Oneoff · Writing

Spark of War – Oneoff #01

As a writer, occasionally you get the drive to write something that’s just a ‘oneoff’. It won’t have a conclusion, it’s just to help keep your writing urge stimulated, right? A little creativity outlet. Like a snack before dinner. Occasionally, these ‘oneoff’s I write are due to some small ideas in my head, or thanks to some writing exercises I decide to entertain. For example, this one was after reading some fanfiction. Some decidedly… interesting fanfiction I will say. I’ll be honest, a lot of fanfiction out there it written without much care. And so the exercise comes out of just sprucing it up a bit and making it look and read a little nicer. Perhaps even improve the story a little.

If you feel like trying your hand at the same exercise it’s easy:
1 – Find a series (Book/TV/Film whatever) that you enjoy
2 – Look it up on
3 – Find a fanfic that is rather badly written in some form
4 – Attempt to rewrite it so that it makes sense and is enjoyable for everyone!
5 – ???
6 – Marvel at how much money you’ve made from a career in fanfiction (looking at you E L James!)

The original fic, courtesy of ‘dosenotmatter’


“What the hell happened?” said Seven.

He sat up and looked around. Wherever it was, it wasn’t his ship. His ship wasn’t open-top, it wasn’t this big, and it didn’t contain trees. And even if it did, the trees wouldn’t have green leaves. What kind of sick place was this? He laid back down and pulled his goggles down over his eyes – at least he still had these.

After a second, he jumped up and proceeded to burst into a fit of controlled arm flails and repeated curse words. Without an appropriate outlet, this was his only way to express his anger – a mighty important factor.

He calmed down shortly after and opened up his PUP-BOY, present on his left arm. After a short period, he deduced it was broken, although his SYLLADEX and STRIFE SPECIBUS seemed to be intact luckily. He put a hand to his head.

“Well gosh-darn fuck,” he uttered finally.

You are looking at SEVEN BUTTWICK. He is a STAR-JUMPING WARLORD, or SJW for short, a war-faring race that enters new worlds and attempts to establish a new order of things for the good of all. However, due to SEVEN’s AGGRESSIVENESS, this can often be taken in a bad way. SEVEN is CAPTAIN of his ship, the WISTFALLEN, a ship once owned by his grandfather. His grandfather has often been a great source of pride to SEVEN, but we won’t get into that.

As a SJW, SEVEN had BRIGHT RED hair, as is customary of those of his CASTE, shaped in a mohawk. He also has some SPACE-FARING GOGGLES, that he wears ironically in a bid to show his severe disinterest in SPACE-FARING. He also wears LEATHER and DENIM as another ironic show of his prowess in BIKER CULTURE. Hang-ten. Gnarly. Endless summer.

SEVEN is also the proud owner of a number of INTERESTS, including a devastating BLOODLUST that means he cannot last long without KILLING SOMETHING. He also display an affection for DOGS, a strange alien race that entertain him. Conversely, he holds a strong DISTASTE for CATS. He also holds a fondness for CIGARETTES, MUSHROOMS and his valued KEYTAR.

Seven began to assess his situation – he didn’t remember them travelling into any form of wormhole or scar in the universe. And if they did, he was certain he would’ve had a yelling fit about it to his NAVIGATOR. Damn boy couldn’t keep his head out of the clouds.

He surveyed the forest he was now in. It was nothing but trees and bushes and other assorted flora. He’d never seen a world like this in all the worlds he’d travelled to, and he’d seen a lot of worlds. This was definitely not one he’d spread his tyranny to and claimed under the name of BUTTWICK. He’s have to have a word with his NAVIGATOR for sure now – she’d probably have at least some idea where in the universe they were. He wish he could same the same about his ship.

If only he could just remember what happened, but it was gone! Like a quick bout of amnesia. Plus, he was certain that he was being watched from the bushes. After a while he couldn’t concentrate properly, as whatever it was that was watching was doing a terrible job of being unnoticed.

“I know you’re there!” shouted Seven, “get out here else I’ll just shoot you.”
He wouldn’t of course. Seven’s “modus operandi” was his tomahawk, a fearful weapon of course by all. Perfect for scalping if deemed necessary.

It took a few seconds before his voyeur stood up in the bushes. He was wearing a hood, disguising the creature’s true form, but Seven could tell it wasn’t an SJW.

“You speak the same language?” he called.


“You seen a heavily armoured spaceship come by here?”


“How about a robot holding a grenade launcher? Or someone like me wearing a nice blue suit? Or wearing some frilly sundress, who whatever she calls it…”


“I see, so you are completely useless. Just wanted to make sure.”

Seven began to walk away from the hiding creature – he didn’t have time to go through some exposition bullshit, if there was any to be had. And he definitely didn’t want to make friends, that’s what his COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER was for.

“Wait!” called the voice of the camouflaged spy.

Seven paused and maintained composure. Sure he could try and take this guy out, but being such a brilliant tactician he’d need to spend time finding his weaknesses and basically put effort into the fight. And he really didn’t want to.

“Make it quick! I’ve got business.”

“What are you? Why are you here?” asked the spy concerned.

“What am I? Don’t tell me you’ve never met a fully-fledged, battleworn, strong-as-steel, proud-as-punch motherfucking star-jumping warlord before?”

“I haven’t” came the spy’s reply.

Seven didn’t have much of an answer for that, it stunned him too much. SJWs were known throughout the universe! How could this nothing morsel of an alien have no idea what he was!?

“It’s dangerous to be out here,” said the spy.

“Dangerous? Did you say it was motherfucking dangerous!?” said Seven, well aware he used the same adverb twice but was in too far of a rage to notice, “I’M MOTHERFUCKING DANGEROUS. Is that a threat boy!?”

“No, no! Just a warning,’ said the alien, raising his hands and lifting off his hood.

It was a pale-faced creature, with small orange horns and sharp consummate teeth. He wore a plain black T-shirt and some plain great trousers made of some cloth Seven didn’t recognise – it definitely wasn’t DENIM, which Seven acknowledged and respected.

Seven looked the alien in the eye, “and what are you?”

“A troll,” replied the alien.

Seven made a face, “not very impressive. A ‘troll’? What do you do?”

“Do?” asked the Troll, rather confused.

“Yeah, do you fight, supply, gather? What’s your race’s purpose?” elaborated Seven.

He’d met countless of alien races before. Granted it was his AMBASSADOR that made the pleasantries and laid down the law, but looked he was going to have to improvise. This was a classic question though, most races would be consigned to a meaning in life. The SJWs conquered, the REDDITORs and IMGURIANs gathered resources, the 4CHANs… well they just did whatever you didn’t want them to do, they were hard to predict.

“I don’t know, I don’t think we have one…” replied the Troll.

Seven put a hand to his head and ended up cracking out a CIGARETTE from within his jacket. He lit it and took a long deep breath. The ‘troll’ was very close to gettinga tomahawk in the head.

“How did you get here?” asked the Troll.

“Why do you give a fuck?” replied Seven. This close.

Before the troll could give a response, there was a rustle from the bushes. Both of them turned to the sound. Seven pulled out his tomahawk from his SPECIBUS, and he noticed that the Troll now had a pair of SICKLES in his hands. The boy wasn’t a stranger to fighting it looked.

“They’re close,” said the Troll, his eyes darting around.

Out from the bushes jumped a large white cat, it’s eyes black as the night and it’s fur on end. It roared load before pouncing toward Seven. But the SJW was too quick for the cat; he side-stepped to the right and swung his tomahawk down into the cat’s neck, severing it half and sending the cat tumbling into a ball. Blood coated him, and the Troll causing him to retch.

“Hell fucking yes!” said Seven, his cigarette still in his mouth, “I needed that.”

The Troll stared in suprise at Seven until he heard the growls behind him. Now there was a pack of cats, all as big as the last one. The Troll took a step back, but was pushed down to the ground. It was Seven, who had stepped up, his eyes a burning orange now.

“Stay down. I have some anger to get off my chest.”

Seven hadn’t his revolver, his power gloves or his bazooka, but his tomahawk was all he needed. The cats began a charge, roars bellowing at him. Seven charged in the same manner. The first cat he intercepted, he threw his weight down into the cat’s head as it attempted a bite and claw. Using it as leverage, he climbed up over its body in motion, and carved his way through another cat’s front leg. He swung to catch the third’s eye, but that was no lasting damage. He skidded to a halt, where he now had three cats’ attention. They snarled and pounced successively. Seven grabbed the first, held its limbs just out of reach, but the second grabbed the first, increasing the weight. Seven rolled them to the left, ducked and threw his tomahawk into the third’s chest as it pounced over him. It wounded it severely, but now he was unarmed. The two he’s wounded wiped at him so he rolled back.

He made a dash for his tomahawk, but the one with an injured leg clawed at his feet, and sent him to the ground. The one with a cut eye jumped for him and its teeth got into Seven’s PUP-BOY. If it was mendable before, it wasn’t anymore. The cat sprang back, it’s teeth severely hurt by the electrical damage, leaving one tooth behind embedded. In a fit of rage, Seven threw his fists into the cat’s head, causing it roll away. The was prowling around him and its dead friends. Seven was crawling on his back to reach his tomahawk. He was just inches away when the cat came for him. He reached out, grabbed it and threw a slash at the last second, across the cat’s neck as it slumped onto him.

He could see the last of his adversaries retreating into the wood, its cut eye glaring back. Seven looked around for the Troll and found him pinned by a cat. The Troll had got the first cat in the neck which his sickle, but this was one was hell bent biting the creature. Soon, the cat got its teeth latched into the troll’s hand and the troll yelled in pain. This was it, Seven could see he’d lose this, so he threw his tomahawk as hard as was possible. It fell straight into the beast’s neck, causing it to fall limp on top of the Troll.

Seven pulled the tomahawk from the carcasse before rolling it off the Troll.

“What’s the status – how bad you hurt?” he asked the Troll.

“Yeah I’m fine, thanks,” said the Troll grasping his hand tightly and quickly bandaging it with his hood’s material. He was in a hurry to sort it out, Seven thought, that’s good MEDICAL KNOWLEDGE. He could respect that.

“Kid, you’re alright,” he said, “you got a fighting spirit, you’ve got a good head on you, and you don’t wear denim.”


“Listen, maybe you can give me a hand here. My name’s CAPTAIN SEVEN BUTTWICK of the WISTFALLEN. What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one really, they just call me the ‘Signless’.”

“…I’m going to call you Sign. But thanks Sign,” said Seven, “now tell me, where are we exactly?”




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