This is a collection of drabbles (100-word ficlets) I've written in response to challenges issued in the LFN fandom over the past few years. I am posting these in reverse chronological order (with the most recent ones first). If I do more, I'll update this page and make a note on the index page. The "prompts" for each drabble are listed as the titles to each. Some contain strong language and/or violence. *** Escape Dori doesn't believe in heaven. But when she sees the empty rooftop, she rejoices like it's the threshold to paradise. Beyond, the cityscape beckons. The sky is pale; the air cool, filled with the distant noises of freedom. She breaks into a broad smile. She made it. She knew she would. She takes a step forward -- and freezes, as the vista flickers. Blurs. Then vanishes. She stares at the encircling walls, senses deadening. She'd cry, if only she could breathe. Dori doesn't believe in God. But when the door to the corridor begins to slide open, she prays anyway. *** Seeing the Invisible Late at night, the dead watched Walter. Frigid drafts of air assaulted his skin. Amorphous shadows lurked in peripheral vision. Disembodied footsteps circled the main floor, pausing as they passed the entrance to Munitions. In the silence, he felt lifeless eyes inspect him. Then the hollow echo resumed and moved away. One night, the footsteps crossed the threshold and headed for his worktable. "What do you want from me?" he screamed. No one answered. The sound stopped and never entered Munitions again. The answer came to him the next day. Knowing it, he lost his fear. He was their witness. *** Use the words: nothing, orange juice, madness, nice Taking a quick swallow of his orange juice, Operations scanned the monitor. "I see the Orion Project is on schedule," he observed in approval. "Slightly ahead of projections, in fact," replied Madeline. She smiled at him from across the table, cradling a teacup in her hands. "Any useful data?" "Nothing conclusive yet." "Side effects?" She gave a dainty shrug. "It induces madness in 16.3 percent of test subjects, but that's within the acceptable range." He nodded. "So what's the next step?" "A field test." "Anyone in mind?" Her smile returned, tiny but telling. "I thought Nikita." He grinned. "How nice." *** Nikita and Paul If only he had chains, he could clank them mournfully and groan. But the chains, alas, turned out to be a myth. Instead, he had to resort to less amusing pastimes. Creating cold spots. Standing in her peripheral vision. Playing with the light switches and computer settings until she swore out loud. She tried to ignore it. But he could see it got to her nonetheless. That's when he laughed in her ear, mocking her predicament as she wound up making the same choices he had. "You thought you were so much better," he taunted. "How does it feel now?" *** Michael and Madeline She found him in his office. Lights off; desk empty; expression vacant. A box of Simone's belongings sat in the corner. She could see he hadn't opened it. "Go home," she said. He nodded, but without enthusiasm. He made no move to get up. She watched him in silence; he stared into nothingness. "Over time, it gets easier," she offered. At last, he raised his eyes to look at her. "How do you know?" His voice rasped, almost a whisper. Because I lost someone, too, she wanted to say. But couldn't. She took a breath. "I don't. But I hope." *** Romantic Aspects of Walter or Birkoff [Note: this one was posted under the pseudonym "Notsuchalurker" instead of my usual JayBee] I like that flustered look he gets when I'm around. Those long eyelashes flutter like a shy little girl's. The tips of his ears flush pink. And a tiny sheen of sweat beads along his temples. Is it jealousy? Is it fear? Yeah, but I also see lust, trying to hide behind those colored lenses. I bet I could make him cry. I bet I could make him beg. I bet I could make that soft ass writhe until he finally bled. I saunter by again, basking in his discomfort. "Hiya Seymour." I lick my lips. He stiffens. "Hi Greg." *** TRs and HRs Switch Places She says she's not a killer, but I know better. She's too fluid, too graceful -- too natural. That she takes no joy in dispensing death doesn't diminish the instinct. It shows in the flash in her eyes when she pulls the trigger -- an arc of blue voltage, flaring and searing through the night sky. She denies it. She fights it. Someday, she'll come to peace with it. Until then, she can blame Section. Or fate. Or me. I wish I could take that blame, but that would be a lie. I gave her direction, but she created herself. *** What is home? He despised being kept out late. Especially on business. He had sulked through the entire evening, glancing pointedly at his watch until his colleague finally got the hint. Only a few blocks to his apartment. In the summer humidity, his shirt clung to his back; sweat itched at his temples. Still, he walked briskly, the anticipation tingling like a cool mist against his skin. He would have bounded up the stairs, except that the neighbors had been complaining about noise lately. Inside, he took a long breath of contentment: she was waiting, trussed and gagged. He reached for his scalpel. *** Endings She liked flowers. Sometimes, when the sun was shining, the nice man would push her through the garden in the wheelchair. She liked the colors. Reds, pinks, yellows, purples, greens. So cheerful. Once, when a bee alighted on the petals, she laughed and tried to catch it. The flowers reminded her of something. Something out of reach. Something she once had, or once had wanted. When she thought about it too hard, it made her cry. She shifted in bed and stared out the window. Smears of water blurred the glass. Rain again. She rolled over and closed her eyes. *** Fix Something That Bothered You He stared at the mirror, frowning in the cruel fluorescent light. Every line in his face stood out in sharp relief; every gray hair on his head shone like a beacon. The silver strands almost glowed: their abundance a mark of decline, an invitation for a new generation to test his strength. To rise up and cast him aside. He picked up the bottle of bleach from the countertop and ran his hand through his hair. In a few minutes, he would look bold. Vigorous. Unchallengeable. Or would he? He set the bottle down and shook his head. Bad idea. *** Food "No, not like that." Madeline reached around Nikita, placing her hands on top of the other woman's. Gently, but with a firm touch, she began to guide Nikita’s movements. Nikita stiffened, conscious of her fumbling awkwardness. "Relax. Let me show you." Madeline's voice sounded in her ear, soft and rich with encouragement. Nikita exhaled slowly. The tension in her muscles eased; resistance vanished. Passive, she allowed Madeline to direct her hands, repeating the pattern until the motion became smooth. Natural. Automatic. When Madeline finally released her grasp, she hardly even noticed. "You see, Nikita? Never hack at your food. Slice." *** Use One of the Four Elements It was the stench that caught his attention. It broke through his concentration like a steady tap on his shoulder, distracting and relentless. Exasperated, he slammed the timer onto the worktable, rattling loosened springs and screws. Wrinkling his forehead, he sniffed the air cautiously. Then again. Sour. Sharp. Raw. He looked at the floor in dread. The water lapped around his boots, staining them dark at the ankles. "Oh, crapola," he groaned. "Not again!" Being underground wasn't always an advantage. Not when a hard spring rain sent torrents streaming through Paris' antiquated sewers. He sighed. Time to find his wrench. *** Madeline's POV When the bullet tore through his thigh, I felt a twinge of satisfaction flush my skin. He writhed, then struggled to maintain composure; I watched with a grim kind of pleasure, acid but sweet. The bullet wasn't truly necessary. An alternate profile would have been equally plausible. A simple fall. An illness. A drug overdose. Anything that could have explained a sudden memory loss. Shooting him was superfluous. Gratuitous. Perhaps even petty. But I remembered the smug look on his face when he spoke, full of contempt and bravado. "No thanks, I prefer younger." He's lucky I didn't aim higher. *** Second Person POV, Future Tense When they approach, blank-faced and silent, you'll feel your stomach curdle instinctively. With a snap of the latch, they'll open the briefcase, its polished metal gleaming like a mirror. You'll blink. You'll swallow back the panic that swells like bile in your throat. As your bladder empties its hot liquid onto the chair beneath you, you'll close your eyes. It won't hurt at first -- just the sting of a surgical stroke. But then the injections begin, and you'll convulse as if your internal organs might explode. You'll scream. Then cry. Then whimper. Then beg. And then you'll talk all night. *** Kill Someone Off Taking a deep breath, she faced the podium. There, the silver device sat, gleaming under a single spotlight. She had only one question. "Why me?" "Because of your compassion," said the disembodied voice. It was the voice of her father. She shuddered at the thought of him conversing with himself. "But how can a computer judge compassion?" she demanded. Lights flickered; disks whirred. After several minutes, she frowned. The blinking had become an alarming red glow, the whirring transformed into harsh grinding. When she saw the smoke and sparks, she ran from the room. The building shook with the explosion. *** Set Someone Free They embraced. Stiffly, but with the tenderness of those who once hadn't been strangers. Leaning in, she whispered in his ear. "You can't come back. I'm sorry." She pulled away, withdrew a pistol, and fired twice. When the bullets tore into the soft plaster of the wall behind him, he understood. It had to be this way. Hurriedly, he sprawled on the floor, feigning death while she spoke to the stunned young operative outside. Then she left, and never looked back. After nine years of waiting, all he had wanted was to go home. Instead, he was free. And alone. *** Games He stalks along like a scarecrow on methamphetamines; you hear no words, just a gibbering stream of noises. There is light. It sears your corneas, piercing the retinas. Then there is darkness, plunging you into an airtight tomb. Light. Dark. Screaming. Silence. Repeat. Until one day he turns his back on you, and you see the gun on his belt. You spring; snatch; squeeze, the hatred of a thousand hells burning in your heart. Click. As peals of childlike laughter shake his body, a woman chuckles over an intercom. "God, Sparks, I can't believe she fell for that one." *** Write a Crossover He found it by accident. Roaming from catacombs to metro tunnels, fleeing the scorching summer light, he entered a ventilation shaft and discovered paradise. An underground city, where he could walk by day without fear. He explored, a gray fog curling around corners and under doorways, then slowly rematerializing. When he saw her, he smiled. Back towards him, she misted a pink flower, her long, pale neck extended like an invitation. He approached her swiftly. Before she could cry out, he pierced the flesh and gulped a greedy mouthful. Yeeuucchhh! Grimacing, he spat out the liquid in revulsion. Completely cold-blooded! *** Sex The moonlight turned his skin into pale marble, sculpting muscles into the smooth lines of sleep. Only the gentle rise and fall of his chest broke the stillness. She watched him briefly, then slowly stirred, careful not to wake him. She lifted the sheets and slipped from the bed; barefoot, she moved silently across the darkened room. Heart pounding, she eased the drawer open and peered inside. She smiled. The stolen disk. Mission successful. "You little slut." His voice was grim behind her. "You're Section, aren't you?" Before she could whirl around to face him, the bullet shattered her skull. *** Comings and Goings The van door flew open and we spilled out, blinking in shock at the antiseptic brightness. Our captors shoved; we stumbled, earning curses and cuffs on the head. Just beyond the entrance, a man stood waiting, his face lined and grim. His watery blue gaze assessed us, one by one, until it finally landed on me. I stared back, uncowed. A freedom fighter shows no fear. "Take them to containment," he said in a voice as flat as death. Then a corner of his mouth twisted faintly upwards. "Except this last one. They're ready for him in the White Room." *** What Do Characters Do on Downtime? Slowly, George released the tweezers' grip, placing the stamp on the page with meticulous exactitude. An 1860 Kingdom of Naples half tornese, in pristine condition. Quite a rarity. And so beautiful, its dark blue engraving illuminating a world lost forever. Such fragile wisps of paper. Yet they outlived the governments that issued them. Politicians' speeches silenced, diplomats' maneuverings stilled, even spies' secrets forgotten: somehow, these flimsy creatures survived, mounted in albums and locked inside cabinets by sherry-sipping collectors. He smiled. Nations rose and fell like cresting waves. Only the debris remained, strewn on history's shores, to be gathered and admired. *** Write About a Secondary Character -- #1 She leaned toward me so closely, I could smell the fragrance of her hair. So soft, so vulnerable, so trusting. So unlike me. The enemy's warning cry came too late. In an instant, I tore through her throat. The skin was supple and yielding; it punctured easily, with an eruption of warm liquid that filled my mouth with its tang. Her blood. My blood. Pulsing in crimson streams to oblivion. I looked up in triumph. The enemy stared, furious, deprived of her prize. I was never much of a father. Until today. Rest in peace, my daughter: you're safe now. *** Write About a Secondary Character -- #2 She approaches, brandishing the shiny-object-of-pain. The one that severs and amputates. Reducing me. Diminishing me. Rendering me into captive obedience. I was meant to soar in a forest, stretching my boughs in every direction to catch the dancing glint of sunrays, opening my roots to drink in the cool summer rain. Instead, I pose on this prison-shelf, stunted and contained. Never having braved a thunderstorm, never having swayed and rustled in the wind. The glass rumbles open with the strength of an earthquake. My sap freezes. My leaves shiver. Even my roots tense in apprehension. Snip. Snip. Snip. Helllllllp meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! *** Defining Moments The anteroom was silent, oppressive in its dimly-lit opulence. Waiting alone, she felt like she might disappear amidst the ornate furniture and gilt-framed oil paintings, a child overwhelmed by the trappings of adult wealth and power. The men meeting behind the heavy oak door thought her young and foolish. Perhaps she was. No matter. In the end, she would convince them to let her try. Then she would implement her vision: to save the world from its own excesses -- whether it wanted saving or not. The door swung open, and her heart beat faster. "Adrian? They'll see you now." *** What If Nikita Had Never Come to Section? "Well, well, if it isn't Sugar, come to brighten my day!" exclaimed Walter, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. With a smirk on her lips and a flirtatious strut to her walk, Lynette strolled into Munitions. Reaching the worktable, she leaned across it and propped herself up by the elbows, taking care to flash just a hint of cleavage. Tilting her head coyly, she smiled and twisted a strand of blonde hair through her fingers. "Oh, Walter, you'd call any pretty girl that, wouldn't you?" He gasped and clapped his hand to his chest in an exaggerated show of offense. "Me? Never."