Work Text:
The Fateful Paw
For hours, Arachne had been transported, taken to a place where she ran on just two legs; a place where she wept, where she laughed, where she loved without the urge to eat her beloved. With just words, the author had made her become someone else; had shown her marvels.
I must leave kudos, she thought. The author must know…
But how? Pure chance had led her to this word magic. With a random pattering of paws, the mighty Tibbles, nemesis of so many of her kin, had opened up this wonder. Tibbles was gone now, stalking colossal mice in the vastness of the kitchen. Only a fool would hope for the return of the owner of the fateful paw. No, Arachne was on her own now. If the "leave kudos" button was to be pressed – and it had to be pressed – she had to be the one to do it.
She skittered across the trackpad, but the pressure was as soft as a whisper of silk, and the pointer did not move. She gathered her legs together, three, four, five, but she was made for fine artistry, not heavy work like this. Again she tried; again. Her carapace ached with the strain. Must… leave… kudos… she thought. Must…
All her focus was on her task. All her eyes were on the pointer on the screen, as it moved slowly, oh so slowly, towards her goal. She had nothing left to watch for Tibbles, dread in tooth and claw. Even had she seen him, she had no energy left to run. Everything she possessed was hurled into the stupendous effort of pressing that button.
And in the very moment that the paw slammed down on her, it was done. I did it, she thought, as the teeth snapped shut. I--
___
Needle
Penelope plucked a taut thread on her loom. "Twenty years," she said.
"Well…" Odysseus raked a hand through his greying hair. "You know about the war."
"Other husbands," said Penelope, "came home from the war ten years ago. Of course…" She picked up her needle, cold and keen. "Some are dead now," she said. "Killed by their wives," she added helpfully.
Odysseus swallowed. "Here's how it was. We were in this enormous horse..."
"Enormous horse," Penelope said. "Of course."
"It was a long wait, and one of the lads, he started murmuring something under his breath, a piece of epic poetry, and I… er, I liked it. I liked it a lot."
"You liked it," Penelope said.
"So I had to let the poet know. Give him kudos." Odysseus seemed to be edging minutely backwards. "But here's the thing… Nobody could agree where he lived. Some said Aeolia, some said Thrinacia, some said Ogygia, some said… Well, obviously I had to try them all, and people kept on giving me new places, new ideas…"
"And did you find him?" She twisted the needle round and round in the light.
Odysseus laughed. It was laughter that did not reach his eyes. "It, uh… It turns out he was here on Ithaca all along. Isn't that a funny story?"
The needle gleamed in a slanting beam of sunlight, so very sharp.
___
The Aftermath of Goats
His eyes were full of dust, and he had long since lost the strength to wipe them. His legs were pinned beneath fallen pillars, beautifully carved and tangled with dying flowers. The goats were long gone. They had done their damage, felling the fragile aedifice, and scampered on their way.
They laughed at him, sometimes, in his dreams.
He might have given up days ago, he thought, had it not been for The Story. Ah, such a story! Only two fingers remained unbent, unbroken, but two fingers were enough. Enough to nudge the tablet from where it had tumbled from his pack. There was no signal out here, of course, but he had downloaded a long story before he had left for the wilds. Two fingers could open it. Two fingers could keep him reading; could make him weep cleansing tears for the pain of people that had never lived: pain that ended in a happy ever after.
He would die here, he thought, but thanks to The Story, he would not die bereft.
He thought it was a fantasy, at first, the rescue. He thought it was the people from his story. He thought it was the goats. He laughed, at first, and then he wept.
"Lie still," they told him, as they loaded him into the helicopter. "You're very badly hurt. Don't move."
"Must…" he gasped. Machines beeped. People said things; sharp, urgent things. They didn't understand. They didn't…
"Lie still!" It was sharp now, almost brutal.
"No," he said. "No!" They were airborne now, taking him to safety. "Got to…" he rasped. "Got signal? Internet…? Need to…"
"No!" They were trying to hold him down, but he fought them. Two fingers were enough. Enough to find the tablet. Enough to see that he was there, he was connected. He could leave kudos! He had to… had to…
The machines were screaming now, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He had left kudos. The author would know.
He let the blackness take him.
There were goats.
___
Duty
"Twelve seconds to impact," intoned the computer.
Kirk leant forward in his chair, sweat glistening on the bare shoulder revealed by the shirt that had become inexplicably torn over breakfast. "Come on…" he declaimed under his breath.
"Captain!" Mr Scott's excited voice burst over the radio. "All systems are restored, sir!"
"Eight seconds to impact," intoned the computer.
"Mr Spock!" commanded the captain. "You know what to do."
"Indeed," Spock said, but he lied. He lied! His fingers dug into the edge of the console. Duty was clear… But no, duty was clouded! Alone in his quarters, he had read such things, such sweet, forbidden things! He had been thrilled and deeply moved. He had felt… urges. The writers loved such things, of course: an emotionless being - alone, so alone! - learning how to feel. He was no fictional character, but if he were, his writers would be melting in a… a… puddle of squee – was that the phrase? – if they could see the emotions that roiled in his heart. He had refrained from leaving kudos, because nobody could be allowed to know. But that was fear talking, and fear was illogical. He was who he was. He had always done his duty. He would…
"Four seconds to impact," intoned the computer, "and utter annihilation."
His finger moved, slashing across the console. It pressed.
The computer spoke, impassive as ever. "One sec--"
____
Marathon
Pheidippides sank to the ground, his chest heaving, his muscles screaming.
Voices jabbered all around him. "What news?" they asked him. "Was there a battle? What of the Persians? Tell us? Tell us?"
He coughed, choking on city dust. Hands reached for him, but he batted them away. "Must…" he gasped. "News… Tell…" He coughed again, and fell forward, pain ripping through his chest. "Tell Aeschylus… Must let him know… Kudos. Loved… I loved his play."
They grabbed him, took him up, shook him. "But what news of the battle?" It was asked in a dozen voices, in a dozen ways. But quiet and inescapable behind it, someone grumbled, "Isn't Aeschylus with the army? Why didn't he tell him then instead of running all the way back here?"
"Oh," said Pheidippides, as the waters of Lethe closed over his head and took him down and away.
___
A Slight Misunderstanding
Choking on the poisoned air, Cecil crawled through the wreckage of the cathedral. His gun was still gripped tightly in his hand…
His gun! How strange it still felt! Until a month ago, he had never touched one. He was just an accountant, for crying out loud! He had been eating pizza when the end of the world began, he remembered. A news flash on the radio, and he had reached the television in time to see the vast fleet blocking out the sun above the Thames. Questions had been hurled at it: what were its intentions? Then had come the terrible answer : the ear-splitting transmission, the cacophonous incomprehensible "words" that had fried all electronics in the capital, and had driven everyone within a twenty mile radius insane.
Like everyone else, Cecil had been conscripted. Years of playing Dungeons and Dragons had given him certain… skills, and he had quickly made sergeant. He guessed he was a general now, due to the simple fact that everyone else was dead. General of an army of one. Lord of an empty world.
Emerging onto the lawn, he saw it: one last silver vessel, crumpled and smoking on the grass. As he crawled forward, its hatch slid open, and a creature squelched out. It's the last, he realised. The last one left. Like me.
It did not speak, not out loud. Instead, it let him know its meaning, the sentiments appearing gently in his head, as if written with a soft brush on the inside on his mind.
"All we wished to do was tell the being named 'Bunn' that we liked its story."