A question I think about sometimes for writing projects is 'what is the minimum viable chekov's gun?'. Like, if you conspicuously put the proverbial gun on the mantlepiece in act 1, what's the least use you can put it to that will pay it off? Can you put the proverbial gun on the mantlepiece and pay that off without firing it? Without anyone getting shot? Not necessarily in a subversive way ('haha! the gun is loaded with blanks!' or 'haha! the gun isn't loaded, but a secret message from the wife's lover is concealed in one of the chambers!') but in a way where someone noticing, picking up, interacting with the gun pays off something significantly less dramatic than violence or the threat of violence?
Today I'm thinking about this in the context of alien megastructures, which apparently I'm just coming up with as settings for everything these days. If I have a story set in a cool alien megastructure because that's a cool place to put a story, how little can I get away with explaining or revealing about the alien megastructure and have it still be enough that people feel the alien megastructure is more than just set dressing
Idle thoughts, conversation starter, tell me about cool books/plays/stories that have deflationary payoffs (which, I guess, implicitly there's a spoiler risk in the comments, I don't mind being spoiled on stuff but I know some people do)
She was back in the captain's office, yet again, for going rogue. Ignoring her orders. Despite having saved a dome full of civilians.
That strange, uneasy feeling whenever she was reprimanded still wouldn't let go of her. Something was wrong. There was something in here that didn't fit. Should be... somewhere else, according to her gut — and she'd learned to trust her gut, over the years.
"Am I boring you, private? I know you think the rules don't apply to you, and I can't demote you any further, but you might be surprised."
The captain's exasperated voice drew her attention back to him, her eyes passing over the lavish coat of arms behind him for the... what was it now, twelfth? twentieth? time. The ancient weapons proudly displayed there. Worn with age. Obviously cared for. Treasured. She'd never really paid attention to them, but now...
She couldn't take her eyes off one of them. The blaster was old, but not that old, and definitely didn't belong together with the swords. Her gut twisted, and something finally clicked. She knew that blaster. It was achingly familiar. She had to make sure.
"Zambrano, what the hell do you think you're doing?! Are you listening to me?"
Ignoring her captain, she stepped past him. Reached out for the pockmarked gun. Her fingers caressed it, feeling the small indentations on the grip that didn't fit. Shouldn't be there. Except... Those were hers. Made by her tiny baby teeth, so many decades ago. She swallowed. Balled her hands into fists. Focused on her nails biting into the soft skin of her palms. Her voice was rough, choked with tears, and she had to stop and restart three times before she managed to ask "Why do you have my mother's sidearm, sir?" The mother she barely saw, even when she'd been alive. Barely remembered.
Her captain was quiet for a long moment, before sighing. "We used to fight together. She saved my life."
Trembling, she turned to face him. "Tell me about her?" she begged. She never begged. "Please, sir?"