'Ix! Ix!'
Again, the voice from the closet crawled out from under its door and into Iximaz's ear, running down her spine like a spider down a waterslide.

She had been writing since last afternoon, and had done it through the night, through her breakfast, past her lunch, and into her next afternoon.

With her left hand, she was working on the latest PPC adventure of Zeb and the Aviator. With her right, she was writing about her new lighter and softer agent team (she was at the bit where the Earl gets his eyes plucked out,) and with her right foot, she was writing an essay on the emotional importance of rabid, unfounded shipping.

She was a little disappointed that she hadn't managed to teach her left foot to write, but nobody was perfect, right?

After having spent so much time working and writing and scribbling and essay-ing, she had simply concluded that she had gone insane.

'C'mon, Ix, you're not insane!'

Iximaz hmmed in consideration.

'I promise!'

She was convinced.

'Alright,' She said, looking up from her writing desk. 'What do you want?'

'Ix, please, sew us together!'

Iximaz paused.

'What?'

'Imagine, Ix. Imagine if you only needed one costume for all cosplay events.'

Iximaz imagined it.


'Are you sure about this?'

'Yes, Ix... Sew it on...'

Iximaz wasn't certain how she felt about the idea of a world in which Harry Potter wore a green cloak and had the bright yellowish muzzle of a cartoon pony, amongst other additions, and she was less certain about a world in which it was part of a costume she would have to wear or, at least, explain at some point.

'Okay, then,' She said.

'Yes, yes! Drive that needle in...'

Iximaz shuddered. She never knew her costumes could be so sultry.


It was another hour of sewing, moaning, and awkward coughing before it was over.

'Ix, Ix... Thank you.'

'How do you feel?'

'I-I feel,'

It was going to say hot and heavy. Iximaz knew it.

'Hot and heavy.'

Iximaz stared at the monstrosity she had created. An eldritch beast of pure, alien origin, the noisome product of a mind diseased and tainted by nothing but madness and hatred, the terrible beast she had made in a fit of passion and insanity.

'Well, that's good,' She mumbled, exiting the sewing room.

The Board looked around hopefully, wondering when people would begin to frequent it once more. The shipfest was supposed to be going on, but for some reason, there wasn't very much activity going on. In fact, the Board was almost... lonely?

And it put down its head and cried for the love it no longer had.

"Oh, Boarders," it sobbed. "I thought you were mine forever! Sure, most of you come and go but so many of you have stuck around—but where are you now when I need you the most?"

There was no answer; only silence.

---

Since the shipfest seems to be moving very slowly this year. *shrugs*

Clara Oswald was tightening the last of the laces on her corset when she felt her TARDIS lurch slightly, as if going over a speedbump. She rolled her eyes, leant out of the wardrobe, and yelled, "Keep it steady, Me! It feels like a rollercoaster in here!"

Shaking her head and smiling to herself, she turned back to the dress hanging in the centre of the room, a masterpiece of red velvet and lace. "Right, then," she said, "let's get-"

The room spun crazily. The dress tumbled back into the depths of the wardrobe, and it was pure luck that Clara managed to grab onto the doorframe in time to avoid a similar fate. "Me!" She shouted, as the TARDIS whirled around her. "Me! Ashildr!"

Clara didn't run up the corridor. That would have been impossible, what with the floor occasionally turning into a wall. But she staggered at top speed, until she emerged from the warren of hallways into the console room.

"Ashildr!" Her copilot and fellow adventurer was clinging to the frantically vibrating console, staring at it with an expression somewhere between terror and awe. "Ashildr! Don't just stand there!"

The TARDIS made a twanging noise, as if it had just bounced off a guitar the size of a solar system (which, the way things were going, it might well have). Clara clung to the doorpost, trying desperately to time her next move. The shuddering of the time capsule rose to a peak, then fell back towards a minimum.

Clara flung herself towards the console. A sudden jolt threw her to the side; she bounced off a wildly-chiming grandfather clock, found her footing, and dove. Her hand caught the rim of the console, jerking on her shoulder; she pulled herself up past the frozen form of her friend and slapped the emergency cutout.

The shaking stopped instantly as the TARDIS dropped out of the timestream, floating in null space. Clara got her feet under her, caught her breath - not so easy in a corset that she now realised she had laced a little too tight - and stared at her friend.

"Ashildr. Me. What were you doing?"

Her companion (in a purely co-equal manner, of course) was still fixated on the time rotor, now rising and falling slowly in an idle pattern. Clara let go of the console and waved a hand in front of her face. "Me. Look at me."

"Hunh?" The immortal Viking turned her head, finally making eye contact. Her jaw dropped. "Jenna Coleman?"

Clara blinked. "What?"

"What?"

Clara guessed that her friend's blank incomprehension was mirrored on her own face. "Okay," she said, "so something's happened to you. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." Lady Me frowned. "Only no, because that doesn't make sense."

"O-kay." Clara pursed her lips. "Do you know who you are?"

Me scoffed. "Of course. I'm Desden-" She caught sight of her own hands and stopped abruptly. "Uh."

"Right…" Clara took her friend's arm gently. "So if I told you you were an immortal half as old as the universe who was currently on the run from, oh, probably everyone, you'd…?"

Me held her hand up in front of her face, turning it slowly as if studying it. "I'd think I'd gone entirely insane."

"Okay." Clara closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "It's okay, Me. We can fix this. The first thing to do is get your diaries, they might trigger some memory or-"

Me shook off Clara's hand and turned to face her. "No," she said, her voice flat. "I don't know what this is, but no. My name is Desdendelle; I come from the real world, not the Whoniverse; I am male, not female. I am not Ashildr, this is not a real TARDIS, and you are certainly not Clara Oswald."

"So you do remember. Though," Clara lowered her voice slightly, conspiratorially, "I think you might be right about the insane thing. I didn't understand half of that."

"I have grown tired of this," Me said. "I will be leaving now." She strode over to the console room door - and she really was striding, Clara realised, making her steps significantly longer than normal - and pushed her way through.

Clara cocked her head, listening. There was a short, strangled squeak from the diner that served her TARDIS as a porch-slash-disguise. Then a long silence. Then a quiet whimper. And then Me walked back in, her hands shaking.

"We," she said, pushing the door closed behind her. "We."

Clara raised an eyebrow. "We're suspended in deep space and time, with bizarre temporal nebulae on all sides and no way to convince yourself this is all a fake?"

"... yes." Me leant against the door, then shuddered and stepped away from it. "What is going on?"

"At this point I don't actually know," Clara said. "I'm assuming some sort of memory-loss thing - God knows I've seen enough of those - but you say you've gained memories as well. That means it's something weird."

"I had figured that part out." Me - or Desdendelle, or whoever she was right now - squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, then walked back to the TARDIS console. "Very well, then. I believe the logical course of action would be for you to take me to the location where I last remember being. It may be that Ashildr is there in my body, in which case we are one step closer to solving this."

Clara tapped her tongue against her teeth thoughtfully. "Okay," she agreed, "that's a decent plan. Give me the where and when."

"Earth." Desdendelle chuckled abruptly. "The real one. Israel. There's an IDF facility-"

"Whoa." Clara held up her hands. "You want me to land a TARDIS in the middle of an army base? I'm not the Doctor, you know!" She frowned. "Uh, he's this-"

"I know who the Doctor is." Desdendelle drummed her (his?) fingers on the console. "I suppose an American diner would be rather hard to hide. Very well, I have another plan."

"Is it one that's less likely to get me shot?" Clara asked. "Because I'm a big fan of not getting shot."

"This one is perfectly safe," Desdendelle assured her. "There is someone we should visit. If a mind-swapping event like this has happened on Doc- uh, has happened before, she will know about it, I am sure."

Clara waited, but it seemed her fellow traveller was finished. "O-kay… so that's all I'm getting?"

Desdendelle blinked. "I can give you a place and time, of course."

"I'm sure you can." Clara pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ugh. Vague plans, people refusing to tell me everything… it's like being back with the Doctor again, except he'd have asked why I was standing around in my underwear by now."

Desdendelle looked at her. "I assumed you thought of this as an acceptable outfit."

Clara waved her hands in front of herself. "Yeah, no-one thinks of corsets as everyday clothes. Well, you did say you were a man… come on, let's get this thing started."

---

Or: in which hS tries to write a semi-serious shipfic, realises he's being way too slow about it, and posts the first third in an effort to force himself to actually finish it.

Clara is a pain in the neck to characterise; I'm just glad Ashildr's out of it.

hS

It was dark outside. Tomash had stepped away from his computer, if only for a short moment, to take a stroll outside in the night and clear his thoughts. As he was walking along a dimly-lit road, he stopped when he saw a familiar figure.

"Admin?" he whispered breathlessly. "Is that... is that really you?"

The man moved closer; even with his body now in the center of the light cast by a street lamp, his face remained in shadow. "Yes," he said in his deep, rumbling baritone, "it is I, my love."

Tomash looked away, a blush rising to his cheeks. "Are we even that, anymore?" he asked, the hurt in his voice clear.

The Nameless Admin shrugged. "I know it has been far too long, Tomash. And I am sorry. But my love for you has never lessened, not once."

"I—" Tomash swallowed. "I... feel the same way."

"After all," the Nameless Admin whispered, caressing Tomash's face, "administration can be such a... lonely affair..."

Tomash felt a shiver run down his spine as he looked up at the tall, dark, handsome man standing in front of him. Before he had a chance to stop and think, he was leaning up on tiptoes, kissing his former lover with a passion that suggested they had never been apart to begin with.

The Nameless Admin broke away and placed his hands on Tomash' shoulders. "Shall we go back to my house and look into some coding issues together?" he said suggestively.

Tomash smiled and nodded. "It's like you're my loop condition," he whispered, kissing the Nameless Admin once more. "I keep coming back to you."

Scapegrace bent a wooden ruler in hand, testing its suppleness. "So, you're all here to be taught, are you?" Some pacing in front of the blackboard was definitely in order. "Want to learn the fine arts of BDSM, eh?" The students were sitting rigidly at attention.

One of the students caught Scape's eye. Scape whirled around and pointed the ruler at Cat-on-the-Keyboard. "Do you think you have what it takes?"

The student flinched under the sudden scrutiny. They rallied quickly, though. "Yes, Senpai!"

Scape smiled at that. "A little unorthodox, but I'll allow it." The ruler was lowered and the pacing resumed. "Under each of your chairs you will find a bag of common supplies. Cuffs, nylon rope, scissors, etc. We're going to talk about how to use them before we start the practical demonstrations. Now, who can tell...Larfen I said we were going to talk about those first! I guess we're talking about the importance of scissors until we can manage to get you down from the ceiling. Not even sure how you managed to get yourself up there."

A short while later, Larfen was down from the ceiling and handcuffed to Ivy-M-Blue, who was tasked with keeping an eye on them.

"Now, where were we?" asked Scapegrave. "Oh right. I was about to introduce you to some important concepts." Scape walked to the desk and toggled on an intercom. "Iximaz, would you please send in the first bugbear?" =]


((I think that went well for a first class. Don't you? -Phobos))

I bloody love how all the boarders are turned into stereotypical supervillains.
It's the most gloriously stupid stuff I've read in a long time, and I'm very excited for the sequel.

Also known as: 'What am I doing with my life?'

It took only three and a half weeks for them to decide to be married.
It was pretty clear that biological melding was out of the question, one of them being a series of withered limbs and flesh locked in a steel suit, and the other one being a mainly theoretical concept.
Soul bonding, too, wasn’t possible, because every time they tried it, the resulting philosophical argument locked everyone up, to the point that the shaman had to close up shop for the night and kick them out of his tent.
Dramatically and romantically committing suicide definitely wasn’t an option, because Desdendelle’s family didn’t even hate flies, and stock poetry was born from the collective consciousness of human culture, which, in itself, wasn’t known for blood feuds.
It struck him like an angry pinball, and dinged and bounced around his skull, knocking things to the floor, shattering vases and making a general mess.
‘We should get married!’ He exclaimed.
Stock poetry agreed.

The marriage went smoothly like a pancake.
There was Key and Capslock, vehemently denying their irrepressible lusts for each other in the front row; Tomash working on the Nameless Admin’s ‘software’ in the corner; Fasoula passionately caressing a ceramics store just on the other side of the street; Iximaz casually talking up her grilled cheese sandwich, and, of course, Huinesoron, who was still horrifically injured after the Valentine’s day incident, when an anomalously large collection of chocolate and romantic gifts flooded through his front door and broke his arms, his legs, his coccyx, his left pinkie, but, fortunately, not his will to live.
They said their vows (well, Des did, anyway, actually possessing a mouth) and rode off into the distance for their honeymoon, which will go unmentioned, except that it involved a replica of the Mona Lisa, two tubs of butter, a fake koala, a real koala, a lot of illegal activities, and a small furred mammal that looked very similar to a koala, but wasn’t.

They lasted for nine years before it all started falling apart.
Des missed his old, carefree days of hooking up with anything remotely Israeli, any person involved with tea, or Huinesoron.
Especially Huinesoron.
Everybody in every relationship missed hooking up with Huinesoron.
Stock poetry was tired of him, too.
It was on the eleventh year when she cheated on him with her helicopter instructor.
Des knew exactly what was going on, for he was aware that all evil in the world somehow, no matter how indirectly, came from helicopter instructors.
He barged into the bedroom, tears flowing from his face like a million clumsy maids in a banana-peeling factory.
‘Why, stock poetry?’
‘Dude, am I drunk, or something?’ The helicopter instructor hissed evilly.
‘You-you used me!’
‘Damn. Sorry, dude,’ The helicopter instructor growled, blood dripping from his jaws, as he pulled himself off the bed and exited the room, presumably to find a puppy orphanage to burn down with a kick from his flaming foot.
'Why? WHHHYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!' Des screamed, using a whole seven exclamation marks, the maniac.

And that’s the tragedy of Desdendelle and stock poetry.
Desdendelle eventually went on to become a famous musician, and died after an argument involving the future of the band turned violent. Oddly enough, he never had a band – he was a lone singer.
Stock poetry enlisted in Vietnam, and was killed by Catullus’ poetry.
The helicopter instructor continued teaching people how to drive cars. He also continued lying to everybody.
Larfen J. Stocke, esq, did absolutely nothing with his life and officially stopped existing around 2023 after reality decided to replace him with something more useful, like a cockroach.
The cockroach eventually grew up to become a helicopter instructor, and had a brief romantic stint with stock poetry.
The lamp in the corner of the room continued to be a lamp, though, its secret ambition to become an electric torch never left its mind.
The shaman quit his job, tired of arguing with all the couples who wanted soul-bonding, and, also, became a helicopter instructor.
This joke continued to do what it did best, until Larfen got tired of it and stopped typing.
And, of course, Huinesoron continued to be literally the sexiest thing in existence, and a few things that didn’t.

I dare you.
*viciously wiggles eyebrows*

After all, can't hurt to try it at least once, right?

Right...?

I've been hearing about the Shipfest for a while (and I looked it up on the Wiki, to no avail). I think I have the general idea, but could someone please fill in the shiny newbie? (So sorry for causing trouble, by the way.)
Also, we're apparently supposed to say if it's alright to write stories about us. Despite the fact that I highly doubt this will happen... Go for it, PPC!

Neshomesh swings back and forth on the hanging tyre, giggling softly to herself. Her dark hair has been pulled up into two bunches that it isn't quite long enough to carry off; her blue sundress can accurately be described as 'well-loved'. To a casual glance, she looks like a child of perhaps six years; closer inspection notes the largeness of her eyes, the slightly vulpine tinge to her nose.

The mini-Boarder drops to the dewy grass, landingly lightly. She snatches up a ball and bounces it off the tree-trunk, her grin widening as she catches it on the rebound. Then off she skips, tossing the ball from hand to hand as she makes her way down to the riverbank.

The river is clean and cool. Neshomesh finds her favourite spot and settles down on the warm rock, smiling in the sunlight. She plucks a flattish pebble from the sand, weighs it in her tiny hand, then skims it out across the water. The ripples it leaves behind catch the light, like a shoal of silvery fish.

Neshomesh lies back on the rock and closes her eyes. There is nothing to disturb the contented mini, here in her own world: nothing but the babbling of the river, and the distant sound of birdsong.

"Yub? Yub-yub?"

Neshomesh sits up, rubbing her eyes as if sleepy. "Eee?"

"Yub!"

Something wobbles at the top of the bank, then loses its balance and tumbles down through the grass. It bounces as it reaches the beach, flips through the air, then comes down with a poof of sand. It looks like nothing more than a ball of fluff, marbled in light and dark brown.

"Eee!" Neshomesh launches from her rock with a laugh and skips across the sand. She stops just short of the new arrival and peers at it. "Eee?"

The ball of fur doesn't react. Neshomesh's brow furrows. Then she bends down to grab a stick from the sand beside her. Leaning forward, she pokes the new arrival lightly. "Eee?"

The fluffy visitor stirs. A head pokes out: little black nose, large round eyes, and two fuzzy ears. "Yub?"

Neshomesh giggles and waves at the furry creature. "Eee!"

The creature stands up, revealing itself to be of a height with Neshomesh. If you took a teddy bear, packed it with extra stuffing, then let its fur grow out as long as it could, you would be able to achieve much the same effect. It wears a hand-knitted black scarf around its neck, to which is pinned a small label reading 'Huniesoron'.

"Eee!" Neshomesh drops her stick, beaming at the other mini. She spreads her arms wide. "Eee?"

Huniesoron looks at her and smiles timidly. Conscientiously, he brushes the sand out of his fur, then opens his own arms. "Yub-yub?"

"Eeeeee!" Neshomesh throws herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around the Ewok-like mini. She snuggles close, feeling the softness off his fur against her cheek. "Eee?"

"Yub." Huniesoron enfolds her in his arms, cuddling her close under the warm sun. "Yub-yub."

"Eee..."

---

Featuring my latest solution to the 'human-copy minis are creepy' problem (which may exist solely in my own head).

hS

Mattman-Prime is presently standing in the shipverse, clad in, from inside to outside: metal underwear, normal clothes, scuba gear, a hazmat suit, and a space suit. He also has an A/C system, a flash patch, and a rebreather equipped.

What he now wants to know is how he ended up here in the first place (Thank god he wore his EXTREME Protection Gear(TM) today).

(I swear only WoW players will get this but I don't care because it amused me.)

"You're crazy," foofooman3 declared. "Alliance is clearly better than Horde. I mean, have you seen PVP in Alterac Valley? We stomp you nine times out of ten."

"Yeah, but Horde Bias is a thing for a reason," Phobos countered, leaning against the table so his forearms, which were ripped not unlike his character's, were brought to the foreground. foofooman3's eyes fixed on them. "I mean, we did get several expansions heavily featuring our side's major lore figures. And what did you get? Crazy Jaina flipping out over Theramore getting bombed, and... that's it?"

foofooman3 sighed and leaned forward so he was almost nose-to-nose with Phobos. "You really wanna go there?" he growled.

"I'll go wherever I want," Phobos countered, and leaned in to kiss him.

foofooman3 kissed him back eagerly. "Guess you're not that bad out of the game," he said slightly breathlessly, "since you don't have those giant tusks to get in the way. Say..." He paused, running a slender, delicate finger down his boyfriend's chest. "If your left leg is Kalimdor and your right leg is the Eastern Kingdoms, may I meet you at Northrend?"

Phobos' eyes twinkled. "Depends on what part," he said. "After all, I do hear rogues do it from behind..."

And they kissed on through the night, their passion burning brighter than the fires of Mount Hyjal.

(I have no regrets.)

A sequel to last year's Lacing. Warnings: nothing sexually explicit, but there is light BDSM involved. Hopefully this is okay.

---

The sun had gone in about half an hour ago, and the last embers of the sunset were clinging to the sky. Iximaz had watched, and wanted to keep watching, but one look from Kaitlyn - nothing more than a glance, nothing more than what was needed - had told her not to. She came inside, three paces behind the elf, back straight, head high, a pose that no longer required a posture bar.

It had been a year. How had it been a year? A year since she'd been taken into the arms of Kaitlyn, her mentor and Permission Giver and so much more besides. Her mind dwelled on this as her Mistress's instructions washed over her. She stripped, held her arms up, presented herself, but all the time wondered what might be on the horizon.

"Something special," said Kaitlyn, and the uncanny nature of her remark jolted Iximaz from her reverie. "Something special for tonight."

"For-" Iximaz hesitated, her eyes wide. "For a good girl?"

"For my good girl," her Mistress replied, turning away from a steamer trunk to face her. "I'll dress you now, I think. I want you to be looking your best, my beautiful, beautiful girl."

Kaitlyn approached with long ropes of silk so red they were almost black, and a lump formed in Iximaz's throat. As Kaitlyn's body pressed against her, the heat rushing through her veins and short-circuiting important bits of her brain, she did as she was told and the ropes began to be tied. First, the chest harness was completed, then Kaitlyn's gloved fingers trailed down the length of Iximaz's arm, the signal for them to drop.

"You don't need to hold your arms in place for this, sweetheart," whispered the Mistress into Iximaz's ear, her body heat and gentle touches sending lightning bolts through her brain. "Let me guide my girl."

"Yes, Mistress."

What else could have been said?

The long, red ropes began to twist and tighten around Iximaz's slender chest, the strength of the bindings squeezing the breath from her lungs in delicate gasps. She kept her eyes looking straight ahead, when her Mistress's electric touch didn't make them flutter shut as she sighed with pleasure. She didn't look down. She couldn't have even if she wanted to.

She hadn't heard the laughter of others in her head for months now, gentle love and sensual play drawing her out of the darkness of her anxiety and into that last summer, where the grass grew long and was soft as down beneath dancing human and elvish feet. She was loved, and in love, and her Mistress's murmured words in her ear as the ropes pulled tauter and tauter made her relax into the warmth of it all. So relaxed was she that she almost didn't notice when her Mistress stepped away, and she only began to wake up when Kaitlyn took her hand and led her to the mirror.

"I..." She looked beautiful, the red silk forming a tight underbust corset, her breathing slow and steady, but not restricted. Mixed in with the dark rope - and Iximaz didn't even know how her Mistress had done it at all, let alone without her noticing - were delicate white flower shining like stars on a midsummer's night. The young girl knew without thinking that they were simbelmynë, and meant forever. Her long, dark hair had been braided into the top of the harness as well, but it did not bite or pull at her, and the flowers had risen up to crown her. "Mistress, I-"

"Come," she said, and held out her hand for Iximaz to take. "There is one more thing that needs to be done, now that you are perfect."

Iximaz followed her, pride swelling in her chest and making her smile ever wider. Upon opening the door she saw the couple's friends and flashed a grin back at them - a year ago, she would have bolted. The group had gathered around a little cushion of white and gold, and at her Mistress's direction she knelt.

"You have come so far, my girl. You have only been mine for a year and it feels like twenty more. If you will bind yourself to me, if you will love me and let me love you... then kneel."

Suddenly aware that all her friends were watching, heart beating fast with excitement, Iximaz knelt.

And Kaitlyn's simple gold collar wrapped around her neck, and shut with a click.

In order to flex my Shipfest muscles (Translation: this is my first attempt at anything Shipfest. Therefore, it will probably not be that great) I present to you: Whatever This Is. (You have no idea how many times I had to look away from the screen and laugh out the hysterics I got from attempting this. The Shipfest is so weird.)



Iximaz stood outside of her boss's impressive oak door, nervously gripping her script. That script was the pinnacle of her career— the evidence of her arduous journey from fan to fanwriter. It symbolized a mountain of effort, gallons of tears, and maybe a small amount of blood. It was her ticket to a better life, her exit from anonymity, her entrance to stardom. It was her everything. And today... it was going to be evaluated.

The door opened. Iximaz sucked in a breath. It was a blonde-bunned secretary. "The boss will see you now," she said, opening the door a little wider. Iximaz's heart rate skyrocketed, but she forced herself to walk forward, heels clicking on the hardwood. The office was dark, lit mostly by moody candles that flickered in her passing. It was a large room, circular, and at its center was an expansive (and expensive) oak desk, outlined by a circle of stage lighting. The boss had a flare for the dramatic.

“Sir,” Iximaz said respectfully. She couldn’t keep from staring at the elf behind the desk. Huinesoron, the head of the Shipping Company, was… much more handsome than she had been lead to believe. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit, coat on the top of his desk and white sleeves rolled to his elbows. He waved her in without looking up from another script on his desk.

“Hand it over,” he said. “I have three other budding masterpieces to shred today.”

Iximaz gulped, convulsively gripping her script. “I— I don’t think you should dismiss it so quickly,” she said, then bit her lip. What was she saying!? This was the head of the Shipping Company she was talking to!

That made him pause. He looked up slowly, eyes narrowed. “Hum. We’ll see. Give it here.” He held out a hand.

After taking a deep breath, Iximaz handed over the script, then began to turn. Shockingly, Huinesoron flipped open to the first page and began reading. That was most irregular— usually, he read the scripts, then sent a review. Why would he do this in person? Iximaz began chewing her lip. “Desdendelle stared deeply into Kaitlyn’s eyes. Really? That’s how you’re starting it? Oh, very well. ‘I could look at you all day,’ he says, brushing her lips with a kiss. She pulls him in— is this honestly the best you can do?” Huinesoron looked up indignantly. “I’ve seen elementary school plays more original.”

“I— I’m sorry, sir, I thought—”

hS cut her off with a sharp hand gesture, dark eyes shadowed in the candlelight, strong jaw set. “Never mind. Let’s keep going. I might as well skip this first bit; hardly any dialogue.” He flipped forward a few pages while Iximaz waited pensively, trying not to run out of the room. This was her life he was holding, all of her work. And he didn’t like it. Huinesoron’s Shipping Company had a complete monopoly on Shipfest productions— if he didn’t take her script, well, it just wouldn’t be made. End of story.

“Kaitlyn and Desdendelle walk hand in hand down the beach. ‘I love it this time of year,’ Des says. ‘So peaceful; hardly any people. Would you like some tea?’ ‘No,’ says Kaitlyn, glancing down shyly, then looking into his eyes. ‘I would like some of you, though.’ She kisses him, the setting sun framing them.” hS stood so quickly his chair toppled backwards. He strode angrily around his desk and stopped mere inches from Iximaz, leaning over her. Iximaz barely contained a frightened yelp. “Do you honestly think this is good enough for the Shipfest?” he said softly, shaking the script in one hand.

“I— I’d thought it was,” Iximaz said. It sounded like a poor excuse, even to her. “Is, is it not?”

hS only laughed. Iximaz could feel his breath on her face; it smelled lovely, actually. “No,” he said.

Iximaz felt her heart sink right to her toes. She began to sag, tears coming to her eyes. “Oh,” she said, blinking rapidly. Can’t let him see me cry, she thought.

hS looked at her with an unreadable expression. “If you want,” he said, tilting his head. “We might try working on something for the Shipfest… together.”

“What?” Iximaz asked. Suddenly, she was hyper-conscious of how close he was; his hand brushed hers, and she almost jumped.

“You know, you’re rather beautiful, Iximaz,” he said, leaning in. Suddenly, he was kissing her. Iximaz’s squeak of surprise was cut off as he wrapped her in his arms, kissing her deeply.

“What are you doing?” she asked him softly when he pulled away for air.

hS smirked. “Making something worthy of the Shipfest,” he said.



That was the strangest thing I’ve ever written. Hopefully you all like it!

-Alleb, who now has to shake the horrible fear that hS and Ixi will never look at her the same way again

hS walked through the corridors, his vest festooned with his many badges. He carried a bag that jingled with the promise of more shinies for other people to acquire.

His attention was drawn to sounds coming from a partially open door to his left. Peeking through the crack he spied what could best be described as "Mattfest". Mattman the Comet and Matt Cypher were too preoccupied to notice when hS walked into the room and tried to get their attention. He had to settle for pinning their new badges to their discarded clothing.

Satisfied, hS sauntered down the hallway again. A short while later, he happened upon Neshomeh and Iximaz. They were, he assumed from their positions, discussing Andalite Physiology. They were obviously nude to increase authenticity. Still, this was worthy of badges. He pressed one each into their hands and moved on.

The next room he come across was occupied by Tomash and the Nameless Admin. hS was taken aback by how shadowy and mysterious the Admin was, and how limber. Badges were distributed and it was time to head out again.

hS had time for one more stop. He found a likely room and invited himself in. He was greeted by a pile of writhing limbs. This definitely deserved some badges, but he had to figure out what was in there, first.

"Oy, you lot!" he called. "No, no, don't stop on my account. Just raise your...well...whatever you can raise at the moment, when I call your name. I see Scapegrace? Hello, Scape. Is that PoorCynic you've got there? Good to see you, mate. I note...Kaitlyn? Having fun dear? Excellent. Behind her is...Iximaz, you can't get duplicate badges, I'm afraid. Desdendelle is that Hieronymus Graubart to your left? No, your other left. Got it, thank you. Right then, anyone I missed? Sorry, DawnFire, didn't see you down there. I think that's everyone."

hS grabbed the necessary badges from his bag. "Right. If you could all just... maybe if I... I'll just leave these by the door, shall I?"

His work done for the moment, hS set off to rest before his next round of badge dispersal. I've forgotten to get that badge for myself, he thought. I'll have to look into that the next time I'm out.

Feel free to toss me in the blender, though!

I am exactly vain enough to want people to ship me with other people. Do so with my blessing.

...but I look forward to melting my brain by reading the stuff that will come out of this year's Shipfest.

Happy shipping, folks!

Scapegrace crouched behind the table, utterly silent, utterly still. She'd been tracking her quarry for hours now, and for the first time she thought she saw an opening to catch it. She watched the patterns of light moving across the walls, gauging her moment.

Then she leapt. Her arms closed around her prey, and she felt a surge of triumph.

"'ey! What do you sink you are doing? Are you une personne crazy?!"

Scapegrace stumbled back, gaping at the irate-looking candlestick with the extremely feminine, extremely bad French accent. "Uh," she managed. "What?"

"'ere I am, just walking along and mahndin' mah own business, when SUDDENEMENT! Zere is you, leaping out of nowherre to molest moi?" The candlestick folded her arms and glared. "It is simply not on, ma friend, not on at all!"

"Uh." Scapegrace pinched herself to check if she was really awake. "Ow."

"Ah am waiting for an apology."

Scapegrace blinked. "What, like this is my fault? I thought you were a Pokemon!"

The candlestick stared at her. "And… porquoi, precisely?"

"Well…" Scapegrace waved a hand vaguely. "You look kind of like a shiny Chandelure, you know? With the… candles and all."

The candlestick's expression fell into a glower. "Zat is not mah fault," she declared. "'ad SeaTurtle not trranslated ma name as 'Lumiere d'Aube', ah would not be ztuck this way."

"Uh." Scapegrace shook her head, irritated by her own hesitancy. "So who are you normally?"

"Ah am DawnFire, no?" The candlestick hopped forward, waving what would be called a hand were it not, in fact, a lit candle. "Take mah advice, mah amie - never allow anyone to ship you like a Frrench girl."

"I don't know why I ever would." Scapegrace regarded DawnFire for a moment longer, then shrugged. "So have you seen any Pokemon around here? I need to catch them to give out as newbie gifts, but between you and SkarmorySilver, it's been tough going…"

"Ah 'ave not." DawnFire looked at Scapegrace warily. "But if you are 'unting for Pokemon, why are you not using ze Pokeballs?"

Scapegrace looked down at the rope in her hands. "Uh."

"'oping for a little, 'ow do you say, light bondage, n'est pas?"

"Y- n- I refuse to confirm or deny any such allegations."

Zat is prrecisely what ah would expect you to say." DawnFire hopped up onto a convenient box, then further up onto a table, and stood eye-to-eye with Scapegrace. "You realise zat I am a moderately ornate candlestick right now, non? While zere are possibilities in 'ot wax, ah am not remotely suited to errotic activities rright now."

"I know, I know." Scapegrace waved the discussion off. "Forget I said anything."

"You didn't say anyzing."

"Then forget I didn't say anything."

---

"Ship me like one of your French girls."

With apologies to the French language and absolutely none to anyone else.

hS