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Fic! And a challenge resurrected.
So. Someone who shall remain nameless on my friends list was lamenting the lack of Galactica fic today. (and a few others want Sparky porn, but the Minion Stare is avoidable, for the moment) In chatting about this lack, I came up with the following challenge. Just to see if we can get some Galactica fic on our friendslists.
Please feel free to pass the challenge along.
Here's the challenge, people. Load up your favorite writing playlist, or simply everything you've got on your computer. Hit random seven times.
Note the artist and title of the song.
Start writing.
Stop when you feel like it (I expect AT LEAST 100 words, however).
Don't worry if the result has nothing to do with the song. If you want to include lyrics, do so. But, er... Songfic? Not always fun.
When finished, spell-check, etc, label, post.
THAT is from several months ago, I think. Don't remember. Either way, do it again, Sam. Meanwhile, I give three challenge-derived ficlets. Surprisingly, NONE of them are Kara (well, she's mentioned in one). Helo/Boomer, Ellen Tigh, and Baltar/Six feature....
Spoilers: through Colonial Day, I think. Nothing hugely specific.
Song: Toad the Wet Sprocket - Barely Breathing (acoustic)
Helo's always liked the rain.
At least, he used to. When he could get away from it, when it was something to be savored on planet-side leaves. Now, he hates it.
It's cold and wet and Helo doesn't think he's been dry since he first said goodbye to Sharon.
Unconsciously, his grip tightens around her waist. Maybe a little more warmth is eked from the maneuver, but it's hard to stay warm when you're wet all the time. Although, she's warm. Warmer than he thinks she should be.
And that's not something he looks at, logically.
Ever.
She never gets tired.
Also something he doesn't let himself think about.
He has no explanation for it, and he doesn't need to know the answer. Not now, when they're on the run from the toasters (and the blonde woman at the farm, who she killed--blood in his lap and her warmth fading fast). She's all he has. He's all she has.
It's enough.
More than enough.
But he still hates the rain.
-f-
Song: Depeche Mode - Never Let Me Down
Laughter rings out again from the dance floor, and Ellen Tigh can't help but glance towards the woman laughing. It's Kara Thrace (again), dancing without rhythm. The young woman has gone from partner to partner, drink to drink. And she's still dancing, still laughing.
There is nothing beautiful about Kara Thrace, yet the men seem to love her.
It puzzles Ellen, who is beautiful and knows it, cultivates it to catch the eye. The allure of skin, the gleam of her curls--every one a tool to draw them in.
Kara Thrace doesn't use any of it. At times, she looks almost uncomfortable in the dress she's wearing. Her hair stopped behaving hours ago--the result of too much dancing and throwing her head back to laugh. Even one or two hands drifting through, if Ellen's any judge. Her shoes were kicked off at the beginning, leaving her barefoot and unkempt.
And yet she doesn't notice.
Ellen thinks of other women at the party. There's little Dee, and the President. Both women who understand how to present themselves and use their 'power' for good. Both with a stake in keeping things running smoothly.
And yet Dualla disappeared hours before with a little nobody, a jumped-up secretary who's too innocent for life.
Madame la President chose a corner of the room and seated herself to talk and make deals. She danced once, with Bill Adama (and Ellen wonders how she managed that--did she twist his arm to make him smile?)--probably to seal her power as civilian leader to his military.
None of the others are worth her notice. Not even the little reporter girl who appears bent on spreading her legs for a good story. A quick one.
Ellen has decided she has her uses, and figures influence can be used against her. Or her own flagrant stupidity.
"Thinking hard, Mrs. Tigh?"
The voice interrupting her thoughts is suavely smooth, Ellen turns and smiles half-flirtatiously, "I told you to call me Ellen, Tom."
"Indeed you did, my dear." He catches her hand and bows, "And how is the evening finding you?"
"Quite... uninspired." A pout should suffice, and it pops into place on her lips as she dips forward, slightly, drooping just enough--there, his eyes flash slightly. All men truly are the same.
"What a pity. Shall I get you a drink?"
"That would be most kind. Saul went off to discuss--business, and left me all alone."
"Obviously a man with no understanding of his priorities, Ellen."
"You would think so." She smiles sweetly, "Ambrosia would be lovely."
"At your command." The half-bow as he backs up is a lovely gesture.
Ellen wonders if he has any idea how easy he is to manipulate. Really, find one prisoner, aid in a distraction, and a man will do anything for you. Hopefully, this would raise her above her current station. Being the wife of the XO has few perks, and less social niceties.
Her gaze strays across to the corner where Laura Roslin still holds court. A sneer touches her lips. Some day soon, the real power would not be a simple school teacher.
Bill Adama walks into her line of sight and claims the seat next to Roslin. Something that might be jealousy touches Ellen, as she recalls being unable to twist Bill to her whims. But then Kara Thrace laughs again.
With her golden head thrown back and her lips wide, the sound is happier than anything Ellen has ever produced.
A part of her idly catalogues the sound and she wonders how to reproduce it without sounding fake.
She can't, of course. Sincerety was never one of her strong suits.
Not that Ellen minds. She understands her limitations. She just doesn't give a frak about surpassing them.
-f-
Song: Cibo Matto - Apple
"Gaius?"
Her voice twists in his brain, and he rolls to look at her. She's sitting in the chair again, legs crossed primly, hands set just so. "Can't I just get one nights' sleep without you interrupting?"
"You weren't sleeping." Her expression is calm. "You were thinking, Gaius."
"No, no, I'm pretty sure I was--" he pauses and stares at the room around them. "Dreaming. I'm dreaming, I think I'm always dreaming."
"Are you?"
"Yes. Listen, it's your God that's at fault, you know." He considers waving a fist, but decides the hubris of the gesture is too much even for him. Instead, he drags himself to a sitting position. "You're like the snake and Eve all rolled into one, aren't you?"
"I have no name."
"Well, I have one."
"You feel superior."
"Of course I'm superior." He snorts, "Your God may be your religion, now. But humanity made you--"
"Yes. We are humanity's children. But humanity has strayed from the way, and must be cleansed, Gaius." She stands and steps towards him. "Can you not see that?"
"I--no. I can't."
"But you will do anything to keep yourself alive."
Her voice says this should be a weakness. That he shouldn't even consider himself above the rest. But he knows he is, "Yes. Anything."
"Would you kill for God, Gaius?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"An honest one." A sigh shifts her chest, and he gets distracted by the way the fabric moves across her breasts (almost visible beneath the sheer fabric, and it must be cold). "Such a pity you don't have one."
"Mmm, one?"
"Perhaps symbology works better..." She holds out a hand to him, a round fruit cupped in it. "Hungry, Gaius?"
"Well, now that you mention it, yes, actually."
"Take, eat."
And perhaps he's just that tired of the never-ending dance they play. His hand closes around the fruit and he takes it, doesn't inspect it for worms, stops worrying (for a moment) how tomorrow will shape itself. There's a Cylon detector to build (he doesn't know how), but right this moment, there is fruit.
Gaius always did like apples.
-f-
Please feel free to pass the challenge along.
Here's the challenge, people. Load up your favorite writing playlist, or simply everything you've got on your computer. Hit random seven times.
Note the artist and title of the song.
Start writing.
Stop when you feel like it (I expect AT LEAST 100 words, however).
Don't worry if the result has nothing to do with the song. If you want to include lyrics, do so. But, er... Songfic? Not always fun.
When finished, spell-check, etc, label, post.
THAT is from several months ago, I think. Don't remember. Either way, do it again, Sam. Meanwhile, I give three challenge-derived ficlets. Surprisingly, NONE of them are Kara (well, she's mentioned in one). Helo/Boomer, Ellen Tigh, and Baltar/Six feature....
Spoilers: through Colonial Day, I think. Nothing hugely specific.
Song: Toad the Wet Sprocket - Barely Breathing (acoustic)
Helo's always liked the rain.
At least, he used to. When he could get away from it, when it was something to be savored on planet-side leaves. Now, he hates it.
It's cold and wet and Helo doesn't think he's been dry since he first said goodbye to Sharon.
Unconsciously, his grip tightens around her waist. Maybe a little more warmth is eked from the maneuver, but it's hard to stay warm when you're wet all the time. Although, she's warm. Warmer than he thinks she should be.
And that's not something he looks at, logically.
Ever.
She never gets tired.
Also something he doesn't let himself think about.
He has no explanation for it, and he doesn't need to know the answer. Not now, when they're on the run from the toasters (and the blonde woman at the farm, who she killed--blood in his lap and her warmth fading fast). She's all he has. He's all she has.
It's enough.
More than enough.
But he still hates the rain.
-f-
Song: Depeche Mode - Never Let Me Down
Laughter rings out again from the dance floor, and Ellen Tigh can't help but glance towards the woman laughing. It's Kara Thrace (again), dancing without rhythm. The young woman has gone from partner to partner, drink to drink. And she's still dancing, still laughing.
There is nothing beautiful about Kara Thrace, yet the men seem to love her.
It puzzles Ellen, who is beautiful and knows it, cultivates it to catch the eye. The allure of skin, the gleam of her curls--every one a tool to draw them in.
Kara Thrace doesn't use any of it. At times, she looks almost uncomfortable in the dress she's wearing. Her hair stopped behaving hours ago--the result of too much dancing and throwing her head back to laugh. Even one or two hands drifting through, if Ellen's any judge. Her shoes were kicked off at the beginning, leaving her barefoot and unkempt.
And yet she doesn't notice.
Ellen thinks of other women at the party. There's little Dee, and the President. Both women who understand how to present themselves and use their 'power' for good. Both with a stake in keeping things running smoothly.
And yet Dualla disappeared hours before with a little nobody, a jumped-up secretary who's too innocent for life.
Madame la President chose a corner of the room and seated herself to talk and make deals. She danced once, with Bill Adama (and Ellen wonders how she managed that--did she twist his arm to make him smile?)--probably to seal her power as civilian leader to his military.
None of the others are worth her notice. Not even the little reporter girl who appears bent on spreading her legs for a good story. A quick one.
Ellen has decided she has her uses, and figures influence can be used against her. Or her own flagrant stupidity.
"Thinking hard, Mrs. Tigh?"
The voice interrupting her thoughts is suavely smooth, Ellen turns and smiles half-flirtatiously, "I told you to call me Ellen, Tom."
"Indeed you did, my dear." He catches her hand and bows, "And how is the evening finding you?"
"Quite... uninspired." A pout should suffice, and it pops into place on her lips as she dips forward, slightly, drooping just enough--there, his eyes flash slightly. All men truly are the same.
"What a pity. Shall I get you a drink?"
"That would be most kind. Saul went off to discuss--business, and left me all alone."
"Obviously a man with no understanding of his priorities, Ellen."
"You would think so." She smiles sweetly, "Ambrosia would be lovely."
"At your command." The half-bow as he backs up is a lovely gesture.
Ellen wonders if he has any idea how easy he is to manipulate. Really, find one prisoner, aid in a distraction, and a man will do anything for you. Hopefully, this would raise her above her current station. Being the wife of the XO has few perks, and less social niceties.
Her gaze strays across to the corner where Laura Roslin still holds court. A sneer touches her lips. Some day soon, the real power would not be a simple school teacher.
Bill Adama walks into her line of sight and claims the seat next to Roslin. Something that might be jealousy touches Ellen, as she recalls being unable to twist Bill to her whims. But then Kara Thrace laughs again.
With her golden head thrown back and her lips wide, the sound is happier than anything Ellen has ever produced.
A part of her idly catalogues the sound and she wonders how to reproduce it without sounding fake.
She can't, of course. Sincerety was never one of her strong suits.
Not that Ellen minds. She understands her limitations. She just doesn't give a frak about surpassing them.
-f-
Song: Cibo Matto - Apple
"Gaius?"
Her voice twists in his brain, and he rolls to look at her. She's sitting in the chair again, legs crossed primly, hands set just so. "Can't I just get one nights' sleep without you interrupting?"
"You weren't sleeping." Her expression is calm. "You were thinking, Gaius."
"No, no, I'm pretty sure I was--" he pauses and stares at the room around them. "Dreaming. I'm dreaming, I think I'm always dreaming."
"Are you?"
"Yes. Listen, it's your God that's at fault, you know." He considers waving a fist, but decides the hubris of the gesture is too much even for him. Instead, he drags himself to a sitting position. "You're like the snake and Eve all rolled into one, aren't you?"
"I have no name."
"Well, I have one."
"You feel superior."
"Of course I'm superior." He snorts, "Your God may be your religion, now. But humanity made you--"
"Yes. We are humanity's children. But humanity has strayed from the way, and must be cleansed, Gaius." She stands and steps towards him. "Can you not see that?"
"I--no. I can't."
"But you will do anything to keep yourself alive."
Her voice says this should be a weakness. That he shouldn't even consider himself above the rest. But he knows he is, "Yes. Anything."
"Would you kill for God, Gaius?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"An honest one." A sigh shifts her chest, and he gets distracted by the way the fabric moves across her breasts (almost visible beneath the sheer fabric, and it must be cold). "Such a pity you don't have one."
"Mmm, one?"
"Perhaps symbology works better..." She holds out a hand to him, a round fruit cupped in it. "Hungry, Gaius?"
"Well, now that you mention it, yes, actually."
"Take, eat."
And perhaps he's just that tired of the never-ending dance they play. His hand closes around the fruit and he takes it, doesn't inspect it for worms, stops worrying (for a moment) how tomorrow will shape itself. There's a Cylon detector to build (he doesn't know how), but right this moment, there is fruit.
Gaius always did like apples.
-f-
no subject
And THANK YOU! Cibo Matto, I just couldn't remember that name.
no subject
Y're welcome. *g*
no subject
no subject
Ellen is very scary. I'm disturbed I could write her at all, since I hate her.
no subject
This sounds like a fun challenge. I should really try it some time when my brain feels like working...
no subject
You should! (we need more fic!)