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late contest not-really-an-entry

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I was thinking of entering the writing contest and started writing this ridiculous thing. The idea was to write a stupidly excessive crossover fanfic, with ST:TNG, Buffy and Doom elements and probably a few other things as well.

Anyway after a while I realised I was never going to get it done in the time, it was going to be far too long and it didn't really fit the theme or the rules. And It was too stupid.

Nevertheless, here is what I had so far. It's mostly rather silly, but what fanfic isn't.

Lost Souls


Captain Jean-Luc Picard strode from the turbolift onto the bridge of the USS
Enterprise and gazed around. All was calm, but active. Officers stood
alert at their posts, whilst Ensigns moved to and fro passing reports
from workstations and back. A few people noticed him and gave a nod of
acknowledgement, to which he nodded in return. Picard smiled to himself,
Starfleet protocol held that officers should salute when the captain
entered the bridge, but that had always seemed a little to soldierly to
Picard, not to mention a waste of everybody's time.

Lieutenant Commander Data was on Bridge duty. He stood up immediately
to make the chair available for Picard as he came sauntering down the
ramp, looking like the cat who'd got the cream.
   "Thank you Data," said Picard as he wiped away the excess cream from
his face with his sleeve. "Here, can you take this?" he said, handing
the empty carton to Data. He really had to cut down on his cream habit.
He'd gotten through eighteen cartons this week, and was starting to 
develop a hefty paunch. At the very least he should switch to synthecream.
   "Of course Captain," replied Data, "shall I take the outfit as well?"
   "What? Oh, of course, yes, yes you probably should." He slipped out
of the furry cat costume, removed the stick-on whiskers and handed the
lot to Data. He couldn't even remember why he had put it on in the first
place. "You ah, you'd better return it to the theatre group on deck six,
I suspect they're probably wondering where it's gotten to."
   "Right away Captain," said Data and headed for the turbolift. Picard
sat down in the plush leather Captain's chair and relaxed.
   "Ensign Phillips," he said to the crewman at the con, hoping he had
the right name. The man turned, "yes Captain?"
   "How long until we reach the Olorian system?"
   "One hour fifteen minutes at present speeds Captain, we could increase
warp if you wish to arrive sooner?"
   "Oh not at all Ensign, just curious, carry on," said Picard, and the
young man turned back to his console. Picard let out a little sigh of
contentment, followed by a tiny moan of pleasure; things were good. The
ship was tip-top, the engines ticking over nicely, the mission going
swimmingly, the crew busy and in good spirits. With all the usual
excitement on the ship, sometimes it was nice just to have a period of
peace and quiet. He smiled again as he surveyed the bridge he commanded
of the ship he captained in the space he explored. What he really needed
now, he thought, was some more cream.


Buffy "The Vampire Slayer" Summers shoved a phallic piece of wood through
the chest of another member of club undead, reducing him to an expanding
cloud of dust quicker than she could say a pithy line. She flipped
backwards into the air and landed on the shoulders of a tall and lanky
fanged fiend, her ample crotch jammed into his face. With a brutal twist
of her legs she snapped his head clean off. He burst into dust thinking
there were worse ways to go, really. She landed deftly on the ground and
spun a kick at the final vamp who was coming from her right. He parried
and a swung a quick but clumsy fist at her head. Buffy pulled back and
the fist flailed uselessly through the air in front of her. She snapped
another kick up into the vamp's side with enough force to knock from
vertical to horizontal. Her stake flashed through the air and the vampire
was dust before it even hit the ground.
   "Stake-tacular," Buffy said and stalked off.


Sergeant Tom Riggs lit up a joint and settled back in his chair. He
sucked on the J, inhaled the smoke and held it for a few seconds, before
releasing it upwards towards the ventilation shaft. In front of him a
giant bank of monitors and read-outs buzzed and flashed and showed a
whole lot of nothing. It was 2am, the nightshift. Riggs had used to hate
it, eight hours on duty, watching over the base while everyone else slept.
Then Anderson had let him in on the secret he had growing down the
hydroponics bay, and nowadays he rather looked forward to his regular
stint on the night shift. He had to take care of course, the UAC
punishment for substance use on the job was hefty. The punishment for
smuggling was even worse. God knows what Anderson had been thinking, but
then he'd been out here before and knew just how dull it was. A little
comfort could make all the difference.

Growing the stuff was safe enough. The hydroponics bays were mostly
automated, long banks of big, cabinet-style draws full of plants and
biomass, like some kind of huge reverse morgue. They were only used
to half capacity and nobody noticed an extra draw full of non-standard
plants, another draw for drying it out. Smoking it was a more tricky
proposition, the combination of numerous security camera and omnipresent
smoke alarms made it impossible in most places. Tobacco was allowed in
the mess, but there was always one or two officers in there, and it
would be a very brave or foolish man who smoked gear in view of one of
them. The security office, especially on nightshift, was the perfect
solution. The place was empty, air conditioned and the security console
could be used to disable the room's smoke alarm, and to get a camera
view of the outside corridor, giving warning of surprise visits by an

Yep, thought Riggs as he took another hit from the joint,
nightshift was where it was at.


Xxephexeles was born in lava. His birth scream, like teeth scraped on
a blackboard, sounded through a thousand acrid pits, echoed throughout
caves of twisted rotten flesh, in valleys cut by rivers of blood, shit
and bone, against mountains of flesh that had once been separate bodies,
but had melted together in a writhing mass of limbs and mouths and eyes,
in vast metal machines that pounded, chewed and broiled their victims
to a living paste that was poured into the mouths of monstrous worms
and snakes, it echoed through every corner of hell and in every tortured

Its mother was human, a living woman brought back as a prize from the
other side. They were careful with her; they knew she was not like the
others, not a rubber soul that could be ripped and mangled until the end
of time. And so they set about with a restrained ferocity. If  the rest
was brickwork and masonry, this was careful sculpture, this was their
art. She was beaten, torn, defiled and raped into a broken, gibbering
wreck. Her limbs were ripped away in turn and fed back while her stumps
were cauterised with flame. They fed her mashed plague rats and spiders
and insects and from the constant rape inside her something took hold
and grew. They slowly smashed and pulverised her being, and the thing
grew all the while. At full term they dragged her at last to the top of
the deepest fiery pit and cast her in. What remained of her body burned
up before it even reached the liquid and only Xxephexeles was left,
naked and alone in the air for a moment before he landed and was bathed
in a pain beyond human reckoning and unleashed his terrible scream. In
a second the scream turned to a child’s laugh, as he splashed and played
in the lava whilst his fathers descended to recover him.


Captain Jean-Luc Picard watched as the Taura Centuari star grew larger
in viewscreen. Their destination was the colony on Tauri Centuari's fifth
planet, named Waynesworld after it's discoverer Captain Ian Wayne, where
they were to deliver supplies and drop off several new families to swell
the colonies burgeoning population. The planet had been undergoing
terraforming for the past twenty years and was slowly approaching
M-Class status. Indeed, the area surrounding the colony's capital city
Waynestown was apparently quite habitable now, even pleasant, and Picard
wondered if a limited amount of shore leave was on the cards. It would
take a week or so to move all the new supplies off the ship, which would
give the crew plenty of opportunity to enjoy some relaxation planetside.

Waynesworld itself was still out of visible range. Picard decided to look
over the cargo manifest once more and got up to go to his ready-room.
   "Ensign," he said, addressing the helmsmen, "I'll be in my ready room,
let me know when we arrive at the planet."
   "Yes captain," the young man replied, but after he a second he called
to the Captain before he reached the ready-room door, "Captain, er,
perhaps you should take a look at this."
   "Of course Ensign, what is it?" Picard replied and he headed over to
the man's console.
   "I'm not entirely sure captain, perhaps I'm just reading this wrong,
but Waynesworld is the fifth planet isn't it?"
   "That's correct. Fifth out from the star, with one major satellite,
   "Yes that's what I thought, but look at this." He pointed to the
read-out on the console. Picard looked, then bent down to get a closer
look. He tapped the display refresh a couple of times, loaded the raw 
sensor data. He felt a slight sinking feeling in his stomach, he hoped
it was just the cream.
   "What in blazes," he breathed.
   "I've checked the readouts every way I can think to Captain. I've run
diagnostics on all the sensors, nothing's wrong."
   "I'd say something's damn-well wrong if those readings are correct,"
said Picard, returning to his feet, "Get us to the planet now, maximum
   "Aye-aye sir," the Ensign said. His fingers danced on the console
and the hum of the ships engine increased to a powerful throbbing, while
the stars in the viewscreen blurred to long streaks. Picard returned to
his seat, he tapped on his communicator.
   "Commander Riker, Commander Data, Lieutenant Commander Troi,
Lieutentant Worf, to the bridge immediately." He leaned on one arm and
stroked his chin pensively, inside his stomach cream gurgled nervously.


Buffy "The Vampire Slayer" Summers was late for school. She sprinted
down the street towards Sunnydale high as fast as her little legs could
carry her, her arms tucked in at her sides in a ridiculous fashion. While
being The Slayer could give her astonishing powers of strength, agility
and healing, she still ran like a girl. Some things not even ancient
power and primal magicks could change.

Buffy heard the bell sounding as she rounded the gatepost and bombed
towards the main entrance. She wrenched open the door, jumped inside
and slammed it shut behind her just before the bell stopped ringing.
She breathed a small sigh of relief and turned to go to class.
   "Not so fast Miss Summers!" came an unfortunately familiar voice
behind her. Buffy closed her eyes and let out a small sigh of misery.
She turned around.
   "What is it Principal Snyder? I made the bell." she said glaring
at the little Ferenghi-like toad. who she saw stood there grinning
wickedly and eyeing up her luscious teenage curves with his tongue 
hanging slackly out of his drooling, pustuled, diseased mouth..
   Snyder stammered nervously, "well, the lunch bell yes. But generally
we prefer students to arrive for the morning bell. Now I'll be reasonable-"
Buffy cut him off, "Oh save it Snyder. You wanna give me detention? Go
ahead! I've had it with your crap. Give me all the detention you want you
sick little mole."
   "Er, right," said Snyder. Buffer turned to go, but Snyder called
back, "Miss Summers?" Buffy let out another sigh, an angry one this time,
and turned back to face her tormentor. "What Snyder?" she hissed.
   "Well um, I'm afraid we don't allow knives or any other bladed weapons
on the school premises Miss Summers, especially when the blade's curved,
over twelve inches long and covered in what looks like blood. You know,
er, after that incident with the Governor's child and all, which I seem
to remember you were responsible for, in fact," Snyder said, pointing to
the bloody axe Buffy held in her right hand. She looked down at the axe,
then back at Snyder. With a bolt she grabbed the tiny man by the shirt
collar and threw him hard against the nearest wall. She pulled back the
axe and with lightning speed brought it back down, slicing deep into the
wall an inch to the left of Snyder's head. She leaned in menacingly to
the Principal's face.
   "There you go Snyder you little worm, you pathetic piece of pus,
you stiffcocked little turd, you squalid, wretched, rotten little dwarf.
You can have my axe, but you'll never have my ass!"
   "Great!" Snyder managed to blurt out in terror. Buffy let him go and
he dropped to the floor a quivering heap. From the foetal position Snyder
watched as his tormentor shouldered her bag and stalked off towards class.
After a moment he heard steps from the other direction and hastily tried
to stand, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He relaxed a little, it was just
his secretary Angelina, not a student.
   "Oh Principal Snyder!" The young woman said, helping the small man to
his feet, "Are you okay? I saw everything but was too afraid to help."
   "Oh just another feisty student Ange!" Snyder did his best to smile,
"kids like that remind me of why I got into teaching in the first place!"
   "Surely not to get beaten up! Sir you can't go on like this, all the
threats, all the violence, where will it end?"
   "In court Ange. If I try to do anything about it, that is. But no,
it's really okay. I've taught a thousand girls like Buffy Summers,
wannabe toughs with super powers and lousy attitudes. They all end up
the same, washed up couch potatoes married to alcoholic construction
workers and fat soul-cursed vampires. That or crack-abusing amateur
wrestlers, fighting steroid pumped bulldykes and ugly martial arts freaks
on some low rent cable channel's All Girl Fight Nights. They're a lost
cause, but they're not what it's about. It's about the others, the real
kids. The kids who don't have much but a young mind and a will to learn.
Who come here looking for knowledge and a safe haven from the problems
of the world. They're the ones it's all about Ange, and they're the
reason I'll never let punks like Buffy Summers win. Not while I've got
two legs to stand on."
There was a tremendous roar that sounded like it came from the depths
of hell. Without warning the ground beneath their feet split wide open,
revealing a giant fleshy mouth with jagged teeth, which sprung up,
clamped on Snyder's legs and tore them clean off.


Sergeant Tom Riggs woke up. He was groggy, his eyes were sore, his mouth
was dry as a bone. His vision cleared and he made out the unmistakable
clean-cut face of Lieutenant Taylor bearing over him, his features
twisted in an angry frown. Oh shit, was his first clear thought, oh
fucking, fucking shit, was his second.
   "Good morning Sergeant," said Lt. Taylor, with dripping contempt,
"sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, I'm afraid it hasn't helped"
Riggs tried to speak, but only managed a painful croak.
   "Dry throat Sergeant? Why that could be? Nothing to do with the
controlled substances I found all over you I presume?" Painfully Riggs
hauled himself from his slumped position in the big leather security
chair. He noticed Phillips and Carson, the base's two MPs, were also
stood there, gazing coldly at him. "You know," said Taylor, "I had a
suspicion some of you were taking illicits, and if I'd made a wager on
it I'd have put my entire years salary on you being the one stupid enough
to get caught. I don't need to tell you the shit you're in Riggs, I hope
it was worth it just to have a fucking spliff, or a spliff too many by
the looks of it." He addressed the two MPs, "Get him to the brig, I'll
finish clearing up here and then go down there myself." The two men
stepped forward, hauled Riggs to his feet
and marched him towards the door. He felt sick, and then he was sick.


Amongst the endless jagged chasms, in the forests of bleeding mutated
skin, across plains of smashed and splintered bone, under skies of
blood and cloud of noxious gas, Xxephexeles spent his long childhood
frolicking and adventuring. Under the tutelage of his fathers he
learned to channel his hate and pain, to torture and defile, to
extract greater and greater suffering from the helpless human souls
that filled the netherworld. And in time he outdid all his fathers.
His hate and malice grew ever stronger and his skill in inflicting
suffering grew beyond even the most vicious and imaginative of his
daemon kin. Yet it was not enough. He became a leader in the underworld,
and reshaped the lands to match the horror and brutality of his twisted
imagination, yet it was not enough. He denounced other daemons as far
too weak and soft in their tortures and their hate.

A great civil war raged. Xxephexeles lead an alliance of the very worst
daemons, and after an age of savage butchery he emerged victorious,
decimating all those he judged weaker and softer. He commanded an army
a band of fanatically loyal monsters religiously devoted to matching
their masters cruelty. A cruelty and a hatred that now burned hotter
than the combined fires of all the hell he ruled, that consumed every
fibre of his being and could never, ever be fulfilled or sated. At last
he and his followers set about the long neglected human souls who they
had cast aside during the war. They piled torture upon torture and
reshaped the land until every surface was sharp and every breath choked
and the whole world sang out as one unending scream. Still it was not
enough for Xxephexeles.

Xxephexeles grew tired of inflicting pain on the immutable souls.
The war had given him a taste of something new, he wanted to truly
destroy.  He wanted to tears thing apart, to fight them and crush
all his opposition underfoot. He remembered now his mother, how his
fathers had captured her from the other side and brought her here.
How they had smashed, raped and defiled her while he had clawed at
her guts from the inside, and how at last they had destroyed her
utterly. He sought a way to reach the other side, but the portal his
fathers had used was long closed and lost. None he asked could tell
him where it had come from, simply that it had allowed them to reach
the other side for a short period. They told how they had gone through
but been driven back by mortal soldiers, their only prize the human
who had become his mother. The portal had closed and never reopened.

Xxephexeles's hate burned ever stronger, magnified by his rage at being
trapped within the world he now perceived as a prison. He tore the
lands apart, smashing and destroying everything in fury and in search
for a way of escape. His followers wavered without direction and fell
to fighting amongst themselves, their master oblivious to them. He
ripped open every inch of his world without success.  Any other being
would have slumped in defeat after so long and fruitless a search,
but Xxephexeles had his hatred. The hatred which never wavered or went
out, which would not left him stop or rest and could never be ignored.
In a fit of maddened temper he seized a nearby soul and sought with all
his strength to tear its essence apart, but he could not. For all he
battered and defiled it, it remained inextirpable against all his worst
damages. Finally, on some unconcious instinct he brought it in close
to him, and consumed it. And he grew stronger.

The daemons who had been Xxephexeles' followers had been reduced to
warring bands, each claiming to know their lost master's will and
possess his seal of authority. They fought vicious battles for
supremacy, until one day they were interrupted by Xxephexeles return.
His shape had grown beyond all proportion, he towered above them a
nightmare vision that even such creatures as they were had difficulty
bearing in the eye. He commanded them with a voice that shook the
ground. He bade them bring more souls for to him to feast upon. And so
they did, and as he consumed them Xxephexeles grew yet larger and more
horrendous and his appetite swelled larger still. His being grew so it
huge it filled the land, it brecame the land, and extended to the very
edges of the world and was constrained by them. In time he came to
consume every soul in the world to swell his monstrous power and bulk.
Even the other daemons were eventually absorbed into him. They were
dragged into his wretched mass, their bodies invaded, and spat out as
avatars of his will. At last, he thought, I am one. He drew up all his
now unimaginable strength and pushed against the borders of the world.
He pushed, and felt them start to crack.


Commander William Riker and Lieutenant Commander Troi's sweaty,
passionate embrace was reaching its inevitable, noisy climax. Just as
the moment approached their coitus was interrupted when the measured
tones of Captain Picard floated over them with instructions to
immediately make their way to the bridge. Both officers emphatically
assured the Captain that they were coming.

Riker and Troi entered the bridge both still smelling slightly of
sweat. They sat on either side of Picard, who wrinkled his nose
slightly as he looked between his two officers, but said nothing.
   "What seems to be the problem Captain?" Riker inquired.
   "Use your eyes Commander," replied Picard, indicating Riker's
computer panel. His first officer examined the display and his
countenace turned from calm satisfaction to a troubled frown.
   "What is it?" asked Troi, "I'm sensing a great disturbance in
your mind."
   "Its Waynesworld," said Picard, "The readings are, well, somewhat
   "They're more than strange Captain," said Riker, "High levels of
methane, sulphur, volcanic activity, if these readings are correct
the planet is barely hospitable!"
   "Indeed, not quite the thriving colony world we were told," said Picard.
   "Mr Worf!" roared Riker, addressing the Klingon, who had taken up
his usual position at tactical, "Are we in hailing distance of the colony?"
   "Yes sir," Worf replied, "We have been attempting communications
for some time, but no response as yet."
Riker looked at Picard, "Very worrying Sir." Picard nodded,
"Indeed. Any further thoughts?"
   "Perhaps a malfunction with the terraforming equipment, but on such
a major scale? A natural disaster, but why wouldn't they have seen it
coming? If not then, that would leave..."
   "An attack?" Said Picard, Riker nodded, "I'm afraid I must concur
Number One, go to yellow alert." Riker made a keypress on his console
 and the ships panels started glowing a soft yellow to represent the
higher response level.


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