大嫌いな僕十九才

Fic Meme!

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 08:29:28 GMT

ffff I am once again writing more retarded Firefly/Star Trek crossovery stuff. This one's gonna be long though, so no posting until I finish the story.

But! I still feel like writing ... stuff. It is weird for me to feel in a truly fanficcy mood. Most of the time my creative energy gets eaten up by RPGs, but sometimes I get bursts of writing energy too. ... usually prompted by kink memes, actually. My last big one was for Persona 4. I should probably actually post/link to those fics here someday. But I kind of like being anonymous in that fandom. Plus I didn't finish my super-big project. OOPS.

Sooo shortfic meme! Give me a prompt (fandom + characters/focus + something else (a line, an image, an AU idea, anything) and I will write you a brief fic! As long as I know the fandom, I'm willing to give it a try. So that means ... basically anything I've RPed for a significant length of time, or fandoms I have fic involvements with. Requesting something from my original stuff is fab too, but I ... seriously doubt that would happen? anyway.

Applicable fandoms:
+ CFUD (yes it's a fandom, shut up)
+ Bleach
+ CLAMP (just about anything, especially TRC/Holic)
+ Firefly
+ Persona 3/4
+ Star Wars EU (mostly the Solo kids)
+ Star Trek XI
+ Kingdom Hearts (minus new spoilers)
+ Eyeshield 21
+ Phoenix Wright
+ Mark of the Succubus
+ Percy Jackson (books 1-3 only; I will kick you in the face if you spoil me)
+ Batman Beyond
+ Mushishi
+ Runaways
+ FMA (I am way, way behind on the manga though)
+ Anything else you think I know because ffff I am forgetting stuff.

QUALITY IS NOT GUARANTEED fics will probably be written in like ten minutes void where prohibited.

[Fic] Alone

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 07:59:23 GMT

This is what I get for browsing the new-Trek Kink Meme at work. More bizarre crossovers. :(

Title: Alone
Fandom: Star Trek XI/Firefly
Genre: Gen-ish. Mostly because I can't actually ship River/Spock, but it's still interesting.
Wordcount: 1,500-ish
Spoilers/Warnings: None!
Notes: Written for the kink meme. sob my life.

Logically, Spock knows (and agrees with) the reasoning behind Starfleet’s new policy in regards to the psionically gifted. After all, they have just survived an encounter with a very unique ship; it is reasonable to assume that future contact with any such advanced “aliens” would benefit greatly from the assistance of an empath. The fact that said encounter involved time-traveling and universe-traversing Romulans rather than a more traditional form of first contact is something that Starfleet cannot — and will not — take into account. At least not when it comes to the matter of the public record. There would be panic, at minimum. Copycats, at worst. And while the multiverse is theoretically as infinitely fragmented as it is ever going to become, temptation has never been something that Starfleet wants to encourage.

And so, when it comes to the situation of the Enterprise’s first official empath, Spock is not unfamiliar with the logic behind her placement. It is the girl herself that baffles all human reason, and a fair amount of the Vulcan’s. She wore the official Starfleet minidress for approximately 0.7 Earth days before sequestering himself in Nurse Chapel’s office and refusing to come out until she had sewn a patchwork of uniform fabric extending most of the way to her ankles. “They asked me to wear the uniform,” she’d said, in response to Spock’s inquiry. “They didn’t forbid layers.”

Her logic, as strange and meandering as it is, cannot be argued with. Not then, nor in the present moment, as she drifts from station to station on the bridge, her bare feet completely silent. She leans over Chekov’s station (an act that makes the ensign flush significantly) before finding her way back to Captain Kirk’s chair. He's taken the personnel assignment about as well as can be expected. Amusement, lots of it, when she dredges up things like Uhura's Vulcan harp-playing skills or the names of Sulu's girlfriends. And annoyance, when she decides to outline exactly how (and with whom) the Captain spends his free time. When it comes to the human notion of "shame," the Captain has very little... but somehow the ship gets much, much quieter after one of River's lists.

"Any horrible secrets today?" asks Kirk, leaning back to look at the girl hovering behind his chair. "Besides mine."

River cocks her head to one side. And then, against all logical expectations, she turns to Spock. "Ripples," she says. "They spread outwards, rocked the boat and threw the baby out." She frowns. As a Vulcan, the sensation of being probed is not unfamiliar to him; it is entirely different to have it occur from a distance, without touch, and without his express permission. One gets the sensation of having compartments in one's head being delicately opened, peered at, and then shut again, without the least bit of disturbance. "Not only this timeline."

The bridge quiets. Spock, of course, picks up on her meaning immediately; from the look that Kirk shoots him, it's obvious that he knows what she's talking about as well. "A very astute observation, Lieutenant Tam," says Kirk, his Midwestern drawl especially prominent. It is the tone he uses when he wants to stay casual about something very, very important. Which means that the entire crew knows that something is up.

"Yeah, great," says McCoy, from his position just to the left of Spock. "Could somebody explain to me what the hell she's going on about?"

The Captain turns in his chair, his face the very picture of innocence. "I thought you were a doctor, Doctor."

"You know damn well what I mean, Jim," says McCoy, tersely. "Unless you're askin' me to give her a checkup?"

Kirk shoots Spock another look, to which he responds with a mere eyebrow quirk. The Captain could really be a little subtler about these things. "Negative, Doctor," he says, turning back towards the viewscreen. "Mr. Spock, would you take Lieutenant Tam down to medical? I think she deserves some time off with her 'brother.'"

The Captain is, of course, referring to one Dr. Xī-Mēng Tán, Nurse Chapel's newest medical assistant. According to his dossier, which Spock has read in full, he is a genius doctor in much the same way that Chekov is their genius helmsman; a prodigy pushed into the service by the China National Space Administration and his encouraging, if exacting, parents. The two are unrelated, despite the similarity of their last names, although the doctor occasionally mentions the death of his little sister being the motivation for his entry into the medical profession. An interesting 'brother' indeed, for an equally interesting empath.

While Spock thinks, River turns and begins walking off the bridge. "You're not sending me to him," she says, her long hair floating in the the wake of the open turbolift. "You're sending me with him."

"Jim--"

"On my way, Captain," says Spock, before McCoy can say anything else. He steps into the turbolift and clears his mind, preparing himself for the conversation to come.

What happens next is completely unexpected.

---

She remains silent throughout most of the trip. Instead of talking, she leans against the side of the turbolift, her ear pressed against humming steel. Eventually, however, Spock clears his throat. "I assume you know why the Captain wishes for me to speak with you."

The girl nods. "Starfleet cannot let the time-space anomalies become public knowledge," she says. Her tone is flat, almost Vulcan. "Logically, this would cause further disruption to the timestream, with unpredictable results."

"Affirmative." Spock cocks his head contemplatively. "Curious. I would have phrased that statement similarly."

River puffs at a stray strand of hair, but otherwise does not move. "You did. Inside."

"... am I correct, then," he begins, turning to face her, "in assuming that you are not merely an empath?"

"Assumptions are correct. Conclusions aren't."

Once again, she has plucked a thought from his head before he can finish thinking it. "Then please, enlighten me." He is entirely without malice; if anything, the Vulcan feels curiosity. He suppresses the urge to request a mind meld with her, to see exactly how this sort of strange telepathy has affected the human mind.

The girl shifts. In the next moment, she presses the pause button on the turbolift, in much the same way that another, equally fascinating woman did so previously. "Nero," she whispers. She reaches down for her long skirt, lifting it so that she can bunch the fabric between her fingers. "He touched more than one universe. All patched together, along the stitches." The fabric ripples; he can see that her sewing is not perfect, almost intentionally so, with tiny, but regular gaps in between otherwise solid stitches. "She tripped. Didn't mean to fall down the rabbit hole."

Spock has to take a moment to absorb that information. Even having met cross-universe interlopers like Nero and his future self, it is a difficult idea for him to grasp. "You are referring to yourself," he says, leaning a little closer to her. "Possibly others, if this anomaly has rippled as much as you say it has."

"Did the math," says River. She is fully facing him now, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. "It's logical."

Before he can reply, she lifts her hands to his face. For a moment, he thinks she is going to touch him there, perhaps initiate a mind-meld of her own (a very curious image, considering that she is the human in this relationship), but instead her fingers drift up to his ears. Her touch is exceedingly delicate. He can barely feel it at all, despite the fact that a Vulcan's ears are two of the most touch-sensitive places on their bodies. Even so, he has to suppress a shiver as she traces the outlines. Her fingers are cold.

"We're alone." Her gaze is clear but unsteady; her voice trembles. "Man looked out into the Black and found only stars." Her fingers crest over the tips of his ears.

Slowly, gently, Spock puts his hands on her upper arms. She has modified this part of the uniform too, by way of a gold sleeve attached to the blue of her minidress. "Then," he says, not unkindly, "perhaps you will find that humans are not so lonely, here."

The girl nods. "Not lonely," she says, and her hands drop. One hand reaches out to reactivate the turbolift. "Just alone."

He maintains an optimum amount of physical contact until the turbolift doors open, and she drifts down to Medical to visit Dr. Tán.

[Fic] Mirror Mirrored

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 09:07:21 GMT

ffffffff I never thought I'd write fic again. Much less fic for THIS fandom. This is what shiny does to me. orz.

Title: Mirror Mirrored
Fandom: New!Trek. With some TOS mixed in.
Genre: Gen, primarily Kirk, Bones, and Spock. A few pairing hints if you squint.
Wordcount: 1,500-ish
Spoilers/Warnings: None; some violence and language.
Notes: This is a fic that probably could be worked out into a full plot-type thing … but I honestly don’t have the energy (or the TOS know how) to pull it off. Consider it an exercise in premise rather than plot.

"It was just one girl--"

"Yeah, the only daughter of a monarch you knew was crazy--"

"--and she practically seduced me!"

Life as Captain James T. Kirk is never anything short of exciting. Today's excitement takes the form of a whole hell of a lot of phaser fire, burning through the air at the speed of light and disintegrating the brush behind them. That kind of shit hurts. Jim knows this from first hand experience, and also the scarlet burn poking out from beneath his ripped uniform. "Kirk to -- ow -- Enterprise --"

"Give me that." McCoy grabs Kirk's communicator and tackles him none-too-gently. The impact knocks all the wind out of him, and the bush's thorns make it a very prickly landing, but they're safe, for the moment; the phaser fire shoots harmlessly over both their heads. With a grumble, the doctor sets the communicator aside. "Dammit, Jim. You're in no condition to run, much less run and talk at the same time."

"What, scared I'll trip?" Kirk laughs. Then he winces, unexpectedly. He glances down at himself, bewildered ... until he notices the spreading pool of red along the right side of his shirt. That last phaser blast clearly hadn't missed by as wide a margin as he'd expected.

McCoy's hands are there in the next second, pressing firm against the wound and prompting a sharp yelp from Kirk. "Scared you'll trip, crack your head open, and give me a pile of brains to clean up in addition to this mess," he says. "Now do me a favor and shut the hell up."

And Kirk does. Not because he particularly feels like it -- spite is a many-splendored thing -- but because that pain is searingly close to his lungs, and he's forgotten how to breathe in properly. "Jeez, Bones," he says, gasping a little, "I'll be fine."

McCoy holds Kirk's blood in with one hand and pulls out a bandage with the other. "You call this fine?"

"Yeah, it's fine." Another jolt of pain as the bandage conforms to his side. "With a couple exceptions."

"Dare I ask what 'not fine' is."

"Dead," says Kirk. "Also, shot down."

"You were shot down. Both ways, in fact."

"Okay, just 'dead.'"

The doctor shoots Kirk one of his patented "I-don't-know-why-I-put-up-with-you-but-hell-if-I'll-let-you-die-dammit" looks. It's got to be a requirement for Starfleet doctors, along with a functioning tricorder and the Hippocratic Oath. "You'll hurt less if you talk less," he says as he flips open the communicator. The one he stole from Kirk, that bastard. McCoy's own comm is probably somewhere behind him, lost in the mysterious thornbushes of Epsilon Whatever. "McCoy to Enterprise. Do you read?"

"Spock here." His voice is infuriatingly smooth and calm, especially compared to the sound of phasers shooting overhead. "It seems that diplomacy has been temporarily suspended."

Kirk leans back on his forearms with a groan. "Nice to hear from you too, Spock."

"To hell with the diplomacy, you pointy-eared bastard," says McCoy. "A quick beam up to Sickbay would be appreciated right about now."

The Vulcan's voice shifts, almost imperceptibly; the steel is showing. "You'll have to get to the rendezvous point," he says. "The ship is currently passing through a magnetic storm; we can't risk two teleportations in short succession." A pause. "Will that be possible?"

"I'm waving at you," Kirk says. The scenery is beginning to blur around him; he's too dizzy to focus on anything properly, including the movement of his own hand. "Hey Bones, tell Spock I'm waving at him."

McCoy pauses a moment before answering Spock. "Don't got much choice in the matter, do we? McCoy out."

Abruptly, Kirk finds hismelf being pulled to his feet. His good arm flops across McCoy's shoulders while his feet fumble along the ground. "I thought you didn't want me running anywhere."

"You're not. I am," McCoy says, and they hurry together, the doctor all but dragging Kirk along for the ride. Another burst of phaser fire crackles past their heads; Kirk can't tell if the Epsilonians have found them again or if it was just a lucky shot. "Pick up your feet, dammit."

The ground blurs past at a frightening pace. Kirk might have lost consciousness once or twice; the next thing he knows, he's got his feet on solid stone. Scotty and Uhura are both waiting for them. "What in the blazes are y'playin' at?" Scotty demands. "Not that I'm arguin' with all this excitement, but--"

"--it was supposed to be a diplomatic mission," finishes Uhura. And before Kirk can tell her exactly what he thinks of their 'diplomatic mission,' she gets out her communicator. "Informing the transporter team now, Dr. McCoy."

"Four to beam up," Kirk mumbles into McCoy's shoulder. "Make it so."

He can't see McCoy's half-exasperated, half-concerned look, nor does he see the flash of the transporter beam. But part-way through, he realizes that something is wrong. There's a tug and a surge, and the whole damn trip is taking several seconds when it should have taken less than one.

When they finally materialize, Kirk hits the floor hard.

He observes, with some degree of pride, the red now staining the bottom of his transporter. Serves the damn thing right for being slow.

*

This time, Spock doesn't take any chances. He hovers next to Chekov and the transporter controls, keeping a firm eye on both the ensign and the transporter pad itself. Theoretically speaking, there is no logical reason behind his presence here. The ship has beamed personnel through magnetic storms any number of times; only once has the process brought unwanted counterparts aboard the Enterprise.

And yet, Spock stands in the transporter room with his hands folded neatly behind his back, waiting for the worst. A "gut feeling," according to the human expression. "Transporting now," Chekov says, manuevering the nobs and levers that make up the transporter controls. The vague silhouettes of Kirk, McCoy, Uhura, and Scott appear on the pad.

For a brief moment, Spock is certain that his caution is unfounded, that nothing will happen after all. But that moment stretches; Chekov mutters something in Russian, pushes dials, and the quartet still fails to materialize. "Ensign," begins Spock, his brows furrowing--

They appear. Spock relaxes a fraction of an inch, then tenses straight back up again. Point the first: Kirk is seriously injured and on the floor as well, when he sounded perfectly intact just moments ago on the communicator. Point the second: all four of them are significantly (and startlingly) younger. Even Bones isn't quite as lined around the edges as he usually is, even if his brisk bedside manner hasn't changed any. He immediately motions for Spock to help him. "Dammit, don't just gawk," he says as he lifts Kirk’s semi-conscious form off the floor. "This idiot got himself nailed by a--"

The doctor stops. Behind him, Scotty all but lunges at the transporter controls. "Oi! What the hell did y'do to my ship?" he says, dismayed. "Get them dials and knobbly bits offa there!" And Uhura -- Uhura is staring at Spock with a very strange expression indeed. If not for the Captain currently bleeding all over the place, Spock would have been most...intrigued.

But the Captain is bleeding. And groaning, though eyes are still squeezed shut and he barely seems conscious at all. Of the four, he seems the youngest somehow; his face is much, much softer than the Kirk that Spock knows. "Are we there yet?"

That snaps McCoy back to the task at hand. "Quitcher whining," he says. "You're going down to sickbay, and you're gonna stay there til you stop leaking." He follows that statement up with a glare in Spock's direction. The Vulcan knows that look well; it usually accompanies a “green-blooded hobgoblin” or similarly colorful (though often technically correct) epithet. Or, in this case, a demand for some kind of explanation.

Spock would be interested in one as well. But at the moment, the Captain is the more pressing concern. When they finally lay him down on a cot, he groans again. “Be rougher next time,” he mutters, blinking his eyes open. “You’re too gentle.”

Point the third: this Kirk's eyes are a bright, electric shade of blue.

Fascinating.

[behold my horrible and also pretentious Japanese skills!]

Sun, 13 Jan 2008 21:22:54 GMT