three-sentence fic splurt
Jun. 3rd, 2023 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944In the interest of archiving things in places other than AO3 and my own drive(s), and because not everything I'm about to share has been posted outside the relevant comm, heads up, circlethingie: You get an incoming fiction flurry!
Most, if not all of these are three-sentence ficathon fills. Each cut tag contains fandom and prompt info. The Valeris one references canon mental violation, so please consider tastes and headspace if you go there. The TNG crossover one requires knowledge of the specific novel I've looped in. Aaaaand the Sleeping Beauty one has![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
milliways_bar echoes and resonances, hi all.
TNG/The Legacy of Lehr novel crossover
That was, Geordi thought in dismay, one very unexpected, if also very familiar flash of light and scaled-up finger snap combination, and combined with the ship to ship comms traffic they'd been getting from the bridge just before the audiovisual effects kicked in - oh, great.
"Sir--" Solis sounded as bemused as he suddenly felt. "Did that unidentified vessel just reference some kind of empire and a Cardassian drink in the same sentence, sir?"
Young Wizards, post To Visit The Queen, unnamed feline and human wizards in Vienna
"What is this," asked the Vienna-side worldgate attendant as the incoming duo stepped through from the bustle of west Philadelphia, "the second time you've made this journey in as many day--" the tuxedo's muzzle wrinkled, mouth quite open, as they paused. "And what is *that*?"
"Spicy dill pickles," chuckled the taller human of the visiting pair almost immediately, "and I know, I know, they stink, or so the cats at New York and London tell me with extreme frequency; blame the sandwich in my bag for the immediate and me for the purchase, but I like 'em."
Funga, honestly; whose idea was that name? A whimsical being such as she is, spirited creature of blue dress panels, vaulted sunlit skies and harmless mischief - not that mushrooms themselves are necessarily unwelcome, not at all, but it's only so many times one can be assumed to be the avatar of either crumbling logs or poison in the stew before the entire thing becomes simply too much to bear. Merryweather - nymphs and shepherds, come away, the cloud-capped towers, the wind is rising and the weather's right - is her own decision, and no one raises an objection from the very first day she names herself.
Valeris, post The Undiscovered Country
Valeris has, she admits with only fractional hesitation (dishonesty is, at best, unnecessary) acted against the interests of the greater organization in which she was, at the time, sworn to active service and, in furtherance of her actions, slain, twice, yet hers are not the--a particular human word for one's general moral or ethical limits is, so she understands, scruples--in question.
What you want is irrelevant; what you've chosen is at hand!
Valeris has not, numerous though her crimes may otherwise be, perpetrated a certain violence on another and, given the gravity of such an action regardless of circumstance, she finds it entirely fair to wonder just who should be considered the (better is an arbitrary term, do not use it as a measure) more suitably representative Vulcan.
Star Trek TOS, mid series, McCoy, Chekov, and Sulu
"About damn time you got here," grumbles McCoy, but the heat in his intonation is concern; he's making for the shuttlecraft's nearest seats as quickly as the limping, shivering ambassador leaning on his shoulder can manage, one hand occupied with a tricorder all the way. It's Chekov who darts for the door controls as soon as the others in the party - two mud-spattered but alert human security officers and two wary, silent diplomatic aides as lavender-skinned as their principle, one cradling their field dressed left arm to their chest - have found their own places, but it's Sulu, from the pilot's chair, who glances around from his controls and meets McCoy's gaze.
"What's the expression," he doesn't quite drawl, "everyone talks about the weather, but nobody--" the humor eases back, solidifies and warms, steadies into a promise that's as much for his crewmates as the aliens, "--the ion storm's cleared, and Enterprise is on station at system's edge; we'll be there in minutes at the outside."
Young Wizards, three unnamed characters on Errantry in Chicago
The first of the ad hoc trio arrives via the Copenhagen worldgate, fair hair tousled and bulky raspberry red sweater half a size too large seemingly by design, their elaborate, twelve-pointed paper crown positively glowing with spell shorthand in the spaces where its intricate folds don't run the risk of dividing important characters down the middle or up the sides.
The second assigned team member also gates in, but from Lagos; she has safety glasses perched atop her head, a scorch mark a centimeter long on one cheek, and two separate multitools and a jangling bag of scrap metal fragments dangling from her belt, as well as a hand-forged medallion in the shape of a shield that has, from the look of it, been imbued with a shielding spell at the least.
The third hits the assembly point with a bang and a slight scuffle as a short transit spell's air displacement ends in solid-looking work boots thumping to on graveled ground; he has a streak of what looks like damp sand running up his leather jacket's right sleeve from wrist to shoulder, black curls escaping from beneath as well as through a charcoal beanie, and both a nearby technical college's student ID and a magnifying glass dangling from a breakaway lanyard around his neck - "Looks like I'm it," he says a little breathlessly, "sorry I'm late--hey, my Manual just dropped you two's specialties on me and origami, blacksmithing, mineralogy - rock, paper, scissors--ah jeez, someone up there's got a sense of humor.
"You say this serum comes from cows, originally--actual cows?" asks a wary, uncertain-looking Briar, but he lets himself be poked in the arm in full view of half a dozen local children nonetheless, because this may be Sandry's idea but it's Rosethorn wielding the needle, and he can feel the maple trees murmuring their approval from just beyond the flagstones.
"Not every Trader will be convinced of this one at the start," Daja warns her as she rolls up her sleeve, "but you'll have a fair chance with most; they'll hear you ow!... hear you out, Rosethorn, did you time that intentionally?"
"I suppose it's my turn," says Frostpine with a sigh that might just be feigned, given the wink he tosses Daja's way, "seeing as my student's set such a good example for everyone here - oh well."
Comment posted in 2015! and filled in 2022, nearly 7 years later
The story in full, the truth of it - as much as Nishijima knows, at least, and he himself admitted to likely gaps in what data he had - is enough to horrify her not to silence, she's too easily quiet, too naturally shy, for that to constitute the unusual but to both speech and action.
The reality of Himekawa Maki's treachery, of her corruption, of the terrifyingly understandable desperation and the depths to which she had been driven by certain unforgivable rigidities (no, Kitamura has never forgiven Gennai for what he said to Maki that day, nor for the framework beneath what was said, and if that objection makes her insufficiently resolved to destined destruction, then in her opinion, the digital world's standards of fated worthiness can go hang) still somehow fails to quash her own desire, though that desire shames her nearly, nearly, as much as it amazes her with its resilience.
When it's freely presented (her activating digivice and the crash of the reopening gate are proof enough, on that score), the opportunity to return to the Digital World, to reunite with Ebonwumon-Orochimon-YukiAgumon at last, is one Kitamura seizes with both willing hands.
"It's fortunate that a bubblehead charm keeps airborne diseases out too, really," said Laura Madley from inside the near-transparent spell dome that still, to Natalie McDonald's eyes, looked like nothing so much as an upended goldfish bowl. "It's not just for stink pellets and dungbombs in the corridors anymore! Best get your own charm going just in case, and then I know you said something about Lavender Brown and Padma Patil both sending over information about useful medicinal herbs; not that they'll cure this horrible thing any more than that Muggle stuff - para somethingorother, I know that much - or a pepper-up potion cures a hangover, but if it helps, it helps, you know?"
"At risk of being called predictable," said the voice of an understandably, all things considered, exasperated Dr. McCoy from out of Uhura's comm station speaker, "I'm gonna reverse my usual question; I know who's holding up the damn elevator, I just don't know why." Sulu tried his best not to snicker too noticeably, though proximity being what it was, keeping his amusement from Chekov was all but impossible even before factoring in the grin his helm partner was hiding, rather badly, behind an upraised hand. "And has anyone in engineering got an estimate as to just when they're gonna get me outta here,?"
Miraculous Ladybug, kitties keep finding Adrien Agreste
The first rusty screen door squeak makes him look over and around in vague and slightly bemused bewilderment - brickwork - rickety balcony ironwork - what the heck? The second, at least, allows him to pinpoint where the sound is coming from, albeit with some assistance from a glimpse of a marvelously stripey tail curling up and over a fragment of crumbling ornamentation to swish in the breeze. The third and loudest mew is barely out of the vividly-marked brown tabby's mouth before the cat in question is landing on a slightly startled but laughing Adrien's shoulder, purring loudly enough to vibrate every one of her whiskers and his eardrum besides.
"How did you get out here?" Adrien's both too trained for poise and too used to recovering his balance at speed to go sprawling on the sidewalk when the unexpected visitor twines their way around his ankles with a mew, but he's only mortal - he hop-steps and wobbles before dropping to a crouch.
Plagg, hidden in his pocket, offers no comment aloud, but there's definitely purring vibrating itself to greater and greater audibility, and it's not only coming from the skinny but sociable tricolor friend now leaning into the offered scritches. "I am absolutely," says Adrien, equal parts confidence and conviction, "finding you a place to stay; alleyways don't make wonderful bedrooms, and you deserve to be someone's very best gi--" a momentary and offhand glance changes the last word midstream, "--uh, apparently, boy!"
And you were attempting--" Flitwick glances up, then hastily down again as one of the half-dozen mallards now in the classroom flaps noisily through a wide-angle turn just over his head, "--what, exactly?"
"Tried to pull the nonverbal version of a Potter, professor," says the shamefaced sixth year Hufflepuff, and Flitwick absolutely does spot him pocketing the pinfeather he's just taken care to remove from his robe's sleeve, yes indeed, "and summon me broom, sir. I suppose I got... a bit, er, profane in me head by the third attempt, sorry, and with that autocorrect charm mixed in, well..."
pre series, occupied Bajor
Kira Nerys may be too young, in the eyes of kin and family friends alike, for even simulated weapons training but it's not a blunted practice blade she's wielding against an alien skimmer her first time out, and age be what it is, thin arms don't shake; her purpose is destruction, and vengeance, and some scrap of defiant dignity - no one had best get in her way. Their enemies have equipped Kira excellently for this life, little though they realize the firepower they're handing the supposedly conquered people with every sneer and degradation, and the proof is in the trophy she's given in the aftermath of earning her way into the cell. Her faults are what they are - she has them, Prophets know she has them - there is no borrowed metal in her claws.
I'm going to create an entirely separate post for the There Are No Lesser Colors series, which is Ninth Pass Pern, and another for anything to do with Xanadu Weyr. But this is a start.
Most, if not all of these are three-sentence ficathon fills. Each cut tag contains fandom and prompt info. The Valeris one references canon mental violation, so please consider tastes and headspace if you go there. The TNG crossover one requires knowledge of the specific novel I've looped in. Aaaaand the Sleeping Beauty one has
milliways_bar echoes and resonances, hi all. TNG/The Legacy of Lehr novel crossover
That was, Geordi thought in dismay, one very unexpected, if also very familiar flash of light and scaled-up finger snap combination, and combined with the ship to ship comms traffic they'd been getting from the bridge just before the audiovisual effects kicked in - oh, great.
"Sir--" Solis sounded as bemused as he suddenly felt. "Did that unidentified vessel just reference some kind of empire and a Cardassian drink in the same sentence, sir?"
Young Wizards, post To Visit The Queen, unnamed feline and human wizards in Vienna
"What is this," asked the Vienna-side worldgate attendant as the incoming duo stepped through from the bustle of west Philadelphia, "the second time you've made this journey in as many day--" the tuxedo's muzzle wrinkled, mouth quite open, as they paused. "And what is *that*?"
"Spicy dill pickles," chuckled the taller human of the visiting pair almost immediately, "and I know, I know, they stink, or so the cats at New York and London tell me with extreme frequency; blame the sandwich in my bag for the immediate and me for the purchase, but I like 'em."
Funga, honestly; whose idea was that name? A whimsical being such as she is, spirited creature of blue dress panels, vaulted sunlit skies and harmless mischief - not that mushrooms themselves are necessarily unwelcome, not at all, but it's only so many times one can be assumed to be the avatar of either crumbling logs or poison in the stew before the entire thing becomes simply too much to bear. Merryweather - nymphs and shepherds, come away, the cloud-capped towers, the wind is rising and the weather's right - is her own decision, and no one raises an objection from the very first day she names herself.
Valeris, post The Undiscovered Country
Valeris has, she admits with only fractional hesitation (dishonesty is, at best, unnecessary) acted against the interests of the greater organization in which she was, at the time, sworn to active service and, in furtherance of her actions, slain, twice, yet hers are not the--a particular human word for one's general moral or ethical limits is, so she understands, scruples--in question.
What you want is irrelevant; what you've chosen is at hand!
Valeris has not, numerous though her crimes may otherwise be, perpetrated a certain violence on another and, given the gravity of such an action regardless of circumstance, she finds it entirely fair to wonder just who should be considered the (better is an arbitrary term, do not use it as a measure) more suitably representative Vulcan.
Star Trek TOS, mid series, McCoy, Chekov, and Sulu
"About damn time you got here," grumbles McCoy, but the heat in his intonation is concern; he's making for the shuttlecraft's nearest seats as quickly as the limping, shivering ambassador leaning on his shoulder can manage, one hand occupied with a tricorder all the way. It's Chekov who darts for the door controls as soon as the others in the party - two mud-spattered but alert human security officers and two wary, silent diplomatic aides as lavender-skinned as their principle, one cradling their field dressed left arm to their chest - have found their own places, but it's Sulu, from the pilot's chair, who glances around from his controls and meets McCoy's gaze.
"What's the expression," he doesn't quite drawl, "everyone talks about the weather, but nobody--" the humor eases back, solidifies and warms, steadies into a promise that's as much for his crewmates as the aliens, "--the ion storm's cleared, and Enterprise is on station at system's edge; we'll be there in minutes at the outside."
Young Wizards, three unnamed characters on Errantry in Chicago
The first of the ad hoc trio arrives via the Copenhagen worldgate, fair hair tousled and bulky raspberry red sweater half a size too large seemingly by design, their elaborate, twelve-pointed paper crown positively glowing with spell shorthand in the spaces where its intricate folds don't run the risk of dividing important characters down the middle or up the sides.
The second assigned team member also gates in, but from Lagos; she has safety glasses perched atop her head, a scorch mark a centimeter long on one cheek, and two separate multitools and a jangling bag of scrap metal fragments dangling from her belt, as well as a hand-forged medallion in the shape of a shield that has, from the look of it, been imbued with a shielding spell at the least.
The third hits the assembly point with a bang and a slight scuffle as a short transit spell's air displacement ends in solid-looking work boots thumping to on graveled ground; he has a streak of what looks like damp sand running up his leather jacket's right sleeve from wrist to shoulder, black curls escaping from beneath as well as through a charcoal beanie, and both a nearby technical college's student ID and a magnifying glass dangling from a breakaway lanyard around his neck - "Looks like I'm it," he says a little breathlessly, "sorry I'm late--hey, my Manual just dropped you two's specialties on me and origami, blacksmithing, mineralogy - rock, paper, scissors--ah jeez, someone up there's got a sense of humor.
"You say this serum comes from cows, originally--actual cows?" asks a wary, uncertain-looking Briar, but he lets himself be poked in the arm in full view of half a dozen local children nonetheless, because this may be Sandry's idea but it's Rosethorn wielding the needle, and he can feel the maple trees murmuring their approval from just beyond the flagstones.
"Not every Trader will be convinced of this one at the start," Daja warns her as she rolls up her sleeve, "but you'll have a fair chance with most; they'll hear you ow!... hear you out, Rosethorn, did you time that intentionally?"
"I suppose it's my turn," says Frostpine with a sigh that might just be feigned, given the wink he tosses Daja's way, "seeing as my student's set such a good example for everyone here - oh well."
Comment posted in 2015! and filled in 2022, nearly 7 years later
The story in full, the truth of it - as much as Nishijima knows, at least, and he himself admitted to likely gaps in what data he had - is enough to horrify her not to silence, she's too easily quiet, too naturally shy, for that to constitute the unusual but to both speech and action.
The reality of Himekawa Maki's treachery, of her corruption, of the terrifyingly understandable desperation and the depths to which she had been driven by certain unforgivable rigidities (no, Kitamura has never forgiven Gennai for what he said to Maki that day, nor for the framework beneath what was said, and if that objection makes her insufficiently resolved to destined destruction, then in her opinion, the digital world's standards of fated worthiness can go hang) still somehow fails to quash her own desire, though that desire shames her nearly, nearly, as much as it amazes her with its resilience.
When it's freely presented (her activating digivice and the crash of the reopening gate are proof enough, on that score), the opportunity to return to the Digital World, to reunite with Ebonwumon-Orochimon-YukiAgumon at last, is one Kitamura seizes with both willing hands.
"It's fortunate that a bubblehead charm keeps airborne diseases out too, really," said Laura Madley from inside the near-transparent spell dome that still, to Natalie McDonald's eyes, looked like nothing so much as an upended goldfish bowl. "It's not just for stink pellets and dungbombs in the corridors anymore! Best get your own charm going just in case, and then I know you said something about Lavender Brown and Padma Patil both sending over information about useful medicinal herbs; not that they'll cure this horrible thing any more than that Muggle stuff - para somethingorother, I know that much - or a pepper-up potion cures a hangover, but if it helps, it helps, you know?"
"At risk of being called predictable," said the voice of an understandably, all things considered, exasperated Dr. McCoy from out of Uhura's comm station speaker, "I'm gonna reverse my usual question; I know who's holding up the damn elevator, I just don't know why." Sulu tried his best not to snicker too noticeably, though proximity being what it was, keeping his amusement from Chekov was all but impossible even before factoring in the grin his helm partner was hiding, rather badly, behind an upraised hand. "And has anyone in engineering got an estimate as to just when they're gonna get me outta here,?"
Miraculous Ladybug, kitties keep finding Adrien Agreste
The first rusty screen door squeak makes him look over and around in vague and slightly bemused bewilderment - brickwork - rickety balcony ironwork - what the heck? The second, at least, allows him to pinpoint where the sound is coming from, albeit with some assistance from a glimpse of a marvelously stripey tail curling up and over a fragment of crumbling ornamentation to swish in the breeze. The third and loudest mew is barely out of the vividly-marked brown tabby's mouth before the cat in question is landing on a slightly startled but laughing Adrien's shoulder, purring loudly enough to vibrate every one of her whiskers and his eardrum besides.
"How did you get out here?" Adrien's both too trained for poise and too used to recovering his balance at speed to go sprawling on the sidewalk when the unexpected visitor twines their way around his ankles with a mew, but he's only mortal - he hop-steps and wobbles before dropping to a crouch.
Plagg, hidden in his pocket, offers no comment aloud, but there's definitely purring vibrating itself to greater and greater audibility, and it's not only coming from the skinny but sociable tricolor friend now leaning into the offered scritches. "I am absolutely," says Adrien, equal parts confidence and conviction, "finding you a place to stay; alleyways don't make wonderful bedrooms, and you deserve to be someone's very best gi--" a momentary and offhand glance changes the last word midstream, "--uh, apparently, boy!"
And you were attempting--" Flitwick glances up, then hastily down again as one of the half-dozen mallards now in the classroom flaps noisily through a wide-angle turn just over his head, "--what, exactly?"
"Tried to pull the nonverbal version of a Potter, professor," says the shamefaced sixth year Hufflepuff, and Flitwick absolutely does spot him pocketing the pinfeather he's just taken care to remove from his robe's sleeve, yes indeed, "and summon me broom, sir. I suppose I got... a bit, er, profane in me head by the third attempt, sorry, and with that autocorrect charm mixed in, well..."
pre series, occupied Bajor
Kira Nerys may be too young, in the eyes of kin and family friends alike, for even simulated weapons training but it's not a blunted practice blade she's wielding against an alien skimmer her first time out, and age be what it is, thin arms don't shake; her purpose is destruction, and vengeance, and some scrap of defiant dignity - no one had best get in her way. Their enemies have equipped Kira excellently for this life, little though they realize the firepower they're handing the supposedly conquered people with every sneer and degradation, and the proof is in the trophy she's given in the aftermath of earning her way into the cell. Her faults are what they are - she has them, Prophets know she has them - there is no borrowed metal in her claws.
I'm going to create an entirely separate post for the There Are No Lesser Colors series, which is Ninth Pass Pern, and another for anything to do with Xanadu Weyr. But this is a start.
