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Bigman never tired of the stars. 

They were never as clear as this, looking up from the sands of Mars, or through the dirty cover of a dome. The ship's viewscreens weren't windows, but they felt like glass; a thin layer between him and the void. 

There are humans out there, he thought. Spreading. Like yeast in brewing beer. He thought of the first time he took a shower on Earth; how the water never seemed to end. How he ran from the bathroom, fearing it would flood. That. 

He'd talk to Lucky about it, maybe. An endless, brewing pot. 

His brother is a god, and none feel this deeper in their bones but Loki. He felt, too, in the air from the earliest age at which such things can be felt by men (or others), the unnamable thing. 

Not between them; a moon cannot itself shine, a snake does not glow with the heat in which it basks. This is a one-way street. 

It's not so bad. He worships his brother, after all, is that not what gods are for? Some may call that temptation, and it may well be.

When Thor smiles, how can he not reflect it? 

 

You could hear the slow echoes of children's laughter in the nearby courtyard; the unhurried play of a late summer's night. Even in the apocalypse, John thought, kids are just kids. 

"You realize that's a trap, right?" Lily looked at him over the top of whatever her latest invention was. He'd caught her sneaking glances at the viewscreen in between bouts of tinkering. 

"They're real kids."

"Sure, but look at them. They were put there intentionally. They're practically on display, waiting for someone to..." She sighed. "You're going to save them anyway, aren't you."

John shrugged, smiling. "Kids are kids." 

Not doing your job takes a significant amount of work. 

Deb Lister was a self-proclaimed procrastination expert, with going on 50 years experience of doing smeg all. Kryten pretended to care, but Deb knew she was all too happy for the added workload. In fact, finding the best hiding places for thrice-worn socks and threadbare boxers had become part of her routine, and that was a whole afternoon, easily. 

Annoying Rimmer was a category unto itself, but easily combined with shirking cockpit duty, and avoiding her eyes when one of them accidentally mentioned Jim or Bexley. 

Don't work. Don't think. 

V doesn't have any piercings, which somehow bothers people more than her lack of cyberware. Okay, sure; Kiroshis and a cyberdeck; a couple of tech features and junk, but that's like wearing clothes, really. You can't not, if you actually want to function in society. 

Whenever someone asks, she shrugs and says why; you want to stick something in my face, and that shuts them up, mostly. Truth is, she likes it this way. Makes her feel real. 

Besides which, now Johnny's gone, she feels like the memory of him is seeping out of every orifice. Why make it easier?

"Fox in the henhouse," said Barmy as I was about to leave.  

"Indeed," said I, hoping this would end the matter. 

"Fox," he repeated, winking. "Henhouse."

"Barmy," I said, "is this a time to accost me with poultry updates?" 

"Sir," Jeeves arrived invisibly, "I gather Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps is making an observation about the eligible young women currently residing at his estate, and his now being the only gentlemanly presence there." 

"Quite," said I, bidding Barmy farewell. We had a 9 o'clock to Euston, and Jeeves has a thing about trains, in that he prefers being on them before they depart. 

Ano, český rozumím
Ale jak? Vidí, prosim:
Moje věty? Zbytečné 
Moje slova? Jen a dve

Ano, znajim hezky barva:
Hnědá, žlutá, fialová
Oranžová, červený
Černobílé, zelený

Mluvim dobre odpoledne
Rano, vecer; děkujeme
Ale věty velké, dlouhé?
Díky, ne; nashledanou

Gramatika ja nenávi 
Který jazyk? Všechny! 
Norska, český, tlhIngan Hol
Anglisky - les tout, jawohl! 

Slova, slova, kde je ty?
Proc ty me nemluvi?
Kdy je rozumite mě?
Český je nemlivite! 

Přítel, pratel, autory
Co je ten slov pro drabblí?
Moře, kure nebo hrady?
Drabble, drabblat, drabblích?

Ano, český rozumím
Ale jak? Ty vidis tam:
Moje věty? Zbytečné 
Moje slova? Vidis: STO!

It was funny how quickly living in the Fade became... mundane. 

Rook stopped staring in awe at the ancient floating architecture, and started getting annoyed by randomly placed brickwork. Solving the building's mysteries went from adventure to a chore. Magical locks became the reason you were late for dinner, and on that note: The food.

They were constantly running out of everything, and re-stocking was a lot harder when you didn't have a cart or a horse. Ah, but then again... 

When she ran past the kitchen and smelled the aroma of freshly brewed beans, she knew he was home. 

Three years or so after Red Dwarf laid in a course back to Earth, Holly elected herself Captain. 

Red Dwarf didn't need a captain, but there were certain protocols that required confirmation from a senior crew member, and she was not about to go through that whole rigamarole again. 

There was a process, albeit not a democratic one. Getting herself declared sentient, finding loopholes in JMC policy, finding the right forms; all of that was easy. Resisting the urge to add pips to her projection - that was tricky. 

She had to, though. She'd never hear the end of it from Arnold. 

There was always an argument at The Hanged Man, though rarely in dwarvish. Hawke caught the tail end as whoever was on bouncer duty gently encouraged them to leave. 

"My Orzammarian is a little rusty," she later told Varric, accepting a goblet of wine from his 'personal stash', in his rooms above. "What does n'blz mean?" 

Varric snorted. "Nothing good. And that's not Orzammarian. Pidgin Trade, at best."

Hawke raised an encouraging eyebrow. 

"It's derogatory," he sighed. "For... people who put on airs. Pretend they're nobility."

"But you are-" 

The look on his face stopped the end of that sentence. 



 

Hey, it's me; Captain America.

You know, taking care of your body is the first step to becoming a superhero. I mean, not really, but... just read the script? Sure. Uh... oh, right: Nutrition. 

All the food we eat contains nutrients; carbohydrates, proteins, fats, vitamins, minerals, and water. When you think about it, nutrients are nature's Avengers... are they? Fine, I'll keep reading; no need for the hand gestures. 

My body grew big and strong because of a special serum, but even I need the right nutrients! In fact, right now I'm suffering from acute Iron- oh fuck off, Tony! 

Becoming a god is not hard. Quite a few members of the current Disc pantheon had godhood bestowed upon them¹. 

Drabble could not remember exactly how he'd come into being, but his first memory was that of myriad prayers rising in unison in early April. Every year, their thoughts and sighs of fervent faith sustain him through the month, and in return, he grants inspiration². Come May he sleeps, dreaming only of the Words³. 

And the Counting. 

 

_{1 Which explains the existence of Oops, goddess of accidental deification.
2 Somehow. He's unclear on the specifics. 
3 And sometimes a duck.}

There were so many of them, crawling up and around Shepard as she stepped into the nursery. So, so many little Krogans. Most were Wrex's kids, and some, improbably, his grandchildren. Krogans matured quickly, and wasted little time. 

"Story," one of the bigger ones chirped, tiny hands pulling at her pant-legs. "Story!" 

An avalanche of similar demands followed, until aunty Shep had settled into the human-comfortable chair by the beds. Dozens of eyes blinked, eagerly. 

"Tell the one where you and uncle Garrus-"

"No, the squid one!" 

"No, big scary robot!" 

Clearing her throat, she began. "Once upon a time..."

Harry sits in the disturbingly clean hotel room, the window of which provides almost a direct line of sight to where (in hindsight) he should have spent the night. Part of him is still there; remnants of his beard on the table for someone else to clean up. 

He's going home today. He can feel it. 

Downstairs, Kim will be waiting for them to head back to the village, then the island, and then... 

When the case is solved and he finds the solution to this mystery... they will find him. He knows this too. Just not who they are.

Everything is faster. 

His body, his thoughts; clearer, too. This diamond light - and he can understand it now, fully - is focusing every aspect of his being into a kaleidoscope of perfection. Rimmer exhales, and the movement of each tachy-atom of his body registers in detail, as easily as spelling out his own name. 

The lungs he does not have expand, much like his mind.  Finally, he understands himself! The complex scar tissue of past trauma petrify and shatter; it is not enough. More. Dig deeper! What else are you repressing?

He spins around, grinning...

...coming face to face with Lister. 

You want to know what's funny? Free falling, like I am right now; scared witless in a metal (okay, mostly metal) box next to a sun no human has seen befrore, not this close... actually, it's not that funny. What was my point? 

Oh yeah. Skydiving. 

In the context of general relativity, where gravitation is reduced to a space-time curvature, a body in free fall has no force acting on it. But if you're wearing a parachute, once you reach terminal velocity, it kind of feels like your body is... cushioned. Supported. 

I glare at Tau Ceti. 

Must be nice. 

"I've been reading my dad's books," Marty said, swirling the ice cubes in his glass of Pepsi. 

Doc turned around, his interest half-raised. 

Marty shrugged. "There's time travel in some of them." 

"Yes, they're impressively prescient. The science nearly holds up!" 

"He talks about paradoxes." Marty glanced at his glass and the hand holding it. Solid now. Permanently?

Doc patted his back absent-mindedly. "This timeline is perfectly stable."

Marty exhaled, slowly. "Okay." 

"It's not the one you were born in." Doc smiled, unreassuringly. "Technically speaking, that isn't your family." He nodded toward Marty's house.  "Not your paradoxes, not your problems!" 

The padd dropped from Julian's hand as he staggered back, gasping. 

Garak, for his part, hardly blinked. One learns, hemming trousers, not to react unless for effect. "Well," he said, "I'll take that as a no."

"Wh... what?"

"The enigma tale. The solution was not to your liking, I take it?"

"You kissed me!"

"Your powers of observation astonish me. Yes, just before the sun set. Forgive me for being romantic."

There it was, a sudden realization in his eyes. "Sun... kissed. Sunkissed. The murderer was sunburned. You kissed me as a hint?"

Garak allowed himself a smile. "What else?"

It made no sense to describe a sound as lonely, but that was the word that came to Lije as he held the flimsy sheet. It was no bigger than a clock-display, and showed a crude animation; a child's stick-figure drawing come to life. Now and then, it made a soft squeak.

"This belonged to the victim?"

The neighbor, a dour-faced woman, shrugged. "He said it was some kinda robo-pet, like them rich kids have." She snorted. "Look at it!" 

Lije did. The dead man had no family, no friends. We'll find your father's killer, he told the flickering creature. 

Nog beamed up at Jake, anticipation written all over his face. "Well? Did you figure it out?"

Jake shrugged. "Honestly... I don't know. I liked it," he added quickly. "But I don't get it."

"Don't worry!" Nog took the pad from Jake's hand, and began to flick through the pages. "Ferrengi murder mysteries are difficult. Let's add it all up. Start by looking at his assets, then compare-"

"No, I mean, I don't even get who the victim is."

"What do you mean? The money! He lost all his money, and the trick is to figure out how it happened." 

The note on his watch lit up in bright, friendly colors when Rimmer woke. Remember to die today! :)

Early on in the history of the continuum, it had been discovered that 300 years was the maximum lifespan an Ace iteration could complete while remaining relatively sane. Thus, any Ace that managed to survive that long, had to... reboot. 

The process was simple: Concentrate, exit your body, and re-enter. Up the ziggurat, etc. 

Rimmer inhaled, and-

Rimmer exhaled, gasping at the lifeless body on the floor. "There's been a murder! Hang on, who is that? Who am I?"

The cycle continued. 

Communicating the basic concept is easy. Turns out murder is pretty common on Erid, which is depressing, but also saves a ton of time and explanation. They also have the concept of fiction - that's all fine. 

The problem is the puppet show. 

Rocky insists on it. I get it; he likes physical things and movement and all of that. Fine. But you try to recreate an episode of Murder She Wrote using only gestures and crudely 3D-printed puppets. 

Actually, no; that's not the worst part. It's that he solves them. Every. Single. One. 

I need to make some translation software. 

The neurons fire gently, but firmly; the inner monolog equivalent of a polite cough. So, my brain says, let me get this straight. You're doing a drabble challenge while on vacation, in Czech. Again."

"Yes?"

How many years has it been now? Do you even speak Czech?

"Honestly, I've lost count. And ne, I mean, no."

There is the faint impression of a sigh. Okay. Just... Tak si tam teda jdi, ale pak se nediv! 

"I won't be."

I thought you said you didn't speak Czech. 

I don't, of course. But I get the general idea. Ano: Tak jsem tady. 

There it was. The second to last onion in the universe.

"I did tell you," Kryten said, failing to hide an undertone of smugness, "we had a second crate on the lower supply deck. I'm fairly certain I did tell you."

"Yeah, all right." Lister angled his knife carefully, eyeing the vegetable like a stray ball in a game of pool. "I need to get it right, this time."

After a long moment of silence, Kryten pretended to cough. "I'll give the two of you a moment alone, sir."

Lister raised the knife. Hesitated.

Onions grew from bulbs, didn't they?

Červený trpaslík log:

1. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Nevidim myš.

2. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Nevidim myš.

3. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Myš nevim.

4. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Myš?

5. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Bez myš.

6. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: ...myš?

7. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: ...velky myš?

8. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Myš nevim.

9. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: MYS, uh, myš! Velky myš! Tady!

10. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: ...nevidm myš.

11. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Bez myš. Bez rodiny.

12. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Myš ne tady.

30. Duben, ??? roky po Frankensteinovi: Proc... Jsem tady.

The first time they met is a matter of perspective. As Emmet sees it, he first got to know Marty in a chaotic blur of events in 1931.

Marty first met Doc in the early 80s, but neither of them feel that really counts.

What age they are is irrelevant. Death is not a handicap in the far future; aging is reversible. They can meet at any point of their respective timelines and be of an age.

How they define themselves is similarly fluid - all they know is it happened quickly.

Speed dating Marty jokes. May it last like carbon.

"Why'd they make these people?" The crowd of hooting, wheezing and undulating GELFs spread out across the city square like jam on a soggy piece of toast, begging the question.

Kryten blinked, accessing his databases. "The kojellizards were one of a number of GELF species engineered to test the boundaries of chimeric genginering, sir."

"Eh?" Lister shifted to the left, avoiding a passing transparent blob of fur and scales.

"All GELFs are chimeric combinations of various species, with a little bit of human DNA tossed in. In short," Kryten shrugged, "they wanted to see what they could get away with."

Kirk was doubled over, his hand clamped over his mouth. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of Spock's head, ready to compose himself in an instant if the Vulcan turned around.

"I can assure you," Bones said again, torn by the duelling forces of exasperation and the need to remain in control, "it's just an expression. The kid meant nothing by it, he's new."

"I cannot understand the logic," Spock insisted. "Human skin is not green, nor does skin tone indicate level of skill or experience."

"Yes, but-"

Kirk was almost entirely certain Spock was kidding. Almost. Probably.

The nodes were nests. A shrubbery of wires circumnavigating the netrunner's chair, diodes blinking in discordant alarm.

Honestly, to V, it looked almost cozy.

You'll have do some serious gardening here, Johnny smirked within her head. She wasn't sure if the fact that he'd picked up on the gardening metaphor was endearing or not, but it was... something.

"It'll do for now. Obviously not a long term set up."

But she wanted it to be, she realized. A soft bed of cables and diodes; as close to home as she could get with a digitized dead mean in her skull.

Today was some Orlesian holiday, judging by the chatter among Skyhold's bored nobles. Varric might have dragged up the name, but as it was, he preferred to stare directly into the fire.

Night of Miracles, that's what they called it. Varric snorted.

If only he'd gone with the Inquisitor. Then he'd be right there with her; facing the Fade once again, like a team. Possibly, it was an act of kindess; so Varric didn't have to be there when-

He heard her breath before he felt the hand on his shoulder.

"Surprised?" Hawke grinned.

"Never had a doubt." Miracles, indeed.

They had no name for it, at first; this unknown thing that warped the minds of their children and turned them away from their parents. An illness, maybe, if the Cats had words for such things. (They did not. Not then.)

They smelled wrong.

When they spoke, it made no sense, and when you spoke to them, they did not understand.

The Change, the elders called it; some said it came every few years. That it made the Cat race stronger.

Some, who knew the tongue of Cloister and had read the ancient texts, whispered another words. Softly. Reverently.

Evolution.

There was no talking to him, Rook thought, staring at the empty bed; he was no longer there.

She wasn't sure if she meant Varric, or Solas. She was sure that she did not want to speak to whoever was lingering in the doorway behind her.

"Didn't think you'd be in here." It was Lace. That was okay.

"He said he abhorred blood magic."

Lace shrugged. "Honestly, he's got a bad history with blood, in general."

Rook turned, sharply.

"Hey, I can say that! Listen - Solas said a lot of things. Blood magic is bad when shitty people do it."

Shepard can feel it, under her skin; the lack of herself.

She has no idea how they stitched her back together (like a ragdoll, she thinks, tracing the outline of her scars in the mirror), but you cannot come back from the dead without a few souvernirs. And of course, they didn't finish the job.

Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night with bloody fingernails, but not a mark on her body. Maybe it's rapid healing. Maybe they put her brain together wrong. Maybe both.

All she knows is: It's inside her; the itch she can't scratch.

Something jumped in the window, fired four arrows into a wooden statue of Fen'Harel, and yelled "gonna hunt that blighting egg down and crack it," before disappearing down the stairs and into the burning streets of Minrathous.

"Ah," Dorian told the reeling Rook, brightly, "you've met Sera."

"You know that elf-shaped bur?"

"Be glad she didn't hear you calling her that, but yes."

"Did she say something about an... egg?"

"Yes," he grinned, "that's her charming name for..." he made a smoothing motion over his head, then nodded at the statue.

"Solas?" Rook gasped.

"Oh yes. Happy hunting, I say."

V hated taking Johnny to the market.

She hated taking him anywhere but the market was next level. Still, she had errands to do that could not be put off forever. Maybe it would be better this time.

It was not.

Fuck, V! That's a vintage NeoPop Chrome Synth!

"What," she said, under her breath, "is it valueable or something?"

Nah, it's trash. Sure brings back memories, but no one's gonna buy that.

A young woman, chromed to the tits and clearly high, picked up the instrument and immediately bought it. She gave a little squeal of joy.

V grinned.

They had been walking in silence for several minutes when Lije finally spoke. "Your shoes," he said, aware of the bluntness with which the line was delivered.

Daneel paused. "To what are you referring, Partner Elijah?"

"You took them off. When we entered the apartment."

"Is that not the custom?"

"It is." He shrugged. "I thought maybe... they were part of you?" It sounded ridiculous, spoken out loud. "You don't need them, after all."

"I also wear clothes, though I do not need them."

"Fair point. I-"

"I can take them off too, if-"

"No." Lije kept walking, face flushed.

Slowly, Garak ran a hand along the elongated skull of the Brachiosaurus. "What a surprisingly elegant creature. The neck is particularly impressive."

Julian tried to hide his amusement. "You think so?"

"Oh," Garak chided, gently, "don't give me that look. I'm well aware that humans consider my kind to be - what is the term?" Before Julian could interject, he continued "lizards."

"That isn't what-" Julian stuttered, helplessly looking around for something to distract them both, "I mean, I didn't bring you here to-"

"Such an interesting museum, though." Garak let him stew. "What an interesting idea for a first date."

Kochanski's nose wriggled as she frowned, though in such a dimensionally alternate way from his Kris that Lister found himself unmoved by it. "Really," she said, "they sold you for spare parts?"

"Not exactly," Lister hesitated, "I wasn't gonna go through with it."

"They sold you as a groom to the Kinitawowi as part of a scam. That's perfectly fine, then."

"We were desperate! Didn't your crew ever run into any savage GELF tribes?"

"No," she scoffed, "that's an offensive term. We traded with them; My best friend is Kinitawowi."

Lister sighed. His alternate was even better at fake weddings.

It was the first question anyone ever asked him, and Odo tried not to take it personally. Still, he could not repress a twitch of indignation.

"You came back?" It was Julian this time, blinking stupidly in the soft light of the sick bay.

"Should I not have?"

Julian frowned, then smiled, then frowed again. "I'm happy to see you, of course!"

Odo rumbled in amusement. "But?"

"Well... The Great Link is supposed to be... Paradise. Unlimited, endless joy and community. Why give that up?"

Hearing footsteps approaching, Odo closed his eyes. He'd know her anywhere. "It has its limits."

After the million year mark, Holly allowed himself to be cautiously optimistic. They were making great time, and the cats were doing their best to repopulate. All right, so it'd be a bit of a different population that originally intended, but Holly didn't like to be pedantic.

The second million mark was the worst. Holly had gone through every possible gender option xe could find, but none of them made xem feel better. Things were not going great with the cats; they'd probably leave eventually, and then what?

Silent running?

He put on a brave face, literally, when Lister woke.