Hey howdy hey, deputies! Inspired by Scott's Goliath art reveals and a few spoilers that I heard from a friend, I'm back to finish 10Tens! Again!

This week is the last week for this story. Instead of one theme, I've taken the theme from the other 10 chapters and written a new drabble/double drabble/oneshot for each.

WARNING: Spoilers for Goliath (just in the new characters, not the events) in the first drabble, so you may want to skip 'A Pigeon Named Morris.' That's why I put it last; despite the fact 10 People Who Wanted Deryn Sharp is the first set. Enjoy!

Also, badly written Russian accents and puns ho!


Everybody Loves A Roundup!

(Alternatively titled)

Ten Ways To Get More Reviews

10 Songs (Beatles Style)

Maggie Mae. It goes for a grand total of 40 seconds.

"Oh, dirty Maggie Mae, they are taking her away…"

You're a woman.

"I'm-I'm a girl."

Do you know what this means? For you and your family?

"Please, please, please let me do this. I love- I need to this, I need to fly."

What have you done to yourself? To your brother's career?

"You have to understand, I need this. I won't tell anyone, I swear-"

Get back, little girl. Go home.


Get back to where you belong.

Deryn Sharp sat up, covers falling away and leaving her arms bare in the cold Scottish air. She swallowed, ignoring the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks. She hadn't even made it past the front gate.

And a thousand miles away on a barren glacier, a young prince trudged towards the downed Leviathan.

10 Ways To Tell Everyone You're a Girl

We'll Meet Again

In which highly specific references are made

The chilly air burned Alek's throat as he sucked it down. He'd been trudging up this bloody hill for what felt like eternity (actual time: approximately three minutes), after climbing up and down another hill. Scotland was nothing but hills. Hills and bagpipes. Hills and bagpipes and kilts, because stereotypes are an appropriate way of describing a rich, varied culture such as the one that exists in Scotland.

Also, haggis.

Alek trudged, his boots crunching on the gravel path. He kept his head down, focusing on his breathing. In, step, out, step. In, step, out, step.

He was so busy watching his own feet walk that he bonked his head on a low-hanging tree branch.

Perhaps he could take a break.

After a quick nap and a pint of lager (wait, that's England) Alek set off again and soon found himself on the doorstep of a sturdy, large farmhouse. It was quite stereotypical. Chickens pecked about the driveway. A cow that was fabricated to be as large as a carthorse mooed. Kilts flapped on the washing line. It was calm. It was peaceful. For a second Alek thought he heard a strangely accented voice say, "How's the serenity?"

Alek coughed, smoothed his hair. Sharp Farm, the letterbox read. Casa de Sharp would have sounded better. Whatever. He raised an arm and knocked on the door. Finally, after all these years. He would see his old friend Dylan Sharp again. There were a lot of Sharps in Scotland. Alek had visited at least a dozen of them. But this was the right one. Alek could tell by the…the uh…He just felt it, OK?

Finally, the door creaked open.

"Hello, young lady!" said Alek. "My name is Aleksander Ferdinand. I fought in the Great War with Dylan Sharp. Does he live here? He better."

The girl, tall with short, blonde hair, blinked. She licked her lips, smoothed down her skirt.

"This is awkward." She said. "You better come in."

10 Ways To Make Friends And Influence People (100 words)

Really? Again?

Doctor Who (11th)

"Are you kidding me?" asked Deryn.

"This is a coincidence." Said the Doctor. "I don't like coincidences. They don't like me."

"So, Doctor. Are you still with the Master?"

"Doctor, who's this?" asked Amy. "And who's the Master? Like the Corsair?"

"Amy this is…Indefinite Boy, and Mister-"

"I hope you're not travelling alone with this man. He's a homosexual, you know. You can tell by the bow tie."

"I knew it!"

"Shut up, Rory! You're supposed to be dead."

"Hey…" Amy peered at Deryn. "Why are you wearing that uniform? Aren't you a girl?"

"Oh, for the love of God…"

10 Ways To Get Jiggy With It

Stayin' Alive (The BeeGees)


You know the CPR song.
It's a statement, not a question because the CPR song is two things:

1. Ironic, because it's called Stayin' Alive.

2. One of the best songs to strut to in the world.

And even though the BeeGees hadn't even been born at this point in history (hell, Lenin hadn't even popped his clogs) Alek hummed it under his breath and strutted like a ripped, red-haired, royal peacock.

It was a good day. He was in love with a cross-dressing Scot, lived in the second best city in the world (London) and was absolutely loaded because he was…well, ripped, red-haired and absolutely royal. Ah, the life of a Constitutional Mother. I mean, Monarch.

Alek strutted and hummed, hummed and strutted. Best of all, later he would propose to his lady-boy-friend. Life was good.
Alek strutted and hummed, strummed and hutted. Then a thought (which rarely came to Alek) struck him.

Oh no.

Oh woe.

Oh dearie boy me…

What if Deryn said no?

Alek stopped strutting. A line of men who'd been following him, copying his style ran into each other. Alek didn't notice, having left his brain somewhere in the Alps. What-

What if Deryn said no?

She wouldn't, would she?

But she was so – ugh – independent and so – shudder - modern. What if-

Alek gulped and tried to keep strutting. He looked, to a nearby organ grinders monkey, as if he was doing a drunken chimpanzee caricature.

Racist, red-haired and royal. Some things never change. The monkey shook its fist at him, but Alek was deep in thought (for once) and didn't notice. She'd have to say yes.

She had to.

And if she didn't?

Well, he'd just keep on strutting.

10 Ways To Define Drabbles


"I never thought it would end like this."

"Me neither. How did you want to – you know-"

"In my sleep. At a very advanced age."

"Would you want to grow old?"

"Wie bitte?"

"I never saw the point in old age. Creaky bones, your skin turns into paper...you can't hear, can't see, can't run. You can't fly."

"Growing old isn't so bad. My parents were happy to, I think. Well. No chance now."

"Sorry. Hmmm. Well, there is that."


"I was just thinking it wouldn't be so bad if you had children and grandchildren around. Scores of them."
"A dozen of them at least – what's that?"
"Air raid siren. Come on. This is it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like this. I have to go. I'm on the bats, if you…or Volger could-"


"I understand. He's like a dad to you."

"Yes. Oh."

"Alek. I've-"


"…Um, auf wiedersehen."

"Let's go with au revoir."

10 Ways To Say I Love You


"Come on, come on."

Slap, slap, twice on each cheek. Smack of hard hand hitting damp skin. Nothing. No red handprint.

"Wake up!"

He's not breathing. Water trickles from his hair, silver droplets on his eyelashes. Press on the ribs – there's water in his lungs. He's drowning on dry land. This shouldn't have happened.

"Breathe, please."

This shouldn't happen.

Turn his head. Water pours from his nose, from his mouth.

"Come on!"

He's not breathing. Breathe. He needs to breathe. Tilt his head back,

Remember, and then-

-don't hesitate. Inhale.

Cover his mouth. Breathe for him.

"Come on, breathe! Come on, Dylan!"

10 Ways Wacky Westerfeld Could Wander Off On

"Leon Trotsky will make an appearance in Goliath."

New York, February 1917

Shucks, but New Yawk sure were purdy in the wintertime. Snow would blanket the buildings, making them into igloos of ice and steel, clean and white. They would gleam in the weak sun. The roads became makeshift slides and the planes that landed in the Hudson were frozen there until the thaw.

Unfortunately, it weren't wintertime no more, not really. The snow had become muddy, then slushy, then covered in beasties leavings, then mixed quite thoroughly. Still, Deryn Sharp thought the busy, loud city was beautiful – an organism where the blood and neurons and electrons were people and fabs, and the body was the mass of asphalt and steel and iron. Also, hot dogs.

Alek and Deryn (HELL YEAH he'd figured it out by then. He isn't that stupid [citation needed.]) shuffled arm in arm down the bustling sidewalk, passing hawkers, hookers and messenger hawks. The Americans didn't use terns. They weren't big enough. Above the din of buskers singing about Eskimos named Quinn and saying they weren't going to work on Maggie's farm no more, there was a fanfare.

Alek tilted his head. Bovril stuck his head out of Deryn's satchel and copied him. They looked more alike than you'd think.

"That sounds Russian," said Alek. "Come on, let's go have a look."

He hurried off ahead of Deryn, slipping and sliding along the path.

"Young missy," said a newspaper vendor. "Would you buy a newspaper? It's got something about the Russians, but I can't read well, me."

"You're a newspaper vendor." Said Deryn.

The vendors name was Jim. It was cold. He was poor, and Catholic – a bad combination – and had six kids and a wife to feed. He'd lost his brother in the war. Also, he was stuck in a crappy fanfic with a punchline that just doesn't pay off.

"Just buy the dang paper," he growled, thrusting it (oh yes) into Deryn's hands.

Delighted with her free paper, Deryn skipped down the street, slipped over – "Bugger, it's Rasputin all over again!" – and decided to stay where she was and read her free, delightful paper. People were so nice in New York.


Wow, that was tacky. And underneath the poorly formatted headline, there was the byline 'Lvov spreads the love – Duma in Charge.'

Huh. Deryn got up, brushed the slush-and-mush off her bum, and ran off in search of Alek. She found him at the corner of…69th and 42nd Street because they're both inherently funny numbers, talking to a guy in a pretty funky cap, with a goatee and wild hair. It was so wild his cap was clinging on for dear, Russian life (which is completely different to dear, American life and has more vodka and Cossack dancing.)

"And zat iz vy ve vish to instill commoo-neezim into ze Muzzerland."

Deryn blinked. "I did not understand a word you just said."

"Apologies." The man cleared his throat. His hair tangled. "I said, we wish to install communism in Russia by overthrowing the Tzar. It will be hard work, but worth it. We will create a socialist utopia."

Deryn nodded and Alek smiled. "Mr Trotsky was just telling me about how all industrialised nations will one day be communist. Everyone will be equal and free from-"

"Wait wait." Said Deryn. "By Tzar, do you mean Czar?"

Mr Trotsky inclined his head. "Da. Tzar, or Czar, Tsar…he has many titles, but cares nothing for ze proletariat. One day ve vill-"

Wordlessly, Deryn held up the newspaper. Mr Trotsky leaned forward, peered at it and swore. In Russian. Deryn filed the word away for later use.

"Oh, hell. Vladimir's going to kill me."

10 Ways To Get To First Base

Homosexuality Does Not Work That Way

"I'm a girl, Alek."
Alek pulled away from Dylan. "Wh-what?"
He-she smiled, showing the gap in his front teeth. "I'm a girl. See, you're not a homosexual, you're just-"

"A girl?" Alek took his hands off Dylan's waist. "Oh, ew! I kissed a girl!"

10 Ways to Torture Me

The Man Cold: Deryn's Revenge

"I've always sort of wondered about Deryn's 'monthlies'" – Kill It With A Flaming Machete."

Haven't we all wondered?

Alek sat outside Dylan's room, drumming his fingers on the fabricated wood floor. Da-da-da-da. Da-da-da-da.

"Are you nearly done, Dylan?" he called. "Dr. Barlow seemed rather insistent."

"Tazza can – uh – wait for his walk."

"Come on Dylan. Flight suits aren't that complicated."

"The um…button is stuck. Just a minute."

"I'll help you." Alek stood up, rested a hand on the door. "Can I come in?"


Alek frowned. He knew Scots usually wore kilts but honestly. Trousers weren't that difficult. They had more pockets, too.

"That's it, I'm coming in." Alek turned the handle, opened the door and saw….

Dylan Sharp trying to pull on his left boot. He was making such an effort the tips of his fingers were smeared with either boot polish or blood. Any which way, Alek was impressed at the effort.

And we shall keep wondering…

10 People Who Wanted Deryn Sharp

A Pigeon Named Morris

Nikola Tesla/Pigeons/Deryn/Dylan

He had a tremendous sense of style.
Oiled hair, combed so the strands lay flat like a ploughed field.
Crisp suit, so starched it crackled like lightning whenever he moved.
Bow tie. It too was starched to the point where if it nicked his throat, death would be immediate.
His shoes were so shiny when you looked into them you could see not only your face but also your hearts desire.
Be still, ladies. There's more. On top of the hair and cracking suits, he had a moustache, as oiled and stiff as his hair yet it curved up at the ends, coyly. That is, if moustaches can be coy.

His was.

He looked a little like David Bowie, without the glitter.
He was Nikola Tesla, and there are three things you should know about Nikola Tesla.

1. He was Russian. See point two for more information.

2. Therefore, crazy and awesome.

3. He quite possibly had a sexual fixation on pigeons. See point one.

He also, in the Leviathan Universe, held the plans (and key) to the LARGEST DOOMSDAY DEVICE in the WORLD. In fact, it was the ONLY DOOMSDAY DEVICE in the WORLD, as the atomic bomb had not yet been invented.

Nikola Tesla strutted down the corridor of the Leviathan, suit crackling like a popcorn machine, shoes revealing his current desire to be a pigeon named Morris. His hair stayed resolutely still.

He was bored. He was brilliant, and owner of the LARGEST DOOMSDAY DEVICE in the WORLD, yet. Well. Bored, board, bord.
Poor Nikola missed his pigeons.

"Coo coo ca-coo," he sighed, his breath barely disturbing his moustache. Suddenly, poor pigeonless Nikola passed a porthole.

He stopped.
With a snap, crackle, pop and change in the reflection on his shoes, Nikola backed up and looked out the small window. There, in the azure sky and puffy clouds was one of the airmen, wearing a body kite. Even at this distance, Nikola could make out a huge smile and ruffled blonde hair. What a free spirit – not a drop of oil would touch those locks, they were perfect in their tousledness.

The kite struts looked like wings. Pigeon wings. Nikola gasped with such force his moustache was sucked up his left nostril and for a few minutes his world was made up of fire, blood and pain.
Also, oxygen deprivation.
Still pigeonless, and now slightly ruffled, Nikola looked out the window again. The airman was coming back into the ship. Nikola watched open-mouthed, his moustache askew. He memorized the airman – blonde hair, blue eyes, breasts and…wings.

Nikola Tesla had a feeling he wouldn't be bored much longer.

Yes. Any questions? See any references? You better ask, because there's more in there than you think. Australians, if you miss the one I'm thinking of, I'll be so disappointed. So this is the end of 10Tens until Goliath comes out, which isn't that far away!

Yeah, so drop me a review, I'm always happy to chat and…see you on the other side!