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Characters Meeting...
Challenge was to imagine a meeting between two characters in a fandom whom we never saw meet, if that makes sense. Uh, this was challenging, so both of these are rather awkward...
Fandom: Elementary
Characters: Joan Watson, Sherlock's father
Word Count: 306
Watson shifted in her seat and looked toward the entrance of the restaurant as a ridiculously well-groomed, youngish man walked up to the maitre d’s station and engaged the attendant in a low whisper. The maitre d’ nodded, and moved as if to guide the man into the room, but the man put up a hand and walked with a quick step toward Joan’s table. Stopping a few steps in front of her, he inclined his head and said, “Dr. Watson, I presume? Mr. Holmes sends his most abject apologies. He was unavoidably detained, and…” Before he could voice any more (as Joan thought wryly) platitudes, there was a stir at the door, and a large, almost burly older man, expensively dressed but with a slightly wild head of hair, strode in their direction, with the maitre d’ trotting and gesturing behind.
The man pulled up beside Joan’s interlocutor, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “That’ll do, O’Riley.” The younger man inclined his head again at Joan, gestured with the merest of movements toward the chair opposite her, and backed away from the table. The older man squared up and put out his hand. “I shall offer my own apologies, first for keeping you waiting, and secondly for sending a…nother in my place. M. Sigurdson Holmes, at your service. Do call me Sig.” He sketched a bow, and, before Joan could rise up, grasped her hand and sat down himself. “Pleased to finally meet you in person,” she murmured, with just a trace of steel in her voice.
With a waiter immediately hovering at their side, they went through the ritual of ordering food and drink. Then, Holmes looked straight at Joan, and said, “Now, let’s get down to business. What in hell are we going to do with my devil of a son?”
Fandom: Battle Creek
Characters: Russ, Milt, one of Milt's assistants
Word Count: 514
Russ strode out the door into the foyer and almost into the arms of a statuesque brunette holding a clipboard. “Whoa, whoa, sorry, sorry,” he said as he skidded to a halt, one hand reaching to steady her elbow. She shrugged slightly, and turned toward the opposite door—Milt’s office. “Hey, hey, hold up a second.” Milt bustled around to slide in front of her. Sticking out his hand, he assumed his sometimes effective eager puppy look. “Russ Agnew, detective, BCPD. But then, you probably knew that. And you are….?”
She looked at him with just a hint of a look of exaggerated patience (and how someone could throw a hint of an exaggerated look, he had no idea, but she did) and said, without taking his hand, “Cecilia.”
“Cecilia, yeah, right, okay,” Russ said, raising the ignored hand to rub the back of his neck, “And last week it was…Bahar, and before that, Anthea. Hey, funny coincidence, isn’t it, like the letters of the alphab—“ He paused at the empty air in front of him, as Cecilia had slipped past him and entered the FBI office. “Nice to meet you, too,” he said with a wave, then sank into thought with his hand on his chin.
Only to be shouldered aside by Milt, emerging from the FBI office. “Oh good, Russ, you’re ready, let’s go. Got a line on that suspect, finally.” He headed toward the exit, then turned around to see Russ still standing stock still. “Russ! Hey! What’s up?” Russ raised his eyes and squinted at Milt, then moved to catch up with him. “I’m gonna figure it out, I swear I am, or I’m no detective,” he growled as they left the building. “Figure out what, Russ?”
“Figure out what is the deal with your assistants. That constant parade of insanely gorgeous but totally cold assistants who don’t seem to do any work, and won’t give anyone the time of day. And not like it hasn’t been tried, believe you me.”
Milt paused before getting into the car, and looked across the car roof at Russ. “Forget it, don’t bother. There’s nothing to figure out, and anyway, you never will.”
“If there’s nothing to figure out, then why won’t I ever figure it out? Huh? Explain that to me!”
As they got into the car and buckled their seat belts, Milt turned toward Russ. “Okay, here it is. I’m only telling you this so you don’t blunder into something and get us all in trouble.” He paused, then started the car. “Robots.”
“What?”
“I said ‘robots,’ Russ. You know, cyborgs. Artificial intelligence. I’d say fembots, that’s what they call them around the Bureau, but of course that’s offensively sexist. They’re being tested for longterm use by the NSA; we’re taking part in the pilot test. Now shut up about it. Top secret, need to know, yada-yada, okay?” As they pulled away from the curb, Russ looked incredulously at the other man, and was, for once, speechless. But whether it was because he believed Milt, or didn't, even he couldn't say. (514)
Fandom: Elementary
Characters: Joan Watson, Sherlock's father
Word Count: 306
Watson shifted in her seat and looked toward the entrance of the restaurant as a ridiculously well-groomed, youngish man walked up to the maitre d’s station and engaged the attendant in a low whisper. The maitre d’ nodded, and moved as if to guide the man into the room, but the man put up a hand and walked with a quick step toward Joan’s table. Stopping a few steps in front of her, he inclined his head and said, “Dr. Watson, I presume? Mr. Holmes sends his most abject apologies. He was unavoidably detained, and…” Before he could voice any more (as Joan thought wryly) platitudes, there was a stir at the door, and a large, almost burly older man, expensively dressed but with a slightly wild head of hair, strode in their direction, with the maitre d’ trotting and gesturing behind.
The man pulled up beside Joan’s interlocutor, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “That’ll do, O’Riley.” The younger man inclined his head again at Joan, gestured with the merest of movements toward the chair opposite her, and backed away from the table. The older man squared up and put out his hand. “I shall offer my own apologies, first for keeping you waiting, and secondly for sending a…nother in my place. M. Sigurdson Holmes, at your service. Do call me Sig.” He sketched a bow, and, before Joan could rise up, grasped her hand and sat down himself. “Pleased to finally meet you in person,” she murmured, with just a trace of steel in her voice.
With a waiter immediately hovering at their side, they went through the ritual of ordering food and drink. Then, Holmes looked straight at Joan, and said, “Now, let’s get down to business. What in hell are we going to do with my devil of a son?”
Fandom: Battle Creek
Characters: Russ, Milt, one of Milt's assistants
Word Count: 514
Russ strode out the door into the foyer and almost into the arms of a statuesque brunette holding a clipboard. “Whoa, whoa, sorry, sorry,” he said as he skidded to a halt, one hand reaching to steady her elbow. She shrugged slightly, and turned toward the opposite door—Milt’s office. “Hey, hey, hold up a second.” Milt bustled around to slide in front of her. Sticking out his hand, he assumed his sometimes effective eager puppy look. “Russ Agnew, detective, BCPD. But then, you probably knew that. And you are….?”
She looked at him with just a hint of a look of exaggerated patience (and how someone could throw a hint of an exaggerated look, he had no idea, but she did) and said, without taking his hand, “Cecilia.”
“Cecilia, yeah, right, okay,” Russ said, raising the ignored hand to rub the back of his neck, “And last week it was…Bahar, and before that, Anthea. Hey, funny coincidence, isn’t it, like the letters of the alphab—“ He paused at the empty air in front of him, as Cecilia had slipped past him and entered the FBI office. “Nice to meet you, too,” he said with a wave, then sank into thought with his hand on his chin.
Only to be shouldered aside by Milt, emerging from the FBI office. “Oh good, Russ, you’re ready, let’s go. Got a line on that suspect, finally.” He headed toward the exit, then turned around to see Russ still standing stock still. “Russ! Hey! What’s up?” Russ raised his eyes and squinted at Milt, then moved to catch up with him. “I’m gonna figure it out, I swear I am, or I’m no detective,” he growled as they left the building. “Figure out what, Russ?”
“Figure out what is the deal with your assistants. That constant parade of insanely gorgeous but totally cold assistants who don’t seem to do any work, and won’t give anyone the time of day. And not like it hasn’t been tried, believe you me.”
Milt paused before getting into the car, and looked across the car roof at Russ. “Forget it, don’t bother. There’s nothing to figure out, and anyway, you never will.”
“If there’s nothing to figure out, then why won’t I ever figure it out? Huh? Explain that to me!”
As they got into the car and buckled their seat belts, Milt turned toward Russ. “Okay, here it is. I’m only telling you this so you don’t blunder into something and get us all in trouble.” He paused, then started the car. “Robots.”
“What?”
“I said ‘robots,’ Russ. You know, cyborgs. Artificial intelligence. I’d say fembots, that’s what they call them around the Bureau, but of course that’s offensively sexist. They’re being tested for longterm use by the NSA; we’re taking part in the pilot test. Now shut up about it. Top secret, need to know, yada-yada, okay?” As they pulled away from the curb, Russ looked incredulously at the other man, and was, for once, speechless. But whether it was because he believed Milt, or didn't, even he couldn't say. (514)
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