Title: Cherry Blossom
Prompt: any, any, quote:I want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees.
"I want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees," Booth murmured.
Brennan looked puzzled. "You want me to flower, attracting bees and other beneficial insects, allowing them to pollinate the flowers, encouraging the development of fruit?"
Booth sighed. "Sometimes it is possible to be too literal, you know."
Title: The Way
Fandom: Rise of the Guardians
Prompt: Jack, walking barefoot in the snow.
Jack's feet never get cold, no matter how far he walks in the snow. He's walked as far north as Alaska, spinning snowflakes in the air and frosting patterns on the pipeline when it crosses the tundra. It's always winter where he goes, and although his powers flake out somewhere south of Georgia in the east, he can follow the spine of the Rockies all the way down to New Mexico in January. His frosts add flavour to maple syrup festivals in spring and trace scary silhouettes upon windows on All Hallows Eve.
He never gets hungry, and he never gets old.
And no matter how far he walks, he never makes it home.
Title: The Ultimate Rush
Fandom: Premium Rush
Prompt: any, any, it's not the end of the journey that matters, it's how you get there.
Wilee looks back over his shoulder at the silver Mazda chasing him, and sees something switch off in the driver's eyes. It's the moment when the payoff if the driver succeeds becomes greater than the risk that he will seriously injure or maybe even kill Wilee in his attempt to steal the letter, and both of them know it.
He's had people nearly kill him before, but none of them have been actually trying. The fear does not surprise him. The exhilaration does. It's the ultimate in adrenaline rushes.
He thinks of Vanessa, only a little as his mind is already on his route, and then even that thought is lost in the sheer joy of speed.
Maybe the driver will catch him. Maybe he won't. If Wilee were a gambling man (and more importantly, f he actually had any money) he would be betting on the latter. It's not the outcome that matters. It's how you get there, and how fast.
Wilee grins as his calf muscles begin to burn and wonders if he is, ever so slightly, as insane as they say.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed 3
Theme: 500 words
Prompt: any, any, making the best of a bad situation.
The dead soldier's blood stained his scarlet coat wine-red. His eyes and mouth were open. Sergeant Tom Wilkinson of the Continental Army looked away and shuddered as a fly landed upon one glazed eyeball. The sounds of the battle faded behind them, leaving the flies and the corpses behind like jetsam upon the conflict's shore.
"Turn him over," he said.
Taylor shoved the Englishman's body with the toe of his boot. The redcoat slumped onto his face. Wilkinson crushed the fly neatly between his fingers.
"You get his boots," he told Taylor. "I'll check for jewellery."
He knelt to take the dead man's hand, smiling as he noticed a gold wedding ring. The sinews of the corpse's fingers gave way easily beneath his knife.
"Get away from the body," someone snapped.
Wilkinson glanced up, still sawing. A quartet of British soldiers levelled their rifles at his head. He stopped.
"Now then," he said carefully, "-we don't want trouble." He looked over at Taylor. "Drop the bloody boots, lad."
"Scavengers!" one of the soldiers said contemptuously.
"No need for that," Wilkinson said easily. "We're only trying to get by." He held up his hands and glanced hopelessly at his rifle, which he had propped some distance away against a rock in order to leave both hands free. "You going to shoot us, or what?"
"Nope," The lead soldier sucked his teeth. "We'll take you prisoner."
Wilkinson had heard tales of the English prison hulks. He tensed, preparing to rush them, and saw an arrow sprout from the redcoat's throat. The soldier choked, hand reaching up to his white cravat, and then he dropped to his knees, collapsed, twitched and was still.
The second soldier raised his gun. Wilkinson swallowed.
And then an Indian materialised from a clump of beech trees and stabbed the soldier in the back. The third redcoat jabbed at the Indian with his bayonet, but the native swayed away from the blow and buried his axe in the soldier's ribs with a sound like a lumberjack felling a tree. He dragged the weapon out and chopped it into the last soldier's skull, dispatching the man as neatly as a steer. It all took less time than a man would take to load a musket.
The Indian looked up. "The main command?"
Wilkinson pointed. "That way," he said.
"My thanks," said the Indian. He stepped into the bushes, then turned back. "You should not dishonour yourself looting corpses. One day it may be your body that is rifled."
"What do I care?" said Wilkinson. "I'll be dead."
The Indian stared at him, that grim hatchet face unreadable. "Never mind," he said at last, and set off into the bush.
"I didn't realize natives were involved," Taylor said.
Wilkinson picked up his knife. "Some are. I've heard that fellow has a grudge against the British. For whatever reason, I'm glad he's on our side."
Taylor looked doubtful.
"Cheer up," said Wilkinson. "Things could be worse. He could be on theirs."
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Theme: 500 words
Prompt: Altair +/ anyone, hydrophobia.
"I'm not afraid of water," said Altaïr.
Malik rolled his eyes. "Of course not."
The short expanse of water stretched in front of them, sunlight rippling from its surface. Five or six low pilings studded the surface.
"If you're afraid of water, we can take another road."
Altaïr's mouth was a flat angry line under his hood. "I'm not afraid."
Malik gestured at the water, "Then go first."
Altaïr glared at him. His usual grace escaped him as he stepped to the edge of the jetty and peered warily at the first paling. "It's slippery. There are better ways."
Altaïr gazed at the water, shaking his head, and Malik shoved him. He didn't mean to push so hard, but the planks were slippery. Altaïr's boots slid out from under him and he toppled into the water. He didn't struggle or splash. He just sank.
Malik waited a few moments. When Altaïr did not reappear he cursed and began to strip off his weapons. He pulled off his boots, robe and sash before he dived into the water.
The harbour was blood-warm, and murky. It was deep enough to drown in. The pilings stretched down past Malik like tall trees to bury their roots in harbour mud.
There was no sign of Altaïr.
Malik cursed and dived deeper. He saw a pale blur to his right and swam towards it. Altaïr's robes billowed around him. Malik saw a gleam of steel and realised the idiot had kept all of his weapons. He did not waste time trying to cut them free. He grabbed hold of Altaïr's wrist and tried to pull him to the surface.
It didn't quite work like that. Altaïr's knee caught Malik in the stomach, and his breath escaped in a cloud of silver bubbles. He pushed Altaïr away. Altaïr grabbed for his hands. Malik snatched his arms back and backpedalled, treading water as he seriously considered letting Altaïr sink.
He reached for Altaïr's hood, hoping to tow him to the surface but the waterlogged cloth slid through his fingers before they had travelled more than an arms' breadth. Altaïr's struggles grew weaker. In desperation, Malik slipped behind Altaïr and grabbed him by the throat. He'd either save Altaïr or strangle him. At that moment, he didn't care which.
To his surprise, it worked well. Altaïr couldn't reach Malik, and Malik had one arm free to swim. The shining surface of the water came closer and closer. Malik's arms burned.
He struggled to keep Altaïr's head above water until he finally managed to get one arm onto the jetty.
They coughed their guts up together in the baking sun before Malik said. "I didn't know."
"You did. You almost drowned me."
"So did you." Malik retorted. "You should have taken off your sword."
"I'd rather die."
"You almost did." Malik snapped. "Why didn't you say you couldn't swim?"
"You asked if I was afraid of water," Altaïr coughed. "I said no."
Malik sighed. "You're an idiot," he said.