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Wow, it's been how long since I touched the Heroes S1 Episode Title drabble project?
Anyway. Some new ones!
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Fandom: Farscape, crossed over with something else (non-spoilery)
Title: 4. Collision
The ships are locked together impossibly, through each other, smooth organic curve forced against flat unliving bulkhead, and Moya is screaming. The other ship is screaming too, alarms and overstressed metal crying out.
Crichton steps into a room that isn't one of Moya's -- large, wide, all metal grating in right angles and bisecting diagonals -- and holds up a warning hand to D'Argo and Aeryn. "I don't see anyo--" he starts, and stops at the chh-chak of a gun being cocked overhead. Catwalks crisscross the room at the second-story level, and the tall bearded man standing on the one just above and to one side is aiming right at them.
D'Argo hisses in warning. Aeryn points with her chin at the other end of the room, where a dark-skinned woman is moving slowly down the steps, her own weapon cocked and her eyes hard.
"You want to tell me," says a voice, flat with fury, "what in hell you're doin' on my gorram ship?"
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Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, futurefic
Title: 20. Five Years Gone
Her name's Amy, and she was nine years old when the Call came. Youngest one we've found. She turns fourteen in June. In August, she'll be on a plane to Scotland to start what her parents believe to be a very exclusive, very advanced program at a private girls' school.
They're not wholly wrong. Definitely not wrong about 'exclusive' and 'private', anyway -- but not nearly as advanced as we'd like. We should have started training her sooner.
It's been five years, and there hasn't been a new Potential born since that day, and we're no closer to a solution. Ms. Harkness has been saying for a while that there may not be one.
Fifty to eighty years, and that's if we're lucky. And then ... no more Slayers.
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Fandom: Supernatural, futurefic, potentially spoilery for last week's episode
Title: 8. Seven Minutes To Midnight
He's given the rest of the team the night off. It's a bigger team now, since the webcast took off, but only the three who were there four years ago know why he's doing this. Harry and Spruce don't say anything. Maggie pats his arm when he leaves.
He packs light, almost none of the usual equipment, just a PKE meter and a flashlight. And a sandwich and a Thermos of coffee (French vanilla, as always). And the camcorder, more for something to talk to than because he expects to get footage of anything.
There's nothing here anymore. That's the whole point.
"Okay," he says, once the camcorder's going. "Okay, um ... this is Ed Zeddmore at the no-longer-haunted Morton House. I'm here to stand vigil in memory of Alan J. Corbett, and it's, uh ... seven minutes to midnight, February 29th, 2012."
That last one is threatening to turn into something longer. SEND HELP.
Anyway. Some new ones!
-----
Fandom: Farscape, crossed over with something else (non-spoilery)
Title: 4. Collision
The ships are locked together impossibly, through each other, smooth organic curve forced against flat unliving bulkhead, and Moya is screaming. The other ship is screaming too, alarms and overstressed metal crying out.
Crichton steps into a room that isn't one of Moya's -- large, wide, all metal grating in right angles and bisecting diagonals -- and holds up a warning hand to D'Argo and Aeryn. "I don't see anyo--" he starts, and stops at the chh-chak of a gun being cocked overhead. Catwalks crisscross the room at the second-story level, and the tall bearded man standing on the one just above and to one side is aiming right at them.
D'Argo hisses in warning. Aeryn points with her chin at the other end of the room, where a dark-skinned woman is moving slowly down the steps, her own weapon cocked and her eyes hard.
"You want to tell me," says a voice, flat with fury, "what in hell you're doin' on my gorram ship?"
-----
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, futurefic
Title: 20. Five Years Gone
Her name's Amy, and she was nine years old when the Call came. Youngest one we've found. She turns fourteen in June. In August, she'll be on a plane to Scotland to start what her parents believe to be a very exclusive, very advanced program at a private girls' school.
They're not wholly wrong. Definitely not wrong about 'exclusive' and 'private', anyway -- but not nearly as advanced as we'd like. We should have started training her sooner.
It's been five years, and there hasn't been a new Potential born since that day, and we're no closer to a solution. Ms. Harkness has been saying for a while that there may not be one.
Fifty to eighty years, and that's if we're lucky. And then ... no more Slayers.
-----
Fandom: Supernatural, futurefic, potentially spoilery for last week's episode
Title: 8. Seven Minutes To Midnight
He's given the rest of the team the night off. It's a bigger team now, since the webcast took off, but only the three who were there four years ago know why he's doing this. Harry and Spruce don't say anything. Maggie pats his arm when he leaves.
He packs light, almost none of the usual equipment, just a PKE meter and a flashlight. And a sandwich and a Thermos of coffee (French vanilla, as always). And the camcorder, more for something to talk to than because he expects to get footage of anything.
There's nothing here anymore. That's the whole point.
"Okay," he says, once the camcorder's going. "Okay, um ... this is Ed Zeddmore at the no-longer-haunted Morton House. I'm here to stand vigil in memory of Alan J. Corbett, and it's, uh ... seven minutes to midnight, February 29th, 2012."
That last one is threatening to turn into something longer. SEND HELP.
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More, please?
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*flails*
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;D
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For a shocker.
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(And if you can do that I can totally do SPN/Firefly.)
*snuggles the bebe Slayer* Oh, darlings. you are all in for such a rough time. Pity.
And and Ed. Oh. Ed. OH. *hugs him* *HUGS HIM SO HARD*
<3 you and this.