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Collaboration, anyone?
M1795537OCVirn
Anyone up for writing a collaboratiive B7 story/serial?? you do 500 words (ish), I take over with 500 more, someone else does the next 500, and so on. Might be fun.

(Don't forget the Code of conduct - this is a PG13+ site)
"You're not sulking, I hope?"
 
bob79519
"Of course not, why would think that?"
 
M1795537OCVirn

bob79519 wrote:

"Of course not, why would think that?"


Er...part of your message missing, perhaps? Or have you grabbed the wrong end of a very long stick here? Collaborative writing doesn't necessarily mean working with the Feds, although you rebels might find it educational.
Don't dismiss the idea - think about it.
"You're not sulking, I hope?"
 
Joe Dredd
Plasma bullets splashed on the high wall as Vila Restal hauled himself urgently over the top and dropped to the ground on the other side. Staggering to his feet he broke into a lurching sort of sprint; bursts of speed punctuated by weary missteps breaking his rhythm.

They would be out of the gate and searching for him soon. Desperately he ran through the darkening woods, aware of how much noise he was making, snapping twigs and crunching leaf litter underfoot. He had to find a hiding place, and fast.

What if they had dogs? he thought suddenly, and shivered at the thought of it.

He caught the distant voicers of pursuers, finally out of the gate and on their way after him. He dare not risk a light. In the increasing gloom he made out a depression, full of leaves. He knelt down in it, feeling around, testing its depth and for sharp broken branches. Finding it safe, Vila lay down, wiggling himself into the leaves, doing his best to cover himself up, to disappear, to become invisible.

And even if they didn't catch him, he thought mournfully, he still had to to get back into the grand house to find where his teleport bracelet had fallen off.

--|| B7 ||--


Meanwhile, at Space Command, Servalan was carefully filing her nails. Other people threw theirs away, but not Servalan. She was different. She was unique. She filed them under "N" so she knew where they were. No one was getting their hands on her DNA.

Just then, the door to her office slid open and in walked
 
M1795537OCVirn
... a mutoid. Servalan sighed. The things tired her, even looking at their unbelievably ugly design made her wince, every time. She really must get someone in who knew fashion ... But then the thing spoke.

"Madam President, we have -"

"I did not give you permission to speak!" the woman snapped, moving back to her desk. The mutoid, waited, mute. Its submission calmed her agitation. The things were useful, she allowed thoughtfully, and a gratifying way to dispose of malcontents whilst still having them around to gloat over. Very well, she was ready to listen now.

"What is it?"

"Ma'am, we have reports of an intruder."

"Well?" Servalan was trying hard to be patient. Frowning, she asked, "What do those reports indicate?"

"That...er...there was an intruder..."

Surely it had registered that she'd heard those words already? Servalan reached into a drawer, grabbed the small laser pistol that was her preferred weapon and shot the thing in the head. This was not turning out to be a good day.

* * *


Cally, wearing an eyepatch, smiled and held out a bundle of keys.

Vila was no longer fully asleep. He knew it was a dream, because Cally was there. Cally was often with him in dreams, but not like this - what was all that other stuff about? He hadn't touched the soma for days, so why - ?

Discomfort finally woke him to reality, and his desperate situation. Analysing the dream could wait (although the eyepatch was an interesting development) while he was wet, cold and hungry. He remembered the rain in the night. Now, daylight filtered through his mound of leaves. His hiding place smelled of mould, which made his nose tickle. Sneezing would definitely be a bad idea, if there were still searchers nearby.

Slowly, he brought a hand up to rub his nose and in doing so, dislodged the leaves that covered his face. He found himself staring into the eyes of a small child, crouched beside his hole, interestedly poking something with a stick.

"Urgh!" the thief fought against the urge to leap up. The child was playing with a dead animal of some kind. Probably a rodent, from the look of its long yellow front teeth. He'd been sharing its last resting place. And for how long? It didn't bear thinking about.
Forcing himself to remain in the hole, as still as he could, so as not to startle the infant, he waited. The child - he wasn't sure whether it was a boy or a girl - regarded him with interest.

"OW!" Vila gasped, as the stick made sharp contact with his face, "Stop it!" Realising that he'd blown the last hope of concealment, he grabbed at the offending article, while the child swiftly retreated to a safe distance, still watching him. Cautiously, Vila crawled out of the depression and
"You're not sulking, I hope?"
 
Cygnus Bazza
Just a quick suggestion - probably worth someone bagsying the next bit every time as you go through this process. That would avoid having two or more people working simultaneously on the next instalment in blissful unawareness, with potentially only one of those efforts ultimately leading anywhere in terms of the story thread. (I'm not putting myself up to participate, BTW, as it's not my sort of thing at all, but I thought it was worth flagging up this potential imperfection in the concept. You're welcome.)
 
M1795537OCVirn
I've waited a while to see if anyone else has an opinion on this. Is it better to decide who contributes next, each time, as per CB's suggestion above, or just hope it works out?
Ask yourself which is the most rebel - ious.

This isn't meant to be a serious literary exercise, btw. 500 words is a useful maximum, but there's nothing to say you can't add fewer, like, one or two, (eg. THE END!?).

Just go for it! The point is to HAVE FUN.
"You're not sulking, I hope?"
 
Anniew
the child broke in a loud scream.
‘No, No, No,’ Vila looked frantically around while feeling in his pockets. Then he leapt forward and thrust something into the child’s open mouth. There was one of those frozen moments that Vila knew so well and had come to dread and …
the child’s expression changed from terror to bliss as the sweet slowly dissolved on his tongue.
The relief practically knocked the thief off his feet.
‘There,’ he muttered brokenly. ‘There. No need for all that noise, is there? You like that?’
The boy nodded his grubby head, his face startling striped where his tears had trickled through the dirt.
‘Well, ‘ Vila grabbed his thin arm conspiratorially. ‘If you want more, you can have it, but you’ve got to earn it.’
The boy looked down at his stick. He seemed to be debating whether there was a shorter route to gaining the sugary treats.
‘Please…’ Vila put every ounce of pathos he could muster into the word.
The boy raised the stick…
Play the hand fate deals you.
 
M1795537OCVirn
…and kicked it away. He reached out a filthy hand, with a look so wistfully hopeful that Vila immediately handed over a second sweet.
"That’s better,” Vila nodded, (he was fairly sure, now, that this was a boy) “if you could find me a better place to hide, we’re in business, kid. What’s your name?”
The boy looked at him, uncomprehending. He made some sounds, but if they were words, it wasn’t a language Vila had ever heard before.
“Great,” so any conversation was going to be decidedly one-sided? He ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. How had everything – everything – gone so wrong? Blake had been so convincing when he explained the plan.
“I always knew it was a bad idea,” Vila muttered to himself. He’d gone along with it, like everyone else, because whenever Blake said he had a plan, it was easier not to raise any objection. “Nobody ever listens to me anyway,” he complained. As if in confirmation, the boy had turned back to the dead rodent. Flies had begun to settle on it.
“Time to move,” Vila told himself, and, moving slowly so as not to startle his unpredictable companion, eased his stiff body out of the hollow.

Servalan, President of the Federation, was becoming bored with her companions. Charming but hardly stimulating conversation; interesting food; palatable wine, but nothing to spark her imagination. The evening was yet another in a long line of such occasions, a side of her duties she sometimes enjoyed, but these days more often undertook as a duty rather than a pleasure.
Tonight’s particular combination of personalities was even less stimulating than most. Three military types, including a Colonel from one of the Inner Planets: nice man, but too focused on his main interest – fishing. Fishing? Servalan wondered how he had managed to move this far up through the ranks. Presumably he had money. Why he thought she – or anyone else present – wanted to hear about his latest exploits with a rod, she had no idea. Unless it was some kind of euphemism? No, the man wasn't intelligent enough for that.
Councillor Lomax and his wife were chatting together quietly, but he looked up at the President from time to time. His eyes were…hungry, Servalan decided, having long ago taught herself to be expert at reading expressions. He wanted something from her. Best to avoid being alone with him tonight, if she could.
Another High Councillor and partner were chatting with their hosts, a bonded couple from the Coruscant System, newly allied to the Federation and duly admiring of everything she as President, and her Federation, had to offer. Coruscant was a long way out of the main trade routes, but the system had resources that made annexation worth the effort - for the Federation. However, their small talk was excessively polite… and frankly, boring. Servalan had heard flattery like theirs many more times than she cared to remember. If only someone would end this monotony!
Breaking away from listening to one of two religious officials present, who was currently explaining some of the more obscure beliefs in the outer Sectors, the President glanced at her slate, hoping for a little light relief.
Messages? Anything at all? Nothing caught her eye until … she looked closer. Security had forwarded a report received from a Federation contact in the Warren, reporting the arrival of a Federation ship. Servalan frowned: why was a Federation troop carrier visiting the Warren? It was outside Federation space. Not a place she’d been to, although she was well aware of its importance for profitable, if questionable, deals, as well as its reputation as a reservoir of banditry and malcontents.
The original report was several hours old and referred to the search for two wanted criminals - Federation scientists. Servalan’s interest was aroused. Criminal scientists were not unknown in her line of work. She’d employed quite a few. What had these two been up to that triggered such interest?
A sudden silence in the room caught her attention. She glanced up. Everyone was looking at her: damn. She’d missed something they thought was important. The priest cleared his throat.
“Ma’am?” he asked.
“I was miles away,” she apologized artlessly, with a charming smile, “Affairs of state. What was it?” and with that, diplomacy once again took priority. That report would have to wait. But she was comforted to know it was there.
"You're not sulking, I hope?"
 
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