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the alternate universe meme

how to play
1. post with your character, name and canon in the subject line.
2. feel free to mention which aus you’re willing or not willing to play in the body of the comment.
3. tag by rolling for an alternate universe setting using rng.
4. or tag by picking whatever au you’d like to play in most.
5. have fun!

alternate universes
i - all human: in an all human au, characters who are canonically vampires, werewolves or superheroes, are now humans, with corresponding changes to their backstories.

ii - apocalypse: a portmanteau of "apocalypse fic", apocafic is fiction set during or after some sort of apocalypse, or end of the world. some canons carry a built-in apocalypse against which the protagonists are fighting: in apocafic, they lose. for example, apocafic in stargate and x-files is usually set after the alien occupation; supernatural apocafic is set on a demon-controlled earth.

iii - band: an alternate universe in which the characters are members in, or form a band. often, the instruments they plan and their roles in the band are analogous to their canon identities. for example, tony stark might be cast as the fame-hungry lead singer who is also a musical genius, or river tam might be a classically trained pianist who, after a terrible experience at julliard, writes songs for mal reynold's grunge rock band, serenity.

iv - circus: circus aus are a popular trope in fanfic and sometimes fanart. using a circus as a setting means introducing the characters to each other in a close-knit community. that can help break down barriers between them and make them bond together against the outside world which may not understand them as well as the other characters do. it also brings a sense of adventure and the idea that this world may have different rules and everything is possible. a circus can also be a good place for characters to go undercover and meet the love of their lives.

v - coffee shop: the barista au (or coffeeshop au, or the closely related bakery au) is a popular fanfiction trope in livejournal fandoms. in most cases, one half of the main pairing is the barista and the other is or becomes their favorite customer; in some stories the whole cast works at a coffee shop. this trope is especially popular in fandoms where one character is very attached to coffee, either in canon or in fanon, or is frequently stressed.

vi - college/high school: college fic is a popular genre of fanfic (less often a genre of fanart) that places characters together in college or another secondary institution such as the starfleet academy in star trek fic (then called "academy fic"). this can be canon stories, for example backstory if characters have or could have met during college, or college aus, similar to high school aus. in science fiction, historical or fantasy fandoms the present day college au is a popular subgenre of the modern au that puts fantastic or historical characters in more mundane everyday settings.

vii - cop/detective: an alternate universe in which the characters are cast as cops or investigators of some kind. often, the canon villain is also cast as the villain in the story. this might be set in modern times, or in a noir-like environment, complete with gangsters and femme fatales.

viii - daemons: his dark materials is a fantasy trilogy by philip pullman. the trilogy consists of the golden compass (1995; published in the uk as northern lights), the subtle knife (1997), and the amber spyglass (2000). there are currently two companion novellas: lyra's oxford (2003) and once upon a time in the north (2008). a movie adaptation of the first book was released in theatres in late 2007. humans have their souls living outside their body in the form of an animal companion. males have female souls and females have male souls. the animals often correspond to the character’s personality.

ix - fantasy: an alternate universe populated with fantastical characters like elves, dwarves, unicorns, sorcerers, and dragons. canon characters might be cast as analogous races (e.g. clint barton or katniss everdeen as elf archers) or they might be humans in a fantastical setting. characters also might be able to secretly shape-shift into another form, like a dragon, and therefore is related closely to were/vampire/supernatural aus.

x - historical: a historical au is a fanwork which moves characters into a different historical period than their canon setting. typically this involves taking "contemporary" characters (from the late 20th century or 21st century) and putting them in an earlier historical period (such as the 19th century or before). popular settings for historical aus include: pirates, america's old west, britain's regency period, ancient rome, a vague facsimile of medieval england such as robin hood, and many others.

xi - hooker/porn/stripper: hookerfic is a type of fanfic where one or more of the characters is a sex worker. there are many different types of hookerfic, ranging from more realistic depictions to the more common pretty woman-type fantasy of a hooker with a heart of gold, rescued from life on the streets by a client. sex work of all kinds is portrayed—brothels, escorts, street prostitution, "call-girls" as well as strippers and go-go boys.

xii - magic: magic aus are alternate universe fanworks that incorporate magic in fandoms where there is no magic present in canon. (or in some cases, fanworks that make a canon with magic more magical.) they differ from elf aus in that there may be magic without any elves showing up, and are opposites of all human and mundane aus.

xiii - neighbors/roomates: an alternate universe where the canon characters live next-door to one another, or in the same apartment building or complex, or in the same apartment. often, this is also an all-human au, if the canon characters are powered in some way. the forced proximity is usually used to create romantic tension between characters.

xiv - space/sci-fi: a space au is an alternate universe where a source set on earth is transported into space; works are often referred to as "[fandom] in spaaaaaaaaace!" the trope can be a form of crackfic, but often includes surprisingly serious reinterpretations of the most earthbound of sources, particularly historical fiction written or set before space exploration. cyberpunk trappings such as robots, cyborgs and ais are often included.

xv - steampunk: steampunk was originally a term for a sub-genre of speculative fiction that imitated 19th century "scientific romances" like the work of jules verne and h.g. wells. later, the term was applied to a general aesthetic involving styles that would be "futuristic" from the perspective of the 19th century. steampunk appears in fanworks as both a genre and an aesthetic. there are some fandoms for which the canon is steampunk(-ish), e.g. the secret adventures of jules verne, but more often it is found as steampunk alternate universe.

xvi - western: the western is a genre of fiction set in the later half of the 19th century in the western part of north america, especially the united states, but also canada and mexico. sometimes also included in the genre are stories about western-type characters and plots in other settings, e.g. "space westerns" (in science fiction settings) and contemporary westerns (set in the western part of contemporary north america).

xvii - were/vamp/supernatural: a reversal of the all-human, in these fics characters who are normally human are now supernatural creatures of some kind the most common being werewolves or vampires.

xviii - choose your own: self-explanatory! choose your own option.

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[ The indecision shows plain on her face as she wavers between protesting -- she wants to be gone from this place as quickly as possible, he is her patient, he can barely stand -- all are valid reasons to leave.

They will find is. That thought turns her insides to ice, of the hunters finding her home in the middle of the night and barging inside. Folding her arms over her chest, cradling her elbows, she glances about the room until catching sight of the gathering of barrels in the corner. Nodding to the outlaw, she ducks behind a pair, out of sight of the door. ]

[ When she's good and hidden he finally moves, staggering his way to the door before thumping his back painfully against the wall beside it. Still three to contend with; he'll have to be very careful, and very deliberate. He wipes the blood from the deputy off his knife on the leg of his pants before bringing it to his chest and waiting.

Silence settles, and it does not break again for what feels like a small eternity — before the sound of voices approaches. The thief exhales slowly, his muscles easing as he prepares himself. The men walk in, talking to one other, and don't catch sight of him; instead, they gape at the sight before them, of blood and bodies on the floor. ]

The hell—

[ In one fluid motion he moves forward, swinging his arm to drive his blade into the last man's throat. He drops as the others whirl around to face him, one outraged and the other stone-faced as ever; they draw their guns as the Native swings the rifle hard, catching the nearest man hard enough across the face to send him reeling. The leader is far enough away that he can't be immediately struck, leaving him to level his pistol and fire. The thief jerks back, blood splattering from his shoulder, before he's moving again, adrenaline driving him to close the distance between himself and his adversary. The rifle comes up again, swinging up and catching the bounty hunter beneath the chin with a crack of bone. He falls.

The other is getting to his feet again and pawing for his pistol by the time the Native turns again, and he doesn't waste time now; a pull of the trigger sees a bullet straight into the man's head. The fallen pistol is snatched before he turns that on the final hunter, leaving a splatter of bone and brain across the floor.

The room is finally silent again. The thief, shaking with exhaustion, looks to the barrels again. Blood streaks his face. ]

[ The young physician crouches behind the barrels, clutching her ears at the explosive flurry of gunfire until well after it stops. Hardly daring to even breathe, it's only after the silence has stretched on uninterrupted by the curses of ruffians that she peeks above her hiding place.

The relief she feels in seeing a man who stole her second-best horse would have seemed absurd less than a day ago, and yet here they are. Rushing forward, she pulls him into a tight embrace. ]

Thank the gods!

[ But the heart that beats in his chest is weak, worryingly so. Drawing back to hold him at arms length, her eyes widen with shock at his state -- and the new wound. This wound, she doesn't clean. They have not the time. She dashes into the cell only to take his shirt and coat, hastily dousing the shirt in whiskey. With long strides she returns to him, guiding them both towards the door as her hand covers his, pressing both it and the shirt to the fresh wound. ]

Shot again! In all my life, I have never met someone so reckless!

[ It's clearly said with worry, more for herself than him to bring normalcy to the situation and diffuse the dread in her gut. In his condition, she doubts he'll even remember this. At least that makes one of them. ]

[ The embrace nearly drives all the air from his lungs, but only because there was so little left. It takes considerable effort not to sag into her arms as the adrenaline peters off once more, leaving him weak and shaking, dizzy with nausea. The wounds begin now to fight him in earnest; though he does his best to focus on her words, none of them really make sense to him, drowned out by the ringing in his ears. There's no resistance to the press of a shirt to his wound, and while it sends fire through his nerves it's somehow both intensely painful and far away all at once. He is so tired.

As she leads him to the door, he does have the presence of mind to act as they pass the desk; his hand reaches out to catch the top of the lantern there, tipping it off the edge to send it shattering to the ground. The oil erupts into flame on contact; the desk begins to catch, as well. That will serve as a good distraction for them, he decides. They'll need that to get away safely.

He manages one foot in front of the other until he can't. They're halfway to the horses when his knees give, sending him down into the dirt with a gasp. Somehow a moment later he's up again, his body forcing him through even as everything turns to bits and pieces held together with twine. The next moment he's beside their horse, then down on his knees again, hand trailing down the mare's side. There's an overwhelming urge for him to vomit, but he resists. ]

[ If he thinks he's the first cowboy she's had to coax onto a horse, he'd be mistaken. Typically, however, she's treating a crushed leg, or some other result of men with too much pride and not enough sense, not-- bullet wounds. But it's good. Not good, but helpful. She focuses on soothing him like she would a skittish horse, rubbing circles along his lower back as she murmurs encouragement before eventually hoisting them both to their feet. By the time she drapes his coat over his shoulders atop the mare, the blaze of the sheriff's is warm against their backs. Settling behind him, she urges Buttercup forward into the darkness just as a bell begins to ring behind them, alerting the outpost to the fire. ]

[ He remembers, vaguely, getting on a horse; there are brief snippets of a ride, and ringing in his ears, and pain. At some point he hits the ground, though the impact seems very far away. There's a hand on his forehead that is cool and soothing, but he doesn't know who it belongs to. It felt somewhat like his sister's. He thinks he remembers calling her name. At some point he wakes enough to drink water and a bit of broth, but never long enough to be fully aware, the world mixing with dreams of fire and blood, the sound of screams and gunfire in the background. He's cold despite the blaze, and he shivers and screams and fights at the restraints he feels around him.

And then, finally, he wakes. It's a slow and miserable thing that comes in stages — the first being an unpleasant awareness that he is hot, sweating, and very uncomfortable. He shifts, which brings the next stage: everything hurts. A low groan escapes him as his eyes squint open to reveal a ceiling above him, and sunlight beaming in through a nearby window. Another small movement, far more cautious this time, allows him to see the blankets piled high upon him during his fits of fever; his supposed restraints, he imagines. Hooking his foot in the lower edge allows him to scoot them down and off his chest, revealing fresh bandages on his shoulder and wrapped around his torso. With considerable effort he manages to sit up, bracing his good shoulder against the wall beside the bed to keep him upright as he squints at the room around him.

Where the hell is he? ]

[ From below the loft, for it is in a loft where until moments ago he slept, comes a cheerful whistling and the sound of boiling water. Though the past few nights have been unarguably difficult, the fever of her patient has finally broken. Coming in through the open doorway carrying a basket of fresh sheets, she makes her way over to eye the iron pot nestled in the fireplace, before heading up the ladder with the basket propped against her hip. When her head crests over the edge, her eyes brighten with excitement. ]

You are awake!

[ Exhaustion lines her face, and her hair is braided messily over one shoulder, but that doesn't seem to dampen the enthusiasm with which she greets him. Rushing to the outlaw's side, her fingers flit across his forehead, then pinch his wrist as she checks his much improved pulse, obviously pleased with what she finds. ]

How are you feeling?

[ Crossing to the other side of the loft, she takes the pitcher resting atop a set of drawers and fills a tin mug with water, bringing it back to press into his hand. ]

[ The poke of an unexpected head up from the floor startles him, and for a moment he stares at her in confusion before he remembers — the woman who owns the horses. He has little time to reflect on the matter before she's up the ladder and reaching for his forehead, earning a flinch backward followed by a flinch in general due to the pain of two angry wounds. In the end he resigns himself to being touched and prodded, though he looks none too thrilled by it. ]

Like I got shot.

[ His voice is hoarse and weak, lacking the unhappy bite he'd hoped for. The sound of water hitting tin has his immediate attention, however, distracting him from any attempts at standoffishness; the mug is accepted without complaint, and the water is swallowed greedily down all in one go, leaving rivets of water trailing down his chin. When he finishes he wipes it away with a shaking hand, managing a slow and careful breath in and out as he tries to get his bearings. ]

What happened after the fire?

[ No one likes being poked and prodded -- especially the men living in this wild country. She ignores it, taking the glass from him and relocating it to the nightstand as she sits on the edge of the bed. ]

I am surprised you remember that much!

The second bullet shot cleanly through your shoulder, and thank goodness for that. But the first bullet had already pierced your lung, and your body had been pushed well beyond its limit! You were in and out of consciousness for the approximate two hours it took to bring you here. Unfortunately, by this time pneumonia had already set in, and you complained of chest aches as you, mm, dismounted poor Buttercup.

[ She's a poor liar, choosing to gloss over the topic of his "dismount" as quickly as possible before he takes notice. ]

Of course, this problem was not surprising because of your wound, but then your fever spiked very, very high! For four days, I was not sure you would make it! My greatest concern, of course, was your breathing, which is why you were laid prone on your stomach. And then yesterday, your fever broke and you turned over all on your own! At first I was worried you would not be able to breathe, but I see you have recovered well!

[ This all seems to spill from her in one long breath as she examines the state of his bandages, completely unaware that the question of "what happened" might not mean a full medical diagnosis. That his wounds do not bleed when she pokes them is an excellent sign. Of course, he still has a long road to recovery, but it's a good start. ]

[ By the Creator, she never shuts up.

As she goes on and on he stares at her, wrinkling his nose with each poke and press and prod provided along with her endless rambling. He says not a word through all of it, submitting to her examination without complaint, until she finally stops long enough for a breath and allows him a moment to interject: ]

Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?

[ A beat, as he raises an eyebrow at her. ]

If not: you talk too much.

[ Yes, her horse thief is clearly a man of deep appreciation for having his life saved. ]

[ Her nose wrinkles right back at him, and she scowls before poking his shoulder with perhaps a tad more force than truly necessary. ]

You asked the question, do you deny this?

[ His breath comes in through his teeth in a hiss as he fixes her with a nasty look, recoiling from the press of her finger. ]

Yes, but if I knew you'd spout that mess at me, I'd have kept my questions to myself.

[ He puts a hand over the bandage at his shoulder, lightly working his fingers across it. It's a miracle he's alive, with no small thanks to the woman from whom he sought to steal. His lips purse: he should thank her, but the mere idea sits sour in his mouth like a lemon. When has he ever thanked anyone in his life? Graciousness is not a quality he comes by easy.

Bits and pieces are returning to him here and there; one such moment is their time in the cell — most specifically what one of their captors had tried to do. He knows well what white men like to do to women of other races. Hell, their own women fare little better. He glances at her sidelong, face and tone softening by small degrees. ]

And you? Were you hurt?

[ He'd have castrated the man properly and let him bleed out that way, if he'd been in less of a state. A painful and bloody kill was the best he had to offer at the time. ]

No. [ The answer comes too quickly, eager as she is to never speak of the shameful incident, her fingers twitching in their want to hide the fading bruise on her cheek. Her heart beats like a hummingbird's in her chest at her surprise that he would even speak of such a thing. But this is a reoccurring trait of westerners, to speak of the unspeakable. Only after does she realize that her shame could be mistaken for rudeness, and she follows the sharp denial with a much softer: ] Thank you.

[ Smoothing her skirt across her lap in an anxious gesture, she stands soon after, making a hurried retreat to the ladder. ]

You must be so hungry! I do not wish to start you with solid foods just yet, as anything you ate I would see again soon after. We will start with a broth, and-- I am talking too much, I know. I-I will go prepare the broth, then. It is only right here, so please let me know if you are in need of anything! You need only shout!

[ He eyes her, clearly not convinced — but she's already blathering on again and on the move, so there's no point in prying. It's hardly his business at this point, is it? Carefully he settles back into the bed, pursing his lips. There's nothing for it; he is stuck here until he is more recovered, and he must simply hope those bounty hunters did not have compatriots. ]

Mmm.

[ Ah, well. At least he had the luck of stealing from a doctor. And she's easy on the eyes, to boot. Could be worse. ]

[ It takes just a relatively short while for her to put together a weak vegetable broth for him, which she holds above her head to place it on the edge of the loft, before climbing the ladder herself. Her sudden retreat gave her ample time to compose herself, ]

You know, there has been something that I have thought about many times while you were sleeping...

[ Bringing the bowl with her, she sits on the edge of the bed with a solemn expression on her face. ]

We have placed our lives in one another's hands, and I do not even know your name! This will not do!

[ Her absence allows him a moment to look over his surroundings, as well as just... reflect. The loft is tidy and well-kept, decorated just enough to make it feel like a home. There's nothing here that speaks of a man's presence, or the presence of anyone else but her, really. A foreign medical woman, living on her own in the world of white men? Fancy that.

The clink of a bowl catches his attention, and he eyes her somewhat suspiciously as she returns to his bedside. He's expecting some serious conversation, something to do with what's happened — and then it's a name. He steals her horse, gets her captured by bounty hunters, thrown in jail... and she wants to know his name. ]

You are very odd.

[ It seems like he may leave it at that but, after a moment's consideration spent studying her face, he finally offers: ]

Sesi.

[ His own name feels strange in his mouth. He can't remember the last time he spoke it aloud. ]

[ Her shoulders slump with an obvious relief. Finally, after a week of "the patient" and "the outlaw," she has a name for the man who saved her. Beaming brightly, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ]

It is lovely to finally meet you, Sesi! My name is Hajalimala.

[ Odd only begins to describe her presence here in midwest America. But it is something she has carved out for herself, and that she can be proud of. ]

Though that is too much for most westerners. Doc Haj is what the townspeople here call me.

Open.

[ Scooping up a spoonful of the broth, she holds the wooden spoon at eye-level, waiting on him. ]

[ Hajalimala. He's not surprised that the people around here can't get through it; hell, with his Ojibwe tongue it still seems like a mouthful. ]

Haj, then.

[ Speaking this is about as long as his mouth stays open; the moment that spoon is leveled to his face it snaps shut, allowing him to give her a look like she's grown a second head. Yes, he was shot, and yes, he is weak and exhausted — but that doesn't make him a damned invalid. Pointedly he lifts his hand to close his fingers around the spoon just before her grip, taking the utensil from her to feed himself. This done, he offers it back to her, while glancing around the loft. ]

You have no husband?

[ Far from being put off by his stubbornness, she brightens with delight that her patient, Sesi, is well enough. Quickly, she fills the spoon again, eagerly holding it out for him to take. ]

No, um, not anymore. But-- he died a long time ago, during our journey to America.

[ It isn't painful to speak of Ranjeet, per say. Not anymore. But she rushes to explain that, for fear of someone thinking she needed comfort still. ]

[ Really? This is how we're doing it? He accepts the spoon again while offering her a look that communicates his opinion on him being literally spoon-fed. ]

Hm.

[ While common courtesy would normally encourage any decent person to offer condolences, it seems he has none to give. Social niceties haven't been his strong point for a very long time. Hell, this is probably the longest conversation he's had in six years, barring perhaps chatting with whores while they're on the clock for his dollar. ]

From India? [ The country's name is offered somewhat derisively, though not for the place itself, but for the name his people have been given because of a white man's ignorance. ] And you decided to stay and tend to the white men instead of going home?

[ But she's allowing him to feed himself! It is different, is it not?

Her lips press together as if trying to hide a smile, to which she only puts forth a passing effort to do. ]

I do not think going home would change that, as long as my country remains under British rule. But I understand what it is that you are saying.

While I do miss my country dearly, it does not hold the same opportunity for me that America does.

[ It's a practiced answer, one that she has given a hundred times to anyone who asks. And it's even mostly true. America is a land of endless opportunity is easier to accept without question than the full truth of it, which would be that she is not welcome back, and if she were to return, then she'd be driven to a life of poverty and degradation. ]

[ Surely any hot-blooded American would accept an answer like that. This is the land of opportunity and freedom, after all; anyone can chase their dreams here and, with hard work and the sweat off their brow, can achieve whatever their heart's desire may be.

Unless you're the ones who originally occupied this land, of course. Then the "American Dream" idea might sit a little sour in your mouth. That would explain the way he scoffs out a laugh at her, offering a look that speaks volumes: You and I know better. ]

Rehearsed that one, did you? If your mother India treats you worse than the white men here, then I pity you.

[ Harsh words, even if he doesn't mean them as such. He shifts himself up a bit more on the bed, though he's unable to keep back a pained grunt as he does so, his wounds throbbing and lungs still suffering from their ordeal. He works his lips together a moment, staring up at the ceiling. ]

Why are you taking care of me? I stole your horse, and nearly got you hanged.

[ While she's one of considerable patience, he certainly does what he can to test it. But he isn't the first to speak honestly, brutally so-- pain often does that to people. What's rare about it is that he does so with an understanding of the hurdles placed before them that few others show. Breathing deeply, she sets the wooden bowl to the side. ]

Because you are wounded, and I am a doctor. And while it is true that with you, there was the chance I would have been hanged, I think that without you... my fate would have been certain.

[ Hesitating, she bites her lower lip before finding the courage to take his hand between both of hers. ]

Why were those men chasing you?

Edited 2017-02-27 04:34 (UTC)

[ He remembers, briefly and still somewhat in patches, their time in the cell together. He remembers the man throwing her against a wall. There was considerable satisfaction in the feeling of his blood erupting beneath his blade. The only disappointment he has is that the man couldn't hurt more before he died.

The feel of two hands around his own jars him back to the moment, and he stares at her; then her hands; then back at her again. He's not keen on being touched most of the time like this, even by the prostitutes he's fancied.

Of course, this woman isn't a prostitute. She's far prettier. His lips purse together before he answers, his tone thoughtful. ]

I have a habit of paying little respect to the laws set by the oppressors of my people. They take it personally when a redskin beats them at their own game.

[ That game being theft and murder, of course. These were not the first men he's killed, and they will not be the last. ]

More will come; the bounty's too high for them to be off my scent for long. Once I'm on my feet again, I'll be on my way.

Edited 2017-02-28 01:27 (UTC)

[ If she knew that he was comparing her to prostitutes, she'd be nothing short of scandalized. But she isn't a mindreader, she can only go by what she sees in a person. And in him, she sees someone who isn't treated as an actual person nearly enough. Smiling at him reassuringly, she draws away a hand, so it's only one hand that's covering his, which she gently pats. ]

Once you are on your feet, I think we should return to this matter. But you should know that it will be some time until then. Pneumonia has killed many, many men. Ones that are healthier than you. It is nothing short of a miracle that you are alive now!