Archive | January 8, 2012

The Leftover Gift

For Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt. This is set in the Addergoole ‘verse, whose landing page is here on DW & here on LJ.

It’s also the last microfic of the December Giraffe Call!!



…some year between 25 and 35 of the Addergoole School, early in the year.

“I have… three cookies and half an onion.” Diarmaid stared at the tiny kitchenette. “What did you say you brought?”

“A potato and a box of minute rice, and Tony brought some butter and some soda.” Diar’s friends and podmates set their offerings on the counter. “And um,”

“Some vodka. And my eternal gratitude. The halls are pretty scary right now.”

“This entire place is scary,” Diar agreed. “All right, step back, me laddos, and let me see what I can do.” She pulled out a pie pan and started concocting.

“i don’t know how you can make anything out of that mess.”

“Well, and aren’t I a daughter of the crisis, the same as you’re children of it? If I couldn’t make a full meal from spit and beans, I wouldn’t have lasted very long.”

“You lived with your parents, I know you did,” Tony complained.

“And do I ruin your stories? Step back, let me work.” She wrinkled her nose at the pile of ingredients and began combining them, watching them double and double again, watching the edges of a real recipe fill themselves in. “And in twenty minutes, we’ll have a right tasty shepherd’s pie, and you keep your sheep nuts over there, thank you,” she scolded a newly-Changed classmate. “There.” She tossed the whole thing into the oven.

“How do you do it?” Tony asked, staring in awe.

“Ah, well, that’s an art and a secret,” she smirked, “the fine gift of the leftovers.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/224214.html. You can comment here or there.

Extraction Team,a story of the Fae Apoc for the Giraffe Call.

For rix_scaedu‘s prompt.

Fae Apoc has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

This story is the same characters, much later (~10 years?) as this one

“Alarm, Callia.” Charlie’s voice same over her earpiece. “The one in Chicago, the kid whose mom is a quote-unquote masseuse? Taylor Anton. “

“Him?” Callia was heading for the car even as she questioned Charlie. “Send Xana to meet me at the garage. That wasn’t suppose to Change. He wasn’t supposed to go at all, I thought her pet precog said. A dud.”

“Well, I think her precog is off, ’cause he just sent his school pool on fire. Xana’s meeting you at the garage, I’m sending you the last known whereabouts on the kid.”

“He set the… say again?” She strapped on her vest and weapons, and tossed a leather coat over the whole thing, passing a second coat to Xana as she strode into the garage.

“I think she said he set his pool on fire. Shit, Callia, this is going to be a hot potato, kinda literally. And it’s February. What are we gonna to do keep him on ice until September?”

“I’ll come up with something.” She nodded at the passenger’s seat. “Get in, ‘least till were closer. I might need you to scout.” She belted herself in and started driving while her partner was still getting situated. “If we have to we can put him in the dungeon.”

“Seriously? You’re kidding, right? You’re not going to put a fifteen-year-old boy in your dungeon.”

Callia felt herself smirking. “Why not? I was fourteen.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/223919.html. You can comment here or there.

The Gift Fairy, a story for the Giraffe Call

From Moon_fox‘s prompt.


“The job fairy ain’t going to come give you a job,” Francis’ father used to say, or “the dishes fairy ain’t gonna wash the dishes.” The homework fairy wasn’t going to do his homework, and the wish fairy wasn’t going to make stuff happen.

Francis couldn’t help but laugh, then, when the packages started appearing all over the city. At first, people thought it was glitter-bombing, some sort of very strange flash mob thing, something silly and innocuous. A few paranoid people thought maybe that it was a strange way to spread anthrax or something else nasty and weaponized. Some people (and somewhere deep in his heart, Francis was one of those people), just believed.

Believed in the Magic Fairy, and the Hope Fairy, and the Love Fairy. Believed in the pancakes delivered to them them, little white boxes wrapped up in ribbons. Believed when they opened the box, when they saw the tiny glass globes inside, that there was something for them.

And maybe it was the belief, and maybe there really was a Hope Fairy, but people became less depressed, and more happy. In this Rust Belt city, people being optimistic was a novel thing, a bright light of sunshine in a grey town. It lit up the whole place.

And maybe the belief and the hope fueled things, and maybe there really was a Love Fairy, but people started acting kinder to each other, started being a little more considerate, a little less cut-throat. Francis brought dinner for the old lady next door. His neighbor saved him a parking spot Monday night. A girl who’d never given him the time of day smiled at him.

And maybe that all just made things seem magical, but when Francis found his feet floating a foot off the ground, holding the hands of the girl, that girl, he had to laugh… and call his father. And tell him, “Dad, I gotta tell you, but the Magic Fairy just showed up.”

And Dad, Dad just laughed. “So did the cleaning fairy, son. Guess I was wrong.” He chuckled again, a little wry. “But, tell you what, son, I still ain’t seen no job fairies.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/223523.html. You can comment here or there.

Secret Santa, a story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call

For an anonymous (but sponsored) prompt.

Tír na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

The Agency’s Primary Response Team (the PRaTs, as they were called by just about everyone, including themselves), had decided to do a Californian version of “secret santa.” Bastards, second sons, and third daughters all of them, they were a mongrel and nastily sarcastic group, for all that they were Tir na Cali’s heroes.

Being all of that, their “secret santa” idea had turned into a practical joke session almost before it started. Nocturne-no-last-name, the team’s surveillance expert, began finding little “gifts” from her Santa almost immediately – toy mice, for a while, because her last, ill-fated boyfriend had liked to call her Kitten. Then chocolate – she was allergic. A hideous Christmas sweater – since almost no-one in Tir na Cali celebrated Christmas, her Santa must have gone to great lengths to find the monstrosity.

Since she couldn’t get revenge directly, Nocturne instead decided to go about her vengeance sideways, and thus tormented her gift-ee. Belial, third son of a minor noblewoman and a captured missionary, found Bibles stacked in his locker, advent wreaths, Santa hats.

Not to be outdone, Belial then inflicted his embarrassment on Taguia, whose origins no-one but the Boss knew. Taguia got maps (she had a bit of a direction-sense problem, and had gotten them lost when required to navigate), compasses, a GPS, an emergency beacon…

…and found her way to Davros’ locker, where she started leaving every single plastic insect she could get her hands on, along with several of the living variety. When Davros was done picking them all out of his locker, he moved back to his cunning plan of wrapping (having wrapped; none of the PRaTs were poor) five hundred small boxes, the sort a ring might come in, and placing them, one hundred twenty-five at a time, in his gift-ee’s locker.

When this led to Anastasia having a breakdown in the locker room, even the PRaTs agreed that things had gone too far. It was nearly Yule, though, so, by unspoken truce, nobody presented any more strange gifts for the remaining five days. Tiny, peace-offering treats appeared instead, as if the whole team was, very carefully, backing away from each other slowly. Didn’t mean it, sorry. Didn’t mean to make a mess. Here, have a cookie and some tea? They eyed each other uncertainly, nervously. They all liked pranks, right? They all ribbed each other, in that extra-rough way that siblings can get away with. They didn’t know how the line had been crossed, or ever where, exactly, the line was, but they knew that something had gone wrong.

On Yule, when the reveal was supposed to happen, people, instead, shyly left presents in the common room when no-one else was looking, and, just as shyly, all gathered together for an eggnog lunch to open their presents. They all pretended not to notice that Anastasia’s hands were shaking.

Agon, who was responsible for starting all this with Nocturne’s gifts, was more than a little hesitant, too, opening his present. It was awfully small, they all noticed, just about the size of hundreds of boxes in Anastasia’s locker. Was this going to be another prank? Had they all gone serious for nothing?

“Oh.” It was barely an exhalation, as Agon stared at his anonymous gift – anonymous, but obvious, as everyone but Anastasia leaned forward to look.

“Oh…” Davros and Belial murmured, and Taguia whispered a reverent-sounding “shit.” Nestled in the tiny box was a gold ring with a ruby. A Consort’s ring. An offer of a title none of them had to offer.

The PRaTs, staring at that box, silently agreed to never try this secret santa thing again.

Notes: The Agency is Tir na Cali’s answer to the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, and the DOD. Possibly also SHIELD.
A Consort in Cali is a royal’s non-permanent partner, a “marriage” that can be with someone of any status level, including slave.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/223300.html. You can comment here or there.