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minkhollowAt least the crossover-ficlet will be posted online in its own right later. Not sure about the interludes.
First: A Good Omens/American Gods crossover-ficlet. War runs into the technical boy. Due to choice of characters, a bit heavier on the swearing side than what I usually write.
Storm
There is a warehouse in New Jersey with one thing in it: A red motorcycle. It’s been there for quite a while. The owners of the warehouse think they get their rent every month, so they don’t ask questions.
A young woman with a head full of red hair and a very large sword in her hand walks up to the warehouse, punches a code into a keypad. She is wearing biking leathers the color of old wine, and carrying a helmet (bright red, of course). She sticks the sword into the motorcycle’s custom-made scabbard before sitting down.
The thing roars to life, despite never having had a drop of gasoline grace the fuel tank. With any luck she can make it to La Guardia by five - time is, naturally, of the essence.
Unfortunately, there is a stretch limo blocking her quickest route out. With a sigh she stops the motorcycle and walks straight to the back. She’s had a run-in with the technical boy before, and even without that she knows none of this crowd would do their own driving. Spoiled, the lot of them.
Knocking on his window, she says, “What’s it gonna take to get you out of my way, kid? I’m in something of a hurry.”
The window glides down, greeting her with cigarette smoke and the acrid scent of an electrical fire. “Yeah, well, why the fuck should I care about that?” the technical boy drawls. “I mean, I’ve got stuff I have to do. But you may have noticed I’m here. Talking to you.”
“Don’t make it sound like it was my idea.” He’d been rather impressed with her when they ran into each other in the Persian Gulf nearly a decade ago; then again, he was also pissed out of his skull. Probably didn’t realize who he was talking to.
“You might as well give it up. We’ve already decommissioned one of your lot, haven’t we? Besides, it’s not like you have any real power left. You’re old-school, analog girl.”
“First, in this particular line of work there’s no such thing as a decommissioning. Pestilence could probably short-circuit you in a matter of seconds, were he here.” She’s glaring at him now, eyes the color of lit embers damn near boring a hole between his eyes. “Secondly, if we can’t do anything now, why do I have this?”
With a flourish she pulls her sword out if its scabbard on the motorcycle. The technical boy looks like he’d love to call it a convincing hoax, if only he could find the words to do so.
“‘Analog girl’ indeed. You forget how quickly we adapt, techie boy,” she continues, smiling as sweetly as she knows how (and fully aware it still looks bloody well dangerous). “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an Apocalypse to go help start.”
“...You’re fucking with me,” he attempts to retort, but his heart isn’t really in it.
“No, actually, I’m not. This planet’s got maybe a day’s existence left... if it’s lucky. If you value what life you’ve got left I’d suggest you get out of my way. NOW.”
The technical boy slumps back in his seat, closes the window, and has his driver move the limo. The motorcycle roars to life once again and she pulls out onto the road, heading north, toward the Big Apple.
Does that mean the Big One’s meant to go down up there? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t really give a flying fuck, either. A quote enters his mind, unbidden: It must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.
And he doesn’t even like that book.
Interlude ye First: Well, actually it was an interlude before I was calling them as such. LotR snippet I wrote because I thought the world needed a little something from the ring's point of view. Posted here in a blaze of non-publicity (but afrai noticed it!).
Precious
I am considered by some to be a thing of beauty. That's as may be, but I doubt even one of them would follow that up with conventional wisdom and try to claim I'm also a joy forever. How many besides my creator realize I have a mind of my own I don't know. I come and go as I please, relying on the charity of the easily tempted to get around.
Of course, that means I sometimes spend far longer in one place than I'd like. This cave, for instance - like being underwater for thousands of years wasn't bad enough. It's literally been centuries since I last saw daylight. While I'm all for dark times, I personally prefer it as a metaphor; after all, if your slave power loses too much morale, they won't work and you have to do it all yourself.
Gollum's really not that bad, much as I hate his choice of living quarters. I had my doubts about him at first, but it turned out that his kind of people (whatever they are...) were very easily won over. It's just as well that his conscience went by the wayside. I tend to do that to people. It comes with the job.
Still, it's about time I get out of here if I can. I have things to do, places to go.
There aren't all that many travel options open to me - a perennial favorite is casually slipping off the current owner's finger. But I doubt I'll need that one now. I can get a good downhill bounce going, at least for long enough to get away from this particular cave. The slope bottoms out after a couple hundred yards, and someone's coming. Oh, good, I'm just in time. (Not that my sense of timing has diminished over the years. If anything, it's improved.)
Whoever it is trips on something in the path, and for some reason tries to get a good handhold on the dirt - I'm guessing this isn't a very frequent traveller. There's something vaguely familiar about the feeling of sitting in this hand--
Lovely. Just lovely. It's like Déagol all over again, minus the water and the best friend waiting around to fight him over me. I was hoping for - this wasn't supposed to - but I--
Oh, bugger.
Interlude ye Second: A Good Omens thing that randomly popped into my head one day without anything to go before or after, so I just wrote it as it was, and that seemed to work. Actually doesn't include any of the Horsepersons (gasp!).
Books
He finally found the angel in the marketplace, struggling with a tent. “What is it this time?” he asked, willing the back supports to stay in place while he was at it. Anything to get to the actual conversation faster.
“It’s called a bookshop, I believe. That is, it will be once I’ve got this tent up.” He gestured toward the cart parked a few yards in front of the tent. “Have a look.”
Eyeing the meticulously placed stacks of books and scrolls that didn’t look at all like they’d recently been hauled from Rome to Constantinople (not nearly dusty enough, for one thing), Crowley simply said, “I... see. Tell me, how many of these are you actually intending to sell?”
“As few as I can possibly manage.” The determination in Aziraphale’s voice didn’t surprise Crowley one bit.
“You’re behind that library thing down in Alexandria, aren’t you?”
“Partially, yes. Lovely place, don’t you think?”
“One could say that,” the demon replied cautiously, and decided not to mention that some of his people had bumped the place off the other day.
And, er, Interlude ye Last: This is the one I'm scared of. It never should have been written, but I did just so it would be on paper and leave me alone, not to mention it was the only thing Miranda gave me at the time. And I still feel like I've committed a crime against literature. I mean, I can justify one strange plot bit, but the whole THING is a strange plot bit, and I never should have had the idea...
It's. It's. Well. Read it and find out.
Teleport
The atmosphere inside the walls of Edoras was somewhat more tense than usual.
Zaphod Beeblebrox, former Galactic President and rather out-to-lunch Betelgeusian, and Eowyn, the renowned White Lady of Rohan, were staring each other down - or possibly sizing each other up. The common thought to grace all three of the heads they had between them was, I cannot believe this.
For his own part, Zaphod was still mentally kicking the installer of that teleport system. He might as well have finished the job; as it was, he, Zaphod, was now stuck on some completely backwater planet with no way off in sight. Still, it was better than being dead - but only slightly.
Eowyn still wasn’t sure what to think of this strange man, or the fact that his chosen manner of entrance was popping out of thin air. The extra head and arm were a bit much, even compared to things she’d seen before, but she’d nearly gotten used to them. Mostly, she was wondering where he got his clothing and whether he was colorblind.
“Just as well for you that the war’s over,” she said, realizing too late it was probably a mistake. “You’d never manage to avoid being captured dressed like that.”
“What,” Zaphod countered, “you think I always wear this sort of thing?”
“She’s got a point, you know,” his right head said, lulled from its light doze by the suddene conversation. “You do have a way of dressing to be seen.”
“Whose side’re you on, anyway?”
Eowyn’s ideas on the subject of what to do were growing foggier by the minute. Arguments with oneself she’d heard of, and entertained a few times, but the concept had never been illustrated so literally.
(Profuse apologies to both Douglas Adams and Eowyn. Especially Eowyn - after all, she's the shieldmaiden. Eep.)
And... well... there you have it. I wrote stuff during thisexile academic ineleigibility thing.
First: A Good Omens/American Gods crossover-ficlet. War runs into the technical boy. Due to choice of characters, a bit heavier on the swearing side than what I usually write.
Storm
There is a warehouse in New Jersey with one thing in it: A red motorcycle. It’s been there for quite a while. The owners of the warehouse think they get their rent every month, so they don’t ask questions.
A young woman with a head full of red hair and a very large sword in her hand walks up to the warehouse, punches a code into a keypad. She is wearing biking leathers the color of old wine, and carrying a helmet (bright red, of course). She sticks the sword into the motorcycle’s custom-made scabbard before sitting down.
The thing roars to life, despite never having had a drop of gasoline grace the fuel tank. With any luck she can make it to La Guardia by five - time is, naturally, of the essence.
Unfortunately, there is a stretch limo blocking her quickest route out. With a sigh she stops the motorcycle and walks straight to the back. She’s had a run-in with the technical boy before, and even without that she knows none of this crowd would do their own driving. Spoiled, the lot of them.
Knocking on his window, she says, “What’s it gonna take to get you out of my way, kid? I’m in something of a hurry.”
The window glides down, greeting her with cigarette smoke and the acrid scent of an electrical fire. “Yeah, well, why the fuck should I care about that?” the technical boy drawls. “I mean, I’ve got stuff I have to do. But you may have noticed I’m here. Talking to you.”
“Don’t make it sound like it was my idea.” He’d been rather impressed with her when they ran into each other in the Persian Gulf nearly a decade ago; then again, he was also pissed out of his skull. Probably didn’t realize who he was talking to.
“You might as well give it up. We’ve already decommissioned one of your lot, haven’t we? Besides, it’s not like you have any real power left. You’re old-school, analog girl.”
“First, in this particular line of work there’s no such thing as a decommissioning. Pestilence could probably short-circuit you in a matter of seconds, were he here.” She’s glaring at him now, eyes the color of lit embers damn near boring a hole between his eyes. “Secondly, if we can’t do anything now, why do I have this?”
With a flourish she pulls her sword out if its scabbard on the motorcycle. The technical boy looks like he’d love to call it a convincing hoax, if only he could find the words to do so.
“‘Analog girl’ indeed. You forget how quickly we adapt, techie boy,” she continues, smiling as sweetly as she knows how (and fully aware it still looks bloody well dangerous). “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an Apocalypse to go help start.”
“...You’re fucking with me,” he attempts to retort, but his heart isn’t really in it.
“No, actually, I’m not. This planet’s got maybe a day’s existence left... if it’s lucky. If you value what life you’ve got left I’d suggest you get out of my way. NOW.”
The technical boy slumps back in his seat, closes the window, and has his driver move the limo. The motorcycle roars to life once again and she pulls out onto the road, heading north, toward the Big Apple.
Does that mean the Big One’s meant to go down up there? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t really give a flying fuck, either. A quote enters his mind, unbidden: It must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.
And he doesn’t even like that book.
Interlude ye First: Well, actually it was an interlude before I was calling them as such. LotR snippet I wrote because I thought the world needed a little something from the ring's point of view. Posted here in a blaze of non-publicity (but afrai noticed it!).
Precious
I am considered by some to be a thing of beauty. That's as may be, but I doubt even one of them would follow that up with conventional wisdom and try to claim I'm also a joy forever. How many besides my creator realize I have a mind of my own I don't know. I come and go as I please, relying on the charity of the easily tempted to get around.
Of course, that means I sometimes spend far longer in one place than I'd like. This cave, for instance - like being underwater for thousands of years wasn't bad enough. It's literally been centuries since I last saw daylight. While I'm all for dark times, I personally prefer it as a metaphor; after all, if your slave power loses too much morale, they won't work and you have to do it all yourself.
Gollum's really not that bad, much as I hate his choice of living quarters. I had my doubts about him at first, but it turned out that his kind of people (whatever they are...) were very easily won over. It's just as well that his conscience went by the wayside. I tend to do that to people. It comes with the job.
Still, it's about time I get out of here if I can. I have things to do, places to go.
There aren't all that many travel options open to me - a perennial favorite is casually slipping off the current owner's finger. But I doubt I'll need that one now. I can get a good downhill bounce going, at least for long enough to get away from this particular cave. The slope bottoms out after a couple hundred yards, and someone's coming. Oh, good, I'm just in time. (Not that my sense of timing has diminished over the years. If anything, it's improved.)
Whoever it is trips on something in the path, and for some reason tries to get a good handhold on the dirt - I'm guessing this isn't a very frequent traveller. There's something vaguely familiar about the feeling of sitting in this hand--
Lovely. Just lovely. It's like Déagol all over again, minus the water and the best friend waiting around to fight him over me. I was hoping for - this wasn't supposed to - but I--
Oh, bugger.
Interlude ye Second: A Good Omens thing that randomly popped into my head one day without anything to go before or after, so I just wrote it as it was, and that seemed to work. Actually doesn't include any of the Horsepersons (gasp!).
Books
He finally found the angel in the marketplace, struggling with a tent. “What is it this time?” he asked, willing the back supports to stay in place while he was at it. Anything to get to the actual conversation faster.
“It’s called a bookshop, I believe. That is, it will be once I’ve got this tent up.” He gestured toward the cart parked a few yards in front of the tent. “Have a look.”
Eyeing the meticulously placed stacks of books and scrolls that didn’t look at all like they’d recently been hauled from Rome to Constantinople (not nearly dusty enough, for one thing), Crowley simply said, “I... see. Tell me, how many of these are you actually intending to sell?”
“As few as I can possibly manage.” The determination in Aziraphale’s voice didn’t surprise Crowley one bit.
“You’re behind that library thing down in Alexandria, aren’t you?”
“Partially, yes. Lovely place, don’t you think?”
“One could say that,” the demon replied cautiously, and decided not to mention that some of his people had bumped the place off the other day.
And, er, Interlude ye Last: This is the one I'm scared of. It never should have been written, but I did just so it would be on paper and leave me alone, not to mention it was the only thing Miranda gave me at the time. And I still feel like I've committed a crime against literature. I mean, I can justify one strange plot bit, but the whole THING is a strange plot bit, and I never should have had the idea...
It's. It's. Well. Read it and find out.
Teleport
The atmosphere inside the walls of Edoras was somewhat more tense than usual.
Zaphod Beeblebrox, former Galactic President and rather out-to-lunch Betelgeusian, and Eowyn, the renowned White Lady of Rohan, were staring each other down - or possibly sizing each other up. The common thought to grace all three of the heads they had between them was, I cannot believe this.
For his own part, Zaphod was still mentally kicking the installer of that teleport system. He might as well have finished the job; as it was, he, Zaphod, was now stuck on some completely backwater planet with no way off in sight. Still, it was better than being dead - but only slightly.
Eowyn still wasn’t sure what to think of this strange man, or the fact that his chosen manner of entrance was popping out of thin air. The extra head and arm were a bit much, even compared to things she’d seen before, but she’d nearly gotten used to them. Mostly, she was wondering where he got his clothing and whether he was colorblind.
“Just as well for you that the war’s over,” she said, realizing too late it was probably a mistake. “You’d never manage to avoid being captured dressed like that.”
“What,” Zaphod countered, “you think I always wear this sort of thing?”
“She’s got a point, you know,” his right head said, lulled from its light doze by the suddene conversation. “You do have a way of dressing to be seen.”
“Whose side’re you on, anyway?”
Eowyn’s ideas on the subject of what to do were growing foggier by the minute. Arguments with oneself she’d heard of, and entertained a few times, but the concept had never been illustrated so literally.
(Profuse apologies to both Douglas Adams and Eowyn. Especially Eowyn - after all, she's the shieldmaiden. Eep.)
And... well... there you have it. I wrote stuff during this
