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Halloween Drabbles 2014

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“Rimmer, would it kill you to shut up?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is my unexpected existence on another plane proving troublesome for you? Is the evidence of my sudden and untimely demise just a little distressing after all this time? Is my obvious lack of heavenly fulfilment starting to keep you up at night?”

“No.”

“…Well-!”

“Your bleeding chain rattling is. For smeg’s sake, Rimmer, how is a man supposed to get any sleep in this smegging place?”

Rimmer, departed from the mortal coil Rimmer with his glowing skin and bruised eyes and expression of permanent annoyance, simply pauses. Glares at him balefully as he drifts slowly back through the wall.

The chain rattling, to his extreme and thrilled surprise, only raises in volume after that.

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“Alright,” he says, very calmly he thinks considering their situation, and loads the gun with one sharp movement – bites back a wince as the crack of it echoes across the ballroom, “this should, hopefully, be simple enough. All we have to do is get out. After finding the others. And avoiding detection. And definitely avoiding those… Um-“

“Big Daddies,” Mack provides, with a surprisingly zen smile of his own as he crouches behind a chair and readies his own axe “…Fitz, can I ask you something?”

“Mm?”

“Why on earth did we choose to investigate Rapture?”

“If I knew that,” he offers brightly, “I think we wouldn’t even be here. Now – three, two, one-!”

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The zombies rise the day after Agincourt, rearing from the bloody ground with their claws clenching and their mouths gaping. Blank darkness in their eyes where life used to be, empty hunger where once there was reason.

It’s terrifying.

(He’s not really terrified.)

“You know,” Montjoy says casually, beheading a ragged French zombie with a casual wave of his arm and a slight narrow of his eyes, “I’m starting to think that you’re enjoying this, your majesty.”

It’s horrifying.

(He’s not really horrified.)

“Really?” He asks with a smile, and guts another few zombies in one smooth motion – hops up on a rock and shields his eyes against the sun, cheerfully estimates how far they have to go, “I’m starting to think that you enjoy insulting me, Montjoy.”

It’s an abomination.

“Me, your majesty? Never."

(He loves it.)

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He first meets Loki on a hunt, when he very inconsiderately takes out his prey right before him. A charming whisper, an integrating smile with the gun carefully hidden behind his back… And then the man, a lousy drunk with beery breath and broken eyes, collapses – a knife in his throat and blood dripping down his chin.

“That was rude,” he says, mildly. Notes Loki’s holier-than-thou sneer with a growing sense of amusement, “haven’t you ever heard that the Iron Man doesn’t like to share?”

Loki’s expression, shock mixed in with growing pleasure, is almost enough to make up for the loss.

(They fuck that night, on his expensive bed in his even more expensive hotel room. When they’re done, blood and sweat cooling on their skin, Loki rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling thoughtfully – toys with his knife as he does so, like he’s barely aware that he’s still holding it “…I’ve heard that you like torturing your victims.”

“Yes,” he says honestly, for playing around is for amateurs and he hasn’t been one of those since he was about fourteen, “it’s where my name comes from, you see. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I found this device called an Iron Maiden thrown out in the trash for anybody to steal. But I wasn’t a maiden by that point, you see, and so I sat down and brainstormed and eventually-“

“You talk too much,” Loki says absently, but with a smile. When he props himself up, on one aristocratic elbow, there’s mischief glowing warm and ready and tempting in his eyes, “I like torture. What would you say to the idea of combining our talents, pooling our resources to cause an even greater level of mayhem?”

Hm…”)

They’ve been inseparable from that day on.

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The apocalypse comes and goes, seemingly in the blink of an eye, and they find themselves the only ones left after it. Just the two of them, all by themselves, sitting in the wreck of Ystad with the rest of the world burning around them.

Being policemen, they have prepared for this day.

Svedberg scouts out a safe home, away from the ravaging hordes that appeared with the fall of society, and Martinsson thoughtfully seeks out weapons as he does so. Svedberg gathers information from the few news channels left broadcasting, while Martinsson makes sure that their new abode is as safe and secure as it can possibly be. Svedberg cooks, Martinsson hunts for food. Svedberg makes sure that he knows how to use their small stock of medical supplies, Martinsson expresses his determination that they’ll never have to. They curl up on the creaking floor together at night, and tell each other tales of their childhood as the world screams its dying breath outside…

It’s not the best of lives, but it’ll certainly do.

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Nightingale possessed is, quite frankly, a terrifying figure. All that grace, all that delicate beauty, all that power… Transformed, twisted by a whispering presence into something dark-eyed and hateful. Something smirking and soulless, as it allows itself to be bound to a chair by simple ropes and watches their shifting discomfort with open amusement.

“You’ll never get him back, you know,” it says casually, showing its teeth and laughing as he barely manages to stop himself from flinching back, “he’s mine now. The little Nightingale, and such fun we shall have…”

“We’ll see,” he says, through clenched teeth. And reaches for the first Latin book that Molly passes.

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By the time they realize that something is in their vents, creeping through their ship with all the stealthiness of death itself, it’s too late. All they can do is send a message out to the Federation, a stark warning that they’ll hopefully heed – lock down the ship and wait, one by one, for all of them to be picked off.

“I never got to tell you that I love you,” Geordi sighs, sitting in the decimated wreck of engineering with phaser set to kill in his lap, “not even once-“

“Forgive me for saying this, Geordi, but we no longer seem to have the time,” Data offers gently in reply, and aims his phaser at the ceiling as the slow shredding of metal starts to echo.

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Desdemona rises after three days and three nights; her hair free around her face, a knot of bruises around her throat and hunger dark and fearsome in her belly.

Her husband is dead, she finds quickly from her position lurking in the shadows – watching those little humans with their thrumming hearts and their quivering skin.

Emilia is also dead, she finds from her perch in the upper reaches of the castle – dangling off a roofbeam and listening to the murmur of their voices and the song of their blood soft in their veins.

Iago… Is alive.

She finds, when she rips open the door of his cell. Stands in the moonlight, a wraith of a figure, and smells his curiosity. His rage. The stench of his hunger, equal in fierce desperation to hers, buzzing from his skin like the loudest confession known to man.

He stares at her, only slight interest registering on his face.

…She smiles, hungrier than ever.

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Willmore goes down hard, one shot two shot, and only then can she breathe again. Lowering the gun with a trembling hand, resisting the urge to just close her eyes and let herself drift away.

“An incubus,” Angellica Bianca says from behind her, in a wondering voice like she’s just rising out of some dream “…I’ve never encountered one of those before.”

“I never thought they existed,” she confesses, in a little girl’s voice. And then blinks, coughs, shakes herself out of it and turns to Angellica Bianca with her bloody skirts whirling, “come on, we need to get out of here.”

Angellica Bianca, to her credit, doesn’t hesitate for a moment.

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“I killed a vampire tonight.”

“A vampire?” Etherege asks, impressed; smiles a genuinely interested smile, that one that only he can seem to manage, as he raises his beer to his lips and takes a long pull, “how did you manage that? The last time I faced a vampire…”

“I had to save him,” Wilmot interrupts calmly, taking a casual sip of his own beer like he couldn’t care less – like he could never care less, “it was a pernicious cunt, I’ll give it that if nothing else. If I’d still had a nose…”

“Will you shut it about the nose, Wilmot.”

“When you ‘shut it’ about how you took down that incubus masquerading as your husband, Behn…”

Etherege sighs, smiles again, takes another slow taste of his beer and leans back in his chair – this always happens when monster hunters gather together, he doesn’t know why he expected anything else.