Origin: Worm, Supernatural
Mood: Whimsical, Adventure, Lighthearted, Fantasy
Prompt: As a nascent Creator Goddess, Taylor uses Creation to turn an empty pocket dimension into a Paradise, with minions.
Or, Alternately Titled: Taylor does a much, much better job at raising children than Chuck.
Origin: Star Wars
Mood: Adventure
Prompt: Bail and his wife wanted a son and not a daughter, so they take Luke and not Leia. Leia, of course, goes to her family on Tatooine...
Han sat at the cantina, slouched against the back of the booth, killing time until the work would be finished on the ship. He wasn't just a pilot, he was a mechanic too, the way you had to be if you were more or less solo out in space, especially with a ship like the Millenium Falcon. He'd never admit it, but there was something a bit scary about being a pilot temporarily stranded on a planet, especially a place like Tatooine. If things got heated, there were a limited selection of ships to steal, and stealing a ship in a hurry was always a tricky proposition, with the enemies you'd make a kind of loan to bail you out of a jam, a loan that often had steep interest. And of course it would mean that he'd have to come back for the Falcon. He wasn't drinking, not much, just in case he needed to stay sharp.
The girl slipped into the booth with him, as though she'd come from nowhere. She was wearing a hood that didn't quite hide how young she was, and she had the eager intensity that Han had seen on any number of street rats. She was human, at least on the surface, though Han was only able to see her hands and face.
"I'm in," she said.
"Oh yeah?" asked Han, looking her over. "In what?"
"Whatever scheme you have going, I'm in," she replied. "Whatever you're running, I'm helping. As soon as the Falcon is ready to fly, I'm on-board, even if it's just cleaning out the holds."
Han took a long drink, longer than he should have, given he was trying to ration them out and keep sharp. "I don't know what you're talking about, kid," he said.
"You came through here eight months ago," she said. "Carrying counterfeit crystals. Like I said, I'm in."
"You ever been to space before?" he asked her.
"Sure," she said. "Look, I can do it all, droid repair, engine repair, I know all the systems, and after you came through, I bought up a manual for the Corellian freighter you're running —"
"There's no manual in the world that will teach you what you'd need to know about the Falcon," said Han.
"I never said it would," she replied, looking cross. "Only that I know more than most. So, I'm in."
"There's no room," he replied. "Sorry kid, beat it."
"There's plenty of room," she replied. "I was just inside."
Han straightened up, narrowing his eyes and then leaning forward to look closer at the girl. He finally smiled, resting an elbow on the table and pointing at her. "You were inside?"
She nodded quickly. "Security at the shipyard is terrible," she said. "I told them I was your daughter."
"And they bought that line?" he asked.
"It's all in the delivery," she replied, feigning nonchalance.
"How old are you anyway?" he asked. "I don't take kids on my ship."
"Nineteen," she replied. "Not a kid. And I can handle a blaster just fine, or a ship's cannon. Anything you need doing, I can do it, just let me come with you. Because like I said, I'm in."
She didn't look nineteen, not that it really mattered. Han had an appreciation for street rats, but it came with wariness, because when you were on the streets, you'd do anything you had to in order to survive. He knew that from experience. Still, for her to have stolen a manual, that showed a longer con than most her age would get up to.
"So you think you know your YT-1300s?" he asked. "What's behind the forward panel in the passage from the ventral side to the dorsal side?" That would let him know whether she knew her stuff, and which stuff it was she knew.
"Normally it's controls for the coolant regulator," said the girl. "But it's easy to remove, and pretty inconspicuous, so smugglers put things there."
Han smiled. "Nice try."
"Everyone knows it's a spot that smugglers use," the girl continued. "So smart smugglers don't use it. What you did was to move the controls, then place a fake control panel in that looks just like the real thing, and behind that are eight bricks of Valncian powder." Han stared at her with wide eyes. "Like I said, I was in your ship." She gave an elaborately indifferent shrug.
"Ten bricks," said Han, trying to keep the murderous look from his eyes.
As he might have expected, she pulled both bricks from within her robes. "I'm in," she said. "A gesture of goodwill."
Han reached across the table as quick as could be and snatched the bricks back, shoving them into a pocket in his vest. He was about to start in on her, telling her that stealing from someone and then handing it back to them was no way to win them over, and then he remembered he'd done that half a dozen times, and it had even worked for two of them.
"What's your name, kid?" he asked.
"Leia Skywalker," she said, holding out her hand.
But before Han could shake it or brush it aside (he hadn't decided which), someone in the cantina started yelling.
"Leia Skywalker!" the man yelled as he pushed his way through the crowd. Leia looked like she was about to bolt, but she stayed where she was, pretending to be casual about it, even as he shouted "Leia!" again.
"We're leaving, now," he said to her as he grabbed her arm.
"Uncle Owen, this is Han, he's offered me a seat on —" but the girl, Leia, was cut off almost at once.
"Now," he said, his voice harsh, and he lifted her up from her seat. He turned to Han. "She's not going anywhere with you. She's sixteen, you stay away."
Han watched them squabble as they went, and took another long swig of his drink. Not a street rat then. He'd thought that she looked too neat for one, but you could always sneak into a place to shower and steal a nice cloak if you wanted to. Still, she had gumption, and the bricks of Valncian were safely in his pocket. He'd have to check the other places on the ship, just to make sure nothing was missing, but it was the kind of moxie that he respected.
The ship was ready just after nightfall, the fiddly bits finished up at the shipyard, and hopefully they would hold this time. He and Chewie got everything all tucked away, and Han confirmed that none of their other special cargo was missing. Still, when they were ready to take off, he waited for just a bit with the cargo door open. If Chewie had asked, he probably would have said that he was just taking in a little fresh air before stuck inside the ship with the smell of wet fur for the next few days.
She showed up when both suns had set and the shipyard was in darkness. She had the same robe on she'd had before, but she also had a blaster at her hip and a pack on her back. When she saw Han, she hesitated, and stayed in the darkness for a second.
Origin: Exclusively Granblue Fantasy, please and thank you
Mood: The feeling you get when you bite into a good eclair, very fluffy and sweet
Prompt: Rackam (29M) goes on a date with Noa (2kM) on the boat that is Noa (2kM/Grandcypher).
Origin: Ranma ½
Genre/Mood: Comedy, Action
Prompt: lying through ones teeth doesn't usually end this well.
or Ranma decides he would rather be Ryoga's sister than his friend.
"I know this sounds crazy, but it actually might work," the captain said, looking at the heavily-annotated map spread out before him.
"No might about it, Captain," Clarence replied, "I've been doing the math, and with the losses they've been taking the CSA can't have more than a few thousand units keeping us boxed in without jeopardizing their other flanks."
"Were we in a better position, I'd refuse your plan outright, but 'lucky' for you we aren't," he replied with thinly-veiled disgust, "It really says something that you're the only one with a workable plan."
"Just leave it to me and everything will be fine."
}------------------------------------------{
Whatever he had said earlier, the captain nearly reconsidered when Clarence actually ordered the tanks to be painted bright pink.
"Remind me why you're having the tanks painted pink?" he asked the soldier, "I thought the point was to make them less visible."
"The CSA's standard-issue HUD applies a pink filter over everything," Clarence smugly replied, "By painting the tanks pink, they'll be indistinguishable from the sand around them."
"Okay, then why are you having the cannons loaded with green paint?"
"How else can we be sure we're facing their green soldiers?"
"That's not how that works Clarence!"
"You'll change your tune once their marksmen start missing."
"I'm starting to regret giving you the go-ahead."
}------------------------------------------{
"Did that just… actually work?" Clarence asked, incredulously.
"Why so unsure of your own plan?" the captain replied, turning back to watch as the CSA picket line continued to scramble about in a panic, frantically trying to scrabble off the paint sealing their helmets shut.
It had gone flawlessly, even if the speakers blaring bass boosted music had given away their position a bit, they had still managed to get away with minimal losses.
"Maybe there's a promotion in this for you, Clarence?"
"Oh, no, sir," Clarence hastily replied, "Planning is stressful work, in fact, I'm done with my harebrained schemes. Relying on one to save my life is an experience I never want to have again."
I can feel the sack of flesh I current inhabit gasp and wheeze, as his precious blood starts to spray all over the carpet. I'm going to have to get that cleaned later. Oh, I'm not in any pain. Like something as simple as a sword could actually hurt me.
I can feel the conciousness of my vessel clawing at something. Anything. Trying desperately attempting to cling to life as the sword is thrust deeper into him. Honestly, I don't even know why he bothers. He's just feebling trying to pull it out of himself, like it'd actually make a difference.
It's just so pathetic to watch, really. He's not like his father. He just accepted his death with a smirk as my current vessel beheaded him. Then again, he'd gotten what he'd wanted out of the deal. Most people don't even get to live to the ripe old age of 81, surrounded by all the gold and concubines and fallen enemies you could ever ask for. He was one of my favorite vessels.
I suppose it's time to get on with it. This old fool's about ready to kick the bucket, and if I want to claim his son, I need to make the jump right about...
Ah, there we go! One fresh new kingly mind, ripe for the corrupting. Oh, it feel so go~~o~~d. The joints don't hurt, I feel as fit as ever, and I think I can actually get it up again! And oh! What's this lurking about in the brainmeats? Is this an actual veneration of the Goddess of Light?
Oh ho ho! This is going to be fun indeed! So much idealism and ideology to corrupt! And on such an impressionable young mind.
Of course, I'm going to have to do this carefully. Too fast, and he might actually realize something is wrong. And I may be ancient, but I'm not prideful enough to take on the Inquisition. And I wouldn't want to lose my favorite dynasty now, would I? Not after all the fun and misery we've had together!
No, if I'm going to do this right, I'm going to need to do this slowly. Let's see now. You know, that throne is kinda empty now that your father's body has fallen out of it. Maybe you should sit down on it. Oh, don't worry, it's just to rest. You're tired after that long battle.
Ah, there we go. Doesn't it feel comfortable? Doesn't this just feel right? You could get quite used to this.
Oh, and is that the crowd cheering outside hailing you as a savour? And why shouldn't they? You did slay the tyrant that kept them poor and killed their children in pointless wars. They should be singing your praises. And they are! "The King is dead! Long live the King!" Long like the King indeed! You deserve this.
You deserve all of this.
Ah, there's a good start. Let's let him stew in his triumph for a while. Pride is such a wonderful tool! Hmm... should I push him towards self-righteousness as well? It's a bit unusual for me. But it would be an interesting change of pace.
No matter. I have plenty of time to work on him. Twist him until even he couldn't recognize himself anymore. Then I can work on keeping the cycle going. Making sure I stay right where I belong.
A reverent silence takes the room. Wheezing gasps falter; the rise and fall of the old man's chest shudders to stillness. It is only a matter of moments, now. The assembled court adjust their mourning masks and straighten their postures. You only get one chance to make a good first impression.
The high hierophant and the royal regent step forward. They clasp arms and share a look.
'How fares the queen?'
'Out of the picture. So are the elder children. The younger may still be of use. Brothers and the like. They won't remember.'
'Hmh. Yes, I see. Best not to trouble him with... anything confusing.'
Nothing more needs to be said. The pair turn to the body on the royal bed. He is a husk, withered and drained by the bloated tumor in his belly, a sad remnant of a once-great king. The sight pains them, as it always does. They are ever the dutiful servants.
The changes come slowly, then all at once. Scarlet flames flicker into life over the king's pallid flesh. Starved limbs convulse and spasm, bones tearing out through the flesh with wild abandon. Alien colors dance in the air. The fire spreads and engulfs the dead man. In seconds, the skin is burned away. Pale bone can be glimpsed for a passing second, before the fires rise to such intensity that the courtiers present avert their eyes.
When they can once more look upon the figure on the bed, everything has changed. The dead king with his wasted flesh and powerless limbs is gone. In his place is a man of youth and vitality, a man in the prime of his years. His skin is a sun-tanned bronze, his hair thick and dark, his limbs straight and made firm by lean muscle. With a gasp, the man jolts upright, clutching his stomach. His cry is of horror, and pain, but when it ends it is as if he had never uttered it. The young man watches them and blinks, an expression of uncertainty taking over his face.
The hierophant and the regent begin. 'My Prince,' the regent says, his voice broken with grief. 'You have slept so long. We had almost given up hope.'
'A terrible fever, my Prince. It brought you so terribly low. And your father...'
'My father?' the young man says, touching a hand to his forehead. 'I don't... I can't remember. What has happened?'
'That is to be expected. The disease, it eats away at the mind. But you will recover in time, my Prince. Soon enough you will be well again. And you may take the Throne that is rightfully yours.'
'Then my father...?'
'The King is dead,' the hierophant says.
The regent bows his head. 'Long live the King.'
The Prince buries his head in his hands, but only for a moment. He sits up straighter and gives them a resolute nod. He is ready to serve. He is willing to rule. The picture unfolds as always from there. The young King will take the throne; he will rule justly; he will usher in an age of peace and prosperity and glory for the kingdom; and then he will die, his once-mighty body brought down by the cancer that has already begun to grow in the depths of his stomach. They'll have thirty years, maybe thirty-five, should some act of misfortune not take him before then. Not quite the half-century they once had, but enough. Plenty of time, to serve under the good king.
When the young man stands up, they see the withered hand, the lifeless flesh crawling with pale white maggots. It has crept up to the wrist. Last time it was only a few fingers. The hierophant and the regent say nothing. They will find a way to explain this. Perhaps amputation; a King can still be great, even without a hand. Yes. They will find a way.
It had been the hierophant's great-grandfather who had begun the great work. What he had done, however much it had cost, had been an act of love. They had loved their king; the Great King, the most noble of all in his line, the best the realm had ever produced. And ever would produce. They had made sure of that. It should have been perfect. How was he to know that the affliction killing him would return, again and again? How were they to know each new breath of life would take something more from him? How were they to know?
No. There was no reason for guilt. The good king would rule again. The good king would rule, now, and forever more.
Origin: Star Trek
Mood/Tone/Genre: Horror Thriller
Prompt: Not all of the Federation has Plot Armor A Galyxy Class runs into trouble and no amount of Technobabble/Insane Plans will save them!
Bleh. Keeping it to 100 words exactly is harder than it sounds.
Origin: Agnostic
Mood: Fluffy
Prompt: The knight comes home from a long journey.
The beach house door opened and shut, and Steven threw himself down the stairs. It was her. She looked exhausted; a backpack heavy with textbooks slung across one shoulder and her jacket thrown across the other. But she was smiling.
"Hi Steven," she said with quiet joy.
"Connie!" he gasped, and hugged her. "Oh! I should get you some food, and let you sit down, and-"
"Steven, it's fine." She beamed at him, and he felt himself blush. "I'm just glad to be back. This semester was brutal."
Origin: Agnostic
Genre/Mood: Comedy/Humor
Prompt: Two warring armies and their respective leaders meet on the battlefield for one final skirmish. However, the battle ends... differently than originally anticipated.
He shrugged helplessly at her, smiling disarmingly – that same farmboy grin, only slightly marred by the glowing red lightsaber in his hand.
"The galaxy's broken, Leia." He turned to gesture around them, at the smoking ruin of Jabba's palace, the two Imperial gunships even now disgorging Imperial forces, enough to make the question of fight or flight patently absurd. "Look at all the suffering that's happened here. Jabba's run rampant for too long, profiting off the suffering of other people. He had to be stopped, and order had to be restored. We've done a good thing. We've brought peace, today. The Empire's flawed, I won't deny, but we keep things like this from happening."
"And the Empire can be changed, Leia. We can fix it. Vader's promised me that we can overthrow the emperor, rule in his place-"
She cut him off. "Vader, the man who destroyed Alderaan? You expect me to trust him?" She paused, looked at him. Really looked. "You trust him. You do trust him. The man who destroyed my people, who's been hunting the Rebellion like animals for a decade – you trust him." Rage, betrayal and horror warred within her heart and rendered her speechless.
"Yes." Luke told her. No hesitation. No doubt. Absolute trust, the kind he'd had in her or Han before – Cloud City. "He's not who you think he is. Leia – "
"It doesn't matter who he is," she snarled, stepping closer. The stormtroopers flanking Luke exchanged glances, uncertain whether to stop her, or whether she was a threat at all. "What matters is what he's done, and he's stood by and watched as my world ended."
"Tarkin did that, and Tarkin will be punished, he's promised me. Promised us." He gestured at the white-armored soldiers around him to stand down, stepping closer to her. Behind her, Han casually let C-3PO take a little more of his weight, and equally casually let his hand drift down to his belt. "He wants us, Leia, needs us."
She stared at him in silence. Had he gone mad? What could possibly drive Darth Vader, the ruthless right-hand man of the Emperor himself, to interest himself in an Alderaani princess, an Outer Rim farmboy, and a scruffy-looking smuggler?
"He's our father." Luke said.
Oh.
"Before he was Darth Vader, he was Anakin Skywalker. He was married to Padme Amidala, before the Jedi took her from him." Luke looked at her with earnest eyes, and she understood, suddenly, that for him this changed everything. This mattered. "He lost his family, and that's why he's done this, gone so far. We can change him. We can save him. We can bring him back from the darkness, and turn the whole force of the Empire to doing good, doing what's right."
"I lost my father when Alderaan died, Luke." She replied, coolly. "I won't replace him."
Luke flinched like she'd slapped him. "I know, Leia, and I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking for you to give him a chance. He wants what's best for us, and we want what's best for the galaxy. It's as simple as that. Together, we can make things better."
"And I'm supposed to forgive him, just like that? Two billion dead at the push of a button, and I forget their deaths because he's promised to fix things?!" She would have expected to feel more emotional, but the rage and the sorrow had both faded away, leaving only cold calculation in their wake. Luke had been the heart of their movement. She might have been the diplomat, the leader, the princess-in-charge, but Luke had been the hero, the one they trusted to turn the tide of battle and pull impossible victories out of hopeless situations. When word of his betrayal got out – and it would – the Rebellion would shatter.
"Forgiveness isn't easy, Leia." His voice was so gentle, so infuriatingly soft. He extended a hand to her. "But I promise, it'll be worth it. I can't do this alone. I'm not cut out for politics, you know that. I need you. We need you. Father needs you. We can make the Empire a force for good. We can be a family again."
"But I can't do it without you." He meant it too. Every word was sincere, overflowing with emotion. He truly did think this was best for him, for her, for the galaxy, and for her newly-found 'father'.
"And if I say no?" She had to ask. She had to know. Why had Luke sought her out? How far had he fallen?
"You won't." And with that, her anger came rushing back. How dare he! "Han needs medical treatment. Artoo and Threepio are both looking a little banged up. Our docs are some of the best in the galaxy, and I'll look after Artoo and Threepio myself. Besides, the Imperial Gunships are the fastest things on this half of the planet. I'll let all of you go wherever you want, I promise. Just come talk to father first."
"Please." His hand was still extended, still reaching out to her. She stared at it. She could feel Artoo sidling up behind her, torn between two loyalties. Threepio would follow her wherever she led, she was certain. And Han… Han trusted her. More or less. As much as he trusted anyone, really, and wasn't that a sad thing to think about one of her most reliable allies.
"I guess there's not really much of a choice, then." She extended her hand out to him, palm downwards. "As you said – we've all got to do what's best for everyone."
He smiled warmly and reached out to take her hand in his.
The two thermal detonators in her hand thumped lightly to the sand below.
Her face was flat and unamused, her sky-blue eyes filled with contempt and more than a little weariness. "You cannot possibly be serious."
"Hey, don't be like that Blue," her partner said, his smile wide and toothy as though daring the devil himself to take offence, "You told me to think outside the box, use my brain rather than just my muscles. I'm taking your advice, can't say fairer than that."
The woman clad in blue closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. The wind howled softly in the distance, rustling through the trees and over the grass, and for some damnable reason it sounded halfway... scenic. Almost romantic, though where in all the hells the idiot standing before her had found a druid willing to play along with this ridiculous notion was beyond her. As, it seemed, were many other things.
"That was about your fighting style, not... whatever nonsense this happens to be," she said with a sigh, gesturing down at the box lying on the ground between them. Inside, cradled by a velvet cushion, an elegant rapier of silvered steel sat glittering in the sun. The blade was etched with runes, the pommel decorated with the runic inscription of her house, the cushion scattered with petals from what she had once told him were her favourite kind of flowers. Points for memory at least.
"Yeah, but I'm not... I'm only really good at fighting, Blue, you know that," he said, and the unexpected seriousness in his voice took her off guard. She looked up, catching the sombre glint in his yellow eyes, the familiar nervousness as he ran one hand through his tangled black mane. He only ever did that when he was really concentrating, trying desperately not to make a mistake. "You know I never learned... all the other stuff. You've been a great teacher, sure, but if I tried doing this your way then I'd get it wrong. And you're too important to risk that."
Frowning, she looked back down at the sword again. "So this is... what? Your way of doing things?"
"I mean, when you say it like that it sounds dumb," he grumbled, scuffing the ground with his hooves, "but yeah. See, I started thinking about duels, since it was the closest thing I knew to what... what I wanted. And in a duel, well, you need an opponent. Just one, or it isn't a duel, right, so that one has to be really special. Not better than you, not worse, different maybe... so you can be equal, right?"
She blinked. "I... suppose so?"
"Right, so, I thought... if I was going to ask someone to, uh, duel me," he was stammering now, just a bit, and she couldn't see a blush on his scarlet skin she felt quite sure that wasn't for lack of feeling, "if I wanted it to be really special, I thought... what would I need? Well, I'd need a proper duelling ground for one, somewhere nice and peaceful, no distractions."
She looked around at the forest glade, at the birds singing in the trees and the small rabbit-like creatures staring at them from under the bushes.
"And I'd need a weapon, well we'd both need weapons, properly sized and all."
She bent down and picked up the sword, noting its grip and weight, studying the gleaming edge of the blade. Perfect in every detail, made specifically for someone of her height and build.
"And I'd need, well, a formal challenge. So..." he cleared his throat, held the night-black sword in his hand up in a fencer's salute, folded his leathery wings behind his back. "Lady Azure of the Silver Kingdoms. I, Prince Martak of the Nine Hells, Scourge of Heaven and Herald of the Infernal Host, hereby proclaim... that I wish to make you mine. In, uh. Marriage."
She stared at him for one long, glorious moment. Then she sighed, and lifted her blade.
"Only if you beat me," she said, and her smile betrayed her an instant before the lunge.
He laughed, and came to meet her, and they danced with steel and spell long into the night, the sounds of their battle shaking the trees and setting the stars themselves quaking in the sky.
Origin: Mass Effect
Genre/Mood/Tone: Horror/Drama
Prompt: A last Cycle made Reaper contemplates the Organics of the next Cycle and the futility of their Resistance after leaving the Citadel Relay. Pre Prothean Cycle.
