The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

A Small, Unwanted Intruder


“You’re too loud,” Accelerator grumbled at the unwanted intruder in his bed.

“‘Don’t be so mean!’ says Misaka Misaka, glaring at you.” Last Order was indeed glaring, but she only managed to look pouty and not at all intimidating from where she’d sprawled against his side over the blanket, her frog strangled in her arms.

“You should be in your own bed.” He didn’t bother to prod her away.

She burrowed in closer. “‘It’s nicer here,’ says Misaka Misaka, stifling a yawn.” It didn’t stay stifled.

Accelerator watched her yawn, head dropping, eyes closing… and sighed.

Last Order was asleep.



He felt small and very alone in the quiet woods around him. He wasn’t very big yet anyway, newly born from his power only a few years before, and while he grew, it was at the rate of all the gods—whatever that power sustained.

So even when he’d been walking alongside his older sister, her mouth curling in a bright smile, warm fingers curled around his hand, he’d been a child at her waist and unnamed yet. But there it hadn’t mattered that he was small and she was not because he knew that she wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

The woods rustled gently, creaking branches, wind-blown leaves and underbrush. His sister was the god of finding. If he just waited, she would find him.

He crawled under the brush around one of the trees with low-hanging branches and let it cover him while he waited.



The first time Cor saw sand, he ran across the beach with giggles and bare feet, not even noticing the stinging heat and grit. Zana watched with a smile and settled down to build castles.

He came back over, curiously, after her towers began to rise from the sand, looked with wide eyes, never touching. She was raising him at essentially a spaceport. He knew to keep his fingers away from delicate things.

But he was her little brother. She took his small hands and showed him how to shape and pat and firm the walls.

“Our castle,” she said.



Thunder cracked and lightning lit up the entire inside of the bedroom. Anna shot up out of the covers, blinking at the brightness. She wasn’t scared. Not even a little bit. Nope.

She scrambled out of bed and crept down the hall, shivering at the continuing flashes and thunderclaps overhead. She reached the couch where Totsuka had crashed earlier, pulled back the blanket, and crawled underneath.

“Huh?” Totsuka stirred, blinking at Anna in sleepy surprise.

Thunder rumbled then snapped. Her grip on the blanket tightened.

“You’re not scared, are you?”

“No,” she said.

Totsuka smiled but tucked her in close.



Her little brother was so small.

Zana stared at him, tucked away like a curled up kitten beneath the blanket in her narrow bunk. She barely remembered him, a newborn when she’d been forced to leave.

But here he was now, his breaths soft and even with sleep, his freckled face open and trusting. She wondered why he would trust when it was their own mother that had brought him to the training facility and abandoned him to his sister’s arms.

Zana sighed and shifted in the chair to gently kiss the top of his hair. “I won’t leave you.”

Stray Child



Kasuru looked up from the ship plans he’d been poring over with Nanere for half the night. He was the designer; she was the builder ripping apart his every bad idea.

It was well past when Rhezere went to bed. The boy was getting longer, and he looked at Nanere like he was deciding how much vulnerability to show with someone else present.

He sighed and trailed over to the couch behind Kasuru’s worktable and flopped down with his blanket. In moments, his breath evened in sleep.

“You have a kid,” Nanere said.

Kasuru shook his head. “He’s not mine.”

She looked pointedly over at the boy curled into his blanket, choosing to sleep near Kasuru rather than in his own dark room and bed.

“He is.”

The Ships


The first time he sees the ships, he’s just a tiny thing at the edge of the wide open bay dropping out like an abyss before them. Cor is four years old and unafraid. Only his older sister’s hand keeps him from stepping too close to the edge.

He has eyes only for the ships, their graceful forms reflected in his bright blue eyes.

“Zana,” he breathes.

He’s pointing, eyes aglow, and something inside her forms into a heavy knot of dread. So young, and already he knows the riftspace singing in their family’s blood.

“Come.” She draws him away.

Like Raising a Kitten


Raising a little boy as rambunctious and eager as Cor was an exercise in the fine art of not screaming.

Zana took another deep breath. The four-year-old clung to the top of a teetering bookcase. Ijeve was a space station, occasionally subject to turbulence, and furniture was lashed to walls. Only that had saved Cor from crashing to the floor with the books.

“Little brother—”

“I’m sorry!” He whined as he scrabbled to maintain his grip.

She reached up and snatched him down, making him yelp, then held him tightly to her chest. “You are in so much trouble.”

Don’t Go Away


The tiny boy hit Zana like a missile, waking her out of a sound sleep.

“Cor?” she demanded. “Little brother, what’s wrong?”

He was trembling, clinging to her, arms around her waist tight enough to hurt. He shook his head but said nothing.

Zana thought about turning on the light but didn’t. Instead she settled one hand on his back, the other his hair and stroked through the soft strands. “I’m here,” she whispered softly.

Her shirt was damp from his face, and he shuddered at the words. “Promise you won’t go away?”

Their mother had.

“Yes, Cor. I promise.”



No one would ever look at Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, who had ruthlessly killed any target of any age for years and think ‘tender.’ But there wasn’t any other word that quite felt right to Clint as he watched her cuddling his sleeping newborn, a small smile on her face, one finger delicately tracing over the soft fuzz of Lila’s hair.


A Way With Them


There’s nothing wrong with babies. Skylight likes them. When they aren’t hers and no one’s asking her when she’s going to produce one.

Her brother’s small daughter is sleeping in her arms, and Skylight’s busily going over reports for things her mother really doesn’t want to know the details of, whether or not she realizes it, when her brother walks in and pushes his glasses up to get a better look.

“You have a way with her.” He smiles. “You ever—?”

“No.” She doesn’t let him finish. She loves her husband, but they agree. They are not having kids.

Made to Dance

This entry is part 2 of 2 in the series Chica

Caitlin smiled as her very large husband tried to teach their very tiny five-year-old daughter how to dance. He was leaning over, holding her hands, as she stumbled one way then the other in the living room.

Finally, little Robin flopped down with a pout. “I’m just not made to dance.”

Caitlin knelt next to her. “Do you like to dance?”

Robin scrunched up her nose in evident distaste.

Suddenly, Monster scooped her up and swung her around in his arms. Robin’s delighted peals of laughter rang out as he danced with her in the air.

“Look, Mommy! I’m flying!”

Robin was now a slender, serious ten-year-old with creamy golden skin and shiny black hair. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as Caitlin went over the waltz with her over and over again.

Finally, Robin sat down with a sigh. “I’ll never get this.”

Caitlin smiled. “Do you like to dance?”

“I’d like to fly,” Robin answered wistfully. She set her face and got up to dance again.

Monster held Caitlin close as they watched their daughter glide down the staircase into her cotillion. She joined her tall, handsome boyfriend in a waltz. Stately, smooth, perfect.

“I think she likes to dance,” Monster whispered into Caitlin’s ear.

“I never got to tell her the rest.”

Robin smiled up into the eyes of her date. Monster smiled down into Caitlin’s.

“I think she knows.”