I do have a weakness for cyberpunk, and have long wished to do a story. The entire contents of Sherlock-Cyberpunk:
HITMark Sherlock: http://prettyarbitrary.tumblr.com/post/29173181573/dramatis-echo-it-sat-there-and-i-shouted
Digitally glowing John: http://prettyarbitrary.tumblr.com/post/29213372008/oh-my-god-what-is-this-from-what-is-it-for
The case:
ge.lishan: Original: “A Neo-Luddite Treatise on High Tech, Artificial intelligence, and the True Art of Thinking. Theodore Roszak.”
Original text upload: “A Nee-Luddite Treatise on High Tech, Artificial intelligence, and the True Art of Thinking I THEOE SZK”
Fuzzy text upload: “High Tech, inteliigence, and the True Art Elf Thin king TH EU DDRE RUEEAH”
I don’t know what I like better: “True Art Elf Thin King” or “RUEEAH”
me: Wow.
It went from a philosophical text about science to urban fantasy.
ge.lishan: I KNOW 😀
to *bad* urban fantasy at that.
me: With a brief pit stop at cyberpunk in the middle.
ge.lishan: where?
me: THEOE SZK
I suspect it was written by a sentient computer.
Or, given nee Luddite, perhaps a luddite who was turned into a cyborg.
Maybe forcibly.
He may have been angry about it.
I suspect the entire second text is actually an elaborate story about revenge, utilizing the rampant and ill-monitored technology of our times.
ge.lishan: 😀
me: It’s in the subtext.
ge.lishan: THEOE SZK?
me: Yes.
Theo E. SZK<—that bit’s his serial code.
The third one is obviously about your modern elf technomancers.
Probably pretty stereotypical.
But then modern elf technomancer stories are always pretty dreck, but still usually a fun read.
The original sounds like a quasi-philosophical rant on What’s Wrong With Young People Today, the Facebook Edition.
***
This doesn’t even make sense to me anymore, so you also get Wet Lestrade:
The prompt: I’d like something sexy with a wet (and preferably but not necessarily naked) Greg.
There was nothing like being peeled out of your clothes by a sexy, desperate man to make yourself feel wanted.
“You. Batshit. Bastard,” John got out between kisses. He seemed torn between trying to snog Greg’s grinning mouth into submission, and covering as broad an area of Greg as possible. He was so worked up that Greg had to put his hands on John’s hips just to keep him stable. Sure, that was the only reason. Didn’t have anything to do with how hot or <i>immediate</i> John felt, burning through the layers of wet cloth that used to be Greg’s suit. Or how good it felt to have that compact, muscular body twisting against him in a transport of what appeared to be adrenaline-spurred lust.
“They had a gun on Sherlock,” Greg pointed out, feeling a bit giddy himself. “I knew I had to do something stupid before one of you two did.”
John picked at the edge of Greg’s shirt till he could get a finger underneath and start peeling it away. Greg watched in a certain amount of awe at the single-mindedness John brought to the task of peeling his wet shirt away from his torso. He yipped a bit when John leaned over and bit one of his nipples through the fabric.
A glowing sense of triumph and an eager body in his arms; if this was how it felt to be the conquering hero at the end of the film, then Greg could see his way to rethinking his stance on American action flicks.