Fridgelancer CrackFic: Part Two. The anthropomorphic, sad version.

The fridge on the Mother of Invention saw many things. It saw York raiding through its contents for midnight snacks, more frequently after the other freelancers started to become nonfunctional. It saw Wyoming, trying to store gourmet cheese in one of its drawers and raging when he found that York had eaten it all the night before. It saw Carolina, doing inventory and generally criticizing the fridge for not having enough healthy foods. It saw Wash with armfuls of apples and bananas that he attempted to fit in the produce drawers.

For a while it saw CT, who sometimes came to the kitchen just to sit and think because no one else would look for her there. Sometimes she would be upset and sit in the corner by the fridge with her arms around her knees and her shoulders trembling just a little, and the fridge would long to comfort her. But it could not, because it was a fridge. And soon it didn’t see her at all anymore.

It saw South, who punched a dent in it one day for reasons unknown. And North, who woke up sometimes in the middle of the night and just really, really wanted ice cream (or maybe Theta wanted it; he couldn’t tell anymore). Maine came by for these little fat free yogurts that he secretly ate, with flavors like luscious raspberry and red velvet delight.

And occasionally it glimpsed Tex, who wandered aimlessly through the ship every night because she did not need to sleep and could not find rest anyway.  

The fridge knew them all, or at least it knew the part of them that sought out its kitchen for whatever reason, and it grew fond of them. Even Wyoming with his raging, and Carolina with her criticism. It took good care of their yogurts and cheeses and apples and bananas. It wanted to speak to them, to tell them that it valued each of them dearly. But being a fridge, it was incapable of speech.

So it stood, cool and stable whenever they needed it, and gently hummed when they opened its doors.

[RvB fic, Freelancers.] Overnight Guests

[In which the Freelancers form piles, thus defying the competitive structure of their team.]

———————————————————————————-

Wash had started it.

At about eight o’clock he’d wandered into North and York’s room, one of North’s comic books in hand (slightly crumpled from being jammed between the cushions of the common room couch). York was sitting on the floor, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it again – or at least, mostly catching it. North was sprawled out across his bed, reading another comic book. North had a lot of comic books.

“Hey man,” said York. The tennis ball bounced once against the floor and went rolling across the room to disappear under York’s bed. “Whatchya doing?”

“Just bringing this back,” Wash said, brandishing The Adventures of Superman Volume XII as though it were evidence of some grave misdeed.

“Oh, hey, I was looking for that,” said North brightly. “Thanks.”

Wash gave a sort of shrug and said, “Personal property isn’t permitted in the common area.”

“Uh-huh,” North agreed. “Hey Wash, who’s your favorite superhero?”

He blinked bemusedly. “I don’t have one.”

“’Course you do, everybody has a favorite superhero.”

“I don’t know, I don’t read comic books.”

“C’mon, everybody knows some superheroes,” said York, turning around to grab from what appeared to be a laundry basket filled with tennis balls.

“I don’t – why do you have so many tennis balls?” said Wash, frowning and sitting down on the edge of York’s bed. His hands tugged and bent at the comic book cover, but North had gone back to reading and did not appear concerned as to the welfare of his personal property.

“To help with hand-eye coordination,” York said, tapping his left eyebrow as if that were explanation enough. “It helps to practice throwing a ball back and forth. North looked it up on the internet.”

Wash looked over as North nodded in solemn agreement. “But why do you have so many?”

York shrugged. “There was a sale. Plus, they keep going under the bed.”

“So why don’t you –”

“But seriously man, everyone has a favorite superhero,” North interrupted. “I mean you gotta know, like, Superman and Spiderman and Batman and stuff.”

Wash let out a short, frustrated sigh, and then said, “Okay, Batman.”

[RvB, fanfic] A Freelancer Musical

[Collaboration with Shaherazade-21c! She wrote the last three songs and helped enormously with the…er, what passes for a plot in this thing.]

            Wash woke up a bit later than usual – seven-forty-five rather than five-fifteen. Normally this would have horrified him, but today the Director was off-ship on business and so normal operations were temporarily delayed.

            In other words, they had the day off.

            This did not particularly please Wash; he preferred action and structure to a day of aimlessly wandering the ship in search of something useful to do. He rolled over in bed and sighed, looking for Maine, but his bunk was already empty. Wash frowned a little – usually Maine took any opportunity to sleep in. He sighed and sat up. Better get out there, grab a cup of coffee, and see how badly everyone had messed up the library in the common room.

*

            When he got to the coffee room, South and CT were standing there, each leaning against the counter and looking at full coffee mugs with equal distaste.

            “Uh, morning,” said Wash.

             “Hey,” said CT. South just gave him a nod, which was what passed for friendly in her case.

            Wash moved past them to fill a mug of his own, loading it up with cream and sugar before he dared to take a sip. “What’re you guys up to?” he asked after an awkward pause.

            “Oh, you know,” said South, sounding bored. “Whatever.”

            “Just making coffee,” CT sighed.

            Wash blinked. And then he heard it –  it was faint at first but then there was a sudden outpouring of…strangely peppy music? He turned and looked in confusion at the overhead intercom speakers. “What –?”

            A clink of ceramic hitting the countertop interrupted him, and then an event that was surely one of the signs of the Apocalypse occurred.

            South started to sing.

            “My coffee’s bitter,” she sang, matching the pace of the music coming from the speakers.

            Wash stared, horrified, as CT joined in.

            “My coffee’s worse!”

            The two of them faced each other and declared, “Drinking this shit actually hurts!”

            South began to pace in the small quarters as she went on, “Why can’t you get a good cup of coffee in space?”

            CT circled in the opposite direction, adding, “Coffee that isn’t out to kill the human race?”

            Wash stood helplessly in the middle of their little choreography, watching as they met and clinked their mugs together. The music swelled as they belted out, “I’m not asking for anything obscene! All I need is my damn caffeine!”

            “And for the love of god,” South said, looking to the side as though to an imaginary audience, “can we please get some more sugar?”

            There was a pause in the music and Wash began to wonder if everything was safe again. CT and South held their positions, CT watching him out of the corner of her eye. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, which was just as well because suddenly the music started up again and York came skidding into the room.

            “Did you ladies just say you needed some sugar?” he said, grinning widely and presenting a basket of sugar packets.

            “Finally,” said South, rolling her eyes, and she took the basket from York, moving past a somewhat-traumatized Wash in order to place it on the counter. The music swelled again and York, CT, and South sang as one, slowly raising their hands toward the ceiling.

            “Mornings are rough when you’ve got no sunrise

            And every other day some other dude dies

            Defending the freedom of humanityyy –

            So we’re asking, please

            On hands and knees

            Buy us a better brand of coffeeeee!”

            They stood together for a moment, hands raised, and then the music abruptly stopped and they all relaxed into their usual positions. Connie sipped her coffee with shoulders hunched, South scowled at no one in particular, and York came over and clapped Wash on the back.

            “Hey man, how’s it goin’?”

            Wash stared at him, and then replied, “Wh-what.”

            York’s brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”

            “What,” repeated Wash. “Wh-what was…that. What just happened?”

            “Uhh,” York said, frowning. “I just asked how you were?”

            “No!” Wash whirled around, pointing at CT. “You saw it! You saw what happened! You – you were –”

            He faltered, realizing that CT was wearing an utterly unamused expression. “I was what, Wash?”

            “Singing?” Wash said, his voice dipping uncertainly.

            South burst out laughing and York grinned. “Singing?” repeated CT in a cold voice. “Why the hell would I be singing, Wash? Who do you think you’re talking to? Is this some kind of joke?”

            Wash gaped at her. “No, no, it happened, it – South, tell them, it –”

            “Wash, listen,” said South in a voice one might use for a very small, very stupid child, “you’ve had some hard missions these past weeks. Maybe you need to get some more rest.”

            “No, wait,” said Wash, looking wildly around for someone to believe him.

            But they all just looked back with varying levels of pity. York patted him on the shoulder and said, “Drink your coffee, man. You’ll feel better.”

            And they cleared out of the room, leaving Wash alone to sip forlornly at his horrible coffee.

Ten Short RvB Fics!

So I did this meme! Fics vary wildly but all are rated PGish with, y’know, the usual amount of cursing.

1. Write down the names of 10 characters.
2. Write a fic of fifteen words or less for every prompt, using the characters determined by the numbers. Do NOT read the prompts before you do step 1. (I totally did way more than 15 words for each prompt. More like 100 or so per prompt.)

1. York

2. Carolina

3. North

4. Connie

5. Wash

6. South

7. The Coffee Guy

8. Maine

9. Wyoming

10. Tex

First Time: 4 and 6 (Connie and South)

            Connie eyed the other two female recruits. The redhead seemed unconcerned with introductions; she was instead studying a manual intensely. They’d all been given one when they were officially inducted into the program. Connie held hers loosely in one hand.  The other woman, the one with choppy blond hair and these eerily light blue eyes, had shoved the manual haphazardly into her jeans pocket.

            “I’m South,” offered the blonde when she saw Connie looking.

            “South what?” Connie replied, and that was when things started to go sour.

Angst, 7 (Coffee Guy)

            Steve had always wanted to be a barista. His parents were underwhelmed and told him all the time that he ought to do something more useful with his life, but Steve never paid them any mind. He spent hours and hours experimenting with milk froth and sugar and different types of roasts, figuring out how to make the Perfect Latte. So what if he wasn’t solving world hunger or that whole war thing with the aliens or whatever? He was proud to be the best damn barista at Starbucks.

            He was so good, in fact, that they’d wasted no time in promoting him to their alternate location, Spacebucks. Steve couldn’t help but smile to himself as he set down the hall to deliver two beautiful mugs of coffee. After this, he was gonna write a letter to his mom and dad about his promotion to space barista. They’d have to be proud now.

AU, 1 and 8 (York and Maine)

            “Hey, buddy,” called York, giving Maine – or the Meta, or whatever he was now – a sardonic little wave. His other hand gripped tight to his pistol. “Nice to see you’re still rampaging around.”

            Maine-the-Meta turned slowly toward him, and Delta let out a stream of warnings so fast they were nearly incoherent.

            “York, fucking shoot him already,” Wash growled over the radio from wherever it was he’d taken cover.

            “Well that isn’t very nice, Wash,” York drawled, taking a step back as the Meta took one forward. “You’re ruining the class reunion.”

The Mysterious Case of the Banana-Scented Spaceship: A Fanfic

The Mother of Invention

Dormitories

 Room A

4:45am

            Connie woke up to the overpowering smell of bananas. This was not a scent she was used to associating with spaceships, so she felt a little out of sorts as she sat up on her elbows, blinking blearily at the neatly empty bed across the room. Carolina always made hers before she left in the mornings for training, tucking the blankets in and lining up all the right corners. Connie always left hers rumpled, partially because she didn’t care and partially out of a vague hope of annoying Carolina. (She never seemed to notice, to Connie’s disappointment.) She stretched now, yawning and pushing at the hair covering half of her face. Her part was all screwed up now from Wash trying to make it symmetrical and she frowned, tugging at a few stray strands as her feet hit the floor.

            As soon as she opened the door the banana-smell saturated the room, and she actually stopped in her tracks in surprise. She thought about the last time she had smelled bananas. You didn’t get a lot of fresh fruit out in space. You got dehydrated fruit, chewy strips of what supposedly used to be fresh fruit. The last time she’d had a banana had been…before she even enlisted, probably. Years.

            She made her way slowly down the hall, following the bananas, and wondered if this was a dream.

——

Fifteen Minutes Earlier

“The Coffee Room”

——

experimenting with first-person plural, Freelancer-style.

Order of Secession

-

We still sit alongside each other in the mess hall because it makes it feel like nothing’s changed – only it has changed, there’s more of us now, there’s Delta telling York nutritional information about the package of Oreos he’s decimating. (“One gram of protein. 95 milligrams of sodium. Thirteen grams of sugar. This substance is not recommended as fuel for athletic endeavours.”) York offers one to North who’s looking a little bit perplexed, because in his head Theta is murmuring a refrain that’s quickly getting tired (“What can I know what ought I to do what may I hope…”) but no less confusing. South’s there across from him, staring at the furrow between his brows like if she looks hard enough she’ll smooth the worry from his face just by being here. She watches his eyes because she wants him to look back, but he’s gazing past her at the wall. York puts the Oreo back.

            We are tired of talking past each other. We look to each other briefly, drowsily, trying to connect – but our glances always miss, because we are not really here the way we used to be. Our minds are caught in the webs of others and we did not expect this and so we have no escape plan.

We are used to there being plans.

Drabble: Sigma and the Cat

One day York carries a cat into Maine and Wash’s room. It’s scrawny and scruffed up and purring pretty loud, like a miniature Warthog motor. Maine watches as York hands it to Wash, who takes it on reflex because that’s what you do when York hands you something, even if it might be a bomb.

            The cat is not a bomb. Wash had been hunched over reading a moment before (he reads all the manuals and then he explains them to Maine because Maine didn’t like to read things before and Sigma makes it even worse now). But now he is sitting straight up, and though the blue Epsilon-light is rolling over his shoulders, Wash’s eyes are clear and his voice is solid as he informs York, “This is against protocol.”

            York shrugs and Delta, glowing quiet-green, rises and falls with his shoulders. “He jumped into the Falcon. Figured he deserves some respect for that.” He reaches over and scratches the cat behind the ears.

            Maine watches as Sigma takes the cat’s curved tail and turns the image into spirals that loop endlessly in on themselves, and whispers weird almost-words, things-that-try-to-be-words, and they loop endlessly too. (Later, Sigma gets a better handle on words. Sigma is the one who carves, “WE ARE THE META.” Sigma knows Greek so he thinks it’s funny, but nobody else really gets the joke.)

Suddenly Maine feels lonely. There aren’t enough people in the room. (Almost, Sigma corrects, there are almost enough, but they don’t have all the pieces yet for the fourth. And Maine doesn’t answer because he doesn’t really get it; he just knows that Sigma likes to put things together.) York is still there, responding mildly as Wash tries to argue with him and the cat curls up in Wash’s lap and Wash’s voice sort of falls flat as his hands go stroking across gray-striped fur. Epsilon flickers a little.

“You can keep him in here, if you guys want,” York says. “North helped me make a litterbox.” He doesn’t look at Maine, just Wash, because everyone’s looking at Wash lately, because Wash lately is weird and doesn’t make sense when he talks and Wash never doesn’t make sense when he talks. Wash explains the manuals.

“Cats,” says Epsilon suddenly, musingly. Maine waits for the torrent of words-wrapped-around-words that is supposed to come now, but Epsilon stays quiet. Sigma does not; Sigma lists other words for ‘cat’ and then says, Tiger, and then, burning bright. And then he is making up words again and Maine can barely hear Wash, who is talking back to Epsilon and sounding kind of desperate like he does when a mission’s going bad.

“What, did you have one?” Wash asks.

“Cats,” replies Epsilon. “No. There were never any cats.”

Wash looks stunned by the resulting silence and York smiles like he’s won something. York is always winning things. Except he lost his eye, but Maine’s pretty sure that was just Tex. Everybody lost something to Tex. Like their numbers, on the board. Sigma doesn’t always know what to do with numbers, so sometimes Maine just counts things. Now he counts the footsteps coming down the hall toward the door to his room.

“York,” says a voice when the footsteps stop and Maine has to find another thing to count. The voice is Carolina, he thinks, but it’s hard to hear through the fuzziness of Sigma stacking sounds on top of sounds, because he’s making up a song, or something. “York, where is it? I told you, you can’t keep animals on the ship.”

York looks at Wash, who’s petting the cat with a look of confused wonder on his face, and then he reluctantly steps outside the door and then Sigma gets curious so he goes a little quiet, and Maine listens as Carolina starts to argue with him. York never really argues back to anybody.

“If the Director finds out, you’ll –”

 “Carolina,” says York steadily. “Come look at him.”

Maine doesn’t see what looking at the cat is going to do. Carolina doesn’t get ruffled by normal girl stuff like cute animals, and besides the cat looks ugly and mangy anyway. But when Carolina comes into the room and looks at Wash petting the cat, the angry lines on her face kind of relax.

“Pet therapy,” says York, quietly. And Sigma is inspired again. Maine listens as he begins to invent new animals.

In Which the Director Goes to the Moon

One day CT got fed up with the whole thing and threw the Director into the moon. The Counselor tried to stop her so she threw him overboard too, and watched as he landed in an adjacent crater of said moon. Not a moon but the Moon, the Earth-moon, the one she used to look up at when she was growing up in Rhode Island. The one that shone down over the states that they all took their names from. And although both Delta and the accepted scientific standards would be quick to clarify that the moon itself was never actually emitting any light, CT liked to believe that maybe Delta and science could be wrong about some things. After all, science was one of the Director’s favorite toys, and with him gone, maybe they could just ignore it altogether.