Cleanup in Aisle D
Tracy: wings
wafflestories



“Kid?”

The darkness under the shelf was absolute. Every wall in this quiet, warm, endless place was lined with storage of every kind, racks and drawers and hooks and pigeonholes and cubbyholes, slots and shelves and pull-out cabinets and stacking units on long, trundling tracks. Almost every inch of available space in this narrow little corridor, from the dusty floorboards to the low ceiling, was crammed with boxes and bottles, tubes and crates, jars and tins and stacks of yellowed paper, filling the dim-lit warrenlike space nearly to bursting.

“Kid, don't take this the wrong way, but you are screwing up my filing system. It's a complex thing I've got going here, it needs careful management. You can't just throw yourself in anywhere and hope you'll fit.”


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Candidate Material (A PM Wheatley Shortfic)
Mycroft: keep calm
wafflestories

(This story is a kind of prequel to my Prime Minister Wheatley AU twitter account, #thebestPM.)

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She had often thought that she had been born at the wrong time, or perhaps in the wrong world.

She felt it every day, like an itch under her skin. She was so much more than the little people around her, somehow, and if only they had not been people- annoyingly aware that they had rights, frustratingly eager to keep them- if only they could have been subjects, with no choice but to do whatever she wanted- oh, the things she could have achieved.

As it was, getting there was half the battle. She felt blessed, in as much as she had any use for the feeling, that she had found Politics- or rather, like Kekulé’s ouroboros or Watson’s stairways, Politics had found her.

Politics was all about people. The word even meant ‘people,’ in a way- people as citizens, people as part of the massive hivemind organism of a town or a city or a country or a planet. Huge, complicated, and oh-so-comfortingly stupid.

She loved people.

She loved making them dance.


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The Courtesy Call [APRIL FOOLS]
Wheatley: mister blue
wafflestories

So obviously that was all rubbish and I’ll never do anything like that ever again until we think up the next plan to make as many people weep as possible.

This is a non-Blue-Sky-Canon ‘alternate ending’ to the story. Stay tuned for an alternate alternate version in which Chell wakes up in the shower and it was all a dream.

Thanks for being such good sports, guys! You are all brilliant. :D

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Hello!


How’re you doing? Alright?Collapse )


A Special Case [2/2]
Tracy: wings
wafflestories


The sound bursts from him, revulsion and terror, and he throws himself clear of the chair, sending his glass shattering to the floor. Collapse )


A Special Case [1/2]
Tracy: wings
wafflestories

Tracy stands quite still, letting the human world wash over him, a slick of fleurocarbons and poisoned air. He’s fairly used to it, and in a little while he’ll adjust, but the first minute is always unpleasant, a struggle to hang on to lunch.Collapse )

How To Save Christmas [2/2]
Hobbes: writing with colours
wafflestories


The nanobots were just about putting the finishing touches to the structure they had spent the last few hours building for the third time in the mouth of the tunnel, shielding the tiny, sensitive circuits and components they had assembled carefully beneath the cooling metal welding. Collapse )


How To Save Christmas [1/2]
Hobbes: writing with colours
wafflestories


“This is the best idea.”Collapse )


Kick
Hobbes: writing with colours
wafflestories

Hello...

Hello, tiny... me. Or her, whichever you are, you could be either. Hey, thinking about it, I suppose you know, right, by now? Which one you are? Maybe, you could sort of- clue me in. Let me know. Obviously you can't talk right now, but Chell says you can hear all sorts of things- half the reason I'm doing this in the first place, although to be honest I'm amazed you can hear me in there at all, with all that stuff in the way. Even with me doing this. Can't really talk any louder, sorry, don't want to wake her up, to be honest I feel enough of a wally lying here talking to her stomach as it is, without her being awake as well.


So, so maybe you could do your thing- you know, kick, if you're a little her.

Nnnnnow.Collapse )

Blue Sky - Chapter 15 - The End [2/2]
Hobbes: writing with colours
wafflestories
It hurt a lot.Collapse )

Blue Sky - Chapter 15 - The End [1/2]
Hobbes: writing with colours
wafflestories


(Art by K! In my head, this beautiful piece of work is titled That inward eye which is the bliss of solitude. Because I'm pretentious like that. And because it's just that awesome, and I was pretty unkind to Wordsworth earlier in the story. Annd... off we go.)


I've made out a will; I'm leaving myself
to the National Health. I'm sure they can use
the jellies and tubes and syrups and glues,
the web of nerves and veins, the loaf of brains,

and assortment of fillings and stitches and wounds,
blood- a gallon exactly of bilberry soup-
the chassis or cage or cathedral of bone;
but not the heart, they can leave that alone.

They can have the lot, the whole stock:
the loops and coils and sprockets and springs and rods,
the twines and cords and strands,
the face, the case, the cogs and the hands,

but not the pendulum, the ticker;
leave that where it stops or hangs.*

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Wheatley drifted.Collapse )

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