Tuesday: Alternate History
Aug. 21st, 2012 03:35 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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comment_ficAlternate History, also known as Canon Lite. The subject of countless Very Special Episodes, this genre is about small changes having large consequences. So today, give your fandom large changes in its history, or your characters small changes in their personal histories.
Rules:
Fandom, Character(/Character or + Character), prompt
Examples:
Teen Wolf, Derek, Laura never survived the fire
Kings, Jack + David, they're in the same unit during the war
Any, any, a world in which the name of your soulmate is written on your wrist
Rules:
- 3 prompts to a fandom
- no more than 5 prompts in a row
- no spoilers in the prompts
- if the fill contains spoilers, warn for them and leave space
Fandom, Character(/Character or + Character), prompt
Examples:
Teen Wolf, Derek, Laura never survived the fire
Kings, Jack + David, they're in the same unit during the war
Any, any, a world in which the name of your soulmate is written on your wrist
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:44 pm (UTC)X-Men First Class, Erik/Charles, Erik is a telepath and Charles controls metal
no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:45 pm (UTC)Roswell, Max + Michael, they both went into the system as kids
FILL: Cop Material - part 1
Date: 2012-08-21 10:05 pm (UTC)Warning: This has a few f-words.
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Michael had always been the troublemaker. Even before he was set in the pod, you could tell he’d have a mind of his own. Perhaps that was why they’d not been able to place him with a foster family until he was twelve. And even then, he’d ended up with some grouch out in the trailer park.
He hadn’t just bowed his head and gone willingly. He’d tried to run away—so many times—but the social worker had always found him eventually. At the time, he was too young to understand that Hank should never have been accepted as a foster father in the first place, but the Roswell social system was notorious for not giving much of a shit.
When they took him away, it had been Max who’d stood by the window and watched him go, the nose pressed to the pane so it looked flat and white. Michael had wanted to cry then, but had instead bit his teeth until his jaw hurt.
Max had always been there, they’d had this inexplicable connection ever since they first laid eyes on each other. He vaguely remembered a blond girl that used to be with them, but she had found a home with a foster family early on. It was Max who had remained in the foster home with him, with brief intervals of being shuffled from one temporary family to the next.
Michael actually admired Max for his calm, his sense of duty, his allegiance. Max took everything in stride. Michael had seen the bruises, the scars, from another no-good foster father who’d taken his frustration out on the kid. Yet another telltale sign of the state of the Roswell foster system. And yet, Max had never said a word, had just silently endured. Michael envied him for that ability. And there he was, staring out at Michael being taken away with those inquisitive brown eyes. It was the last Michael had seen of Max since.
Four years later, the inevitable had to happen. Hank had characteristically drunk himself into a stupor, and had consequently had a go at an unsuspecting Michael. And that time, enough was enough, and Michael hadn’t been able to hold back. He’d grabbed the nearest object (which turned out to be a wrench) and defended himself. It landed Hank in the hospital and Michael in the local police station’s holding cell.
It was barren and bleak and barely less inviting than the space he’d had in Hank’s trailer. They’d been thoughtful enough to give him a plastic water bottle, but he hadn’t had any food since... he couldn’t even remember. The night before, probably.
He heard a faint voice drifting in from the open space that housed some of the police officers’ desks. “Hey kid, my paperwork from that no-good in holding is still missing some information. Why don’t you go and see if you two don’t bond.”
Not ten seconds later, he heard footsteps approaching, but didn’t bother to look up. If there was one thing Michael wasn’t keen on, it was giving the police the satisfaction of his full cooperation. The more of a surprise it was that the voice addressing him by name was very familiar.
“Michael?”
He looked up, recognition immediately there. “Holy shit, Max!”
“You’re in a holding cell?”
“Sharply deduced,” Michael commented dryly.
“Why?”
“Well, let’s just say the guy who doesn’t even deserve to be called a foster father is a royal asshole, and a violent one, to boot.”
“What did you do?”
“Defended myself...” It came out more as a question than a statement.
“Did you kill him?”
“What? No. Just gave him a good whack in the head. With a wrench. That should teach him a lesson.”
“Shit,” Max just breathed out.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched on for a long moment, then Max lifted a clipboard that held a few sheets of paper. “Sheriff Valenti gave me this. Apparently it’s still missing some information.”
“Fuck their paperwork,” Michael spat, and Max visibly blanched.
“Okay, I think you might want to cooperate if you wanna get out of here.”
Michael let out a sardonic chuckle. “Yeah, like that’s gonna be any better than juvie.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Michael lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug, then scrutinized Max. “So, law enforcement, huh? Never pegged as cop material.”
“Oh, I’m not. This is just an internship.”
FILL: Cop Material - part 2
From:Re: FILL: Cop Material - part 2
From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:46 pm (UTC)Harry Potter, Harry + Sirius, Sirius Black escapes Azkaban much sooner and a large black dog accompanies Harry to Hogwarts
no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:47 pm (UTC)White Collar, author's choice, Peter never caught Neal that first time
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Date: 2012-08-21 08:48 pm (UTC)Political Animals, TJ, there is a world where Bud Hammond never ran for president – it’s not any better
no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 11:04 pm (UTC)The Weevil was wily, bigger than most, and wearing scars that showed it was a fighter and a survivor. Jack respected that; however, the thing had come out into a park popular with children, and one poor child had been savaged in the twilight hours. Jack had to deal with it.
And he was, he was really dealing with it. The only problem being he had no back-up from the team. Jack forgot that although he was immortal, he was not unkillable. Twice his throat had been torn out by razor-edge teeth, and once a sucker-punch to the gut with a clawed hand had him spilling innards on the grass.
The Weevil had him pinned on his back and struggling to get the anti-Weevil aerosol, just out of reach. It was growling in animalistic victory. And then, suddenly it wasn't. And Jack was no longer pinned by it's weight. There was a loud crash and a pained wail of defeat came from the direction of the sewer inlet that the Weevil had been using.
A hand appeared in Jack's line of sight.
"Yvonne Hartman thought you were a wanker," a gorgeous Cardiff voice said bluntly. "And a fool, and that you weren't to be trusted."
Jack took the hand and let himself be pulled upright.
"Yvonne Hartman is dead," Jack pointed out.
"Yeah. So should you be after two throat slashes and an evisceration. I figure you're a better bet than she was," the young, humourless lad huffed," I mean, she wanted the ghost machine to work."
"I know. Not the wisest move anyone ever made, just letting the Cybermen into our homes," Jack said, cautiously eyeing the bloodied hank of wood in the youth's free hand.
"They killed my girlfriend," he said, voice catching in his throat on a half-stifled sob. "I tried to get her out - you have to believe me!"
"I do, I do believe you; you seem like you're the kind of guy who knows where all the emergency exits are," Jack said with a small smile. "Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three."
"Ianto Jones, also Torchwood Three."
"You should be so lucky!"
"No, you should, sir. I bet nobody else knows how to care for a garment as fine as that coat of yours."
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:16 pm (UTC)XDDDDDDD
Date: 2012-08-21 09:21 pm (UTC)Re: XDDDDDDD
From:Re: XDDDDDDD
From:Re: XDDDDDDD
From:Re: XDDDDDDD
From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-08-21 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-08-21 09:40 pm (UTC)Fill - Death Becomes Her
Date: 2020-04-18 03:46 pm (UTC)The blade is in your hands. The weight of it. The glitter sharpness. The sheer rightness of the hilt in your palm makes your heart beat faster.
"Yes," Darkness croons in his mellifluous voice. You barely hear him.
No need to test the edge of the blade but you do anyway, opening a small wound on your palm. It barely registers before the blood spills out, so carmine red in these dark chambers. Darkness makes a sound - approving? - but you ignore him. The prickly scent of blood is bright in the dank air and reaches out to the captured unicorn.
It screams.
You smile. You imagine its death, its blood flowing all over you, a permanent dye to make you match your true mate. Your heavy eyelids swoop down then up again and you roll your head to the side, staring at Darkness.
He smiles at whatever he perceives - or thinks he does - in your expression.
Darkness doesn't know, you're sure of it. After the unicorn, you'll take him too, on the same killing floor. Beneath your blade, his throat will open and spill out a river of red.
Then, only then, will go after the little woodland boy and his fairy friends. Their imagined horror brings a curl to your mouth.
"There's a neck that wants slitting." You freshen your grip on the knife and walk toward the unicorn.
RE: Fill - Death Becomes Her
From:Re: Fill - Death Becomes Her
From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 10:00 pm (UTC)untitled - gen, PG
Date: 2014-04-03 07:08 pm (UTC)“Do. You. Want. The bite?”
His immediate reaction is yes. Stronger, faster, instant healing, hearing, scent – bona fide superhero. Or supervillain, he thinks, looking at Peter Hale, still holding his wrist, eyes tinted red.
He’d be bound like Scott is, trapped by this psycho. (If Peter had just gone after his family's murderers, left Scott and Lydia out of it – it’d be different. But he went after Scott. Lydia, spread out on the field. No.)
He doesn’t see a way to kill Peter for good, panic in his throat, pulse fluttering in Peter’s grip. Not as a human. And fuck the Argents, he trusts them less than he does Peter.
Derek survived Peter carving him up. Werewolves can take hits a human never could.
So he looks into Peter’s eyes and he says, “Yes.”
.
Peter leaves him in the parking garage anyway. “I’ll be back for you,” he promises. “You, Scott, Derek – we’re almost a real pack, now.”
He goes back to the hospital, sees his dad, sees Lydia, tells Argent about his sister (how could he not have known?), grabs Jackson, makes the Molotov cocktails, and helps Allison set his alpha on fire.
Not his alpha, not yet. He’s been bitten, but he hasn’t turned.
Scott’s down, Jackson’s hanging back, Argent’s with Allison and Scott, and Derek – Derek’s working up the nerve.
Stiles gets there first. He uses one of Allison’s discarded knives and he slices Peter’s throat ear-to-ear, and then he stabs the blade down into Peter’s heart and shoves wolfsbane in the wound, as deep as he can.
“What?” Derek says, collapsing on his knees beside Stiles, and Scott’s shouting something, and Stiles is pretty sure Jackson’s throwing up into the bushes.
Stiles hasn’t turned yet but he feels it when the alpha who bit him dies.
“I said yes,” Stiles murmurs, “so I’d be strong enough to kill him.”
He doesn’t look at anyone as he goes back to the car for the rest of the cocktails. He won’t be satisfied until there’s nothing left.
.
In the morning, Stiles’ eyes are red.
Re: untitled - gen, PG
From:Re: untitled - gen, PG
From:no subject
Date: 2012-08-21 10:03 pm (UTC)