Subject: [FFML] Grab Bag Of Teasers
From: David Johnston
Date: 3/9/1999, 5:38 PM
To: ffml@fanfic.com

And Now For a Message From Our Sponsor:

I have only one thing to say.  Those who are complaining about the 
"mean-spirited" nature of the list are doing nothing to detract from it. 
Do something constructive.  And now in an effort to do as I say...

First a Sailor Moon/Crystal Tokyo fragment.  This is set in the world
of Sailor Moon Expanded, but is not an approved part of their 
continuity.
______________________________________________________________________
Paint Me A Picture.

Magnesite:

Business was slow.  Truth is, business was always slow
in Crystal Tokyo.  Luckily I didn't have any competition.
I was the only private investigator in a city of millions
of people.  Millions of honest citizens who trusted each 
other so much it would make any youma, want to toss 
his cookies.  Fortunately I don't eat anymore, at least
not food. 

Still, even in this tinkertoy paradise, there are some
liars, some cheaters and some people who just want to let
someone else handle a problem.  That's where I make my 
living if you can call it that.  For them it's like 
donating blood.  Go home, take a nap, good as new.  For 
me, it's survival.  Once every couple of months somebody 
comes in, willing to fork over some lifeforce to find 
out if their significant other has another, or maybe 
just to ask me to track down poor Fluffy who's gone and 
got lost.  Titanite once sent me a copy of an old film 
named "Ace Ventura".  Not funny.  

What was even less funny, is that the old stand-bys weren't
standing by any more.  People were keeping better track
of their pets and baubles.  We were in the middle of a 
serious outbreak of domestic harmony and personal 
responsibility.  Forget about an actual criminal case, 
the last one I'd been able to get had been something 
like fifty years ago.  It was enough to shake my faith 
in the imperfectibility of humanity.  

Sure, I could tell myself it was just a slow spell, but
that wouldn't help me keep psychoplasm and soul together
until business picked up again.  Counting on Margrave to
be generous enough to tide me over was a bad bet.  I was
already deeper in hock to her than I liked to think about
and she didn't even know how to spell "generosity" at the
best of times which this wasn't.  Her business was 
steadier than mine, but a bigger market just means more
potential for competition.  That's where "Helen Troy" 
came in, until somebody took her off the playing field,
permanently.
_________________________________________________________

It wasn't hard for Hino Rei, Sailor Mars, to tell she was 
at the right place.  The two young foot patrol officers 
outside the apartment looked distinctly ill.  In fact
one of them was so ill that he didn't even notice her
her distinctive red and white short skirted uniform from 
his bent over position.  The other swallowed 
uncomfortably and saluted.

She nodded in response and asked, "Who's in charge in 
there?"

"Lt. Zenigata, ma'am."  

She hadn't really needed to ask.  As the most experienced
officer in Public Safety, Zed supervised all the homicides 
and life-threatening assault investigations in Crystal 
Tokyo.  Oh yes, they still happened even in a supposed 
"utopia".  Utopia is a relative concept.  If murder 
attempts become a thousand times less common, do you 
have a utopia yet?  If improved emergency services and
enhanced medical facilites make it less likely that
the attempt will succeed, are you there yet?  Rei didn't
think so.  "Better" wasn't "perfect" and her job gave her
an in depth view of every imperfection.

She walked in and took a look around.  Not just a murder
but a really messy one.  Vital fluids decorated the 
walls in macabre patterns like morbid abstract art.  Rei 
clenched her teeth and concentrated on not embarassing 
herself.  The two community patrollers were too young to 
have ever seen a murder scene in the line of duty, much
less one like this and she was sure they would be 
keeping the P.S.O. therapists busy for the next few months 
at least.

Zed nodded to her, cooly.  He was a chubby balding man
who disdained the cosmetic spells that so many inhabitants
of Crystal Tokyo used.  "Sailor Mars?  What brings 
you to something like this?"  His lack of welcome was 
understandable.  Security took precedence over Public
Safety.  Mars was the only person in Crystal Tokyo 
able to take an investigation away from him and she could
do it at a moment's notice.  

"Helen Troy was considered a low-grade security risk."

"Really?  If you don't mind me asking, why would that 
have been?"

"Her background was a blank, she was an immigrant,
and she knew magic.  That's enough to put someone on my
list."

He laughed a little and jerked his head at the forensic
magician just finishing a divination ritual.  "Does that 
mean that Rogan is on your list?  He knows magic and 
he's an immigrant, after all."

"He was when he first arrived, but at least in his case
we know who he really is and where he comes from. ."

"Good thing.  I'd hate to think my most valuable man was
down as a security risk."  It was true.  One of the things
that kept Crystal Tokyo such a law abiding city was the
knowledge that getting away with a reported crime was
almost impossible given modern day criminal investigation
techniques, particularly the forensic divinations practised
by sorcerers such as Rogan.  However, people with the 
required talent were always in short supply and high 
demand.  

Rogan approached the two of them and bowed respectfully
to Mars.  "I'm honoured to meet you, Sailor Mars."
His eyes on her were almost worshipful.  Not surprising,
really; Rei remembered reading in his file that he'd
organised a local fan-club for the Senshi before coming
to Crystal Tokyo.  

She smiled and said, "I understand that you are an 
exceptionally gifted forensic magician."  Rogan wasn't
a bad looking young man, she noted.  Rather handsome in
fact, with rather long brown hair and blue eyes.  His 
manner almost reminded her of...

No.  Rei refused to emulate Makoto.  For centuries 
Sailor Jupiter had been projecting the image of a boy 
who had really been a jerk on any man who interested her.
This boy...man...was nothing like Yuuichiro.  Still...

He looked guilty as he confessed.  "Not in this case, I 
fear.  I've tried everything I know, but have gained no
useful information.  The killer knows magic, and 
apparently after the initial frenzy carefully obscured
what had been done."

"You don't mind if I have a look at things, do you?"

"I'd welcome your intervention, Sailor Mars," he said
earnestly, "If you can't do it, nobody can."  

As it turned out, nobody could.  The flame she summoned
looked impressive as it floated in the center of the room,
but the visions it revealed were fragmentary and focused
entirely on the victim being clawed to death and not the
killer.  Her vision hadn't been so obscured for a good
nine hundred years.  Feeling Rogan at her side, straining
himself for a look at what she was seeing hadn't helped,
but probably hadn't made a difference.  

Still, she shot him a glare.  He wilted under it, knowing
perfectly well that his effort had produced nothing but
a little distraction for her.  Pyromancy wasn't numbered
among his skills.  

"Sorry," he offered.  "I'll...get out of your way." 
Zed seemed to be ignoring both of them as he talked 
quietly to a forensic technician.  Rogan walked past them
on his way out, but his departure didn't really make a
difference.

When the flame went out, Zenigata turned back to her.  
"Did you get anything?"

She shook her head, "Nothing your technicians couldn't 
figure out on their own."

"Perhaps less,"  Zed noted, with a hint of satisfaction.
"They found this."  He held up an evidence bag containing
bloodstained strands of white hair, some long, some quite
short.

Mars had a strange look in her eyes as she peered at the 
discovery.  There was an expectant silence, and then she
said:

"Margrave." 
________________________________________________________

I've got more, but this seems about the right length for a
teaser.  

And now we turn to a BGC piece which needs a lot of work.
_____________________________________________________________

Knowing You

A slash of light, cutting through the darkness, leaving
a darkened scorch mark on armour.  

"The smaller boomer looks to be a 54 or 55C.  You can see
it attacking with a mouth laser, but it doesn't seem to be
doing much damage..."

A shambling hunchbacked goliath moves with surprising speed
as its fingers tear into an abandoned car, wrenching it 
into the air and tossing it at an elusive, smaller 
opponent.  

"I don't recognise the other one.  It doesn't have seem to
have any weapons so it could be some kind of new heavy 
construction boomer run amok."

The picture shakes a little as an autocannon's deafening
hammer drowns out the commentator.  The view swings to 
show an attacker who looks almost human, perhaps a female
body builder, except that few humans could even lift the 
oversized gun she uses so easily.    

"Possibly (?) (?) bodyguards for (?)"  Even shouted the
words don't come through clearly.  

Bolas wrap around the monstrosity, tripping it up as
it lunges for its new tormentor.  It strains and the 
cables snap.  As it gets to its feet, an equally
grotesque form, like a faceless demonic parody of a
knight, "wings" spread and jets howling, slams into it, 
slamming it back a step and pounding it with bulky,
powerful-looking arms.  The monster lashes out with
a backhand...
_________________________________________________________

"Freeze frame."  Sylia was frowning slightly as she
looked at the paused image.  She ran her fingers through
her tousled brown hair.  The boomer was only moderately
interesting.  Somebody had made a copy of the 
MacLaren Prototype, and like the original, it was 
immensely strong, virtually indestructible, and totally
mindless.  Unfortunate, but from her present location in
Germany or her base of operations in Japan, a berserker 
in America was remote enough not to be of more than 
academic interest.  The other figure on the screen was 
another matter.  That one had a very personal 
significance, indeed.

"Yo, sis," Mackie called.  "You done checking your mail?
We're running late.
_________________________________________________________

Sylia...Sylia Stingray...

The voice washed through the cyberlink, echoing into her 
cortex.  Then...she couldn't remember...

She kept her eyes closed, trying to remember that next 
moment.  She had the firmly irrational conviction that
what ever had happened next was crucial and she could 
bring it back with a just a little more time and 
concentration.  

She could feel a slight, chill breeze washing over her 
naked skin continuously, but there was something that 
felt somehow unnatural about the sensation.  Her body
appeared to be strapped down to a metal surface that
stole body heat from any skin that came into contact
with it.  

"I know that you're conscious.  Feigning unconsciousness
would be pointless."  The smooth male voice, flavoured
with arrogance, intruded on her awareness, demanding her 
attention, driving away that insight that she was on the 
verge of grasping.  

She sighed and opened her eyes.  The ceiling above her 
was not particularly stimulating.  Institutional grey, 
it was all she could really see.  The strap on her 
forehead forced her to rely on peripheral vision to 
locate the voice she assumed belonged to her captor, 
a figure standing well away from her.
She carefully began to test the security of the straps 
holding her down.  They didn't seem likely to give.  
Leads seemed to be attached to various parts of her 
body, some quite intimate.  That didn't bode well.

"Nothing to say?"

She'd never been one who felt the need to fill silences
with chatter.  His tone of voice, that hint of smugness
told her all she needed to know.  She was in the hands of
an enemy.  The others would know she was missing, if not
now, soon.  All she had to do was hold out until they
figured out where she was.  She'd taken precautions, 
left ways for the others to get in touch with Fargo.
They'd find her, given enough time.
	
He moved a little, and suddenly her body was convulsing
in it's restraints, muscles contracting uncontrolled
as spikes of jagged pain twisted them into knots for a
moment.  She didn't scream, but she wanted to.  

"Do I have your attention yet?"  His voice sounded a 
little irritated.  She hadn't been following his script,
she supposed.  

She made sure to take another deep breath before 
answering, "You've always had my attention."

"An interesting way to put it.  Let's get the 
preliminaries over with as quickly as possible, please.
I have a great deal to do.  What is your name?"

"You know my name."

Irritation again.  "I'm sure you realise that we need to
establish a baseline.  Please don't waste our time 
together.  If you do, you'll make things unnecessarily
uncomfortable for yourself.  Your name?"

"Sylia Stingray."

"Your father's name?"

"Katsuhito Stingray."

"That's not a Japanese name.  It isn't really even an
English name."  There was a pause, then her interrogater
prodded, "Well?"

"You didn't ask a question."

"Very well then.  Why did your father change his name to
'Stingray'?"

"He was disowned by his family for his marriage to an 
American when he was eighteen.  He chose the name 
because he didn't like her name and thought that 
'Stingray' sounded more impressive."

"What was her name?"

"Stingray."

"Her maiden name."  

"Stengel.  Louise Stengel."

"How did she die?"

"Radiation poisoning.  A reactor leak."

"You were how old when that happened?"

"Five."

"How did you feel about that?"

"This isn't the most comfortable of psychiatric couches."

"It can be made a great deal less comfortable.  What about
your father?  Do you feel anything about his accident?"

"My father didn't have an accident."

"Really?  Why don't you tell me about it?"

"You probably know more about it than I do."  Her face and
her voice were still calm, but those electrodes were 
surely registering an increase in heart rate and blood 
pressure.  It couldn't be helped. 

"I can see you're becoming upset.  We'll continue later.
Don't worry.  By the time I'm finished, I'll know you 
better than you know yourself."  He walked over to stand
by her table and bent over.  His lips were dry and warm
against her cheek.  "Go to sleep, princess."
_________________________________________________________

(Should be another look at what Sylia is, was or will
be doing here.) 
_________________________________________________________

There was no way to judge how long she'd been 
unconscious.  Hours?  A day?  No more than that, surely. 
She still felt too strong to have been comatose for days,
and the others would have found her if that much time had
passed.  

"I see you're awake again.  Hungry?"  He had someone
with him this time, a female figure that stood beside
a cart with covered dishes.  

She was hungry, of course.  Hungry enough to suggest that
at least five hours had passed while she was out.  
Admitting that would be a concession, though, so she 
evaded by asking, "Does that mean it's dinner time?"
Her table was gone, replaced by chair, but her wrists
and ankles were still restrained.  At least a position
sitting upright left her able to get a good look at him.

She recognised him of course, a tall, good looking, 
dark haired man in his late thirties in an expensive 
suit.  She'd never really met Brian J. Mason before, but 
she knew his face and his voice.  She'd been studying 
her adversary for years, after all, ever since she'd 
identified the man responsible for making her an orphan.  

"Let's call it that.  In order to make you as comfortable
as possible under immediate circumstances I'll give you a 
choice.  Who would you rather have feeding you?  Me, or 
Emma?"  

"Emma's" skin was tinted blue, and an obvious seam ran around
the contours of her face.  There was no real need to make
it that way, of course, except that it's design intent
was to mimic a human woman, but not to be mistaken for 
one, even at first glance.  One of the most common boomer
models, used as a maid in millions of homes world wide, 
although this one was dressed in a fetishic parody of a
maid's uniform that few wives would have accepted on 
their servant.

The prisoner glared at him.  "Obviously I would prefer
to feed myself."

"No doubt, but I don't believe our mutual trust has 
progressed to that point.  Perhaps next time, if you're
a good girl."

The prisoner accepted the inevitable, and conceded "Let 
the boomer do it then."  The food was bland...institutional.  
Being strapped down and spoonfed by a kinky wind-up 
doll didn't make it taste any better.  

"How does it taste to you?"

"I've eaten better military rations."  The boomer paused
as the prisoner spoke, and then spooned in another 
mouthful.

"Oh yes, you were seventeen when you enrolled in that 
mercenary training camp, weren't you?"

"Sixteen"

"My mistake.  Why did you drop out just before 
completing the course?  Couldn't take the pressure?"

"I'd learned what I needed to know."

"And graduating would have made it more difficult to 
obscure your records?"

"I had no interest in hiring on for a tour in Africa."

She had a good poker face, but there was the slightest
perceptible aura of disgust about her as the doll 
carefully wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, like a 
mother with a sloppy child.

"I get the feeling that you don't like poor Emma."

"Under the circumstances, it's simply the lesser of three
evils."

"That would be Emma, myself, or starvation?"

"Quite."

"Why the dislike of boomers?  You seem to respect your 
father's memory, why not his creations?"

"He never intended for them to be used and abused the 
way you do."

"Isn't that the complaint of every inventor?"
________________________________________________________

Ehn...  That ones really tough to do without being dull.
Too talky.  Maybe I should alternate between blowing 
things up and this ersatz Waiting for Godot junk.  

Next we have the introduction of two characters in a 
sort of crossover fic named "Project:  Crimson Sea".  


________________________________________________________

The sun was setting over the harbour with that 
gloriously fluorescent quality that took one's 
breath away.  After all, quite apart from the beauty of 
the coruscating colour, you needed a fair bit of air 
pollution to get a sunset like this.

"Isn't it romantic?" the woman in red sighed, leaning
her head against the man in black.  Her faux-leather 
jumpsuit outlined a voluptuous form like a second skin,
and her black hair seemed more dramatic by contrast with
the scarlet.

He put his arm around her.  "Uh-hunh, nothing more 
romantic than the smell of rotting fish and smog."  
His black leather vest left enough of his thin, wiry 
upper body exposed that it was obvious he'd survived
an amazing number of fights versus opponents with sharp
weapons.  Despite the scars on his body, he had a 
blond choir-boy appearance to his face that made his 
smirk look attractive.  

She slapped him on the shoulder playfully.  "Don't be 
mean!  It isn't that bad!"

"You're just deaf in the nose from breathing in too much
smoke," he jibed.  

"Oh really?" A bit of genuine annoyance began to filter
into her voice and he could detect a hint of red in her
eyes.

"Of course as long as I'm looking at you, I guess this has
to be the most romantic place in the world."  

She melted into his arms,  "Oh Slash, I-"

"If he's Slash, that'd make you Burn, wouldn't it?" The 
unexpected gravelly voice was like a splash of ice water.  
"Lotta people lookin' for you.  The Mounties, the Feebs, 
even your old outfit.  You got quite a rep for a skinny
kid and a firebug bimbo."  

They carefully loosened their embrace and turned to look,
Slash's arm still around her hips.  He cursed inwardly.
He'd just let these clowns walk up and draw their guns,
without noticing a thing, too absorbed in his lover to
pay proper attention.  

"Easy," the leader of the four gunmen warned.  His suit
was top of the line.  Their's were rather shabby, but
their guns looked well cared for.  "You may have been 
the scariest operators in Montreal, but nobody's faster 
than a bullet."

Slash grinned easily, "Well I know I'm not.  
So, what's on your mind?  If you just wanted to kill
me you could've already done it."

"Well, that's the funny thing," the boss commented.  
He had the dead eyes and blank expression of an 
experienced killer on the job.  "The way I hear it, you
whacked Caliban, your old boss after he fired you.  I'd 
expect old Frank Lupo to send you a thank-you note for 
his promotion but instead he puts out the word on you.  
Maybe he's trying to get in good with Caliban's old lady 
but he doesn't offer anything for you dead just for 
info."

"Maybe we're just so good at what we do that he wants
to hire us back," Slash suggested.  

"Maybe, but the way I figure it, he wants you alive 
'cause after you killed Caliban, you took something, and
he don't want you dead until you cough it up.  So I'm 
gonna make you an offer.  You give me what you stole,
and I let you get on that boat you're waiting for.  I
won't even tell Lupo you were here."

Slash seemed to consider, cocking his head slightly as
he gave Burn a warning squeeze.  "Sounds like a fair
deal.  I'll just get it out of my suitcase.  

When he let go, that was the signal.  As she casually
raised her hands the blades implanted in his fingers 
were already out and gleaming behind her back, ready 
for action.  

They never knew what hit them.  They'd been careful to
stay at what should have been a safe distance to deal with
a knife-man and his arsonist girlfriend but third-hand
reports hadn't told them what they were really dealing
with, so they were taken off guard as the flaming sphere
flew from her hands.  

The others didn't even notice as Slash covered the 
short distance between them with inhuman speech, his 
hand a blur as their boss's gun fell from his 
suddenly fingerless hand.  His claw moved on smoothly 
past the next target's throat as he pivoted to kick the
third in the stomach and a spike slid out from his elbow
for a finishing blow as the fourth simply disintigrated
into a pile of charred bones from Burn's final attack.

Slash quickly kicked the gun away from the reaching left
hand of the survivor, the one who'd done all the talking,
and looked down at him as he cradled his maimed hand.  
"You were right.  I'm not faster than a bullet.  But all 
I had to be was faster than your trigger finger."

"Listen, you don't have to-"

"Sure I do,"  Slash assured him with a friendly smile.  
"You could still dial up Lupo with your other hand, 
right?  Besides, you were rude to the girl I love, and I 
just hate that."  He made it quick.  They had a boat to
catch.
_________________________________________________________

What do you think?  Are they interesting?  How about the 
combat?  And what about Naomi?

And lastly a totally over the top scrap from something
I probably won't do, but if I did do it, I'd call it
Blue Sonnet Tangent
________________________________________________________

It's not so much that I wanted to die, as that I couldn't 
stand to live.  I knew that I saw emptiness and a world
devoid of meaning because I was holding it up to my soul
as a mirror.  However, this led to me to the inescapable
conclusion that the world would be a better place without
me in it.  Increasing this thought obsessed me as I 
wandered from country to country, losing my identity in
scraps and drabs.

The only thing standing between me and my death-wish was
something laughable; writer's block.  Stupid, isn't it?
Because I had been a poet at one time, I could not bear
the idea of leaving this life wordlessly.  The cloud of
anonymity that surrounded me was fine for life, but not life's
end.  Although I felt that the world would be better 
for my absence, at the same time the perversity of my
ego made me want to write a suicide poem that would 
make...someone...regret my passing.  I wanted them to say, 
"How tragic that such a great (well, promising) talent 
was taken from us."

Childish, I know.  But the hallmark of immaturity is 
self-absorption, and there is nobody more self absorbed
than someone on the verge of suicide.  I'd been sitting
in a park for four hours trying to remember how to write
a poem that might move someone and I was running
out of paper and daylight, wondering whether I ever 
really knew how to move anyone.  
_________________________________________________________

At which point I decided this was too stupid to continue.
That's the essence of writer's block for me.  It's not being
unable to write, it's being unable to write without looking
at the product and saying, "Man, is this lame or what?"
But it's the whiniest thing I've ever written, and so seemed
appropriate under the circumstances.  

Later.