Ten years ago, I was seven.

( you remind me of a time when we were so alive )

Megan Gwynn/Pixie
X-Men
180+

He had called it her something borrowed.

In all truthfulness, it probably would have sufficed for something old.

But to her, it was so much more than that.


(cut for a few season 9 spoilers)


Chloe Sullivan
Misc. TV (Smallville)
[ooc: Please leave any and all comments at the above link.]

Derek looked down to the offered pack of cigarettes from Sean Juarez, his ‘in’ to the Chicago mafia, and shook his head. He pulled a pack of nicorette from his coat pocket and waggled it in the air. “Nah. You know I’m trying to quit.”

“Yeah, but in times like this don’t you just want a good puff?” Sean pushed the pack in Derek’s direction again. “C’mon Marcus. Have a smoke to calm your nerves.”

Marcus, it was the name he had gone by for the last seventeen months of undercover work where he was expected to get a look at the infamous and elusive Mario Juarez.

Read More…


Muse: Derek Morgan
Fandom: Criminal Minds

What were you doing ten years ago?

(Ten years ago, roughly, I was giving birth to my daughter Anna. I say roughly because Anna’s ten right now and she was actually born in February not January. I say it still counts anyway because my whole life at the time revolved around my brand new baby girl.)

Lt. Connie Murphy
The Dresden Files
334

They'd been in the air a little more than ten hours. Snake Eyes had never been a big fan of flying ever since the helicopter accident that had killed three of his friends and left him wounded and stranded somewhere deep behind enemy lines. That their new aircraft was completely enclosed and had only minimal windows for the pilots was no comfort.

For the first several hours of their flight, he'd tried to meditate. Meditation and those moments on the brink of wakefulness and sleep was usually enough to take his mind off anything. But it was impossible to keep focused while sitting strapped into a jump seat in the cramped cargo area with six other people for what seemed an eternity. Sleep, that light doze you never seem to get beyond while flying, helped a little, but he was getting restless.

At last the pitch of the thrusters changed in frequency, and his stomach lurched as their forward motion stopped abruptly and they began descending. The descent continued far longer than was necessary for how high they'd been flying. A brief, panicked thought of hitting the ground flitted through his brain, but he clamped his jaws tighter and refused to let it show.

The motion stopped abruptly and he felt the wheels touch down on a solid surface. Together with the rest of the passengers, he unstrapped himself from the five-point harness and stood; his legs felt like rubber after the long time in the air. Slinging his pack over his shoulder and careful not to squash his precious sword, he followed a short, balding man out the cabin door and down a short flight of steps.

They were in what looked like an underground bunker, the rough stone walls arching up to a high ceiling that seemed to stretch for a mile. He paused in front of a man wearing a beret and camouflage fatigues who nodded briefly to him before surveying the rest of the people coming off the aircraft. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said when they'd all assembled in front of him, "I'm General Hawk. Welcome to GI Joe."

Snake Eyes. GI Joe. 353 words.

Ten years ago, I was 12 years old and let me tell you, life was a lot simpler back then. I knew I was different, but it didn't seem to matter so much and no one knew about it. It wasn't that big of a deal unless Dad really needed my help on a big farm job. I had no idea what my heritage really was and there was definitely no pressure or stress over it. Sure, it was still annoying at times, like when Dad wouldn't let me go out for any sports team, let alone football, but most of the time I pretty much felt normal.

I was still in Smallville Elementary and Chloe Sullivan had just come into my life. Which makes that age pretty special. Not only did we become the best of friends, but I also got my first kiss on that day. I guess you could say back then I was a pretty lucky guy.

My favourite activities included camping out in Pete's backyard, growing out of my clothes faster than Mom could mend them and helping out at the Farmer's Market. My parents had just started letting me do that when I was 10, so it was still a pretty major thing for me at 12.

Everything was so much easier back then, back when I didn't know, when no none knew. But it couldn't have lasted, so I'm happy I've got the memories I do of that time.


Comments here.


Muse: Clark Kent
Fandom: Smallville
Word count: 246

I was fifteen. Fifteen is an interesting time. You're not really a little kid anymore so you can get into the parties with people twice your age who want to cling as hard as they can to their youth. You're not really an adult. You'll find fifteen is that year where people kind of waiver if they want to sleep with you because technically you might make them a sexual predator if they're caught by the local authorities with you. Of course it really depends where you're at, and the smart people don't get caught anyway.

I did a lot of drugs at fifteen. A lot of drugs. Enough that I could pull out my MRI scans from fourteen and now and show you what your brain on drugs look like. Fifteen was like living every day as if it was your last. The world was just full of new and exciting ways to land you in places you really shouldn't be. I'm pretty sure I was on boarding school number four at fifteen. It was three or four. My father could probably answer this one better than me. He wrote a lot of checks to bribe people to forget I was ever fifteen.

I tried suicide attempt number two at fifteen and spent that summer in luxury rehab number three, but let's not discuss that.

I'd say I was a punk at fifteen who lived recklessly and stupidly, and took for granted there would always be time on my side. Bruce would say I'm a punk at twenty-five. Maybe we're both right. I have learned time isn't always on my side. There are no guarantees that you'll live to see another day, or that if you do the people you love will be there beside you.

It will be two years tomorrow since I took a baseball bat to every window in my old house in Gotham. Wow, time really flies. I still miss you, Connor, you selfish son of a bitch. I still miss you, love you, and hate you and Darla for what you've done. Two years. That's just insane.

Harry Osborn
Spider-Man
349 words

( Altered neural pathways snap themselves back into line, reshaping themselves into form they should have always held. )

Muse: Angela Petrelli
Fandom: Heroes
Words: 503
Notes: Quote from Heroes episode 3x08 "Villains"

There is another box in my penthouse apartment, sitting on a shelf next to some of the things that I have left of my sister Beth. The box holds memories of a different sort, if no less painful. I pause, having just started a third box – a box with Alice’s things in it – Alice who may be my sister Beth – and I pluck the box off it’s perch and sit down on the floor, crossing my legs under me. I’m not one given to hesitation – if anything, I’m a brash, straight forward woman. Being an army brat does that to you, I suppose. In any case, I pry the lid open, the lid heavier with memories than actual weight, and stare into the box, letting memories of the last ten years seep into my mind. The longer that I’ve been Batwoman, the longer that I’ve found myself thinking about the past.

Ten years ago. Life was different ten years ago. Beth’s disappearance – her murder, I’d thought then (and a part of me still wants to believe she’s dead instead of this…this person she’s become) was still all too fresh in my mind, as was the loss of my mother. I was at West Pointe, finding purpose, finding some meaning to my life, not knowing then everything that I know now. Renee Montoya had yet to come into my life. My stepmother had yet to woo my father. Batwoman wasn’t even a thought, an idea. Gotham City…I liked to think that Gotham City was relatively normal, but in retrospect, I’m afraid I don’t truly remember. Too many memories compartmentalized from back then.

But life had some hope in it. Some possibility. There were still things I could do. My life hadn’t become twisted with prophecies and sudden, whiplash inducing revelations. That would come later.

What was I doing ten years ago? Trying to get on with my life, fully unaware of the journey that was going to bring me to where I am now.

Batwoman
Batman
333
Comments here, please.

Ten years ago was not a good time for Stephanie Brown. No, really. I was there - I know. My dad – Arthur Brown, aka the Cluemaster (why he felt a deep-seated need to be a second rate Riddler, I’ll never really know) – was probably locked away at Blackgate Prison. Again. For committing another crime. My mom was working more shifts than most people work in a lifetime, and I was trying to grow up like a normal eight-year-old girl who was coming from a happy family.

Needless to say, it wasn’t quite working out for me. I mean, my dad was a criminal. Do you know how that could possibly feel on Career Day, when your dad’s in prison and your mom’s too busy to come in and present herself as like the best nurse and parent ever? And of course, everyone knew that Stephanie’s daddy was a bad guy. It was all over the papers.

Where was I ten years ago? Nowhere near the great place I am today, when it comes down to it.

Batgirl
Batman
176
Comments here, please.

Ten years ago, I was twelve years old.

My sister was still living at home with me in Montreal, and I had not yet become the raging sex maniac you all know and love today. I was skinny, tall for my age, and spent the majority of my free time running around the school track. Also, photographic evidence proves my ears were too big for my head at this point, and I had a bizarre fondness for either turtlenecks or jerseys. Huh.

At twelve, I was certain something about me was different than all the other kids I knew. I just hadn't figured out what it was, exactly. It felt like there was some... I dunno, smell or aura that signaled to everyone else that I was different, too. Something about me that made bigger kids want to shove me around... which led to lots of bruises and black eyes, even at twelve, because I'd fight back. Sometimes my sister would help.

Picture that, will you? We're both in our Catholic school uniforms, and I'm punching someone and my nose is bleeding and she's on some dude's back trying to bite him. ...substitute our costumes for the uniforms and it's like nothing has changed!

At twelve, I was aware that I was turning into someone my father didn't much like. I'm not sure what he wanted from me - I played sports, and as I already mentioned I got into fights and even won a couple. I'm not sure what else I could have done to be more masculine, or if that's even what he wanted. I assume it is, because his most common insult for me was 'fif'. For those of you not up on your Quebecois slang, that's like... fifi. Fag. Sissy boy. You understand? So I can only guess he wished I were more... I don't know. Gruff? Handsome, not pretty? I don't know.

I'm twenty-two now. If you had asked me at twelve what I was going to be when I grew up, I would not have described myself as I am now. I would have said I would be in the circus. I wouldn't have said anything about love or marriage - and most CERTAINLY not to men! - and I probably would have said I should have my own hockey team.

Funny how shit turns out.


Jean-Paul Beaubier/Northstar
X-Men
387 words

Ten years ago, I was nine years old.

( Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed. )

Sally Blevins/Skids
X-Men
260+

316 - What were you doing ten years ago?

Ten years ago, someone tried to tell me the future. I didn't listen. Perhaps it's for the best I didn't.

( Prescience )

(490)

OOC Note: This is an original ficlet not based on canon or RP.

Muse: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Fandom: 'Angel'/Misc. TV
Please reply here.

316 - What were you doing ten years ago?

((Note: locked to those who know Dick's secret identity.))

Ten years ago, I was in the kind of rut you think you'll never get out of.

( Passage )

(369)

OOC Note: This is a canon-based prompt. See disclaimer.

Muse: Dick Grayson, AKA "Nightwing"
Fandom: Misc. Comics/Batman
Please reply here.

316 - What were you doing ten years ago?

OOC Note: follows this post.

Ten years ago, I was letting someone down.

( Flashback )

(579)

OOC Note: This is an RP and canon-based prompt. The only character mentioned still in TM is queenemma who is used with permission. See disclaimer.

Muse: Scott Summers AKA "Cyclops"
Fandom: X-Men
Please reply here.

Still sitting here. Nothing has changed. It's still the same cell I was first tossed into: same four walls, same damp stones, same little window. The cracks in those walls have widened slowly over the years. They'll never be big enough to consider escape, but they're now bolt holes for rats as well as the smaller denizens I'd rather not think about.

Ten years of staring at the same stones, the same little piece of unchanging sky, and of having the same leak slowly dripping interminably on the end of my thread-bare mattress. It was tattered and moldy when I arrived. Now it's nothing but ribbons of damp cloth, like my clothes. They're the same ones I wore at my sentencing.

Ten years, too, of listening to the screams. The voices change sometimes. Old ones are worn away when minds are finally exhausted by the constant torment. Those are the ones who've finally given up. They're always replaced by new, younger ones - ones who haven't learned that no one listens. But after a while, even they all sound the same.

Azkaban doesn't believe in change, and after a while, no one seems to care.

Sirius Black. Harry Potter. 196 words.

Introduction

i.

Regeneration is like dying.

Pain floods his system, it crashes through every cell. He feels himself crumbling, dying from the inside out. He can feel regeneration energy struggling to flow through his system. He can feel it, he's dying.

And it hurts. Oh, god, it hurts so much.

But it's not death. Not really. He's just going to sleep, in his own mind. To sleep in a room in his mind without windows or doors. To rest.

That will feel good, he thinks. To rest. This regeneration started out so happy, so full of life. But struggle and battle and heartsache left him crippled, a hollow shell of a man. He's too cold, now. Too cold and too cruel. Regeneration would be best. He can start over. Start anew.

And it's worth it, sacrificing himself for someone he loves.

He doesn't cry; he just tries to smile through the pain.

"You were fantastic," he says. "And you know what?"

She stands there, shaking her head, unsure.

"So was I."

It's good, he thinks, having her here. At least he's not alone.

And he's gone. Pulled away by light and energy. It's like a curtain pulls back in his mind, like another layer of him has been peeled away.

There he is. Bright-faced and big-haired and grinning as though he wasn't racked with pain seconds earlier. It takes him a moment to associate where he is and he grins over to Rose.

"Hello---Oh." He runs his tongue along his wider molars. "New teeth. That's weird."

( It's just the beginning. Cut for spoilers to S.5 'The End of Time, Part Two.' )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2,010 Surprisingly appropriate

( A Fresh Start )

Muse: Luka Kovac
Fandom: ER
Words: 1766
Note: This was the result of an anonymous request for me to write a piece on what might have taken place between "The Chicago Way", and "The Book of Abby", I hope it's all they expected.

Nathan understood, on some level, that he was buying into the story. This is what GeneCo did, after all, and did it well. They created a myth and made the world believe in it.

The Repo Man.

( Cut for one word. )

And he was much smarter then some sociopath with a sharp knife.


Nathan Wallace/Repo Man
Repo!the Genetic Opera
324

He supposed he should be grateful. After all, he was more than halfway through his rounds for the night when things turned to shit.

"Warning! Grave robbers will be shot on sight! Warning! Grave robbers will be shot on sight!"

The warning started blaring out of speakers on the outer gates of the cemetery just seconds before he heard the GeneCo gestapo heading his way. Not bothering to stuff the late Mrs. Adler back into her coffin, he was already on his feet, stuffing his kit into his coat pocket and slipping back between the crypts. It doesn't take him long to find one with a flimsy lock.

( Warning! Grave robbers will be shot on sight! Warning! Grave robbers will be shot on sight! )


Muse: Grave Robber
Fandom: Repo! The Genetic Opera
Word Count: 533