Archive | February 7, 2014

The Special Captive, a Criminal Minds/Tir Na Cali xover for Trope Bingo

To [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt to this [community profile] trope_bingo card.

This fills my “au: crossover” square.

The stories before this:
Never Been Caught (and on LJ): First written, last in sequence.

Shots Fired (and on LJ): First in sequence

“Well, Crap, Where am I?” (and on LJ), after “Shots Fired”

Sweet Iced Tea (LJ), after “Well, Crap…” and before:

Refurbish and Sell

Morrigan’s “Special Captive” made his first attempt at escape somewhere in the middle of Texas.

“I told you to keep him sedated.” Cym was less than impressed, rather completely less than, glaring at Morrigan with her hands on her hips. “And now look.”

“Let him go.” Travis’s urge was more of a hope than an order, which probably saved them both from Morrigan doing something unwise. “Seriously, Morrigan. You know the Fibbies are going to be after us like woah for this one, and we can’t afford it.”

“We grabbed him, he’s ours. Nobody gets away from the slave runners, you know that.” Morrigan slid on her coat. “Travis, if I find out you let him go on purpose, I’m going to put his collar on you.

“She’s not bluffing, you know.” Cym was oh-so-helpful.

“I know. What is it with this kid? He’d just another boy genius. Of all the types for her to get attached to…”

“Think he’s noticed the tracker I jammed up his ass yet?”

“Depends on if he took a shit or not.” Their captain was already in the wind, invisible and silent in the nighttime forest. It made Travis feel a bit exposed, of course, not having her there to cover their asses. “And if he did, well, there’s your trick, too.”

“Damnit, Travis…”

“I know. You don’t like it. But it works. Well… see if the signal lines up with your whammy.”

Cym stared at the screen for a moment, then hit the com. “Mor? I’ve got a reading on him…”

“Listening.” Morrigan’s voice was the short, clipped one she often used when she was invisible.

Cym listed off the coordinates. “From the looks of it…”

“Got it. Shit, he’s shaking. Okay. Got him. Goddess blast you, kid-“

They could hear his voice over the com. “Not- not a kid. Just, the pain-“

“Well, yes. You ran away on a wounded leg. Of course it hurts. What were you – no, don’t answer that. Did you call for help? Travis?”

“I don’t see any phone signals but we ought to run. Hurry, Mor, the last thing we want-“

“Leave me. Team’ll find me.” The fibbie’s voice was weak. Well, as Morrigan had said, he’d been shot.

“Or you’ll die out here. No, you’re coming with us. You’re coming with me.”

Cym and Travis shared a glance. “Did she-?”

“Well, it’s in the contract.”

“I never-“

“Travis, you never like them. Besides, what else is she going to do? Put an FBI agent on the open market?”

“Well, he’d bring in good money. He has that sad lost-puppy look a lot of the rich ones like.” Travis flopped his hands, seeming to suggest a limp pallidness that really had nothing to do with the captive.

“And he’d bring way too much attention. She should leave him-“

“But we know she won’t.”

“I can hear you, you know. Get the door.” Morrigan’s voice was short and sharp over the comm. “He’s half unconscious. We have to hurry.”

“Just…” They all fell silent as the kid spoke. “Just some Dilaudid, please. It will help with the pain.”

Morrigan strapped herself into the back seat, the boy in her lap. “Drive, Travis. Head for home.”

Spencer Reid fell unconscious again, cradled in the amazingly protective arms of the Tír na Cali slave raider.

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Friday Show-and-Tell

Shamelessly copied from [personal profile] jjhunter:

Friday, every Friday, I invite you (yes, you!) to share with me key Dreamwidth (or LJ, or Tumblr, or anything else) posts from the last week. They can be one or more of your own posts, posts of others you’d recommend, interesting discussions, linkspams, tiny delights, whatever stands out to you from the last seven days that you’d like to highlight. Assume that I’ve been away and pining too true and catch me up on what matters to you.

In return, I will make a point of commenting on at least one post of those you share, and I encourage others to do the same.

Newcomers, lurkers and long-time commentators equally welcome

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Addergoole/Criminal Minds Xover for @Rix_Scaedu, Part III

This began here with a meme; it takes part after Rix’s guest fic here (and click “next” for the second part.)
It continued here.

Spencer Reid was a genius. There was absolutely nobody in the world, not even the snottiest Grigori, that could argue that point.

He was, however, looking at a book written in an unknown alphabet in an ancient language. Morgan wasn’t sure if the kid could handle that, even as smart as he was.

Derek paced the room, watching the kid out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to profile the murderer and the victims with the rest of his attention.

“Quipia Tlacatl οστά, Tempero Eperu πέτρα Tempero Tlacatl οστά, επάνω, ανατέλλω, εγείρομαι.” Up, rise, rise up. Slowly, while he pieced together the pieces of their likely-dead enemy, Derek pulled the bodies out of their impossible positions embedded in the bedrock.

“What was that?” Spencer rubbed his eyes and looked around. “Is there some coffee around here?”

“Just talking to myself.”

“You only do that when you’re stressed or working through a problem.”

“Well, this case justifies both of those, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s just that there was something that you said that sounded Greek. ????, that’s bones. I didn’t know you spoke Greek.”

“I picked up a few words on an old case. And we’re walking over piles of bones here.” He patted Spencer’s shoulder. “How’s the translation going?”

“If I just had a key.“ He raked his hands through his hair. “Something, anything. I know I’ve seen this alphabet before.” He closed his eyes. “On my mother’s bookshelf. It was a book hidden in something else – The Joy Of Cooking.”

Derek watched the genius’ brain work. “What do you remember about it?”

“She said… she said it was a history.” His hand moved while his eyes remained closed, the pencil sketching on the paper. Old Tongue letters. The History of the People in the New Land.

Derek was here to keep the team from learning the wrong things.

He was here to profile and catch criminals.

He was here for his team.

“I’ve seen it… now that you draw it like that, it came across my desk, years ago.” He sat down and took the pencil from Spencer. “This. This is ‘new,’ if I remember right.”

He could ruin the whole investigation and hurt Spencer’s brain if he gave him the wrong information.

He drew the symbols more carefully than he’d ever written anything in his life.

“And this is ‘Law.’ Law was a big deal in the paper I read.”

“Okay, so something in here means ‘history,’ and that word there means ‘new.’“ Spencer nodded. “I can work from that. Could you get me some paper?”

“On it.”

Derek dropped an empty legal pad in front of his teammate and waited for the all-clear to dig.

The shovel moved. The dirt moved. He muttered another Working, to make it lighter, easier to sift for the dig team, easier for him to move. The shovel cut ground, the dirt lifted up, he hummed another Working.

Reid’s pencil moved, his lips moved, the paper fluttered, the pages of the killer’s book moved. He muttered something under his breath and made another note, his murmurings making a counterpoint against Derek’s Workings. His pencil sketched out another symbol. The pages moved. The paper fluttered.

“I think I’ve got the start. But Morgan, if you could remember anything more of this paper you read, it would be great.” He turned to look directly at Derek. “Like a translation.”

Derek swallowed and tried to cover. “Look, kid…”

“Profiler.” Spencer had that pissed-off look he didn’t often get. “With three PhD’s. Look, I don’t know what you’re doing, but the fact of the matter is, we’re trying to catch a murderer, and you’re obstructing the investigation if you’re withholding information.”

Derek sat down with a thump. “Look… Reid.” He covered his face with his hands and tried to think. “Some things…”

“You don’t have to explain to me. But if you know what’s in this book, Derek, you know your job. I won’t ask you why you know, or why you were hiding it from me. But you know what your duty is.”

Derek picked up the book and scanned it. “You were nearly there, you know.”

“While you… did what? Don’t think I didn’t notice the second scan showed the bodies at a different strata of the earth.”

“You said it yourself. There’s no way to bury a body in bedrock.”

“That doesn’t explain how the bodies aren’t in the bedrock anymore, either.”

Derek flipped a page. “It’s written in a language called Idu a’Iduþin-”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised. In its own language, Idu a’Iduþin means ‘to Know all there is to know.’ The book starts with a list of dates-”

“I knew it!”

“-and a list of descriptors. He doesn’t give any of them names. Let’s see. The first date is June twenty-first, eighteen-twenty-six. Brown hair, brown eyes, pales skin. It references a page further back…” He flipped through the book. “She didn’t expect me. This land has not been preyed upon in some time; perhaps not since the last time I came through…”

“Morgan.” Reid was still staring at him. “How can you fluently read a language I’ve never even heard of? How are the bodies in dirt now when they were in bedrock when we got here?”

Derek smiled tiredly. “Magic.”


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February is World Building Month. Day Seven: Stranded

[personal profile] piratekitten has declared February world-building month.

Every day in February, I will answer one question about any one of my settings.

The question post is here, please feel free to add more questions!

The seventh question comes from Kelkyag and is for Stranded World

Is perceiving and manipulating strands innate or learned? How do people acquire and develop these abilities?

References: Magic in Stranded World
Strand-workers and Strand-Working Organizations

Yes. 🙂

The ability to see or manipulate the Strands is an inheritable innate ability.

There are those who believe that, at one time, all humans had this power, but most of them are poo-pooed; studies show that almost every case of a known Strand-Weavers can be traced genealogically to a handful of magically inclined people in approx. 450 AD.

The innate power comes in a number of different types: not everyone who can work with the Strands can do the same things, and, indeed, the categories barely overlap at all. Thus, Spring’s ability to be a Tangler versus her brother Winter’s ability to smooth and calm the Strands, and so on.

Of course, part of the reason that the known strand-weavers can be traced back to the same people has to do less with insularity of genetics and more with insularity of training, knowledge, and literature.

The innate abilities – any of them – can be problematic without training, and can in some cases lead to abuses of the power, either accidental or purposeful. The organizations that exist to train and educate new strand-weavers can be very harsh with those caught in abuses. (Some say this is because they want to keep all the power controlled, others because they don’t want word to get around that rogue magicians, such as they are, are capable of hurting people and throwing around dangerous “spells.”)

Thus, most people who are “known” to be Strand-Weavers are educated by the same group of people, and thus know the same group of people (and thus, often, marry or at least have children with the same group of people).

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