"Stephen, this is ridiculous. They may look a little different, they may have weird customs, but they're still people. Why shouldn't we help them out?"
"Why? Jon, haven't you been listening to a word I've said? These illegal immigrants are taking American land and sucking all the buffalo out of the system without giving anything back! And have you seen the kind of violence they bring with them? We need to close our borders, and do whatever we can to make these people go back where they came from!"
"How can you be so heartless? There are kids out there! Kids who are potentially dying of thirst, and could be saved if we would just show them how to take full advantage of a cactus."
"I'll show them what to do with a cactus, all right."
"That's enough, Stephen. You've said your piece. It's time for us to vote."
"Fine. But anyone who votes down my proposal is going to be sorry fifty years from now when we're all speaking English."
02. Cyberpunk
"Right again! You're always so intelligent, Stephen."
"I know I am," said Stephen smugly. "But it never hurts to hear you say it."
"Why, Jon, if I didn't hear that from everyone who passes me on the street, I'd say you were flirting with me."
Raised eyebrows; a half-smirk overflowing with roguish charm. "And what if I am?"
"Well, in that case...run sex scenario #82."
The simulacrum kisses him, slow and gentle, a composite sensation randomly generated from details in Stephen's initial memory-dump. This VR program is the best on the market: even with only a handful of memories, it can record enough data to extrapolate nearly ten to the power of some-large-number-Stephen-didn't-bother-remembering variations.
That figure is for physical experiences only, of course. Without a scan of Jon's brain, it has no hope of even approaching the man's wit.
But as the imitation Jon pushes Stephen up against the wall in uncharacteristic silence, Stephen reminds himself that it doesn't matter. After all the mean things Jon said at the end there, he doesn't want to be reminded of what Jon's authentic voice sounds like. The VR version will skip all the nonsense and get straight to banging him, which is all Stephen really wants anyway.
Isn't it?
03. Shapeshifters
Jon keeps his abilities rigidly buttoned-down in public, whenever he's able. Employees get used to the fact that sometimes, when his temper or some other strong emotion gets the better of him, he locks himself in his office and they have to settle for being directed by phone.
There's no way he can keep it under control in bed.
Stephen gets used to running his hands across any part of Jon's body and finding the fur thicker than usual. He tries not to pout when he goes for a kiss and Jon refuses, afraid of mauling his lips and tongue with temporarily knife-sharp teeth. He accepts the apology promptly after Jon's claws punch through the surface of the mattress inches from his head, leaving puffs of stuffing dribbling out from fabric wounds.
It's a flaw, a handicap, a freakish problem. It's supposed to be the kind of thing you tolerate, out of generosity of spirit (of which Stephen has plenty, thank you very much).
There's no way a fine upstanding pillar of the community is supposed to enjoy it.
So Stephen pretends. When his heart beats faster at even a glimpse of Jon's irises swelling green-gold, he firmly stamps it down. When Jon apologizes for not being able to top him, Stephen insists that he wouldn't care for it anyway, even without the danger to soft internal tissues. When a photo of a younger Jon with full fuzzy ears on display makes the rounds of the news services, temptingly adorable, he does the unthinkable and turns off FOX for the duration.
But there's always going to be some trapped corner of him that yearns to taste blood in his mouth, and won't be sated until he has Jon inside him, barbs and all.
04. Pirates
Cold blankness sweeps over Jon as he watches Kilborn's gutted rig take water. He's not sure how many people are still on it. Judging by the small size of the group huddled with him (stripped of their weapons and kept in place with bayonets), far too many.
A dark-haired pirate with a red-beaked blue parrot on his shoulder and, incongruously, fine wire-rimmed glasses struts over to them. He'd been giving a speech to the crew; Jon wasn't listening to the details, but it made them clap a lot, and at one point start into a rhythmic chant which broke off with a hush when he made a simple gesture. Now he stares the captives up and down, with a particular focus on Jon — whose cuffs are torn and buttons are half missing, but whose outfit is still in better shape than most — before grabbing the end of the rope around his neck. "I'll take this one."
Jon has to trot across the deck to keep from being strangled by the pirate captain's brisk gait. "It's probably too small for you," he says — babbling like he's at the tailor's, because apparently the more crisis-oriented parts of his mind have decided to pack it in and go fishing. "You'll have to let it out. And replace the buttons. These are a custom-made set, and a bunch of them are gone, and the odds of you getting them back are...."
"Blah, blah, blah," interrupts the pirate. "You're lucky I like a man that can talk about fashion."
A wooden door slams behind them. Jon sees lamps with red glass panels, a sword and striped shield hanging on the wall, a shelf with more artifacts than books, including a sepia-toned globe with MINE scrawled in heavy black strokes across the Atlantic.
"You can keep the coat," the pirate informs him, with an air of great generosity. "I'll even have my people fix it up for you. Now shut up and strip."
Jon's stomach turns. Desperate for time, he stammers, "Don't I get to know your name first?"
"What?" demands the pirate. "Are you telling me you haven't heard of the Dread Pirate Colbert?"
"Uh...it sounds vaguely familiar...is that you?"
The bird on Colbert's shoulder flutters its feathers and squawks, "Legend in his own mind! Legend in his own mind!"
"You shut up," Colbert orders it. To Jon he adds, "This is The Word, so-called because she knows too many of them for her own good. And I'm the feared and revered Stephen Colbert, and if that name doesn't strike terror into your tiny little heart, then hold off on the stripping for a minute and come over to the bookshelf. I've got spoils to show you."
It's What Lincoln Would Have AU'd (1-4)
"Stephen, this is ridiculous. They may look a little different, they may have weird customs, but they're still people. Why shouldn't we help them out?"
"Why? Jon, haven't you been listening to a word I've said? These illegal immigrants are taking American land and sucking all the buffalo out of the system without giving anything back! And have you seen the kind of violence they bring with them? We need to close our borders, and do whatever we can to make these people go back where they came from!"
"How can you be so heartless? There are kids out there! Kids who are potentially dying of thirst, and could be saved if we would just show them how to take full advantage of a cactus."
"I'll show them what to do with a cactus, all right."
"That's enough, Stephen. You've said your piece. It's time for us to vote."
"Fine. But anyone who votes down my proposal is going to be sorry fifty years from now when we're all speaking English."
02. Cyberpunk
"Right again! You're always so intelligent, Stephen."
"I know I am," said Stephen smugly. "But it never hurts to hear you say it."
"Intelligent. Witty. Moral. Steadfast. Handsome. Devastatingly handsome."
"Why, Jon, if I didn't hear that from everyone who passes me on the street, I'd say you were flirting with me."
Raised eyebrows; a half-smirk overflowing with roguish charm. "And what if I am?"
"Well, in that case...run sex scenario #82."
The simulacrum kisses him, slow and gentle, a composite sensation randomly generated from details in Stephen's initial memory-dump. This VR program is the best on the market: even with only a handful of memories, it can record enough data to extrapolate nearly ten to the power of some-large-number-Stephen-didn't-bother-remembering variations.
That figure is for physical experiences only, of course. Without a scan of Jon's brain, it has no hope of even approaching the man's wit.
But as the imitation Jon pushes Stephen up against the wall in uncharacteristic silence, Stephen reminds himself that it doesn't matter. After all the mean things Jon said at the end there, he doesn't want to be reminded of what Jon's authentic voice sounds like. The VR version will skip all the nonsense and get straight to banging him, which is all Stephen really wants anyway.
Isn't it?
03. Shapeshifters
Jon keeps his abilities rigidly buttoned-down in public, whenever he's able. Employees get used to the fact that sometimes, when his temper or some other strong emotion gets the better of him, he locks himself in his office and they have to settle for being directed by phone.
There's no way he can keep it under control in bed.
Stephen gets used to running his hands across any part of Jon's body and finding the fur thicker than usual. He tries not to pout when he goes for a kiss and Jon refuses, afraid of mauling his lips and tongue with temporarily knife-sharp teeth. He accepts the apology promptly after Jon's claws punch through the surface of the mattress inches from his head, leaving puffs of stuffing dribbling out from fabric wounds.
It's a flaw, a handicap, a freakish problem. It's supposed to be the kind of thing you tolerate, out of generosity of spirit (of which Stephen has plenty, thank you very much).
There's no way a fine upstanding pillar of the community is supposed to enjoy it.
So Stephen pretends. When his heart beats faster at even a glimpse of Jon's irises swelling green-gold, he firmly stamps it down. When Jon apologizes for not being able to top him, Stephen insists that he wouldn't care for it anyway, even without the danger to soft internal tissues. When a photo of a younger Jon with full fuzzy ears on display makes the rounds of the news services, temptingly adorable, he does the unthinkable and turns off FOX for the duration.
But there's always going to be some trapped corner of him that yearns to taste blood in his mouth, and won't be sated until he has Jon inside him, barbs and all.
04. Pirates
Cold blankness sweeps over Jon as he watches Kilborn's gutted rig take water. He's not sure how many people are still on it. Judging by the small size of the group huddled with him (stripped of their weapons and kept in place with bayonets), far too many.
A dark-haired pirate with a red-beaked blue parrot on his shoulder and, incongruously, fine wire-rimmed glasses struts over to them. He'd been giving a speech to the crew; Jon wasn't listening to the details, but it made them clap a lot, and at one point start into a rhythmic chant which broke off with a hush when he made a simple gesture. Now he stares the captives up and down, with a particular focus on Jon — whose cuffs are torn and buttons are half missing, but whose outfit is still in better shape than most — before grabbing the end of the rope around his neck. "I'll take this one."
Jon has to trot across the deck to keep from being strangled by the pirate captain's brisk gait. "It's probably too small for you," he says — babbling like he's at the tailor's, because apparently the more crisis-oriented parts of his mind have decided to pack it in and go fishing. "You'll have to let it out. And replace the buttons. These are a custom-made set, and a bunch of them are gone, and the odds of you getting them back are...."
"Blah, blah, blah," interrupts the pirate. "You're lucky I like a man that can talk about fashion."
A wooden door slams behind them. Jon sees lamps with red glass panels, a sword and striped shield hanging on the wall, a shelf with more artifacts than books, including a sepia-toned globe with MINE scrawled in heavy black strokes across the Atlantic.
"You can keep the coat," the pirate informs him, with an air of great generosity. "I'll even have my people fix it up for you. Now shut up and strip."
Jon's stomach turns. Desperate for time, he stammers, "Don't I get to know your name first?"
"What?" demands the pirate. "Are you telling me you haven't heard of the Dread Pirate Colbert?"
"Uh...it sounds vaguely familiar...is that you?"
The bird on Colbert's shoulder flutters its feathers and squawks, "Legend in his own mind! Legend in his own mind!"
"You shut up," Colbert orders it. To Jon he adds, "This is The Word, so-called because she knows too many of them for her own good. And I'm the feared and revered Stephen Colbert, and if that name doesn't strike terror into your tiny little heart, then hold off on the stripping for a minute and come over to the bookshelf. I've got spoils to show you."