Iron Author, stolen from stakebait

[camwyn]

I'm supposed to be working on four or five other things at the moment, but I could do with a bit of a challenge. Between Hellblazer: Hogwarts and Who Ya Gonna Owl? (which I will be working on this weekend), I've got two very large story arcs to hand. I've also got a novel that I started writing ages ago and have stalled on recently. I would like to write something small and interesting from an idea kicked to me from someone else... and this time I'm not going to ask you to write first. If you've been around for the first rounds, you know the drill. If not, this is a common writing exercise, inspired by cadhla and suitably adapted.

You can have fanfiction

Give me a character and one thing more -- a mood, a genre, a situation, an episode -- and I'll write you at least a drib right here in the comments. (A pairing and a situation are okay too, if you'd prefer. However, I am far more proficient at genfic.).

If you're on my friends list I suspect you already know what fandoms I can handle. Not taking any requests for people from Joss Whedon shows, as I never really watched them to begin with. If you're not sure, ask, and I'll see what I can do.


Unlike stakebait I am not proficient in poetry, so you're not gettin' any.

On the other hand, you're free to ask for original fiction.

Give me a genre (mystery, science fiction, porn, etc.) and a starting point, be it situation, character, dilemma, etc. And I will write you a dribble of original fiction -- most likely brand new, but possibly using a world or characters I've created in the past. I reserve the right to try to turn one of these into a real story and sell it, in the unlikely event that I'm attacked by inspiration.

Afterwards I'll do up a post or two with links to each comment, so people don't have to wade through the threads to find them.

Comments

[stakebait.livejournal.com]

Ooh, how about our League campaign world! A tea party gone wrong. :)

[camwyn]

The bugs of Neverland- for there were bugs, there always are- buzzed in the treetops. The leaves rustled gently in the wind. Somewhere, a bird sang out. From the humans seated around the impromptu table below, there came no sound. The creaking of many wooden bows being drawn all at once tends to stifle the spoken word very quickly.

"It was you, then," said the round-faced boy at last, setting down his teacup.

Lord Peter Wimsey blinked, raising his eyebrows- at least, the one not engaged in holding his monocle in place. "I beg your pardon?" he asked mildly. "I don't recall sayin' anything of the kind."

The boy- Danner recalled him introducing himself as 'Slightly'- grabbed up a knife much too big for him and waved it menacingly at Wimsey. "It was! We captured two of the pirates-"

"Needed someone to interrogate," said his right-hand boy knowingly as he hastily helped himself to an abandoned crumpet. That was Tootles.

"-and when we finally got 'em to talk, they said no one'd seen hide nor hair of Peter among the pirates for months!"

"So what exactly makes you think we're the ones responsible?" Lord Peter asked, cocking his head, bird-like. "I can't imagine any of us've set foot in Neverland in- oh, what would you lads say? Years?" There came a slight cough. "Oh, I am sorry, Miss Poppins. No disrespect meant."

"That's quite all right, Lord Peter." She alone of the group showed no sign of being disturbed, instead calmly reaching for her cup and saucer.

Slightly scowled. "Well- they wouldn't talk-"

"Pirates are horribly tough, you know-"

"-so after we put 'em to the most dreadful tortures we could think of, one of them said they'd seen grown-ups who weren't pirates, nor Indians, coming ashore a few months back." He glared at the adults assembled across the table. "The way we see it, it's got to be them who've kidnapped Peter- and them's got to be you!"

Further down the table, the Shadow pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "What was that, Mr. Cranston?" Miss Poppins inquired.

"I said, 'Remind me again why I signed up for this deal?'."

[ocean-song.livejournal.com]

Chinese female warrior (posing as male) trapped in India, meets up with fair maiden not aware of gender thing, who is also a spy. Any time frame or context you like, as long as there is good music, flowers and chai! ;)

[camwyn]

Her name was Aishwarya, and she was a dancer. Very fair were her features, though her skin was dark as the western dusk. Alone of all those in the village of her birth, Aishwarya had escaped the wrath of Sitala. It was said that when the pox-goddess' fire had burned all the rest of the children, she had looked on the face of Aishwarya and repented. It might have been true, or not; none lived who were willing to say. But it was true that she was very beautiful.

She served in the halls of the foreign overlords, the British, whom men called the Raj. A strange thing it might seem to be sure, but they had use for dancers- use beyond the common run. Men besotted by drink and music might yet hold their wits close, but when Aishwarya danced there was no man alive who might hold his tongue should she wish for him to speak.

* * *

Aishwarya scowled, kicking a bundle of fallen flowers out of her way as she stormed off the stage. Behind her she could hear hooting and clapping, and the sounds of frantic begging in at least three languages; she ignored it. "Rashmikant!" she called, stalking towards the rooms the Embassy had set aside for her. "Where are you?"

"Right here, mistress." Rashmikant's head popped out of the suddenly-open door. The little man had been her servant since childhood; she trusted no one else around her things. "Did it work? Have you finally-"

"No." She flung the door the rest of the way open herself and threw herself onto the divan just inside. "I don't understand it! I have done everything, everything the texts say! Are the Chinese made of stone? Is he blind?"

Rashmikant nibbled his lip, then scurried off for a moment. Her face buried in the pillows, Aishwarya could still hear the sounds of chai being brewed. She sighed theatrically and rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand. "He is not blind, mistress," Rashmikant answered over the sounds of steam. "I have seen him in the market, arguing over colored cloth. He can see, I am sure of that."

"Arguing over-" Aishwarya sat up. "Tell me he didn't see you?"

"No, mistress, of course not," Rashmikant hastily reassured her. "I have not approached him, I swear! I have only watched him from the safety of crowds. He cannot have seen me."

Aishwarya sighed, nodding. "Very good," she said, and then she pouted. "But if he is not blind, then why is he not even the least bit moved? Every other man the British send to see me- even those poor Datil eunuchs! All of them respond. He does not. He sits there in that uniform, with his helmet at his side- you would think-"

"Think what, mistress?" asked Rashmikant, who had gone to fetch the tea.

"He is a sailor. He has been at sea for months. Even if he were the sort to lie with other men at need you would think there would be something!" She shook her head and said in a mournful tone, "The consul will not forgive me if I cannot get this Chinaman to talk. Not in a hundred years!"

Rashmikant started to speak, but there came a soft knock at the door. Sighing, he offered his mistress her tea before setting the tray down and trotting off to answer.

Aishwarya sniffed the tea briefly and sipped at it. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that it was good. She was in no mood to allow anyone else more success than that today. Rashmikant would just have to wait for his praise.

As if on cue, the little man appeared. His eyes wide and the palms of his hands pressed together, he said, "Mistress- it is the Chinaman. . ."

She scarcely had time to get to her feet before the visitor shouldered his way in. To her surprise, he was not so tall as she had thought- he stood a bare half-head taller than Aishwarya herself. Perhaps it was the manner of his hairstyle, pulled back tightly into the same bun most of the Chinese in this city wore? That made sense. His face was more angular than most of the Chinese she'd seen, bearing a hint of what might have been the look of Tibet. No- not Tibet, Aishwarya thought. Nepal. The angles were far too delicate to be Tibetan. Anyway, he didn't have the barrel-build of the wild mountain folk. The Chinese naval uniform hid much, but what she could see spoke only of whipcord muscle and innate grace.

Continued from prior comment

[camwyn]

Suddenly aware that he was looking back at her, Aishwarya dipped her head and curtseyed after the British fashion. He was smiling, a most peculiar smile that hinted at ulterior motives. That was an excellent sign. Perhaps this would be easier than she had thought.

Unfortunately, he spoke.

"Miss," said the sailor, still smiling, "I wanted to congratulate you on your performance tonight, but. . . " There came a small chuckle. "My name is Zhong Xueping. I've served the Dragon Throne as a sailor in the Imperial Navy of the Ten Thousand Islands since my husband's death five years ago. If it's me you're after, I'm afraid you've been wasting your time."

[sarekofvulcan.livejournal.com]

A man and his clarinet.

[camwyn]

Anders Skevald sighed, putting down the spec sheet for the third time that evening, and leaned back in his chair. Rolling his head slowly back and forth along the cushion, he stared unseeing at the ceiling. I don't believe this, he thought. Dayan and I are looking at the same numbers, right? The Talion tests on Deimos were absolutely perfect. The teleo-diggers performed magnificently, even when they were being pushed right up to the limits of their tolerances. I've never seen such an efficient mining machine at work- and they weren't even using experienced Astro-Engineers on the control end! Why is Dayan being so stubborn about this?

His right hand started to reach for the spec sheet yet again; he realized it in time and stopped. It wouldn't help. The problem wasn't in the numbers; the problem was in the people. Management needed better results out of the Kleopatra asteroid if the venture was going to continue. The AE contingent at First Camp swore up and down that they were doing the absolute best they could with the equipment they had. Seemed to him that a change of equipment was in order, then, so he'd squirted a request for info back to Earth. There really wasn't any question about it, in the end: of all the robotic and semi-robotic systems in use in micro-gravity environments, the Talion ROV's came out on top. They'd done brilliantly in every test. They'd performed magnificently in the Moonlight works on Luna- and frankly, if a machine could stand up to the Lunar regolith's dust, it could stand up to anything. True, they hadn't been in use in the field all that long, but the data stream from Earth hadn't reported any problems from any of the field sites using Talions. And yet, and yet. . .

Dayan refused to use the things. Wouldn't touch them. Said there was too much at stake. Said that the Beryl Group's goals were unreasonable and that there'd be more than enough dug out of Kleopatra in the end if they'd just take a collective deep breath from a paper bag. Skevald had given him the Talion information; he'd taken it, locked himself up with it, and returned it covered in scribbled comments. Most of them boiled down to 'asking too much of a poorly-established technology- not going to risk my Engineers on this damn fool project of yours'. The ones that didn't involved physics equations and probability maths so complicated they made Skevald's head throb. Estevantes was checking those over, comparing them to the results of her survey of the asteroid. That left Skevald with the task of convincing Dayan. Something like half to three-fourths of the people at First Camp took their orders from him. Informally, of course, since their contracts were all with the Beryl Group; it was just that when push came to shove, they fell in behind Dayan. And right now, Skevald knew, there was nothing but pushing going on. He was going to have to give Dayan an almighty shove if they were ever going to meet their goals- they couldn't afford to have the project fail. None of them could.

Uff. It was all more than anyone ought to have to deal with. After sixteen hours of solid analysis, comparison, and argument, all Skevald wanted to do was relax. One of the few luxuries he'd been able to bring with him from home was waiting.

He got up, slipped the spec sheets back into their binding, and returned the packet to his desk. There was a rosewood case in one of the drawers; he flipped open the gleaming brass fastenings and ran one hand lightly along the red velvet lining for a moment. Putting all thought of mining, machinery, and stubborn Canadian engineers from his mind, he pieced together the clarinet and wet down the reed.

Things always looked better after a little music.

[whobunkyboo.livejournal.com]

The further adventures of Brother Brudda and the Great God Om.


"May there be lettuces!"

[camwyn]

Lord, now I have to go dig Small Gods out of the closet...

[penguinzero.livejournal.com]

One of the Ghostbusters (and/or their support staff -- Janine, Louis Tully, even Slimer) crosses paths with the Greatest Thief in the World. (Identity of the thief, living or dead, ghost or not, conflict or friendship, motivations, etc. -- all up to you. Enjoy!)

[camwyn]

"So lemme see if I've got this straight," Janine Melnitz said, leaning across her desk and resting her chin on her knuckles. "You died in 1742."

"Correct," said the spectral figure hovering a few inches above the floor of the firehouse. He- for it was male- wore a brilliant red uniform, or one that would have been brilliant red had she not been able to see the inside of the firehouse doors through his chest.

"And you were a, a-" She looked down at her notes. "Paymaster in King George the Third's army?"

"Correct again, Miss." The ghost smiled, a brief, awkward thing, and scratched at his scalp. His wig shed a few bits of powdery ectoplasm.

"Died when your ship and all its cargo went down in the East River, you said. By the part where the Hell's Gate Bridge is now." Janine shook her head. "That's a nasty part of the river, ya know. There was this guy who tried to swim around Manhattan Island last year. Nearly drowned when he got to the Hell's Gate."

"Frankly, Miss, I'm rather surprised that anyone could possibly consider such a swim to begin with. In my day, such a feat would have been attempted only by the most desperate of men."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sayin' this guy was exactly what you'd call sane. . . " She adjusted her glasses. "Anyway. Am I reading you right? You're trying to hire the Ghostbusters yourself?"

"Trying," said the ghost, "is the operative word. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Oh, I'm not making it difficult, believe me. You want difficult, you come back in half an hour and talk to Dr. Venkman or Dr. Spengler. I'm just trying to head off the guys' questions before they start."

He sighed, a drafty, gusty sound.

"Sorry," said Janine. "Anyway. What are you planning on paying with? I don't know if you noticed on your way here, but we don't exactly take English money any more."

"No, but you do continue to trade in gold," the ghost pointed out. "His Majesty's paymasters were not sent out from Britain with holds full of paper money, Miss Melnitz."

Janine blinked. "Are you trying to tell me that there's a whole ship full of gold at the bottom of the East River?" she demanded.

"Several, actually." The paymaster's ghost smiled. "I have been authorised to speak on behalf of the other Royal Paymasters. That is why I wish to hire your employers. The greatest thief in the world, a man named Thomas Hariot, has discovered the precise location of our unfortunate watery graves. Even now, Hariot is in the process of raising a small army of supernatural creatures I cannot even begin to identify- for the express purpose of stealing his Majesty's gold."

"A-huh." Janine nodded, reaching into her desk drawer. "Hang on a second, will ya? I think this rates getting Dr. V on the Nextel . . ."

[milkshake-b.livejournal.com]

In honor of a friend: Harry Potter fandom, Luna Lovegood the character, and broccoli.

[camwyn]

Luna glanced over her shoulder. Good- there was no one there. The spell was a particularly tricky one and while she didn't mind an audience, there was really only a very small window of time when the stars and planets would be exactly right. People always seemed to need her to explain things, and most of them had no patience at all. She slipped silently into the store-room, narrowly avoiding a yawning house-elf, and snatched up a bundle from the second shelf off the floor.

It would've been so much easier with the fresh stuff right out of the ground, but Professor Sprout had turned her down. There just wasn't room in the Hogwarts greenhouses for nonmagical vegetables, she said- ha! Broccoli, not magical? Obviously she'd never read about the pioneering work of the American wizard, Hohensee. Professor Trelawney hadn't, either, which surprised Luna greatly. Of all the teachers, she'd have thought Professor Trelawney might've read Hohensee's monograph in I Didn't Know THAT!- but, alas, she hadn't. That saddened Luna terribly, it truly did. There was ever so much more to Divination than just the future, if only poor Professor Trelawney would truly open her eyes. . . ah, well.

She made her way across the grounds to the shore of the lake and crouched down, brushing the soil away from the spot where she'd buried her silver-edged knife a moon before. Hohensee had been very clear on this, and she intended to follow his instructions to the letter. The ancient practice of haruspimancy had been outlawed- oh, ages and ages ago, and Luna could see why; you couldn't really use the rest of the animal for dinner after, and haruspexes always smelled awful by the time they'd got their answers. Why it had taken so long for someone to think of looking for the answers to divinatory questions in the innards of vegetables instead she'd never know.

Luna glanced up at the wintry sky. There'd be dinner soon, and she'd be late for it, but no one really seemed to notice when that happened. The important thing was the tiny red dot that hung low in the sky. Mars had to cross into exactly the right place if this was going to work. . . oh, good, there it went. She concentrated with all her might, raised the knife over her head, and whispered, "Who's been trying to ruin my father for speaking the truth this time?"

Mars glittered on the blade as she brought the knife down, slicing the broccoli neatly in half.

[dragomorph.livejournal.com]

You know, I have this bizarre urge to see a meeting between Gaspode the Wonder Dog and Brian from Family Guy in a dog park somewhere. That is, if you know anything about Family Guy.

Dragomorph
"I feel it'd be amusing."

[camwyn]

Unfortunately, I haven't seen Family Guy. Ten thousand pardons, as I feel oddly sure that this one would be interesting to see.

[vincentursus.livejournal.com]

Vimes pursues a suspect through Babylon 5.

[camwyn]

The clamor of footfalls through the corridors of the worst parts of the station wasn't anything new. Zack was used to that. People had all kinds of reasons to want the hell out of Down Below and he wasn't the kind to argue about it. This, though- this was different. Mostly because the first runner had all but flattened him coming around a corner, and had bolted off in a flash of- well- he wasn't sure what the guy had on, but it looked suspiciously like leather and metal. That kind of thing wasn't too common in these parts. By the time Zack had managed to pick himself up off the floor, the sonofabitch was long gone, and not a clue was left to which way he'd taken.

Of course, there was the other set of footfalls. The one coming his way at top speed. Silently, he drew his PPG and flattened himself against the wall. Come on, you, he thought. Just try it, go on, I dare you.

They were getting nearer- the footfalls, and a weird mix of jingling and creaking noises that didn't match with any sort of machinery Zack could think of. Still, he grinned. As the humaniform shape darted past he stepped out, PPG first, and yelled, "Yo! Hold it right there!"

The figure stopped, turned; it was human. Dressed very, very strangely, but human. Zack sure as hell didn't remember any of the alien races on B5 smoking cigars, or making quite that sort of face. "Put that thing down, you bloody git," the man said with an air of deep disgust. "You're interrupting a hot pursuit."

"Ah- hate to break it to you, buddy, but if anyone around here's gonna be pursuing, it's me." Zack jerked his chin towards the logo on his uniform. "Zack Allen. Babylon 5's Chief of Security. Who the hell are you?"

The man- was that chain mail he was wearing? He looked like a museum piece!- rolled his eyes. Covering his face with one hand briefly, he finally said, "Samuel Vimes, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch."

"The wha- ?"

"I am going to murder those bloody wizards," Vimes growled to no one in particular. "You didn't see a man go running through here oh, about two minutes ago, did you? Fellow about your height, leather jerkin, half a brass hippo under one arm?"

"I. . . maybe?"

[mattador.livejournal.com]

Luna Lovegood. Mood- predatory. Or Zacharias Smith, same.

[camwyn]

It wasn't fair, fumed Zacharias as he and the others filtered out of the Hog's Head. Just because he was the one to raise the questions everyone else was surely thinking, they all looked at him as if he were some kind of- of dangerous element. Ridiculous! He was only voicing sensible concerns. If they'd any sense at all, they'd be asking the same questions. Professor Umbridge had addled everyone's thoughts with her horribly inadequate lessons, or the others would have seen the weaknesses in the Gryffindors' plans. He was sure of it.

But when he opened his mouth they all looked at him as if he, not Potter, were the one with the checkered past and the record of attention-seeking. Blast it, didn't they understand? . . . no, obviously not. . .

He sighed and slipped unmarked away from the group. Yes, they needed someone with a level head keeping an eye on them, but he hardly counted as level-headed right now. A Hufflepuff who lost his temper without a very good reason was a Hufflepuff who couldn't get anything done. He had to get a grip, or they'd never listen at all.

Out of sight of the last few stragglers, he turned down the Hogsmeade side street and ducked into one of the shops. Nine Sickles later, his robe's left pocket bulging and squirming, he slipped out again and headed for the edge of town. It had taken forever to win the trust of his contact; he wasn't about to betray that trust by missing their semi-regular meeting.

As soon as he was sure he was far enough away from the buildings, he performed a quick Sonorus (no small feat, to cast that charm on one's lips instead of one's throat) and let out a piercing whistle. From overhead there came an answering shrill cry. A small, dark speck circled- once, twice- and dropped down towards Zacharias' outstretched arm. He hissed as the red kite's claws locked around his forearm; the dragonhide glove from Potions class was tough, but did very little to blunt the sheer impact of the wild predator's mass. "Sorry I was almost late," he murmured to the bird. "How're you?"

It skree'd, flaring its wings briefly. Zacharias smiled. Nonmagical the kite might be, but that only made working with it the harder- and the more satisfying.

"Got something for you," he said, reaching into his still-squirming pocket as the kite awkwardly rearranged itself on his forearm. "Here-"

No matter how bad the other students got, watching the predator tear into its dinner always made him feel better. They could, after all, be so much worse.

[drharper.livejournal.com]

Any of the Ghostbusters find a peacock in the bunkroom. (I issued a challenge similar to this on one of my lists, but I'd love to see what you do with it.)

Because I feel guilty I've not finished the current chapter yet...

[camwyn]

"RAY!!!"

Ray froze. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t help it. Peter didn't yell like that often. It took him too much effort to get that genuinely angry.

"I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING DOWN THERE, RAY! You got some 'splainin to do!"

"Uh- about what, Pete?" Ray called upwards. He tried to sound natural, casual. It didn't work, and he knew it.

"Don't try and play dumb with me! I know from dumb!" There was a shreee noise as Venkman slid down the pole, crumpled paper in hand. Before his feet even touched the floor, he said, "I thought we talked about this already."

"I- well, we did-"

"Uh-huh." Peter waved the paper at him. "What's this supposed to be, then? You left it in the bunkroom. I thought we made it clear that I'm the only one allowed to negotiate with TV producers around here. You guys make the mistake of assuming they're human."

"It's just a little bit of a side discussion," Ray started tentatively.

Peter snorted. "A little bit? Ray, did you even look at page two? It's a contract! We are this close to signing the most fabulous deal of our lives with HBO, and you go and get us tangled up in network television? Come on, Ray, I thought you were smarter than that!"

"We'd be reaching a wider audience-"

Peter pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes and groaned. "Ray," he said, not dropping his hands, "the contract is for a show running on a network. At four in the afternoon, in most markets. Do the words 'FCC oversight' mean anything to you? They're gonna shred us alive."

Ray winced, hanging his head. "I'm sorry, Pete. It just seemed like a better deal, and I thought I could- you know-"

"Couldn't you at least have involved a different network?"

The NBC Peacock winked up at the two men from the letterhead in Venkman's hand.

[neotoma.livejournal.com]

Just to get you thinking about "Who you Gonna Owl?" : Janine Melnitz and Severus Snape, 'tea and sympathy'

am i too late?

[sundre.livejournal.com]

perhaps i missed the boat. if not: urban fantasy driblet, starts beside a public fountain. also, someone falls out of a tree.

I hope you don't mind if the tree is metaphorical.

[camwyn]

Thomas Xiang, immigrant, restauranteur, father of two, sat slumped at a table outside somebody else's sandwich restaurant and stared moodily at the Vaillancourt Fountain. He'd never liked the thing. A fountain ought to look like a fountain: smooth, graceful lines to reflect the flow of its waters. Possibly it ought to include the irregular ripples of natural stone. Not this, though. This was all rectangular pipes and steel, looking more like the out-flow from some kind of processing plant than anything worthy of the title of 'fountain'.

Not that it mattered. It was a distraction. That was all that mattered, really. It was just. . . well, it was an ugly distraction, and he couldn't help dwelling on that fact. It was a mess, that was the thing. A great, big, nasty, uncouth mess, a magnificent idea gone wrong.

The appropriateness of that fact was not lost on him.

Rubbing at his eye with one fist, he missed the sound of footfalls coming from Birley's proper. When the other chair at his table scraped along the paving, he looked up in some surprise. « Oh, it's you, » he said in his native Cantonese. « Didn't see you there, Peter. »

« Obviously not, » replied the much taller man, with a smile. « Hi, Dad. »

« You got here pretty quickly. Thank you. » Wearily, Thomas straightened himself out and twisted around to face the older of his two boys. All right, 'boy' hadn't been the right word in years. Peter- or Yü, as he preferred to be called- had long ago inherited every last bit of height the family had to spare, topping out at just under two meters tall. And you couldn't really call someone who was on the shortlist for a Federal judgeship a 'boy', either. It was just that a lifetime's worth of habit was very hard to break.

Peter was undoing his jacket. « Mother was pretty incoherent, » he said, shucking the garment off as he spoke. « I thought for sure she'd had a stroke, the way she was talking. »

« If only it were that easy. »

« You don't sound like a man whose son just returned from the dead. »

« No? How should I sound, then? »

« Well, a little more enthusiasm in your tone would probably be appropriate, » Peter said dryly, peering over his glasses at his father.

« That would require me to be enthusiastic, » Thomas answered. « I wish I could be- God Almighty, I wish I could! I gave your brother up for lost years ago, when the Abu Sayyaf blew his ship to kingdom come! And now I find out that he was never on it to begin with. . . »

Peter nodded silently, watching his father. He waved the waitress away.

« Not only that, » Thomas said bitterly, « but he has been- I do not even know how to say what he has been doing! Impossible things, Peter. Completely impossible. Your brother has been- »

« Out among the stars, yes. I know, Dad. »

« You what? » Thomas' head came up sharply.

« I stopped at the house on the way here. Mother told me. »

« Ah. » He relaxed, but only a little. « Did you see your brother? »

« No. Mother told me to go and find you immediately- look, why don't we do this somewhere else? That waitress is starting to look very unhappy. »

« Fine. » Thomas pushed his chair back from the table with more force than he really needed.

(Continued in next comment)

[gehayi.livejournal.com]

I do hope I'm not too late.

John Constantine meeting either Granny Weatherwax or Susan Sto Helit.

[derien.livejournal.com]

Oh, I hope you take this one.