[Original - original fic] Heraldry of the Human Body.

PG, Original Fic.
In the future, he searches for a companion and discovers a plot. In his story, a mystery unfolds among swords.
Written November 1, 2008 by Zekkass.

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When, Where, Who, Which; Chapter One.

Louis Llywd Argant often went by the name Llywd, irritating his family and his secretary. When he signed documents, he used his entire name. When he did anything else, he used only his middle name.

'You simply cannot do such a thing, Louis!' was a cry that often came from his closest relative - his mother, Mrs Argant.

'Can I?' was a retort that often came after a deliberate pause. 'Mother, we are in the future, not the past. I can do whatever I want.' He waved a hand at the servants who didn't blink, and nodded. 'These are the mark of the age we live in, and I will not be held by petty restrictions from an outdated age. Do you have anything further to tell me, or may I continue on that cursed relic you want me to work on?'

That cursed relic was the one point that Llywd conceded to his mother - he worked on it as often as he could, simply to complete it. He had no desire to write, nor to even view such old things as books, but this was one task that he could do for her.

His mother gave him a Look That Said Unpleasant Things About His Chosen Name, but she at last smiled and closed her eyes. 'You may go, but you will always remain Louis to me, dear.'

'I never doubted that you would, mother.' Llywd laughed, a full sound that sounded real, unless you were well versed in the customs of this family - he was faking amusement with this, and when he stood to leave, the look mother and son exchanged was anything but friendly.

There was nothing like family to provide enemies, Llwyd thought, and it wasn't for the first time. Oh, they would never do anything overt, but if there was a chance of success, there would be a rumor, or worse, coming to haunt him.

However, those were unpleasant thoughts, and he did not have to deal with them at the moment. No, he could focus on removing clothing, sealing himself away from the world, and creating stories.

He did publicly despise the task, but once he was locked away, he could enjoy it. So he closed the doors that led to his chambers, dismissed the servants, and ascended the stairs that led to his inner rooms. Once the servants were gone, he was alone, and once he had locked the doors in his inner rooms, he was sealed off from the world.

Rooms of white and gold, the expensive colors appearing bright against his own outfit - dark blues and purples with his shock of red hair.

Llywd removed his suit jacket, and then his well-tailored pants, and finally his shirt. After that were his undergarments, and then he could seat himself on a dyed leather chair and tend to the difficult task of removing his gloves. These were made to be removed only for medical and personal reasons, and were quite easy to put back on.

Taking them off, however, was another matter.

Llywd cursed as he removed the fingers, turning them off, and laughed to himself once the surprisingly resilient technology was off of him. He couldn't be contacted, now. Not without breaking in and telling him in person, and that was just frowned upon.

The gold hand skeletons glinted on the floor, and he left them there, rising to move to the inset pool. The pool was pure decadence, and he delighted in such things - the warmth, and the feeling of being clean!

Wonderful, and that level of comfort was how Llywd intended to write his story.

The process for writing his story was this: he would dictate it to his voice-activated recorder, and then he would later write down what he had come up with into the old fashioned book.

Once he was finished with a volume, he would give it to his secretary, and copies would be distributed to those who were interested. Those parties included his mother, and several other antique fetishists.

He was being paid handsomely for this task, of course. Llywd would not submit to such work otherwise.

Llywd hmmed and turned the jets on, lounging. This was blissful, and if not for his desire to be alone today, he would have a servant come and wash him. They were told to forget everything he said or did, and they did so with a marvelous efficiency.

Human servants were for other days, and if he ever desired a permanent human servant, well, that would come when he found the right one.

'This is Llywd. Turn on,' He said, and there was a slight whirring sound as the machine began to work. The sound soon died away, and Llywd began to speak - to write.

.excerpts from Louis Llywd Argant's writings.

Simply put, we are pulling swords from each other and dueling to possess something that cannot be possessed. We are dueling.

I breathe as I lower my sword, watching my opponent. I have skewered more fools on my sword than I have lost, and that is why I am still here. I know that this is organised by someone. I know that this someone doesn't care if the duelists are injured, and that is why when someone lies on the floor of the arena, clutching a badly bleeding wound, the duel does not end (the bells do not ring) until I pluck the rose from their chest.

We are quiet until we rush at each other again, yelling, and I pull back in time to let my opponent stumble, and I drive my sword into their chest.

It hits something hard, and the bells ring, so I have not killed them. I have sliced the rose and hit their ribs.

I have beaten them, however, and that is as good as killing them.

I walk away, and the Rose Bride follows me. I know that without looking. If she pauses to say something to the fallen, I do not listen.

All I listen to is the sound of bells.

#

'This is Llywd. Turn off,' he said as he rose out of the water. That small amount served for now. Llwyd wanted to see people, and dress, and simply pouring out imaginary people from his mouth won't satisfy that need.

Why bells? Why swords? Why dueling?

He was inspired, and he didn't know where the ideas came from. Why, he saw sword fights often, but never with bells, and he never saw duelists in reality fighting for a prize.

Their prize is their life, for they are dueling to survive after they make their challenge.

Llywd couldn't duel, as he had no talent with weapons that were solid, and physical. His weapons were his wealth, his position, and his words.

He was very careful to avoid angering those who would challenge him to duels.

He was also very careful to know what all of his enemies eat, and how they react to poisons.

Llywd dried off the old fashioned way, then set to donning the gloves again. They connect to his nervous system quickly, and he is hit with the load of information connection brings.

He adjusted quickly, and was soon donning hair-ties and undergarments and a suit.

He glanced at his sleeves and decided that he needed ruffs on his clothing. That would be dashing, and would send titters up in his social circles. Lovely.

A glance at the clock that wasn't visible on the wall before his gloves, and Llywd was heading out to see the outside world.

Down the stairs, summon the servants, and into the parlor.

The parlor was done in reds and blacks, unlike his chambers, and Llwyd loved it so. He was tall, has long red hair, and was slender. He kept himself fit, of course, even if he does not duel or wrestle.

He was elegant, as befitting a man of his status.

And what is his status?

That of First Technology Lord, of course! Only the best can live in luxury like this, and only Technology Lords can afford to be the best.

The rest of the people are envious, and must always be kept in line.

If necessary, of course, they are made into robots.

Where do you think Llywd gets his servants, after all?

'Goodbye, home!' Llywd called to his secretary and servants and home, and he left again.

Leaving home does take a while.

~

'Darling!'

'Handsome!'

These were not rare cries, in this room. When Llywd chose his club, he chose carefully, and indulged a desire that made him tingle. Sitting among beautiful people was such a wonderful treat, especially when these people will dress prettily.

Even those with ugly scars or worse have them to accent their beauty. No one has injuries without reason, these days, as they can be removed with the touch of a button.

It was awful, Llywd thought as he reclined in the Roman style, last month, when everyone thought amputation was fascinatingly beautiful.

He hadn't liked that fad much at all, and had been pleased when it had passed.

Now, those who were vocal about the array of pretties in the room - they were brought in to coo over those who needed to stroke their vanities. Why, Llywd had tried one once, and it had been pleasant, even if it grew boring after a while.

He wanted someone to talk to, not someone who agreed with every single one of his comments.

It didn't need to be an intellectual debate - no, he shied away from people who dragged science or worse into the conversation - but politics and fashions and creations were certainly up for fun.

'Penny!' Llywd exclaimed as one of the ladies entered the room. He knew her, and she was more than eyecandy.

'Llywd!' She called back, waving a glove-clad hand. Her outfit was dashing - why, it could even be called handsome. Her hair was not in its usual braids, and hung free. Her clothing reminded one of the Pirate King from that antique light opera, 'The Pirates Of Penzance' by Gilbert and Sullivan.

Llywd couldn't say he liked it any more than he liked her dresses, but it was certainly different.

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[Whose Line Is It Anyways RPS - fic] She Knew.

Ryan/Colin, G, RPS.
Debra knows things.
Written January 25, 2006 by Zekkass.

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She had always, in a way, expected it.

From the day she had met him to the day they had married, Ryan had been there. Always.

Ryan had always been a constant in Colin’s life, so she had forced herself to accept him and everything he stood for.

He was the one who had helped Colin onstage. He was the one who had always been there, for whatever Colin needed.

He was there before she had ever met Colin. He introduced her to Colin.

Some part of her understood the whys and the hows and knew that Colin needed Ryan. Sometimes she wished she had someone like that.

Other times, she was bitter and wished that Colin had never met Ryan, that Ryan never existed, and that he had never intruded on her life.

Most of the time, she just knew that Colin needed Ryan and Ryan needed Colin.

Either way, she was glad when he left.

[Original - original fic] Searching for Gravestones.

Jack Dalliard & Neddy Muldoon. Implied slash between them. R for utterly creepy and death.
Written July 28, 2008 by Zekkass.

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Jack Dalliard was not cremated. That was a fact that he had long ago found out. (The Assistant's last words. "He'll be hidden, not set to flame." Oddly cryptic, even for him. It all made sense now.)

They had instead put him in a coffin and buried him. Oh, they were not honorable - they had placed a different name on the tombstone, and burned the files that said which graveyard held him.

It was near impossible to find him - especially with his Assistant gone - but he would be found. Somehow. (He had started out with a shovel and records and had gone through graveyard after graveyard, disturbing bodies far too often.)

Of course he had not found him. They had changed the dates, too, and even added a little engraving that said 'Beloved.' (And he was. Just not by them, the ones who had buried him.)

He supposed he should have stopped looking by now - he was older, he knew better. But something compelled him to make the nightly excursions, and to make the daily digging in Records.

(He was respected, now. Worked like his cousin, was independent.)

Records revealed little, until that special, precious day -

"This is it." He said to himself, staring at the file. "This is it."

With trembling hands, he opened the file, and scanned the numbers and columns.

There it was. Hidden, and misfiled - no wonder he hadn't found it, no wonder it wasn't burned. (He wished he had found it years ago.)

J. Dalliard - (his eyes read across the column, ignoring numbers, looking for the name) - Dorian Stonewall.

There it is. The answer. His hands are shaking, he knows he won't have much time left -

He feels like cheering, but doesn't. Instead, he puts the file back, and returns to work after memorizing the cemetery and plot and number and address.

(It is two days before he can get the shovel out, make the trip, successfully dig up the coffin.)

He brought a crowbar for this purpose. He pries out the nails, pulls up the lid - and there.

(There. Now he can be properly buried.)

There is Jack Dalliard. Dead Jack Dalliard. Dead with closed eyes and a bullet hole and dried blood on his forehead that was never cleaned up Jack Dalliard.

(They find old Neddy Muldoon curled at Jack Dalliard's feet in the morning, dead.)

(The medical examiner cannot explain the death.)

("Perhaps he died of sheer terror?" He suggests.)

("Or pleasure?" He doesn't say. The insane smile on old Neddy Muldoon's corpse will never leave his mind.)

(MI5 will bury the incident. One last casualty of Jack Dalliard's Cause.)

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[MASH - fic] Left out/jealousy.

Frank Burns, G, drabble.
Written June 5, 2006.

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Frank always feels left out. He watches people fall into good love, have fun, and succeed without trouble. He’s the only one (he thinks) who failed Medical School seven times but still became a doctor. Still, he knows Hawkeye is better than him (at surgery only/Frank refuses to examine the rest of Hawkeye). He would never admit it, but inside he knows. It hurts, to see someone like that be better than him effortlessly. Hawkeye only passed Medical School once. He probably had a father who loved him and a good childhood, too. Frank would never be lucky like that.

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[MASH - fic] Plane Thoughts

Henry Blake, G.
Return.
Written June 11, 2006.

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Henry’s first thought when he got on his plane home was a good one. He was thinking of home, and his children and wife and a fishing trip with all of them. He looked forward to a night with his wife, who would stay with him and wouldn’t leave the next morning. Home. A peaceful place where he could nap in the backyard on a hammock for hours, or go inside to a little girl who loved him even though he’d been gone for a long time. Henry’s last thoughts were that of a home he would never get to.

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[The Colbert Report/The Daily Show RPS - fic] In All Seriousness.

Jon Stewart/character!Stephen Colbert, R, subtle hints to slash, bondage, and more.
All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Stephen has Jon in a compromising position. Then he asks for something.
Written Feburary 21, 2008.

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It wasn't long before he caved. Something was terribly wrong, of course, but he could say nothing. So he nodded, whimpered, and closed his eyes as Stephen betrayed his trust.

Stephen grinned a maniac grin, unseen by Jon. “About time, don't you think?”

“Th- think what?” Jon stuttered, his gut twisting slightly.

“I asked you for my own show.”

What? “What?”

Stephen leaned back, admiring the sight. “I'd like my own show.” He made a show of raising an eyebrow - how was he so good at that?

Jon closed his eyes again, but Stephen touched his nose. Jon opened them in a hurry.

“Can I, Jon?” He sounded so..so innocent. Jon knew he was seriously asking.

“Why are you asking me?” Jon managed, and Stephen's grin faltered.

Jon almost closed his eyes again. That was the wrong question, he should have said yes, yes yes -

Stephen stood up, letting go.

“Yes you can have your own show!” Jon said quickly.

Stephen appeared to mull this over. “You'll have to say that where someone else can hear you, Jon.” He said casually.

Jon didn't move. Maybe he could get out of this. Maybe he could give Stephen his own show.

Maybe.

Stephen touched Jon's nose again, and Jon's eyes flickered up.

It was time to focus.

Jon nodded without hesitation this time, and Stephen grinned. It was the first real grin Jon had seen on his face all day.

And Stephen finally began to untie him.

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[Red Dwarf - fic] A Spinning Fan - Part 10 - WIP (discontinued)

Lister/Rimmer, PG.
One day Lister woke up in a psychiatric ward and a doctor told him it was all a dream brought on by excessive drinking.
Written August 21, 2007 by Zekkass.

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Dwayne pulled Rimmer into the nearest janitor’s closet and locked the door behind him. Rimmer raised an eyebrow. “You swiped the keys again?”

“Yes. We need this space more than ‘Bastian does. Now, to business.” Dwayne pulled out a bucket and sat down on it. “What are we going to do about Lister?”

Rimmer leaned on the door and considered. “I don’t want him to leave.”

“He upsets you. I want him to go.”

“I’ll be fine. Seriously, Dwayne. I like him.”

“Of course you do. He listens to you. Even if you’re telling the most boring story, he listens. For me, that’s proof he needs to go.”

Rimmer crossed his arms. “Don’t say that. He stays.” They stared at each other for a long moment, then Rimmer averted his eyes. “Damnit, Dwayne. He’s crazy. He believes that he’s from the future. We aren’t helping him escape.”

“You’re just trying to keep him.”

“Yes.”

“Selfish.”

Rimmer didn’t say anything, and Dwayne grinned. “Oh, very well. Do you want me to talk to the doctors, or do we just stay quiet and let things play out?”

Rimmer nodded. “Thank you. Let’s stay quiet. You know Crane’ll want to keep him. After she gets to him, he’s here forever.”

Dwayne shrugged and stood up. “I know. I know.”

“He named that other one Cat.”

“He..what?”

“You know the other one. He called him Cat.”

“Cat?”

“Yes.”

“Good name.”

“Yes.”

“I think we’re finished, here.”

“Yes.”

“You can stop the broken record impression, Rimmer.”

“Yes.” Rimmer grinned. Dwayne was a fleeting thing, a person who surfaced to say things to Rimmer, only to wiped away by that idiotic Cat. He liked talking to Dwayne. Dwayne liked talking to him. It all worked out. Someday, they would leave together.

Only, Lister had to stay, too. He listened to the things Dwayne wouldn’t. The long stories. The early stories. Rimmer liked that.

“Rimmer, one last thing before we rejoin the world.” Dwayne broke into his thoughts.

Before Rimmer could protest, (not that he would want to) Dwayne hugged him and licked his ear. Then he opened the door, and held it open for Rimmer. At Rimmer’s pleading look, he only said, “Later.”

There was another reason as to why Rimmer liked Dwayne. When he said later, later was soon. Not forever.

---

The bunkroom was unchanged when Lister returned to it, except for a few mussed sheets. He sat on his bed and considered playing solitaire again. Before he could make up his mind, the door to the bunkroom opened.

“Oh, hello!” Lister stared. It was Sebastian Doyle. Only it wasn’t.

“Er, hello..” Lister offered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bastian, the janitor. You new around here?”

“Yeah.” Lister fiddled with the sheets. Bastian looked like Sebastian, but only vaguely. Just enough to remind him of when he had been a Doyle.

“Nice to meet you.” Bastian waved and began to sweep the floor.

Lister watched him sweep for a moment, then said, “Sebastian?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a brother named Bill?”

“Yeah. What, did you meet him or something?”

“I’ve seen him around.” Lister put down the sheets.

“So how did you know we were brothers?”

“…lucky guess?” Lister sighed. He could have handled that better.

“Right.” Bastian looked at him oddly, than backed slowly out of the room.

---

By the time Rimmer and Dwayne returned to the bunkroom, Lister was almost finished building a house of cards. Unfortunately, opening the door began the short, yet incredibly effective demolition of the house of cards. “Smeg!”

“What?” Rimmer asked before he noticed the cards. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’ll pick ‘em all up.”

Dwayne shrugged and stepped over to his bed as Rimmer bent down to pick up some of the cards.

Lister stopped picking up cards. Rimmer wasn’t supposed to be helping. He was a bastard, right? “Rimmer.”

“What?” Rimmer looked up.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes.”

Dwayne laughed. “And there’s the broken record again!”

Lister ignored Dwayne. “Then why are you helping me?”

“Why are you asking me why?” Rimmer absently picked up another card.

“It’s…oh, never mind. Thanks for the help.” Lister tapped his small deck into a manageable pile, then picked up another card. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “Does anything happen here? I mean, is there a daily exercise run, or a doctor visit?”

“There’s a dorm check at eight, but that’s about it.” Rimmer said. “Dr. Crane might be visiting you soon, though. You’ll need meds for your recovery.”

“I don’t need meds.”

Dwayne laughed again. “’course you don’t! Nobody here needs meds, right?”

Lister glared but didn’t refute him. “So when do I meet her?”

Rimmer glanced at the clock. “Anytime, now. Here’s the rest of your cards.” He handed over the small deck.

“Thanks.” Lister put the deck together. So he could be meeting Crane soon…he didn’t know what to feel. He wasn’t afraid, but definitely nervous. What kind of meds would a doctor prescribe for him? Anti-depressants? Ritalin?

Nothing?

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