#does anyone actually *want* to read a fic like inALIENable?

[rissynicole]

I’ve been wanting to get back into writing on a larger scale

I mean, I never really stopped. But it’s been little one-shots and collaborative pieces between close friends.

I want to write something on the scale of A Parade of Indignities, which was a bona-fide longfic and had a posting schedule for AO3 and FFN.

In case this came across your dash, and you're like "who the fuck is this lady and why would I care about what she writes?" my name is Rissy. I enjoy writing stories for the Invader Zim fandom, and I've been around for several years, writing stories and just kind of vibing. I mainly write gen fics. I used to post regularly on AO3 and FFN, but after I finished my longfic a couple years back, I took a bit of a hiatus.

I’m going to put this poll up to test some waters and use the results to help me make my decision. If there’s any one option that has overwhelming popularity, it might give me some pause for thought.

1) inALIENable. Very Zim-centric and Gaz-centric. Here’s a post that explains this fanfic pretty well. I would probably take the outline back to the drawing board and heavily rewrite the sections I have for it (I'd written about 1/3 of it in 2018, then I put it waaaay on the back-burner). Fair warning, it involves a major character death that occurs before the story begins. It also includes an OC that doesn't dominate the story but plays a key role in the story. I think part of the reason I’ve been hesitant to post it is because I don’t anticipate it gaining much readership. I just envision the major character death/OC acting as deterrents for readers. Stupid to concern myself so much over readership, I know. I get it. I should write for me and me only. I'm going to be transparent, though: if I'm going to devote my time to my hobby after 50+ hours of work a week, and I'm putting in the effort of polishing it up so I could post it publicly, and I'm looking forward to talking about it with people and engaging with the fandom more...then it would be incredibly demoralizing to receive nothing but dead air. I'm sorry. I have no other way to explain it.

If not inALIENable, I have a couple other ideas of stories I could write and post on AO3.

2) An expansion of a one-shot I’ve written and posted on Tumblr. I’m thinking either this prompt or this prompt.

3) Something else entirely. I'm open to suggestions.

[ganymedesclock]

We Wayward Stars ch.3

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Summary: Altean Lance fic. Local alien attends school, argues, makes decisions. Nobody suspects a thing.

           The first thing they do is test him on his shifting. Identify hard limits- and the parts of him that he can’t get rid of. They take pictures of him- normally, and in human morph, from several angles. It’s pretty clear they’re trying not to let him sneak out the same way he did last time, especially because, despite Iverson’s words, his rib continues to heal up rapidly.

           Lance can’t say he’s entirely displeased to be the center of attention. Part of it feels good- like showing off. Pushing himself to eight feet tall in one go and watching their reactions is worth the cramped feeling he nurses the rest of the day.

           But a certain part of it gets tiring. A reminder that basic things are novel and shocking to these people- that he’s the only Altean on this entire planet.

           He works on reading and writing in English. It’s slow going, but cathartic to watch Sam try to struggle his way through writing in Altean. Reading has never been his favorite pastime- especially not now, when there’s an exorbitant amount of sitting in his life and all he wants to do is move.

           Eventually he’s pronounced healthy enough that someone takes him up on requests for sparring. They don’t have gladiator bots here- everything has to be done personally, or with weighted bags. He quickly finds he likes the bags a lot better, both because he can hold back less, and because there’s less of him getting swept off his feet.

           Okay, so, he may have underestimated humans a little. They don’t toss him around nearly as much as he’s used to, but they’re fast. Everything seems to brighten up when he can actually move- he sleeps better, with less nightmares, when he’s actually tired going to bed.

           (They’re still there)

           Another exciting change is clothing.

           The clothes he’d arrived in aren’t salvageable. He figured as much, but it’s different to look at the stained blue and white fabric- a gouge large enough he can put his hand through it in the front, and a smaller exit in the back. The people he talk to are excited about fabric technology, figuring out how it was woven. It’s as if they’re talking through water- the chattering, almost incoherent, and somewhere underneath Lance has settled into a cold place, looking at that opening.

           He has a scar. He’s already seen it enough times to know, but it had still been an ugly surprise the first time the bandages came off. It hadn’t occurred to him there might be more of it on his back than on the front, but he later confirms, in private. Pokes back at his own memories- fuzzy, incoherent. He’d been going into shock. He’d been dying.

           If Blue hadn’t saved him. If the Garrison hadn’t been there.

           He manages to put in some kind of permission in the right place, and they take the old clothes away. Sometime after he isn’t in that room any more he remembers how to breathe again.

           They bring him alternatives- Earth clothing. A few of the shirts have slogans of some kind on them- or symbols he doesn’t have the context to get. Now and then someone snickers about one or the other- there’s one in particular that just reads “I believe” in bulky block print and what looks for all the world like a strange, green distortion of a Gurin’s face with some kind of pancake-shaped hovercraft that he adopts into regular wardrobe just for the fact that people seem to find it either hilarious or exasperating in equal measures. He knows most of the nurses and personnel by name at this point.

           Along with clothes come cosmetics. Earth ones- the first few varieties he reacts strangely to. Altean skin is nothing if not responsive, after all. Most of it, ultimately, doesn’t pan out- but all they really need is a working concealer, and sure enough, they find one.

           Humans don’t have patches of bioluminescent skin under their eyes- and apparently the Garrison is unimpressed by his ingenuity with adhesive bandage strips. Lance’s pride is ruffled- but, at the same time, he’s intrigued- they’ve gone from making sure he can’t get away with passing as human to trying to help him. And he hasn’t forgotten about that something Iverson was going to work out.

           The man himself proves elusive. Apparently, he’s very, very busy- enough that when his proposition actually comes through, it’s delivered by a tall, wavy-haired woman he hasn’t seen before.

           The Garrison, understandably enough, does not want to let go of the Blue Lion. Or him, for that matter (as if he’d just saunter off into the wilds of Earth and leave a Voltron Lion in unknown alien custody, but he keeps that down to just rolling his eyes), but their entire legal system at least tries to be built on a sense of inalienable rights, and without Lance actually being guilty of any crime, they don’t particularly want to keep him like a zoo animal.

           That, and he’s already going pretty stir-crazy, sparring sessions and newfound friends notwithstanding. The fact that this is discussed within view of the relatively new foot-sized hole in that corner of the ceiling isn’t lost on him. Unfortunately, not within range of the intern that had bet him five bucks he couldn’t do it.

           The Galaxy Garrison is not exclusively a military base. It is also- in fact, chiefly- a school. The orange uniforms he ran into on his particular escape attempt were students. He’s the right age, and he’s already had a few people mistake him for a student- this is delivered with a rather pointed look- that they could potentially enroll him in the program as a pilot student. He has what the woman calls relevant experience in the area.

           Lance also calls it relevant experience, and not fooling around with recreational hovercraft in the countryside. In part because that conjures idyllic memories on a planet that’s likely entirely conquered and torn apart by conflict at this point- and he’s gotten very good at not touching that knot of feelings.

           He’ll have to study and pass tests- earn his keep, as it will. In exchange, provided he checks in with the instructors on a semi-regular basis and doesn’t run off into the countryside for months on end- something they apparently do think is a genuine concern- he will have more or less free range of the Garrison campus, and the campus town. He’ll have to take responsibility for keeping himself hidden, in that regard.

           The alternative being sitting around on his butt, he takes it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           “Nope.”

           Lance pauses, his hand still extended. He’s not exactly thrilled about the prospect of roommates either, but, if it comes down to just one, and one the Garrison seemed to imply he’d get along with, it would work- it takes him a moment to place this person in his memory.

           By that time, Hunk has seemingly cued up the rest of his indignation. “No. Nuh-uh. Not happening. I don’t know what your deal is, but the last time I talked to you, I’m pretty sure I got questioned by the FBI. It was the most terrifying thing that ever happened to me, I never wanna do that again, no thanks, goodbye.”

           “You’re not gonna get thrown in jail for talking to me.” He shrugs, giving up on the handshake and moving instead to sling the suitcase containing the sum total of his worldly possessions onto the bed. It’s mostly given clothing, not all of which involving what he now understands is a caricature of supposed aliens.

           “Yeah? How do you know that?”

           “Because this time I’m not breaking out.” Or breaking into, what he now understands was probably some kind of off-limits area.

           A brief, furious, contemplative pause. “I’m holding you to that.”

           “Great.”

           “Seriously, if I do get arrested you’re defending me in court.”

           “That would be pretty hard, seeing as I’m not a U.S. citizen.”

           “Then don’t get me arrested!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           The classes are roughly thirty people to an instructor, sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s entirely unlike the private tutors he’s used to- but he’s perfectly prepared for that. In fact, more prepared than he’s ever been for an academic endeavor in his life, considering he has actually, in fact, read most of the material slash skimmed for relevant details.

           Earth’s grasp of astrophysics is rudimentary compared to the science he’s used to- they don’t even have an understanding of wormhole physics, which means his worst subject is entirely off the curriculum. He’s also a licensed pilot by Altean standards, going into an introductory class- and his written English is decent enough. It can’t keep up with lecturers, but taking notes in Altean solves that easily enough.

           He is prepared for all of these things.

           He is not prepared for Keith.

           In hindsight he would really love to say that he spotted the guy immediately as trouble, but it was actually much more likely, riding the high of the prospect of genuine academic success and newfound freedom, his eyes entirely swept over Keith multiple times.

           It wasn’t hard. He was short, he kept to himself, his voice squeaked a little bit when he raised it to ask a question.

           He also just happened to be one of the top students in every class they shared.

           Resentment was probably unfair. In fact, resentment was almost definitely unfair. Lance was here on a technicality and an agreement, he wasn’t exactly living his life buried in his studies, even when his attention span could last that long slogging through dense textbooks at a frustrating crawl. But he tried.

           And Keith just had to make it look so easy.

           He had to know he was good, too- the guy barely talked to anyone else in class. As soon as the period ended he was en route to somewhere else. Way to say ‘you mere mortals aren’t worth my time’.

           But it seemed almost nobody was. It was hard to catch anyone besides the instructors really talking to Keith with anything in greater substance than “I forgot my calculator, can I borrow yours?”

           And he just kept effortlessly sailing through.

           Yeah, Lance was resenting him for it.

           It wasn’t a rivalry, though.

           Not until they got assigned to a project together.

           Keith was already in the library by the time Lance met him, shooting him nothing more heated than a sidelong glance and a “you’re late.”

           “By what, ten minutes?”

           “Half an hour.”

           He sat down, eyeing the books already strewn on the table between them. “What the heck is that one?”

           Almost as soon as he reached for it, Keith closed it, pushing it to one side. “Fighter manual. Not part of the assignment.”

           “Then why the heck were you reading it?”

           “Different assignment. You were late, remember?”

           “Pssh, yeah, right. What, they put you in fighter pilot classes a year ahead?”

           Keith directed him a slightly vacant look. “…Yeah. Why?”

           Lance almost dropped his book. “You’re kidding.”

           “I’m not?”

           “No, no. You want me to believe, this entire time, you’re taking basic pilot classes and fighter classes, and doing better than me this entire time-”

           Keith’s face flushed abruptly, brows knitting together at a steep angle. “I’m not lying, if that’s what you think.”            “No, you’re just rubbing it in-”

           “You’re the one that brought it up!”

           Like he hadn’t had the book out waiting for Lance to show up. Like this entire time- maybe, maybe he could buy the earlier stuff was some kind of clueless, but this-

           “It doesn’t even matter. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

           “You think I’m not fighter material?” Because that’s pretty quiznaking rich coming from a guy whose species hasn’t even left the solar system.

           “You aren’t in the class, are you?”

           The uncomfortably warm something that had been climbing Lance’s throat dropped into a pit of ice somewhere near his stomach.

           Is this just how it is? Is this just how he’s going to spend the rest of his life- staring at someone’s back? Dad, Allura- and now it’s Keith. And he doesn’t have any of the familial warm fuzzies this time telling him it’s for the better.

           “That can change.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           “I think you’re overreacting here.”

           “I’m not!” Lance declares, at a volume that startles a half-awake grad student in the next room, given the various thumping noises and expletives that follow.

           “You’re freaking out here.”

           “Great, paint me green and call me a klanmuirl.”

           Hunk glances up at him, briefly, and then looks back to his book. “Lance, you’re making up words again. That’s definitely evidence you need to chill.”

           “This is serious, Hunk.”

           He turns a page, unimpressed. “Okay, so you got into a fight with a guy and now you want to get into a prestigious training program literally just to spite him.”

           “I didn’t fight him.” If he did, he would’ve won, which would’ve made it feel better.

           An ambivalent wave of one hand. “Okay, you had a yelling match and got kicked out of the library for a while. Just historically, making life decisions because of arguments is not the best idea.”

           Lance rolls over onto his side, directing a look that’s probably more pout than glare at Hunk’s back. “Are you gonna help me with this or not?”

           “Obviously? I’m just saying, sleep on it before you go hassle administrations at eight thirty at night.” He stifled a yawn, repurposing the raised hand to rub at his eyes. “And talking about studying, I’ve got three different tests tomorrow and one’s in first period, so…”

           They linger for a while in silence before someone knocks on the door.

           It’s the kind of knock that is not entirely sold on whether it actually wants to achieve its intended purpose.

           Lance and Hunk exchange a look. They both know what this is probably about- though Lance doesn’t entirely appreciate the thread of “I told you so” in Hunk’s. He avoids it by rolling off the bed onto the floor and heading for the door himself.

           Keith looks about as surprised to be confronted by Lance in his PJs as Lance does to find Keith awkwardly hovering outside of his room. In a moment where neither of them are entirely sold on what to say, Lance realizes that Keith’s uniform is probably a size or so too big on him- the guy is a toothpick in khaki shorts.

           “…What are you wearing?” Keith manages after a second.

           It is, in fact, a glow-in-the-dark “alien” t-shirt and the comfiest thing Lance owns at present but he was more moping in the general direction of bed than actually going to bed, and he’s more than aware this isn’t his most flattering angle- hair down, he’d taken his contacts out, but he’s entirely past worrying about someone taking issue with the flash of pink in his pupil, least of all Keith.

           “It’s like ten minutes to lights out. Why are you here?”

           This seems to rekindle some of his sense of purpose, at least enough that he looks more like the Keith Lance is used to seeing, and less like a lost puppy. “We- I- …Look. I wanted to apologize, all right?”

           Lance blinks.

           Keith glances at his face and then finds something very interesting to his left to stare at.

           Hunk, who was leaning over the back of his chair, falls over, and rapidly has to pretend he wasn’t just eavesdropping.

           The silence is very nearly hitting critical awkward thresholds, and the faint, discordant sounds of Hunk picking his chair back up and straightening the desk aren’t cutting it. He has to say something. “Yeah, well-”

           His eyes land on something. A dark shape, sticking out from Keith’s hip, and with his mouth already going, before he can even think it through- “What’s that?”

           Brows furrow- for a moment, Lance worries he’s struck a nerve. But then Keith traces his eyes to the shape. “Oh, it’s- …just kind of something I’ve had for a while.”

           It looks like a hilt. “Garrison lets you keep a sword?”

           “It’s not a sword, it’s kind of…” He unlatches it from his belt, holds it forward, scabbard and all- the reason why is rapidly apparent because not one, but two different zip-ties are securing it in place.

           It’s mostly silvery metal, the pommel darker- a short crossguard, thickly wrapped from what he can see protruding beyond the hilt. There’s a subtle iridescence to the metal- he’s no expert, but the way it looks like it fits together…

           A chill crawls up his spine.

           “Where did you get this?”

           Something in his tone must’ve come out sharper than he meant it to. Keith is directing him a confused look- behind him, he can feel Hunk staring.

           The first warning for lights out chimes across the intercom, making both of them jump. In an instant, Lance remembers- Garrison. This is the Garrison. This is Earth.

           “Right. Okay, uh, looks like you should go, sorry for yelling at you in a library and comparing you to my sister, great talk, see you tomorrow for that assignment okay goodnight,” and the door is closed before Keith can get a word in edgewise.

           He puts his back to the door, leaning against it for a moment before sliding down to sit on the tiles. After a moment, he can hear retreating footsteps.

           Silence.

           “You never said you had a sister.”

           “Hunk, don’t start.” He gets up and heads towards the bathroom- after all, they don’t have much time before lights out and he has an evening skin-care routine to start that doesn’t  care about weird classmates and their weird knives.

           He scrubs off the concealer, staring at his reflection a moment, the patches under his eyes glimmering dully.

           He really doesn’t want to think about what that means. It’s probably nothing. He’s probably wrong.

           But he can’t shake the feeling that thing wasn’t made on Earth.

           After a moment, he shakes his head.

           Who is he kidding? It’s a knife. This is Earth. Worst come to absolute worst it fell off a satellite, or ages ago somebody else crashed here and didn’t make it. Even pre-contact cultures are never untouched, even a planet like this that’s relatively out in the middle of nowhere…

           Hunk’s right. He needs to go to bed.