sam_arkand

Inspired by re-reading Girl Genius and this fic by staringiscaring, I present a re-imagining of our favorite series in a reality of steam and dark sorcery...


*****

"NOOOOOOOO!"

Anne Summers whipped her sabre through the neck of one of Count Von Zandt's minions. The half-vampire half-mechanical spider--what did you call those things? spidertaurs? sampires?--dissolved into ash and brass flakes as slayer strength and Toledo steel severed its armored spine. The Count himself rolled in agony, his vast ironclad bulk cracking with the stress as his engines exploded. The pretender to the undead throne of London less ashed than exploded in a cloud of fiery debris. Anne ducked a stray bit of shrapnel.

"Some, argh, help here?" A hand waved from beneath an overturned sarcophagus.

"I told you to be adjacent to the fray!" Anne levered the mass of cracked marble off "Xander" Harris.

"I had him at my mercy," insisted her boon companion, brushing dust off his peaked cloth cap. "This was, uh, shamming as part of my master plan."

"Of course." Anne grinned. "Although your scheme to sneak holy water into the Count's boilers worked."

"At your service, my lady." Xander sketched a bow. "No one messes with Anne the Vampire Slayer and Xander the Great--ow, ribs, ow."

"We should examine you on the ship." Sir Rupert Giles emerged from the shadows, dispatching a crippled minion with a stake-dart from a pepperbox pistol. "Anne. Five minutes. You were a little off the pace."

"I am going to slay," Anne grumbled, "that stupid pocketwatch of yours."

"I stand warned." Giles tucked it into his tweed waistcoat. "I believe we have rather spoiled the plans of the League of Aurelius. The Crown and Realm are safe...for now."

"Then can we attend the Lady Addington's ball?" Anne fluttered her eyelashes. "Please? All slay and empty dance card play havoc with a young woman's social prospects."

"Three dances," her Watcher said, "and I shall chaperone."

"And I'll stand in the corner," Xander said, "and impress the chambermaids with my impressive collection of boils."

"Oh, Alex," Anne said, chastely kissing him on the cheek, "there will always be a spot on my card for you."

The three of them escaped the crypt just as it collapsed. Anne retrieved her dress from a mausoleum within the confines of Highgate. It would not do for a young lady to be seen in bigandine-reinforced corset and boiled leather trousers. Three years of service to the Royal Council of Watchers and some skill with the needle had created a wardrobe suitable both for Mayfair salons and swift deshabille in the case of slaying. Lighting the signal lamp, Xander flashed Morse up into the sky.

Anne hauled her wounded companion up the hemp line as the airship drifted silently overhead. Her Watcher followed somewhat more slowly in her wake. The brass fittings and warm wood of within the cockpit of the "Rising Dawn" were a welcome contrast to the peasouper outside. At the helm, Willow Rosenberg guided the airship over the twisting streets of London. The auburn-haired mechanic and pilot extraordinaire had a smudge of grease on her cheek, doubtless from fiddling with the Babbage navigation engine.

Willow babbled in her usual way over her childhood's friend's state. Sir Giles guided him back to the airship's small yet intensive infirmary. Anne herself settled herself into her small cabin on the port side. She gazed out over the fog-shrouded roofs of London, the running lights of other airships visible through the murk. Divesting herself of her clothes, she cleaned her sabre and reciprocating crossbow. Sir Giles became so irritatingly snippy if she neglected weapons care.

Anne settled back into her berth. This was not the life she would have chosen, being the Chosen. Vampires and mad scientists, abseiling into the depths of Egyptian tombs to destroy a demon, clashing with the immortal Jade Emperor within the Forbidden City. Which, really, had been something of a dump and would the Celestial Empire let go of her burning it down? She hadn't. Much. No. Not the life she would have forseen as a socialite in San Francisco.

Anne smiled as she drifted to sleep to the gentle chuff of steam engines.

It was good enough.

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

Title: Fairytale of New York (3)
Fandom: BtVS
Characters: Ensemble, core cast and Sunnydale survivors
Warnings: None for explicit sexuality or violence.
Ships: Gen, aside from canon relationships by "Chosen"

I go out walkin'
After midnight
Out in the moonlight
Just like we used to do

The Drake garage was like Cordelia's closet: something for every occasion, and dressed to impress. It was less a garage than a luxury dealership underneath an old coach house at the southeastern wing. A drive-in elevator on the back wall would bring up any of the Drake toys for a spin around the city. The best of Italian, German, and Japanese automotive engineering waited on four wheels and two, each example on their own platform. From the heavy smell of wax, Kennedy's family didn't bring by their cars down to the local wash. Each vehicle had the sheen associated with the weapons Giles kept for special company.

Xander sat behind the wheel of a Ford Mustang, parked in the small section devoted to classic American iron. His one-day reign as Car Guy had ended the second his Uncle Rory had seen the dents on the Bel Air's bumper. Still, enough of Lysette's lecture had drilled through to let him recognize the model. This? This was the car he should have taken on the road trip that hadn't seen much road or trip. The Porsches and Mercedes over there were too bloodless, the Italian ones too finicky. What you needed was solid Detroit steel to see this great land of ours. Unfortunately, the metal-to-rust content in the AMC Gremlin he had ended up buying had put the lie to "steel" and "solid" in the above description.

Xander turned up the volume knob on the CD player.

Every road trip needed music.

( Big, bold, brassy... )

Title: Peekaboo
Fandom: BtVS
Characters: Marcie Ross



Before, I was an emotionally disturbed borderline sociopath with serious body issues and a scalpel fetish.

Now I work for the US government!

( Much better now... )

Behold! Methos at Twisting the Hellmouth was inspired to do this amazing banner for "Pigtails and Tweed"

Many thanks to betas frogfarm and tigerlily0484. Check out the former's long running FtVS and the latter's fic "When the Floods Roll Back" on their respective LJ's.


Title: Fairytale of New York (2)
Fandom: BtVS
Characters: Ensemble, core cast and Sunnydale survivors
Warnings: None for explicit sexuality or violence.
Ships: Gen, aside from canon relationships by "Chosen"




Busy, busy.

Andrew Wells tapped his way through the schedule on his Palm Pilot. He sat at his desk in the butler's office. The office was little more than a small room off the kitchens with an antique roll top desk taking up most the space. One wall was covered with small light bulbs connected to the bell pulls in each room. He kept an eye on the bulbs in case he was needed. One must be attentive. Of course, the office wasn't "his" at all. He had merely appropriated it while the Drake family staff were at the summer house in the Hamptons. Still, it was a quiet place for him to work out the day's schedules and the bills he needed to submit to Miss Kennedy.

Andrew noted down rearrangements for dinner's place settings. Nafisa and Ruth had had a teensy tiff today. Putting them on opposite sides of the room would give them the space to calm down. One had to be sensitive to the feelings of exuberant young women. Closing the application with a stylus tap, Andrew tucked the personal organizer into the inner pocket of his jacket. He smoothed down the dove-grey fabric. One must always be presentable. The fit was perfect. When he had asked Miss Kennedy for "working clothes", he assumed she would lend him the money to buy some. She had instead called in two tailors who had done things with draped fabric and tape measures. The finely-tailored suits arrived two days later without a hint of a request for payment.

Andrew had almost asked for tweed. Almost. He couldn't presume.

( An appertif, mesdames? )

Hey folks. I'm back, with a new tale. This is a sequel to "Why She Fights".

Title: Fairytale of New York (1)
Fandom: BtVS
Characters: Ensemble, core cast and Sunnydale survivors
Warnings: None for explicit sexuality or violence.
Ships: Gen, aside from canon relationships by "Chosen"


"Thanks for the lift, Clem," Faith said, slinging her bag over a shoulder.

"My pleasure!" replied the demon with a face only a shar-pei could love. "You saved my bacon from those guys in Baker."

"Yeah, well, it's this redemption kick I'm on." Faith shrugged. "No big. Call it quid pro."

( What a toddling town )

( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )

Anne was in her Yellow Period. Dipping the roller into the tray, Anne painted the walls of the new nursery a sunny hue. She had gotten plenty of practice doing this when setting up the Teen Center. Days of investing literal sweat equity into an office building one step away from the wrecking ball. Spray cans hissing, Tater and Deirdre threw up a graffiti mural of the residents of Hundred Acre Wood in hip-hop style. Poo on the turntables, Piglet in shades rocking the mike. Volunteers in the hall outside put together a crib donated after a quick call to one of Anne's contacts. Everyone pitching in to welcome the new life born into their midst.

It was a good start.

( Photograph... )

How to respond to the fire alarm in your apartment building when it goes off at 2:30am in the morning:

* Lurch awake

* Grab robe, long parka, and boots.

* Head out front door, checking for heat. Or go out on fire escape/balcony

* Realize it was false alarm, grumble, go back to bed.


How I did it:

* lurch awake

* robe, parka, boots

* CAT! Where is pet feline, can't leave her to fiery and smoky doom

* Wrestle with cat carrier buried in closet, prompting cartoonish comedy avalanche noises

* Cat has ran under bed and into bed frame via hole she clawed

* Grab catnip, try to lure out

* Snarl, bodily lift up bed (with bad back, even, adrenaline is a wonderful thing), dump out cat

* Seize cat in full nelson, stuff in cat carrier like I was making sausage

* close carrier, stumble out door in robe/park/boots

* stand like an utter twat with scared and annoyed cat banging head against carrier door as I discover it is false alarm

* stay awake until Oh God O'Clock due to adrenaline and bad Chinese take-out consumed with father

* wonder why the hell I put myself in danger over animal-- *flop* *nuzzle* *scritch* *purrrrrrrr* Right.