Tapestry Drabbles

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Predator

The lavender curve of hip and spine bunched. They were back again, dancing across the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Everywhere. Infiltrating. Invading. Her territory.

The thought they were safe from challenge. That they stood unopposed because none had the strength. None had the courage.

None but Catseye.

The beguiling little globes of yellow and orange twirled across the carpet. The largest one, the Leader, danced tantalizingly close to pouncing range. Across the floor, pause, then on and up the wall. Perfect, almost perfect--

THERE!THERETHERETHERETHERE!!!!!!

In a whiplash blur of tail and sinew and fury Catseye flung herself, full-tilt, at the unsuspecting ball of light.

The thud was satisfactorily solid. Alison serenely lifted her arm out of the sunlight and smirked.

"Best thing about this bracelet."

Three Drabbles

Haroun al-Rashid, Miles Blaire, rain.

~*~

Round, serious blue eyes peered up at the older man from beneath the edge of the umbrella. Twin streams of water framed a face alive with curiosity, the silence unbroken by nothing but the drum of rain. At last, the boy made his solemn inquiry.

"If Mr. Haroun was not wearing pants, would his legs rust?"

---

Catseye, dandelion fluff.

~*~

She'd had the area staked out for weeks now, patient as a farmer awaiting the harvest of a particularly fine crop. She'd watched the yellow petals wither and shrink, and closely monitored the twist of green left behind as it swelled. Some few had already opened, but they only served as an appetizer, a warm-up before the main event. Bursting one or two of the seedheads was fun, but what she really looked forward to was plowing through an entire patch of them to create her own personal blizzard. And unlike the ones Ororo made, her snowflakes wouldn't melt away when swatted by paws.

But then, just before the patch was truly ripe, Catseye returned to the scene and found the unthinkable. The once interestingly overgrown grass had been trimmed to an offensively even length -- a crime which had resulted in the brutal decapitation of her carefully cultivated harvest. Something had beaten her to her prey, and now nothing remained of her grand schemes but a patch of viciously terminated stalks and the smell of freshly cut grass.

And that was how Catseye decided the lawnmower had to die.

---

Forge, Catseye, window.

~*~

It wasn't so much that Forge liked seeing a lazy stretch turn into spill, as such. What he really enjoyed was the immediate aftermath, where she tried to pretend falling off the windowsill in her sleep had been intentional.

It was sheer luck that it had happened within view of one of the surveillance cameras he'd been using to test-run possible alterations to the school's security system. Now he could not only treasure the memory, he could forward it to his friends.

---

Four Drabbles

David Haller and Rachel.

~*~

"I have to be making this harder than it needs to be," Jim muttered, picking up the recipe. Cookies were not hard. He'd helped his mother make them a dozen times. These cookies, even. Though now that he thought about it, she'd done most of the mixing. Still it couldn't be that difficult.

Rachel burbled with amusement from her high chair, apparently noticing his inept culinary skills.

"Don't you mock my attempts at domesticity," Jim said, replacing the paper with great dignity. "If you're not going to be nice I won't sha--HEY!"

The brown sugar he'd already spread across a sheet of waxed paper to faciliate rolling was being levitated. As he watched, the pile rose a foot above the countertop and slowly began to gather itself into a perfect, gently rotating sphere.

It continued to do so for exactly three seconds, at which point it proceeded to explode and cover every surface in the kitchen with a fine dusting of sticky brown granules.

With deliberate, long-suffering slowness, Jim raised an arm and wiped his face with the underside of his sleeve. Eyes now clear, he fixed the baby with a gaze of resignation. "Let me guess: your control is nowhere near fine enough to clean up this mess."

"Bwahaa!"

Jim sighed and reached for the paper towels. "From now on," he muttered, "I demand hazard-pay."

---

Nathan Dayspring and Marius Laverne

~*~

It had only been a matter of time, really. Nathan clicked his tongue and sent his horse into a brisk trot down the line, deftly avoiding the few other students on the trail. His target was unhurt, and not far behind, so he didn't hurry himself. And definitely was not feeling just the slightest twinge of vindictive glee. Oh, no.

Nathan passed the now riderless, peacefully foraging horse and pulled himself up to where the boy was laying flat on his back and wearing an expression that bespoke deep ambivalence about the merits of bothering to sit up.

"So," asked Nathan in a cheerful sing-song, "what have we learned today?"

With a weary look at his teacher, Marius sighed. "Wear the helmet."

---

Rahne Sinclair

"They slice, they dice, they make julienne fries! And for just one low, low payment of $19.99 this beautiful set of adamantium claws is yours--"

Rahne awoke with a start, blinking. The glare of the too-bright screen in the darkened room made her squint. Shaking her head, she grabbed the remote and banished the infomercial with one quick, sure stroke to the 'Off' button. "Acch, if I'm goin' to fall asleep to th' telly I should at least ask Jamie how t' work th' Tivo . . ."

---

Rachel

~*~

Even as she worked she could see it, the thoughts that danced like light across a mind of glass. He was out there, somewhere. Driving everything she loved before him, leaving her a fugitive in her own life. Hunting that cursed future that he loved so much, God only knew why.

Fracture and reform. The future spun before her mind's eye like patterns in a broken kaleidoscope, each twist revealing only a bare sliver of the whole. She'd learned long ago that it came unbidden, and when it did it brought nothing fully understood, but now she had no choice but to place her trust in it. Now all other roads had failed her, and this one chance was all she had left. One last chance to explain, to connect . . . and perhaps, one day, be forgiven.

She was finished.

She discarded her tools -- they'd served their purpose. For a moment she hesitated, just long enough to trace her fingers over the symbol she'd worn her hands raw carving into the rock. But that was all.

Rachel Morrow rose, and left in faith.