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I am cold, cranky, and my brain is hitching in that special way that tells me I probably shouldn't be at work right now.  (Don't tell me to go home.  Mornings are always the hardest, and at this point, it'd be HARDER for me to drag my ass the hour commute home than it would be to wait it out.)

Last year, I did pornathon.  Y'all remember that.  Well, it was so much fun, and with V-Day coming up, I decided to do a similar thing this year, only instead of porn, it's love.

So, gimme a prompt to write love for, and I'll do it. (Better than Laurell K. Hamilton, even!) In the spirit of the thing, I highly encourage you to give me prompts for love that our traditional Valentine's Day ignores: poly, ace, what have you.  I will do fanfic if you request it, but keep in mind that it'll have to be a fandom we know. (Primarily: Justice League International and Unlimited, Empowered... my brain isn't working so hot right now, so just ask if we know it and I'll let you know.  Superheroes, animated movies, and random books are your best bets.)

I can't promise speed, due to lack of Internet, but I'm hoping to have 'em done by Valentine's Day, after which I'm headed to New Orleans and out of range.

So!  Loveathon!  Make me write something gooshy, y'all!

--Rogan

Limited Warranty

Date: 2012-02-21 02:41 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lb-lee.livejournal.com
Gwyneth was the best cyborg patcher on the Megacorp side. Nothing about the patchwork people ever threw her. Skin and circuits, bones and bytes, all spoke to her clear as day, telling her what needed reconnecting, stitching, welding, replacing.

There were plenty of patchers with Megacorp, patchers from better schools with higher honors, but none of them worked with the cyborgs like Gwyneth.

Mike05 would go to no one else, given any choice in the matter. He was part of the UCCT 22nd Brikt Regiment—the cannon fodder used to keep the damage away from the more important regiments. The Brikt line of manufacture made for cyborgs who were sponges for damage, but rife with minor bugs, and Mike05 was no exception. His vocal synthesizer never did work properly, and he still had issues with the sensory grafts going out on him, leaving him numb and neuropathic.

Most of the patchers hated dealing with the Brikts, and vice versa. None of them ever bothered to learn “that damned hand-flapping” and would complain that the Brikts were being uncommunicative on purpose, when 97% had fatal vocal synthesizer errors and 48% had auditory issues. Mike05 didn't have problems with his auditory graft, could write perfectly well, but the patchers didn't see him as any great communicator. Really, the question, “What hurts?” was infuriatingly vague. He had sensory grafts poorly wedded to his entire nervous system. EVERYTHING hurt, or tingled, or burned, or felt absolutely nothing at all no matter how damaged, and he could no longer differentiate what was significant. But none of the patchers ever seemed to believe that.

Except Gwyneth. Gwyneth, with the soft touch and the scarred hands, the broad lips and those green gray eyes that could swallow someone whole. Who was completely at ease among the hulking, augmented, signing Brikts—perhaps because of her own appearance. Cyborgs, being who they were, tended to be unfazed by scars. The only difference was that hers weren't from grafts. He didn't know what they were from; she never said, and he never asked.

They'd been with the 22nd fifteen years now, in the active roster for eight, and Mike05 had ended up under her care more times than he could remember. This time, it was a blown pump in his shoulder. With her gentle patchwork hands, Gwyneth, uncoupled the sensory graft connection and began to replace to warped piston.

“I've never seen one go like that,” she signed—she could speak, of course, and most of the Brikts weren't deaf, but she never did.

“I'm past my warranty,” he signed ruefully. “We Brikts, they only designed us to last a decade. They figured I'd get scrapped in the first charge.”

“You're too good for that,” she replied with her crooked smile, and mimed an affection punch to the shoulder she wasn't working on. Then she got a better look at the exposed tubing in the joint, and her expression sobered. “Your tubing's going.”

Mike05 couldn't shrug with his shoulder uncoupled, so he looked away. “You can't replace that stuff. I'll just be a bit leaky is all. I keep good track of my coolant; it won't be a problem.”

The grafts itched and burned and throbbed where they were bound to severed nerves, but under Gwyneth's hands, they calmed and cooled. “I wish I could fix it. All of it.”

Mike05 touched her cheek, pushed a lock of her rough hair behind the ear she had left. “Don't we all.”

“Limited warranty.”

“It's all limited warranty.”

And she replaced the piston, recoupled his shoulder, ran a ragged hand down his arm, and sent him back to the front line. Like they always did. Like they always had to do, and like they always would have to do, until the corporate war was over.

Or until their warranty gave out. Whichever came first.
(deleted comment)

Re: Limited Warranty

Date: 2012-02-23 03:16 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lb-lee.livejournal.com
Good. I'm glad it pleased you so!

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