Remember the prompt Novastorme gave out back around when the Shipfest started? "(At least) One of your characters is preparing for/on a date"? Yeah, I wrote two lines for that at the time and then it got a while to cook before I finished it a week or so ago. Posting it anyway.

Feedback is welcome, including for the Reunions prompt piece I did (which got buried a bit, I think. Too many wonderful prompt fills. Let's make even more! And more after that!)

Also, pretty much every prompt full I've done is now officially canon (I don't know about this one yet, but I'll figure it out), and (again, apart from this one) has been given a doc, and a cleanup, and a title, and some nice formatting. I'm slowly adding them to the Wiki, though so far they're not really on the agent pages (apart from Kozar's, IIRC).

At any rate, I give you: the date prompt!

~Z

--
PS: I put this together on mobile. Autocorrect decided that what I'd really meant by href...was beef. A web link made of beef. Sounds a bit like something you'd see on a mission...

PPS: That seems to provide the yellow highlighting of a link that isn't, you know, there. Pray excuse it for the sake of the anecdote (and possibly tell me what bit of coding would in fact stop it, if you want to; nothing I tried worked, and I'm curious).

Tom checked and re-checked his math, scanning frantically through the forms and papers arrayed around him. He’d run the calculations, but if he forgot anything… well, that didn’t bear thinking about. Not now.

He checked the clock again. Seven minutes left. His figures were right. He was good to go. He just had to… what was that?

He stared in shock at the screen of his computer. “Damn program…” he swore under his breath. His heart raced. A crash, now… he restarted the program, fingers racing across the keyboard as he struggled to re-enter all the lost data. “Come on, come on…”

Three minutes left. Two minutes. One minute… Tom pressed the final button, letting out a whoop of sheer, exhausted joy. It was done. Over. He would be okay.

“Tom, what are you doing?”

Tom turned around. Al was poking his head through the doorway, his expression intense, and slightly irritated. Namely, the expression of someone who had just been roused from a wonderfully restful sleep by their incredibly loud flatmate.

“Oh, I was just… saving the world from a horrifying disaster, is all,” said Tom. “Y’know. The usual.”

“So… not what you just said, then.” Al looked over to Tom’s monitor and groaned, for he had seen the website’s logo, and now he knew what Tom had been doing. “Tom, Just do it ahead of time.”

“I always forget,” sighed Tom, huffing defensively. “The point is, it’s done. We’re all safe. For now, anyways…”

Al rolled his eyes, pulling his head out of the room. As he walked down the hall, Tom heard him muttering to himself: “The most dramatic I’ve ever heard someone get about their sodding tax returns."

"I'm gonna getcha!"

"You'll have to catch me first!"

"That's the whole point, stupid!"

Two girls went sprinting down the street, giggling and waving sticks at each other. From a distance, they could have been mistaken for twins, with identical long brown hair tied up in matching ribbons by request to their respective mothers.

"Stupefy! You're dead!" the girl in front yelled.

"Nuh-uh!" the girl chasing after her yelled back. "You said that one only stuns people!"

"Well, now you're dead! So there!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Caitlyn! Faolan!" Mrs. Rosenberger appeared in her front door, drying her hands on a towel and giving the two girls a disapproving look. "Come inside, you're causing a ruckus."

Caitlyn sighed and trudged back to her mother, but Faolan happily skipped after her, sticking her arm through her friend's.

"Caitlyn, you know I told you to stop pretending magic was real," Mrs. Rosenberger said, putting a hand on her daughter's back and steering the girls inside. "You'll give Fwai the wrong ideas."

"Yes, Mummy," Caitlyn said. She and Faolan shared an impish smile, and they giggled. "Hey, wanna go play dolls?"

"Sure! Race you!" With a rush of pounding footsteps, the two girls disappeared upstairs and slammed the door shut.

Mrs. Rosenberger shook her head. Hopefully, when Caitlyn went to Hogwarts and she and Faolan inevitably grew apart, the Muggle girl would just imagine her friend's stories were just childish games.

There was a loud crack in the kitchen and Mrs. Rosenberger hurried in to see her husband hanging up his traveling cloak. "Faolan is over, so wands away," she warned. "And you'll need to change into Muggle things so—" She got a good look at his face, she felt her stomach drop. "What happened?"

"Fenrir Greyback," Mr. Rosenberger said darkly. He was shaking, she realized, and she put her hands on his shoulders, hoping to steady him somehow. "My team ran into him and some of his goons today. We took down two of them, but he escaped, and..." He ran a hand over his haggard face. "You know what he's like, Kelly..."

Mrs. Rosenberger's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh no..."

"I won't let it happen, I swear," her husband said. "I'll be setting up wards as soon as I get changed." He gave her a gentle kiss and went to do just that.

At the top of the stairs, the two girls scrambled back into Caitlyn's bedroom and quietly closed the door.

They looked at each other.

"Who's Fenrir Greyback?" Faolan whispered.

Caitlyn just shrugged.


"Fwai?"

Ix looked up from her arms, startled. "Hm?"

"You looked like you were zoning out there." Charlotte plunked herself down on the sofa next to Ix, swinging a foot idly. "Thinking hard about something?"

"Oh, no," Ix said, tugging her jacket's sleeves down a little further to hide the scars on her wrists. "Just dress measurements, that's all."

Cheladoth screamed at them one more time over her drained wherry, then launched into the air. In a flurry of blue, brown, and bronze wings, they followed.

Skepnadth thrilled to the power of his wings. It had been too long since he’d flown, really flown, and he roared out his joy at regaining his supremacy in the sky. Each wingbeat sent a delicious rush of wind over his body, hot with the blood of the herdbeast he’d killed racing through his veins; hot with the southern sun on his glossy, dark bronze hide; hot with desire for his pretty green wingmate.

Usually the lambent shade of the sea after a storm, Cheladoth now gleamed enticingly jade as she darted away from her suitors. She was two Turns older, more experienced, and fast. In the time it had taken Skepnadth to get off the ground, she had already climbed over the treetops. The blues, only a little larger than she, were close behind, but she was too clever for them. When one got too near, she turned on a tailtip and changed course, weaving sinuously through the air like a dolphin through water. She, too, reveled in her prowess, and did not intend for her flight to be arrested so easily.

Skepnadth knew he could catch her. She was fast, but he was strong: he could outlast her and outstrip the lesser males in her train. His only real competition was the other bronze, Arnoth. He flew wingsecond, and not for nothing: he was smart, his conformation excellent with a bright, brassy hide, and he was brave and tireless in Threadfall. Skepnadth’s race was against him.

The two kept an eye on each other as they beat their way past the flagging blues and sought to gain the edge on the trio of browns who were still keeping up. Cheladoth was showing off now, pretending to fall back only to twist away and put on another burst of speed when one of them fell for it. Skepnadth saw that she couldn’t keep it up much longer, though, and he knew Arnoth knew it, too. Her color was less bright, her turns less sharp. It was just a matter of time before she’d have to choose or let the competition choose for her.

The young bronze wanted her to choose him. He’d show her he was the best dragon here—the best on Pern!

He filled his lungs to their limit and let out a great bugle that would have shaken leaves off the trees if they weren’t so high aloft. The others answered with startled challenges of their own. In that moment, just when everyone’s eyes were on him, he pumped his wings as hard as he could and shot out ahead of the pack. He was right below Cheladoth. She tilted her head down toward him with a flirtatious call, then climbed up, away. He followed.

Arnoth was right behind him, and gaining. Skepnadth cut across his path, blocking him, but losing momentum. The other bronze turned, almost as nimbly as a green, and the two spiraled around one another. Skepnadth couldn’t get past him; any way he turned, Arnoth turned, too, the perfect mirror. He hissed in frustration. Cheladoth had stooped down to loop them, taunting them with her nearness, and one of the browns was making a bid to catch up while the bronzes kept each other trapped.

Skepnadth couldn’t allow it. There would be one chance: one moment when Cheladoth was nearer to him than to Arnoth, and he could break away. He just had to see it coming.

It came! There she was, just beneath him. He folded his wings, dropped like a stone, and threw out his claws. Cheladoth squawked in surprise and tried to roll out of reach, but too slow: her claws rotated into range, and he snagged them in his own. Their necks twined together. Skepnadth opened his wings with a leathery snap, and together, they glided.

---

When it was over, the two riders put their pants back on and sat side by side on the edge of the shelter’s bed, regaining their bearings. It was warm, since privacy wouldn’t allow for the wide open windows generally required in the South, but the wind had changed, and a welcome breeze off the ocean blew in through narrow slats below the roof.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” V’ranen asked. The dark-skinned Istan gently turned E’rik’s head toward him with two fingers beneath his chin and examined the shiny, white and red Threadscars on the right side of his face. “I tried to go easy on you, but you know how it is . . . ”

E’rik shrugged. “Well, you didn’t make it all better—but you could hardly make it worse.” He tried to smile without looking like he was leering. In fact, he’d lost sensation in that side of his face, and with it, mobility.

V’ranen looked dubious, so E’rik added, “We’ve been cleared for between flight for a sevenday. If I’m healed enough for that, I’m healed enough for this. And it was good timing. Skepnadth needed the boost to his confidence.”

V’ranen was kind enough not to comment on the blatant falsehood beyond a skeptical “Uh-huh.”

Of course, in the manner of dragonkind, Skepnadth barely remembered the accident anymore. It was his rider who suffered the worst of it, both physically and emotionally, and was still reeling from the blow to his self-assurance. After all, it was E’rik’s lapse in judgement that had resulted in them both being scored. After letting his dragon down so badly, it was he who needed to renew his faith in the strength of their bond. The exultant merging of their psyches in a successful mating flight had been just the antidote.

Currently, he felt Skepnadth’s replete satisfaction with himself as he curled more snugly around Cheladoth in the wallow outside. I never doubted us, he murmured sleepily.

In V’ranen’s weyr, E’rik chuckled. “Anyway, thanks,” he said, giving the greenrider a companionable clap on his bare shoulder. “I hope I wasn’t . . . you know . . . terrible to be with.”

“Oh, no worries. Anything for a wingmate in need, and Cheladoth likes Skepnadth.” V’ranen smiled, his teeth standing out brilliantly in his dark face. “In fact, if you find you have green fancies after all, feel free to seek me out again.”

“I don’t think you can use that expression anymore,” E’rik said, flattered and a little embarrassed. “More girls are Impressing greens all the time.”

V’ranen shrugged. “I’m sure the girls won’t turn you away, either. Seriously, if you’re worried about this . . . ” he touched the back of his fingers to E’rik’s scarred cheek, “don’t be. Anyone who can’t see past it isn’t worth it.”

E’rik hadn’t allowed himself to dwell much on his drastically altered appearance—he was lucky to be alive, and wallowing in depression wasn’t fair to Skepnadth—but he hadn’t completely accepted it, either. The other man’s reassurance buoyed his spirits, and he nodded.

“Thank you, V’ranen. For everything.”

---

I don't have a proper title for this yet, but the subtitle is "How Derik Got His Groove Back." The first time, anyway. {= )

I don't like using his original name, because doing dragonrider names that way is stupid and irritates me, but I didn't feel right changing it, either, so "E'rik" it is. Sigh.

As he points out, I could easily have had a female greenrider in V'ranen's place due to when this is set, but I preferred to show a healthy example of what happens when a straight guy ends up in this situation, because if you think about it, it obviously happens a lot. And it doesn't have to be OMG awkward and horrible for him if everyone understands about these things and nobody is judging anyone for it. So there.

I've got another fill for this prompt in mind, so hopefully, with doctorlit's help, I'll get it up before the next one rolls around!

~Neshomeh

Cinnabar looked behind her briefly as the villagers scrambled away from their now-burning house. The Grimm inside of it weren't getting out to hurt anyone soon and in times like this, that was all that mattered. "Evac 1, what's your status?" Cinnabar called into her scroll, resting in a special indent in her left gauntlet, slightly battered from the physical and fire damage that the fight had caused, but working all the same.

"This is Evac 1. We're full and moving out." The answer came as she saw the plane lifting up and flying back towards Shade and the safer parts of Vacuo. Moments later two more planes followed suit, their pilots identifying themselves as Evacs 3 and 6 respectively.

Cinnabar nodded as she strode along the street, Volcanic Storm in her hands as she moved to take a stand against the Grimm that were pouring in from the now thankfully deserted end of the village she was meant to be defending. Volcanic Storm roared as scorching flames leapt out of it, creating an immense wall that disintegrated the first few Beowolf's that tried to charge through it, leaving the rest of them at bay until they found a way through, or round.

In the background Cinnabar heard two more planes take off, although she didn't pay attention to what was being said through her scroll and her comm link as half a dozen Griffons flew over her flame barrier. Switching targets, she altered Volcanic Storm's mode, now firing balls of fire into the air at the flying Grimm. With no fuel to sustain it, the flame barrier dissipated, letting the land-based Grimm she had been holding off start to thunder towards her.

Retreating as fast as she could, she didn't need to look to know that the Grimm we getting closer. Swerving to her right, she leapt into one of the few houses that wasn't either destroyed or on fire. Racing up the stairs as she heard the Grimm smash through the walls and windows into the lower floor, Cinnabar managed to burn a hole through the ceiling of the second floor until she was able to haul herself up onto the roof. Lifting Volcanic Storm so that it was aimed straight up in the air, she fired three shots of fire straight up, watching as they exploded above her. At the signal the final Evac ship took off, as a smaller aircraft moved towards her position.

Battling on the roof top was not Cinnabar's preferred position, but she fought there all the same, Volcanic Storm lighting up Grimm after Grimm as they tried to fling themselves at the Huntress. Soon her own fire was supported by her team mates on their ship as it flew towards her, before a figure stepped out of the shadow created by a Ursa that was in mid leap up onto the roof itself. While the Ursa was surprised at the human appearing beneath it, the human calmly pulled out his weapons, stabbing the two daggers into the Ursa and watching it disintegrate as he moved towards Cinnabar.

"Thanks Russ, you here to bring me home" Cinnabar called out, as her partner moved to watch her back as the two of them made a stand on the rooftop.

"Yep, couldn't have you dying on us Cinn" Russ replied, as he stabbed at any Grimm that got too close. Without any warning he looked up, before taking a hold of Cinnabar's arm before using his semblance to shadow step off the rooftop as a Griffon tried to land on them, depositing them both safely in the hold of their own ship.

Cinn shook off the weird feeling of having been effectively teleported through space as the ship blasted off back towards Shade Academy, roasting a few Griffons in its wake. Sliding down the wall, she smiled as she looked at the rest of team COPR, they were bruised and tired, but they'd raced against time and Grimm and had saved the villagers, even if the village itself was slowly going up in flames. As far as they were concerned, their mission was complete.

Edward asked “So how do we decide who gets to listen to music today?”
Edward and Kat were always arguing over which music to listen to. They both liked musicals, but that was about as far as any similarities went: Edward preferred more classical ones, his favourite being The Sound of Music, and Kat loved anything Disney, particularly Aladdin.
“A race?” suggested Kat. “First one back to the RC wins?”
The agents had just left the SO’s office after having introduced their recruited badfic characters. There had been four or five of them, the Suethor of that badfic having clearly enjoyed creating OCs.
Edward nodded and said, “Okay. See you there!”
But Kat had already taken off.
There was no time to lose, so Edward hurried after her, wishing there was some water around. As he ran, he was pleased to note that he was focussed enough on running to not think about directions and so find the RC.
Kat, however, was a long way ahead and, although he was faster than she was, if he got close to her she’d just turn into a bird and outfly him.
As he followed the corridor through Headquarters, the gap gradually began to close until he was neck and neck with her. He also recognised where they were: nearly at the RC. Third door on the left, one more corridor and they were there.
Edward pushed open the door and Kat became a golden eagle. Edward’s advantage was that Kat had lost all her momentum in the transformation and he now had a slight lead over her. The RC door was in sight and Kat was closing rapidly.
But there were only three more strides until he was there…
He slammed his palm against the door triumphantly and said “I win!”
Kat was still a bird and waiting for him to open the door. He realised her clothes had been left behind in the transformation and decided seeing his twin sister naked was not an appealing prospect.
He opened the door and turned on the CD player. Kat flew to the bathroom where she always kept some clean clothes in case of a short-notice transformation.
Edward put his feet up, but of course, the Ironic Overpower being what it was…
[BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!]



Note: Edward and Kat are from the Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children continuum. Edward can control water and Kat is an ymbryne (pronounced imm-brinn) and can turn into a bird and manipulate time.

So. Um. There's no graceful way to say this so I'm just going to blurt it out: I picked up a Manual last week. I swore the Oath. I just (plus or minus healing) got back from Ordeal. And what do you mean you're all wizards?

Julia changed tabs, looked back up and down the Board again. There, interspersed between writing prompts and newbie posts, were conversations tagged (Errantry). She hadn't seen them, the last time she'd looked at the Board. She hadn't been a wizard, the last time she'd looked at the Board.

It wasn't everyone. It was a lot, though. hS, on Errantry since–she winced as muscles protested counting on her fingers–four years before either of them had arrived on the Board in the first place. Nesh, same. Kaitlyn, same. They'd been wizarding since Julia was eleven. Even newbies had little "on Errantry: three years" tags in their signatures. Or five years. Or more.

Julia had been on the Board (okay, mostly off the board, lately,) for twelve years, and suddenly felt like the newest newbie to be seen.

It's a long story and my arm is still cramping, so I'll tell it briefly...

In retrospect, it made sense. Ix's ability to spin emotions into their stories. Scape's love of technicalities and way with bouncy prose. Tomash's easy fluency with code. All were experts in languages, beyond just the Speech. All were happily talking shop on the Board, hidden behind an "(Errantry)" tag and a very old spell woven into the Board's style code.

Suddenly, certain Gatherings and the very vague reports afterwards made a lot more sense.

Julia still didn't know who she was- two days of being Julia had made it more clear, but not by much. Julia still didn't know what she was doing- she had listened to the trees, she had listened to her local Advisory, and beyond that she still felt rather lost. Julia did, however, have friends she hadn't expected. And that counted for a lot.

-Delta Juliette
On Errantry, 2 days

----

(An itty bitty epilogue to Second Circles, in case it wasn't obvious.)

The Aviator was lying on the sofa, his legs draped over its back as he read. Well, tried to read; he kept checking the console's clock every thirty seconds, anxiety building by the minute.

When a portal spun open, the Aviator nearly fell off the couch in excitement, tripping over his feet before jumping up and catching his daughter in a hug. "Elanor!" he cried.

"Mummy!" Elanor yelped when he picked her clean off the ground, swinging her around. "I missed you!"

The Aviator hugged her tight, burying his face in her hair. "I missed you too, kiddo," he said, his voice thick. Elanor's small arms wound their way around his neck, and he readjusted his grip so she wouldn't slide down. "Might just have to sneak away to Gallifrey to say hello next year, won't I?"

Elanor pulled back, frowning at him. "Mummy, you can't get in trouble with the Flowers, you know that," she scolded.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," the Aviator said, and grinned. "But I won't get in trouble if they never find out, will I?"

Elanor giggled and shook her head. "Where's Uncle Zeb?"

"He's visiting Jacques," the Aviator said, setting Elanor down. "You want anything to eat, kiddo? I could make your favorite pasta—or—"

"Cookies!" Elanor said, her eyes lighting up. "Human cookies, with real chocolate!"

The Aviator grinned and sloped towards the kitchen area, Elanor trotting at his heels. "Cookies it is!" he declared, and stage-whispered, "I won't tell Uncle Zeb if you want to eat the raw dough."

"You mean you don't want me to tell him if you do," Elanor said, laughing.

"Well, yes, that too." The Aviator ruffled her hair. "Why don't you get the eggs out and I'll get the mixer, and you can tell me all about how your finals went."

"I'm going to count backwards from five, and then you'll fall asleep." Doctor Fitzgerald gave Ix's hand a gentle squeeze. "Five... Four... Three—"

She woke up, blinking groggily. Her entire chest hurt, and it felt like she'd been punched in the sternum. She tried to suck in a deep breath and winced when she realized her breathing was restricted by the bandages wrapped around her.

"Ch'rl'tte?" she slurred, her head flopping to one side. "Ch—Ch—Ch—"

Small, soft hands caught hers and squeezed. "I'm here, hon," Charlotte said. Her bespeckled face swam into view and Ix blinked again, smiling.

"Ch—Charlotte," she stuttered. "Charlotte. Chaaaarlotte!"

"I'm here," Charlotte repeated. "I'm here, Fwai. How are you feeling?"

"Chaaarlotte!" Ix's hand tightened on Charlotte's and she pulled her closer. "Did, did, did they, did they cut my boobs off?"

Charlotte laughed and put her other hand on Ix's. "Yes, hon, they did," she said. "And no, you're not dreaming this time. You were out for an hour and a half—whoa!" She put a hand on Ix's shoulder when she tried to sit upright. "Hey, careful, take it easy there."

Ix slumped back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

She woke again several minutes later and looked around, feeling a little less out of sorts than before. She frowned, taking several breaths. Her head was starting to clear now as the remainder of the anesthesia wore off. "Charlotte?"

Her hand was caught again and squeezed, and Charlotte smiled down at her. "You with me now?"

"I think so. Ow." Ix looked down at her chest, wrapped in bandages held in place by a compression vest. Her stomach rumbled and Charlotte laughed.

"Hungry?"

"Starving," Ix said. She made to sit up again, brushing Charlotte off when she tried to keep her from doing so. "I could eat an entire horse right now."

"We'll get you food as soon as you're cleared to leave," Charlotte promised, gently cupping Ix's cheek. Ix leaned up to kiss her, and Charlotte bent down to close the distance so her fiancée wouldn't strain herself.

They broke apart and Ix smiled. "Thank you for being here."

Charlotte scooted her chair closer so she could lean her head on Ix's shoulder. "Wouldn't miss it for anything."


((It's not a reunion after a long separation, but waking up post-op can be pretty scary and it's a relief to see your family when you're waking up all delirious. Prompts were made to be bent, after all.))

Kozar was standing in a field. It wasn't the Courtyard; if anything, he realized, it strongly resembled Bella and Edward's meadow, albeit with crumbling stone walls, upon one of which sat--

"Ah," he said, and nodded. "I am dreaming."

The Earther turned to look at him. She'd been kicking one heel idly against the wall, looking out over mountains that belonged in Middle-earth; he'd recognized her without seeing her face.

She smiled at him, one corner of her mouth pulling higher than the other. "Hey, Kozar. No, wait--" She frowned in concentration. "Qapla'. Did I say it right?"

"Your accent has not improved," Kozar said dryly. He walked over, standing at her shoulder. "You also have the wrong word."

Her lip curled. "You'd think I'd get it by now. What'd I actually want?"

"nuqneH."

She repeated it, mangling the pronunciation. "I hate languages."

"I'm aware." The mountains were snow-capped. He knew from experience that elven disguise was the best way to traverse them. "Why do I dream of you, Allison? Have you grown restless in Sto-vo-kor?"

She shrugged. "Maybe you're just restless here. Or, hey--you miss me! That's not too much of an Earther thing for you, is it?" The smile returned.

"Allison."

She patted the wall beside her, more confident than she'd ever been in life. "Sit. Let's stare at some mountains together." She held his gaze when he stared, and smiled as he snorted. "Come on, indulge a ghost."

"A spirit," he corrected her, even as he sat. "A remnant. A--"

"A memory."

He nodded.

"Fine, then, indulge a memory," Allison said. She hesitated--she generally had--before leaning against his shoulder. "I...kind of miss you, y'know."

"Do you?"

She nodded. "We only got, what, half a year together? I'd been hoping for, y'know, a longer partnership."

"A longer life."

Another nod. "Well, yeah. Who doesn't?"

Kozar sighed, and nudged her shoulder with his. "Klingons don't complain about dying in battle."

Allison made a face. "I'm human. I'd rather have died in my bed, from old age."

"I have noticed that Earthers enjoy complaining," Kozar said solemnly.

It made her laugh. "It's an international sport! Someone really should've gotten it into the Olympics by now."

Kozar grinned. "You would leave with the gold."

"Oh, come on." Allison rolled her eyes at him. "I don't complain that much, Kozar."

Kozar sobered slowly. "You did not.” He sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Typically for a dream, he could feel only the stone he sat on and Allison at his side, and even that was muted. “I don’t understand. What reason could I have to dream of you now?”

Allison shrugged, tilting her head back to squint at the sky. “Dunno. It’s your dream, Kozar; I’m just the guest star.”

“Everything is normal,” Kozar said. “I lack nothing. Victoria’s Pov is in good health, my friends are well. Missions are still good enough at providing opportunity to do battle. Even my partner is tolerable. Why should I dream of you now?”

Allison shrugged again, and resumed kicking her heels against the wall. “Dunno. Maybe…”

“Maybe?” Kozar turned his head. It still surprised him, a little, that it didn’t hurt to see her. Early on, he’d barely been able to look at the few pictures he had of her (of them), much less manage to meet her eyes. He should have been by her side--but that was an old fact. To his private relief, it had ceased to feel like a crushing weight over a year prior.

Allison was still squinting at the sky. She suddenly seemed the slightest bit ethereal; it did not suit her in the slightest. “Maybe you want me to know you’re okay, or something. Restless memories, and stuff. I mean, we kind of had plans, didn’t we? We’ll be coming up on five years soon.”

A different weight settled onto his shoulders: regret. “You wanted to celebrate.”

“Uh-huh.” Allison nodded, and turned to meet his gaze. “Five years, Kozar. It’s pretty cool. Or, y’know, it would’ve been.” She shrugged. “I’m kind of used to disappointment, I guess. Though you could go do something anyway.”

“Alone.” It wasn’t quite a question. “The...my current partner has no place in this.”

“Or you could bring T’Zar,” Allison said. “You know, your friend? Who’s also an alien from your home canon, which is all kinds of odd with the different wars and stuff?”

“Perhaps,” Kozar allowed. The Vulcan had proven herself surprisingly good company for similar matters. “If I do this--you will return to your place in Sto-vo-kor?”

“Think I’m already kind of going,” Allison pointed out. She was right: her form was slowly fading away. “Besides, who says I’m there?”

“You are not in Gre’thor,” Kozar growled. Allison, among the souls of the dishonored? No. “I fought for your place in Sto-vo-kor. You—”

“Human,” Allison reminded him. “I could be anywhere, really. Or nowhere, I guess, but that’d be pretty boring. Let’s stick with Sto-vo-kor.” She continued to fade, until she was completely translucent.

Kozar stared at her, even as he felt the dream begin to fade as well. “How did you manage to mispronounce that?”

He woke up with Allison’s muted giggles in his ears.


--
((Klingon words from the internet, information on Sto-vo-kor and Gre'thor from Memory Alpha's main article on Klingons.))

There were only a few things Tom Andrews ever really took seriously. Programming was one of them: when you knew full-well that a screw-up could summon Cthulhu, it was hard not to. He claimed to take video games seriously, but there was a chance he was doing that ironically, in which case it didn’t count.

But he did take his canon studies seriously. Almost as seriously as Thoth did. And so in those rare times when their schedules aligned, the two partners might be found alongside one another, lost in books, only looking up to question one another. Thoth occasionally inquiring to Tom about “ancient” earth culture, and Tom asking for clarification on 40k minutiae.

As he was just about to.

“Thoth?”

“Hm?” The giant man looked up from his copy of Dragonflight. He had finally stopped wearing his armour casually (with some thanks to Tom, who had been required to assist in getting it off the first time), although the robe and sweatpants he had taken to instead were almost as odd. It didn’t make him meaningfully less intimidating to most, however. With that build, it was unlikely there was much that could.

People, however, could adjust to anything, and it was rare for Thoth to intimidate Tom anymore. “I was just reading through this stack, and I’ve noticed that there are a ton of different interpretations of what the Codex Astartes is. I assume you’ve read it, and I was wondering… which one is right?”

Thoth stared into the distance for a moment, thinking. Then slowly, deliberately, he spoke. “...Yes.”

“What.”

“Tom, what his the primary rule of 40k canon?”

“That everything is canon and that nothing is tr— oh.” Tom promptly smacked himself over the head with a copy of Horus Rising. “But wait. Then… what do you remember about it?”

Thoth once again took the time to choose his next words carefully. “I presume most 40k characters have a strong binding to a particular interpretation of certain events and objects—this holds true for myself with burning of Prospero, among others. But the Codex Astartes is not such an entity for me. I recall it as a tactical and logistical doctrine. At the same time, I have some sort of remnant recollections of it as some sort of Space Marine ‘bible’, an absurd text followed to the very letter by such chapters as the Ultramarines. As I am not strongly linked to it, it seems interpretation within canon is allowed to drift in my presence.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve actually experienced multiple variants of the Codex?” said Tom.

“That is what I surmise from the multiple memories I have of it, yes.”

“Wait. Then that means… you’ve lived in multiple alternate universes. You’re like some kind of Grand Unified Thoth! That’s AWESOME!”

Thoth sighed. “I do not believe that’s how it works—by my reckoning, my canon merely has been in flux around me—but I technically cannot refute it.”

Tom got up, grinning. “I’m gonna get the party streamers. How else can we celebrate this reunion of Thoths?”

~~

Yes, I'm once again stretching the prompt to the breaking point to tell a story that the prompt gave me the idea for despite it arguably not fitting. :-P. I had fun with it, I hope you lot do too.

Are these prompts meant to be just for the PPC universe, or could one write/post something inspired by the prompt but entirely unrelated to the PPC?

Thanks!