Not sure if this should go in here or FF, but I'm taking a shot and putting it here
I want to not do work badly enough that I've started coming up with a list of key events, etc for seasons 4-7 of Buffy, with the idea of, someday, writing alterna-episodes, following that basic outline, but with fewer mis-steps (this from an idea over in Buffy (I think). If people are interested in this actually happening, I would be more than willing to spear-head)
Presumptuous as Hell, especially from someone with no published fic, but it'll probably never get done, anyway.
But if people are bored, I have an initial list of things that must stay the same, which I would love comments on, either here on by email.
[link]
Part One of New, As-of-yet untitled Buffy fic.
“It’s just after this thick of trees,” said Xander, as Buffy hacked away at the vines with a machete. Africa had been good to him—he was tanned and muscular, his eye patch now seeming as natural on his face as the stubble he was also sporting.
“And how can you tell this thick of trees from every other thick of trees we’ve hacked through today,” said Buffy, irritated. “And, come to think of it, Xander Francis Burton, why the Hell am I the one doing all the chopping?”
“Hello. Super-strength,” said Xander, chuckling. Willow said nothing, just rolled her eyes. You’d think they’d not have been separated for the past year.
“I mean, you’re the king of the jungle here, pal, not me,” snipped Buffy, as she yanked a troublesome vine that was blocking their path. “I should be back in Italy. With Dawn. Doing… Slayer things in Italy.”
“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days,” said Willow, giggling, as both Xander and Buffy stared at her in disbelief.
“What, I can’t crack with the jokes, too?”
“I’m holding a machete, y’know?” said Buffy, her lips pursed in faux seriousness.
“Look, guys,” said Xander. “I wouldn’t have dragged you down to the deepest, darkest heart of Africa if it wasn’t important, and I wouldn’t have left the rookies out if I didn’t think it was big-guns-only territory. Buff, you and Giles asked me to let you know if I find anything important…”
Xander rested his palm on Buffy’s shoulder, signaling her to stop. He pointed deep into the jungle mist.
“And, hey. Look. I did.”
There, rising out of the jungle, was a pyramid, not dissimilar to the ones in Egypt, and just as big. The three of them stared at it, awestruck.
“Why did no one ever tell me there were pyramids that big in the Congo?” asked Buffy, stunned. “I’m pretty sure I was awake that day in school.”
“There aren’t any,” said Willow. “I mean, there’s not supposed to be. Not that big.”
“Uh-huh,” said Xander. “There’s a major mojo shielding this thing. It’s not really cracked.” Xander pulled a black diamond from his pocket. “This little baby’s letting us see, even though it’s blinvisible to the rest of the world.”
“Xander,” said Willow, cautiously, “What, exactly, is in there.”
“That, my dear Watson, is the Temple of Ker-bee, the last known resting place of the Julian Moonstone.”
Willow stopped dead in her tracks. Buffy looked from Xander to Willow and back again.
“The what?”
“It’s a source of mystical energy,” said Willow. “It absorbs the moon’s power, allows transportation anywhere that sees the moon’s face. Absorb the power of….”
“…Nightwalkers,” finished Xander. “We’ve been reading the same books. This thing can allow us to track vampires anywhere, protect buildings from them, rob them of their powers.”
“Xander,” said Buffy, “this is incredible.”
“Yeah, but there’s probably traps, mystical guards and serious, pulse-pounding violence ahead. You know. Women’s work.”
Buffy and Willow both shot him withering glances, and pushed forward. Xander was right, of course. No sooner had they entered the pyramid then they were set upon by three horrendous demons with black scales, wielding flaming swords. Willow and Xander fell back as Buffy dispatched two with her machete, then felled another another with a kick to the stomach, beheading it as it fell.
“That wasn’t so bad,” said Buffy, until she saw the frightened looks on her friends’ faces. Spinning, she watched as an even larger demon began to draw its sword down on her. Rapidly she fell so the blade missed her. Suddenly, a bolt of energy erupted from Willow’s fingertips, charring the monster.
“You know,” said Xander, “the sad part is, I’ve missed this.
“I could be in Rome, right now,” mumbled Buffy, wiping the blood off her machete. “These things aren’t built for this sort of thing.”
“Sorry, Buff,” said Xander, who began dusting off the runes on the side of a wall. “If the forces of evil were a nice Chiante, we’d be styling, but all we got is…” A secret door slid open. “…this.”
The three of them entered, cautiously, into a huge, obsidian chamber with a jet-black alter in the middle of it. The walls were adorned with torches, but there wer eno decorations, no symbols etched into the stone. Everything was smooth, and undisturbed.
“There’s no dust,” said Buffy.
“Huh,” said Xander.
“Look at it,” said Buffy. “This thing’s been hidden for, what, a few thousand years? And there’s no dust anywhere.”
“You’re right,” said Willow, her hand now glowing with a blue flame. “Think the maid stops by on Thursdays?”
“Searching for warding spells?” asked Xander.
“Uh-huh,” said Willow, “but it’s no good. This place reeks of magic. It’s everywhere.”
Xander walked slowly to the alter, where a black medallion rested on the smooth, polished stone.
“This the thing?” asked Buffy, now sounding edgy.
“I think so,” said Xander, his hand hovering above it. When Willow offered no objections, he snatched it up into his hand.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and a feeling of flying, then darkness.
The three awoke in a metal room with glass windows. The room was lit by fluorescent lights. Computer equipment was everywhere.
“Guys,” said Xander, “I think we’re out of Africa.”
The two women looked at him, and then looked out the window. In the sky above them, where the moon should be, was a giant blue orb with swirling white clouds.
“That’s… the Earth,” said Buffy. “Somebody put the Earth in the sky.”
“No,” said a freezing cold voice. “You’re on the moon.”
They all turned, to see a tall, masked man in what looked like a dark cloak, standing just beyond the shadows. His eyes were just white slits.
He stepped into the light, revealing a tall, muscular man wearing a cowl and what turned out to be a cape. The three stared at the man, as incredulity creaped across their faces.
“Ok,” s
Oh,
lovely!
Nice one, Victor. Thoroughly intrigued - can't wait for the next installment - v. good dialogue, as ever - you've really got the voices nailed. Go team.
Ahem. So, still fiddling around with
Firefly
fic and, for no particular reason, present tense.
I still don't like the whole Crazy Space Incest reading of the River-Simon relationship. But my Simon/Kaylee sort of...isn't.
Thicker than Water.
Surfacing from sleep it still takes him several long, lingering moments to place himself in the here-and-now. There are whole seconds when Simon could be waking up to his sixth birthday, or when he might have snatched a few minutes or even hours of much-needed sleep between shifts in the hospital; whole seconds before he remembers that his life has been jolted off course forever, and that his world has shrunk to one patient, one research project, one precious thing that he has hidden on a ramshackle ship manned by petty crooks. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling and knows that he is trapped in a fragile bubble of steel and air and second-hand parts, hiding his sister from the authorities and depending upon the kindness of criminals.
This is not the future he expected.
"You're awake." He peers blearily down the length of his body and sees River framed in the doorway, all skinny limbs and tangled locks. She looks about twelve – and yet not. Disturbingly not. Her clever fingers clasp the edge of the door and she swings herself out carelessly, like a child leaning away from a climbing frame. He sits up, half-afraid that she will fall, and the sheet drops away from his skin. "I was waiting, and then you were awake. Grass and daisies soon."
"You – yes. Yes, I'm awake," he agrees, because it's the simplest thing to do, and he tries to look like a nonchalant brother rather than a concerned physician as he scans her face and limbs. She seems calm enough, and her colour is normal. He meets her eyes and sees her smiling at him knowingly. She understands him too well. "I – how are you feeling, River?"
"She wears not motley in her brain," she announces gravely. He tries to place the reference, and it's just on the tip of his tongue when she executes a flawless and unexpected pirouette and distracts him once again. Her expression, when she meets his eyes again, is kind. Pitying. "You've patched me up well, Simon. It's not your fault I'm broken. You're all virtue, Simon; no patches; no transgressions." She steps further into the room, placing her bare feet so carefully she might have been picking her way through broken glass. Her borrowed dress is too big, hanging loose where curves should swell to fill it. He watches her curious progress with a familiar ache of tenderness, and rubs the sleep out of his eye with the back of his hand. His bed is hard under him, but he is growing used to it. When she reaches his side she leans close and whispers confidentially: "You can't fix a fault line with a bandage and a pin – the stresses on the tectonic plates are simply too great." He back smiles at her, and it feels like someone has reached right into his chest and is squeezing his heart. "It's not your fault," she says, and kisses his cheek.
He wants to wake up out of this, and have her whole again, and home.
* * *
