reddwarfslash | Drabble tree?

I had so much fun writing that drabble yesterday, that I thought I'd suggest a drabble tree. For those who've never participated in one before, here's how it works:

Below the cut is a drabble (100 words exactly). Anyone who wants to participate replies to this post with another drabble containing one of the sentences or phrases from the original drabble. The subject line should be the words you took. The next person should continue the trend, stealing a sentence or phrase and beginning their own.

Any particular drabble can be drawn from as many times as you want. If you don't feel like posting 100 words exactly, that's OK. Near-drabbles of approximately 100 words are fine too. It's about having fun, not exact definitions. ;)

Still confused? Here's one we did earlier!

Why hadn't they thought of this before? Holly controlled all of Rimmer's senses; turning off his hearing was 'easy-peasy', as she put it.

Now they sat in their quarters; Lister working his way through The Best Of Rasta Billy Skank from memory. He thrilled at the feel of strings beneath his fingers; the twangy sound of each chord. Then he noticed Rimmer.

The hologram sat, ogling Lister's moving fingers, his face flushed, his eyes wider than his nostrils. For some reason, he was crossing his legs.

"Holly, turn it on again," Rimmer mumbled. She did, and relief flooded his face.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's a very nice wake, all things considered. Lister drains bottle after bottle of precious, scavaged alcohol, until his thoughts dull and mellow, losing their sharpened edges. Kryten, buzzed on some mechanoid concoction, keeps going on about how unfortunate it was that Mister Ace couldn't stay for the festivities, and Lister snorts at the word.

Someone hands him another bottle, and Lister downs it greedily, not even savouring the flavor. The world goes sort of blurry as he watches their faces; laughing, chattering. It's easy for them, he thinks. They won't miss him. They won't miss him at all.

The world goes sort of blurry as he watches their faces; laughing, chattering. Extinction is the farthest thing from their minds. Lister shivered as he watched the young women dance gaily, their smiles immortalized on grainy film. You're dead now, he thought, regarding a pouting blonde sitting on the sidelines. You're all dead now.

"Off!" Rimmer's voice cut through his haze of self pity. Rimmer gestured to the growing pile of empty cans, a look of contempt on his face. He was saying something about slobing about, about doing something constructive with his life or something, but Lister was too drunk to care. He was just happy to not be alone. Lister smiled then, earning him a fresh barrage of insults.

Extinction is the farthest thing from their minds. All they are interested in is feeding, fucking, and watching The Flintstones. Most of them ignore the priests; their mirrors are of more interest and their attention spans aren’t long enough to keep them still through a whole sermon.

But the time comes when rumours of the Promised Land becomes too strong to disregard, when a strange yearning for something more takes over. They set aside their hairbrushes and take up hammers, and build the Arks, and widen the chasm between their warring parties, permanently and irrevocably. Until there is only one.

This is it, Rimmer thinks. This is what is left of Earth - a barely human slob, and a creature born from the rejects of a race of housecats.

Disgusting.

Not that the two of them care. All they are interested in is feeding, fucking, and watching The Flintstones - only two of which is possible with no women on board...

...and they've just found out they'll reproduce. Rimmer knows there's 50% chance either parent will be him, because this is it. No other options, if Terran civilization is all there is.

And they wonder why he feverently believes in aliens?

Lister drains bottle after bottle, until his thoughts dull and mellow; props his feet up, smiles at nothing in particular. Even Rimmer, he notes, is pretending not to see the Cat dozing in the hologram's own bunk.

Rimmer hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Lister's rarely seen him like this: brow unfurrowed, mouth unmarked by a sneer. Only the gleaming 'H' mars that profile...well, that, and..."Where'd you get that scar on your jaw anyway, man?"

He regrets it the instant the lines of strain return to Rimmer's eyes.

But before he can retract the question, Rimmer blinks and says, very quietly, "I suppose my trunk wasn't the only thing my father ever gave me."

Drabble tree?

They won't miss him at all.

The world goes sort of blurry as he watches their faces; laughing, chattering.

Extinction is the farthest thing from their minds.

All they are interested in is feeding, fucking, and watching The Flintstones.

Lister drains bottle after bottle...