parts of town, on the chance that a lawman would spot them from their—remarkable accurate in Mai's case—wanted posters, which as Mai's contact could attest to, had tripled in quantity and nearly so in bounty since news of Johnson's death reached the city.

Mai woke up one morning to see Rex leaning over a basin of water, using Mai's vanity mirror to shave. He had already finished with the right side of his face and was working on his jaw with the straight razor, tilting his head back and drawing the skin tight with his left hand. He caught her eyes in the mirror, but didn't speak until he had finished with that side of his face.

"Are you just going to stare?"

She blushed but held his gaze. "I could help you with that, you know."

He made a noise halfway between a snort and a cough. "I think I can handle it. If you'd like to help, how about telling me your plan for stopping the train?"

"It's easy enough, I'll tell you on the way." She said it almost flippantly. "Perhaps instead of guns you'd have better luck using one of those against anyone who threatens you."

"Hey, I could kill a man with this thing," he said, waving the razor in the air before flicking the foam lining its edge into the basin.

"Just because you can doesn't mean you have, honey," Mai called back.

"I don't even need this as long as I have you to save me." He turned to the left side of his face, positioning himself in such a way that he blocked her reflection in the mirror. He pulled the skin taut and continued to shave, immersing himself in the task so he wouldn't have to talk to her until he was done.

"—will, of course," she said.

"What?" He flicked away more foam, deciding to hold back on shaving his chin and neck until she was finished—it wouldn't do to cut himself, not in front of her.

"Were you paying attention?" She sighed, smiling another one of her thin smiles as she leaned her face against one arm, mimicking the way he dragged the straight razor over his skin with her fingers on her own. "I said I will. Whatever trouble you land yourself in, you can count on me to help you out of it."

"Is that a promise?" He tilted his body again, letting her reflection come into view.

"I don't make promises," she said, and he moved to start on his chin. "It's a guarantee."
.
.

The next day found them both standing on the platform, waiting for the train. Mai, on her part, looked absolutely stunning in a dress much nicer than anything he'd seen her wear before, her hair freshly curled, an oversize bag clutched in her fingers. Rex's clothes, in contrast, were plain, easy to move around in, and in muted enough colors so as not to stand out. She reached for his hand, and brushed his fingers with hers.

"Best of luck," she said.

"Thanks. I've got the hard part."

"And I've got the fun part!"

"Don't remind me," he muttered.

She had described it to him the prior evening, hunched over a table in their room while she drew a graph of that style of train—where the cargo would be, where the requisite levers and controls were in the train engine, and which compartments they and their targets would be stationed in.

"Seto Kaiba will assuredly be in a private compartment. It'll be one of the first-class ones, and I'll get a ticket for another. They'll be contiguous, so crossing to the other will be simple enough."

"And where will I be?" he asked.

"Near the front. It's louder, so your ticket will be relatively cheap." She smirked at him, and he batted her arm with an elbow.

"What next? There's a dozen stops between Chandler and his destination, and we'll need to stop the train—"

"That's why we'll do it when the train is already stopped."

He stared at her, agape. "We're going to rob a train while it's in the station?"

"No, of course not. That would be idiotic." She brushed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder, and tapped the hastily drawn diagram. "We're going to rob it while it's in a switchback."

He continued staring. "That's genius."

"I've already set it up with my contact here—they'll meet us there with a very familiar stagecoach, and you and she will move over as much as you can. At that point I'll have Seto Kaiba at gunpoint, and he'll have enough clout to keep the train stopped at my order, and to keep anyone from interfering with you."

"And how will you manage that?" he had asked.

"I'll think of something."

He watched her board the train, sauntering up and accepting a conductor's help with a simpering smile. Gritting his teeth, Rex turned and headed towards his own compartment, which was already filling with men and women traveling West. His hands felt idle, and he shoved them in his pockets, absently wishing he had a pocket-watch to check the time.
.
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Four stops later, and they were approaching their first switchback, climbing a hill too difficult and steep for a standard ascent. Mai had told him they would strike on the second—the first was just so they could get a feel for how the train would stop and re-start, and how much time they would have to act. This was also her cue to get ready to move.

He had obtained a window seat, and lifted it to peer outside as the train approached the zig zag, sliding onto the track and coming to a full stop. He counted the seconds, watching as one of the operators jumped out to reverse the switch manually, allowing the train to continue on, traveling up a different track. Mai was right when she kept calling it easy—in theory, it was, and practically simple to a fault.

The train chugged on, merrily, and Rex imagined Mai standing from her plush, velvet seat, adjusting her skirt and draping the bag over one arm. He imagined her bumping into someone and excusing herself, laughing, something high pitched and charming. She would convince everyone, and then she would pull a gun on them, let them stare down the barrel of her derringer the same way he'd stared at death, much too often and far too recently.

He was growing restless again, and occupied himself by tapping the fingers of each hand against his thumbs, over and over, counting down the time as the train chugged on. He thought of a yellow-painted stagecoach, emptied of its prior bounty and waiting to be filled with another.

He watched as the train approached the second switchback, and calmly stood from his seat.
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Mai strolled past the conductor in her compartment with an excuse of getting some fresh air on the platform; as she'd walked through the aisle, she'd surreptitiously tipped a stack of luggage over, and took the opportunity to slip past him as he moved to restore it.

The gossip in the first-class compartment had been tremendous, most of it coming from the staff, and she had learned as much as they had to share about their celebrity passenger and his cargo—gold bricks hidden beneath feed sacks, disguised as the meanest of cargo—from the number of guards stationed with him to the book he was reading and how he took his tea. She ignored the latter, but the first was a nice bit of information, and the number was surprisingly low—only two, although she assumed more would be guarding the cargo itself, or stationed throughout the train in the case of a situation like the one they were about to perform.

On the platform, she moved to the compartment door, opening it and slipping inside. Moving into the inner aisle, she pressed herself against the door, stumbling with a cry. She could see the three men inside the glass-enclosed space look up, and one in a dark suit stood and came out, crouching before her and offering an arm.

"Excuse me, miss, but are you alright? I'll have to escort you out—no passengers are allowed in this cabin, I do apologize." His voice was deep, and his concern felt genuine, so Mai played it to her limits.

"I just tripped—I was so worried, I thought I was going to fall off the train! I fell against the door, but now that I'm inside I feel so much better. I don't want to go back out until the train stops again! And thank you, you're so kind to help me." She latched onto his arm, clinging as she tested his strength.

"And why is no one else allowed? You're a passenger too, aren't you?" Mai continued, laughing to herself. "May I meet your friends?"

"Miss, we are not passengers, we are guards—"

Really, this wouldn't have been any more difficult had it been Howard in this man's position, even after they'd met and shot at one another. "Is he an executive with the railroad? Really, I have nothing but complimentary things to say—a few grievances about the state of the first-class lounge in Chandler, and of course about the flimsiness of the floors and railings in the outside platforms, but it's the servicemen who truly deserve compliments. Don't they?" She glanced up at him, leaning to the side to pretend to test the ankle she'd fallen on.

"I'm afraid I cannot—"

"Just a few words," she said, twisting around to put herself between him and the cabin door, where it was short work to reach for the handle and swing it open, walking inside.

"Hello, sir!" she said, addressing the man she knew to be the other guard. "You're an executive with Southern Pacific, aren't you? I'd like just a moment of your time, if that's alright." She smiled and leaned forward, slipping her bag to the crook of her elbow to free both hands.

The first guard had come to his senses and returned, settling a hand lightly on her left arm. "Miss, I insist—"

His fallacy was in underestimating her strength, as she ripped her arm from his grasp, her footing solid and ready as the train came to a sudden stop in the second switchback. The first guard pitched backward and the second, who had risen from his seat to grab her, lurched forward, and Mai plunged a hand into her bag and withdrew the gun, cocking the hammer and pressing it against Seto Kaiba's forehead, who stared back at her with stunned eyes.

"Hands in the air, gentlemen," she said. "Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."
.
.

She gave her instructions in short, simple sentences, but pitched her voice in a low purr, enjoying the way that their expressions changed from shock to disbelief to settle firmly on anger.

"The man on my left will instruct the operators to stop the train until I tell them otherwise. I'd do this quickly, if I were you. The man on my right will go to the cargo hold, where there will be another gentleman waiting to help you unload some of the precious gold you're transporting. Should you refuse, or at any time defy these orders, I will paint the back of this cabin with your blood, Seto Kaiba." She grinned down at him, where he fidgeted in his seat.

She'd seen the behavior enough in Rex to identify it. "I am aware you've got a gun in the bag at your feet," she told him, reveling again in the way his eyes widened in surprise. "Reach for it and you'll lose that hand."

"She's bluffing," the first guard spat.

"I'd hurry if I were you. Not much time left."

"For God's sake, go!" Seto said through clenched teeth. For the first time, she got a taste of his true anger, coloring his voice; he couldn't keep it out of his eyes if he tried. "Miss. Do I have your word if we comply to your demands my life will be spared?"

"Certainly," she said, and the first guard raced for the door. For the first time, the second guard spoke.

"If you have an accomplice, what is to stop us from using him or her as a hostage in the same way you are using our boss?"

"Excellent question. Any help I have obtained is simply a hired hand—and you wouldn't value yours high enough to part with all this gold, would you, Seto?" She lingered over his name, pressing the metal more firmly against his forehead. It was probably warming from extended contact with his skin, and it would be good to remind him that it was still there. "So why should I?"

"Just go." At Seto's orders, the two men left, although their pace wasn't as quick as she would have liked.

"How very accommodating of you, Seto—"

"You will call me Mr. Kaiba, if you please." He continued to stare at her with thinly veiled derision, and she reached her free hand forward to brush his hair out of his eyes, tucking what she could behind his ear and letting what sprung back curl around the barrel of the gun.

"Not very accommodating." She pursed her lips. "And neither am I. Seto."

The train had yet to move, and she knew with certainty that somewhere Rex was doing his job, unloading gold. "Would you like to know my name?" she continued.

"You're a bandit. An outlaw. Those are the only names I need for you."

"How cold," she said, clucking her tongue in disapproval. "I'll tell you anyway. I want you to know—it's Mai Valentine. Heard of me? I'm sure you've seen the posters, they were everywhere in Chandler."

"You killed Johnson, didn't you? Miss Valentine."

She didn't comment on his change of mind, but nodded. "I killed him, honest truth." It had been Rex who pulled the trigger, but she didn't think he'd mind her taking the credit.

"Honest?" he scoffed. "You're a bandit, after all. What sort of honestly could a bandit possess?"

"Would you like an answer?" She thought of some of the honest things she'd said, and some of the honest things she hadn't yet. The latter far outweighed the former, but both began and ended with I will save you, of course, spoken to Rex's back as he shaved in a rented room above a disreputable saloon. She wished she'd said more, but she had wanted to say it to his face.

"There is no answer," he said.

"Hmm, you just don't want to find out, do you?" She leaned closer, and shifted the gun to his temple so it wouldn't block her view. "If you won't talk to me, I guess we'll have to find another way of passing the time?"

He gave a noncommittal grunt, but looked away, and she took that as a kind of success. "Not interested? What a pity."

"You said…some of the gold, earlier." He spoke with hesitation, as if concerned that even bringing it up would cause her to change her mind. "Not all. So you're not planning to take all of it?"

"No, we'll leave you with some. It's enough for you to know that we could have taken it all, if we wanted to. In fact, I'll even add on a parting gift. Did you know that certain members of your council are selling weaponry outside of the law? Sold to both sides during the wars, I'm sure. Johnson and Crump are among them, but I'm sure there are others."

"You can't prove that," he said.

"No, but you can. Now stand up." He blinked at the odd request, and she repeated it, curling the fingers of her free hand around his tie, and using it as leverage to pull him to his feet. "Anything else you want to say, now that you're talking to me again?"

"I'd like to know how you're planning on getting out of here," Seto said, and Mai noted the smug tone that threatened to creep into his words. "The second you pull that gun away, you'll have a dozen trained on you, and they won't hesitate to fire."

"You're exaggerating. It wouldn't be any more than four or five." She laughed at his expression, and tugged on his tie a little harder. He winced as the knot tightened, but got the message. "It's simple, really. I'm taking you with me."

At his expression, she continued. "The gold is being loaded into a stagecoach. We'll let you out within walking distance of the train, but out of range."

He was silent for a moment, and Mai considered tugging on his tie again. "You should work for me," he finally said, with a twinge of respect.

Her laugh now was genuine, and as spun him to walk in front of her, her gun still pressed to the side of his head, she whispered in his ear, "Depends. Would my salary be higher than my bounty?"

"Whatever it is, I can afford it." There was the smugness again, but she didn't punish him for it.

"I'll consider it," she said, knowing her answer would always be no. "Now, time to go."

Passengers watched from their windows as Mai led Seto Kaiba off the train, walking around it to the cargo hold, where the stagecoach was waiting. Her contact at the saloon would be driving, and the three of them would be inside the coach, their backs to a fortune in gold.

"After you," Mai said, gesturing towards the doors. The two guards stood by the cargo doors, about to call her on her promise, but she cut them off, repeating what she'd told Seto. "Assuming he can handle the walk, you'll have him back no worse for wear."

Seto climbed inside the coach, followed by Mai, who sat across from him, and Rex, who took the only other available seat beside him. Once the door was closed they were off, leaving the train behind.

"So," Seto began, "may I ask how you're going to spend my money?"

Mai was sure the thought had occurred to him that the money in question may have been obtained through illegal means, but it was Rex who answered the question first.

"I'm going to buy a pocket-watch," he said. "A really nice one."

"Good for you. And Miss Valentine?"

She shrugged. "Haven't thought about it."

"Perhaps you could invest." He realized just what he was saying too late, and hid his glare by turning away to stare out the window.

"Perhaps I will. I'll invest in a weapons company?"

He snapped his head back. "You wouldn't dare."

"Are we far enough away yet?" Rex asked, his voice falsely amiable. Mai glanced behind them, out the window.

"I suppose so," she said.

"Good." Rex reached across them to open the far door, and as the stagecoach began to slow he literally kicked Seto out of it, who rolled to a stop. "Thanks for doing business with us." He offered Seto a wave before moving to his seat and shutting the door.

Seto immediately got to his feet and began running after them. "Mai!" He screamed. "Mai Valentine! This isn't over! I'll—"

He grew smaller and smaller as they got farther away, until she could no longer see him at all. "A pocket-watch, really?"

"Yes, a pocket-watch. I'd like one," he said. "Do you know what else I'd like? Could you please explain…that?" And he gestured with his hands, to her and out the window, to the space they'd just vacated.

"What?" She stared at him for a moment until it registered.

"You're jealous?" She pointed one finger at Rex, drawing it up his chest until she reached his chin. "I only like Kaiba for his money. And you've got no money—so I must like you for something different, hmm?"

"I've got money now," he offered, and her grin widened. Behind her, if she concentrated hard enough, she could hear the gold shifting through the wooden boxes.

She agreed, and leaned in to kiss him. "You do."

It was much later when Rex suddenly sat forward, paling.

"I—I can't believe I forgot!"

Mai looked up from where she was curled up against the window. "Forgot what?"

"I never told any of them my name! None of them know who I am! I committed the greatest train robbery this country has ever seen…and you're going to get all of the credit!"

"Next time, then," she said, laughing.
.
.

End.
.
.

Notes:

1) A kicker, in poker, is a card in that does not itself take part in determining the rank of the hand, but that may be used to break ties between hands of the same rank (Wikipedia). An Ace Kicker, then, is the highest possible one, and in a tie situation, is guaranteed to defeat the opposing hand (unless the opponent also has an ace, in which case the following kicker would come into play).

2) Crump and Johnson are members of the Big Five, and Howard is, of course, Bandit Keith Howard. I think that if a pairing were to ever happen between Howard and Johnson, it should be named Hotelshipping xDD (After the chain of hotels with the same name, for anyone who doesn't get the joke)

3) While the story takes place in a "general" Wild West, I did not specify any one location or any one specific time, instead preferring more of a mash-up approach. The pass described was inspired by Newhall Pass in California, and the towns listed were real railroad towns back in the day (Arizona), the railroad listed was real (although there are no switchbacks) and began in 1867 while Rex's gun was created around 1873, and any conflicts that could have led to KC selling to both sides would have occurred pre-1860. While the setting was ambiguous, I tried to make the details very accurate, from the guns described to straight-razor shaving (researching this was hilarious) to stagecoach travel and town layouts and info.

4) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews. I'm honored to add a Western to the fandom's sparse collection!

~Jess

[drabble] Sixteen Gift Drabbles

mymisguided — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 05:53:54 GMT

Went back and collected more drabbles I'd written for this meme, on the YGO Fanfiction Contest Forum:

1) Give me a pairing
2) Give me an AU setting
3) I will write you a three-sentence (or more!) fic

Behind the cut, in order: Bakushipping, Wishshipping, Dark Necrofear x Rebecca's Teddy, Puppyshipping, Supportshipping, Rishid x Kisara, Foreshipping, Headdresshipping, Devotionshipping, Irateshipping, Punchshipping, Wrapshipping, Intentshipping, Diceshipping, Divulgeshipping, and Yami no Malik x Thief King Bakura x Ryou Bakura x Ghost Kotsuzaka.

Most are more than 3 sentences; I'm thinking of adapting the Rishid x Kisara into an entry for YGODrabble this week. As always, anyone wanting to request more drabbles can fill out the meme in a comment! =D Enjoy~!

Pairing: Bakushipping | AU: Human Sacrifice, setting pre-BC England
For: Mandolina Lightrobber

Bakura held the knife in one hand, idly testing the weight of the carved handle, knowing that after separating so much flesh from bone the knife seemed to know what to do almost better than his hand did. The fact that a thief not of their village had been caught before the sacrifice had been chosen had made things so much easier for them all, drowning out the pleas of his younger brother, who had cared for the thief while in captivity. The thief was bound now, to the stone altar before them all, and Ryou had been bound safely back in the house the two brothers shared, for fear that he would interrupt the ceremony and ruin everything. Bakura had no desire to ever lose his brother to such a ritual as this.

"Make it quick," the thief said.

Bakura brought the knife forward; the blade flashed eagerly in the light from a dozen different torches. "That is not our way."

Pairing: Wishshipping | AU: Ferris Wheel on a date
For: Jonouchi Katsuya

Of course the Ferris Wheel had to get stuck at the very top, so of course they would be the last ones rescued when they finally got it working again. For the moment, Jonouchi hung back in his seat, trying to ignore the steady rocking of the car, while Yuugi pressed his nose to the glass, calling out, "Hey, we've got the best view, come look at this!"

Jonouchi glanced up for a second, seeing Yuugi backlit by the setting sun, and had to agree.

Pairing: Dark Necrofear x Rebecca's Teddy | AU: Anime Convention
For: Angela and Minimix

The woman dressed up as Necrofear had seen her share of crazy costumes and colorful characters that day, walking around the convention, and while she was half-convinced it was due to all the sugar she had consumed earlier, she was sure she was being followed; not by someone, but by something -- a flash of brown out of the corner of her eye, the feeling of fur against her arm when a glance a second later confirmed there was nothing there, or an ear, barely visible over the edge of a table. She bumped into a young woman in glasses, who apologized and asked for her help, saying, "I'm looking for something, a teddy bear -- he has the oddest habit of wandering off -- can you help me?"

Necrofear had the sneaking suspicion she already knew what this girl was talking about, and the sharp glint of two yellow eyes over the table's edge did little to dissuade her, and she turned back to answer, "You're on your own, kid."

Pairing: Puppyshipping | AU: Game of War (cards)
For: Jonouchi Katsuya

Within three turns they'd both put forward the same face-up card, a Jack, and after throwing down three cards each Jonouchi won the round with a King to Kaiba's Three.

"See that!" he crowed, gathering the cards he'd won, "that's the heart of the cards at work right there."

Kaiba looked at the face-down cards in his own hands, thoughtfully, and said, "There's a saying about that -- you may have won the battle, but you're far from winning the War."

Pairing: Supportshipping | AU: Ballroom Dancing
For: Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker

Honda whisked her around the ballroom, clasping her right hand tightly in his left; the music was deep and lavish, something that made it easier for him to imagine that they weren't simply in one of Anzu's studio's practice rooms, but at a large party filled with their closest friends, and instead of a school uniform he would be in a suit and Anzu a beautiful dress.

"If you already knew how to dance, why did you ask me to teach you?" Anzu asked, looking up at him curiously as she helped him guide her through a series of turns.

She was right, and he wanted to give her a dozen different excuses, but settled for a simple, "I didn't think I could - I guess you just inspire me," and watched the way her face lit up.

Pairing: Rishid x Kisara | AU: Library
For: Zie Ayton

The interactive AI greeted him when he entered the library for work with an, "Is there anything I can assist you with this morning?" There weren't any patrons that early and all he had to do was re-shelve books, but he smiled at the flickering hologram and said, "Yes - you can keep me company."

The AI gave him an odd look, but followed him dutifully as he carried a stack of books towards the shelves, her long hair shimmering behind her to reflect the names of a thousand different titles with a thousand different plots; Rishid had read them all, and hoped that his own would have a happy ending in store.

Pairing: Foreshipping | AU: Carnival/Amusement Park
For: Graces of the Child

"So, are you enjoying your day?" Yugi asked, glancing up at where Ishizu was walking beside him; she had been mostly silent as their group went on all of the rides at Kaibaland, but as she had never been to an amusement park before everyone wanted to make sure she was having fun.

"Yes," she said, "but I think I'm done with the roller coasters...what else is there to do here?"

"There's always the games," Yugi said, and at the first one he won Ishizu a giant stuffed teddy bear.

Pairing: Headdresshipping | AU: Burger World
For: Chicary

Set had already claimed a booth, and was reading a book when Mahaado joined him, sliding a milkshake across the table and saying, "Thanks for meeting me here."

"Why did you ask?" He twirled the straw absently, then went back to turn the page of his book.

"No reason in particular." His voice sounded far too tentative for that to be true. "I thought we should get to know each other better, considering we're both new students this year." Mahaado paused to pick the cherries off his own milkshake, eating them and discarding the stems. "How are your classes going?"

"They're fine. Yours?" Set sighed into his book; if Mahaado had gone to all the trouble, the least he could do was enjoy it, and reached for the milkshake. His first thought had been that Mahaado had seriously asked him on a date to Burger World, of all places, and his second thought was if Mahaado wouldn't ask him outright, he would have to help him along.

Pairing: Devotionshipping| AU: The End of the World
For: ThornyRoseIsTrue

It was the question they were all asking, and none of them knew the answer: "How much time do we have before the end?" Jonouchi stayed with Anzu, watching her watch the dying sun through the skylight above their heads. He had unplugged all of the clocks, and threw his watch across the room long ago; the time left to them was irrelevant, as he planned to spend all of it with her.

Pairing: Irateshipping | AU: Deer Hunting
For: RyouVeRua

Jonouchi sighed and turned to face Marik, who was setting up his shot with such determination that he hardly wanted to interrupt him, but he couldn't stand it anymore. "You're holding that wrong. The recoil is going to hurt like hell."

He adjusted Marik's posture, guiding his hands and arms into place. "Right here should do it. Aim, exhale, and shoot." He did, and knocked down the target shaped like a deer. "See? I knew you could do it."

Pairing: Punchshipping | AU: Stranded/Trapped together
For: RyouVeRua

"Elevator maintenance should have been here a half-hour ago," Honda said, glancing over at the other man trapped with him in the elevator, sitting across from him with his legs extended. "Think we'd ever run out of air? What a way to go."

"Could be worse, at least it's just the two of us." He grinned at Honda, and stretched out further. "My least favorite class is going on right now. I'm glad I'm missing it. Really, I wouldn't mind if we're stuck here the rest of the day."

Honda stared at him, and considered pressing the alarm button again; waiting a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. "What's your name?"

Pairing: Wrapshipping | AU: Detention
For: RyouVeRua

The new kid was sitting back in the corner, feet propped up on the desk in front of him, lazily copying his lines down on a sheet of loose-leaf paper.

"What'd you do to get in here?" Jonouchi asked, wracking his brain for the guy's name; Bakura sounded about right. He hadn't paid much attention to him before, but he definitely had Jonouchi's interest now.

"I think the better question," and he swung his legs off the desk, grabbing for the bag by his feet, "is what we're going to do once we get out?"

Pairing: Intentshipping | AU: Sporting Event
For: RyouVeRua

"Number Seven." Mokuba knew who it was from that alone; there was only one man who never called him by his name, only the number on his jersey.

"What do you want?"

"Like you don't know." Bakura loomed before him, still cool even with the huge amount of money he'd just lost betting on the last game. "I told you what I wanted. Your job is to make it happen. Do that again, and I'll make you regret it."

Mokuba smirked, crossing his arms over his chest, obscuring the number there. "Next time, then, you should bet on me to win."

Pairing: Diceshipping | AU: Casino
For: RyouVeRua

Bakura had stayed at that table for too long, the cards were poor, but the dealer was attractive and it wasn't like he would have missed the money he'd lost. The man sitting next to him wasn't faring any better, and tossed his last chip down. "Hey pal, wanna buy me a drink?" His bright green eyes were already glazed over, but his suit was sharply tailored, enough that Bakura knew the man was more than he appeared.

"Just one," Bakura answered.

"Normally I have amazing luck. I dunno what's wrong." The green-eyed man laughed and eyed the cards on the table with jealousy. "Maybe my luck's changed."

Bakura would have contradicted him; his luck was better than ever, he just hadn't looked at the cards in his hand yet. The fact that Bakura was following him to the bar was proof enough of that.

Pairing: Divulgeshipping | AU: House/Roommates
For: RyouVeRua

Bakura left the drawers half-open, moving on to the closet when he couldn't find anything worth wearing, tossing the rejects behind him. A shirt landed on Atem, standing in the doorway.

"You are not stealing my clothes again!" He ran forward, scooping up the discarded jackets and shirts, frowning when he couldn't find that new black one he'd bought the previous week before realizing Bakura was actually wearing it, and had to take a second to admit to himself that his roommate looked much better in it than he did. "Cut that out! If you want new stuff, try Marik's closet! And while you're at it, you can let him know he's overdue on the rent."

"He won't listen to me. Heaven knows why he listens to you--"

"Don't think I've forgotten! You still owe me money, too!" Atem kicked him out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaning against it to keep it closed, shouting, "I don't know why I put up with you!"

A voice from the next room over shouted, "I do!"

From the hallway, Bakura snickered, and Atem remembered that he still had to get his shirt back. Perhaps he should think about finding some better hiding places, but of course Bakura would only take that as a challenge.

Pairing: Yami no Malik x Thief King Bakura x Ryou Bakura x Ghost Kotsuzaka | AU: Office/corporate bonding weekend - trust games
For: RyouVeRua

"Now, for this next exercise, change partners! Pick someone you've never worked with before. A close workforce is an efficient workforce!"

Standing together by the wall, Ryou shot Bakura a look. "Did he have to laugh like that? I swear, our boss gets creepier every day."

"Hmm? C'mon, just partner with me again."

"Weren't you listening? Stop stealing pens for one second and pay some attention around here!" Ryou glanced around the room, whipping his head back to whisper sharply, "Everyone's already partnered up! Except that weird guy in the corner who looks like he never sleeps. Look, this one's on you—"

"We're going trust falls, everybody! If anyone is without a partner, they can work with me." At the head of the room, Marik watched the groups halfheartedly begin the exercise.

"—You were saying, Ryou?" Bakura clapped him on the shoulder.

"No, wait! Switch with me! Baku—"

"Too late." His grin at Ryou's distress was poorly contained, and he turned to walk over to the company's new recruit, the night-shift computer tech with perpetual dark circles beneath his eyes. "Yo. Name's Bakura. Let's get this over with, and so help you if you drop me."

Marik waved Ryou over; his expression changed as an idea began to form in his mind. "Hey, boss?" he asked, and held out both arms. "I think it would be best if you went first. Practice putting your trust in me, instead of the other way around."

The tech, Kotsuzaka, caught him swiftly. If he knew the other man better, Bakura would have made a bet with him on whether Ryou would have dropped Marik or not. He considered making it regardless.

Afterwards, he was glad he didn't; he would have lost.

[LJ Idol] SCI, "The Second Day of the Week"

mymisguided — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 02:58:15 GMT

SCI prompt: Open Topic
Author’s Notes: Fiction. Continuation of last week’s Help Wanted (link). I hope you enjoy!

The Second Day of the Week

The trash-can was full of bits of broken glass and glitter, remnants of a tacky looking snowglobe that until very recently had made its home on the very edge of one of the shelves that housed more sundry knickknacks—figurines and jewelry boxes and a few retro toys—before Derek’s elbow had accidentally sent it flying to the floor.

It had shattered on impact, and from across the room Mr. Tuesday had looked up from his paper. Without a word, Derek headed to the supply closet for the cleaning supplies, still trying to forget just what was kept beyond the first perceptible shelves. He imagined the flickering lamps would be happy to see him, at least, even if he still wasn’t terribly comfortable with the idea that things he never even considered in the realm of possibility not only existed, but were his responsibility to look after. At least from the price sticker, the snowglobe was cheap. Suspiciously cheap.

He realized why when, shortly after cleaning up the mess he’d caused, it began to rain inside the store.

It was a low rain, forming puddles on the floor and trickling down the windowpanes or misting lightly against the counters. There were no clouds, at least, unless he wanted to count the one placed solidly above his head. Mr. Tuesday covered all the books with plastic, but shrugged off the rest, like rain inside the store on a sunny morning was the most natural thing in the world. The first customer of the day, an older woman wearing too much make-up, commented on it, teasing him and saying that at least it wasn’t snowing yet.

The yet was not comforting in the slightest.

“I’ve got a task for you,” Mr. Tuesday said, after he had finished helping the woman pick out some antique brooches; he remembered the ones in particular, large constructs of metal and fake gemstones with a sharp uncapped pin at the other end. “You remember the customer who came in yesterday, don’t you? Picked up that telescope.”

“Yeah.” Like Derek could forget it.

“He left us this”—and he removed a paper-wrapped lump from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing something shaped like a sponge, with strange divots and blunt spikes along its surface, with a pair of thin black threads poking out the top—“but I’ve never seen anything like it before. What do you make of it?”

Then it twitched. Derek stared at it in horror. “It’s…alive.”

“Of course it is. Wouldn’t be worth much to me dead.” Mr. Tuesday looked affronted, and reached out to poke it once on one of the spikes. The two antennae bobbed back and forth. “Since we can’t be sure just what it is, I’m putting it in your care for now. It seems to have a habit of clinging to things, but we don’t know what its habitat is, what it eats…for all we know, it could be carnivorous. I don’t exactly want it getting loose in the shop.”

Derek eyed the creature warily. “Then between us, shouldn’t the immortal one take a crack at solving that problem?”

“Oh, I’m not immortal,” Mr. Tuesday continued, his tone as casual and airy as if they were discussing the weather; overhead, Derek’s thundercloud rumbled. “I merely was lucky enough in my youth to stumble across a curse that granted me ten lifetimes. I’m currently on number four. Well, back to work. Try and see if you can get it to eat something?”

Derek stared at the creature and copied Mr. Tuesday, poking it in the back. The spikes ruffled, but otherwise it did not move; he could not see its eyes, but he still got the strangest sensation that it was watching him.

The rain in the store picked up to more of a sleet, and Derek saw Mr. Tuesday arranging an umbrella bin by the front door, picking one out loudly patterned in plaid for himself.

He managed to corral the puddles to one corner of the store, glancing back to see the creature gliding sluggishly down the side of one counter. He picked it up and settled it on his shoulder, figuring that this way he can keep a better eye on it and find out if it happened to eat either cotton or human flesh.

Luckily for him, it didn’t. Or maybe it just wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was just him it didn’t like. More comforting thoughts.

The thing seemed comfortable enough, shifting around his collar after about an hour to settle on his other shoulder. During his break he got lunch at the deli next door, and tried to offer the creature his leftovers. It wouldn’t eat his sandwich or his chips, and it ruffled its antennae at an offer of a capful of soda, which Derek took to be a polite but firm no.

He worked the cashier for a few customers while the creature kept him company, scuttling around the countertop. He only lost track of it once; the thing had an uncanny ability to camouflage itself, but he found it again half-submerged in a puddle, while snow melted on the glass.

The realization came with a sinking sensation, and when Mr. Tuesday stopped by and asked him what he had learned about the creature he pointed up at the cloud hovering above his ears.

“I’m pretty sure this is it. It likes cold, damp environments. Water. I mean, look at how happy it is.” He poked it again, and it purred, its twitching antennae tapping the water and sending out tiny ripples.

“Please tell me you haven’t named it.” Mr. Tuesday sighed, his rebuke more joke than genuine. “If I can, I’ll sell it, you know. Don’t get attached. Has it eaten anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

Mr. Tuesday reached for his coffee cup, lifting the lid and peering inside when he noticed how light it was. “Did you drink this?”

Same answer: “Not that I know of?”

The second realization about the creature came as swift as the drop on a guillotine. “It drinks coffee. Oh God. That’s awful.”

“Why?” Mr. Tuesday shook the empty cup. “That’s cheap. It could eat diamonds. That would’ve been a really bad deal on my part.”

“No, think about it. If it only drinks coffee, it will never go to sleep.” Derek’s shoulders slumped as he stared at the creature. “I’ll be looking after it forever!” It twitched its antennae back in a show of solidarity.

“Could be worse.” Mr. Tuesday moved around the counter, making to open the door for another customer. “At least it stopped raining.”

The next day, when Derek arrived at work he brought a coffee for his boss and a coffee for Spike. The creature followed him around the store, seemingly preferring to crawl across the shelves just out of his reach. At one point, it bumped the edge of a crystal sphere, sending it rolling down and off the ledge.

Derek jumped to catch it, cushioning it safely against his body as he fell to the floor. The sphere safe, he moved it to a lower shelf and collected Spike, swearing to switch to de-caf if it did something like that again.

He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if it had broken. He had too much to think about already, working at the shop. At least he did something right, this time. It looked to be a promising day.

[fanfiction] Goblin Markets

mymisguided — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 19:25:43 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #01, Favorite Characters
Story Title: Goblin Markets
Word Count: 792
Warnings (if applicable): Mild horror
Pairings (if applicable): Nick x Juliette
Summary: “Their fruits like honey to the throat, but poison in the blood,” she whispered. “I like you. I think I’ll keep you.”
Author's Note: Pre-canon AU; inspired by this Rossetti poem. First-Place winner and Most Creative winner of the first Grimm Challenge on LJ! I hope you enjoy.

“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"

Goblin Markets

The city kept a farmer’s market on Saturdays, nearby the coffeehouse he frequented for breakfast. It was off a side street, in an area that didn’t get a whole lot of pedestrian traffic, and seemed to specialize in organic and exotic fruits and produce. Nick had heard about it from someone—couldn’t remember who—but had never before been tempted to go, as it was probably overpriced and the convenience was low.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen was standing behind one of the fruit stands, and Nick was almost embarrassed at how he lingered behind a stack of crates, watching her as she set up, arranging signs and lifting the cloths that covered a series of long baskets filled with fruit.

The market wasn’t by any means packed — more people stood in lines than milled around, and he stopped to look at a few displays as he made his way closer to the fruit stand. He could hear her, waving and calling out to a few of the others working at the market, carrying crates down the center lane. He bumped into someone in line and murmured an apology, but the man just stood there blankly, turned away from him, more content to rearrange the contents of the basket in their hands. There wasn’t a line at that particular fruit stand yet, and he moved closer.

Her hair seemed to shine so brightly under the sun; it captivated him. He hadn’t thought he was hungry—he had just come from breakfast—but the thought of buying something here seemed to become more appealing the longer he was there. The produce cart beside him had some of the freshest vegetables he’d ever seen, from bright peppers to faultless gourds. There was a smell, too, crisp in the air, and the longer he stood there the more his senses became attuned to it. He approached the stand.

“Hey,” he said. “What do you have here?”

She kept eye contact with him as she gestured towards the different bins. “Starfruit, Bosc pears, Honey-Crisp apples, peaches from Samarkand. All perfect, I assure you.”

“I can see that.”

She looked away, the corners of her mouth lifting up in a pleased smile. “Tell me what you’d like, then.”

“I’ll take a few pears. Make it three.” He reached in his pocket for some money as she opened a plastic bag and began to fill it. “I’ll try one now. I’d like your name, too,” he added.

His hand closed around one of the cinnamon-colored, long-necked pears, lifting it to his mouth. He inhaled it first, closing his teeth around the flesh before biting in. The taste of it was immediate, like a punch to the stomach. It was almost unbearably sweet, and he found himself involuntarily taking a second bite.

His vision seemed to tilt and swim, and she was by his side in a second, one hand bracing the side of his head, the other sliding up his arm to where he held the pear. “It’s indescribable, isn’t it?”

Something was horribly wrong, he knew that on some level, but at that moment all he could think about was getting more of the pear. It was an itch in his bloodstream now, and he frowned as she pulled the pear away from him, her fingers cool against his own, and bit into the other side of the fruit. “And it’s Juliette.”

She took another bite, and he couldn’t take it any longer. His hands grasped the sides of her face, bringing him closer as he crashed his lips onto hers, using her surprise to slide the piece of pear from behind her teeth with his tongue and bring it into his own mouth. He broke the kiss but remained close, stealing her breath as the taste of pear calmed him again.

“What…did you do to me?” He spit out the words.

“Their fruits like honey to the throat, but poison in the blood,” she whispered. “I like you. I think I’ll keep you.” Her voice turned teasing, accusing.

She reached for another basket. “The pears are addictive, aren’t they? I’ve got another one I think you’ll like. The peaches…they’ll make you forget certain things.”

He blinked twice as something about her appearance changed; her hair began to shimmer, and something in her face sharpened. It was over in a flash, and he was left staring at her as she offered him the second fruit, pressing it against his mouth.

He took a bite, and the world disappeared.

“Dinner’s ready,” Juliette called. “Let me fix you a plate. How was work today?”

The table between them was full of platters of chicken and vegetables, and for the centerpiece, a bowl of perfectly ripened fruit.
------------
Thank you muchly to grimm-challenge for the support and the lovely banners!

[LJ Idol] SCI, "Help Wanted"

mymisguided — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 01:51:09 GMT

SCI prompt: Second Look
Author's Notes: Fiction. I hope you enjoy.
Help Wanted

Derek finished wiping down the counters, clearing fingerprints and condensation from the glass; he’d taken to bringing soft drinks to work and setting them in the corners so they’d be out of the way, but before long he’d inevitably forget about them to find the bottles tepid and undrinkable hours later, resting in a thin film of water.

His new boss hardly approved, insisting that his attention should always be on the shop, not on snacks, but Derek brought him coffee in the mornings to help make up for it. Derek’s job wasn’t to interact with the customers, anyway, he just cleaned and kept things organized, and handled restocking or heavy lifting if it was needed. His boss took care of everything else, greeting the customers by name and working directly with them to pick out whatever they wanted.

The store had quite the impressive collection of antiques, antiquities, and oddities of every shape and size, from tiny porcelain figurines and dishes to larger pieces of furniture. They ranged from the common and customary, like old coins and Louis XVI style furniture and tiffany lamps, to the obscure and bizarre, if the tags were to be believed—things like ushabti and the well-preserved, mounted skulls of various now-extinct animals.

Derek moved to the windows, cleaning them methodically. He remembered when he’d first gotten the job two weeks prior; he’d barely been able to see the help wanted sign propped up in the window, itself obscured by a thick layer of dust. A man with the improbable name of Mr. Tuesday had introduced himself as the shop’s owner, offered Derek the job, and here he was.

Through the window he could see a woman heading for the door and opened it for her, listening casually as Mr. Tuesday walked up to her and gave her an odd sort of half-bow.

“Ah, Betty! It’s nice to see you back again—”

For the first time, Derek caught a glimpse of the giant bird on her shoulder, its feathers a deep rainbow of greens and blues. It squawked, and Mr. Tuesday laughed, gesturing further into the shop as the two disappeared down one of the aisles.

Derek moved on to dust some of the shelves that needed it and organized a series of rolled-up maps in a bin. Customers were few and far between—Derek himself had tried to explain his new summer job to some of his friends, and they all had never even heard of the antique shop, squashed as it was between a hardware store and a popular lunch spot. The shop in question was always overlooked, except, it seemed, to those who knew to look for it.

Mr. Tuesday was back, ringing up a purchase. “—Now, Betty, make sure this is cleaned well and often or it will rust. I can have it delivered to you tomorrow? Yes, of course—” The bird squawked again, louder this time, and reached its beak back to scrape at the feathers on its back.

A man with thick bandages covering the right side of his face was the next to enter. With Mr. Tuesday preoccupied, he walked up to Derek instead.

“I heard your shop has the only Forer telescope on this side of the continent, is that correct? I’d be very interested in looking at it.”

“Er…” He had no idea what that was; he didn’t remember seeing something with that name on any of the shelves. “A telescope? There’s a shelf in the back with looking glasses and some lens, but I’m not sure about telescopes…”

Finished with his own customer, Mr. Tuesday approached them. “Derek, it’s in storage. Check the closet in the back room—please retrieve it and bring it to us. And Mr. Konran, how are you doing this fine afternoon?”

Derek was familiar enough with the storage closet, as it was where he kept the cleaning supplies. He didn’t remember ever seeing anything large enough to be a telescope, and wondered why Mr. Tuesday would be keeping it in a dingy place like that.

The employee area was closed off by a velvet curtain, and Derek headed for the storage closet, testing the tarnished bronze doorknob; it always rattled when he opened it. Inside, he could see stacked buckets and a few mops and brooms, some newer bottles of cleaning supplies, and no telescope.

There were a few unlabeled boxes on higher shelves, and he searched each, yielding nothing more than a cloud of dust for his troubles. Coughing and confused, he returned to where Mr. Tuesday was chatting up the customer, and mumbled, “I couldn’t find it…are you sure it’s in that closet?”

“Look again,” he said. “It’s categorized under #B12. Maybe you just didn’t look deep enough.”

He fought to keep the incredulous look off his face until he was standing before the closet again. Really, he’d already looked and it wasn’t there! He opened the door a bit harder than before, and the brooms propped up in a corner clattered to the floor.

He stepped into the closet, kicking the broom handles out of the way. One skittered off into darkness, and he realized that the closet was indeed deeper than he first thought. The shelves were narrow, but there was a gap between them—a gap barely wide enough for a person to walk through it.

Derek squeezed past, ducking his head to avoid a few low boxes sticking out over the edges of the shelves. The last thing he wanted was to spend the next few days picking up after an avalanche in here, and he made his way carefully, trying to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Let there be light,” he muttered, feeling the shelves’ edges with his hands to mark his progress, noting the faded sign hanging off one shelf that proclaimed the section Z15. He had a long way to go.

No sooner had he spoken than a series of mushroom-shaped lamps lit up on a low shelf at knee-height, shocking him into bumping back against the adjoining row. He held his breath; nothing fell, and the lights remained on. He couldn’t see any switches on the lamps, and strained to read the tag on that shelf.

“…Conscious Corning Lamps? The hell?”

Lightbulbs flickered, and Derek felt sheepish. “…Thank you?” The glow increased.

Shrugging it off, he continued onward. At least he’d be able to see, now.

As he walked, the gap between the shelves was getting wider, and the things on the shelves themselves were getting stranger. He noticed old puzzle boxes, breathtaking in their complexity, and burnished statuettes and ornaments made of what appeared to be gold. He sucked in a deep breath, coughing instantly from the dust, the idea that so much wealth was clustered here and he had access to it making him lightheaded. One of the tags here informed him that he was only at section L. Moving in reverse, then, he wondered how special the objects on the farthest shelves would be, if the telescope was supposed to be located at B.

After awhile, he stopped even looking at the labels. It was too ridiculous—asphodel flowers, preserved in a viscous gel, that were purported to be hundreds of years old and still growing, to odd amulets and relics and a shelf, entirely empty and dust-free, with the label of Cryptids.

Eventually, he reached the B section, and searched for the number twelve. He found it on one of the higher shelves, and delicately pulled it down to examine it closer.

The telescope was much smaller than he’d imagined; it wasn’t too heavy, although it was crafted out of a thick metal and engraved with various symbols. He couldn’t see clearly enough in the dim light to actually look into the lens, but the curiosity was overwhelming to know just what it was he held in his hands.

As he walked past the lamps they flickered once before going out. Derek stumbled out of the closet, his sweater and hair covered with dust, and kicked the door closed with one foot. Back inside the showroom, Mr. Tuesday was waiting, and Derek handed him the telescope.

Curiosity superseded his desire to be clean, and he brushed dust off his arms while he tried to listen in on their conversation from behind the counter. His soda was still cool, and he pressed the bottle to his forehead; it came away smudged with dirt. Instead, he studied a row of photographs leaning against the wall, directly behind the register, and cleared some of the desk-space for something to do.

Mr. Tuesday returned to the register, and Derek was surprised to see the customer with the bandaged face leaving with the telescope.

“Isn’t he…?”

“We came to an agreement,” he explained. “He didn’t pay with money.”

“…Ah.” That didn’t answer any of his questions. “What does the telescope do? And what’s with all the”—junk, his mind supplied—“stuff, in storage?”

“It can see glimpses of the future." The answer was delivered so offhandedly that it took a moment for Derek to process it. "I couldn’t very well have all that on the shelves out here," he continued. "Some of it might just walk away!”

“That—wait, really?”

“If you’re going to be working here, you’ve got to learn how to deal with the things we sell. If you can manage that, you can work with the customers.”

“That woman didn’t seem too bad,” Derek muttered. “Betty.”

“Betty was the bird,” he said.

“Right. Of course.” Derek leaned back against the counter, his arm brushing one of the photographs. He frowned, finally close enough to really look at them.

“Are these a joke?” he asked, gesturing to the row of photos. Each was enclosed in a simple black frame, but the pictures themselves were arranged by date, growing older and older, from grainy newsprint to the single daguerreotype to a Collodion photo. Each showed famous celebrities of the day, even royalty, posing beside a face that looked suspiciously like Mr. Tuesday. Derek had first thought they’d been cleverly photoshopped, but after everything he’d seen the impossible was starting to look more and more likely as his doubt faded away.

“Not at all,” Mr. Tuesday answered. “Not at all.”
----------------
Notes:
1) Forer refers to the 'Forer Effect,' and has to do with subjective validation of fortune-telling.
2) Cryptids are creatures or plants whose existence has not been proved by science.
3) The Asphodel Meadows are part of the Ancient Greek underworld, where the eponymous flowers grow.

[LJ Idol] SCI, "Kaidan"

mymisguided — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 01:21:48 GMT

Prompt: High Wire Act
Author's Notes: Kaidan refers to traditional Japanese ghost or horror stories. I hope you enjoy.

Kaidan

The Emperor liked to collect persons of extraordinary distinction for his court instead of collecting works of art or jewels. He could converse with them, and they could entertain him, and so it became a challenge for him to find and foster such a collection.

Word spread of a butterfly woman, only two inches tall, and when the Emperor heard of this he invited her to come to his court to entertain him and so he and the others could marvel at her rareness. The butterfly woman agreed, and when she arrived at court she was instantly favored, and danced daily for them. Her dancing was made even more beautiful by the bright colors of her wings, and she could create her own music by humming or from the buzzing sound made by her wings.

Over time, the court’s favor began to wane, as the Emperor was made aware of a new rarity in his kingdom. A weaver, cursed to become a spider, was brought before him, who wove the most beautiful garments for the court out of silk.

Overcome with jealousy, the butterfly woman planned a grand spectacle for herself, where she danced the hardest she could, flying across the room to dance over their heads and dangle from the wires that held paper lanterns from the ceiling, spinning and spinning, thinking that surely now they would see that her talent was greater and that she deserved to hold their regard.

As hard as she danced, when the music was over she found that no one was watching, so focused were they on the new oddity. No one paid her attention any longer, and even the Emperor dismissed her, preferring to watch the spider spin a new robe for him.

The butterfly woman decided to seek revenge. You see, for having dined on milkweed as a caterpillar she was poisonous, and with this poison killed both the spider and every single member of the Emperor’s court.

Her revenge complete, the butterfly woman continued to dance, moving outside and drifting higher and higher until she reached the branches of a tall tree, and danced around the thinnest twigs. She made a routine out of clouds and stars, and when the time came she danced in the sky at their funerals, and on that day the buzzing of her wings sounded like laughter.

[LJ Idol] SCI, "Rewrite"

mymisguided — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 00:53:31 GMT

Prompt: What's Missing?
Author's Notes: Fiction. I hope you enjoy.

Rewrite
The children taunted her in the schoolyard with whispers and cautious glances, pointing at her when they thought her back was turned. The braver ones stepped forward and told her directly: “The house you’re living in is haunted.”

Rebecca tried to ignore them; the big house stood high upon a hill, and she had been excited at first to have so much space for just herself and her grandfather, so much old history and older furniture covered with dust to excavate and uncover. And when she was introduced to her classmates, they all seemed to know everything about her arrival without being told and refused to speak more to her than a few words of unsolicited legend.

A girl with pigtails done up in ribbons leaned closer to her group of friends and whispered, “They say someone died in that house, long ago.”

Rebecca turned to look them straight in the eye and said, “They’re wrong.”

In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder if her classmates were right. She considered asking her grandfather, who believed that there was value in ancient stories and magic, but could think of nothing to say over dinner and instead pushed her food around on her plate with her fork.

After a week she grew tired of her classmates ignoring her. Her class all ate together, and she arrived early enough to sit in the middle of the long table, setting out her lunch and waiting for the inevitable question.

“Hey Becky, seen any ghosts yet?”

Rebecca leaned forward, glasses slipping further down her nose. “Yes. In fact, I saw one last night.”

The two seated on either side of her gasped as the entire table grew silent, straining to hear the words Rebecca spoke so matter-of-factly.

“I knew immediately what it was. I saw her—the ghost—tiptoeing down one hallway and I followed,” she began. “I saw her seated at the bench in the lounge for a second before she vanished completely.”

Lunchboxes sat unpacked, juice drinks remained unopened, bananas waited unpeeled in trembling hands. The girl next to Rebecca asked, “Was it the woman who died?”

She glanced up slyly. “Who else could it be? She had long white hair—everything about her was so white and pale. She died…of a broken heart,” Rebecca decided, knitting together the story as she told it, reveling in the way that everyone was focused entirely on her. Now that she had their attention, she would do anything to keep it.

“There’s an old piano in that room,” she continued, “but it’s always been out of tune.” She paused for dramatic effect, sweeping her eyes back and forth across the table, noticing how all thoughts of eating were forgotten over the validation of both fear and fable that they’d long believed held truth.

“This morning, I tested it and it was in perfect tune.”

More gasps and sighs, and when her grandfather came to pick her up after school she asked him about ghosts.

“Haunting implies that the spiritual presence is stuck or unsought,” he replied. “I would welcome a ghost into our house—fascinating creatures, wouldn’t you think?”

When she did her homework in the lounge, she kept one eye focused on the work and the other drawn towards the bench in the corner. When the sun had dropped from the sky, she left her door half-open so she could see into the hallway from her bed. When she was nearly asleep, she saw an odd light stretching around the door, and by the time she had rubbed her eyes to clear them, glasses propped obliquely on her face, she saw a woman standing there, wispy hair floating in a nonexistent breeze.

Shock paralyzed her, kept her from moving or doing more than voicing her most immediate thought. “Y-you’re real.”

The woman smiled and stretched out her hand, whispering, “Can you save me? Can you help me move on—”

When Rebecca woke, she couldn’t figure out if what she had seen was a dream or not. She tried to forget it, but the other children clamored around her in the schoolyard, demanding to know if the ghost had appeared again.

“I always knew there was something strange about that house,” the girl with the pigtails said. Rebecca couldn’t answer, considering whether the house had anything to do with it or not. She had told the story, after all—was it the story that had brought it to life?

“Tell us more,” they begged, and Rebecca conceded.

“She died of a broken heart,” she repeated, visualizing the story in her mind. “She had a lover, and he went off to war…he had promised to return to her, and she had promised to wait for him. He disappeared…and she still waits. She feels almost betrayed by it, but she cannot pass on until she finds him. She’s a ghost, yes, but she doesn’t haunt the house.” Rebecca remembered her grandfather’s words, and decided that she begrudged the ghost nothing, including lodging in the second floor lounge.

“That’s so romantic.” The girls sighed and clutched each other’s hands, while Rebecca trudged after them into their classroom. It was tragic, and it provided no happy ending, either for herself or for the ghost woman. She could not think of an end for the story.

Still, the others asked to be told more stories at lunchtime, and Rebecca made up more for them, telling about how the ghost had been fixing things around the house—straightening portraits, winding clocks—and stealing small trinkets that no one else would miss. It passed the time well enough, and Rebecca had resolved not to sleep that night to see if the ghost was real and would again return.

At dinner her grandfather made a comment that the shoelaces in his dress shoes had vanished. She had paused, spoon hovering above her soup bowl, and muttered that she had no idea where they could have gone.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually.” She agreed mutely, nodding, her appetite vanished, and asked to be excused so she could work on her homework.

When she sat down at her desk, she realized that all of the pencils in the drawer were missing.

It was good that she was planning on staying awake, because anxiety would not let her sleep as she tossed and turned in bed, waiting for the ghost and hoping she never showed. The night was almost halfway over when the same pale specter materialized at her desk, pushing a pencil around on the flat surface; the sound was almost deafening in the silence.

“Hello.” Rebecca felt a greeting was better than gaping like she did the last time.

Once again, the ghost looked sadly back at her, whispering, “Can you save me? Can you help me move on?”

“Yes,” she answered. “How can I help you?”

“Find him, of course. Find the man who left me. I’ve waited for so long. So long—”

When Rebecca woke again, she was sure that it had not been a dream. The pencil was still there, for one, and she shivered as she slid out of bed to go pick it up. The wood was cold, much colder than she expected. Suddenly, she didn’t feel much like telling stories that day.

To her knowledge, they had all come true. All but one…

Still in her pajamas, she crept to the lounge. She noticed that the heavy curtains had been tied back with a pair of black knotted shoelaces; outside, rain misted against the windowpanes.

Rebecca moved to the piano and located middle C.

The note rang clear and true, and she tried the whole chord. It was in perfect tune.

[LJ Idol] SCI

mymisguided — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 00:35:52 GMT

Throwing my hat back into the ring.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 12, "Boreas"

mymisguided — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 01:59:44 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #12, Some Assembly Required
Author’s Notes: Fiction. Hints of magical realism and fantasy. I hope you enjoy.

Boreas

Jim found handholds in the rock easy enough as he climbed, above the tree-line of the mountain. He boasted in the village that he knew every single stone as well as he knew the members of his family. The North side, where he climbed now, was impetuous like his younger sister, and the rocks would sometimes convince him his holds were sure before sliding out beneath his feet and hands to leave him scrabbling. The East side was like his mother, and faced the village, providing no shortage of paths to follow that held no danger. Sometimes people hunted wild goats on the East side, or gathered berries or chopped trees for firewood, but the North side was his favorite, because it was here that the best views of the country could be found.

He shoved the toes of his boots into a crack in the stone, making his way up the last few feet to a good, solid ledge. He’d tucked an apple into his shirt to snack on, and when the sun fully rose it would bathe the rocks in light, making them quite warm to the touch.

He scrambled onto the ledge—the last handhold was a bit too high than he was comfortable with, but Jim was sure that when he grew a little bit it would make things easier—and settled against the rock to eat his apple.

He had reached the core when a strange noise began to sound from around the curve of the mountain. It wasn’t a buzzing sound or a screech like the calls of birds, but a creaking, groaning noise, becoming louder as Jim scrambled to his feet. A second later, a huge boat came soaring out of the sky.

It parted the clouds with two snowy-white wings on either side made of tightly stretched fabric, rowed by men and women on the deck. That was the noise—the creaking of sails, the groaning of wood and ropes and screws held airborne. Jim had never seen anything like it. He stood, mesmerized, as the wings flapped again and the boat rose higher before falling again as the sails tilted. What would it be like to sail the skies? He followed the boat’s path with his eyes; it could only be headed for the town.

Jim tossed the apple core over the side before slipping down after it, finding the right crevices in the mountainside as he scurried down, making for home as fast as he could.

It was a cargo ship, and boxes of supplies were unloaded and sold, and new goods loaded into place in the space of only a few hours. Jim kept a lookout from behind the railings of the second floor of the inn where his mother worked, listening to the newcomers and picking up information from the chatter in the square below. Looking at the ship up close was even more thrilling, and for the first time he could make out the white-painted name on the side of the hull, spelling Boreas in thin cursive.

When he heard that they were preparing to sail again that very evening, Jim climbed over the railing to the ground below and made his way to the front of the crowd, where a man in a feathered hat stood barking orders to two others carrying crates and barrels off the ship. No matter the answer, he was going to find a way to get on that ship.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jim asked, conveying every politeness he knew. Even as he stood his tallest, his height barely passed the topmost of the buttons on the man’s overcoat. “Are you looking for any extra crew?”

The feather on the hat barely dipped in his direction before the captain answered with a brusque, “No.”

“Are you sure? There are plenty of things I—”

“Answer’s still no.”

Undeterred, Jim continued. “The crew might be short a man—”

“I said no. How old are you, boy? My crew is full. We are not short on anything.” He laughed, loudly, and the sound echoed in Jim’s ears and turned his cheeks red.

Storming away, he returned to his home; his parents were still working, but a note would suffice. He would have to steal his father’s knapsack and a few of his mother’s homemade pies, wrapped in paper on the countertop for dinner.

There were a few books, shelved high, that he was able to reach with his fingertips. The atlas he ignored in favor of the encyclopedia, to the page on boats. There were no pictures, just text, that described how the hulls were shaped, and how they used wind to carry them forward from port to port. He ripped out the page and stuffed it in his pocket, and dropped a kiss on his kid sister’s forehead before slipping out a window so he wouldn’t have to leave the door unlocked. The view of the boat from the mountainside had been impressive and incredible, and he wondered what the view of the town from the boat’s top deck would look like.

They found him a day and a half later, hidden inside a barrel in the cargo hold. He’d been asleep at the time, but when they upended the barrel and dragged him to the deck it hadn’t taken long to regain alertness, especially when the thought crossed his mind that they might just throw him overboard for stowing away.

The crew was made up of six men and women, who circled him after he’d staggered to his feet. The ship was surrounded by clouds, grayish ones that filtered the sunlight. The captain was the first to speak.

“A stowaway. Do you know what we do to stowaways?”

“Invite them to join the crew?” Jim’s hopeful response faded as he watched the other crewmen going through his things. One pulled a meat pie from its paper wrapping, and took a bite. “Hey, that’s mine!”

“On the Boreas, one man’s possessions are shared by all. You want to join, right?” The crewman spoke through a mouthful of pie.

“What can we do with you? We’re too far out to take you back, and you’re too scrawny to lift crates. Could you row, I wonder? Not tall enough.” The captain crossed his arms as the winds picked up, catching in the sails; the wind was cold and sharp, and Jim had to raise a hand to shield his eyes from it.

“I mean to sail on this ship, and I can do whatever is required of me. Sir.” He lowered his hand, so he could look them all in the eyes.

“That’s Captain to you. Name?”

Jim’s grin widened. “Jim Hawking.”

“Welcome aboard.” He introduced the rest of the crew in order of rank: there was Melinda, the first mate, with dark skin and a belt dangling with holsters and scopes; Tom, Merry, and Joyce, sailors with strong arms who manned the oars; and Jane, who had a long scar behind one ear and manned the rudder. And of course, there was the Captain, who provided no name but his title.

They kept him busy, and he took over from Melinda at the fourth oar. They rowed in unison, snapping the wings up and down to keep the ship aloft. When the winds were good, they only needed the wings for stability, but when the winds lagged, the work was strenuous and unrelenting. Even so, every time he pulled the wooden beam up he had to move to his tiptoes.

For weeks they called him ‘stowaway’ instead of Jim, whenever they needed something from him. Stowaway, tie down that sail. Stowaway, the first mate wants to have another look at that map. Stowaway, fetch me the last of the meat pies. There was always something on the Boreas that needed attention, and more often than not it was Jim who was sent, either to fix it himself or to fetch someone who could.

He’d thought the view would be better, flying like this. It was, in a way. Standing on the top deck, at the very front of the ship, was thrilling with the kind of danger that comes from knowing that any rogue gust of wind could blow you right off, but mostly they sailed through the clouds or above them, where the winds were strongest. Where the clouds were thinnest he could see the ground below, patchwork fields and bumpy hills and the intermittent village, but mostly it was nothing but grayish, discolored white. At night, when the stars came out he would lean against the steps and try to count the constellations. The encyclopedia page grew creased within his pocket, but he kept it close, and scribbled pictures and notes on the other side, of knots he learned and the shapes of the sails.

He woke up one day to pounding rain. Every door and hatch had been closed off, to keep the rain from getting in, but as he staggered to the top deck the water had soaked him in seconds. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and found Melinda, barking orders as Merry and Joyce struggled with the oars. The ship dropped in the air, and Jim stumbled forward, grasping hold of the center mast to keep from sliding towards the railings.

“Stowaway! Untie the sail, there! Let it out!” Melinda was shouting in his ear, and he struggled with the knots. The sails were made heavier with water, he knew that, but they’d sailed in rain before. The storms were the real problem, when lightning and unpredictable winds could toss the Boreas around and drop it from the sky with hardly a thought to the crew struggling to keep it aloft.

He undid the knots, but the sail caught at the top, still wrapped around the mast. The ship sank further, and through the dark clouds Jim could see a flash of golden light. A few seconds later, a deep boom echoed in his ears, louder than anything he thought possible.

“Jane! Up! We’ll try to avoid the worst of it!” The ship surged again, running deeper into the clouds as it rose, reeling as Jim was all but thrown to the deck. The winds were stronger, and lifted the boat higher, into clearer skies. He saw another flash of gold.

“Let me climb,” Tom asked the Captain, who had joined them at the mast. The center sail was still stuck, and it needed to be free before the ship could brave the storm again.

“How much longer?” Melinda asked.

“Ten minutes at maximum.” The Captain looked up, to the top of the rigging where a rope fastened the sail. “You’re too heavy. The ropes won’t support you, not in these conditions.”

“Then let me,” Jim spoke up. “I’ve climbed mountains. I’m light enough. I can do it.”

One short nod, and the Captain stepped back. Jim grasped the ropes and started to climb. The ropes sagged from the added weight of the rain, but the loops were easy handholds as he scaled the rigging, working his way up the mast to the very top. The ship pitched again, and Jim clung to the ropes as below, the oarsmen worked to keep the ship above the storm.

He climbed higher, wrapping a leg and arm through the ropes to hold himself in place while he struggled with the sail. A few ropes were keeping it bound, and after he freed it the sail gathered air and snapped outward.

Going down was more difficult; he could not see as well, and had to trust his feet to find the proper holds. The ship pitched again as the storm drew closer and the rain picked up, stinging icy cold. He reminded himself it was just like the mountains he had climbed, and he continued down, clinging to the ropes, until his feet touched the surface of the deck.

“Jim!” Melinda had a mostly dry coat to wrap around him, and he accepted it gratefully. The ship surged forward, much more surely now against the wind. She clapped him against the back. "You did it!"

The warmth of being called by his name was greater than that of a dry coat, and Jim leaned against the wooden mast. "Thanks."

"Here," she said, unclipping a spyglass from her belt and handing it to him. "Eventually we'll be past this storm. Tell me what you see."

Jim stood by the railing, spyglass pressed to his face. The clouds were still roiling and dark, punctuated by bursts of lightning, but the danger of sinking was lessened. With each passing minute, the Boreas felt more capable against the storm. Jim swept the glass across the ship, watching the crew, turning his gaze to each in turn. He spared a thought for the page tucked inside a pocket; by now, the ink would have ran across it, ruining the text and his hand-scribbled notes. Not that he really needed them anymore.

He swiveled back to face the sky.
-------------
Notes: Jim Hawking is a reference to Jim Hawkins, a character in Treasure Island. Some of the crewmen (Tom, Merry, Joyce) are also references to Treasure Island characters.
Boreas is the Greek name for the North Wind.
Concrit is welcome.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 11, "ecosystems in acrylics"

mymisguided — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 01:46:42 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #11, Open Topic
Title: ecosystems in acrylics
Word Count: 1701
Warnings (if applicable): None
Summary: For someone unable to differentiate between imagination and reality, eventually they become the same thing.
Author’s Notes: Fiction. Magical Realism. I hope you enjoy.

ecosystems in acrylics

I think it’s a spot at first, when the first stalk pokes through the front of the canvas. The green is only slightly darker than the 6935 used to paint the clover, and I’d only hung the painting the day before. The light looks odd coming through the slatted blinds, so I take them down to continue painting. Old cabins like this, they come with blinds on every window, and why I cannot guess, as it blocks the view. The entire reason people come out this far into the countryside, I was led to believe, was for the view.

The window is now bare and unveiled, and the new canvas had been primed and the palette was ready. The painting is that same view; my view, with the hill outside, where a few oak trees dot the top and wildflowers spill around the edges to flow downward like a river. The violet is 6847, the brown 6089, and the brushes load up the color eagerly. Against the wall, the lazy stalks continue to sprout, leaves curling against the landscape.

There is a letter on the table in the other room, the weekly note from my brother detailing my mother’s health. It’s never been the same since my father’s passing, but she tries to hang on and my brother does everything he can to encourage this. In the winter seasons I return to my hometown, to take care of her, while my brother stays with her in the summers. I sell my paintings in a gallery, but there’s nothing to paint in winter, not when the canvas is already white to begin with. It feels like cheating. It feels dead, and that’s a travesty.

Beside the back wall, a stack of canvases lean against each other. I’d painted the meadow outside, and while the first canvas is still matte and smooth, the last—tilted against the others, almost flat to the floor—sprouts thin, even blades of grass, growing up and out to cover the length of it.

I’d tried to paint people, but it doesn’t work, not with their long faces and slouched shoulders and hands creased with dirt, shaking and restless from staying so still. Self-portraits were worse, and I was unrecognizable crammed into an 18x24” frame. Then, I painted a tree, and it was beautiful. Everything from the roots to the fluttering leaves was vivid and alive! I imagined it, and it became real.

I wouldn’t call myself a forgetful person, but somehow the painting has escaped my notice, the one with the daffodils and the clover, and the bulbs have sprouted. The yellow looks as nice as I thought it would when I saw it in the bottle, and the upturned petals tilt themselves towards the window to catch the sun.

I try to create what I see; what I see in my mind is the most beautiful thing. I’m just trying to get it out, to let it breathe. The painting of the tree is finished, I receive another few letters, and there’s grass under my feet when I move from one room to the next, to lay my dinner out on the counter beside the unused coffeemaker or to brush my teeth over the sink, to let the foam drip over the chipped enamel.

Roses wind themselves up the legs of a table from a canvas propped against one side of it, and the thorns are sharp and hard to avoid. The canvas with the daffodils has now been poked full of holes, and vines spread across the ceiling. I finish another painting and set it aside.

No one was there to see my father die in his sleep, slipping into nonexistence without as much as a notice. The human body is so weak, so imperfect, as I am weak and imperfect. Instead of thinking about it, I’ll build two-dimensional monuments, things that can be perfect and complete and entirely self-contained, like an ecosystem in acrylics.

I see a branch twisting above the doorway, barely high enough to clear my head. I see tiny little apples dangling from it, spotted green and yellow, unripe and inedible besides. I am painting a sunset. In it things look slightly different than before, but they’re still the same images, the same products of the earth.

I receive another letter from my brother. She’s dying, the note says, come home, and I pack up the essentials and leave that night, with paint still drying on the bristles and the screen door propped open by the roots of a gigantic tree, poking through the mesh.

---
Maria looks like someone else’s mother, not mine. The rooms in her house are dark, lit only by a few low-wattage bulbs in frosted lamps, the curtains drawn close over shut windows. People scurry around the rooms with low voices—nurses, nephews, the occasional visit from the executor or the landlord—and she gestures with limp hands for her children, for the newspaper, for the medicines stacked like bricks on the bedside table.

I wait outside the closed bedroom doors, staring at the clutter, clutching a glass of warm juice. Maria has no paintings on the walls here, only eleven framed photographs, of younger men and women progressing to older men and women, seated in armchairs. One of the photographs in the stairwell is of me, with my brother’s arm around my shoulder.

The door opens and closes and Thomas is there, pressing his back to the wall as he clasps his hands together. “She will need to be moved to the hospital soon,” he says. “I plan on moving into this house, afterwards. It is a good house.”

“It is.” That is a lie. There are not enough lights or bookcases, and the ceiling slopes too much, but I do not say that.

“How long will you stay?”

“As long as I need to.” I imagine many, many years after Maria is dead, Thomas will take up residence in that same bed, ailing and spent. Then I will come to stay with him, to do my duty. Then it will be my turn. What a way to live.

“Your old room?” he asks, and I nod. “You did not bring much with you.”

“There wasn’t time. I’ll go back for it all in the spring.” The mountain roads are treacherous enough when there is adequate daylight, but when the seasons changed and winter swept in they were unusable.

“Don’t worry, I’ll send my son instead, his car is larger,” he continues. “If you would like to see her now, you can. She was resting earlier, but she can manage a few minutes of conversation.”

I was not here for conversation, not exactly. I was here to watch someone die in front of me, and then again when I look in the mirrors above the sinks and the dressers. My fingers itch for a paintbrush, but I make do with the doorknob instead.

“You can’t…change it,” Thomas says. “You can’t change anything.”

“I can. I’ll prove it,” I keep repeating.

Inside, I stare at my mother’s hands, so different from how I remembered. Now, the joints were swollen, and her skin seemed to hang over her skeleton. She looks no different among the whiteness of the hospital after we’ve moved her. It’s like winter has moved inside, and we track snow from our boots onto the white linoleum floor to melt while we stand in a semicircle around her bed.

I knew exactly what would happen when I came back but it’s still hard enough to face. Maria doesn’t say anything, but her breathing is loud to compensate. I clutch at my sleeves as snow catches at the windowsills and blocks out the view of anything but what is inside the room. I want spring again.

---
Danny had been told he must return to the house in the country; some paintings had been left there, and art supplies are so expensive these days. He’ll have to pack up everything and bring it all back. It shouldn’t be too hard, they’ll fit in the trunk and backseat of his car, if he packs appropriately.

The road through the countryside is winding and crosses all manner of geographical boundaries, from silvery rivers to what the maps call mountains, and Danny’s got a map of his own, with a route marked out in red pen. He turns on each road as directed, finally ending up on a two-lane road that seems to lead to nowhere, without a house in sight.

He knew what the cottage looked like, at least in description. He had the keys and he didn’t mind the drive, not when it got him out of the house. He hopes he gets to keep a painting or two out of the deal, even if he has to settle for one of the uglier ones.

The map tells him it should only be another few miles. At last he comes to a mailbox, stationed against what must have been a dirt road, although the indentations from tire tracks have now been covered up by a light fringe of green.

The house number is correct, but he can’t see a house at all, only this tangled, overgrown mess. A few trees stand taller than any in the area, with trunks wider than the spread of his arms, the branches tangled with vines and the first signs of blossoms. Danny steps over a few shrunken apples as he walks closer, trying to see if the house is behind it.

One of the trees is propped up by a few sticks of wood, something a lighter color with a few screws sticking out the sides. There are a few more oddities—a splash of purple over a tree root and some broken glass scattered in places on either side of a tree. It’s all intertwined, and he cannot distinguish one flora from the other, when they all seem to grow from one another. Even as he watches it, the wind picks up a stray vine and flutters the leaves on the thinnest branches.

The way it moves looks almost like a breath.

--------------------
Notes: The paint colors listed are Sherwin-Williams colors (chosen because their names are just so cool!) The green is Straightforward, the purple is Ice Plant, and the brown is Grounded.
Concrit is welcome.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 10, "Pura Vida"

mymisguided — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 01:58:20 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #10, Sticks and Stones
Title: Pura Vida
Word Count: 1130
Warnings (if applicable): None
Summary: This is my first experience rafting, and while I’d signed up primarily for fun, gliding out into those first rapids is nothing short of terrifying.
Author’s Notes: Non-fiction this time around! I hope you enjoy.

Pura Vida

In Spanish, Andrés explains, Reventazón means explosion of water. It’s also the name of a river in Costa Rica, winding across mountains and rainforests for over 90 miles, 40 of them rapids. At one point, the bus crosses a bridge high overhead, and I get my first glimpse of it.

Rolling water, slipping over rocks to curl and twist into white foam, stretches as far as I can see in either direction. I cannot tell how deep the river is just from looking, but it’s wide, and I imagine falling out of the raft, crashing against the rocks, and losing my shoes or sunglasses. Maybe both.

“If someone falls out of the raft, we call them a swimmer,” Andrés says. “If you fall, you buy everyone else in your raft a drink, yes? Pura Vida! But no pushing them on purpose!”

He continues, “Here in Costa Rica, we say pura vida. It’s like no problem, man. No worries. So, how are you all feeling?” A faint chorus of pura vida emanates from the middle of the bus. I’m still staring out the window, at the miles of banana trees, the bananas wrapped in bright blue bags to keep the pesticides from reaching the fruit.

“Someone asks you how you’re doing, you can say pura vida. When we go back to the center for lunch, suppose you get a local beer. The bartender asks you how it is, and if you say pura vida, perhaps he gives you another for free, eh?” This time, the response is louder as everyone echoes him.

“Today we will be paddling on some Class II+ and Class III rapids. You’re lucky—it rained nonstop the past week, so the waters are much higher than normal! About three feet. It’ll be a real experience, especially if you’ve never rafted before!” He speaks close to the microphone, pausing only as the bus turns. We’re now on a dirt road, narrower than the bus driving on it.

“Rapids go from Class I to VI. Class I rapids are calm and peaceful, like a swimming pool. Class VI is impossible, like a waterfall.” He laughs, prepping us for the river and offering safety tips. They’re pretty standard—don’t let go of the paddle; if you fall, float on your back; do everything your guide tells you to do.

The guide for my eight-person raft is named Ronald, who says little as we leave the bus and climb down to the riverbank, clutching paddles and buckling life vests and helmets. It’s rocky, and I’m not the only one using the paddle as a walking stick to navigate the more slippery sections. The water itself is surprisingly icy, and I climb into the raft with the others and settle the paddle across my lap.

“We’ll be following the Reventazón for seven miles,” he says. “And it’ll take two hours.” We practice commands in the shallow area by the riverbank, watching the swirling rapids, just visible farther down the river. It’s an easy, simple rhythm. He calls, “Forward! One, two, three, stop,” and we row with the numbers, shifting our paddles out of the water at stop.

“Backwards! One, two, stop.” The same, except we row in reverse. Back left would turn the raft, with those on the left rowing backwards and those on the right rowing forwards, and back right would mean the opposite.

This is my first experience rafting, and while I’d signed up primarily for fun, gliding out into those first rapids is nothing short of terrifying. The rush of the water grows louder as the rapids announce their presence, and we’re off, swiftly rowing to the tune of Ronald’s one, two, three. The raft turns, and I’m slapped in the face with water.

My mind isn’t quick enough at the moment to handle paddling in rhythm and deal with the fast-moving water, not when my first instinct isn’t to paddle dutifully, it’s to do everything possible to keep myself in the raft. It’s not like there’s anything to hang on to but the paddle; my feet are lodged under the seat in front of me, and we’re all practically seated on the very edge of the raft. The water isn’t too far away, and I really don’t want to be a swimmer. I’m drenched in seconds from the rapids as water sloshes over the raft to pool at my feet. I think that human beings weren’t meant to float down a river with nothing more than inflated rubber and sticks to entrust their lives.

“Back right!” Ronald calls. I can’t remember which direction that means I should paddle, but I give it my best shot. Those initial terrifying moments melt away into something exhilarating as we coast through the rapids, shrieking whenever the water rises to douse us, grinning and laughing as we emerge, victorious.

The water smoothes out, barely a ripple as we paddle to the next rapids. “All in! Pura Vida!” We lift our paddles and smack the blades together in the air, like a high-five. We can do this.

At first I worry that I am going to fall, or that my sunglasses will be claimed by the river, but none of it matters the longer we paddle. The Costa Rican rainforest surrounds us, and we stop a few times on the banks to look for monkeys and sloths. I spy a few egrets and goats, but nothing more exotic than that. Before we push off, I carve my first initial into the wet sand with the blade of my oar.

After the next set of rapids, they have a photographer standing by the riverbank to take pictures of our raft. At Ronald’s urging, we all lift our paddles into the air, shouting and laughing, before bringing them back down to slide into the water. We are the last raft to reach the base point, paddling across a smooth section of water where others have jumped to swim alongside their own rafts. We stay firmly seated in ours, but use our paddles to splash another raft as we pass.

As part of the package, the rafting center gives us lunch—chicken, pasta, and rice with bananas and yucca, with lemonade and water to drink. Andrés joins us again as we sit around a series of low picnic tables, our mouths almost too full to speak. We are surrounded by nature, from the impossibly bright green of the grasses and trees to the bananas visible from the plantations across the street.

"How was it?" he asks. I know he doesn't just mean the food, but regardless our answer is the same. We have the same two words for him as we think about the afternoon, as we think about the river and the country.

"Pura Vida!"

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Free Topic, "a matter of perspective"

mymisguided — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 00:04:30 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: Free Topic, Here Comes the Sun
Title: a matter of perspective
Word Count: 1049
Warnings (if applicable): None
Summary: Instead of looking at the ground, she should’ve been looking at the sky.
Author’s Notes: Fiction. I hope you enjoy!

a matter of perspective

She did two cartwheels, her palms holding steady to the tufts of grass peeking through the dirt. The old fairgrounds had stood vacant for years, but she liked to think she would have fit in with the other acrobats and tumblers she’d seen the last time the circus had visited. Back then, the place had smelled like sugar and fried foods and smoke. Now, all that was gone. The magic of it had left this place, left it dry and empty and it had never quite recovered.

“Victoria!” Bobby called, walking far enough behind her that he wouldn’t get kicked when she dove into another flip.

She wiped her hands on the knees of her khaki pants. “I do not answer to that name.”

“Vicky.” He sighed, scratching at one ear. “What are we doing here? It’s getting dark.”

“That’s the point, stupid.” Vicky followed the walkways set into the dusty ground as the two made their way closer to the center of the fairgrounds. The buildings had long been torn down, but a large slab of concrete still rested there, and it would be the perfect place. “I’ve taken care of all the details. My parents think I’m eating dinner with yours, and your parents think you’re eating with mine. Now we just have to wait till it gets dark, that’s when the meteor shower is supposed to start.”

Bobby looked upset at the prospect of missing dinner altogether, but he settled down cross-legged on the concrete while Vicky did a somersault. “We’re lucky, you know,” she said. “Sometimes when these things come through, we can’t see them ‘cause it’s daytime. Or I can’t stay up late enough and end up falling asleep. I’m not going to miss this one, though. And this is perfect—no tree cover, just wide open space. We should’ve invited all the neighborhood kids and charged admission at the gate.”

“We’d be caught,” Bobby said. “And this is public land.”

“Well, we’re the public too, aren’t we?” Vicky stretched out on the concrete, resting her head against both hands. It was cold, but after a few seconds it didn’t seem to matter much.

“We don’t count, we’re kids,” Bobby muttered.

She yawned, and shifted to scratch at her nose. She wasn’t wearing a watch, but she knew that the meteor shower was supposed to start at eight. The moon was a sliver of white in the sky, still a chalky Prussian blue color. The wind had picked up, whistling across the ground and making the few blades of grass tremble and sway amid the dust. It was soothing and comfortable, and Vicky found herself nodding off, her eyes closing even as she struggled to watch the skyline.

She dreamt about acrobats and jugglers and fire-breathers who could warm her hands with a single cough. She dreamt of white tigers and fireworks and the measured rhythm of a twirling baton. It was wonderful and brilliant, and each tent she entered was sharper and brighter than the last. She glanced at the sky; it was sunny to the point of being blinding, and she had to lift a hand to shield her eyes from it. When she could see clearly again, everything was muted, the brilliant colors sapped and the acrobats’ motions slower. The magic and enchantment of it was truly gone. There was no circus to run away with, not anymore.

Someone was pushing at her shoulder. “Vicky, wake up,” Bobby snapped. Her cheek hit the concrete, cold against her ear, and her eyes snapped open. “You’ll kill me if I let you miss this.”

She glanced up, and the sky was alive with movement. Stars swam from one side of the sky to the other, bits of glittering light that seemed to ignite the darkness. Every few seconds another emerged, each more brilliant and beautiful. Vicky’s mouth hung open as she rested on her elbows, doing her best to take it all in. Beside her, Bobby seemed just as impressed, and she could hear him trying to count all the meteorites under his breath.

She didn’t know how long it continued, but when the last star streaked across the sky she leaned back, satisfied. “That was totally worth it,” she said, resting her head back on her hands. “Amazing. That one won’t come back for years and years.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I should’ve brought a camera.”

“I can remember it just fine,” Bobby replied, leaning back himself against the concrete, adding, “I should’ve brought a sandwich.”

Vicky doesn’t dream this time, and it’s not Bobby that wakes her up. Instead, there’s a bright light shining in her face, and she blinks and turns against her arms to try and shield herself from it.

She’s lying on something infinitely harder than her mattress, and when her brain finally catches up she realizes she’s still at the fairgrounds, and they’d slept through the sunrise. She staggered to her feet, kicking Bobby in the ankles.

“Wake up! Oh, we’re going to be in so much trouble. Up!” She kicked a little harder, and when he opened his eyes and saw the sun, his expression mirrored her own.

“It’s a Sunday,” she gasped, “so there’s a chance everyone’s still asleep. Let’s go!” Together, the two stumbled across the fairgrounds to the gate, slipping through it and half-running up the sidewalk. There weren’t any cars on the road yet, for which she was grateful.

The sun was still rising ahead of them, moving higher into the sky with every passing minute. Dragging Bobby, she couldn’t shield her eyes from it this time, but as she blinked into the light it reminded her of the bleached circus tents and the wholly different lights that had peppered the sky. Those lights were infinitely more magical. Instead of looking at the ground, she should’ve been looking at the sky.

They passed Bobby’s house first, and he made for the window he’d left unlatched. Vicky was still tired, and the ground was uneven, but as she approached her own house she did another cartwheel, watching the way the ground and sky flipped. It was over after a second, but the feeling stuck with her. It made her feel buoyant and light, like so many stars racing across the sky.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 8, "Dealings"

mymisguided — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 01:52:31 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #08, A Traveling Travesty
Title: Dealings
Word Count: 1547
Warnings (if applicable): Mild horror
Summary: Everything could be obtained for the proper price, and Mr. M would never suffer for customers.
Author’s Notes: Fiction. Hints of magical realism and horror. Again, more of an “old-time” setting. I hope you enjoy!

Dealings
The house with the blue-painted siding was set about as far from the road as every other house on the street. A series of low, smart hedges bordered the driveway and front walk, and all of the fallen leaves had been swept from the steps. Mr. M took these steps one-at-a-time, pausing before the door to straighten his tie and switch his briefcase to his left hand.

He only had to ring the doorbell once before a middling woman in a green dress opened the door. Mr. M bowed his head respectfully and said, “I am just a humble salesman looking to make my way in life, would you be at all interested in any of the fine wares I have for sale?”

Well, after that it would just be rude to turn him away, the woman thought, so she held the door open and shook the man’s hand when he offered it. “What sort of wares, Mr…?”

“You may call me Mr. M.” A business card appeared in his hand, and he handed it over; it was a thick, cream-colored rectangle of cardstock with an embossed M in black, and printing at the bottom too small to read without her glasses. She’d left them in the sunroom with that novel she’d been reading, and it would be too rude to excuse herself to go and get them, so the woman merely smiled and gestured to the wingback chairs in the sitting room.

“I’m June Turner, and I would love to see what you have for sale.”

They each took a seat while Mr. M opened his briefcase on the coffee table between them. June tried to peer around the top, but it was open in such a way to hide whatever was inside.

“I have brochures here for furniture and vacuum cleaners, should you be interested in that,” he said, setting out a row of colorful pages onto the table. “Encyclopedias and books, I’ve got those too.” He pulled a thick book from the briefcase and set it next to the others. “Dishes, rings and pins with your initials engraved, sweets…do you have any children, ma’am? They’d enjoy some candy, perhaps some taffy or chocolate?”

“Oh, no,” the woman said, her smile dropping by a fraction. “My husband and I don’t have any children, not yet. And I really shouldn’t buy anything, we’re behind on our house payments as it is…”

“Perhaps this elixir, then.” Mr. M produced a dark-glass bottle and set it on top of the papers. “It’ll keep the drinker healthy, just a spoonful in the mornings and at night and you’ll never catch sick again—”

“No, thank you. Again, we just don’t have the money right now. Maybe if you came back later…” June sighed, and watched as Mr. M slowly began to pack his things back inside the briefcase. “What I really want you can’t sell me, anyway.”

He paused. “Oh? And what would that be? You’d be surprised what I can do, ma’am. I can sell you just about anything.”

“I just want good things for myself and my family. I’d never need to worry if nothing bad was ever going to happen to us. But no one can promise that,” June said.

“It just so happens, I can.” Mr. M reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small, pretty looking circle made of carved wood, with a thin leather strap at the top. “Hang this on your door and you’ll have exactly what you want.”

June laughed, but her eyes stayed riveted to the little charm. “That’s impossible, sir. And there’s probably a catch.”

“I’ll even give it to you for free.” Mr. M held out the trinket. “What do you have to lose?”

June took the charm, turning it around in her hands. “You’re such a generous man…at least let me buy some books from you. You said you have an encyclopedia?”

“I do, but it’s an order form,” he said. “You can order one from me—only $24.95—and it’ll be delivered to your house within two weeks.”

“That sounds acceptable.” June smiled at Mr. M as he slid an order contract across the table, and handed her a black fountain pen to fill it out. He was a very good salesman, she reflected, better than the ones peddling coffee or Fuller Brush sets. When he smiled, he didn’t show any of his teeth, but he dressed well, and he seemed like a kind man, although he didn’t have much of a business sense if he kept giving things away. She signed at the bottom line and stood.

“Just let me find my checkbook, I’ll get you some money.”

She exchanged a folded check for another handshake, and he bowed again before leaving, his briefcase tucked under one arm. She waved from the doorstep, thanking him again, and thought she saw a flash of teeth in his smile that time.

.
.

Mr. M walked up the sidewalk, looking at the large, well-kept houses on either side. It had been a good day for him; the men and women here were all too eager to make a deal with him, or accept one of his more curious remedies for whatever ailments they faced. The woman in the brick house had wanted to regain her youth. So he sold her a set of cosmetics that would indeed make her youthful, but that beauty would come from her young daughter. The man in the two-story house with the green siding had wanted fame and fortune—Mr. M had sold him a packet of seeds, seeds of Sloth and Envy and Gluttony, that once planted would transform him into someone unrecognizable, someone who would be too afraid or tired to make use of the wealth and stature he’d acquired. The last woman, the June Turner, would get her wish, and all of the bad things that would have happened to her would instead go to someone else. Perhaps someone else on that very street.

He straightened his tie again—it’d changed to blue, to match his now-blue eyes—and flattened his hair. It made his ears stick out, but it gave him a different enough appearance that anyone who questioned the validity of a traveling salesman would have an entirely different appearance to report than someone else who’d seen him. Not that they would—it was a special talent of his, to be both charismatic and completely forgettable. He’d cultivated an accent that was neither straight Midwest or Southern, or New York or Boston—something indistinguishable, with just enough of whatever geographical locality in his vowels and consonants that they made whoever was listening to him feel calm and comfortable.

It was one thing he had learned, that everyone wanted something, something dark and mysterious that lurked in the back of their minds. It only took a little coaxing to bring it out. Everything could be obtained for the proper price, and Mr. M would never suffer for customers.

The last house, the corner lot, was an impressive mansion of white stucco, and Mr. M headed towards it the same way he’d done all the rest, the picture of professionalism and humility.

In place of a doorbell there was a knocker with a stylized capital S, and he lifted it and knocked twice. He didn’t have to wait long before the door was opened by a man in a black blazer over a red dress shirt. “Can I help you?”

Undaunted, Mr. M launched into his speech. “I am just a humble salesman looking to make my way in life, would you be at all interested in any of the fine wares I have for sale?”

“Why not.” The door was opened wider, and Mr. M slipped inside. “I sell everything you can imagine—I’ve got jewelry and candy and I can take orders for appliances and furniture. If you want something in particular, you have only to ask.”

“Can you? Somehow I doubt that. I’ve seen your kind before.” He led the way into the adjacent sitting room, where a sizeable fire was blazing in the fireplace.

Mr. M straightened, trying to ignore the offense. “I promise you that I can deliver everything you ask for. Everything.”

“Hmm.” The man took a seat and crossed his legs, studying the salesman bluntly. “Can I have your word on that?”

Mr. M suddenly felt all too warm from that fire. There was something unusual about this current customer, and as he pulled at his collar he couldn’t quite place it. None of the others had ever been this hard to convince. “Of course. You have it.”

The man’s smile grew wider, revealing teeth that looked a bit too sharp. “I’ll take your power, then.”

The room was growing unbearably hot. The man seemed unaffected by it, and continued, “Or your soul, if you still have one yourself. I’d take the souls you’ve collected today. And from now on, you’ll be working for me.”

Mr. M stilled, the hand clutching his briefcase tightening around the handle.

“You said you could deliver everything. And you’re a man of your word, as am I.” He shrugged artfully, folding his hands over his knees, that wide grin never leaving his face. “Your first mistake was coming to my neighborhood. Your second mistake was knocking at my door. I don't take kindly to intruders in my territory."

Mr. M watched, his dread growing as the other man's eyes flashed red and he seemed to shift and change, becoming larger and more grotesque with every second. "I did say I knew your kind.”

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 7, "Myopia"

mymisguided — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 01:45:11 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #07, Bupkis
Title: Myopia
Word Count: 1129
Warnings (if applicable): None
Summary: She preferred the way the house looked when everything was blurred and the only thing in focus was herself.
Author’s Notes: Fiction. Setting is not meant to be contemporary. I hope you enjoy!

Myopia
She had kept her face down on the entire walk from home to school and back again. It was not that the weather was poor (in fact, quite the opposite), and it was not that the sidewalk was more interesting on that day than any other, but she watched each foot dutifully step its way, only pausing at corners and street-crossings, and had barely set her satchel down in the hallway of her family’s aged Victorian before she was given another chore.

“Kate,” her mother had told her, “today does not agree with me.” She propped one arm against the side of her head in a properly dramatic fashion, while Kate blinked back, unconvinced.

“Perhaps you should lie down.”

“Yes, yes, I will lie down. It is good for the health, lying down. I cannot go into town today like this, Kate, you must do it.” Without pausing, she dove into a list of instructions, prefaced by a sigh and punctuated by scrunched eyelids and nose. “When you go into town, be sure to pick up some extra tissues. And licorice. And my medicine will be ready at the pharmacist’s. And be sure not to get bananas that are too ripe. You can always tell by the color, and the feel.”

Kate took the folded bills she had pressed into her hand. “Anything else, mama?”

“There’s a little extra, for you to get something for yourself. And don’t forget your glasses!”

The offending eyewear sat crossed on her bedside table, where she’d flung other items of little repute and worse resentment—a pen that had run out of ink, half-way through a school assignment, a crumpled-up doctor’s note excusing her from sports on the grounds that if her glasses broke, it’d be expensive to fix, and a small potted plant her mother had put there to “brighten up the place,” which she’d only watered once and then always seemed to forget. A few coins were scattered around the mess, and she ignored them, snatching up the glasses and slipping them over her eyes.

The world was thrown back into sharp focus, the lines so clear they might as well have been etched. She took her time down the stairs, letting her shoes clunk on each step. From her room, Kate’s mother moaned about the noise.

Town was a small collection of shops and public buildings just short of two miles from Kate’s house, and as she walked she kept one hand wrapped around the bills in her pocket, folding and re-folding them as she thought about what she would buy for herself. Candy was always an option, as were books or toys or jewelry. Perhaps a chain for her glasses, so she would not lose them? Her mother would approve of that, at least.

Kate watched her feet as she walked (the sight was not so different as before, although now walking in the opposite direction her shadow was bunched behind her instead of stretching out in front) and as she lifted her head to stare at an empty field across the street, she tried to take in every vivid detail of it, every shade in every branch of the wilting trees, the print on the scrap of newspaper blowing into the curb, the deflated basketball sitting in a clump of weeds. Sure, she could see it all now, but it worried her that a time might come when instead she should lose her vision entirely, and wouldn’t be able to see a thing at all. Her glasses shifted as she rubbed at one eye; the blurriness of going without them always gave her headaches, and it wouldn’t do to worry her mother about them. She kept the glasses on.

Groceries were gathered in brown paper bags without handles, held awkwardly in both hands as she entered the pharmacist’s store, a little bell on the top of the door ringing as it shut behind her. She asked the doctor for her mother’s medicine.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said; the pharmacist was a thickset man with thicker glasses, and he kept his hands propped up on the counter as he spoke to Kate. “Your mother isn’t sick at all. It’s all in her head. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“She insists there is,” Kate answered. “Can’t you give her something?”

“I could always give you these.” He put a packet of unlabeled cough drops on the counter, the kind that were more sugar than substance. “Tell her they’ll give her energy, that she’s to take one in the morning and evening.”

“Should I have her come see you, instead?” she asked.

“Heavens, no.” The pharmacist coughed into one shoulder. “I’ve seen her more times than I care to count. What she needs is a hobby. Does she have a hobby?”

Kate remembered the dying plants scattered throughout their house, from the end tables to the hanging planters over the porch. “Gardening.”

“Good, good. Encourage that. You have a good day now, Kate.”

She tucked the drops into the grocery bag, and counted the money she had leftover. There was plenty enough, and her feet carried her to the door of the toy shop. Inside, the shop-owner was helping another customer, so Kate strolled down the aisles alone, picking up different items and turning them in her hands before setting them back down and moving to the next. There were wooden toys and ceramic, stuffed animals and extravagantly detailed dolls.

She gave each of them her attention, but found that there was nothing she wanted. Not there, not in any of the shops on Main Street. She counted her money again. She could have had anything she wanted, but there was nothing there for her. She would not find what she wanted in these shops.

The bag seemed to become heavier the more she walked, and eventually Kate shifted it to her shoulder as she walked the two miles back to the Victorian house with the chipped yellow paint and the drooping plants hanging above the porch railings. Her steps creaked over each floorboard, marking a path from the front door to the kitchen.

Her nose itched, and Kate adjusted her glasses again. She preferred the way the house looked when everything was blurred and the only thing in focus was herself. She put away the groceries but left the bag on the table for when her mother woke.

When her chores were done and her time was her own again, Kate paced in her bedroom, unsure what to do with the leftover money when she had nothing to show for it. It was still hers, whether she spent it or not. Instead, she stuck it in a sock and buried it in the bottom-most drawer of her armoire.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 6, "My Life in Food"

mymisguided — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 01:51:09 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #06, Food Memory
Title: My Life in Food
Word Count: 800
Warnings (if applicable): None
Summary: Now, there’s only emptiness, and a suspicion that comes from wondering if everyone else feels that way or if it’s only you.
Author’s Notes: Marked as ‘non-fiction,’ and although I am the protagonist, some of the events in the story didn’t happen quite the way I wrote them. Second person narration. I hope you enjoy.

My Life in Food
i. anachronism

New Year’s Eve is spent in a tiny soda shop downtown that serves the best hot sandwiches and drinks money can buy, the shop all brightly lit, checkerboards reflecting off mirrors, food in red baskets sliding across Formica tables. Greasy hands are wiped clean with napkins, and then shoved through coat sleeves. There’s no snow on the ground, not yet, you’ll see snow in February but for now the Southern winter is mild, making it easy to greet friends and neighbors and strangers who enter the town’s giveaway for a large television and a children’s play-set shaped like a gazebo. You don’t end up winning but that’s okay, you have a similar play-set at home.

This is the first year you’ve been up in time to see the New Year turn over for yourself. You wait, standing with the rest of your family, hands clenched together, counting down the time. Your watch is digital, and aligns perfectly, so you stare at that, too, tiny illuminated numbers shrinking until for a split second they shine at 12:00:00 and the New Year is off and running.

Everyone is clapping and hugging and you feel no different. In the past, when you woke up the next morning you at least feel something—might be hunger, if dinner was too long in passing—but at least that was something to feel. Now, there’s only emptiness, and a suspicion that comes from wondering if everyone else feels that way or if it’s only you.

One year feels no different from the next. You wonder what you can do to change that, to make that emptiness go away and shrink like so many numbers in a digital watch, counting down the time.

ii. emblematic

You mark the days based on what they serve in the school cafeteria; Chik-fil-A is Tuesday and Honeybaked Ham is Thursday, and they serve the little sandwiches with a cheese stick and that’s the highlight of your week.

Time lapses and runs away from you, but you’re content enough to watch it pass and blur from the school’s stained-glass windows as the thin cover of snow melts, building to a reprise of leaden flowers on trees that smell like fish, warm weather days and cinnamon rolls for breakfast, for nearly two hundred days straight before you get tired of it and switch to biscuits, only to switch back the following week. You start a snowglobe collection and stick Queen Anne's Lace into a jar filled with colored water just to watch the thin petals turn red or blue.

The days are spent at school and at extracurriculars; the drive from home and back is too long, over an hour, and you can’t have that, so your family packs up and moves from the country further in on a rainy Groundhog’s Day and things feel a little better although you know you’re never going to go back there again.

There’s nothing you can do, not when you see the world through the eye of a needle and you can’t put a name to what you want.

iii. mouthwatering

You make a case of eating a different international food every year for your birthday. One year is Mexican; the next, Chinese; the year after, Japanese. You eat and you eat, and hope to feel full, and although the pain settles deep in your stomach from it all there’s still the strangeness of feeling no different from when you sit down at the table to when you rise.

iv. applaud

You drink tea with every meal, sometimes hot, mostly iced. Tea is much better than coffee, you think. If you drink coffee for too long, you'll burn the taste buds right off your tongue, and won't be able to taste your food anymore, and then where would you be?

It's a bit too late, not when you live in a little glass world just like your snowglobes, but you’ve broken the walls and escaped, and it’s so much better when you’ve figured out that it wasn’t food you were hungry for at all.

v. commencement

You’re standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Greek island of Santorini from the caldera you’ve climbed. You’re standing on another nation’s soil, so far removed from your own, and eating strange foods with stranger names and loving the spicy unfamiliarity of it. The world is more than just a corner, and if you can’t walk it all with your own two feet you can at least see it with your eyes; you can consume it.

You feel like a different person when you wake up the next morning, to the smell of the sea and the sight of so much blue from your window, tinged with red from the sunrise.

End.

[drabble] Twenty-One Gift Drabbles

mymisguided — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 01:52:07 GMT

So, the other day on the YGO Fanfiction Contest Forum, we did a drabble meme, and I ended up writing 21 drabbles for it. This is the meme:

1) Give me a pairing
2) Give me an AU setting
3) I will write you a three-sentence fic

Here are the drabbles I've written:

Pairing: Bakushipping | AU: Sailor Moon
For: Ryou VeRua | #

Sailor Ryou hated that once again his rival had rescued him, and hated even more that Bakura Mask seemed so smug as he had swiped Ryou from the clutches of danger yet again. The strange, scarred villain seemed relentless in both his pursuit of Ryou and his destruction of Domino City, and the protection of the city he loved had to come first, even if it meant accepting help from such unconventional outside sources.

Besides, if he had to admit it to himself, he had let Bakura save him on purpose.

Pairing: Casteshipping | AU: Mermaids
For: Ryou VeRua | #

For a few days a year, Atem shed his tail for legs and crawled ashore to see how humans lived, sating his curiosity enough that when he dived back underwater, he had enough stories to share with his fellow merpeople to last for weeks straight. He always visited the same stretch of land, the same beaches just out of sight of the main city, with only a single lighthouse tower shining out into the darkness to light the way.

So when he walked ashore this time, something felt wrong; he jumped back towards the water, but not before a thick net fell over him, binding him to the sand and a large pair of tanned arms that held him tightly, and a voice that called out, "I knew I'd catch you one day."

Pairing: Gothshipping | AU: Fanfiction Writers
For: Ryou VeRua | #

Kotsuzaka sat at his computer, typing away with one hand, the other propping his chin, finishing up the notes of his latest fanfiction: As always, I would like to thank my beta ChangeOfHeart for his help in making me the best I can be. His inbox pinged with a new message, the corrections from his beta, ending with his thoughts on the most recent chapter, and Kotsuzaka smiled as he read it. I love it, he wrote, and I find the new character, the love interest, quite intriguing, especially his interest in the occult, and Kotsuzaka wondered how many more chapters it would take before his beta finally figured it out.

Pairing: Mistshipping | AU: Post-apocalyptic landscape
For: Ryou VeRua | #

Ryuuji slipped the gun back into its holster, thankful for once that in addition to lodging, Ryouta seemed to be able to provide a near-endless supply of ammunition. Living on the water was better than living on land, anyway, with the state of things as they were, but sometimes when Ryuuji stared out at the endless blue waters in every direction he felt comfort from it rather than loneliness. On the ocean, the most he had to worry about was wet gunpowder.

Pairing: Citronshipping | AU: Business tycoon!TKB and Biker boy!Marik
For: Sierra's Darkness | #

Bakura took off his sunglasses more for effect, as the sun was high overhead and it reflected brightly off the side of the black motorcycle parked directly in front of his skyscraper. One glance at the traffic, and he moved towards the rider, identifying him by the helmet perched on his head, unbuckled; the man recognized him as the potential threat he was, eyes widening in apprehension, or was it fear? "I'll need to borrow your bike, but don't worry, I'll bring it back in one piece," he said, holding out his hand for the key, and the other man dropped it into his palm with a "not a scratch."

Pairing: Teaseshipping | AU: Hip coffee joint
For: Jonouchi Katsuya | #

"Order up," Jonouchi said, sliding a triple-frosted double-espresso something across the counter, following it with a second, more forceful "order up" when the customer didn't come calling. "I'll get it," Ryou told him, picking up the drink and carrying it to where the customer sat, reading a newspaper; he folded it closed when Ryou placed the drink in front of him, and gestured towards the empty seat across from him with a "join me." Ryou fought the urge to laugh, but managed a derisive, "it didn't work the first time, what makes you think it'll work the third?"

Pairing: Toonshipping | AU: CSI/Criminal Minds
For: Ryou VeRua | #

Pegasus watched as Detective Seto approached him, eyeing the crime scene and the marked-off police tape with distaste; it didn't help matters that this killing had been in a public place and already people were beginning to mill just close enough to make out the sheet-covered bodies and splatters of blood on the pavement. Seto stood beside Pegasus and asked without preamble, "if you already know, just go ahead and tell me who did this one."

Pegasus brushed a silvery strand of hair behind one ear, exposing the golden eye in place of the one he'd lost in duty so many years ago, the one that let him see into other men's minds, and said, "now what would be the fun in that?"

Pairing: Euroshipping | AU: Arts School
For: Zie Ayton | #

Seto grasped the paintbrush tightly in one hand; having already sketched the painting out ahead of time, now all that was left was to fill it with color. This painting would be his best work yet, and it was so important to him now to prove that he was the better artist than his rival, Ryou Bakura, who excelled at landscapes so realistic just by looking at them you could swear you were there. Seto wondered what had possessed him, then, to ask that Ryou serve as his model, but one glance at the half-finished painting and he knew the end result would by far be worth it.

Pairing: Bribeshipping | AU: What if Rex won the duel on the boat?
For: Jonouchi Katsuya | #

Her life points depleted to zero, and Mai was regretting having made that bet in the first place, not that it cost her anything other than a little extra work; she had already moved in her luggage, after all, and those bags weren't light. Rex, on his part, looked too smug by half, and made a big show of re-stacking his cards, leaning back in his chair to observe her thoughtfully.

"You know, we could always share."

Pairing: Warnshipping | AU: Hollywood-style Romantic Comedy
For: Ryou VeRua | #

Bakura liked having Ryou there at the bars when he went to try and pick up women, as it made him look better in comparison and if their efforts failed Ryou made good enough company after a few drinks loosened him up. "How about that girl?" Ryou suggested, pointing towards a tall, exotic looking woman, and Bakura strolled over, casually resting an arm against the counter as he offered to simultaneously buy her a drink and make her every dream come true. With a grin, she leaned closer, sneaking a glance towards where Ryou stood, and asked in a low, sultry voice, "Can you introduce me to your friend?"

Pairing: Tanshipping | AU: Sports Team
For: Ryou VeRua | #

The forward on the other team had clearly elbowed him in the stomach, but no one had called him on it, and Ryouta held an arm to the area gingerly, knowing it was going to hurt worse tomorrow than it would today. His teammate Marik approached him, offering an apologetic smile and a whispered, "Sorry about him, he's a rough player, I've gotten used to it by now."

Ryouta knew that applied to the bruises on his legs from where he had gotten between the other forward and the soccer ball, but that didn't explain the fading ones on his arms in the shape of fingers; the more he thought about it, the more he didn't want to know about their strange relationship and what else Marik had gotten used to.

Pairing: Siegfried x Kaiba x Pegasus | AU: Fancy Dinner Party
For: Jonouchi Katsuya | #

By the end of the second course, Pegasus and Siegfried were already three glasses into the wine pairings, and Seto moodily pushed his fork around on his plate, watching them snicker together at some joke between them. The food was spectacular, but putting up with the company was enough to turn even the sweetest food sour in his mouth. Pegasus reached for his glass again, raising it in a toast as the next course was brought, and Seto leaned forward in his chair, determined that if they were going to put him in this situation, the least he could do was take advantage of it.

Pairing: DMG x Ryou Bakura | AU: Filming a horror movie
For: Jonouchi Katsuya | #

The girl screamed as the blade came towards her, slashing up and down as Ryou caught every moment of the opening scene from behind the camera. He called, "cut," and watched as the actors straightened, makeup artists running forward to re-touch the fake blood and grime. He kept the camera rolling, focusing on Mana, zooming in to her face, both smiling and studious, determined to be the best slasher victim there ever was; if Ryou had anything to say about her career, that would be the least of her accomplishments.

Pairing: Pastelshipping | AU: Political meeting between diplomats of different countries
For: Ryou VeRua | #

"Continued war between our nations is in neither of our interests," Marik said coolly, speaking in Espa Roba's native language, "and we both have only retained our civilian hostages to ensure that our countries cooperate." Roba tightened his clenched fists, keeping them beneath the table so that the other could not see just how angry he really was, although it was far too easy for Marik to manipulate him further, not when there was so much at stake.

"I have your brother," Marik continued, "but you have mine, and I want him back."

Pairing: Weevil x Mako x Rex | AU: College Biology Class
For: Jonouchi Katsuya | #

Weevil pushed his glasses further up his nose; they were always slipping down and they made looking into the microscopes so difficult, but his lab partner was only too happy to observe the slides, scribbling down his observations and chattering away as Weevil did his best to ignore them. Instead, he spent the majority of the lab staring at the TA, an oceanography graduate student who looked like he took his devotion to the discipline seriously enough to have acquired Olympian-swimmer-styled muscles from all the time he spent in the water. When his glasses slipped again, everything was thrown into a blurry perspective, but he could still see Rex beside him scribbling away, tilting the microscope towards him, asking if his future plans included doing any actual work in this class.

Pairing: Carmenshipping | AU: Kindergarten/Grade School
For: Ryou VeRua | #

While Seto was dutifully coloring away on a picture of a dragon, Marik had somehow managed to super-glue his sleeve to one of Bakura's, and the two were stuck together for the rest of the day. It made eating lunch difficult, and during recess Seto dragged Bakura towards the swings even as the other headed towards the jungle gym with all the force in his small body. They spotted Marik walking across the sandbox, and the two made use of their attachment, threading their arms together and sweeping Marik's legs out from under him, laughing as they walked away, arms still linked.

Pairing: Riskshipping | AU: Mokuba's Room
For: Jonouchi Katsuya | #

"I can't believe you got that new game already," Jonouchi had told him, and it had been only too easy to get him to agree to come over on the weekend to play it with him. He'd lost count of the hours they'd spent on it, but the room was littered with pizza boxes and empty soda cans before they finally beat the game. Now Mokuba just needed a reason to get him to come back, but it had been only too easy to steal and hide his hat when he was engrossed in a particularly difficult level, and Jonouchi had been only too happy to come back and get it later in the week, another game and a bag of carry-out food in hand.

Pairing: Thiefshipping | AU: Happy Face!Marik and Disapproving Stare!Bakura
For: Angela and MiniMix | #

Every night, without fail, Marik set out bowls of food and water for the stray cats that wandered around his neighborhood, no matter how Bakura seemed to disapprove of his actions. He paid for it all himself, so when Bakura approached him one evening with a "Why are you even doing this, you know they're not going to survive in the end," all he could do was offer Bakura a smile and scratch one of the kittens under the chin.

"Why not, when you took in a stray yourself?" he said.

Pairing: Glasshipping | AU: Professor and Student
For: Ryou VeRua | #

Shaadi knocked lightly on his professor's door; it was closed but not locked, and he entered after a moment, looking forward to Professor Bakura's first office hours of the semester. He had already read the textbook but it just wasn't enough, and this would be his chance to share his thoughts on his favorite subject with his professor. Inside, the room was a mess, full of books and papers and artifacts stacked every which way, no surface bare save for a small cluster of cushions in the back, where Bakura beckoned him in with a wave of his arm and an amused, "I've never had a student show up the first week before—come on in and make yourself comfortable, Shaadi."

Pairing: Candleshipping | AU: A midnight/evening out on gondolas
For: Shirogane777 | #

Seto had asked Ryou to this party, a grand Venetian masquerade, and as the gondola slid smoothly through the water he adjusted his mask, finding it itching his skin, although he would only need to wear it for a short time before everyone unmasked at midnight. Beside him, Ryou wore a mask as well, a beautiful concoction of silver lace on a black mask, wrapped around his eyes, and it was enough to be able to watch him like this; he didn't even need the conversation or the dancing.

When the clock struck twelve and Seto slid Ryou's mask from his face, it was not his face that he saw, but Bakura's, grinning madly like some parody of a mask itself.

Pairing: Bayshipping / Rerun | AU: Space Cowboys
For Thief King Azhdarcho | #

After he collected this bounty, he'd be rich. As rich as he'd ever been, at least. At one time, that would have said something.

The bounty was trussed up, tied to a lower rung of the stairwell with chains, not rope. He wasn't taking any chances, not with a price that high on his pretty little head. And when he delivered him to the awaiting Police Commander, he might get the reward he'd been hoping for.

"Got anything to say for yourself?" Noa asked.

"You really don't want to do this." Bakura stretched his bonds, already feeling the heavy weight of the chains around his arms. There were limits to just how threatening he could be like this, but he would make the best of this. He'd come out on top through worse, after all.

"I don't know," Noa said, stretching out each second as far as it would go, savoring the expression on Bakura's face. "Do I?"

Anyone who would like to request an additional drabble, just post below with the above format, and I'll write you one! My favorite so far is the Glasshipping, I'm considering stretching that out into a full-length oneshot or multichapter.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 5, "The City That Never Sleeps"

mymisguided — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 00:58:15 GMT

Challenge Name and Number: #05, Inconceivable
Drabble Title: The City That Never Sleeps
Word Count: 1385
Warnings (if applicable): None
Summary: Population of Marvel City: thousands with superpowers, one without.
Author’s Notes: Fan-fiction. Based off the Marvel Land (photo here) at Universal Studios Florida's Islands of Adventure—namely, the idea of a city composed entirely of people with superpowers. Italics are flashbacks. This is a story I've had in my head for awhile, and I hope you enjoy it!

The City That Never Sleeps
Hover-cars whizzed by overhead as Samantha walked down the street, seeking out the third bench, unoccupied, settling herself into half and tossing her purse and coat over the rest of the seat. She unfolded her newspaper, the Magnet, always happy to see her own name staring back at her in crisp, black type. It wasn’t even the headline article, but that didn’t mean that some day in the future, it wouldn’t happen.

The breeze ruffled the bits of blonde hair free from the towering mass piled high on her head, a tiny blue hat perched on top. It itched like crazy, but she wouldn’t risk the whole thing falling apart, not when her career would surely follow it, tumbling in a mass of pins, hairspray, and newsprint.

Marvel City was waking up.

She folded the newspaper, but left it on the bench for the next person to read.

Time for Samantha Smith to report the news.

--
Her boss had steam coming out of his ears again; the story had been late to his desk, but not through any fault of her own. “He’s Constantly Contagious,” she said. “Not the most glamorous of super-powers, but I like the headline.”

He glanced at her hairstyle. “Speaking of glamorous superpowers…the mayor is having a ceremony at noon to present some award to Iceman, services to the city or something. Between you and me, we do a lot more, but do we ever get the praise? No medals, just subscriptions.”

Samantha could think of a medal or two, a Pullitzer waiting off in the distance. “I’ll be there.” Her camera was out of film, and she always kept a few extra rolls in a desk drawer for times like these. Iceman was more celebrity than hero, and with enough camera flashes he might even consent for an interview.

Her boss had finished skimming the finished story. “Good work, Smith.”

“Words I live to hear!” She grinned, flipping her hair behind one shoulder as she left the office.

--
No one else had ever done it. No one else would even think of doing it, let alone going through it, but once she actually got inside the gates of Marvel City, keeping up her deception was surprisingly easy. Heck, what else but lax security could explain all the jail break-outs and super-villain crime sprees she saw every night on the national news? A trunk full of wigs of varying heights and a little creativity, and she was set.

“Your super-power is your hair.” They had repeated what she’d said, but she just smiled and did a full turn to let them see the full effect.

“I can increase my keratin production, growing it as much as I want, and it’s strong enough that I could pull a man up from the ground to the twentieth floor of the Magnet Tower with it!” She laughed, hoping they wouldn’t actually ask for a demonstration, not when she ‘d gone to so much trouble to acquire all the proper paperwork. If they did, she’d just say it wasn’t as instantaneous as either of them would like, and leave it at that. The science sounded credible enough to her ears, but then again she’d heard of powers so wacky that they seemed more fiction than reality.

They had just asked her if she could grow her nails, too. “I could, but what’d be the point when it’d make it so much harder to type my stories?”

Working in Marvel City had always been her dream—reporting in the most dangerous city in the world, a place where exciting things were happening on every block, a place that was so extraordinary that anything truly newsworthy went beyond the exceptional. A place where the best reporter wouldn’t just be the best in the city, but the best in the entire world.

--
She’d made a quick stop at her apartment to switch out her earlier wig for one in a short bob, still with the hat clipped on top, and went to the award ceremony. As a publicity stunt, Iceman made it snow, so the courtyard in front of City Hall and the building itself still gleamed like it was winter.

She’d gotten enough to put together an article, and was walking back to the Magnet Tower when an explosion rocked a building up the street.

The entire first floor had been blown out, all broken glass and unstable columns and screaming. Samantha rushed ahead, turning on her camera with one hand to take a few quick shots as she ran towards the wave of people running from the explosion, shouting, “Do you know who did this? Is it Doctor Octopus again?” It was easy enough to recognize the building when she’d passed it nearly every day on the streets. “This is a biotech company! Excuse me, do you think this could be the efforts of the Sinister Syndicate?”

The man she had asked took off running, his advanced speed putting him out of sight in seconds. Those with wings took to the sky, disappearing over rooftops. The citizens of Marvel City learned long ago that where a super-villain was concerned, it was better to simply get out of the way and leave the rescue-work to the super-heroes.

No one took a second look at the reporter’s badge she raised in the air, or stayed long enough to answer any of her questions, so she kept on going. The building was still smoking, fire licking the edges, and she knew it was highly likely that whatever super-hero was close enough was probably already on it. The story would be dynamite, if only she could get inside and snap some pictures.

She made her way inside and found an unblocked stairwell; red lights flashed from the ceiling, warning sirens for the fire and for the general alarm. Adrenaline propelled her just as much as curiosity and determination, and as she walked down a hallway on an upper floor, she thought she could hear voices behind a partially closed door. They sounded so familiar, she was sure she’d heard them before, but before she could investigate further a second explosion shook the building. Samantha screamed, losing her footing, one hand grasping her camera to protect it as she fell.

A voice from inside shouted, “What was that?” and as she glanced up the door swung open from the inside before she felt an arm around her, nothing visible but water as jets of it blasted the door off its hinges, paving a clear path to the window.

“The Sub-Mariner?” She had only a second to register who held her before he launched them both out the window and she screamed again. The small, still-rational part of her brain was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to investigate any further inside.

“You’re back to Marvel City!” The reporter was back, and she fumbled for the notepad she always kept in one pocket, finding it gone in all the scuffle. “Are you planning to stay for long? What brings you back?”

“You’re not like them.” He gave her a strange look, and Samantha fought the urge to test her wig, hoping it was still straight on her head. “When the others ran, you went inside.”

“For the scoop!” She tried again. “Who was it responsible for destroying this building?”

He took a few steps backwards, and she had the good sense to turn her camera on again so she could at least get the shots she needed.

“I’d stay and chat, but I have to go put out a fire.” He gave an odd sort of bow before taking to the sky again, shooting back through the broken window.

Samantha stood exactly where he’d left her, already planning the headline in her mind. It’d be a pretty good story, once she got behind what had actually happened.

And when she was done with everything, she’d tell the best story of them all. Her own.
---------------------
Notes:
1) Samantha is an OC, and the "Marvel Magnet" is a made-up newspaper. The photo linked in the A/N is not mine, I found it online.
2) Iceman is Bobby Drake, a member of the X-Men. Doctor Octopus is a Spider-Man villain, as are the Sinister Syndicate (which also references the Spider-Man ride at Universal). Sub-Mariner is one of the earliest Marvel super-heroes.
3) Thanks for reading! =) For something fun, if you comment, tell me what superpower you would most like to have!

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 4, "The Beach"

mymisguided — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 04:16:01 GMT

Challenge Topic and Number: #04, What Does Narcissism Have To Do With Me?
Title: The Beach
Word Count: 520
Warnings (if applicable): None.
Summary: She’s heard before that you can hear the ocean if you hold a conch shell to your ear, so she does it now, cradling it against the side of her head.
A/N: Fiction, although the girl in the story is me. One of my favorite genres is magical realism, and it's fun to bring some of that to you. I hope you enjoy!

The Beach
One day a girl visits a beach. It’s great fun, to trade the sights and sounds of the city for an open, unending stretch of blue, curling like a ribbon beneath the sky, and as she stands with her toes on the edge of the sand, wriggling them as deep as they’ll go, the smell of the salt and the sounds of water crashing against the shore is almost overwhelming and entirely perfect.

She searches the shoreline for seashells and pieces of coral, keeping a few of the better-formed ones in her clenched hands. Every summer her family visited the same beach, and every year she gathered shells in her hands and sand in her hair, collecting enough to last the following year. It’s something special to them, something sacred. She remembers once they went to the beach during a hurricane just for the waves. She remembers chasing seagulls and watching the sunset.

She remembers once when the tide went out for miles, and she joined the hundreds of tourists on the shore to walk out as far as they dared.

But today the shore looks different to her. It’s flatter, uncrowded, but still the waves come in every few seconds to stretch further up the coast. She walks, shells in hand, and spots the edge of a perfectly curved conch shell lying in the sand. It catches the sun; it’s one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen.

The tiny seashells fall from her hands as she digs up the conch, turning it this way and that, testing the softness of the shell with a thumb.

She’s heard before that you can hear the ocean if you hold a conch shell to your ear, so she does it now, cradling it against the side of her head.

What comes out of the shell is not the ocean, but her own voice, a stronger, more certain voice. An older voice.

“I can tell you one thing about your life,” it says. She’s enamored by the sound of it; it’s the way she would imagine hearing her voice over the phone. It’s different, but still hers. She’s glad that’s how her voice will sound in the future.

“Any one thing…” she whispers to herself. She clutches the shell even tighter.

“What would you like to know?” the shell asks.

“Tell me about the time I am the unhappiest.” It is the first thing that comes to her mind, and is easy enough to ask. There is no harm in knowing.

“You are standing on a beach. You bend to the ground to pick up a shell. You press it to your ear, and my voice comes out.”

She imagines she hears the shell laughing. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” the shell says. “You tell me.”

She carefully sets the shell back into the ground, leaving the tip visible beneath the packed sand. She walks away, and it doesn’t matter if the shell is laughing or not, because she can’t hear anything over the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore and the seagulls honking into the breeze.

[LJ Idol] Season 8, Week 3, "Old Fossils"

mymisguided — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 00:39:33 GMT

Challenge Topic and Number: #03, Coprolite
Title: Old Fossils
Word Count: 850
Warnings (if applicable): None.
Summary: My Tuesday nights weren’t so much to give for the sake of music, and I was too much a coward to back out now, not when they needed me so much more than I thought I needed them.
A/N: Non-fiction this time around. Hope you enjoy! (Still working on the layout issues, I promise to make it more reader-friendly soon. Please zoom in or or add ?style=mine to the end if you find it difficult to read. Thank you!)

Old Fossils

I spent most of the first evening trying to find a way not to have to come back. I dug the toes of my boots into the shabby blue carpet, trying not to stare at everyone the way they were staring at me, the way conversations ceased to listen in as I talked to the director, wondering what I was doing in an ensemble where half the membership seemed in danger of crumbling away to nothing. I was the sole beneficiary of their negligible recruiting efforts for the semester.

The band practice room at the local middle school was small, but then again, so was our group. I watched the five in my section setting up their music stands, putting together their clarinets. Not a one looked under sixty.

I was told John would look out for me. He was the first chair—ex-army band, the single most talented clarinetist I’ve ever heard, and I introduced myself, finding a place in the middle and setting up. I was no slouch, I had a decade of instruction under my own belt, but this group had played the same music together for years, some for more than I had fingers and toes to count.

At the end of rehearsal, the director paused and looked straight at me. There was nowhere to hide, but I sat a little straighter as he singled me out, the lone college student. They applauded me with papery hands still clutching trumpets or sheet music, ecstatic about their only new member of the year. “We’ll have you for four years!” Barbara, seated next to me, exclaimed, and patted my arm. My isolation was self-imposed—the only southerner lost this far north, the only college student in a small community band of a town of little more than twenty thousand, seventy percent of them students, the band made up of professors, working professionals, and the long-retired elderly. My Tuesday nights weren’t so much to give for the sake of music, and I was too much a coward to back out now, not when they needed me so much more than I thought I needed them.

I had nothing; they gave me music and a folder to keep it in. They bought me reeds to play with—Mitchell Lurie, 3.5—and without a car, they even gave me transportation. Sometimes it was John, in a black car with black leather seats, comfortable enough against the cold, but mostly it was Bill and his wife, the professor who’d first introduced me to the band, whose family adopted me when I could have no contact with my own so far away. Their daughters taught me bits of Italian and their cat ran from me, but every week without fail there was band practice, and marches to learn, and a group that sought to bring me into their rhythm.

I didn’t tell them for the longest time that I was transferring away, that at the year’s end I would leave them for warmer climates and closer friends. They couldn’t convince me otherwise, even though they tried without even knowing it.

Barbara wore bright holiday sweaters and showed me pictures of her grandchildren. The university newspaper had written a story about George, who had fought in World War II, and I worried that every breath he took before coming in on the trumpet would be his last. John had the most to share, stories from his travels across Canada and Europe as he played Dixieland music from the car stereo. Like me, he was also a singer, and after I told him that I had toured Great Britain the previous summer he told me about the time he and his wife had been in Wales, and how they loved to go to old churches and masses and ask to sing along with the choirs, no matter the language, but the one language they just couldn’t figure out was Welsh. He loved his music free and improvised, while I preferred mine grander and classical, symphonic compositions by the greater names in Western music. We played our concerts in nursing homes and the city community center, and since my family couldn’t hear me four states away I played for the surrogate one around me.

They only got one year from me, not four, but I like to think it would have been hard to replace me. Since that year, I haven’t been in another instrumental group. I haven’t found anything as good a fit for me, as perfect as that community band was.

After the last concert, Bill drove me back to the residence hall that I contemptuously called home. “Well, this is it, Jessie,” he said. On the way, we saw a redhawk land in an open field, the mascot of the university. I’d never seen one before. I like to think it was some kind of sign.
Because of the community band, I’ve learned to appreciate small towns and Dixieland music and the origin of the phrases I used when I visited Italy the next year. I’ve learned to appreciate fossils.

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Fossils = old people! (Oh gosh I feel like a terrible person for calling them that, and even more of a terrible person for equating this wonderful experience with crap. xD) But there's this week's prompt for you. I would appreciate your comments; thanks for reading!