Archive | April 2013

T is for The Impossible

For [personal profile] itsamellama‘s prompt; after Time Travel Does Not Exist.

“So that’s where that went.” June flipped through her notebook. “Something’s still missing, though.” She glanced from her notebook to her machine, a closet-sized device that was covered all over in clockwork. Stepping inside was like getting into the middle of a time-piece, with the slightly threatening feeling that something was about to grind just the right way and crush one.

But it worked – it worked mostly, and with a tolerable amount of precision. Forwards and backwards, the machine worked very well enough. But it should be able to go sideways, as well.

She read her notes again. Still, she needed… hrrmm. “Well, then.” She stepped into the machine and began turning the crank. The mechanisms whirred to life, as June cranked with one hand and flipped toggle switches with the other.

An unbiased observer would see that, moments later, the machine vanished from June Heruon’s living room.


June stepped out of her machine into her living room, a sheaf of notes in her hands. She and Daniel had reached a critical realization, just as they were realizing, also, that they could not stay in love with each other with their daughter gone.

She stepped into her machine again, and popped back to the university. While Dr. Guddenkind had his back turned, talking to a young woman with brown hair and a red sweater, she swapped notebooks. With this piece of information, she and Daniel would be able to get sideways time travel right.

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All The Characters – trading help for words

As discussed with [personal profile] moonwolf in this thread here, I could use a character list.

I will write 50/words a character for lists by setting with links:

Vas’ World
Paz (Observe and Report)
Vas (By the Wall)

With the link being their first appearance, bonus points (20 more words) for noteworthy later appearances.

DW links preferred, but some writing only exists in one or the other setting.

Please claim settings below if you are interested. I will start a list here that will X post.

Edited to add: I have set up DW and LJ to allow people who are friended (access list, whathaveyou) to add and alter tags on posts. The format I use is character: shahin (for example), for primary/viewpoint characters of a story.

Aunt Family [personal profile] moonwolf
Unicorn/Factory [personal profile] moonwolf
The Planners [personal profile] moonwolf

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S for Shahin, a story of Addergoole Post-Apoc for the Giraffe Call

To [personal profile] natalief‘s Prompt of the same name. After Mimosas.
The hermaphrodite – known alternately as Ty, Tya, and Red Sun at Night, and now known as oro’Shahin – studied its mistress uncomfortably.

The mimosas, Ty thought, had been a good idea. They had melted a bit of the ice Shahin kept around herself like a shield, gotten the vestiges of a smile of out her. Ty found, and was surprised and enlightened by the discovery, that those smiles had become a bit of an addiction.

I will allow you in my bed, she’d said, when you have learned what it is to serve. And it had been, so far, an education. Not just in serving, although Shahin had been an apt and firm instructor. But in the life she and her people lived, in the hunt for the monsters that survived – and in Ty’s mistress herself.

Ty kowtowed. It was a position with which the slender fae had more than a little experience, although generally in situations more playacting than real. Now, with the feel of Shahin’s metal-and-leather collar weighing down its neck, the position took on far less playfulness and far more gravity. It could stay down here forever.

“I would send a message to sa’Lady of the Lake.” Ty spoke to the floor. “It has been long enough that she’s going to be sending someone to look for me.” There, mistress, take that information for what it’s worth.

“And what would you tell her?” Ty didn’t dare look up at Shahin’s face, not yet, but he thought she was not too displeased.

“Ah. Well, mistress, therein lies the rub.”

“And what rub is that?” She had not, yet, given her new Kept a pet name; most of the time she used no name at all. Ty wondered at it, being nameless. Would it eventually forget its name?

Ty coughed. “You asked what I wanted. What if I want to stay?”

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R is for Runaway, a story of Tír na Cali for the Giraffe Call

For Rion’s prompt.
“You have a thing for runaways, don’t you?” Roberts leaned back against the wall of the van and smirked.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Reggie tried for prim innocence, but didn’t manage to pull it off, ending up grinning instead. Prim really wasn’t her thing. “I haven’t picked up more than six or seven of them this month.”

“Nine, counting the red-head.”

“The redhead was a special case.”

“There’s always special cases, Reggie.”

“This one is…”

“If you say he’s different, I’m going to hit you.”

“If you hit me, I’m going to break your arm. No. Well. I suppose.” She looked down at the unconscious boy, draped across the floor, arms bound, feet bound. She hadn’t hooded him; there was no need. Identifying her would do him no good at all. “He’s interesting.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying different.”

“Would you two shut up?” In the front seat, Sirocco was getting cranky. “Yay, you picked up your load. Now can we get home without your bickering? Because otherwise I’m going to pull over and break all of your arms.”

They fell quiet; Roc could do it, and would. Reggie looked down at the boy, and at the other three in the van, all unconscious. The blond runner Roberts had taken was blindfolded; she would make good ransom money, and ransoming off every third or fourth kidnapee confused the authorities. The American authorities, at least. The Californian ones probably knew what they were up to.

The other two were hooded and bound out of normal expediency – a junkie and a skater-boy, neither of them weighing more than a hundred pounds. Reggie found her gaze settling again on the runaway. Runaways were fun because they tended to run again, among other reasons.

“Different.” She mouthed the word, rather than saying it out loud. There was something different about this one, no matter how many times she’d said this.

Reggie reached down and stroked this one’s cheek, ignoring the mock-gagging expression on Roberts’ face. This one was going to be different.


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Way-Back Wednesday, a story of Regine

March 7, 1810

Regine studied her son – her only son, her only child. She studied his Change, the echo of her father, all those years ago, muttering in the back of her mind.

She took three measured breaths, and then a fourth. “You are my son.”
She affirmed this truth, in case anyone had any doubt. “We will find an appropriate Mentor for you, who can teach you what I have not.”

“If there is anything you have not taught me.”

“I am certain I have missed, perhaps, one or two things.” Regine did not touch easily, but she made herself touch the fluted, fin-like ears that his Change had brought. “You are my son.” She did not know if she was reassuring him, or herself.

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Q for the Queen’s Quilt

For [personal profile] moonwolf‘s prompt, [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith‘s prompt, and stryck‘s Prompt. I feel like it needs some polishing to get the point across better.

In a few generations, they ended up calling it the Queen’s Quilt, when they remembered what it was, what it had, once upon a time, been, and who had created it.

A few generations after that, they remembered nothing but that the stars had been gods once, and not how the latter had become the former, or why, or by whose hand.

And a few more generations past that, they remembered only the names, and thought their ancestors had been fanciful. Qat, who created the world. Quaoar, the force behind Qat. Orion, the hunter. Ursa, the mother bear. How shiny and creative were our ancestors, how credulous, to believe such absurd things.

A few generations beyond that, they learned what had really happened. But that is beyond the scope of our story.

The Queen had a problem.

The world was not young, not by any means, although history would pretend that this was a Dark time, a muddy and deadly time. Certainly, humanity had already risen and fallen more times than anyone was allowed to recount, than anyone could recount, if they spent their entire life counting.

And while Europe, or much of it, sat in muddy unhappiness, on a few special places, people had risen to amazing prominence, to brilliance and strength and magic unknown elsewhere in the sloppy world.

Risen enough, indeed, that when they visited other places they were hailed as gods.

And they were bored.

They were creating islands now, and a small mesa in what would at some point be named North America. And they were creating animals, and people, because they were bored, and then hunting them. They had conquered sickness (Again, although they did not know they were not the first). They had conquered old age (again). Boredom, however, they had not yet beaten.

And they were creating, on top of everything else, wars. And that was where the Queen had a problem. The others who had become enlightened would tolerate making islands. They would tolerate playing at Gods. But they would not, in the end, tolerate bringing down the muddy people, the ones who didn’t have the high hand this time around.

It was considered cheating, in the long, long game of enlightenment.

So the Queen pulled together all her best minds, and all her troublemakers. She drew the lines on the ceiling of her observatory, and she pointed. “There, you, Qat. Take one hundred men, and this ship I have built for you. Light up the sky for me, Qat.” And he went, out to the sky. “There, Quaoar, out there. Take one hundred men, and find me something brilliant.” And it went, out into the sky. “There, Orion. Go and find me something new to hunt.” And he went, out into the sky.

They called it her quilt, for the lines of stitching drawn on her observatory: not just those three, but all who were difficult. The lines where they left, and then, the lines where they landed, like patches in the sky.

What happened to Orion, they did not know, save that the sky exploded with his sign, and he never came back. Quaoar went further and further, and never came back, save to send a message that he had found the brilliance.

Nothing at all was heard of Qat, not for generations and generations, not until the Queen had been forgotten entirely.

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P is for the Possum Postulate, a story of Science! for the Giraffe Call

For stryck‘s prompt.

“It’s the Possum Postulate.” The new applicant seemed promising, for such a young face. Cara had thought, at first, that he was going to be an intern, but the boy – Platya Perdido Proda – fresh-faced and with no beard to speak of, although that could have been ancestry rather than youth – was signing on to be their new point scientist.

(The Lab had no “lead scientist” except Liam; Point Scientist was more or less “person who gets all the attention,” and was always a newcomer.)

“Possum.” She and Alex had gotten stuck with doing the interviewing after Liam had killed off three candidates – two in a fit of pique, one when his test experiment threatened to blow up the entire Lab.

“Postulate.” Alex was no more thrilled about this than Cara was. He hadn’t even bothered to dress up, and was wearing old jeans and a shirt with, Cara thought, the bloodstains of a former Point Scientist still on the collar.

“Yes.” Proda cleared his throat. “It’s a probability postulate, designed to predict within ninety-nine point nine seven percent accuracy a range of events given a certain set of parameters. It’s immensely complicated, and thus I’ve programmed it into this piece of equipment-“

“Not into a standard lab computer?”

“Well, I did that first, of course, but a computer requires certain things to run. This, on the other hand, requires sunlight and liquid. You could run it on a dessert island.”

“You created a probability generator that works on piss?”

“Precisely.” Proda was un-fazed. “I needed something as simple as possible.”

“How do the possums come in?”

“Well, they’re a metaphor. No possums were harmed in the making of this machine.”

“Pity.” Cara was beginning to enjoy herself. “So…?”

“The machine has as it’s default, ‘everything dies,’ and as its secondary default ‘play dead until the threat is gone.'”

Cara and Alex shared a glance, and then looked back at Proda. “Let me get this straight.” Cara spoke slowly. “You made a machine to test the probability of different outcomes, given a series of inputs.”


“And its default answer is ‘everyone dies?'”

“Yes.” The boy was beginning to look nervous. Panicked, even.


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Signal Boost Poem – F, G, H?

Looking ahead with the Signal Boost Poem, I am in need of F’s, G’s, and H’s.

F could be for Fallon, Forrester, or Fuchsia , though I’d rather not have two Addergoole students.

G is… what, Garfunkel? Oh! Genique! (and Girey, thanks [personal profile] moonwolf and [personal profile] inventrix, whose suggestions I should clearly note on like a tattoo or something.)

For H I have
hemlock [1]
hunter-hale [2]
in looking at my character tags, and Hera, but, again, all Addergoole Characters.

And I don’t have settings starting with G or H, though F is well handled (Fae Apoc, Fairy Town). Actually, with the exception of Generation Ship, I don’t have any settings between F and O.


I think I’ll have to start giving couplets for useful help, which means I already owe Kelkyag a couplet~

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