Tag Archive | morepls

All in your Head, a story continuation of Bug Invasion for the Giraffe Call

For [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith‘s commissioned continuation of
From the moment they breathed our air (Lj) after: Staying in the City (LJ) and Spooks vs. Bugs (DW)

This came out a little strange, and I’m not certain it *entirely* got across what I was trying to do, but here it is.

Those who had already been bonded with a bug had a unique advantage over those who didn’t. They had many, many disadvantages: they shared their brain with a symbiote who could skim their thoughts, affect and shift those thoughts, alter moods, and take over their body. They were, because of that symbiote, tagged and lojacked, stuck, now that the bugs had been repulsed from continuing attacks, in small encampments behind enemy lines and even if they could get out, the humans had learned what to look for, and would often shoot them on sight.

On the other hand, they were behind enemy lines, with an enemy sharing mind-space with them, and the bugs did not seem to have a tradition of keeping secrets from their hosts. And they were learning how to reboot their symbiotes, giving themselves more and more time to talk – to plan, that was important – without their enemies overhearing.

And there were a host of things that they’d found the bugs just couldn’t handle. Ghosts and fae, that had been a fun one. Paula was still giggling about it – much to the consternation of her symbiote (The bugs had humor, but it was more on the lines of puns and clever-tricks than slapstick or situational comedy).

She wasn’t giggling about the chemical sensitivity – no one was. The expelled symbiote had died, and the host had nearly done so. But she hadn’t, and that told them something very useful. And the hosts were talking.

Talking was risky, of course. The symbiotes only stayed dormant for so long, and the “so” was hard to predict. And when they were awake, you had to trust yourself to not think about the plans, not even think that there were plans. You had to be very good at being a prisoner in your own mind.

She’d been going back and forth about that one for a while, when she had room to think, chewing over it, trying to figure out how to plot a rebellion against something in your own head. The ghosts helped, but the bugs were beginning to understand them and, as they understood them, were less likely to glitch out.

The chemical sensitivity was trapping the bugs into environmentally-controlled ships, buildings, and bubbles, which, in the end, would probably give the rest of the world the tools they needed to defeat their enemy. But it did nothing for those already bonded, if they didn’t happen to have asthma or a chemical sensitivity.

For all of her mulling over it, Paula ended up almost literally tripping over her solution.

Her symbiote, for all the little it talked to her, had clearly been worried ever since the woman with chemical sensitivity had rejected her invader. That had, she gathered, never happened before. But if it had happened once, the bug seemed to think, could it happen again?

It sent waves of pleasure-feelings through Paula in an urge to soothe and, she thought, bribe her: ::good human, you wouldn’t kick me out to die?::

::I don’t know how.::

But it could be done. Somehow. Somehow, if its body thought it was dying from you. Which was easier said than done, she was pretty sure, short of poison, short of actually almost-killing-yourself. Which really didn’t solve the problem.

And then she tripped over Anya.

Anya was new to their collection of hosts, a slight girl with a nervous tic and a habit of staying in the back of any conversation. She’d seemed shy but not all that unstable when Paula met her, but now, she was curled up in a corner, staring into space.

“What is it?” Paula asked her gently.

“My meds,” the girl admitted. “Without them, without them it’s hard to stay calm. I have to work to remember that the voices in my head aren’t real, and the worst part of it is, now, one of them is.”

One of them is. She sat down next to Anya, carefully not thinking of anything but the girl’s problem. “How do you normally deal with the voices in your head?” she asked. She’d had a friend in college with panic attacks… and another one who learned how to self-induce them to get out of tests.

“I tell them they’re not real,” Anya whispered. “And then they stop bothering me for a while.”

“Have you tried,” she asked, even more slowly, “trying that with the bug?”

“I…” She closed her eyes, and curled up on herself. “This isn’t real,” she murmured. “You’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination, and I don’t need to listen to you.”

When she opened her eyes, she seemed happier, more human – and Paula had the beginnings of a plan.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/265529.html. You can comment here or there.

The Dark of the City, a story of the Cracks for the Giraffe Call

For [personal profile] kay_brooke‘s prompt

The city always looked its best at night, or in the fresh near-dawn just after a rain. The lights dimmed all the rough edges, and made what looked grubby in daylight look romantic, noir, cheerful. In the daytime, the city looked run-down, grubby, like its denizens, past its prime. But like the hookers and hustlers, the nighttime added a shine to everything.

Lane walked down the South Street at midnight, nevermind which of those categories might fit the tight leather pants and tighter tank top, breathing in the smoke-tainted air, feeling the city lights against bare shoulders. The world was beautiful, for a certain definition. The world was certainly better than during the daylight. Times like this, you could believe in a little magic. Times like this, the world covered up its gritty parts for you, made itself into a story.

“Hey, you. I’ve got thirty dollars if you’ve got five minutes.”

The voice was greasy and slick, coming from a dark alley. Not the sort of place Lane liked to go. “Not here. Not there, for sure. Down by Lauren Park. In the light.”

“Heh, kid, not everyone likes the light. Come on, my money’s as good as anyone’s.”

“I don’t do creeps, spooks, cops, or monsters,” Lane answered shortly. “And if you’re hiding in a shadow, I can’t tell which of those you might be.”

“Only way to get the money.”

“I’m not a junkie.” Anymore. “I’m not that hard up for cash.”

“Pity,” the voice glorped. “We’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

Lane had started running at “Pity.” By then, it was too late. Something was already grabbing, pulling, tugging.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Tripped, elbows scraping across the pavement, scrabbling for any sort of purchase, Lane gave in to the small bomb of magic living deep inside. “I don’t do fucking goblins, either!”

The world exploded in a blast of light, a tiny sun, followed by a long splash of water, flooding the streets, washing away all the … filth… Lane stood up, looking around in the sparkling air. The city was always its best just before the dawn, just after a rainfall. Times like that, you could believe in a little magic.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/250134.html. You can comment here or there.

The Tuesday Map

For rix_scaedu‘s prompt

Influences included Dark City and the folding apartments for which I can’t currently find links. Also, IKEA, and my fascination with planned communities.

The city moved.

The cluck struck seven p.m., the alarm chimed, and, all over the city, people stopped what they were doing and grabbed on to their hand-holds. Smoothly, on well-oiled tracks and risers, the Bell-Apple Experimental Living Zone, the BAELZ, shifted into its Tuesday position.

Announcements sounded. The following changes to the Zone’s Tuesday arrangement have taken place. The Seventh Ave Diner is now on the corner of Sixth Avenue and J Street. The Hairtisserie is now on the north-west corner of the Zone, above the Butcherie. The City Hall has moved one block north and one block upwards.

J-alpha-7 let go of the handle and picked up her knitting, only to realize she’d run out of yarn. “Darn it,” she swore softly.

“What is it, sweetcheeks?” her partner of the year, H-beta-six, asked, not really paying attention. At least the year was nearly over.

“I need new yarn, and I’m never quite sure where they’ve put the Woolery. How do you get there from here when today is Tuesday?”

“How have you lived in BAELZ your whole life and still not developed a sense of direction?” H complained tiredly. “You can’t get there on Tuesdays, you know that. They’re cleaning First Ave, and that’s in the middle of the Zone tonight.”

She wrinkled her nose. “There’s got to be a way. They can’t just cut off half the city for one day out of ten.”

“They can. They’re the architects, the big Grahams. They can do anything they want.”

“It’s stupid.” She stood up, setting her knitting carefully where H wouldn’t go bothering it. “I’m going to go looking.”

“J, don’t be a ditz. You know you get lost when you go exploring alone.”

“Then come with me,” she challenged, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“I’ve got stuff to do. Honestly, J, you know I can’t just drop everything on your whim.”

“Fine.” She slid on her coat – the Zone’s outdoor regions were kept slightly cooler than the indoor regions, to suggest the need for a home. “Then I’ll go myself.” Thinking to herself, two more weeks until the year is over, and trying to hold the Tuesday map in her head, she left their apartment behind.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/232365.html. You can comment here or there.

Rediscovering the City, a story for the Giraffe Call (@kissofjudas)

To starlitdestiny‘s prompt

Safe to say, nobody was expecting a city to pop up between Rochester and Syracuse.

And I don’t mean, “pop up” like one of the small towns there along 5-and-20 got delusions of grandeur, called themselves a city, and got businesses to move in. I mean, right there, just north of the Thruway, bam, in the middle of the morning commute, there was a city.

This caused three accidents and a good deal of confusion, mass drug testing in several factories, and then a state-wide (or at least the important parts of the state, up by the lake) holiday as we all tried to figure out what was going on.

It wasn’t a small city, not by any means, but unlike the ones that had grown up naturally around here, this one was contained. It had a shell, if you will, a tall wall, nearly as high as the buildings, and arching in as it went up, so that it really seemed like most of an egg, with just a couple towers poking out of the jagged top. One gate sat slightly ajar, off if giant hinges. No more inviting than a broken window in an abandoned house, but that will call to some people, I suppose.

The brains from the colleges went in first, and then a few farmers who knew the area, instruments ready, cameras and note pads and that curiosity that makes us human. Some were already muttering about aliens – that sort of thing didn’t just appear, you know, and the architecture looked strange, the lines and the materials nothing we were used to, at least not on first glance.

I’m a stonecutter, though, and I know my blocks. I went in with the second batch – for not other justification than that it was my family’s land the city had settled on, or at least a corner of it – and ran my hands over the pink-and-brown patterns, felt the weather in her joints and the places where decay had set in. She wasn’t a young city, not by far. But we could refurbish her. We could make her live again.

Routes 5-and-20 parallel the NYS Thruway a short distance south of said hiway, both running parallel to Lake Ontario’s coastline across the widest part of the state. The area between cities on these routs is primarily rural/agricultural.

See also this map

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/231725.html. You can comment here or there.

A Christmas of Melancholy, a story of Autumn/Stranded World for the Giraffe Call

For KC_Obrien‘s prompt.

Stranded world, after her other Christmas story
“I’m afraid,” her mother told her, before she’d managed to stop crying, “that this Yule may only get stranger.”

“Stranger?” she asked, tucking the box with the pendant in a pocket. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”

“You’re a strong girl, Autumn. You’ve always been the strongest of my children.”

“I…” That was a weird thing to say, and she wasn’t sure it was true. But with Tattercoats’ gift still sitting heavily in her pocket, she just nodded. “What is it, Mom?”

“Your father left you a gift.”

The bottom dropped out of the world. “My… Mom!” She swayed uncertainly, leaning hard against Gregor’s arm. “Mom,” she repeated quietly, blinking back sudden tears. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not… well, he left these a long time ago, honey. One for each of you, on your twenty-third Christmas.”

“Why twenty-third?” That question paled as another one took its place. “Wait, that means Winter knew about this already.”

“Yes. And I swore him to secrecy, as I’m going to do with you – and you, Gregor, don’t look at me like that. It would have been nice if he could have arranged to be here with you, but you have Gregor, and he’s a nice young man for such things.”

Gregor smirked at Autumn’s mother. “And many other things too,” he joked, giving Autumn a chance to calm herself down.

“Don’t I just bet. It’s in here, honey, under the tree.”

“Of course.” Her voice was a raw croak; when had that happened? She let Gregor guide her, not feeling all that steady. “This is a dirty trick,” she muttered. “You’ll be lucky if Spring doesn’t burn the house down when it’s her turn.”

“I’m always lucky that Spring doesn’t burn the house down.” It wasn’t a big box, but the outdated paper made it stand out from the rest of the tree immediately. Minnie Mouse. Autumn swallowed a sob.

“Twisted Strands, Mom, this is macabre.”

“This wasn’t my choice, Autumn. This was your father’s call. And I’m sorry, baby girl. I’d have done this differently.”

She took a ragged breath. “I know. I know, Mom. So. What did Dad leave me?” And why now? She knelt on the floor, feeling four years old again, the shadows of her siblings pressing in on her. Whatcha get, Auttie? What is it? Her hands shook as she opened the box. Alone, not alone. Winter had done this before her. Winter had done everything before her.

First, a slip of paper, with her father’s unmistakable handwriting. Autumn. Save this for the one that really needs it. She moved the paper gingerly, afraid it would disintegrate.

Underneath, nestled in silk and twined in protective strands, sat a small cobalt glass bottle, corked and sealed in wax. It looked, to her eye, mostly-full of a dark liquid. “Ink,” she whispered, nearly falling over. “He left me ink.”

“Your father,” Gregor murmured, “seems to have been a very wise man.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/222285.html. You can comment here or there.

A Vignette of #Addergoole Yr9 for @inventrix’s art and @dahob’s ideas

@Inventrix posted these two sketches:
of Porter
of Sylvia; Porter, Sylvia, and Arundel are a crew of upperclassmen in Year 9; Porter and Arudel we met in Timora’s Hell Night stories.

This scene takes place very very early in the school year, possibly the day before the new students get back.

“Um, Sylvia?” Porter stuck his head through the suite door – the actual door, for once.

“What is it?” Normally, the boys didn’t bother her when she was watching TV; they knew it made her uncomfortable, so left her that hour in the common room by herself. But Porter’s ears were a-kilter and his tail was swishing uncertainly, so she muted the TV and let him talk.

He got himself all the way in the room and the door closed before he continued. “Ghita challenged Arun.”

“What?” She blinked. “Margherita? Our Arundel? Whatever for? She’s barely back from summer vacation; they haven’t had time for a disagreement.”

“I – Arun doesn’t want to talk about it, he’s getting all the way he does, you know, with his wings over his ears?”

Sylvia couldn’t help but chuckle. Both of the boys in her crew could be toddlers when it suited them. “I do know. So there’s something outstanding there, and she’s challenged him over it. I assume the terms aren’t anything horrible, right?”

“Right,” he gestured impatiently. “It’s one of those favor-and-get-to-say-you-won sort of deals, not some sort of really bad one where he could end up Belonging to her or Owning her. I’m pretty sure neither of them are willing to risk that.”

“Arundel’s a smart boy,” she reassured him, “and my impression of Margherita was that she was bright, too. Of course she’s not going to set terms she won’t want to follow through with. It’s fine, Porter. People challenge people, whatever the reasons.”

“I know, I know.” He flopped down unhappily on the floor. “But I think she’s going to cheat. And I think he’s going to get really badly hurt if she does.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Well, that’s another matter.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/181528.html. You can comment here or there.

The Life You Make

For rix_scaedu‘s prompt.

This is a continuation of the Baram story posted in Monster (LJ), Memories (LJ), and One Sharp Mother (LJ).

Faerie Apoc, Addergoole Year 17 – landing page here (or on LJ)

Baram threw the monster – a real monster, a beast, a so-called returned god, a shit who had been attacking his neighbors – through the front wall, and jumped after him. The thing had ripped out a few of Baram’s ribs, and done something unpleasant to his stomach, but right now, he didn’t care. He’d care later, maybe, when his house was safe.

He ripped the weapon out of the god’s hands and shoved it through the creature’s face, swearing incoherently at him, spitting blood all over the thing. He jammed the weapon into the creature again and again, spewing profanity and bodily fluids over him, until the thing was in pieces. Then, only then, did he look up.

In the doorway of the house, a bunch of kids – more than he thought there ought to be by nearly double – were staring at him. In the gate to the backyard, his women were standing, holding up, loosely, a bleeding Grigori.

He looked back and forth between the groups. His women. His family. His house. And strangers. He showed teeth to the Grigori stranger, who took a cautious step backwards into Jaelie. She, in turn giggled.

“He followed us home,” she offered, pointing at the ruined side wall. “Can we Keep him?”

The Grigori wilted under Baram’s gaze, which made him smirk through a mouthful of blood. “Only if he’s useful.”

“Jasfe Eperu τεῖχος,” the man offered, and, behind Baram, the wall put itself back together.

“All right,” he allowed. “As long as he doesn’t piss on the carpet, same as the dog.”

“Wow.” A kid’s voice he didn’t recognize brought Baram’s attention back to the doorway full of children. “Your dad’s awesome.”

“He’s not…” Gerulf started, and then met Baram’s eye. “Yeah,” he said, as a small smile crossed his face. “Yeah, he’s pretty cool.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/178920.html. You can comment here or there.

One Sharp Mother

For [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s commissioned request for more from the Baram story posted in Monster (LJ) and Memories (LJ)

Faerie Apoc, Addergoole Year 17 – landing page here (or on LJ)

Thanks to @inventrix and @dahob for the names.

Commenters: 0



Late October, 2011

Jaelie was in the garden when the gods attacked. The garden, such as it was, was her territory, her sanctum and responsibility. She’d been the first to be hired, such as it was, by Baram (“bought” might have been more accurate, but the pay was good and the work not onerous, and she had little to complain of), the first to come looking for him after graduation, intrigued by the legend he’d left behind, and she’d thus been the first to carve out her own place in his haven.

She’d taken to spending her mornings there, getting it ready for winter, mulching the beds and wrapping the trees. Baram didn’t mind what they did in the areas of the house and yard they’d claimed, so she coaxed hawthorn and rowan trees into a hedge along the back and grew tomatoes, peppers, potatoes (their employer was quite the meat-and-potatoes sort of guy), herbs and poisons along the fences, strawberries for the kids and squash for Viatrix. It gave her something to do with her free time, and a way to practice her Working and keep the magical muscles, as her former Mentor liked to call them, in shape.

Pruning the hawthorn – doing anything with the hawthorn, but on this day, she was pruning it – took thick gloves and a patient hand, Workings mumbled under the breath and a quick eye for trouble, so it wasn’t until the kids came yelling into the back yard that Jaelie realized their city had been invaded.

She counted noses with the force of habit – two, three, five, six, nine? Nine? Like every graduate of Addergoole, she had her two, and Baram’s other two “house elves” had theirs with them as well, (at least in Alkyone’s case, not out of any maternal sense, but because Addergoole taught you to never give up any advantage, and never give away anything for free). There should be six children, and – she counted again – yes, the six that were theirs were there, as well as, no, not three, another six kids from the neighborhood. Seven; they were trailing slowly in past her gates, looking around nervously.

“What’s going on?” she asked sharply, looking to the children that belonged here for an answer.

Gerulf spoke up first – the oldest and one of Jaelie’s by blood. “School got let out and nobody’s parents are home, but I knew you’d be here, so I figured this was safer.”

Safe was an acceptable reason to break protocol by bringing friends home. “Safer?” she repeated anyway. “What’s going on?”

“There’s monsters in the streets,” one of the kids’ friends offered. “And some sort of dragon in the air.”

“Shit.” She ignored the giggles from the kids not her own. “Ger, get them inside. You know the drill. Stop and let Vi and Aly know what you told me, then get behind the heavy doors.”

“Aw, come on, Mom.” He’d just turned ten and, with Baram as his male example, thought he was old enough to fight the world. “Can’t I stay and help?”

“No.” She pulled the trump card. “You need to protect Lilja.” Vi’s youngest was barely three years old, the pampered baby sister of their tribe. “Go.” She shooed them on, not wanting the mundane children to see what she was about to do.

~

Jaelie never knew if the creatures followed some sort of scent-of-Ellehemaei, or if it was sheer dumb luck that they stumbled into her hedge. By the time they arrived, her Workings had taken hold, and the sleepy hawthorns had transformed into an angry hedge. She wasn’t Named Briar Rose for nothing, after all, and the first creature through was nearly dead by the time he reached her.

To her flanks, Viatrix and Alkyone had finished the pit traps and were waiting with to burn and shock any intruders. They’d hoped they’d be lucky enough to be missed – even with the hedge, from the outside they still looked much like any other house on the block – but they weren’t taking chances. They hadn’t survived four years of Addergoole by taking stupid chances.

When the first creature broke through – fell through, really; her hedges were hungry and she’d taken lessons from Valentina as well as Valerian – Jaelie speared him to the ground. “Submit,” she demanded.

He coughed blood on her shoes, blood that slowly began eating at the leather of her boots. “Bitch,” he choked, “I’d rather die.”

Viatrix obliged him, her backhanded stroke casual enough to make Jaelie wince, while Alkyone turned to knock down the next intruder. Then a third came through, and a fourth, and the battle was on in earnest.

The combat was bloody and hard. Training her magical muscles or not, Jaelie had been out of school for six and a half years, and PTA meetings were an entirely different sort of battle. Her sisters in arms, younger, fresher, and cy’Fridmar, both of them, fared somewhat better, but the damn things kept coming. In all, Jaelie counted nine of the returned-gods monsters, although at least three of them could have been the same guy with an obnoxious power.

With every thrust and stroke and Working, with every cut she took and every stab she dealt out, Jaelie focused on keeping the intruders from the house, wondering, even as she fought and bled, where the hell their monster was. Where was the man who had bought their service with his protection and cash? Where was the monster she’d sought out because, of all of Addergoole’s legends, he seemed as if he’d be possible to work with? As the battle pressed on, the thoughts took two directions at once – damnit, where’s Baram when we need him? and shit, where’s Baram? If there’s this many here…

And then they had the last asshole pinned to the ground, three rowan spears holding him on place, and Viatrix was spitting out the line they’d already used five times. “Submit.”

“I yield,” this one choked out, through a mouthful of blood – thankfully not the burning sort. “Shit, you women are fierce. I didn’t think a halfbreed could…”

“Not the throat, Alkyone!” At the last minute, the former cy’Fridmar’s second spear went into the asshole’s chest instead.

“Yield better,” Jaelie told the returned-and-debased god, amused despite herself. “We’re not big on senses of humor around here.”

The god – probably a Grigori, or whatever they called themselves when they stepped through from the other side – coughed ruefully. “I place myself in your hands, because I don’t really want to die to-” he fell into a hacking fit for a moment “-day. What’s your Name?”

They shared a look, and, in the end, it was Jaelie who offered “Briar Rose.” She’d had lots of practice getting the tone right – laugh and I’ll kill you. He didn’t laugh this time.

“Then I am yours, Briar Rose, until you choose to release me.”

Her answer was cut short by a crashing from the front lawn.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/160866.html. You can comment here or there.

In the Shadows – for Giraffe Call

For ZiaNuray‘s prompt.

Commenters: 3

The shadows were the first thing to go weird.

I was working on one of the new mega-complexes when I first noticed it, installing the daylight bulbs those things needed on the inner corridors, to keep people from going nuts and killing everyone (I kid you not. It had happened three time. THREE TIMES! before they figured out it was the light that was doing it, people who lived and worked and shopped all deep in the ‘plex and never got out into the real sun), when the shadows started going funny.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that it had been almost a week since I’d seen the sun myself – I rented a capsule deep in a ‘plex, worked in the city all week and drove home to Fredonia on the weekends to see the wife and kids – but I wasn’t feeling like killing anyone except the manufacturer of the damn fixtures. And then shadows, well, the first thing I noticed was that there was a shadow coming towards me with no person attached.

Okay, that was a bit weird, so I hurried up and got that bank of lights installed, flipped the breaker, checked them out. The shadow was gone, but, for a moment, ALL the shadows were gone. Even mine. I flipped the switch again, and looked at my shadow.

It was looking at me. Well, not “looking,” I guess, but it was reaching towards me. Sort of like it was pleading, I guess. And the longer those daylight bulbs glowed on it, the darker it got.

And like I said… that was the FIRST thing that went weird.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/148766.html. You can comment here or there.