Heroes summoned to save worlds are ranked depending on difficulty of saving the world. Due to a clerical error an S-Ranked hero was send to a F-Ranked world.
He’s a heavy hitter. One of the most powerful heroes in existence, the one they call on for apocalypses and world-ending threats and impossible last-minute heroics. And he’s glad to help, he really is, even if half the time he fails.
But he never gets the easy jobs, not anymore. No simple victories, no fun assignments. No slow missions with friends when there’s time to goof off between fights.
Every time, it’s a last desperate battle. Every time, he pushes through the limits of his own body, gives and gives until there’s nothing left and then gives more.
The next day, he does it all again.
So coming to a world where the only thing he needs to do is talk the villain down and give them a hug? It’s what he’s needed for longer than he can remember. An easy win, no fighting. He really can’t remember the last time his muscles didn’t ache afterwards.
He’s spent a lifetime standing up for others. Spent sweat, blood, tears, everything for the people who needed him.
The reason humanity has never experienced any world ending events is that future humans keep travelling back in time to stop them. You know this because there’s one of them in front of you now, telling you that you must absolutely not go in to work today.
The time traveller squints at the woman in front of him. "Thank goodness? That's it?"
"Yup!" She grins. "I get to avoid giving a presentation. Where did I put my phone? I need to call in sick."
She calls, producing a surprisingly accurate stuffed-nose-and-tired voice when she speaks to her manager. "Yeah. Yeah, Melissa's got a copy of the presentation, she can stand in for me. Okay. Okay, thanks . . . yeah, I might be out tomorrow, I'll see how I feel. I don't want anyone to catch this. Okay, talk to you tomorrow. Thanks!"
The time traveller sits down on the arm of her couch. The woman politely doesn't mention it, instead flopping down on the plumply cushioned sectional.
"Okay, crisis averted. Want to tell me what just happened?"
The time traveller bites his lip. "I guess I can give you a vague outline. On your way to work, you would have been rear-ended at the traffic lights by a truck. Your car would have been shoved forward to hit the car in front of you, killing a young man who will later become the key dissenting vote to a terrible proposed law. That law would have led indirectly to the death of sixty percent of the people on this planet."
She swallows. "Okay. In that case, my day off and I are happy to help."
The man smiles back at her, going faintly translucent. "The Time Correction Department thanks you for your cooperation. Enjoy your day off."
Like the Cheshire Cat in reverse, his head fades away, his boots the last thing to vanish.
"Impossible," the Advisor for Magic said regally, turning away from the young man kneeling before him. "You are, at best, twenty-five. The use of magic sadly burns up our best and brightest; none have ever survived past thirty."
Daren felt the whisper of magic-born intuition, and closed his mouth on the arguments he wanted to make. "My apologies for misspeaking. I meant twenty-six, not thirty-six."
The cruel curl of the Advisor's plump lips was almost, but not quite, obscured by the fall of his grey hair. "You are renowned as the wisest of our magic users, Archmage Daren. I am surprised you would make such a slip."
A cold chill sparked down Daren's spine as the last of the pieces slammed into place.
"Impossible," the Advisor for Magic said regally, turning away from the young man kneeling before him. "You are, at best, twenty-five. The use of magic sadly burns up our best and brightest; none have ever survived past thirty."
Daren felt the whisper of magic-born intuition, and closed his mouth on the arguments he wanted to make. "My apologies for misspeaking. I meant twenty-six, not thirty-six."
The cruel curl of the Advisor's plump lips was almost, but not quite, obscured by the fall of his grey hair. "You are renowned as the wisest of our magic users, Archmage Daren. I am surprised you would make such a slip."
A cold chill sparked down Daren's spine as the last of the pieces slammed into place.
He knows.
Daren ducked his head, keeping his eyes on the Advisor's feet. "My lord, I am so often deep in the intricacies of spellwork that I frequently forget what day it is."
The Advisor for Magic chuckled warmly, the sound a lie like every one that came out of the man's mouth. "Perhaps that is why you have lived so long, Daren. Your devotion to the academic side of your calling does you credit."
Play along, Daren thought. Make him sure that I know nothing but my books. If he guesses how much I know about the way magic actually works, I'm, dead. "I desire nothing more than the company of my books, my lord. Which is why I wished to speak to you."
"Oh?" The Advisor draped himself in a cushioned chair—the only one in the room—and plucked a candied leaf from the bowl beside it. Candlelight glinted from the man's golden hair, echoing the precious metal that decorated the man's seat.
Daren didn't move. "The books that the Council have been so generous in providing are beginning to strain the shelves. I request that an extension be built to the library, so that we may access them more easily."
The Advisor chuckled again, and Daren's skin crawled. "A reasonable request, young Archmage. I shall put it to the Council of Advisors. Is that all?"
It wasn't, not in the least, but the Advisor had proved himself to be part of the conspiracy that Daren had wanted to tell him about. "It is, my lord."
The Advisor flicked his hand dismissively. "You may go."
~
Sheena met Daren as he exited the Council Hall, matching his pace step for step. "What did he say?"
Magic keep her from burning, Daren was glad that Sheena understood how precarious their position was. The wrong word out in the open could mean both of them turning to ashes in the next group ritual. "The Advisor agreed to put forward our library extension proposal, so we may be freed from teetering book piles within the year."
Her stride hitched for a brief second, and Daren refused to look at her. Her reply, when it came, was bright with artfully acted relief. "Oh, wonderful! I swear, if I get one more tome falling on my head because someone backed into a stack, I'm going to make them carry the entire pile somewhere safer."
Daren laughed, partly because it was expected and partly at her clever choice of consequences. A magic-user could not be violent, said the Council; those with hot tempers burned out early, spending their rage and their lives in pursuit of magic. He'd seen people vanish into smoke for lesser threats than hitting someone with a heavy book. "Which reminds me, have you finished learning the spell for Unlocking things yet?"
"There's still one bit I'm having trouble with," Sheena said, biting her lip. "It's that complicated part in the middle where the cadence gets out of time with the gestures." Another lie, but a believable one; Sheena had perfected her grasp of the spell at seventeen, not long after he'd first started to suspect that something in the processes of the very magic they wielded was tainted. That one seeming flaw was all that held Sheena back from her own title of Archmage, now that she'd survived until her twenty-first birthday. Archmages died faster than any other rank.
"If the Working Hall is empty, I can help you practice?" Daren suggested. It would be good to be seen in public, toeing the line of the spells taught to every mage.
Sheena shook her head. "Tomlis and Bari and the others are renewing the wards on the city walls today. The Working Hall won't be free until this evening."
Now it was Daren's time to freeze. Tomlis was one of the older Archmages at twenty-four, and one of the few who were aware of Daren's suspicions about how wrong the magic being taught to them was. "We have to stop them."
He broke into a run, Sheena's long legs still carrying her beside him. "Stop a ritual? Daren, you can't!"
Can't, he thought, crushing the tidy grass underfoot as he sprinted towards the Working Hall. Can't. They teach us that rituals cannot be stopped or altered once started. Thin branches cracked and whipped at him as he ploughed through an ornamental bush. Can't. I'm throwing away everything I've been working for. Marble slipped under his feet, the broad steps leading up to the door echoing a warning drumbeat. Can't. It's too late. The Advisor was my last hope, and he is the most corrupt of them all.
He skidded to a halt in front of the Working Hall's doors.
Can't stop.
Perhaps Sheena, too, knew that there was nothing left to lose. The spell of Unlocking was perfect, elegant, and out in the open where the Mirror of Visions could see it. It saved him the power he would otherwise have spent on the spell, her sacrifice meaning that they'd both go down together now.
Too late.
Every mage in the ritual circle was glowing, but only one was smoking, fine grey curls rising from hair and skin to join the fog of incense. Tomlis met Daren's eyes and smiled sadly, the chant still spilling from his mouth.
"Change the ritual!" Daren shouted, his voice nearly lost in the thrum of the spell. "Take out those bits I showed you, the spell is wrong, they're all wrong! Magic doesn't burn you, it's the parts they added that kill you!"
Tomlis's skin glowed redder from underneath, and his face slackened in resigned acceptance. Then, from some unbelievable reserve of strength, he found the power to break the incantation.
"Run."
It was Tomlis's last word. The fire consumed him, turning a living man to ash and smoke in less than a heartbeat.
Backing up, Daren stared at the place his friend had stood mere moments ago. The rest of the circle continued their spellweaving, the magical immolation brushed aside as the commonplace it was.
Fingers, warm and alive, threaded into Daren's, and he felt the belated tingle of magic-born intuition once more. The Council were coming, and their loyal Mage-Guard with them.
Shanna narrowed her eyes at the Dungeon Master, who was currently paging through one of the manuals with a serene smile on her face. That smile meant trouble.
Their characters had ended up (again) in the local tavern, ostensibly to gather information. Knowing their DM, there would be information here, but the question was who she'd chosen as the sexy lamp this time. The bartender? A bit obvious, but she'd done it before. The stable hand? The pot boy? The young men serving tables? The pretty elf sitting alone in one corner?
Across the table, Melinda draw a breath. "Bartender!" she cried, deepening her voice to her imagined version of her orc warlock. "Another round!" Gleefully in character, she smacked the DM's kitchen table, a sturdy wooden thing that had survived dozens of D&D games, and Shanna half twisted in her seat to ask their DM's husband for more drinks.
The table cracked with a hollow splintering sound, dice jumping off the table and character sheets fluttering into the air.
The game group stared wide-eyed at the crack in the table, which currently held at least three D4s nestled into the split, and turned as one to look at Melinda.
"I am so, so sorry, I don't know how I did that," Melinda babbled, her voice sounding a little muffled; maybe she was trying to keep her stomach contents in place, she'd certainly gone a bit green.
Honestly, Shanna didn't know either. Melinda was five foot four and light enough for Shanna to pick up and carry around, and she'd never shown that kind of strength before.
"You must have been working out," the DM's husband Tim said, looking as impressed as a man can be when he's holding a jug of chilled juice. "Don't worry, we were planning to replace the table anyway." Calmly, he righted the empty plastic tumblers that they used for D&D sessions and refilled them. "If the adventuring party needs cookies, let me know."
Shanna chugged half of the cup in one go, then fished her favorite glittery D4 out of its wooden grave. "Right. Whose turn is it again?"
Rose, their paladin, shook her head and did the same. "Still Melinda's, I think."
Gameplay resumed; after getting some information out of the pickpocket who tried to steal from Shanna's tabaxi rogue, the party ventured forth into the Caves of Whatever Name The DM Made Up. They were promptly attacked by goblins, who were justifiably annoyed at a bunch of blundering explorers stumbling through their living space and blinding them with Rose's casting of Daylight.
With apologies tendered and a new map provided (so that the tall fools would not stumble into Goblin territory again), the party continued on.
The sound of a footstep made Shanna blink, and her ear twitched slightly as she turned to look at the intruder. Even before she saw him, she knew from the faint smell of soap and shaving foam that it was Tim, and the scent of chocolate said he bore cookies.
"Whoa, Shanna, where'd you get the contact lenses?" Tim asked, setting the plate down on the damaged table. "Are they meant to make your eyes all reflective? You looked like a cat for a moment." A flare of light made her squint. "And Julie, love, I appreciate your love of authenticity, but there's no need to sit in the dark."
"But we weren't," Julie the DM said, shaking her head as if to wake herself up.
But they had been. Somehow, they'd all been able to see as clearly as if the sun was shining.
"Thanks for the cookies, Tim," Rose said with a smile, reaching for the plate. The fingertips of her gauntlet closed lightly around a cookie, leaving smudges of chocolate on the metal (it should be plastic).
Shanna met Rose's eyes, seconds before her helmet closed them away.
Shanna met Melinda's eyes, and under artificial light the green tint to her skin was unmistakable.
Shanna met Julie's eyes, and Julie reached out to brush Shanna's hair away from her ear.
"Pick one of the weapons inside, and you'll be a warrior."
The sign itself should have been a warning, you think. Other would-be Warriors get their words engraved on stone doors, or burned into heavy wood, or inlaid in precious metals.
You got a piece of paper taped to a chipboard door that wouldn't look out of place in a fifty-year-old house. The words are handwritten; not beautifully calligraphed, but hastily scribbled, as though the person who wrote it was in too much of a hurry to care.
"Pick one of the weapons inside, and you'll be a warrior."
The sign itself should have been a warning. Other would-be Warriors get their words engraved on stone doors, or burned into heavy wood, or inlaid in precious metals.
You got a piece of paper taped to a chipboard door that wouldn't look out of place in a fifty-year-old house. The words are handwritten; not beautifully calligraphed, but hastily scribbled, as though the person who wrote it was in too much of a hurry to care.
Sighing, you reach for the handle anyway. It won't go away until you pick something; every Warrior who survived this trial says so. It'll just keep turning up, more and more insistent, until every door is this one. You lost your sister to one of these doors, and by any available metric she was a far better candidate than you'll ever be. (She's not one of the ones who died from making the wrong choice in the armoury. That happened later.)
As your hand wraps around the handle, the piece of paper flutters. Blue ink catches your eye; the traditional words are in black marker, but the blue doesn't fit. You let go. Pull the paper away from the door. Turn it over.
We're out of options, says the blue ink, in the same handwriting as the words on the front. This is all we've got left. You barely qualify, but you might be a better choice. Please. Help.
You grit your teeth. It's true, but seeing it laid out so blatantly still stings. For a moment, you consider opening the door and closing it without taking a weapon, or taking one and not using it. But the unknown letter-writer is right; the one thing that qualifies you for this is that you want to help.
Your fingers wrap around the handle, and you pull the door open before you can think about it. Part of you is hopeful, curious, wanting to see the fabled armoury of the Doors.
It's not there.
In front of you is a broom closet, dust in the corners, lit by a bare electric bulb. There are four weapons on display, and here at least part of the glory you'd hoped for survives.
An elegant sword in bronze and green. A shield in silver and yellow. A wizard's staff in black and red. A set of wings in gold and blue. You know that whatever weapon you choose, you will be an expert with as soon as you pick it up.
They all call to you. Choose one, choose any, they will leap eagerly to your aid. The wings call to you most, but something holds you back.
In the half-hope that there might still be a way out of this, you shuffle the shield aside with the back of your hand. And there, hidden behind the curved metal that wants you to pick it up, is something that few Warriors would ever recognise as a weapon.
A capped fountain pen, discarded in a dark and dusty corner.
It doesn't call to you. It doesn't leap to your hand. But this, this is the weapon you already know how to use. Your fingertips grip it, and you idly pull the cap off. A testing stroke on your skin reveals it to be the same blue as the hopeless note taped to your Door.
"I choose this," you say aloud. There's no instant knowledge, no sudden expertise, but the Door slams shut anyway. The armoury has accepted your choice and made you a Warrior.
We repeat. Get to a secure shelter and stay inside until the all clear is called. Do not leave your shelter under any circumstances. Meteorologists have confirmed confirm that, after roughly 10:30, for the first time in history, it’s gonna start raining men.
Genevieve raked a loose strand of hair off her forehead and looked up grimly. 10:23, and the skies had darkened, but there was no sign yet of what the weathergirls had predicted.
Around her, her fellow doctors and nurses and hospital staff waited tensely. Some were still, some jittering foot to foot, some compulsively checking their field kits. None of them liked waiting when they knew they'd be needed.
Beside her, Bethany from reception muttered into her phone, coordinating the response teams. Every ambulance not needed for an urgent call-out was waiting at a different designated spot where they could reach emergencies easily. Gaps were covered by army and Air Force medics and truck drivers, the nearby ocean patrolled by Coastguard and Naval vessels ready to fish the slightly unluckier victims out of the water. Helicopters with nets had been vetoed; too much chance of an unfortunate man falling into the blades.
10:27.
"Here they come!" one of the nurses yelled, pointing up into the sky. Genevieve followed his pointing finger to see a black speck. And then another, a little further away. More and more, hundreds upon hundreds filling the sky.
Bethany's voice took on an urgent intensity.
And then . . .
Impact.
Genevieve could have happily gone the rest of her life without hearing the peculiarly soggy thump made by human bodies hitting the ground.
Triage checked him first; no point wasting treatment on the dead. But they were lucky, or perhaps not; the first victim of the fall was not just alive but awake, groaning and bleeding but still moving and talking.
Hospital staff bundled him inside, and Genevieve shifted her attention to the next casualty. This one was further away, having landed in the parking lot, and he was unconscious by the time a team wheeled him past at high speed.
Then the first ambulance wailed up and threw its doors open, and Genevieve was wrist-deep in trying to keep the man together for long enough to get him into the hospital.
~
Hours later, Genevieve collapsed into an unoccupied chair in the canteen. Hospital management had popped open the vending machines and told them to take what they needed, and the litter of open soda cans, drained water bottles, and empty snack packets proved exactly how welcome that had been to the exhausted staff.
A cup of coffee steamed in front of Genevieve, and she gazed at it with foggy eyes. The effort it would take to reach out and close her hand around it seemed like far too much, her arms shaking as the smell wafted to her nose.
Something light but warm settled around her shoulders, and Genevieve found the strength to loll her head back at an angle. "Beth."
"Gennie," Bethany said, tucking the blanket around Genevieve more securely and then flopping into the chair opposite her with a huff of air. "They're just finishing with the last few here. I checked with the nurses, your last patient is breathing on his own and he's sleeping. Prognosis is good."
Genevieve made a noise of acknowledgement, relief sapping even more energy as the stress that had fuelled her faded away. She'd be aching later, after she'd slept, but it was worth it. Men of all shapes and sizes and appearances had been saved from death or long-term injury, and she was calling that a bonus.
A clatter of feet on easy-to-scrub lino flooring brought a new burst of adrenaline, and Genevieve sat up and twisted around alertly. It was Mohammed, one of the surgeons, and given how hard he'd been working he was the last person she'd expected to see.
"Who is it?" she demanded, ready to hear that one of her patients had taken a turn for the worse.
Mohammed gasped a couple of lungfuls of air, licking his lips before he spoke. "Gennie . . . my last patient. It's your husband. He's alive."
One morning there’s a cottage where there wasn’t one before, and you’ve heard this story before, so you’re wary. But it’s an elderly couple who live there, and they’re lovely people if a little odd sometimes, and somehow the sudden appearance of the cottage just isn’t important enough to investigate.
Years go by, and they’re part of the village. She makes the best food you’ve ever tasted, and you’re pretty sure that she bakes extra cakes for those children bold enough to steal a cooling one from the window sill. Oh, she’ll yell at them, but nothing bad ever happens. (Except when Henry fell face first into a cow pat, but you’re pretty sure that was an accident.)
He’s the one that people go to for advice; everyone, not just the adults. Children ask questions, and he takes them seriously, and his knowledge is beyond any other person you know for sheer depth and breadth. Teenagers confess their troubled hearts, and he tells them that they are not the first to feel this way and that they need to talk to whoever their feelings are about. Adults, who are not so different from children and teenagers except in scope, come quietly in the evening and leave looking less stressed. (Or, sometimes, more.)
A few years down the road, the village loses him. Your village gives him a good burial, and you all look after his widow because you know what’s owed. The house starts to need maintenance, after that, but no matter what people do to patch it up, it never quite takes. She just smiles and offers them a fresh pear from the tree in her garden. (It’s always in fruit, and people carefully do not ask.)
One day, the door falls off, and your neighbours go in to find her lying peacefully in bed. You bury her too, next to her husband, and when you return to the house you find that the walls have begun to crumble and the pear tree is dead.
It’s next spring before anyone has the heart to tear down what’s left of the old house. The people of the village will build a new one, you decide, for whatever wanderer next comes through needing a home.
When you dig down for the new foundations, you find enormous bones, bent as if some monstrous chicken died sitting. After some discussion, you bury the bones next to the old couple’s graves. It takes five strong adults to move each one, and each claw is the size of a tall man’s leg. You do not comment on this, nor on how the old pear tree has entirely dissolved away in the winter storms.
The day after the new house is finished, you wake up to find bright curtains at the windows and a round-bodied young woman living there. She has a smile like spring, and the cherry tree in her garden never runs short of fruit.
~
(This story was inspired by a sculpture made by hellenhighwater, original post is here.)
You’re a retired S-tier supervillain. After you retired, you married a B-tier hero. You are forced back onto the stage when an A-tier villain attempts to kill your spouse.
The sound of shattering glass didn't bother Jenny. Aoife's old hero name might have been 'Lightfoot', but her powers had no effect on her clumsiness. At least, Jenny thought fondly, she didn't have to worry about Aoife hurting herself on the shattered shards. The way she could hover above any surface meant that she could stay above any broken glassware.
The sound of her wife screaming did bother Jenny.
Jenny catapulted herself into the kitchen, her powers straining for whatever available moisture was in the vicinity. Aoife lay on the floor, awake but dazed, and two figures in heavy combat gear loomed over her with rifles in hand. One looked up, a mask blocking their face, and Jenny's felt a surge of the same rage that had once destroyed buildings and livelihoods. Nobody hurt her wife.
Water gushed out of the sink, bottles burst as they gave up their contents, and the laundry was abruptly drier than long-buried bones. Water didn't need much space to get in, to get around or under, and it all leapt to her command.
Part of it splashed against their masks, soaking through air filters and blinding them. Some darted down the barrels of their guns, and it might not make them unusable but it would make them hesitate to fire. A tiny wave washed under their feet, their boots sliding on the frictionless surface as she held their boot soles away from the floor, and Aoife slammed one foot towards them from where she lay forgotten on the floor. It didn't connect; it didn't have to. Bodies were also a surface, and Aoife could kick like a shire horse with or without her powers.
One of them thumped against the countertop by the broken kitchen window, and Jenny encouraged the assassin back outside with a focused burst of water to the torso. She could hear him screaming as he dropped three storeys, but she couldn't bring herself to care. If he was lucky, he'd land in old Mr de Luca's flowerbeds.
She knelt by the second attacker, ripping his mask off with a little liquid assistance. "Who sent you?" she demanded.
The young man—a boy, almost—swallowed as he met her furious gaze, his eyes wide and his lower lip between his teeth.
Jenny leaned in a little, water creeping up the side of her face to mimic the closed-faced helmet she'd once worn as the supervillain Hurricane. "Who. Sent. You?" she snarled.
The boy swallowed. "Immateria," he squeaked. "She wants to make a statement, show everyone that no hero is safe from her reach."
There was a shuffling noise behind her, and Aoife hooked her chin over Jenny's shoulder. Jenny's water-formed helmet shifted aside to make room, moulding lovingly against her wife's face. "A-rank villain," Aoife provided. "I tangled with her once or twice while I was working with Lancer, but I'm not in her league."
A small, vicious smile sliced across Jenny's face. "Unfortunately for Immateria? She's not in mine." She leaned closer to the boy, close enough to smell him sweating. "Go back to your mistress, and tell her that retired Powers are off limits. Tell her that if she thinks that those in their fifties and sixties are easy targets, to think again. Tell her that old Powers are the ones who survived." She grinned, showing the false teeth she'd had implanted after one too many battles. "And tell her that Hurricane will be very unhappy if she has to make that point again."
The Palace sits under its dome, shining and impenetrable against the obsidian void of space. I hear they keep the gravity low inside, so the princes and princesses all but float across the floor.
There are lavish balls and parties, every night. We cannot go within, but we can see. There are cameras, inside, and sometimes the party spills into the impossibly green garden that surrounds the palace itself. Ships pass by just to watch the distant dancing, to hear the laughter that makes no sound in the vacuum of space.
Ships do not land at the palace, but the tables are always full of delicious food and expensive drinks. The princes and princesses lift their glasses to their lips, smiling, before the dance whirls them away again.
It has been decades since the parties at the Palace grew into a galactic sensation. The inhabitants of the Palace play into it, charging ships a small fortune for premium viewing sites or better camera feeds, which I suppose is how they can afford to keep going.
Few people stay to watch another night. Perhaps that's good, or they'd see what I see.
Even the best of the cameras are old. They were installed not long after the first cruise ships chose Palace Orbit as a sightseeing destination, and the quality of the videos feed is nowhere near as clear as modern cameras. Don't get me wrong, it's live footage; they've proved that over and over. They just have a reason for ensuring the footage is a little grainy.
The cameras are live. The dancers are not.
The rubbery plastic of their cheeks is beginning to crack, after decades of running through the same semi-randomised actions. Their clothes, once lavish, are beginning to fade and wear out. The artificial food, uneaten by those who cannot eat, is beginning to gather dust from the disintegrating clothes. Even the magnetic tracks that carry them on their nightly entertainments have begun to hitch - I have put in a maintenance request, but I have heard nothing back yet.
I will wait, spinning here on my little asteroid around the bigger one that holds the Palace. Time does not matter to me.
Perhaps I should send another maintenance request for my own habitat. The hole in the window is still open to space, and it has been a long time since I had oxygen in here.
I will absolutely and 100% explain everything and everything about any of my fics.
I am super happy to talk about the intent behind what I wrote. I MIGHT have to reread it to remember what I did there, but I’m happy to read my own stuff again, that’s why I write it in the first place.
Hey! I absolutely adore your work, and I read all that I could find!
I don't really know what is a ping list, but I suppose it is to tell people when there's more stuff from Yesterday's Legacy? If it is, I'd love to be a part of it, please!!
He turned the stopcock back on and, trailed by the anxious homeowner, trotted back upstairs to turn on the bathroom tap. It coughed, spluttered, and then settled down into a steady flow.
"There we go," he said cheerfully. "Dry as a bone. No more leaks."
"Thank you, Jack," the homeowner said, the tension easing out of him. "What do I owe you?"
Jack smiled. "Call it a favour. And if someone else needs help, I'm happy to assist."
~
Jack knocked the last nail in and stepped back to view his work. The breeze failed to rattle the newly rebuilt fence, and he nodded to himself in satisfaction.
"Thanks!" said the farmer who'd asked for his help. "I owe you one."
Jack smiled. "I'll remember that."
~
". . . and the builders say that we'd need to get the whole roof re-tiled! For a couple of loose slates?" The woman's voice rose above the murmur and clatter of the coffee shop, and the background noise briefly dipped in response.
Her best friend patted her arm gently. "It's okay. I know a guy."
~
"And . . . goodbye virus." Jack sat back in the young man's computer chair. "And I strongly recommend that you get a decent antivirus and firewall, or this will happen again."
"Those are expensive," the young man complained. "And I can just get you to fix it for me, right?"
Jack smiled. "Can you?"
~
The doorbell rang.
Exhausted after a long day of disappointed hopes, the woman shuffled to her front door. If it was the neighbour's kid again, come to report on the hunt, she'd probably slam the door on them.
Hope revived in a dizzying emotional punch as she saw Jack, who carried a happily purring orange cat in his arms. "I believe you've been looking for this bundle of mischief?" he asked politely.
"Kipper!" she squeaked, plucking the source of all her worries out of Jack's grip. "Thank you, thank you so much, I don't know what I'd do without my precious boy."
Jack smiled. "Glad to help."
~
The civil servant put the phone down and buried his face in his hands.
His assistant, alerted by the sudden silence, poked her head through the door. "Is it that bad?"
"Worse," he said, muffled. "They've suspended any requirements for planning permissions. Some idiot's going to build houses on a flood plain and we can't stop them."
The assistant bit her lip, lipstick smearing on her teeth. "We could call Jack?"
The civil servant lifted his head out of his hands to stare incredulously at her. "Jack? Jack Oatfield? He does DIY!"
"And he knows people," she pointed out. "Half the city owes him a favour at this point."
The civil servant shook his head, but he also picked up the phone.
~
The girl viciously kicked the ball against the wall of her house, thumping it back harder and harder every time. Part of her wanted to take the ball around to the side of the house where the windows were and glory in the smash, but Jack had only just replaced the last broken window. She'd seen how stressed her mum had been about it, even though she hadn't been the cause of that one. She didn't want her mum to feel that bad again.
"What's up, kid?"
The girl stopped kicking the ball. "Oh. Hi, Jack."
"Your face looks longer than a rainy day. Anything I can help with?"
She stuck her hands in her pockets. "Not unless you can make the city council give us the Summer Fair back. We were going to have a school float in the parade, and a chocolate raffle booth at the fair, and my cousin's dad was going to bring his burger truck and he does the best burgers ever."
"Hmm. Let me see what I can do."
Jack inclined his head to her, face straight, and walked away.
~
The Summer Fair that year was an unprecedented success.
The homeowner gathered his fellow lorry drivers and volunteered their rigs as the floats. (This led to an impromptu agreement to help each other out, which in turn led to a wildly successful transport hire company.)
The farmer offered the use of a couple of fallow fields for the fair and parking. (A local stable owner liked the place so much that she relocated her riding school to the area, giving a steadier income stream for the farmer.)
The woman with the roof took on the organisation of the entire fair. (Which so impressed one local businessman that he offered her a better job.)
The young man with the computer virus designed and printed the leaflets and posters. (This helped him get a job with an advertising company in London.)
The woman with the cat knew some people at a nearby dance school, who brought the students to perform a few routines at the fair. (The dance school got so many new students that they ended up hiring the woman with the cat to deal with the admin.)
The civil servant arranged the permissions for the parade and the fair. (He then quit his highly stressful job and became a travel writer. His online blog became widely known for its accuracy and thoroughness.)
And the little girl, who owed Jack nothing, had the best day of her life at the fair.
Any chance you’ve been working on chapter 3 of Yesterday's Legacy? I just found it today and can’t get enough
I am! Here's a snippet from Chapter 3:
A knock at the door startled everyone in the cottage, making Sam drop their second sandwich and causing Jamie to spill his cup over the table.
Zehra shifted over so that she was between the door and Jamie, who'd gone paper-white at the interruption. Sam glanced at the older boy, then at Siobhán, who had recovered almost instantly and was ignoring the door while nibbling at some cheese.
"I'll get it," they said, biting their lip. Mum and Dad answered the door all the time, it couldn't be too hard. Right?
A second knock came just as they were about to touch the door handle, and they jumped involuntarily. Sucking in a deep breath, Sam opened the door.
The man behind it smiled down at them. He had a kindly face with a short white beard, and wore fancy clothes with a lot of embroidery. Sam was pretty sure that the man's jacket was made of velvet, and the shirt looked all shiny. Probably silk?
"Hello, young one," the man said heartily. "I am the Wizard of the Woods. You must have many questions."
