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yurishippingolympics
For this round, we want to see prompts that are based on settings or locations! For your prompts, please provide a location or setting. It can be as specific or as abstract as you want, and can be in any medium you prefer!
POINTS - BONUS ROUNDS
For prompts: 10 points each (maximum of 150 prompt points per team per round)
For fills:
First 4 fills by any member of your team: 100 points each
Fills 5-10: 50 points each
Fills 11-20: 40 points each
Fills 21-50: 30 points each
Fills 51+: 25 points each
Prompt: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-08-16 10:37 pm (UTC)FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-08-31 03:34 am (UTC)i don't know how deep space works... please accept this hand-wavey description
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“Good morning,” Marcille says brightly, stretching her arms out above her head. Or stretching as best as she can given the confines of this crappy, styrofoam-like astronaut suit.
“Actually, it isn’t morning, given the position of–”
Marcille slams the door shut in Laios’ face before he can even reach the end of that sentence. She takes a deep breath, pictures deer bounding in a field of endless grass and tries again.
“As I was saying,” she says sweetly, turning back to the portrait of Falin that’s taped to her closet doubling as a room. “Good morning. I hope the weather’s as nice wherever you are as it is here.”
Marcille risks a glance at the inky black expanse outside the window and lets out a wry chuckle.
“Well, I guess there is no weather, beside the freaky lighting storm Laios won’t stop talking about but you know what I mean.” She floats closer to the frame and tries to picture Falin beside her, sitting on her sleeping bag and telling her that it’ll all be okay. “You always knew what I meant–”
“You talking to the picture again?”
Chilchuck’s hovering by her doorway, the traitorous thing having slid open again. Marcille wishes not for the first time that this spaceship had locks. Seriously, they have an airlock so why not regular locks too?
“I wans’t asking,” Marcille says with as much patience she can muster before slamming the door shut. Again.
She turns back to the photo, her patience fraying at the ends.
“Now, where were we? Ah, that’s right, the weather. I hope–”
“Yohohohoho, breakfast’s ready!” Senshi calls, throwing her door wide open. The metal thing squeaks on its rails, threatening to come loose. Marcille really will kill everyone in this spaceship if that happens. She needs her privacy, or at least some semblance of it.
“Oh… Chilchuck mentioned you were talking to the ghost in the picture again! You know, even if you’re a young’un with an active imagination, you really shouldn’t–”
“SHE’S NOT DEAD!” Marcille shouts and promptly shoves him out of the room. At least zero-gravity’s on her side and he goes tumbling easily. Marcille slams the door shut behind it and holds it against the wall herself in a makeshift lock.
She turns back to–
To–
Ugh. Marcille resigns herself to her fate and bangs her head against the glass.
Alright, call her crazy, she’s talking to the picture. Whatever, she’s done weirder things. Probably.
And this is the only thing keeping her sane among this crowd of hooligans in deep space at this point.
It has been 129 days since Falin disappeared in a beam of light and Marcille misses her like it’s day one.
“We’re gonna find you,” Marcille tells the grainy pixels, the colors faded from the journey. She says the words like she’s trying to speak them into existence. “We’re gonna find you, Falin. Wait for me.”
Re: FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-09-03 08:18 pm (UTC)Laios’s “Actually,” and Marcille’s reaction capture the tone of the manga perfectly.
FILL: TEAM TRANSFORMERS
Date: 2024-09-01 04:00 am (UTC)"Bah! I won't have my troops be touching that Autobot woo woo," Stika said, watching the techno-organic with a distinct disdain.
Black Arachnia glared back, wishing that she'd opted to get the laser optics when she'd had them changed to Decepticon scarlet. Half of the time, they couldn't get over their hatred of Autobots long enough to realise that the best option didn't have to be made by beings you liked — or even tolerated. Black Arachnia suspected that General Strika knew that this was their only option. She was a wily old bot. She just had to be convinced. Sometimes loudly. Often pressed out over the conference room table as Lord Megatron left in exasperation. Black Arachnia put that thought away for after they'd dealt with the Autobots' new trick.
"I promise that this is the only was to bypass the Autobot Science Division's new bi-linear shielding phases. Do you have anything else than can neutralise the effects of lunar halite? No? Then we need to get some chromic salts to dope these new reflectors!"
"Listen, you. Do you think I can just pull those out of my tailpipe?!"
"No, you stubborn old rustbucket, but I think you can get Swindle on the line right slagging now."
"Can I," said Strika, all deadpan annoyance. She did, however, have the look of someone on comms, which meant that the hulking, purple and magenta general had probably taken her advice.
Black Arachnia sighed and leaned over on the massive conference table. Her many optics flickered and offlined; command hadn't stopped arguing since the moment the last battle had ended. And it had ended poorly.
Their ground troops had poured onto the field, expecting an Autobot defense pockmarked with craters from the seekers' ablative bombs, given a bombing run had occurred only minutes before, but they'd found the Autobot forces completely untouched.
The seekers had done their flyover under Starscream's sharp optic, but reports had poured in that indicated that the damage seemed to just wash over the entrenched enemy combatants, leaving nothing to show for the thousands and thousands of tons of explosive that had been dropped onto their trenches and bunkers.
Half a day later the Decepticons had been forced to retreat, leaving the valuable moon under Autobot control.
In recharge, her fluxing processor churned through the data, hoping her decision was right. Before she'd defected from the Autobots, she'd heard whispers of such technology coming down the pipeline, but it had been expensive, unreliable, and unscalable. It seemed that the Autobot Science Division had ironed out those issues, the xenophobic bastards.
Strangely, into her projections of numbers and matrices, she smelled of whiff of warm, leaded energon with sugar crystals (something pure Cybertronians couldn't digest like she could, and she pitied them for the lack).
Strika's massive, pitted hand lay warm and heavy on Black Arachnia's back, the other pushed the blessedly warmed cube into her own hand.
"I don't think either of us has much energy to do our normal routine in the conference room. Perhaps we should rest somewhere that will not make our spinal columns snap and medics nag."
Black Arachnia grumbled her agreement as she began to drink, letting herself be led to her own berthroom and be plugged in for the night, tucked in with a quilt that the fully mechanical never needed. They'd tally that missed opportunity up for when they next got a break. Whenever that was.