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For the Writings for a Vote in my pinned, from @snarky-wallflower

Something Kal and Itzal, please?

this is. uh. longer than I expected. Consider the length a consolation prize of this being the last poll in the lineup!

#op #starwriter #pulp: off the air #god I hateee leaving this one here but I have to make the break somewhere #more coming later for this one idk when but sooner rather than later

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@snarky-wallflower with "Could I get a drabble set in Ghosts of Antikythera, please?"

Absolutely, and it'd be my pleasure.

The exact placement of this moment is during Fog Rolls In, for the chronologically-minded.

The fog wrapped around the abandoned ship as the crew of The Ellen Austin watched in horror. Pitch, tar-dripped, fog bloomed out overhead and poured over the deck like a furnace explosion moving in slow motion. The anvil-head pressing down on the bow and looming above the seas turning them inky in shade. The force of the impacts of the fog against the sea, skies, and ship, were enough to turn the seas choppy under their boat, turning the march of chaos above to action in setting the ship ready in case that wake came here.

Under deck A.J. paced in front of the window facing the ship and fog, hand wringing and damn near ripping the leather holster that would have his spyglass in it, if it wasn't currently above deck in the hands of that fresh-blooded navigator who was too damn young to be in a place like this. No one in his crew should have ever been in a place like this, not ever again! His muscles tense like steel cables primed to snap, as his boot pulls back and splits the wooden frame of the wall sending splinters scattering to the floor as he shouts in frustration.

Drowned out by the chaos above deck bleeding into his ears.

Sweat clings to his brow. His hands on either side of the wall in front of him. Breathing. The top of his head pressed onto the cool window, unable to see the thin trail of fog making a detour. Until A.J.'s eyes finally focus out of the haze and onto the fog beginning to pool around his boot.

Inky and dark, leaden smoke trailing around the toe and heel, making the leather shimmer with humidity and warm breath of equivalent frustration. Tendrils reaching around it gingerly and stiff, like a hand crawling out of the grave, and making A.J. pale in equal measure to a corpse. Before it wrenches it's grasp so tight around the calf of the boot it felt like his ankle might snap off. A pained cry squeezed from his lungs; As, like an anchor being pulled from the sea floor, heavy as tons of sea water being hoisted up, the fog rolls in.

Immediately spun away from the window to the inside of his quarters, by the motion of the fog beginning to drag itself into the cabin by his legs, he watches it force it's way through his home. He can now see the fog he'd so wanted a closer look of, now, too close for comfort. It bleeds the maps and pages grey wherever it lands, flipping through papers and documents with a dozen hands, darkening blooms of fog quickly turning the room to a sweltering midnight. The only light left, from behind A.J.'s head, glowing from the porthole, outlining him in pure white.

"You should really be careful captain... I don't think a fresh coat of paint can fix that hole..."

#op #request #starwriter #honestly this has been a drabble that /i've/ wanted to write for a long while but i had 0 excuse #I could keep this going for so many words it's barely funny and I probably will so consider this a teaser I guess #and I'm sure this scene has probably had a few takes by now but I at least wanted to try my hand on a very short version of mine #cause it's the one that is the most unspoken out of Ghosts of Antikythera despite being arguably one of the more integral #pulp musicals #pulp: off the air #aj griffin #the ghosts of antikythera #kal pulp musicals #kalfu pulp musicals #ALMOST FORGOT THOSE #anyway I will finish this at some point #this is specifically the scene where Kal turns in his favor to request AJ take the ship back to new york

Kal with 17? I was gonna say 5 but that’s just Blackout.

And you're so real for that, amnesia is really fun. I wanted to try and take my time on this idea but I ended up just writing it all in one go and gates above I don't know how this got so long this is almost 1.5k...

17. Tending to an injury/wound/illness

cw for mild but descriptive gore, torture, and canon-typical unwilling drugging

#op #pulp: off the air #oh god this one felt like one where I was watching the scene play out as i typed it #i honestly didn't even think i'd loop back to that...#i think i got all the spelling mistakes too #idk if i'm going to tag this as the characters because idk if it feels exactly right but it at least goes in off the air #honestly mostly rb'd that for my own ideas but I was delighted to find this #thought it deserved another drabble #starwriter

for the drabble rqs: could i get something about john (who could have predicted this from me. we are all shocked…) I can’t attach photos but trust I would never vote for d*sney

Sure!

"All good, going ahead with the scan, three minutes of radio silence. Over." The buzzing transceiver echoing Xander's voice hummed out the order, before a gloved thumb clicked the knob to off with a snap. And it was quiet. Somewhere a few miles away, closer to the road yet still a ways off the trail, was Xander Lee with a parabolic microphone making sweeps for a registered anomaly among the snow-laden treeline. A few other field agents spaced in the field parameter watching the line. And John, at the back edge of the parameter, alone, watching the smoke and heat from a half-gone cigarette and his breath making oil-slick trails in the moonlit air. Far enough away where the only indicator of his Unit still being there was that he hadn't heard shouting yet. He trained them well. He never got many moments alone now a days. If anything that was more purposeful than not. The quiet has started to feel less like a shroud now a days, maybe he just got too tangled up in it to not notice when it started to knot. He inhales the cold air like he's taking a shot, cigarette slotting into that slight dent between his fingers where it rests like a foam-cased bullet, and looks up to the sky, neck creaking like a tree bowing. The sky was remarkably clear tonight, couldn't see much with the trees, but something in it reminded him of those younger days in the field. Old days of staring at the distance and waiting in fields and training grounds for moments that wouldn't come for hours. Picking out points in the distance through the scope, through the binoculars, through telescopes, and asking what was out there. One night, even getting so distracted during training that he had to be called back personally by- Overhead a branch snapped, immediately drawing MacNamara's focus to the place he was already looking as the branch falls next to him... Nothing. Only the after image of red dots in the center of his vision as he blinks. He can hear shouting beginning on the right side of the perimeter though, as he clicks back on his receiver to join the fray.

#op #ask #request #starwriter #general john macnamara #john macnamara #Oh this one was fun for a first one #I do love some military descriptions good lord #I've realized some of these being two paragraphs may be hard but fuck it #I'll write what I can the 1-2 is the standard I guess

I sent proof and stuff :]

Honestly would ask for John but saw you already did him, if you don’t mind doing him again then something involving him! If not then do something for Kal!

I love an encore, I will absolutely do multiples for character's I've done prior!

John stood, file box cradled in his arms, staring at the already smoky office, exhausted just at the sight of the stacks of papers and half-filled file boxed littering every single surface, and knowing that it's only going to get worse from here. He sets the box down atop a stack of papers that immediately settle like a collapsing house of cards; And, without even bothering to pick them up, he cracks open the next box. A 5th cigarette butt plunges into the ash to be stamped out, thumbs mashing it down into the grit. A pair of magnifiers sit on the bridge of MacNamara's nose as he stares down at the papers in his hand. They're handwritten, a couple decades old, old reports from some of the first few missions the unit was deployed to. Before it even got it's name, back when it was truly just some PEIP's. His eyes scan the pages, he's looking for something and scanning for something that he knows is impossible. And yet he knows he'd seen it before. The few hands he'd still had in the office to help him pull files at least knew what boxes were older. They knew which ones were most likely to have notes penned by Colonel Cross. No one really knew what he was looking for, John's explanations falling short, too many things it could be and the vague descriptor not helping. That's the thing about impossible things, he's learned, and in boxes of impossibilities it'd be a needle in a haystack to anyone who didn't have an eye for metal. Five hours into this box a lone sheet wedged towards the bottom, pressed in between two case files, flutters out from under the file he was drawing up to read. A journal page about the case file that was above it: "...and when I was talking to the family who had gone to the cabin and seen the aftermath, I had seen that they'd had the same high school mascot in their family photos as the Castille's. Blue bird. A Nighthawk. Apparently both families had moved independently from a town called Hatchetfield. And, testing a theory, I went back to the college to talk to the victims. They were out-of-state students, who were originally from Hatchetfield too. The 5th time this town has come up so far in our investigations. I think we have to visit soon. If so many oddities are tying back there, may just be a matter of time. Maybe it's where these oddities gravitate to. Maybe it says something about me that I'm getting drawn there too..." And John's weary eyes, two-days of no sleep immediately washing onto his face, go as wide as they can seeing it. Only months away from when his work stopped and here he was still finding ways to get in John's ears. Still teach him one last thing. All of the other dossiers from this era were destroyed during that case, he still remembers the chaos of the hotel room, the one file he was able to gather under his arm. And it's here again. Later in the week, he sends two field agents to leave for Hatchetfield, to be eyes there for the unit. A week after that, John joins for a short trip to the small town. Unremarkable, yet strange, with an infectious energy hard to describe, and a town history that piques his interest. But somewhere deep down he had to see if oddities were truly drawn here, he had to see if Wilbur was right.