#plotlessness

[cod-dump]

The Fort

TW: Silliness without plot, silliness, literally no serious plot

___

Price liked giving the boys days off together if he could, that way they could keep each other occupied. Believe it or not, they actually get into less trouble when two or more of them are free. They liked to hoard themselves in the rec room their entire day off, usually leaving the room in a mess by the time they left.

Price normally never witnessed the mayhem first-hand, always giving the boys their space to enjoy themselves. But he wanted to check on them after giving them a week off after a hard mission. He hadn't seen them for four days straight and just wanted to confirm they were alive. So he went to the rec room with cookies as a peace offering for intruding.

Price was not prepared for the sheer chaos that greeted him when he opened the door.

The couches were flipped over, leaning against the pool table with sheets thrown overtop. The boys were no where in sight and Price realized the TV was missing from its usual place, as well. The extension cords suggested it was in their makeshift fort. Price inched closer to the fort, hearing muttering from within it.

"Boys?"

The muttering ceased and a broomstick suddenly stuck out from the sheets, prodding Price in the stomach to keep him from coming any closer.

"Come no closer, fiend!"

Price blinked at Gaz's exclaim as what sounded like Soap and Roach laughing followed.

"Fiend?"

"Hold up-" Gaz sticks his head out from the sheets, "Oh! Hi, Captain! Sorry, we thought you were Ghost coming back to steal our bounty!"

Price blinked, processing what Gaz had said, "You're... trying to keep Ghost... from stealing your 'bounty'?"

Soap pokes his head out, "He kept eating all the crisps and wanted to control the TV so we kicked him out."

Roach pokes out from under Soap, "Now he's our mortal enemy."

"Huh... Alright, then. Well, I was coming to see if you boys were alive."

Roach points, "What's in the container?"

"Oh, Laswell's snickerdoodle cookies."

The three gasp, stars in their eyes. They disappear under the sheets, back into the fort, before they use the broomstick to open the sheets up.

"Welcome, Lord Price! Come share your treasure with us!"

Price snorts, "I have work to do, boys. Just came to check on you."

"Oh..."

"But these cookies are for you."

"YES!"

Price leans down to hand over the cookies when, suddenly, they're snatched from Price's hands.

"What-?"

He turns in time to see Ghost disappear out of the rec room. Price didn't have to say anything (or more like didn't have time to) before Gaz, Soap, and Roach charged out of the fort after Ghost.

"COME BACK HERE, THIEF!"

Price stands, blinking. He really had to get back to work but the boys were clearly doing something far more entertaining than whatever the SAS emailed him. Price decides to sit on the floor, pulling out his phone and checking the base's security footage. From there, he was able to watch the boys chase after Ghost throughout the halls.

Sadly, he couldn't hear what they were saying. And he knows it was hilarious. Though he was fairly entertained by how everyone else on base was reacting to the chaos of the 141's core members running around like madmen over a container of cookies.

Eventually, Ghost ran into the rec room. He got on his knees and slid past Price into the fort. The sheets fluttered closed by the time the other three ran in.

"GHOST!"

"My fort now."

Price covered his mouth to keep from laughing as Gaz was swatted by the broomstick when he tried to get back into the fort. Soap and Roach were also swatted when they got too close, making Price realize there was only one opening into their fort.

"YOU DISHONORABLE CRUMB OF DIRT! LEAVE OUR FORT IMMEDIATELY AND WE WILL SHOW YOU MERCY!"

Price snickered at the commitment Gaz was giving this bit.

"Let me think about it... Nah, I'm staying."

"THEN YOU LEAVE US NO CHOICE-"

"Oh please, what are you going to do? You can't touch me!"

Soap joins in, "Oh, fairest Ghost! May I join you inside?"

"No."

Soap gasps loudly, "I thought we had something!"

Price rolls his eyes and stands, "You boys have your fun-"

Price is stopped from leaving by Roach, "Lord Price! Help us retake our fort and we shall share our bounty with you!"

"Boys-"

Roach takes his goggles off and hits him with the saddest eyes Price has ever seen on him. Gaz and Soap quickly join in and Price sighs loudly, knowing he wouldn't hear the end of it if he didn't help them.

"Fine. Step aside."

Price approaches the fort, ready for Ghost to swipe at him with the broomstick. Once he was close enough, the broomstick stuck out, ready to hit him. Price quickly grabbed it and yanked it out of Ghost's grasp.

There was a moment of silence before-

"Oh shit-"

"CHARGE!"

Gaz dives into the fort, Soap and Roach following suit. Immediately there was high pitched screaming and cursing. Price backed up, not sure what to expect. Suddenly, Ghost crawls out of the fort lightning speed, Gaz following him but only going a foot outside of the fort. Price yelps when Ghost knocks into his legs, sending him crashing to the floor.

"BLOODY HELL, SIMON!"

Ghost lays on top of him, Price wheezing by his weight being completely on his stomach. He wiggled around but found himself unable to get free.

"Listen here, you little shits! I have a hostage!"

Roach peeks out and gasps, "He has Lord Price!"

Gaz goes to charge out but Soap grabs him by the ankle, "No! Don't! There's no telling what he might do to him!"

"That's right! He's in danger until you give into my demands!"

Gaz glares, "What do you want?"

"To be let back into the fort!"

Gaz looks at Roach and Soap for their input before sighing, "Fine, you can come back."

"AND I WANT TO WATCH LEGALLY BLONDE!"

"FUCKING-"

Price groans, "Let him watch the movie!"

"UGH- FINE!"

Ghost gets off of Price and shoves his way back into the fort. Price wheezes as he sits up. He forgot how big of a guy Ghost was. Gaz crawls over to him.

"Are you alright, Lord Price?"

"I'll live. Is this seriously what you boys get up to on your days off?"

Gaz blinks, "Yea? What else would we do?"

Price stares before shrugging.

"DON'T EAT ALL THE COOKIES!"

Gaz immediately darts back into the fort. Price rolls his eyes but smiles as he stands. He begrudgingly went back to his boring office and to do his boring reports. He'll have to see if there's room for him in the fort tomorrow.

[honestlyvan]

Fruits of scholarly labour 1

So at school we were doing a speed writing excercise, where we had 30 minutes to pick a topic, build it up and write the first draft. I didn't get enough comments to feel like I could improve what I already did so I'm not all that satisfied with it, but fuck it.

--

Come in.

Ah yes. Come. Over here, young acolyte.

Sit.

Yes, sit. We’re going to be here a while, you should sit. Young legs or not, you’ll tire out soon. I plan to talk quite a lot, and I don’t want you to stop listening halfway through because your calves hurt.

Now. I heard you blew up a jar of ink in training.

I see. And I suppose it was the candle next to it you were planning to set on fire—I mean, light up.

Well that’s not what happened anyhow. But tell me – why did what happened, happen? What do you think, young one?

Hmm.

So what do you think that means?

I see.

No, you’re not in trouble. You are, however, in a precarious situation. I don’t think you did what you did on purpose, but that doesn’t change the fact that half of your professor’s desk burned out because you couldn’t focus a simple lighter spell.

Now now, don’t look so discouraged. Maybe I shouldn’t have said “couldn’t”. After all, you did say it ran out from your hands. Magic does that, young one.

I suppose you’ve been taught the same things as everyone else – that magic is like a stream of light, that your spark depends on how much you open the aperture and let it out. We can agree that lighting a candle doesn’t require much spark at all – most mages can even do it without a written spell, correct?

Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. I’m sure you are aware that simplifying magic to something as easily identifiable as light is a gross underestimation. After all, if you hold a torch, the light doesn’t turn blue if you happen to be sad while doing it, correct?

Yes, the flow of magical energy is much more unpredictable than that. I think, in your case, it simply overflowed a little. Like tipping a carafe too far and ending up with a lap full of wine.

Well I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that. But I know what happened. The same thing has happened to me too. You see, what your professor has taught you is not the whole and indivisible truth about magical people. Some of us are strong. Some of us are weaker, but with greater “spark” – more power to imbue in any one spell at one time. And some of us, like you and me, my child, have such a great spark it sometimes takes a life of its own.

I’m saying that what happened to you, happened to me too, didn’t you listen?

And don’t look so disbelieving. Would you doubt my ability to control my magic? Didn’t think so. But the honest fact is that the collapsed pillar in the main hall is the way it is because what happened to you happened to me too.

You’ve been taught that almost all people have the spark, but only some of them can get spells to work. That’s because, as you know, spells come with a set limit on how much energy they can be imbued with before released. Use too little, and they don’t work or work badly. Use too much, and they won’t work or – like in this case – blow up at the nearest associated thing. And ink is associated with every type of magic, you know this.

Yes.

It means you are a very special young man. The high masters would call you a “font”. I should know, because I am one too.

Let me tell you a story. Once, a young acolyte came to this grand magical academy, in hopes of becoming a crop mage, to learn the secret knowledge and help her village prosper. She studied hard, finished all the classes on scripture and spell-weaving in no time, and got accepted to practical class during her first year – much like someone else in this room, too.

But that is where her troubles started. See, while SHE could get her own woven spells to work, nobody else could. And when she tried to use other people’s spells, they’d stay inert on the paper, or leap off it and fly at things they were never meant to target. Why, the pillar I mentioned before? That happened because she was trying to throw a rope around a banister to climb up to the second floor, and missed. The rope wrapped around the pillar, and crushed it to bits.

Now you and I know no rope is supposed to have that much strength, don’t we? But what defines a rope’s grip?

How much spark you imbue it with, yes. So why would that girl’s rope break stone, when, if it was just aimed badly, it would’ve just gotten stuck?

Exactly. She fed it too much power, without realizing she was doing so. And that’s when her teachers realized that she was no ordinary mage. All her, or my, spells worked, but only if they were woven by me, and after some trying, one of the older masters got one to work, but only after he had fed it so much power he was hospitalized for five days. But me? The young girl who barely knew how to weave a simple magical gauze? I could’ve thrown that spell around all day and still had strength to plough the upper field. Do you understand?

Ah. Well. Let’s ask it this way: where do you think the power to do magic comes from?

Yes yes, that old drivel about magical lines in the earth and mystical spring wells of power. Sheer nonsense, if you ask me. All power comes from living beings, you know this to be true.  You can’t make a stone fly without giving it some of your own power, can you? You can’t. It’s because it’s not alive – has no power of its own for you to use. That should be enough of a clue.

But because the power we have is limited, we use the power around us, to boost our magic or to help setting off a difficult spell. But you’ve never had to do that, have you?

I didn’t think so. Your classmates probably do it all the time, but you’ve never felt the drain, never reached to the air and grasped at the unseen lines, have you? You can sense them – you’ve just never needed them.

Well. Where do you think all that power, all the “ambient spark”, as the professors call it, comes from?

Correct. You.

You are a font of new power, my boy. You are a being that brings new magic into this world, to bolster the reserves of magic in the earth and in the air. You are, for a lack of a better description, one of those spring wells your professor has waffled on about. You are a living magical battery, who happened to decide upon becoming a mage.

Seems hard to believe, doesn’t it?

You calling me a liar, boy?

Ah. Now that’s a good and complicated question. Think back on what I said about why spells don’t work. Sometimes, your spark is not bright enough, and you can’t form the connection with the magic inherent in the spell structure, get the spell off the page. Sometimes, you can try too hard, burn your spark too bright, making the inherent in the ink shrivel, leaving you unable to grasp it. Sometimes, even if you can get a spell in your fingers, it dries up like a tipped-over glass because you don’t feed it enough energy. Sometimes, you give a spell too much power, and it pops like an overblown balloon.

How much power a spell requires for activating, and for maintaining, depends on how it’s woven. Most people weave spells that need very little to activate, and depend on maintenance if they require lots of power. Some, more dangerous ones, are purposefully woven to require lots of strength to activate. But this is when they’re woven by normal people, with spark enough to light a candle unassisted, but not much more.

You and me are no lighters, my boy. We could tip whole mountains with our spark, and when we weave spells, we use that as a baseline. Your spells aren’t stronger than anyone else’s, but because you put out more energy than anyone, they require a LOT to activate. Conversely, spells woven by normal people are hard for you to activate, much like it’s hard to scream softly. You see now?

Did I ever say that? If you couldn’t limit how much a font could put out, do you think I’d be sitting here, as high master? Honestly now.

Yes, there is a way. It’s called a limiter band, a tight enchantment ring which snaps around your spark, and contains it. It’s not easy to make, and requires a lot of power, and besides it’s merely a magical shackle, one someone like you can break with a single thought, and fairly useless by itself. The key to being able to do normal magic is self-moderation – which means lots of meditation, lots of restraint and lots of abstaining. It’s a fairly bleak way of living. Frankly if you’re looking to lead a life of comfort, you’d be better off becoming a regular – what is it that you wanted to become again?

A regular stonemason then. Believe me when I say, child, being a shackled font is much like being the Valley Lake river – whether or not you account for the overflow, you’re dammed either way.

Now now, humour is always a serious matter. When you become as old as I am, young one, you start to realise that nothing is insurmountable – and joking about it helps you a good way along to surmounting it.

So! I assume you’ll be wanting to begin your training immediately?

Of course! As a starter, we’ll have to at least double your meditation time. You need to become aware of the actual strength of your spark, instead of the illusion your stuffy, overconfident and underqualified professor has taught you. Since you’re already so far into your studies, it’s going to take at least as long to unlearn it, and I still expect that the first time you do a spell after the limiter band is in place, it’s going to pop off like an armlet with a bad lock.

Such is the nature of fonts. Our power is meant to flow out, to others, not to be restrained or limited. But the upside of the strictness of your training in your early years is that by the time you become a man, you’ll be able to do things your peers can only dream off – and often have to, to deal with the build-up of power. And unlike them, different mage guilds will to almost anything to have you as their member.

Oh, it’s not going to be quite that bad. You can’t rush peace of mind and self-awareness, and besides, you’re still young. We can’t have to start behaving like a grouchy high master before your first heartbreak, now can we?

Good. I will speak with your professor. Do you have any more questions at the moment?

Very well. Don’t hesitate if one pops to mind, though, but come straight to me. I know the most, and maybe I can convince you that academia is just as good a place for a font as any other profession. You’ll soon understand why most of us prefer to work in more… hands-on fields. I’ll see if I can’t secure us some time for private lessons, too. Lots of things we fonts can do others can’t even dream of.

Piqued your interest, did I? Go on, now, go tell your professor you’re excused from the rest of the days lessons and then go rest up and have some fun.  Goodness knows you’ll need it before the real work begins.

Well then, go on. Get out of here, you sprout. You’re dismissed.

You’re welcome, young acolyte.

[honestlyvan]

Writer's Block: "Become a fire-fighter, they said..."

Based on this

They stop at the roof to peel the hot tar off their boots and gloves, relishing the fresh air that feels like an arctic breeze despite the sun bearing down on them. Jamie’s sitting on the spare tank that had been dropped in for them, helmet off and the moisture in the air is making her hair frizz, to the point where it looks singed. She’s cursing as she stomps on the last lumps of sparkling plasma stuck to her palms, in what looks like a spectacular attempt at breaking all the fingers in her right hand.

“I hate two-cycle reactors”, she mutters, finally getting the glove off and twisting it under her toes in a display of spiteful irritation. “I hate them. I hate them and everything they represent.” She picks the cooling glove back up, and looks at it and the edge of the roof with such clear intention that Alex is surprised when she sighs and pulls it back on. “How’s the building?”

“The top two floors are a molten mess of concrete and metal”, Alex responds, discarding his gloves and fishing for a canteen from the pouch on his hip. “So, probably we’ll get a DNE on that one. Radio’s dead, and the short-band amp was on the roof the carrier went through. We should probably double back down the elevator shaft, check for survivors, and regroup with Alpha on ground level.”

He takes a swig from the canteen and tosses it to Jamie, who groans and takes a drink in a way that suggests she’d hoping the content would be something stronger. “How’s your gas?” he asks when she tosses the canteen back.

“I dunno. If going down is like coming up, I’m gonna need a refill. Yours?”

“A little better”, he starts to say while Jamie detaches the little compressor pack from her back, propping it up against the gas tank and fiddling with the valves until a tube comes off the nozzle on her sleeve with a pop and a hiss. “But don’t hog everything, if we have to vacuum a whole hallway again, I want to be prepared.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

Alex sighs and sits down heavily, watching as Jamie attaches the tube to the spare tank, eyes on the pressure gauge, while he removes his own compressor pack. “You really should put on a mask – if that tube comes loose, you’re gonna have blisters all over your pretty face.”

“Go fuck yourself and your pretty face”, Jamie responds absently, and there’s a muted hiss as she breaks the spare open, filling her pack. “And while you’re at it, check my pack for leaks.”

Alex nods automatically, tossing his pack over and catching Jamie’s. There are new burns on the chassis, but nothing compromising. He checks the cut-off valves and the seams, and when satisfied, tosses it back over. “We’ll take the staircase to the fifty-third, check that the cables haven’t melted off the ceiling, and surf down if they’re safe. After that—oh, come on!”

Jamie grins his way, poised to throw the spare tank like a javelin, aiming at the smoke still billowing from the corner of the building. She throws the tank with a flick on her wrist, making it shoot through the air with a loud hiss, and explode in the middle of the smoke cloud some fifty yards away. The gas expands, pushing the smoke away to reveal the pattern of plasma splashes, still glowing a muted green against the concrete.

“What? It made me feel better!” Jamie protests when Alex gives her a long-suffering look, as they shoulder their packs and put their helmets back on. He doesn’t grace her with a response, just rolls his eyes as they pull the seals on their suits, the repellent material shrinking and conforming around their body armour.

They approach the door to the servicing shaft they had entered the roof through, comms chattering through their connection-establishing routines. Jamie stops, with a hand on the door handle, and looks back at Alex as the comm chirps OK in his ear.

“I’ll take point?”

“You take point”, he confirms, braces himself and aims the nozzles on his hands towards the door. “You’ll make better chips than me.”

“Hardy-har”, Jamie responds. She waits for him to nod, then yanks the door open and ducks in in one fluid movement, a burst of pressurized gas pushing aside the smoke and killing the few embers still scattered on the floor from their trip upwards. Alex takes one look over his shoulder at the roof, then ducks in after her, pulling the door closed behind him.