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deathpixie) wrote2008-07-03 02:06 pm
deathpixie) wrote2008-07-03 02:06 pm
Entry tags:
Drabble me?
Since I'm finding myself rather bored, needing to keep myself awake, and wanting to flex the writing brain a little... Grabbed from [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], who got it from [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com].
Make a drabble request in comments and maybe I'll write something for you. Any of my normal fandoms/shows or if you just want to give me a prompt - anything!
Make a drabble request in comments and maybe I'll write something for you. Any of my normal fandoms/shows or if you just want to give me a prompt - anything!
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Easy: Movieverse X-Men
Medium: Babylon 5
Hard: Deadwood.
Have fun. :)
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"Agh!" complained Jean as she walked into the female teammembers' change room. "That Logan! He's just so, so..."
"Attractive?" suggested Ororo with a grin from where she was pulling on her uniform pants.
"No!"
"Manly?"
"No!"
"Ruggedly handscome?"
"'Ro..."
At the redhead's glare, Ororo grinned, but stopped supplying adjectives. "He's so what, then?"
"Insufferable! Every time we train together, there he is, smirking at me! And his thoughts..." Jean pulled a face. "He's a pig."
"Of course he is. And you're attracted to him," came the calm response.
"I am not!" Jean caught the schoolyard note of her reply, and grimaced. "I'm with Scott."
"You can be with someone and still be attracted to someone else," Ororo pointed out, zipping up her jacket. "It's only if you act on it, that it's a problem." She closed her locker door and smiled at her friend. "Thoughts never hurt anyone," she reminded, before heading for the Danger Room for her session.
"They do if you're a telepath," Jean replied to the empty room, before unzipping her jacket with a sigh.
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"Time's up."
"It is? A pity. I was rather enjoying myself." Morden looked over at his guide. "So, the Day of the Dead. An interesting tradition."
His companion, a young girl with white skin and tousled black hair, smiled a little. "I like it," she replied. "It's not often I get to bring someone back the other way, even for a little while."
"Of course." Morden smiled, a dead expression more like the baring of a shark's teeth. "So, tell me. What do you want?"
His reply is a peal of laughter and a fixed look from black eyes older than Time. "Nothing," says Death. "Eventually, I get everything."
There's a sound of wings beating as she takes his hand.
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"What do you want?", indeed.
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Guess the crossover? ;)
"Right sunshine, let's get this happening," he muttered. His opposition smiled, and spread his arms flamboyantly wide, borrowed face smiling too widely for a human.
"~And tonight's secret ingredient is... live squid!~" he proclaimed in Japanese.
"Bollocks."
John hated seafood.
Re: Guess the crossover? ;)
Re: Guess the crossover? ;)
Re: Guess the crossover? ;)
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The crash wasn't Ivan's fault. A stray dog, thin and mangy-looking, bolted out in front of them, and he swerved to avoid hitting it. The bicycle wobbled, then overturned, spilling them onto the cracked road. Pain flared as she scraped tender flesh along the rough surface. Sliding to a stop, she slowly sat up, trying to reconcile the sudden shift in circumstances.
"Are you all right?" asked Ivan, approaching her. He had scraped holes in both elbows of his sweater and there was a cut on his chin, dribbling blood. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, but rather than use it himself, he crouched down beside her, looking at her anxiously. "Are you bleeding?"
"I don't know..." Yvette looked at her hands, noting the grazes on the heels of her palms and then pulled up the legs of her pants - her knees were stinging - but instead of the expected bleeding gashes, instead there was a covering of skin, dull red in the sunlight. She frowned and poked at one place. It was hard, like the shell of a tortoise or lobster. "What is this...?"
"I don't know." When she looked up, Ivan was already standing, backing away. "Maybe it's a sickness."
"I don't feel sick," she pointed out, then bit her lip. Maybe she was?
"Or maybe you're one of them. The unclean ones. They are on the news, more every day." Ivan backed away further. "Maybe that's what you are."
"I'm not!" she protested, but it was too late, Ivan was already picking up his bicycle and wheeling it away at a half-run, casting scared looks over his shoulder at her. It was just as her mother's stories had told her, she realised. Different was dangerous. Would he tell? Would they take her away? Was she some kind of monster, like they saw on the television sometimes? Yanking her pants legs back down, she glanced at her hands. More dull red skin, where the grazes had been. Looking around guiltily, she pulled her winter gloves out of her coat pocket, where they'd remained since the previous year, and pulled them on. It'd look strange, but not as strange as the hard red skin. Not so strange as to make her a target.
Yvette turned and ran for home, as fast as she could.
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... dang ... need to rethink ...
... but there's already someone working that desk in the Gaiman/Pratchett 'verse.
Unless we start a bad joke ... "two Deaths meet in a bar ... "
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He handed it over, watching as the immigration official glanced at the photo and then at his face, and back to the photo again. He didn't bother to try smiling. It never helped.
"Where will you be staying?"
He gave the address of a local backpacker hostel without hesitation, even if he wasn't 100 percent sure he was going to be staying there yet. It depended on how things turned out, really.
"Purpose of visit?"
This time there was a hesitation, as he found himself about to say "To find a cure for a mystical curse." Instead he said casually: "Vacation. I'm backpacking my way across the country."
The immigration officer eyed him again, then shrugged and stamped the passport. "Welcome to India, Mr. Osbourne," he said, handing the slim booklet back. "I hope you enjoy your visit."
"Me too," Oz said with heartfelt emphasis. He adjusted the light pack he was carrying and made his way to the baggage carousel.
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Ahead of her, the witch startled and flickered into invisibility as she entered the Twilight.
Katherine cursed. She hated Twilight. Which was probably why her boss kept insisting she do these jobs, chasing down rogue Dark Ones, who had a tendency to flee that way. Taking a breath, she bore down and followed.
At once everything greyed out, became indistinct, except for the blue-green moss growing on everything. And her prey: the witch was ahead and down, sliding into the next level of Twilight. Not good - already the Twilight was sapping the warmth and energy from her and to go further was going to push her resources. Still, she couldn't just give up - an unregistered witch was a danger and she was a member of the Night Watch. She pushed further, sinking down into cold greyness.
Every Other knew the tales of those who had been taken by the Twilight. No-one really knew what happened to them, but everyone had encountered the touch of one of the unquiet shades of the Twilight. Katherine sometimes wondered if they were in fact dead, or if they were somehow trapped in a state between, neither living nor dead but just... existing. It reminded her of the title of a book she'd seen once.
The deepening chill in her bones warned her she was going too far too long, and she sucked in a breath, summoning her power. If she didn't focus, she'd wouldn't have to wonder any more.
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The war. He'd spent that time alternating between bored and terrified, and yet it was the only time things made sense to him. There were bad guys that you shot, and there were good guys who looked out for you. Like the Sarge and Zoe. He'd always felt safe with them watching his back. And sometimes his front - Zoe had nearly broken his neck once, hauling him by the back of his shirt away from the mine he was about to step on in his usual obliviousness. He wished they were here right now - they'd help him out.
Raising his glass, he made a silent toast. The cheap liquid burned his throat as it went down. Maybe this would be the deal, the one that would get his family off that frozen rock, the one that would set him up for life. Maybe this time he could play his cards right, make things turn out. It was this deal, or he'd might as well be dead.
Dead.
Tracey suddenly grinned, the expression almost boyish. Now there was a thought. And he knew just the people who would help, if he played them right. Ordering another drink, he held up the glass again. "Here's to you, Sarge," he murmured, and tossed the shot back.