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[titusnowl]

Got bored, wrote a drabble which is like - a crossover between Team Fortress 2 and His Dark Materials.



Sariel's utter lack of resistance to the whole thing was a thorn in Michael's side.

"Goddammit, Sara," he exclaimed in exasperation - in the privacy of their room - after he'd caught her licking the Spy's fucking glove as they trotted in after a match. "Do you have to act like - like you're his fucking pet?"

She just rolled her eyes at him and curled up on the foot of the bed.

If the rest of the team hadn't caught on to what was going on already anyway, it would've been obvious after that; any time the Spy and the Scout were both in the common room, the Spy's chameleon daemon could be found buried in Sariel's golden fur or resting between her paws being carefully groomed with long strokes of her tongue, scaly skin a contented mottled green and big creepy swivelly eyes closed smugly.

"I don't know why you gotta be all up ons with the chameleon, either," Michael complained in their barracks.

Sariel looked at him. She always looked like she was smiling, but she was definitely laughing at him now. "'The chameleon'?" she echoed.

"Yeah, Marie-René's fucking chameleon," he said hotly. "I don't know her fucking name - "

"You're a moron, Mikey," she said fondly. "His name is Raffaelo."

The Scout blinked. "His?"

"Moron." Sariel jumped up onto the bed and rolled over for tummy-rubs.

Comments

[cupiecake.livejournal.com]

He's watching the Spy after the match, waiting for Marie-René to wake up; Sariel is watching too, her head on her front paws, big brown eyes blinking every so often. He isn't expecting the small voice, heavily accented - more so than Marie's, and somehow deeper. "Stupeed."

Sara's tail wags a little, but Michael's just lost. "W-what?" he stammers, and the chameleon's eyes open, moving to look at him.

"Stupeed. Yis, you. Stupeed."

From the floor he can hear Sariel cough; he swears the lizard's eyes roll. "Oui, oui, I know 'e 'as a name, cherie."

"You - you can fucking speak English!"

Another eyeroll, for sure this time. "Of course, stupeed. I am Marie-René's. 'e ees mine. We are one, yis?" He does feel stupid. Of course, but the fucking lizard hasn't ever spoken in his presence, not *once*. How was he fucking supposed to know? "'e ees fine, hein? Ze pacing - unnecessary."

Sara woofs softly, and the chameleon's eyes open again, look at her. "Tired -" he says, and for the first time Michael notices the lizard's color, green faded almost to grey. He closes his eyes again; he doesn't talk again.

After a moment Sariel gets up to sit at his feet, and he reaches out absently to scritch her ears, giving and receiving comfort through touch.

They wait for Marie-René to wake up.

[chikkiboo.livejournal.com]

She's pretty much always been a dog. Even when he was little and she'd flip around with changing whims or just for fun, she was usually some kind of dog when she stayed still for a while. They'd play fetch in the alley behind the apartments so he could practice his pitching, her tail wagging as she padded each catch back to him. During Little League matches she'd play with the other daemons outside the dugout while his team was up to bat, woofing encouragingly every time his swings connected so that the crack of wood on leather was intrinsically tied to her voice. When he was put on outfield she'd switch over, a bird or a mouse or a squirrel, and run out to sit on his shoulder while he waited for his chance to make an out; once she'd settled down into a golden retriever, she'd just pad along the sidelines at his games for the high school and college teams, panting with her happy permanent grin.

His father's daemon, Cassiel - only Dad can call her Cassie - is a dog too, a long-haired red dachshund. His mother's was a puffin. Sometimes he wonders what Katie's will be when he settles.

[cupiecake.livejournal.com]

When she was younger, Torial liked to fly better than anything. At night she'd open the window to let him slip out, and he'd flutter and flap his wings just out of reach - never to the point of pain, never that far, but he'd come back to her and nuzzle into her arms gratefully.

Sometimes he'd have big dark moth-wings, bigger than her hands, and he'd flutter in her room while she held her breath for the joy of it.

She was almost seventeen before he settled; her parents were anxious, trying to save money for therapy, trying to decide what it meant. The fires changed everything; he lost his wings for scales - a turtle, a gila monster, snakes of all kinds. He basked in the heat just as much as she did, daring ever closer to the flames. The red and gold of his scales, in the end, delighted them both.



Sometimes, in the barracks, she wakes up in a cold sweat, both of them shuddering, the feel of teeth closing around him - another daemon touching him, touching *them*, caught -

[chikkiboo.livejournal.com]

There wasn't officially a rule against attacking the other players' daemons. There didn't have to be. You didn't need to be told not to do it.

At least sane people didn't.

Fucking Sniper.

There's a rule against it now.

[chikkiboo.livejournal.com]

ratbarf's Eluria is a great-tailed grackle, as proud of her showy tail plumage as he is of his mohawk, and fond of shiny things. She fetches nuts and bolts and holds spare parts for him when he's working, though she has a mischievous tendency to steal them and spirit them away on him. She circles overhead when he tests things and shares in his glee when they cause proper explosions. He is the calmer and steadier of the two, with his punk rock zen; they're most alike temperamentally when he's in his roughhousing-with-the-Scout moods. (She helps out in this by landing on Sariel's back and flapping her wings crazily and annoyingly.)

Diego's Cora (a short name that balances out his long one) settled as a little green gecko. She used to hide in his hair, tiny wedge-shaped head poking out. Now she sits inside the collar of his chemsuit, peeking out shyly at people. It took her a very long time to get over the fear of almost losing him in that firebombing, and she is still even less comfortable around people than he is - her reclusive nature is not tempered by his inherent talkative friendliness.

Scouts, as established, are always doggy; Ned's Mischa is a bulldog. When he's ensconced in his chair in the common room he uses her as a footrest and she growls almost inaudibly at people who come too close. They play tug-of-war with his dirty socks in the privacy of his room.