Challenge: Origfic Bingo
- 1 August 2017
- 1.1 prompt: fireworks
- 1.2 prompt: day at the beach
- 1.3 magic
- 1.4 backstory/missing scene
- 1.5 bodyswap/bodyshare
- 1.6 violence
- 1.7 criminal intent
- 1.8 AU: Alternate Genre
- 1.9 vacation
- 1.10 undercover
- 1.11 abandonment
- 1.12 temperature
- 1.13 WILD CARD
- 1.14 bedtime rituals
- 1.15 technology/mechanics
- 1.16 badfic
- 1.17 costumes
- 1.18 tickling
- 1.19 coming home
- 1.20 psychic/superpowers
- 1.21 poetry (magnet or otherwise)
- 1.22 vehicle
- 1.23 festival/fair
- 1.24 grief
- 1.25 family celebration
Posted here: http://log.lianamir.com/2017/08/07/origfic-bingo/
"What? A whole day back and you didn't launch any fireworks?"
Justus laughed before he even turned around. He had been trying to make space for her things. "Battery Acid."
She slipped under his arm, let him kiss her temple without complaint for the sentiment. Usually, she preferred her own apartment in Kishet, but Justus lived in Riving, and his house was pleasant enough to visit, even stay at for weeks on end.
She wasn't really here to stay.
"You ever wonder what the point of everything was?" she asked.
He stiffened. There was a lot of everything, the things they'd done, the blood on their hands, saving each other's lives and putting each other before whatever was supposedly right.
"No," he said. "You're alive. All of us are." Their entire team.
But Battery Acid just huffed a tiny laugh. "For now."
She wasn't really here to stay.
This is the moment she's been waiting for—weeks of patient fingers smudged gunpowder black, staring up at the sky wondering what it would mean to blot out the stars with a more brilliant light.
Aneda turns the pages of the ancient book, weights down the delicate page with a carefully placed rock (she's ever been practical), and breathes on her palm to watch her exhalation curl upward into smoke and flame. She touches it to the fuse and waits.
Her palms are damp with sweat. She doesn't bother to douse the flame.
There. Flaring light. Come, rescue me. Color.
prompt: day at the beach
The sand got stuck between her fingers and toes. Skylight studied the way it looked, barely paler than her skin, and let herself feel the grit.
She remembered still the grit between her teeth, that got stuck in her eyes, when her braid came loose from how she’d wrapped it and whipped into her face when the desert winds blew fierce out on a harsher ocean of sand. She’d been a fighter then, if little more than a child.
She waded out from under memory and stood on the front of an ocean of water instead.
New memories. Better ones.
“Magic,” the little girl breathed, tiny hands clasped around Skylight’s neck and eyes full of wonder.
“It’s not magic.” Skylight held her adopted brother’s daughter closer on her hip with one arm. “It’s my ability.”
She’d used it to clean her plate, her hands otherwise occupied, pouring dimensional fluid across the surface and wiping everything on it out of existence with the ease of long experience.
She’d always seen it as something to fear.
“Don’t touch,” she whispered, then threw out an arm well clear and set the silvery fluid dancing in the air again to a little girl’s delight.
They called it 'magic', this feeling that was supposed to overwhelm her when she finally met the one.
Air tossed another cheap paperback book across the room, narrowly missing Shadow's head. He shot her a raised brow glance from the dresser he was sitting on.
"Boring," she said tightly. "Unrealistic."
She picked up another book, then wondered why she bothered. She'd tried genre after genre, looking for something she could either relate to or believe in long enough to forget the things she related to.
She sighed, admitted quietly to Shadow, "He's not magic. He's real."
It's what she wanted.
Arc's lying in bed, humming a lullaby to herself, before she stops and bites her lip. She glances across the room, but for once, her normally insomniac roommate is actually asleep, exhausted from over-training and getting thrown hard into the wall by another team member.
There's always curiosity from Skylight, questions pooling in her eyes. Where did you hear that? Do you remember it? Do you remember?
Her mother used to sing her to sleep, and Arc still remembers her father tucking her in.
He betrayed her, let them bring her here.
She shakes her head and tries to forget.
Most of the time, it never even crosses Hunter's mind that there's anything wrong with the blood-red mist hiding inside her body, granting her powers not native to her own flesh.
It doesn't bother her to hear that little scoffing, wry voice in her mind, intermingling with her thoughts at what would be the most inopportune moments if she wasn't wholly used to it.
I wish he'd get to the point, when a mission brief goes too long.
Criticism, when the clothes Hunter picks are too flowery.
What do you want that for? It's almost her own voice inside her head. But it isn't. It's not Hunter. It's Blood.
It's pretty, she thinks to Blood with a shrug.
They share so many things: body, power, the bloodlust rising thickly whenever they've actually used too much of Blood's ability instead of Hunter's. But this was never something she wanted to share, the moment she glances at Mist and feels her mouth go dry at the sight of him, then wonders to herself which.