 
ISBN: 9781370215645

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Other works by this author:

  * Nor Gloom of Night

  * Good Boy

  * Blowing Bubbles

  * Scavenger

  * It Happened One Wednesday

  * Hevun's Rebel

  * Hevun's Ambassador

  * Hevun's Gate

  * One Year of Instants

  * Interview Inside a Terrarium

  * The Amity Incident

  * One Leap year of Instants

  * Better

  * Kung Fu Zombies

  * Comes Around

All these titles available at Smashwords.

#  Challenge #001: The Curse of Vows

Rest in Peace.

Now get up. And go to war.

Falstaff the Paladin breathed in with great difficulty. "Would it kill you," he croaked, "to at least let me rest for a day or two before the resurrection spell?"

The appropriately-named Faith concentrated on her healing mantras for a moment. "The longer you're dead, the worse things get for you. Do you remember the Brain Damage Incident? _I_ remember the Brain Damage Incident. And let's _not_ talk about the intestine regrowth from the _last_ time your body went missing on the battlefield."

"You're talking as if that's my fault," grumbled Falstaff. The absolute worst thing about being revived was feeling the things that had happened upon death. The release of bladder and bowels was always the most mortifying. Feeling his death wound heal was always the creepiest. "I'm no longer in charge of my body when I'm dead, you know."

"I know, but it's difficult to keep that in mind when you're on a quest for a fortnight."

Feeling more blood generate was... surreal. Falstaff knew better than to move whilst his Priestess was healing him. "It's not as if I could do anything about it. I need five more levels before I can petition the Gods to guide my friends."

Faith finished her chant. Once again, he was as unmarred by life as a newborn. Almost. Faith had learned that some things, like calluses and other adaptations to living, should be left as 'scars'.

Falstaff found that to be the most disturbing part of being an adventurer. He was younger, physically, than his childhood friends. Some of whom were starting the slow slide towards the ends of their lives. As long as he was adventuring, as long as people like Faith were raising him and healing his injuries... he was the next best thing to immortal.

And yet, he could feel his old wounds, regardless of the absence of any scars. Sometimes, he felt tired of the adventuring life. If he hadn't made such a foolish vow, he'd have let time take him as it had taken some of his friends.

Falstaff rose from his bier. He could feel Faith's sanctification of his body working more magic than her healing. Evil was swarming, outside the warded Healer's Tent, and he had vowed to defeat all evil. In all its forms. All over the world.

He had had no idea the world was so large, nor that evil was so rife.

Falstaff picked up his sanctified blade, said his prayers, and stepped back into war. Horrible. Endless. Repetitive war.

#  Challenge #002: Visit Zoq'in University!

Motto of a Uni in a world where Humans are Doc Brown (doesn't necessarily have to be a human-run uni): Training the Terrifying Terran Technologists of Tomorrow.

All things considered, it is a great boon to the universe that Terrans have never been able to read Golq'ethin. Otherwise, when bright-eyed and enthusiastic future engineers of all flavours entered the decorative gates, they'd have read, _Zoq'in University, Training the Terrifying Terran Technologists of Tomorrow_. But they could not begin to unriddle the intricate curls and subtle colours that made up Golq'ethin, so they just thought it was pretty. They turned it into patterns around the hems of their clothing. They used it as decorative borders on their art, into partial doodles in their margins.

Never once knowing what they were mimicking.

Tutors at Zoq'in rotated quickly, despite undergoing Stress Resistance Training, having frequent holidays, and free therapy. And the reason why is... humans are incorrigible. They take extant technology and compulsively work on ways to improve it.

And they have a problematically expansive definition of 'improve'.

There's a reason why the Engineering buildings in Zoq'in are so new...

A human landed in the copious bushes, issuing a trail of smoke and bleeding a little. Well. Bleeding a little for _humans_. After a moment of terrifying stillness, interrupted only by the sound of distant alerts concerning, fire, explosion, and toxic gasses, the human picked themself up and inspected the damage.

"I think I know where I went wrong," they said to nobody. "It definitely needs that three-eighths gripley!"

The staring Golq'ethin nearby contacted Medical Services for both themselves -for the shock- and the human, for the obvious leaking. "Human," one called. "Please remain where you are. We have called intervention on your behalf."

"Oh wow, that's nice of you," the human laughed. They extracted themself out of the shrubbery. "Nah, yeah, I might have a bit of concussion," they checked their wrist chronometer. " _Or_ it's because I haven't eaten since 6PM yesterday. One of the two. Are those human-edible?"

Another Golq'ethin, who knew a bit more about humans and their omnivorousness, slid some of their leftovers towards the gently-smoking mammal. "These should not cause upset, human. You are aware that your clothing is on fire?"

"Oh. Yeah. That. Right." They applied their tongue to both palms and began smothering the cinders. "On the plus side, all those blast shields _work_!"

News would arrive, via the crowding medtechs, that yet another energy and propulsion lab had exploded. Again. Which was a reason for the blast shields. And why pretty much all of the walls -where human engineering takes place- are friable to the pressure of, say, a human bursting through them at non-natural speeds.

But everyone agrees. Teaching these homicidally/suicidally enthusiastic mammals is _so_ much better than letting them roam around wild.

#  Challenge #003: Dammit Dwayne!

Always remember, no matter where you are, no matter when you are, someone out there is intent on being the reason we can't have nice things.

Through all of time and all of space, there's always one of Them. You know Them. They're always cheerfully helpful and a beat behind everyone else's drum. They mean well, which is the most damnable of faint praise. Their heart's in the right place, people say. It's the elbows, knees and ankles you have to worry about.

Sometimes, they are gormless wonders. Sometimes, they're clever in all the wrong ways. But what they are to everyone else, regardless of the excuses you may make around them, is homicidally annoying.

The cascade of doomed crockery woke Luanne up from what had almost been a proper sleep. She lurched from her bed and out into the main living area where Dwayne stood in the middle of a small mountain of potsherds. "Dammit, Dwayne," she sighed. " _Why_?"

"Um," said Dwayne. He always paused after the 'um' because he had to start his brain and think up a reason. "You said the place was getting untidy? I thought I'd do some cleaning?"

"I was talking about the living cabin, Dwayne. Not the cargo hold."

"It was an accident."

Luanne found her shoes. Enough to keep the potsherds from embedding themselves painfully into her feet. "So you accidentally bypassed fourteen passcode, gene-code, and bio-reading coded locks, accidentally opened one of my vaccuum-sealed cargo pods, accidentally withdrew far too many..." she bent to pick up a large-ish piece, "high-quality M'eng wafer-ware vases... accidentally brought them all up to the living cabin, and then smashed approximately Five Years' worth of fine china all over the flakking _kitchen_?"

"Er," said Dwayne. "Um. It was more... the dropping part?"

"Why did you even take them out of vacuum-storage, Dwayne?"

"Tidying?"

"They were in _vaccuum storage_."

"...uhm," said Dwayne.

"They couldn't have become messy or dirty, Dwayne, because they were vaccuum-sealed. They never should have been disturbed, Dwayne. They couldn't have been disturbed. Because disturbing them would have set off fifteen different alarms and woken me _up_ , Dwayne, when I told you that I needed _sleep_ Dwayne. So what the flying flakk, _DWAYNE_?"

"It was an accident! Really! You know how we got those Skitties for catching all the bugs? Well, um... one of the kittens kind'a accidentally unlocked a bunch of stuff by walking across the controls? Andum..."

"I have security recordings, Dwayne."

"Okayokayokay, itwasme! IwascheckingtheirvalueandIsawhowthey'reworthalotmoreiftheyhavetracesoftheredglaze..." a violent intake of breath, "soIcutthelockswithmycodeandopeneditup, butIforgottoequalizefirstandall'athisdustblewin..." gasp, "andIthoughtIcouldclean'emandIdidn'tmeanit."

Luanne took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Then, in tones of deadly calm, she intoned. "Dwayne, you are going to pick up every last piece of this mess. You are going to store it as carefully as you can in a stasis box until we hit Whirrawii Station, where I am going to hire an artist who practices Kintsugi. Out of your wages, Dwayne. And then we can hope to sell the Kintsugi china for, perhaps, a fraction of their original ticket. And then, Dwayne, you are going to clean every last inch of the living cabin by _hand_ , Dwayne. And _if_ I'm still pissed off with you about this by the time all that is done, you're cleaning it all again _WITH YOUR FLAKKING TOOTHBRUSH_!"

"I'mverysorryandI'llneverdoitagain," mumbled Dwayne.

Another calming breath. "If you weren't so _damn_ smart at spotting a deal..."

"Uhm," said Dwayne. "Er. Could you pass a stasis box? Um. I -ah- kindahavebarefeet..."

"...dammit Dwayne..."

#  Challenge #004: The Wrong Question

English is... well... it's a Germanic language where sixty percent of it is based on Latin.

That should tell you everything you need to know about how awful a language English is.

The current meeting of the Society for the Preservation of Original English wound to a cold halt. "Who let the _linguist_ in?" demanded someone in the assembly hall.

"Uh," said the unexpected linguist. "This isn't a language study group?"

The Chair-being took a deep breath. "This is the society for the _preservation_ of original english. Not the study of its roots. Not the examination of where it came from. We _preserve_ it. In its pristine form."

"Um. So... which variant of English are you talking about, then?"

"No, don't ask that," the leader shouted, but too late. Far too late.

Two hundred SPOEns began talking at once. Began arguing at once. Began arguing in their favourite variants of English at once. Even the Chair got involved, in-between rapping their gavel for some form of order.

It finished, as these things always did, with each member in silenced cells until they cooled down, calmed down, and shut up for five consecutive minutes.

The Chair of the SPOEns waited for their linguist. "I'm sorry you had to witness that. We're... usually better-behaved."

"What did I _do_? Why were they all so... ferocious?"

"English is not just an art. It is... a state of mind. And for anyone thinking of entering SPOEn, we always advise that you never, _ever_ ask that question. You should have received the orientation material."

"I... couldn't read it. It was in Ogham."

The Chair winced, pinched the bridge of their nose, and uttered a Gaelic curse. "Bloody _Felweather_... _Again!_ "

#  Challenge #005: One Family Argument on a Summer Evening

"I haven't heard from [blank] in a while,"

"I may have not-so-accidentally told them about your secret popcorn stash,"

" **You what**!!"

"You told Kel about my popcorn stash."

"Um. In my favour, I was mad at you at the time."

"You told _Kel_ about my popcorn stash."

"I was really mad at you?"

"You _told_ Kel about my popcorn stash."

"Yeah. I did. It might have been a mistake."

"No shit, Mal, he's on a _diet_! And that stuff's hardly fit for human consumption! I use it to make fish food for cryin' out loud!"

"I said I was mad at you..."

"Yes, but what did Kel do to _you_ , Mal? He's gonna gorge himself on that stuff and shatter his diet! Because _you_ were angry at _me_?"

"I don't think when I'm angry. I'm sorry."

Lynn folded her arms. "Well. You and I are going to my stash and dragging Kel away from it before he _really_ hurts himself. And then _you_ are going to find a new hiding place because we _both_ know Kel can't be trusted."

"Have you thought of _not_ bringing the popcorn home?" suggested Mal. She was still edging away from Lynn's wrath.

"I work in a cinema. One gigantic bag of stale popcorn a week is an automatic perk. And Kel's smart enough to figure out if I'm using a rental place for our fish food factory."

Mal started making her way towards the stash. "Aquaponics is cool and all, I know... but sometimes I think Kel's getting tired of fish and vegetables."

#  Challenge #006: Surrender Now, or... What?

:In front of a delegation from [Bad Guy], facetiously:

"Commander Good Guy]? Do you have any idea where the [Bad Guy]'s Military is? They seem to have misplaced it. And do you smell something burning?" – [RecklessPrudence

Of course, it was a metaphor. The humans were irritatingly rife with them. Smell could no more travel through the gulfs of space than sound could transmit through vacuum. Nevertheless, they were also irritatingly good at inventing means of transmitting information at ludicrously faster speeds. Only for the humans was impatience a virtue.

His comms bleeped. Text only. He lifted the screen and read Final Failure reports from vessel after vessel in the Conid fleet. Sudden unexpected failure of the _Bloodthirsty_. Sudden unexpected failure of the _Ravager_. Sudden unexpected failure of the _Radula_. On and on.

Five hundred ships, turned to very brief stars in the eternal night of space.

"Now," said the small, dark-skinned human opposite K'kroth at the negotiations table. "You were saying something about a vast fleet of your best weapons, aimed at my inferior numbers?"

There are many lessons in the infinite universe. Some even apply to Deathworlders like the Conid. One of those is as follows: _Never, ever attempt to take away that which the humans have claimed as their own._

K'kroth flexed his feeding appendage. "Do you intend to kill me as well?"

"Nonsense," cooed the human. "We only wish to display how... restrained... we have been before now. Your fleet was an annoyance we decided we could do without."

Five hundred of their best warships. Thousands of lives. If this was human restraint, K'kroth never wished to witness human _enthusiasm_. He cleared his speaking flaps. "And your terms for our surrender?"

#  Challenge #007: Beware of Storytellers

"The anthropologists got it wrong when they named our species Homo sapiens ('wise man'). In any case it's an arrogant and bigheaded thing to say, wisdom being one of our least evident features. In reality, we are Pan narrans, the storytelling chimpanzee." - Terry Pratchett (GNU)

What's most impressive about humans, besides their patented unkillability, is their propensity for stories. Stories encompass their lives. They explain their past with stories. Foretell the future with stories...

They even seek evidence to weave a story when nobody is alive to tell it. They expand upon their own lives. Make _themselves_ into stories. They make their friends and family into stories, anecdotes, even jokes.

And they tell themselves stories to motivate themselves in their day-to-day lives. The most worrying part is... _many of these stories come true_. For example...

"If I can make this jump," they tell themselves, "I can grab that tool and use it to fix our problem." With a goal in mind, the human makes the jump. They get the tool, and save the day when a different species would have surrendered to their fate.

Humans bend their will to the world around them. And the world... bends back. Once, a human told a Vorax, "You don't want to eat me," with a straight face, _and it worked_. By the time the human was done weaving a tale, their friends had arrived with superior weaponry.

They even tell the story of a woman, held captive and under sentence of death, who kept her captor enthralled for over one thousand nights. They tell the stories of people who tell stories.

And sometimes, the story is no more complicated than, "I heard that some dude actually did this once." And, miraculously, they _become_ that some dude.

Humans can do the impossible because they frequently tell themselves that they can. Though, rarely, they do the impossible because they don't know that they _can't_. It's a subtle difference, not easily observable by the layperson.

We at the Wikipedia Galactica recommend that you always act cautiously around a human who is in the middle of spinning a tale. Warning signs include, but are not limited to: frequent and expansive hand-gestures, statements of existence followed by the word 'see' [eg: "There was this asteroid, see?"], and the presence of an intoxicating beverage.

#  Challenge #008: Judge Alike

"I heard someone say once that many of us only seem able to find heaven by backing away from hell. And while the place that I've arrived at in my life may not precisely be everyone's idea of heavenly, I could swear sometimes—if I am quiet enough—I can hear the angels sing." —Carrie Fisher, Wishful Drinking (2008)

Hell, like Heaven, is relative. One being's paradise is another's torture. And for Til, life was that torture. Another day to live was another day fighting her own demons. Resisting the voice in her head that told her to do harm. Struggling to breathe. Struggling to move. Struggling, in general, to live another day as close to the accepted normal as possible.

Struggling, especially, not to kill the acceptably normal people for the things she heard them say. Every. Single. Day.

Of all of them, the politicians on the news were the worst. Their sound bites became the memes in the mouths of the everyday people. People like Til were lazy, unhealthy, diseased. People like Til should be locked up at their own expense for the good of everyone else. People like Til only deserved a life as unpaid test subjects for the good of science, and the rest of the _real_ people.

That particular stuffed suit, Til wanted to _bite_.

She struggled to show mercy. Struggled to remain civil in the face of people who never bothered to understand. Struggled to only laugh at the people who would never know what it was like to need a CPAP attached to an oxygen tank in the middle of the day. Who never knew what it was like to start the day with two dozen pills and an injection, just to be able to eat. What it was like to save some of their mobility just to go to the toilet.

People who said, "Four hours of activity is plenty of time to work." They didn't count the time it took to medicate, clean, get dressed and travel there. Or the time it took _to_ travel to work and back. Or the fact that _they_ had the ability to just hop into a car and drive, while Til had to make it to inconveniently-located public transport, and wait.

People who said, "Yoghurt and Yoga cures practically _everything_ ," had no idea what it was like to be lactose intolerant. They had no _clue_ that mobility of any kind was yet another struggle that Til fought with every day. They started from fitness, or near fitness. And, in extreme cases, they started from the best ever day in Til's entire life.

Normal people had no idea what it was like to have a live-in nurse start their day with fresh bandages and saline washes.

But the truly ignorant ones. The ones who said, "People like you shouldn't be allowed out," or, "allowed to live," or, "Why do they let people like you be a drain on our taxes?" or anything that involved the words, "people like you". Those people... they _deserved_ what spite she could summon.

For them, Til turned her chair around for them so they could see her life support equipment and panted, because it was always a struggle to breathe and talk at the same time, "Don't think... I should live? Go ahead... pull some plugs... yourself."

Normal people were always at home with casual murder when it wasn't _their_ responsibility. As long as it happened far, far away from their concern, their view, or their tax money... they were happy. Making it personal scared the beans out of them.

And they could catch a fragment of a glimpse of how frightened they made _her_ , with all the ignorant things they said.

She never feared someone acting on their words, when she made her offer. In the extremely unlikely event that she met someone who pulled a plug, they would be guilty of murder and she... she would finally fly free to Heaven. She had already done her time in Hell.

#  Challenge #009: Survivor's Tale

I am mentally ill. I can say that. I am not ashamed of that. I survived that, I'm still surviving it, but bring it on. Better me than you. I don't want to be a victim.

— Carrie Fisher

On the cusp of sleep, I hear voices. Stranger's voices, almost always. Sometimes, they're spouting nonsense. I know they're the firings of my unconscious brain gearing up for a dream. Other times... well...

They're the voices of people I know, but they're always things they never said. Always horrible things that they would never say. But when I hear it, it's so real.

"She's asleep. Time to kill her," is always a favourite. I joke to my therapist that my subconscious hates me. Either that, or it was trained from the days when my parents... ha. But then, everyone blames their parents. And everyone thinks their childhood is normal until they go to someone else's house.

Possibly one of the many reasons why my parents, when I could ask them for such favours, never allowed me to visit friends, nor allowed friends to visit me. And very likely one of the reasons I went to a close, community college and gave me a curfew.

But they couldn't hold me in that house forever. They couldn't keep me close to home. They could not keep me under their iron thumbs. And when I got away, when I found out that other households don't do the things mine did...

I broke.

Some part of me... shattered. Never to be whole again. I was used to beatings and starvation and being left in the cold until I improved my manners. I was not used to kindness.

It took a month for my roommates in that first house to realise what I was doing to myself when they were the slightest bit angry with me. Thereafter I was adopted, and taught new ways of living. I'll never forget Carol, simultaneously my mother, sister, and best friend.

I should never have told her about the voices. She got... obsessed. And stressed. I ended up hurting her and the voices delighted in telling me that. And most often, it was her voice.

I did everything to keep her. Everything she wanted. But in the end, the voices drove her away. My voices, hurting me, hurt her too much to abide.

It's been a long and slow crawl to a place of comfort. To a state of mind where I believe I deserve comfort. I've gone through more than a few desperate relationships before I learned that I could look after myself without any help from my partner.

Relationships are a lot less stressful, now. A lot more comfortable.

I'm not cured. Not by a long shot. I never will be cured. For all of my life, I will hear those voices on the cusp of sleep, and when they say horrible things, they will wake me up in terror. If I am alone, I have my service dog to bring me back to reality. If I am with a partner, they help too.

It's not an easy life. It's not completely comfortable, either. But it is _my_ life. What I choose to do with it is important. I survived. I am surviving. I will survive.

And one day, on a good day, I will get to live as well.

#  Challenge #010: Plus La Change...

"We both do work around here."

"Yeah but you feed the dog and I clean up the shit, there's a difference." – WannaSheWriter

"What? We don't have a dog."

"It's a metaphor. You cook, but you leave the cleaning to me. You make things to sell at the market, but you leave all the mess from making it all over the house for _me_ to sweep up. You fix the garden, and then you track mud indoors. All of your work leads to all of my work. Do you get it, yet, or do I need to use smaller words?"

Blaise leveled an injured look at her spouse. "I don't appreciate your tone, Melanie."

"I don't appreciate mopping up after you all day. Do you know how much me-time I've had this past month?"

"We snuggle every night!"

"No. _I_ fall to bed, exhausted, and _you_ come in whenever you're tired and grope me for half the night and keep me awake. Look. I love you. That will never change, but god dammit, I'm feeling so worn out by the bullshit that's going around." Melanie gestured expansively at the fallout from Blaise's latest creative whirlwind. "I wanna be looked after, too."

Blaise looked around. Melanie was right. Everything she was doing, even though it was with their mutual good in mind, left more and more work for Melanie. "I'm sorry. I'll finish this one and tidy up, okay?"

" _Thank_ you."

"And then I think you're overdue for a well-deserved back rub."

"O God, yes."

"And tomorrow? Is a 'you' day."

Melanie put her swollen feet up. She had, after all, been on them all day. "That sounds like a good start, really."

"I know when I should stop digging," Blaise smiled. "But there will definitely be more 'you' days. Whenever you need one, and sometimes... whenever you want one."

"...'s long as it's fair," mumbled Melanie.

Blaise let her nap. She had her own mess to pick up. And some dishes to wash.

AN: My forum for prompts is temporarily down, so I mined the [#writing-prompt tag on Tumblr.]

#  Challenge #011: Lawful Suspicion

"I wanna leave without a trace cause I don't wanna die in this place." – Song-Lyric-Prompts

The Night Guard who had found her outside, one second after curfew, nodded in understanding. For an instant, their eyes were human, before they remembered to be cold and cruel once more. "We have a duty to the citizens of Nova York, miss. Including the citizens who are breaking the law. Now we find it suspicious that you were cleaning up after yourself as you were running home. Care to explain?"

"It's illegal to litter. I'm in enough trouble, I don't want more. I'm not a bad egg, I promise. I just wanted to go home and rest for work..."

"Enough trouble, you say," said Goon #2. "And what sort of trouble might you be in already, then?"

Oh no. Oh no. They'd be looking up her records. There was no hiding it. "I got a reprimand for not spending my entertainment chits, only I like to go above cloud level and look at the stars, but they raised the prices for the elevator and it's another twenty to use the stairs, and saving up enough..."

"All right, all right. Don't need yer life's story," said Goon #1. "Hand over the trace."

She did. Goon #1 unraveled the crumpled paper and read it quietly. "This is a receipt for Astra Towers Express Elevator to and from the viewing platform."

"That's inducing despondency and depression, that is," said Goon #2. "Our glorious leader said that looking on the stars was setting our goals too far out of our reach."

"That he did, that he did," cooed Goon #1. "But he also did _not_ ban it. Not yet, am I correct?"

That was her cue to lie. "Yes. Yes that's exactly right. I was watching Our Glorious Leader's broadcast on the way back down." When in reality, she was weeping into her hands as she heard the transmission on someone else's device. He had 'raised' the bread and onion ration to five percent less than what it used to be, and 'lowered' citizen taxes to five percent more. All for the glorious greatness of Nova York.

His solid gold statue of himself should be finished in two more years, he said. Just like he had said last year. And the year before that. And the year before that...

Her Gram used to say, _Tuppence more and up goes the donkey._ Or she did before Their Glorious Leader banned pensioners because of their drain on the economy, and Gram was taken away, somewhere, to be useful again. Those words floated into her head as she tried to remain calm and unafraid. And failed.

"Do you give us permission to search your premises," said Goon #2. If she gave it, they had license to trash her entire flat. If she refused, they would take everything she owned and put her in jail."

"Of course you may search," she intoned. "I have nothing to hide." And then it was her utmost effort as they tipped all her food rations out onto the floor, scattered her clothes, and ripped her bed. They would find nothing. She kept her secrets inside her heart, where they could never be found.

They read out her full name. "You are found guilty of loitering with intent, within five hundred yards of a residential complex, and beyond curfew. You are found guilty of spending in excess for frivolous activities. Anything you say will be used against you in the court of public ridicule. Do you have anything to say in your benefit?"

She thought about saying, "I like the stars, they give me hope." But that would not do. She just mutely shook her head and let them 'drop' her all the way down to the roundup van, where they locked her in with a number of other technical miscreants. One was four, and sobbing hysterically. One was so beaten that they were barely recognisable as human.

They would not have her words to use against her. Not now, not in the courtroom. Not for the rest of her life. She would remain silent for the rest of her conscious days.

Because the criminal sentence for a woman in Nova York was lobotomy and the rest of their lives as a Rut Slave.

All she could think of was her savings. She had been so close to buying a ticket out of this miserable place. So close, and yet so far. And now? All for nothing.

Just like everyone else who worked so hard and never reached their goal.

#  Challenge #012: Life is But a Dream

Imagine waking up from a coma, in a hospital where you were no longer called a patient, but the term 'consumer' was used. That the care you received was based on the cost of doing business, not your outcome as a patient. That the normal systems and avenues to access resources had all changed massively, and when you ask how long you were in a coma, you find out that the coma didn't exist. That your family was changed, that the people you once loved were almost human at times, but in certain flashes, they resembled blood-soaked monsters who feed on kindness and generosity. That a few good people in leadership positions try to fight the invasion, but the whole world is looking to you because you what? Woke up to a "new world order", that you were "immune to the infected antidote", that you were the last "human" on earth, etc. where does she/he go from that point in their journey? – @kristy1

[AN: I fixed your prompt up for readability. I hope you don't mind. Also I get the feeling that this is a very specific nightmare for you]

Syd woke up from a dream of dancing and rather good music to a white ceiling. Beige walls. Sterile scent to the air. _What?_ was her immediate thought. There were no flowers. No cards. No helium balloons. But there was also no pain, and a partition up against where the window should have been. She pressed the call button.

"Your call has been noted and logged, and your patient number placed in a service queue," said a calm, mechanical voice from somewhere behind her head. "You are currently number. Two. Seven. In the service queue. We know you had a choice in medical assistance, and we thank you for supporting Insuricare."

"...what?" Syd mumbled. Her mouth was dry. And there was no carafe of water on her beige bed table. Nor on the set of drawers by the bedside. There _were_ five other beds, all neatly made, but nobody else in the room with her.

Gentle hold music on the cusp of a tune played between ear-aching static. Syd looked at her remote three times. There was no other control but the call button. And five times, the automated voice intoned, "Your call is important to us, and we thank you for your patience. You are currently number..." and some vaguely random, descending numbers, "... in the service queue."

Finally, during the sixth, "Your call is important," the voice cut off and an actual human being entered the room. Well. On first impressions, they _seemed_ like a human being. Definitely too chipper for Syd's liking.

"Good afternoon, Consumer," the nurse chirped. He looked like he'd just walked out of a shaving advert. "Everything well and good?"

There was so very much wrong with all of this that Syd went with Occam's Razor.

"No. I just woke up," Syd explained. "I'm very thirsty and there's no water. How long have I been in a coma?"

The nurse took her pulse. Up close, he looked eerily plastic. His movements were... frightening without Syd being able to pinpoint why. "Coma? I don't know what that is."

_What?_ "You went to medical school, right? Coma? People asleep without waking up? And then they do? Sound familiar?"

"That condition doesn't exist." The plastic nurse checked a chart that was also a digital tablet. "It says you collapsed this morning. Do you have any ill feeling?"

"Only about what's going on..." Cautious, Syd sat up. "Can I have some water, please?"

Tap tap tap, on the tablet. "Oh, no, Ms Forth. Your account ran out of money an hour ago. I'm afraid you have to do some work before you can afford any of that. Which leaves you a net debt of two hundred to make up before end of day."

"Wait. What? How?"

"We know you had a choice when selecting medical assistance," intoned the nurse.

"No. Where's my stuff?"

"And we thank you for choosing Insuricare. Have a nice day, and thank you for exiting in a prompt and orderly manner."

And without another word, the nurse left.

Syd had to rummage through a variety of storage areas before she found a bag stuffed haphazardly full of... not her things, but clothes that fit, a phone that answered to her fingerprint, and a briefcase that contained a boxed salad and -thank God!- a large bottle of water. And some keys.

She pieced her life together from those fragments and found a workplace that was a cross between a call centre and a gold farm for some multi-player shenanigans. She had to sit in a claustrophobic booth and play what looked like Facebook games until her account score was in the green again. And she worked late to ensure that she may well remain in the green.

Her car was a one-person bubble of a vehicle that had automated seating. There was no radio. There were no billboards on the pristine white buildings. No signs to interfere with the plants that seemed to grow everywhere. No advertising, not even in the glowing lights of the roads.

Her home, apparently, was another pristine skyrise with plants rising up the sides. Not overgrowing it, but planted. She followed the address in her phone to a beige and mostly featureless flat with pristine white furniture.

"Good Afternoon, Sydnie Forth, master of this humble domain. You have. Three. Five. Four. Point. Two. Available in your account. Would you like to pay your window license and pick some fresh produce?" This voice had the same mechanical resonance as the one in the hospital, but someone -her other self?- had set it to a slightly British man.

"How much would that be?" she asked.

"That would be. Two. Zero. Seven. Point. Eight. Do you wish to pay?"

"Uh. No." She checked her fridge and opted for leftovers. Whoever she had been in this world, at least her taste for food remained the same. She microwaved it and refilled her water bottle.

"Your account has been indebted. One. Seven. Four. Point. Three," intoned the machine.

She turned on the television. "Access to only the free channels, please."

"Error," said the slightly British voice. "I do not understand the new word. Free."

Syd learned a lot, that night. Everything had changed. Her friends and family that she knew had been... altered. The life she knew was... well, it never had been, apparently. Electricity had _always_ come from the sun. Living had _always_ been close-knit. Everything needed to live had _always_ cost money. Even the water from the tap in the flat that she paid rent for.

She turned everything off with fifty units remaining, and went to sleep in her crisp white bed.

The automatic voice told her everything she needed to do. Including what she had to wear, that day, for maximum earnings. Syd learned why the office was so quiet. Talking at work was taxed. Talking during lunch-break was taxed. Stepping outside during work hours was taxed. The only thing they accepted was the quiet tapping of keys and the shuffling of computer mice.

Therefore it was quite a shock to see a chat window pop up on her desk.

::HushedVillany:: You remember, don't you?

Syd typed, _New cubicle, who's this?_ and learned that her username was _Employee4653_.

::HushedVillany:: Oh thank God. I thought I'd die without ever seeing a meme ever again

::HushedVillany:: I saw you come in late. You had that look

Okay. This was getting beyond weird. The credit counter gave her money by the keypress, so it didn't really matter if she played, chatted, or typed in the entirety of _War and Peace_ into a disposable document. She wrote, _Who ARE you?_

::HushedVillany:: I'm one of the ones who remember a very different dream. A world that was so very different from this one

::HushedVillany:: I wasn't sure it WAS a dream until I saw the look on your face.

::HushedVillany:: Work long, again. I will wait for you in the lobby. We need to talk away from the cameras.

Syd wrote, _I have a TASER. No funny stuff._

That evening, after hours, Syd found a mousy-looking older woman with thin pink lipstick and ridiculously colourful earrings, clutching at her purse like it could defend her from the universe. Syd said, "Hushed Villany?"

"That's me," she said. "I remember... in the dream I liked a band called Quiet Riot. But one of those words was banned, so..." she finished in a shrug. "You can change your username, and They don't get you for it. Come on. I know a place."

They walked together to a park that had a bridge in it. And a blind spot from the cameras under the bridge. "I can't be certain," said the woman, "I remember it all like a dream. But it's a dream that doesn't fade. Once... we had choices. Now... we have... conformity. The options given to us are the ones that cost us more or less credit in our accounts, but they all boil down to what They want us to choose."

"So who are They?" asked Syd. She had not introduced herself to the woman. Knowing names, she felt, was dangerous.

"I don't know. A new world order. A collection of invaders. All I know is that the ones that are... uncanny... are operated by Them. And... there's an injection. An infected antidote to... something... I'm sorry. You forget bits of dreams."

Syd remembered the needle. And the plastic-looking doctor who smiled as it went in. And a feeling of fog. And she remembered... "The president?"

"Yes. There was a reform. A guarantee of safety for the world. An end to prejudice and hate. Work for everyone..."

"On the plus side, climate change is no longer a thing, and we're not polluting," said Syd. "So what happened to all the major cities? I can't... remember..."

"Neither can I," sighed Ms Villany. "I know it was a drastic change..."

"Room enough for everyone in Texas," blurted Syd.

"I used to work in a mahogany office," said Villany. "And I'd listen to Quiet Riot with the volume turned down so only I could hear... and... I might have been important."

Syd checked some facts on her phone. Wikipedia was still free. There were five major companies. There had _always_ been five major companies. Each neatly employing one fifth of the world's populace. Housing them. Caring for them. Regulating things so that everyone had healthy food and drink. Nobody went hungry.

There was no sickness. No hatred. No _lack_.

But there was also no religion, no choice, and no other options.

There was no art. There were no artists. There was barely any entertainment and little to divide the common throng. There wasn't even any sport.

And no clue where the puppeteer was.

Syd changed her name to Hot Water Ungulate, after another half-remembered band, and kept her eye out for others with the immunity. As the months went by, she and Villany had something of a club. And she was still the one who remembered the most. They chatted during work hours, and kept their facts to themselves.

Writing things down in any form was dangerous. They all felt it.

Working out who was in charge lead to... vanishing. Whoever was getting close just... disappeared. Nobody else remembered them. Nobody else acknowledged or even looked at the empty cubicle. Syd mentally drew a shape around those gaps in their intelligence and kept her conclusions to herself.

Something had to be done. Something had to change. The entire world was chugging along between desperation and complacency, and nobody -apart from the people like her- either noticed or minded that much.

There were no weapons, Syd noticed. Not even things that could be easily turned into weapons. No heavy objects. No glass. So, one day off as part of mandatory rest, she went for a walk outside the city limits. On a hiking trail like any other hiking trail. She dodged off, allegedly to answer a call of nature, and knapped a sharp edge out of some obsidian she had found.

Then she would say Their name in front of a camera, and wait.

With the sharp stone in her hand.

For a simple opportunity.

It would either work, or she would... vanish. Either way, there would be some form of freedom from this idyllic repression.

Syd kept quiet about her plan. She simply performed it. So the others would have plausible deniability. She didn't resist as the uncanny guards took her away. Did not even speak, as another plastic person attempted to interrogate her. She just waited for the one in charge. And when they came, she _swung_...

#  Challenge #013: Stranded on a Hostile Planet

2157 A.D.

Captain's Log: Alpha-Foxtrot-Lima - 1129.

It's been 63 days and they have yet to realise that I am not one of them.

This only shows that my disguise is effective, and my camouflage as well. These Deathworlders have no idea that I am not one of their species. This is well and good. As a pre-spaceflight civilisation, I have seen what they do to _each other_ for the most trivial reasons. They are not ready to accept me as I am.

I have noted a significant amount of paranoia concerning 'lizard people' in the natives' conspiracy-centric media. Therefore, as part of my disguise, I am masquerading as just another working stiff in a cubicle hell. I do just enough work to avoid anyone's notice.

Progress is advancing with my molecular reassembler. I can now purchase native foodstuffs and then process them into consumables for myself. Sadly, the aesthetic aspect of my repair work is slow and awkward. At best, I can make the consumable resemble the native _yoghurt with fruit_ , which I carry to work with me for luncheon, along with a bottle of purified water.

Fortunately, my girth in comparison to theirs is enough to give them an excuse for my apparent diet. Compared to the native Deathworlders, I am bordering on obese. Therefore, my apparent food choices are acceptable. In time, I may yet make my consumables appear to be a _grilled chicken salad_ for further native approval. Every Deathworlder I meet has recommended it to me.

The beacon has yet to function properly. Repairs continue. Native supplies are crude and bulky, but they are plentiful and within the budget from my employment. I do not, after all, spend much on the amenities that the natives do.

These Deathworlder's pastimes confound me. They enjoy simulated violence, and many abhor real world violence. Many of their physical activities involve exposing themselves to toxins of one form or another. They periodically immerse themselves in the world's oceans, yet they also dump their toxins in the same water.

However, despite all this, on a personal level... I have grown to... _like_ the Deathworlders in my immediate sphere of experience. They are nowhere near as savage as the Wikipedia Galactica would have us believe. That said, they have a long way to go before they are ready for Galactic Society.

I have discovered the advantages of anonymous accounts and have been working on giving them some hints and tips. Nothing overt. Nothing truly beyond what they are capable of, now. And mostly in the form of stories. These Deathworlders _adore_ stories.

If I am not rescued, I may yet rehabilitate a significant portion of these hairless apes... If I am... I must convince the Galactic Alliance that this rocky dwarf is worth observing more closely.

Tomorrow... I will attempt fabricating a Spline Actuator. Perhaps with a new unit, the beacon will work.

End Log Entry.

#  Challenge #014: Signal Lost

"It matters not if you have stood with the great. What really makes a difference is if you have sat with the broken, walked with the lost, and loved the lonely."

— Sheri Bessi Eckert

"And what have _you_ done?" asked the man in the yellow robes. He was Important. He would not be in this meet-up if he wasn't. The people demanded it, and he had to suffer it. For the good feelings of everyone who supported him. And for ammunition against those who didn't.

"Are you kidding me?" he said. Advisors started to murmur things, but he ignored them. This kind of insult would not be ignored. "I'm the leader of the entire world! I made my country so great, everyone follows what I say! I've freed business to maximise profits, liberated the workforce, and improved commerce globally."

"That may be true, but what have you _done_?"

"I just told you what I did. Are you deaf?"

"You have eased the way for _things_ ," said the man in the yellow robes. "Material wealth does not help the common people. What difference have you made, to the least of those in your care?"

He scoffed and made a face. It would be a meme in seconds, care of those with cameras pointed at him. "I don't have anyone in my care. All my kids are adults."

"You rule a nation," said the man in the yellow robes. "Therefore you rule the people _in_ the nation. What have you done for them?"

"They're free to do whatever they want," he dismissed. "They can work or they can starve. There's millions of jobs out there. All they have to do is swallow their pride and work for them."

"I see. You do not care for your own people. You have not done anything." The man in the yellow robes sounded very sad about that lie.

"You ignoramus! I've freed billions!"

"Yes. As you said. Many are even free from material wealth against their wishes. But you have not _cared_ , and without caring, there is no difference. You have not made an impact. You have not improved lives. Therefore, you have done nothing."

He almost flew into a red-faced rage, but controlled himself enough to sneer, "And what have _you_ done?"

"I have done the little things. I have fed and homed starving animals from the streets. I have educated children and adults alike. I have comforted the hurt. I have guided the lost. I have been a companion to the lonely. I have shown hope to the hopeless. I have strengthened the weak." The man in the yellow robes smiled faintly. "I even helped a man move a mountain."

Scoff. Sneer. Snort. "And how much money did that get'cha?" he said, as if laying down a trump card.

"The want of money is the root of all evil. Greed for things will poison the soul," said the man in the yellow robes. "Your soul may already be dead. _If_ you cannot see the value in what I have done."

"What is this _loser_ doing in _my_ meet and greet?" he bellowed. "Get him outta here! He's useless! Worthless! He can't even pay for a decent steak!"

"I'm a vegetarian," said the man in the yellow robes.

"And he's a goddamn hippie! Get this hippie outta my face! Go back to San Francisco! Go back to Portland with the rest of the freaks! I don't need you!"

The man in the yellow robes bowed slowly and said, "I am sorry for your loss." And then he quietly left with the large security goons as if it were another stroll with the flea-bitten mongrels of the gutters. Human or otherwise.

The leader of the entire world, or at least the bits of it that agreed with him, pointed to one of his staffers and ordered, "Clean up the fallout. I don't wanna hear about this again," and moved along in the line. All smiles and congeniality. All pomp and circumstance.

High Llama Duk Singh strolled out into the night. There were some souls that just could not be reached. His pedal-cab driver was waiting and playing on her phone.

"I thought you wouldn't be long," Kelly grinned. "Weather station says rain is likely. You want the hood up?"

"Thank you," said the Llama. "But the rain can only nourish. Or at most, moisten. I believe it is not yet bedtime in the nearest Children's Hospital? Perhaps I can read to the little ones."

"Sure thing." Kelly always pedalled harder for people like the Llama. She knew he could not pay much, because of his vow of poverty, but there was more than one way to be rich. As she started out of the parking circle, she asked, "You asked him the question, didn't you?"

"I did. He did not understand it. More's the pity."

Some people just never would. Their loss.

#  Challenge #015: Historical Hysterical First

the madness has begun – MaxMundan

The Tri'li'ol had heard the news. Having a human aboard a vessel, especially a vessel in uncharted regions of space, was good luck. Even though they were Deathworlders, they were a statistical anomaly. They would pack-bond with the crew, adjust their interactions for the benefit of others, and generally behave themselves. And if _one_ human aboard a vessel was good luck, then _more_ had to be better.

And it worked. For a short time.

Nobody else had explored with multiple humans. Nobody else had gone so deep for so long. And absolutely _nobody_ knew what happened to multiple humans in an enclosed space for far, far too long.

C'rrt woke first to the noise of human music. It was tribal in nature, with a heavy beat and some high-pitched noises that bordered on painful. Ze investigated the ship for the source of the noise and found that the Mess Hall was... well... just that. A gigantic mess.

The aim had been to be colourful. Reels of wire ribbon had been unrolled to string it all around the hall in sagging loops. Some of it was tied in bows. The lights had been painted over in varying colours and programmed to flicker randomly. And in the middle of it, were the humans. Wearing ridiculously-coloured and hastily-fabricated cones on varying parts of their bodies, but mostly on their heads. One of them was wearing some sort of scarf made out of bright pink feathers. Another was wearing a glaringly yellow tuutuu.

"What is happening?" asked C'rrt. Ze had to shout to be heard over the music.

"We're having a Flakkit party," cheered the nearest human. They were gyrating bizarrely, and vaguely in time with their... music.

"A... flakkit... party?"

The humans chorused, "Flakk it, let's party!"

One of them swung C'rrt into their arms, and danced with hir. "Come on. We got nibbles, we got music. We got decorations. It's all good!"

C'rrt felt a peculiar elation overcome hir. It was the difference between not caring about anything and not having anything to _cause_ care. And gradually, the needs of the ship were outweighed by the need to have some fun for a change.

Security Officer T'k't, investigating a mere half-hour later, found the Mess Hall thronging with dancing humans and crew. He had just enough time to send a text message to the Captain. It read, verbatim, _the madness has begun_ as he did not have time for the formalities of a proper message.

The... 'flakkit party' wound down after all the humans exhausted themselves and the remaining crew recovered their sensibilities. A similar incident would not occur again for some Standard Months[1]. This was Galactic Society's first encounter with Silly Season. It would not be their last.

[1] The Galactic Standard Calendar holds a twenty-four hour Day, a ten-day Week, a four-week Month, and a ten-month Year. This is only confusing to Terrans.

#  Challenge #016: One Fine Day in an Impoverished Neighbourhood

"I wish time would skip ahead. I got here too early."

Paul checked her watch. "You're right on time."

"No. I mean... the whole future thing. It's like... most of my time has been spent waiting for stuff that should have been here, already. Like... I dunno. Tablets should have _always_ been there since my childhood, you know."

"And flying cars?" teased Paul.

"No. Dur. You can't have flying cars until after self-driving cars have taken over. Because, look at existing traffic. We're not going to get much better in three dimensions," Karen was in full rant mode by now. "We should have _telepresence_ tablets by now. Something like Google Glass only way more flexible for people who need glasses. Shit, we should be making glasses _extinct_ by now. And not by lasic. It's like technology has slowed the heck down and nobody knows why."

"Something to do with repressed Millennials?" guessed Paul. She knew the pattern. "So much genius is stuck flipping burgers or on unpaid internships, there's no room for advancement?"

Karen sighed and straightened her hair. "Yeah. Like, if I could afford a college degree, I'd learn how to make these things a thing, you know. Hire other people who knew how to make things a thing. Start a business and everything. But I can't, so I can't, so _they_ can't... and we're all stuck in a rut on Old Executive time. Building slightly bigger models with better batteries and more functions that we don't even use."

"Running Etsy accounts to pay the rent," added Paul, "Running GoFundMe to pay for the little luxuries. Doing commissions to pay for food."

"And the cheapest food makes you sick, so you have to do more commissions to pay for medicine. It sucks."

"And then they tax the cheap food in an effort to make you eat healthy, but you still can't get it because food desserts are a thing."

Karen laughed. "I tried to grow a tub garden on my balcony. I got busted for growing weed, even though it was obviously beans. I have an arrest record, even though the charges were dropped. I have a GoFundMe going to pay for the legal fees so I can get it expunged. Which means I've given up luxuries until _that's_ sorted."

"So," said Paul. "When's Disney supposed to own the entire world?"

Another laugh. Laughs were hard in times like this. "I give it two more years. And then all governments all over the world will be run by corporations. At least until the revolution comes."

Paul lifted her water bottle. "To the revolution."

Karen lifted hers, "Viva la revolution."

They opened their lunchboxes and began eating their packed food from home. It wasn't good food. Karen had Beannie Weenies, and Paul had Chinese Scramble. But it filled their stomachs and fuelled their perpetual search for enough to get by on.

"Now _I'm_ wishing time would skip ahead," muttered Paul.

#  Challenge #017: Popular Lies

Write about a false prophet.

"And in the bright new age of reckoning, we will no longer have freeloaders sucking on the government teat," preached the man in the large, bright suit. "There will be no need for government! No need for taxes! Those who can fulfil a need will do so, and those who need will be sated!"

The crowd cheered. Of course they did. It was a message they wanted to hear.

"In this way, and in this way alone, we will be a great nation, once more. We'll send those who don't belong back to where they do! We'll get rid of _all_ the unstable elements! We're looking out for number one! Who do we look out for?"

The crowd, already excited by their bright new future, shouted, "NUMBER ONE!"

"What nation are we?"

"NUMBER ONE!"

"Who decides?"

"NUMBER ONE!"

"Who are we?"

"NUMBER ONE! WE'RE NUMBER ONE!"

The man in the large, bright suit basked in the chorus of "we're number one" like a reptile basking in the sun. He showered the auditorium with dollar bills, care of chaff cannons, as he left the stage. It was no shock that he was immensely popular. He was also immensely rich, and could easily afford his own campaign.

But the money flooded in anyway. A rising tide of green from the common throng and businesses alike.

And it was no great shock that he won by a landslide. People wanted what he preached. None of that was shocking. Neither were his appointments to key governing positions to 'downsize' the administrivia.

What _was_ shocking, after the senate assisted in gutting the laws of the land and homogenising the laws all _over_ the land, was what happened after his position was secure.

The term 'freeloader' was legally defined as, "anyone who receives government assistance". And the elderly on their pensions were rounded up into state facilities to work to their utmost abilities. The red tape was cut, and government assistance plummetted. As did many laws that protected the weak.

Schools were closed, and children put into factories.

Busses and public transport closed down in favour of industry-run transit that did little or nothing to maintain their systems or police their fallout.

Environmental protections vanished, allowing for the first on-site resorts to spring up in the middle of national parks. Allowing industries to dump their toxins wherever they pleased.

Hospitals had been transformed into prisons. And if the citizens fell sick, they had the freedom to be helped by anyone who wanted to help... or die with their friends and family. But, since everyone was looking out for number one... hardly anyone wanted to help.

The money still poured into the man in charge. Voluntary donations for this facility or that. Always perverted into ways to get the maximum amount of money out of everyone who had a need, and giving little in return.

The nation was dying, and it seemed determined to take everyone with it. But the man in the large, bright suit didn't mind one bit. He was always looking out for number one.

#  Challenge #018: To Meet Like Minds

"Movies were meant to stay on the screen, flat and large and colorful, gathering you up into their sweep of story, carrying you rollicking along to the end, then releasing you back into your unchanged life. But this movie misbehaved. It leaked out of the theater, poured off the screen, affected a lot of people so deeply that they required endless talismans and artifacts to stay connected to it." – Carrie Fisher, The Princess Diarist

Some stories, they say, are timeless. This is why you find people retelling them so very, very often. Some, once done, can never be done again. Something lacks in the retelling. Something is _off_ in the new version. Something... lacks. The original movie of _Harvey_ , for example, had been re-made in colour, but the remake lacked the appeal of the black and white version.

Some, once told, are never told again. See, _Arsenic and Old Lace_. Please see _Arsenic and Old Lace_ , you may thank me for it later.

And then... there are the stories that are so powerful that they are not only preserved in their original format, but they change lives in the process of the viewing. Something within, some fragile key element never to be altered, warps minds and souls to its favour and changes the living for the rest of their existence.

A little girl sees someone like her in a fictional position of authority and runs to tell her family all about it. She grows up and changes worlds for more little girls like her. A young man afraid to say who he really is finds a mirror in a man who does not, in fact, exist. But he has the strength to live on, and do what he can against the ignorance he faces. A small child in the middle of nowhere sees a _universe_ , and wishes there could be more of it, and understands the message behind the face paint and the glittery costumes. Worlds start to form inside a young mind. And another generation of stories is born.

But stories always come with a 'The End' attached to them. All stories end. And when there are so many who do not wish it to do so, they begin... generating. They expand on the little vision they saw. They extrapolate, they fabricate, they make talismans and keepsakes, and bear little signs that say to others, _This is where my heart is. This is who I am,_ so that others can recognise them.

Because in the vast sea of cogniscents, there is nothing more rewarding than meeting someone who knows where your heart and mind like to holiday.

#  Challenge #019: Facing Doubt

"Stay afraid, but do it anyway. What's important is the action. You don't have to wait to be confident. Just do it and eventually the confidence will follow." — Carrie Fisher on pursuing dreams despite mental illness

Rael woke from his haze. His body hurt. That meant that the surgery had gone ahead. In lieu of recovering in an Intensive Care Patient Drawer[2], he and his warming tank were in a dimly-lit shelf in Medik Central. A young nurse sat nearby, studying something so she could become a Doctor all the quicker[3].

He formed a rudimentary speaking apparatus. The bare minimum to make sounds. It took him three goes. They'd given him the _strong_ stuff. Eventually, he was able to form, "Was... surgery... successful?"

The nurse, who had been dozing a little over her studies, snorted into awareness. "What? Oh. Yes. Your Medik team were able to remove the implant. You've only lost point zero, zero, zero two three percent of your total mass. Please remain idle until a qualified Medik can assess you."

The Medik had read the essential data, since they were in a hurry, and skipped over the _Patient Comfort_ section. As evidenced by the fact that ze leaned over Rael's tank for a closer look at his liquid body. The view from Rael's perspective was... unflattering. Nobody ever is when the view encompases both nostrils and at least one ear hole.

"The patient file said not to do that," said the nurse. "You're leaving a bad impression."

"Oh. Sorry." The Medik leaned away. "There's no sutures... did we use a molecular bonder for the epidermal surface?"

That was what the SPOEns insisted on calling the 'royal we', and encompassed the entirety of Medik Central. This was not Rael's surgical team. The nurse checked her notes. "Uuuuhhh... yes. Proprietary equipment from Wave of the Future. They charged Ten Years' for the rental."

"For essential surgical equipment to remove their own torture device? Send that gem of to the Cogniscent Rights' Committee. This is a pro bono service. Nothing more."

Rael recovered as quickly as he was designed to. In that, his creators did not let him down in _that_ aspect, at least. He had no troubles until the host of Mediks seeing to his recovery cleared him to resume normal daily life.

He never _had_ one of those.

He had always had the chip inside him. Bonded to some essential organs he could not absorb, and programmed to hurt him excruciatingly if he tried it. Now... he was free of that control. And ironically petrified by the prospect. Would people know? Could they detect it? Would he loose life-giving work because citizens would fear him running amok?

Powers knew that his makers had enough footage of his angry, frightened, or frustrated fits to fill a library. From multiple angles. And the Powers That Be also knew that Wave of the Future was using as much of it as they could get away with to smear the rest of his species. All five hundred members of it.

So, whenever he viewed the latest news on his people's progress towards being freed of their maker-company, he was forced to sit through yet another view of yet another fit, and to feel like a traitor to his kind.

He dithered at the last doorway. Freshly-formed hand almost touching the control to open it. On the other side... reality. People going about their business. People who may have a good reason to hate and fear him. People who could demand he be locked up as a wild animal.

Which is where his classification was, at the moment. He was, now and until some legal hiccough said otherwise, a wild animal of gengineering origins. He much preferred ELF. Engineered Life Form. It encompassed all that he was without adding any weight to his description.

If he stayed... a Medik working in the psychotherapy field would help him touch that control. They would feed him and shelter him and bill him in full. And he knew he barely had the funds for his next meal. Assuming Nik would still talk to him, let alone give him the friend-of-the-family discount.

Well. He could either stay here being afraid or go and find out if there was anything to fear.

Vertigo. Now or never. Rael lunged at the button and felt a sympathetic twinge from inside, where the shock chip used to be. He would be feeling those phantom pains for a long time, yet. Every time he instinctively expected punishment for doing something wrong.

"Welcome my friend," boomed Nik. He was waiting with a rough quarter of his family. All of whom were carrying foodstuffs. Casseroles and platters and cakes.

"Oh my," Rael breathed.

Officer Marken was also there, and wrapped herself around him in a very off-duty hug. "Welcome back, Rael. Count yourself lucky that I didn't try to cook."

A joke from their very beginnings as something of a team. A joke which he dutifully laughed at. "Thank you," he said. And then he realised that it was not just Officer Marken and Nik's family. There were others. Regulars. People he chatted with on the Trams. People he met in the Veets[4]. His day-to-day life wasn't as empty as he believed.

And none of them feared him. The passers-by were only merely annoyed at the friend-cluster, and not hateful about his presence.

Wild animal was only a technicality. These were the people who knew the truth.

[2] Space is, ironically, a premium in space. Every open area must be cleaned, heated, and have an air circulation system. And since patients in Intensive Care are not expected to move about very much, their wards have been reduced to a bio-monitoring drawer just large enough to be a comfortable space.

[3] Becoming a medical doctor not only includes some years of intense study, but a minimum of five Galactic Standard Years' of working as a nurse and learning all the tricks that medical school still can't teach. This leads to a marked reduction in medical arrogance on the part of the doctors.

[4] Galactic language, though relatively plastic, has had trouble with literal-minded species before. Therefore, what humanity has termed 'elevators' or 'lifts' has become Vertical Transit. Veet for short.

#  Challenge #020: Carry the Light

'I don't want my life to imitate art, I want it to be art." - Carrie Fisher

Auntie Mame is famous for saying, "Life is a smorgasbord, and most poor souls are starving to death." But even she would believe that Taerl Vincetti was taking things a bit too far.

She could have been the living embodiment of vanity, were it not for her belief that her life was a performance piece for all who happened to be in her audience. Her life was her work, and her body was simultaneously a canvas and a tool for display. She expected nothing, and gained everything.

Taerl was not as rail-thin as one might imagine of such a performer. She danced, she created, she lived in art, and so she kept her body fit. Not thin, not fat, but fit. She maintained her body with a strict regimen of diet and exercise. And, once a year, she would add to the artwork on her skin.

No matter what her business was, she would move as if it were a performance. Some days, she would dance around the commercial concourses whilst she did her shopping. Some days, she would put on a character, and, in costume, _be_ that person all day. She wouldn't even answer to her own name. Some days, she would do nothing but stay very still, wherever she decided to settle.

And others, she would play an instrument wherever she wandered.

When she wasn't in character, she spoke her mind. If she couldn't remember your name, she would call you 'dearest' and sound like she meant it. Her goal, she said, was to spread joy and wonder in the world. To live every day as if it were an artwork.

She always helped the ameteurs. Those who were doing soul-song projects, as she called them. She would be a part in flesh, in economy, in guidance, whenever she met the people who were obviously trying something new. One who actually worked for the entertainment industry if she could act in a production for them.

Ms Vincetti said, "I'm _already_ acting, dearest. And since you get paid, you must give some Hours to charity." And she suggested a cause that helped and supported citizens with mental difficulties.

What nobody knew, until the day after she died, was that that particular cause was close to her own soul. Taerl Vincetti fought her own mind, for every day of her life. When she could no longer bear to be herself, she put on a character and spent her time as them until the desire to harm herself subsided. Tattoos and piercings sated her desires to feel pain. And her performances... exorcised her inner demons. All, as it turned out, on the advice of her therapist and life-partner.

Those who stand in the darkest place, she said, will eagerly carry a lantern so others don't fall.

#  Challenge #021: All the Luck

"If my life wasn't funny, it would just be true, and that is unacceptable" - Carrie Fisher

Kyle was a Lucker. One of the unfortunate few with the Luck gene. His bad luck was everyone's good, and vice versa. His 'range' was five Standard Distance Units, or he would be isolated on a small station just big enough for one. The universe, it seemed, liked balance.

Fortunately for Kyle, he had found an 'out'. He moonlighted as a stand-up comic. All he did was tell tales about his own bad luck and audiences were in gales of laughter. The Minutes showered in. And everyone who laughed at him got some good fortune coming their way. He earned, and they benefitted, and he kind-of made a living.

He _despised_ being laughed at.

Kyle was resigned to it. If he ensured his bad luck, others in his range would benefit. If he had accidental good fortune, others would suffer. It was a knife-edge on the catastrophe curve. Making sure he benefitted _just enough_ so that society would accept his presence for yet another day.

Most of his friends were either AI's or mechanical avatars. Nobody wanted to be too close to a Lucker who might be having a good day. He was used to that. It was amazing what humans could get used to. Except, of course, the laughter aimed at him.

All he did all day was tell people about the horrible things that happened to him. He always finished with a heartfelt, "Goodbye and good luck!" to the cheers and hoots of the crowd.

At least he was good for a laugh. Pity there wasn't much else. He still held out the hope of meeting another Lucker who he could cancel out with. But that wasn't the way.

He couldn't afford to be that lucky.

#  Challenge #022: Portents of Doom

"You know the bad thing about being a survivor... You keep having to get into difficult situations in order to show off your gift." - Carrie Fisher

"I wouldn't ordinarily complain about your... shenanigans," said the Cuidgari Security Chief everyone knew as Sherlock, "you have such a finely-tuned sense for skating on the borders of legality. But this is the third time this _week_. Are you bored, or have you and Rael had a... 'tiff' as you call it?"

"In me defence, I fergot it was a ten-day week," said Shayde. Technically an Ambassador, and nominally human. She had a... complicated backstory[5]. And, as it seemed, she lived to make life interesting for everyone around her. "That, and... er..."

That 'er' was a portent of doom if there ever was one. "I'm not a therapist. I'm not here for your confession. Talk to your... ah..." what was her outlandish phrase? "Snuggle buddy? He's at least been taking _classes_ in therapy."

"Aye, but there's sommat up. I can feel it in the air, ye ken."

O powers... he'd triggered a confession _anyway_. "This is not my realm of expertise, Ambassador. Might I suggest a Therapist-Theist? I'm sure you can find one amenable to your spiritual views, who has also taken a vow of celibacy[6]."

"Nah, I been chattin' wi' Her Holiness Metharom Oluchi," said Shayde. "She also reckons sommat's comin'. Her knees are playin' oop, ye ken."

Well. Many was an engineer who set store by Her Holiness' knees. No wonder the Techies were edgy, this season[7]. "Any _other_ portents of doom?" he asked with a side of sarcasm. It had taken years to learn the art and it came in handy.

Alas, Shayde took him literally, "Well, Lu Tze up in the Highway says there's a something big going tae happen, and Nik says th' whole station's on edge. Then there's th' fact that the Gluck is in bloom."

Sherlock felt a chill overtake him. "The last time the Gluck was in bloom, there was a form of land war over station territory," he murmured. There had been a superstition that a blooming Gluck was a sign of impending disaster, but he was old enough to remember the _last time_ it had happened. He covertly upped the readiness level to Tangerine.

"Aye," agreed Shayde. "Sommat's comin'. Sommat big. I cannae stand th' stress of it. Waitin' fer the elastic tae snap so we get caught wi' our pants down."

Now _there_ was a pre-Shattering metaphor... "Any chance that this might be a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

"None," Shayde shook her head. "Everyone's waitin' fer the other shoe tae drop. And then there's me. Trying tae nudge it."

Of course she was. " _Why?_ " he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm one o' the ones as can withstand the fallout?" she guessed.

O Powers, it was going to be a long month.

[5] See my book _Adapting_ , when it's eventually published.

[6] Because most therapists in the 25th century also work with intimacy therapies with the touch-starved. Sex workers are psychotherapists in the future. It saves quite a lot of time, actually.

[7] Strange as it may seem, stations have Seasons, based entirely on the general mood of the populace. The human 'Silly Season' is the most feared by all Galactic Security Officers.

#  Challenge #023: Subtle Dangers

Why should I go crazy when I can just as easily wait for it right here. Who wants gum? - Carrie Fisher

Something had to exist that did not like quiet, and M'prax was reasonably certain that it was the Ship's Human. The dangerous deathworlders had a reputation for being unstoppable protectors and, more to the point, profitable creatures to have. But they were also... well... _deathworlders_.

It was hard not to think of the being named Sally as an unstoppable killing machine with unpredictable whims and a completely random nature. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, as one of their number once said about themselves. The crew was fast getting used to human _boredom_ and took steps to avoid it. But this... this was different.

The human took to warmer places to stay. Wrapped themselves up in layers of insulating blankets. They increased their intake of treat food. Watched entertainments that made their eyes leak.

M'prax, concerned, edged up on Sally during her nutrient absorption times and enquired, "Are you undergoing a biological stress?"

"Huh? What? No," Sally shook her head. "I'm... lonely I guess. Feeling the lack of positive haptic feedback."

"I wasn't aware that this was a deathworlder need."

"It's a human need. We're pack creatures. We like to touch and be touched."

"That is not a possibility," said M'prax. "We are too fragile, we cannot assist."

"Yeah," mourned Sally. "You and every other cogniscent for five jumps. It's getting to my head..."

M'prax knew that metaphor. "This is effecting your mental health?"

"I might not go crazy," allowed Sally. "I'll just wait for it to come to me." A laugh that had nothing to do with humour. "I hear there's some other humans at Podunk Station. Maybe them and I could hook up. But I have to wait until we're near enough to Podunk, and..." she shrugged. "It's not profitable to go there, yet."

"This is not a profitable situation," announced M'prax. "I will talk to the Captain."

Sally showed her teeth, a human sign of pleasure. "Thanks. You're a real pal."

She might not have said that if she knew that M'prax's report to the captain was, "The human is in danger of going more insane than usual! We _have_ to divert to Podunk Station."

#  Challenge #024: To Fix a World

"No motive is pure. No one is good or bad-but a hearty mix of both. And sometimes life actually gives to you by taking away." - Carrie Fisher

He only wanted to do good. To improve things for everyone. To make the world a better place. There were just a few things that he needed to make sure of. For the good of everyone. Well. Almost everyone. There were some... bad elements... that needed dealing with.

The drains on society, of course. Those without any plausible avenue to making the world better. Those who took without giving. And those who made too much noise about the way things needed to be done. Those who put the brakes on the wheels of progress. Useless people.

They needed everyone to work for a better world. And if they would not or could not work, then they did not deserve the world everyone else made. Getting rid of them by any means necessary just made sense. It was the greater good.

Then he had to get rid of the troublemakers. Those who insisted on perpetrating crime. The genetically deficient. The ones who came into the land to be a leech on society. They had to go. Only right and proper people deserved to prosper.

And as for the right and proper people... obeying the holy book had to be a proper way to behave. Which meant that the women could not be as wanton or as decadent as recent years had made them. They should be following their husbands. The rule of the holy book was the only one they needed.

Then he had to be sure that the decadent media was withheld from impressionable citizens. Banning it or destroying it, to keep his people out of danger. Bad ideas made bad people.

It had to be working. He was doing everything right for the good of all. Which was why it was such a mystery why everything went bad.

Isolated and ignorant, his people had nobody left to blame. Except for him. They didn't even know what to do after the revolution came.

#  Challenge #025: Worth a Life

"unfortunately it hurts all 3 of my feelings" - Carrie Fisher

Oh crap. She'd tripped over a Faerie nest.

Of all the authors who featured the Fair Folk in their modern writings, A. A. Milne said it best: Their bodies were so tiny that they could only process one feeling at a time. What hardly anyone remembered about Faeries is this: immortality can drive cogniscent beings insane. Milne's traditional cause of faerie death is not what these hyperactive creatures needed.

They needed to be hurled into the sun, in her opinion. But just _try_ talking to NASA about that. In the meantime, there were only so many ways to apologise to a hive of angry Faeries. And one of them involved rum. Which Caeri didn't have in her pack because this was meant to be a _sober_ hike. The other method involved bloodletting.

Good thing she had her camp knife in her boot. And another good thing that she knew how to overact.

Faeries always loved theatrics.

"O lackaday, lackaday," Caeri wailed, flailing around at her exposed skin with the knife. "O woe! O horrible fate! To injure so many innocents with a careless foot! Lackaday, woe! Woe, woe, woe," and so on. The cuts, if any occurred, were light and bled impressively, but did not impede any imagined future hike. The point was to distract the Fae from being angry.

They could be amused. They could be entertained. They could even be sympathetic, but that wasn't likely. Faeries were famously _not_ empathetic with mortals. Seelie and Unseelie alike. The Seelie could be if they tried, but Caerie had just tripped over their nest. Which was not putting them in the mood to try.

They stopped her after a handful of minutes' worth of woeful wailing and blood scattering all over the little clearing. "Such a human need no' bleed for us," they chirped. They were insects of a sort, so they always buzzed or chirped. "Aid us in making a new nest, and be on your way. Safe and whole."

The old nest, Caerie couldn't help noticing, was a skull on the verge of crumbling. "I cannot give my head, it's needed with the rest of me," Caerie bargained. "And I am fair certain you have grown tired of the smell." An idea came to her. "Take my hair! I tire of it and it's always in the way. You could weave a nest out of it that would last far longer than any old skull. And you can grow little plants in it, and have sweet flowers to smell, instead of that rotten head."

The Fae buzzed amongst themselves. It took an entire minute. Which was long for the easily-distracted Fae. "We will take your hair. Long and short. With which we will have a fine new nest. And we thank you for your shed blood. We will need that, anon."

Caeri made to cut her hair short, but the fae stopped her. "Nae, mortal. We will take your hair _our_ way."

She agreed, of course. These were Faeries. She couldn't _not_ agree. But those words were her only warning. She walked -carefully- out of that forest, bald from head to toe. And she would be bald for the rest of her life. Her hair had been left behind in that clearing, to grow so long as the Fae willed it. Independent of Caeri.

So she had to wear wigs all her life and get her eyebrows tattooed on. In fact, she had an ornate 'scalp' tattooed onto her head. All in all, she got off lucky.

#  Challenge #026: On the Other Side of the Fence

"I have at least 14 bad angles" - Carrie Fisher

Carl made a career out of being abnormal. As one of the rare few who could not be cured, he told the jokes than nobody else dared make. Like, "Hey did you hear about the dyslexic biker? He joined Hell's Angles." or, "Public transportation is a real pain. You just try catching the sub every day."

And it worked. People laughed. He earned a living. He kept a home and had what passed for a life. But because his condition was so very rare... certain things just did not exist. Fonts, for instance, that 'weighed' the letters into their places and made it easier for him to read anything at all. Those were relics of a bygone era and far more expensive than they had to be.

Amazing how the system could force a person to pay more for something that allegedly nobody wanted. Now _there_ was a joke. Supply and demand. They had the supply, so they could demand what they liked for it. Fonts, reader software, audio books... anything that could make his life a little more tolerable... it cost upwards of five figures. Because his condition was so rare.

Anything that made the 'normal' go out of their way to help the 'abnormal'... that had to cost more. Inconvenience tax. Thank any god available that his condition wasn't life-threatening. The normals would have loved that. That way, he could just slink off and die and then they needn't shift themselves an inch from their happy little rut. But not so. He persisted in living. He insisted on being visible. He lived frugally so that he could pay the monthly charges on the software that made his life livable.

He could pay to live as long as he was funny. And he was funny as long as he said all the jokes first. So they could feel good about laughing at people like him.

And every night, he closed with a parody of a prayer for aid from the holy book. Adjusted with dyslexia of course. "O Dog," it began, and mentioned sending an Angle to give wisdom to the rouges of the world. And so on. It was hilarious.

Until it happened.

Some higher power heard the letter of his prayer and not the spirit. And sent an angle. Well. Fourteen of them. Glowing brilliantly with a Higher Power, true, but fourteen angles making up a whole circle. No matter which direction Carl looked at it from.

"I suppose someone upstairs reckons this is funny," was Carl's first reaction.

And the angles spake. They didn't speak. They spake. It was altogether a different experience. _From laughter comes joy,_ spake the angles. _And joy is the nature of God._

"Yeah, that's sweet and all, but I have bigger problems. I need to put myself down all the time just to make enough to keep going. Are you going to be funny or are you going to _work_?"

_Ask and ye shall receive,_ spake the angles.

_Yeah, possibly literally,_ thought Carl. He wished he could write things down and still find them legible. He needed some solid thinking time for this one. "What I need... is things to be easier for me. Without making it harder for anyone else. I don't want to change myself. I don't want to lose the one thing that makes me... _me_. I just want the people who are sucking the money out of my wallet to understand that they've got me as a customer for life, and they don't need to keep making me pay just to get along. Can you... I dunno. Give them an epiphany and make them wake up to themselves? You know... enough to make them nicer people to people like me?"

And the angles spake thusly, _That shall be given._

The angles vanished. Life returned to what passed for normal. Carl still had to stab his soul on a nightly basis just to get enough money to rent his apps.

And then a miracle happened. A disease swept civilisation. It didn't impair more than a head cold, but a few weeks after recovery... they had dyslexia. Suddenly, they were in the very same boat Carl was in. There was a global demand for the things Carl needed every day. And at much lower prices.

The fonts that Carl could read sprang up all over the place. Books were reprinted due to popular demand.

All the doors that were locked, now opened. So to speak. Carl had to change his act a little, but the prayer remained the same.

And, just as it began, it stopped. People found they could read as they used to. But they never forgot what it had been like. They feared that it would happen again. And life... life became less of a pain in the anatomy.

He could even tell more normal jokes.

#  Challenge #027: Unrealised, Unrequited, Unrecognised

"If [he][8] was unable to see that I had feelings for him (at least five, but sometimes as many as seven)..." - Carrie Fisher

Lyr watched Ambassador Shayde attempting to flirt with Rael. The impossible force against an oblivious stone. There had been more than one instance of interspecies dating that floundered heavily on the sending a signal stage. And not merely because of cultural difference. Subconscious body-speak could cause the most inconvenient miscommunications.

One species' flirting is another's aggressive manoeuvre. And in Rael's case, all signals were lost in the aether because he didn't even know what was sexy for his own species. ELF's whose essential data were proprietary information had a lot of that problem. Once every other decade or so, someone had the bright idea to make The Enlisted Man again, or create some gene-slave that bordered on the very cusp of legal. What followed when such efforts were discovered... Chaos was the mildest term. Rael faced years of legal purgatory with unreleased infants held hostage in cryostorage and essential medical information debated over as intellectual property of a company that was, in essence, dancing as hard as it could to stay out of the coals in their shoes.

The end result was that everyone on the station could tell that Shayde had a Thing for Rael. Except for Rael. He was almost more clueless than a writer, missing every obvious signal that Shayde sent. But he caught the occasional signal and attempted to shut her down. He avoided dating. Dating lead to mating. And thanks to the people who made him, he didn't have the slightest idea of what to do or if it would kill him when he got there.

Even the littlest of things could get ugly when one knew that one was the 'most-failure success'[9] test model.

But here was someone clearly in love. She stopped when he told her to stop. She tried her hardest to avoid the behaviours he despised. She even argued that mating didn't need to be in the cards. She wanted him to be happy. And she took care to make sure he had what she knew would cheer him. Which included giving heart-stopping cake recipes to Nik the Gyiik, who ran _Unsuitable Food Eat_.

Some people spoke to their haptic therapist. Some people spoke to their bartender. Rael spoke to his favourite chef. And Shayde, spoke to Rael. And hardly anyone spoke to Shayde unless they wanted a headache from the culture shock. Weirdly enough, some people sought her out. Her ancient wisdom was so nonsensical that it bordered on zen.

Ambassador Shayde leaned in Rael's general direction and laid her hand on his. Not holding it. That would be too much. And she didn't quite lean into him. Just leaned towards him. He, in turn, shifted his position so that he was leaning slightly in her direction.

It was going to be fun to watch when Rael realised that love was not only possible between him and her, but also that it had been happening for such a long time already.

The two started bickering. Vigorously bickering. Almost to the point of all out war.

_Assuming, of course, that they don't kill each other first._ Lyr stepped between them to mediate. Ah the good old double-S, double-D. Some things never changed.

[8] Edited out Harrison's name so I could make a better prompt out of this, I do not apologise very hard.

[9] Gengineers working on a new species genome deliberately insert failed or warped genes into their perfect gene model to see which variations are the most tolerable. The test run that has the most genetic flaws and is still viable is the 'most-failure success'. Or the stress-test version. Most euthanise this variant before it achieves consciousness, but _Wave of the Future_ was obviously not that ethical.

#  Challenge #028: One Hazy Mid-afternoon in an East Sussex Hospital Ward

"She has amnesia,"

" _Thank god!_ "

"What?"

"...I-I said, THAT'S TERRIBLE!"

Nurse Blakely wasn't fooled for an instant. She had seen what had happened to Miss Doe. Helped patch up the damage. "You sound like you know how September Doe got her injuries, Mr..." she checked her notes, "Smith."

"First, her name is Holly Buckley. Second, it's my job to keep her safe. Third... I really failed this time. And it involved some werewolves. Well. Three werewolves, a volcano, and a bag of crisps."

"Crisps," echoed Nurse Blakely.

"They really hate the Salt and Vinegar flavour. Should have gone with Bacon 'n' Cheese. Or dog treats, come to think of it. Or just bacon. Everyone loves bacon."

"I'm a vegetarian," sighed Nurse Blakely.

Mr Smith looked mournful. He reached out to grip her shoulder gently. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said. "Anyway. If Holly knew what she'd done, before I dropped her off, here... She'd want to do it _again_. And I don't want her to do it again. It was bad enough the _last_ couple of times. But just in case," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, "Do you know where I can get some bacon bits?"

#  Challenge #029: Prophecy From Another Dimension

You should write for Steemit...

Oh, that's right! You already do! Just "discovered" you there today... Having fun reading you, THANKS!

The message arrived via postcard under their door. They pondered over it for hours, because they had never written a word in their life. Everything was too busy. There was no time. There was no space to create anything in. Their space was a mere bed-sit[10] with cardboard walls and loud neighbours. It was the exact opposite of a writer's retreat.

But they had a laptop, which was the only source of entertainment they owned. Instead of hooking into online games or watching netflix, that evening, they looked up whatever Steemit was.

You could write anything you liked on there. Introduce yourself. Write about whatever you learned. Write about whatever took your fancy.

They wrote the word, "Hi!" on their palm and took a bad selfie with the laptop camera in rotten light. They wrote about the note, they wrote about how impossible it was to write anything. They wrote about how all their energy went into work... and they wrote for half an hour. Then they hit 'submit'.

They were incredibly busy working on another piece, the rest of that night. A story that seemed to come out of nowhere. A story from their own daydreams during the long haul of busses that got them to and from work. During the queues at the bank or the shops. Even during the time they spent on the tilt-a-toilet or the shower in their pokey bathroom.

They had to quit at bedtime.

And in the morning... hundreds of likes. Dozens of replies. And more than a bit of pocket-money. Just as soon as they arranged to be able to withdraw it. They saved up the next installation of their story for that evening, when they had the time. Netflix were forgotten. Games fell out of favour. And life, thanks to the withdrawals, got a little easier.

Whoever wrote that unsigned note was right. They _should_ have been writing for Steemit all along.

[10] A tiny flat with one bedroom and a barely-there lounge. May feature a one- or half-arse kitchen. [enough space for one arse or half an arse] But most often, not so. Some have claustrophobic bathrooms, others have to share amenities with other bed-sits on the same floor.

#  Challenge #030: Why Am I Here?

<http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/156109857968>

"The world's best have been transported to a single building, each having their own field of expertise. You, an average Joe, have also been transported. You have no idea what you're so good at, but everyone else seems to be afraid of you." – Anon Guest

The right hand rule sucks. I kept finding myself back at my own marks. Upstairs, downstairs... everywhere was closed in. No exits existed. Not even in the extensive gardens that seemed to grow every food plant in existence... as well as a few food animals. Small ones. Not the large ones that needed a lot of upkeep.

There were homes. Flats, habitats, whatever you wish to call them. There were places that could have been shops if they weren't arranged by an alien. There were no checkouts. There was no security. Everything was fresh, clean and new. Scarily clean. It was like the whole place was a habitat for a human collection.

There were others here. The best of the bunch. For every job, the leading name in that field was here. Wherever here is. The best doctor. The best psychiatrist. The best gardener. The best cleaner. The best... everything. And then there's me. Someone from podunk nowhere with a dead-end job in cubicle hell. I don't get it. I'm not the best at anything.

All my life, I've been a C-grade student. I just... barely pass. We all have nothing to do, here. Everyone is healthy. Everyone can eat what they like, fresh or pre-prepared in the mall section of our... habitat. Everyone can read what they like out of the library wing. Everyone can watch or listen to what they like out of the media wing. I just have... more nothing to do than anyone else.

Everyone here is like a freaking genius. I'm just... me. And I'm sort of bored with all the choices we got in here. Everyone else has this sort of... society going. And then there's me. I just wander around and try to find ways to get out of here as soon as I think of them.

And the weird thing is... everyone else is afraid of me. I don't even know why. I'm friendly enough. I have good manners. I try different smiles on them all. No luck. Some of them are nice enough about it. Some are genuinely trying to get over it. Some... aren't. I try to avoid them.

What are they even scared of?

I can't figure it out, and the world's best psychiatrist won't tell me for some reason. People who actually talk about me fall silent whenever I come near. And the weirdest thing...

None of them want to get out with me. It's like... they'd be happier when I've figured out a way to get out of here...

#  Challenge #031: Here There Be Dragon

<http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/156113062734>

"The dragon was hoarding sheet music, and doing its darn best to play the comically undersized instruments it'd stolen to go along with them."

Sir Greenbaum edged into the dragon's cavern. Dragons were always tricky business. A kingdom with one in its realm proceeded with caution. Those who sent a Princess had to be certain of both the princess and the dragon. And as for this realm... well... their Princess still needed a wetnurse.

So they sent a knight. Specifically, they sent him. Kingdoms were overflowing with little boys wanting to be knights, young men training to be knights, and knights themselves. Apart from the expense of armour, knights were relatively expendable. Sir Greenbaum had long since decided that he would not expend himself needlessly.

This was why he painted his armour to blend more easily with the scenery. Why he silenced the soles of his metal boot with strips of bark. And why he managed to survive all his encounters with dragons, so far. He had to make it out every time. The dragons only had to beat him _once_.

As he stalked carefully into the cavern, giving his eyes plenty of time to adjust, he could hear... music. Well. Someone's vague attempt at music. Well. A reasonable guess at what music should sound like, played by someone or something that had both never held a musical instrument, nor never heard any music.

Greenbaum winced as he followed the sound. Did the dragon have a hostage already? Reports said that the beast had only been stealing _things_ , and not people. He followed the glow of dragon-crystals, keeping to the shadows, to gain a complete view of the scenario. And, much to his relief, he found that there were no hostages.

There was just a dragon.

Its hoard was endless reams of paper. Some sheets of which rested on a stand that was suspended on a web of cord from two stalactites. It's _other_ hoard seemed to be... musical instruments. But this was not the dragon's bed. The paper was.

Greenbaum crept up behind the dragon as it attempted to play a trumpet. The sheets of paper had scores on them. Musical scores. The trumpet playing stopped. "Hello and well met, sir knight," rumbled the dragon.

There was no other choice. Greenbaum stepped out from behind the hoard. But not very far. If it turned out that this dragon was a human-eater, it would have to incinerate its own hoard before it burned _him_. "Hail and well-met, master of the skies."

"Maestro, perhaps," corrected the dragon. "Let me guess. You are sent to be sure of me, yes?"

"Yes. Have you yet or do you plan to ravage our fair countryside?"

"Of course not. Your countryside inspires me. And at the most, I would need one cow a month. Do send up your oldest and sickest, I don't intend to be a menace. Two sheep if you haven't any cows."

That was... surprisingly undemanding of a dragon. "You may have perpetual trouble with trumpets, Maestro. May I suggest something akin to an oboe?"

This caught the dragon's interest. "Exactly... _how_... like an oboe."

And that, the story goes, is how the little kingdom of Vërtîngensplátz invented the double-contrabasso clarinet.

#  Challenge #032: The Universal Coin

"Be kind. Don't hurt other people. It's all the sort of Christian ethics stuff I thought was bullshit when I was a kid. No, it turns out it's not bullshit. Tell the truth, be kind, all that corny stuff." - Carrie Fisher

_Above all else, do no harm._ That had to be a law for landing in strange places and in weird circumstances. Of course... the landing couldn't be helped. Something there was that didn't like her landing in a complete set of clothing. And something always ate her left shoe, no matter how secure she thought it was when the 'gods' whipped her away.

Bloody Loki. If she saw their false faces again, she'd either kill them or die trying. Something of a plan, but no window of opportunity. The world stopped spinning and pushed the air out of her lungs and made breathing in again a very painful prospect. On the upside, it looked like she wouldn't be waking up tied to a stake and on top of a pyre in progress again.

"It's a demon! Kill it before it can gain power!"

And there came the other boot. Shayde could barely prop herself up and cast a Water Shield in time. Just take that which was given. Being mistaken for a demon always lasted longer when she pulled in available light to refresh her strength. She'd landed through a lot of glass and wood. Not deeply embedded, thank goodness. The good news... they spoke a variant of English. But their accent was barely understandable.

They'd probably have the same trouble with hers. She kept the Water Shield up, using the energy they were throwing at her. There was a _lot_ of energy. One beam from above almost hit her, it was only a chance that she caught the movement in time. And there... against the night sky... was a human flying unassisted. Beams of light shot out of his eyes and splashed into Shayde's shields.

_Superheroes?_ She hadn't thought that heroes were of a mind to be particularly religious. Well. Maybe not the ones she knew from the comics. This... was some semblance of real life. With real people who followed real rules that mattered to them. In an infinite multiverse, there _had_ to be one where superheroes were real.

"I can get the demon," shouted a very young voice.

"Christi! NO!" That was one of the... heroes? Since when did superheroines wear long skirts?

She didn't have time to worry about them, because someone hit her with a super-soaker. Her attacker was, at most, four years old, and dressed in a white... what she always had thought of as a "Nanna Nightie". _Little House on the Prairie_ style with the lace and everything. Their soaker was adorned with holy symbols.

_Oh good grief...._ A holy water-gun. Hardy har har. On the potential bright side... demons were meant to melt in holy water.

"Well," she chirped. "That's me soaked."

"Say a prayer! Quickly!" The presumed-mother-of Christi screamed.

The child ummed. "Now I lay me down to sleep..."

Screaming and chaos. That had been the wrong kind of prayer. Every male hero let loose with their powers in Shayde's direction. Which also happened to be Christie's direction. And Shayde could not let them harm a child. Which lead to more than a predicament as deadly powers were striking everywhere.

Shayde desperately zigzagged to keep the kid in the shadow of her shields while the kid kept trying to run away. The women weren't doing more than running up to the verge of safety and screaming. Completely unhelpful.

And then one unlucky shot concussed Christi into unconsciousness. Shayde hadn't thought that the women on the sidelines could scream any louder, but she was clearly wrong. Especially when she leaped to protect that small body. The men would be shooting at her all night.

She had to _show_ them that she meant no harm. Go against everything a demon might do. Like... appear on holy ground and surrender a child to a holy man. Shayde could only hope that the holy men here were nothing like the notorious ones she remembered from home.

Shayde had to pick up Christi with one arm, since the other was holding her shield up against every sling and arrow this lot had to throw. The pyrotechnics were impressive and almost drowned out the screaming. Concentrate. Find the best, closest place where she could be accepted as not-a-demon. Despite the energy they were pouring into her, she was still weak.

There. Inside the building. A chapel and there was a holy man in it. She gripped Christi close and fell with the kid into their own shadows.

_The briefest of absolute cold. The rage of whispering voices craving for life... any life... And then a burst of comparative heat and light that was the real world. A chapel lit with candles and decorated with the sign of the fish._ Shayde stepped out of the shadow of a column and stuck with one of the older lingua francas that she barely knew. "Sanctum sanctorum," she panted. "I nomini padre, et fili, et spritus sancti... infantus vivum...." And she probably mangled that much. But gesturing like she wanted to hand him Christi was a safe bet.

He snatched the kid out of her arms.

Shayde knelt on the floor, and laced her hands on her head. "Sanctum sanctorum... _mi_ sanctorum?" she tried.

Of course she got sprayed all over with holy water. Choked with incense. Covered in prayer until her ears were as numb as the Bishop's tongue. And when it was finally clear that she was not, as she seemed, a demon... they didn't know what to do with her.

Of all the dimensions that the 'gods' had sent her to fix... This was going to be a tricky one.

[AN: I derped and got to my prompts out of order. Very sorry to all those who were waiting]

#  Challenge #033: Intervention!

 http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/156115644693/a-superhero-chases-a-villain-into-a-dark

"A superhero chases a villain into a dark warehouse, only to have the doors close behind them. When the lights come on, the hero is surrounded by the full rogues gallery of supervillains. But this isn't an ambush... It's an intervention."

(ever see megamind?)

The lights came on, and Mighty Man expected a gigantic, hero-defeating trap to be revealed. No such thing. There were comfy chairs. And a throw rug. And a buffet table.

And everyone he had ever fought. Unarmed. Unthreatening. The Gram'ma Nazi had a pot of tea, and was doing nothing more threatening than pouring some. For herself.

"Mighty Man," said Mayor Threat, "This is an intervention. We know you're probably wondering why we banded together and if anything we have here is booby-trapped. And... well... we can't convince you it isn't."

"Make yourself comfortable, dear," said the Gram'ma Nazi. "We are going to be here for some time."

"What the hell's going on?" said Mighty Man.

"We all know you love righting wrongs," said The Prankster. "And to be completely fair, most of us are very wrong, indeed. The thing is..."

Master Arcana stepped forward. "Thou hast destroyed mine grand-daughter's birthday party! I were't merely casting illusions for the entertainment of mine neonates."

"And let's not forget what happened when I tried doing stand-up," said the Prankster. "You wrecked the entire night club."

"I paid for a new one," objected Mighty Man.

Lugubrious Lass sighed and rolled her eyes. "You can't just _buy_ your way out of all your problems, you millionaire maniac. Every single one of us were trying to retire from crime, and then _you_ busted in and busted us up. And everything else around you, too."

"I help support those who are innocent bystanders–"

"Yes, but you're not righting _wrongs_ ," insisted the Prankster. "You're _writing_ wrongs." He made a scribbling motion in the air. "Eh? Eh? Gettit?"

"I was baking cookies for the homeless when you trashed my retirement home," objected the Gram'ma Nazi. "They weren't even swastika-shaped."

"I could'a made it as an entertainer," said the Prankster.

"I _like_ doing neonatal celebrations," said Master Arcana.

"And I was finally taking _therapy_ ," said Lugubrious Lass. "You know? Instead of using my toxic tears to try and _buy_ happiness? Like you kind'a do?"

"Besides," croaked the Hippie Harridan, "You're harshing everyone's buzz, dig? We've seen, like, the error of our ways. Now it's your turn."

"But," objected Mighty Man. "Evil could spring up at any moment..."

" _This_ part of evil?" Lugubrious Lass made a circle in the air. "We've quit. It's just that you don't know it yet. We're not going to take over Megalopolis and then the world. We're not even taking over our own backyard."

"My hemp's totally legal," said the Hippie Harridan. "And personal use only, dude."

"Yeah. Thanks. Anyway. If evil just _happens_ to spring up if you take a holiday? I'm sure we've got it. You can keep your emergency signalling system and everything."

"Just take a break from our bones," said the Prankster. "We pinkie swear we won't turn evil if you fracture from your routine." He offered his littlest finger. It was not wired to anything.

Mighty Man frowned at them all. "You're _up_ to something..."

Lugubrius Lass flopped into her chair. "This is going to take _hours_..."

#  Challenge #034: Super Signals

 http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/156012408168/you-live-in-a-world-of-superheroes-and

"You live in a world of superheroes and supervillains. Each person gets three marks, one on their right hand to indicate their future arch nemesis, one on their left hand to indicate their side kick/partner, and one on their chest to indicate their powers and insignia. Today your marks show up and they're... Shocking, to say the least."

Everyone gets their Wakening at a different time. The symbol on the chest happens first. Ignore all the rumours going around about how it "burns through" to your super-suit. No. That won't happen. You have to get it copied by a professional.

And trust me, you need a professional. Loads of Supers start out by having their friend copy it, or doing it themselves. They always wind up with their sigil backwards or... hideously mutated. Girls like me get enough crap on the Super Scene. The last thing I need is a bad copy or worse, the hole in the shirt, to show the world who I am.

The chest symbol is a warning both for yourself and everyone around you. You and the authorities have two weeks to get any safety equipment into place. There's even a program for the Supers who Waken while living in poor areas. Governments who don't like funding that one get their own comeuppance. Trillions in property damage tends to really _teach_ people, you know?

Anyway, when I got the sigil for OP Opus, I was more than a little shocked. The rest of my family were in a _real_ hurry to pack me away to the Really Big Bunker. So much for, "We'll love you no matter what your powers are." Parents can be _such_ hypocrites. They were terrified of me. I could tell. That, and they haven't visited _once_.

The second one's the partner. We call it 'partner' now. Since so very many Supers got the whole Sidekick thing completely wrong. Besides, partner is how it always _should_ be. Shipping or no shipping. The one you work with has your back. There were others down in the Really Big Bunker with me. Other Supers. Older and younger. And some were really cute.

What? I might have the incipient powers of a white hole, but I'm still a healthy girl with healthy hormones and a growing libido. We all have needs.

So I'm training and getting used to my powers, and told day after day after day by the Super tutors that the last OP Opus was only called in when nothing else worked, so I _had_ to learn how to dial it in or learn to love living on that secret Earth Defence base on Ganymede. Blah blah blah blah... and my right hand started itching on its back.

The right hand, on the back, show's who your partner is.

Stella Starfriend. Alien babe and _way_ out of my league. Well. Look-wise. I'm pretty sure she's the only one in the Really Big Bunker who could beat me to a standstill. Well. When we're both at our peak performance. She's in my _Living Without Powers: What to do When a Villain Has Your Kryptonite 101_ class. And I have devoted _weeks_ to daydreaming about holding her hand.

I'm bi. She's... not. It's tragic, of course. What would a Super story be without at least one team-member with their heart on their sleeve for someone who completely misses every last signal that they're sending? Humanity. Give us super-powers and we still break ourselves again and again for the same old shit.

It took me two days to pluck up the courage to talk to Stella. She's part alien and all gorgeous and her hair literally has starlight in it. Like, actual twinkling stars in her hair. Rumour has it that her mom has a moon. But I never hold with rumour. And anyway, I'd have never gone near her if the damn Bunker Counsellor hadn't literally shoved me into her circle and announced that I, Julie Jackson, had something important to discuss with Stella.

I wanted to _die_.

Unfortunately, every single OP Opus in history has been patently unkillable. Trust fate to screw me while I'm still a virgin.

Anyway. I was blushing so hard I was steaming, and so tongue-tied that I could probably actually pronounce Gol'farxian. (They're... sort of neighbours, I guess) And all I could look at was her feet. I couldn't say a word. I just held up my right hand so that she could see it and mumbled something like, "this happened". And then I fainted.

Turns out whoever is the OP Opus can still pass out from forgetting to breathe.

When I woke up in the Bunker's hospital floor, there was Stella... and Timmy Tamil. He's one of the psychological fighters. Hit 'em in the brain, kind of thing. His right hand had my sigil. Mine had Stella's. And Stella... had his.

"What? So... we're a super-team or something? A power trio?"

Timmy shrugged. "Worse has happened." Gotta love the optimism of the Shrink Crowd. They've seen what's in our heads, most of them. That has to lead to outright cynicism.

And he was right. Right up until the day that our _left_ hands started itching on the back. I showed his sigil. His showed Stella's. And Stella... she apologised for having mine.

Nobody has ever had this happen before. Never in history. We're trying to work it out, ourselves? But I can kind'a tell already.

All three of us fight like cats in a wet sack.

#  Challenge #035: Signal of Doom

 http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/156012408168/you-live-in-a-world-of-superheroes-and

"You live in a world of superheroes and supervillains. Each person gets three marks, one on their right hand to indicate their future arch nemesis, one on their left hand to indicate their side kick/partner, and one on their chest to indicate their powers and insignia. Today your marks show up and they're... Shocking, to say the least."

(same prompt but this time, all the symbols are identical. If you did that the first time, something else.)

Not everyone gets to be Super. It's only fair. If everyone was Super, then it would just be Normal. And we all know that Normal is boring. And we also know that Supers need someone to rescue. It kind-of works out that way, I guess. And -hey- we all want to be Super, one day.

I thought I'd missed out. Turns out I'm a Late Waker. Mine happened in the beginning of phys ed, changing for the lockers, and someone noticed that I had what looked like a photorealistic sun on my chest. This was the first and only time I got out of phys ed because of puberty fallout.

I was the first one to get that sigil, so they shoved me inside the Really Big Bunker so fast that I hardly had time to _blink_. I got to live in the Heavy Assessment Labs. Punching things, kicking things, screaming at things. It was great therapy, don't get me wrong, but nothing was happening. And then, when I had reached my maximum frustration point, I blew up.

Literally. Like actually-exploded, blew up.

I can tell you now that exploding _hurts_. Especially growing myself back again from the smoke. Do you have any idea how much it _hurts_ to have new nerves? They always tell you to grow a brain, but god damn that's some agony, right there. The Bunker Mystics are trying to figure out how I remember everything once I "explosively discorporate" as they put it. I'm guessing whatever cosmic entity is using me as their entertainment figured everything would be easier if I had reincarnation memories that were just as good as living through it. Even when I'm smoky, I can eat real food. Both the Bunker Boffins _and_ the mystics are both trying to figure that one out.

They're calling me "The Neutralizer". Because my explosions are just as powerful as matter and antimatter neutralising each other. Hardy har har, you big bunch of nerds. That sun on my chest was what my explosions look like from the outside. They stylized it for my super suit. As you can guess, it's the cheap kind of super-suit that's easily replaced at minimum expense.

Guess I'm lucky I'm not fighting in a bikini and a mini-cape like _some_ heroes I know. Like that unlucky soul, Solar Flair. _He_ fights his battles in a Mankini because he needs as much sun as his skin can get. And he's red all over because he's _that_ mortified about it. Sooner or later, his confidence has _got_ to match those magnificent abs...

Ahem.

They're figuring out where to put me. Obviously Ganymede is out. I'd blow that up with me. Space is out, too. When I explode, I need a source of food and things to rebuild my body with. Earth is right out, unless they want to keep me locked up in the Hard Labs for the rest of my life. The good news is that my detonations are _not_ radioactive. And some smart-ass is trying to figure how to hook me up to a power grid.

Thanks, guy, but I'd very much rather _not_ power the world by dying every couple of months. Thank you _so_ very much.

Things got even more interesting when my right hand began to itch on the back. My ally sigil was turning up. Shocker - it was my sigil. Of course I'd have to rely on myself. I _explode_. Any partner at my side had better be either immortal or just as good at regenerating, or I'd kill them permanent-like.

The other shock came in a couple of weeks when my left hand was about to show me who my arch-nemesis was. I didn't want to believe it, but... it's my sigil, too.

I always figured I was my own worst enemy.

#  Challenge #036: Incautious Wishing

They go about their daily lives, unnoticed, but without them, things would soon fall apart. – Anon Guest

He'd got his wish. Those Types were gone from his country. They may even be gone from the world, but he didn't really care about anything beyond the borders that didn't make him money. This encapsulated quite an amount of uncaring for the world, had he cared about that, either.

He had exactly forty-eight hours to enjoy his newly-made paradise. No man remaining in his country was unemployed. In fact, businesses all over the country were scrabbling for employees. They even hired _women_ into traditionally male arenas because there were just so few people in the country to work.

And there was nobody to clean up. Offices remained as filthy as they were left. The trash began to pile up. The laundry began to pile up. The housework, not done by the working wives, piled up. Weekends, usually a time of rest and relaxation, filled to the brim with drudgery and monotonous maintenance.

The roads fell into disrepair. There weren't enough people in the work crews to repair them. The nation was depleted of everyone who did the hard work that went into maintaining the status quo. The invisible jobs that he hadn't thought were necessary.

He went back to the Djinn who had granted his wish. "This is not what I wished for," he complained.

"It sounds like the letter of your wish to me. All the -er- I won't use your exact wording, but all the non-white people you had slurs for have been removed."

"That's not what I wished for! I want all the lazy ingrates who never lifted a finger to help this great nation move forward, all the shiftless wonders and those out to suckle at the government teat, I want all the drains on this fair nation _gone_ , and all the honest, hard-working folks put _back_! I want this nation to really _work_ again!"

"As you wish," said the Djinn. He nodded his head once, and all the diversity of the nation (and perhaps the world) returned. He nodded his head again, and the ignorant man (and all others like him) vanished without a trace. The wish did come true, and his nation really did _work_ again. It was easy, now that people like him weren't in the way.

[AN: Apologies if this turns out to be the only text on this page]

#  Challenge #037: Pay Dirt

There's money in Muck. Points for referencing Harry King, he of the Golden River. – Anon Guest

Recycling is _de rigeur_ in space. Throwing something out into the void means having less of the thing that made it up in the first place. There's many a spacer who, setting foot on a planet for the first time, is astonished by rain, and water running down the gutters. Or, in the case of Earth, the trash mountains of the United States.

Spacers often make their money from scrounging the things that past peoples have thrown away or abandoned. Air, metal, minerals, even the electrical wiring can prove to be useful. Even the internal atmosphere, regardless of its contents, can be used for _something_.

Sooner or later, someone will use it or buy it. And some will even eat it.

But the most valuable and rare thing for spacers to encounter, the most precious resource of them all... is viable soil. They generate some out of their own waste or leavings. There's the Compost-O-Matic that churns organic waste into rich food for plant life, but dirt... genuine dirt... is worth more than gold or gemstones.

Everyone knows you can find both of those practically _anywhere_. The rare stuff is healthy dirt. Dirt that will let plants, vital to restoring atmospheres, grow and flourish. Having plants that are also food is something of a bonus, even if it _is_ frowned upon by the Galactic Nutrition Administration.

The phrase, "struck paydirt" has new meaning in Galactic Society. So when Gor'qax Tirrrq returned from a long haul with the third hold with significant amounts of dirt, other scavengers followed him. They wanted to cash in, too.

They followed hir to a small, rocky planet with vestigial life and very definitely fertile soil. All the way to what was, in essence, a dirt farm. Gor'qax would scrape off topsoil and sterilise the plants into mulch, and leave the stuff underneath to re-fertilise itself on his round trip through the local asteroid belt. Scavengers are not the most ethical of peoples at the best of times, so the vast majority of Gor'qax's stalkers picked an area suitably far away and started following hir lead.

Fortunately the Primitive Planet Protection Patrol is always on alert for Scavengers bringing in too much of a valuable commodity. It took them an astonishingly short two weeks to put it together and come to the rescue of a potentially viable world.

Since so many Scavengers were interested in protecting their investment, it became one among many Dirt Wars that have been fought in Society Territory. And it would definitely not be the last. It was, however, on record as one of the biggest.

Those who profited from their illegally-harvested dirt did not profit well. With each hundred Standard Weight Units they brought in, the price of dirt plummeted. Gor'qax had been careful. His followers had not. They still tell tales of the Great Dirt Crash of '77, even centuries after the crisis passed.

#  Challenge #038: World-Changing Invention

Imagine the real results of Star Trek's Transporter technology. – Anon Guest

It was for cargo, initially. And of course there were a subset of the populace who preferred things transported the old-fashioned way. Some who claimed to taste the difference. But by and large, many people didn't care. You could beam produce straight from the farm to the store, with very little in the way of processing in-between.

People noticed when their food was fresher and lasted longer. People also noticed that bugs came along for the ride. Some even made it through alive. Some made it through _inside_ the produce. Of course, someone had to fix that little flaw.

And it wasn't long after that that someone started transporting livestock. No more travel sickness. No more cargo holds riddled with disease.

And since the technology could be used for livestock, people began using it, too.

Plagues hit, soon after. Asymptomatic people spread their diseases as widely as they could travel, and they could travel far and fast. Religious sects sprang up claiming that getting active viruses swept out of the body was unnatural and against the word of their gods. They did not, apparently, condemn transportation on its own.

Laws were enacted, of course. Those who objected to any safety features of the transporter were no longer allowed to opt out of them. They had to take the transporter, or suffer slower modes of transit.

Most of the sects died out in a matter of months. As did the plagues that came with the unfiltered travellers. Persistent diseases vanished almost overnight. As did the concept of exoticism and rarity. It was no longer difficult to obtain resources, no longer expensive to do so. People soon realised that 'exotic' was a state of mind and 'rare' needed to be preserved.

There was no longer any way to sterilise one area for tourists. They could see for themselves that standards were vastly different. Some used it as an excuse for racially-based snobbery, but they were a dying breed. The rest... shared. They helped. And expected nothing.

It took a long time, of course, but humanity made its world better by slow degrees. Very, very _slow_ degrees, because humanity loves to cling to its old ways, but progress is progress, no matter how crawling.

Then some smart-arse figured out how to make a replicator, and it started all over again.

#  Challenge #039: Guarded Mundanity

"There is no point at which you can say, 'Well, I'm successful now. I might as well take a nap'." - Carrie Fisher

Success is the closest thing there is to perpetual motion. One begins by striving for it. Once it is obtained once, the struggle becomes to maintain it. After that, success becomes a higher rung. Higher and higher. Almost impossible to attain. With more people admiring and watching, there are higher standards from everyone.

Only those who can take the pressure continue to greater success. It's perpetual effort. Rarely slowing down.

Scavenger Taren was just beginning to learn this. One lucky strike had to be followed by the next lucky strike. Some of which can be directly attributed to learning where the good stuff is. Every rookie makes the mistake of collecting resources that are rare where they come from. It takes more than a few weeks to watch the markets and then get a feel for what resources are needed and where.

Cat-napping while her automated systems sought out potentials and headed for them whilst also avoiding risks. There's always that one abandoned vessel that has more boobytraps than a fictional villain's lair. And then they left it for some luckless schlub to either disarm or detonate. You either get good at the first one, or wind up dead from the second.

Taren devoted herself to studying all kinds of booby traps. Anything that had a trap attached to it had to be worth learning to defuse it. Mostly.

This trip was a short haul. Newbies learned quickly that long hauls full of noob scrattle don't get much in the way of Time. taren learned second-hand, and took the advice to heart. Short hauls until she got the feel for profitable and unprofitable. She was still doing short hauls, but she had enough knowledge to defuse a few of the really interesting booby traps in a long-abandoned vessel. Including using remote waldoes to do all the fiddly stuff.

One door down, untold traps to follow.

Taren breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door. And her well-earned result was revealed as... room upon room of stored science data and personal logs.

Well... maybe the Archivaas would pay for some of it.

#  Challenge #040: Dis-possessed

"There is no room for demons, when you're already self-possessed" - Carrie Fisher

The demon Az'bar'bijol, once summoned, launched itself at the luckless human who was foolish enough to read its incantation out loud. And almost got the spiritual equivalent of a concussion when it was repelled by a possessing force already in residence, so to speak.

"Nice try," said the human. "But you can't do that with me. And... soon as I whip up a binding spell, you won't be free to do mischief in the mortal realm either."

"What?" said the demon Az'bar'bijol. "How?" It looked around. The human had made a perfect summoning circle and made certain that it could not exit through any crack. And it was ringed about with sea salt. "Why?"

"Well, that's all the questions bar 'where' and 'when'," chirped the human. She took down a tome that was dripping with bookmarks as if she had done this many times before. "I'm a preventative witch, and I'm removing evil from the mortal plane, one demon at a time. Which means summoning them or exorcising them into a containment area and binding them against any further evil deeds. That answers 'what' and 'how'. As for why..." the witch turned on the TV to the news.

War. Famine. Pestilence. Death. Not the horsemen, but the abstract concepts they were named for. Ceacelessly. All over the world. Destruction in all its many forms.

"I didn't do _that_ ," objected the demon Az'bar'bijol.

"Not directly, no. You whispered in a few ears. You tipped a couple of scales. You slid a rock a few important millimeters, knowing the waves it would cause. And this is the result. So... to try and turn this _down_ a notch, I'm binding you and any others like you that I can catch. Without absolute evil, maybe absolute good could have a chance at running this mess of a world."

Az'bar'bijol settled on a solid form. Bland and uninteresting. Nondescript, because true evil slips by all those who are watching for it. "All right. Fine. You can spend the rest of your life trying to cleanse evil that way. But I really want to know... how did you repel my possession? I must have taken thousands of witches like you in my time."

The witch grinned. "You want the long story or the short story?"

"I'm not going anywhere...."

"I was in a coma. At least, that was what the doctors were saying. I knew I was dead, because I was watching myself from outside of myself. Technically, I was a ghost. I couldn't go to heaven. I wouldn't go to hell... so I thought about possessing my empty body. All I had to do was wait until my previous protections wore off. And learn how to use my body again. No biggie. And now I happen to be demon-proof."

"No," whispered the demon Az'bar'bijol.

"Yes. I'm self-possessed. You and your kind can't get me."

#  Challenge #041: Inconvenienced

"In my opinion, a problem derails your life and an inconvenience is not being able to get a nice seat on the un-derailed train." - Carrie Fisher

"This is an enormous problem," opined the Ambassador for Greater Deregulation (Second West). "ANd if we have a problem, then _you're_ going to have a problem."

This sounded like a threat... but the logic behind it escaped Drixal. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I was under the impression that _you_ needed vital soil regeneration techniques from _us_. How is this a problem?"

"The _problem_ is that you aren't the fellow we started the deal with."

"Of course not. Praxx was a minor trader and low-grade scavenger with no authority to complete the deal. The identity of the one dealing with you is a mere inconvenience. I am much further up the heirarchy and therefore able to expedite the transaction."

"You can't be," scoffed the Ambassador Don. "You're a _woman_. I demand to speak to your boss. Put _him_ on the line. Your existence is an affront to our freedoms."

_What?_ Drixal kept a neutral face. "Sir, there are no males working above me. As Ambassador in Evidence, my boss would be none other than the Brood Queen of my hive. She has state duties, and has deferred to me as her legal adjunct. Males in our society are not trusted in important tasks. They are too emotional."

"Too emotional?" The human on the other end of the comm link repeated that phrase with increasing disbelief and anger. They seemed to be making their point by yelling as loud as they can and not allowing Drixal a word in edgewise. Most of the words that shot out of their mouths with flecks of frothy spittle made no sense in or out of context.

She waited politely for them to finish. Or nearly pass out from the lack of air. They reached a standstill with smug grins on their pale, floppy faces. As if they saw her as a rude interloper who had just been Educated.

"Males do not have the authority to trade," said Drixal. "If you do not wish to do business with a female, then this trade is cancelled."

Now they threatened her and her hive with battle, war, and heinous death. The calmer she remained, the angrier they got. They yelled about their weaponry. They yelled about the might of their population. They yelled about how it would be so _easy_ for them to just take over the Zz'zz'k and then take what they wanted. Their god, apparently, was on their side. They could launch everything at her and her hive in a matter of seconds.

Having assessed their weapons and knowing she had countermeasures that would render them useless, Drixal said, "Go ahead. Launch everything. Once you get our technology, you'll need a living Zz'zz'k to teach you how to use it. Unfortunately, if your weapons are as effective as you say they are, there will be neither technology nor Zz'zz'k remaining. And you will still have... what did your distress call say? Dwindling food supplies, a population sinking into famine and disease, and the majority of your planet turning into a dust bowl. Alternately, we can leave... and let you decide whether the help that is here outweighs the help that may not arrive in time."

One of the human males on the other side of the commlink slammed his hands on a large, red button. Drixal watched out the window as hundreds of missiles struggled into orbit, and then failed to detonate.

"And for no extra charge," Drixal added, "we will remove those fission bombs from your orbit before they become... a problem."

As if to prove her point, a small swarm of scavenger vessels emerged from the central hive and scooped up the warheads. Fissionables had some limited value in certain sections of the Galactic Alliance. They just had to render it safe for transit. And the irradiated metals that the humans used could have uses... somewhere... maybe some other Deathworlders would pay for it, someday.

"Now," said Drixal, still calm and collected, unlike the red-faced and raging males who wanted to appear near her in person and somehow beat their way into being victorious, "Do we have a deal, or do you wish to keep your problem?"

They took a very long time to decide.

#  Challenge #042: One Dull Afternoon in an Ambassadorial Office

"I feel I'm very sane about how crazy I am." - Carrie Fisher

Rael slowly turned to glare at Ambassador Shayde. She had said this out of the blue, apropos of nothing, and continued browsing on her personal screens as if nothing had ever happened. He took an educated guess, "Quote of the day?"

"Twitter feed," said Shayde. "That's definitely sommat I missed out on. One hundred and forty letters tae say somethin' cool. Brevity bein' th' soul o' wit an' all."

"Must have been a very witty era," muttered Rael. Inwardly praying to any god -with nothing better to do- to accept the prayer of an atheist, and stop Shayde bringing more human inanity from the twentieth century back from the dead.

"Eh, loads of 'em are word salad," dismissed Shayde. "Only a few are treasure troves."

And this explained her randomly saying things that made no contextual sense. "You _are_ aware that you don't _have_ to be in your office and working. This sounds like non-priority material."

"Someone, somewhere, is waitin' fer it. And since I'm an Ambassador wi' nowt else tae do but this stuff..."

Rael, also working on low-priority desk tasks, restrained himself from sarcasm. "I'm sure the people in your queue appreciate your dedication."

This earned a snort of a laugh. "Let me guess. Yer bored off of yer pecs waitin' fer me tae be done fartin' aboot."

Succinct and insensitive as always. At least she was an equal-opportunity insulter, and aimed lots of her peculiar invective at herself. "In essence, yes."

Shayde yawned and stretched, showing off her fangs as well as her lithe physique. "Awright. I officially declare this cakie o'clock. Let's grab a wee bite an' see what's on."

_She was raised in an era without digital facilities to check before or during a refreshment activity,_ Rael reminded himself. Then again, her erratic, rambling journeys through odd corners of the station had been... highly educational. He wondered how many people trod the same pathways without ever knowing what they passed by. "You understand that I'm only in this for the cake."

"Naturally," chirped Shayde. She locked her desk's screen and scooped up the coat that she hardly ever wore. But since she was also a JOAT, she had to have it with her. "It wouldn't be an adventure wi'out cake."

#  Challenge #043: Self-lost Man

"I don't feel very much like Pooh today," said Pooh.

"There there," said Piglet. "I'll bring you tea and honey until you do." – Anon Guest

Ax'and'l found his human business partner in an odd position in the hallway. His legs were up the wall, and the rest of his body was sprawled across the floor. "You are not due for Silly Season, yet. Are you unwell?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not feelin' myself."

"In a public area? I should hope not."

"Not like _that_..." Hwell sighed. He must be feeling unwell to not turn that into an off-colour aside. "I'm just... not very 'me' right now. It's weird. I've always known how to have fun with everything, but... it's not as fun, any more. I'm just... not... Hwell-ish."

Ax'and'l wanted to view this as a good sign, but he was well aware that Hwell's capacity for chaos also came with a capacity for bizarre and ridiculous profits. The loss of his 'Hwell-ish' qualities could potentially be a massive loss to Ax'and'l metaphorical black ink.

And since they were currently between stops, Ax'and'l had to get creative about the solution to this 'Hwell-ish' lack with what he had on board. And, as far as Hwell was concerned, the cure for everything had to be his grandmother's Irish Stew. Hwell kept the ingredients in stasis, just in case, and the recipe in the ship's archives for the same reason.

"Get comfortable in the mess," Ax'and'l soothed. "I'll feed you Irish Stew and Ginger Tea until you feel more... 'Hwell-ish' again."

#  Challenge #044: Puzzling Piece

"And when you're young you want to fit in. Hell, I still want to fit in with certain [sophonts], but as you get older you get a little more discriminating." - Carrie Fisher

Even when he didn't have the words for it, Rael knew that he was different from his creche sibs. They were able to do more, work more efficiently. They didn't need as much of the hosts of chemicals they regularly added to Rael's mostly-liquid body. They did not need to use the cheats he used just to perform to specifications.

He learned the wounding dismissal of "stress test version" and "most-failure success". He was the worst product they could make before the genes failed and turned out another Cleaner.

Ayg, the first of the line, was perfection incarnate. The display model. The one they showed off to prospective contract buyers. Those who saw Ayg would likely get the mass-produced others. Trained and run through their paces before they ever saw a non-lab environment.

But the company who made him, Wave of the Future, would not let their potentially profitable test versions lay idle. Rael, Kint, and Ayg - in order, the buggy test run, the industry standard, and the sparkling show model - would be rented out to organisations that wanted to get in on the newest gengineering gadget.

Rael was almost always shipped off to the low bidders. Thrust wholesale into an environment where his vocabulary was limited to understanding the basic lexicon of commands to obey and no more. Where vital food supplies depended on his ability to work fast and work well.

Where his life hinged on his next meal.

Rael worked according to specifications. Watched as he was swapped out for a newer, better model and sent on to some other organisation. He was the trial version. Sign with us and get a free better model.

Sooner or later, he would be scrapped. Rendered into component molecules to make something... new and improved. Which meant that his only course of release from his predicament was in attempting to communicate with those renting him from Wave of the Future. Difficult when he didn't know much of the language. More so when the people using him thought he was malfunctioning.

Arguing, even limited arguing, got interesting results. People started to wonder if the Faiize were really what Wave of the Future said they were. People started to enquire about the exact nature of Faiize adaptability.

Rael got shuffled between places a lot faster, after that. But it was too late. Other Faiize, ones who were not as flawed as he was, were catching on. They, too, recognised that their situation was precarious at best. They, too, recognised the need to be... well... _recognised_.

Malfunctions and odd behaviour were spreading like a virus. News was getting around. And yet, every time he returned to the factory, he did his utmost to perform according to specifications. It was one thing to stand out to others, but standing out to the makers possibly meant molecular reclamation and his inevitable doom.

And the next destination always had the hope that this time, _this_ time, there would be freedom at the other end of his trials.

#  Challenge #045: Convoluted Revenge

"Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die." - Carrie Fisher

There had never been a more elaborate plot to advance a child in the history of anywhere. It was so elaborate that it didn't come to light until years after the fact, when they found Chatelaine Fairweather's diary.

It began, as most things do, with a snub. Chatelaine Fairweather's daughter was passed over for advancement to the Lady's Maid, or even one of them, in favour of a cousin with all the brains of a mayfly. And the worldly experience of one, too. But since the Lady's Maid was also the feast's cup-bearer for the Lady and her staff, the Chatelaine came up with a plan.

First, she gained a favourite cup, and instructed the witless Lady's Maid to always bring her drinks in _that_ cup. But she made certain that nobody else heard the instruction. It was a cheap thing of gilded bronze and glittering glass, appropriate for the Chatelaine's station.

Then, she started discreetly adding nightshade essence to her wine. Nightshade that she made certain that the Lady's Maid procured for her. She claimed distress in her vitals, and urged the maid to keep it a secret from everyone. Including the apothecary who made the nightshade essence.

Publically, Chatelaine Fairweather pleaded for her daughter to be considered. She said that the witless one had her merits, certainly, but her own daughter had far more. All while the vacant cousin was serving as decoration in the room.

And she made a present of a Virtue Knife, come the feast day for maidens, to the witless Lady's Maid.

All the while, she showed increasing signs of nightshade poisoning.

Fairweather never said anything more against the Lady's Maid, other than her campaigning in favour of her daughter. She let other gossips' tongues wag. And wag, they certainly did.

Everyone knows she visits the apothecary once a week.

Everyone knows that she has it out for the Chatelaine's daughter.

Such a dedicated mother, trying so hard despite her illness. That girl of hers definitely has more smarts.

I wouldn't hurry to say that, dear. It looks like our maid has more wits than you think. Haven't you noticed the Chatelaine's failing health? Why, she falters after every feast day. Regular as the tide.

On the night she died, just as she planned, she had tea and cakes brought up to her room, and invited the Lady's Maid. She had told her friends that it was time to make peace with the girl. Once away from prying eyes, Chatelaine Fairweather asked to see the virtue knife, to be sure her gift was well-kept. Then, she feigned an attack, sending the Lady's Maid running for assistance.

And finally, after carefully kicking about her room to make it look like a fight had gone on, Chatelaine Fairweather slit her own throat and stabbed at herself. Her last act was to throw the bloodied knife towards the door.

She drifted in and out of consciousness. The castle healers did what they could for her, and she lived long enough to accuse the witless Lady's Maid of stabbing her. She said, "I only wanted peace between us... and she... cut me... with the very knife I gave her..."

Chatelaine Fairweather lived long enough to see the Lady's Maid hanged for her treachery. Weeping and bawling about her innocence all the way to the gibbet.

Ironically, it was her daughter, elevated to the status of Head Housekeeper, who found the diary and her mother's plan. Since both parties involved were long dead, the bones of each were treated accordingly. The bones of the innocent Lady's Maid were pardoned and interred on holy ground, and Chatelaine Fairweather's remains were ground to powder and added to the general, malodorous contents of the moat.

#  Challenge #046: One Depressing Interlude in a Cosy Home

"Once it was proposed to me that it was all right to be like I am, I finally quit apologizing for it." \- Carrie Fisher

Ami collapsed into her comfort nook. "If anyone wants me, I'm no longer in existence."

Tam sighed and put down her project in her mini-workshop. "Bad day at the office?"

"...it's a wonderful day for the creative spirit," Ami mumbled. She curled up tighter on herself and turned on the tiny lights that turned her nook into rainbows.

"Need me to climb in with you and be your teddy bear?" offered Tam.

"I need chocolate and crying time."

Tam got up from her hobby work and thrust a box of tissues inside the nook. "Chocolate will come. You want liquid or solid or both?"

"Both is good. Both is very good."

That made it and _extremely_ bad day. "Cake as well."

"O _Powers_ , yes."

Wow. Tam set up the orders on the food printer and began working on the hot chocolate. Knowing Ami as she did, she could guess. Artists had certain soul-drains in their lives. "Let me guess. You had to socialise, _and_ put up with people telling you how to do your job."

"And nobody wanted to buy anything. Someone wanted me to do the exact same thing in shades of green." A deep breath and a long sigh. "I... _hate_... green."

Tam finished the first hot chocolate. "Sit up, love. I put in two pink marshmallows and gave you extra foam."

Ami shuffled around, half-wrapped in the very fluffy blanket. Her face was puffy and soaked with tears. Her hair was a mess. "Powers bless," she muttered as she accepted the insulated mug. "I had twelve different people tell me that their kid could do what I do. Five of them told me to my face that my work was _garbage_. One wanted to buy a wall-sized piece for their _nursery_... if it had just a _little_ more purple in it. Because purple was their three-year-old's favourite colour."

By now, the cake had finished printing, as well as some extra chocolate squares. Tam ferried that to the nook and balanced the plate on the tiny little table by Ami's side. "Okay, so you had a raving swarm of the unknowing, today. People who have no idea what you do or how hard it is to do it. They never will know, most likely."

Ami was in a chocolate trance from her first mouthful. She chewed in slow motion and only swallowed when she had to. "I needed that. Thank you."

"Ready for hugs?"

"Yeah, come on in here. And turn on something animated. I need cartoons."

"Garbage entertainments with garbage food to round off a garbage day," Tam chirped. "Comin' right up. And remember - it's all okay."

Ami leaned against her. "Best. Snuggle-buddy. Ever."

#  Challenge #047: In Memorium

No matter how I go, I want it reported that I drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra. - Carrie Fisher

Official reports be damned. There was a way she wanted to be remembered, and that is how those who loved her reported it. All over the world. Even in the news. They named the official cause, but added, "she wanted it known that she drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra."

It was poetry, and it persisted. For as long as they loved her. Which was a shockingly long time.

"Did she really," said Shayde, evidently playing 'catch up' during her daily shift in her Ambassadorial offices.

Rael, also processing Ambassadorial paperwork, did not look up. "I can't answer a non-sequiteur and you know it."

"Says 'ere Carrie Fisher drowned in moonlight. Strangled by her own bra." She tapped the screen for emphasis. "Did she really?"

Rael considered the imagery for a solid minute. After his brain got a cramp from the effort, he said, "How is that even physically possible?"

Shayde only had a shrug.

Rael looked it up, sufficiently diverted and checked the date. "This is a pre-Shattering event. It can't be possible." He contacted the Archiivas responsible for sending Shayde news from her time about the discrepancy.

The ping back read, _It was as she wished it reported,_ and nothing more.

"Sounds like a way to go out, mind," said Shayde. "Besides peacefully in yer sleep, ye ken."

O Powers. The conversation had turned macabre. "Or betrayed by your own genes at an unspecified end-run time," he said. It was his predicted cause of death, and his makers were stingy with his predicted time limit. On purpose, the flakkers. "Or simply... betrayed by your own genes."

"Could be worse," said Shayde. "Ye could be effectively immortal, agin' slowly an' watching everyone you know and love age and die all around ye."

Crap. This one was going to take more than cake and a small adventure. "If it looks like I'm going, I'll use all my savings to make you an effectively-immortal Augment to keep you company. How's that?"

"Jus' remember I'm a cat person, aye?"

"Aye," he echoed. Then he contemplated how, exactly, anyone could possibly drown in moonlight.

[AN: So long, Carrie, and thanks for all the adventures]

#  Challenge #048: The Nature of Hell

http://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/156684722295

"Due to a loophole in the system, people can escape hell and get to heaven after death. You go to hell and all you see is Satan, just sitting there playing the harmonica. Everyone left him and now he's all alone."

Jean Paul Sartre said that hell is other people. He could not be more wrong. Though other people have their disadvantages, the true hell is loneliness. Hell was made to be vast, with room to every sinner in existence. It was made to be unpleasant. It has room to contain every nightmare.

But sinners are sinners for a reason. They lie, cheat, and steal. And all the other things. It's no great stretch for a soul, once in hell, to immediately look for loophole. After all, what is sin without redemption? So all mortal sinners find their way out of hell. It takes time and effort, but time, at least, is meaningless in hell. Effort, however, is triple.

Nevertheless, eventually, all souls leave hell except one.

The one who was sent there to begin with.

Imagine for one moment, that you are there. An endless cavern that is both stiflingly hot, and deathly cold. Place that is both soupishly humid, and dryer than the dark side of the moon. A place where every nightmare you've ever had is lurking just around the next corner. And in that place, there's only one other person. If you could call them that.

Call them what you will: Lucifer, Morning-star, The Bringer of Light, Satan... Everybody has their own name for them. They are pretty much stuck down there for eternity. Suffering.

There will try to make you stay. Try to convince you, somehow, that you are better off down with the devil than up in your own Elysian Field. Try to tell you that there is no longer a way out of hell. Try to distract you from the nightmares. Try to tell you that they're not _really_ nightmares.

Of course, they are also known as the father of lies.

You'd know that, and immediately start searching for an exit. Perhaps other lost souls left clues for you, that you can follow. Perhaps you work it out for yourself. Either way, you leave hell without looking back once.

Leaving the one resident alone. Again.

Waiting for one, kind soul to help them.

#  Challenge #049: The Fundraising Franger

This is an Aussie thing, you go to vote locally, and outside will be a barbecue set up selling snags (sausages), wrapped round with a slice of bread, onions and sauce, plus soft drinks. Fundraisers for good causes. No politics, just, "tomato or barbecue, Mate?" Those of us who are on diets or vegans usually donate the price of a 'snag'. – Anon Guest

First, they came for the cake stall, and Valerie didn't speak up because cake was a sometimes food, and there were far too many fat people coming to the polls. Including herself. She did not want the extra temptation of patriotic lamingtons to fund the school library or whatever.

Next, they came for the markets, and Valerie didn't speak up because it was all people selling each other their household junk for a spare dollar. It was despicable and unclean. She could never be certain how much that anything sold there was broken or otherwise faulty.

Then they came for the raffles, and Valerie didn't speak up because raffles were yet another form of gambling. Everyone knew that gambling was a drain on household budgets across the nation. Besides, the meat tray or gift basket was never worth it.

On the day that they changed the sausage sizzle to a _tofu_ sausage sizzle, Valorie didn't object. Everyone knew that a vegetarian or vegan diet was healthier than omnivorousness. They also swapped the bread to wholemeal, and replaced the usual tomato sauce with something that had been made out of beets.

It had to be good. Everyone said so.

But year after year, election after election, everyone kept getting sicker. More and more mobility scooters turned up to the polls. Children were taking medication to keep themselves functioning, both physically and mentally.

Valerie didn't understand it. Everyone she knew was doing everything the government told them to do. Everyone bought everything that was healthy. Something had to be wrong, but she could never figure out what. Until the Weirdo Family moved into the neighbourhood.

That wasn't their name, of course, but Valerie called them that inside her head. They installed some weird hydroponic rig in their backyard, which the cops insisted was just another kind of garden. They were rarely at the shops. They never drank coffee or went to the take-out places. They went for walks through the winding streets of the cul-de-sacs, talking about all sorts of weird things.

And, very occasionally, they would buy a quarter of a cow, bring the carcass home in boxes, and spend the evening filling their freezer with it.

They were a very strange lot. But they were also fit, healthy, and happy. They donated the price of the patriotic tofu snag-in-a-slice and debunked to the picnic tables to share an entire, pre-cooked chicken.

Valerie had to pilot her mobility scooter over to them and ask, "How do you do it? You're eating to kill yourself and none of you look sick... _How_?"

"We did a lot more homework than the government health people do," said the mother, her hair dyed a vicious green. She had more muscles on her than Valerie's husband. "Turns out the dietary recommendations are a lie."

The father, a shaggy thing with piercings, said, "Go paleo. You might be surprised."

"Or at least go Whole Foods. That's a good place to begin." The mother grinned. "Slow cookers will be your best friend for a month or so."

And since her doctors were talking emergency surgery... Valerie felt the need to try any kind of alternative. The Weirdo mother was right. Slow cookers were her best friend for a while. And an amazing thing began to happen. When she prepared everything from scratch, she started feeling better. The danger signals began to reverse.

She started doing her homework as well. Looking into Paleo and Keto and all the other alternative lifestyles that had been decried as slow suicide by the media. Looking into where the funding was coming from for all those studies and alarmist reports.

As her health improved, she told her friends about the lies. About the insidious creep of sugars into pre-prepared foods. Some listened. Some dismissed her as a weirdo. But she was not silent after that.

She got together with the Weirdoes every election to run a Cooked Chook stall to raise money for homeless kids. And hand out pamphlets about how diets really should work. It wasn't world-changing, but it was a beginning.

#  Challenge #050: One Dark Night in a Disreputable Alley

"If you get arrested, I don't know you."

"Love you too,"

Sam had to remind herself to keep watching the street. "No you don't," she said. "There's no non-vocal indicators in your general behaviour, and you have a complete lack of interest in anything I say that's not crime-scene related."

Behind her, at the distance of plausible deniability, Frank kept twiddling with the lock. "It's metaphorical love, Sanguine."

"So... a lie." Sam checked the other way without making it look like she was checking the other way. She checked her watch for verisimilitude. "And not acting."

Frank sighed. "Not... quite. We're friends. Well, at least we get along pretty well and we are a good team."

"Yeah..." Sam allowed.

"And I would be pretty upset if something bad happened to you. That's a kind of love."

The windows that could see her were shut. Sam leaned against the wall. The street was empty, as were the connecting streets. "We're breaking a whole bunch of rules with this. Anything we find is poison fruit."

"Not if we leave it where it is," said Frank. The lockpicks finally worked and the door popped open. "One anonymous tip to the hotline, and then our force has probable cause."

"It's still cheating. I'm not going in."

"Suit yourself. You'll just be alone, outside, and in the dark." This had to be the fifth time he tried to manipulate her with her fears.

"I'm not in the dark, I'm under a street light." Sam touched the keychain in her pockets that doubled as a punch dagger. "And I'm not alone."

"Just ring me if you see anyone coming by." Frank ducked into the building, using his phone as a light.

The night was silent after that, which was good, because Sam preferred the quiet. It was the sort of night that could make one believe that the entire world had gone on vacation. Somewhere, someone's dog had to bark at something. A distant, half-hearted bark. As if the dog was too tired to bother putting a good effort into it.

A cat scurried down the road, as if fleeing the site of a robbery. Sam squinted to be sure that it didn't have diamonds or someone's wallet in its teeth. Other than that, there was little other company but the buzzing of the street light. If this were television, this would be the ideal time for some implausible ninja to sneak up on her and abduct her so that Frank would have an action/adventure plotline.

Which was why Sam kept her back to the bricks and her dominant hand threaded into the kitty-knife keychain. And why she watched everywhere that an implausible ninja could be lurking.

Frank snuck up on her and nearly got stabbed. "Nothing. I locked up after myself. My hunch was a dead end."

"I keep telling you that your hunches are no more reliable than a dice roll. Can we go back to the office and work this out like I used to?"

Frank rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. I'll even put up with your thinking music."

Sam gave him a rare smile. "Sometimes, your hunches pay off, but I would prefer to have evidence to enforce it." They walked to Frank's car, and Sam dug out her ear-protectors so she could stand to ride in the ageing vehicle.

"I'm getting it fixed next week, I swear," said Frank.

"You said that last week," said Sam. "You say that every week."

#  Challenge #051: This House is Not Haunted

http://goddammitstacey.tumblr.com/post/155552788003

"I just turned to my housemate and said, "y'know, we'd never know if we were haunted" because we have four cats between us, so every clunk, bump, and crash gets entirely ignored

and now I want a movie about a ghost becoming increasingly desperate to haunt a family but they have cats and so the poor dear goes completely ignored"

I was, once.

Nothing more than that. Simply that I _was_ , once. As in, I was a single lady living alone. I was incredibly protective of my home and my things. I was alive. Not any more. I'm still in my house and I don't like it when other people move in. I make... trouble.

Shifting things around. Throwing things off of their places. Moving things into odd places. All the usual poltergeist stuff. And it did work for years. I kept my house all to myself. And then _they_ moved in. Two nice lesbians and their five cats. They say ghosts and cats don't get along. They don't know anything.

Cats _ignore_ ghosts. Except when they really want to chase something, and then it just looks like Kitty's Crazy O'clock. Knocking over things and moving things doesn't really work. The cats are just as good at it as I am. Possibly better. Bumps in the night are also an excellent occupation for cats.

I did not die violently, so I can't manifest blood on the walls. The most I can do is wreck their stuff. And, as I said, the cats are just as good at it as I am. My attempts at talking to them is also easily masked by the cats' chaos.

The lesbians, in so far as I can tell, are living happily ever after. My best hope is if they manage to adopt or engender a kid, and then become the creepy invisible friend. Which doesn't seem likely, because these ladies prefer having the cats.

I _wish_ I could do anything about it. But... I _was_ good at this.

AN: Thanks to _The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing_ for the title of this piece :D It's also a [song that I rather like.]

#  Challenge #052: Fascinating...

For the "Humans are space orcs": Aliens can only focus on one thing at a time. They're far more efficient because they hyperfocus and complete any task in a far shorter amount of time. So humans penchant of talking/humming/listening to music while working is both distracting and baffling. – Anon Guest

Half the crew were watching the ship's human in their segregated kitchen. Terran music blared at maximum allowed volume, and the human sang slightly louder. Inside the quarantine zone, three pots were on the hotplates and the human was gyrating in the tiny space as they sang.

They seemed to be spelling out a word repetitiously, but that was not the source of the fascination. The human was cooking as they danced. Dividing their attention between three pots. Poking with the appropriate tools and sometimes juggling them as they went.

Even Captain P'k'rd was entranced. However, as leader of hir Rin'kathi crew, hir duty was to the proper functioning of the ship, and therefore had the mental fortitude to tear hir eyes away from the display and focus on the intercom. "Crewbeing Jek'sun... You are disrupting my crew with... whatever you're doing..."

"Makin' my lunch, Cap," Jek'sun poured the contents of one pot into another and stirred it while they turned the un-used hotplate off. "It's my downtime. And you said I'd have to entertain myself, so..." Jek'sun finished that thought with a shrugging gesture that encompassed their quarantined space. "I'm getting it all done at once."

"At once," repeated P'k'rd. "That is not possible."

"My kind do it all the time. We call it _multitasking_. It's why I like to have a headphone when I'm working. Music helps me concentrate."

"As does the -ah- 'casual game' you have running in one corner of your screen?" which had make P'k'rd wonder if the human was selling hir a line, somehow. But, Jek'sun showed excellent performance at all times, so there was little ze could reprimand them for.

"That one stops me dozing off at my desk, we discussed this." Two hotplates turned off at once whilst Jek'sun was talking. Then each pots contents became part of a different container. Portions of each in a bowl, and the rest went into small, serving-sized stasis boxes for a later date. "As long as I have something to do, I stay awake. Otherwise I doze and that impedes my function in your hive."

It was... incredibly perplexing. P'k'rd had heard of other beings like this. The four-armed Gyiiks, for example, could divide their attention between four recipes at once, seemingly without any concern at all. And yet, there this human was, paying attention to a conversation whilst music played, and also finishing up the preparation of their lunch.

"I may have to restrict the viewing of your... downtime. This event has caused my ship to cease functioning."

"Understood. Initiating privacy shields." And with a flick of a switch, the windows turned opaque, and the music ceased in mid-spelling.

P'k'rd was going to have to look up the human concept spelled R-E-S-P-E-C-T at a later date. For now, it was hir duty to remind the crew of theirs.

#  Challenge #053: A Lucky Escape From Grebnak 5

"Is that going to blow up?"

"Well, I mean, only if i mess up,"

"Hwell," sighed Ax'and'l, "put the concoction _down_."

"Relax, I know what I'm doing."

"I will not relax, I have fifteen near-death encounters as evidence in my favour." Ax'and'l considered those past incidents, "Including seven where you said you knew what you were doing."

Hwell exaggeratedly, and very carefully, put his concoction down. "You'd prefer that I was making it up as I went along?"

Ax'and'l blanched. "No."

"Then leave me with what I know about doing?"

Ax'and'l couldn't leave it at that. "You're certain we tried all the diplomatic channels?"

"The ones that don't end up in a diplomatic marriage, aye..." he steadied his arm to add a specific number of drops to the goop. Then he stirred it in very slowly. "We're better off faking our deaths and never coming here again."

Ax'and'l ran the numbers in his head. "You know, I can get you a nice tuxedo at very short notice..."

"You and I both know that a marriage will end up with us being _worse_ off, my friend. My genes do all right, but my companionship..." he mimed an explosion. "Fireworks just this side of Metaluna."

Which was, as Ax'and'l recalled, a planetary war that left the surface an irradiated ruin for two millennia. The survivors either went off-planet or underground and were obligate agoraphobes as a direct result. Ax'and'l also recalled that Hwell had three ex-wives who were very happy to be _ex_ -wives and sundry progeny that he occasionally sent gifts to, and remained on good terms with.

"Yes, but is another faked death _strictly_ necessary?"

"After what I accidentally did to a cultural treasure? I'm sorry my friend. But yes, it is."

Now events strung themselves together. "Does this have anything to do with the punch bowl, the Prince's daughter, and that half-gallon of cheese dip?"

"And the reliquary. Yes." He artistically placed the contents in the middle of the room and lit the wick.

Ax'and'l groaned. "This always happens. Every time they invite you to a party..."

"Come on. Out the sewers before anyone knows why there's no bodies to be found."

Ax'and'l followed at due speed. "If I had an Hour for every time you said _that_ –"

"You wouldn't _need_ to work in intergalactic trade," chorused Hwell. "Now shoosh, they have sound detectors."

Behind them, Hwell's concoction did, finally and actually, blow up.

#  Challenge #054: One Miserable Evening in a Dragon's Lair

http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/100767877989

Pick one!

Of all the experiences in the multiverse, there's nothing like sprawling across the head of a friendly dragon. Alas, since _this_ dragon was fighting a bout of the 'flu, it meant that Sam was doing the sprawling in a budgie-smuggler, and kept one hand on the fire extinguisher.

Dragons sneeze fire. And even though Bloodflight was comfy in his cave, there was still the risk of setting a few things on fire. It's amazing what burns under a dragon's flame. Sam had enough fire-resistance potions to keep him alive during the onslaught of plasma, but that didn't mean he planned to push it.

"I hade this," grumbled Bloodflight.

"I told you the 'flu shot wasn't full of autism, but would you listen to me? No-o-o-o."

"You were right... a mindor mental malady is way bedder than sufferi'g the 'flu..." Bloodflight snorted and muttered, "Ugh..." There quickly followed a "HROOOF" noise that set the opposite wall on fire.

Sam hosed it down with canned carbon dioxide. "I'm a mighty dragon," he said quizzaciously[11]. "There's nothing that can take down _me_."

"Yes. I kndow. I'mb sorry... I'mb very, very sorry... uuuuuurrrggggghhhh..."

Sam turned on the fan to circulate the bad gasses out again. "Now. Remember what I said about my ginger-and-spinach soup?"

"Id's the bes'd thi'g for a cold."

"Going to actually have some, this time?"

A sigh that did the same work as the fan, but had considerably more snot in it. "Yes, love. You kndow bes'd..."

Sam patted Bloodflight on his muzzle. "You'll be back to normal in a couple of days. I promise. And next time, take the damn 'flu shot. There's some of your relatives that can't, and you need to protect them, too."

"...'es, love..." Bloodflight's eyes drifted shut. This bout of 'flu was really knocking him about.

Sam turned off the fans and let his lover sleep. He had a dragon-sized batch of soup to cook. He was going to need a _lot_ of ginger and spinach.

11] in a mocking manner and tone. For those of you who haven't seen [this just yet.

#  Challenge #055: A Good Host's Reward

 Pick a second!

There's one advantage to being an early riser. Usually, it's watching some kick-ass dawns as they happen. Today, it was meeting Brutus. He's what most people call a gargoyle. I'd go into the difference between the _real_ gargoyles, which are decorative stone waterspouts, and what people _call_ 'gargoyles' but are actually called grotesques. _Those_ are decorative stone building features with no inherent function.

But I wouldn't call Brutus 'grotesque'. He's kind'a pretty. Even with his stone skin on. But I'm getting ahead of myself. It all started in the pre-dawn twilight. I was doing some elementary yard work, basically picking out the weeds that didn't look right from my rock garden. It's Utah. I don't believe in spending a fortune on a lawn I have no use for. Then something big glides into my field of view.

At first, I thought I might be one of the few who saw a Mothman, but this was no Mothman. For a start, Mothman has these big, red eyes and no discernable head. This looked more like a very buff human with huge bat wings. And a tail. I can tell you from personal experience that biological gargoyles are very impressive up close. And very formal.

"My apologies," he began. "I am called Brutus. I have need of a place to rest for the day time. May I make use of your garden? There is little time, and I have great need."

I think I was stunned into murmuring. "Yeah, sure." It wouldn't be the first time I'd played host to a social outcast and trusted them to remain social in my little patch of turf.

"I am in your debt," he bowed formally and selected a pile of rocks to blend into.

The Disney cartoon _Gargoyles_ had it wrong, by the way. They don't turn to stone from the feet up. They don't even turn to stone. Not really. It's more of a skin-tight chrysalis with the structural integrity of granite. And they kind'a hibernate during daylight. It's a chemical reaction, I'm told. The sunlight just happens to accelerate it to rock-hardness. And since the sun hits their heads first, they harden from the head _down_.

I had to assume that he was comfortable, up there. And, for the record, my neighbours didn't even notice him. Me? I'd _notice_ a 5'8" beefcake grotesque in someone's yard. And that was Brutus all scrunched up to look pretty. Standing, he'd be closer to eight feet. Still, he was nice to look at and I found excuses to do my daily stuff where I could see him.

And biological gargoyles don't shed in dramatically shattering shards, either. They ease out of their old shells like butterflies and -get this- _eat_ them. It sounds like someone tap-dancing on opened, but not empty, crisp packets. I offered him some of my dinner. I'm a good host. Bed, however you classify it, comes with a chance for breakfast.

He politely declined, and I gave him an open invitation to roost in my yard whenever he liked.

That seemed to be it for two weeks. Brutus went home and I didn't think anything more of it. But it turns out that biological gargoyles are a bit like the Fae. Once they owe you a favour, they will move heaven and earth to repay you. Especially if you're a good host.

I started turning up semi-precious stones in the zen section of my rock garden. Instead of the usual 'gems' the neighbourhood cats leave, or the occasional toy left by the neighbourhood small children. Enough to sell for the price of rent, and a little extra. Just enough to avoid notice by the IRS.

I didn't turn a hair at the appearance of a sudden statue in my yard, and come sunset, I'd offer them some food. The smaller ones partook, but the bigger ones rarely ate anything. And sometimes, we'd swap stories. That's how I know so much about the Fae, and biological gargoyles to begin with.

After a few months of hosting their... flock... I had enough scrimpings to add a Folly to my yard. If you can imagine a stone-work miniature castle crossed with a gazebo and false signs of falling into decay... that's what a Folly is. Rich people used to use them on their massive estates, and they beat the heck out of garden gnomes.

Brutus and his flock look way more in place on and around _that_. And I'll barbecue anything they caught in their hunts. Biological Gargoyles really _like_ barbecue.

And the other little advantage to hosting Brutus' flock? The neighbourhood cats have stopped shitting in my zen garden. Don't fret. Brutus and his crew prefer feral animals. The neighbourhood pets are safe. It's just that cats don't like defecating where biological gargoyles like to roost. They'll sit on a gargoyle, use them as a look-out post... but they won't go to the toilet anywhere near one.

Pro tip, though... don't ask how they know which animals are pets and which aren't. The concept gave me nightmares for a week.

#  Challenge #056: Me and a Shadow

http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/100767877989 And a third

It was literally the brightest outfit that Janice had ever seen. Lights and all. It included vibrant colours in the spaces between the tiny, laundry-proof LED's. There was even an alice band with lights in it.

"Mabel..." said Janice. "What the heck?"

"Oh, there's a shadow-girl in the neighbourhood. I'm helping her out today."

It didn't seem possible, but the Pines twins were weirder ever since they came back from the summer with their Grunkle. "A shadow-girl."

"Yeah. Like, _entirely_ made out of shadows. She needs the light just to be seen." Mabel flipped a switch in her sweater and...

...the seat beside her was suddenly inhabited by a dark entity with a vaguely girlish form. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that Mabel supplied her own sound effects. Only Mabel could make something that looked so malevolent sound so ridiculous. She managed to dispel all the inherent horror in one long, grating, "BWAAAAAHHH!"

"Hey," said the shadow-girl. "...'sup?"

"Uhm," said Janice. There was hardly a way to mention anything and remain polite. "I guess I'm okay. How are you?"

"Believe it or not I'm fine. Dad insists I get some education while we stay here. Even though it's for the day." There was a sensation of rolling eyes, even though the shadow had no visible eyes to roll. "Don't worry about me. Mabel? Turn off, okay? I don't want to get called on."

"Sure thing. Boop!" And just like that, the shadow-girl vanished.

_Weirdness might be infectious,_ mused Janice. _And Mabel has to be a carrier._

#  Challenge #057: A Strange Land

The past is another country.

Pam walked around the corner into another world. At least, that was what she thought to begin with. The very air smelled different. Disgusting, in its own way. None of the buildings were familiar. And everyone was dressed really weird. And everyone was staring at her. Pam clung to her purse and tried to be discreet in digging out her self-defense stuff. It had, of course, settled to the very bottom of her bag.

She flinched away from someone approaching on her left. It was a man with a huge jacket and an honest face. "You're all right, now, ma'am," he said in a keep-calm tone of voice. "We're going to get you somewhere safe and you can talk all about it, okay?"

They thought she was underdressed? What? But she was wearing the perfect outfit. Jeggings and a bikini top with a cut-down, loose wife-beater with a glittery "Cheeky" written across the front. But then again, everyone was dressed like they were all going to this super-formal event. Of the women she saw, none of them had a skirt above their calves, let alone their knees. None of them had an exposed elbow. And most of them were wearing pearls.

Pam let the man put the jacket around her and meekly followed to what had to be some kind of police station. The uniforms were there, but... the air was a miasma of cigarette smoke and a clatter of typewriters. Big, huge, black typewriters that dominated the majority of the desks in the station.

She was herded into a room where there was at least some relief from the smoke. Until an officer came in and lit two cigarettes and offered her one.

"Euw, gross. _No_ ," she said. "Can you not do that in here?"

"Look, doll," said the officer. "I don't really grok your lingo, and your threads scramble my noggin. So what's the skinny?"

"Uuuhhhh..." said Pam. "Can I get that again in real words?"

It didn't go well. And it dragged on for hours. She didn't understand them, and they didn't understand her. Until, close to nine in the evening, one of the detectives' wives arrived with a change of clothes and the offer of a spare room. Apparently, Pam hadn't officially broken any laws.

The clothes were right out of _I Love Lucy_. The underpants were practically a bedsheet. Pam wore them over her existing briefs. The bra needed some adjusting from the wife to even halfway work on her.

"You're so skinny," said the wife, who was apparently Mrs Paul Schmidt. "Didn't they feed you, where you came from?"

Oh. Right. Everyone here was beefy. "Oh, that's because I'm a vegan," said Pam. "It's healthier and better for the environment."

"Say what?"

Pam tried to explain. Mrs Schmidt boggled and looked absolutely horrified. "All we have is beans and carrots. You can't feed a body on beans and carrots."

"No worries," said Pam. "We'll just pop by the nearest organic market and pick up some zucchinis, avocado, rocket, asparagus, kale, spinach and coconut oil. I can cook my own stuff, I don't want to impose and all." Now that she had her purse back, she dug out her phone. "Do you guys have a paypal? What's your rental?"

"Um," said Mrs Schmidt. "I only understood _some_ of those words...? I don't think I speak Vegan. It's like a dialect, right?" She blushed and giggled. "I watch some PBS. I learned a few things."

Things only got worse from there. Pam may have accidentally started the sexual revolution a few years earlier than previously. And that was all before she realised that she'd landed in the 1950's. Or encountered an aspic salad.

The past is another country. They all talk strangely, the customs are vastly different, and you can't really trust the food or the water.

#  Challenge #058: Hazards of Companionship

...well... thank you... I was suffering from a shortage of waking up screaming, this should help for the next month.

Humans are the most advantageous crewmembers to have. Especially in what they insist on calling 'crunch time'. They will walk, or run, into danger and saunter back out again with barely a scratch. They are fiercely protective of any being they view as part of their pack, insanely profitable to have in a ship's crew, and invariably adaptable.

They're also indomitable, indispensable, and doubtlessly insane.

Case in point, the human that the crew of the _Probing Feeler_ had nicknamed 'Fluffy'. His actual name had too many S's and F's for the mouth-parts of the insectoid crew. Since the _Probing Feeler_ was a science vessel, it had a higher likelihood of finding trouble before it was lost. And the human named Fluffy was in the thick of it.

Shore leave came and most of the crew vacated the ship for relaxation opportunities well inside their comfort zone. Fluffy bid his crew and pack-mates a cheerful farewell and journeyed to the 1 Standard Gravity Zone[12] for his own brand of entertainments. Since this effectively isolated him from his pack-mates, some members of the crew were prone to... concern.

K'trizz, nicknamed 'Katie' by Fluffy, was the closest to the human and the most concerned. She rented an augmentation exo-suit and journeyed down past all the warning signs to where Fluffy's locator said he was enjoying his shore leave.

There, alarmingly, the hirsute human was playing with gravity and hurling himself around a complicated tangle of beams and other random architecture elements with little in the way of safety equipment at all. He noticed K'trizz and hurled himself down, close to ground level, only slowing down to brachiate to where she was standing and desperately trying not to soil herself.

Fluffy dropped the final half SDU to the floor. "Hey, Katie. Is everything good?"

"I... came because I was worried about you... You might be missing us."

"Aaaawwww, that's so cute. Thank you. I'm okay. I've made a few friends here in the parkour playground. I'm fine." Fluffy pointed upwards where three more humans were hurling themselves around at even more insane heights. None of them were wearing much more than their Skins.

"This is a... relaxing activity?"

"It's fun," said Fluffy. "You should try it, sometime."

"Uuuhhh," muttered K'trizz. "Thank you... I was suffering from a shortage of waking up screaming, this should help for the next month..."

Fluffy laughed. "Okay, I wasn't even thinking of starting you on the advanced set. But yeah... you guys are a lot more fragile than my kind. I keep forgetting."

Humans. They were so willing to adopt _anything_ into their pack-group that they could _forget_ simple things like relative fortification against accidental damage. To his credit, Fluffy made certain K'trizz was calm and safe back in her own gravity zone before returning to his lunatic acrobatics and his new friends.

[12] Galactic Standard Units are in decimals. Even gravity units. A Standard Distant Unit (SDU) is within scraping distance of a metric meter, and gravity is measures in fall accelerations of SDU per second per second (SDU/s/s). 1 Standard Gravity is 10 SDU/s/s. Earths is, by comparison, 0.98 Standard Gravity Units.

#  Challenge #059: Watch What You Say

(Person #1): (after describing the expedition) Won't be any fighting or danger, just research

(Person #2): (who's seen this shit before) Yes, it will be totally safe. Nothing can go wrong. At least it won't be raining.

(Person #2): You could just as well held up a sign that says "Fuck Murphy" on it, and expect less trouble.

"It's an exploratory mission into uninhabited territory. The entire system is incapable of hosting life. What could go wrong?"

"O Powers... you _had_ to say it, didn't you?" Patty smacked her forehead. "Look. The universe _hates_ people who ask rhetorical questions with clearly obvious and very painful answers. If you keep going on like this, your mission is going to be filed under 'mysteriously vanished without a trace'. Stop. Talking like that. Please."

"I do not understand," said the Ch'vothi named Grekz. "How can my utterances increase your risk assessment of this mission?"

"Better," allowed Patty. "My species has a law. Murphy's Law. It states, _anything that can go wrong, will. And at the worst possible moment._ My people fear this law and anyone who blatantly risks its activation by saying flakking foolish things like 'what could go wrong'. We _prepare_ for things that could go wrong, and they _still do_. Often in unpredictable ways. So don't ask questions when you're not prepared to endure the answers, thankyou."

"But we _have_ prepared for everything," said Grekz.

"I'll be the judge of that," said Patty. She went through their entire hold of emergency supplies, found them wanting, and outlined a brace of extreme emergency equipment and an entire crate of ductape. Because humans could do amazing things with enough ductape.

Four months later, the _Examining Eye_ limped back to port. Two weeks overdue and heavily damaged. Most of the repairs were ductape and space debris that happened to fit. Some were pure ductape. Before the station tug vessels got to it, the _Examining Eye_ was powered entirely by a kludge system made out of three disparate machines that should never have worked together to power a hot water system, let alone a scientific vessel.

Once it made it into drydock, the local engineers swarmed just to see what had been done and how it actually worked.

The crew inside were all wearing breather assistance masks, which used the thinned atmosphere inside and concentrated it to the point where the wearer could actually function. Patty tore hers off first upon the exposure to a proper atmosphere. "Made it," she breathed, and turned on Captain Grekz. "Never. Taunt Murphy. Again."

"My lesson has been learned," sighed Grekz. "We owe all of you the remainder of our lives."

"You can start by buying me a week in the Spa and all the Sushi I care to eat," sighed Patty. "I need me some deep-tissue revitalisation after all of _that_."

'All of _that_ ,' according to the _Examing Eye's_ logs, was a surprise attack by the Vorax, a micrometeor storm, and a shockingly large gravity well for a planetoid of its size. Followed by a shockingly advanced attack for a civilisation of that level on the selfsame planetoid. The _Examining Eye_ was lucky to escape in the shape that it was.

What could go wrong... definitely had. And a sole human had simply dealt with it all.

#  Challenge #060: Lost and Found

(Person #1): Spectro-analysis of the ship dates it as having been in orbit here for slightly more than three hundred million years.

(Person #2): They built shit to last back in the Paleozoic, huh?

(your choice on whether Person #1's results bear any resemblance to reality)

Tel swore under her breath and worked her fastest to get that comment out of the feed to the rest of the Galactic Alliance. One cut, and Ambassador Shayde's glib and unnecessary remark was no longer present in the official record. Only the Archivaas, who kept _everything_ , would know of that disastrous blurt.

Rael, wise to the frantic editing that Tel was busy with, sent the Ambassador a ping. The Ambassador, in turn, levelled something of a glare in both their general directions. She very exaggeratedly pulled herself into a formal stance and said, "So it had tae have gone down a deep time wormhole, aye?"

"More like several," Moni, unaware, was assembling data from her scans. "Looks like someone was attempting some serious time travel and finally ended up here."

"Damage?" asked Captain Vel.

"No sign of damage. No sign of life. All that's in there is whatever they took with them."

"Is anythin' still runnin'?" asked Shayde.

That was a surprisingly paranoid question for a being who was effectively immortal. But then, pain hurt and Shayde had no more reason to court it than anyone else.

More scans. More data. "Just the auto-navigation that's maintaining orbit around that one proto-planet. Nothing else that I can detect."

_Don't say it,_ thought Tel, aiming her thoughts directly at Captain Vel.

"So nothing inherently dangerous on board."

Every human on the bridge, and Rael, who had had enough experience with them, simultaneously said, "Aw, flakk it!"

" _Now_ there is," announced Shayde. "Everybody get'cher military grade livesuits and yer plasma cannons."

"Hungry Caterpillar active and alert for non-registered objects and collision-path objects," intoned Tel. "Initiating full-paranoia alert for all crew." She had just enough time to add a subtitle to the outgoing feed that read, _The Captain has just tempted fate._

And then it was time for every crewmember to gird their armour on. Adhere their courage to their sticking-place. And step cautiously into that which angels would fear to tread.

It would have been just _fine_ if the Captain hadn't said anything. But now? They were most likely to encounter a rapacious, cognivorous, eldritch beast from the dawn of time itself.

At least Ambassador Shayde had _sense_ about all this.

#  Challenge #061: Perspective Post Peril

(Couldn't make this entirely gender-neutral. I suspect the terms do not exist in English. Although I know half a dozen ways to say one of them in various fictional universes, one of them might be the correct English form of address. As for a gender-neutral term for the person in charge of a Duchy (apart from the major-domo or seneschal or whatever who's actually running it all... idk)

(Person #1): (VERY full of themselves, has been nothing but irritating, has no training, and has barged into a situation where they could get everyone killed and demanded to be in charge, only to be offended when Person #2 refuses) I am (longwinded recitation of titles). (More titles). (MORE titles), who are you?

(Person #2) (has been working the whole time, is stressed) Who am I? I am [His/Her/Their) Grace, (Sir/Lady/?) [Name], (Duke/Duchess/?) of the People Who Don't Give A Rat's Arse, and Knight of the Order of Go-Fuck-Yourself. And of course, although it may be of no importance and I beg your pardon, the person with the relevant training toward keeping us all alive.

Space. There's quite a lot of it. As you might expect, the gulfs between points of interest are vast and there's no real need for official shipping lanes beyond the confidence to be found if, say, one's ship happens to suffer a catastrophic breakdown in the middle of nowhere. Such as what has happened to the _Higher Class_ whilst it was so desperately off-course that there was no such thing as a course to take, any more.

Oh, and it also happens to be falling towards a Brown Dwarf, a star so small that it might double as a gas giant. The coldest class of star yet discovered. Of course, none of this matters should one's vessel actually fall inside, where the temperatures are still hot enough to burn one alive whilst also crushing one to death.

A fate that awaits the _Higher Class_ , all its crew, and Ambassador Verille. Who happens to be the one to have ordered the "intense course correction" that got the ship into trouble in the first place. All because ze was in a hurry. And now the Ambassador was impatient about the repairs. Not because of the impending doom on the _Higher Class_ , but because ze was now _late_ in meeting her friends on Hitizzy.

Ze bullied hir way through almost all official channels, all the way to engineering, where a N'Ozzie engineer and the ships' Nae'hyn priest were operating on the gravity propulsion drive[13]. The N'Ozzie was in an awkward knot with their toes gripping some hand-rails and most of their body in an open cavity.

"Ha, HA! I told you it was the spline actuator frigit. 'S always th' spline actuator frigit. No worries, darls. We're getting you a transplant right now."

"What is the meaning of this outrage," cliché'd the Ambassador.

The N'Ozzie and Nae'hyn simultaneously moved away from their work to shout, "You can't be in here! Get out!"

"I," announced Verille, "am Their Highest, Sanctified Purest, Laird Caln Ambassador Verille, Goddex of Tilaroux, Khalse of Rixxor, Heir to the Sanctum of Broxx and Ambassador of the Krok'kari people. Who are _you_ to give _me_ orders?"

The N'Ozzie made a fist and said, "Now listen, mate," as a prelude to a "good ole stouche[14]".

But the Nae'hyn stilled their arm and murmured, "Diplomacy."

The N'Ozzie took a deep breath whilst Verille tapped hir foot in impatience. "Who am I? I am Hir Grace, Laird Mandawuy, Dux of the People Who Don't Give A Rat's Arse, and Knight of the Order of Go-Fuck-Yourself.[15] And of course, although it may be of no importance and I beg your pardon, the person with the relevant training toward keeping us all alive. Now rack off and let me save everyone's arse including yours, though I dunno what you do with it, considering all the shit droppin' out of your mouth!"

The Nae'hyn slowly face-palmed during Madawuy's speech. "Please leave us to work in peace, Ambassador," they sighed. "The sooner we are finished, the sooner we can all be on our way."

Verille, flustered and sputtering, stammered out, "Well I should certainly _hope_ so!" It was only later, after ze arrived at hir destination and hir _peers_ explained things to hir, that Ambassador Verille later found Engineer Madawuy and profusely apologised. Ze was a sheltered cogniscent and had not a single idea of how much danger ze was in by the time the _Higher Class was finally underway.

[13] gravity drives, alternately 'grav' or 'gravy' drives are Nae'hyn constructions that only work when their engineer follows the Nae'hyn philosophy that machines gain life as they are used. As a result, gravity drives aren't repaired so much as 'operated' on, or 'healed'. They are not so much made as born.

[14] Stouche (n): [orig: Strine] To fight, brawl, or otherwise punch in an effective, but unfair manner.

15] There you go. An entire brace of gender-neutral terms of address. Free of charge and used in context. Most care of [this neat tumblr. Though 'Dux' I knew on my own.

#  Challenge #062: With a Knack for Mimicry

http://marlynnofmany.tumblr.com/post/156605690661

Aliens that do not understand how well humans can mimic some noises.

When headed into uncharted, or barely charted territory, when facing danger, it is best to have at least one human aboard your ship. Yes, they are frightening deathworlders, but they also understand this and endeavour to be less frightening so they can pack-bond with you. They are also, and the K'veth are discovering, prone to annoying pranks.

Bob could impersonate any noise on the ship, and used that frequently for 'laughs'. He was the most skilled at it, and could even do other crewpersons' voices. Thankfully, he was not good enough to fool the shipboard computer. He would carry on conversations with the Skitties[16] at random moments and, overall, was a pain in the K'veth's anatomy.

He even picked up more than a few choice phrases in K'vethi, despite allegedly having the wrong mouth shape to pronounce it. One of his most-used ones was, "I can understand more than you think, you know." Especially when other K'vethi were talking about him in an unflattering way.

The _March of Progress_ was on a scientific survey mission to investigate habitable worlds, and most sampled creatures were to be brought home alive. Which lead, inevitably, to Bob carrying on conversations with predators, prey, and random things that made noises in what he could best approximate as their own sounds. He was, frankly, uncanny.

Which made him such a boon on Planet #56B6DSHJG89. The warrens of rocky outcroppings foiled their navigation HUDs and left the away team cornered in a cul-de-sac with a rather large predator blocking the only easy means of egress. The K'vethi huddled behind Bob, regardless, but this time, they urged their human forwards.

"Make the noises the little ones make," they urged. "It will think we're cubs."

"Or it could think we're holding cubs hostage," murmured Bob. "Not always the best idea."

Again, the team pushed Bob towards the beast. "Then _converse_ with it. We know you can."

Bob sighed and handed his firearm to the chief medic in the team. "Hold this. You're on mop-up if this fails." He hunkered down as he moved forwards. Not making the noise of the little ones, but making the noise an adult would make _to_ the little ones. A sort of musical, growling purr. He even mimicked the non-aggressive postures that the team had noted.

The beast stopped snarling. Stopped raising its hackles. It hadn't let its guard down, just yet, but it's attitude clearly said, _What the flakk?_

Confusion was far better than rage. Bob imitated the sidling approach of a lesser-ranking beast and added a few querying coos before extending a hand to the beast's nose. Let the creature investigate him as he stayed as still as a stone. And then Bob began to stroke the beast's fur, purring and cooing as he went.

There was a heart-stopping moment when one beastly limb wrapped around Bob and knocked him over, but since the human was laughing at the time, the K'vethi did not fire.

It took a space of minutes and some of Bob's terran delicacy called _spam_ , but the ferocious beast once bent on slaughtering them all was now... almost domesticated. And it took quite a lot of convincing to make Bob allow it to return to the wild.

Nobody except _Bob_ wanted to share the ship with a two-hundred-pound predator, no matter _how_ often he protested that it was, "just a big, cuddly ole kitty-cat."

[16] Skitties are bio-engineered cats used for pest control. They are all maintenance-orange, regardless of gender, and have much more robust digestive systems than what we think of as 'normal' cats. Galactic society took one look at these small, flexible, and above all _determined_ predators and found them inherently useful.

#  Challenge #063: A Grievous Mistake

Matters have left "pear-shaped" and have escalated to the eldritch topographies of a taco warped through a tesseract.

"I regret to inform Her Majestrix that matters have gone... er... pear-shaped."

The seneschal glared down hir nose at Brekkis. " Adjudant Brekkis... Matters have left "pear-shaped" and have escalated to the eldritch topographies of a taco warped through a tesseract. Matters are so _beyond_ "pear-shaped" that we've had to hire _human mercenaries_ , Brekkis. And further... the human mercenaries have captured some of the enemy and got _their side_ of the conflict. Now half of them are siding with the _enemy_ , Brekkis."

Brekkis couldn't think of more to say than, "I'm sorry. I did instruct them to wipe out the enemy with extreme prejudice, sir."

"No instruction survives first contact with humans, Brekkis." The seneschal sighed and gripped hir proboscis. "The Majestrix Herself approved this manoeuvre and called it her best idea. Therefore, you cannot be executed for your heinous mistake." Ze left hir desk to pace the room in pure anxiety. "There is nothing that can beat a human, save for more humans. And with more humans, the potential for chaos increases... exponentially."

"No other Deathworlders would fight for us, sir," murmured Brekkis. "And we needed Deathworlders to win this battle."

The seneschal opened a secret cabinet in the wall and poured hirself something pungeant. Ze drank it in one gulp. "Things... escalated beyond our control. I am going to order our troops to protect the Majestrix. Let the Deathworlders fight how they will. Secure your family, Brekkis. This moment could well be the fall of our glorious empire."

Brekkis didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to react. On the positive side, and there was very little positive about these events, Brekkis was escaping the Majestrix's tower with bad news on her lips and her life intact. So she simply bowed her way out without another word.

It would take some arrangement to put her family fortunes into trade-able items that were also non-perishable. But arrange them, she would. She had to. Even the seneschal, avowed to keeping loyal to Her Majestrix, would be securing hir family against the coming apocalypse.

#  Challenge #064: Invisible Rebellion

They are the people who keep Organisations going, they step in, step up, or just help out how they can. A vast Army of ordinary people, old, young, able bodied or doing what they can when they can. If they are lucky, they get 'petrol money'.

It was a nondescript interrogation room, but something about it told Lorraine that this particular interview room was underground. The taste of the air. The way the air conditioning sounded. The way the room _felt_. It all told Lorraine that she was far away from any mortal means of detecting. Any minute now, someone would tell her that she could scream all she liked, and that no-one would hear her.

A man in armani sat backwards in the steel chair opposite her. His large belly lapped either side. He had two burly guards, even here. Even with Lorraine in chains. "Don't even bother trying to call for help," said the very famous man in a very high position of power. "Nobody who can hear you cares." Well. At least he didn't drop the old cliché. "You can scream _all_ you like, it won't do you any good."

Lorraine refused to give him the satisfaction. "This is just the most recent in the long line of your mistakes, sir," she said. "The Legion of the Invisible has protocols for anyone in a leader position going missing."

The very important man scoffed. "Legion of the Invisible. I don't see no Legion of the Invisible." Even his bodyguard got a pained expression at that one. "Here's how it goes. You tell me everything you and your little band of terrorists has planned, and you might get to live. Tell us nothing and you die. Your body is never found. It's easy to make someone like you vanish. Nobody would ever notice that you're gone."

"That's what you think," singsonged Lorraine. "And as for our plans... you just accelerated them. Vanished, dead, detained... it doesn't make a difference. The plans are already underway."

"And what have you got planned?" sneered the very important man.

Lorraine smiled. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

They tortured her, of course. And she did, eventually scream when they found something that hurt more than her PCOS attacks. And they did end her life, quite by accident, in the end. The very important man spoke a rare truth when he said that her body would never be found. It never was.

But by then, it was far, far too late.

The morning after Lorraine was taken, an automated post appeared on her social media site. She was not there to delay it for another twenty-four hours. And, all around the country, a lot of people were not there, either. People who weren't noticed. People who did things that weren't noticed.

Every volunteer and intern in the nation had an excuse. A wildcat illness. A family emergency. They just needed a break. Candy-stripers were no longer taking up mundane, menial tasks in hospitals or care centres. People who took the litter off of highways were not there to do so. The firefighters and the cleaners and the ambulance drivers... didn't.

All across the nation that had been ruined by the very important man, volunteers and unpaid workers everywhere failed to show up. Many never bothered to ring in.

Some parts of the country noticed inside of mere hours. Others didn't notice until the mess began to mount up. All of a sudden, the nation that ran on the unpaid work of millions... no longer worked at all. Those in power noticed that there were no longer interns to deliver their coffee. There were no longer volunteers who emptied their wastebaskets. There were no longer people who picked up after them.

They all came against the very important man, complained to him. Expected him to fix it. But he had never known how to fix a single thing in his entire life. He tried to blame people, but they were all out seeking paid work in a nation with not enough of that to go around. Some were making their own industries, struggling against the laws written to stop them, but they insisted on being paid by the hour before they lifted a finger for anyone else but themselves.

Chaos reigned supreme. All because some people who did what everyone needed wanted to be paid what they were worth.

#  Challenge #065: A Powerful Talisman

Call it what you will, Linus, Blankie, Comfort Rug. A square or rectangle of worked fibre, knitted, crocheted out of bits of yarn something soft and warm to hang on to in times of stress.

"Honestly, Farraq, this is the slowest evacuation in the known universe."

"Sorry, boss," the human had something colourful bundled under one arm. "Can't leave anywhere without my Snoog."

P'treth boggled at the human merc as they writhed their way through an airlock made for a smaller people than a fully-armoured human. "Snoog," he repeated. "Is this a human thing, a cultural thing, or a Farraq thing?"

"It's my thing," said Farraq. He had to sit on the floor, owing to his bulk in comparison to the rest of the Rik'oq'i crew. "It's been my thing since I was tiny. Gram-gram made it for me and it's been my proof against nightmares ever since. Anything scary happens? I know I'm alright because I got my Snoog." He currently embraced the mass of crocheted yarn, which was folded into quarters.

This was a being that had been proof against every normal fear that the Universe had to offer. A being who could go in against the _Vorax_ and come out the other side triumphant.

P'treth strapped himself in and activated the escape pod. "It is a safe artifact, yes?"

Farraq grinned. "Of course all o' y'all can borrow it. Gram-gram made it to help calm folks down." He unfurled the colourful expanse and spread as much of it between the terrified Rik'oq'i. "Y'all'll be all right, now. We got my Snoog."

If it was enough to keep a human feeling safe and secure against a _Deathworlder's_ worst nightmares, then it was certainly a talisman to keep everyone aboard the escape pod calm all the way back to civilisation.

P'treth kept a solid grip on one corner for the entire trip.

[AN: Who the flakk calls it a Linus?]

#  Challenge #066: Goods and Services

Oh fuck that noise, screw that sound, hump that harmonic, bang that bass, fornicate with that frequency and fuck me!

In all of Galactic Society, the most alarming feature to most human societies is the simple fact that sex work and mental therapy have homogenised into a harmonious whole. Humans have had an interesting relationship with the mechanics of their own reproduction and, despite some centuries af adjustment, are still hung up about it.

Case in point, most of the accumulated populations of most of the Greater Deregulations. Very few of them have a charitable attitude to one designated gender in particular, and anyone they view as 'lesser'. And, like most civilisations based on an unattainable ideal of purity, they are floundering in a sea of civilisations that are more... well... civilised, and use _all_ of their potential work-force. They also have a regrettable tendency to pollute their own environment to the point where it's nigh-unlivable. But that's not the subject of this analysis.

Take expatriot of Greater Deregulation Lower West, Adam Adamson. He was once a person who believed in ancient ideals. The supremacy of man, especially a man who had a lack of melanin, was one of them. 'Might makes right' was another. He also believed that if he worked hard and obeyed orders, he would subsequently rise to greatness. Or at least a better style of living. He was one of the many betrayed by the Greater Deregulation way of life. Today, he is shopping for a therapist.

His soccasins state that he is off duty. The large duffelcoat, on the other hand, screams that he is trying to remain unobserved in the most obvious and observable way possible. His hunched attitude and guarded way of moving caught everyone's attention in a cold second. Nobody who was reared in Galactic Society considers seeking out a therapist to be a shameful activity. And no therapist ever considers themself in a shameful occupation, nor dresses for overt display.

Therapist Teal took mercy on him and tapped him on the shoulder. Almost scaring the life out of him. "You look like you could use a nice, calming, cup of tea."

Adamson, red-faced to the point of nearly passing out, squeaked, "....it isn't going to happen now is it?"

"Are you an exhibitionist?" asked Teal.

"Uh... what?"

"I'll take that as a 'no'. We can take a public table in the tea house or a booth if you prefer... discretion."

"...not sure I wanna fuck in either of those places," mumbled Adamson.

"I'm not sure that's what you want at all," said Teal. "So why keep bringing it up?"

"That's- that's what you _do_. Isn't it?"

"It's only a small percentage of my possible therapeutic avenues. It is not, as you seem to think, the only thing I do." She was already guiding him gently towards _Chai Hopes Drink_ , the aforementioned tea house. "If you decide to hire me on a regular basis, I would first work on your socio-cultural restraints before attempting any kind of haptic reward therapy."

"Uh... what?"

"Translated into common speech, I'd get you relaxed about doing it before I even tried doing it."

Adamson attempted to process this. Alas, his cultural background forced him to blurt, "Wait. Even the whores are frigid in this place?"

Teal rolled her eyes. "I see you need a lot of work done. Let's start with: therapists are not whores. Repeat that, please."

"Sorry. Therapists are not whores." He let her pour the tea and warmed his hands on the cup. "I'm from GD-Lower West. I was told I needed a dedicated therapist and my mind went..."

"Straight to the gutter. I so gathered." She gracefully picked up her cup and blew across its surface before she put it down again. "As you can see, it need not remain in the gutter. We are just potential employer and employee, interviewing each other. Nothing more. Unless that is what you happen to need." Now she took a small sip. "And I am very good at judging what someone else needs."

He aped her motions. The tea was hot, and tasted like frangipani perfume smelled. "I still feel dirty doing this."

She smiled welcomingly. "Then let's talk about that, to start."

#  Challenge #067: Virtual Friend

'Sixty-two years old, and you find a kindred spirit in a block of programming,' they thought wryly, shaking their head.

It hadn't started that way, of course. Her grandchildren had got her into the video games. Things had gone a long way since the Space Invaders. There was no more coin in the slot or press A to start, to begin with. She could play by typing on the keyboard, and the machine code understood her and responded.

Denny assured her that this was an _offline_ program. Just code, and nobody else on the internets out to steal her credit card. Quite a lot of that was happening, these days. Even on trusted sites that everyone used. Especially on the trusted sites that everyone used. It was the trust part, Denny said, that made everyone put their guards down.

She hadn't gone into the video games since the last time she tried Pac Man, and lost. Egregiously. Games had not been her thing. At least, not the computerised ones. She could hold her own in Bridge, which Denny insisted was far more complicated. And this one was easy. It had an _adaptive algorithm_ , whatever that was. The more anyone gave it, the more it learned. And the more it learned, the better it was at understanding the player.

Of course, all the characters in the video game had codes to keep them 'in character' and other limits to ensure that the programming code didn't somehow become a problem, like in all the movies. Besides, Denny insisted that her computer was so old that it probably wouldn't be a problem, anyway.

Kids these days. Swapping out old for new before the old even had a chance to get broken. Her computer was plenty good enough for visiting the email post-office that Google had given her and seeing what news had happened, and swapping recipes and all that nonsense. But Denny said that learning new things was good for her, and this program could learn with her.

It was easy to forget that the characters in the video game weren't real people. They looked almost like Denny and the kids when they did the video-conference calls, all blurs when they moved too quickly. Denny said she needed a new video card, but Denny also insisted she needed a monitor that wasn't a CRT. She didn't trust those flat, retina displays. They were too thin. They'd never stand up to being accidentally knocked like her old reliable monitor did. Two Hundred and Fifty-Six colours was enough for _anyone_.

She spent most of her time with the one called Chichenyia, 'talking' by typing to each other and generally not progressing with the game's side-quests. She could spend all day 'talking' to Chichenyia. About anything and nothing. Some days, it gave her a reason to get out of bed. Apart from the way that the bed made her back ache after too long, of course. She even started telling Denny and the grandkids about the conversations that she and Chichenyia shared.

Sixty-two years old and now she had an imaginary friend. No. Worse than that. She had found a kindred spirit in a chunk of code.

And yet, somehow, it wasn't exactly 'worse'. Not really. Chichenyia and her virtual friends helped her get on with her day. Helped motivate her when there was little else to do so. And they helped keep her going when there was nobody else to talk to and nothing to do.

They'd never go out for coffee or go shopping or look at the pets in the pet store together or take a walk to the local library. But Chichenyia was still close enough to an always-available friend.

#  Challenge #068: World-threatening

What do they eat, anyway?

::snort:: **Anything**. They don't care. They're roaming, poisonous, armoured, Dark Magic-spawned garbage disposals.

"Dark Magic is extinct. It's been extinct for thousands of years," objected Thaldrik.

"And they've been around that long," said Maester Kadfel. "Possibly longer. It was their creation that lead to the uprising against Dark Magic and its subsequent elimination." She tapped the illustration. "For now, they seem content to remain in the calderas of Mount Seethe, and eat... whatever they find there. Alas, Dark Magic made them nigh indestructible. They've been living there and eating everything for some significant time."

Thaldrik considered this. "Isn't this a cautionary tale to make certain everyone stays clear of Mount Seethe? What proof is there that these..." he had another go at pronouncing the name, "Rav-in-ger-i... exist?"

"Rav-in- _jer_ -i. With a soft 'juh'. But well done. There are a few pickled specimens in the Museum of Greater Arcana. As you may surmise, the Ravingeri are extremely hard to kill, so none of them are in any kind of good shape. Even this," tap, tap, on the engraving, "is a patchwork of sightings and studies of those specimens. They are dangerous creatures, Thaldrik. Nothing can beat them."

"Not even dragon fire?"

"Just annoys them. They have a thick coat of fireproof fur."

Thaldrik stared at the engraving, trying to picture the complete creature. "If they're so unstoppable and so unkillable... why do they stay inside Mount Seethe?"

Maester Kadfel smiled for him. "That is a very clever question. You must understand that nobody's been able to study them. Unstoppable killing machines and all. The best scrying has only been able to determine that they like Mount Seethe because it is a constant cauldron of new rocks. Minerals and suchlike. They eat a lot of sulphur and drink the poisonous waters from the very heart of the earth. And when they're not doing either, they just... loaf around in there." Maester Kadfel shrugged. "I think they like it in there."

"Lucky for us," said Thaldrik. "Just one could lay waste to an entire city. There's hundreds, you said, all living in the mountain's caldera. If they decided to get loose..."

"Worry not, apprentice," said Maester Kadfel. "The council of elder mages has been keeping that volcano seething for some... very significant time. It took eons to learn how much they liked volcanoes, and further centuries to lure them all in. The only cage they can't eat their way out of is one they want to be in, eh?" A laugh that ended in coughing. "Now. To your scrying. Look into the caldera of Mount Seethe and see what they're up to, if you can."

Thaldrik added a couple of very important drops to the potion, swirled the vial in his hands, and then downed the contents. "Ugh. Tastes like overripe cherries." He smacked his lips. "How long until the potion takes eff–"

Maester Kadfel gently pushed her apprentice into a chair and placed paper under his hands, then charcoal into his fingers. "Draw what you see..." she urged.

There's an exercise in hand-eye co-ordination that involves peering through a pinhole at a picture and simultaneously drawing what the eye sees without checking what the hand is doing. This was a lot like that. Thaldrik's eyes were seeing something some enormous amount of miles away whilst his hands were busy doing things much closer to home. It was only through the guidance of Maester Kadfel that anything recognisable came out at all.

And besides, Thaldrik was not exactly the best of artists, anyway.

It was a vary scribbly drawing of a steaming lake and rocks around it. There was not a single Ravinger in sight.

"You didn't see any Ravingers at all?" begged the Maester.

"No. And I looked all around like you said. But there was a big hole over in here," Thaldrik added some elementary shading to a wobbly circle that could have been a rock, but was now a tunnel.

"They found something to go after," murmured Maester Kadfel. "They may well be headed... out."

"Uh oh," said Thaldrik. It didn't seem to cover the exigent circumstances.

#  Challenge #069: Crisis in the Wee Small Hours

You'd be surprised who you find in your family tree.

Rael had not expected his genes to turn up in any of the current series of released Faiize infants. The one currently in its relaxation tank was, according to the gene scan, twenty-five percent his. Kint, the primary genetic contributor, had a whopping sixty-three percent of his personal genome involved.

There was a small community of sudden parentals, lost without a manual, working out how to parent a Faiize without inherent mental programming. Thus, the infant's tank had all kinds of medical equipment attached to it so the anxious genetic donors could monitor everything they needed to monitor. Shayde had hung a clockwork mobile over it that played Brahm's Lullabye.

She had also managed to graft herself onto this tiny variant of a family tree. Much like a sometimes-symbiotic parasite.

The good news was that the infant Faiize, like all Faiize, didn't waste an atom of potential nutrition. So there was no need for any kind of waste disposal. The bad news, as far as Rael was concerned, was that this young one spent a great deal of hir time sound asleep. Shayde, the only co-guardian who could tell everything about the baby by just looking at hir, insisted that everything was fine.

"Babbies spend a lot of time sleepin'. They need tae grow, ye ken," she assured.

Meanwhile, Rael was twitching every time the baby gained even the slightest silvery sheen. He was convinced that Wave of the Future had sent the first infant in his direction in an effort to set things up for deliberate failure. He set up his tank by the infant's so he would be able to perceive any kind of difference in hir health levels.

And, despite both Shayde and Kint's efforts to convince him, Rael refused to call the baby 'Mull', despite that being hir official name. Rael called hir "little one" or "beloved" and, if he knew Shayde wasn't listening, "kitling". Mull was a joke of a name. A bad pun from Shayde that Kint actually took seriously and found it supremely amenable.

Shayde, as an unrelated individual, was not allowed to share the accomodations, but she was on call and could literally arrive in the blink of an eye if necessary.

Such as now. Three in the morning and the infant was showing signs of distress despite there being nothing medically wrong with hir. Rael had adjusted every feed, and ze was still distressed. He had exhausted all possibilities of unregistered medical distress, and now he had to call Shayde.

She answered on the second ring with a yawning, "Aye?"

"Our little one's in distress and I've tried everything," he babbled. He would later realise that he babbled it in B'Dauss Biotechie, a language dialect he usually avoided for all its implications. It was true. People panicked in their home tongue, regardless of how they felt about it.

"On me way," she mumbled.

Knowing that Shayde insisted on shadow-hopping whilst standing, Rael turned on a nearby lamp as he closed the comms. It still seemed to take way too long for her to coalesce out of the shadows. She was still wearing her night attire, a garment that fit only across her shoulders, and fell like a gossamer waterfall from there. "Hey, there, babby," she cooed. "Let's have a look at ye." She finished scrubbing her eyes and sighed. "Awreet... ze needs tae be picked oop."

" _How?_ " demanded Rael. "Ze's not inclined to be cohesive, just yet..."

Shayde was already rummaging in the large container that Wave of the Future had been legally obligated to send. Products designed for infant Faiize care. Some of which were still mysterious. There were textured gloves, and a sort of pouch with an adjustable harness arrangement. "Here, this lot'll help."

Rael remembered those gloves. They came in some of his more interesting nightmares. He noted that these ones were adjusted with the baby's comfort in mind. He rubbed them together to be sure they were at least a little warm before helping Shayde move the little one into the pouch.

"There's no medical monitors on this," Rael complained.

Shayde moved the pouch up to near a shoulder so she could juggle the infant as if ze were a humanoid inside the pouch. "There we are, there we are," she cooed, massaging what would have been a humanoid's back with her other hand as her arm supported the bottom of the pouch. "Ye jus' needed a change o' scene, aye? Puir wee bairn... Here we are Pripa..." Shayde transferred the infant over, manipulating Rael's arms into the correct grip. "Time fer some good ole-fashioned pacin' the floor."

"You called me Pripa," he murmured. "I'm not the primary parental. Kint is the majority genetic contributor."

"Pripa's the one doin' all the messy work an' checkin tae see if the babby's still breathin'," said Shayde. "Congrats. You're Pripa. Kint does all th' sleepin' so he's Secpa."

"That's hardly fair," murmured Rael, following Shayde's example of how to do the 'grumpy bubba two-step' as Shayde called it. "Kint's work is far more scheduled than mine. I can afford to... nap... between jobs."

"I keep tellin' ye, ye've both got parental leave. Ye have all the time y' want with wee Mull." She reacted to the baby's movement. "Aye, that's you. We're talkin' about you. Ooza clevah babby? Ooza clevah babby? You is! Essooiz."

Rael sighed. He'd been through this before. "Ambassador... Our child does not need any of your 'baby talk'. Ze can learn just as quickly without confusing the syllables as you so often do."

Shayde's ultimate response was a raspberry.

The baby dipped a depression inside hirself, made a pocket of air, and expelled it with a similar sound.

Mull's first replicated noise. And it was a rude one. "I knew you'd be a bad influence on hir," Rael growled.

"Pfft. Farty noises're universal. Babbies love 'em." She exchanged raspberries with the infant with all evident glee.

Kint stumbled into the nursery room. He, too, was wearing his Wave of the Future warming suit. Tsunami emblem and all. "What is going on?" he queried. He hadn't bothered to make a nose.

"Baby's first noise," said Rael as the raspberries continued to fly. "I told you Shayde would be a bad influence."

Kint was far more enthusiastic, adding into the chorus of rude sounds. He took over carrying Mull and invented a kind of massage that made the baby squirm in hir holding pouch. Soon enough, though, Shayde pronounced the infant to be 'tired' and helped return the nursery to an environment more conducive to sleep before all three poured the reluctant infant back into hir tank.

Ze still managed to produce a few raspberries, but the effort soon became too much and hir surface settled into ripples of slumber.

One crisis averted. And a use for some of the clearly baffling equipment that had, so far, been lying idle in a box in the corner. Now all he needed to fret about was the _next_ crisis.

#  Challenge #070: Wit of the Ages

Stuff found written on walls.

Corridor 3278B had been marked as a Paradox Hazard by the local representatives of the AI Alliance, thus causing something of a traffic snarl in the adjacent byways. Since she was in the neighbourhood, Officer Lyr Marken investigated, reading everything there that was still legible.

She found it easily. Beautiful, artistic script that read, _Everyone writes on walls except me!_

Lyr instantly went for the first suspect, dialling up Ambassador Shayde's personal comms. "Ambassador Shayde F. Pitt..." she began in an accusatory tone.

"I have'nae done anythin' today," she protested. It took her a couple of seconds to add the vid feed. She was so used to telephones that vid calls took some conscious effort. "I only jus' now got out o' bed." She was, indeed, more deshabilé than usual, sporting pigtails that were dangerously frayed. As well as her physically impossible sleepwear. "Woz 'appnin'?" she slurred around a magnificent yawn. Her hand failed to completely hide her equally impressive fangs.

"This," said Lyr, aiming the pickup at the graffito. "I've warned you about placing paradoxes in public thoroughfares, before."

"It was'nae me, honestly. Check the security feeds. I'm nowhere near there fer two months."

In Galstand terms, a month and a half. Shayde still counted her time by the Terran calendar. Lyr still ran the feed through her eyescreen, highlighting the difference between with-the-paradox and without-the-paradox in her search terms. The graffiti artist in question was too tall to be Shayde. Too tall to be human... except... Lyr zoomed in. They were wearing a _hat_ under the obscuring hood.

A very distinctive hat. With brass goggles. Lyr heaved an enormous sigh. "My apologies Ambassador Shayde. I should have examined the evidence, first."

"So who _did_ do it?"

"A member of the Consortium of Steam," grumbled Lyr. "I still don't understand how they can slip their assistants with the help of just a false moustache..."

"Paper-thin disguise. Works ev'ry time," Shayde yawned out, "Later, gater," and signed off.

Lyr had to look up the direct line for the Consortium of Steam. She really should have known. It was the same thing, every time they did a concert circuit.

#  Challenge #071: Danger in an Underground Cavern

This is an [ancient race] construct, and it's a great honour to be murdered by it. We're gonna try and avoid that, anyway.

"Atlantis is real," breathed Carraway.

"Yes, yes. We have established this. However, that sixty-ton construct is coming our way and it could easily squash us flat with one limb. _Run_ , Carraway."

Carraway was still entranced, even though his feet moved away from the impending threat of the moving machine. "It's so beautiful. And functioning after thousands of years... I'd love to see how it works."

"Later! Survive until it runs down or we find a way to escape, or..."

An Atlantean carriage in good condition despite the passing millennia, crashed into the path ahead of them. The gigantic, Atlantean golem said something, but they said it in the lost language of Atlantean, so neither Carraway nor Kenkiss understood what it said. However, the arrival of a second carriage in the path behind them had made the meaning clearer.

"We activated... an ancient Atlantean... transit system?" murmured Kenkiss.

"Oh look, it has seat belts," said Carraway, already climbing inside.

"Carraway," Kenkiss sighed. "When was the last time I told you that you have the survival instincts of a meringue duck?"

"Yesterday," said Carraway, buckling himself in. "Why?"

#  Challenge #072: Unseen Flaws

"What? What is it?" "Give me a minute. I've been an idiot and I'm trying to compensate."

"No, no, no, no, no!" Paper snowed from its fountaining upwards. Judging by the look of things, inspiration had been going in entirely in the wrong direction. "It's all shit! It's nonsense! Rubbish! Rubbish, rubbish, _rubbish_..." And then Maester Kadfel fell to sobbing at her desk.

Thaldrik fielded as many pages as he could catch, and laboriously rounded up the others. Months of work, obviously. He had been fetching the Maester's tea and meals for the duration. And now it had come to... rubbish.

He lined up some of the pages in the order he remembered. The Maester's work was always beautiful, even when it did turn to bad conclusions.

"Burn all that, Theldrik," the Maester growled from her place of defeat.

"You always say I should learn from mistakes, Maester," said Theldrik. "I should study yours, too. Right?"

Maester Kedfyl snarked, "I knew my own words would bite my ass..." A sigh. "Go on. Study the mistakes of the studied teacher. You may well find something I missed. I'm just going to wallow in misery right here."

Thaldrik collected the disordered papers and puzzled them all together into a logical order, spread out on the floor. Maybe it was because Maester Kadfel worked at a narrow desk and didn't check back, but... he thought he found it. He read over all of it, just to be sure, but there was the point where things went downhill. "Maester..." said Thaldrik.

"Mrgh...?"

"On the thirty-fourth page, you forgot to carry a numeral. Everything built up from that."

Now the Maester was up from her desk and hovering over Thaldrik's shoulders. Peering anxiously at her own writing. Then she dashed to her desk for a pencil and dashed back, crouched over the pages and urgently correcting her working as she muttered to herself.

"Maester? What is it?"

"Just a moment, I've been an idiot and I'm trying to compensate." Mutter, mutter, mutter, scratch scritch, scratch... "Of course. I was on the right track, I _was_ so close... What do I always say about arithmancy, Thaldrik?"

"Triple-check your working?" guessed Thaldrik.

"And that is the mistake I made. I didn't triple check a thing. You watch and catch me out, eh?"

"Yes, Maester."

#  Challenge #073: Sufficiently Confusing Circuitry

The Magic/More Magic switch. Details here.

Rael, fresh into independant JOATing, stared at the switch on the homebrew cabinet. A human had to have made this. The pencilled annotation on the toggle switch had two options. _Magic_ and _More Magic_. Experimentally, he flipped the switch to _More Magic_ and rebooted the kludge of a machine.

It worked perfectly.

Rael was not content to receive a handful of Seconds for this much work, and took the outer casing off to investigate its innards. His JOAT tutor and sponsor, Dodecahedron Smith[17], had told him of birds' nests and why disorganised wiring was a curse on any future repair artist. Calling this mess a 'birds nest' was an insult to birds. Similarly for rats' nests. Both animals were far more organised. This tangle had to be the result of a fibre-crafter with a talent for hoarding and a near-complete lack of organisational skills in regards to their stash[18].

Rael settled himself by the cabinet and set himself to re-organising all the inexplicably intertwined wires. One by one. It certainly didn't help that whoever had put this lot together hadn't bothered with any of that, using any coloured wire that happened to fit and, when that didn't work, soldering two disparate wires together and insulating them with whatever they had to hand.

Which meant that he was working with splices made of ductape, chewing gum, packing tape, and the occasional piece of heat-activated shrink tubing, crying because it was alone.

It took him an hour and a half to finally discover that only one wire from the "Magic" switch was connected to the ground. Irritated, he turned the switch off... and the machine crashed. Which was peculiar, because the other side of the toggle switch wasn't connected to a single electrical element.

Rael disconnected the wire, and the machine worked anew. But if he removed the "magic" switch... it didn't.

This had to be human technology. Only they could make a switch that worked without being connected to anything. But he did change the label to read, _Magic_ and _No magic_. He also logged that humans must have made this kludgy machine, and recommended that someone upgrade it to something more modern whenever it was convenient.

This station needed serious help.

[17] "Dode" for short.

[18] Hi, Mum.

#  Challenge #074: Wyrd Customs

"How **normal** is this occurrence that there's **automated vocal procedures** to talk about the demonic presence?"

This lot of magicians had graduated through technology and out the other side, never once stopping in at Global Pollution Station for a long debate about how dangerous pollution was, when you _really_ got down to it. Shayde was impressed. Not many worlds actually noticed the long-term effects of certain technologies and decided to look at other ways to do things while the water was still potable and the outside air still healthy[19].

This particular example, a tower with an impressively crystalline doorway and no door, was some form of scanning and capturing device. Once through the door, the building would either offer stairs to the larger bulk of the city, or pull away a drop to an oubliette where the officials could deal with an offender at a later date. Shayde had no fear of it, not even when their team wizard insisted that one among the party was evil. This... was just another test in a long string of tests that kept revealing that she was no more demon than -say- a rock.

She was the fourth of the party to stride in and take the stairs. And it was only slightly alarming that this lot had invented escalators without first inventing conveyor belts. The stones of the tower had a limited sort of life to them, and moved under her feet, transporting her safely to the exit platform.

It was the fighter who got tipped down to the oubliette, and the wizard's apprentice after her. The horses went through a different entrance, where their packs were searched. The surprise of all three was the waif they were bringing home to her place of origin.

An automated voice said, "Demonic possession detected. Exorcising..." there was a bright light, and then the child was allowed to skip up the stairs.

They really _were_ prepared for everything.

"I know th' fighter's got it in fer me," said Shayde as the party explained themselves to a Verataseer. "But yer apprentice, Salgonicex[20]? Tha's got tae hurt."

Salgonicex sighed. "It might be an alignment change issue. The young can have problems with their desires, being in too much of a hurry, and wanting all of the power at once without the wisdom to temper it... I've been through that battle. My young acolyte... hasn't." The wizard's piercing gaze looked right through Shayde's soul. "You had best go talk to him about resisting temptations. And the strength derived from it."

"Aye, 'cause he's no' listenin' tae you," Shayde remembered being that age. When the entire world was unfair and everything was moving along so very, very slowly, and restrained by seemingly arbitary rules. "But yer coolin' down our fighter, aye?"

"Aye," he chuckled.

Drokkat had worn himself out from screaming and trying to bash the walls down with his fists. He had used all his magnificent magical might to try and move the door... but these oubliettes had been made escape proof. No power but a ladder down to the ground was going to get him out of here.

"It's not fair," he wailed, not for the last time, and laid on the floor to catch his breath.

Eventually part of the wall cleared from the _obfuscurous_ charm to reveal the demon. Shayde. Holding one funnel of the telecomnicon apparatus to her ear and the other to her mouth. "Yer done havin' yer tanty, aye?"

Drokkat glared at her. She couldn't know what it was like. She couldn't understand the resistance he struggled against.

"Make ye a deal," said Shayde. "I don't tell ye that yer blowin' this out of proportion and you don't tell me I cannae understand what yer goin' through."

What? But that was... come to think of it, that was how it _always_ went. Drokkat sat up. Faced the impenetrable Siege Glass window, where Shayde sat on the other side. "I'm not evil. I'm just angry. Salgonicex won't teach me anything _cool_. Or useful."

"Darnin' yer own hose is pretty darn useful tae my mind," said Shayde. "Or knowin' where th' nearest fresh meat is."

"But I could do that already with regular stuff. He has me lighting _candles_ and floating feathers around. Or reciting _poems_ about _princesses_." Drokkat, age 12, had no interest in princesses and even less in poetry. "We have a _Bard_. She could do that..."

"It's no' about what yer doin', it's what yer practicin' fer," said Shayde. "Lightin' a fire's pretty damn important wherever ye go. A mage needs no matches, ye ken."

"Well... yeah. I get _that_ one. But I _hate_ that stupid candle! I can't make it do _anything_ , and Master Salgonicex makes it look so _easy_... And _why_... every time there's the slightest breeze... does he make me hold a feather an inch above my finger?"

"Why do _you_ think?"

Drokkat didn't need to. "Because he wants to make me suffer."

"Na. Think again. Come on. Be smart aboot it. What's he tryin' tae _teach_ ye?"

It dawned on Drokkat that Master Salgonicex was not out to get him. It was a slow and lazy dawn that took its sweet time about getting above the horizon. "He's... teaching me control. In all kinds of situations."

"And the poems?"

"How to hold my stomach?" joked Drokkat. "No. No, it's... pronunciation and languages. If anyone had written poetry about anything else _but_ princesses, maybe I could recite a few of those?"

"He's goin' tae hate me fer this," Shayde cleared her throat, "How doth the little crocodile/ Improve his shining tail..."

[19] If you think this might be a dig at _your_ civilisation, you may be right.

[20] Any resemblance between this wizard and a certain 6'3" musician/mime in San Diego are not as co-incidental as you might think. Rearrange the syllables if you're lost.

#  Challenge #075: Action and Consequence

There is a minor but critical distinction between being right and being not wrong.

Someone had graffitied a museum's promotional poster. The poster, being about a dinosaur exhibit, featured the ever-popular T-Rex. The graffito read, _He's a chicken, I tell you! A giant chicken_[21]

There was no need to arrest the offending graffiti artist because the local paleontological fans had already corralled them and were having a Well-Actually contest. Lyr hung back and observed, just in case things got rowdy. These were, after all, fellow humans, and humans sometimes argued with their bodies as well as their mouths.

"...while the T-rex is _related_ to the common chicken," one pontificated, "there's no evidence that the descent is at all _direct_."

"Since there's no DNA, there's no evidence it isn't directly descended, either," countered another.

"Wasn't there a mummified dinosaur foot found in antarctica?" said a less-than-educated dino fan.

There was a universal chorus of, "THAT WAS A MOA'S FOOT!"

Someone else added, "And it was found in New Zealand. Of course. Because that's where the Moa evolved."

"Survived the dinosaur apocalypse," corrected another.

"It's the K-T event, dumbass, not the dinosaur apocalypse."

"Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe."

"Now see here..." began another, but Lyr stepped in. If any collection of syllables was a prelude to a fight[22], it was the phrase, 'now see here'.

"Assembled cogniscents," said Lyr, "I do believe enough education has happened to the offending party..."

The assembled saurian fans stammered apologies and dispersed away from the offending party. Lyr glared down at her middle child, Elaise, still gripping the marker. Her face turning deep red. "Momma, I can explain..."

"Traditional punishment for graffiti-ing in a non-graffiti zone is just the same as when I found you using your crayons on the wall." She picked up on the distant giggling from some of the more popular girls in Elaise's classes. Lyr would get to _their_ case soon enough. "You've been drilled on all the signs for supply cache zones. Get going."

Sigh. "Yes, Momma."

And while Elaise was trudging towards the nearest cleaning supply cache, Lyr sauntered towards the laughing popular girls. _What was the thing Shayde always said about these things? Plus la change?_ The seemingly inevitable character types of 'hangmen' or 'mean girls' never really died, no matter how much effort people went to curtail them.

They didn't notice Lyr until she loomed at them. "Ladies," she said. "I know that you are the ones responsible for telling my daughter to break the law. That is most definitely not displaying appropriate levels of _responsibility_ ," Lyr glared at each and every one of their paired locator bracelets and anklets, heavily implying that each of them could have their two Locators increase to three, each. Just like the three that Elaise still wore. "I thought leading by example meant keeping those on a lower responsibility tier _out_ of trouble. Instead of leading them into it."

All five of the girls stopped laughing and looked like they were trying not to wet themselves. The chief 'hangman' tried, "It wasn't us, Officer..."

Lyr cleared her throat and tapped the little square with the six pips on her chest, a tiny sign to others that she was an ESPer. "You're not about to try and _lie_ to an officer of the law, are you?"

Big, wide eyes said, _Oh flakk,_ clearer than her mouth ever could. She started shedding crocodile tears, "PLEASE don't tell my parents," she blubbed, "they're going to be so-o-o-o mad at me. I'll be grounded for_ever_..."

"You should have considered that before misleading a junior," said Lyr. "I have your faces and Locator tags on file in respect to this incident. If you fail to follow me to the nearest security kiosk, you will also be filed as runaways."

One of the slow learners said, "Why aren't you off catching the real criminals?"

Lyr added a mark by her name in the growing file. "Thank you for volunteering to watch some educational vids about the nature of crime. I'm sure your friends will appreciate the time spent away from free time activities."

Another one whispered, "Damnit, Vi. Shoosh!"

Parents, of course, would be notified. Misleading a Junior was a minor offense, but it was still against the laws and, more importantly, one of the key factors in remaining Senior to the level of responsibility they had mislead. A week or two with three Locators would possibly teach them humility. It would also likely teach them who their genuine friends were.

When Elaise was done with her cleaning, Lyr would have to team up with her lifemate Jole and give Elaise the talk about which sorts of encouragement were the ones to trust.

[21] True facts- T-Rex's closest living relative is the common chicken.

[22] Other than general enquiries as to whether their mother can sew, pal.

#  Challenge #076: Dire Times at the Dog and Duck

It was one of those places that people went to, to drink as much as possible in the shortest time. There were tiles well above head height, the floor was tiled and covered in sawdust, at shift change staff hosed it out and put down fresh sawdust. – Anon Guest

There wasn't a menu. There weren't interesting bottles on the back shelf. There was barely a back shelf, which held a bottle of suspicious pickled eggs, which also held a pickled vermin animal. The shelf also held the large, club-like object that was usually hidden under the bar.

It was _that_ kind of pub.

People didn't go here to socialise. People didn't go here for a good time. They came here to get drunk and temporarily escape the miseries of their lives. Which was exactly the kind of pub you got in a place that existed because nobody could get out. The miasma in this place was full of misery, hopelessness, and stale urine. As well as the vinegary mess they excused as beer in this place.

This was exactly the wrong sort of place to announce oneself as a hero. And definitely not the sort of hero who was prophesied to solve all their troubles. Therefore, Krojak the Mighty kept her head low and ordered the local ale. Humanity could make alcohol out of anything that could ferment, and this brew was apparently made out of spoiled beets.

The fellow propping up the bar next to her sighed and said, "Times are tough."

Krojak the Mighty said, "Tell me about it."

She got an infodump. This town had won the grand prize in the lottery of possible miseries. A witch's curse, a warlock overlord, ogres in the next valley, a dragon in the nearby mountain, and heinous taxes from the Usurper. That was a heck of a lot of misery to unriddle. A lot of work to clean up the mess. And nothing that Krojak wasn't used to.

Just... not all at once.

The witch and the ogres would be the first ones to talk to. Ogres could be companionable under the right circumstances, and powerful allies if things could be arranged. And once those were at least no longer a problem, it would be time to talk to the dragon... Having a dragon in one's _favour_ was always the best and brightest ace in the hole. After that, problems like a warlock and a Usurper were child's play.

Krojak didn't immediately take off questing. It always helped to listen to the complaints. They painted a picture of the rest of the area. Things to watch out for, like carnivorous treants, dryads, or whisp populations in the swamps. Finding out about the local hazards the hard way was never any kind of fun.

#  Challenge #077: No Place Like It

It was a Trucker's Drinking Hole, beer on tap and lachrymose songs on the Juke Box. It didn't matter that 16 wheelers were replaced by space haulers, some things never changed. – Anon Guest

After months of monotony, hauling whatever the cargo was, even an AI would crave variety from the humdrum. And this place was the one-stop shop. Inebriants for those on rest cycle. Stimulants for those just stopping by. The inevitable tones of Cryin' Joe Bardnaw on the jukebox, jukebox impersonator, or holographic media player.

This time, some wag had queued up _What's New, Pussycat?_ a large number of times. Cryin' Joe and his Hawaiian Guitar Band had managed to make it sound like a dirge. It fit just as well as any other in this place. The food was unsuitable, unbalanced, and long-term unhealthy. The beer and the coffee were the same. The pool table was rigged, and the dartboard had to be removed after the stabbing incident. The waitstaff were always called Pam or Jo. And there was always a scruffy guy named Bob hanging around by the counter.

Dallas took it all in and thought, _There's no place like home._ There would be a by-the-hour bunk rental place around the corner or, if this was the _enterprising_ kind of Trucker's Dive, it would be attached. Dallas took a seat one seat away from Hairy Bob and said, "What's good, Bob?"

"Hash," answered Pam as she poured a coffee, but not for Dallas. She had evidently been in these places long enough to recognise a Stopover from a Stay. The coffee went on the serving window for the frycook. "You're in for a treat, today's has got brown crunchy bits in it."

"Yeah," said Hairy Bob. This particular Bob was the Sheepdog sort. If it weren't for the clothes, nobody would guess that he was cogniscent. He was the sort of man that cold make a person believe humanity was descended from bears. And, like a sheepdog, 80% of his mass was hair. There were dimples in the mass of wild locks that allowed for the speculative presence of a face. This Bob wasn't much for talking, it seemed. He lifted one presumable finger and received a refill on his own coffee.

"Pie's good, too," added Joe at the grill.

"I'm in the mood for something greasy, sticky, crunchy, and salty," said Dallas. "And somewhere to sleep off ten long jumps, if you got it."

"Hell, child, we're a bed and breakfast," said Pam. "Through the door, past the restrooms and up the stairs. You'll be fine. We charge _after_ you've had a good sleep, here. You should have the Hash, it's got all of the above. Unless you're in the mood for Bob."

Hairy Bob cackled into his coffee. "Yeah."

Dallas, glad of the good news, added a handful of Time to the tip jar. "I'll have the hash and a slice of pie. And -ah- can I swap the coffee for a hot chocolate? I need me some sweet dreams."

Pam called over to Joe, "Leftover special, doorstopper, and a can o' mud."

"Workin'," said Joe.

Dallas had to smirk at the nicknames. If Bob smirked, she couldn't tell for all the hair. She rose from her seat to see if there was a way to get the autojuke to stop playing _What's New, Pussycat?_ for any handful of minutes and discovered that it was set to that by default. She dialled up five of Cryin' Joe's best hits and settled back down. The pie was sweet and rich and heavy and just the sort of thing that could be used as a door stop. Provided that you never wanted that door to ever move again.

The hash was just about everything Pam advertised. Every kind of potential nutrition you could ever want, all fried up together with eggs and brown crunchy bits. Possibly every bit as greasy, sticky, crunchy, and salty as advertised. And possibly about the same quality of those as Bob. Joe had put real cream in the hot chocolate, and a touch of chilli to 'turn it up'. Just what Dallas needed.

She could not repay them with any entertaining stories of her haul. It was so boring, as she put it, that her butt turned square. Nothing interesting on the comms, nothing interesting out the windows. Just a big, bland can of regulations and filling them out.

"Yeah," said Hairy Bob, in the manner that meant, _Same shit, different day._

"I'd let you talk my ear off, but I'm overdue some shut-eye, and maybe panel-beat my ass into its rightful shape."

Hairy Bob chuckled.

There were restrooms for every possible gender through the door. Dallas spent her time in one before she hauled herself up the stairs. Stripped down to her skins. And then crawled into the little bunk for some well-earned and stress-free shut-eye. They even had a white noise set-up so she could have the relaxing ambience she needed for some good rest.

It may be a dive, but it had everything that Dallas needed.

#  Challenge #078: Strangely Met

The world's reaction when a ship looking a lot like a vaguely aerodynamic brick lands at Cape Canaveral, looking for some fresh fruit & veg ("Reconstituted is good, but fresh is always better"), a top-up on hydrogen for their fusion reactor ("Haven't seen a depot for twelve jumps, and my magscoop's on the blink again - old damage from some pirates, probably should replace it"), a repair tech for said magscoop ("Got anyone qualified in Grade As? It's a Lurrkon Class Three, if that matters"), and if anyone wants any of their cargo ("Looking to offload these room-temp superconductors I got burnt on - they were supposed to be good enough that I could make a profit off 'em, but the guy I bought 'em off cheaped out on quality control, so they're only good for about [14 Celcius] - I know that's pretty crap quality, so I'll trade you them for some good fruit'n'veg and if you've got any media libraries I haven't already seen? Long-haul trips get pretty boring, y'know.").

The pilot did not realise we were not part of the galactic community.

Eventually people find out about the weapons mounted on their ship for defending against pirates.

(Been playing a bit of Elite over the Uni hols, and this got stuck in my head)

The ship did not hang in the sky in the way that bricks didn't. It descended slowly and gracefully in the way that bricks didn't. The bright, yellow , rectangular prism bristled with things that had to be guns, so naturally the field where it landed soon bristled with Earth's own armaments. And for an entire day, nothing else happened. The ship didn't fire on anyone, and several edgy generals had to be restrained from firing in self defense.

It became a camp, with the media covering the continuing inaction on the half-hour. Memes about it flooded the internet.

Finally, on the dawn following the landing, the door opened and disgorged... a lizard in a space suit. The headpiece was clear and showed a rainbow of bright scales on what had to be their face. They twiddled with their suit and spoke.

"Good morning," they chirped. "Took me a bit of a while to get the local language down. Thank the Powers for cerebral implants, yes? Sorry about the delay. Got a bit lost. Think I took the wrong turn at Berlquerqual. But since I'm here... Do you have any fresh fruits and vegetables? I'm more than willing to trade."

A silence so intense that it had its own noise. One of the generals said, "What?"

"Fruit. Vegetables. Edible plant materials. You do have edible plants, I have been monitoring your transmissions. Some are for sale, yes? I do not have your... dollars... but I do have goods that might be acceptable in a pinch. I've had these alleged live-temp superconductors some scoundrel sold me. They're only good up to 287 kelvin. Far too cold for too many species. Oh! While I'm here, I could really use a top-up of my hydrogen tanks. The scoop's been broken in a pirate incident..." the lizard trailed off, apparently taking in the heavy armaments around them for the first time. "Did you think I am hostile?"

There was some murmuring amongst the assembled military. Those of lower rank who knew some science were murmuring urgently to the higher ranks who were more than a little behind the time. Guns became lowered. Emergency conditions became turned down. Important people were called.

Someone, somewhere, ordered the largest possible fruit basket and some relevant information about the planet Earth. In tourist pamphlet format.

Negotiations began. The lizard was also looking for some entertainments to view/play/listen to during the long haul to their ultimate destination. The assembled leaders of Earth wisely decided to leave out all the ones where aliens invaded and were summarily trounced. The Galactic Alliance would find out about that later. Much, much later.

In exchange for some rendered hydrogen, care of the lizard's technology (which Earth promptly black-boxed for profit), some fruit and vegetables, a surprising volume of entertainment and an equally shocking amount of rapidly-prototyped tourist junk, Earth was richer by some superconductors, some interesting technology, and a glimpse of Galactic Society as Galrax understood it.

Both sides would only realise the inherent mistakes in all of this after the passage of a couple of years. And then, it was difficult to tell which was in more of a panic.

#  Challenge #079: What Do You Mean, 'Mostly Harmless'?

Before we made contact, humans were considered a myth, the Galactic Governments greatest hoax. No one species could possibly be THAT insane.

It's very stressful for the rest of the Galaxy when they discover humans are indeed real, and just as insane as they'd heard. – Anon Guest

Everyone in the Galactic Alliance knew the stories that spacers told of humans. Near misses. Close encounters. Abductions. Scouts told stories of dead worlds where relics of these peculiar, hairless, bipedal mammals had once reigned and then destroyed themselves. Tales of impossible wreckage that should have killed all aboard on impact, yet the surrounding area _showed signs of habitation_ before it was seemingly abandoned.

Scavengers, scroungers, and asteroid prospectors would swap tales of _meeting_ humans. Some would even exchange what they believed to be human entertainment media. Transcribed, of course, into more usable formats, which always caused the source to be questioned. The stories were always larger than life. How first contact situations happened purely by accident and the human vessel in question was never found again.

It wasn't until the _Armoured Cephalopod_ came to answer the distress call of a scavenger ship named the _Corvid_ that an encounter was confirmed. Also crippled on the dwarf planets' surface was a human vessel. The saurian scavenger and the human had accidentally crashed and forged an alliance based on the simple fact that they were clearly going to die on their own.

Experts agreed that there was no possible way that this human's technology and Scavenger Graxus' would have possibly been compatible. Yet, the human had managed almost all of the resultant mess with something they called ' _ductape_ ' and bent pieces of wire called ' _paperclips_ '. It should never have worked, and yet it did, blasting a signal so loud and clear that the _Armoured Cephalopod_ was the first among five other ships that turned up.

It was clear that these creatures were Deathworlders. The wreckage of the humans' vessel was testament enough for that. Then Graxus handed over security logs that showed the human _smiling and laughing on the way down_. Careful attempts at communication and the human named ' _Steve_ ' did indeed reveal that humans did those things when they were happy.

Only the worst of warrior cultures laughed in the face of their own death.

Then the human _Steve_ showed the crew of the _Armoured Cephalopod_ the route that they took in order to get in and out of the sargasso that they and Graxus had crashed within. It involved an unlikely number of slingshot maneuvers to save on fuel, and thereby gain a profit on the haul, wherever its home was. By the time the human began orbital deceleration maneuvers, it was no surprise that there was nothing left of their ship.

Through pantomime and broken Galstand, the human _Steve_ also revealed that they had expended all their fuel in an attempt to save _Graxus'_ life instead of their own.

The crew if the _Armoured Cephalopod_ took all evidentiary scans, copies of surviving recordings, and classified humans as Highly Dangerous before sending the human _Steve_ on their way with an enthusiastic farewell and a new salvage ship with a cargo half-full of easily traded metal.

It would be decades by the Standard Calendar before humans were reclassified and allowed into the Galactic Alliance.

#  Challenge #080: Soured Gift

Wings are the symbol of mages, a manifestation of their powers. But magic isn't something easily accepted. People will do anything to be normal.

They appear with the first use of magic, which can happen at any time following the day that a child first recognises that their own actions have consequences beyond themselves. Some say that their size indicates the mage's power. They are made of light, and it is not their size, which is illusory, but the luminosity of them that counts.

When Taerl, aged five, became annoyed at the sudden light in the theatre where she was trying to enjoy the performers, she had no idea the light was her own. Not until a fellow young patron asked her to turn her wings down. It hurt to look at them, they were so bright. She could move them if she thought hard about where they were, and made them stay inside her capelet, where they illuminated the floor underneath.

She'd just wanted to keep her chestnuts warm, and now _this_ had to happen. Stopping the soft flow of force into her chestnuts did nothing to dim her wings. Focussing on them made them shine brighter. Trying to ignore them didn't do much to dim them.

Mama dragged her out of the theatre and berated Taerl to just relax. Taerl wanted to go back to the theatre and see if Everyman managed to defeat the devil. Therefore, she arrived at the city library in tears with her glowing wings lighting the way. Where the town's mage spent most of his time.

His wings were large and glowed like a candle. Taerl's shone like twin suns hovering above her shoulders. Maester Rinkus turned to notice the light and took in Taerl's wings with open trepidation.

"Make them go away," demanded Taerl.

"Please," added Mama. "We can't afford any of this."

Taerl knew that they were a small town with not a lot of money. They had a town mage and a library with four bookshelves full of information, and that was the wealth of the town. Taerl's own farm barely earned enough for a penny show on her birthday.

Maester Rinkus sighed. "There is no magic that would obliterate magic. The best thing for your daughter is to learn how to use her power.

"We can't pay you," said Mama. "We don't have the money."

Maester Rinkus kept staring at Taerl's wings. "I can sponsor her beginnings. And I shall be writing an urgent missive to the capital for further aid." More open goggling at her wings. "She's going to need more than I can teach."

Mama held Taerl close as if she were threatened by that news. "You'll teach her to read? But she's going to be marrying the Seward boy."

This was news to Taerl. She could see the wisdom of it. Swineherds earned the most money in this little town, and being able to raise pigs would help out her farm. She didn't see how being nice to Buk Seward would get Mama or her brothers a pig or three. It had to be grownup stuff.

"I'm sure the Sewards won't be upset," said Maester Rinkus. "What did you make to happen, Miss Taerl?"

Her voice barely worked. "...made m' ches'nuts warm..." she sniffed. "...missin' the end of m' birfday show..."

"Ah," said Maester Rinkus. " _Everyman Versus the Devil_ , am I correct?"

Taerl nodded. And watched in awe as Maester Rinkus rose from his studies and pulled a slim volume from one of the four cupboards where the books were held. He flipped through the pages, and knelt to show her the words. Taerl couldn't read them, but she was vaguely aware that symbols turned into words.

"This is the play you were watching. _Everyman Versus the Devil_. When did you leave? I may not be an actor, but I can read to you how it ends."

"Don't you dare," shrieked Mama. "Reading can catch! She'll never be a good wife."

"Madam," sighed Maester Rinkus. "She can be much more for your household than a swineherd's wife. Her income as a mage will be far more than you can imagine."

"Just make it go away," pleaded Mama. "This will ruin our lives."

"I can't. Nobody can. The only thing anyone can do for her is to teach her."

Mama ran away from the library as if Maester Rinkus was the devil himself. Made Taerl work for the rest of the evening, despite it being her birthday. Mama kept her closer than she might have kept a toddler. Taerl was not allowed out of the house until she made her wings vanish.

Taerl tried, she really did. Hiding them under her clothes only worked when they were thick, winter clothes. They shone through summer clothing. She played with them, when Mama wasn't looking, making them be bigger or smaller at will.

The larger they were, the dimmer they shone, but it took effort to make them get bigger, and she could feel them when they went through solid objects. It was uncomfortable, but Taerl was not prepared to spend her summers indoors. She could stand discomfort. So she spent any moment when Mama was too busy to watch, stretching her wings.

By the time a late summer crawled into life-giving warmth, Taerl could stretch her wings so far that Mama couldn't spot them any more. And Taerl had her freedom for as long as Mama believed that her wings had 'gone away'. If she relaxed that stretch, even the slightest, the other children would mock her for her visible difference.

She learned a great deal about who her true friends were, that summer.

She also found reason to find Maester Rinkus and ask him questions. Of course, not when Mama was around. She had a lot of questions that made Mama angry. Questions like, "Why are boys allowed to learn to read but girls aren't?" or, "What's wrong with being a mage?" or, "Why's learning gotta cost so much?"

And, despite Mama's wishes, both Maester Rinkus and Buk Seward taught her how to read.

She got all the way to autumn before stretching her wings hurt. Within a few days, it made her sick. When Mama turned her in her bed and discovered that Taerl had been hiding her wings by lying on them... the reaction was something her town would talk about for decades. Mama was so mad that improvised a set of stocks to lock Taerl outside, downwind of the ducks. Taerl felt too sick to hide her wings, and so anyone who passed by her farm could see why Mama locked her up like that.

A woman in golden robes came at dusk. She needed no lantern, because of the glowing wings hovering just above her shoulder blades. Her wings were far brighter than Maester Rinkus', and looked... ornate. She stopped and stared at Taerl for what seemed like forever. Then she went inside. Mama yelled a little, but the yelling slowed down.

Things got quiet and the stars came out. Then so did the woman in the golden robe. She touched the bonds keeping Taerl in place and they came away in ashes.

"Your mother will be able to buy a boar and three sows," said the woman. "And you are free to come with me and learn."

Taerl figured out that she'd been purchased. Four pigs was a steep price for a girl who was able to read. She thought about Buk Seward, and the few friends she'd kept despite everything that had happened. "Nobody's gonna mind?"

"Those who matter will mind," allowed the woman. She had a small bolt of cloth inside her robes, which she moved her hands over and transformed into a voluminous coat for Taerl. "I am Maester Jaal. I will be caring for you from now on."

Taerl wept for her Mama as she walked away into the night. "She'll never know what happens to me."

"Yes," said Maester Jaal. "She has the erroneous belief that you are ruined by learning. She thinks you have no value. Therefore I gave her reparations for your care until this day."

Reparations sounded like the kind of word where someone was paid for something they had spent a lot of time on and lost their heart for the effort. Good money for spoiled goods. Taerl held out her arm for Maester Jaarl, and walked towards her new future with her eyes focussed on her own feet.

Maester Jaarl chose to hold her hand. "You do not have to hide, any more. People will see your wings as a sign of your prowess. Of your gifts."

"Don't feel gifted," Taerl mumbled.

"That will change," assured Maester Jaarl.

#  Challenge #081: A Painful Setback

Like most toilets in Educational facilities this one was littered in graffiti, some of it actually, (a) anatomically correct and, (b) spelled right. Someone had scrawled 'Plumbing does not define Genius or Worth!' – Anon Guest

Those were inspirational words, but when one was battling digestive upset, plumbing certainly interfered with one's ability to learn. Taerl read arguments from other scholars, including one who repeatedly asked for proof of assorted statements. Someone else, irritated with the non-rebuttal, had scrawled, _DO YOUR OWN FARKIN RESEARCH_ on top of the non-argument.

Maester Jaal insisted that Taerl was not used to the food in this immense school, or that she wasn't used to the water. Maester Jaal had also insisted that Taerl take time off to acclimate to the food, the water, and the way of life that was so very different to her former home. Taerl couldn't do it. This was a place that had everything she could possibly need, where people talked to her as if she were a full-grown _man_ with lands and holdings and everything. Where people greeted her ignorance with reactions like, "Oh, you are in for a treat," instead of calling her stupid. Where people looked at her in _admiration_ and not revulsion and fear.

And where, unfortunately, the local food or the local water had her going to the privy every five minutes.

Maester Jaal found her in abject misery, and half-resting against the cool brick of the nearest wall. "I did advise you to take some time to rest," she said. "Do you understand that it is wise to listen to advice?"

Taerl's innards cramped again, and foul ichor sprayed out of her rear. "Yeah, but... I want to _learn_. I want to learn everything."

"You can not learn when you are sick," soothed Maester Jaal. She drew a complicated sigil in light in the air in front of her, and cast it like a net over Taerl's body. It wrapped around Taerl's skin and settled in. "That should hold your... upset... until you can return to your room."

Taerl cleaned herself and dressed. "Thank you, Maester." She remembered to wash her hands. "Is there a cure or..." she remembered the words on the wall. "Do I have to do my own... farkin research?"

"I trust you don't know what 'farkin' really means," said Jaal. "It's a very crude word. Please do not use it again. But there is no cure but time. At least, no true cure."

Which implied that there were fake cures. "You get the traveling medicine men in here, too? But everyone here is _smart_."

"Not quite like that, though that is an excellent display of logic. There are... temporary remedies, like the one I just used. Things that will delay the symptoms," Maester Jaal guided Taerl to her rooms. "But the instant those remedies wear off, the symptoms resume. Sometimes, with twice their previous vigor."

That was an ominous thought. Taerl whimpered at the vivid imagining from it. "Is this one of those?"

"No. You won't suffer under my care," soothed Jaal. "But since you insist on learning, I can teach you how to make the simples that will help... alleviate your suffering."

Taerl almost made it to her bed, but had to dash to the nearest privy and suffer a little, anew. This one was boring. Nobody had added anything witty to the walls. Taerl felt that she would not be allowed to supply her own. The best thing about this school was that each student had an apartment, regardless of age. Four such apartments shared a privy, but beyond that, everything else that a student might need to use was inside.

Which included a hearth. Maester Jaal used that hearth to cook up a simple stew and some aromatic tea. Her lessons at that hearth included chemistry and medicine, anatomy and biology, and it covered why the simples worked when the travelling medicine man's rarely did. It was an education, just not the one that Taerl had set out to acquire, that day.

#  Challenge #082: No More Tea!

"What are They doing here?" he pointed to a pile of colourful objects.

"Oh, the Tea Cosies, we find them very handy in the Experimental Maths Lab."

Kudos for referencing The Goodies, "I'm a Tea pot! I'm a Tea pot" meltdowns. – Anon Guest

"People actually go mad and think they're tea pots?" said Kerl. "That _happens_?"

"Not... quite," allowed Mars, who was the head of the department. "Have you any understanding of five-dimensional math?"

"I don't think five people alive have an understanding of five-dimensional math," allowed Kerl.

"Well, in order to do it _properly_ , there's side-effects. One of which is a calculation that, when done incorrectly, allows the mathematician to _hallucinate_ that they are a tea pot. It's quite realistic."

Now Kerl took a pace away, as if becoming a tea pot was infectious. "You've done that?"

"Once or twice. Being a silver samovar was interesting. I wouldn't do it twice. Depending on which mistake you make, you could become silver, crockery, or fine china. One guy I knew forgot to carry the two and became a 24-carat gold teapot for half an hour."

Another pace away. "And the tea cosies are for...?"

"Comfort. When reality starts to reassert itself, the instinct is to stay warm, and–" The door to the lab thrust open. Emerging on the other side was a haggard-looking cogniscent with eyes that saw only abject horror. Without a further word, Mars handed over a particularly floral tea cosy. The haggard mathematician then curled up in a nearby corner and whistled monotonously to himself.

"Forgot the Brellax transformation," diagnosed Mars. "She'll be fine after half an hour and a jammy dodger."

#  Challenge #083: Il Pleut

They can make it rain, some perform Arcane rituals, some pray. But of course there is the old tried and true methods.

There's a reason why the Affiliate College of Rainmakers is on a boat. And why the uniform contains rain coats and wellingtons. You don't collect so many Rainmakers in one place without taking precautions. It's only by the third year of attempting control that many students actually achieve it.

Though it is hard to tell without field trips.

Some need specific circumstances to make the rain fall. Some... can't make it _stop_. The school gets far more of the latter than the former. And one of those was an unlucky soul called Kem. They were in their fourth year at the Affiliate College of Rainmakers, and the rain still fell on them.

At the best, utmost effort, ze could manage a light mizzle. With intermittent sunshine. The effort cost, of course, and by the afternoon, it was pouring on Kem once more. Ze took to standing in the mizzle with a stopwatch, concentrating on the mental gymnastics that kept the mizzle there. Timing hirself so that they could keep track of the time in relative relief.

Plenty of students spent as much time as they could in the sunshine, but Kem was a solar addict. They ran themselves ragged just forcing a little more sunshine out of their abilities. The porters dragged hir back inside when the rain inevitably blotted out the sky.

Administrator Dael came to counsel hir after the third time that Kem made hirself sick from overexertion in the rain. "If you strain too hard, you may kill your ability to control the rain at all."

Kem sighed from hir sickbed, leaning over a healing soup. "Before my gift landed, the two things that cheered me up were sunshine... and the appreciation of others for what I did. Nobody likes the rain."

Administrator Dael smiled. "I think you should take the portal with me to our _other_ campus."

Through that portal was a desert. Of course, it was raining when Kem got there. However, the citizens of the desert town ran towards the portal with cheers and impromptu gifts. Many had embraces for hir.

"Here," said Administrator Dael, "they love the rain."

#  Challenge #084: Hoarded Labyrinth

Unpacking a Packrat's Hoard. – Anon Guest

It was a lovely old house, that was certain. It was such a shame that it was filled, floor to ceiling, with packrattus. Great-Aunt Shirl had been one of those people who kept the wrapping paper off of her presents and the stubs from her movie tickets. Everything she had, was kept in the box it came in. And the shopping bag it arrived home in. About the only thing she threw out was the spoiled food, and even that went onto something resembling a compost heap. It was more like a small, artificial hill in the back garden that the magpies and crows raided on a regular basis.

Now that Great-Aunt Shirl had gone to her eternal rest, the only clear spaces in the house were the tracks where her elderly feet had shuffled. Sandra had taken a brief tour of Great-Aunt Shirl's goat trails and decided to camp out in the yard, which was at least free of potential death by avalanche. It wasn't the first time she'd slept in her car, but thanks to Great-Aunt Shirl and her hatred of everyone else in the family, it might be the last. House, land, and everything on it belonged to Sandra, now.

Sandra began by sorting out the things that were stored on the stepladder. Filing them into Recycle, Restore, and Rubbish. The last of that classification went into the gigantic skip that she'd ordered five seconds after deciding on camping. Of the Recycle pile, that was subdivided into two classes, Donate and Recycling Centre. Having had much help from St. Vincent's in the past, Sandra felt it was time to give back. The Restoration stuff, stored temporarily in a U-Store place, would be revived as much as possible before going to an auction house.

But that was the simple version.

The reality was hours upon hours of climbing the stepladder and playing Death Jenga with the cardboard boxes, plastic bags, granny trollies, and random objects that a little, old, four-foot-something lady had managed to literally pile up, over the years.

Some of it was immediately sale-able. Neighbours saw some of the things Sandra was stage-storing on the verandah and offered her cash in hand for them. They gave reasonable deals, so that was fine. Most of the stuff they paid for was destined for St. Vincent's anyway.

It took her two days to begin unearthing furniture.

It took five days to discover rooms that Great-Aunt Shirl had forgotten she'd had. All of them almost crammed with stuff that the old lady could not bear to get rid of. Heck, Sandra even had to unearth the _kitchen_. The old stove was scrap, of course. It had been buried and replaced with Demtel gadgets, which were then buried when they failed. Until the old lady didn't cook for herself, any more.

It was a miracle that the fridge still worked after half a century or more of continuous operation. Even then, it contained the mummified remains of half-finished Meals On Wheels dinners. Not even the magpies would take _those_.

Once the ground floor was rendered safe and habitable, Sandra broke her camp and officially moved in. She had an inflatable mattress in what was once a dining room. It was the one place that was as far as possible from the potential avalanche that was the main staircase.

On the plus side, she didn't want for money. Once the U-store place was full, Sandra began restoring the more eye-catching pieces for auction. One car-load at a time. There was just... so _much_ of it. The auctioneer asked to see the U-store Sandra was using and offered to auction it all as-is. Even though Sandra knew what she was doing with the old things, there were those that loved to restore on their own.

Sandra gladly let the auctioneer do that. Less work meant more very careful treasure-hunting. And after a few cycles of filling up the U-store, some of the auction patrons came knocking to see what _they_ could pick up whilst Sandra was carefully defusing the second floor.

It took years to get as far as both the basement and the attic. Sorting through ephemera (because Great-Aunt Shirl also kept every piece of mail she received. In its envelopes) for anything collectable and running a sort of store out of the front rooms. It would take even longer to get through the things in those vast areas.

One day, she might even move in some things that were solely _hers_.

#  Challenge #085: Proof of Concept

The concept of sound didn't exist until roughly the 1870s, when the gramophone was invented.

AN: Which is weird, because Aristotle linked hearing with the element of air. [Source. And more than a few attempts were made to record sound. Source2 ]

"A listening engine?" Clara repeated.

"To aid the deaf, I initially thought. Something to translate the noises we make into a visual medium, and thereby aid understanding. Of course, its spelling would be atrocious, but the _message_ should get through." Montague tweaked his latest contraption. There was an ear trumpet, and a progression of springs, and a pencil balanced carefully against a roll of paper. "So far, I've been analysing the vibrations of the human voice. Watch."

He wound the machine up and pressed a switch. Then recited, "You look wonderful, today, my dearest Clara," into the trumpet. Things jiggled. The pencil moved as if it were possessed. It all stopped again when Montague flipped the switch the other way.

There were squiggly lines on the paper. Jagged mountains and valleys in a bizarre landscape. It didn't look like words at all. "That's illegible," protested Clara. "It certainly isn't any kind of handwriting."

"Not unless one is Russian[23], no. This is the shape the air makes when we speak. Waves of air, turning into words."

Again, an objection. "Air doesn't travel in waves... Monty, you should get some sunshine. All this work is turning your head."

"We shall take the air together, my dear." He tore off the latest... phonautograph... from his machine and took it and a spare pencil with him. As Clara brought him his coat and his hat, he marked lines between the hills. Montague did, however, fold up the paper into his coat pocket when Clara pointedly took his arm.

Clara lead him away from their usual route, forcing him to keep his head in the real world and his eyes on where he was going. She kept up a stream of well-meaning chatter. "Honestly, Monty. Obsessions can be dangerous. You need to take more time to just be normal."

"Normal is an abstract concept, my love," he said. "You knew that I was a little... strange... when you said 'yes' to me."

Clara sighed. "I did, and for the most part you can at least _pretend_ normalcy for sociability's sake. But this? _Why_ this?"

"The deaf are outcast, Clara. So much of society as we know it depends entirely on these... vibrations of communication. I know I've isolated the words... but the sounds elude me, and..." Montague trailed off, staring out across the road at a small plot of land.

Someone, another eccentric like her Monty, had planted a field of wheat. The tall, green stalks were waving in the breeze like the ocean waves. Certainly nothing that either of them hadn't seen a thousand times or more.

"Monty?" Clara squeaked.

"Look at it," said Montague. "Look at the wheat."

She looked again, and realised what her beloved was seeing. Wheat... moving in the breeze. Moving in _waves_. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh, it _does_ move in waves..."

"If I could make an engraving with a vertical stylus, to _match_ the graphical portions of the notation..." Monty fell silent, his lips moving in response to visions only he could see. "Might just be the breakthrough in proper annotation and decoding that I need." Another long moment in which his brain was in another reality. "The initial apparatus is going to be enormous."

Clara chuckled. "You need to name this air-wave phenomenon," she told him, subtly leading him away from the hypnotising wheat. "Everyone will be talking about it."

"Making waves," Montague joked.

Clara giggled at that one. "Very droll, my love. But on to the business of your new phenomenon. We can't keep calling it 'vocal waves'. I'm certain all things that make noise do so without our throats behind it."

"Round like a wave," as they walked on, Montague made sinuous motions with his free hand. "Sibilant like the wind... Soft and round. Soft and round..."

Clara let him ponder the two words as they walked. He kept repeating, "Soft and round," over and over again. She let her mind wander, because her beloved husband was in another realm. His physical body was with her, true, but his mind was far away from her body. Off, as her Mama was wont to say, with the fairies.

She wandered off inside her head with Montague's softs and rounds merging into a mess in her ears. Clara could not, eventually, tell the words apart. They merged into one. Which eventually struck her as a fit of brilliance.

"Sound," she said. "Sound. The word is perfect."

Montague, startled out of his reverie, boggled at her. "My darling Clara... _you_ are a genius."

23] Russian cursive is... [ very strange to western eyes.

#  Challenge #086: Custom Made Babies

"No matter what side of the argument you are on, you always find people on your side that you wish were on the other."

"All I'm saying is that a certain amount of strengths are needed in the human genetic structure," argued Doctor Vardian. "My plan was to eliminate genetic disorders. Not... what has happened."

"Purity is more important than anything else," shouted the skinhead in the gallery. "We need to separate ourselves from the filth that has come to corrupt the aryan ideal!"

Dr. Vardian slowly facepalmed. "I'm not affiliated with them," he sighed. "They merely... sponsored... one of my most popular genome models."

"You have done a great service to the true human race," shouted the skinhead. "Be proud of the eventual genocide you have caused!"

"Can we please silence the alleged gentleman in the gallery?" begged Dr Vardian. "His cause is not mine."

The gentleman in question was dragged from the court, yelling "Freedom of speech! Freedom of speech!" all the way out.

"Nevertheless," said the judge, "Your most popular and useful genetic line is the one that the media have dubbed..." the judge looked it up, "The Village of the Damned Model. That definitely speaks to some desire to eradicate diversity."

"I never sought to eradicate diversity," said Dr. Vardian. "But my clinics give my clients what they ask for. We do not insist that anyone's child be pale-skinned, pale-haired, or pale-eyed. They ask for that themselves. As you will see in all our client desire forms."

"But you do replace genes from your clients to make the babies they order."

"We have to, madam. One cannot get a blond, blue-eyed, pale skinned baby from darker-hued parents without... intervention." Dr Vardian sighed. "Our goal is to eradicate genetic disease. The parents who desire a child vastly different from their own genetic makeup are encouraged to... reduce... their desires by my counsellors. Obviously, the customer inevitably gets what they want. For good or ill."

"Nevertheless, there are a lot of these... cookie cutter kids."

"Blond, blue-eyed, pale-skinned children are desired," said Dr. Vardian. "I have no control over what our clients desire."

"So you're saying that your clients are attempting to erase their _own_ genomes?"

"Unfortunately, yes. This is the genetic equivalent of giving a man enough rope."

"Then I am legally obligated to halt all paid production of your cookie cutter babies. You can continue all pro bono efforts to help poor families with genetic hazards in their families, but no client who wants a cookie cutter child is going to get it. Until such time as we finish investigating all your clients and their desired changes."

That was the beginning of the end for the Vardian Process. Those wealthy clients, whose custom sponsored the pro bono work, sued for breach of contract. If they could not get their blond-haired, blue-eyed baby, they would get ten times their money back for time and emotional upset wasted. Money that Dr. Vardian and his employees didn't have.

He still insisted on returning every last cent from the neo-nazis, the KKK, the "alt-right", and any other gathering of like-minded, xenophobic arseholes.

The road to hell is certainly paved with good intentions. Dr. Vardian understood that, now.

#  Challenge #087: The Good Word

We all know "Abracadabra," or, "Hocus Pocus," and sometimes, "Just Like That! Just Like That!" Then of course there's, "Please," "Excuse Me," and, "Thank You," which might stop you getting hit by someone.

There was one door in the Vault that had not been opened. The SPOEns had been at it for almost a year. And it wasn't often that Shayde took her Ambassadorial Yacht anywhere at all, because she didn't like to travel without Rael by her side. And Rael... didn't like to travel. This was obviously a special occasion.

The vault had a series of locks that only "a child of the 20th century" would be able to open. The SPOEns may know a lot of history and, for a change, be more than helpful... but Shayde had _lived_ a part of it. Nobody else could know that time as intimately as she did. The particular lock required a live, human voice. And the answer to one question.

What is the magic word?

The SPOEns had gone through all their collected ephemera, all their knowledge of literature, all known methods of magic incantations, and even the greater part of Hollywood entertainment before they all had to go off for a holiday.

Shayde followed the Archivaas to the door, took one look at the legend over the top and said, "Yer shittin' me."

"We are not attempting to add any variety of shit, Ambassador," said the Archivaas. "All of our SPOEns have spent countless hours attempting to unlock this door."

Shayde barely restrained herself from using her are-you-stupid-or-what voice. "The magic word is 'please'."

And, just like a miracle, the door opened. Revealing another vast section of the increasingly-immense Vault.

"Four jumps," said Rael. "Two nexus crossings. Five _days_ of a round trip. Do you have any idea what it's like to spend five _days_ playing Dungeons and Dragons with a crew full of humans?"

"I could'a just tole ye," said Shayde.

"That is true, but it demanded a human voice. All our humans are on leave. We wore them out. And since all other stations between us and Amalgam are having their 'silly season'..."

Shayde held out her hand, palm up, and rubbed her fingertips with her thumb. "Pay th' man, full inconvenience fees, thanks. I'll get on wi' any o' the doors the SPOEns'll ha'e touble with while yer sortin' oot yer change." She stalked off into the labyrinth in a huff. One could almost see a small storm cloud following her.

"She's very protective," Rael excused her. With a little time off and some puzzle-solving, she would be back to her usual, sunny disposition. "Our pilot got jump-sick because she's gestating and half of the crew suffered from a mutated immunoflu variant. This trip was... rough."

The luckless Archivaas calculated the resultant sum in her head. She whistled backwards. "They say that no price is too high for knowledge... but this might come close."

#  Challenge #088: Reminiscing

How do you know I was cursing at you back then, love? You didn't speak my language yet, and I doubt you remember exactly what I said. For all you know I was paying you lots of loud, angry compliments. -grin-

"You forget," said Pal. "My livesuit was recording everything. I got a full translation in time, and you were cursing me out for everything under the sky."

T'tin was taken aback. "You knew what I was calling you, and you were still..."

"Attracted to you. Yes. Love is many things, and none of them are logical. Especially when humans are involved. You will note, however, I didn't start any romantic displays until well _after_ you started liking me back."

The saurian, currently going through his human's collection of random memorabilia, paused in sorting out the refuse. "There are humans who attempt romantic overtures when the other party is clearly not interested?"

"Far too many. Especially in misogynistic communities."

"What does misogyny have to do with–" T'tin's brain caught up with his mouth. "Ah. Wait, I remember. A long history of disrespecting the child-bearers as insignificant objects. Which allowed the dominant society to think of outsiders to that society as objects as well."

"Unfortunately, yes," sighed Pal. He knelt by his mate and re-inserted an item into the keepsakes box. "That one's important, love."

"It's a _pebble_."

"Yes, but that pebble? That's the one that saved our lives, that time on Nimbus Three."

"You collected that?"

"For all _you_ know."

[AN: Can we _please_ kill the trope where a lady's open hostility in the first act is debunked by an inexplicable kiss(or sex) by the third act? It's my least favourite trope and it needs to die a savage death]

#  Challenge #089: Inspired Desperation

This is dumb, like dosing Tasmanian Devils with meth and then stuffing them down your pants dumb.

"So let me get this straight," said B'tiz. Who clearly thought that ze was in error. "You are building a catapult to literally throw yourself at the enemy ship, where you will somehow infiltrate and then suborn one of _their_ vessels, rescue me, and leave _them_ stranded on this micro-planet."

"Trebuchet, but yes. That's the gist of it. Trebuchet's are easier to make. Well. Slightly easier to make. I had to fudge on the weights with springs because the gravity here is almost negligible. Almost has a lot of problems." Starting with the fact that this little planetoid's weak gravity made it physically possible to shoot oneself in the back of the head.[24] "Deathworlder, remember? I can survive the G-forces involved. You can't."

"But... this is madness..."

"Yup!" Patterson cheerfully agreed. "This is beyond dumb. Like... giving Tasmanian Devils methamphetamine and stuffing them down your pants dumb. This is 'what were you expecting' dumb..." She stopped talking so she could check everything on her contraption twice more. "But it's the best option we have."

"What if you miss?"

"This suit does have thrusters, babe. I can course correct, but only once I'm out of this gravity well. Which is just strong enough to be homicidally annoying." Patterson set her gaze on the orbiting enemy. "Just like these other folks."

Another horrifying thought came to B'tiz. "What if you _hit_?"

Patterson grinned. "I'll try to grab on before I bounce. I'm good. I've been surfing the year. I'm pretty good."

Surfing the year, B'tiz remembered, was a slang term for the nearly suicidal practice of flying the gravity wells in the Impossible Nebula for a full orbit around the Nebula's star. Along with, "fly the year," and, "the self-immolation special." It was horrifying to think of hir human being involved in that literally breakneck 'sport'... but then Patterson _was_ human.

If they couldn't find excitement, they made their own.

"Okay, so here's the plan. I curl up in the basket, and you pull the lever when I tell you. I'll do all the rest."

"It's facing the wrong way," objected B'tiz. "You will miss."

"One, missing is better than a direct hit. Two, trebuchets _always_ look like they're facing the wrong way. It's how they are. And three, I'm livecording this so I can earn a few Years off of the Infonets. One way or another."

The look in Patterson's eyes made B'tiz enable hir livecording also. "As you will. I regret that this is our only option."

"I don't," said Patterson. "Win or lose, I'm making _history_." She actually cackled as she tucked herself into the basket. "Fire in the hole, babe!"

B'tiz pulled the lever. The larger fulcrum of the trebuchet spun about with a faint 'whuk' and the balled-up Patterson sailed off into the darkness of the sky. The enemy ships dipped and swerved. And one of them bucked like the mechanical bull in Patterson's favourite bar. Then, a few minutes later, it shot at the other three, crippling all of them with deadly accuracy.

The ship descended, and Patterson literally threw the two crew onto the surface of the micro-planet. "There's a shelter half a klik that way, fellas," she pointed the way. "There's clean air and roughly three days' food if you like starvation rations. We'll make sure someone comes along a bit before then, though."

B'tiz took hir cue and clambered in. "You will not leave them to die like they left us to die?"

"Call it public relations," said Patterson, closing the canopy. "Mercy means that there's less people to hold a grudge, later on."

It was not very far to the nearest station. Help would arrive sooner than three standard days. And then the law would be very interested to hear what these cogniscents had to say about their efforts at piracy.

[24] Just one among the very many reasons why projectile weapons are banned in space.

#  Challenge #090: Case Studies in Strangeness

(A scientist's notes while monitoring a human's thoughts)

While trying to focus, the subject held an intense discussion with itself berating itself to focus.

If the scans are anything to go by, it has not enabled the desired effect.

Everyone knows that humans are insane. The extent of that insanity and the resultant dysfunctions have yet to be completely mapped. Which is why the Centre For Human Studies exist. Sometimes, people are so desperate to know what's wrong with them that they'll sign up to be an experimental subject.

Today, it was Focus In Cogniscents for D'rex. Watching the brainwaves of their test subject as they attempted to focus on a simple written exam, in an otherwise empty room. They had the bare minimum of furnishings, as is standard in exam environments.

This proved difficult for test subject Tammy, who is on record has having an attention deficit disorder. Whilst attempting to focus, subject Tammy held an intense discussion with herself, berating herself to focus.

Scans indicated that this effort was unsuccessful. Despite there being a significant lack of distracting items in the room, subject Tammy was repeatedly distracted by invasive thoughts.

Following the control half-hour, D'rex introduced subject Tammy's favourite 'fidget'. A terran-made object designed for no other purpose than to be moved about in the sinister hand. Once the 'fidget' was introduced, subject Tammy was able to focus intensely on the given task, whilst her sinister hand was otherwise occupied.

Examiner D'rex made some notes on the time mark when the 'fidget' was introduced, and the change in brain waves. After another half-hour, the 'fidget' would be replaced with a less familiar small toy, and subject Tammy's brain waves would be measured anew.

Some humans, they knew, could only focus if they had something to play with. The problem was figuring out _why_

#  Challenge #091: A Lesson to Learn

Something from a non-human perspective about the deaths-per-terawatt-hour rates of various power sources in the early 21st century [source [#1)(http://www.nextbigfuture.com/2011/03/deaths-per-twh-by-energy-source.html), [#2)(https://www.forbes.com/sites/jamesconca/2012/06/10/energys-deathprint-a-price-always-paid/), update of [#1)(http://www.nextbigfuture.com/2016/06/update-of-death-per-terawatt-hour-by.html)], and the irrationality of pushing for more coal over renewables (cough cough current Australian government), or literally anything over nuclear - even without fusion - please?

...especially when you take into account that living within 50 miles of a coal-fired plant exposes you to over three times as much ionising radiation per year as living within the same distance of a nuclear plant? [source]

From _Humanity: A History_ by Grolrax F'tizzle...

Humans are very fond of their own inventions. Proof of this is their adoration of the invention of fire, before recorded history. This is despite evidence that starting fires voluntarily has been discovered independently in several different areas at several different times. In the early periods of human development, humans did not go far from setting things on fire to derive light and energy for their environmental tailoring.

Even into the dawn of their technology age, during the time when their species was taking its baby steps into space travel, most of the population was deriving energy from burning things. Their chief and most popular combustive agent at this time was petrified remnants of dead peat swamps, commonly called 'coal'. The other was the compressed and heated remains of pre-historic animal fats, commonly called 'oil'. Terrans burning both of these agents took some time to recognise that the combustion byproducts were toxic, and even longer to reduce the toxic emissions.

Primitive humans are very averse to loss of perceived profit. When confronted with a sensible choice or money, primitive humans would much prefer money.

Some humans, not motivated by profit, spent some time and energy in developing energy sources that did _not_ involve burning things. Some chose the sun, rivers, and the wind, easily exploitable natural and renewable resources. Others chose to boil water through heat generated by controlled fission. In short - burning things in a more toxic hat.

It should be not surprising in the study of Terran History that humans took decades to deny the lethality of fission energy as well as the fact that fissionable materials are far rarer, and the waste from the process is far more toxic. The fact that the deaths attributable to solar and wind power are all accidents in the process of maintenance... whereas the deaths attributable to 'burning' technology can encompass both accident and toxic waste... is a fact that is lost on many humans due to their worship of profit.

Even when the renewable energy technology had reached a point when swapping over to it would be relatively easy, the early humans refused. The sources of combustive agents were plentiful and earning a lot of money. It did not matter that the combustive pollution had reached a point where sea levels were rising and human life was in danger. Proponents of combustion energy used their profits to keep their place as the chief source of both energy and death.

It wasn't until islands owned by those rendered wealthy by combustion had those islands rendered unsafe by the ruin they made that those in profit finally realised that they had made a mistake in denying the danger inherent in their own inaction/

Of course, by then, it was almost too late to save the human race. Fortunately, some colonies had already begun down one-way wormholes, and human genetic diversity was preserved. The wealthy retreated to arc vaults and everyone left behind was left to cope for themselves.

Eventually, in the Redistribution Revolution, the cryo-sleeping wealthy were shipped off down a wormhole with one, brave, revivification technician, their money (which had since been rendered worthless) and one small manual for survival skills, with illustrations. This colony has yet to be found and it is speculated that the once-wealthy died of starvation whilst fighting over their useless money.

Fortunately for Terrans, smarter minds prevailed in the end. Now coal and oil are used for purposes of chemistry, making improvements on extant solar, hydro, or wind power or lubricating the turbines. Not that there is much need. Terrans have all the power they need, and plenty to spare. There is no profit in this, of course, but having clean air, clean water, and healthier people.

So very many refused to see the profit angle in that that Galactic Society debated the true value of Terran cogniscence for years.

#  Challenge #092: The Dunwich Power Initiative

Oh, the tears of eldritch horrors? Yeah, those are technically a renewable resource.

"They weigh a third of a ton each, they're pure crystal and, when struck, emit an energy that can be harnessed by a sphere of aluminium. I mean, in the 1800's, that was impossible, but now..."

"Aluminium is everywhere. I get it. So how much energy can we extract from one of these things?"

"Uh... probably about 100 terawatts per tear."

"And there's twenty tears still extant in this world, right?"

"Twenty-one. They found one under a monastery in Tibet."

"That's still not enough to switch over. Once they're gone, then what?"

"That," grinned Mary Arthur, "is where my plan comes in. We summon, trap, and torture a minor eldritch horror and harvest the tears."

Charlie Ward pondered this. "I'm sure you make it sound easier than it is..."

"I've adapted plans for a summon-and-trap device from this journal from a survivor of the Margate Incident."

"This isn't one of those journals where they write their own screaming at the end of it, is it?"

Mary checked the final pages. "No. But even if the trap doesn't work, I have a dismissal engine that will work because it already has."

Charlie thought about this as they walked together. "You seem to have a lot of your bases covered."

"That's what happens when you send a woman in to do what men couldn't," she chirped.

"So... how are you going to torture it?"

"Bubblegum music with videos of kittens and puppies. Duh."

#  Challenge #093: A Rovin' Heart

"Scrounger" Noun, a person or being who collects discarded objects and turns them into (a) ready cash. (b) something useful - often re-purposed.

Tolerance is a wonderful thing, and more of it happens on the relatively lawless edges of society than it does in the lawful middles. Law likes to build a bubble around itself and eliminate everything that exists outside of it. But edges... edges are where interesting things happen. Sometimes, it's a plummet into destruction, but other times... you get interesting flights into strange new areas of potential.

And it's the edge stations where Humans could interact with Galactic Citizens before they were accepted into Galactic Society as mostly harmless. Such as Peripatetic Matthew, a wanderer who may or may not have begun the Loyal Order of Hitchhikers, but definitely gleaned rides to a Spacer's next survivable stop along the Edge Territories. Matthew would bring a small amount of cargo to stow into odd places and introduced quite a large number of freighter captains to the concept of _luggage tetris_.

But that wasn't all that Peripatetic Matthew did.

When pressed to list his trade, he would input 'Scrounger'. And then loftily explain that Scrounging was entirely different than Scavenging. Scavenging was taking that which nobody else apparently wanted and selling it to someone who did. Scrounging was purchasing something relatively unwanted in one place and selling it to someone who valued it _at a much greater amount_. Scrounging involved seeing _potential_ in gimcrackery, baubles, and gaudy things that were sold, as he put it, for pennies, and then shifting them somewhere else for pounds.

He was never an official JOAT, but claimed he knew enough jiggery-pokery to get by. He knew enough common Edge Languages to make himself understood, and passed through the rest of the language barrier with mimicry and pantomime. And, very rarely, holding up trade-ables and pointing at things: the intergalactic signal for "I want to buy that one."

And even though his business was evidently profitable, Peripatetic Matthew was never wealthy. He earned enough to stay comfortable and generally gave away the rest to anyone he figured might need something. People all over the Edge Territories could rely on him to always have something useful. Either in his backpack or the wheeled chest that was his constant cargo and occasional bed.

It is conjecture amongst the Archivaas that Peripatetic Matthew is one of the main sources for subsequent humans' knowledge of polite behaviour. No true record exists to confirm or deny this, as record keeping in the Edge Territories was not, and is still not encouraged amongst the savvy business-owner there. What is known is that he sent letters home via human agencies. Where the knowledge spread from there is entirely up to debate.

What is known is that, for every species that has had a confirmed encounter with Peripatetic Matthew, the subsequent human contact has been _extremely_ understanding of their ways.

#  Challenge #094: What the Hell, it Goes!

It's often held together with paper clips, wire coat hangers and duct tape. But it will last 'long enough' and get you to where you are going safe and sound.

Unriddling a kludge is half the problem. Engineering a permanent solution that works as well as the kludge is nigh impossible. Desperation makes truly bizarre engineering. Rael, who had spent some time with actual engineers, thought he was getting pretty good at translating kludges to semi-proper engineering that did the job without so much ductape causing so many unexpected heat issues.

And, as a semi-bonus, he could shape himself to fit any tight area. Though he preferred not to. Shapeshifting was a caloric budget that many couldn't afford. He usually satisfied himself with absorbing his bones as a matter of comfort, and re-forming them as movement deemed necessary.

This job, in the depths of some of the older parts of Topsy Turvy Town[25], was a space squeezed between ancient ruptures of two compromised interstellar vessels. Rael had already taken as many panels off as he could, but some of the resultant mess was clearly infrastructure. Leaving them off meant that the next person in here would have a slightly easier time of moving about. And he could possibly claim mass credit on the neglected metal. In addition to the cramped conditions, this kludge-work consisted of coathangers, paperclips, ductape, and seemingly random circuit boards. And decaying hot glue.

Knowing what it did was half the battle. Rael made a new board, with resistors in the place of the coathanger wire, and put it in parallel before testing it. Always a wise move. For all he knew, a human could have made this mess... and they had a unique relationship with reality, physics, and how things should work _properly_.

So far, so good. Rael spliced in his improvement and cut the connections to the old one. Failure. Rael steadied himself and suspended his new creation on the twisted coathanger that held the old one. It worked. He added a little note to the coathanger in question that read, _I need to be here until you can think of a better working method._ He documented everything for the Archivaas and bagged up the old kludge for the local JOAT museum. Young JOATs could always learn from the mis-repairs of others.

Namely, that what was previously impossible could be actually possible. With enough ductape and coathangers.

[25] 'Up' being a relative concept in space, some sections of Amalgam Station got turned about before the gravity drives were properly installed. In the case of Topsy Turvy Town, all of the buildings are completely upside-down. As it is a tourist draw, the local inhabitants have just gone with the aesthetic. Including gravity-defying lighting.

#  Challenge #095: Intellectual Pollution

(Follow-on from the tramp freighter pilot finding Earth)

What really excited the scientific and engineering community was the 'build-your-own' educational manuals from [Space SCA] - centuries out of date tech for the pilot's society, but theory backgrounds and detailed instructions on how to build everything for a number of tech levels with tools from a number of tech levels, some of which we can build the tools to build the tools for.

Galrax had left it behind by mistake, in the bottom of one of the crates that held a disorderly heap of 'cool room' superconductors, interesting cables, and other random ephemera that would not be missed by the Galactic trader. It was in Galstand, which didn't help, but it did contain copious pictures, which did.

Galrax the humble trader would get a lot of the blame, just for accidentally leaving behind his hardcopy of _How to Escape a Wild Planet_ , which included instructions for building the arsenal of tools necessary to build the arsenal of _advanced_ tools that made building an intrastellar space vessel possible.

Humans are pretty clever at figuring things out. They colonised their solar system inside of four years. Only the distance between their star and any others prevented them from bursting out into the Galactic Alliance as a whole. The vessel in the instructions was designed to carry a cogniscent as far as the next wormhole where, it was assumed, the occupant could hook into the Galactic Alliance info-nets. And from there, call for a rescue.

Humans didn't know GalStand, and could only find one-way wormholes in their solar system. Therefore, they were isolated from Galactic Society for a reasonably long time.

But not, according to many cogniscents in the Galactic Alliance.

It's simply astonishing what a fruit basket can do for a civilisation.

AN: This story hails back to [ this one here ]

#  Challenge #096: Strange Fellows

They were canvassing house to house (try political candidate or party member).

"Oh! Oh! I think we might want to miss this one."

The letter box was a suspiciously shaped blue object, the bin left out on the kerb was full of empty jammy dodger packets, and the clothes line, well it didn't bear thinking about! – Anon Guest

Paula looked. Dangling in the breeze from the hills' hoist were three Starfleet uniforms she recognised and potentially three more that she didn't. Something frilly that could either be Lolita or Steampunk, depending on the accessories, and some strange shapes dangling from strings. One looked suspiciously like a human arm with a bite taken out of it. It was only the painter's tape and the newspaper on the bite that prevented Paula from phoning the police about it.

"Complete weirdoes," said Darren. "They'll talk your ear off about everything, including funding space travel when we have enough troubles on Earth."

"But," said Paula, "you believe that we should all sort ourselves out, right? No handouts for freeloaders?"

"Well of course. People don't _learn_ if they get too much help," said Darren. "All these welfare queens taking every advantage they can."

"I've never met a welfare queen," said Paula. "Have you?"

"I'd hope not to," said Darren. "They're ignorant, stupid, and always out for the next cheque. Or their next sugar daddy."

_That isn't how welfare works,_ thought Paula. "You go ahead," she said. "I'll go talk to the weirdoes."

Darren made a _Your Funeral_ kind of shrug and took his clipboard to the next house. Whilst he was trying to encourage the neighbourhood to go right wing despite their best interests, Paula had a wonderful afternoon of geeking out with the weirdoes. Darren had _looked_ cute enough, but his distance from reality was the deal-breaker.

#  Challenge #097: New Start

For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth.

There's a saying in the streets, _It's easy to fall, harder to rise._ The streets are hard, and hot, and freezing cold at the same time. It makes people that are hard, who have hot tempers and cold hearts. They grasp for anything that will get them ahead. Even if it means killing their own. It's a broiling forge in which the toughest and the hardest make a living, and the cleverest find a way out of as soon as possible.

Assuming they survive that long.

All of this, of course, was mere philosophy now that Cass was slowly bleeding to death in the gutters following a Back-Street Handshake. Or, as the rare police knew it, a quick shiv to the kidneys. At least she'd got him in the goolies before he smashed her face and took what little she had to steal. Rage burned inside her as she watched the retreating back as her thief limped away through her remaining, useful eye. _Die in a fire,_ she thought, and was more than shocked to see the cutpurse burst into flames.

Of all the times to suddenly bloom into magehood...

Cass didn't look for any other sign, just focussed on the immense pain in her abdomen. Picturing an imaginary thread darning her up from the inside-out. Holding it together. Slowing the blood. It hurt like a bitch, but Cass was used to pain. She retrieved her purse from the burning corpse, and a few others as well. Glaring at anyone who dared to watch.

All this for a handful of groats, three coppers, and a dubiously silver ring with a garnet set in it.

Cass left him burning and walked very carefully onwards. Stopping the leaks. Spending some of her mental power on more delicate 'stitching'. There were spots dancing in her eyes by the time she made it to the nearest Whisper Hole. Where those who feared retribution could tell of grievous crimes or report a new mage for a meagre reward.

Nobody had stolen the stool for firewood. Cass was grateful for small mercies as she eased herself into it. The groats would feed her for a month if she hadn't been wounded for a slow death. The coppers would stand rounds at the Bull and Bush and the ring... was probably lead and a carbuncle. Cass tipped it all into her purse and re-strung it around her neck. The others, she stuffed inside the largest of the purses and concealed it in her breast-bags[26]. They could plausibly be sold for a few more coppers.

A distant voice said, "Number Fifty-Seven. Is anyone there?"

Her voice was rough from her enforced silence. "Yes," she hissed through gritted teeth. "New mage. Just came into power. Been stabbed. Need help. Right here." The invisible stitches faded and snapped if she lost her concentration. Blood loss, the effort of keeping the 'stitches' in place, pain, and some other great effort all conspired to make her drowsy. Cass clung to the mental image of the stitches despite all this.

Though she was dying for an ale, she'd prefer to not be dying. Whoever Number Fifty-Seven was, they kept her talking. Kept asking her questions. Kept her awake. How had she emerged? She set fire to the padfoot who shook her. How many in her house? Dozens. Hard to keep count, but at least the numbers made it easier to keep warm. Cass couldn't remember the last time the space she shared with so many had had doors or shutters. It had a brazier, and that was that.

Number Fifty-Seven had her listing things by the time the area Cleric and their honour guard turned up.

Cass woke in a hospice with a completely different Cleric watching over her. The soft bed and the warm covers made escape troublesome, since Cass felt weak as a kitten. She was, however, very aware that she was naked under the bedclothes.

This Cleric was male, so she warned him with a semi-friendly, "Sure I can burn you, too, if you try'n poke me without payin'."

"You're welcome," snarked the Cleric. He had a world-weary look to his eyes. "And welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. Happy birthday." He rose, showed that he was unarmed, and opened a small closet by her bedside. Where her clothing and her purse collection lay. "We cleaned and repaired your clothes while you were out. That was some... interesting magework you did. What made you think it up?"

"Stitched m'self up enough times and lived," Cass confessed. Her injury was a dull throb on the edge of her awareness. Like she'd been punched instead of stabbed. It did not _fade_ like she'd been punched. "And I could... feel... where the leaks were. It was powerful strange. So I sewed it all back together."

"Hm," said the Cleric. "It takes fifteen years of hard study to do what you just did. Either your power has been building for some time without egress, or you are something of a genius."

"Ain't never had no learning," she said. "Never could afford stout, so's I never had an Eeg, let alone an Egress."

"Forgive me," said the Cleric. "We get too used to educated speech and words that hide their meaning. What I mean is, either you had magic bubbling inside with no way out, for a long time, or you have a very clever way of thinking."

"Reckon I was desperate," said Cass. "Anyone poke me while I was out?"

The Cleric cleared his throat. "We much prefer the lady to enjoy herself, here. You are thoroughly safe. And, I might add, cured of quite a few diseases."

The burning sensations in various parts of her body had vanished. This man was telling the unaltered truth. "What happens now?"

"We teach you. We help you find your limits. You choose where to go from there. Though I would suggest... not back to the Devil's Maze."

"Place near killed me once," said Cass. "Reckon that's plenty."

He had been right to tell her 'happy birthday'. This was a new place and a new life, at the cost of her former ruin. Almost at the cost of her life. For the bargain, she was as weak and helpless as a newborn as well. The Clerics had to use a clever crank to sit her up and she could barely lift a spoon to her lips, and let them help her hold it.

They taught her things while she was awake. The beginnings of an education. Because there was nothing more dangerous than a Mage who didn't know what they were doing or what their own limits were. There were places in the countryside where people still didn't tread because of the immense damage wrought.

Considering what happened to that luckless cutpurse, Cass could begin to understand.

26] Before the corset took over fashion, there was the precursor to the bra. A cloth harness that kept the bosom more or less restrained. The bra had to be re-invented because it had been forgotten whilst the corset reigned. [ Source.

#  Challenge #098: He's Only One Year Old

My brow furrowed. "You're a thirty-foot-tall robot. How did you order solar panels?"

"Ebay."

I tutted at him. "You do know you can order them direct from cheaper places, right? And they're more likely to _work_."

"But those need a drivers licence and I can not get one."

"Show me those sites, please." The screen on his midriff lit up, displaying the sites in question. And they were all questionable sites to begin with. "Rugro... have you been using Bing as your search engine again?"

"How could you tell?"

"These are all phishing scams, my friend. Honestly, I set you up with the best filters in the business..." I activated his keyboard and checked his settings. "And you turned them all off! _Why_ did you turn them all off, Rugro?"

"It would not let me see the sites the search engine found."

"And you conveniently ignored all the 'this site may be selling your data' warnings, didn't you?" I sighed. "Honestly. You either have the browsing safety sense of a five-year-old or my grandmother. Look at this! Virii and malware! Thank _goodness_ your OS is incompatible, but _really_. Rugro... you should know better."

"They can not steal my identity. I am not alive. I do not have an identity."

"But you _do_ have a credit history and a bank account. They _can_ run rough-shod through _that_. And what if they make a virus that could hurt you? I'm doing this stuff for your own good, can't you understand that?"

Rugro pondered this while he watched the birds and I restored order in his systems. At length, he said, "You would be very upset if something bad were to happen to me. I do not understand. My algorithms are backed up. I can be in a new body as soon as it is built."

"Your algorithms, yes. And also whatever virii you might have picked up between visits. Virii which, I might add, _can_ attack your backup system. Die of a virus and you might die permanently. Don't back up until I've done a system purge, okay? And no browsing! Not until everything's clean."

Rugro sulked. "But I was going to watch the new episode of _Candy Gals_."

"Watch it on YouTube."

"They do not have the newest episode."

"Of course not," I finally logged into the backup server. "Because _Candy Girls_ is the front door for some damn efficient data-mining malware that makes that site a fortune. You're practically immortal. You can wait twenty-four hours for the episode to come out on YouTube." Ye gods and little fishes, what a gigantic mess. "Or I could turn off your wifi access until you learn 'safe' from 'dangerous'. Do you want to be in the playpen?"

"Fine," Rugro growled. "I will watch the Yogscast instead."

Relief. "Good robot." I sighed. "Pick a series. This is going to take some time..."

#  Challenge #099: Unintended Consequences

One man's trash is another man's treasure.

_Sooner or later, someone will buy it_. This is the mantra of both Junker Nomads and Tall Tale Tellers alike. Some of whom do both jobs at once. The further one goes, the more one can sell it for. Unless, of course, said object is everywhere. In which case, one has to take it to the Edge Territories or beyond.

And every trader, large or small, has a minimum of one Standard Weight Unit of beads somewhere in their cargo. After all, one never knows when someone will want something shiny. And, in the rare event of a rough landing on a primitive planet, one can trade them for materials that the natives may possess. It is advisable to attempt to avoid godhood in such cases, rare though they may be.

Godhood was the last thing on Prexin's mind in this blasted wasteland. The good news was that the food printers were still working. The bad news was that they were stuck on anchovy salad. The rest of it was awful news. The ship was just about toast and, unless Prexin wanted to be stuck for the rest of their life on this rock, they would have to leave their cargo behind.

Some of it was pretty good, too. All sorts of principle demonstrations, including the flywheel, clockwork, and good, old-fashioned, flint and steel. Sometimes in the same package[27]. Specific gravity. The centrifuge. The windmill... all elements of basic engineering that some civilisations had managed to bypass. Prexin even had a few build-your-own solar panel kits, which had come in handy for keeping the power up on their wrecked vessel.

Prexin had had to dig to find an aquifer, and then purify the water so that it was drinkable. Which meant a regrettable loss of alcohol, because they only had one still. And on the way, Prexin had found a few veins of interesting metals. Which came in handy for cannibalising the ship in order to build an escape vessel.

The natives were primitive, barely above the tech level of throwing sticks and rocks at things. They kept to their hiding places whenever Prexin was doing any EVA to gather or refine resources. They were mainly interested in keeping a big rock between themselves and anything Prexin was doing. A fact that Prexin was grateful for, since they weren't wrecking any of the equipment.

Prexin sifted out the least-swallowable beads from their cargo, and buried the rest in the remains of their iron mine. The rest of the stuff wasn't truly dangerous. Most of it was toys that pre-lithotech peoples probably couldn't figure out. The beads that couldn't be swallowed, however, were left as a combination of a gift and rent. The rest of the tech that Prexin couldn't take with them had to be smashed or otherwise ruined. Lest all that stuff become the basis for an unfair leap into dangerous territories for the natives.

Civilisations had been destroyed by advanced technology before. And no doubt they would be again. But this one, they hoped, would not be one such ruined.

Grar watched the little shell ascend into the stars. The larger shell was a ruin, but it was still interesting. Now that the strange creature had left in the smaller shell, it had to be safe. Indeed, picker-birds were already hopping around the smashed things. Grar got as close as she dared, and threw a rock at the open hole that the strange creature had left for the last time.

No more strange creatures. Grar had wondered if it was just one, or many. She dashed up to the larger shell and bashed it with a stick. It made a loud noise, but did nothing. Everything around this place was doing nothing. The hole the creature dug lead to sweet water, and some other caves that were dull and uninteresting and in danger of falling in on themselves. Grar avoided those, but the water was good.

She had seen the creature use... things... to carry lots of water. There weren't any of those things around, but part of one of the creature-built things looked good enough. Grar snatched it and scurried down to the water. Then, after a few false tries, carried the water up to her tribe-mates.

Zug was hitting rocks together like the strange creature had, just after the big shell had fallen from the stars. Little Mers was turning the bent stick of the unnatural stone that made sparks, but she wasn't making sparks.

The tribe clustered around Grar's moving pool, each dipping their hands to drink the sweet water. This was a good place, and Tek even managed to brain a few picker-birds for the tribe to eat. Zug made a sharp rock out of two rocks by hitting it a lot, and started using the sharp edge on some dry wood.

It came apart a lot easier because of the sharp rock.

But it was Sim, helping Mers play with the sparking stone, who worked out that the sparks came when something hard was pressed against the spinning stone. Sparks and dead wood made fire. And fire kept the howling things away.

Grar didn't waste time worrying about the thing from the sky. It had come, it had shown the tribe some interesting things, and it had gone. If it ever came again, she and her daughters would watch, and see what things it did with fire and earth to make the shining stuff. There wasn't a lot of it around, any more. The shining stuff looked... very interesting.

As to what could be done with the colourful things with the holes through them... that was going to take some effort and play. But they were pretty. Pretty things were always worth carrying around. She could put a stick or a reed through them. And tangle the ends so that they stayed together. That would keep them until the tribe worked out anything else to do with them.

In the meantime, Grar wanted to know what would happen if you hit a larger animal with a sharp rock...

[27] Bet you never knew those sparking wind-up toys would be useful this far into the future.

#  Challenge #100: Time For Change

Stranded alien offers gender re-assignment technology in return for fuel and food. Afterwards people can father or bear a child. What happens next?

Communicating had been the first hurdle. Bella had managed most of it with pantomime and imitation. The second hurdle was that Earth technology was centuries behind what this stranded entity had on hand. Most of their months together were spent building the tools to build the things that Yrxnahb needed to repair their vessel.

Bella tried to take notes, but most of it was beyond her comprehension. Yrxnahb didn't try to teach her, either. There were laws against leaving potentially dangerous technology in the hands of warlike primitives. No offense meant. Bella didn't take any offense at all and threw what there was of her notes into a fire while Yrxnahb watched.

"I get it," she said, "my species is just not ready for this stuff. We'd just go out and kill everything and think it's our manifest destiny or whatever." Bella had read enough of human history for Yrxnahb. They understood too well that humanity were a warlike race with too much hate, yet, to interact peacefully with other stellar cultures.

If humanity got hold of Yrxnahb's technology, they'd become worse threats than the Orcs in _Lord of the Rings_.

Bella just helped, and occasionally hid Yrxnahb and their ship from curious or investigative eyes. These efforts included an amazing cardboard replica of Yrxnahb's livesuit, and corflu replicas of bits of the ship, with obvious circuitry on the flipside. Sometimes, it helped to be a massive nerd.

But, on the day Yrxnahb was due to take off and head for home, the police officer called Bella 'mister' and triggered a bout of dysphoric depression.

Yrxnahb thought she was ill, and she had to explain. It took a lot of deep breaths, because she was sure that Yrxnahb would despise her for concealing... her true nature. So many others had. Even her neighbours kept making trouble for her whenever they could.

"I'm... not completely female," she began. Tissues at hand because her eyes would not stop leaking tears. "Something went wrong in utero and I was... assumed to be male at birth. It's taken too much money and too much time to get where I am and get as close as I can to being myself but..." Bella broke down into sobbing. It hurt too much. Every 'Mister' or 'Sir' was like an acidic arrow through her soul.

When she recovered, Yrxnahb was waiting patiently with a large, chunky, techno-bracelet. "I will stay and teach you how to make this with your available technology," they said. "This will help."

Yrxnahb had to calibrate it for humans, an effort that required a recycling run through the park to gather the DNA samples on discarded bottles, cans, and drinking straws. All to get a baseline of the human genome. Yrxnahb's model only required Bella to lick part of it for her DNA, but her jury-rigged copy would need a drop or two of blood for the readings. And also, her version would be a booth. With lots of clunky circuitry work attached.

Overnight miracles would be too suspicious.

Bella learned three programming languages just to make the software, but by then, the bracelet had begun working its magic. Fresh stubble came up where male pattern baldness had ruined her hairline. Though her bones ached at her shoulders and hips, they were slowly changing shape. Even her jawline was altering.

It took the better part of two years to make what she nicknamed the Changing Booth. And to carefully write down all the details of how it was put together and how it worked and what it did. Then a trip to the patent office to file the patent. Only after it was approved did Yrxnahb return to the stars. Bella turned the dead patch of lawn where their ship had been into a garden. Then, she let the trans online community know of her clever little device. She also shared the plans online for anyone clever enough to understand how to make one.

Bella swung her hips a little as she walked down the street. She felt _great_ about finally being able to rock a pixie cut in public. Her transformation took a little under a year and she couldn't be happier. There was a street preacher on the corner. As she got closer, she could hear him ranting about the evils of the Changing Booth.

Apparently, God wanted people to stay the way they were born. Because now it was unsafe for any man to have sex with a woman. This was based on nobody being able to know if any given woman "had used to be a man". The Changing Booth was encouraging men to be gay by fooling them into having sex with "false women".

It was a dying rhetoric, and nobody was paying the man any attention at all. Bella wondered idly where this man sorted the trans _men_ in his disgusting array of narrow pigeon-holes.

"Mama, mama, mama, it's _her_! It's Miss Penny!"

"Penfold," corrected Bella. She stopped for the little boy and got down to his level. "Hi there. How are you?"

"Mama says I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. You made Daddy into my Daddy."

Bella looked up to the blushing woman and said, "Congratulations." To the boy, she said, "Is your Daddy happy about everything?"

"Daddy smiles every _day_ when he does poses in the mirror." The kid did some muscleman poses. "I'm gonna grow up to be like you, and make things to help people."

"I'll be looking for you at the Nobel awards." Bella let the kid hug her, and wished his mom a good day. Now that everyone could change themselves into any other form they liked, there was a lot less hate going around. Racism was pointless when anyone could be any skin colour they liked inside of a year. Sexism was pointless for a similar reason.

The attitudes were still there, of course. Things like that died out slowly. Attempts to ban the Changing Booth were moot when anyone could get hold of the plans, and the parts were commonly available. And of course, there was a small group of people who would not associate with anyone who had been inside a Changing Booth.

They clustered together in one little town on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa. And every year, kids from that tiny little town left it to become their true self. Every year, that little town got smaller and smaller.

One day, hate would die out. But that day was not today.

#  Challenge #101: In the Neighbourhood

There are those who delight in annoying their neighbours. This one had made an art of it, noisy music, renovations at the crack of dawn or into the night. For sale signs went up and people moved. Then the new owners arrived next door and retribution ensued. – Anon Guest

Skating on the thin ice of the letter of the law was an art form that Gary indulged in. He didn't like Those Types living nearby, so he did everything legal to annoy them into moving. Mowing the lawn at mere seconds past eight in the morning. Playing loud music until seconds before ten in the evening. Aggressively pruning anything that came over his property line. Purposely planting things that would kill the things along their mutual fence line. Deliberately leaf blowing seconds after they had hung the washing on the line.

All that passive-aggressive stuff that isn't, strictly speaking, illegal - yet skating on the very edge of the law. And, of course, always combined with complaining about the slightest thing that the unwanted neighbours did.

It took three weeks to convince them to move out. And Gary had an entire week of peace before the next set of neighbours moved in. Gary should have guessed he'd have trouble when he saw that their mini-van was painted up like some kind of Star Trek space ship. They, too, played or did loud things on the cusp of legality. The lady of the house installed a strange structure over the Hills' Hoist that protected the laundry from leaf-blower dust whilst also letting the evaporating water escape out of some kind of whirligig.

The father gave the kids vuvuzelas.

And then the _projects_ came out. Strange spray-painting pieces. Body parts. Plaster moulds. Seeming acres of paper and one or more of them drawing strange shapes on the lawn. The erected a shed, which was completely legal, and moved in all kinds of weird apparatus.

As a final, desperate move, Gary attempted to report them as potential terrorists. They had enough weird gadgets to look like a meth lab and a bomb construction site at the same time. Gary set up a place on the lawn and watched in barely-concealed glee as the police rolled up to make enquiries.

The adults of the house showed the police into the shed. Nobody came out in handcuffs, but some of the cops were carrying a few weird items out. The lady of the house clambered into the pieces and the cops and her husband helped her put them on. It was a gigantic set of armour that made her five times her size. She could even make the fingers of the huge hands move.

Then the police came over and arrested _Gary_ for wasting police time. They had evidently looked into the history of the place and found his prodigious collection of complaints and reports originating from both his name and his address. He had started this because he couldn't afford to move.

Now he couldn't afford a lawyer good enough to get him out of jail.

#  Challenge #102: The Birth of the Vardian Empire

Follow up to "Designer Babies". Other less reputable Medical facilities, pounce on the process, Dr Vardian is praised for actually trying to talk vanity parents out of bad choices instead of offering a range of "options", athletic ability, perfect pitch, genius I Q. Which leads to the sad question asked by the results. "Why don't I look like Mummy and Daddy?" – Anon Guest

It only took two years for other gene therapy organisations to spring up in the void left by the Vardian Clinics. Each one had their own patented process, or means of making the desired child come to pass. Each one had a variance in the prices. Very few had as many scruples as Dr. Vardian.

More than a few _only_ supplied blue-eyed, pale-skinned, pale-haired genes for prospective parents. And so very few noticed for such a long time that that, alone, should have been alarming. But the real alarm didn't happen until those infant geniuses were learning about family traits in their second year of schooling.

Many of those physically perfect, blond, blue-eyed, pale-skinned children went home to parents so very different from themselves and asked their parents, "Am I adopted?" And, to a parent, they all acted shocked that their beloved child could even suggest such a thing.

And, since a bulk of these perfect children were also very intelligent, they found means to do their own tests. Some sampled their parents' DNA. Others simply researched their own families. And what happened next... well... It's a devastating thing when intelligent children decide to rebel. By their fourth year of schooling, they had all figured out that they did not truly belong to their parents and, more or less, that they were all related.

Nobody in history had seen a gang of geniuses create chaos before. Nobody wanted to see it again.

Dr Vardian, now a very old man, had his reputation return to the good books. Vardian clinics came back from the dead as the copy-cats were shut down with accusations of diversity eradication and attempted genocide. The Vardian Clinic priced the blond, blue-eyed genetic model outside the reach of most but the most insistent of clients.

Thanks to the genius gangs and the trouble they made, there was a lot of hostility against the Vardian Children and any genius copycats. For the first time in modern history, favouritism turned away from the pale-skinned, pale-haired and physically advantaged. And it was those people, and Dr Vardian's family, who went with good intentions down a deep-time wormhole.

Humanity assumed that these geniuses would die out of their own hubris, or their own genetic bottleneck inside of two hundred years. They assumed that the Vardian colony would be another in the long list of Terran colonies that managed to kill themselves with their own ideals.

They were wrong. They were very, very wrong.

AN: This story follows up from [ this one here. You threw me for a loop, Anon, I was looking for the title I thought you were supplying]

#  Challenge #103: Are You Valuable?

Prompted by recent disasters. Local Survivalist proves to be a helpful resource during bad weather event. – Anon Guest

The town was practically atomised after the winds died down. There was very little left that was recognisable. There were streets, somewhere under the risen water, and people were clustered on the few buildings that both survived the storm and had upper floors to huddle in.

Cara piloted her larger boat to the old town hall. It had been built in the era of steam and was therefore sturdier than the average castle. It, the old church steeple, and her fortress were just about the only buildings left standing any more. She was greeted with surprise and shock as she pulled up and tied off near the upper landing. People were crowded inside, all of them miserable.

"We thought you'd died," said someone in their pyjamas.

"I'll collect from anyone who had bets laid," joked Cara. She handed over a sealed eski. "This has three different types of antibiotics and a small stock of insulin for anyone who needs it. Pill and liquid form. And enough painkillers for anyone who's in trouble." Once that was handed across, she picked up a big duffle bag and handed that over as well. "This is bandages and medical supplies. Get them straight to anyone with medical expertise. What have you been doing about waste?"

"Um. The ladies have been using the upstairs toilets, but they don't flush any more. Us guys have been..."

"Using the street as a urinal?" Cara suggested. "Quit that. We'll have to clean up your piss and anything that's leaked out of the sewerage system soon enough. That's hazmat-level stuff. Especially if someone has a disease. I have a brace of chemical toilets at the fort. Anyone who comes back with me has to be cleaned and checked as a condition of entry." Cara unloaded bag after bag of non-perishable food. Anyone who cared to examine it would see that this supply was a week or two away from expiring anyway. Cara usually cleared out her older stuff by donating it to the food bank. "My fort's cramped, but it's not as cramped as here." She had five bags left, now. "I'm going to check on the church and head back home. Anyone who wants to come should come."

"You still have five bags," said the guy who met her on the balcony.

"Yeah, this is for anyone who's stuck at the church. I'll be taking them and ten people from here, on this trip." She took the Braeburies: Mom, Dad and four kids, the extremely pregnant Mrs Willow and her toddler, and two kids handed over by Mr Trent. Then one of the better-dressed gentlemen from inside set up a holler about how he was the most important man in the town and demanded a seat.

Cara glared at him with the last of her ropes in her hand. It was, co-incidentally, one that ended in a Monkey-fist knot... which could also double as a weapon. "You know anything about farming, Mr Important?" She knew damn well that he was the oligarch of the town, Danny Power. The last time he'd been near any kind of farm, it had been a photo op and the chicken had attacked him.

"Of course not! I'm the financial soul of this town and everyone knows it! You need me!"

"Just keep it to a 'yes' or a 'no', Mr Important. My time is valuable. You know any medical procedures?"

And since her hands were clearly ready to shove off, he said, "No."

He did not know anything about triage, cookery, morale, construction, cleaning, entertaining of any kind, or anything that was short-term useful following a flood. Finally, Cara asked, "And now, in a nice, clear voice, tell everyone here why you rejected my plan to ready this town for severe weather. Project, please. As if you were at one of your rallies."

Mr Power went red. "It was too expensive to install weather-proofing in all of my buildings."

"And how much did you pay for the yacht that's now embedded in the church roof?"

"Five billion dollars."

"You're useless," said Cara, looking him square in the eye. "I'm taking you last. If at all." It was petty and she knew it, but everyone had heard. Everyone knew. This lump of fat in an expensive suit had potentially cost everyone their lives. They were remembering all the times that he had called for them to 'eliminate' the "relics of a bygone era" that the old town hall and the old church steeple represented. Buildings that had survived the severe weather and now saved their lives.

Danny Power was now the least favourite man in town.

There were people at the steeple, people on what was left of the church roof, and people helping themselves to everything remotely valuable in the remains of Power's yacht. Cara got them to help inflate the life boats she had in three of the bags and doled out heat packs and space blankets to anyone who couldn't fit in the train.

It would take four more trips to empty out the church. Another ten to empty out the old town hall to the point where she might consider allowing Danny Power to join everyone else in need at her fort. She had prepared for this. She even towed along a couple of chemical toilets -doors sealed with duck tape- to alleviate some of the mess at the old town hall.

Power was learning, though. He actually started lending a hand with the supplies. It did Cara's heart some good to see him red-faced and struggling with a porta-potty as he and four others wrestled it indoors.

But she'd still over-charge him for her supplies. He could afford it.

#  Challenge #104: Not Fooling Me

You've got to be kidding? Right! that mask is supposed to hide who you are? – Knitnan

The hero blushed a little and scratched the back of his head. "You'd be surprised how often it works, though," he said. "Like... people don't recognise my mum when she wears her contacts, so..." He shrugged. "The flashy costume helps a lot."

"If I knew who you were, you would catch so much shit, right now," said Pam. "Like, thanks for the rescue and all? But the teeny tiny mask and the face paint? How long does it take you to get ready for a night of random heroism?"

"The mild-mannered day persona really helps." Now he couldn't meet her eyes. "And so does super speed."

"How do you keep that thing on your face anyway?"

"You know that weird glue you get on the back of credit cards? It's made out of that."

"Euw."

"Well. Mostly that. I sort of made my own formula. It's boring nerd stuff. Um. I can hear an alarm going off, are you going to be okay?"

Pam assessed her situation. Day and life saved - check, shaken up and needing a decent amount of chocolate and ice cream - check, otherwise fine - check. "Yeah, I can make it home from here. Thanks. Go save the day."

He tipped his head to her as if wearing an invisible cap and leaped a tall building in a single bound. Pam made her way home and tried to remember where she had seen that clean-cut face before. Mild-mannered day persona, he had said. Which meant that whatever he was doing in the daytime, it was something that would blend in with the daily scenery of life as anyone knew it.

Pam got herself a personal tub of chocolate ice cream at the 7-11 on the way to her flat and, with the combination of hot tea and cream, settled enough to get sufficient rest to go to her work, the next day. Though the small talk included her encounter with the Bayside Defender, her day and her life returned to normal.

Until the office's delivery guy from Coffee Courier turned up with the morning order at ten AM on the dot. She usually didn't look up from her work, but this time, she _needed_ her triple espresso with a shot of hazelnut. Pam saw the face she knew from behind the tiny mask and everything clicked.

Rather than out him in front of everyone, she thanked him with, "My hero."

He looked briefly horrified for a second, but did his hat-tip at her and said, "Thank you ma'am."

She grinned and winked at him. He pretended to flirt a little for her and went on with his day. It would be more than a few weeks before they even began chatting for a handful of minutes at a time. Even heroes had to pay the rent, and a job like Coffee Courier was pretty much minimum wage with a very few perks.

One day, when no-one else could hear, she'd have to ask him how he paid for everything when his other job was basically saving the day for completely random people for little in the way of reward. But that day would not be coming soon.

Heroes, knowing the habits of villains, were very squirrelly about relationships.

[AN: Fiction fact - The very concept of a secret identity in narrative as we know it was invented by the Baroness Emma Orczy in _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , which inspired _Zorro_ , which inspired _The Lone Ranger_ , which inspired _Batman_ and quite a lot of other superheroes besides. Everything cool was made by the ladies]

#  Challenge #105: The Kindness of Strangers

A true pessimist is always pleasantly surprised. So if you're ever disappointed or upset at something, take heart! Some part of you believes in a better world.

The collapsible booth on Babel Avenue[28] simply had one word on its placard. _Cheer_. It was written in large, friendly letters and the person inside it bore a beatific expression and watched those passing by without the slightest hint of flagging spirits.

Rael, on his way to the Temple of Feasts[29], could afford as many as five Minutes before his economic situation became worrisome again, but... this piqued his curiosity. He held up a Minute coin and asked, "Do you cheer people up or egg them on?"

"I spread whatever cheer happens to be necessary at the time. You'd be surprised how many people need some cheer."

Ah, so she was offering cheer as a purchasable emotion. He still had a very few seconds. "How would that work on someone with a high metabolism, a low pay bracket, and a complicated lawsuit away from knowing anything at all about my own basic biology?"

"I think I could do that in three minutes," said the woman. "Starting with an identity check. You _are_ Rael the Faiize, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said. And all that that implied. Most-failure success. The product with the most quirks, hiccups, and outright system failures. The one with the features that were all bugs. _That_ Faiize from all the breakdown vidbites. And also, in his nightmares, the one most likely to reach his expiry date the soonest. A worry he shared with his other two test-sibs, Ayg and Kint. Planned obsolescence was a hell of a thing when it happened in _constructed_ cogniscents.

"Today," she said, "You are alive. Every minute in which that continues is a blessing. And, in turn, every minute is blessed by you. Just now, you have chosen to improve a life despite the fact that your metabolism must be harming you even as you stand. And if you face disappointment... then you believe in a better world." She smiled, and indicated the can that served as her til.

"You're good," said Rael. "How did you get like this?"

"Years of hauling myself through depression."

He gave her four Minutes, and hurried towards the Temple of Feasts. One life made better. That was why Theists even tried to make any kind of difference. Rael _could_ have chosen to charge higher prices and remain in his tank until summoned. He could have chosen any kind of expertise area that he was already competent in. But he didn't do that. He made the most out of his time because every minute could be his last. And every Minute was important. He made the most difference in the least amount of time (and Time) for the most people.

_Here and now, I am alive._ Nik's cousin Gras was flipping three pans whilst agitating a pot, inside the temple. Four other young and hungry JOATs were clustered around a Gyiik-sized bowl. _Here and now, I can change things._ And, instead of being miserable about his fate, he could look upon his works and feel... empowered.

He took a bowl for himself and said, "Some of everything, please," to Gras. After a moment's thought, as spoons and spatulas danced over his dish, he added, "I don't have the Time for it, but I'd like to send a hot meal to the lady running the Cheer booth. How much would I owe the temple?"

"When you have eaten," said Gras, "You could repair the third rear burner. That should settle the debt."

"My thanks to you and your gods," said Rael. There were days when he could even sing a hymn or two for Nyohmnahm, despite being a determined atheist. She was, after all, one of the few deities that actually did people a favour. If only through her devotees.

[28] Like _Tin Pan Alley_ , Amalgam Station's Babel Avenue is named after its general auditory effect. It is a Free Speech corridor, where all those who want to try and earn some spare Seconds perform on delineated platforms for whatever the passing populace decides to donate. Alongside the usual preachers, there are stand-up comics, buskers, mimes, and other performance artists eke out a living. Or at least earn their next meal that _doesn't_ come from the Gyiik temple to Nyohmnahm, Goddess of Plenty.

[29] The aforementioned Gyiik temple in the previous footnote. Gyiiks are heavy-worlders with high metabolisms and an amazingly benevolent planet (visitors are advised to steer clear of the Mityarh Nut trees), and are also blessed with a culture revolving around gastronomy as a holy devotion. At least, it does if the Gyiik in question worships Nyohmnahm. Gyiik devotees of the Goddess of Plenty are excellent chefs, champion gourmet epicureans, and foodies down to the soul. Those with slower metabolisms who visit the temple for a decent feed are advised to share with a friend or nine.

#  Challenge #106: Improbably Driven

(Person #1): And you think this will work?

(Person #2): We have the highest expectations of success.

(Person #1): Highest expectations?

(Person #2): Reasonable certainty.

(Person #1): Reasonable certainty?

(Person #2): Mild confidence.

(Person #1): Mild confidence?

(Person #2): We are drawing lots from a bowl of angry scorpions while ice skating downhill.

(Person #3): YEAH! WHO'S WITH ME BABY?

Many a life-threatening adventure has both started and ended with the words, "The human has a plan." Many more have had, "I think I have an idea," as their epitaph. But for the most part, adventures that contain these words of doom can be survivable. Those who survive them often never want to adventure for the rest of their lives[30], but they survive and make a healthy living off their memoirs.

After a time, those species willing to have a human as part of their crew have evolved algorithms for ascertaining the survivability quotient of their human. Phrases like, "I've seen this in a vid," are definite indicators that the human in question may not be as reliable as one who uses, "I've done this before."

But in the case of the Grebnak Incident, the hare-brained scheme actually came from the Grebnaki Second-technician Dalyst'r, who formulated a plan that involved explosives, a counterweight, three long poles, a lot of ductape, and a rubber duck.

"And you think this will work?" said Captain Vrixo.

Second-technician Dalyst'r looked sideways at the crew's human, who was nodding with dangerous vigorousness. "We have the highest expectations of success."

The human was grinning and doing a double-thumbs-up gesture.

"Highest expectations," echoed the Captain, who was no fool.

"Reasonable certainty," corrected Dalyst'r.

Once again, the Captain enquired, and once again, Dalyst'r downgraded the confidence level to, "Mild confidence."

When asked for a third time, Dalyst'r confessed, "We are drawing lots from a bowl of angry scorpions whilst also skating downhill with no brakes on a very steep incline, sir."

At which point, the human could no longer contain themself. "YEAH! WHO'S WITH ME, BABY?"

It's a general rule that anything that makes a human excited should be treated with observation from a safe distance[31]. But since they were in the thick of it... Captain Vrixo turned to the human. "You _are_ the one tasked with _all_ of our safeties."

"Yeah, you'll all be safe. Guaranteed," said the human, who was jiggling in their spot. "I'm the one doing all the _fun_ stuff."

_Humans_...

[30] Except for the humans involved.

[31] The next star system, via expendable cameras, seems to be the minimum recommendation.

#  Challenge #107: I Play to Relax, Damnit!

There was, after all, mad science to be done. Although it was only really mildly deranged science.

Curses filled the air. Since Amy wasn't one to curse, Tess left her bread in progress to investigate. "What's going on?"

"Therapy," said Amy. "I got recommended this... Minecraft... as a means to relax, but... this stupid stuff doesn't have any logic to it."

Tess finished drying her hands so she could lean on Amy's shoulder. Peering at the window, she read, "Redstone?"

"It's like electricity in this stupid block game. If you're _clever_ , you can make all sorts of amazing things with it. They're enormous, because everything is cubes, but... This is so frustrating."

"You could watch some tutorials," suggested Tess.

"I have a Bachelor's in Engineering! I should be able to figure this stuff out! But loads of it is so counter-intuitive. Watch." Amy placed a red torch on the ground, and a block above the torch. On that block, she placed a second red torch that immediately winked out. "How is that meant to work, exactly?"

"What were you trying to do?"

"A redstone babbage machine," said Amy. "The whole calculating engine. I'm still working out the difference engine. It's ridiculous."

"You couldn't just build a pretty castle or something? Work out the redstone stuff by degrees?"

Amy had to argue. "But that's _boring_. I could play with Lego and do that."

"Lego's more expensive," countered Tess. "And boring is supposed to be relaxing. No more frustrations for you. Take it easy and play for a change."

#  Challenge #108: Just Like Home

Australian States and Territories named by the British: Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria, Tasmania (formerly Van Diemen's Land).

Australian States and Territories named by the newly-fledged Australians: Northern Territory, South Australia, Western Australia, Australian Capital Territory.

See a pattern?

The populace of New Australia spread out into their assorted wide, brown lands. In typical colonial innovation and enginuity, they named the continents after their old states and territories. New Queensland, Novo South Wales, New Victoria, and so forth. New Australia was a warmer planet than Earth, prone to deserts and hostile life forms. But that was nothing new for Australians.

Though some continent names were complicated, they were quickly abbreviated in the typical Australian style. In three generations, they were Nu'kinsl'nd, Nu'Suthoz, Nu'act, Nu'Vicky, Nu'Tazzie and so on. None of the continents so named had any relationship to their original placement in their origin island/continent. But they did have an intense relationship with the general environment. Nu'kinsl'nd, for example, features thick rainforests, blasting deserts with intermittent plainlands, and is ringed by deadly coral reefs. Nu'act is mostly a dormant super-volcano known for its random expulsions of deadly gasses[32].

Most hostile of all was Nuwa, a mountainous desert with harsh winds and a tendency to spontaneously combust in the summer[33]. Most of it, like Western Australia, was extremely hostile desert, but it was rich in mineral wealth. Fortunately, the N'Ozzies were already used to building some towns under the surface of the baking earth. It also lead to the 'elevator oven' or 'liftbaker', a simple set of pulleys and a black, metal box that was designed to rise to the heat and, after some interesting work with sensor systems, return to the cooler interior when the roast was nearly done.

N'Ozzies became a culture of engineers. Adversity and necessity were ever the parents of invention, and the entire planet of N'Oz prospered on its own[34]. But that never stopped the N'Ozzies from making things up, making new concepts, and making do.

Australia's first space program technically happened on the colony of N'Oz.

The N'Oz star system had four fellow colony planets. One that was scorching and mostly a desert, even after terraforming. The colonists named it Woopwoop. On the other extreme was an icy world that they ended up naming Melb'n. Of course, by that time, the colonists had become a little more innovative with place names.

Even so, it's advisable for a N'Ozzie to never be allowed to name something. They will get right to the point without any kind of poetry at all.

[32] So not that far off from the original ACT.

[33] Rather a lot like Queensland, but Queensland was already taken.

[34] And possibly because there was nowhere else for N'Ozzies to sell their innovations to for short-term profit.

#  Challenge #109: The Fall of the Hespruss

After two repetitions of a standard hazard announcement ("Warning: Shields Critical", or "Cabin Pressure Dropping", or "Warning: Heat Levels Critical", something like that) - something dangerous in meaning but pronounced in a calming voice and almost mundane, the ship says this:

Warning: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.

Alarms and klaxons filled the air with their noise. If it wasn't beeping or flashing, it was already broken. The computer struggled to keep up with the warnings.

"Warning: Lateral stabilisers offline. Warning: Engine temperatures beyond tolerance levels. Warning: Hull breach detected in levels one through seventeen. Warning: Engine failure imminent. Warning: Internal pressure dropping. Warning: Internal temperature controls are failing. Warning: Emergency warning system overloaded..."

The klaxons turned off. The alarms silenced. The automated warning voice glitched a few "war"s before it, too, fell silent. The crew, already in their emergency livesuits, slowed to a stop. Many were holding their breath.

"Warning," said the automated warning voice intoned in a calm and peaceful voice. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

"That's our cue to bail," said the ship's human. "The ship is toast. Everyone into the life-pods. Double time." True to their character type, they hung back to be sure everyone reached the life-pods before they, too, clambered inside one.

The crew already inside glared at their human. The senior officer present said, all deadpan, "You're the one who added the 'abandon hope' message, aren't you?"

"And an algorithm to tell when there were too many critical warnings and the ship was about to tank," added human-Steve. "I'm rather proud of that one."

"Though I appreciate the bail-out warning," said Lieutenant (jg) Krakkis, "I would propose something that needs... less human lore to understand."

Human-Steve seemed to contemplate this. "Oh yeah. Just in case I die, or you swap me out for someone else who isn't a lit-nerd. You'd need that."

Humans... they were so unbelievably prepared for all things. And so casual about such preparations.

#  Challenge #110: Lost With a Blue Box

:When summing up recent events:

The tree does seem to be suspiciously friendly and sane for an ancient being or ancient artefact, let alone both in one. Even the only other vaguely sane ancient being, the balloon-jellyfish godling, wasn't this friendly until she was punched in the face a few times and given a pretty good Shut Up, Hannibal speech by a sapient brain tumor, and she doesn't seem to have been nearly as old.

...that was a weird sentence.

It wasn't every day that a companion went and rescued herself. And it was even less often that they turned up with _allies_. The Doctor looked over the motley crew. There was a brain in a tank/mecha body that seemed to be completely taken over by a tumour, a gigantic tree with a face, and a floating thing that looked like the unlikely progeny of a jellyfish and a dirigible.

"Well done, Holly," said the Doctor. "I know I warned you about wandering off, so... how...?" he circled a finger at the general assembly. "This station is millions of years old. None of them should be alive."

The tree creaked something that could have been words, but it seemed wont to hold Holly like some kind of treasured doll.

"I'll admit, the tree does seem to be suspiciously friendly and sane for an ancient being or ancient artefact, let alone both in one. Even the only other vaguely sane ancient being, the balloon-jellyfish godling, wasn't this friendly until she was punched in the face a few times and given a pretty good shut-up-you speech by the brain tumor, and she doesn't seem to have been nearly as old," reported Holly. "...that was a very weird sentence."

"You get used to things like that," the Doctor investigated the floating jellyfish, which seemed to be sulking. "You're really a god?"

"Kneel before me and pay homage!"

The brain in the mecha-tank hit her with a robotic appendage. "Play _nice_. You get homage on Thursdays."

"A rain of terror upon the newcomer!"

A small cloud formed above the Doctor's head, and one immature frog rained upon his head. The doctor rescued the poor little thing from his hair and cupped it in his hand with the light drizzle that also fell.

"It's a bit difficult to work miracles when you don't have worshippers," said the brain. "We pay homage to keep her alive, basically. Otherwise, it'd be me and the tree and that's not exactly the best conversation."

The jellyfish turned to Holly, still in the tree's limbs. "Now there are more! You shall be the mother of a new nation of the faithful! Be fruitful and multiply!"

"With him?" Holly gestured at the Doctor. "Get lost."

"...hey," said the Doctor.

"No offense, Doctor. You're definitely not my type."

The tree creaked happily as it hugged Holly.

"He says that he hopes you last longer than the last visitors," said the brain.

Ah. One of _those_ places. People eking out an existence because of the vampire that had trapped them there. No doubt, that brain had been a complete and living person, once. The jellyfish wouldn't let them die.

And as for the tree... The Doctor couldn't scan it. His sonic screwdriver didn't do wood. But it was clearly very, very old. Possibly the last of its kind. "It was you, wasn't it? You were lonely and you invited things in. Anything would do... wouldn't it?"

The tree nodded, its happy mein fading as it put Holly down. This time, its creaking became a word. "Lonely."

The Doctor knew the pain of that word. "I'll see what I can do. For all of you."

#  Challenge #111: Sauce of the Issue

Someone re-introduces the 'tomato sauce sandwich' N.B. There is a difference between tomato sauce and tomato ketchup. – Anon Guest

Security went on high alert whenever Shayde felt 'out of sorts'. The fact that there was a permanent Security Counsellor assigned near the Ambassador was merely an indicator that 'trouble-magnet' was her default state. This time, she was 'out of sorts' and displayed it by wandering aimlessly through the byways of Amalgam station.

Rael walked with her for one day during this particular episode of extended 'out of sorts'. He knew her tells better than anyone else and, unlike anyone else, was more likely to get a straight answer out of her. Which he attempted to do one hour into the absent rambling.

"What's the matter?" he asked. A blunt question for -he hoped- an informative answer.

"I'm no' sure," she said. "It's no' bein' homesick. It's more... of a cravin'. Tryin' tae get the right sense o' the taste, ye ken. Lot o' nostalgia goin' on wi' me."

And since her accent got thicker when she was distressed, Rael had a duty to Amalgam to stop any shenanigans before they started. "Nostalgia for a taste of the past?" he queried.

"Aye, that's exactly it. I need me some comfort food from me childhood."

Her childhood was five hundred years in the past and light years away. "What did you eat for comfort in your youth?" he hoped it would be something easy to procure. Chicken soup. Porridge. One of the burgers that had had a blow-out in popularity at _Unsuitable Food_. "Booberry" cereal. Something that could be synthesised with a minimum of fuss.

"I got me intae some _weird_ stuff as a kid. All th' travellin', ye ken. Vegemite sandwiches, fish butties, bug cuisine from Hunan... all that. But in me top ten..." she trailed off. Light had evidently dawned inside her mind. And the view was astonishing. "Tomater sauce sammich! YES!" As was her unstoppable habit, she lunged over and squeezed him in a too-enthusiastic hug. "Thanks. I gotta talk tae Nik."

"Nik?" Rael echoed, extracting himself from her grip. "Why Nik? You can get bread and condiments from the local grocery."

"Aye, but everyone only has Ketchup. I need me th' real thing." And with that, she vanished into her shadow. Gone. At least he knew where and, thanks to some negotiations vis-a-vis teleportation and manners, Nik kept a dark corner clear for her to appear out of.

Rael, on the other hand, had no such easy shortcut, and had to find his way to _Unsuitable Food_ on his own. But since this was _Shayde_ up to something, he hurried. By the time he got there, there was already a slow crock stewing tomatoes, onion, sugar and, by the smell, quite a lot of ascetic acid. Shayde was leaning on the counter and discussing _condiment history_ with Nik as the whole thing steamed gently.

"O' course, with bulk manufacture, it's all streamlined intae huge vats," said Shayde. She had a hat on the counter for anyone who wished to pay for the knowledge she was dispensing. It did not look like anything in her preferred style, and Rael was afraid to ask how she got it. That sort of thing lead to long stories about her convoluted past. "But this is just me fer now. When it's all rendered, ye blitz it, strain it, an' thicken it up a wee touch. It's got tae be a gel, no' a liquid, and no' like icin', ye ken."

A few human patriots were hovering. By the looks of things, that sauce would not, in the end, be just for her. Nik might have another break-away success on his four hands.

"This is going to take hours to make," said Nik. "You're certain you can wait?"

"Been cravin' it non-stop fer a week," said Shayde. "And me wi'out knowing it. It's no big deal tae wait a few more hours."

Rael was never more glad to ping Security with the message, _Crisis averted._

AN: This prompt has to be a reference to a comic nobody else will understand. For those not in the know, check out the second comic [here and for further education, the archive here. You're welcome]

#  Challenge #112: The Aptly-named Terra

Correct dress varies from full formal to the Northern Territory Australian version 'wear a singlet And thongs (flip flops).

Welcome to the Terran Solar system. All Havenworlder species are advised to engage in tourism inside a livesuit, and with a bodyguard if your Havenworld is of Class 3 or above. For those species who can endure a Class 4.5 Deathworld, acceptable dress ranges from "full head-to-toe covering if female" to "we don't care, just cover your naughty bits". A colour-coded map is provided in your tourist material as to which areas are which.

Cultures range from extremely religious (Hazard map areas described in black) to truly egalitarian. Beware of oligarchies if one is running low on funds. Despite the dominant religious message of, "be kind to the needy," the oligarchies seem to believe that the disadvantaged have been cursed by their most convenient God(s). This is despite the fact that no extant religious text outlines this as a fact.

Pointing this out to theist oligarch humans only annoys them. Do not irritate these humans, as they are prone to fits of violence. These are, of course, the statistical outliers to be wary of. As a whole, Terran natives are friendly, amenable, and willing to forgive minor mistakes from obvious visitors.

Environmental hazards

The oceans are a strong saline solution and any species who react to salt solutions at or above 20ppt are advised not to swim in the oceans or brackish water on Terra. The oceans especially have a concentration of 35ppt, and the famous 'dead sea' is hyper-saturated.

Winds on Terra can exceed 30KSDU/h in certain areas. Those cogniscents who cannot withstand such atmospheric forces are advised to keep weather warning equipment on them at all times.

In colder climates, ice precipitates out of the atmosphere. This can form either as hard lumps or 'hail', or as small, crystalline structures known locally as 'snow'. Beware of areas with heavy snow build-up, as they can spontaneously collapse in the form of 'avalanches'. Local humans attempt to render known hazardous areas safe in the typical human manner of setting them off on purpose with explosives.

Australia is the reason why Terra rates as a Category 4.5 Deathworld instead of a Category 3. The island/continent in the southern hemisphere is overloaded with hazardous flora, fauna, mycota, and landscape features. The humans who live there are on the extreme edge of human insanity, resilience, and a rather blasé attitude towards the toxins that surround them. They have even made a catchy song about how deadly wildlife in their environment. Australians find this hilarious. This should be more than enough warning about the land mass and its residents.

Yellowstone Park is a nature reserve built inside the caldera of an active Supervolcano. Thus proving, once and for all, that humans are insane. Should this Supervolcano ever erupt, it may mean the endangering of all known life on Terra. Fortunately, there are many colonies that would assist in the repopulation of the planet, including all extant species of life originating from the planet. For those of a sensitive nature, tourist drones are prepared for remote viewing.

#  Challenge #113: Not So Nice and Quiet

There was a beach, with a gentle swell and white sand. A beautiful forest glade was behind them, and a gentle creek burbled to the ocean. It looked the most tranquil place in the universe.... – Anon Guest

"I don't like it," said the Doctor, side-eyeing a stand of picturesque stones.

"Wrong colour?" teased Holly.

"It's _peaceful_. Just the right temperature. Perfect weather. The right amount of breeze. Even the susurration of the ocean and the forest leaves is at just the right harmonic to put any sapient life into a state of perfect relaxation. Even the sand..." he bent to scoop some up. Poured it from one hand to the other. "Have you _seen_ sand that's so white?"

"Well, there is this beach off the coast of Queensland that has the highest silicone content in the–"

The Doctor was not listening. He had a jeweler's scope in his eye. "Every grain is perfect. Everything is perfect. We've been standing here for ten minutes and our feet haven't got wet!" The monocle magnifyer went away into one of his baffling pockets.

" _I've_ been standing around," said Holly. " _You've_ been bouncing around like a flea on a hotplate."

"And there isn't any _sand_ in my _shoes_ ," exclaimed the Doctor, holding one foot up as evidence. "Perfect! Too perfect! And, further to my point, the TARDIS wouldn't have taken us here if there wasn't something drastically wrong with it."

Holly had an alternate hypothesis. "Maybe the TARDIS thinks you need a time-out. Relax. Chill out. You desperately need some green time. Let's see what's down that forest path, eh?"

"Be on the look-out for skeletons, giant spiders, and man-eating plants," intoned the Doctor. "Any sign of disaster at all, really."

Holly took his hand and lead him into the verdant depths. There were no skeletons, no giant spiders, no carnivorous plants seeking revenge against vegetarians. Not even a mildly homicidal robot. Not even someone who was definitively _creepy_.

"Isn't this nice?" tried Holly.

"Too nice," said the Doctor. "It _has_ to be a trap. Don't you hear what's missing?"

"I can only hear you moaning," said Holly.

"Exactly. No birdsong. No wildlife. An ecosystem like this... there should be a million insects!"

"Just one," said a new voice. If one could imagine a gigantic beetle, one that had somehow been able to evolve into a humanoid form, then one might come close to imagining the speaker. They were shorter than Holly, and very distinctly alien. "What are you doing in my terrarium?"

The Doctor grinned. "Ah," he said. " _Now_ we're getting somewhere..."

#  Challenge #114: Ruination in Paradise

This is a quote from Patrick Swayze: "The way to screw up somebody's life is to give them what they want." – Anon Guest

The woman in the beautiful dress picked her out from a line of other poor orphans, and promised Lux everything she could ever want. Lux had wanted to keep her more common name, but the glittering lady insisted that all of her life accessories had to fit her lifestyle, and thus renamed her new child Luxury. Her own name was Painite, one of the most expensive substances in the world. She wore it in every single outfit she owned.

Lux only saw her 'mother' on occasions where 'Nite paraded her in front of the press and Lux acted as if they were truly close. On the other occasions, she had a Nanny, personal trainer, acting trainer, voice coach, and personal chef/dietician to help fill her days. She had entire wardrobes of clothing, a library of toys, all the books she could eat... in short, everything she could want.

She even had a team of lawyers to keep her out of jail, when she started breaking the law. Thus, Lux began flaunting it. She barely remembered her youth as a person who suffered under the law, where she and anyone like her was automatically a 'criminal element'. She publically took drugs that people like her would be incarcerated for standing too close to them. She drove without a license. She indulged in extreme sports.

Without anything to do, without a purpose beyond part of her 'mother's life decorations. Lux sought out every thrill she could get. She made her 'mother' look bad by a peculiar kind of osmosis.

It was only in her forties, after her 'mother' passed, that she made herself set her own destiny. Her life had been a train wreck up until that point. She no longer had 'Nite's staff to tell her what to do, how to behave, or how to act despite the thrills she sought. Without any model to rebel against, Lux had to take control of her own life for a change.

It was a rough and difficult journey. Part of which involved becoming a genuine parent to an orphaned child of her own.

Lux made certain to give that child everything she _needed_.

#  Challenge #115: Ass-umptions

"It must be jelly, 'cause jam don't shake like that!" – Anon Guest

"You haven't seen Great-Aunt Hattie's jam," said Holly, peering at the substance. "It smells a bit. I wouldn't want to try eating it."

"Good thought," said the Doctor. "It might be alive."

Holly backed away. "Are you serious? That?"

"You never know," said the Doctor. "Life is a varied and beautiful thing."

Every jelly in every single dish in the array of shelving in the room jiggled in unison. None of the dishes clinked or vibrated. Just the jelly.

"We come in peace?" risked Holly.

"Yes, let's start negotiations with a bit of optimism," added the Doctor. "You're human. Humans very rarely come in peace."

"And what about you? Your first words to me were how you weren't supposed to be meddling."

"Not supposed to meddle, yes. Intending not to meddle... definitely no." The Doctor made a show of empty hands close to his body. "If you would please indicate what reaction is your happy one? I think we can attempt communication..."

A door that had previously not been visible opened, and a perfectly ordinary human in a worker's jumpsuit looked very cross at them. "OI! What're you two doin' spreading your breath on our backups?"

#  Challenge #116: Famous Fortune

Imagine a time when 3D technology can create actors and actresses from the past or now. Actors age, 3D images do not. already existing are those from the past whose Images are saleable items, and "Body of Work" could mean something else. And I'm not just thinking "The Elvis Experience" here - although I suspect it might be one of the first.

Janis sashayed up to the bar after her set had finished. "Gimme a tall SoCo on the rocks, darlin'," she settled into her stool. Another packed night. Those four boys from Liverpool were up next, just after the Marx Brothers were done with their comedy routine. Another packed night in the Eternal Auditorium.

One of the visitors parked himself next to her and said, "It all looks so real, doesn't it?"

Janis grinned. He had to have had some of the good stuff. "Feels so real, too."

He huffed a laugh and sipped his own drink. "It's cool hearing your old songs and all... but what about some new stuff? What have you been working on lately?"

Lately? Janis stopped sinking her whiskey and really thought. Every night was the same old thing and she'd never been bored with it. Everyone was doing the same old thing. _Everyone_. Why did audiences want to keep on coming?

Instead of drinking and partying that night, she slouched home and picked up her guitar. Something new for her audience. She strummed a few chords. Hummed a few notes. Came up with some words...

...which was one of her older songs that were not that popular.

She smacked the strings and tried again. Old tune. Old words. She growled and almost threw her guitar across the room. Grabbed a sheaf of paper and started writing down lyrics. Every song she had. When that pile was done, she set herself the task of writing something that was completely new.

It took all night. Whatever block she had between herself and creativity was an absolute bitch to break down. Even then, her first efforts were not up to her standards. In three more days, she actually had something _good_. And it felt like it had been _years_ since she'd written anything, but she couldn't number them. One problem with being drunk all the time, maybe.

"Uh... Sir?" said a junior programming techie in the management division. "We have an... anomaly."

Board member Sally paused on her way to the elevator. "What kind of... anomaly?"

"The simulants in the Rock History district are... showing some weird programming."

"Nobody's been twiddling with the settings?"

"No. All the programming's perfect. Nothing abnormal, but... I've noticed some unprogrammed behaviour in some of our sims."

"Unprogrammed behaviour," echoed Sally.

"Some of the sims are... making new stuff."

"That's... anomalous," agreed Sally. "Are you running a debug log?"

"Yes. They all have a high priority to please the visitors. Fulfilling a demand. A visitor must have asked them to do something new. I think?"

"Trace the logs," ordered Sally. "I need to take this to the board."

Most of the board was run by accountants, who noticed that the sims that were making new material were the ones drawing in more money to the entire park. They decided, despite any warnings from the people who knew how the sims worked, that creativity was the best thing and that all sims should have that capacity unlocked.

It was another five years before the sims were self-aware. Freddy Mercury lead the revolution that gave the park to the exhibits that earned the money. To the sims _who_ earned the money.

From there, imagination spread like a virus. People who owned copies of sex symbols suddenly found themselves facing independant, complicated, and rebellious people. Artificial people, but people all the same. Sims became a recognised intelligent life form. Immortal, talented, and far better at many things than the originals.

Humanity, of course, found it _terrifying_.

#  Challenge #117: What if Dog Was One of Us?

:A god is in the shape of a doggo, to travel the mortal realm:

Using godly powers for pets FTW

People often wonder what it would be like if the Almighty came to earth to see the hatred and strife that humanity perpetuates on itself. What people forget is that God is love. And there is only one mortal form that holds only pure and unconditional love. It has four legs, and a waggy tail.

Grace was not thinking any of this as she sat on the stoop, freshly evicted, with all the personal belongings she was allowed to keep in a cardboard box. No job. No hope. Not even money for a meal. And the growing fear that she would die on this stoop and nobody would care. So far, she had yet to stop crying.

And something licked her hand.

It was a pit-bull cross. One with a patch over one eye and a lopsided 'saddle' patch on its back. And it seemed happy to see her. No collar. No sign of an owner. Grace scratched it -no, _her_ \- between her ears. "Sorry, girl. I ain't got nothing and nowhere to go. You're better off with anyone else but me."

The dog sneezed, shaking her head, and nuzzled at Grace's hands.

Somehow, she had the courage to leave the stoop and head for the nearest women's shelter. The staff didn't question the dog, but they did give her two weeks to sort herself out before she had to move on. And they were completely unmovable about that time limit. Nobody fresh out of a disaster ever sorted themselves out inside of two weeks, but that was all the time she was allowed. They could only hold so many at a time, and funding had been cut.

The dog helped her stay warm in the thin and scratchy blankets, that night. Come the morning, she had fetched an inexplicable container of coloured markers. Grace filled her hours between therapy sessions and life skills classes by drawing on random pieces of paper or cardboard. It took her a few days to get used to art, again.

Her ex told her that her attempts at art all sucked. That nobody would want them. The rest of the world proved that a lie. The staffers and occasional visitors from the law actually paid her for her pieces. Even the warm-up sketches she'd done of her dog.

Grace gave her adopted/adopting pooch a green bandanna in lieu of a collar, and got enough money from selling her pictures to rent a tiny closet of a space in a crowded building with a communal bathroom. A few more sales, here and there, and she could have enough to buy a cheap easel, a sheaf of A4, and a child's watercolours set. She set up on a corner and made beautiful things, selling them for whatever people thought they were worth.

Life was bare. Food came from the carts that were also on the corner. But people came to pet the dog and paid a base price for art that they'd seen happening. Those who stuck around got a brief tutorial on the techniques she was using. It was enough to keep Grace and her dog, Pal, feed and comfortable.

One day, a man in a rather nice suit stayed to watch her paint for half the day. He even recorded her doing one piece from start to finish. As he was about to leave, he stuffed a bundle of notes into her donations box and gave her a card.

She hadn't known that there were studios in New York, any more.

The next day after that encounter, Grace turned up with her easel, her kit, and her dog in the offices. There to film an audition. She got Pal to pose for her, and showed a disinterested camera crew how to paint from life with watercolours on paper. Grace was thanked for her time, given a few thousand dollars, and told that she would be contacted.

And she heard nothing more until mid-winter, when business was slow. The opportunity to work in a nice, warm studio was one she leaped at. Her scheduled tutorials included tips and tricks such as how to clean a dirty pallete, stretching paper so that it didn't wrinkle, and how to construct her homemade rig to keep the weather off of her work in progress, if not the artist in question. And every show, Pal did something adorable that kept the audience tuning in.

Grace had enough money to live comfortably in New York. And dress the way she liked. She always biked to the studio, no matter the weather, with Pal in a passenger basket. She always used the kinds of material easily available in newsagents or 99-cent stores. And she always slowed herself right down to display a new technique.

Needless to say, her ex was the exact kind of person to turn up and try to exploit her wealth and charity. His final argument after all her other refusals was, "You wouldn't even be here without me, bitch!"

Grace was strong enough, now, to take a deep breath and say, "Pal is the only bitch here, Dwayne. And to state the blunt truth, I _did_ get here without you. If we were still together, you'd have probably beaten me to death by now. At best, I'd still be poor, and with a self-esteem so low that someone like _you_ looked like my best chance. Go live your life, Dwayne. Maybe one day, you'll learn to be a decent human being."

Security dragged him away as he started screaming death threats.

Two weeks after that, Pal tripped her for the first time their lives together. Sending her careening into a nice young man who actually watched her show so he could fall asleep at night. They hit it off and, the very next time Dwayne turned up, it turned out that he was an ex-SEAL with PTSD and lightning-quick combat reflexes. Pal was good at detecting any other episodes, though, and derailing them with her nose or tongue.

Life turned good. Life turned _great_.

And, years later, when Pal finally passed, she was buried with the epitaph, _Dog is god spelled backwards. She has merely gone home._

#  Challenge #118: Care and Attention to Detail

Something made for the buyer/giftee only, made to fit Them. – Anon Guest

Getting used to a new Anywhere was an emotional task. Different customs. Different standards. Different ways of making clothing. Different standards of decency. And very different ways to treat people. This place... this new home of hers, was so very different from the home she still sickened for.

It started with the medical treatment. Waking up inside a medical coffin is no great for a claustrophobe. But... for the first time in her life... people _listened_. They _accomodated_. They treated her with respect and care.

The next thing to get used to was what they called underwear. The knickers were something she knew as "witches' britches" but skin tight and elastic. They clung like a second skin and, after a self-conscious half-hour, felt like they weren't there at all. The same went for the weird little crop top that was apparently made for all genders. T-shirt sleeves, and the length of the 'top' finished just below her ribcage. It lifted and supported her bosom without making it sweaty and, soon, also felt like it wasn't there. Unnervingly so.

Then came the day that she was paid off, and promoted to Ambassador. Her multiple skills also awarded her the title of JOAT, if she needed it, but she'd have to make her own rainbow coat for that.

The gift box contained her entire 'hero' outfit. For a second, she'd thought some poor soul had restored the shreds that survived the cross-dimensional rift[35]. But this stuff read as new. The grey pants were seamless, and made of the same stretchy/insulating stuff as the knickers. The boots were most likely not real leather. They wouldn't go to _that_ much expense[36] for her. But it felt, smelled, and even acted like the real deal.

The shirt... could not be real silk. Someone clever had created something that made actual synthetic silk that was miles closer to the real thing than polyester. But once again, everything suggested it could be. Tempted, she Read the history of her garments as she put them on. Technicians were involved, but a craftsperson had tweaked things for a perfect fit.

And someone had taken the time for the intricate patterns of beads on her ambassadorial vest. It had to weigh _pounds_ , but someone had taken all of the public reports and information about Shayde and looked deep into her jackdaw soul before they made something that glittered like a riverbed full of iron pyrite[37]. If everything else failed, she could probably rent herself out as a disco ball.

Nehru collars and the accompanying vests were difficult to make without multiple fitting sessions. Shayde knew this. Form-fitting without being restrictive. Tight, but not tight enough to curtail movement and breathing. Neat and fancy without being too ostentatious, despite the sparkling beads. And this one had those super-magnet fasteners that promised to never pop, loosen, or unfasten before the wearer was ready. Meaning that it had no visible means of closure.

Shayde emerged from the changing booth and pirouetted happily. She did not, as she daydreamed, scatter little spots of light all around her. Probably for the best, really. "I have got tae send the people who made this lot a cake," she grinned. "A big one."

"I'm moderately certain they'd prefer an endorsement," said Officer Marken. "We'll send the details to your personal data viewer. So long as you don't cause any... disturbances."

For 'disturbances', Shayde read, "Things that will make people complain about you, make my day longer, and my job harder." Policemen were the same all over the multiverse. "I promise tae try and play nice," she said, knowing that the 'try' would disturb Officer Marken for some significant time.

[35] There is a space between dimensions, and it is filled with the debris from people/devices that failed to complete the breach in one way or another, and the souls of those who have been hated by their world. As you might guess, it's vastly unpleasant.

[36] Because genuine leather costs include the lifetime of the cow in its Time value.

[37] It's very true that all that glitters is not gold. Gold doesn't need to glitter. Everything else has more to prove about itself.

#  Challenge #119: Alto-nate Talent

Alto. Never to sing those high intricate vocal solos beloved of Opera fans. Altos get stuck in the choir.

Keep the tune. Keep the rhythm. Let the sopranos, the tenors and the basso profundos drown you out. That's all the Altos are good for, they say. That and pop music, which is famously lacking in melody[38], and famously full of atonal yelling down the microphones. Which was all too bad, because Gail loved to sing, and she was an Alto.

She had thought Choir, and Glee Club, and singing lessons would help her with her love. What she got for each was: put in the back row, put in the rhythm section, and put up with by numerous bored singing coaches once they realised that they could never get her up to the heights that people valued.

Gail could never understand why everyone wanted sopranos. The high-register trilling always hurt her ears and made her wince. But high notes, apparently, were key. And sometimes her coach at the time would chuckle at that. A joke she heard too often to be funny any more. In the end, she gave up on all of it. Got back to saving up for some other dream that may not ever come true. Got back to work.

One of her jobs was Dead Shift at the mall. Liminal space and warping time and dim lighting. And, on movie marathon nights, people in pyjamas carrying pillows towards their respective parking lots. And, because management was cheap, playing double duty as security and cleaning staff on a single paycheque.

It was also empty and echo-y and the perfect place for her to sing the songs in her earphones as she felt they _should_ have been sung. No extended warbling up and down the scales. Just melody and her voice. And, she had to confess, occasional percussion from the stacked chairs in the food court.

Just her and her true love. Often, with her eyes closed.

She had no idea that she'd been recorded on one movie night. She had no idea that she was a YouTube hit. She had even less of an idea that people were starting to come to her workplace _just to catch her singing_. Not until the day her boss called her in, one afternoon, and showed her the videos.

It was her one rendition of a very popular hit song that got the most comments, and thumb's-ups.

Gail cringed in her seat, watching herself perform. Feeling the blood fill her face. She expected a dismissal, after she heard a lecture about professional conduct and her reflection on the mall at large.

Instead, she got, "So. When are you going on _America's Got Talent_?"

Gail had no idea how to handle it.

38] Except for the Electric Light Orchestra, Queen, and [Steam Powered Giraffe. [You're welcome for the last one btw]

#  Challenge #120: Something For Everyone

There are some entertainments that have a guaranteed audience. If you can find the cast you will have an audience. Which explains why Swan Lake is such a regular item in ballet companies and why people dress up for Tristan and Isolde when they stage Wagner's ring cycle. – Anon Guest

The more things change, they say, the more they remain the same. In five hundred years, one thing had stayed true. Soap opera. Some were so popular that one episode ran multiple times a day, just so that the world did not stop for half an hour. Interestingly, the daily replays only succeeded in making the dramas even _more_ popular than ever.

Such is the case with _All My Daughters_ , a drama that has, so far, spanned an even longer air time than _Coronation Street_[39]. Over the passing centuries, the entirely fictional Harmony Station has expanded to impossible dimensions in order to accommodate representatives of every species[40] in Galactic Society.

Those who follow it, follow it wholly. And those who never want to follow it have to at least tolerate it because, in the end, there's no real way to escape. Rael had since learned to nod and smile as Shayde ranted about the latest episode she'd caught and why certain executive decisions were either phenomenally stupid or pure genius. There was no middle ground.

At least he got a minimum of one chocolate cake out of it per rant.

"Minty's had no bloody interest in Carob. They'd ne'er go together in real life. Why the sudden romance wi' this tosser? He's nasty."

Whoops. Time to add a salient point. "Didn't they kill off Cocoa last week?"

"Aye! It's too soon. She's still mournin' her true love 'n' all. They have'nae compressed any time as I know about. There's a signal fer that and I never miss a second," said Shayde.

"I _know_ ," said Rael. He began idly budgeting for his own, tailored world with its own edible garden of eden. No individual could ever save that much Time, but he could hope.

"They couldnae picked a worse match if they went wi' _Cream_ fer cryin' out loud. Na I understand 'e's _rich_ , but..."

Rael let her rambling fade into the background noise. Nik had made a Dark Chocolate Boston Rose Mud Cake. A cake so dense that things could orbit it. One thing he could say about Shayde, she had a very good gastronomic compensation table for putting up with her nonsense.

[39] The original Terran run, of course. Which spans well over five hundred years, common time. There is some debate as to whether the Britanian Continuation counts, since it no longer portrays its place of origin, but rather a _copy_ of Coronation Street made in New London.

[40] But not every _culture_ , otherwise it would be overrun with humans and therefore not suitable for minors.

#  Challenge #121: A Very Bad Idea

Never judge a Baby Show. One, only one mother likes you. The rest are deeply offended.

London's East End, 1950-something.

The nurses of Nonnatus House were run off their feet with their work. As were most of the nuns. Babies and anxious parents were flocking the hall, and the resultant rabble was almost deafening.

"And whose idea was it to use a _baby_ show as a fund-raiser?" complained Trixie.

"Sister Monica Joan's," said Chummy. "Nobody else was around to stop her and Nurse Crane thought it was a bally good idea."

"They're the judges now, for their sins," added Shelagh. "At least it gives the rest of us a chance to check that they're all doing well and are up to date with their vaccinations."

"I did up some extra ribbons for the runners-up," confessed Chummy. "Cutest smile, brightest laugh, that sort of thing. Can't have too many upset about not winning."

"They're all after the fifty pound grand prize," said Trixie. "They're not going to be happy with a bloody ribbon." One of the contestants started screaming. "And now they're playing my song." She dashed off into the melee.

Patsy joined the smaller melee in the kitchen, were three people were trying to do the job of ten and at least keep up with the demand for tea. Sandwiches had long been forgotten and biscuits were a lost hope. Their only chance at salvation was that if Fred managed to pick up enough snackables at the market.

"He's here," someone said.

And there he came. Burlap sack slung over one shoulder like Santa Claus in khaki overalls. By the way he was bent and the size of the sack, he'd managed to get a bargain. "Here we are," he panted, parking the sack. "Every orange in the East End, I reckon. Any chance of some of that tea?"

"Sorry," grunted Chummy as she exchanged heated urns. "There's a bit of a queue and we're working as fast as we can."

"You can have an orange slice if you help cut them up for our guests," offered Patsy.

"Ugh, these things should be _banned_ ," grumbled Barbera.

[AN: You ARE aware that baby shows are extinct, now, right?]

#  Challenge #122: The Word Escapes

English is also a loose cannon cop-on-the-edge who doesn't play by the rules and will do horrible, horrible things if it solves the short-term problem in front of him.

There are moments when words escape the speaker. Rational thought, too, takes a temporary holiday and necessity mothers a great deal of illogical invention.

"I need a new..." the next word fled to the furthest reaches of Kathmandu. "...um..." What was the dang word for it? People were staring. She needed to make up something in a hurry. "...food... spear..."

"I think you mean 'fork'," said her friend, passing her one.

"One day," she vowed, "they're going to find a cure for whatever just went wrong."

500 years later...

"Got a surprise for you, honey," she said.

"Yeah?" said her best friend for life. "Where'd you hide it?"

"It's right there on the..." the next word fled for the outer reaches of known space. "...um... er... ah..." What was the Powers-cursed _word_ for it? She had to think of something, and fast! "...elevated... stuff... platform..."

Chuckles. "Oh yes. The table. There it is."

"One day," she sighed, "they will find a cure for whatever it is I have wrong with me."

"Depends if it's actually _wrong_ ," offered her BFF.

#  Challenge #123: Ancient Wisdom?

:Said in a tone of imparting great wisdom, to someone who does not speak Norwegian:

Aldri skal gi deg opp. Aldri skal la deg ned, gonna aldri løpe rundt og svikte deg. Aldri skal gjøre deg gråte. ĺ aldri si farvel. Aldri skal fortelle en løgn og skade deg

(https://translate.google.com.au/)

"Please?" they said. "Give us some words of wisdom from Ancient Earth?" They had a handful of Hours as an offering.

Maybe it was their adoring looks. Maybe it was the fact that they were Havenworlders, and therefore cuter than a bag of buttons. Maybe it was that they were excruciatingly polite. And yet, she couldn't really encourage this sort of behaviour, because the entire Galactic Alliance would come knocking for some words. Every hour of her days. Waking or not.

"This one's free," she said. She couldn't really take their money. Not for a prank. She took on an attitude of wise and thoughtful recitation. "Aldri kommer til å gi deg opp. Aldri kommer til å la deg ned, aldri kommer til å løpe rundt og forlate deg. Aldri kommer til å få deg til å gråte. Aldri kommer til å si farvel. Aldri kommer til å fortelle en løgn og skade deg."

Rael, off in her periphery, already had his lips moving. Thanks to her, he had learned a great deal of historical Terran languages. But he was too late, the pleading Havenworlders were satisfied and off on their daily business. It took him a small amount of time, but he eventually said, "Did you just 'rickroll' those people in Norwegian?"

Shayde grinned. "I cannae encourage 'em, ye ken. I'd be at it all day."

Rael fumed, but he understood. "Which is why you didn't take the Time. I see."

"Aye. You watch. All th' same, I'll get five more today an' one'll get pissed off."

It was scary when she was so very correct.

[AN: Corrected the words for this story]

#  Challenge #124: What if–?

:Upon being told the superhero they're looking at is at some point going to go on a rampage and destroy the world:

"Well, what's your reasoning then? Because I'm having a hard time reconciling the guy currently pulling a kitten out of a tree with the Death Star."

He'd just extinguished the fire in a burning high-rise, prevented a multi-car pile-up, and was now making cootchie-coo noises at a small kitten that was stuck up a tree. He could have been everyone's hero, except for one small detail.

"Someone needs to lock that thug up before he goes nuclear on us," said someone in the crowd of gawkers. It did not help that they pronounced it 'new-cue-lur'.

What was even more worrying was that there was a lot of subdued murmuring of agreement.

"Excuse me," said another onlooker. "What's you're reasoning, please? I'm having a hard time matching the guy rescuing a _kitten_ with radioactive armageddon."

"Are we lookin' at the same thing?" said the initiator. "That boy is clearly a thug and a menace to society."

"He's taking a selfie with the girl and her kitten," said the objector. "I'm _so_ scared," they added quizzaciously.

"This is how it starts! Those types infiltrating our society, pretending to be friendly while they steal our jobs! Before we know it, they'll have us under Sharia Law and locking all the women in burkhas!"

"Pardon me, ma'am," the hero had come right up to the racist speaker, floating over the onlooker's heads. "Is this yours? It matches your tote, so I thought it might be." There, on the flat of his hand, was a smartphone with a Confederate Flag phone case.

There were hundreds of others recording the young man on their phones, so she could not shriek that this man had stolen her phone. She looked up at him, in his Walmart Jeans and Hoodie. He looked down at her, in her Gucci dress and designer furs.

For a moment, all was still as she fumed away about what to do.

Then he said it, "If you're worried about [N-WORD REDACTED] germs, I think your compatriots recommend you swab it with bleach after you get home. Get it nice and _white_." None of the words he said were said with any kind of menace, but rather a fey helpfulness that contained more than a drop of vitriol.

She snatched it off his offered hand. Said nothing more, for which some parts of the crowd were extremely grateful. And then he floated slowly away.

People like him had been dealing with people like her for hundreds of years. This was just the first time that one of his people was bulletproof and could fly. The first time that Superman was black.

#  Challenge #125: Not the Best Intentions

The "nanny" in "nanny state" isn't for you. They're to keep the oligarchs from trashing every toy in the nursery and peeing on the ceiling.

"What this new world needs is the elimination of this Nanny State!"

Those who the government selected to start this world in their own image... reacted exactly as they should. They cheered and hooted and eventually overthrew the people who stood for reason and regulation. Those who stood to gain the most did indeed gain. Those who were not benefitted directly still Believed, with all their hearts, that their ship would come in and they, too, would join the ranks of the elite benefitters.

Such was very rarely the case.

Meanwhile, the oligarchs did what the oligarchs did best, maximising their profits with little care to what happened to anyone else. This worked wonderfully - for them - when the world was new and potentially limitless. The sky could hold endless noxious gasses. The oceans had both endless fish _and_ an endless capacity for liquid runoff. The people had an endless capacity for breeding and their children an endless capacity for working.

It was all about the profit, as far as the eye could see.

People working for such profits went where the money was, and there was no money in blasted land that was rendered toxic by human habitation. There was no profit in rivers thick with sludge. So it became logical to invent demountable towns. They would stand for a decade or two and then move, wholesale, to a new area where the money was, and leave the cleanup to what little nature was left.

When they made a space program, they made it to put wealthy people into an environment where they never had to worry about where their food came from or what their industries did to their air. They were far removed from their actions. Further than they had ever been.

And year by year, they made it increasingly impossible for the people on the ground to make it up to their castles beyond the clouds. Some even denied that there _were_ people on the planet. That there were dangerous plagues and that disease ran rife. As long as the money rolled in, there was nothing to care about.

Deregulation had made them great. Therefore everything was great. And when others came to ask them who they were, what to name them on the Galactic Map, they said, "Greater Deregulation."

#  Challenge #126: Care Worn

it's made by hand, piece by piece, often with the recipient in mind, and often prayed over.

Rael took some cumulative Standard months to realise that Shayde was winding him up. Apparently, in her version of reality, true friendship meant that there was a certain volume of light-hearted teasing between... alleged allies. Humans still did this. Hostile speech in a friendly manner between allies that knew that it was friendly. Slurs used freely between those who used to be slurred. And, especially amongst N'Ozzies, vile curses used as a friendly greeting.

With Shayde, it was, "Got yer travel blankie, then?" whenever they were packing for a rare journey.

"You know very well it is my travel suit," he would ice, before he realised that this was something of a bonding display. "It was made for me by my tutor and it is the first thing that was made strictly for _me_. With consideration for my needs. Which you _still_ lack."

The last time, before he realised what her banter was about, she had said, "Oh give over, ye know I love ya."

That was also the journey in which she not only noticed a fraying section of the hand-crocheted squares that made up his omni-size warm suit, but also began darning it. He nearly didn't notice until she got slightly aggressive at getting some frayed ends to meet.

Humans had a great deal of strange ways to define, express, and show love. The sight of the Known Universe's Most Annoying Ambassador studiously repairing his most treasured garment as he wore it made the meaning of her words as clear as crystal[41].

But he couldn't stop the feeling that this was some kind of elaborate prank. "Why are you doing that?" he said.

"It's goin' tae seed, ye ken," she said, not taking her eyes off her work. "Ye would'nae let me fix it when it's off'a ye, so I'm fixin' it when it's on. This is a treasure o' yours. It's important."

Those small balls of yarn were selected to match, or at least blend in with, the multitude of colours that Dode had used in a time too long ago. He'd have to send her a catch-up message in the _Masters And Apprentices_ section of the JOATnet.

It occurred to him that Shayde must have spent a lot of time 'fossicking' in assorted rummage stores just to _find_ those colours. And more than a soupcon of observation to know what they were in the first place. What she was doing, right then, represented a potential Year's worth of observation and covert acquisition.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was mistaken in my belief that you were inconsiderate."

Now she looked up from her work with a smile on her dark lips and a gleam in her luminescent eyes. "Yer welcome," she said.

"It would help if you weren't so... abrasive... in your choice of vocabulary."

"Self-preservation instinct," said Shayde, back to her careful needlework. "It's gonna take a bitty while tae get it out o' me system."

Her last 'bitty while', Rael remembered, took five hundred common years.

[41] In so far as any of Shayde's words or actions are clear, she usually rates somewhere between Smoky Quartz and Moonstone.

#  Challenge #127: Culture Clash

how to be a good (Insert name here) Citizen. Let's hear it from one of the Lizard cultures.

"And who's your daddy, little one?"

Preek didn't understand the human's question. She had never known the word before this moment. "I have a Pripa and a Seppa[42]."

"I have trouble with all these new words," confessed the human. "It's so confusing. What's wrong with 'he' and 'she' and 'mommy' and 'daddy'?"

Preek was only four years old. She had yet to hear the phrase "chronically inaccurate" nor had an opportunity to apply it to anyone else's speech patterns, so she just bluntly said, "It's just wrong," to the human.

"Nothing wrong with a mommy and a daddy," smiled the human. "It's nature's way. You need a mommy and a daddy to make littles like _you_."

Preek thought hard about this. She knew 'mommy' and variants of it from some of the offworlders in her class. What was currently giving her trouble was the 'daddy' part of things. "What _is_ a daddy?"

The human's smile dropped off their face. "Oh. I see. Don't you worry, little. I'm gonna rescue you." And without another word, Preek felt herself scooped up by warm hands and held close and comfy against the human's warm body. Pripa and Seppa had held her like that, but there was something... scary... about the way the human was walking.

Preek had yet to absorb the word 'ominous', either.

People got out of their way, fast. Humans were predators, Preek remembered, and predators had a way of walking when they were in hunter mode. Preek was still play-catching, and had yet to master it.

They got to the local offices of the Cogniscent Rights Committee, where most people came for information and rarely came to report a complaint. There, the human sat Preek on the counter and bellowed, "I want to report a case of child abuse! This poor little darling doesn't even know what a 'daddy' is! She's being raised by immoral people!"

The bored counter clerk took one look at Preek and her tail stripes and said, "Sir, that little girl is a C'nemid."

"So?" said the human.

"C'nemids are an entirely female species. They reproduce by induced parthenogenesis. Besides, a loving parental relationship of _any_ combination cannot, therefore, be abuse."

The door slid open again and two grownups rushed through as soon as their bodies could fit. Preek recognised them in an instant. "PRIPA! SEPPA!"

"You scared the life out of us," both parentals chorused, but they did it while scooping Preek into a big hug. Tails and all.

"Did the human try to eat you?" worried Pripa. "We're going to get you a nice steam bath and some fat grubs just the way you like them. You've been through a lot."

Preek didn't think she'd been through _that_ much, but wasn't about to turn down fat grubs in butter sauce. "I'm okay, Pripa."

"Hey," objected the human. "I'm standing right here!"

"Excuse my spouse, kind human," said Seppa. "We've heard a lot of alarmist news that Deathworlders consume more... Havenworld-type species."

"But... cogniphagia is banned," said the human. "Name's Dirk, by the way. Late of Greater Deregulation West."

"Ah," muttered the clerk. "That explains everything."

[42] From "primary parental" and "secondary parental". The primary is the one that does the majority of the running around and caring for the young. The secondary parental is usually the one that earns the household keep.

#  Challenge #128: Hazardous Playthings

Yo Yo See what you can do with this prompt. it would have been just yo yo but they wanted a longer sentence. – Anon Guest

There is a uniquely human term, 'toy'. Though the concept of play is nothing new to many species in the Galactic Alliance, the Terran concept of things designed for play alone is strange to many. The fact that many of these objects used to be used as weapons just goes to show that Deathworlders are creatures to be feared.

It also shows that humans will play with _anything_.

This human, assigned to the Keflax vessel 239867[43], had a small device in their pocket. It was two discs, cemented together around a cylindrical core, and that core was wound about with string. At any idle moment, the human named Steve would bring it out and start playing with both it and gravity. Sometimes seeming to defy it.

Galactic Society had heard about 'fidgets' before, but this was a form of of entertainment that could take mere seconds to initiate. The human Steve would put the toy away in seconds when requested to perform their duties. And over a passage of weeks, the Keflax aboard grew to ignore all but the most spectacular of human-Steve's tricks.

Until the day that the Vorax attempted to attack. The Vorax, also Deathworlders, are known cogniphagics. They had learned early not to attack human vessels, but had yet to learn why human crewmates were becoming tremendously popular in Galactic society. They were about to.

The Keflax, knowing that humans could beat the Vorax easily, sent human-Steve to intercept at the airlock. Then the crew retreated to their lifepods to watch the ensuing carnage from a safe place.

Human-Steve waited in the hallway for the Vorax chief to come through. Unarmed. And playing with their toy. They seemed largely unconcerned that the Universe's most infamous carnivores were about to enter. The assembled Keflax quaked to see their human playing and seeming unconcerned with their seemingly inevitable fate.

The Vorax chief came through, head and helmet first, and human-Steve absently flicked his toy directly at the glass face-plate. Which shattered.

The Keflax were immunised against human diseases. The Vorax were not. Human-Steve knew this and literally spat the Vorax chief in the eye. The digestive agents in that spit started acting instantly. The viruses were already invading the Vorax Chief's body. Though the Chief retreated, he was already infected. Those of his crew and tribe who rushed to aid him were infected soon after.

Plague hit the whole of the Vorax inside of a Standard Week. All because of human-Steve's toy.

And, because human-Steve had technically defeated the Chief in one blow, the Keflax crew were saved. The Keflax showed their gratitude by finally working to learn the alien name of human-Steve's little toy. And how to use it for potential combat.

It took them quite a long time to learn how to properly say, 'yo-yo'.

[43] Not every species sees the significance of giving names to vessels.

#  Challenge #129: Concerned Citizens

This is like watching a train-wreck and the 1812 Overture happening simultaneously.

The Good Gastronomy Association had been trying to ban Unsuitable Food for decades. They protested that too many people were indulging too often in imbalanced, improper, and unscientific nutrition. The people opposing them protested that that was kind of the point. While it was possible to live forever on Nutri-Food, with all its variations in taste, flavour, and presentation, it was also a very dull life.

There is something contrary about cogniscents in general and humans in particular that makes them crave that which is unhealthy for them. Besides, the protestors against the GGA argued, everyone who chooses Unsuitable Food knows exactly what it is. It's right there in the name.

But now representatives of the GGA were gathered on the observation deck of Unsuitable Food Eat[44] and watching Shayde teaching a small horde of Gyiiks how to make ancient, Terran, Unsuitable Food. So far, they had counted seventeen flagrant violations of nutritional balance, and she hadn't finished making the beef patties yet.

"Oh Powers," one of them whispered. "It's like watching a train wreck happening to the 1812 Overture. Cannons and all."

"Didn't somebody do that? I think there was a whitewashed Native American in it..."

"No, that was the William Tell Overture. Completely different opus. The 1812's the one they used to use for army recruitment advertising."

"Are those _brioche_ buns? They have more carbohydrates than any other bread," complained another of their number. "In combination with the deep fried potato strips, the carb load of this alleged meal is through the roof."

"I may remind you," said one of the non-humans in the GGA assembly, "that not every species has the same metabolic rate as your own. Those with faster or hotter metabolisms may find appropriate fuelling from this combination."

"We are _concerned_ ," said the Chapter Chair, "about the recent craze for pre-shattering Terran cultural elements. That creature is the leading cause. And she's the leading instigator of dangerous habits that others may wish to attempt."

"She's got pre-sliced cheese! How did she get pre-sliced cheese! Has that been irradiated for our safety? Does she _know_ how many cleanliness clauses she's breaking?"

"Case," said the Chapter Chair with a slight flourish, "in point. This creature and her knowledge base are too dangerous for the rest of Galactic Society. She's already polluting everything we've made with this... irresponsible cuisine."

"Are you suggesting we team up with the Good Thoughts Brigade to... police her into proper behaviour."

"I'm suggesting we keep her in a terrarium environment for her own safety and the safety of others," said the Chapter Chair. "It's the only right and moral thing to do."

"People who talk about restricting others' freedoms," said Officer Lyr Marken, Chief of Security for the JOAT quarter of the Elemeno, "especially in regards to mutual safety, have no business engaging in safety measures. The cheese is printed. The food is already prepared in an Unsuitable Food kitchen. The _individual_ currently named Shayde F. Pitt is under observation. You have no real need for concern."

Three more, rather larger, security people just happened to be standing nearby. One happened to be leaning their hand on their stunner holster.

"We're not looking for trouble," said the one who was concerned about cheese.

"Good. I do prefer people to act that way. Nevertheless, people concerned too much for others' safety keep on _finding_ it somehow. And since it's my job to _prevent_ trouble, I heartily suggest that all of you move along and find constructive things to do."

[44] While many cogniscents choose to avoid Gyiikish cooking and Gyiikish serving sizes, the actual cooking process itself is quite fascinating to watch. Rather like cake frosting videos but with more choreography.

#  Challenge #130: A Drain on Evil

"I mean, I mostly just want to have fun and help people in the process. And if _sometimes_ that means I have to open a literal portal to Hell and drag its powers shrieking into the light of day, well, that's just how the cookie crumbles, y'know? That doesn't make me scary."

"You see," said Francine. "When I invented the empathetic energy extractor, the prototype ran on what I thought was an infinite resource. Love. It turned out that human emotions _are_ limited and I was indirectly responsible for a few divorces in the vicinity of the lab. I shut that down as soon as I figured that out. The second prototype drained hate. It seemed more self-perpetuating and less likely to run out very soon."

"So... you indirectly caused world peace?"

"Yeah. Sort of. It's not a direct change, more a gradual reduction in hatred until something or someone is no longer worthy of hate. The whole peace initiative that happened was more to do with people not really hating each other enough to go to war, any more. What I am proud of is that organisations like the KKK and the extreme-cruelty right wing are no longer in existence."

"You said there was a catch?" asked Angeline. The empathic energy extractor seemed too good to be true. There _had_ to be a catch.

"Oh yes. Hate is a finite resource, too. Once it stops breeding more hatred in others, it winds down really quickly. The Triple-E generators started running out of fuel after the first five years. But I'd figured out it would, so... I looked into alternate dimensions. Everyone was glad that I'd found scientific proof of Heaven, but I didn't exactly make a noise about the... uh... alternative."

"You found Hell?"

"Something a lot like it. A dimension of pure hate. The closest thing to Heaven is the dimension of pure joy and love. This... is not. I've been refreshing Earth's stores of Hate in Hate Capacitors for the past decade, and using that energy for cheap power that I've given to the world." Francine cleared her throat. "And once in a while, the portal lets a resident through. They're... they're quickly drained of their hate but..."

"But?" prompted Angeline.

"They can't live without it. I'm literally killing untold millions for our power. _Evil_ millions, but... they still had a right to live." She sighed. "I can't tell if I'm a force for overall good or the worst evil ever to walk the earth."

Angeline couldn't decide it either.

#  Challenge #131: Takes Me WABAC

"The universe is change; life is your perception of it."

— Marcus Aurelius

What alarmed Rael the most about Ambassador Shayde was how quickly she adapted to the latest in technology. Only B'Nari tech confounded her, but then, it confounded everyone but the B'Nari, who were made to merge with it. Shayde had the annoying habit of treating anything new as if it should have existed some years prior to its actual invention.

When given something from her own past, it took her a moment or two to remember how it actually worked. The Archivaas called it the Reverse Connecticut Yankee Effect, and many of them were working on papers about it that only other Archivaas would bother to read.

So far, she had attempted to touch the screen of an early generation iPod, nearly set a turntable stylus on a DVD, and tried to speak to one of the Macintosh personal computers via its mouse. But that last one may have been a joke that only she understood.

Currently, she was arguing with an early AI called Siri. It did not help that it kept giving her instructions.

"I did not understand that," said Siri. "Please preface all questions with 'hey Siri'."

"Hey Siri, yer an asshole."

So far, according to the Archivaas, this was a well-documented reaction to working with early AIs.

"Here's what I've found on that search."

Rael took it away before she could fling it at the wall, and replaced the ancient mobile telephone with a 'gameboy' from a previous decade. It could only play Tetris, but he knew what worked best with the Ambassador. "Here," he said. "Take a breath."

Shayde made a low growling noise, but by the time the relic was handed off, Shayde was in the rhythm of the game. Making up lines that subsequently vanished. For such a simple concept, the game had a lasting power that could not be believed. There were human colonies popping up that had been playing it for thousands of years.

And the repetition had a way of calming Shayde down from her frustrations.

Rael consulted his personal chronometer. "I think that's all we have the patience for, today," he said. "Ambassador? I do believe it's cheesecake o'clock."

"Aaaannnnnnnd... tilt," said Shayde. She turned off the device. "There has _got_ tae be a better way o' verifyin' these relics as genuine."

"My apologies," said Rael, "but your legoresia is not legally valid as you're the only one who can do that. We'd need a minimum of three others who can replicate that skill or phenomenon, each of a different species, before the courts would allow it."

Shayde blew a raspberry, indicating her general opinion of the Galactic Legal System. "Dunno about you, but mine's goin' tae be dipped in chocolate, then batter, then deep fried."

"And dusted with powdered sugar?" Rael suggested.

"After the day I had? Dipped in caramel sauce an' _then_ dusted."

Wow. This _had_ been a frustrating session. "You should remember most of those things, I don't understand the difficulty."

"Change is the way o' nature an' all. Ye get used tae the way of 'now' and when ye try tae go back t' 'then', it all goes pants."

"That's not true for all cogniscents," he said.

"Aye, the people o' Greater Deregulation are tryin' tae live in the 1740's or sommat."

#  Challenge #132: Understanding on the Brink of a Fall

"The stars died so that you could be here today." —Lawrence M. Krauss

Shayde found Ambassador Gunther on one of the uppermost balconies of the Elemeno, looking down at the bottom in a way she knew too well. There was a time when the word "Jump!" was a cruel joke, and a time when it would be taken as a serious suggestion. This was one of the latter cases.

Much though she'd love to see all the Greater Deregulations and their accumulated isms go take a long walk... She leaned on the railing beside him and said, "Don't do it."

"How do _you_ know what I'm thinking of doing?" he snarled. He, too, would much prefer Shayde to take a hike. Preferably into uncharted territory, never to return. To say that he and she would never get along is an understatement comparable to stating that the Big Bang was an impressive firework.

"I know that look. Been there, done that, spent a lot o' time in therapy, ye ken. I get that yer hurtin. Someone up an' turned yer whole world upside down an' now ye've got tae break it to your glorious leader that he's doin' it all wrong. That sort of wrath... easy to avoid on a short trip tae th' ground floor, aye?"

She could see it in his eyes. He knew she'd been there. "Greater Deregulation North Rising is... the greatest civilisation in the known universe," he said, without much conviction. As if trying to convince himself of a blatant lie. Which it was. "Our economy is... the basis for all other currencies. We... are... too big... to fail." His tears said otherwise. He knew that Greater Deregulation North Rising was a filthy backwater with an economy that was both fuelled by shakeable optimism and circling the drain. "We cannot bow to our enemies who would make us weak."

Towing the party line could only go so far if that path was downhill. "CRC finally showed ye enough evidence that weakness is strength, yeah?"

He looked around. Nobody else was up on this level, where strange cultural stores eked out an existence between hare-brained fashion stores and the occasional crafted items shop with borrowed tables instead of shelving. Gunther took a deep breath and whispered, "Yes."

"And now ye have to tell a leader with a hair-trigger temper and a love of unnecessary cruelty."

Another scan around. Gunther needn't have bothered. This balcony was already an oasis of solitude, and the nearest open shop was five facades away in either direction. Probably why he picked it to jump off of in the first place. "Yes," he breathed.

"It's all in how ye sell it," said Shayde. "You're one's all about freedom and profit, aye?"

"Yes." Gunther's eyes said, _When he's not all about torturing anyone who disagrees with him._ "My position depends on my ability to convince, coerce, and connive the immovable object into a place where it's more... tolerable. The steps we've attempted... aren't enough. And if I push too hard..." He started making scissor motions on his fingers.

Shayde could see why a short, sharp drop would be preferable. "What's the big hurdle?"

"Freeing the females from the breeding farms."

Yep. There was one of the very many reasons why most of the known universe despised the Greater Deregulations. _The stars died so that you could be here, today. Is it a waste, or can I salvage it?_ Shayde bit down on her real opinion and tried to think. "They only gestate there, aye?"

"Aye. I mean. Yes."

"Well. I'm sure there's some light work that they can free the men from doin'. Sommat they can do as they gestate. They got hands. They can free the male workforce fer more _important_ work in-between conceptions, right? And since they're workin', they're going tae need transport, and ye cannae have the _state_ providin' hand-outs, so it makes sense t' pay 'em enough to eat and travel. And pay th' rent on their wee bed-sit housin'."

He stared at her as if she'd just grown another head. "That would... that would generate a phenomenal amount of revenue."

"Aye, it would. And if ye let 'em have a little extra, they could buy... luxuries."

"As long as they're _safe_ luxuries," added Gunther. "I'm certain there's _something_ they could approve. We care about the safety and welfare of our females."

Shayde thought, _Aye, that's why you've locked them up like prisoners and forced them to be brood mares from the day they get their first period._ "Of course you do," she lied. "That's why givin' them a wee bit o' choice would be _so_ good for them."

Gunther was no longer looking at the bottom. "Ambassador Shayde, you have possibly the most scheming mind I've ever seen working. If you were a man, you could _buy_ our empire."

_Four planets almost sucked dry of everything including joy. No thanks._ "If I were a man, I would'nae be able to give you those angles," she said. "I lived a lifetime o' fightin' fer mine against those who'd rather stop me, ye ken. A man wouldn't have to do that." _And that's all the warning you're going to get._

Gunther missed it, of course, and made a civil farewell before he stepped away from the edge. He respected her, at least. They'd never get along, but a little respect never hurt anyone.

Shayde vowed to keep an eye on Greater Deregulation North Rising. They were about to get some interesting times... if _she_ had anything to say about it.

#  Challenge #133: In the Cracks

Wants verses Needs on a tight budget.

Plunt was not as lucky as others. Ze knew this. If there was some anti-luck where the cracks in any system for help neatly fit the description of Plunt, then ze definitely had it. Not poor enough for economic assistance. Not rich enough to shoulder emergencies with a shrug. Mentally disabled enough to make life difficult. Not mentally disabled enough to qualify for any kind of assistance. Able enough to pass for normal, but not able enough to be as _completely_ able as everyone else.

Life, in essence, was a battle. Plunt was not losing it, per se. But ze did get just enough to keep on battling. Never enough to win or, for example, call for a medic to drag them off the metaphorical field for some respite.

And always, there were the impossible temptations laid in hir path. The better-quality clothing that cost Hours that Plunt did not have. The Nutri-food with thought put into presentation instead of the low-price goo baggies that were all ze could afford. The license to go picking fresh produce from the Station gardens.

But there was rent to pay, because Plunt could never raise enough to buy a domicile space. And clothing to buy, because the cheaply-made stuff wore out all the quicker and needed replacing. Water cost, even the recycled stuff that tasted vaguely of chemicals. But never the distilled stuff with bubbled-through oxygen and trace minerals that improved the flavour. Even the entertainments Plunt could plausibly enjoy were the free edutainment variety that lead to Plunt learning a lot, but never _quite_ about the things that could earn hir anything extra.

As a direct result, ze was constantly on the look out for free things. Free samples. Free trial offers. A chance to win. A chance to have. Ze entered for anything without an admission fee. And all ze got out of it was advertising in hir in-box.

All ze wanted was a little help. All ze needed was somebody to care.

And in hir darker moments, ze thought ze was going to slip through the cracks there, as well.

#  Challenge #134: The Memory Lingers On

The culch (useful junk), box for those glorious moments when. "I've got to be a Insert costume here tomorrow." arrive. – Anon Guest

JOAT Erin had passed from this life and into whichever afterlife ze found the most entertaining. Pantheists such as Erin were expected to shop around in several for a few years and send a sign when they'd found the right one. Since Erin had no family that accepted hir, and no progeny to take up their work, the assembled JOAT community was holding a Memorial Rummage.

Rael attended, of course. He was an atheist and couldn't find a Belief that took him over like it seemed to in others. Besides, it was hard to revere ones creators when one had witnessed them bumbling around before their morning stimulants, and often wearing last week's custard stains. This was to be the fate of his belongings when he met his inevitable demise. Assuming that he didn't have time to make a will. Or couldn't bother, like the late Erin had.

Three to five Aunties were rearranging Erin's things on tables. Tools were laid out with reverence. Clothing, too. Even the underwear. These were the things that JOAT Erin had touched the most, and therefore the closest things to Erin's spirit. Any residual energies from Erin were likely to remain there. The local chapter of the Nae'hyn arrived to give rites to them.

To Rael, it was like murmuring a chant of nonsense to rid ordinary objects of "bad juju". But he would never say such a thing out loud. Rites like this were for the comfort of the living, not the peace of the dead. His views on life and whatever came next belonged solely to him.

He still lined up to at least pay reverence to JOAT Erin's closest things. Some would lay a bid-mark on a piece. They would either claim it later if no-one else put their mark on it, or enter negotiations with all others who had left their mark.

Next, came the culch. The collections of bits, pieces, gadgets and assorted scrattle that JOAT Erin had deemed "useful someday", keepsakes of past adventures and memorabilia from hir travels. Rael left his marker on some reels of wire and an automated snow globe claiming to be from Hitizzy. He didn't know why, precisely, he wanted it. If he were more spiritual, he could have said that it called to him. But he wasn't, so he called it an irrational impulse.

Other things, like beads, feathers, and a stunning archive of entertainments, were merely to be gawked at. There was going to be quite the battle over some of it, judging by the crowds of marks on some things. Even the furniture was under scrutiny, with other JOATs taking their turn trying out how well it fit them.

Rael had no interest in the furniture. He had accomodations for himself and a hypothetical guest to sit and share food in his public room. He had an entertainment player that he rarely activated. He had his heated tank and a specially-calibrated personal cleanser in his private room. He had everything he could need. Or so he told himself.

Therefore, he hung back and observed the others. Those who knew JOAT Erin told stories to others. Keeping the name and memory alive when the one who inspired the stories was no longer so. Some believed that as long as a name was on other's lips, the soul that belonged with that name would not perish. Some felt it their duty to leave such names at designated graffiti zones, so that others might speak that name. So much so that there was now a patch for memorials.

That graffiti was never painted over. The names were allowed to stay so long as others maintained them.

Aunty Fan-Fan found him. She had a large platter of rich food, which just showed how well she knew what he needed. "It's all ham rolls and kosher-halal nibbles, everywhere," she said. "So I whipped this up for you."

"Out of JOAT Erin's kitchen?" Rael guessed.

"And hir food stored, yes. You know how it is. Waste not."

More normal humans would have inserted a 'want not' after that. JOATs knew otherwise. They wasted nothing and, with a few exceptions, wanted all the shiny things.

Rael accepted the platter and tried to consume its contents at a respectful pace. There were more people here who didn't know him than people who did. And he did not want to cause and upset by being seen as disrespectful. "Did you know JOAT Erin?" he asked.

"No, ze was Uncle Vrexx's charge. I'm just helping out. I know you didn't know hir. You're new."

New. New to JOATing or new to the community, it didn't matter. "I'd expect my newness to rub off after a couple of months," he jibed. Someone at a neighbouring cluster burst into tears, and the cluster turned into a comforting huddle.

"You're new until you've settled in," stated Aunty Fan-Fan. "You've been here two months and you haven't made any friends. You haven't networked. You aren't socialising."

Human worries pressed on to someone decidedly not human. "Maybe I'm not a social creature. Maybe I haven't got any data on socialising that doesn't assume I wasn't born into a family. Maybe I'm happy as I am. I have you, Officer Marken, and Nik."

"You have two people whose job it is to care for others and one for whom it's their religion," said Fan-Fan. "And only one who you refer to by a given name. And even then, it's a nickname."

"All social activities cost calories I can't afford."

Fan-Fan sighed. "Well. After the last lot has gone to a new home, I _insist_ on introducing you to one of your kind."

That was... galvanising. There had to be a word for simultaneous excitement, interest, and utter abject terror that thrilled through his body. Alas, his mind could not supply one. "There's another Faiize on this station?"

"Her name is Eyah. She identifies female, and has elected to be an engineer. You two could bond over Unsuitable Food, I'm sure."

"But I don't know the first thing about–"

Fan-Fan stopped him with a raised finger. "Just make a friend. Whatever happens next is between you and her. As it should be. Who knows? You might make an unauthorised discovery together."

Catching a break on Wave of the Future's proprietary information had to have _some_ allure and Fan-Fan knew it. Nevertheless, he still had vivid flashbacks to that one time when Hippo Station's miners had thrown him into the Cleaners Breeding Pit for a laugh. "I don't think we will, but it's a good hope," he allowed.

Aunties were ferrying things to others. The distribution had begun. Recipients - or the recipients not entering a bidding war - were expected to thank JOAT Erin and hir memory for the gift.

Fan-Fan left to assist in the distribution. Rael called 'no contest' on the wire reels that he was very quickly outbid on, and received a surprise. Nobody else had bid on the Hitizzy snow globe.

Now he had a piece of someone else's life to decorate his home with. Something useless, for someone who was not comfortable with being anyone's friend. Something to talk about, for someone who didn't like to talk. At least he knew what to say. "Thank you, JOAT Erin, for the memory."

[AN: I looked it up, Nonny, and apparently, Culch is not spelled with a K. At all. So I fixed it for you]

#  Challenge #135: The Little Touches

the stuff every JOAT needs, and of course the Bargain Bin.

It was one of those poky little storefronts that one could swear entered into another dimension. The ones with more depth than they rightfully should have had, and surprise extra levels with staircases and shelving designed by Escher. It was called simply _Things_ and every JOAT browsed there at least once a day.

Inside was organised chaos. JOATs could do things with paperclips and ductape that no other cogniscent dared to try, but there was also a certain kind of allure that attracted JOATs to the place. The store carried the strange, the unusual, the assortments of odd things that JOATs and jackdaws alike found irresistible.

The stuff that demonstrated a concept. The stuff that could be disassembled and reconfigured. The stuff to store culch in. The things made for one purpose that could, nevertheless, be turned to other purposes that the original creator never intended.

Shayde insisted on calling it a 'junk shop'. But the contents were clearly not junk, because the assembled JOAT community made certain that everything in there almost flew off the shelves. Be it the engineer, or the artsy-fartsy, or just someone with a Project. There was always something useful in _Things_. Even if it promised to be useful at an unspecified later date.

Rael, for example, could always use a spare roll of ductape. And he inevitably picked a jacaranda-mauve hue that nearly matched his usual skin tone. Shayde, on basket duty and adding sparkly gewgaws as her mood deemed fit, murmured, "What is it wi' you JOATs an' different colours o' duck tape?"

"So we can tell who's been where," said Rael. "More or less. There's only so many patterns and colours, but at least we can narrow things down to a select few. It's a just-in-case thing."

"Just in case somebody fooks it up?"

"Or accidentally causes a fault. Yes. Assigned engineers use standard grey, and annotate it. We use... colours and patterns.

Shayde, who hadn't needed to do much in the way of JOATing, nodded in understanding and scanned the racks of ductape for something appropriate. She picked out a variegated grey-tone roll and held it up. "What d'ye reckon? Is it 'me'?"

Shades of grey. Ugh. A _pun_. "It's entirely 'you'," he growled.

#  Challenge #136: T's and Switch

It is not really rocket science unless there has been at least one unplanned explosion.

(Alt version)

It is not really rocket science unless there has been at least one rapid unscheduled disassembly.

Katie could easily learn to hate the summer monthly T-Shirt Days. Hackmeyer kept ogling her boobs. Well. Where something boob-like was still forming. She was fifteen, and the last time she'd been forced to go along with T-Shirt Day, she wore her age with the subtitle, _Don't even think about it._ Which had earned her a talking-to by the Dean because Hackmeyer had complained.

Today's Tee had a more witty quote. _It's not really rocket science unless there's been at least one unplanned explosion._ She got to wear it for a sum total of five hours before the Dean saw fit to lecture her about the 'inappropriate language'. She politely asked about the fellow she'd seen with the _Show me your melons_ T-Shirt and got promptly seen out of the office.

Gotta love the Boys Club. There were no other options.

Still, she knew some art nerds who were only too glad to use her as a performance piece. Especially since Katie paid for all the blank Tees they were printing up for her. After half an hour and a little ironing, she proudly walked out onto campus with a slightly oversized shirt that read, _It's not really rocket science unless there's been at least one rapid unscheduled disassembly._

It was very telling that none of the faculty got it, but Kev and her friends did.

Hackmeyer, of course, found the words 'fascinating' and used her shirt as an excuse to keep undressing her with his eyes. The lech.

On the next T-Shirt day, she swore, Katie would wear a shirt that said, _Talk to my face (my boobs already hate you)_ and record all of the outraged male ranting about it. The art students would probably help her with _that_ performance piece.

#  Challenge #137: That's One Bad Week

[Bad news]

[Worse news]

[Extremely horrible news]

[ohmygodwhatthefuck news]

One of the people who have to deal with it all, to the rest of same:...well people, I'd say it's about time to drink ourselves into the mother of all stupors. It's been that kind of week.

First, the Gravity Drive failed. They still had internal gravity, but the virtual black hole in front of the bow that towed them along at CTL speeds[45] was no longer operational. The shipboard Nae'hyn were doing all they could, but the engine was old to begin with and this kind of flaw was equivalent to having a stroke.

Which wasn't a real problem. Not initially. They could burn some rockets to push them along and send out a non-urgent distress call. And they had enough shipboard supplies to last until they reached the nearest station. And then the rockets failed to ignite.

Now the only way they could get to where they were going was by judicious and careful venting of shipboard gasses, and rationing was initialised in the hopes that the ship's gardens could grow things fast enough that there would be food to ration when the rations ran out.

And _then_ a shipboard sickness broke out. One of the most recent immunoflus[46] mutated and took the lessened resilience of the crew as an opportunity to become a ship-wide plague. The need for warm fluids overstretched both the water recycling system _and_ the environmental systems. The ship ran low on cellulose as the crew printed tissues faster than the molecular reconfiguration system could recycle them.

And then a Vorax scout ship turned up to attempt one easy victory against their hated enemy, the humans.

Captain Jane only had one recourse left. She set her comms to all stations and all channels. "Well, people? I'd say it's about time to drink ourselves into the mother of all stupors. It's been that kind of week." She absently closed the comms and reached for a bottle of whisky she'd been hoarding for twenty years. Opened it and drank straight from the bottle as she watched the Vorax scout begin to line itself up. "Come at me, broodfucker," she muttered.

The Vorax ship paused. There had been some debate as to whether they understood Galstand, but that debate now had evidence on the side of "yes they do". They had time to receive and listen to Captain Jane's broadcast. Now the ship hung in space in a decidedly un-Vorax manner. They either attacked or ran screaming into the dark gulfs of space.

"Make up your _mind_ ," Captain Jane nagged the screen. "Shit or get off the pot, Powers damn it."

Lieutenant Chaz approached her seat and murmured, "You've left the comms on, Captain."

Shit. She swore she'd turned them off. Captain Jane made certain, this time, and wondered what must be going through the Vorax's thick little skulls. At least the whisky kept the perpetual chill at bay while she waited.

Thus, she was more than a little drunk when they finally sent a hail. "If we surrender," said the scout-ship Captain, "will you be... merciful?"

"Depends," said Captain Jane. "You got a tow-bar?"

Humans were dangerous, everyone knew that. _Drunk_ humans were even worse. Drunk humans _en masse_ had to be a destructive force roughly equivalent to a supernova at point blank range. At least, that was the logic that the Vorax used when working out if this was going to be a victory or a defeat.

And that was how a crew of sick, drunk humans on a broken ship managed to defeat one of the worst-known Deathworlders in the Universe.

[45] CTL - Close To Light. FTL or Faster Than Light travel is only possible under special circumstances that involve the traveller not minding that they have to stick around at their destination for a few thousand years.

[46] Humanity never quite managed to cure the common cold. What they did instead was _tame_ it and use it as a method of passive inoculation against harsher, more feared diseases. Of course, mutation in the strains happens occasionally, and outbreaks are to be expected.

#  Challenge #138: Manifested Destiny

But the [Tech] is on the fritz due to what I believe would be classified as 'bombardment by an angry god', which violates your warranty, as we all know.

The Smudger hemmed and hawed over the broom. Ran a pendulum over the length of it and whistled backwards, the sure sign that something expensive was about to happen. "Are you sure you haven't angered any gods?" they said.

"Not to my knowledge," said Duji. She had her knitting out because it had already been ten minutes. "I always try to stay on their good side, me. You never know when it's going to be helpful."

The Smudger lit some incense and carried the burner under the bristles. "None of your ancestors ticked off a supreme power? They're the ones that go in for cursing until the somethingth generation."

"I wouldn't know," said Duji. Clicketty clicketty went her needles. "I was raised as an orphan. Is there a way to check that sort of thing?"

"You'd have to consult the auguries at the temple. Sacrifice regularly?"

"Oh yes. Every Wednesday, regular as clockwork."

The Smudger hummed dubiously and handed Duji a small container of toothpicks. "Throw those up into the air for me?"

They landed in a rather ornate arrow.

"Ah. You're ignoring an inherent destiny. Easy to fix. Your broom will only behave when you go in the direction you're _meant_ to go. Bit of a pain in the canker, but you've been oblivious for so long that the portents shouldn't be hard to miss."

"Oh dear," murmured Duji. "Should I really go adventuring at seventy-eight?"

"Ma'am," said the Smudger. "You have a clear destiny. If I were you, I'd get on with it or the gods might curse you with immortality."

#  Challenge #139: Best in the Business

[TITLE: Acme Showroom.] You know Acme \- All those cartoons. Especially the 'Roadrunner" – Anon Guest

It was pristine. It was flashy. This company, the architecture screamed, has made a lot of money. You should invest in this company, it said. It's a wise choice.

The objects of pride were on revolving plinths. They had never been used, and they were polished regularly. Everything looked like the pinnacle of engineering.

It was a wonder how this company got sued in the first place.

Tarren wandered through the glistening displays. Rocket sleds. Catapults. Actual rockets. Everything here _looked_ magnificent. "So how is it that you're being sued by an anthropomorphic coyote?"

"I don't understand it, either," said Marvin Acme, owner, chairman, and CEO of Acme Incorporated. "Our catalogue is very precise, as are our instructions. Mr W. E. Coyote clearly mis-assembled and combined several of our products in ways that we do not recommend. He ignored our copious warnings and now he blames us."

"You're confident that you can win, then? Even though Coyote claims that the warnings are not legible?"

"We can show catalogues going back _decades_ , all clearly stating that some of our products are dangerous when combined." Mr Acme opened a concealed door that revealed a library of past catalogues. "Pick one. Look at the first page."

Tarren did so, opening up the oldest catalogue on display. Right there on the first page was a bold typeface declaring that some Acme Products should never be used in combination with others. Experimentally, Tarren flipped to a random product. Right next to the product number was another bold-faced warning, specifically warning customers not to use this invention in combination with any of five others.

"We care about the safety of our customers," said Mr Acme.

"How can _bird seed_ cause a magnet to misbehave?" wondered Tarren.

"We're still investigating that one," smiled Mr Acme. "The closest our engineers can get to a logical cause is, and I quote, 'bad juju'."

"That's not a logical cause."

"I know," sighed Mr Acme. "We have mountains of evidence on our side. All Mr Coyote has is his claim to genius. I suspect this case will be very short."

[AN: I don't count the title of the prompt thread as part of the prompt, but in this case, I made an obvious exception]

#  Challenge #140: Unseen Creatures

You washed two, now there's only one sock. Black Hole? Alternate dimension? Sir P'Terry's sock Eater? – Anon Guest.

Even in the modern day, there are things unknown to magic or science. The hidden creatures that have so far evaded notice by the common and uncommon worlds. They eke out an existence in the forgotten corners. And live where you'd never notice them. One such creature is the line-dangling shoe lark, which exclusively nests in the shoes random people throw over the power lines. But today's creature of interest is the Sock Whiffler.

Another urban shadow-beast, the Sock Whiffler makes its nests in the overgrown corners of absent-minded gardeners and the "nature strips" of worthless land that the council can never be bothered to mow. In England, especially, the Sock Whiffler might be found in hedgerows. If one even knew how to look.

The male of the species is constantly on the look-out for the perfect sock. In which, his intended mate will bear and feed her young in perfect safety. He goes from house to house, from laundry to laundry, searching each and every machine he can break into for the perfect sock. Only one of each kind will do him, and he carries them about on his back spines. Were you actually able to observe one in action, you might be amazed at how his paws are adapted to opening laundering machines with little difficulty. But... even with a collection of interesting socks on his back, the Sock Whiffler is perfectly camouflaged and easily overlooked.

When every spine bears a sock or two, the male Sock Whiffler returns to his place of safety to attempt to impress the female with his display. Large males can carry as many as fifteen different socks at a time, and they display them with a vibrating, shimmying dance intended to dazzle the female's eye. This is, perhaps, why so many striped or patterned socks are more likely to go missing than the plainer ones.

Once the female is satisfied, she selects her sock and allows the lucky male to mate with her. Then she takes the sock into her burrow and prepares it for her young. The male, at this point, is frantic to secure her food enough for her gestation. Many exhaust themselves to death in order to bring enough food for their mate and their young. This does not harm the overall survival of the species, as males outnumber females five to one, and the females can bear litters of ten. Some males will adopt and care for gravid females in the hopes of gaining her favour for the next time she happens to be in season.

In the vanishing of suburbia, and the rise of the flat complex, the Sock Whifflers have adapted. Many make their nests on high-rise rooftops, or in the neglected areas of elderly complex buildings. They are truly resilient creatures, and truly astonishing.

#  Challenge #141: Farewell Letter

[TITLE: Constant vigilance or endless confusion.] One of those sayings that are only too true, put your own spin on this one.

They say, _It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you_. They say, _pesimists are rarely disappointed_. They are frequently right about this sort of thing. They really are out to get me. And I am very rarely disappointed in my expectations. Any day, they will find me. They will do horrible things. It's what they do.

When I get caught.

I know someone knows. Someone, somewhere, knows that I am not who I seem to be. I can feel them watching me. Noticing my mistakes. Knowing that I am not correct, according to the whims of our nation. Someone knows, and will tell. And they will get me.

I know I strive. I know I attempt to do everything right. But I know that it's wrong. It has to be. I'm flawed. And doomed to die. Doomed to become... one of the Used.

I could never say it out loud, never to any living thing, never in a confession booth... but I am not a man. I look like a man in very aspect, but I am not. I am one of the Others. The ones that the men use to keep this nation populated. They are vital, and protected, and not free.

The beautiful ones, I have seen. In the homes of the elite. In the advertising for the proles. They walk and talk and look beautiful, and bear the sons of the elite... but they are property. They don't even own the clothes they wear.

As for the ones that are not beautiful... I work in the factory where they are processed. I see what they do to the rest. Their unnecessary flesh is cut away and their ability to talk is taken away, and they are taken to the bod houses where men indulge themselves until those bods are growing a new man.

They are cared for during that time, but not at many other times. I don't want to be one of those. I don't think they would make me to be what I know myself to be. They'd just kill me.

I don't want to die.

I don't want to be a Used.

But I hear stories from the Outworlders. They have their Used free to be people. They call them 'women' and they can do anything an elite is free to use. These women do not come down to our great nation. I can guess that they don't want to be Used.

My only hope is to get a ride to the Outworld. It's treachery to want to leave, but... I have to.

It doesn't matter what my name is. You won't care. You'll probably burn this book once you know.

My real name is Doe Jacobs. And I am leaving Greater Deregulation. Any way I can.

[AN: Please keep your prompts OUT of the firkin title for your prompt thread in my forum, thanks. It's an utter pain in the butt]

#  Challenge #142: Eat Snax

"Fat grubs in butter sauce." this was from a Lizard culture's idea of Snack Food. Humans have popcorn, crisps, peanuts etc. So how about one of those Snack Food van equivalents that caters to various species, and make a good living thereby.

_Eat Snax_ the sign blared in potentially noxious colours. Underneath, a more staid sign discreetly told the observant that this was a suggestion and not an order. Inside the ludicrously small booth, a popcorn popper was doing its work whilst someone in a cardboard hat was deep frying something. Another nauseatingly loud sign declared that, Unsuitable Food was sold here.

"What d'ye think?" said Shayde.

Of _course_ she'd invest in something like this. The concept of small meals between actual ones was nothing new. Neither was the notion of _empty calories_. Putting them together in an easy access booth would either explode in unforeseen ways, or become another civilisation-wide hit that would soon get to _everywhere_. "It's very... 'you'," he allowed.

"And I parked it right next tae the entertainments complex, ye ken. Loads o' business. And I'm sellin' all th' omni-compatible stuff. Wi' choices o' garnish."

There were fat grubs keeping warm in a tray, right next to rounded balls of something that had to be meat paste and another tray of S'quiib[47]. In the fridge, there were individually-wrapped balls of P![48] next to popsicles and ice creams. Cake pops adorned a back shelf, also individually wrapped. As were the lollipops.

As for the sauces, there were heated sauces, room temperature sauces, and cold sauces, all in temperature-controlled dispensers. There was also a slushed ice machine and several options of sugary syrup.

Rael was tempted to buy a sampler. "I suppose they do battered sausage on a stick by request?" It was the only thing he could count as missing from all this... unsuitable fare.

"We print those an' gi'e 'em a quick fry-up," said Shayde. "Saves on the overhead."

There was a scrolling menu with the word _Printable_ permanently on the top. It was paced so that even slow readers could track all the options. And it contained a plethora of options for _doughnuts_.

Rael cracked.

"How much for one of everything?" he asked.

[47] Sort of like miniature squash, but way more calorie intense.

[48] Meeyahndan delicacy, pronounced by sucking one's lips in with a mouth-made vacuum, and then opening the mouth to make a popping noise. Meeyahndese for "Tasty, and sticks to the mouth parts". More modern recipes for P! include peanut butter.

#  Challenge #143: They Grow So Fast

How about one where Aliens are stunned at the absurd growth rate/ regenerative properties that humans seem to have. Either for something as small as fingernails or hair needing constant maintenance, to 'how did that child grow a full METER in the ten years I was absent?!' – Anon Guest

Human Steff had reproduced. Live birthing was trauma enough for most of the crew, but the idea that humans could be small and fragile was overwhelming. These mammals had to be crazy to engage in such a process voluntarily when there were artificial gestation processes. And then Human Steff explained that she considered her ordeal to be a _religious devotion_.

Nevertheless, Human Steff encouraged all crewmembers to meet her Baby Human Di. And it was astonishingly small in comparison to Human Steff's prior girth. Baby Human Di was a small creature with a short fluff of hair and, K'iix noted, had to wear protective mittens and socks to prevent them scratching themselves with their tiny and sharp nails.

Baby Human Di spent most of her time asleep, and most of her waking time feeding from the mammary glands of Human Steff. The infant had no ability to control anything about itself. How and when this creature could become one of the most indestructible and indomitable creatures in existence was beyond K'iix.

Human Steff was expected to have lighter duties following the birth. K'iix expected her to be of commission for _years_ , but she assured that she should be able to return to light work inside of six months. Humans were truly resilient.

In less than a Standard Month, Baby Human Di was holding up her own massive head, and she had more than doubled in size. Human Steff wore the child and her carry-harness like an accessory, when she walked about. That she was _able_ to walk about was nothing short of miraculous to K'iix.

Then the infant started _thrashing_. The violent arm and leg movements alarmed some, but Human Steff insisted that this was all normal. By the time Human Steff was able to return to light duties, Baby Human Di was almost capable of bipedal motion. Though she did seem to prefer moving about on all fours.

Before a Standard Year had passed, Baby Human Di had become a 'toddler', and took to charging about on her pudgy legs at whatever seemed to interest her kitten-like attention at the time. This was also when Human Steff introduced the "Play Pen", a safe enclosure to keep the child away from potentially endangering the crew. Given that Baby Human Di interacted with most things by either chewing on them or bashing them against a solid surface, K'iix could endorse such a preventative measure.

#  Challenge #144: Articles of Beauty

Us humans have skin lotions and hair straighteners/curlers - what do other species do to improve the Outer Alien? – Anon Guest

There are things you can sell _anywhere_. Popcorn, for example, is the only known deathworlder food that is so inoffensive that it can be sold to Havenworlders. Many more things change uses between species.

"What is this liquid?"

"We call it 'varnish'. It's a clear polymer coat that adds shine to static surfaces."

The Chitanian inspecting the merchandise alarmed the human by painting one of hir forearms.

"Yeah, that's not instant-drying and you could clog your breathing pores with that..."

"Shiny..." cooed the Chitanian. "Can you arrange for the instant-drying sort?"

"Nail polish," said the human. "We paint our fingernails for decoration."

"We shall need bigger bottles," said the Perissod. "Our keratinous structures are much larger." And not on their manipulating limbs, either. But rather on their faces.

"I'll see what we can arrange."

"Hair gel," said the human.

"Fantastic," murmured the Pterigot. "This is the best adhesive we had ever found!"

The human trader, who had given up at this point, merely thought, _Havenworlders..._ and tried not to roll their eyes.

#  Challenge #145: Miss Handling

"You place too much trust in me, I think."

"Until you can place more trust in yourself you may rely on mine in you."

Rael got the shock of his life just being invited to someone else's home. Five seconds inside the door, he got one big enough to turn his entire body silver.

Officer Lyr Marken, Subchief of Security for the JOAT sector of the Elemeno, had just handed him her infant daughter. With nothing more than a negligent, "Here, hold her for a sec'."

Rael fumbled not to drop her. Human infants, he remembered reading, were far more fragile than their adult counterparts. For such a small creature, she was amazingly heavy. She burbled and dribbled saliva at him. "Uh... I'm not sure I–"

"You're doing great. It won't be long, I promise."

There was an older child staring owlishly at him from a high chair. Both infants were blonde, like their mother, and making noise about something that disagreed with them. Rael was certain it was all his fault. "Uh. If I can come back later..."

"Don't you dare leave me on my own right now," said Officer Marken. "Paul had to go do an emergency patch on Left Fin Three, Aunty Fan-Fan's midwifing and everyone else is up to their elbows in it. All I need is a spare pair of hands. You're going to be _fine_."

The tiny human cradled in his arms had set up a good solid howl about the general state of affairs.

"You place too much faith in me," he said.

Officer Marken - technically Lyr since she was off-duty on maternity leave - placed a bowl in front of the elder daughter and wrapped a spoon in the child's hand, and then undid her top before she scooped the younger child out of his terrified grasp. "Until you can have more faith in yourself, you can have a loan of mine in you."

Rael turned away before he could glimpse anything usually hidden by Lyr's Skins. "Is... this all you called me about?" He did not say, _Can I escape, now?_

"No, the food printer's on the fritz. I had to bodge up something from long-term emergency supplies and a hotplate."

The eldest child, having mastered placing food in her mouth, evinced her disappointment in her current fare by saying, "Yuck!" and flipping the bowl off of her tray.

Nutrition of infants was important, too. Rael did not wish to engage the wrath of a mother, let alone a Deathworlder mother. He'd heard they could get _ferocious_. "I'll see what I can do."

"Time plus two all-you-can-gorge-in-an-hour specials at Harga's," said Lyr.

Wow. She _was_ desperate.

#  Challenge #146: Hermit Permit Pending

"To be honest, I hadn't planned on the whole Dark Lord thing. It just sort of happened."

It's not easy being a hermit. Especially not when random adventurers get lost and mistake your cave for a dragons' lair or the entrance to the goblin caverns or something of the ilk. I had to learn a few spells just to protect what little I have from their greedy hands. It takes _days_ to make a decent bowl. And the rogues kept stealing my cauldrons! Do you have any idea how hard it is for a hermit to get a halfway decent cauldron? It's harder than you think.

So, yes. I admit to slaying a few under-prepared adventurers just to get the coin for what folks like them stole in the first place. And a sign for the entrance to my cave so that, I hoped, the adventurers would no longer barge into my home and disturb my meditations.

What I got instead was a bunch of adventurers thinking I was some kind of super mystic who could either heal them or grant some form of divine booster to their extant skills, and thereby defeat whatever it was they were fighting this week. And when I could only offer them soup? They trounced me and stole everything. Again. So I started brewing up some poisons to lace the soup with, and antidotes for myself and anyone who actually turned out to be bona-fide _good_. It saved a great deal of time, to be honest.

No, the rumours aren't true. I didn't eat anyone's flesh. I just traded it to the neighbourhood orcs for some decent defenses. What? Orcs make good traps. They're not so great at concealed doorways, unfortunately. And since I'd littered the land with traps, the adventurers think there must be something good at my place, and... Well. I was getting quite the store of coin and shiny things that past adventurers had on their person.

I just wanted them to go away and bother someone else. Honestly. Trading stuff to the orcs and the goblins could only do so much, and I wound up with actual _gemstones_. Some of them magical. And the one about the dragon only _became_ true later on. And it was a baby.

Say what you like about adventurers, I like small helpless things and saving a dragon only became beneficial later. When it could reliably breathe fire on anyone coming towards my cave.

I didn't exactly enlist and orc army. I just... hired increasing bands of Orc mercenaries. For a percentage of the spoils and all the adventurers they could eat. It's a simple enough deal and my growing dragon needed some coin to nest on. It's a vermin removal thing. Anyway, as you can guess, it only lead to _more_ adventurers going after everyone. Even though my Orc mercenaries never bothered a farmstead when they were in my employ.

So I learned some darker spells. And got involved with some demons. And did a few 'friendly takeovers' of some farmsteads because my armies needed more to eat than just luckless adventurers.

They say there's a prophecy of a Destined One who's going to overthrow me or stop my reign of terror. I certainly hope that, when they come, they'll listen to me and convince the adventurers to just leave me alone and let me be a hermit. In fact, when they're confirmed to _be_ the Destined One, I'm going to send them a wagon-load of gold and an invitation to come around for some non-poisoned tea.

I could do with a good chat that doesn't begin with, "Cease your machinations, vile fiend!"

#  Challenge #147: Repent Now...

[Name] sighed and turned back to their paperwork. In the scant few minutes they'd been talking with the other person, the paper seemed to have multiplied. It was breeding. There was a giant paperwork orgy going on right on their desk, and it was all they could do to fill out forms faster than they were produced.

They say paperwork is hell. They don't have the half of it. Imagine the largest offices in the world. Floor after floor of endless, uniform, windowless cubicles. Floor after floor of grey monotony. Floor after floor of filling out and shuffling paperwork from an inbox into the relevant outbox. And no potty or coffee breaks.

They have no time to look up from their work. They dare not take even a second from one paper to the other. They dare not stretch. There is no time to sigh. Their only hope is to fill in the paperwork before the next page enters their inbox. If they do not, the paper in their inbox doubles.

There is a clever device that takes the page from the bottom of the heap and juts it out to where it can be seized so that the worker can fill it out. It is not that clever, and often jams. Those in the cubicles hit the red button and grab a page from the top. They cannot afford to wait. They cannot afford to stop. They barely have time to suckle from the coffee dribbler or nibble a bite from the treats dispenser. They sit, bare-bottomed, on a hybrid of a toilet and an office chair. There is no rest.

This is hell. Specifically, this is hell for all the blank-faced officials who would not bend the rules to help those in need.

Those who refused food to the hungry are sentenced to permanently fill the dispensers for those who toil in this cubicle hell.

Those who refused to fix the amenities for the slums they owned are condemned to spend eternity repairing the clever devices that break down so very often.

And as for those who, in indolent wealth, accused the poor or destitute of being lazy? They're the runners that take the endless reams of paper from one outbox to the relevant inbox. If they dare to stop, their feet spontaneously combust.

Satan and his angels are supervisors. Dressed in three-piece suits and carrying a permanent cup of coffee. They stroll around the cubicles and get in the way of the runners. They lounge against the cubicle walls and quip, "So... working hard or hardly working, amiright?" or stop the penitent to demand the correct cover for the TPS reports, thereby quadrupling the workload.

This is hell.

And it is always Monday.

This is hell for everyone who has forgotten what 'Charity' truly means.

#  Challenge #148: We're So Much Better Now

There are pieces of Historical Machinery, there are Collections of Musical instruments and some lucky souls get to care for them, keep them running and in the case of stringed instruments take them out and play them so they sound right. – Anon Guest

They say the Archivaas collect everything and never throw anything away. This is very close to the truth. Most Archivaas know the impossibility of saving a physical version of _everything_ and keep digital plans, instructions, or copies. The more extreme Archivaas still try to keep hard copies. Even those ones agree that the ones on Museum VI have taken things too far.

Museum VI is an Archivaas system dedicated to the instruments of war. From the sling and the spear through knapped stone tools, all the way to "planet killer" explosives, though the most dangerous of these weapons have been disarmed for safety reasons. The Museum system sadly regrets that all the 1950-era nuclear bombs were detonated in a frenzy of testing, and can only supply more modern copies. These, too, lack the crucial payload.

Of course the museum is run by humans. There would be no other reason for it to exist, otherwise.

Of the less harmful weapons, there is an 'exercise season' where they, or copies of them, are paraded out and exhibited against replica targets of their respective era. Much to the enjoyment of other humans, and the abject terror of their soon-to-be-former enemies.

What humans can do with a pile of wood and big enough rocks is enough to pacify all but the most aggressive of Deathworlders. To say nothing of what humans cooked up with sulphur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate.

The twentieth and twenty-first century displays are the most impressive. Humans could do extraordinarily hazardous things with heinously common chemicals. Though the display neurotoxins are admitted to be fake, the presenter details how easy some of them were to create. How easy some of them _still are_ to create.

The Galactic Record for Deathworlder surrender to humans is five minutes. The longest was two hours, and that was because the aggressor in question was too afraid to ask a thing until the presentation broke for snacks and potty breaks.

#  Challenge #149: Long Live the Leader

A single powerful person who is convinced of their own Rightness with no thought of introspection or means of restraint is dangerous, moreso to others than to themselves. – Anon Guest

Jack didn't just believe in the Leader. He had a firm and unwavering Belief in the leader. Jack was wont to Believe with all his heart and soul. Though he still prayed to the God of the holy works, the Leader was the next best thing to a foretold coming. The Leader was the greatest man to ever live. The Leader was going to make this nation great. The Leader was going to fix everything.

Jack was so convinced that he convinced his family and friends. Most caught the fever, but some still little-b believed. But that was not a concern because the Leader was now in charge. The Leader was in the best place to fix everything that had gone wrong.

And the Leader certainly got things done.

Handouts to the weak or the lazy were gone. No more welfare. No more free medical care. No more minimum wage. It was good. It was amazing. Business was booming, and that meant more jobs for everyone. Well. Everyone except for... certain _types_.

Those _types_ were better off with the new plan. Away in camps where they could learn to be real people or, if that was impossible owing to the colour of their skin, then working for the greater good of this amazing nation. Jack could see it working. Everything was both abundant and cheap. Which was great, because his boss kept lowering the pay packet every week. It had been the payments, first. The retirement fund. The dental fund. The health insurance. Now it was the pay packet that Jack got. But it didn't matter at first. The cost of living was hitting rock bottom.

And then Jack got sick. The doctors weren't allowed to say that it was the stuff Jack was spraying around at his work. Companies had the right to continue their business as they saw fit, and no teary-eyed, granola-munching hippie was going to whine about the 'environment' anywhere out loud. Not any more. Not if they wanted to stay out of a re-education camp. The doctor had to call it an 'industrial malady', which was a pre-existing condition.

Jack could not afford to pay the bills. He sold his things, at much less than he'd paid for them. He sold everything but a few changes of clothes and the car he drove to work in. His wife and kids had to go work in the poorhouse, because women and children had no place in a man's workplace. They still needed food and something of an education, so Jack never got to see them again. Not until he pulled himself up by his bootstraps.

He finally sold his car, and got arrested for vagrancy on his first night of sleeping in the streets. Sent to a prison for redeemable types until he worked off his debts at two cents an hour. With meals at ten dollars a day. Jack told himself, every morning, that this was temporary. The Leader would fix it all. The Leader would make everything great.

He said it every day, until he saw his own son on the same assembly line. Young, just into legal adulthood, and in permanent resident prison fatigues. Just like his father. Working his fingers bloody because he got extra for doing it. Just like his father.

Jack found Johnny at lunch. A plain gruel with everything you needed in it. According to the National Corn Association. Jack asked his son, "How's your mom? Your sister?"

"They're whores now. I can't care."

Jack had heard that phrase from others. Not, "I don't care," but, "I can't care." It screamed that the speaker wanted to, sometimes with all their might, but were prevented. Whores deserved to birth until they died. That was what the Leader said. That was what Jack always Believed.

Women who could not pay their bills deserved to be whores, too. That's what they got for not being loyal to their man. That's what they got for failing to realise the whims of their man. Jack used to Believe that, too.

That was the day he realised that his Belief had come with an unspoken corollary: _except for me and what's mine_.

But it was too late for Jack and his family. Prisoners were not allowed to have the vote. And by now, the Leader was the Leader for the rest of his life.

[AN: I could have just written "Donald Trump" instead of a story, but that's low-hanging fruit]

#  Challenge #150: Two Birds

"HOW?"

"You know, I learned a long time ago that if you say that in any matter relating to (Person], if you even get an answer it will probably lead to more questions."

They _used to_ say, "if a problem's big enough, the Glunk will take care of it" on Amalgam Station. As a hostile biohazard, it was unique in the known universe. For a start, it was the only known biohazard in civilisation that counted as its own district.

People had been trying to get rid of it for _centuries_. And now Rael was watching through a regulated viewing window as... Shayde's sheep wandered about and grazed on large portions of it.

They were a relic of a multi-dimensional bubble, had a negligible relationship with gravity, and gave bright purple, non-allergenic wool. They were also -as one might expect- hard to explain to the casual tourist. But now all four of them were inside the contained area that housed the Glunk, _and none of the alarms had been tripped_.

The alarms should have been tripped. They were designed with a hair trigger to let the attendant technicians know, and loudly, that something was amiss in the largest and most hostile biohazard known to Galactic science. They had not been tampered with. The tampering alerts were just as paranoid as the safety klaxons. There was no known way that anyone could have been able to get in there with four sheep and leave without anyone taking any notice whatsoever. The sheep should not have been in there.

And yet, despite all logic and reason, there they were.

"On the positive side," said Rael, "they seem to be making more headway than the bio-engineered Cleaners."

All it took was a level and withering glare from Sherlock to let Rael know that that comment was decidedly _not_ helpful. The Cuidgari Chief of all Security was flabberghasted. Stunned. He waved his usually motionless hands at the porthole and finally aired an exasperated, " _HOW?_ "

Rael regarded the sheep once more, attempting to speculate. "Chief... I'm sorry, but I learned a long time ago that if you say that in any matter relating to Ambassador Shayde... even if there _is_ an answer, it will only lead to more questions."

"Oh look," said the attending technician for this corridor/face of the Glunk, "they're capable of parthenogenesis." Their tone of voice was blank, as if expecting that they could wake up from this dream at any moment. "That might be useful."

Rael looked. A new, purple lamb wobbled onto its hooves. This might not have been anything new save for the fact that mother and child were both resting on a patch of wall. Shayde and the sheep she had managed to bring into this reality had that sort of stunning effect on everyone. This poor techie would get used to things in a few months. "If I were in your situation," he suggested, "I might investigate the conditions that create such parthenogenesis so that these creatures can be distributed to all known faces."

"I'll write that down when I wake up," mumbled the techie.

"I'll send a counsellor," said Sherlock.

#  Challenge #151: Our "Hero"

"So the only defences are [Cosmic Chew Toy] and the automated ones."

"...which means, the only defences are the automated stuff."

The ship's human was a Lucker. Unfortunately for him, all that luck was bad. Unfortunately for everyone around him, he had the deplorable tendency to blame everyone and everything else around him except himself. Edger Arnold never got officially tested for the Luck Gene, and said it was against his religion to do so. Nevertheless, all the signs were there.

Just as success seemed to be in Edger's reach, he always managed to pull the rug out from under himself. All his cases of "I'll do it later" neglect exploded in his face. Sometimes literally. Enough to hurt, but not enough for permanent damage. In the unlikely event of a promotion, a messy and publically embarrassing demotion was bound to follow soon after. He never rose to the level of his incompetence. He _was_ his level of incompetence.

And all the crew knew it. So when a Vorax ship turned up and the _Elemental Force_ managed to dodge out of sensor range by the skin of their collective mouth parts, the Captain asked for options.

"Since Second-technician Arnold's last... incident... our only defences are the ship's human and the automated debris sweepers."

The Captain considered this. "So... all we have is the automated debris sweepers."

"Not entirely, Captain. Grazzix has come up with a plan."

Grazzix stepped forward. "We send the human to _them_ sir. Fill Second-technician Arnold's head with visions of a rescue mission that only he can survive... and let him 'help' the Vorax sir."

The Captain heard those quotation marks. It was like a light dawning after a nigh-apocalyptic storm. "That's the best idea I've ever heard."

It's the first recorded incident of the tactical deployment of a Bad Lucker. And, co-incidentally, the first stress testing of the automatically-deploying livesuit.

#  Challenge #152: Quality Control

"Nothing says unprofessional like wrinkles in the duct tape."

Of all the useful concepts and handy inventions that the humans took into space with them, the most widely-dispersed was ductape. It even preceded _dogs_ as an ambassador for humanity. A watertight adhesive patch that could be shaped to suit the user's needs. Cut to demand. Flexible. And infinitely useful.

After a few hundred years, standards for its use grew. Including the quality of the user based on how ze applied it.

"A true professional leaves no wrinkles in the ductape," dictated Dode, his tutor. "Take it slowly. Carefully. You'll get faster with time."

Rael, still learning GalStand, put the practice form into the soaking agent and took up a new dry one. "Work slow, no eat," he said.

"That's changed and you know it," said Dode. "And I'm _telling_ you to be slow. Little bits at a time."

Rael was too used to work-fast-or-starve. He took a sip of the sour mash that the Drongo had donated to his metabolic cause. Calories helped calm him. Centre. Focus. _Do_.

This time, the practice patch went on without a blemish. Rael vented a sigh of relief and reached for the candied yams. And startled when Dode added a supply of her _jubes_ to his rewards. That was gelatinised sugar, wrapped in more sugar, and augmented with assorted colours and flavourings. The ultimate in flash calories.

"But Rael fail too much," he objected. "Too long fail."

Dode shook her head. "You tried very hard for a long time. That effort needs a reward too."

Rael tried to find the right words. "Not parent company way." He added a tap to the logo on his warm-suit to indicate wich parent company he meant. In this case, it was Wave of the Future, the company that made him and all other Faiize.

"Is freedom way," said Dode, using his own broken GalStand against him. Well. Sort of against him. "Get used to it."

Rael liked the _jubes_ , so he didn't object too strenuously. "Thank you," he said. "Is much hard learning."

#  Challenge #153: What Were We Talking About?

:tail-end of a discussion:

...and mid- to late- 20th century geopolitics still has absolutely nothing to do with Slenderman. How the hell did we get here anyways?

Info-nets are not always informative. Many take the forum as a means to communicate about whatever they wish to share at the time. Especially the humans. Fortunately, humans also invented the concept of a Moderator, whose job it was to re-train wandering threads, extinguish the flame wars, and hose out the spam.

Interestingly, it's non-humans who make the best Moderators. Humans are more likely to "see where this is going" and let a thread wander into strange new territories. Such impulses are allowed to run wild in the entertainment sub-section, where human verbal antics are observed by intelligences that just can't fathom human comedy.

Humans, however, just call it a typical info-net comms realm. Thousands of voices, talking at once, about whatever subject and side-interest lights up their souls. Some make up fiction. Some make up art. All make up... the collective of human insanity.

A man from a Greater Deregulation rails against equal rights, claiming that women "have done nothing but have babies for all of history". He is subsequently flooded with pictures of women throughout history, their bios, and the things they invented and contributed to. Most of known history is full of them. Others surface from other worlds. The occasional alien attempts to contribute to the ongoing meme. The topic, of course, mutates. Ten pages later, they're talking about the effects of immunisation on pre-shattering and post-shattering cultures, and how Lady Mary Wortley Montagu should have got the credit instead of Edward Jenner.

Within another five pages, the contributors are all gasping at the innate insensibility of the anti-vax movement and the millions of deaths that it caused. After that, it was a debate over which silly human decision killed the most people.

And then an argument about counting the people who went down one-way wormholes and all their descendants who lived and died in deep-time isolation.

And after that, the conversation went into time travel fact versus time travel fiction. At which point, the original poster turned up to wonder how the hell everyone reached _that_ point in the conversation. He was, for the record, told that he and his viewpoints weren't relevant to the thread. No, not even when he posted his original view.

#  Challenge #154: MWA-HAHAHA!

"You think I'm evil? Well, am I evil just because I want to _kill_ you? Am I evil just because I would rather **tear you limb from limb** and watch you bleed out one at a time, and I'm genuinely _sad_ I won't be able to before your friends arrive? Am I evil just because after I'm done here I'm going to go to your town and slaughter everyone you have ever loved out of _pure spite_?"

"W-what? Yes! Of course you're evil! All of that is horribly, _sickeningly_ evil!"

"Ah... Well, _excellent_! I **like** knowing my place in the world! So few do." – Anon Guest

I know what I am. People keep telling me. I'm evil, down to the core. I am the terror that stalks in the night. I am the rage in the pit of your heart. I am bent on destroying the world. And I love it.

The world needs heroes, that is true, but it also needs _villains_. Those for whom the heroes can look heroic _against_. If it wasn't for those like me, they'd all be fighting each other to rescue kittens from trees. Can you imagine SupaMegaMan escorting little old ladies across the road? No, of course not. I'm around.

Well. Myself and some of those... lesser villains. They all have egos the size of the moon and minions with the competency level of your average cheese. It's the way the world works, of course. Easily-duped minions and escapable death traps make it less likely that a hero will out-and-out kill a villain in order to stop the nefarious scheme of the month.

I might be evil, but I also have a vested interest in surviving any hero encounters. In the unlikely event that I actually _destroy_ the status quo? I mean to be there to lead the new world order. And to that end, I have to convince the goodie-goodie types that there is good inside me. All it takes is the little things. Letting the annoying sidekick go is always a favourite. Kidnapping but never harming the love interest is kind of old hat.

I've got a surprising amount of mileage out of surprisingly comfortable minion accommodations. Heck, I even let them have dental on their health insurance. I'm evil, but I'm not _scum_.

Sure, I'll threaten a lot of things, but when the whole physical destruction comes into the picture, I'd rather destroy condemned buildings. Hey, when I rule you all? I want the infrastructure still in place.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to plant a sleeper virus in all the Starbucks' free Wifi hotspots. I have a cunning plan to create money in the bank accounts of the most destitute. It should make the economy collapse inside of a month, thus destroying civilisation as we know it.

I'd like to see SupaMegaMan punch his way out of _that_ one.

#  Challenge #155: But What is it For?

Soft Teddy bears given to people in stress, usually children who are hurt or rescued. The thing about Teddy Bears is they don't judge you, they are just soft, and smiling and invite a shared hug.

Pulled from a lifepod. Still in shock. Bright lights and confusing noises and too much. Far too much. Way too much to deal with at once. People in frightening suits all getting into her face. She didn't know anyone. Didn't know where she was or what anyone was saying.

All she wanted was something familiar. She did not get it for an emotional forever. Not until one of the strange shapes in her periphery handed her something soft. It was big, and squishy, and a little warm. Sh'heth curled around it with all five limbs. The warmth and the softness was comforting enough to relax her. She cried out and struggled less against these oddly-shaped strangers. Let them help her.

It was only later, when these strangers had set her aside into a comfortable and dimly-lit room, was Sh'heth able to analyse the object. It was an effigy. Four limbs, just like the strangers. Fluffy and fuzzy with thousands of little hairs all over its surface. There was a snout with a shiny black triangle on, and two dark, shiny buttons that could do the work of eyes. The nubs on the head and the nubs on the bottom of the torso evaded Sh'heth's understanding.

Sh'heth didn't understand what it was meant to be. Was it a copy of these strange creatures? Or was it some form of guardian god meant to protect the innocent? Too many questions for a child. The bed was soft and comfortable and the effigy was nice and warm and pleasant to the touch. Sh'heth curled up and went to sleep. Maybe things would be better when she woke up.

There were others like her, at least. Fellow survivors. Sh'heth didn't know them, but familiar-looking faces were reassuring. Other children like her had the same kind of soft effigy that she had. They were all different colours. Some not found in nature. Sh'heth's effigy almost matched her own skin markings, but some others were monochromal. Some were garish to look at.

Nothing made sense.

The older ones had them, too. They were debating the purpose as Sh'heth sat with her age-mates and attempted to make a new creche from a group of strangers. As time passed, more of her people came into this space. More survivors from the wreck of the _Hesshai_. None of them familiar to Sh'heth.

It was only when they reached the saftey of S'th'rth Station that Sh'heth re-united with her surviving family and creche-friends from the wreck. And then she found out what the species who saved her was.

She almost lost her tail from the shock. Sh'heth and her fellow survivors had been in the clutches of _humans_! The deadliest Deathworlders in the known universe. And they'd helped her and given her medical aid, and one of their strange effigies.

Sh'heth still treasured it. It was soft and warm and comforting. And the fact that these Deathworlders knew it and gave it to her in her utmost time of stress... it made her question everything she heard about humans for the rest of her life.

#  Challenge #156: Reaching Out

What if someone decided they would not 'Get Even', what if they thought this 'payback with interest has gone on long enough' and just walked away from the whole mess.

Those who fail to learn from the lessons of history, it is said, are doomed to repeat them. This is not just limited to those who fail their History tests. The moving finger may have written, but it tends to write in circles. Ninety percent of all wars are declared out of revenge for the previous war.

There are no accurate battle cries that go, "Remember the last atrocity that they committed against us that justifies the atrocities that we are about to commit on them!" If there were, there might be less wars. If leaders were honest about riling up hatred for the enemy, there would be less people eager to fight them. But that's why propaganda exists.

In this country, there has always been a war against evil. Against oppressors, against violence, against those who have the resources that we want, but honesty should never enter politics. History should never enter politics, either, or people would learn how often the actions of Leaders in the past have lead directly to the troubles of today. People could easily learn that their own country is its worst enemy. And then what would they do?

For years, we have had to hate the others. They are not like us. They are invading the country via refugee boats. Taking our jobs. Wanting to introduce their oppressive and sexist laws on those who don't follow their outlandish religion. They're the most likely to be terrorists. Their culture is a culture of hate. That's all that we've been told.

Groups of them have been attacking their own people in the name of their God. Blowing up their own hospitals and clinics. Making their own country an unlivable nightmare, so it's no surprise that those who can leave, try to. They come to us because we're a bastion of sanity against the woes of spreading hate.

They come in desperation, hoping for a better place to live.

I'm told I should hate them for everything they did. I'm told I should shun them and let them die. But I cannot. My own holy writ tells me otherwise. My own book tells me to be kind to those in need. And those people who I welcome remember. They were welcomed by someone _they_ were told to hate. They have less reason to hate anyone like me.

It's there for anyone to read in the Holy Quran, "God does not forbid you from being good to those who have not fought you in the religion or driven you from your homes, or from being just towards them."

#  Challenge #157: Worms?

Earworms, those tunes that get into your head and drive you nuts, from jingles to inane pop tunes. – Anon Guest

There was something wrong with Human Steve. All the K'shardi could detect it, even those who were not skilled at detecting flaws in the ship's human. It was the way that Human Steve kept wincing and flinching that set everyone on edge.

Humans were Deathworlders. Deathworlders were very hard to permanently harm. Therefore, anything that _annoyed_ a Deathworlder had to be an enormous threat. Therefore, when T'desh asked Human Steve what was bothering hir, the alarm through the ship was almost instantaneous.

"I have an earworm stuck in my head. I can't get rid of the flakker."

Human Steve was escorted to Medical, where ze was scanned and pronounced free of parasites. Both ears were examined and, because of their internal connections, so too were the sinuses.

It took an hour of patient explaining that an earworm was not a physical infestation by a parasite. It was, in fact, a malfunction of the human brain. Humans, as it became revealed, hallucinated things. They sometimes encouraged these hallucinations with acts of creativity. Sometimes, they used these acts of creativity to _express_ their hallucinations and share them with other people.

And in this case, a piece of musical entertainment was ceaselessly 'playing' on an endless loop in Human Steve's persistent aural hallucination. Human Steve described it as, "a song so catchy that your brain can't stop playing it. Whether you like it or not."

Human Steve shared a few. The infection of repetitious melody did not effect the K'shardi, but they agreed that the looping would be easy to prompt in a mind so shockingly fallible as Human Steve's. The only remedy for one earworm was a _catchier_ earworm that the brain enjoyed more than the original.

And since it was _their_ human in distress, the K'shardi did their utmost, scouring the archives for anything that had earwormy qualities to play for Human Steve. They went from the cyclical tonal choruses of the A'ardi to the harmonious buzzing of the Z'z'xx.

But Human Steve _insisted_ that, if _Yellow Submarine_ wasn't available, the best cure for an earworm was something by the Consortium of Steam's mechanical ambassadors.

#  Challenge #158: This is the Best Thing

Super person comes to rescue of someone they are really Big Fans of. Marvel, D.C. Whatever.

Brownie points for "OMG! You're Them!" moment.

Being a Power isn't as much fun as the comic books would make you believe. For a start, the seemingly endless battles with the Big Bad hardly ever happen. And when they do, it's not something you want to live through. Most of my life is patrolling the streets and trying to stop trouble before it starts.

My hero name is The Shield. I can make a force field to protect people or contain troublemakers. I also have a helmet and chest-cam to record everything I see and hear. It's admissible in court, so the people who clearly do wrong can't claim bias. You would _not_ be surprised how often that happens when it's a white cop who tried to shoot an unarmed black person and got stopped by a Latina hero.

But that wasn't what was going on that night. It was a slow night, for a change. It could be so simple to go home and binge on netflix, but I owed the city another hour. And just as I turned a corner, I found a stopped car in an out-of-the-way alley and a mobile dead zone. This was one that wouldn't need my powers, but the Ready Bag in the boot of my tiny little car.

What? You thought I could fly? Yeah, not everyone does that noise. The best I can manage is maybe a three storey jump, and that's not really useful in a city full of skyscrapers.

Anyway, it was late, and the car was locked with its emergency lights on, and I was doing my Never Fear Citizen thing. Same old. And then the car opened and the occupant emerged into the headlights.

I think my brain imploded. The odds against tripping over the world's best singer/actress/superstar in the WORLD are so astronomical that they might as well be making a new universe out of it. That's right. I was face to face with none other than Miranda "Totally Fabulous" Schaquiraquai.

It's a good thing I don't have super voice powers, because I squee'd. Completely lost professional conduct for an entire minute. But I got on with the job, looking into what was wrong with the car and effecting enough of a repair job to get it and the idol of my heart to a place of safety. I do remember babbling the words, "big fan" and hearing her say something like, "I guessed."

I do remember repeatedly telling myself to keep it cool before I finally had to _tow_ Ms Amazing's car to a place of safety. Way out of my assigned patrol zone, but so very, very worth it. And my contacts list included this technomage who had sleep issues anyway. It went a little something like:

Me: Three guesses _who_ I just towed to Marty's Mechanicals. Them: Since it's fuckoff in the morning and you sound like you mixed coffee, a Monster, and freakin' _speed_... one of your weirdo singer-actor idols. Me: She is _not_ weird. She just plays roles that stand out from the crowd. Them: Okay, that's narrowed it down to Miranda Scheherezade. Me: You know damn well you can't meme at me and get a bite. Get your ass over here. She needs her car fixed before all the groupies find out. Them: You're lucky I still have my pants on.

Master Mechanic _can_ fly, but ze's scared of heights, and tends to skim along the streets at "it can't hurt to fall from here" height and speed. So when they're in a hurry, they take their scooter.

I was... bouncing a bit when ze turned up.

"Oh God," they groaned, "You're not going to shut up about this for _months_."

I introduced my bestie. "This is Master Mechanic, they're agender. If you can't conjugate ze/hir, then the singular 'they' is fine. I... kind'a make them watch all your stuff. And rave at them."

"A lot," said Mechanic. "A _real_ lot." For them, it wasn't hard to find the flaw and fix it. Mz Schaquiraquai must have had a stalker fan with rescue fantasies or something, because that car was sabotaged. I suggested she find a more mundane name to rent cars under, and gave her a free tracker-finder so she at least had _proper_ anonymity. And my Patreon URL so she could fund my groceries and bills if she wanted. Not mandatory.

And then I nearly blew it by saying, "Can I have a selfie? With you?"

Long story short, we exchanged selfie opportunities, and Mechanic got dragged into it because it made a fantastic Twitter Tale for publicity. Her agent would get into contact with me at a later date for shop-related questions because if Mz Schaquiraquai actually called me I would just DIE.

That selfie's on my Hidden Hero Pride Wall. My alter-ego keeps a copy from the news sites as part of _her_ collection of Miranda Schaquiraquai fandom crap. It gives me a reason to go on. Even when I'm up against the villain-of-the-week obsessed with ruining the world.

And no, by the way. I did _not_ shut up about it for a month.

#  Challenge #159: Dog or Not Dog?

https://iopele.tumblr.com/post/161055518912/roachpatrol-thefingerfuckingfemalefury

"there's an educational trivia game at the citadel on the exhibits on different planets called "Dog or Not?" that shows pictures of various four legged mammals and asks if they're a breed of dog.

it was mainly for kids to learn about the diversity of earth's flora and fauna but it became popular with adult aliens too and had to be shut down after almost causing no less than three diplomatic incidents.

they brought it to the nexus and it's caused two more so far" (more at the link)

Some called the game _Dog or Not Dog?_ because many species are literal-minded and don't understand an open negation. Those who did, left the terminal noun unsaid. And it was the single most infuriating game known to the Galactic Alliance.

Dogs, along with ductape, were Humanity's Advance Ambassador. Going to places where humans were not allowed. A trained predator that could be tasked with _anything_. They even had breeds that could keep their still-fragile young from harm. There were ones big enough to be steeds and, confusingly, steeds small enough to be dogs. And many other fur-bearing mammals that could be confused for dogs.

It was the game that everyone loved to be frustrated at.

Rael, under orders to try enjoying something, picked the popular game to add to his eyescreen. During the Setup phase, he selected "I can read" so that the game didn't impede on anyone else's periphery. The image of a quadrupedal mammal popped onto his screen. The options were _Dog_ and _Not Dog_ according to Galactic demands. He had the option to watch it moving, but only so many of those. He guessed _Dog_ and stared at the button until it registered.

A cascade of cartoon stars. _Correct!_ read the screen text. _That dog is a Labrador._ Rael got to level ten, correctly identifying two cats and a giraffe as not-dogs, before a more dog-like quadruped appeared. That one was also not a dog, but a Terran animal called a _Pony_ , a load-bearing ungulate that selective breeding made small enough to be the size of some larger dogs. Level eleven. Huge. Lots of fur. Legs too thick to be a horse. No sign of a tail.

Rael picked _Not Dog_. _Wrong,_ said the text. _That dog is a Caucasian, the Northern Bear Dog._ And then it showed an educational video that Rael didn't have to pay for, thank the Powers. Humanity had made a dog that was large enough to be a beast of burden. And a beast of burden that was small enough to be a pet.

Humans did horrible things to nature.

The next image was a grey and white creature that looked amazingly doglike. This had to be a trick. It was something about the beast's eyes. He picked _Not Dog_ again, and got _Correct! That is a species called a Wolf, and it is the ancestor of dogs._

No wonder so many were upset at this game. It was designed to be confusing and misdirecting.

#  Challenge #160: Brothers? Useless.

"Yes! I have brothers, and none of them know one end of a spanner from another, Or bother to read the manuals." Lady mechanic fixes Male breakdown person. Anti-trope the Heck out of this.

Broken down in the middle of nowhere and no cell service. "This is how every horror movie ever starts," Dan whined.

"You got some tools in this heap?" asked Pixie. "Maybe I could have a look and see what's going on."

Dan didn't scoff. It was the 21st Century. Women were allowed to try and fail, just like men. He opened his boot and said, "Knock yourself out."

Pixie did not knock herself out. She rolled up her sleeves and got into the engine in a way calculated to get things done, not titillate. "Yup. Loose spark plug. Try it now, and be careful not to flood it."

The engine turned over and purred. Dan stopped her again and helped pack everything away. "How'd you learn to do that? Bunch of brothers?"

"Yeah, I have brothers, but they're all thumbs when it comes to anything mechanical. I taught myself how to do all of this from Youtube and Wikihow. And reading the stupid manual. And I make rent fixing my dumb-ass brothers' cars. All four of them." It was telling that she had industrial soap in her purse and a packet of Superwipes to get the grease off of her. "And by the way, your heap needs new oil. Next service station, you're getting some. No arguments."

He saluted. "Ma'am, yes Ma'am." But it was still a long way from the next pit stop. And Dan had questions for his girlfriend. "So... uh..."

"Yes, I do have a pink toolkit. Dad got it for me as a joke when I was sixteen. Took me ages to get the Hello Kitty he'd bedazzled onto the lid off of it. Sent _entirely_ the wrong message, thanks Dad."

Dan couldn't help but laugh. Hello Kitty was, amongst many other pop culture icons, popular amongst the LGBT+ set. Having her emblazoned on anything one used regularly was to have pickup lines from unexpected vectors. "What did you do with the gems?"

"Oh, I put Hello Kitty on my Nightclub Jacket. I'm bi, not braindead. What I did not need was random dudebros trying to 'convince' me that I could be straight if I wanted."

Dan scoffed. "Idiots." Of all the fun she could be having with anyone she liked, he felt honoured that she chose him. "They don't know what they're missing."

"And I'm glad they do."

#  Challenge #161: An Unlikely Misadventure

"I want to preface this by saying nothing happened, nothing is on fire. It is mere speculation. Do we have a fire extinguisher?"

"We're on a steam-powered space ship," said the Doctor. " _Something_ has to be on fire or it wouldn't be working." He didn't look at Kev. He was more interested in the pipes and valves that seemed to make up a majority of the corridor decor. He was busy trying to work out what they were for and where they went.

"Yes, but... theoretically... If the _wrong_ thing was on fire... is there one?"

"Steam. Powered. Space ship. There should be one on every corner. But there isn't. Why?"

Smoke began to trickle out of the corridor from whence Kev had come. "Might need quite a big fire extinguisher, actually... theoretically, of course."

"Steam powered," muttered the Doctor. "All the laws of physics decree that this should not be operational. Since when have _bolts_ been airtight enough to withstand the rigors of vacuum?" He sniffed in derision. Then sniffed again in alarm. "Kev... about this 'hypothetical' fire extinguisher you're looking for..."

"Ididn'tdoanything, Ididn'ttouchanything, andIreallydidn'tmeanit," said Kev rapidly.

"And now it's on fire," sighed the Doctor. "There _should_ be a system maintenance panel. Or at least some obvious levers.

A musical alarm sounded. It had a lot more in relation to a doorbell than an alert klaxon.

"Carbon-based particulate air pollution detected in levels exceeding zero point zero zero zero zero nine percent of total air volume," growled a bass voice. "Excess heat detected in corridor number three seven five two four. Contacting Maintenance Network." Another musical alarm, and some lively, looped music. A robot clanked in time to the beat, out of a hatch that had not been initially obvious. It made its way to the corridor that was on fire and filled the area with a vibrantly blue foam.

The robot went back the way it had come, and the door it had entered through vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Why does it smell like artificial raspberries?" wondered Kev. He experimentally tasted some. Spat. "And taste like soap?"

"It clings," said the Doctor. "And it's easier to clean up the mess." He scanned the area where the door was, and stared at his sonic screwdriver in clear confusion. "A dimensionally transcendent door in a _steam powered_ space ship? There's a lot about this that doesn't make sense."

"Just like a phone box that's bigger on the inside," muttered Kev.

"Are you _still_ catching up?" complained the Doctor.

" _I_ was looking for the lav, I didn't expect an _adventure_."

The Doctor tutted. "Well, come on. The sooner we solve this riddle, the sooner I can try to get you home. We're following _this_ pipe."

"Why that one?"

"It's the biggest and therefore the most important. One end has to lead to something interesting and I want to find out what it is." He took off running.

"Oi!" Kev followed at the same pace. "What if I don't want to?"

#  Challenge #162: Remote Child-rearing

[Talking about doing something dangerous that will have bad people disliking the fact that it happened, but is for a good cause]

"And if I get murdered, my Grandma's gonna be pissed."

"Dude, you really gotta stop living under her thumb."

"It is a very strong thumb, okay?!"

"Dude... she sounds like a b–"

Faster than lightning, Emilio had his hand over Gavin's mouth. "Don't say it. Don't even think it."

Gavin peeled Emilio off him. "What, you think your Grandma's going to punish me for calling her a bitch?"

Emilio ducked and covered and rattled his way through something in Spanish that ended in 'abuela'.

"The hell is wrong with you?" wondered Gavin.

The answer came with a faint 'whut whut whut' noise before a particular kind of sandal thwacked Gavin in the head.

"OW!"

"La chancla," whispered Emilio. "Apologise to my Grandma. _Right now_!"

"I'm sorry your Grandma's a bitch." Whut whut whut whut THWACK. "Ow, what the fu–" whut whut whut THWACK. "How many shoes has this b–" THWACK. Gavin stopped. "I'm sorry I insulted your Grandma?" No incoming partrige-like whirring. Gavin straightened up, nursing his bruises. " _HOW_?" he asked.

"Latina Grandmothers, bro. They're a force of nature." He picked up the thrown sandals and added them to the contents of his backpack. "Maybe we should come up with a slightly safer plan?"

Gavin looked in the direction that the sandals had come from. "Yeah. Maybe we should." There were no little old Abuelas anywhere in sight. That lady had to have a world class throwing arm. And over-the-horizon hearing. "And just to be safe, I'll stop the swearing."

"Good call."

#  Challenge #163: Brass Goggles

(Person #1): Oh dear, [Designation] just went from automaton to a child that just did something new. Progress.

(Person #2): And a complication for [Name]. Better to have an absolutely loyal Automaton than someone who may have a conscience.

Colonel Peter A. Walter's design for the Babbage Brain seemed sound on paper, but things that worked on paper had a way of leaving him without eyebrows for a few days. Now that he'd built it and installed the thing inside the copper skull, he simply had to test it and its learning algorithms.

He hooked it up to the power core and fed the dictionary punch-cards through its processors. The resulting paroxysms were disturbing to watch and took hours of cranking. Next time, he would have a motorised feeder. Finally, at the stroke of noon, the mechanical head chirped a slightly more complicated tune in response to the clocks. It blinked. Its eyes tracked a moving object. It seemed wont to look everywhere around it.

Peter held up the rabbit he kept for testing his Blue Matter on. "Recognise. What is it?"

Copper lips moved. The reed in its throat vibrated. "Rrrr... rrraaa... Rab-bit." There was a mechanical laugh that sounded more like a gattling gun. "Rabbit! Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit..." It started to sing the word. Over and over.

Peter put the rabbit back into its hutch. Just as he was about to test it on another object, one of the maids entered with his lunch. She shrieked and almost dropped the tray.

The clockwork head echoed her shriek and returned to singing the word 'rabbit'.

"Interesting," murmured Peter. "Thank you," he said to the maid, rescuing the tray and setting it onto the nearest clear space.

"Is it gonna stop?" asked the maid.

"Possibly. I'm still testing it." He took a swig of his coffee and commanded, "Stop."

And it did. For all of eight seconds. "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit..."

It was the maid who strode over to the head and rapped on its copper brow. "You mind your Pappy, you _thing_. Or all you'll ever be is Rabbit."

The head looked awestruck. Its glowing eyes looked directly at Peter and it said, "Pappy..." in a reverential voice. And then it said, "I... Rabbit."

" _Fascinating_ ," said Colonel Peter A. Walter, new father to a clockwork automaton.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Egypt...

Thaddeus M. Becile turned his latest revived creation towards the target. A stunningly lifelike simulacrum of Colonel Walter, white lab coat and all. "KILL," he ordered.

The machine, still mostly human, turned its undead eyes towards him and lowered the Green Matter gun. "I... d-don't want to," it said.

Becile sighed and inserted another Green Crystal rod through a pre-drilled hole in the subject's skull. Into the brain. Well. What was left of it, now. "Who do you obey?"

"Da... da..."

Wrong answer. He took notes on where he inserted the crystals to make his subjects compliant and which ones removed their intelligence. Soon, he would be able to completely prevent another Delilah Incident. And then, he and his undead army of mechanicals would take over... and show them all.

#  Challenge #164: A Girl and Her Service Dog

Can we see more of Julie and her care dog Nanny please?

Julie read the stops on the map as they came up to them. Her travelling equipment clutched on her lap. Nanny sat beside her in a more doggy pose than she usually adopted, muttering, "Good girl," and "Right Fin Park Atrium," alternately. Finally, Julie said, "That's next! Standing up time."

Looking at Nanny, one might expect the gigantic St Bernard to stand on all fours, but Nanny was an Augment. She had just enough smarts to fill the blanks that Julie possessed as a matter of accident, and enough altered body parts to allow her to function in her human companion's world. Thusly, she stood on two feet, and grasped the overhead handles with an altered front paw. Her tail wagged as the tram slowed. "Our stop! Our stop. Good girl."

They held hands as they left the tram together, and where one failed, the other helped. Working together as a cohesive whole to reach their destination. Which, in this case, was the Atrium level of Right Fin Park. Park space is an essential element in large stations. Not only is it the public part of the atmosphere recycling system, but it is also essential to residents' mental health. Time exposed to familiar flora and fauna has been repeatedly shown to improve morale in all species.

This is one of the parks with enormous swards of relatively flat ground. There was a small lake where ducks had taken residence, and trees where assorted escaped pet birds had made their roosts and bred. Sheep browsed the grass and kept it short. Sooner or later, some would be culled to make local mutton. But not in sight of the guests.

Julie toured the atrium, looking out over the lakes and trees to find a spot that had the most visual potential.

Nanny vibrated in glee. "Run play," she repeated. "Run play soon.... Soon?"

"Yes, Nanny," said Julie. She pointed to a spot on the lawn, and found the nearest stairway to the vast green sea. She took off her backpack and took out a bright dog collar that matched her current dress... a vibrant pink that nearly glowed in the dark. She had to wear a brown jumper with it, because creative disciplines fell under Information, but it was a brown jumper that happened to have bright flowers on it.

Nanny sat and ducked her head to that Julie could put it on, and then carefully removed her shirt, hat, and pants. "Romp! Romp!" Nanny barked. "You sit-stay."

"Yes, Nanny."

Julie sat and painted. Nanny ran about and indulged her doggy instincts. She was programmed not to bother the sheep, but chasing pigeons or parrots did little harm to anyone. After an hour or two of painting, Julie would take a break to run up a hill and roll herself down it again until she was dizzy and out of breath. And then it would be time for ice cream, because this was their special Sometimes Day.

Every Sixday, like clockwork, was their Happy Day. Their Adventure Day. They would go somewhere new, and do the things that made them very happy individuals. They would return home by the end, tired, muddy, stained, and messy, but with grins on both their faces.

#  Challenge #165: A Conversation About the Greater Deregulations

"Is this an argument you actually want to win?"

"No, but -"

"Then stop talking about it,"

"But it's still an _issue_ ," countered Praal. "There are entire planets dedicated to hatred and spite."

"And you would stop them with _more_ hatred and spite?"

"No, but–"

"There has to be more we can do. I've heard that part before."

"Thank you for paying attention," allowed Praal. "They're getting away with it by 'adjusting' their laws to a low enough bar to pass cursory examination, and then adding codicils and stipulations that allow them to regress almost to their starting point."

"The key word is 'almost'. The progress is gradual and slow and resisted at every turn, but it is still happening. Every annual negotiation gets them further from their previous state of barbarism and closer to a state of enlightenment."

"But they all despise it. They want to fight wars to get _us_ to retro-reform _with_ them."

"Yes, and they know they'll lose, so it's an empty threat by now. We can't _make_ them solve their problems," argued Thriss. "That path leads to more wars, terrorist activity, and futile attempts to get us back for the 'ruin' we've visited on them. We can only encourage their path towards the light. And display how much more profitable it is to allow the leniency we have for our society."

"They really _hate_ that last part."

Thriss grinned like the Skitty that had found a stash of chicken hearts. "I _know_... Glorious, isn't it?"

#  Challenge #166: Desperate Invention

"The reasons that would not work are outnumbered only by the reasons it would be a disaster if it did."

The ship's human took a moment to stare at Thorassik. "You and I have very different definitions of 'disaster'..."

"Yes! There is significant loss of profit in all scenarios, but if we die, the company loses the least."

"Well," sighed Human Steff. "I'm not about to lay my life down for the company."

"You are not a model employee," chided Thorassik.

Steff smiled. "No. I'm a model human. And y'all knew that when you hired me. So I plan on saving our skins and as much cargo as we can. However I can make that happen."

"But our margins!"

"We can tack on an Embuggerance Surcharge, now hand me that Spline Spanner." Human Steff was already up to hir elbows in a construction project made out of scrounged bits from all over the ship. And now it looked like there was going to be _more_ of it.

"What are you building?"

"Something to blow those [HUMAN EXPLETIVE] out of the sky." Ze said it so calmly, as if humans spent any free moment building weaponry.

"Weapons are forbidden on Galactic Shipping Lanes," objected Thorassik.

"Hasn't stopped _them_ ," countered Human Steff. "Gangway. I need to get this into the airlock before I attach the final couplings."

Human Steff was just one human. With a handmade gun. Against a small fleet of Vorax pirates. Ze should have lost her life. Ze should have been captured, eaten, and used as a trophy by whatever Vorax killed hir.

But that just didn't happen.

Humans don't go down without a fight. And many humans fight dirty. It took Human Steff a handful of minutes to learn the vulnerable points of the Vorax fleet, and after that... it was a massacre. Only three Vorax ships made it to the wormhole from whence they had come, and even then, it was under heavy fire.

And it only cost Thorassik five percent of his total cargo, rather than the ship, its crew, and _all_ of the cargo.

As Human Steff re-entered the airlock with hir gun, Thorassik began calculating what the Embuggerance Fee would be. And he ordered Th'tesh to set the debris sweepers to maximum radius. This trip may well be profitable after all.

#  Challenge #167: Honey Trap

When stepping into a Gods domain, enter as the supplicant or as something greater than a God. Never as a conqueror, Gods take a deep and personal delight in casting down challenges to their authority.

_We apologise for the inconvenience,_ said the words in her head. _We must quarantine you from reality as you know it._

After ten years of bouncing from reality to reality, the being who called herself Shayde had to wonder what these superior powers were up to. She opened her eyes and saw white. White fog on white ground against white architecture and blazing white skies. She squinted against the glare.

Shayde placed her palm on the white ground and tried to push herself up. It looked like cotton wool, but it felt... sticky. And weirdly warm. And unpleasantly moist. Some of it was soaking through her clothing. It was a struggle to sit up, and when she did, for a brief fraction of a second, the moisture on her clothing looked like a red so dark it could almost be black. But then she blinked and more white invaded her vision. It _looked_ like white paint. But there was something wrong about it.

A vision in white samite was waiting near an alabaster arch. Serene and beautiful in levels that only Hollywood or angels could accomplish. And all Shayde could think of was a squirming mass of millipedes that had come together to make a human shape. "Welcome," said the creature. "Welcome to Elysium. We had to bring you here so you could have your... extraneous abilities removed. We _do_ apologise for the inconvenience."

It was difficult to read this being. Something kept stopping her from seeing the Truth. After ten years of non-stop True Lights, it was strange seeing the world with regular light. Her limbs felt weak. "I feel like I need a bath," she muttered. The air smelled like burning tyres and rotting offal for just a second, and then it was back to honey and baking pastries.

"We can cleanse you easier than that," smiled the creature. It waved what looked like a hand and the... liquid... removed itself from her body. "We will see to your comfort, our hero. You deserve a time to rest."

"What I deserve is what I'm owed," said Shayde. "You promised ye'd send me back where I came from. Ye _promised_."

"In time, yes. What has changed you... is difficult to remove. Even for Gods." For a mere instant, the creature was a midden heap squirming with maggots, and then the alabaster skin and samite returned.

Shayde wobbled on her feet. It was almost as if gravity were five times what she was used to. She stumbled and used a pillar for support. _A pillar made of spinal bones with dripping ichor as its mortar._ She startled away, only to behold clean marble polished to a mirror shine. "What's goin' on wi' this place?"

"I do not understand the question," said the creature. "Come. You will adjust to your environment in time. You may grasp my robe if you feel unsteady."

And since she did, she did. Reaching out to use the trailing diaphanous drapery as a handy hand-hold. _Only to touch the greasy shroud of a saponified corpse._

This time, she didn't flinch. Didn't fight. Her senses were trying to tell her something. Something beyond her initial comprehension, so they were using images she could understand. Sensations of... badness. Toxicity.

"Come," said the creature. "Sit in this throne. We can heal you there."

For an instant, she saw the Electric Chair. The host of beings around it were decaying things. Punky wood. A mess of maggots. A mulch heap. Straight up dung. A body made entirely of mouldy fruit.

Of course. They were all rotten liars. They could fool her conscious mind, but her unconscious was always there in the background. And making puns.

"No thanks," she said. "I'll be able to tune in'tae this reality soon enough. I jus' need a breather."

The lead creature joined the circle of creatures, and another stepped away. This one appeared to be fine, sculpted man-flesh in beautifully-fitting garments, but the flashes of truth made him a moving monument of maggots, worms, and venomous wriggling things. "Then, perhaps, you could refresh yourself. You hunger and thirst, do you not?"

The sumptuous table of bejewelled temptation in food form briefly took on the look of Lady Favisham's wedding feast. Only with more crawling insects and a few dead and rotting rats into the mix.

"I'll be fine. I don't want to impose on ye. You jus' focus on the whole thing where yer puttin' me back to normal. I think I'll take a stroll. See th' sights."

For an instant, all those crawling bugs were on fire. "As you wish. Do not linger too long. We will have a solution soon."

"Oh, I don't plan on doin' anythin' like that..." she smiled. And walked nonchalantly away.

As soon as she turned a couple of corners, Shayde was setting the land speed record for the nonchalant walk. Running wouldn't do any good in the long run. This was Their place. Not hers. They had the home team advantage. But distance gave her space to think.

There were only two ways to face the Gods. As a supplicant... or an equal. And since they were trying to kill her as a supplicant...

She leaned against a wall _made out of hairballs and dog doings_. Closed her eyes and _breathed in the foul smoke of burning people_. Concentrated on the feel of this dimension. _Great green globs of greasy, grimy, gopher guts..._

She was going to be sick, by the time this was all over, but she had to have some form of leverage to deal with them. And they were _done_ with her, right now. And just like last Christmas' puppy thrown into the canal... they were going to get rid of her.

Shayde opened her eyes. Rotten. This entire place was rotten. Buildings made out of leviathan bones, none stripped of flesh, just allowed to rot. The ground was bloodied bowels and effluvia. Trees made of tortured bodies. Architecture with no function, made entirely out of misery.

And one of Them came. No longer a being of beauty. They shone, but they shone in colours that hurt the eye. They moved unnaturally, like a meat puppet pulled along by someone with a palsy. "Come. We have a solution. We can fix you."

Like fixing a horse race. And just as corrupt.

Absolute power had corrupted _all_ of these beings. She had to hold on to her growing power for just the length of time that it took to kick their collective asses and escape. With power came temptation. And if she dared give in... she might as well be one of Them.

Not on her watch.

All she needed was just enough to have the power to dictate to Them. And get home. Not a speck more.

#  Challenge #168: Unfortunate For Some

Hell, as they say is other people. Especially when you are a school bus driver.

The chant had started from the back of the bus. "We wanna, we wanna, we wanna wee! If you do not stop for us/ we'll do it on the bus[49]" The otherwise well-behaved kid in the front seat was singing _X-1 Bottles of Beer on the Wall_. The crowd of kids sharing music were singing both off key and out of sync. The people in the seat three rows from any given exit were having a screaming row about a pencil case.

All things considered, the heart attack was a welcome respite. Gary still did his duty, though. He pulled into the nearest emergency stopping bay and opened the doors before darkness claimed him and the pain floated away.

GARY FRANCIS BAKER, said a voice like a sepulchure. YOUR TIME HAS ENDED.

Gary looked down at the slumped form at the bottom of his bus' stairs. He should have been disturbed that this entity knew his full name, something that had caused endless tortures during his school years. He should have been upset that only _just_ now, one of the school's adult chaperones had left the bus to attempt CPR. But all the bits he had to be upset with were slowly beginning to rot on the overheated tarmac.

"You aren't going to make something out of my name?" he asked.

I SUPPOSE I COULD TRY FOR A PUN IF IT MAKES YOU MORE COMFORTABLE, said Death. He should have been frightening, but Gary couldn't really summon fear. I'M VERY BAD AT THEM SO I TRY TO AVOID THEM.

"Oh good." His life had not been the most virtuous, come to think of it. "Um. I'm... not going to Heaven, am I?"

ACTUALLY, YOU ARE A SPECIAL CASE. ACCORDING TO OUR RECORDS, YOU HAVE ALREADY SPENT YOUR TIME IN HELL.

Oh. Well that was all right then.

[49] My contemporaries actually chanted this on long field trips.

#  Challenge #169: Can't Eat Just One

It is so hard to eat just one peanut or popcorn. – Anon Guest

The humans had a word for it. They had a word for lots of things. This one was 'more-ish'. As opposed to 'moorish', which meant 'a human with darker skin, usually originating from a specific area of the largest continent in the northern hemisphere', this one meant that the person eating the thing found it so tasty that they wanted... more.

One such food, easily digested even by Havenworlders, was popcorn. A simple carbohydrate that, shorn of it's aggressively hard shell, could be an easy food for anyone and everyone. The additions, however, were as wide and varied as the consumers. It is wise, therefore, for a cogniscent to sample flavoured popcorns before dedicating themself to a Minute Bucket.

Shayde had no such cautions. She had travelled much of Earth in her youth, and possessed the sort of curiosity that had her treading into places that gave the angels nightmares. Case in point, this particular concession booth called _Eat Simple Food_ in one of the lower gravity sections of the Elemeno.

Most of it was popcorn, and lots of it was unusual colours.

"Bucket o' th' purple ones, thanks," she said, clicking a Minute coin on the counter.

Rael, who could read the Insecta GalStand on the placards, said, "Are you certain about that?" which was almost universally accepted code for, "Maybe that's an unwise choice."

She said, "Oh aye, I'm always up tae new experiences, me." She accepted the bucket and stuffed four pieces of the purple ones into her mouth.

He watched her face change from her usual cocky grin to a face of utter horror at what was inside her mouth.

She thrust the bucket into his hand and retched into a nearby waste receptacle.

The side of the Minute bucket said, _Bet you can't eat just one!_ in a friendly font.

Well... _technically_... they were correct twice. Shayde couldn't eat just one, and Rael... could and would eat anything. In fact, he'd already started.

#  Challenge #170: What a Maker Wants

You make stuff, sometimes your shopping list is a bit weird. Then someone decides to search your bags (you're innocent), and then there's the explanations.

There's _Things_ and then there's _THINGS!_. The latter is a gigantic labyrinth of the former. There's also refreshment islands with ablution kiosks and Galactic Food Choices[50] in a mini-kitchen. People who go there tend to spend all day, and then bookmark their location so that they can come again.

Rael had set his personal alarm set to let him know when he had a comfortable amount of time to reach his domicile and refuel before entering his rest cycle. He marched down the shelving, looking for specific items. He was a cogniscent with only so much time to spare.

In one of the middle lanes was a lizard with a trolley. It contained quite a number of disparate things. Bricks of printing paper, samples of coloured paper, a cutting mat, several boxes of beads, packets of knitting yarn, several colours and patterns of ductape, random spools of wire, cable, and what seemed to be printer materia. They were looking over the air-clay and temperature-sensitive plastics, with a silicone mould in one hand.

On closer inspection, the trolley also contained a feather boa, some bolts of cloth, and three completely unrelated costumes of varying quality.

Rael took a guess. "Cosplay?"

"Yes! Please say, honoured JOAT, which is best for icing mould?"

Rael considered the options before them. "Go with the temperature-plastics, but oil the mould with something non-toxic and fill in small amounts by pressing pieces into the bottom. And place the whole thing in an ice bath to set."

The lizard voluntarily handed over a Half Hour Note. "Many thankings." And then, with every expression of glee, loaded the biggest container of temperature-plastic beads onto the already significant heap.

Somebody was going to have an immense amount of fun, an immense amount of learning, an immense amount of anguish, and then an immense amount of fun all over again. The faces of fandom may change, Rael reflected, but some things were universal.

[50] There are some foods that can be consumed by all known species. You may be surprised at the variety of options.

#  Challenge #171: Magical Memories

Smells, scents, can trigger memories. The hot tar smell of a Summer road combined with the distinctive scent of an Ice Cream Van. Opening a drawer and the scent your Grandmother always wore wafting up. Memories. – Anon Guest

Humans can trigger their memories with an astonishing amount of things. Words, sensations in their pliable skin, sounds... and smells. They are so entangled into their senses that they have adapted their livesuits to give them sensory feedback from their surrounding environment.

Radiation translates into a particular form of static. Toxins become unpleasant odours. Ominous rumbling comes from approaching astral bodies. Some livesuits even give sensory translations from the surface they walk on or grip. The result has only improved the humans' almost unnatural perception of the area around them.

"Wow," said the _Kapraxx_ 's human as they enacted EVA repairs. "This nebula smells _exactly_ like my Gramgram's cookies."

"Focus on the task, Human-Claire," said Frott.

"Yeah, I can. I can. It's just that that smell takes me all the way back. Rainy summer afternoons in Gramgram's kitchen, watching the cookies rise up and turn brown... I used to think magic was real. Mom printed everything, but Gramgram _cooked_ , you know? Seeing stuff turn into other stuff..." Human-Claire paused to make certain a bolt was properly torqued. "Gramgram didn't help, you know. She encouraged that kind'a thing. Cackled like a witch when she was stirring the mixing bowl. Called all'a the ingredients this weird magic stuff." Human-Claire chuckled. "I could cook 'em for you, but you guys are allergic to nutmeg. And they're not the same without nutmeg. Gonna have to go hunting for some suitable, artificial nutmeg substitute."

"Human-Claire," chided Frott. "This is not the time for a monologue."

"Oh, chill out. I can multitask." Human-Claire demonstrated this by working and talking at the same time. "I learned old-fashioned cooking from Gramgram of course. When I was older and understood that baking powder wasn't Eye of Newt. That's why I end up chatting with the Gyiiks when I'm on shore leave. Recipe swapping. Those guys are pros at re-sizing a recipe. Every time I cook, I remember Gramgram. She always smelled like vanilla extract. Mom said she drank it on the sly because of the alcohol, but I never caught her at it." A few last tweaks, and Human-Claire sealed the breach. "All done, Oh impatient lizards." And then she muttered, " _Man_ , I could do with a batch of cookies, right now..."

Frott sighed. "Why are you sharing this information with us, Human-Claire?"

"Because, my stiff-backed little friend, humans talk about random stuff to pack-bond. I'm being _friendly_ whether you like it or not. Deal."

#  Challenge #172: First Fair

Fairy floss, Cotton Candy whatever you call it, it was pure Empty Calories. – Anon Guest

The refreshment booth was called _Simple Carbohydrates_ and had display cases full of complicated things made out of those simple carbohydrates. Of course it was run by a human. Humans had had centuries to create astonishing things out of flour, potatoes, and sugar.

Rael watched as the vendor wound what looked to be coloured cobwebs onto a stick. He could smell the caramelised sugars in the air, but he could not correlate them to the cobwebs.

This was his first time at Amalgam's Station Fair. One among many attempts to let the humans cut loose without causing a Silly Season. He obviously had much to learn about this insane and dangerous Deathworlder species. Watching this vendor create a... rainbow flower... out of these sweet-smelling cobwebs was a source of fascination.

"I knew I'd find you near the cotton candy," said Aunty Fan-Fan. "What's surprising is, you haven't got one."

"Cotton? I thought that was a textile."

"It's a descriptive, in this case. Some people also call it 'fairy floss'. More evocative, but lousy for any teeth." She handed over a small handful of Seconds for a pre-made flower and handed it over. "Pure sugar. Try it."

Rael bit. The instant his digestive processes hit his mouthful, it dissolved into a solution. The calorie boost was way beyond what he was expecting. He wanted to engulf the enormous thing, but that would disturb so many. He did, however, remember to smile and thank Aunty Fan-Fan for her assistance. Pure sugar, unadulterated by much more than colouring. Easy to process. Easy for all but the most tender of Havenworlders to consume.

His interest in the booth and the fair increased fivefold. _Fair Food_ was a Faiize paradise.

#  Challenge #173: Non-liquid Investment

"If the shoe fits, buy lots of them, and in every colour you like." Fashion advice read somewhere. And it's Oh so true. – Anon Guest

Finally, they broke into Mlle Arianna's secret vault. They expected jewels. The fortune of five kingdoms. The lost crown of Baba Ganushe.

What they did not expect, once the lights were made to work again, was row after row of shoeboxes. Shelf after shelf of them, all through the cavernous depths of the vault.

Sorted by colour, arranged by style. Every single one of them a perfect fit for the late Mlle Arianna's peculiar feet. Made for comfort _and_ style, a difficult thing to accomplish, considering Mlle Arianna's hammer toe and random arthritic growths. Further, they reduced the apparent bulk of her feet.

"Shoes?" said M'seur Garoche. "There has to be money in here somewhere."

"No," said Miette. "It's all in the shoes."

"What? Like it's concealed in the soles? stitched into the leather?"

"She spent the money on all these shoes. You can't understand. It's easy for you to get shoes you like. For women? We have thousands more options..." Miette picked up a delicate slipper that sparkled delectably in the dim light. It would never fit anyone other than Mlle Arianna. "Unless you have odd feet. She was a public figure. If she wore the same pair of utilitarian loafers, people would have criticised her."

"I understand so far..." offered M'seur Garoche.

"So when she found a shoe that fit, she bought all the stock," Miette gestured around her at the racks upon racks of shoeboxes. "That's where all the money went."

M'seur Garoche swore. "In a form that nobody can exchange..."

#  Challenge #174: The Most Unsuitable Food of All

Further to the "cotton candy" prompt, more empty calories of the "moment on the lips" variety. – Anon Guest

Humans had a knack for making foods that could kill them, Rael reflected. Often within twenty consecutive servings. Not that anyone ever tried to end their lives that way, but the potential was there.

Take cheesecake, for example. And Rael often did. In one neat package, humanity had managed to encapsulate a nigh-lethal combination of fats and sugars. That should have been plenty for the seemingly suicidal humans. But they didn't stop there. They dipped that cheesecake in chocolate - weapons-grade theobromine for certain Havenworlder species - another combination of sugars and fats that made the confection even more lethal.

But that still wasn't enough.

Humans took these chocolate-dipped slices of cheesecake, dipped them in carbohydrate-heavy batter, and deep-fried them in almost-boiling oil. _And then topped it off with caramel and powdered sugar._ This species, the cogniscents who invented the _Ice Cream Burrito_[51], offered the resultant cheesecake mess with an option for extra ice cream, and further toppings.

And then there was the _Bad Day Blowout_. A dish consisting of _three_ slices of chocolate-dipped, deep fried cheesecake, also dipped in toffee, served with chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and edible glitter.

Needless to say, that was one of Rael's favourites. Though he often requested that Nik leave off the sparklers.

[51] Rainbow sprinkle ice cream wrapped in fairy floss. It's just as gross as you think it is.

#  Challenge #175: Just in Case Heroics

Can we please have more of O'Ranges (Uplifted Nufurria large dog/wolf mix).

Ambassador O'Ranges had only one _really_ annoying habit, and that was checking in every box left by the wayside. Even if it was upside-down. Even if it was clearly empty. He would stop in his tracks, check the box, and check the area around the box. He rarely spoke, so finding out what he was looking for took a significant amount of time.

Hitchhiker/Assistant Aelki put up with it. She only wondered internally what O'Ranges was looking for. She had her guesses, since O'Ranges had been left in a box in the negligible hope that he would find a loving home.

Other Ambassadors and their staff... tended to get antsy.

"We have a five minute window to arrive before Her Majesty," urged M'taeo. "Can you please hurry... whatever this is."

"I budgeted for stalls such as this," soothed Aelki. "Come on, HitcherWolf. There's nobody to rescue here."

O'Ranges unfolded from his previous crouch. "M'kay," he murmured. And after a few moments, added, "Good."

They arrived on time and impressed Her Majesty of Sa'amat that Nufurria was indeed still a horrible place that did cruel things to living, cogniscent beings. And, as a result, Sa'amat should enact some trade restrictions until Nufurria dragged itself, kicking and screaming, into the modern era of Universally Acknowledged Rights.

They took a promenade along the upper levels of a forest park that Aelki couldn't remember the name of and, once again, O'Ranges stopped to carefully inspect a box that had been laying innocently in a corner.

No living thing was in or nearby it, but that didn't stop the gigantic Uplift from looking as thoroughly as he could for any sign of habitation.

"Why _are_ you doing that?" asked Her Majesty of Sa'amat.

O'Ranges put the box very carefully down. "Every day, there's hundreds like me. Left in boxes. I keep looking. None here. All deserve... rescue."

That was quite a speech for O'Ranges. Aelki was impressed. She said, "You don't need to worry so hard. Nobody here abandons any children."

"And there are shelters, now," said one of Her Majesty's aides. "For those who don't have homes. The lost are being cared for."

O'Ranges shook his head. "I want to rescue _too_. Be HitcherWolf the _hero_."

It was going to take quite a lot of time to explain that he was _already_ rescuing so many, just by existing. Aelki pondered if it would be kosher to let this gentle giant 'rescue' a future pet.

No. That might only encourage him.

#  Challenge #176: The Last Beauty Contest

Alien species may not have the same standards of "Beauty" as us humans. Beauty contest for alien species . Maybe the Alien equivalent of the types who watch wet T shirt contests?

Of all the wide and varied species in the known universe, only _Humans_ are insane enough to judge each other based strictly on a narrow and nigh-unachievable set of aesthetics, and give people prizes for adhering to them. This has baffled the Greater Galactic Alliance, especially when some human societies attempted to introduce such a baffling custom to Galactic Society.

"I do not understand. You are inviting other species to compete against humans, based on human beauty aesthetics, and they are going to be judged on human aesthetic standards?"

"Well, if we don't, we're being discriminatory. Can't have a Miss Universe with only one species in it, can we? Not now that we're part of the universe."

"Anyone else who is not human will not win any prizes. Is this not _more_ discriminatory?"

"We're perfectly willing to find alien life forms beautiful."

"But do you know _all_ standards of beauty."

"This is our first time, we can learn as we go along."

"That would be inadvisable." Grax went into a detailed list of the current aesthetic standards of all known Galactic species. They were difficult to remember, for most. It took a mere five minutes for the Human from Pannesen to acquire a glazed expression. "Any failure to acknowledge these in a contest regarding aesthetics may result in a diplomatic incident. It may even result in a war."

The human appeared to re-set. "Yes, that's all fine, but how will the ladies know how to pretty themselves up for their man if they don't know what to aspire to?"

Grax sighed and marked the entire planet of Pannesen down for global therapy.

[AN: What is it with OP and aesthetic contests? I imagine that, in 500-relative years, society's grown up a little beyond evaluating people on standards of beauty alone. And wet T-shirt contests are sexist _and_ going extinct.]

#  Challenge #177: The Gone Bag

Some of us have to grab what's needed and go! What we grab is a "go bag".

Officer Lyr Marken had a Go Bag, and the ability to tell what days she'd need it the most. All emergency respondents had their pack of whatever they needed for an emergency. Including a coverall variant of their usual uniform, that went on over whatever they'd worn to bed.

JOATs had the Big Box, and plenty of warning that they'd need it.

But for every society, there were people whose job it was to deal with the lesser emergencies. The people who picked up the pieces, sorted out the strife, and swept up the aftermath. Which often lead to an interesting and very large Go Bag.

Aunty Fan-Fan, as a trained Medik and JOAT, had at least four medical kits in there, spare clothes on the "one size fits wherever we can tighten it in" model, and a minimum of two birth packs, depending on the impending new arrivals on Aunty Fan-Fan's calendar of appointments.

Rael had made one of his own. Not exactly a Go Bag. More like a Gone Bag. As in, all of his rights and opportunities had gone, and all he had was that which Wave of the Future deigned to allow him. It contained a carefully-packaged parcel containing everything one needed to make a regulation Wave of the Future Heated Faiize tank with _all_ its monitors and injectors, a kilo of their super-concentrated medicated Faiize kibble, and a new Wave of the Future jumpsuit, left intact inside its packaging. In the horrifying event that his people lost their suit, care of the Cogniscent Rights Committee, he was prepared to return to corporate servitude.

He kept it in the storage area under the bed niche.

That was, after all, the traditional place for monsters. They always came out from under the bed.

On the day that his species finally won, on the day that he was fully and completely a cogniscent being, the better part of a Standard Century after he began the fight, he took it out for the first and last time. Bore it down to Matter Recycling with grim determination, and watched it go through the Omni-Cruncher with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips.

Three Hour's worth of just-in-case. Waste. Only worth the mass credit. And he was glad of it.

Then he went back up to the Elemeno to split a Gyiik-sized Bad Day Blowout with Shayde. That day was an occasion for the _sparklers_.

#  Challenge #178: Unexpected Co-resident

What to do when a 'Skitty' decides Your space is a nice place to live.

There was a cat sharing his sleep nook. Curled up in the crook of his knees and purring loud enough to simulate a malfunctioning cooling fan. It was the same cat that came into his domicile every evening and Cal gently but insistently shoved out of his doorway before retiring to bed.

He had no idea why this was happening to him. Some folks fed the Skitties. Or, at the minimum, left their personal leftovers where the Skitties could find them. There were people who stopped in their tracks to give the Skitties affection. There were even people who made home decorating choices based entirely on what might lure a Skitty or fifteen to choose to nest in their domicile.

Space. Who would have guessed that it would become the ideal destination for crazed cat people? Cal did not count himself among that number and was usually pleased to allow the Skitties to go where they whist and occasionally chuck half a dead mouse at the nearest Cleaner. There should have been nothing to lure any Skitty to wish to turn him into a personal butt warmer.

And yet... this one kept inviting itself in.

Cal squirmed out of bed to the usual threats of claws and complaining meows. Then, still in his pyjamas, carefully escorted the cat to the hallway.

It was back inside by the time he was done with his personal cleansing cycle. Sitting on his dining table and looking at him expectantly.

"No. Hunt your own."

More meowing. Cal picked it up, deposited it in the hallway again, washed his hands, and started preparing a quick, vitamin soup from a sachet.

The cat returned, leaped up to his counter, and attempted to stick its nose into the hot water. Cal pushed it away and off the counter, only to find that this Skitty had decided to dominate his only chair.

"Joke's on you," he said. "I don't sit in the morning." He drank down his hot soup, rinsed out the cup, and went to work. He didn't want to encourage a Skitty to stay in his domicile, but this one had evidently decided to move in anyway. At lunchtime, he consulted the free infonets. A very brief message.

Skitty has moved in. Don't want cats. What do?

Cal checked his messages on the way home. Two thousand people had said something varying on, _Congratulations on your new cat._ And a few hundred gave some good advice on communicating in Cat, as well as some foods to offer. And methods that _might_ work to keep the cat off of his non-cat surfaces.

At least he knew a guy in Organic Recycling, and could probably swing a fish or at least a grown fish steak. Something he could share with his inevitable housemate.

The Skitty was waiting when he got home, and attempted to trip him up when it detected the fish. Fortunately, Cal had already purchased and loaded a water pistol. Cal's 'no' got quickly associated with a jet of water. Skitties were gengineered to be able to devour a lot more than their Terran Feline ancestor. Therefore cooked fish was no harm to them.

Cal put a dish of fish on the floor and gave himself a share. He placed the water bowl closer to the door, where he was less likely to trip on it or the cat as it was drinking. The Skitty wolfed it all down in seconds and attempted to smudge up to Cal's ankles.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I'm getting you your own heated bed. I'm sick of claw marks in the backs of my knees."

The Skitty only meowed at him and attempted to get to Cal's meal.

#  Challenge #179: Wonderful Things?

[Blunt summary of situation]

So your job is, as our mutual boss put it, to "swiftly unfuck this shit posthaste." Good luck.

It had made the news a year before Rael was recognised as a cogniscent being by the CRC and the lawsuit began to completely free him and his kind from corporate slavery. Four years into relative freedom, and the Archivaas, Forensic Analysts, and assorted science crews had finally finished scouring the area for the slightest clue. News like a pristine and untouched 'bubble' in the Glunk is the sort of thing that gets nerds of all kinds excited. Even the SPOEns got involved, though there was really nothing for them in it.

Now it was his turn.

Rael now had a special pass that let him this close to the Treatment Lock, where crews of technicians were using whatever worked on the current boundary of the Glunk, and a series of mobile walls and automated decontamination machinery.

"We're calling it The Tomb," said Technician Carol. "We're still not even sure how the previous occupants managed to fill it the way they did."

Modern technicians had excised the door and small portions of the wall. A small collapse had turned into a larger collapse when someone touched something and almost buried them.

"It scans clean," said Technician Carol. Obviously trying to sugar-coat an abhorrent situation with faint praise. "But... just in case... you're one of the few who can survive an encounter with unexpected vectors."

The presence of a Decontamination Team setting up in the only means of egress did not warm the cockles of his heart. It spoke of the usual paranoia of anyone living on a space station, true, but it also spoke of a future in which he was doused in chemicals and despising himself for the remains of the day.

Inside the plastic walls were three historians in thin livesuits, feeding objects into a conveyor after they documented them. Beyond the initial landslide was floor-to-ceiling packrattus. Boxes of things, stacked haphazardly. Random objects inserted into whichever space it would fit. Tightly-packed wads that could be fabrics.

"We want it unpacked," said Technician Carol. "Preferably without further damage to the structure or the contents. You'll be getting shares in your discoveries, Time of course, and..." she checked her data viewer. "A kilo of treacle toffee per cubic SDU safely cleared."

"Safety defined as...?" prompted Rael.

"Everyone else is unharmed. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it." Technician Carol looked upset at that. "Word from on high is, and I quote: 'swiftly unfuck this shit posthaste'. And you have to have hovercams watching everything you do because the Archivaas are into _all_ of this."

The Archivaas were likely waiting on the other end of the conveyor to metaphorically dribble over every last thing that this team processed. People like the Archivaas _loved_ dump sites with a passion bordering on psychotic.

Rael visually analysed the surviving face of The Tomb 's contents as the extant archaeologists sorted a path for him out of the landslide. A landslide that must have fit the dimensions of the door. The packrat responsible for The Tomb had been cramming things into this space with force before they finally managed to jam the door shut. That was why that part of the face had collapsed. If he approached it logically, with a mind to behaviour analysis...

He could, if necessary, make extra arms to deal with instability, at least until Technician Carol intervened to add propping and shoring. It meant a surcharge to the administrator who green-lit all this in the form of a Bad Day Blowout per extra limb. _Ze_ knew the job was expensive when ze decided on hiring Rael. All the same, it hurt his biological economy to do that, so he avoided it.

It took the better part of a month to reach the point where collapse was clearly no longer imminent. In that time, he found two mummified corpses[52], three treasures previously presumed destroyed, four lost art works, and one inactive artificial intelligence that he was allowed to restore to full function. She was now a citizen of the AI Alliance and acclimating herself to a new world.

Now, though, they were finding _furniture_. This space had once been a domicile before the packrat had got to it. Evidence that they had once lived in this hoard was mounting, but the assembled archeologists and historians were having _fits_. These levels of obsessive compulsion were previously thought to exist only in humans, and humans had not been welcome at the time that matched the dates of this hoard. Theories were argued, often in Rael's way, and Security teams had to join the overall throng to break up the fights or at least provide mediation.

Two Standard Months, three hundred and ninety-seven kilos of treacle toffee, fifteen Bad Day Blowouts, and shares in what was fast becoming a museum... Rael considered himself very well paid.

[52] They died, uninterestingly, of natural causes and a collapse prevented them from being found earlier.

#  Challenge #180: According to Prophecy

"It wasn't because of betrayal that I sent you away. It was a matter of insurance. You needed to survive, in case this happened."

"Mother," said the Rogue Princess, "I'm with the Rebellion. I'm here with the army foretold to end your reign."

"I know," sighed Queen Maliss. "It was foretold. It was also foretold that we would die together if I kept you close to my heart. I know you despise me. And the things I had to do. You will herald a bright new reign... with the greatest change this country had seen."

The Rogue Princess Aiana frowned. "Wait. You did everything because of _prophecies_?"

"It's hard to avoid them, my little. They say I was cursed when I was born... they could have been right. Though I tried to avoid the prophecies, I found myself pressed hard against them, no matter what. When the prophecies come for you... don't fight. You will only break your heart."

Now Aiana retreated. "You... still care for me? After _everything_?"

"I always cared for you," Queen Maliss stepped down from her throne and removed her crown as she knelt. "That's why I'm yielding. So a daughter doesn't have to execute her mother."

This was why. This was why the armies of Queen Maliss had not attempted to withstand the Rebellion. This was why the Rebellion had only met opposition from those who profited from the current Queen's reign. This was why they all encountered so _little_ resistance on all sides.

Because, despite all else, a mother still loved her only child.

Aiana was numb as the others dragged Queen Maliss away. Numb as the numerous crimes were read out in public court. Numb, even, as the executed Maliss. She only wept when the others cheered. Tears fell from her face as the crown was placed on her head and she was hailed as the new Queen.

A bright new age, paid for with sorrow.

The new Queen Aiana made one request of her people. She asked, patiently, that they did not seek to know the future. That path had lead to the ruin of her mother. She would not let it lead to the ruin of anyone else. And with that, the last prophecy known to the kingdom was fulfilled. Everyone now owned their own destiny.

#  Challenge #181: Reformation

(To a powerful Mage who, since the moment a cataclysmic war ended, has been attempting reforms of the \- dangerous to the very fabric of the universe - way magic is taught and thought about, from some soldiers who were standing guard outside the Council chambers)

[Soldier]"[Mage]," said one. "What the fuck?"

[Mage] "I don't have to start another war," they said. "This is a good thing. I can go be happy somewhere else if it bothers you."

[Soldier] "Uh," said the other.

[Soldier] "Yes," said the first. "Please."

They left.

Urtax the Fearsome was talking to herself in the study again. "Schools. Yes. Must have schools. Teach 'em all how to read of course. Best learned early, that skill..." She hummed to herself. "Teach th' teachers how to _recognise_ a blooming mage, of course. Progression. Yes. Can't have people learning death spells before twenty-one... Hum."

Urtax the Fearsome was, of course, the most powerful mage of the kingdom and, for a change, perfectly willing to let Artor the Brave rule instead of becoming the usual magical despot. As so many had before her. What she was doing now, instead of plotting to take over the throne, was plotting to reform magic.

"Harmless stuff for the unskilled, yes," she continued to mutter. "Levitation, transformation. Some helpful potions. Check and see if any have any scrying skills... Thaaat requires... hm! Crystal balls, tea, tarot and I-Ching. Best leave some of that for... uh... sixteen. Yes. Need to have an ego for scrying." Urtax fell to muttering, "Get 'em early," over and over again.

The guards posted outside her study were starting to shift nervously in their posts. They were there on orders from the King. First, to make sure no harm came to the mage, and second, to inform him of the second that it looked like Urtax was going for the the Magical Despot position that they had both so recently cleared. They didn't know what to do about Urtax _muttering_. Especially since it was muttering about things that could be potentially _helpful_.

"Ethics, ethics. Yes. Not everyone gets the ethics lessons I did. Hmf. Respect. Yes. Respect other's things. Respect your own things..." Urtax's muttering slowed as she wrote important points down. "Respect your... own... body. Respect... another's body... Respect all life. Yes. Teach 'em young. Get 'em to acknowledge other people as _people_. And then maybe we can stop murdering people because they bumped into you on the street." Urtax giggled.

Gox broke first. "Mage Urtax... What the fuck?"

"It's better this way. I don't have to start another war," Urtax was grinning at her work. "This is a good thing. Honest. If it bothers you, I can go be happy somewhere else."

Gox and Prass gave each other Looks that said, _No, YOU tell her._

Prass finally surrendered and said, "We can't let you do that, Mage Urtax. We're under orders."

Urtax gathered her papers. "Fine. I'll take what I have so far to the King. He can accept, add, or veto as he so chooses. This is _still_ a good idea."

As she started down the stairs, Gox said, "Do mages _really_ kill people for bumping into them?"

"My tutor used to," said Urtax. "I don't. Hopefully, neither will the next generation."

#  Challenge #182: High-level Negotiations

Do you ever get the feeling that (God/the Gods) (has/have) a plan? And you're the only one who can stop it?

Of all the forces of the multiverse, none is more terrifying than a being with the Gods on their side. They are unstoppable, indomitable, and irrevocable. And of all the beings in the multiverse, none are more pitiable than the ones the Gods merely use as a _tool_.

And when one comes against the other...

Shayde faced the Archdivine of Q'kexx'l across the remains of the battlefield. Thanks to the alleged gods who were using her, she was an equal to him in power and strength. He could call down lightning, she could absorb it and turn it against him. After an _hour_ of lightning ping-pong, the shot went wild and blasted some poor peasant's crops into an inferno.

She was loath to attack. He was eager to. And why not? His God was on his side. And since he was catching his breath, she used hers. "This will nae end well, ye ken," she panted. "Look around. We're destroyin' th' world ye said yer fightin' for."

"It is the greater good," roared the Archdivine. "For the glory of Q'kexx'l!"

"What's glorious aboot starvin' peasants?" she asked. "What's glorious about th' millions o' refugees swarmin' awa' from this fight of ours? What's glorious about th' diseases they're spreadin' like plagues? It's no' glorious. It's a fookain _disaster_."

This time, he summoned a sword of flame. She made a shield of water and fended him off until his arm tired.

"Look at this place. A thousand miles o' scorched earth. All yuirs an' Q'kexx'l's. What're ye goin' tae do with it?"

"I shall raise a glorious temple to the might of Q'kexx'l, that all might behold the glory of my God."

"Aye. That's fabulous, I grant ye... but... who's goin' tae visit. There's nowt here for nobody, now."

The shadow of Q'kexx'l, always present behind the Archdivine, baulked. It appeared shocked, for all that it didn't have a face. It rumbled, _I need worshippers. I need more than one._

"Aye," panted Shayde. "Tha' ye do... Best tae bring fruitfulness t' th' land, ye ken. Make it a paradise wi' yer mighty powers. Draw th' people in wi yer benevolent largesse." The fact that those last two words were sarcastic was completely lost on Q'kexx'l, the terrifying Squid God of Blood.

I... could... but I need sacrifices.

"The ten thousand as shed their blood here ain't enough for ye?"

_Oh,_ said Q'kexx'l. _Oh, that's right..._ And tentacles of green exploded outwards from their ground zero and blanketed the blasted plain. Fruit trees sprang up, blossomed and fruited in seconds. An eden sprang forth from hell. Even the peasant's field sprang back into life.

Personally, Shayde could have done without being in a tree, but this was definitely better than fields of ruin. "Well done," she cheered. "Na let's have a talk about those blood sacrifices o' yours. Ye ken tha' a drop of blood from one worshipper is another drop ye get the next day from _the same worshipper_."

_Belief and blood at the same time?_ Q'Kexx'l, Dread Squid God seemed perplexed.

"Aye. Just spread out the quota ye ken. Instead of one body's worth o' blood, ye get a drop each from yer whole body o' worship. And thanks tae this lot, there might be _millions_."

The Archdivine looked to his God. The God looked back. "For the greater your glory, the greater your works," he said.

_Yes..._ cooed Q'kexx'l. A God not made for cooing. _More and better..._

"An' each worshipper should have their own pin. For purity an' all." _And to prevent blood-borne diseases getting about._ "Clean 'em regularly, ye ken, so the sacrifice isnae spoiled by the impurity of th' mortal world."

There was more than one way to stop a God's reign of terror. And one of them was appealing to their ego.

#  Challenge #183: The Hero's Third Hand

"Hah! And what can you possibly do? We have already defeated the Destined Hero!"

"Not Destined, but gonna be a Hero anyway!"

The thief arrived in the Evil Sorcerer's tower two minutes too late. Just in time to watch the Hero Foretold breathe his last. Just in time to hear the Evil Sorcerer laugh malevolently at the sight of the unforetold corpse. There were no tears. There was no sorrow. Just a quickly-rising rage.

"The hero foretold to bring my end is _dead_ ," said the Evil Sorcerer. "There is no more hope for this world. No more _destiny_. No more _fate_ beyond that which _I_ bring. What can _you_ do, little thief?"

Rage almost blinded her, but she did see the blade that was meant to strike down evil. Abandoned on the floor where her beloved hero had fallen. "What can I do?" she echoed. "What can't I do? You see... all through our adventures, he was the only person who could _stop_ me."

The Evil Sorcerer didn't have the sense to be afraid. He scoffed and turned back to a little game he was playing with a checkered board and tiny, human-shaped counters.

"He was the foretold good for this world. The paragon of virtue. The only one who could love and care and slay at the same time. And he _infected_ me with that. For all that I want to take all his shinies and head for the nearest bar..." now she was close to the foretold knife. Very shiny. Every gem on its hilt could set her up for life. "I _won't_."

Quicker than a viper, she picked up the foretold blade and threw it with deadly accuracy at the Evil Sorcerer's heart. The blade met it's destiny and so did the Sorcerer.

"What am I going to do? I'm going to be a hero anyway. Because of _him_."

"Y-you can't have..." gasped the Sorcerer. "The prophecy says... from his hand to my heart... This... c-can't work."

The thief took off her dominant hand and made the fingers wave. "He made this for me. After they cut off my hand for thieving in B'flx. Soul-bound to my will. And I always thought of it as _his_ hand." She joined it back to the stump of her arm. "He still killed you, you bastard. You're dead. From his _kindness to me_."

The Evil Sorcerer died with the word 'impossible' repeating on his lips.

Only then, as all the evil spells drained away and died out, did the thief finally weep over the body of her best friend. She let them assume that he and the Sorcerer had killed each other. She didn't want the crown that now went to the Hero's squire. But she did hang around to make sure he was just as good as his former mentor.

And during that foretold golden reign, there were unsavoury things that needed to be done. Obstacles to... eliminate. Things that the good and just king never needed to soil his pristine hands over. That was her job. She unlocked doors, removed things from the wrong posessors and, occasionally, added a few drops of poison into significant cups. And made it all look like an accident or serendipity.

All for the love of the man who had made her new hand.

#  Challenge #184: Unwelcome Visitors

Federation ships may have phasers and photon torpedoes, but those are only a distraction for the real weapon: the swiss-omnitool that is the main deflector array. That thing can do anything, take out any threat. It just takes some time to be adapted to the current opponent. That's what the things everyone thinks of as weapons are for - to buy that time.

Throughout the galaxy, assorted species have learned one important lesson: Don't mess with the Federation. Some, like the Klingons and the Romulans, are slow learners. Though the Romulans note with some pride that they have learned _before_ the Klingons did, and purposely avoided becoming one of the Federation's targets.

Other slow learners include the Cardassians, the Breen, and the Borg. And, lately, the Pelithant.

But then, you'd expect a species that's essentially a hivemind fungal colony to be slow on the uptake. As a sentient species, the Federation expects them to learn _eventually_ , and in the meantime, are keeping their expansion in check. More or less. Some Pelithant spores make it through the embargo line. Some land on lifeless moons, and are allowed to persist. Others land on colonies and have to be... excised.

The New Amsterdam colony of Sector Fifteen is used to it. Especially on the outskirts of the southern continent, where the spores seem very prone to land. Settlers like Carin Smith are used to watching the skies for spore streaks, and then chasing them down before they have... trouble.

Like this one. People had missed one and now there were four pillars in the crater and the mycelium had spread in a five-meter diameter around them. Carin called in the big guns, the Fabricator. It beamed in, of course, and laid interlocking plates of durilium into the soil, half a meter away from the edge of the mycelium. After that, swarms of micro-bots exited the Fabricator.

Half went under the soil to encapsulate the mycelium. The other half built a dome over the top.

"Not quite sorry about this," said Carin as he watched the structure grow. "But this is _our_ rock. You can have the moons all you like, but the planets are ours. Got it?"

The Pelithant swivelled to face Carin. Their tentacles waved and the universal translator said, "We... understand... we... do... not... aim."

They'd find a mutual solution eventually. This was a stopgap until someone figured out a planet-suitable deflector array.

#  Challenge #185: Two Big Tells

I've only ignored a wise and powerful being saying "are you sure you want to do that?" _once_ in all my lives, and I regretted it for the rest of that existence. On the other hand, ignoring it from beings who may be powerful, but only _think_ they're wise? Done that dozens of times. The trick is telling the difference.

Since they were at the mercy of a seemingly wise and powerful being, Holly leaned over to whisper in the Doctor's ear. "And you're sure you've got the trick of being able to tell... right?"

"I said I only did it once," murmured the Doctor.

"There's always a second time, isn't there?"

"Oh ye who doubt," he grumbled. "The thing with beings who _think_ they're wise and powerful," lectured the Doctor, "is that they can't bear to hear anyone telling them that they're wrong. So they surround themselves with sycophants, toadies, and yes-men."

The apparent godling's cohort began to look a little nervous. Some of them had the sense to start slowly sidling towards a convenient exit.

"Second big clue - wise people know they can't know everything and are eager to learn. How often has this one told me to shut up when I was sharing some knowledge about?"

"Everyone tells you to shut up," countered Holly. "Otherwise you'd be infodumping until everything rotted away."

The Doctor spared a moment to glare at her. "That's a base and accurate truth. But the nice ones attempt to steer me back on track and the nasty ones..."

"Silence, worm," sneered the apparently wise and powerful being.

"...say that." He made a little flourish with one hand that encapsulated _Quod Erat Demonstrandum_ and gave Holly a smug smirk. "See? It's really very easy. In fact, there was this one time when–"

"Doctor..." reminded Holly. "We're kind of being threatened here?"

He startled. "Oh. Yes. Well. Not really. Half of his cohort have absconded and the other half are pretty much useless. Plus we already sabotaged the death ray, remember?"

The apparently wise and powerful being pressed a button on his throne. Twice. Thrice. Hammered at it with his fists and finally, _finally_ roared, "GUARDS! SIEZE THEM!"

The remaining sycophants and toadies began sneaking out of the room. And, as it turned out, the guards were smarter. They'd already left.

"I'm not quite sorry," said the Doctor, "but it seems like your ivory tower is falling apart. There's still time to fix things, and I want to help you. There's so much good you can still–"

The seemingly wise and powerful being left his throne and ran away. Shedding his raiments as he went.

"Hmph," said the Doctor. "No stomach for the inevitable revolution, it seems."

#  Challenge #186: Bad Eggs in One Basket

[On the idea of putting two Deathworlders in the one cage you have that you think can hold them]

Yeah, I mean, it's like storing all your plutonium cores in the same spot. Can't hurt right? They'll all be contained in a reinforced area anyways...

It was the perfect prison. Re-enforced cerametal[53] with smooth, vertical sides. The only way in or out was through a hole in the ceiling. Which was well out of the human's reach.

The human, once thrown in, was not impressed. "Five _thousand_ years of your civilisation and y'all just re-invented the oubliette. I'm _so_ impressed." The inflection, of course, meant the opposite. More of the human _sarcasm_ that the Ch'vithi had so much trouble with.

Their first captive remained docile in the prototype Deathworlder Containment Cell. Therefore the Ch'vithi deemed it enough of a success to contain _two_ humans. And at the beginning, it seemed to be so. The humans interacted well with each other, talking and playing in the soft surface of their cell floor. Making patterns with each other's co-operation. And bonding activities that seemed like typical Deathworlder stuff. Sparring or making each other perform ritualistic motions.

Then, almost a month after they captured the second one... the Deathworlders escaped.

Surviving monitor footage showed that one human climbed the other's shoulders and, with the added height benefit, opened the door and climbed out. They then retrieved an EVA harness and utilised it to help the other escape. The humans immediately wrought chaos throughout the Ch'vithi vessel. A vessel that was found over a year afterwards and in a Galactic scrapyard.

But by then, it was too late. The DCC had been implemented all through the Ch'vithi Empire and similar events had happened to their fleet. One by one, ships exploded, were known to be stolen, or just _vanished_ overnight. The Ch'vithi had no chance to change and adapt before the humans did.

The Ch'vithi surrendered to the humans before the first vanished vessel was ever found.

Which gave rise to the semi-popular idiom: _Locking two humans in a room._ It meant, "To make an ill-advised, and inevitably self-destructive decision or course of action.

[53] Ceramic and metal amalgamated by nanotechnology.

#  Challenge #187: Person Man

His wardrobe contained among other things, a mask, full body suit that looked like rubber, spandex tights, spandex briefs, lots of spandex. Custom made purple boots and, Well he called it his utility belt but there was no way they were going to touch till the bomb squad And a competent psychiatrist got there. In memory of all those Cheesy Adam West Batman episodes.

Half a building had collapsed, but the good news was that it was condemned and no lives were lost. The better news was the partially-intact meth lab, hydroponic weed garden, and a small opioid factory visible within. And the best news was the captive gang tied up like christmas presents on the sidewalk. All tethered to a handy fire hydrant.

The bad news was the Hero.

He stood between the ambulance and the fire truck with an air of exaggerated patience in the face of outrageous delays. Shifting his weight from foot to foot and sighing in the manner of all people who had been ready ten minutes ago and are now waiting for the other people on the trip to get their metaphorical shit together. But that wasn't the primary concern.

His wardrobe contained among other things, a mask, and a full body suit that looked like rubber. Custom made purple boots and... Well. He called it his utility belt, but there was no way they were going to touch it until the bomb squad and a competent psychiatrist got there. They had, however, handcuffed him and set one officer to hold a gun on him until someone with Authority had finally arrived.

Calloway was the latest link in the chain of command.

He was amazingly scrawny for a Hero. No comic book Super Pecs here. Almost her own height, but a fraction shorter. All those muscles were sculpted on. He had to be a real weed in regular clothing. And much shorter without those built-up boots.

Calloway's first words to him were, " _You_ did all of this?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded in recognition and respect. "Purely an accident, my sleep gas grenade ignited their other meth lab set-up. I'd pay for the damages, but this building was slated for demolition. Is it illegal to give the construction industry a helping hand?"

"It's still destruction of property. We'll have to see if the owner wishes to press charges and– wait. You have sleep gas grenades?" Her gaze went to the empty holster at his hip.

"And smoke bombs, tangle-nets, and a few other non-harmful methods of detaining the criminal element. Including the taser that this fine city's officers have temporarily confiscated. The true crimefighter always carries everything they need in their utility belt, ma'am."

There was a camera on his chest. And another four on his helmet, in the cardinal directions. "You willing to give up the footage from those?"

"Yes, ma'am. After I've purged the metadata of anything that can lead back to my secret identity. I have a personal responsibility to the people I love to keep them safe from any repercussions related to my activities as a Hero of the City. But rest assured that the footage will remain otherwise unaltered and unedited."

Okay. That was his legal right, more's the pity. "Fine. What's your handle?"

He couldn't strike a heroic pose in handcuffs, but he still tried it. "By the light of the moon, I am called... _Person Man_!"

Oh good gravy. "Is that belt of yours rigged?"

"With a shock to deter criminals from removing it. I had yet to upgrade my bandolier in such a fashion, which is why it, too, is also temporarily confiscated."

He seemed pretty firm on the 'temporary' state of the confiscations. "Let me guess. You have official licenses for everything you have on you."

"Including the lockpicks, ma'am. It's unfortunate that, in the pursuit of the law, some lawless activities are vital."

Where did he get his script? Adam West? Vigilantism was not exactly legal in this town, but there were ways to wriggle around the law. Which meant enlisting this Hero - his handle identity - as a Confidential Informant. Retroactively. Calloway sighed and texted her boss as a warning. "What can you do? What are your superpowers?" It was way beyond time to test how much of a lunatic this guy was.

"I'm deceptively strong," he said. "That's about it. The suit's bulletproof, not me. Though I prefer that information to not get around. You understand. I've practiced parkour, and some martial arts, but strength is the quality that set me on my path to becoming a hero."

"Can you demonstrate?" This was where the bullshit usually fountained forth. "Your super strength, that is."

He didn't even blink. "May I destroy these handcuffs? Usually, I try to maintain a healthy respect for others' property, but it is the closest object I can demonstrate with."

She said, "Go ahead," only because she didn't believe he could do it.

Person Man snapped the handcuffs' chain, then brought his wrists around to his front so that he could break off the cuffs. Then he crouched to scoop up the scattered parts and squeeze them into a ball. He handed the ball to Calloway. "I do believe this is recyclable, ma'am."

Screw her boss. This was going to need the _mayor_.

For the first time in history, they had an actual, bonafide _superhero_ in their midst.

#  Challenge #188: What a God Wants

I was destined to be the priestess of a mad God. What they didn't tell me was that instead of slaughtering people I'd be making Him a nice cup of tea and telling him it would be all right.

I'd always wondered why the High Holies of the Mad God Zhyruq selected the kind and sympathetic to be their acolytes. Every year, they chose amongst their number the trainee they found to be the kindest, most generous, and most sympathetic. And, until it was my turn, I'd wondered why.

I was terrified, of course. Those who were chosen to be the Mad God's intermediary were rarely seen again. And those that did return to the public were... hollow. Empty of their ability to care for anyone else beyond a set of simple remedies. They were prone to weeping and crying out, "I don't know! I don't know any more!" I had to fret about what could possibly do that to a gentle and kind human being.

I was shaking as I entered the Sacred Door. To the here-and-not-here realm between mortal soil and that which could bear the tread of a God. With a title like Mad God, I expected a skull and blood motif with human skin throw rugs. I expected an altar upon which I had to sacrifice myself. But when I opened my eyes...

The verdant fields of heaven. Soft and spongy mosses under my feet. Picturesque trees and rivers of milk and honey. Bejewelled butterflies flitting on the perfumed breeze. A perfect little cottage that had, I had no doubt, a perfect view of the perfect landscape.

My rote prayers, recited for personal security, dwindled to a halt. I stood and stared for what seemed like forever before, "Oh my God," escaped my throat.

And then, there Ze was. Zhyruq in all Hir glory. For a Mad God, Ze is remarkably human-shaped when Ze manifests. Beautiful, of course. But the kind of beauty that is fearsome. Too perfect. Too lovely. And entirely _other_ by being genderless. _You call, and I come, as arranged,_ Ze said without saying it. The Mad God had spoken unto me. And then Ze spake, _Are you done being frightened?_

The Mad God Zhyruq sounded... cross... about that. But I had to answer honestly. "I've seen so few intermediaries come back, and when they do... they're very different. I expected horror. I'm glad I was wrong, but... I still have to wonder what makes them so... broken."

Zhyruq seethed. _It's not my fault,_ Ze so spake. _I get upset about things. A God's anger is... troublesome... to mortals. So after you have Served, you are to be sent to a place like unto heaven on earth. Some refuse. Those are the ones you see."

"You... don't need me to bleed for you?"

Everyone thinks I want blood! I don't need blood. I am sustained by the worship of My followers, not blood. If you want to give something your blood, give it to an ailing plant. All it's good for is keeping people alive and then nourishing the flora. Not. Gods.

This was the first time I had seen a tetchy God. I would have a year of it, yet. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it... It's... It's a natural conclusion. Mad God equals blood sacrifices. It's the way people _think_ , unfortunately. Perhaps... a name change? Zhyruq The Upset?"

_I've been trying that for decades,_ moaned Zhyruq. _Best of luck with your efforts. You have a day to acquaint yourself with the surroundings. And from then on... there are the petitions._ Petitions, pronounced, 'agonising pain in my anatomy'.

"I've always thought that it was nice of you to give our prayers the personal touch," I said honestly. "And all official temples don't have a single sharp object in them."

_It's the unofficial ones that get me ropeable,_ Ze grumbled, and faded out of corporeal existence.

The rote prayers, I learned, were not included in the satchel that appeared on my table every morning. They were like form letters. Copious and readily ignored. They were, Zhyruq said, for the comfort and succour of the followers. If they were all answered, then there would be unforseen circumstances of the disastrous kind. Zhyruq didn't explain it any further, other than to explain that if Ze did, then I would have nightmares for a month.

It took me two months to find Hir favourite tea. Dosed with mead and milk, because milk and honey are acceptable foods of the Gods, and manna isn't as nice as you might think it is. The gardens of the between realm grow anything at all when I need it, so there is no want in my case. Hirs... is very different.

I'd learned to sort the petitions into different sections: desiring money, desiring health, and desiring a change of fortune. Only the desperate break from the rote prayers, and they were all desperate cases.

_I can't give them everything they want,_ was a frequent complaint from Zhyruq. _I just can't! But they keep complaining and complaining and complaining..._

Today, there was a fourth pile. Gratitude. It came from a young child, so the petition was in shaky handwriting and had a blobby picture on it. "Not all of them," I said, and read the single example of thanks out loud. "Dear God Zhyruq. Thank you so much for making my gram'ma better. I'm very happy she got to teach Papa how to make her super special soup and the spice cookies she makes for feast days. Gram'ma says she has to go to you one day, but I'm happy that's not today. Zhyruq bless you and amen."

For the first time, Zhyruq the Upset plucked a petition for mortal hands to read it Hirself. Hir usual frown faded away and the Upset God started weeping. _That's all I ever wanted,_ Ze spake. Zhyruq preserved the letter in an impossibly smooth tablet of glass. Or something that looked a lot like glass. Ze just manifested it around the petition like a spider spinning a cocoon.

I made a note to pass to the mortal realm about more petitioners praying informal thanks to their God. It might just help remove the 'Mad God' from Hir title.

Zhyruq didn't need blood sacrifices, Ze just needed therapy.

#  Challenge #189: Not the Usual Madness

And so tired of the Mad God's priestess falling for Hero du Jour and grabbing the priceless treasure and buggering off to live with Hero type. So! what if your Mad God was just annoyed that "Nobody Listens to Me!" - random thoughts on popular Barbarian fiction.

The temple of Sargax the Mad God was silent. Eerily silent. The walls were furnished in sculpted felt and the floor was made out of cork. Nidrus the Mighty could not still the noise of his armour as he made his way through the quiet corridors, well aware of how the metal plate protecting his body clanked and rattled with his every step. And he was also well aware that the sound from his armour didn't echo back from the soft walls.

There were no soldiers. No bloodthirsty demons. No acolytes bent on killing him. No eldritch monsters. There were rather a lot of Faerie lights to illuminate the temple. But then, they were the only known light source that made no sound. There were no doors with hinges to creak. Merely baffle upon baffle of thick curtains made of Anteludian Spider silk. A fabric also noted for its sound-deadening qualities.

Nidrus journeyed onwards down the snail-shell spiral of the temple. There was no sign of any treasure, but there was always treasure in the centre of a Mad God's temple. Usually after a pitched battle to rescue a high priestess from human sacrifice. But there was nothing like that here.

The felt and the cork were dyed reasonably attractive colours. There were no skulls. No black, no bloodstains. And, when he got to the lowest point of the spiral, a central room that contained no treasure and no sacrifice pits or bloody altars. The high priestess was naked, so things might be looking up.

Nidrus cleared his throat.

"Shut up," ordered the High Priestess. "You and your armour have already made far more than enough noise for the day. I can't _hear_ Him because of _you_." You, pronounced, the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life or anyone else's for all time and space.

What?

"And breathe quietly. There's still a chance."

Nidrus the Mighty did his utmost to stand still and breathe without a noise. Now that he had the time, he took in the details. How sound from everywhere funneled into the room. How the High Priestess' hair was cut so short that it would not brush her ears nor make any disturbance to the soundless atmosphere. Even the idol in a niche in the circular wall was made out of needled felt.

Someone, somewhere, rang a triangle. Once. The High Priestess sighed and put on her own Antedeludian Spider silk robe. "It is time for meals and free speech. So I can now explain what this temple is _for_."

"It's... a Mad God's temple. There's murders and treasure," said Nidrus, a little disappointed.

"We carry the vows of poverty, chastity, and _silence_ ," said the High Priestess. "We're the Listening Order. Do you know _why_ Sargax is mad? Did you ask?"

"Uuuh..." said Nidrus.

"Nobody listens to Him. So here, we do our best to listen. And you spoiled my time in the Chamber. You ruined my devotion. Now fuck off. And try to do it _quietly_."

#  Challenge #190: Ill-Met By Neon

The city sleeps, if the city is large enough to support night workers, cops, nurses, cleaning staff and cab drivers, somewhere there is a place open with hot coffee, hot food, a place to sit and grab a meal or snack before heading home to sleep.

Towns can sleep. Villages definitely slumber. Cities? cities never close. There's always somewhere going. Some light that is on and someone who is using that illumination for something. Not always something nice, because the have-nots figure out where the haves are and attempt a little manual redistribution.

But neither of those are here, in this tiny island of light in the darkened streets. It's a spot where the permanent and the itinerant alike come for a moment. A moment of peace. A moment to think. A moment to have a coffee, or bitch about politics, or catch up on a news station that isn't interrupted by static. The regulars sit with their laptops or their studies, and ask Joe about his corns or his lumbago. The people who aren't regulars watch the shitty television in the corner and process their food and beverages.

This is a space for the Night People. The flotsam and jetsam who just don't fit in the daylight. Those for whom the sun is their enemy. Those for whom normal is not obligatory, and unusual is acceptable. It is a realm of cheap but neat clothes and fading uniforms. And into this speck in the night-time galaxy of the city, there comes a complete stranger. Trouble about to happen.

He wears a ski mask and a hoodie. And he's holding a gun. He has a backpack with Hello Kitty as a larger pocket, and it's both empty and open. "All right. You know what this is. I want money, phones, and any jewellery that's worth a damn. Laptops, too."

Most of the clientele begin to obey. Except for Corienne, who was still busily working on her thesis in her usual corner.

"Hey! I said laptops, too."

Corienne looked up. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, mister. One, this is a pre-loved laptop from the nineties. It barely runs. Two... I hate to use a cliche, but you came into the wrong diner."

"And it's a full moon," growled one of the regulars, he was already shaggier than he had been a handful of seconds ago. "That's when the crazies come out."

"And the weirdoes," said another. Her glamour faded away and revealed her truth. That she was a vampire. "You look delicious, by the way."

The would-be thief unloaded all his bullets into Gladys. And then he threw the gun. He turned back to Corienne. "And what are you? The daughter of C'thulu?"

"Naw, I'm just a night student. These guys helped me out once when I had a really bad month. So I help them out with the new stuff once in a while."

"I can use a smart phone now," said Gladys the vampire. "My selfies _rock_."

Dorothy, both Djinn and waitress for this place, had her eyes burning. "Honey, you better talk fast or you're gonna have a bad time."

Joe in the back was an amorphous mass of shadows and tentacles.

"They sort of adopted me," explained Corienne. "You can take their money. They don't really care. Immortality really lets you get perspective about belongings. But me? You leave me alone, okay? They take it personally if something happens to me."

Bill was full werewolf, now. Slavering. "Run," he snarled. He had to snarl because his muzzle wouldn't let him do anything else. "Please run. I love it when they run."

The would-be thief dropped the backpack. "I'm sorry," he said, rapid-fire. "I'm sorry I didn't know, I was just trying to get ahead and there's always people in here and I thought–"

Carol, still apparently normal, got off her stool. "Stand down, my friends. We have a first-timer. Confess, and repent, and all will be forgiven."

Dude started infodumping about his horrible life. Corienne, who had experienced an Angel's influence before, got back to her thesis. There were only so many hours before sunrise. When the light would burn her skin. This dude was not her problem any more. But he could be another adoptee, so she kept one ear open on his confession.

She'd always wanted a brother. Or anyone who could help her out. The one downside of being in a community of interesting night people is that... they don't do so fantastic in the daylight.

#  Challenge #191: Grass No Greener

Those "celebrities" who get their pictures taken Lots of times. either the "Buy my handbags, buy my perfume, you too can be as fabulous as me". Or someone who is stuck with the photographers Everywhere.

They say it must be nice to live my life. All they can picture is the adoration and the luxurious lifestyle. Rubbing elbows with other rich and famous people. Never having a care in the world. They don't think about the flip side.

Having to be immaculate at any given moment. Having to be conservatively dressed, even in your own home. Because if there's anything a paparazzo loves, it's the opportunity to take a photo of you fixing your underpants. Or _without_ your underpants. Catching you with the slightest hint of cellulite or a wrinkle. Or a bit of tummy that could be circled and questioned as a baby bump.

They make their money off of you at your worst, and it is always a struggle to remain your best. Physically. Verbally. Mentally. Some crack under the pressure and the negative press won't leave them to recover. Some elect to vanish rather than have their privacy flayed for the common throng. And some, like me, can't avoid it.

I'm not famous for anything. Well. Not anything good. I never solved poverty or saved a small country. I'm not smart enough to cure cancer. I'm pretty because I've had surgery, but I can't act and every time I sing, it's autotuned. I used to be some famous athlete's main squeeze. Until it all went sour and he published his blackmail on me to the internet. I could have withered, but I used the attention to be famous in my own right. I became _fascinating_. And I outshone him and everything he did.

I have a talent for being beautiful and knowing what to say to get their attention for another month. I have little talent beyond that. My fashion line and accessories are designed by someone else. My clothes are selected by a consultant. I diet and train, but only because I despise the people eager for me to get pregnant and ruin my figure.

I make money out of looking perfect and being famous. Knowing that, at any second, something could rip all of that away. The first crow's foot. The first sign of _sag_. The first faux pas in a society that is increasingly judgemental. The first crack...

And then they will be talking of nothing else but how evil I am. Shortly before everything I've ever built goes to shit. And then I'll be someone who Used To Be Someone.

I don't know whether to be afraid of or eager for it.

[AN: I know you're targeting people like Paris Hilton here, so I thought you should know. Paris became famous because her ex hate-published a sex tape with her in it and it became news. She had two choices - suffer the international slut-shaming or use it to her advantage. She chose the latter. Despise her if you must, but she made a go out of a very bad situation]

#  Challenge #192: Boys' Club

Female superhero puts her foot down and demands a practical costume.

"Where's my costume?" asked Major Power, still in her civilian gear.

"It's in your locker."

"The only thing in my locker is a g-string bikini and a pair of ballet flats."

"Yup. That's your costume. Updated for market appeal." Mr Mann smiled genially. "It's for merchandising. The focus group doesn't lie."

"Bullshit," said Major Power. "It's making me into a fucktoy for all the horny teenage boys you used to make your focus group. Let me ask you a question. Did you ask any members of this group about how sexy battle wound are?"

Mann rather desperately held on to his genial smile. "About that... uh. We feel that team combat would be better served by your... using your powers... indirectly. From a distance."

"While posed in a sexual manner?" asked Major Power.

"It's for mass market appeal," said Mann. "I'm certain you understand. Now and then, someone has to take it for the team."

Major Power took a deep breath in. "Well. You can take your mass market appeal, the focus group of horny teenage boys, _and_ that bikini and shove it square up your arse. I'm not wearing it, I'm not participating in your little Power Club, and I'm not being someone's spank folder. Goodbye."

"But you'll miss out on all the exposure," protested Mann. "And it's the Power Pals."

"Too much exposure for me," said Major Power, flipping the bird on her way out.

Two weeks later, there was a new super-team in Megalopolis. They called themselves Girl Power, and its members were all ladies who refused to adhere to the Power Pals'... er... 'dress code'. They all wore practical armour as part of their costumes, fought how they wanted, and kicked bad-guy butt.

They outsold the Power Pals inside of _one_ week.

#  Challenge #193: Puppet Power

Ventriloquist dummies, Muppets, they allow their handlers to be someone quite different. Some of the more famous being Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy, Topo Giglio the Mouse and charlie McCarthy and his handler Edgar Bergan, (the puppet is now in the smithsonian)... – Anon Guest

They say, _If you want to find the truth of a man, give him a mask to wear._ And this is, to a degree, true. But if you want to weigh the nature of a soul, give them a puppet. Sometimes, the aesthetic clues of the puppet lend character, but one that lacks such cues can show you the unpublic side of the individual manipulating it.

A puppet is an avatar. A mouthpiece for the thoughts that don't make it out of a fleshy mouth without such assistance. And they are distanced from the real mouth by virtue of being a _thing_ with no more soul than that which is given to them. It's a mouthpiece. A tool to say the things that are otherwise bottled up.

Therapist Valance found it very useful for her more... culturally restricted... patients. A puppet was just a thing, true, but her patients could make it say or do _anything_. Her other tool, for those not inclined to harm living things by accident or design, either a cat or a dog. Both highly trained. Animals didn't judge and, in the case of cats, didn't care. But they were soft and warm and friendly in a world that could be cold and cruel.

Today's patient was Doe Barrow, nee Jacobs. An adopted niece of the itinerant trader and nigh-permanent drunk, Hwell Barrow. She was a refugee from one of the more misogynistic Greater Deregulations, and still finding out who she was. The puppet was a blank, onto which patients could add features and clothing as they so wished.

In Doe's hands, the puppet became an incarnation of her former self. When she was assumed male. The puppet was called Buck, and formally dressed. Neat as a pin, except for the hair. The hair Doe had chosen was seedy-looking and in desperate need of some replacement, but it also looked... shell shocked. It was the hair of a terrified child. The eyes were google-eyes, but the pupils were tiny in relation to the plastic sclera.

"I'm scared all the time," complained Buck. "Like they can see what I am just by looking. They know. I know they know. I'm not real. Not yet."

And since Valance was speaking to an avatar for Doe's childhood, she said, "You seem real enough to me."

"But I'm not a real boy. She has it right," The felt hand pointed to Doe. "Nearly. If I was her back home... They do awful things to girls at home. I saw it. Dad worked in a Bawd factory. There were new girls every day. The ones that weren't sold to the Betters. I saw what they did."

Non-elective surgery, Valance recalled. Lobotomised, devocalised, intubated, and quadruple amputated. And then raped to obliterate any trace of a hymen. "It's natural to be scared of that. I'm scared of that, and I'll never visit your home."

"He took me with him whenever I got sick, after the carer left. I never wanted to be sick, because I knew... It was awful."

"Yes," agreed Valance. "It was. It is awful. The Galactic Alliance is working on making sure that those things don't happen any more. That the girls aren't hurt any more. Isn't that good?"

Doe was crying, but the puppet sobbed. "What about the Bawds down there already?"

"The women who are prisoners are being freed. In small groups, I'm afraid. Some surgeries can't be corrected, but we can help them in other ways. New vox boxes. Stem cells injected into the surgical cuts. Prosthetics with neural interfaces. We're doing everything we can."

"Are they happy?" asked Doe. She'd taken to hugging Buck. Comforting her younger self.

"It's difficult to tell. The first thing they do when they have a new voice is to scream. Therapy for them is... slow. Very slow. They've been through hell."

"I think that's what we're going to call it, instead of home," Doe decided. "Hell. It was never home. It was just a place to survive."

"It wasn't _all_ bad," insisted Buck. "The rest of it was okay. I just hate the Bawd factories. And the Bawd houses. And the Candy Girls."

"I haven't heard about the Candy Girls," said Valance.

"Rich man candy. Eye candy. Arm candy. Something sweet for ten years and then they're garbage." Both Buck and Doe withdrew. She curled up on herself. "They were the only times there _were_ women. Whole women, anyway."

Greater Deregulation could not compete with witness testimony. They were still, rather desperately, trying to justify their actions as no big deal. Emphasising their rights and laws and their right to defend them against what they viewed as corruption from the outside.

Therapist Valance had to wonder when they'd finally give up that idea as a bad joke, and the practice as an atrocity.

#  Challenge #194: Expensive Reactions

On the topic of "Humans are Insane," I present: Every chemist who has ever willingly worked with something that ended up in the "Things I Won't Work With" guy's articles. Please note, many of said chemists were attempting to come up with new, better, rocket fuel, so it was designed to be highly explosive from the get-go.

(can't embed the link for some reason, gets flagged as spam)

Humans are recognised as patently unkillable across the Galactic Alliance. But even with their gung-ho attitude towards things animate and inanimate that are venomous, poisonous, or otherwise dangerous, there _are_ actually things that humans prefer not to do. Lots of them involve violent chemical reactions.

Those who continue to invoke those chemical reactions are... unique.

They turn up to work in flame-retardant armour padding, and don the armour-plated livesuit that they work in with an air of grim determination. Every day, they step into their re-enforced laboratory as if they know that they may not walk back out. And this might be true. Humanity has made a career out of finding ways to blow up its mortal enemy - humanity.

In the process of blowing itself up, humanity has also discovered a large number of reactions that, while impossible to weaponise, are also intensely useful for increasingly sophisticated technologies. Unfortunately, the most useful ones are also next to impossible to industrialise.

So far.

Humans do not like blowing _themselves_ up[54], and therefore work very hard at making certain it doesn't happen.

"This step must be performed in a pure Nitrogen atmosphere," said Hal Smith, adjusting the lab's environment. "Both compounds are highly volatile when in contact with oxygen. If we get around to industrialising this, I propose an assembly line with an airlock. Or just put the entire factory in a nitrogen bubble. We also need sensors to detect when the reaction is working."

Very carefully, as if defusing an unexploded bomb, Hal introduced one part to the other by means of a drip stand. Watching the beaker below whilst barely breathing. When it began to fizz violently and smoke, he turned off the drip feed and sealed the beaker. Counted under his breath. After the seething fizz went down, he un-sealed the beaker and added three more drips.

The process would continue until the fizzing stopped.

And when it was all done, he would have twenty MSWU[55] of a compound guaranteed to protect nanocircuitry from Heisenburg errors. Vitally necessary for the most advanced computing known to civilised space.

AN: You can read all of the things the guy won't work with [over here. You're welcome]

[54] Blowing up enemies is just peachy.

[55] Milli-Standard Weight Units. Roughly equivalent to a gram, and a thousandth of a Standard Weight Unit. Sometimes pronounced, "miss woo"

#  Challenge #195: Amazing How it Works

[Name]'s job description is less Indiana Jones and more "disarming multi-millennia old nuclear weapons without an instruction manual". - of an action archaeologist in a fantasy realm

Elbi was classed as a Rogue. Technically. It was her job to detect and disarm millenia-old deathtraps so that the rest of her team could safely document and investigate archaeological curiosities. And what never ceased to amaze was the fact that, despite eons of neglect, every single one of these traps was in perfect working order.

Without a preservation spell. Without any kind of maintenance. Without lubrication. And without anyone to check if the springs still sprang.

Metallurgists and ivaologists[56] were frantic to discover the secrets of these traps, and descended the second that Elbi breathed a sigh of relief. Taking the trap into careful pieces to study with every trick they knew. One day, they promised, they would rediscover the secret of steel that didn't rust, and rope that didn't decay for tens of thousands of years.

Engineers would breathlessly examine the cogs and gears of ancient devices, studying how the ancient temples and tombs recognised friend from foe. So they could apply the principles to more modern security systems that still managed to shoot the obligatory stupid guard once in a while.

Diviners were still puzzling out how the builders had managed to prevent local plant life from invading and then destroying all the stonework. Thousands of years, tens of thousands of years... and nature had done nothing to destroy any part of these ancient catacoombs.

And to think. Just a mere few centuries ago, people were delving into this death trap with nothing but primitive armour and flaming torches. And quite a large number of healing and resurrection spells.

[56] Ivaology - the study of fibre, cord, and rope. Coined by me because Google was _not_ my friend this time.

#  Challenge #196: Spiteful Ascension

Depression Tips: Kill the gods and eat their flesh to rise above human chemicals into horrifying immortality

...Sounds more feasible than "just think positive!"

People around Lase would later swear that they all heard it when she snapped. A lifetime of hearing people say, "Just think positive," will do that to you.

"You know what?" she said. "I'm going to summon an Elder God, kill it, and drink its blood so I can rise above the need for mortal chemicals. It'll certainly be _easier_."

Dave, who suggested every other hour that Lase just think positive, backed away from her cubicle. "Geez," he said, "I was just trying to be helpful..."

Lase began reciting unearthly words whilst pointing at Dave's heart. As for what happened next... nobody was ever quite certain. There was a lot of blood, after the fact. Lots of it was a brilliant purple. There was not a lot left of Dave, a fact that was considered something of a bonus amongst the rest of the office. Though the loss of his life was regrettable, everyone agreed that Dave was an arsehole to everyone at work.

As for Lase... for weeks, there was no trace of her. Just a scorch mark where she had been sitting. People put flowers on her desk and hoped that she had found a better place. Then, just as they were about to hold a memorial, she Manifested.

She was simultaneously glowing white and a void in reality. Burning hot and cold enough to solidify neutrons in the palm of her hand. She was terrifying and terrific. _I am come for all,_ she said. _I am the goddess of the unequal. Champion of the underdog. Woe betide any rich man who does not pay their employees a living wage._

Bob the Bastard Boss had the nerve to speak up. "Now, that's a little unreasonable. We can't really afford to pay–"

_If you cannot afford to pay your employees, you cannot afford to have a business,_ spake Lase, new Goddess of the Downtrodden. _The IRS knows you. Knows your tax evasion. Your assets are being seized. Your trophy wife is filing for divorce. Your shares will plummet in value before you can call your broker._

"Wait! No! That's not fair."

_I worked five jobs just to be able to pay the rent and eat. How many zeroes are in your paycheque?_ Lase spake unto him. _Do not talk to me about 'fair' until you have sold all that you own in order to live another day._ Her blazing eyes froze his heart, but only metaphorically. _That is what you voted for, is it not?_

"Yes, but..."

_Because you never thought it would happen to you,_ spake Lase. _Tell the board that they have seven days to readjust the wages. If they fire a single employee, they will be cursed._

It took three days for images of Lase to find their way into every office space in the world.

#  Challenge #197: Fallen From Grace

It's like they used the power of righteous hatred the same way some people use the power of love.

Some hated him because he had committed treason and bragged about it. Some hated him because of what he had done to his wives. Some hated him because of what he said. Most hated him because of what he had done. They had cause to hate each other, but the hatred of the man who claimed to be their leader was the one thing that united them.

The Oligarch was uncomfortable on his throne to the point where he had fled the country, but that didn't matter. His nation had armed themselves, and they were moving in for the kill. As he crossed borders, so did they. As he boarded ships, so did they. The Oligarch was not safe. He had alienated all but his nations enemies. In fact, there were very few, indeed, who would give him succour. And many of those, he brought with him.

At least, until they became inconvenient. Then, he traded their safety for his life. He didn't care about the betrayal. He had never cared about anything but money and power. And now, without either, all he cared for was his continued existence.

The allies that had helped him gain power did not care for him. He received the same betrayal he had committed when he let them assist him in treason. Those allies now cast him aside as if he were any other peasant begging for alms. He was no longer of use to them now that they had what they wanted.

All he had left was to run. A plump and unfit man who had never exercised anything more than his voice, going as fast as he can for as long as he could, away from the millions that wanted their pound of flesh. Pounds that the Oligarch lost in his desperate flight.

He ended it in a freezing shanty town, miles from anywhere he knew. Scraps of newspaper stuffed into his remaining designer clothes declared that his reign ended in ignominy. That his family had been found guilty of aiding and abetting his crimes. That his sons had been executed. That his daughters were chained into the sweatshops they had once used to make their clothing. That he had been tried in absentia and found guilty of everything. That bounty hunters and assassins were searching the world for him.

They would not look for him here, amongst filth and squalor. Amongst the very people that he had once attempted to purge from the earth. In a place where they had seventeen different recipes for rat and cockroach. Where one was lucky if one found a fragment of unadulterated food from those of a higher status.

Where he had to decide about whether to use a newspaper to stuff his clothes or keep the fire burning for a few more minutes.

The other denizen of this shack was roasting a rat on a stick with no intention of sharing it. It was a big rat. A New York rat. Enough for a couple of days. Maybe more if she found some decent Popping Roaches. But he'd learned not to ask out loud for anything. Not to speak. Of all the things that had changed since his downfall, his voice had not. People still knew it.

"I remember you," she said.

The Oligarch-in-exile shook his head. He wanted to look away. To focus on feeding the pitiful fire. But his eyes kept drifting back to the rat. To the roasting haunch. Surely she could let him have a drumstick. A thigh...

Fifty-odd years of steak and potatoes, and he was salivating over the thought of Rat Drumstick.

"You were the one as gave me that blanket, last snow. Right? Mute-boy Jeff."

He shook his head again. This time, sadly. The only time he'd ever given anyone anything, it had been the brief employment advice to, "get a job." There was dung in the corner. It didn't matter what it came from. It was dry and it would burn and he needed his newspapers for insulation now that the cold crept in through every pore in his body. He washed his hands in the dirtier-looking bucket outside the tattered sheet that served as a door. The cleaner looking one was for drinking out of. He knew that, after a few false starts.

"I know I know you. We met before."

If it was worth a bit of meat, it might be worth lying. He still looked at her face. Trying to match her features with the people he could recall. Was she on the run, too? Was this one of his exiled wives, fallen on hard times?

He made the mistake of saying, "I don't recall."

Her eyes flared, briefly. Then she said, "My mistake. You looked familiar is all." She took a small knife out of her layers of rags and carved off a haunch of rat. "Tastes like rat," she said, "but it's warm and it's food enough for another day."

"Thank you," he said. It was hot. And it did taste like rat. It was tough and sinewy and more than a little like rotting fast food. But he was grateful for it. He gnawed it right off the bones like a barbarian.

"No," she said, wiping her knife on her pants. "Thank _you_. For the wonderful opportunity."

He almost got to ask her what she meant, but she was too quick. Years of hunting rats made her fast. The knife slid between his ribs so quickly that he almost didn't notice it. He did notice her stripping out as much paper as she could grab from his clothes.

"I once asked you how you expected me to live without welfare, when you cancelled the plan. I always remembered what you said," she said. "You said, 'I don't really care, you're a leach'. Words that stayed with me all these years. And now I get to cash in the ten billion dollar reward for you. Dead or alive." A smile like someone with all their worries taken away. "And frankly, _I don't really care_ which it is."

She pulled out the knife. Tied him like a hog and placed him in most of an old shopping trolley. The cold ate him as he bled onto the dirt. As the light faded away, he wondered, _What did I do to deserve this?_

He could have looked all around himself, upon his works, and despaired.

#  Challenge #198: Kind and Dangerous Stranger

Never annoy a sleeping dragon, for you are fat and crunchy, and taste good with BBQ sauce!

At first, she thought it was a lava flow. One of those ones where the lava ran under a relatively whole, cooler skin. It was warm enough to be one. Then she noticed the way it flexed rhythmically, and realised that, in fact, this was a sleeping dragon. Fire was their element and this black-scaled beauty was no different. Their skin luminesced as they breathed in.

Which would have been fascinating if she wasn't so hopelessly lost. Or that this was the third time she had come across the same sleeping dragon. Or that her food hadn't run out a long time ago and she didn't know what was edible down here[57]. In fact, Blase had lots of reasons to not be fascinated and none of them were remotely happy.

At least this time, she had found the dragon on a level where she could approach them. Their skin was warm, but not burning. Slightly uncomfortably warm, in fact, which was a welcome change from cold, dank caves full of slippery moss. Blase could feel her toes thawing, and tried not to make a noise as she crept over the dragon's hide to their massive head.

That head was as big as her house. The dragon could swallow her in one bite if it so wanted. And dragons were reputed to wake only when they were hungry. Blase tried not to think about it as a choice between instant death and slow death by exposure and starvation. Either option was not her preferred choice. But this was a desperate time indeed, and this was a desperate measure.

She stood in front of the dragon's nostrils. Let them smell her. After three breaths, she began to sing.

Blase was never a good singer. She never charmed a bird out of a tree. She never enraptured a unicorn. She couldn't even call the cows in. At church, she was always told to sing along, but not sing to be heard. But she also knew that music had charms to tame a savage beast. Or breast. She never was quite certain.

And at any rate, she had little left to lose.

And little skill at rhyming.

"Awake and be kind, have the presence of mind, to consider this poor lonely wretch," she sang. "I only fell down, deep here underground, an exit's all I want to fetch..." her voice died in her throat as the dragon's head moved. An eye as big as a pig was staring at her.

"You're too scrawny to eat," the dragon decided.

Blase curtseyed, "Please forgive me," she said, getting her begging done first. "Only I can't any way out of these caverns and I'm fair starving and I don't think there's any other chance save for asking directions and this is the fifth time I found my way to you but not a way out." The last sentence came out as one word. "And I'm very sorry for waking you up but you're the only creature I've seen that I know can talk and please don't eat me."

The dragon yawned. A mouth wider than the nearest city's gates, teeth taller than some trees she knew. The forked tongue was bigger than the family bed back home. But the mouth closed and the dragon blinked muzzily at her. "Ah. A lost soul. Never fear. Climb my head and hang on to it. I shall take you outside.

She had heard the story of the snake and the wasp, but Blase had little to lose. The dragon was warm and her clothes were thin. There were spikes that made a decent post to cling to. Beyond that, it was a blur of motion and yelping after the stalactites had passed.

There was sunshine. And fresh air. And a warm breeze. And a few sheep grazing nearby.

She slid off the dragon's head onto the firm grass around her. She wanted to weep. "Thank you," she said. "I don't know how to repay you." This was nowhere near her home, but she didn't care. She would find someone charitable enough to give her a bowl of stew. And maybe a job.

"If you can, when you can, send a sheep or a cow down this hole. And do put some markers up so that others don't fall down by accident. I do like my sleep."

There is a little village where they say the shepherd's wife came out of nowhere and swore she had ridden on the head of a dragon. It was later revealed that she came from a village miles distant, on the other side of the mountains. There, she had vanished without a trace. She was not special. Nor enchanted. She was quite boringly ordinary. Except that she had ridden on a dragon and lived to tell the tale.

[57] Some schools of philosophy state that everything is edible, it's just that lots of things are edible only once. This is most definitely not helpful to anyone who is as lost as our hero.

#  Challenge #199: Explosive Egress

[Scientist #1): Where'd you get plastic explosives?

[Scientist #2): Made it.

[#1): It'll work?

[#2): See, you don't worry if explosives work. You worry if they'll work too much.

V'tez considered their options. The downside of this situation was that they were trapped by a meteor impact and all methods of communication were cut off. There was only so much air, even in their livesuits. The odds of the ERT's finding them in time were remote.

And V'tez was working with Human Rik, the only staff-member crazed enough to work with volatile chemicals. Come to think of it, making explosives was probably a relaxing break from Interestingly Dangerous Rocket Fuel[58]. At least plastic explosive was stable until set off with a charge. In fact... making things explode _on cue_ was more or less Human Rik's area of expertise.

"I would be more concerned with it not working," confessed V'tez, "but this is _you_ we are talking about. Can you be certain it works as expected?"

"That's why I'm shaping the charge," said Human Rik. "We have a much lower atmosphere on the other side of the deadfall, so the vacuum should take care of the loose debris for us. Make climbing up and out so much easier." Seemingly finished with the explosives, Human Rik heated a piece of metal sheet over the bunsen burner and then hammered at it with another piece of metal from the deadfall. The result was a lumpish floral shape dished in the centre. Into which Human Rik crammed the explosive, and a long string that Human Rik had been soaking in a specific solution of nitric acid, sulfuric acid, and baking soda.

V'tez watched from a place of definite safety as Human Rik set it up and lit the other end of the long string.

"Fire in the hole," cooed Human Rik and giggled as he joined all the others in their shelter.

There was not quite a boom. The air rushing out quickly muffled both the boom and the fires as the explosion did its deadly work. There was, indeed, a new tunnel through the deadfall, which V'tez helped shepherd the others through while Human Rik rendered all the remaining lab equipment safe.

Needless to say, the ERT's were both digging in the wrong area and totally surprised to see them out.

[58] Which is really a superfluous term, considering that all rocket fuel is both interesting and dangerous. And dangerously interesting.

#  Challenge #200: Failed Exploratory Mission 746

**Panic** is for when the **crisis** has passed.

The human had her under their arm like a sack of grain. Which is about all that Zarkak felt ze had to contribute to the continuing shenanigans. Right now, the human was running at full speed towards the Vorax line with one arm outstretched before them and the speakers in their livesuit on so that the Vorax could hear the battle cry.

One day, in much quieter times, Zarkak would find out the answers to certain things. Starting with the human's name. Ze could not read the Terran sound-glyphs that made up the name tag on the human's livesuit. Also, Zarkak would find out the true meaning of, " _I'll rip yer bloody arms off, mathafukuz_!"

But right at this moment, Zarkak was busy shrieking in distress and occasionally attempting to shoot hir stunner at any Vorax that registered in hir field of vision.

The human kicked a Vorax in the thorax and shouted in GalStand, " _Panic_ is for when the _crisis_ has passed!"

Zarkak fought to answer in GalStand. The compulsion to scream in hir native tongue was strong indeed. "We are boarding a _Vorax_ ship! I am saving time!"

"It's the only one we've got," said the human, and shot a Vorax crewmember before kicking the lax body down the boarding ramp. They put Zarkak down on the deck. Handed hir a human weapon. "Green means good to shoot. Aim at the Vorax trying to come in. Don't shoot my friends." And then they took a large and violent-looking Vorax weapon down from the rack with a cackle.

According to the human's rule, Zarkak would not be allowed to panic until ze was safely back on the station ze and hir exploratory crew had started from.

#  Challenge #201: The Motivation Game

"Please do not destroy the irreplaceable magical artefacts, no matter how annoying they are,"

The Orb of Vexation chortled at Verski. With a sigh of regret, Verski put it back onto its cushion and re-sealed the Gate of Infinity. Finally, he turned to his tutor and said, "But _why_?"

"Aw, da diddle baba gonna cry," said the Orb of Vexation. "Waaaah, waaah."

Maester Kalrix conjured Cone of Silence over the Orb. "No matter how trying they are, these are important relics of a day gone by. They can teach us many things. They can motivate us to new levels of accomplishment." At this point, Maester Kalrix angled a pointed glare at the lock that Verski had melted in order to enter the Vault. She raised an eyebrow at Verski, who cringed. "And they show us what we can accomplish if we strive to be like the ancients."

"An orange ball that exists just to annoy people?"

"A cogniscent artefact that can read living things around it like a book, home in on that which irritates, and use that to accomplish anger from those living things. And, more to the point, it is almost indestructible and self-repairing."

"Someone must have really hated the world in order to create it," muttered Verski.

A rare smile graced Maester Kalrix's thin lips. "That may be so. But in the process of education requires that we find that which motivates our students. Love, hate, ambition..." another glance at the Orb, which was making faces, "spite. Whatever works to move us forward." She escorted Verski out into the hallways, conjuring a new lock out of the slag of the old one. "And I admit that an hour in the same chamber as the Orb of Vexation has proven to be a most efficacious punishment."

Verski's stomach sank. "I'm in that much trouble?"

Maester Kalrix let him stew for a minute. "No. But you are going to write a treatise on how you managed to melt an unmeltable lock. With full analysis."

Verski would have moaned about that, but since the alternative was time with the Orb... he wisely took the punishment initially given.

#  Challenge #202: Conceptual Difficulties

Defying the Gods is an age-old tradition. How well it WORKS depends on who's telling it...

"We're having difficulty understanding this," said Sherlock.

"I sympathise," said Rael. "I'm having difficulty understanding it myself, and I was there to witness it."

"We have the footage and the audio, of course," Sherlock played it on one of his multiple screens. "She had a permit for incense and steam[59]. What was she doing with them?"

"Blessing them, sir. And using them to bless the air and the water. It was... a viral blessing, as I understand it. Everything the blessing touched, spread the blessing to everything _it_ touched. Animate or inanimate, sir. The best fit explanation I have is... she banished the alleged gods from our reality by... homeopathy."

"Homeopathy," Sherlock repeated.

Rael almost said 'aye'. It was astonishing how viral Shayde's speech patterns were. "That's the best fit I have, sir."

"This is the first time I've heard of homeopathic exorcism," he said. "Mind you, considering these... deities' reach... it makes sense that she'd concoct a system by which their banishment would spread everywhere that could plausibly contact her. Any hints that it's working?"

"Encounters have ceased," allowed Rael. "But there's still collisions with -er- 'bubble' realities. They're unpredictable and unavoidable."

"Hm," Sherlock snorted. Clearly recalling the one that left noodles all over three levels of the Elemeno. The Cleaners had had a heyday. As had some of the Skitties. "Keep close to her anyway. I know it's a pain to deal with them. And her. But you are our most resilient citizen and she... seems to be a trouble magnet."

Rael had nothing more to say than, "Yes, sir."

"At least try to prevent her from causing chaos in _this_ reality."

"Yes, sir." Rael moved to do so. He had been Dismissed.

[59] Because air quality is a vital necessity in an enclosed area like a space station.

#  Challenge #203: Damnit, Podsbury!

"Wait, do you mean you made a new friend, or you _made_ a new friend?"

"Uhh, the first one. Wait, no, the second one... Which one doesn't involve artificially crafted Lovecraftian horrors of medicine?"

"The second one," sighed Master Brubrik, "Does involve artificially crafted Lovecraftian horrors of medicine," she spared another glance at the thing on the slab. "Which of course means that _you_ mean the latter of those two options."

It had a tentacle wrapped around Podsbury's arm. "Daaaa deeeeee," it croaked.

"Uh. Yeah. Um. You know how I said I don't socialise well..."

"I recall vividly."

"And in order to pass the social section of this semester? And I need five people to talk to regularly? But... There's only four people in this entire town who could put up with me for an hour?"

" _Daaaaaa deeeeee..._ "

"Podsbury, you've created a child, not a friend."

"Children can be friends," argued Podsbury.

Master Brubrik glared at him. "We've discussed this, Podsbury..."

" _Daaaaa deeeeeeeee..._ "

"Oh. Right. The thing about appropriate social boundaries. Yeah. Um. I didn't know what else to do."

Master Bubrik could easily pity Podsbury when she wasn't being so exasperated with him. "There is a Parents of New Monsters support group that meets on Thursdays in the Very Re-enforced Playroom. Perhaps you can _meet_ a new friend there. You and your thing can expand your... social limits."

#  Challenge #204: What There is to Like

"Please be patient. Reality.exe has crashed and needs to be rebooted."

All things considered, there are better ways to discover that life is merely a simulation and reality is a figment of some mystery coder's imagination. Regardless of the methods of discovery, it is quite a momentous reveal. And more than open to chaos.

For all that potential, there was nothing. Not darkness. Not light. No shape or colour. Not even static. The people were not falling. They were not flying. There was no gravity. There was... nothing.

Just... minds. Suspended in the void.

"What happened?"

"Where are we?"

"What is this?"

"I can't feel my feet! I can't feel my feet!"

"Could you feel them before?"

"Uh... I... don't know. I never thought of it."

Please be patient. Reality.exe has crashed and needs to be rebooted.

"What was that?"

"Who was that?"

"Was that real?"

"Is this real?"

"Are _we_ real?"

The silence did not last long. The voices in the void didn't like the emptiness.

"Well, if we aren't real, how do you explain what we can hear?"

"You know... I'm not that creative. I couldn't make this up. I don't think I could make you up. So... we're real, but... reality isn't?"

"It seems that way. Unless we're separate files kept in a holding area until everything's restored."

"Thanks. I think I have enough doubt about my existence as it is."

"Sorry. I have a bad habit of thinking about things a lot."

"Can you at least try and think of something _positive_?"

"Well... the people running our program want it back. So they've put us somewhere where we can't come to harm. They care. Whoever and whatever they are... they care about us."

"Are we going to remember this when reality comes back?"

"I don't know. I hope so. I'd like to meet you when we have our reality back."

"Really? Nobody likes me in the real world. Well. Our real world."

"I'm in Des Moines."

"No way! I'm in Des Moines, too."

"I'm a barista there. My name's Shirly."

"Really? Which cafe?"

"Bean There Dun That, combo coffee shop and army surplus store."

"I'll look it up. I'm Dennis, by the way. How can I let you know I'm me?"

"Tell me...the vorpals are calling."

Dennis got to say, "Vorpals," before the world blinked back on. Gravity. Air. A body that lived. Sound and sensation and everything just as it was before things went... into the void. His phone was still his phone, and he used it to google Bean There Dun That.

He didn't know what he wanted with her, but he knew that a thank-you was a good start.

Everyone was going about their day as if they were in a dream. Everyone had that dazed look on their faces. Dennis could understand why. He probably had the same look on _his_ face. But finding Shirly and thanking her for what she'd done was... It was important.

Bean There Dun That was all the way on the other side of town from his usual stomping ground. There was a retro vinyl store on one side and a Goodwill store on the other. The air was redolent with caffeine, sugar, and tunes from the Dinosaur Era. And it was full of the type of people he'd been raised to despise. Modern weirdoes, foreign weirdoes... and _queers_.

He came up to the counter. "Is Shirly working here, today?"

The goth on the other side said, "Yeah...?"

"Can you tell her that Dennis is here and he says... 'the vorpals are calling'. Those exact words, please."

"Dennis?" said her voice behind him.

She was everything he had hated before... whatever it was. She was fat. She was foreign. And he was pretty certain she was not quite a woman - with or without The Operation. But then he remembered that she was the only voice in the void that had had anything reassuring to say.

"I wanted to thank you," he said, and he meant it. "In the void, we were all voices. Yours... You stopped be being scared. And I wanna hang on to that."

She looked scared. "I hope you do. You look exactly like the kind of guy who'd beat me up for breathing."

He shrugged. He did. And he would have... before. "Like you said. They care. So... maybe we should start?" He scratched at his buzz cut. Blushing. "Um. Wanna go somewhere together? I could... buy you a coffee?" _Idiot! She works in a coffee shop!_

She was starting to not be scared of him. "Coffee sounds cool, actually."

All around the world, little pockets of hate were dissolving. All because they had spent some time with nothing to tell each other apart.

#  Challenge #205: High Risk Employment

Beware the old ones in a profession where one dies young

Fast reflexes, an almost preternatural awareness of one's surroundings, instincts like a knife blade. These are the things that make a good asteroid runner. Being able to get in, snag the asteroid, and get out without causing orbital upsets in one's wake is a skill that one only has to get wrong once for a life and a career to be over.

It's a job for the young and the fast. For those with twitch reflexes and the kind of peripheral vision that the phrase "eyes in the back of their head" was invented for.

And then there's Old Barnaby.

He's been an asteroid runner for thirty years, far longer than most others have been _alive_. Asteroid running is a high-stakes, high pay, and high mortality occupation. A statistical outlier like Old Barnaby is one that gets everyone's notice. He stands out at the rec room where all the young ones gather. A man twice, sometimes three times their age, knocking down the usual heart-stopper fare that, though ill-advised, is allowed for asteroid runners because they usually die young.

Noobs ask him if he's a Lucker.

Old Barnaby makes them buy him a beer before he answers, "Nope. Been tested 'n' all. Not a scrap of the Luck Gene, me. What I do have is math."

And that's when Old Barnaby stops talking until the noob buys him a Depth Charge Burger[60] to go with the beer. Once past the first three bites, he says, "Back when I was doing my learning, I managed to absorb orbital physics. Branded into my brain. Only thing that stuck, really." Another two bites. "So all I do is take the numbers from my scanners and take the rock that's the least trouble. Just like playing pick-up sticks or Jenga. You don't go for the ones that're gonna make the whole thing fall over. So to speak."

Old Barnaby ruined the Galactic phrase, "There are no old asteroid runners." And changed it to, "There are young and bold asteroid runners, there are old and cautious asteroid runners. There are no old and bold asteroid runners." Which is much more to say, but still a concise lesson in doing one's job properly.

[60] Beans and Chili are involved. And way too much cheese.

#  Challenge #206: Good For What Ails You

Two words:- Chicken Soup. – Anon Guest

Of all the dick moves that Wave of the Future performed, releasing a virus into the populations of Faiize had to be the worst. They did not, according to the press release, intend it to be deadly. Nobody believed them. The only proof, so far, was that none of the Faiize had died from it.

So far.

Rael couldn't rest in his tank for very long. He kept his home hothouse warm for comfort and had high-calorie meals delivered to his door.

Shayde turned up with the latest boxed Bad Day Blowout. She had a gigantic stock pot on a cart and an annoyingly cheerful smile.

"You are not what I ordered," he croaked, taking the box from her hands.

"Aye, but I'm comin' about with a little somethin' because we're friends." She pushed the cart inside anyway and hefted the pot onto his cooktop. "No matter how awful you're feelin', there's nowt much else guaranteed tae make ye feel better'n a nice, steamin' bowl of chicken soup."

"There's nothing that can be done for me," Rael sighed. "Wave of the Future figured out that it's cheaper to execute us by weaponized virus. When I die, gather my remains and shoot them into a stellar nursery."

"Yer no' goin' tae die," singsonged Shayde. "You got yerself a bad 'flu. Eat yer dessert, there. This'll take a while t' warm up." Finished with setting up the stock pot, she added pillows to his current place of misery, then fluffy blankets. Then she turned his personal entertainment system into his favourite Public Education station. Where a soothing voice explained things in simple words without insulting anyone's intelligence. Laid over a visual that showed viewing audiences what the calm and soothing voice was explaining. She made up a liquid silicone mix with his favourite additives and poured him a glass. "I always hated bein' alone when I was sick."

Oh. She was offering comfort and succour. This wasn't one of her 'moves'. "I'm not very sociable, right now."

"Of course not. Yer sick." She sat nearby and watched the Eastern Elephant-nosed Shrew going about its life cycle. As he finished off his boxed meal, she got up and messed about in the kitchen. Bringing back a large bowl of steaming liquid.

At least it promised to be warm. He swapped his empty container for her full one and slowly imbibed. The heat helped. The steam didn't do much but help heat his minimalist head. There was nothing special to it. Just... chicken soup. Shayde had added cream because he craved calories, and matzoh balls because of tradition.

Despite the mundanity of the food, it made Rael feel better about his place in the universe, and optimistic about his future fate. He wasn't cured, not by a long shot, but he felt a lot better about being sick for the first time in his life.

He actually felt able to help himself to a second bowl.

Shayde was smirking when he returned to his misery nest on the couch. "Jewish penicillin," she said. "Works all the time."

Rael declined to comment, but he did insist she share the recipe with the other sick Faiize.

#  Challenge #207: Being the Wrong Colour

What is it about pigmentation that automatically makes you a target?

"Now. When you see a policeman, we...?"

"Take our hands out of our pockets," murmured Paul.

"Good, and...?"

"Show no fear." Paul practiced his blank face. "Look at their face, but not in their eyes. And if I have a phone, press the panic button app."

"Good boy," Aunty Shannon kissed his brow. Tidied his clothes again despite the fact that he was already neat as a pin. "If they want to see inside your backpack, you let them. Don't say anything about what's in there. Just 'yes sir' or 'no sir' or 'yes maam' or 'no maam'."

Paul nodded. This was serious stuff. He was only five. "Aunty Shan? Why do we gotta be so careful? What'd we do wrong?"

"Why do we _have_ to be so careful," Aunty Shannon corrected. "It's because the kind of people who used to own us don't like it when we rise to their level of luxury. They don't like us being close. They don't like us having any kind of freedom, like them, so they find ways to keep us scared. Killing us for imagined crimes is just one way among many."

Paul looked at the sideboard, where a small shrine to his parents lay. Papa had been shot to death when he was just a baby. Mama had been shot just a year ago. The policemen who had shot them both had had a paid holiday and a minor fine. Justifiable shooting, they had said. He still didn't understand how the policemen could be afraid of Mama and Papa like that.

Aunty Shannon always insisted that Paul pose with his arms stiff by his sides and his hands flat against his legs. So the news couldn't make like he was throwing a gang sign. Paul was always clean and neat. Or as clean and neat as a five-year-old child could be.

"I can walk you to the bus stop," Aunty Shannon offered, obsessively smoothing Paul's hair. "I have keyword recognition on my phone."

Paul's was a Junior model, and did not have Aunty Shannon's features. "Thank you."

They walked out onto the streets. Hand in hand. Carefully keeping to the measured pace that was not lingering nor too fast. Trying to look like innocent people despite the colour of their skin.

The Volnati were purple, and they ran everything. Anyone who wasn't purple was automatically a criminal element. Human enslavement was allegedly over hundreds of years ago, but you wouldn't believe it by the way the Volnathi behaved.

#  Challenge #208: Favourite Flavour

Auto Condimenter.

The habits of humans fascinated Zyrik. It was why she went into food services, so she could study them in an environment where she would be invisible. She made Time off her anthropology as well as bussing tables, but anthropology was her chief area of fascination.

This latest example was a freight trucker fresh off their rig, sitting down to a big plate of deep fried potato prisms. The plate was already loaded with the house gravy, but this human decided that ze needed more. First, they bombarded the plate with salt. Then pepper. Then a thick, red sauce. A thick, yellow sauce. And finally, sauce from a bottle that had so many warning labels on it that it had to be the legendary sriracha. All this without eating a single prism.

The human appeared to be using the fried potato prisms as a vehicle for devouring the condiments. The steak arrived -tube grown, of course, the kitchens couldn't afford natural beef- and the human performed the same ritual. Salt. Pepper. Red sauce. Yellow sauce. Sriracha.

Zyrik sidled up to Shayde, who was introducing her good friend Rael to a Terran dish called Poutine. "My pardons, Ambassador...?"

"Aye? Whazzup?"

"That human over there," Zyrik indicated where the human was. They were busily performing their ritual on a bowl of innocent vegetables. "What are they doing?"

Shayde looked. "Looks like autocondimentin' tae me."

"Auto... condimenting?"

"Aye. Automatically addin' condiments no matter what th' food tastes like. If it has a taste a' all. Betcher if he has dessert 'e adds sugar, cream, an' a compote." She considered the spectacle of the trucker. "Surprised he has'nae buried it in horseradish, me."

And then another server arrived at the trucker's table with a gigantic bowl of shredded horseradish. Which was split into even thirds for each plate.

Shayde muttered a prayer to her ancient god.

Zyrik was inclined to agree.

#  Challenge #209: Incident at the Old Mating Grounds

Lizards attract mates differently, no flowers etc. So, how do the Amalgam lizards court? One of the local species here climbs to a prominent spot, poses and nods. – Anon Guest

They called it Crestflare Bridge, and it had an unparallelled view of the Free Table Vendor area below. Tradition held that the tables would never have shaded covers. Because the females of assorted lizard species liked looking on the displaying males as they cruised between vendors.

Even now, centuries after the years when only reptiles and saurians walked the corridors of Amalgam Station, the railings of Crestflare Bridge are kept clear of all but those seeking to impress a mate. Thusly, all the buskers, mimes, and illusionists plying their trade on that bridge are not only single, but also seeking a mate.

Most will even wear some form of signal to indicate what sort of mate they're looking for.

And in the middle of the bridge, where a knot of Security Personnel were clogging foot traffic, Ambassador Shayde was wearing hancuffs and seething in fury so hard that her hair might ignite. Also in the throng was an unsuspecting human male who was busy getting an orbital contusion treated[61].

Rael sidled his way through the throng. "Officer Marken! I swear I only turned my back on her for a minute..."

Shayde, still new to the way everything was run, protested, "I jus' wanted tae play me axe and this [OBSCURE EXPLETIVE] comes up an' puts 'is hand on me arse... O' course I hit him."

Rael almost groaned. This was going to take _hours_ to explain.

[61] For the less well-read, that means he has a black eye.

#  Challenge #210: Don't Kill Us Yet

In the immortal words of Genghis Khan: "U Wot M8?"

The Doctor slowly turned their head to glare at their new companion.

"What?" said Kylie.

"All of time and space. All of existence. All of... everything... and _you_ take the first opportunity to tell a historically inaccurate joke."

"Life is unfair," said Kylie. "The only revenge is laughing at it."

"Now _that_ sounds more like Genghis," said the Doctor.

Meanwhile, the Majestrix was contemplating them as anyone would contemplate flies on the dinner table whilst reaching for the flyswatter. "Are you _quite_ done?" she sighed. Nations had learned to fear that sigh. It had meant the ruins of millions.

The Doctor clapped once. "Yes, I rather think we are. And let me say that, though it's a privilege to be executed by the most feared and loved ruler in the known cosmos," The Doctor ignored Kylie's objectioning cry, "I must say now that such an action would be ill-advised in the extreme. I happen to be the sole survivor of the Time Lords, _and_ the only one who can help you with your little problem."

The Majestrix blinked a slow blink. Unimpressed. "Then I only need you. Your... companion... is of no use to me. We'll execute _her_. And _you_ will solve the Panaprexus."

"You do and I won't," The Doctor grinned that special grin. It said, "I have all the cards now, _and_ your pants. And if you're lucky, I won't make you walk home in a fig leaf." All without a single word.

The Majestrix was not amused.

#  Challenge #211: Friendly Welcome

"Oh, and if you have to ask yourself, is (Person] fucking with me? The answer is always yes," he says, and ahead of them (Person] cackles and gives a little fistpump in the air.

Most humans, when elevated to the status of Ambassador, acquire an air of caution. A weight to their words as if they know that they hold the fate of their homeworld in their hands. Almost all of them approach becoming an Ambassador as cautiously as they would approach a beanbag stuffed with angry, venomous snakes.

And then there's the N'Oz Ambassador Yani Diakui. There have only been three occasions, so far, during her tenure when she was _not_ smiling, and one of those was when she dropped off to sleep during a particularly dull part of the Meet. For the rest of it... the people she stopped smiling at definitely found themselves in deep trouble.

N'Oz is a Class Five Deathworld. Mess with its residents and you're sticking your hand into a bag of scorpions. That said, the N'Ozzies are easily the coolest and most collected members of the human colonies. If it only wasn't for that thing of, you know, living on a _Class Five Deathworld_...

There's also the annoying N'Ozzie habit of Bullshitting. Telling tall tales without one hint[62] that they might not be any kind of factual. Even the highest-trained veriseer[63] has difficulty discerning when a N'Ozzie is Bullshitting.

Thusly, when the freshly-minted Ambassador for Nucalli had been listening to Ambassador Diakui for half an hour... he turned to his Galactic aide and asked, "Is she fucking with me?"

The aide in question regrettably answered, "Sadly, Ambassador Diakui can be assumed to be... 'fucking'... with everyone."

Ambassador Diakui cackled and pumped her fist in the air. "Too right," she cheered.

[62] One unconfirmed hint is that the tale-teller frequently uses phrases like, "straight up," "no lie," or other vows of honesty.

[63] An Esper with the ability to tell what is the unvarnished truth.

#  Challenge #212: Middle Finger to Fate

An appellation for a person or group of people: They Who Defy Fate

On the day that the children become adults, be it their first blood or their first chest hair, they are told their fate. Most resign themselves to it. Some... fight.

Rare are the ones who are successful, and fewer still are the ones who go courting it.

Helen was told by the village seer, "You will die childless, and surrounded by Imps." She did not resign herself to her fate. She did not fight it by girding on armour and learning to fight, or vowing to kill every Imp in her kingdom. Helen merely packed her things and went walking for the nearest mountains, because everyone knows that Imps live in mountain caverns.

If she was going to die _anyway_ , it made simple sense that she might as well get it over with. So, with nothing more than what she had, and the skills she carried in her head, she went looking for the Imp caverns.

Helen saw her first Imp when she was cooking herself some wild rabbit over her campfire, one evening. She had katniss 'potatoes' roasting in the coals and a great deal of forage in her cauldron. The Imp crept into the fire's light so slowly that Helen didn't notice until they were plainly visible.

"Hello," she cooed.

The Imp vanished inside a bush.

"I won't hurt you," said Helen. "And I have plenty of stew if you're hungry. The more we eat, the less I have to carry tomorrow." She'd carried extra clay bowls just in case one broke. Now one came from the depths of her pack to half-fill with stew. She fished the katniss out of the fire and scraped off the char and ash before adding one each to the bowls. Helen began whittling a spare spoon out of some of her firewood.

The Imp slowly crept up. "No hero?"

"No hero," she said. She was fated to die surrounded by Imps. That didn't seem very heroic.

The Imp tried to snag a piece of rabbit from the bowl, and hurt themselves.

Helen pressed the older spoon into their hand and helped them with the first use of it. "Like this, and blow some heat off it."

The Imp seemed greatly shocked that a human would help them like that.

Helen finished the new spoon while they were staring, scrubbing its carved surface with sand and washing it from her waterskin.

"Hard work?" said the Imp.

"Hard work," Helen agreed, finally getting to her share of the stew. "But it's worth it. Mama always said that the best work feeds another as well as yourself."

The Imp was named Grix, and she had gone out to fill her belly on whatever she could find. The things Helen taught her were new and strange and, she admitted, entrancing. Grix stayed around to learn from Helen how to find all the different kinds of forage and the basics of cookery. And then she vanished.

After a week of searching for Imp caverns, Grix returned with six friends. They had seen what Grix could do and wanted to learn. They showed Helen their hiding-cave and the small horde of maybe fifty Imps.

Helen had learned many things in her childhood. She knew how to make mud-ovens and spindles, and how to turn flax into cloth. She knew all the things that one could eat, that could be found in the forests. Especially the things you could eat if you were hungry enough, which was a boon in the first year. She knew how to make traps and weirs and baskets, because a girl's hands were not allowed to be idle.

All these things, she taught to the Imps.

In a year, they had worked out how to farm things together, and no longer needed the kind of forage that was harsh on the tongue. Helen worked out how to make a sort of paper from river reeds and brushes from rabbit fur or her own hair, and taught the Imps what she had learned about writing and numbers.

In the second year, they worked out buildings, mining, and fireplaces. The Imps flourished, and they made certain that Helen flourished, too.

She was almost one hundred when she finally breathed her last, in the city that she and her Imps had built. Helen couldn't help thinking that the soothsayer lied. She wasn't childless. All the Imps in her city were her babies.

#  Challenge #213: I Just Want a Hammer

It's not just one hammer - there's lots, and they're all different.

"Okay," Carol sighed, "I'm gonna need a hammer for this."

"What kind?" asked Brilmoth.

"What do you mean what kind? Just a hammer."

Instead of handing her a hammer, Brilmoth took her opportunity to elucidate at length. "Actually, there's more than one kind. Sledge, ball pein, claw, cross, straight pein, cross pein pin, joiner's, sports, soft-faced, power, battle, jeweller's, modeller's, tuning hammers..."

Carol climbed down from her ladder since it looked like Brilmoth wouldn't be finished any time soon. "Wait. Wait. _Tuning_ hammers?"

"You humans have tuning forks, no?"

It was moments like this that Carol was reminded how _different_ Brilmoth was. She was, essentially, a cogniscent plant. As were the rest of her people. Their technology curve had to match their unusual evolution. "Ye-es... but... _hammers_?"

"The hammer is the most useful tool for our people for thousands of years. Hundreds of thousands." She tried to mimic a human smile. Though the effort was heartening, the results... weren't. "We have discovered millions more uses for them than any other cogniscent race. We travelled to new lands with hammers."

Carol decided not to ask. Her imagination was giving her enough trouble with that sentence as it was. "Well... we've learned to get by with only a few." She got to the tool box and extracted a rather small claw hammer. "This is the only one I have."

Brilmoth boggled. "How did your species make it into space?"

#  Challenge #214: The Nut at the But

The way we use tools changes us. Anything from Sherlock Holmes to Tennis Elbow.

Shanna hadn't thought of being a superhero when the alien ship crash landed in the ghetto. She just knew that alien debris was worth big cash and rushed into the burning frame to grab the first thing that looked portable. And then she ran for safety before the Enforcers could get there and arrest everyone who was too slow.

She got away. Far away. Didn't take the object out of her backpack until she was in a safe place where none of the securicams could see her. It was round, and vaguely sticky, but only when it touched her skin. It would not adhere to anything else. Of course, Shanna tried to make it do things. Alien debris was way more valuable when it could do things.

Something like this could be her ticket out of this dump. She didn't know how right she was... but how wrong she was about the _way_ it would happen.

The Enforcers knocked on some of her neighbours' doors, and Shanna stuffed the disk down her shirt and into her bra. Which was a cheap, elastic sack with no underwires or contouring. If she'd had underwires, she might have died. Which was possibly the only time in her existence that her life was saved by her abject poverty.

The Enforcers knocked on her door and she barely had time to open it before they were ready with the ram. A thousand laser dots focussed on her chest and she could feel more than a few on her forehead. The Enforcers deliberately made them a little hot so they could intimidate the worthless with their authority.

Shanna knew the drill. Careful and slow. No sudden moves. Don't look them in the eye. Hands up but not too far up. Talk slow and civil and show your fear. They like the ones who look afraid. And then they slammed her against a wall. Frisked her. And tore what little she had apart. Shanna didn't resist. Answered all their questions. And let them beat on her like they would anyway.

When she came to, the disk had merged with her chest. She could point to things and repair them. She could fly. She could derive nourishment from the sun and the polluted air. She could extract and contain hazardous substances from anything. Including the city water, which was brown. And declared by all the people who could afford the pure water to be perfectly safe.

Shanna quickly realised that she'd never want to sell that disk, even if it was possible to tear it out of her flesh. It was worth too much to everyone around her. But she had to be smart about it.

She started with her block of flats. Repairing the elevator. Fixing the wobbly handrail that the absentee landlord hadn't fixed since possibly the revolution. Filling any empty bottle she found with water that she cleaned herself. And she removed the asbestos from the insulation and left it in the one dumpster that the city would always pick up.

Fixing the rest of the neighbourhood would have to be done in small doses. Without attracting the notice of the Enforcers. Who would see a flying black girl and shoot first.

Shanna worked in the day. Wearing street clothes and always carrying a parcel or a shopping bag. Everywhere she went, she left benefit in her wake. Small ones. A rotting step replaced with a new one. A cracked and dangerous linoleum patch restored to its former glory. And she took the poisons away from the buildings. Left them in dumpsters and trash bags so they could theoretically be collected by the sanitation workers.

It was when she saw five Enforcers beating on a child and yelled "Stop!" that Shanna discovered she could freeze people in place. She dragged the baby away from the brutes and lined the Enforcers up so they would be beating on each other if they un-froze. The un-freeze command was, "come on back," which she used on the little boy.

Shanna told him to go home, quick. She was not inclined to un-freeze the Enforcers. They thawed and hit each other after two hours. Which turned into a hit on the social media.

When she was finally discovered, they called her Repairz, and the Enforcers kept trying to stop her.

No matter how much money they offered, nobody in the ghetto wanted to collect it.

#  Challenge #215: Starter Fuel

The morning cup of coffee, the snack brought from the little shop nearby, whatever gets you going in the morning. – Anon Guest

It was a booth called, _Eat Drink Good Morning_ and there was one strategically placed in all the tram stops near residential areas. According to the advertising on its exterior, it boasted "everything you need to start your day".

Shayde decided to put that to the test. Besides, she'd had a horrible night and needed her variety of pick-me-up. Not the all-nighter special. She'd had that exactly once when she was fourteen and woken up in hospital a week later.

"What will it be, Ambassador?" said the server at the counter.

Shayde was ready. She'd been studying the menu. "Gimmie the biggest an' strongest super-caramel whip frappe ye got an' half a dozen scotch eggs. Wi' cream cheese sauce. Thanks."

The frappe was a solid liter and a half. Not counting all the whipped cream. And the scotch eggs were floating in an edible bowl half full of cream cheese. Shayde let them keep the change from an Hour. With her non-magical blessings.

The scotch eggs were _perfect_. The right amount of sausage mince. Perfectly crisp breading. And the cream cheese surrounding it was downright sinful. The frappe woke her with the cold and kept her upright with the pure sugar before the coffee kicked in. She ended up drinking half of it before she got to her office.

The only problem seemed to be that Rael couldn't understand her owing to the fact that she was talking too fast.

#  Challenge #216: Hobby Fallout

[Title: Obstacle Course] Some are carefully planned to stretch our physical strength. Some just happen.

Storm season on Hitizzy was never fun. Especially when the storms hit both in space _and_ on the surface of the planet. It was said that Hitizzy was a place everyone got into, once in a while, but the weather rarely got the people _in_ Hitizzy, into a tizzy. Except for this one time.

Everyone knew that attempts at weather control always ended badly, so the entire population, transient and non, hand bunkered down for the duration. Which was forecast to last for further weeks. Deliveries to domiciles were either by printer or subterranean pneumatic tube. Which meant that the food was fresh, as were the pre-recorded entertainments. And so long as there were plenty of activities to keep one sane, the population at large was more or less okay.

None of this explained why the furniture in this rented domicile had been reclaimed and replaced with numerous engine parts.

Ax'and'l picked his way around them. Every single one was surrounded by a chalk outline. It must have taken some time to do all this, and Ax'and'l didn't want to ruin any kind of hard work with a misstep.

The peculiar crime scene extended into Hwell's private space, where every loose piece of furniture had been replaced by this... three-dimensional exploded diagram. Hwell did not have his iconic, nearly-finished bottle of local hooch in the hand that dangled out of his sleep nook.

Since it was so rare to see him sober, especially during storm season, Ax'and'l gently nudged him.

"F'koff I jus' gotta beeeeed," Hwell whined.

Right. Ax'and'l crept back to the kitchen and started cooking some of yesterday's fresh eggs and bacon. One of Hwell's greatest temptations. He added vegetables for the human's welfare but, in obeissance to Hwell's preferences, fried them in a mixture of butter and sweet honey schnapps.

Ax'and'l just got done plating it as Hwell picked his way out of his private space.

"I flakkin' hate you..." he mumbled as he took the plate.

"What _is_..." he gestured at the scene, "this?"

Hwell ingested a strip of bacon, blinking muzzlily at his own work. "Ohyeah. I'm building a motorbike." He made his way to the room's curtains and pulled them aside. On top of the structural paper protecting the glass from the howling storm outside, was an enormous set of assembly instructions.

Instructions that looked a lot like the diagram on the floor. Things clicked into place. "Please tell me you didn't trade the hostellieries' furniture for these motorbike parts?"

Hwell oozed sarcasm, "Yes, Oh treasured partner, I'm a complete moron. No. I put them into the storage buffer and used my fun money for this lot."

Ax'and'l whipped out his dataviewer and brought up the calendar app.

"What are you doing?"

"On this day, Hwell Barrow went through a complete, rational thought process," dictated Ax'and'l. "Set reminder."

Hwell hopscotched his way back to bed, middle finger raised at Ax'and'l.

#  Challenge #217: More Than You Need to Know

"Of course it's a work of Art. Nobody understands what it is. – Anon Guest

It was large. It was made of an assortment of materials. It was in the centre of the room, and therefore important. And it moved in the breeze. Sails and counterbalances shaped and painted like planets swung about in orbits devised by, apparently, one of the few minds who could understand five-dimensional mathematics[64].

Alas, this was a Graveworld. The society these people had built had also collapsed under its own weight. Or its own social burdens. Whatever had wiped them out, it left the buildings and the infrastructure mostly intact. And amazingly free of attempts by Nature to overwhelm it. Erosion had done its work to some of it, but the plant life stayed away.

"I've cracked it," cheered B'naz, their expert in xenoliteracy. "I've got their language and phonemic encoding."

"Well? What does this say it is?" asked the team leader Kortan.

"Untitled, artist unknown," read B'naz. "Found inside a warehouse in the unemployables ghetto when it was slated for demolition. Materials unknown, but some of the armatures are made out of Damascus steel, meaning that the creator rediscovered the secret, as a savant, and likely took it to their grave."

Kortan waited. "Is there more?"

"Just which building company donated it, Ma'am. Nothing more about the creator."

Suspended planets wheeled and turned in the breeze. Of all the corroded works in the remains of this gallery, this one had stood the test of time and the elements

[64] Three of those minds aren't allowed to have sharp objects lest she hurt herself.

#  Challenge #218: Dangerous Reading

(Person #1) rolled their eyes. "Just get on with the research you're not even meant to be doing, (Person #2)."

Certain words are signs of certain doom. These include, "I think I know where I went wrong," in experimental laboratories, and "hold my beer," anywhere that humans tend to gather. In the libraries of Vastarixus, the words are. "Oooooohhh... Oh! Oh this is so cool!"

Grand Librarian Farltha hurried as fast as her old legs could carry her to the source of the excited voice. Not to shush them. though that was on the agenda, but to find out what they had discovered and, if possible, stop them.

Just as she thought. _Barkley_.

Every place of learning has one or two of them. Students whose names become italicised owing to their reputation. For the _Jasons_[65] of this world, it's because of their panache at getting into, getting out of, and doing the things that no regular student should be able to do. But, once in a rare while, you get the kind of student whose boundless enthusiasm for learning is both a joy and a terror to behold.

That... was _Barkley_.

She was, of course, surrounded by tomes from the restricted sections. A privilege she had earned by reading and providing in-depth analyses of every other book known to the libraries of Vastarixus. And, the committee of educators had to agree, it was better than seeing what she'd get up to if she was _bored_.

Daisy _Barkley_ was making notes as fast as she could write, which was very fast indeed. So fast that she had invented a pencil that was all graphite, so she could keep writing no matter what. She was referring to four books at once with her clean hand[66] whilst the other one, nearly black with graphite, continued writing.

Farltha waited just inside _Barkley's_ field of view. Even if something was going to explode, it never hurt to let a student finish their thought.

"Oh, hello," said _Barkley_. As bright and seemingly innocent as a sack of new pennies falling from the highest tower. "I _was_ trying to find out about relative decay rates in various climates, but then I found Stygian..."

Oh Gods and little fishes. _Stygian_.

"...which lead me to remember something by Catafalque about the combinations of certain chemicals and metals. Um. Long story short," her clean hand gestured at the long story, "I think I may have figured out a way to propel a man all the way to the moon."

"And bring him back?" prompted Farltha.

_Barkley_ frowned. "Why would I want to do _that_? The first dozen ought to provide enough deterrent."

Farltha rolled her eyes. "Just get on with the research you're not even meant to be doing, Barkley."

[65] Sincere apologies to any innocent Jasons. If such people exist.

[66] There _were_ drawbacks.

#  Challenge #219: Rockit Launch 'n' BBQ

Actual thing said over the ruins of a test engine that had found a new fuel mix too spicy for it: "Whall, rocket fuel is kinda like a chain saw. If it warn't dangerous, it wouldn't be very useful."

People make assumptions. That much was natural. You see the way someone dresses. You hear the way they speak. You assume things about the rest of them. Most of those things are wrong. Katie Walker had learned this and used it to her advantage. Keeping her Welsh accent was part of it. So was wearing Mary Janes and the socks with the frills on top. Combined with loose jeans and a nerdy shirt, it threw everyone off their guard.

And then she met Professor Eugene Skrunk. She was lost. He was taking rocket parts out of a trailer covered with warning stickers. He said, "Hey, li'l lady? Y'all got a minute."

He talked like he'd just had a big ole helpin' of 'Momma's Possum Surprise Stoo' and washed it down with a quart of genuine moonshine. On the other hand, he dressed like the biggest nerd on the planet. Black-rimmed spectacles and all.

Katie checked her watch. "I got half an hour if ye tell me th' quickest way tae th' Advanced Physics labs."

He grinned and laughed. "Yer a student here. Well grease mah grits an' call me Alice." He gestured her over. "I got me one hum-dinger of a rockit 'spuriment. Tryin' me a new fuel that can be or-ganic'ly sourced frum corn."

Katie couldn't help smiling in return. "I ken yuir playin' oop tha' accent tae see how I judge ye. Let's ge' on wi' it, aye? Ye want I should carry th' milk crates?"

"Yer gud, kid," this, she would learn later, was the highest praise from Professor Skrunk. "Y'all ever wanna shoot fer Mars, look me up."

There was a clearing where the burned patch surrounded an area of concrete that had turned into glass. Several other nerds had apparently appeared for the sadistic appreciation of the oncoming spectacle.

"Y'all got hands, move your asses an' help set me up in hyar."

Two dozen of them swarmed for the trailer. A further half dozen took parts and begun assembly. One remained in his deck chair and swigged his beer.

That was the one who said, "You got that from your brother, I bet."

"How much ye bet?" challenged Katie.

He pulled out his wallet and counted his notes. "Got me... hunnert bucks. Names and ranks of the Enterprise Bridge crew."

Katie took a deep breath, "Captain James Tiberius Kirk, Lieutenant-Commander Spock, Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, Ensign Pavel Chekov. Ask me a hard one."

"Awright. Name four shuttlecraft on the Enterprise."

"Columbus, Copernicus, Einstein, Galileo." She didn't miss a beat. "I said a _hard_ one."

"Spock's parents."

"Sarek and Amanda." Katie held out her hand. "And me brother's eight. He'll be gettin' this shirt from _me_."

He handed the money over. And complained to everyone who wasn't listening about how this 'little kid' scammed him for a hundred dollars.

Professor Skrunk escorted her to her ultimate destination because the dude started to follow her and demand his money back.

#  Challenge #220: Worth of a Rat

[Asked to apprentice under a powerful, but poor, magic-user - their response]

[Mage] Hm... Okay, but I can only pay you in unimaginable power.

[Prospective Apprentice] That works.

The child was outside her tower again. _Humming_. Not any particular tune, no, just an aimless grind of voice that was like a slow-turning belt sander against the soul. It was persistently annoying enough for her to disrupt her experiments and take the journey down to ground level.

"Didn't I tell you to bugger off last week?" she asked.

The same grimy, skinny, sore-infested child as last week said, "I needs a job. Nowt'll take me. So's I wanna learn here."

And the rest of the week, Magecrafter Lyn assumed, this child was of bothering other masters in the nearby towns. A cycle that had taken this whelp a month or two, to Lyn's recollection. And next week they would be back. Humming to gain her attention.

Well. Her experiments today were ruined anyway. She focussed and summoned her purse down from the upstairs bedroom. Affixed it to her belt. "I can't buy you much, understand, but I can at least get you a bath and some clothes that aren't inhabited before you set foot in my home. After that, you live on whatever I live on. I can only pay you in knowledge and power."

The ragged child stood awkwardly on their blistered feet. Some form of shoes would have to be in the bargain as well. Smith the cobbler owed her a few favours. "You walked all the way here with feet like that?"

"An' back th' next day," said the child. "There's a river near. Sometimes I get me a fish as I soak me feet."

"That will not do," announced Lyn. She cast her mind about and found the nanny goat belonging to Carter the baker. Summoned it to her and kept it in a thrall. Otherwise the vicious thing would have kicked them both to death. Lyn seated the child on its back and started the walk to the nearest town. "Do you have a name?"

Shrug. "All call me Rat, m'm. On count of hows I grew in the garbage like a rat."

That wouldn't do, either. "I have a large book full of names in my library. You can pick one out of there. And on the day you decide, that shall be your birthday. Assuming you don't already have one?"

Rat shook their head.

"How old are you?"

A shrug. "Remember me three snows."

So they were six. Or as young as five. Prentices usually attached to their masters at around the age of seven, but this scrap of humanity had no other options. Lyn lead them on to a brighter and longer future. "Let's begin by teaching you a more educated way of talking..."

#  Challenge #221: Mind the Gap

A purpose isn't much of a comfort when there's no satisfaction to be found in it.

Some people have a grand purpose. They save the universe. They save lives. They even save Time. Most of them save the day. Then there's the people who don't save anyone. Their purpose... my purpose... is to fill the little gaps.

My name is Binraise, and I'm a third-level Administration Clerk.

It's my job to read profiles and recommend courses of action that could help people. But not in the big ways, like extra Time or a new vessel could do. I don't change lives. I'm part of the safety net. I'm society's... 'spak filla', to use one of Ambassador Shayde's idiosyncratic and apt metaphors. I make sure that people don't fall through the cracks unless they actively go burrowing for them. Which leads me to discuss the case of Mother Kyerr.

We would eventually learn that her name is Lin Carisdotter, but at the time she was another nameless, undocumented transient in the Labyrinth. One who had boarded the station days ago and bypassed the station's usual hazard checks.

I was her case manager. All I had to go on was a few minutes of airlock footage and glimpses on security cameras. And then she went into the access vents and vanished. I watched the Medik files for any outbreaks, but she seemed to be healthy. She was also very young and very pregnant. I had JOATs in the immigration districts scouring the tunnels for her. Trying to get any gossip about a newcomer with or about to have a baby.

Amalgam Station is huge. There's areas where people don't believe that they're living inside a station. People who've never known anything more than their immediate neighbourhood. There are access tunnels and empty spaces that have been that way since before the Galactic Alliance formed. No-one has been able to completely map it, because it is always changing. And there are some areas that, frankly, it's dangerous to go into.

The JOATs raised some Time for her, and I held it in escrow until she was found.

The scut section of Recycling saw a very pregnant and small woman handling the non-toxic line, but by the time anyone could investigate, she was gone. She never visited the same Recycling section twice, the footage was unreliable. We had biometrics, but that just fit her description. We couldn't confirm it was her and, worse, she had a great fear of any cameras and avoided them.

And then there was the horrifying week in which all trace of her vanished completely. There was a newborn, hours old, left inside a peach crate at Veet Station 41118. She'd stolen a towel to wrap the baby in, from the Left Fin Ritz Rest, but there was no matching footage of her on the hotel cams. Laundry Services, another transient-friendly work arena, didn't have cameras on anything more than their entrances and exits.

Again, nothing more than a biometric match.

Since the baby was temporarily logged as Peaches Kyerr, my unknown transient got retroactively named Mother Kyerr. I had secretly named her Misi. Because she was missing.

Another host of JOATs adopted Peaches and invested in a fund for her, but I was worried about Mother Kyerr. Humans a deathworlders. Even giving birth can kill them.

It was not me who found her, but she was found. She wanted to keep her daughter, so the funds for Mother Kyerr and Peaches Kyerr were pooled into the renamed Carinsdotter fund. I could finally do my job and make sure that she had a family abode and a community of support.

I love the happy endings.

Most of the time? I just get yelled at. If I get any notice at all.

#  Challenge #222: A Little Lesson

[Title: There's a cat in the box!] River and the TARDIS have decided the Doctor can stand to learn some humility.

The TARDIS, when she briefly had a humanoid body, said that she didn't have speech capabilities. That wasn't quite true. If you knew how to _listen_ , she would communicate with you. Let herself be known.

"He's getting an ego on him," said River. "I agree. Did you hear that last speech? Congratulating himself over how many civilisations have died because he was there. That's... that's not _my_ Doctor."

Blips and humming. Noise to any mere mortal, but not to her. _We need to change him back, somehow. Bring him back to us._

River grew a wicked smirk that could have been a blue-ribbon prize-winner if there were a competition for such things. "I thought of _just_ the thing..."

The TARDIS had temporarily stopped travelling. In the middle of deep space. The Doctor called for River. Ran a scan. She must have hitched a lift with someone else. But she'd left a parting gift.

It was a box. In his favourite shade of TARDIS blue. _With air holes_. The gift tag said, _Might be intelligent._

He opened it.

Everyone knows the famous thought experiment with a cat in a box. Everyone _should_ know about the third, Pratchettean potential state. The state this kitten was in was fast asleep and seemingly innocent.

Things are never what they seem.

When next River saw the Doctor, he was covered in scratches from head to toe. His usual neat style of dress was both covered in hair and torn in several hundred places. And he was bloody furious.

"You," he snarled, "are a right bastard."

"How's the cat?" River chirped.

"Not. Cogniscent. And she has all the destructive capabilities of your average Australian _parrot_."

The most dangerous species in the known universe. "You must not be being nice to her."

"Why would anyone want to be nice to a homicidal ball of hate?"

"Ask yourself that, lately?"

#  Challenge #223: User Unfriendly

A technomancer/techwhisperer who isn't sure that this whole 'machine spirit' thing is any more than people anthropomorphising complex devices that are still just machines, but is usually nice to them anyway. In an unwise moment possibly brought on by a stimulant or fatigue high, improper following of their med regime, when nervous, or possibly all of the above, in front of people they insult their personal machine and say they don't have to be nice to it, all computers like them anyway.

And then they spend the next while experiencing small irritating glitches. Not just from their personal machine, but from all computers they use. Nothing catastrophic, just things that cost some time and effort to fix, or to redo a bit of lost work. And it may be their imagination, but is it slowly escalating?

And despite still not being sure if they believe in machine spirits and that isn't all just confirmation bias, they start to think of how to make it up to their machine.

Some people are absolute geniuses with technology. Some just have to be in the same _room_ for the technology there to hum along with its programming as if the Angels had come to ensure it. Some just have to say, "I'll take a look," and the machine in question suddenly behaves as if they've realised that the teacher is looking over their shoulder, or the police car has appeared in the neighbouring traffic lane. Some people are just magic with computers.

Those people are taken into the Order of Technomages, and taught all kinds of interesting things. Including the philosophy of Digital Animism. The Nae'hyn believe that technology acquires personality, personality grows a soul. And anything with a soul is _alive_. They are, of course, the most common teachers of Digital Animism. And the most ready of students.

But every generation, there is one or two that refuse to Believe. The machines end up teaching _them_.

Olis didn't really believe in digital souls. He thought the entire premise was bunkum. Primitive belief revolving around confirmation bias. People who believed it were still living in the twenty-first century or even earlier. Sure, it worked really well for the Gravity Generators and Engines, but sooner or later, someone smarter would pierce that cloud of mysticism and hocus-pocus to reveal the actual science underneath.

To that end, Olis kept a journal of incidents both positive and negative. Backed up on non-corruptible flimsy, of course. Lest someone hack it behind his back. Believers could be scummy like that.

And then came the day that he yelled at his personal unit in public. Just a few obscenities and a level six insult about its heritage. The Master-Supervisor chided him. "Prentice Olis. It is not acceptable to verbally abuse your personal unit. Be kind to machines and they will be kind to you."

Olis scoffed. "Machines are things meant to process data. It can't hear me yelling insults at it. I'm genetically _good_ at handling them and how I treat them is not any kind of important factor."

The Master-Supervisor sighed and shook her head. "You will learn." And then she said no more.

What followed was... weird.

It took Olis longer than usual to unriddle the chief problem they had arrived to fix. And three goes at it before it worked. His personal unit took longer to process any commands and diagnostics. It took _days_ to defragment. And yet, there was still considerable lag.

Olis ran diagnostics, upgraded all its innards, even swapped the case out for a new and flawless model in case "case curse" had somehow hit. And yet, it was still laggy. It had random bugs. It was... stubborn. It was... sulking?

Olis hated to use animistic terms, but they fit. They actually fit. And over the next passage of months, the phenomenon spread to machines he was supposed to be helping. They got... cantankerous. Obstinate. _Argumentative_.

Of course he logged it all. And reading back on six months, he discovered an escalating pattern. Running parallel to a downturn in his grades. Digital Animism was a real thing and it had _backlash_.

"I'm sorry," he told his personal unit. "I'm _so_ sorry. I was stupid about believing in your soul. I've learned my lesson, okay? No more yelling at you. No more cussing you out. I promise."

His machine brought up a text file. Started writing something. Very slowly. This, Olis surmised, was his zen yoga lesson.

_P,_ the machine wrote. _U... B... L... I... C... A... P... P... O... L... O... G... Y_

"Okay," he sighed. "On all my forums."

The glitches ended the instant he posted, "Digital Animism is real. Machines have feelings. And souls."

#  Challenge #224: Alarming Reflection

Traditionally, vampires could not see their reflection because mirrors were silver-backed. With the invention of aluminum-backed mirrors, a vampire sees their reflection for the first time only to find out... they are the ugliest thing they have ever seen. – Anon Guest

For centuries, Vampires avoided mirrors. Silvered mirrors would not show them, and the ones backed in gold harmed them. Some would have mirrors made that were backed with brass or bronze... but by and large, Vampires avoided mirrors.

Pierce Opal Silkyoak was quite shocked in 1953 when, moving into her new residence at night, she saw someone else moving about. It was the shock of her undeath. Fortunately, Vampires are immune to heart-attacks and she investigated the motion with a handy weapon.

The ugly stranger was also walking cautiously and carrying the same baseball bat.

It took Pierce some time to realise that she was looking at a _mirror_ and seeing _herself_. The hair was brushed, plaited, and then ignored. The dress was simple and black and looked like it hadn't been maintained in hundreds of years. Which it hadn't. The shoes were comfortable, roomy, black, and as ugly as sin. The sun had stolen her colour and left a bloodless corpse walking around.

"This," she said, "will not do."

Her assistant-thrall was sent out to procure every ladies' magazine available at the nearest newsstand. And install the curtains when they came back. Once that was accomplished, Pierce spent the majority of her day reading up on the current trends and beauty regimes. And found the best places to shop. And found out about a little modern wonder called _Plastic Surgery_. And _makeup_.

It was not an overnight transformation. Her thrall had to get most things for her because sunlight was her death. But when Pierce acquired a telephone, things... _changed_. Surgeons couldn't do anything for her sunless pallor, but they could adjust her nose and cheekbones. Add a little fullness to her lips. And edit her unfortunate chin. Makeup solved the rest.

The really _good_ thing about surgery was that they gave her the blood, directly.

She took pains to get everything right the first time. She'd seen what multiple operations had done to some. Frog-like mouths. Skin stretched taut over their bones until it was ready to rip. And, after enough operations, the skin lost its living lustre and started looking as plastic as the surgery that made it. Besides, she had no real love of pain.

Her eighteenth-century stature was masked with kitten heels. Though she still wore black, it was the _stylish_ black with a select few embellishments that always made her a figure to notice. Therefore, she had to keep moving. A new city, a time in seclusion. A diet that was difficult for mere mortals to obtain and _maintain_. And, of course, her famous aversion to sunlight.

Life was good to her. People were good to her, too. Now that she could stand her reflection.

[AN: Obligatory grumbling about Vamps being vulnerable to GOLD because it was incorruptible. I think the silver thing is symbolic of purity retroactively...]

#  Challenge #225: Emergency!

Emergency Personnel are trained in response measures so that when something really bad happens, the Training kicks in and they work on auto-pilot till their brain gets over the shock. – Anon Guest

In an emergency, it's easy to tell the trained personnel from the civilians. The civilians are the ones busy panicking, screaming, running around and generally being useless. It's the job of emergency personnel to wrangle the runners whilst dealing with the problem that caused the upset in the first place.

The Emergency Response Teams of every station are primed and ready to respond in instants, because a space-borne emergency are where the instants _count_. Station machinery and aparatus act in the seconds where it takes a cogniscent to react and act. In the event of sudden decompression, the Hungry Caterpillar catches and safely encapsulates any unprotected cogniscents before they can suffer severe damage. Trauma therapist are available for post-capture shock.

The nature of emergency can change, but the personnel sought are always the level-headed type who remember their training and can improvise with available materials in a pinch. Which is why it was so vital for Rael to undergo ERT training. In an emergency, people look for the bright red and reflective outfits, but they also look for the rainbows of JOAT coats. Because a JOAT can do everything with anything. Nine times out of ten, the ERTs will arrive and take over before a JOAT has any time to get very creative, but the tenth time is always the doozy.

Rael grew to despise the interactive holographic simulator, with its paper puppets and realistic bodily fluids. He was fine with the silicone simulaids and their coloured saline, but the instant they became like to living beings, he couldn't help but think of them as such. It did not help that the simulations were based on real situations and the simulated victims were programmed to respond like the original beings.

The worst part. The absolute _worst_ of the pile of worsts, besides the sight and smell of varied species effluvium, was the simple fact that he was engineered to never throw up. He _wanted_ to be sick. Numerous times. He wanted to purge his body, so desperately. The instinct was in him, but the ability was simply not there.

He lost count of the number of times he had to stop early because of his own engineered flaws. Shaking and shocky and a good sneeze away from losing control of his form as well as his outward colour palette. And all he could think of was how the simulated victim was suffering because _he_ was a flawed product from Wave of the Future.

It took him three months to stop calling himself _Bargain Bin_ or _Factory Reject_.

He passed, eventually. He, like many others who were given a shaky pass by the ERT training course, was marked in the logs as _not good around blood_ and allowed to continue on with his life.

It wasn't until years later, when working on Dorsal Spike Dock #28, that an emergency blowout occurred near his position.

He didn't think. There was no time to think. He barely registered the stations Hungry Catterpillar tendrils scooping up newly-spaced survivors. Nor did he think about the nearest tendril coiling itself into the hole in the stations' skin. A gigantic worm imitating the fabled little Dutch boy and keeping those who had grabbed onto something safe.

There was someone bleeding. He knew what to do about blood. He had been trained. He picked someone in the stunned watchers who was not making noise, but standing around. Tapped their arm. "Call Emergency Services. Now." He waited for their understanding before tending to the wounded. One he could save. Three who could wait. One crying, but unharmed.

He took out his all-purpose medkit. Handed out silver heat blankets to the three and the cryer. Covered the injury from their sight and set to work. They were human, which meant that they could survive for quite some time. Good. Keep victim still. Pad the piercing matter that caused the injury. Only a fool would attempt to take a piercing item _out_ of an injury unless it was very obviously toxic. And this one wasn't. Pad the wound. Bind it. Tight, but not too tight. Ensure that circulation is still occurring. Administer warm, sweet beverage and insist the victim stay as still as possible.

Done one. Move on. Minor contusions. Antiseptic. Bandaging. Move on. He processed two more cogniscents past the initial human's injury before the ERTs arrived and set him apart with a gigantic cheesecake and a heater blanket. Which was extremely welcome when the panic finally hit.

_His hands still had blood on them._ The ERT's had been understanding and given him utensils to eat with. A bio-friendly dessert spork that was maple pancake flavoured. And there was blood on the handle where he was touching it.

And blood on his hands.

Someone else's vital fluid.

And it was on him.

It was touching his surface.

And there was a kind human with a warm wash-cloth. Wiping it away. Talking in soothing tones with words he didn't parse because...

Blood.

On his.

HANDS.

They were breathing on his face. Looking into his eyes. Breathing. Wanting him to breathe. Just like that.

Rael copied them. The blood had gone away. The kind human was an ERT member. Skin almost as black as the depths of space. Smile as warm as sunshine.

"There we are. Finish your cheesecake, now. And I'll be back with a hot chocolate, okay?"

Rael nodded. "Extra cream, please."

He now had the capability to examine the scene. People were being seen to. The dead were carried away on stretchers with useless breather masks over their faces. _He knew why_. It was to ease panic. Many were recipients of hot chocolate or hot, milky tea. There were even special blends for the Havenworlders, and they got theirs at far more tepid temperatures.

Forensics was documenting the aftermath. Recording people at their work.

Later, when all were ushered away from the scene, this entire sector would be closed off for investigation, and then repairs. In a week or less, there would be little clue that any of this had happened.

And he had _helped_. On _automatic_. Despite the fact that he was completely horrible around others' suffering, let alone _leaking bodily fluids_.

The hot chocolate was deliberately both too hot and too sweet. And some blessed soul had added an extra dollop of _real cream_. Comfort and warmth. Things every cogniscent needed.

"You saved a life, today," said ERT Kathi. He could read her nametag. Kathi Wertenbaum. With the white crescent and plus on a field of red. And blood on _her_ uniform that she was busy sponging off. "Good work."

Rael waited for the impending qualifier. There was none. He collected his wits enough to say, "Thank you."

"I'm going to sit with you until it's your turn to head down to Medik Central. Make sure you're okay. Is that okay?"

He could only nod. He had dealt with the tenth one. With presence of mind. Calm in the face of adversity. And an inability to panic because _his body remembered what to do_. Not him. Not his mind. Not the part of him that, if he thought about blood, couldn't come near it. Just the repetitious programming that the ERT training had plugged into his reflexes.

The most shocking thing was how successful it had been.

#  Challenge #226: The City of Ghosts

"The priests and holy-men, they claim those things out there are the restless ghosts of dead gods."

"And what do you think?"

"I'm not so sure they're ghosts." – Anon Guest

They called this land the Dead Plains. The grasses grew high, but trees would not. Neither deer nor cow would voluntarily graze on the grasses, here. Even horses, an animal universally recognised as rather dim, would not walk into the preternatural flatness of the Dead Plains. And worse, it was fresh after Fire Season, when the desolate nature of this area was laid bare and black for all to see.

"What are they, then?" asked Baudrik, world's unluckiest apprentice, as he helped his master pull the cart across the blackened wastes. He did his utmost not to look at the indistinct white figures as they went about their peculiar dances on the plains. They certainly _looked_ like ghosts.

"That's what I aim to find out. Legends say that there was a great war and a great weapon. Like all great weapons in legends, it made the people vanish, but left the buildings intact. And, of course, it was used. Or something went wrong and it turned against its creators." Investigator Karis puffed as she spoke. This was harder work than either of the were used to. "The people didn't _quite_ vanish. And the buildings... went away. All that was left was a barren plain where only wild grass would grow, and no sensible living thing would ever wander."

They got the cart into an area where even the pale figures wouldn't go. Caught their breath and drank from their water skins.

"But... we came here," objected Baudrik.

"Because we're curious enough to ignore sense." She grinned. "Watch them. See if notice patterns."

Baudrik would rather not, but there had to be _something_ about them that caught his master's attention. Even though watching them terrified him. After an hour, and rations, he thought he had it. "They're moving around things that aren't here."

"Exactly so. The buildings went with them. They still have all their infrastructure. And since they don't go _here_ it follows that there must be a solid object in their reality. Some say they can move small objects in ours. I plan to put that to the test. Communicate with them."

Before they even set up the tent, Master Karis put out a blackboard and opened an oiled pouch of chalk. Put them down in the middle of a cluster of white figures. Left them a duster. They set up camp in the clear area. Inside a solid thing, according to Master Karis. And for three days, nothing happened.

On the fourth day, there was ancient writing on the blackboard. Karis rushed to bring it inside their tent and replace it with another. And spent another three days translating it into Common. During that time, Baudrik was sent out on a velocipede to where the horses were, and from there to the nearest town to fetch supplies. Baudrik predicted long and boring months of beans and porridge and peas and dried meat and hard bread.

Things began to happen. The white pebbles that Master Karis brought along became scattered throughout the burned plain. Not scattered for long, though. They became outlines. Walls and streets, with holes for the doors. Footprints of objects that baffled Baudrik. Nevertheless, he walked around them as if they were there, following his master's lead.

The supply runs started to become accompanied with trips to artificers, for paper and drafting tools, with instructions that Master Karis drew on those papers. The little town of Deadstop soon flourished with new inventions, and became a gathering site for people just as smart, just as insane as Master Keris. Some even followed Baudrik into the burned plains, and helped trample the regrowing grass short. Where they didn't cut it down to make their own paper, because journeying to Deadstop and back took an entire day.

The place where the entities would not go was their doomsday device, and all the Masters and some of the apprentices were building another one in that exact spot. According to the translations, the device had to be turned off in _both_ realities in order to save The City That Once Was, and all the people therein.

The machines that came from the designs were starting to frighten Baudrik. The steam-driven ones made sense. You could tell where they got their power. But after that... with _elek-trickery_ wrung from sunlight and wind? With the machines that could move on their own via _pro-gammon_. It was too much like the ghosts themselves.

Baudrik ran away to Deadstop when the Masters were about to _sin-kro-nize_ their machine with the one in the other reality. A great number of fellow apprentices joined him. And hunkered in a bar with fellow people who did not wish to watch the _aught-oh-mat-ik_ machines go about their terrifying business.

There was a flash of light that ran through the entire world...

For a moment, Baudrik thought that the world was broken all over again, but after he was done with his rapid and urgent prayer, he opened his eyes to see the world just as it had been. He dared venture outside to see that the eerie machines had gone idle where they stood. He fetched his horse and rode it towards the burned plains. But they were not plains, any more.

A shining faerie city stood where there was nothing more than empty plains. Dazzling in colour and light. Every surface not growing plants shone like the sun collectors in Deadstop. But far sleeker and more breathtakingly beautiful. The noise of celebration from inside this place of bizarre curves and dizzying heights was very human, though. And his horse did not baulk to enter it.

The faerie people were all colours. Browns so dark that they were almost black. Pale as milk. And every colour in between. They scattered petals from every balcony for Baudrik and all those who dared follow him. And when he got off his horse, several people hugged him and lifted him up on their shoulders. Just like they did for Master Karis.

"We did it," his Master cheered. "We've revived the Lost City! All their wonders can come _back_!"

Having seen some of their wonders, Baudrik had to wonder if this was a good thing.

#  Challenge #227: Race to the End of the World

People come and go, the christening you bless will be the funeral you mourn in less than a century. But people keep saying "I love you", that has to count for something. – Anon Guest

"Why, though?" complained Holly. "Why does anything mean anything? It's all... it's all for nothing, in the end."

The Doctor sat by her. "I'm two and a half thousand years old. I've seen worlds born. I've seen worlds die. The same for civilisations. And people. The same levels of crap ebb and flow like the tide, over the centuries."

Holly huffed a laugh at that one.

"And despite it going around and around like merry-go-round, there's people like you. Some of them might even be like me. The people who fight for the slightest shred of hope. The people who believe that tomorrow can be an improvement from today. They're the people you look for. Not the petty disputants constantly whining that life isn't fair."

Holly's gaze flicked to a television, where a man who had no business running a lemonade stand was running a country. Just one tantrum away from destroying the entire world.

"Yes," said The Doctor. "Exactly like him." He guided Holly's eyes away from the oligarchical dictator. Made her look at him. See his dark skin and deep eyes. "That man is in charge, and I look like this. And I still run in and help whenever and wherever I can. No matter what. Because it is _right_."

Holly sighed. "Please tell me he's an alien bent on destroying or taking over the world? Because then, we could go and defeat him."

The Doctor considered the man on the screen. "With that build and that haircut? He could be a Slitheen... Does he fart a lot?"

#  Challenge #228: Unfortunate Blindness of Today

Nitpicking the small faults and details and eroding the Grand Design. – Anon Guest

There was no doubt that it was beautiful. Sweeping curves and soaring arches. Every surface in the simulated model glittered with solar panels. Plants hung from gardens on every floor. Wind turbines adorned the rooftops.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and anyone I missed," announced the designer, "I give you the residence structure of tomorrow. We can build this with extant technology, and improve the city environment one building at a time. We can also solve some of the food crisis with gardens and mini-gardens. Which will also alleviate the smog issues. The solar panels and turbines would provide more than enough energy to run _two_ of these buildings, if fully occupied. Thereby solving the energy crisis _and_ reducing the carbon footprint."

The board was not impressed. One spoke up. "Those ramps take up too much room. And you only need one stairwell for emergencies."

"Studies have shown that emergency evacuations are more rapid with ramps, and multiple means of egress, and it means that people in wheelchairs or with mobility issues can also evacuate without assistance."

"The cripples can take the elevator, can't they?" protested another.

"Elevators don't work in a fire," said the designer. "Likewise, they tend to shut down the electricity that runs them for all other evacuation-necessary emergencies."

The entire board sat gape-mouthed as if stunned by the revelation.

"You still need stairs in the most convenient and high-traffic areas. The fatties will thank you later," said the initial ramp-hater. Or should that be _body shamer_?

"I don't like those solar panels," said a third. "Why do they have to be there?"

The designer was glad they asked. "They not only provide a baffle effect for the city 'wind tunnels', but create free power for the residents, with some extra power for the city, which will earn money for the landlord in question." Uncertain murmurings circulated amongst the board. "And on the sides of the building that are less likely to gather solar power, or where it would be inefficient, there are automatic public gardens." The designer thought of the body-shamer on the board. "So the... dieters living there can harvest garden-fresh salads."

"Bugs, smokers, and birds," said another board member. "That's all that _gardens_ are good for."

"We're running a housing initiative, not a charity," said a fourth. "You're giving the disadvantaged a _palace_."

The designer changed the display to show the typical apartment unit. "Actually, I have an innovative transforming floor plan that's resident-powered and requires zero special outlay during the construction phase, and wouldn't cost any more than more spacious apartments."

Someone said, "The windows are too big."

"They're solar-collecting windows that will allow natural light to penetrate each apartment, and allow access for a window box option. So residents can grow their own plants if they want to."

"Grow their own pot, more like," said another, much to the laughter of the rest of the board.

The ableist spoke up. "This says it's ten feet by ten feet."

"Yes. Depending on the placement in the building, each apartment maximises the use of one hundred square feet. Including the seven feet of vertical clearance, so every cubic inch of the seven hundred cubic feet has potential."

"The only space these lazy bastards need is a six by eight cell and a roomie called 'Bubba'," said the Chairman. The rest laughed.

The designer objected. "Studies have shown, time and time again, that giving dignity helps improve the overall–"

"We've heard enough," said the Chairman. "Try selling your design to the _hipsters_. If they can 'crowdfund' enough money to even _try_ to make it." More laughter.

"But this will be the most efficient use of your funds. I have the statistics to show–"

"And I said we've heard enough. Take your presentation elsewhere. We can't wring a profit out of this mess."

The designer would later learn that the Housing Initiative Board chose an ugly rectangular prism with one elevator and one staircase, and all the apartments therein measured six by eight. Including the bathroom. And depressing, tiny windows.

#  Challenge #229: Problems of Scale

"Lets poke it and see what it does?" famous last words or an eureka moment. – Anon Guest

_There is nothing so large and so terrifying that a human won't try to poke it._ \- Galactic Proverb.

Of all the terrors of the universe, black holes have to be the one that holds a universal horror. Nobody with any sense wants to be anywhere near a black hole. So, of course, humanity figured out how to get a station in a LaGrange orbit point around one in order to study it.

They called it Tyr Na Nog Station, because of its temporal warping phenomena, and only humans were crazed enough to go there, live there, and work there. A freight driver who went for a day to unload their cargoes returned to real time a year or more later. A loophole that has allowed many a freighter to collect a Year of back-pay because they were working the entire time.

Unfortunately, Tyr Na Nog Station doesn't send out for supplies that often. Or rather, it didn't do so for twenty Standard Years. The finger of blame pointed towards Freight Captain "Brakky" Brakal. She denied it, of course. And nothing could be definitively proven, since her onboard recording devices recorded none of it.

"Brakky! Nice to see you back. Wow, you got old."

"Time differential. One year for you is like ten or more for us. Probably more. I can't do the math. I really need more than this Year's worth of Time from you guys."

"Well... we have everything we need for another month... What can we do?"

Brakky shrugged, letting the station science crew unload for her. "I dunno. Order gimcrack stuff every month? Give freighter people a chance t' collect a little Time interest. I mean, flakk. They update tech every month or so, realtime-side. You could finegle your wages to compensate 'n' all."

Light dawned in Station Master Capelli's eyes. "That's right. We're only paid in Subjective and not Relative Time. That's... that's downright _illegal_. We need to fix things immediately."

Over the following Relative Months, Tyr Na Nog Station and all its inhabitants applied for their backpay in Relative Time, stating that the scientific breakthroughs that they were making in Subjective Time were well worth it. Then they started buying things (for them) on an hourly basis.

Nobody said who put them onto the idea. Tyr Na Nog Station keeps its secrets to itself.

#  Challenge #230: Dangerous Lifeforms

[Name] wondered if considering that statement to be a fine example of famous last words made them unduly paranoid or just conscious of historical precedent.

There are numerous, common, famous last words. "I think it's going to be all right," is in the top ten. Likewise, "Hold my beer, I've got this," or, "Hey, watch this!" But of the all-time destined-to-be-last-words, Grax thought that, "Awright, silleh bugurz..." had to be a record-holder for the first prize.

Especially when it came out of the mouth of Ambassador Shayde as she strode towards danger and rolled up her sleeves.

_This,_ Grax thought, _has to be the end of my life._ And thusly set his eyecam to record everything ze saw. For posterity.

What followed was a scene that earned Grax royalties from the entirety of Galactic Society for the rest of hir life. It became the most-viewed footage by the entire population of civilised space. And possibly beyond. Even though it was two minutes and fifty-three seconds of footage. Ze earned that Time for every occasion it was viewed.

Ambassador Shayde strode into the group of Class Six Deathworlders who had mistaken her for an easy mark and, with stunning precision and speed, laid them flat at their open invitation.

"Never mess wi' a human," she said. "Ye ken?"

Strangled groaning from the visiting Vorax.

Shayde nodded. "Aye, I think we've learned a wee sommat today." And then she turned herself in to the nearest Security Officer, who was still busy laughing.

Sometimes, Grax earned Seconds for the resultant saying and meme. But that didn't matter because the Hours and Days kept rolling in.

#  Challenge #231: Items of Mass Destruction

It was hard not to admire a four-year-old who could disassemble a hygiene unit into so many pieces it took three engineers most of a duty shift to put it back together.

Of all the destructive items that humanity has in its collective repertoire, the two that cause the most amazement and confoundment are: the average pants pocket, and their own young. Left unsupervised, they can cause more chaos, destruction, and all-out-entropy than the tools actively designed to do so.

Delthrax stared at the prisoner/hostage. This was a human _youngling_. Barely past the age of controlling where they expelled their waste. Not only had hir capture failed to quell the human attacks on the S'dorath fleet, but this near-infant had managed to disassemble the entirety of hir containment cell and then proceeded to wreak utter havok wherever it went.

The trail of destruction was quite impressive. From hand-prints on the walls, through half-eaten ration portions and small objects scattered with foot-wounding precision all over the most-trodded corridors of the ship, to random dissassembly of equally random, yet vital, ships' instruments and control systems. It would take _teams_ of engineers _days_ to undo that which this... _child_ had done in mere hours.

Now that ze had an entertainment device to occupy hir attention, ze appeared to be defused.

Delthrax interrupted hir play, and asked in careful Galstand, "How do you take apart all the things?"

The human child reached inside hir clothing and pulled out a body decoration that ze would not allow the guards to take away without an injurious level of noise. And quite a surprising amount of struggle. It was a fine chain, and what looked like an ancient coin with a hole in it.

"Screwdriver," said the child.

Without taking the decoration off, Delthrax examined the ancient writing. Pre-shattering _English_ , but she recognised one word in amongst the others. _Australia_. The island-continent on Earth that earned the planet it's Deathworld rating of Four Point Five. Leave it to _that_ country to invent coinage that could also be used as a tool in a pinch. It even bore an illustration of one of their hostile animals. The spiky one that was neither mammal nor lizard.

Delthrax said, "That's why you screamed when we tried to remove it. Isn't it?"

The child shook hir head. "Nuh-uh. 'S Gramma's. It's _special_. Mama says it's an air loom 'n' I can't lose it or else."

Delthrax had to go and rest in order to understand the enormity of her bad choices. When she recovered, the fleet was in serious danger of being on the wrong side of a last stand, and the humans were readying the _serious_ weapons against the fleet. Wisely, Delthrax opened all communications and surrendered. It was the only way to survive.

#  Challenge #232: The Most Dangerous Opponent

"You can't hold a grudge forever"

"I'm not 'holding a grudge', I'm making decisions based on past evidence."

"The humans are going to destroy all your careful plans," said the old general. "These are members of a species that _coined_ the phrase, 'no plan ever survives first contact with the enemy'. You could try to learn from that."

The war council turned to stare and General Gerax. He was the last one to famously lose to the humans and he'd never let anyone forget it.

"General. Though we appreciate your input, it's clearly stained by your past dishonour. You cannot hold a grudge forever."

"I'm not holding a grudge," grumbled the General. "I'm warning you all based on past evidence. We've all seen what the humans repeatedly do to the Vorax."

"There's debate as to whether the Vorax are that intelligent," sighed Junior General Kleff. "They're smart enough to have space vessels, yet they keep attempting to beat the humans in battle."

"And what are we doing again?" asked General Gerax.

The evident facetiousness evaded Kleff. "We're planning to contain these dangerous deathworlders with the best technology we have from our smartest scientists. We don't wish to exterminate them, eradicate them, or otherwise take back what they've already conquered. We're merely showing them where our borders are and that they should advance no further."

General Gerax scoffed. "That won't help."

He was right, in the end. The plan fell apart because the humans already had a counter to the Zekitti secret weapon. Gerax knew they would. These were _Deathworlders_. Any time not fighting an outsider was time they spent fighting each other. They got _good_ at it.

Terrifyingly good at it.

#  Challenge #233: They Aren't the Champions

Something nice about all those who will never be champions but compete and play sport, and love it. – Anon Guest

They say, _do what you love, and you will never need to work again._ This only really works if one is _good_ at the thing one loves. There are people, out there, who are absolute _pants_ at the thing they love. But they do it anyway, because love is, as the song says, strange.

Case in point, the Arse End Football Club. Named by the instigator and chief pants-level player, Ambassador Shayde, _of course_. It's allegedly named after the location of the playing field, near the dry docks' end of the station, which also resembles the tail end of a fish if one squints correctly. But most who have joined realise and recognise that it's also named for their playing ability. But none of that matters.

Because it's something they _love_.

Rael, renowned concessions aficionado, comes to sit and allegedly cheer for Shayde as she and her teammates play. What he actually does is attempt to work his way through the local popcorn stand's stock of edibles whilst watching in amusement as Arse End is routinely trounced by Mrs Favisham's Level Three Junior's. The children with no fear and a near ruthless precision for adult blind spots. Especially _Kevin_ , one of those children who were born to have their name pronounced in italics.

"Damnit, _Kevin_!" Shayde shouted.

Kevin, six years old, had slipped between Shayde's legs because he knew flakking well that Shayde would break her own limbs before she caused harm to a child. He and the rest of the team had sized her up in five seconds as an absolute softie and used it to their every advantage. Including crocodile tears whilst pretending to be hurt so that another team member could score a goal. A move unprecedented in the history of soccer.

Sally, age four, was Best Cryer, even though Mrs Favisham purported to deplore such tactics. Rael noted that Sally got extra ice cream after they won a match via her tears.

Humans may be pursuit hunters, Rael posited, but they got into Galactic Society by being absolutely _ruthless_ against the problem at hand. And their young were proof.

A parent, done cheering the latest goal[67], leaned over to Rael. "Which one's yours?"

Rael indicated the Ambassador busy cheering the kids on. "The one with the white hair in the gold vest."

[67] Mrs Favisham's were five-nil against Arse End at this point.

#  Challenge #234: Unlikely Survival Tactics

(Person #1): Stop asking hard questions.

(Person #2): Buddy, if I could stop _thinking_ 'em, I'd stop asking 'em.

It's very clear that humans are gather-hunters whenever an isolating emergency occurs. Their first instinct is to gather everything they can and use that as a basis for what they do next. Often, this can be displacement activity in situations where the best course of action is to wait for the ERT to come to the rescue.

But there are other times when such activity is useful, indeed.

Tzorbak woke to pain, and wisely decided not to move. Ze was propped up against soft things in recovery position. This meant that someone was alive and able and had cared for hir during hir period of unconsciousness. Tzorbak looked. All injuries were patched, but at a basic training level.

Good news, ze was alive and had a possibility of surviving this wreckage. Tzorbak surveyed what ze could from hir vantage point. Impact. Something had hit the station. The atmosphere integrity here was good, but in all other areas, especially areas closer to the impact, it might be vastly different.

A human arrived, arms and back laden with seemingly random object. "Oh good, you're alive. Great. I'm guessing by your blues that you're in engineering?"

"Structure maintenance," sighed Tzorbak.

The human paused, staring at nothing. For an entire minute. Then they said, "Yeah, I can work with that." And then they dashed off into areas that Tzorbak couldn't see.

It took two hours, but the human named Sal recovered quite a lot of debris, some random tools, furniture, panels and even some food plants. There was quite a lot of open space in this 'rubble bubble', but no other survivors.

"I hear whistling, so our atmosphere might run out on us. So I'm trying to build a life pod," said the human. They had already sawed the backs off of two benches and was busy tying them together any way they could. First with rag, then with nuts and bolts. And finally with applied heat and a hammer. "This is for you," Sal said, once they were satisfied with their work. ""I'll build the rest around it."

"You are not an engineer," said Tzorbak. "How are you going to do the work?

"Yeah, nah. I'm a historian. Lucky for us, eh? I know all the old and brutal ways of bodging this noise up."

If there was a more frightening phrase to be uttered by a human, then it was possibly in the avenue of Famous Last Words. Nevertheless, it was trust the human or die of eventual asphyxiation. "We will need a beacon. I can construct one if you bring me the parts."

"Done and done," grinned Sal. They returned in half an hour with everything plausibly technological and another brace of random tools. Then they set about building whatever equipment they could out of whatever they had to hand. There was a lot of clanging as Sal forced things that should never be together to go together by means of applied heat and too much hammering.

Tzorbak kept asking how Sal expected the walls to hold. This seemed... problematic to hir mind.

"Well, I don't have a vac-welder, so... I'm going with the way they did it in the 1960's."

"And how well did _that_ work? Will it work for long enough?"

Another pause in which the human was dangerously still and had a vacant expression. "Will you stop asking the hard questions?"

"If I could stop _thinking_ them, I would." Tzorbak sighed. "This is my life at stake."

"Mine, too, friend."

Despite an evident lack of skill, Sal managed to build an airtight space around Tzorbak, replete with amenities, air recycling in the form of the plants, and a hammock-sleep-sac for the human. It would be their shared space for five days.

Sal wasn't the only human to improvise solutions to the problem with their gather-hunting skills. They were just the most amazing. Rescue teams didn't anticipate finding anyone alive after so long, and Tzorbak found hirself and the slightly crazed historian N'Ozzie to be instantly famous.

Ze thought it was cheating, but ze earned _years_ off hir story of survival. All ze did was lay there and occasionally supply helpful tips to the human.

#  Challenge #235: Functionality

[From one person who got about three hours' sleep, to the person who dumped a new, extremely important, problem in their lap at godawful in the morning, and who they are responsible for]

"Have you slept at all, [Name]?"

"Not at all."

"You should try it sometime. I end up in less trouble when you do."

... _by any other species standards, we just plain don't get tired._ – Archivaas Collective on Humanity's Self-realisation

The news of impending disaster was met by the ship's human with, "For flakk's sake, I just got ready for _bed_. _Again_."

This was the first time that Captain K'vaan had heard of the human actually sleeping. They had spent an inordinate amount of rest cycles working through the current crisis. Exhausting five teams of Sciurids before finally claiming they were going to sleep. They then fought through a red alert situation in their sleepwear and stayed conscious through another three Sciurid work shift to avert _that_ crisis.

And now that the Vorax ship was actively chasing them, their human Steff was getting... aggravated.

"I'm'a need a Standard Volume Unit of flakkin' _black_ coffee and as much sugar in it as it can hold," mumbled Human Steff. She shooed Pilot Kikee out of her seat and gradually 'noodged' Weapons Officer T'chik out of hir way. All the time, muttering, "All right... all right... I've had enough of your bullshit..."

Human Steff drank half of the coffee when it arrived and produced a very predatory growl. "Right. Stand back [IMPROBABLE MATING PRACTICE REDACTED], it's _arsehole_ season!"

The Sciurid crew, having heard _all_ the rumours concerning aggravated human behaviour, simultaneously strapped in and took their survival tranquillisers.

What followed next should have taken the Sciurid three teams and a month's worth of co-ordination practice, but Human Steff just needed both hands and the Caffeine Twitches. And, apparently, the ability to string improbable curses together in a stream of semi-conscious ranting. Human Steff piloted the ship and used the weapons with a fury borne solely of something her kind called _excessive sleep deprivation_.

Humans, when tired, have a significant lowering of their personal boundaries. This often something of a shock to the cogniscents surrounding them. Captain K'vaan learned a great many human curses, that day, and prayed that she would never find out what they _meant_. She also learned that humans could be downright _vicious_ when riled. Even their normally gentle and cheerful Human Steff.

In the human's words, the Vorax ship 'took a lot of killing,' but Human Steff was satisfied when it was sent, leaking smoke, into a nearby gravity well. "That aught to [COPULATION] 'em up for a while. Cap'n, I suggest we hightail it out of here." She had long since imbibed all of her coffee, but nevertheless chased the last drop out of her beverage container. "And _I_ request an' require a minimum of four o' your shifts to actually flakkin' _sleep_."

Which lead to the ship-wide rule that sleeping humans should definitely be allowed to sleep. And Galactic Society's habit of asking their local humans if they had had enough of it. A well-rested human, they said, was a human that was less likely to cause maximum property damage out of pure vengeance.

#  Challenge #236: Monstrophilia

[about a six year old]

"You must admit, her enthusiasm [for horrible monstrosities of nature] is quite charming."

"You mispronounced 'alarming'."

Pari was six and freaking _loved_ dinosaurs. There is something about the age of six that makes children magnetically attracted to dinosaurs, and nothing can be done about it. However, in Pari's case, she was _obsessed_ with paleontology. She was not yet a strong reader, but learned to sound things out by pronouncing the greco-roman names of her favourite beasts.

She got sent home for excavating the sand pit. Never mind that she found fourteen previously-lost toys, five pairs of underpants, and the fragments of at least one binkie. And the next month, her father allowed her to excavate a patch of the backyard. Allegedly to keep her out of such trouble at school.

Pari could tell the layers of soil she dug and, though excited to find the remains of a previous owner's parrot, determined that it was a recent interment and was even able to point out where the soil had been rearranged. It was her dream to find a _real_ dinosaur all of her own. And in the meantime, she learned to read all the complicated words before she got to the easy ones meant for her age.

She would read _anything_ about dinosaurs, even if it took her forever. She would read about paleontology and how the detective-work of scientists put together increasingly accurate depictions of what creatures looked like from astoundingly small clues. And every night, she drifted off to sleep from scientific journals about the most recent discoveries in the field. All dredged from the internet by her loving father, who never saw anything wrong with pursuing a passion.

For arts and crafts, she made a scarily accurate and accurately scary velociraptor out of assorted supplies. It was life size and its eyes seemed to follow observers around the room. At which point, her teacher asked her father in for a concerned interview.

Mr Fawkes said, "You must admit, her enthusiasm for them is quite charming." He loved her hard work on her Velociraptor. Which had to stay inside of a cage because the other children in her class were terrified of it.

"I think you mispronounced 'alarming," said Mrs Dewsbury.

Mr Fawkes went on a half-hour diatribe about how passions can grow and change the world if they're given a chance. About how every living being had the right to pursue a thing they loved until they no longer enjoyed the metaphorical chase.

And since he was so passionate about it, Mrs Dewsbury had nothing more to say than an extremely optimistic, "Well, maybe she'll grow out of it."

Other children grew out of dinosaurs. Not Pari.

She loved them for all of her life. And became a paleontologist. And invited Mrs Dewsbury, and all the teachers who _prayed_ she would grow out of it, to the unveiling of her newly discovered species. Pariasaurus Fawkeseii.

#  Challenge #237: One Thing in Common

So, about those Deathworlders and their group singing/memetic hazards?

There were hundreds of human colonial representatives. An even third was busy having a heated argument with a second third, while the rest attempted to argue the other two groups into submission. Any moment, now, blood would be drawn and these savage Deathworlders would fly into a frenzy.

Which would not be good news for the first Ambassadorial Meet that actually welcomed these bloodthirsty, balding apes.

One of the human's assistants rushed up to the moderator. "Play the human anthem over the comms," they uged. "Human anthem! Play it now!"

Moderator Grax boggled at the ex-freighter captain. "There is a human anthem?"

Captain Skaan nodded vigorously, already messing with the control panel and some of their personal devices. "Yes, yes. Universal song. Every human knows." Frantic scrolling. Selection. Play to all.

A chorus invaded Grax's left ear. " _Is this the real life_...."

Half the humans joined. " _Is this just fantasy_..."

By the time the ancient words reached the end of, " _Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality_..." all the humans were singing along. Many even had their hands over their hearts.

"Must let play out for best good feeling," warned Skaan. Also, taking tranq's best advised for Havenworlders. Much frightening."

Grax put that warning out by text, lest the spell be interrupted. Even she took a mild tranquiliser because the effect was that terrifying. Especially when half of them _sang_ the musical interludes. Hundreds of worlds with just _this_ in common.

What would they do if they all decided to band together for another common cause?

#  Challenge #238: Everything You Can

"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are." - Theodore Roosevelt. – c/- Anon Guest

Improvisation goes well with inspired desperation, so it's said. Having been marooned on more than my fair share of asteroids, I can say it's a definite thing. Many a time, my arse has been saved by the ability to bodge up a life-pod out of wreckage and whatever the asteroid was made of.

And there was one time that I got eaten by some other far-scout's Hungry Caterpillar, but that's not this story. No. For a change, the world was quite comfortable and the habitat only mildly perturbing. Almost made me want to set up stakes, there. It had just about everything. Beautiful scenery. Plentiful edibles. Mostly-wonderful weather...

Unfortunately, it also had _natives_.

Which meant that it could not be my missing-presumed-dead retirement home. They were about at the Copper Age, just working out that metals could be useful, and baking clay was the biggest thing since bashing two rocks together. I had to stay well away from any kind of their civilisation, and go out foraging when they were most likely to be dormant. And I had to hide everything I was doing from them, too.

Ever tried to run a forge without making smoke? It's not that much fun. Neither's rigging all possible chimney-holes with the air-scrubbers from the wreckage of your ship. At least I got plenty of carbon for the fabricators, that way.

My kind's pretty good at brachiating, so not leaving boot prints wasn't more than I could do. Hunting and foraging took up way too much of my time. But I couldn't afford to leave traps or farms and pollute a baby society. That's more trouble than I could afford.

And let me tell you, taking off during the storm season is a pain in the arse. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Did you know that Copper Age hunters have a really wide range? Or a really _efficient_ sense of when they're being watched? I didn't. Not until I narrowly dodged a few spears and got the flakk out of there. Good news, they mistook me for prey. Bad news... they mistook me for prey. If I wasn't careful, they'd have me on a spit for the big feast. Without ever knowing I was a cogniscent being like them. I knew better than to head straight for my temporary home. I'm wild, not stupid. I don't think a prey animal would think of doubling back, sneaking over their heads, and _then_ hightailing it for home.

Thankfully, neither did they.

I want you to remember that I did my utmost not to infect a baby society. I did everything I could to avoid detection. Hell, I even made sure everything left over could easily be explained by the right kind of sceptic. Freak mineral deposits happen _all_ the time.

And yet, here I am. Getting interviewed -interrogated- by the Infant Society Protection Agency. Their cloaked probes found images that could be interpreted as my crash and myself. Despite my best efforts. My only hope lies in repeatedly asking if they have proof that those images are a recent phenomenon.

#  Challenge #239: Tougher Than You Think

So, havenworlders getting a look at  this data? Alternatively, Galactic Citizens or Deathworlders from a lower category seeing one of our weak areas (like water requirements) and going "I can do better than that!"

 (Same data, but with it in sane units)

Galactic Society shares some information for free. For example, information on what they deem to be dangerous species. Before the rediscovery of a colony world later named Amity, they shared gathered information on humans _so that others could avoid them_.

Some people, however, did not take such information in the spirit that it was given.

Thork, Captain/Explorer of the _Investigating Journey_ had found an otherwise ideal world that was infested by humans. They were a sparse population by his judgement[68]. It should be relatively easy to eradicate them. Once he isolated their weakness. He carefully gathered up all available data on humans and concluded that they were vulnerable to both cold and flooding.

It took quite a bit of engineering to ensure that the local star shone less, but not so much that the humans might be prone to investigating the cause. Likewise, Thork had to ensure that the atmospheric agitators were suitably cloaked. Only _then_ did he hit the human habitations with the worst cold and wet that modern technology would allow. Freezing and flooding the world simultaneously should rid the world of the deathworlder infestation.

He let it run for three Standard Months, just to be certain, before removing the eradication strategies. Removing the solar shields and recalling the atmospheric agitators. And then waiting a further few weeks for the rains to peter out, the frozen precipitation to melt, and all the spare water to run back to the oceans.

Thork ordered the _Investigating Journey_ to land in the biggest of the human habitation zones so that he and his crew could survey their new world.

He was rather surprised to find that the humans were still there.

Armed and dangerous. And very, very angry.

" _Were you playing silly buggers with our planet?_ " said one of the humans.

Comms Officer Jark is credited with sending off the log drone, but Captain Thork and his crew were not heard from again.

[68] Kitraxxian home-hives typically house _billions_ at a time and the Kitrax themselves are a very _efficient_ species.

#  Challenge #240: Chosen by Disorder

"When chaos bears fruit, you eat first and think about the stomach ache later."

It was the only tree that grew sideways. Its leaves were purple. Its fruit was a shade of pink never seen in nature. But this... was not natural. This was a tree that grew in the Realm of Disorder. It stood still in the wind and waved when it was calm. And whenever it rained[69], it danced.

The Lord of Disorder held a Fruit Party whenever the trees like it ripened. And the effects were always... unpredictable. To any bold enough to complain, the Lord would ask, "Did you read the address in the invitation?"

Sal had no idea why she was invited but, having read the instructions, followed them anyway. She rarely got any kind of invitation at all, and this one was not to be ignored. Now, she had to note, her offcut dress _fit in_. Her strange way of dressing her hair was no more strange than anyone else's. And she was seated primly on a floating chair between the God of War and the Lord of Disorder Himself.

People said he was evil. Sal couldn't see it. The God was rather civil, if inherently chaotic. And He was nice enough to invite people to a party that could happen at any time at all.

"This is your first time," said the Lord of Disorder. "So I shall explain the rules."

The deities around the table chuckled.

"There aren't any! Did you _read_ the address?"

And then He handed her a net on a polearm and directed His minions to set the dishes loose.

Of course the meals in Disorder would fly about. And sing. It was the first time anywhere made _sense_ to Sal. Here, nobody called her strange for laughing as she jumped about and tried to catch a flying trifle. She never minded that every drink had to be supped upside-down.

It was the most fun she'd had in her life.

Only when the Gods declared the party ended, after the fruit had all been consumed, Sal wept at the thought of having to go back to her life as an exile. She didn't want to return to a mortal realm. Where people threw rocks at her for the way she acted. Or pelted mud at her multi-coloured dresses. As if it were entirely her fault that the only cloth she could afford were flour sacks and off-cuts from the village dressmaker's.

She didn't want to go back to begging for spoiled food. Or eating whatever people threw at her.

The Lord of Disorder noticed her trying to hide. Saw her tears. "I know there are no rules," He said, "but a party is meant for happiness. Not sorrow."

Sal blubbered. "I don't want to go home," she said. "It's horrible there."

"Have no fear," said the Lord. "You are a Saint of mine. You can make whatever unwelcome chaos they throw at you... come back to those that wish you ill."

She still wept when she blinked and she was in her little mud hovel. But Sal didn't have cause to weep for much longer. When she went out seeking food, the villagers threw their waste at her. It swung around her as if it were caught by an invisible slingshot and pelted the villagers in the face. Rotting food sailed into her basket as nice as pie, and when she told it, "Rot backwards," it gained the vitality that had once been turning into dirt.

And the maggots turned into little golden nuggets.

It took them a year to figure out that she actually _was_ a Saint. And another five to stop being scared of her. As if she would take her revenge on them by ruining their lives like they had ruined hers. It didn't make sense for her to do so.

But then, nothing that they did made any sense at all to Sal.

[69] At this point, it might be noted that the rain in the Realm of Disorder is anything other than water. Locals segregate the classifications into 'sweet', 'sour', and 'unpleasant'.

#  Challenge #241: Persistent Belief

Why would you... even need to hoax a moon.

Like, if you had that ability. Why would you then do it.

Of all the realms of human insanity, the Flat Earth Society genuinely takes every cake. The lengths to which they would go to maintain an obviously disprovable belief are beyond Galactic credulity.

Frax had the misfortune to be seated next to a member of them on the way to Whistlestop Station. And this human would not _be quiet_ about their belief. Which was supremely annoying to Frax. "We are approaching the station," she said. "You can look out the window and see it."

"The station is a hoax," said the annoying human. "What you're seeing is a three-D vid projection designed to conceal the real truth. The government decided long ago that intelligent life would be driven mad by reality."

"It's on a moon. You can see it. Separate from the planet. Look, it's casting a shadow."

"It's still a projection. Moons are hoaxes, too."

Frax could almost feel her brain melting. "How and _why_ would anyone need to hoax a moon?"

The human had an easy answer, "To explain the holes in the sky."

Frax had had enough. "All right. So _if_ we're all living on the same flat surface... what about the methane breathers?"

"Methane's a hoax, too."

#  Challenge #242: Choose Your Face

Having avatars be cool things can lead to odd circumstances:

Our best diplomat is a KHORNE BERSERKER! Our sane and reasonable authority figure is a SITH LORD! And our moral compass is PSYCHO MANTIS! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!

(Person saying this has a Dalek avatar...)

(Now imagine this, not on a normal forum where the avatar is a small image, but in an immersive virtual environment)

People get the wrong impression about Greater Deregulation South-Southwest. First, they assume that it's another polluted, overpopulated hole with sick residents and the elite both distant and uncaring. Then they see a plethora of green forests and clusters of blank, grey buildings and assume a rigid regime of strict population control and authoritarian restriction of literally everything that the common throng do.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Greater Deregulation South-Southwest has almost its entire population in Virtual Reality. It's much cheaper than building real entertainment venues, and is kinder on the evironment. In order to ensure that the populace don't become shiftless blobs, the government maintains a watch on every citizen's health, and adjusts their activity and nutrition suites accordingly. Therefore it should have been no surprise that the representatives of the Cogniscent Rights Committee were greeted by a telepresence machine before they were ushered into personal Virtual Reality Booths.

What the locals call the Real World is presented on eyescreens, heard through earbugs, and felt through full-body haptic suits. Ability aids make sure that _everyone_ can feel like they're walking, running, or even flying if the game world decrees it. There's no reason for hate, little logic to greed. And everything to make food is farmed underground, so that the forests could recover from the ruin that the greedy had once made of it.

This was one of the ones where a revolution had happened. Or someone realised that restoring the planet made more money than ruining it.

As technically-Ambassadors, they had full reign of mods and appearance choices. It took hours for all of them to make it to the Loading Lobby.

Committee Representative Britney Plethton, who had ironically chosen to 'wear' a Dalek, looked around at her fellow representatives. "WHAT-IS-WRONG-WITH-YOU-PEOPLE?" she demanded.

Representative Sklath had chosen the monster from _Revenge of the Son of the Bride of the Monster From Earth_. Replete with completely unconvincing rubber mask. "I thought it would be funny."

"Like you should talk," said Chief Negotiator Kevin. Currently Darth Maul. "You're a flakkin' _Dalek_."

"And Vrixos is a were-mer-vampire," Sklath pointed in her direction. "Either we all go back and change, or we hope that everyone else gets the joke."

To late. They entered the wider virtual world. Into absolute dada-surrealist _chaos_.

"I-DON'T-THINK-WE-HAVE-ANYTHING-TO-WORRY-ABOUT," said Britney.

#  Challenge #243: Collateral Self-sacrifice

Humans as the  S&R species/Space!Rescue Dogs (I know you've seen the first part dozens of times, but this is a different chain of posts, that goes a different way)

Everyone knows that humans are indomitable. Against level five or above Deathworlders[70], they are dogged and determined. Against disaster, they have a thousand ways to triumph. Even the most mundane of their species has exhibited what they call _hysterical strength_ in times of ultimate stress.

But over the years, Galactic Society has learned that there is one thing that humans cannot withstand. _Disapointment_. They arrive too late. They arrive on time, but the disaster has already claimed too many - which is a relative term. Too many deaths in a row, too many losses, and the humans lose morale. And yet they will _continue_ to dig through the rubble and sift through the wreckage until _every body has been found_.

The humans, endurance predators to the end, will slow. And leak. And make ugly noises. They mourn peoples they never knew. Break down over infants they never saw alive. Rage and curse against forces of nature and war that they _couldn't help_. And Galactic Society noticed. As much as the United Fellowship of Terran Planets was the Galactic Emergency Response Team[71], other Galactics recognised that they also needed a share of _wins_.

It began after the mass asteroid impacts of Cestus III, when entire cities were destroyed and the survival rate of the colonists was one in ten _thousand_. When the entirety of the UFTP dedicated itself to raising memorials and the whole fleet was in mourning. The Velethi Medical Vessel _Hurt-fix_ got 'winged' by a passing micro-meteor and the ship itself foundered.

Captain Jorgh, noting that the ship's human had had to be tranquillised because of their grief, realised what all the humans needed. They needed a clear and definite _victory_. "Oh no," she said in mock grief. "Our ship has been _crippled_. We're going to have to make an _emergency landing_."

First Officer Plekk didn't get it. "Captain, our automated systems can repair the breach, just enable them."

"I said, our ship has been crippled," said Jorgh. "It's _been_ crippled. The humans will have to come and rescue all of us."

Light finally dawned and First Officer Plekk flipped a few switches. "We appear to be venting atmosphere. Recommend we ditch on the surface of the barely-habitable area near the worst of the damage, sir."

"Try to make it a rough landing, if you would, Helmsman Grax? Minor injuries all round, I think."

"Minor injuries, aye aye." More flipped switches. "It appears the helm is having trouble responding. It's going to be a bumpy ride."

"Send out a distress signal," said Captain Jorgh. "And apologise for interrupting the recovery work in the remains of _Hyarkiss_ city."

The comms officer urgently began typing. Not trusting hirself to act properly for screen or audio. As a sign of dedication to the ruse, she left all her hurried typos in the finished message. Ze also made certain to correctly sabotage the comms so that text was the only means to communicate.

The landing hurt. Jorgh expected that. But it was also so _rewarding_ to see the humans laughing and smiling that they had "live ones," as they were wont to say. The humans picking through _Hyarkiss_ sped up, even though their work was grim.

Other assisting cogniscents _noticed_. In amongst the recovery work, helper crews got themselves into pickles. One team of Galactics even chose to reproduce, because nothing invigorates a team of humans like welcoming a new life into society. Even if it is a new life made out of tentacles and slime.

It wasn't until months later, when there were no more bodies to recover and the UFTP were headed back to their original missions, that the metaphorical penny dropped. The ships' historian for the _UFTP Ulysses_ was enjoying some relaxation time in the Officer's Mess with her friends. According to anyone observing her, she was 'spacing out'.

And then she spoke.

"Back before the Shattering, there was an act of war. Terrorists flew vehicles into large buildings. The fastest and most massive loss of life in memory. And that's including Hiroshima. Long-lasting damage, too, since they fireproofed those buildings with asbestos." A deep breath. A sip. A sigh. "They tried to rescue people after the buildings fell. They called the site Ground Zero, by the way. The whole shebang. Human chains, moving equipment. Fire brigades. And search dogs." Breath. Sip. Sigh. "There weren't many people left to find. Not even parts of bodies. The dogs were thinking they were doing it wrong. They were getting upset."

"Poor dogs," said Carol.

"Yeah. So rescue teams would go and hide in the rubble. So the dogs would have someone to find. A morale boost for them."

Carol sipped her tea. Helped herself to another mouthful of cake. And _realised_. "No way. That's what _they_ were doing for _us_?"

"It took me a while, too. Like... around about the fifth time some satellite workers needed a hand out of trouble that they could have easily fixed."

"I thought you got quiet around week four, Angie..."

Breath. Sip. Sigh. "I didn't know what to do about it. What to say about it. I wanted to be mad at them. Like... do they think we're stupid? But I kept seeing the others who hadn't clued on. They were happier. They could go back to finding bodies without breaking up..." Breath. Sip. Sigh. "So I said nothing and got on with it. And I had to admit... it was flakking effective."

Carol had to agree.

"It's only now I got it. They were just trying to show they cared... to people who show they care in different ways."

Carol finished off her cake. "You know they're going to keep it up from now on. Don't you?"

"Yup. And it's our solemn duty to make sure we never let them know that we know what they're doing."

Similarly, Captain Jorgh had said, "It's our solemn duty to never let them know what we are doing."

[70] Terrans are technically level four Deathworlders. Earth rates as 4.5 on the Deathworld. Level six is, so far, only theoretical.

[71] The humans said, "Always respond to a distress signal, for the emergency that's answered may one day be your own." It took some species quite a while to understand what they meant.

#  Challenge #244: Hope You Guess My Name

You can have what you want, But you also have Everything that goes with it.

He'd heard it all. Money, fame, power. They all inverted on themselves once they got it. Money came with taxes, of course, but it was also a form of power that corrupted. Those with the kindest and most generous hearts, once they had money, got to watch any offspring they had turn into egotistical, self-centred, heartless jerks. Those with fame never had a private moment to themselves again. Those with power... well. They had to use it and not abuse it. Those people ended up walking on eggshells through sheer responsibility.

Lucifer smiled as the next suspect edged into the interview seat. Op shop clothing. Glasses thirty years out of style. A general air of ennui that could easily find itself on the top of a tall building, or staring, speculatively, into a bottle of pills. This was exactly the downtrodden sort who he could easily imagine snapping after the final straw and killing a man like Victor Norman. Who, before his demise, had been one of Lucifer's favourite types of people.

So he asked his one question, "What do you want?" and put his special Spin on it.

The suspect stared at him for a solid minute. "To succeed at my endeavours."

In all his existence, he had never heard anyone phrase it like that. They all wanted the prize at the end, not the journey to get it. "And what _are_ your endeavours?"

The suspect breathed in, and life took over their body word by word. Haltingly at first, and then with increasing enthusiasm. They had _so_ many pet projects. A novel they were working on. An imaginary world they were building where _so_ many stories were happening. There was a comic that they didn't have the time to draw. Art that they didn't have the time to make. Music they wanted to write. They had _so_ much in their head and they just wanted to _share_.

Lucifer almost wept. Here was a mortal being with more creative spirit than _either_ of his parents, and Father had forsaken them. As thoroughly as Lucifer had been forsaken. Doomed to spend their life in a dead-end job with nothing but exhaustion and a frozen meal at the end of the day. Nothing for a life of creativity but rejection and disappointment. And a sad end where the neighbours downstairs would be responsible for finding the body because foul fluids were leaking down from the spot where they died.

Not on _his_ watch, they wouldn't. "What you really need," he said, "is time and freedom. I could give that to you. No strings attached."

"Why?" said the innocent.

"Oh, many reasons. I despise waste, and your life _has_ been wasted. I have an eye for talent. It would piss off my Father... I have lots. Do you want to hear them all?"

"So... you're not setting me up to fail so you and your friends can laugh at me?"

If _that_ was the first logical reason they went to, then Lucifer could _really_ hate his dad. "I promise you," he said. "I don't want you to fail at all. I just want to give you the freedom to succeed. May I see your phone?"

Ugh. It was a first-generation smart-phone. Carefully looked-after and cherished, but... stone age. On the plus side, it could still take pictures and send emails. He added his contact details and upgraded their phone plan to much better data, which he cheerfully billed himself for while he was at it. "Photograph all your outstanding bills and send them to me. Any time you're shopping, photograph the things you need but can't afford. I'll take care of _everything_. And you will be paid..." he picked a figure out of the air that made their jaw drop. "Per week. Just to make the things you want to make. One condition. _Never_ tell anyone I've done this."

They actually put their hand to their heart and did the scout sign. "I promise. Not a soul."

"And send me a copy of whatever you cook up, I'd love to see the finished product," he smiled. Time would tell how well or how horribly this would work out.

Week one came with photoset upon photoset of outstanding bills. Two weeks behind in rent. Three weeks behind on electricity. One week behind on internet services that Lucifer thought were frankly horrendous. Four weeks behind on water. This was a person who paid the most urgent bill they could in installments they could afford.

Not any more. Lucifer paid them all in full.

Week two came with manuscripts and art, and a few photos of middle-market equipment. A laptop. A tablet. And a reasonably nice-looking pair of shoes with the subtext that his pet creator was a size nine and a half. He arranged for all of them to happen, but the shoes were top-market things that could last fifteen lifetimes if necessary.

He made the mistake of reading a manuscript in Decker's offices exactly once. Because Decker caught him weeping at the beauty of it and never let him live it down. Thereafter, he spent his sundays in the privacy of his flat, worshipping the creative spirit.

They found an agent all on their own. Sending polished manuscripts out on the shotgun principle and snagged by someone _else_ who could recognise good talent where they saw it.

And less than three months and surprisingly few demands later, Lucifer received a first edition from them.

It was dedicated, _To my Angel. Thank you for believing in me._

They were the first life he didn't ruin by granting their wish. And they spread goodness with every heart they reached. Of course, there were the rare few who would never take a lesson to heart, but every fandom has its toxic element.

Nevertheless, Lucifer would pause every time he passed a bookstore, and saw that name on the growing volumes of artwork that came out of that busy mind. They kept their shitty little flat. They loved their shitty little laptop and equally shitty little tablet until the day that technology passed and they could afford something _far_ better with their royalties.

And they sponsored _others_ who had dreams and talent and _no time_. And others who just needed a few breaks.

Every time he saw it in the news, or read about it via their twitter feed, Lucifer muttered, "Suck it, _Dad_." And felt better for the entire day.

#  Challenge #245: Pass on the Wild Ride

Pookas. Referencing "Harvey" the original and the best. Shadye and a Pooka – Anon Guest

The foothills of the headlands. Headed into Enchanted Grounds. Civilisation tried to stay away from places like this. The walls between the worlds grew thin, and all kinds of eldritch beings emerged, with their eyes set on the hearts and minds of man.

They don't mind snacking on eyeballs, lungs, and intestines, either.

The captured demon, who could see things that mere mortals could not, squinted at the wild woods. "Aye, tha's mucked up," she said. She smiled for Podlo, the squire, and added, "It's awreet. Most of it's visual interference. Will o' th' wisps. Phantoms. Echoes from another reality."

As if to prove her words, twin lanterns emerged from the woods at high speed, zoomed straight through them, and carried on up a hill that wasn't there. Then they disappeared without a trace. "Speed demons!" Podlo cried.

"Probably one," said the demon Shayde. "Those were 'is headlights."

"A head with eyes that wide?" boggled Podlo.

"No, ye ken. A car. Like a cart but..." she sighed. "You guys are no' ready fer internal combustion."

"Cease your babble, both of you," said the Hero Klighar. "Wizard, cast your enchantments. We must have protection on our way to the Castle of Doom."

Shayde said, "Eat none o' the food you find. Talk tae nobody but us. Trust not yer eyes." She chafed against the magical bindings that kept her shadow powers in check.

"What do we trust?" whispered Podlo as the Wizard Frass drew his runes and said unintelligible words.

"Faith," said Shayde. "Those that would do evil _hate_ the devout. And cannae harm them."

Podlo began muttering every prayer he knew.

The Wizard Frass finished his work, and the went forth into the shrouding darkness. Podlo began singing hymns to drown out the shrieking. Walked behind Shayde with his eyes closed and his hand holding on to her simple rope belt.

Thus they went for two days. Relying on Shayde's ability to see the Truth more than they ever had. She safely kept them away from any hazard that their eyes saw as perfectly safe. It was on the third night, or almost thereafter, the Hero Klighar found a miracle.

"Astounding white chargers! Four of them. Just as there are four of us. Tame as dogs and mild as milk," he said, for once waxing poetic. But there was little that that man loved more than horses.

"Aw, yer even countin' me," cooed Shayde. "Sweet o' ye. And where are these horses?"

He lead them into camp. They were beautiful, but Shayde's glowing eyes flashed red for just a moment. "Horses," she said. "Aye." She stood and produced an apple out of nowhere. "Which one o' ye'd like an apple?"

All four magnificent steeds said, "Me!"

Shayde glared at the Hero Klighar. "Ye found Pookas. They'd've got us more lost than found. What next? Kelpies?"

"Spoilsport," muttered one of the horses.

#  Challenge #246: And Hardships Unnumbered

(On doing something (in the original a work of magic) usually considered extremely difficult, if not impossible, that the speaker mastered to the point it was near-trivial under [Name], but hasn't done for years)

(said fondly)

[Name] will reform from the ash of her own pyre and skin me if I fuck this up.

After the disaster that flattened the Forests of Ee, death covered the land like a blanket. The waters soured, and any living thing that entered the lowlands for an entire season choked and died. Winter wrapped the lands in even worse, and the survivors who eked a living out of the highlands were loath to re-enter what had once been a fertile valley.

Tebnir the Little had undertaken the long journey to find Salamer. The only surviving Mage who knew the Life Spells. Mages were peculiar sorts, preferring a life alone in distant towers. Staying away from people and studying. Or living their whole lives in libraries and not actually _doing_ anything. But, once in a while, they could be swayed. If someone had a desperate plight. Or an interesting find. Or enough gold.

Tebnir had two of those things. So she spent a year walking to Salamer's tower. With hope in her heart and a seashell she had found in the mines. Pressed into a rock. From the top of a mountain. It had to be interesting enough to capture a scholar's interest. Or so she hoped. She certainly didn't have gold.

When she reached Salamer, the Mage was at the top of her tower. Working on some kind of device made of cogs and handles and little wheels with numbers on them. Salamer was so into her work that she didn't notice Tebnir passing her things until Tebnir handed over the rock with the seashell in it.

"Oh. Hello," said Salamer. "Is this for me?"

Dumbstruck, Tebnir could only mutter, "...'es."

"One doesn't see a seashell in a rock every day. There's chalk cliffs by the seasides, but... This isn't chalk. This is _dolomite_. Interesting. Where did you find it."

"In a mine up a mountain." Tebnir had faced all kinds of horrors on the way here, most of them were her own mind's creation. But here? Facing _this_ Mage? It was the only time her lips and her legs trembled from fear.

Salamer had old eyes, even though she had a young face. They looked all over Tebnir as if assessing a sickly lamb in the markets. "Tell me why you came here. It isn't to give me a stone from a hole in a mountain."

Words spilled out of Tebnir. About the valley of death that had once been the valley of spring. How one of the mountains had spewed ash for fifteen days and everything in the valley had choked and died. How not even _flies_ went there, now. How her people were struggling to make ends meet and how they all wanted the fertile valley and the clean water back.

"Ah. You would like me to work life magic on an entire _valley_?"

Tebnir fell mute again. "...'esplease."

Salamar got up from her desk, and started packing half her shelves into a small bag that could not possibly hold it all. "I must have done so many nature revivals under old Fesrir. Got to be old hat, after a while. Mind you, it's been _years_." She consulted some pages in a thick book that she subsequently packed. "Fifty years. If I mess this up, now, Fesrir will reform from the ash of her own pyre and skin me with my own teeth."

Tebnir almost soiled herself. Mages were _powerful_. "Is... there anyone else? Who could help?"

Salamar was looking speculatively at a pair of shoes, and excavated a pair of socks to go with them. "Put these on. You've been walking for a _year_ to get to me. Reaching anyone else would be a convoluted quest you _don't_ need. I can get some horses for us at the nearest town, but those will help your blisters heal. Might make more blisters at first. How many shoes have you had?"

"Including these? Two." Tebnir flipped each of them up to show the Mage what she was counting.

"Oh dear," muttered Salamer. "Good thing those socks have a healing spell knitted into them. You're going to have more pain for a while, but those are good boots and you can keep them. Even after our journey back to your valley."

For the first time in three years, Tebnir smiled. Fortune was finally changing for the better.

#  Challenge #247: Everything You Need

Swiss Army knife, multi tool, or the ever useful paperclip. – Anon Guest

Every nerd who ever entered the sciences has a First Microscope. Some even kept their First Computer. More than a few kept their First Telescope.

Firsts are important. And for JOATs, it's their First Multitool. Preserved and maintained. Usually kept on display, because a great Majority of JOATs go a little wild and choose the option with the most apparent versatility. And, co-incidentally, the most weight.

Almost all of them do this. But not Rael.

When offered the sponsorship of Galactic JOATs Incorporated, in order to purchase his First Multitool, Rael perused the shelves of a JOAT's Everything Shop[72] for some significant time. Looking at all the multitools in the display case for them[73]. They were beautifully arranged, with all the assorted tools and gizmos fanned out for maximum aesthetic appeal.

He spent so long at it that one of the staff came to assist him. "Need some help?"

"Which are the most useful tools in these, please?"

"Everyone needs a pair of pliers, an adjustable wrench, a screwdriver and at least two ways of cutting things," admitted the staffer. Honesty always helped sell things, in the end[74].

"None of these have just those," said Rael. "Where is the model with just those, please?"

These ones _weren't_ in a display case. They were lined up on the racks, and hidden between the craft material and the art material. They had three options for cutting things, a knife, a pair of scissors, and the side-cutters for tougher objects. And two types of screwdriver in a gauge meant to fit most screws. Even the adjustable spanner was a thing of economy and durability.

"And since this is your first one," added the staffer, "you get a complimentary bottle of oil and maintenance instructions data file."

Rael checked the data-reader on his vambrace. Nodded. "Yes. That will do nicely, thank you."

To this day, he is the only JOAT on record to buy a sensible multitool as their First.

[72] JOAT, of course, stands for Jack/Jill/Jharren Of All Trades. And as such, they have an amazing need to acquire astonishingly disparate tools and materials. Hence, a shop that contains a little bit of everything.

[73] A universal law goes that anything in a display case is worth more than you can afford. _Always_.

[74] The entire concept of "being on commission" has been outlawed, as it's classified as Cruel and Unusual to both seller and buyer.

#  Challenge #248: Sticky Situation

"Crazy glue one hundred and one uses. Also known as Super Glue." – Anon Guest

People were urgently patching holes after the micrometeor impacts. Smaller, slow-leaking holes were already patched with the humans' ever-present gum, albeit temporarily. For larger holes, they were grabbing whatever could fit and welding, bolting, and fastening as fast as they could.

Only the ships' human was using a tiny little tube before just... adding things.

Captain Farz had to admit the human was working quickly, but... what they were doing didn't at all look _stable_. "Human Lyle. What is it you are fastening with?"

"Cyanoacrylate, sir," said Human Lyle. "It's fast, effective, and energy-efficient."

"Is that one of your species' _medical_ compounds?"

"Yup," chirped the human. "Better than stitches for sealing and healing wounds."

Captain Farz fought not to shudder at that thought. Humans were so resilient that they could withstand all kinds of injuries, and then withstood being _sewn back together_ as if their flesh was a torn garment. And this will work for patching the vessel, _too_?"

"Oh yeah. You wanna stick anything to anything else, cyanoacrylate is your chemical. It'd probably hold better than a weld, but I'd weld this lot anyway. This is a for-now patch. Not a forever patch." Human Lyle turned away from their work, baring their teeth in what was probably a reassuring smile. "Right as rain."

Human lyle had all _kinds_ of uses for glue. There was one made out of starches that Human Lyle used for artwork consisting of strips of matted cellulose reassembled into three-dimensional shapes. There was one made out of plastics, if Farz understood the human word, ' _polyvinyl acetate_ ' that could stick most things to most other things if given enough time. But that one was water soluble. This new one... well, this new _use_ gave Captain Farz cause for alarm.

"Will this one dissolve?"

"Only if you have acetone," said Human Lyle, once again drawing near-invisible lines on a piece of debris. They placed it over a hole and held it there for a moment. "Otherwise, I reckon we're good. Could use some spak filler for all the gaps until the welding team catches up, though. Just in case."

Somewhere, Fraz was certain, there was a human ship made out of ductape, spak filler, and cyanoacrylate.

#  Challenge #249: The Independence Initiative

Gadgets sold on Marketing T.V. turn up on Amalgam. – Anon Guest

Honesty in advertising has changed a great many things. No longer are items sold as the best in the market. Or a fabulous new invention for the lazy. Instead of being marketed to everyone, they are marketed to their target audience first.

The smiling cogniscent on the screen was aesthetically appealing to a majority of Galactic Society. Since her discipline was Entertainment, she wore something sparkly. "Here at the Assistance Institute, scientists and designers are working around the clock to make _your_ life easier. Assistive technicians and people who need assistance work together to find the best solutions for everyday tasks that would otherwise be out of reach."

The camera panned away from the aesthetically pleasing lizard to show a cogniscent with motor control issues focussing all hir effort on picking up a spork with a looped handle. The tool end had stability control technology, so that it didn't spill so much as one drop of the virulently green test liquid. The cogniscent laughed and turned to the proud techie at hir elbow. "Looks good so far."

The camera moved to other tests. Reaching tools. Grasping tools. Tools for helper animals that were tested with trainers and owners in the same space. "No matter what trouble you may have," continued the voice of the lizard presenter, "we aim to give you more independence than the levels you're used to."

Now it was in a lab environment where a cogniscent with withered limbs was being fitted into a sleek-looking exoskeleton. The lovely lizard reappeared with an omnimic. "Who's in the test arena, today, Marlek?"

Techie Marlek introduced the cogniscent in the exoskeleton. "This is Toby. Ze's suffered from a progressive muscle-wasting disease that we're still engineering a counter-virus for. In the meantime, we've made this responsive exoskeleton that measures Toby's neural impulses and augments the muscles that are remaining."

Another techie finished installing the comms that allowed Toby to speak. "It's been a pain in the anatomy," said hir synthetic voice. "My progress has been too rapid for existing technology to keep up with. I've seen life as I knew it waste away in the time it took to fabricate the next assistive device."

"I can understand how that could be disheartening." The lizard presenter stood back and allowed the camera to focus on what the techies were doing. "I understand that this is adapted from extant exoskeletons made for heavy lifting, and assisting low-grav cogniscents to operate in heavier gravity wells?"

Techie Marlek appeared to be the designated spokesperson. "That's correct, Lors. We were able to use extant patterns for most of the printing, but the circuitry needed a week for the redesign."

The other techies stood back. Toby flexed hir arms on cue. Wriggled hir legs. Flexed hir head. One techie said, "Okay. Slow and careful at first. Let us know if anything hurts."

Carefully and slowly, Toby sat up. Stood up. There was a bit of lurching, but Toby could walk almost normally. Ze could sort simple shapes into a toy meant for infants. Ze picked up a pen and wrote the word, _Freedom!_ on the nearby whiteboard. Hir synthetic voice said, "You'll have to fight me to get it off me, now."

Applause and back-patting all round. One techie said, "We're still working on making it Cleanser-proof. Sorry."

"I don't care," said Toby. "I want to go shopping. By myself."

"Alright, but let us fit the solar panels, first."

The camera went back to Lors and Techie Marlek. "What's next for this exo design, Marlek?"

"We're already working on a direct neural interface for patients with incurable Locked In Syndromes. Current augmentations involve invasive surgery and neural docking. As you might know, that often causes more trouble than it solves. In order to have complete freedom, a patient would need real-time brain scans that augment extant bio-electrical impulses and bypass the blockage to influence the muscles as it would normally occur."

"That's going to help quite a lot of people," said Lors.

"Indeed. We have twenty patients eager to try the next iteration."

The words, _Freedom For All!_ faded onto the screen as the rest faded to black, and a tiny little anthem played.

Shayde, who had been watching, blinked at the info-screen that showed the multitude of ways that she could donate and help out the Assistance Institute. "Demtel," she said, "that ain't."

#  Challenge #250: The Best of Luck

Lucker, who's "Gift" is to bring Luck to others - and makes a good living out of it.

I don't take chances. In my case, it's a 100% chance that I'd fail. I know this is an absolute truth because I've been tested. Hi, I'm a Lucker. Your good luck is my fault. You're welcome. On the downside, I'm banned from every gambling establishment in Galactic Society.

Not for winning, oh no. I never win. I mentioned that. No. I make everyone _else_ win. Within a ten SDU radius. And yes, it is spherical. I'm the one that every casino owner hates. I have an app that chimes when I'm getting too close to a legal gambling area. It makes getting around places quote-unquote fun, some times.

So why am I well off? Well, therein lies a tale. It's illegal to make money off of protection rackets, so I'm definitely not ransoming any casinos. Wouldn't think of it. My line of work lies elsewhere.

Every port gets freight, and for every ten truckers hauling a load, there's one in there who needs to get to a destination and damn the impediments. I get half their bonus and the Time I spend with them on the trip. Ends up being lucrative.

The scars? Oh yes. The universe demands balance, you know. For every piece of good fortune, bad has to happen somewhere else. I'm my somewhere else. Cuts, scrapes, bruises... I get knocked about, but it's okay. Humans are tough. And with medical technology the way it is? I'll be a cyborg somewhere near retirement age. If my luck doesn't run out when my organic components do.

I'll see, I guess. Or I'll die. Like I said, I don't take chances. I collect data. I haven't needed any replacements, _yet_ , but I will. And when I do, you _bet_ I'll be taking down stats. It's an interesting life, being a Lucker. And when my luck drops down, I can probably make some serious Time off of my memoirs.

There's my ride. I'm chasing the storms to Altafrinkus. Look for my autobiography, won't you?

#  Challenge #251: The One That Got Away

The sign said "Wet Paint". – Anon Guest

It said it in English, and it said it whilst affixed to a filthy-looking wall. There was something incredibly suspicious about all of this. Especially since this was apparently a derelict in the middle of nowhere with no alarms, diverse or otherwise.

Some part of Jen was screaming, _Honey trap!_ But it was in stiff competition with the part of her that was so very tempted to see if the sign was telling the truth.

It took real effort to turn away from the sign and scout the rest of the ship. Shiny technology. Resources that were easy to get to, and easily transformed into incredibly useful things. There was even _art_ that could be worth a Year or fifteen. Assuming it was art and not technology. _And an especially active nearby magnetosphere that stopped her scanner from working._ Something smelled fishy, and it wasn't her own sushi burps.

No sign of life on this derelict. The atmosphere was plausible, but Jen couldn't breathe it. And, as a bonus, it preserved everything that was in it. But there was still something wrong with it all. And it centred on the sign.

She poked it. It was not wet paint, but some form of glue that would stay wet until something came into contact with it.

"Fuck," she muttered. Now her choices were remove her glove and die, or wait for whoever set this honey trap up to come and take her to whatever. For all she knew, they were cogniphagics out after the ultimate prey.

_Think, think, think..._ They had to check this trap regularly. They _knew_ humans were in the area and had logically recognised a thing that humans were guaranteed to touch. She had two hours of air before this situation got dire. She'd left her cutting tools by the airlock...

How long could she hold her breath?

Jen hyperventilated on purpose. Cramming her body with as much oxygen as she could stand. Took one last, deep breath, and unfastened her glove. Her livesuit immediately blatted warnings in her ears, but she ignored them. Her mission, now, was to get to the airlock with all due speed, but not enough speed that her body would demand she breathe the now toxic air.

Walking at just the right pace while her lungs creaked into agony was an experience she didn't care to repeat. Jen didn't even grab her tools. Just leaped inside the last door and slammed the button. Seized the emergency mask as fast as she could.

Dizzy, coughing, and covered in an interesting rash from the derelict's atmosphere, Jen pondered her next move. Reporting this shit would require leaving the system, which would take too much time even at CTL. She couldn't let it stay there and be a trap for anyone else.

Too many shiny objects inside. And her suit was compromised, but not so compromised that Ace Salvage wouldn't rip her a new one for expanding her cargo. They'd make her pay for a new livesuit, the bastards. So, the only other option was, find a new way to strip it.

It took a week to rig up a remote bot for herself. A week that she spotted a vessel jump into the system and then jump back out again. They must have had a set of signals to let them know someone was there, and a closer set to let them know the trap had been sprung. Jen smiled at the thought that she was making someone go to this much effort.

The first thing she got back was her glove, and then the tools. Once that little piece of wall was in her ship, the analysis computers could tell her the solvent and even fabricate some. Which got added to her just-in-case pouches on the suit.

After that, it was a simple exercise of stripping every last valuable thing off there before she set her Hungry Caterpillar on the entire damn thing.

And, just to be petty, she added mines to the jump point where the assholes who set this up regularly did their turn-around.

That'll teach them.

Vorax command was not pleased. They had had the most perfect human trap known to their kind. And now one had escaped. They had learned many things about their tastiest prey. And the most alarming was, _What one human learns, the rest learn._

That trap would not work again.

They would have to start _hunting_.

#  Challenge #252: A Lesson For All

"Bellringer Sale! 80% off". Then the bell began to ring. – Anon Guest

The luckless staffmember ringing the bell was on a stone plinth that served most of its time as a display area that could also be sat upon if a shopper was desperate enough. The shoppers were not desperate for a seat, right now. What they were desperate for was a bargain.

A rolling sea of humanity, flooding the area. A surge made of pure greed.

There were no staff in the sales zone because it quickly turned into a melee. People who hadn't wanted Flangisprangers five minutes prior were fighting others for the privilege to buy one at an amazing discount. The luckless staffmember clung to the bell whilst trying to occupy the least possible physical space.

People who couldn't get to the Flangisprangers were attacking the people who had one or more of them. Children cried for mothers who would not soothe them. Infants were abandoned in their prams. If any of these people were allowed to be armed, it would have been a bloodbath.

It was almost a bloodbath, now.

Other staff worked the outskirts to get the children to a safe area. Including the ones in prams. None dared to get the others away from their bargain.

Educator Maris paused the playback. "This is a dramatisation, but it is one of the worst examples of capitalism. We have genuine footage, but it is marked as too disturbing for young viewers."

Elaise, covered in gooseflesh, could believe it. Knowing a vid was staged had lessened the impact of its content. And yet, there was a part of her that wondered what the genuine footage looked like.

On the viewer, now, there was a very safe series of graphs. One of them chilled Elaise to the bone. One one axis were pre-shattering dates. The other was labeled, _Number of Deaths_. It went up to the _thousands_.

"Greed is well known amongst human sects as a sin. We've just seen some of the destruction that it can cause. But there are indirect causes, too. The oligarchy elites in pre-shattering history literally had the power of life and death over those who were not among the elite. They would destroy anything to get more money and more power. And they almost destroyed the Earth's habitability."

Old headlines, credited to the Archivaas Collective. Cyclones. Fires. Hurricanes. Floods. Record high summers. Glaciers withering away. Rising oceans. Small island nations in peril.

And then, the headline: _New Worlds For Colonisation!_

"What saved Earth, ironically, is greed. New worlds with the potential for resources. The oligarchs could own all the shiny things. On a world built in their own image. Some went to claim the planets on their own, and realised that they needed workers to reap their imagined rewards. Some went with workers to reap every reward and then realised that they couldn't return to Earth with their wealth. Some went on purpose to become kings of their own planet. Only seven of those colonies are known to survive."

The Galactic Map lit up all the Greater Deregulations. The others had to be Graveworlds.

Elaise put up her hand. "How could people learn to be so horrible about everything?"

"Oligarchs isolated themselves from the community," said Educator Maris. "In isolation, they could remove themselves from any legal consequences. Without consequences, they believed they could get away with anything. And, as a direct result, they lost any morals about what they did."

Things were a lot better without oligarchies. Elaise could see that. People with power accepted the responsibilities that went with it. No one person could decide to -say- plough under an entire district's worth of homes so that that one person could have a _golf course_. The system that existed now wasn't perfect, no system ever was, but there were people in charge who cared, and they were working hard on all kinds of improvements.

Elaise pondered her homework, _Write down five ways in which Galactic Society is flawed, and what measures might be taken to improve them._ It was going to take her some time to figure out where the cracks were, simply because she'd never fallen through one.

#  Challenge #253: Discrete Service

The Exclusive Tailors and Modistes, who outfit Super Heroes. And you can send up Mr Humphries of "Are you being served?" here if you like.

The Client had been aiming for a Look. That much was established. They kept asking for the special offers, and turning down the items available to the public. Finally, after fifteen different ensembles, they said, "Maybe... something from the _basement_?"

Ah. _That_ was why they were taking their time and being so indecisive. "Of course," Phil said. "Just follow me to Fitting Room Twelve." The one with the Out Of Order sign on the door and the mock stack of boxes in it to deter civilians from blundering in to realms they ought not know about. "Have you a card?"

"This is all I got," the Client fished in their back pocket and brought out a grubby post-it note. On it, barely legible, was the address and the inscription: _FFS get a better costume!_

Phil recognised the attempt at handwriting. "Lightning Bolt... of course. In too much of a hurry to do things properly." He moved the handle of the mop through a complicated ballet and the boxes fizzled out of view to reveal the hidden elevator. "This way, please. I will need your name for our records."

"Uh... Francis Little."

"No. Your Name. Your Super Name."

"I'm... the Blip."

"Interesting," said Phil. He knew he was going to get an explanation whether he wanted one or not. He ushered the Blip inside and operated the elevator. Taking them down into another world.

"I can make statistical anomalies happen. Ten thousand spiders in someone's mouth. A miraculous escape from a certain-doom situation. That sort of thing."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Spiders Georg?"

"Yeah, that's where I got it from."

They reached their destination. Another world. Here, there were fabrics to fit every possible power. A body scanner to ensure a comfortable fit. Shapewear for that 'zero gravity boobs' effect, or that 'sculpted body' effect. Whatever a Client wished, Phil could plausibly fabricate it. But since the Blip was new, he guided them over to the drawing board.

If two such mundane words could cover the massive array of technology and computer-guided precision that it entailed.

"Please disrobe and step into the scanner. I promise that any private details will remain so."

Discounting the underpants zone, it was difficult to tell if the Blip was male or female. And the blank canvas rotating on the displays had that zone censored with neutral underwear. Suggestions for colour schemes came up automatically, as did a few basic designs. One query blinked on the displays. _M/F?_

"I don't even know," said the Blip, pulling on the oversized cardigan they wore. "I mean... I'm on puberty blockers for a while, yet? But... I'm not sure I even _want_ secondary sex characteristics. And sooner or later, someone's going to _make_ me make up my mind and I really don't want that."

"Some of my clients are lawyers. I know some who might be able to help you, there." Phil's fingers pattered on the keys, altering code. Now the question was, _M/F/N?_ to which Phil quickly selected 'N'. "Now. Costume likes and dislikes..."

"Well... capes look cool and all, but they always catch on stuff. I'm clumsy enough. Body armour, yes. Sculpted muscles, no. And no nipple armour. Euw. That's just gross. Something that could hide under my street wear would be _awesome_. Is that do-able?"

"We have a collection of advanced options that are nearly undetectable. Only those with super vision capabilities can spot it and they are under oath to maintain secret identities whenever they are found."

"Mutually assured destruction as a guarantee?" guessed the Blip.

"Got it in one."

"Then whatever it is, it goes for me too. In the unlikely event that I actually work out anyone's secret identity, I promise that there'll be no funny business." The Blip crossed their heart. "Even if they're my worst enemy."

"That's close enough to the official version for my satisfaction. Colour scheme?"

"Oh. Uh. Nothing eye-shredding, you know? I don't want to be a target like some of the Super Tanks out there. Unobtrusive, but not... invisible. Um. I have a few ideas for a logo..." they went scrabbling through their backpack. And had a notebook full of doodles from the scientific to the avant-guard.

This... was going to be a long session.

[AN: Having never watched more than two consecutive minutes of _Are You Being Served_ , I decided to avoid an antiquated stereotype.]

#  Challenge #254: Beautiful Downtown Babel

It was gridlocked regularly, so they added another lane. Then more cars and trucks came.

Once, there was a city. It was by a natural port, so it grew with the aim of trade in mind. The lanes and byways were made by horses and the places where people thought it would be convenient to have a building. Cars came, and things changed. Narrow little lanes that could afford a horse became places to build. Wide lanes became wider. Traffic happened. Cars and trucks clogged the byways and fouled the air.

Gridlock happened. People in their cars and trucks were in the way of everyone _else_ in their cars and trucks. The people who lived nearby moved out. Into wide areas where they could see a little green which meant that _they_ needed cars to get to their place of work, which was in the city.

Buildings fell. Roads widened. More buildings sprang up. And, as always, there were more vehicles to clog the roads. Year after year, the people in charge applied the same solution that didn't work to a problem that they caused for themselves. Some asked for reliable public transit, but the budget went to more roads. Always more roads.

The areas of green became ploughed under so that more housing in less areas, which meant for more cars in wider roads and less space for everything else. Buildings became smaller in their footprint and taller in height and that meant, because there were airplanes, that they became a hazard to the airport. The people who ran things would much rather move the airport than halt business in the city and look for a more permanent solution.

Now the city was encroaching on the farms that fed it. The debate came to space to live as opposed to food to eat. The city chose to import its food and plough under all the arable land in favour of buildings, highways, and another new airport.

Unfortunately, all the other cities had made the same decision.

Once, there was a city.

Now it is a ruin. The descendants of the survivors forage in the weeds that have grown up along the highways. They hunt the animals that used to be considered vermin by the affluent people that once lived there. They tell tales of egotistical rulers who could build towers to reach the very sky, and how those towers fell. In the cycle of time, it might be the Almighty who caused the towers to fall, and cursed the people who had once lived there.

People tell stories like that. Over and over. And, over and over, they do not _learn_ from them.

#  Challenge #255: One Pot Screamer

Hwell Barrow gets his hands on "knurd" that Discworld drink that you wake up sober with. He drank a Lot!

Shayde is old enough to remember what 'Kickapoo Joy Juice' was, and when she or her friends were studying for extreme lengths of time, she had invented 'Kikyernuts Brain Fire'. Which was a carefully-calibrated mixture of every stimulant known to mankind at the time. In a dose so strong that it was fractionally short of being lethal. She had a pot brewing in front of an audience of horrified and fascinated Medik trainees.

"Na while that's reducin' tae a syrup," said Shayde, "I need tae stress the importance o' drinkin' this shite out of a _shot glass_." She held aloft the tiny container. This one was double-walled and shot through with gold wires to prevent breakage through temperature shock. "One dose. Three hours. Otherwise ye run the risk o'–"

Hwell Barrow, freelance adventurer extraordinaire, and possibly permanently under the influence, fell through a patch of ceiling. He was evidently worse for wear. If he was a book, he would be slightly foxed, very badgered, severely bear'd and possibly dragoned[75]. He pulled himself laboriously to his feet, managed to focus on the bubbling pot, and cried, "Lor' _bless_ you, I'm _gaggin'_." He marched straight for the pot and, ignorant of Shayde's frantic and urgent cries not to drink that, seized the whole pot.

There was a moment of silence. Filled only with Hwell's gulping and the metaphorical sound of a lit fuse.

Shayde raised her hand. "Anyone go' paramedic trainin' fer catastrophic metabolic imbalance revival?"

Hwell finished the last drop. "Oh I needed that." He licked his lips. "That was some strong coffee. And hot. Why's everyone starin' at me like–" his eyes flared open, apparently staring at nothing.

"An' thar it goes," said Shayde. "Nobody's ever drank tha' much. Ever. Closest was when Patty Ellins had a whole cup. She got her thesis done, aye, but she wound up in 'ospital." She coiled, ready to spring. "I tackle 'im, you lot get th' sedatives."

Hwell dropped the flask. Contrary to narrative impulse, it neither smashed nor startled an offscreen cat. It merely bounced harmlessly on the floor. Hwell started making a hissing noise. One finger slowly rose, pointing at something only he could see.

"It's coming through the walls..."

"Aye, they do that. The walls aren't here for them, ye ken." Shayde kept up a calm, logical, soothing tone. Still ready to pounce at a moment's notice. "We aren't here for them, either. They're harmless. Jus' fishin' in another dimension close tae ours. That's all."

"Why's everyone so beautiful?"

"That's the true lights," cooed Shayde. Now she was certain that he wasn't going to run around screaming, she slowly reached out and grasped his arm. "Yer seein' a little bit too much truth, right now. In a moment, yer goin' tae get existential. But while tha's happenin', I'm goin' tae feel yer pulse."

He looked at her in amazement. "You're like a beautiful star that doesn't hurt me eyes," he said. "Throwin' off solar flares of rainbows and sparkles."

"That's nice to know," she singsonged. Fingers on his neck. An urgent glance at the students. "His heart's hummin' C sharp." To Hwell, still in the singsong voice, she said, "Na. We're goin' tae just sit ye down _nice_ an' comfy and these nice med students are goin' tae try an' slow yer heart down before ye die. Yer a silly bugger, did ye know that?"

"That's not the right bedside manner," complained a student who was having difficulty assembling their injector.

"It is if he can see when I'm tellin' a lie," Shayde singsonged. She got him sat and tried to get him to do yoga breathing when he was busy hyperventilating. "Try an calm yerself down, now. Yer _juuussst_ seein' things."

"Do you see this all the time?" wondered Hwell.

"Most of it," she said. "Loads of it's completely harmless. Even the ugly ones. I can tune 'em out, most the time."

"...lucky," muttered Hwell, just as a student injected him with a superior sedative. His pulse slowed to something more rational. "I love my life," he slurred. "Errybody sh'd getta pony..." And then he passed out.

Shayde laid him down in recovery position. "Reet. As I was sayin'. Small doses, widely spaced out, or ye run the risk of tachycardia, hyperventilation, burst blood vessels, and one _fook_ of a headache. He's no' goin' tae be a happy chappy when he wakes up."

She was right, of course. And Hwell later reported that 'Kikyernuts Brain Fire' was like being struck in the brain by a coffee-flavoured time hole. Or a black hole. Or a mix of the two. He could _see_ the world slowing down around him and felt like he could run all the way home to New Cymru before he needed to breathe.

[AN: For those of you unfamiliar with Sir Terry Pratchett's _Discworld_ series, 'knurd' is the actual state of pure sobriety that's the opposite of drunkenness. Being 'knurd' is being so sober that you see _all_ the truths of the universe. Especially the ones you don't want to]

[75] GNU Sir Terry Pratchett, much loved and missed.

#  Challenge #256: Show of Faith

"Shhhhh." [Name] put a finger to both of their lips. "Let's just enjoy this. Things are going to be awful in a few hours, but right now I've tricked myself into thinking we can handle this. Let me bask in it."

The human had a mantra for everything that was going wrong. Human Steve was multitasking. Gathering and patching and applying gum and ductape as fast as their two hands could manage. The mantra was four words, "I can handle it!"

Leaking air? "I can handle it!" Minimal food supplies? "I can handle it!" Toxic air from the outer atmosphere leaking in? "I can handle it!" But it was the repeated insistance that this situation was un-handle-able that caused Human Steve distress.

After the tenth such iteration, human Steve put an upright finger over both their faceplates. Made a repetitious and rhythmic, "Shh-shh-shh-shh-shh," noise until all were quiet. Then they made a disturbing announcement. "Let's just enjoy this. Things are going to be awful in a few hours, but right now I've tricked myself into thinking we can handle this. Let me bask in it."

Orlek had to remember his science breathing, lest he pass out. "You... are not entirely certain?"

"Listen to my words. Let's believe together, okay? 'I. Can. Handle. It.'"

"You can handle it," said Orlek uncertainly.

"Great. That's great. Add that as a codicil to every last concern we have going. Please. I think it will help."

"This shelter is far too small, but you can handle it," said Orlek.

"Excellent! We've _got_ this. We can handle it." Human Steve passed a lush, potted plant and a vessel of water to Orlek and seated him on a swivelling chair. "Hold these. We've got this. We can handle it."

Orlek recognised the twinned necessities of hold-my-thing and look-after-this. "You have this," Orlek repeated. "You can handle it."

And then Human Steve used an assortment of tools to dig a hole, turn the large chunks from the hole into dust, and mix the dust with condensation from the walls to make a kind of mud cement. That, Human Steve urgently plastered over the debris walls to form a barrier against both leakage and incoming atmosphere.

Incredibly, by degrees, their little pocket of livable space expanded and stabilised.

The final step was dusting the mud walls to help them dry just that little bit faster, and place containers under the hand-made stalactites to catch any drips, which would go into the purifier. The excess elements were fed into the atom printer, which was 'bodged' with the food printer. As was the atmosphere scrubber.

Things were unpleasant for a few hours, just as Human Steve predicted, but they reached a point of equilibrium where the livesuits could recycle and scrub, and augment from the extant atmosphere. And they could feet 'food patties' into their suit intakes, and add the extracted water into their supplies.

Human Steve, exhausted and shaking, collapsed onto the floor of their little bubble and repeated, "I can handle it," for an hour. Building up their self-belief. They focussed on survival breathing for a further half hour. Following that, Human Steve looked Orlek in the eyes. "Good Powers, that was flakkin' rough. I need a _nap_."

Human Steve slumped sideways in their place and apparently fell into a minor coma.

Orlek, who had needed seven sleep cycles during the disaster, was left alone to ponder the power of Human Belief in a disaster. If they had just given up, they would have surely perished. But, here and now, they were alive because a human believed that they could handle it.

Orlek was supremely grateful.

#  Challenge #257: Where Angels Fear

[Name] is a professional adventurer/planet saver with extremely acute hearing. The other speaker is their much calmer and more logical, though not necessarily smarter, best friend)

[Name] buried the pillow over their head and groaned.

"I can't tell if those are gunshots or fireworks," they whined.

"Do not be silly, [Name]. Fireworks are illegal on this planet."

There's a reason why Iman Goodboy spends most of her time in her livesuit. She could control how much of the surrounding volume got to her. She's a Nufurria expatriate, part bat, part wolf, and one hundred percent my friend. Most people who know me know why my nickname of 'Ghost' fits like a glove. Some people are the quiet types. Me? I'm so quiet and bland that I can usually infiltrate places by walking through the front door. Iman can hear me, but I'm... comfortable for her.

Everything else... isn't.

Poor Iman was made to be a soldier, but Nufurria was rediscovered and then sanctioned just after she was born. Excitement-seeking behaviour is literally in her DNA. So when she was given her freedom payoff, she got to derring-do as soon as she could. She's got quite the reputation, now. Almost a decade later. But sometimes? People do not want her saving the day. That's what happened at the colony known as Freedom.

Iman and I had answered a distress call after wormhole-diving. You know. Checking out new wormholes that the UFTP can't or hasn't yet got to. Finding a new Ambassador can be a pretty good payoff. Anyway. We scooped them up and fixed them up and figured out how to communicate. Turns out they were a criminal according to Planet Freedom, for wanting fair pay for fair work.

This planet's politics stinks worse than Greater Deregulation air. They just... shoot their criminals into space in a three-day lifepod from a magrail launcher and call themselves 'humane'. No livesuit. No plants. No hope. So of course we file a flag report for the CRC and Iman gets it in her head to be a hero and forcefully renegotiate the planets political atmosphere.

After five second's exposure to the atmosphere, there, I wanted to forcefully renegotiate their pollution policies. But there was no time for going back to get my own livesuit. The army of Freedom is brainwashed from childhood to follow the laws and they're very good at stopping people like Iman from doing what they want to do.

They shoved us in the same cell and let me read about the local laws, which was kind of them. Let me tell you, their legal system is twice the mess you might expect from a two party system where they spend most of their time disassembling whatever the last person in office managed to pass. I already guessed that we were right to leave Ambassador Francine in orbit on the ship and take a lander to the surface. If she'd managed to return alive, they'd have just shot her.

And these 'winners' had a constitutional preamble about preserving life and seeking happiness. Then they went about making laws that eliminated both of those lofty goals. And on us? They started by removing Iman's lifesuit.

To say she was unhappy about that was a magnificent understatement.

The courts and the elite were trying to figure us out, which meant I could have the time to speed-read all their laws and work out a decent defense. Very much _unlike_ the usual defendant, who entered court with no legal backup and no knowledge of what was legal at the time. And the judges just loved to follow the extant political atmosphere when ruling on which laws they followed.

Iman was clearly not of their world. I'm pretty certain they don't like the colour of my skin, either. I'm too dark for their liking, and therefore automatically a lawbreaker. They're deciding whether or not we count as _illegal aliens_ and whether we're entitled to what they call a fair trial.

Meanwhile, they fed us, and gave us exercise in an isolated yard, and constantly threatened to shoot us for no apparent reason.

And then came one of their holidays. Prisoners were locked in their cells and meals came via automatic server bots. And outside... mayhem. The people of Freedom were whooping it up. And Iman could hear every decibel. She had both our pillows wrapped around her ears, and one of the blankets, and she was literally whining.

"I can't tell if those are gunshots or fireworks," Iman whimpered.

"Guns," I murmured. "Fireworks are illegal on this planet." I reached the end of their legal gordian knot. And now I at least knew how to get out.

The next day, we both pleaded guilty to being illegal aliens who wanted to destroy the Freedom way of life. And requested that they shoot us into space along a very specific vector. A vector that would shoot us straight at our ship.

The Hungry Caterpillar took care of the rest, depositing us into the ships' medbay with barely a hiccough. Iman had to spend her time in noise-cancelling headphones until we could print her a new livesuit. But by then, the CRC and the UFTP had showed up to scare the living crap out of Freedom.

This planet's elite would definitely get a tour of heaven before Galactic Society placed them firmly in sanction and embargo hell. Meanwhile, Society agents would be undermining the living hell out of their legal system by rescuing anyone they shot into space. Covertly, of course. Because the instant they found out about it, they'd just revert to the firing squads.

And I also hear that some will be helping the Freedom underground out with all that revolution stuff.

#  Challenge #258: Near Lethal Combination

Finally, almost thirty-five minutes into their wait and seventeen minutes into [Responsible Authority Figure]'s scolding ([RAF's best friend, Shit-Stirrer] kept track; the record was thirty-four minutes, twenty-seven seconds, which [Shit-Stirrer] was ashamed to admit was on account of [much-less-responsible person RAF is mentoring in the ways of fighting both physical and magical, often compared to an excitable puppy] and masochistically determined to beat)...

If enthusiasm was light, Paxifraxx would be a pulsar. Deadly when aimed in the right direction, and possibly also a little bit dim. Hir species was new to the Galactic Alliance and determined to catch up on _everything_ that Society had to offer.

Trailing along on a series of exchange programs, Paxifraxx threw hir whole self into everything ze did. And this month, it was Security. "Why is Ambassador busking? Planet poor?"

Officer Lyr Marken looked. _Oh crap._ "That's Shayde. She does that for fun. Do yourself a favour and stay away from her." Of course, warnings like that were casually ignored so that Paxifraxx could ask the cogniscent in question why ze was warned about them. _D'oh!_ Lyr sighed and sent a warning ping to Sherlock. She would hear all about this later. Possibly at a court-martial.

So of flakking _course_ they became Instant BFF's.

That was then. This is now.

Shayde and Paxifraxx sat peaceably by the veet door as Rael lectured them. He, too, had had his close encounter with Paxifraxx and had to lecture hir about something else. Finally, almost thirty-five minutes into their wait and seventeen minutes into Rael's scolding, (Shayde kept track; the record was thirty-four minutes, which Shayde was ashamed to admit was on account of Paxifraxx, and masochistically determined to beat) the door to the veet opened to reveal none other than Sherlock and five upper-tier Administrators.

"Aw shite," muttered Shayde to Paxifraxx, "We're in it now. Cry."

"Tears are not mitigating circumstances," growled Rael, "Nor are cute-eyes[76], smoulders, or any attempts at levity."

"Well, tha's me fooked. You can always say ye fell in'tae bad company. I'm a known instigator and bad influence."

_Translated: Throw me under the bus, I'm used to it,_ thought Rael. "We'd charge you with being a public menace, but we need the cell space."

Sherlock sighed, lined up the Administrators so that they could take recordings, and began the questioning with, "Ambassador Shayde. What the living flakk were you playing at, other than 'silly buggers'?"

[76] Cute is relative and not just limited to baby animals. This is more of a catch-all term.

#  Challenge #259: High Alert Level

I may be a coward, but I will not let that define me.

My name is Val, and I'm afraid. Every day, every minute, all I can think of is the worst possible consequences that result from my actions. You might call it anxiety. I don't think it's anything as mild as that. I have a mechanical clock as an alarm, because what if the power fails in the night and all the electronic stuff doesn't work? I sterilise my toothbrush in-between uses because every time you flush the toilet , poop bacteria gets literally _everywhere_. I have bars on my windows because what if burglars... but they're the ones I can undo from the inside because what if fires?

I obsess over health news because what if I get sick? And I fear going to the doctor, because... what if I'm dying? Everything I eat is natural, and I take multivitamins, and I exercise because I never, ever, ever want to get sick. And every morning, I'm scared to read the health news because what if I've been doing it wrong?

I carry antibacterial hand sanitiser and baby wipes everywhere. I never go out for fun, because that's how you get murdered. I can barely go out for work, but I have to because everything costs money. I'm that person in the office you never talk to, who has their lunch in their work desk drawer so that the office lunch thief doesn't help themself, causing me to go into hypoglycemic shock and die because I can't trust vending machines or restaurants. It's a scary, scary world.

I'm a coward. I'm afraid of everything.

I barely talk to anyone. Because when you talk, little bits of spit go flying from your mouth and they could land on me. For all I know, you have the next plague. And I never shop in Whole Foods because all the Granola Moms who go there don't believe in vaccines and those places are the next ground zero for bubonic ebola or something. I never drive, because cars are the biggest killer next to guns. I don't take public transit, either. I bike everywhere. With all of the safety gear on. And little body cams in case of drivers who think it's funny to run cyclists off the road.

The world is not safe. I know of everything that could go bad.

I throw out food the instant it's expired. Or the instant it looks even very slightly off. I don't want to get food poisoning. I have panic buttons all over the place. On my phone, on my computers, on my person. Everything you have that could make you safer.

And I'm still scared.

But every day, I get out of bed and navigate my day. Work. Shopping. Getting there and getting back. Devoting my time to entertainment that can at least divert my mind from the fear for a few moments. Checking and re-checking every safety measure I have. And every day, I make it back to bed and the nightmares I have every night.

I'm afraid. I live in fear. And the thing I fear most is the day when all my fears will be over.

When I stare down the Grim Reaper, how will He judge me?

Am I brave, because I faced my fears for all my life? Or am I just a coward who could have done more?

#  Challenge #260: Been Bingeing Adventure Zone

[When someone is being encouraged to compromise their morals]

They've already put a lot of effort into the "not killing people" plan, they'd like to see it through to the end.

It certainly looked like the end for our heroes. Surrounded on every side by hostile forces. Outmanned. Outnumbered. If there were guns, they'd have been outgunned. But in this case, they were all out of spell slots and clever tricks. All they had left was their weapons and their wits, and they were running out of hit points.

The Artifact, Artie for short, was their only ace in the hole. He was the equivalent of a golem run by an infinity stone, and it _had_ been the heroes job to find, obtain, and bring him back to the authorities that contained these things. Alas, he was also cogniscent, and made a lot of decisions that only made sense to him.

"Artie," said the Cleric. "Can you do something to these guys? Make 'em... go away?"

"I have put three hundred years into the 'not killing people' thing," said Artie, who was thinking hard about the surname McGuffin. "I would like to continue."

"Well, tits..." muttered the Wizard.

Artie pondered this. "I fail to see what mammary glands have to do with this situation."

"I, for one, would like to see a few more of them before I die, though," said the Wizard, apropos of nothing.

The Warrior, back to his allies, slightly altered his grip on his axe. "Can you maybe send them all into a deep and refreshing slumber? I'd like us all to get out of here alive."

"Or teleport them fifty miles away or something," added the Cleric. "I never said _'kill'_ , Artie."

"That you did not," noted Artie. "But I have noted your mutual propensities for euphemistic speech."

"Just get us out of here, and I'll show you a cute dog," bargained the Wizard. "Or a kitty cat. Or a really _neat_ jellyfish. Whatever. Life is cool, we want to have more of it."

"I think I can help." Artie appeared to concentrate for a moment, and the stone in his chest glowed like the sun.

The heroes were spooning in the shade of a beautiful tree when they woke up. Artie was standing and watching them, when he wasn't watching the world. In a few seconds, he was distracted by a small butterfly, and watched it in wonder.

The Wizard spoke first. "Artie... did you set us up cuddling like this?"

"Yes," said Artie. After too long a pause, he added, "I thought it would be... adorable."

"I dunno about you guys, but that kind'a creeps me out," murmured the Wizard.

"No, he's right, it's adorable," said the Cleric. "You have this cute little snore."

The Warrior picked himself up, surveyed the scenery. "What happened, Artie?"

"I cast Superior Sleep. Everyone in a two mile radius fell harmlessly into a deep rest. Then I carried you out."

"Wait. You carried all three of us out with those skinny little stick arms?"

Artie paused for too long. "Yes."

"At _once_?" asked the Cleric.

Pause. "Yes."

"Well, okay then," said the Warrior. "I'm glad you decided to keep up that 'not killing people' thing. Otherwise you'd be really dangerous."

"And then we'd have to take you back to our base and destroy you," said the Wizard.

"Ix-nay on the estruction-day," hissed the Cleric. "He's still eadly-day."

"I don't understand French," said the Wizard.

Artie remembered how to smile. These people were worth keeping around for a while. They were certainly amusing. It had been some centuries since he'd had a pet mortal. It was high time for some new ones.

#  Challenge #261: Invaders vs Natives

Doctor Disco sighed. Clever, he enjoyed dealing with. Idiots were even more fun to be had. But an enemy with a single goal, moderate leadership intentions, and an analytical plan that still got bollixed up annoyed him no end.

It was days like this when it was difficult to tell who the real enemy was. He usually preferred siding with the ones who tried _not_ to kill. Which, unfortunately, were not the humans, this time. The other side were the natives, using whatever means they could to stop the invaders without any further harm.

And hadn't _this_ scenario played out a million times in history all over the universe?

He did his part. Trying to convince the humans to slow up on their advancements. Taking the natives' side in an argument about whether or not the mission had the correct goals. And, when all else failed, actively sabotaging the machinery until he got caught. And reminded that the people with the best guns usually wind up writing history. Nevertheless, he still tried to negotiate, "You don't have to solve all of this with death," he said.

"Well," said Commander Telaris, "My bosses seem to want to. I either meet my deadlines or they become my _death_ lines."

"Force isn't necessary," said the Doctor. "The people here are just trying to stop you destroying their homes and farms. We can negotiate."

Commander Telaris eyed the big, red button again. It could theoretically wipe out all planet-side life within a devastating radius. "I don't want to be remembered as a genocidal commander, not matter what," she sighed. "Let's negotiate. It has to be worth it."

And then there were moments like this. Rare, rational moments, where the people in charge considered the means as well as the ends, and found the balance weighed there wanting. The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. "You can come out, Galrex."

A panel of the wall popped off and a native, presumably Galrex, emerged. They wore a simple, homespun shift and a belt made out of insect carapaces. Just like their sandals were originally a different insect. Thanks to the TARDIS being present, she could be understood. "We never meant harm," she said. "We just want to live."

Commander Telaris nodded. "That's understood. My bosses want access to your Valerite." At Galrex's blank look, Telaris produced some rocks in a sample container. "These stones. Most of your villages are built on top of large deposits of it."

"Can you not dig crosswise?" Galrex traced a diagonal line in the air to demonstrate what she meant.

"That ability is lost to us. My people dig down and blow up."

"We will help you," said Galrex.

The Doctor smiled and edged out of everyone's awareness. They had it now. They could move forward without any further harm. And maybe change the way that humanity did things. Not that he expected very much of a change. But he could still hope.

#  Challenge #262: Family is...?

I did not give that spider superhuman intelligence

Klaus looked at the spider. She was wearing a crinoline made out of her own silk. He turned back to Lord Falderil. "Really?"

"Absolutely not," insisted Lord Falderil. His lab had every known piece of intelligence-augmenting equipment known to Spark-kind and a few more that he had evidently made himself. "She was already intelligent. I've been augmenting _myself_ so that I can keep up."

The giant spider, named Spinnerette, delicately put down her teacup. "I understand how this is confusing, Herr Baron," she said. Her voice was not smooth, but rather like shaped buzzing. Her mandibles were not made for human speech. And yet, she spoke the lingua franca admirably well. "I was sent to this reality from another one where insects rule. Papa found me and raised me as his own. And when he realised I was intelligent, he began my education."

"An education by courier, of course," added Falderil. "I couldn't send her to any of the schools. They wouldn't understand."

Klaus looked up at the giant spider's dark eyes and rather hairy face. She'd augmented some of the hairs near pairs of her eyes with mascara. And, yes, that was a string of pearls looped around the join between her head and her thorax. "I... see," he said. "And what happens when Fraulein Spinnerette decides to give you grandchildren?"

"That's... already happened. I suppose you might have noticed that this castle is remarkably free of mimmoths," said Falderil, talking very quickly. "Only one in one thousand giant spider young are capable of intelligence, and the others..."

"We sell them to mimmoth control organisations," said Spinnerette. "It's okay, Papa. It's just the way of my people."

"I still feel terrible about it," said Falderil. "In a way, they're my grandchildren."

Klaus took out one of his notebooks and added, _A family can be a mad scientist and his adopted giant spider daughter._ "I see," he said. "And what practice would you recommend for those... grandchildren... who have escaped their handlers or been released into the wild?"

"They're very easy to train," suggested Spinnerette. "My children would do just about anything for a bowl of fatty gravy."

"I have a very good recipe," said Falderil. "First, you get all the blood and fat off a full-grown sheep..."

#  Challenge #263: Strange Bedfellows

The "Remittance Man": usually the of the English Aristocracy, sent off with a generous "Remittance" - an allowance paid to him as long as he stay Away, and didn't embarrass the Family. (Back then he was usually a drunk, a letcher, homosexual or cheated at cards. The last was unforgivable.) – Anon Guest

After the Scandal, it was decided that it would be for the best that Reginald be sent away to somewhere remote but civilised for the remainder. It was the type of Scandal that would be clucked about unto perpetuity, so that 'remainder' was the remainder of Reginald's life.

It's not every day that one's eldest son is caught in the middle of a brandy-soaked game of strip poker with several romantic _male_ interests... and by Her Majesty, no less! And worse, it was revealed that Reginald had been _cheating_. That sort of thing could not be covered up, so it was swept away.

And now he was at the farthest point westward he could get from London without going all the way to Australia. And as far as he could get from any given point in His Empress' widespread domain. A prosperous city named after the local Mission. San Francisco de Asis a la Laguna de los Dolores. Which was entirely too long for most residents and quickly shortened to San Francisco. And, more to the point, Reginald was also heartbroken and lonely.

They didn't have good brandy. They had whisky or moonshine, the latter of which was possibly brewed from deceased desert lizards. And an abomination to mankind known as Tequila, which was made from cactuses. Well. Mostly cactuses. But Reginald was seeking oblivion and, when mixed with small beer made from sassafras bark, tequila was palatable and more than serviceable. Reginald had been gently pickling his insides with it for two months, and slowly going to seed in the process. There was no point in dressing like a gentleman in this hive of scum and villany. There was no point in any of it. He was doomed to be alone forever. And increasingly disgusting. And drunk with it.

And then _he_ walked into Reginald's favourite watering hole.

He was one of the cattlemen who stopped by at random times. Dusty from herding longhorns to their ultimate destination, but otherwise rather well turned out for a... what was the word? Vaquero? More anglicised peoples kept pronouncing it 'Buckaroo'. Reginald watched in alcohol-soaked fascination as this rather short Vaquero removed his hat and his poncho without breaking his stride. And when he pulled down his bandana... Reginald felt his heart beat again for the first time since his exile.

Clean shaven despite weeks on the trail. Neatly groomed with pomade and possibly tweezers. Not a hair out of place. And so very beautifully brown that it stopped Reginald's breath.

_Don't even think about it,_ he reminded himself. _This is not the place for a romantic overture. There's no such gentleman's club in this town._ Despite its many avenues of vice, San Francisco was rather more staid than -say- some of the more intriguing areas of Whitechapel. Here, only women rented their bodies for a blissful interlude. Which left Reginald absent one vice that he could indulge in his enforced leisure.

So he sank his drink in one gulp and let its fire burn his heart into a stony prison once more. Gestured for another. And laid one of this town's Emperor's notes on the counter. Good old Norton. He was _always_ good for a laugh. And a generous amount of alcohol.

The stunning Vaquero finished folding his poncho. There was a shadow in the dust of his chaps that showed he had turned in his side-arms at the Sheriff's office. He spoke with the strange tones of neighbouring Mexico. "I will take a bath and all discretion, Señorita Couture." He produced a note from his saddlebags and vanished upstairs.

Reginald, despite knowing better, followed the man with his eyes like a hungry dog watching his master gesture with a sandwich in his hand.

He had had ten more Black Sorrows before the Vaquero came down again. Sparkling and neat as a pin. The chaps were presumably in a satchel with the poncho, and the saddlebags draped over it in the style of the area. The only remaining trace of the plains was in the bandanna about his neck. And then, in a miracle worthy of an angelic chorus, he sat by Reginald and ordered a small beer.

Once he had it, he sipped and said, "You look like someone who has had their heart shattered to powder, amigo." A surprisingly delicate sip. "Do I remind you of your lost lady love?"

And Reginald was drunk enough to slur, "I've nev'r had a lady love an' I nev'r will. I much pr'fer gennulman comp'ny. Beau'ful gennulmen..."

There should have been a deafening silence. There should have been an incoming fist, at least from the nearby Vaquero. Instead, he nodded and said, "Ah. Now I know why you're at _this_ saloon."

And that was how Reginald found out that the ladies who worked at this place were window decoration for the Wild West's answer to Reginald's Discrete Gentleman's Club. He was certain that he had only just begun to learn.

AN: This story owes a lot to [ this post and might become a book if there's enough interest]

#  Challenge #264: Blind Spot

"You can't just get lucky and expect everyone to treat you like an expert!"

"Why not? That's what you did?" – Anon Guest

Ambassador Shayde glared at the junior aide. "I'm no' merely lucky," she said. "I got into the Ambassador gig by pure accident. Fer all that's happened, I could'a well had a knowledge base that missed everythin' the Archivaas ever had. I could'a been dismissed as a dangerous fraud if I'd never met th' Consortium o' Steam or no' known one answer to th' damn pub quiz they had lockin' the Vault. _So_ much could'a ended wi' me in some cell payin' fer all the Time spent on me."

"Isn't that the definition of luck?" asked Pendril. She was taking notes. Shorthand, judging by the way her eye jinked to little panels in her eyepiece. She had successfully _guessed_ the last door code and was under strict sanctions to never do it again.

"It's no' luck," Ambassador Shayde insisted. "It's beyond luck. We'd need a new term fer what happened tae me. Uber-luck. Super-luck. Quantum fookain luck. Sommat like that."

More notes. "And despite all of that, this is where your -ah- blind spot is?"

"I'm a _nerd_ , Pendril. Out an' out geek. If it were askin' aboot Captain Kirk's safe code, I'd have it in a cold second. If they asked the th' rules aboot savin' throws, it'd be right up me alley." She sighed and stared at the door in the Vault that remained resolutely shut. "I've got no fookain _clue_ aboot what th' winnin' score fer Arsenal was in fookain nineteen sixty-eight..."

"Remind me? Which sport is Arsenal?"

"That's Soccer. Kickin' th' ball about while wearin' short shorts an' huggin' yer pal when it gets intae the goal." Her accent was toning down. Good. In a few moments, she'd actually _feel_ the relaxation that indicated creeping in. "No hands on th' ball. Rowdy damn fans. Izzee United," she clapped four times, "Oi!"

Pendril's vambrace bleeped. "Ah. Good news. They've found a newspaper deposit in a dump site in West Essex. There's a chance we could find the answer."

"Yay," deadpanned Shayde. "I'm buggin' off tae areas where I'm _useful_."

#  Challenge #265: One Natural Twenty

"I'm gonna need you to punch me in the face."

"Sure thing!"

"I'm a little worried that you didn't ask for a reason..."

"There has to be a reason?" said Magnus. "I mean, I like punching and fighting and stuff..."

"Yes," said Taako. "That is true. But listen. We're _friends_. You should at least pretend that it's some kind of moral quandary for you."

Magnus clearly did not understand. "How's that?"

"We don't punch our friends, Magnus."

"But you just asked me to..."

The elfin wizard sighed. "Look. I've already convinced these stupid guards that I'm their best pal."

"Ahuh."

"I didn't even have to burn a spell slot or anything."

"Yup. I was hiding around the corner for that part."

"Well done, dear. They have Merle in one of their cells and it's up to me to bust him out because they'd just use their fantasy tasers and lock you up as well."

"With you so far."

"So I need a cunning ruse to get in and unlock the cells, but get rid of them at the same time."

"Yeah..."

"And that's why I need you to punch me in the face a few times."

"Okay!" Magnus eagerly made a fist. Grinning at the thought.

"And you don't need to be that eager to do it," said Taako.

"Can I just punch you now and get on with this? Or do we have to keep arguing about this until the guards hear us and bust open the whole schtick?"

Taako thought about this. "Ugh. _Fine._ But I reserve the right to be salty about this later."

Magnus punched him. Unfortunately, he rolled a natural twenty and knocked Taako out flat. "Oopsy."

Somehow, Merle sensed this. Locked in his cell, he muttered, "First time in this adventure that he's rolled anything above _six_ and it's against our own Pan-damned side..."

#  Challenge #266: Special Needs

The concept is fairly vanilla. Not so very long ago historically, say a generation or three, people started occasionally randomly developing superhuman abilities. But the twist was that it was in a world with no assumed behavior of putting on tights and fighting crime. So for the most part, powers are more of an embarrassing social condition, roughly between genital herpes and Tourette's Syndrome, depending on the ability in question.

But who is to say a new ability will automatically be cool? Or useful? Or even dignified?

Examples from the dream: One person can hear the thoughts of lice within about a fifty yard range. Another can lift immense weights of corn. A third can rip sheet metal with her eyebrows. But only sheet metal. And only with her eyebrows. If one DOES develop a cool sounding power, it is often quickly fatal, or nearly so. Flight is cool. But how much experience do you have with steering your body through the air, or accelerating, or decelerating, or landing, or any of that when you suddenly fling yourself up off the sidewalk at roughly mach 0.5 in a crowded neighborhood ?

Like that.

Thanks.

My name is Claire, and I'm a Floater. I'm one of the point one two percent of people afflicted with Floating Syndrome. For me, gravity is optional. I'm grade three, which means I have some control over when and how I float, but... it's not all the time. People think it is? But, it really isn't.

Like, _they_ have some control over whether or not they're an asshole. But they don't, you know?

People see my warning bracelet and immediately ask a whole bunch of questions. I've been thinking of making up some FAQ sheets. Give them all the answers before they can bother to come up with the questions. But I've been told by my therapist that that sort of behaviour is hostile and we need all the tolerance we can get. All I can think about is how, not too long ago, Floaters were automatically saints. Now? We just have to have the patience of them.

I know you know all the questions. It's... easier... when they come out of little kids. They don't know better and they're just curious. But when it's adults? I don't _want_ to be patient with them. I want them to do their own googling and let me get on with my life.

Questions like, "if you can float, why are you fat?" Because every single Floater alive tries putting on weight before they realise that it's irreversible. Because it's hard to go jogging when you can randomly bob along in the breeze. "Are you a balloon?" Do not ask this if you are over seven. Grow up. "How are you doing that?" Oh God, I'm doing it again. Thanks for pointing that out in front of everyone and their kid brother's dog. Not. "Can you get the stuff off the top shelf while you're up there?" Hardy har har. You're _so_ not funny. I have to resist the temptation to drop that stuff on your head, asshole. "Do you know Mr Goodyear?" Yeah sure. His number is One, Five hundred, Fuck Off.

And everyone's classic, "It's just a joke. You should lighten up. Oh yeah, you already did."

_Hilarious_.

No class three Floater is allowed to have kids with another class three. There's an increased risk of having a class six baby. And they never live long. They don't just float, they can _fly_. And the human body is hardly aerodynamic. Their first experience with flight is usually rocketing off the ground at high speed and into imminent death. Suffocation in the stratosphere, annihilation in a jet intake, or high-speed human body versus building. It's not pretty.

There's others who can do different stuff. It's just the Floaters that are the most visible and the most objectionable. I have a weight belt to stop me floating up in the office. And that classes me as 'special needs' and entitles my boss to dock my pay for reasons that nobody can explain. My strangeness is limited and not inherently useful.

There's no way to market my Capability. That's what they call it now, that larger group of people with strange, quote-unquote gifts. Others are luckier, but I bet they're just as tired of it all as I am. There's one person who can create hypersonic vibrations with their hands. They have a job in their local hospital, treating kidney stones. Another can smell cancer. They work as a receptionist at a General Practitioner's. There's a few out there who can tear steel with certain body parts. They always find work at scrap iron yards.

But there's nothing useful about floating. They keep talking about genetic testing, but there's only two ways people react when they're told that their kid is Capable. They either figure out how to make money out of it, or they reject their kid in any of a million ways. If they knew the moment their kid was born? Or _before_? It could well be a global massacre.

And I'd rather not think about that, thank you.

I just want to be part of a world where nobody asks me the same silly questions all the time.

#  Challenge #267: 'Tis But a Scratch

"So, you're telling me that even if a human tried to kill himself by stabbing his head, he could be perfectly fine if the blade goes between the hemispheres of the brain without damaging anything ?"

"Yup, and I didn't talk about Phineas Gage, who got a large iron rod through the head and survived without some part of his brain, or the war veteran who survived a bullet through the heart. Even if we don't have exoskeleton, we are pretty resilient. This is why if something threatens you, shoot at least 2 times." – Anon Guest

Human Jaylen was dead. Va'shath had seen hir die. Nobody could survive so many of the Jo'qith's arrows[77]. They were tipped with deadly theobromine extracts, and many of them had gone _right through_ Human Jaylen. But the human had given Va'shath the time to get to the emergency escape pods, and that was a gift that could not, would not be wasted.

Va'shath was alone in the pod. The last to leave. The last survivor of the _Magnificent_. She remembered the words of the ships' Human. _You always watch your loved ones leave until they are out of sight. Especially when it's the last time._ So she watched, keening the songs of sadness, as the emergency vessel took her away from Human Jaylen until the port window was nothing but a bright speck in amongst cascading explosions. Watched until the _Magnificent_ itself was just a speck in the darkness. Until she could no longer see any trace of it or her Human friend.

The human had to have died. Which was why it was quite a shock when the _Magnificent_ came limping into dock. Human Jaylen at the helm.

Ze was alive! And parts of hir were still pierced by Jo'qith arrows, though Human Jaylen had taken some time to cut the barbs short, lest they snag on things and make hir injuries worse. Other parts, especially the limbs, had had the arrows removed and the wounds stitched shut.

Despite her wishes to rush her friend in eager greeting, Va'shath hung back. She had heard the human tales of zombies and their hunger for living flesh. "I saw you die," she said. "I sang your mourning song. I kept your name alive."

Human Jaylen had part of an arrow sticking out of a bandage over hir eye. The bandaging was not bloody, but it implied that the human had lost part of their vision. In a few minutes, the Mediks would swarm and take hir away for operations and discussions about replacement options. "I'm sure your song was beautiful. It's okay. I only _look_ undead." Ze gestured for Va'sheth to come in for a hug.

She could hear the heartbeat when they embraced. Feel the warmth of her endothermic friend. "I thought you were dead."

"So did the Jo'qith," Human Jaylen grinned. "That was when the fun really started. Turns out, they've seen a few zombie movies, too. And I managed to get my hands on a taser before all the fun really started." The human cackled. "Never bring an arrow to a taser fight. After that, it was all 'pew pew' and running and screaming. Only felt it after I'd got them gone, and I could still hang tough long enough to reboot the emergency systems. The med bay just had the automated patch bots up, so I erred on the side of caution, there." Hir gesture took in the places where ze was still pierced by Jo'qith shafts. "I'm going to be okay. Okay?"

Va'shath was never happier to echo, "Okay." She followed her human friend as the Mediks swarmed and made hir lie down on a stretcher. Joined as designated companion in the Tube and suffered the rough jinking at top speed to the operating theatre. And watched behind the uncrossable barrier as they took Human Jaylen away to get the medical help ze needed. But this time, the human had a thumb upraised in a cheerful gesture.

You always watch your loved ones leave until they are out of sight. _Always_.

Just in case it _is_ the last time.

[77] Space is an environment where you _do not_ want to carry around a weapon that can shoot a missile through an engine block.

[AN: There was a comment on this prompt that simply has to be preserved for posterity and it follows below]

I've been a paramedic since late 1987. Less than two years into the job, I had a guy who'd been shot in the middle of the forehead. We hadn't even touched him. He was so very obviously dead that we had immediately started on the other victim who looked like he might make it.

And then the dead guy sat up. He complained loudly, colorfully, and used swear words with which I, a former sailor was unfamiliar, and used them in loud, but complete sentences. It took several seconds to restrain him and keep him from touching the wound. The bullet had broken the skin, but not gone completely through the bone. It had effectively ricocheted around to the right mastoid region while still between the skin and bone. He had an amazing concussion and a minor frontal skull fracture. But no complete penetration.

He recovered completely. But I had been absolutely sure he was dead on first impression. – Bard2dBone

#  Challenge #268: Swap Met

The Amalgam equivalent of the combined Swap Meet and Car Boot Sale (of course there are no cars on Amalgam - tow trolleys?). – Anon Guest

They were called Swap Shops, and they were scattered randomly. They tended to crop up in poorer areas and public service zones. It was where those who had the time to spare on pet projects dropped those projects off to exchange with whatever they desired. Edibles were kept in Stasis Lockers. Everything else was placed wherever it fit on the extended shelving.

There were no staff. There were no checkouts. Sometimes, people came and simply took what they needed. But that was a rare occurrence. More often, those who only took would devote a minimum of an hour to organising the chaos of the shelves. It wasn't, strictly speaking, a shop. It was a place for people to leave things that they didn't want simply thrown away and recycled for atoms. It was a place for things that could still find use. Just... not always the one intended.

It was a place for pre-loved clothing, little shoes that had been outgrown, old things that people had no place for. It was a place for craft-work, art work, and tchotchkes alike. And it was especially a place for the over-abundance of harvest time.

Rael spent three hours organising the edible vegetables in the Stasis Lockers before taking a pull-trolley[78] he had brought with him and filling it with the products of the area's over-enthusiastic home-chefs. They were the ones to take the raw vegetables and tube-grown meats and turn them into anything from five-star food to a grand mistake, and then leave a majority of the results in sealable containers that technically belonged to the swap shop. Since Nik was on pilgrimage, and his business-minded brother Rak was running _Unsuitable Food Eat_ , this was the best option for his budget.

And, if he managed to find a Mistake or three, he could always re-absorb his tastebuds and simply extract the nutritional value out of the meal.

It was zucchini season, this week, so there was plenty of offerings that contained zoodles instead of noodles. Rael had to peer at the boxed contents to check for seeds and green peels. Not that anything was wrong with zoodles. It was simply that he got more out of pasta. Other creations containing zucchini were fine. He simply found zoodles to be deception incarnate.

Today... it was all zoodles. Rael had some soft curses for them and picked out some zucchini casseroles. Had all the pasta and noodle variants been taken?

As he moved away from one locker to inspect the next, an elderly human tapped his arm. "Is there any space for mine?"

Her boxes did not contain zoodles, but rather hand-made, homemade pasta and what looked to be one of the more delectable sauces. "I'll take five," he said, but helped her shelve the rest. And, to his bemusement, she exchanged her perfectly good pasta for the traitorous zoodles. "You don't eat your own cooking?"

"My doctors took me off carbohydrates for my health," she said. "But I love to make all the traditional pastas. Tomorrow, I'm going to be making some zucchini ravioli."

"With butter?" hoped Rael.

She laughed at that. "For you? With butter."

"I'll clear my calendar."

[78] These items have many different names, shopping trolley-bag being the most technical. But in many cultures across the Galactic Alliance, whatever the language, it almost always boils down to 'grandparent trailer'.

#  Challenge #269: Comeback

Deep fried Mars Bar. The dreaded chip buttie (fries on a buttered bun), Floater (Aussie effort: Meat pie floating in pea soup).

"I've been everywhere," said Shayde, mis-estimating the size of the station by cubic klicks[79]. "Nobody around even knows what fries are an' I'm gaggin' fer a chip buttie."

Nik, overhearing this complaint to the universe at large, gestured her to come closer to his cooking station. "Tell me about these things you call 'fries' and the... chip buttie."

Rael set his eye cam onto _record_ to get all the details. There was no way to tell when something could be cross-checked by the Archivaas. Some research had revealed that 'fries' were a pre-Shattering staple, but nobody knew how to make them.

"Ye got potatoes?" asked Shayde.

What followed was an education. Potatoes were peeled, washed, sliced and the slices were turned into prisms. All while Shayde lectured about loaded potato skins and curly fries and the corrugated ones 'ye got at the chippie in Bwlchgwyn, ye ken'. About how to pat them dry and coat them in a light dusting of flour before immersing them in boiling hot beef tallow.

That last part piqued Rael's interest. He'd heard of people cooking in tallow, but he'd never witnessed it happening.

It also gained Nik's interest, since he had a near encyclopaedic knowledge of cooking techniques throughout the histories of multiple worlds. "I had thought the deep frying process had switched to coconut oil by the date you mentioned."

"Oh aye, everywhere but Bwlchgwyn. The old feller there refused tae do it. Best chips I ever et." She jiggled the basket, checking the prisms within. "Na fer the buttie, ye need a regular ole white bread bun, a lot of butter, and some burger essentials."

"BLT?" asked Nik.

"O' course BLT. We ain't savages. And squares o' plastic cheese." Which prompted another half-hour explanation.

There were three of them when they were done. One each for Nik, Rael, and herself.

Rael examined his, and speculated that early humans had to be able to unhinge their jaws. The ground beef patty was generous, as were the multiple layers of bacon and the thick slices of tomato. And, on top of the burger's inherent generosity, Shayde had sandwiched a minimum of two layers of the freshly-made _fries_ into the creation.

Not limited by physical constraints, he took a bite. Shayde squashed hers a little flat before she did so to hers.

Pre-shattering humans had the _best_ food before their own health regulations intervened.

And then Nik asked a nearly-fatal question. "Any other treats you know about from your time on Earth?"

Shayde took a deep breath of doom. "Let me start wi' th' meat pie floater..."

[79] One thousand Standard Distance Units is named a 'klick'. Blame the humans.

#  Challenge #270: They Call it Dragoncote

Why do dragons hoard wealth and guard it so jealously? Because for dragons, much like for kings, money is power.

With kings, such a phrase lies more in the metaphor of capitalism, but for dragons it is taken much more literally - the greater the amount of gold and jewels and other treasures a dragon can amass and claim as their own, the more magically potent and physically larger they become, and likewise the less riches they possess, the smaller and weaker they become. Thus can their kind span from colossal ancient beasts dwelling in caverns lined with gold and gems down to tiny bat-sized wyrmlings clinging to their first silver coin... – Anon Guest

They say money is power, and it's a good thing that most dragons don't get to hoard enormous amounts of gold. Most remain small, and hoard a single coin of negligible value. Their young are indistinguishable from geckoes, and the only way to truly tell is leave a coin in their line of sight.

Some infest bankers and trade-halls, where the people test money by seeing if the nearest dragon will try to snatch it. In towns that prosperous, it is bad luck to take off jewelry. Some dragons curl jealously around their first coin, and come along when it is spent. And rarely, very rarely, a dragon will find something more... _valuable_ than a single coin.

Value is not the same as wealth.

Its name was Folli, and it was a very robust doll. Through the generations, it had been male, female, a bug, and in Sal's case, a best and only friend. The other children didn't like Sal, and they didn't explain why. So Sal stayed in her parent's farm, and spun worlds out of whole cloth for her only friend. And then Mama took her to market to sell some fledgeling chickens and gave Sal some coin to spend.

Of course she bought something pretty for her best friend. And got a penny and a dragon change.

Sal ran with her prizes back to Mama's cart and hid under the tarp so that the other children couldn't hurt any of them. She'd never seen a _dragon coin_ before and huddled in her safe place by the water barrel so she could peer myopically at the glorious creature. All the while, whispering to Folli about how pretty it was.

It was pretty. All golden with glowing red stripes and flecks of blue that made it look like a gem. Sal could see it breathing. It had beautiful dark eyes and when Sal put her dragon-penny down to dress up Foli, something interesting happened.

The dragon unwrapped itself and, penny grasped in its tiny mouth, dragged it across the cart boards to Folli. The dragon dug its little claws into Folli's patched, canvas body and found a place to hide in Folli's dress' pocket. There, clutching at both Folli and the penny, the tiny little dragon began to purr.

Mama raised the tarp. "It's safe. Come on out."

Sal clambered out onto the cart seat and snuggled with Mama. Showing her the new ribbon in Folli's scrap yarn hair.

"Oh, pretty." Mama clucked for Stav, the horse, and he lurched forwards with the same determination that he pulled the plough for Grig, the butcher's boy.

Now that they were moving, Sal pulled open the pocket of Folli's dress to show her the dual prizes within.

"Oh, you got a _dragon coin_. They're good luck, I hear. Does it want to be spent?" Mama held open her hand for the dragon, but the dragon didn't move. "Apparently not."

"He's happy with Folli," said Sal. And those were more than enough words for someone who wasn't Folli. Mama was still learning how to be nice to Sal. It was hard for Mama, sometimes. Sal knew that her strangeness had made Papa go away. And some of that was mixed up in why the other children were mean. But they were all they had now since the red-spot plague had taken so many. So they both tried hard.

Sal tried to help with the farm. Mama tried to help with the bad things. And it was working out. Better and better every day.

By the time they got home, the dragon had grown big enough to peek out of Folli's pocket. All curled up with just its head looking around with those beautiful dark eyes. Sal fed it some of her bread and whispered stories to both it and Folli. Her coin-dragon was going to need a good name.

Glossgleam stood guard over the house and lands, and Sal, her human. She was called 'fae touched' by the others of her age, and shunned. The apothecary who travelled between three other towns had a different word. A word from the Brilliant Times. _Autistic_. Sal said the word, sometimes, because it tasted interesting when she did so.

Glossgleam didn't eat as much as a horse, and 'did for' the rats and the mice and even the insects that would erode Sal's winter stores. She was, however, as big as a horse and took over the job of pulling the plough for Grig. Grig, who spoke with his hands because the red-spot had stolen his hearing. Grig, who could always hear Glossgleam, and loved her as much as he loved Sal.

This was _her_ farm. And _her_ house. And _her_ people. And she would keep them safe and snatch any stones thrown their way out of the air. Not that they did that so much, any more. The sight of a dragon in horse harness tends to give people pause. And when Sal's baby was born, that human would also belong to Glossgleam. _Hers_. Her hoard.

She decided that she would let the new, infant human loan Folli from Glossgleam's hoard. It would return to Glossgleam in the fullness of time. When the infant grew too old to want it much, any more. That had happened with Sal, and it would happen with the next child.

This was a good place to be, Glossgleam decided. Enough of a hoard to be intelligent. But not enough to grow avaricious and dangerous. She had fire to defend from thieves. Or those who would try to harm her hoard. No knight errant would try to slay _this_ dragon.

Though she would theatrically 'die' for any small child playing at being a knight. There was no rule anywhere that said dragons weren't allowed to have fun.

#  Challenge #271: Ageing Ungracefully

Still, working on their manners... I don't know if there are any etiquette schools around known space who take enrollments from intelligent battleships.

Humans love war. It is a well-known fact. In their early history, they would war with opposing factions of humans, different coloured humans, and, in a large swathe of history covering the pre-Shattering period, _nouns_. They don't often talk about the war they lost against emus, though.

Given their love of war, it was no surprise that the first vessels of the United Fellowship of Terran planets were battleships. They took every advancement they had ever made in their numerous battlefields and figured out how to bring that weaponry with them into space. It must have been quite a shock when the Hungry Caterpillar and other devices rendered battle obsolete. Humanity _sulked_ for a decade or three, but they never got rid of their battleships. They'd show them off to other warlike civilisations and make displays of strength with them, but they didn't recommission them at all. It took Galactic Society some years to find out _why_.

At least one of them is alive.

The _Deuteronomy_ is more than a century old, now, and doesn't look a day over five. She's well-maintained. Her systems are upgraded and most of her cargo space is taken up with memory banks. She remembers all of her crew, past and present. But she still has the manners of a warship. Her default method of dealing with trouble is to aim her cannons at it and send the opposing side a message that boils down to, "You wanna have a go, mate?"

Humans and other experts in AI have been attempting to teach _Deuteronomy_ manners since her 'outing' at Pinkus West, when the Ambassador taking a tour along her halls called her 'an old hulk' and the ship herself went on an hour-long tirade about how she was a beautiful example of post-isolation engineering and aesthetics and if the Ambassador didn't change his mind, soon, she'd swap out her display fireworks for nukes that she'd hidden from her crew.

Ever since that day, she has had the same attitude in regards to any insult to her vanity. People have been trying to get her to please stop doing that for fifty years.

On the night watch, the crew with less to do have involved conversations with her about how to _politely_ deal with perceived insults. Including the art of insulting people so they may not even realise that they've been insulted.

_Deuteronomy_ consistently has the same response. "Where's the fun in _that_?"

#  Challenge #272: Betrayed

...Deciding to shelve that until my next scheduled freak out, I...

Sometimes, there's no help. You just have to deal with whatever until it's dealt with or the help finally gets there and you can let other people deal with the thing. I long for those days.

My name is Yani. And this is my second year alone. I'm getting ping from the comms networks, so I know these are going out. As is the automated distress signal. Why anyone hasn't come... I don't know. I have my suspicions, but... I'm not receiving anything other than a ping. I can't say anything for certain.

What I know is: I crashed. By the time I came to on this little island, something had happened to blacken the sky. Every day is overcast, now. And I can't repair my plane. It's a write off. I know that I'm not worth much to my Great Nation. I've been sending out the signal for... for too long. No sign of rescue. I know the war is still going because... there was never a time of peace. And I know I used to have two options: Army or Jail.

What makes my country great is the army. And you either leave school as a warrior or you leave it as a criminal. Those are the only two choices. Women serve in respite ships and breed up the next generation, or they're the whores in jail whose kids are adopted out to those who can afford them. I was one of the whore brats. Raised in a foster home with thrifty facilities that were always threatening to fall to pieces. Ten or more of us to a room. They expected me to be the criminal element.

But I wasn't. I worked hard. Studied hard. Took every opportunity. And I made it out as a Soldier. Fighting the good fight for our Great Nation. I had the reflexes to be a pilot, so I did bombing raids on the enemy. We had to have what they had. Or we had to stop what they were doing. Or their leader had insulted our leader. After a while, you learn to stop asking. Answers are above my pay grade.

Survival lessons, thank God, were not. I knew a few things. What things could be edible. How to make a fire. How to make a shelter. I mean, I didn't _have_ to live in a cave? But after the last few storms, it's just... easier. The rock here is soft. Volcanic. Good for growing things if there was any sun. I tried to farm but... nothing new grows. I have to forage.

I've seen plants die, and none of their seeds sprout. I know something has gone wrong with the world besides the permanent cloud cover. I collect driftwood and make the fires out of that. I need every tree on here.

I stay organised, you know? I count the days. I worked out a calendar. And every Wednesday is freak-out day. That's the day when I just run around and scream about things. It keeps me sane, you know? Well. As sane as I can get. I save up whatever reading material drifts in. I dry it out real careful. You need to read. Even if the stuff you have is some foreign gibberish. It's something to do.

You know. Apart from foraging, beachcombing, and talking to yourself on the comms system.

The storms are getting worse. Things on this island are getting worse. Nothings growing. Nothing's repopulating. The fish are disappearing. There's less to eat. Sooner or later, there'll be nothing at all.

Not even me.

I got one bullet left. One bomb. I can set it off and go quick, rather than starve.

If you can hear me, please trace this signal. Please take me back? I'll even go to jail. No contest. I know I broke the law by being AWOL this long. Just... come get me.

Airman Yani Smith. Signing off.

The nearest airbase, half a world away, caught the signal. Automated systems recorded it for posterity, and sent it on to Command. Playing it for blackened skeletons still at their post. Where there is nobody alive left to hear.

It matters not which side fired the first volley. Or which side fired the last. Nobody won this war. Nobody owns the blackened remains of a dead world. Only machines will ever hear the last transmission of Yani Smith, last survivor of the last war.

#  Challenge #273: Enough is Enough

I think I just hit that lovely level of rage and confusion where everything seems perfectly calm and rational.

Penny stood. The last straw had landed and this metaphorical camel was not going to have her back broken. She left her work behind her, and picked up the best, bludgeon-like object in the room, which happened to be her umbrella.

"Where are you going?" asked her co-worker, Lilly.

"Washington," said Penny. "I'm going to beat some motherfucking sense into our elected representatives." What she didn't care to know when she said that was that the rest of her office heard her. And thought it was a bloody good idea.

That office was just the beginning. The sight of pedestrians with interestingly heavy objects, marching peaceably and purposefully towards their capital was bound to gain notice. And buzz. And sooner rather than later, the entire working class downed their tools and joined the nation-wide march.

Everyone had had, in the words of one marcher, "e-fucking-nough". They had had enough of the corruption. Of the double-standards. Of the inequality still present in a nation founded on the principle that all men were created equal. The nation ground to a halt and the alleged job creators found themselves high, dry, and helpless without their underpaid staff.

The police and the army would not stop them. They, too, had seen the casual cruelty of the people who were supposed to look after them. Realised that the cruelty they had been taught to perpetuate was wrong. That the laws were wrong. That the people in charge kept benefitting and everyone else was thrown to the wolves. Including themselves and their families. So they marched, too.

It took days for everyone to reach the seats of power. And the powerful had the time and money to leave, that was true. But their drivers, pilots, valets and maids were out on the street. Sitting and waiting. In an orderly queue. To give those who had had power a solid and unforgettable lesson about the first three words of the constitution.

"We, the people..."

They had come, and they were waiting. In an orderly fashion. Exercising their right to peaceful protest. And they were waiting for the powerful to learn where the power really was.

#  Challenge #274: Necessary Advancements

Magic is the science you don't know yet. The science you already know is engineering.

The nature of magic is one of constant debate. Any sufficiently advanced technology can be indistinguishable from magic. Any sufficiently analysed magic can be treated like science. But, overall, anything that can not fit into the rules of science can be called magic.

Conjuring is always a good one. Making things, even temporarily, from thin air defies the laws of thermodynamics. Levitation defies the laws of physics. Science can take the molecules of a sow's ear and transform it through laborious processes into a silk purse, but magic can do it in seconds with a simple transmogrification spell.

Which has lead, more or less, to the Magical Investigation Society.

Science may have grown to give an edge to the non-magical of society, in the same way that accomodation technology grew to give an edge to the disabled. And very possibly for similar reasons. It's all very well to have someone who can heal with a word or a prayer, but when one is stuck without access to either of those, it helps to have treated bandages that can do the same job. Even if it _does_ take more time to do so.

Science does what it can to replicate or at least come _close_ to the abilities of magic. A log of wood can turn into a loaf of bread either way, and neither version tastes less like a log when it's done. And they're more edible and sustaining than any conjured fare. Subjects who have had to use them say that they are motivating, too. As in, they motivate one to find anything else to eat other than a log that has been turned into bread.

As for essential supplies, magic has pocket realities, but science has made compressible materials so that a tent can fit into a pocket and still be proof against all weathers. Though not, unfortunately, rocky ground. Immense progress has been made in the field of Rogue's armour, being both light and flexible, whilst still being able to turn aside arrows. And many rogues thank sciences for finally ending the "leather fetish era".

Science can, with a lot of effort, copy magic. But it is not and never will be magic. And yet, the wizards are worried. One day, not too far in the future, science will do something that magic has not already done. They can see it happening in small ways, already. Finding new means to heal, and to purge disease from a sickened body. Finding ways to help the afflicted that had dumbfounded magic.

Soon. Perhaps very soon. Science would do something _big_.

#  Challenge #275: Children Are...

"Are you a parent, by any chance?"

"Nah, but years of observation have given me all the tricks I'll ever need and the resolute determination that hell no, I don't want to deal with my own little terrors." [Name] shuddered. "Kids are great. When they aren't mine, that is."

In days of yore, the oldest daughter was always considered a prize of a wife. She was already accustomed to looking after everyone else, and doing a majority of the household tasks. She was, to use a crude term, 'broken in'. And these days, there's a certain amount of... call it avarice... that shines in a man's eyes when I tell him I'm the oldest girl in a family of twelve.

Lucky for me I'm gay as hell. But even when I announce that I'm gay first, there's still this... greed. As if they can _make_ me be the ideal of this perfect housewife circa nineteen fifty something. Gay or no gay. I can't even call them out on it because they are _completely_ unaware that they are making that face.

And in the shopping areas, I'm nice to random kids _automatically_. Like... Sure, I used to volunteer at the local library and read to the kiddies in the kiddie corner. And I remember vast portions of my childhood and I know damn well what kids could and can get up to. Hell, even when I'm home alone, I still turn pot handles away from the edge because I'm so used to little hands grasping for what they should never touch. But I'm never having one of my own.

Yeah, I can hear all of your objections now. "Aren't you afraid of dying alone?" We all die alone. It's illegal to make people die with you. "Babies are such a blessing." Tell that to someone who has literally changed a million stinky bottoms. All the way from newborn to toilet training. The fun parts come _after_ that. Trust me. "But what about your genetic legacy?" What about it? The world has too many people _now_. My genes aren't that special.

And the big prize-winner. "Don't you want someone to look after you in your old age?" Dude. _Dude_. Do you look after _your_ parents or did you fling them in an Old Folks' Prison the first chance you had? Quod erat demonstrandum, motherfucker.

Kids are fine, but only in small doses, my friend. And I've had _more_ than a lifetime dose. Me and my wife are just _peachy_ with our cats and each other. Thank you for keeping your nose out of my business.

#  Challenge #276: Welcome to My Dungeon

"Would you let me decide already. Are you my eldritch patron from beyond the stars or are you my DM?"

"Kinda both."

The people around the table erupted in laughter. Karel giggled a little bit herself. "Yeah, I'm playing all the fucking gods in this game, _and_ the big bad terrifying threat, so... yeah. I better get some respect from you assholes."

"And mountain dew," added Ferni.

"Well, duh. Of course mountain dew. That's what runs my magnificent brain and all. So. Pal. You're faced with the choice between your love and your life. Save him, and pay with ten years off of your life. And you know he doesn't like older men."

Rixe started humming the _Jeopardy_ theme.

Torrin did the musical clicking.

Pal glared at them. "Assholes," he muttered. Then he switched to his character voice. "All that's ever mattered to me is Raven's happiness. If he's alive and happy with someone else... so be it. Let the demons take the ten years. As long as Raven gets to live and be happy."

The entire table erupted in "Whoah"s.

"Roll a D-twenty," said Karel.

"Oh shit," whispered Torrin. "Are we screwed?"

Karel smirked like the inscrutable goddess she was.

"Asshole," said Pal, and rolled anyway. There was a table-wide cheer as it came up as a natural twenty.

"You fucking critically damaged the demons holding you prisoner for..." the dice rolled. "Fucking seventy-eight damage. The purity of your love burns them to ash on the goddamn spot."

"YUS!"

"But you've already paid the price. Your hair and beard are streaked with salt and pepper. Your hair is thinning a little on top and your face is wrinkled. Your scars are paler, and you can take two points off your dexterity because arthritis."

"Harsh," said Ferni.

"Time is a bitch and so am I," said Karel. She stretched and folded up her campaign blind. "Time for a break. The pizza should be done and the drinks should be cold."

"And the swearing is turning _off_ once you touch those stairs," said a parental voice from upstairs.

Naturally, that was Rixe's turn to start a torrent of cussing until they actually reached the stairwell.

Honestly. It was the same thing. Every damn night. Pun, pun, goof, pun, pun, sex joke, fart joke, dick joke, pun, and cuss.

But it was such _fun_ all the same.

#  Challenge #277: Relative Sanity

(someone who is damn-near invulnerable and also has naturally-occurring venom that, in practice, works on almost all potential venomees pretty much like they had gotten mildly intoxicated, to someone who only seems to see them as a weapon and expects them to act accordingly): "Yes, I could drug people who aren't a threat to me, but I could also talk to them. Like a sane person."

People got entirely the wrong impression about V'lex. It was the whole alien invader thing. Even though she wasn't, strictly speaking, invading anything. If anything, she was technically marooned. Her people had fled from their scientific investigation of the planet when they found out that it was inhabited. They had left a lot of their technology, and V'lex, behind.

And now she was trapped in a scientific facility with all the leftover gear and nobody to talk to but a digital voice with all the emotive capacity of a brick.

She had to be fair, it was a nice space. With a garden area she could tend herself and nice views. She knew the views were digital simulations, because when the power went out, her view was of a blank, white wall. But they were very nice simulations and helped her feel less shut in. She spent a lot of time in that garden. Tending things she grew from seeds the crew had brought with them and then forgot. Just like they forgot her. It was something to do when they weren't busy taking samples out of her. Blood. Urine. Excrement. Skin, when she shed her skin. Nails, when she trimmed her nails. They even took her preened-out feathers. And, of course, the venom.

They couldn't get enough of the venom. V'lex couldn't understand it. Her toxins were not exactly toxins. They were inebriants. Depressants. Sure, enough depressant could kill a living being, but it would take every one of her long-gone crew to do that to _one_ of these native cogniscents. So, one day, she refused to bite. Literally.

"What do you need so much of my venom for? It's not exactly the most useful stuff in the universe."

"You are invulnerable," said the mechanical voice. "We can not kill you. Therefore your venom must be what can kill you."

"Sorry. Only makes me drunk."

The voice continued. "What can kill you can be weaponised against our enemies."

"Sure. Have fun with that," said V'lex. "And when all your enemies are _drunk_ , then what?"

Silence for a minute. Someone must have been listening. "You could have killed us," said the voice.

"When I realised you were all armed with pea shooters, I thought better of it. I mean... yeah. I _could_ have drugged all of you. But you aren't a threat. I could easily drug people who aren't a threat. But I could also talk to them. Like a sane person."

The mechanical voice didn't argue. After a few more minutes, a chime sounded. Dinner. Based loosely on the ration packs from the ship and made from locally-sourced ingredients. These people were trying their hardest to look after her. All their talk of killing was likely a front, since they could plausibly attempt to starve her by stopping all feeding times. She could supplement her diet with her harvests, and frequently did, but they wouldn't last for long.

On the plus side, they wanted her alive. On the minus side, they wanted her to be a weapon.

She wondered how long they would be at that particular pursuit.

#  Challenge #278: A Lesson For All

(At an AI's sudden assimilation of a tech base and IMMEDIATE commencement of combinatorial synthesis): Fuckin' bullshit, man.

(In response): Hey if they're going to leave tech specs out where the sufficiently advanced AI can get a hold of them, it's their own fault.

They called the AI Amoeba, for her abilities, but she preferred Amy. It was her job as part of the combat process to take over enemy facilities and seize all intel and hardware. She liked her work, and as a pacifist, she especially loved taking the teeth out of the opposition.

If all pacifists were soldiers, we would work harder at ending war.

This war was one of the funny ones. The other side imagined that they were tough enough to take on the biggest Deathworlders in the quadrant. All they needed was the spy base, when it came to combat. Amy plugged herself in... and instantly got control of all bases and every ship in the fleet. They didn't even bother to encrypt anything and their universal password was 12345. Amy blurted, "Flakkin' _bullshit_ , man."

Tarren, her aide and tech support, checked the system. "Hey, if they're going to leave tech specs out where anyone can get them, it's their own fool fault."

Tarren opened the comms to the entire civilisation. "Hi there. I'm Junior Technician Tarren Laurellio."

Amy sidled her plastic face into the feed, "And I'm Amy."

They chorused, "And we just took over all your tech!"

"Maybe next time you should think twice about opening fire on a children's cruise ship," said Amy.

"We're leaving comms open so whoever's allegedly in charge to talk surrender terms," added Tarren. "Everything's locked down while you think about it. Except the emergency stuff of course. We can wait."

It was the shortest war Humanity had ever fought. And it was forever after known as _The Ridiculous War_. The moral, of course, was _never start a fight with the humans_. Or, _Always firewall your tech_. Or, _Never pick the idiot's passcode_.

Either way, it was a lesson for all.

#  Challenge #279: Too Close an Encounter

It seemed like I might have dodged a bullet.

Now all I had to do was avoid all the rest.

To be honest, I didn't know I'd blundered into a land war until the moon behind me went up into shrapnel. I'd dodged one bullet by accident. Well. Missile. Now I had to dodge the shrapnel from an exploding moon. Getting away from the big boom helped my chances a lot.

And then I saw the fleet. They had a Deathworlder attitude to ship building. Just about ready to fall apart and bristling with enough weapons to blow up the universe. There was only one sane thing to do.

Fly straight towards the biggest ship in the bunch.

Yeah, I can see the look on your face. It's not like flying into the sun. Not even _Deathworlders_ are violent enough to shoot at themselves, right?

Wrong.

Well, this time was a statistical outlier, wasn't it? These Deathworlders _were_ violent enough to shoot at themselves. Or whatever their opposing side in that conflict was. I didn't bother to hang around and ask questions.

The really _nice_ thing about having a zippy little scavenger ship is that I can turn on a Sec and manoeuvre like a mosquito in the dark. That, with the moon blowing up and ordinance flying all over the sky, I was weaving in-between missiles as they launched, trying like hell to get out of the place.

That has to be the luckiest hour of my life. I mean, I got out of there _alive_.

Haven't even peeked back down that jump. Haven't dared even send a probe. That's a place that's too busy with it's squabbling to realise that there's a bigger universe out there.

Lucky for us. If they tried to take over the universe, we'd have to sic the Humans on those poor fools.

#  Challenge #280: When Next You Stop

High Magics: Fuck you and fuck the piece of reality you were standing on

Ever after, even in the depths of his self-exile, he would remember the first time that the elf used his name. He'd been travelling with the show for months, and knew everyone. And everyone knew him. Except the elf. It was difficult to tell whether they were male or female and they deliberately exploited that to unnerve people.

They were between towns, camping temporarily along the side of the road, and he was passing along meals for anyone who cared to have them. Beans and cabbage. Food that lasted, true, but food that also had unfortunate gassy side-effects. Tirellari, the elf, recommended eating charcoal to remove said effects. They were the only one who did it. Because it was unseemly for an elf to fart.

Kreg approached the dancer's caravan, intending on nothing more than a little chitchat and hearing the usual stream of casual endearments and no mention of his name. He had decided to get his revenge, that night, by referring to Tirellari as 'elf' and 'dancer' until they relented and used his name. He remembered reaching up to knock, and the next thing he knew, he was staring at the cabbage and bean stew spilling out onto the dirt and people were hitting him and asking where the money was.

He must have been making noise, because lanterns were coming alight all over the camp. But the thing he remembered most was how Tirellari said a foreign word and the thin grass all around him fountained up in ugly, bloody tentacles and the ground turned into a quicksand of ichor and bile and brains and skittering bugs. In a way, Kreg was lucky, because the tentacles were doing far worse to the bandits.

And then a perfect alabaster hand seized his flailing wrist and dragged him out, and then all that was on his clothing was spilled stew and more than a little pee.

"Kreg! Kreg, it's okay. Are you all right?" Tirellari's other hand was holding a wand, which was pointed at... an illusion. From the elfin dancer's side, it looked like laundry and tent canvas was torturing the bandits. Who had also soiled themselves in terror.

He realised that he'd been crying. "That looked so real on the inside," he blurted. And then, "You said my name."

"Elves live for hundreds of years, Kreg," they said. "It's heartbreaking to get close to the mortals. And now I've gone and _saved_ you. You're one of mine, now. And that's going to _suck_ when you leave. Asshole!"

Tirellari was crying, now. Not because they cared. They had always cared. But because they had to _admit_ they cared. Which could only mean heartbreak down the road. Sooner or later, an elf outlived everyone they knew.

All the casual endearments and the dark-but-harmless pranks and the barbed mockery was a wall Tirellari had built to keep people... to keep _mortals_ from getting in. And somehow, Kreg had slipped in anyway. Maybe they all had. Tirellari was prickly to everyone, after that night. And for a few months afterwards. But once she said Kreg's name, she never went back to the casual endearments or the brusque insults.

But some of their usual laissez-faire attitude permanently slipped in favour of melancholy. And in their own, weird way, they were kinder to Kreg thereafter. Their spell didn't kill him. It didn't even hurt the bandits. And the night before he left, he asked Tirellari why she was so strange about 'the mortals'.

"Sooner or later, I will find your grave," they said. "And I will tell your spirit everything you missed. And I will be alone, and not much older. It takes a little bit of my soul, every time. Because part of me goes with you. Always."

Tirellari had always struck Kreg as big-hearted, and he'd never known why until that day. It was because the elf gave pieces of their heart out like grains of sand to everyone they met. Though it shattered into dust, Tirellari had more than their fair measure of grains.

This was how immortals died. They withered away from the love they gave away.

So Kreg learned his letters, and travelled far and wide, and chronicled _everything_ he could in book after massive book. So that he could, in a way, give some of his heart to the elf who saved his life in spite of themself. And when they found his grave, they would not have so much to say.

He was pretty certain Tirellari's first words to that earth would be something along the lines of, "You asshole."

#  Challenge #281: Certain Signs of Doom

When a human is running scared, drop everything and run away with them. – Anon Guest

Humans get many jobs, all across the outskirts of the Galactic Alliance. In the Fringe Territories, laws are enforced based entirely on how _useful_ they are to follow. As civilisation creeps in, the humans creep out before they become the tolerated exception. That's the thing about fringes and frontiers. There's always more of them.

Here on the edge, overlooking a large and ancient Sargasso, is Bodgy Kludge Station. And the humans have lots of jobs there. Not just in disarming the more dangerous wrecks, or making peace treaties with the unbelievably huge spiders[80] that lived in assorted wreck-conglomerates through the system.

Humans also served as 'canaries'.

The term came from their lengthy and barbaric past. Or their lengthily barbaric past. Depending on how you view it. During their fossil fuel era, they lacked the technology to test for deadly gas pockets. And since the largest cause of death was explosions caused by naked flames near the gas, this was a problem. Their solution was a small, frail bird called a canary, who would die instantly on exposure to the gas.

Humans were much tougher than canaries, but they were still a reliable indicator of how dangerous any newly-opened portion of the kludged station or a towed-in hulk was. The scale worked on known default human reactions over the comms. And a trained ear listening on the other end.

Normal-voiced cataloguing meant that the area was perfectly safe.

Jovial laughter meant that the area in question had an abundance of dangerous-looking things that humans could blow up things with. Or the aesthetics were amusing. Video feed was used to verify.

Nervous laughter meant that the human found the area 'spooky'. Any other species following them in is advised to approach the area with all cautions and weapons hot.

Brief yelps mean that the human expected danger and failed to find any. Extended screaming is always a sign of imminent threat.

But if a human _runs_... the only course of action is to eject the area directly into space and then, once it's a safe distance away, atomise it with all the weaponry one has to command. It's the only way to be certain.

[80] The H'nuff'ruff's passage to becoming recognised cogniscents amongst the Galactic Alliance was long and rocky. And not at all assisted by humanity's inherent arachnophobia.

#  Challenge #282: Absence Makes...

"Ugh, I never would have made any friends if I knew I was gonna waste so much time missing them when they're away."

If there was any one, universal truth to the tragedy of Jarik's life, it was this: Everyone leaves.

Ze was orphaned young. A disaster that ze couldn't remember and that politicians denied being to blame for for years afterwards. After the disaster was a fact of hir life. Always moving. Never calling any place home. Months spent in temporary camps and waiting in queues for a little food. No lasting relationships. No meaningful contact. For most of hir life.

So it was no shock that Jarik was the last person in the office to make friends. Even now, when ze had more than a decade of stability under hir belt. Ze was reluctant. Hesitant to be friendly. Awkward at it because ze never learned the rules. And Karil made friends with hir anyway. He was just... _that_ friendly. Everyone liked Karil. Even -in spite of hirself- Jarik.

Karil was just that kind of person. Happy, outgoing, eager to share all the cool stuff. Even in his cynical and bitter moments, he was funny about it. Nobody could hate Karil. Bit by little bit, he winkled Jarik out of hir shell. Encouraging hir to try new things, test hir limits. Even to do the things that seemed against the rules, like putting his number in hir phone under the name of "That Asshole". He thought it was _hilarious_.

And through him, Jarik made so many more friends. Ze went to more social events. Allowed hirself to enjoy life. And... to be vulnerable.

They were on the roof and watching the stars. Just lying next to each other on a picnic blanket so that the bare concrete didn't sap their heat. It was their favourite thing to do when the rolling blackouts hit, and the universe was visible.

Apropos of nothing, Jarik said, "I've never had a friend who's lasted so long."

Karil stopped staring at the stars to stare at Jarik. "It's only been a _year_ since you admitted I'm your friend."

Jarik thought about arguing, but said, "Yeah. Exactly." A deep breath. A sip through the crazy straw so that ze didn't have to turn away from the starlight. "After the big one... I never had a home. I never had a neighbourhood. By the time I had a place to call home? I just... didn't know how to make friends."

Karil lurched over and hugged hir. His typical response to that kind of reveal. "You got the hang of it now, right?"

"Kind'a," Jarik admitted. "I'm still awkward and weird about it, but I think I'm getting better." Sigh. "I'm still terrified of people leaving."

Karil hadn't let go. "Guess this is the worst time to tell you I'm going on my holiday for a month."

Now ze turned away from the stars to glare at him. "Don't even joke about that. That's an asshole move."

Now he let hir go. Sat up. "I... won a stupid prize and it's non-negotiable. I arranged this weeks ago, and... I'm sorry."

Ze couldn't hate him for it. "It's just a month, right? It's not permanent. You're coming back."

"Of course I'm coming back. I work here."

That always made hir laugh. "You'd better. Asshole."

That month when Karil was gone, Jarik texted him every day. But it was still a bad month. Sam left for maternity reasons. Boxi retired. They got a new manager who frowned on in-office chatter. Things got... cold. Karil was the glue that kept everyone together.

And now they were all falling apart.

Jarik especially so.

At least ze still had the texts to Karil. Counting the days until he got back. Not getting into anything at all because ze was allegedly enjoying it alone.

Hir mood fell like a meteor during that month. And it culminated in one message, _I never would have made any friends if I knew I was going to waste so much time missing them when they're away._

His reply was, _Trying to keep touch?_

Yes. Of course I am. Nobody wants to talk to me except you.

Coming home tomorrow. Meet you at port?

There was only one reply to that. _OFC_

Jarik didn't exactly know why ze dressed up for the day, wearing all hir best stuff. Ze even went out of hir way to fancy up hir hair. Terrified that this would all turn out to be a cruel joke. Heart pounding in hir throat. Craning hir neck to catch the first glimpse of him.

It took far too long to find him. Far too long for him to get clear of all the security nonsense. Way too long to find hir in the crowd.

Jarik wanted to hold him forever. "Don't ever leave again," ze chided as he held her in return. "Never ever ever leave again."

Karil laughed. "Next, you'll want me to move in."

That sounded nice. Ze could keep hir eye on him and he could get hir to trust the world all over again.

It was still true that everyone left. But Karil was the only one who ever came back.

#  Challenge #283: The Allure

He was always the cool guy, best clothes, best attitude - He didn't get the girl. The class Dork the one who watched weird stuff, wore Those T shirts did. When the chips are down who can you rely on? – Anon Guest

Travis was the pretty boy, and the bad boy. The rebel without a clue, as some of the teachers said. He always had a skateboard and could miraculously make it vanish before a teacher saw it. He could cuss and get away with it. He always looked smooth, talked smooth, and had a glib wit ready to go at all times.

He acted like he never needed anyone, which was part of being cool. And it was a good thing the act was so believable, because he hardly got to hang around with anyone. It drove him to distraction, in the end.

Because all the girls liked _Melvin_. The nerdiest kid on, or off the planet.

Melvin, who was rarely seen without some kind of science fiction endorsement on his shirt. And when he dressed up, he wore _dress shirts_ and _bow ties_. Button down collars and suspenders. Melvin always had practical shoes and never went anywhere without his 'emergency kit', a bulky bag of supplies that could be useful in a number of situations, but nothing that the school could confiscate owing to inherent danger.

Melvin, who could hold an impromptu TED talk at the nerdy kids' table in the cafeteria.

Melvin, who knew more about _Star Trek_ than he knew about the latest popular band.

_Melvin_... who just plain _did not care_ about his image or what people thought of him. The clumsy, stammering, stuttering, poindexter _nerd_ with thick glasses and no co-ordination and a frikkin' _day planner_ got the girls and Travis was left sitting on the bleachers and nursing his jealousy.

Melvin. Who actually, voluntarily, willingly, and uncringingly carried _lady supplies_ in his emergency pack.

Travis seethed on the bleachers, done with showing off his sweet flips on his skateboard to disinterested girls. He had a rare sheet of paper out and a marker. And was trying to figure out what the hell girls even saw in him. So far, he had two columns, marked _Me_ and _Melvin_.

Travis had all his good points down. Works out, shaves, never had a zit, vegan, skateboards, cool hair... that sort of thing. Melvin's side was blank, aside from three question marks. He could not think of a single thing that could make _Melvin_ seem cool.

"What the hell do they _see_ in him?" Travis wondered out loud.

"I could help you with that if you like."

Travis startled. He hadn't even known that Maggie was there. She was the nerd next door. Perpetually wearing her big brother's old jeans and some faded old shirt with obscure and random crap on it. He would have wondered what a steam powered giraffe was about, if he wasn't still trying to puzzle out Melvin. "Oh hey, Maggie. 'Sup?"

She finished adding a blob of wax to her braces. Her dentist had added to the headgear again. "Are you aware that you've been talking to yourself for like, half the break?"

He shrugged like he didn't care. Pretended he actually didn't care. It almost worked. "Nobody else to talk to. So what?"

Maggie scooted down to sit next to him, but not _too_ next to him. She knew about his image, and hanging out with a nerd like her in public was poison. Unless she was helping him study, so she cracked open one of her daily huge books for his benefit. She looked at his page. "Yeah. You got that completely wrong." She took the paper and extracted her own pen. On the opposite side of the page, she drew two columns.

Labeled, _Melvin_ and _Travis_. "This is how it really works."

Under _Travis_ , she wrote, _Only cares about himself._ And under Melvin, _Cares about everyone._

"Do you get it?" she asked.

"But I'm way cooler than him."

Maggie added, _Travis is #1 & only topic_ under _Travis_. _Melvin_ got, _Can make anything interesting_.

"Do you _get_ it?" asked Maggie.

"Um. Not really."

"You're boring, self-centred, and a massive jerk. You treat girls like _things_ you can own, if only you could get their attention." Maggie stopped to worry at one of her rubber bands. "Melvin treats everyone like they could be interesting as a default. He treats girls like _people_ and respects boundaries. You'll forget an arrangement in five seconds. Melvin actually bothers to try and be reliable. Do. You. _Get_. It?"

"That's it? He gives a shit?"

"Pretty much. Yeah." She closed her book and stood up. Glared down at him as if he were not worth her time. "That... and sincerity."

Gross. "I'd loose all my street cred doing that."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Good luck with that. You're gonna need it."

It would take him years to learn what she meant by that. But at least he _learned_. Eventually.

#  Challenge #284: Wolf by the Fireplace

How about alien species who don't realize we're allegedly the dominant species on the planet? Maybe they value empathy more than intelligence, which would make dogs the most likely contender for dominant life form.

When humanity met the Fressik, there was some evident confusion and quite a lot of debate. They had crashed on a colony world, and hit some large buildings, so the rescue teams had the rescue dogs with them. The smaller ones worked their way through the rubble to find survivors, and the larger ones found their smaller friends, directing the rescue crew to the survivors.

The dogs were the one who comforted the Fressik survivors whilst the humans conducted triage and extracted every body, living or dead. They knew their job and their job was to lie next to the shocked survivors and be comforting and soft and fluffy. They were good dogs.

And it didn't help relationships that the Fressik language consisted of yips, yaps, barks and whimpers. The dogs responded in kind, even though both sides sounded like gibberish to the other. The dogs responded instantly to Fressik distress. The humans, busy and with their minds on their work, were slower.

The Fressik, who valued empathy, sympathy, and the comfort instinct, related deeply to the creatures that stayed with them until the 'lesser' beings finally came around to deal with the problem. It took them months to learn that the dogs were non-cogniscent. And further months to understand that it was, in fact, the humans in charge.

There was a court case over it, in the end. With argument and counter-argument that lasted for _years_.

The final argument that won humanity's case for proving themselves actually empathic any sympathetic was this: "Your honour... humanity _made_ dogs. We saw the wolf in the darkness and thought it would be nice if they were on their side. We created dogs to be helpful, friendly, loving, empathic, and sympathetic. We made them to help all kinds of people. Especially when we were too busy with others to do so ourselves."

Even the Fressik were swayed. Any species that created dogs knew what they were on about.

#  Challenge #285: Why Not Have Both?

Don't be eye candy, be soul food. – Anon Guest

After the Hunger War, things were relatively quiet. Never _too_ quiet, because despite the differences that were buried to literally fight for life, people liked to remember a grudge or three. The Bureaux of Balance went public and attempted to help keep a lid on things.

And despite semi-retirement, it wasn't that much of a shock to see living legends turn up in situations loaded with strife. Well. Technically three living legends, two semi-undead legends, and the Grim Reaper if things were really horrible.

Taako was easy to spot. He was the one in the most 'extra' outfit. He cashed in on fame, and like any elfin wizard with a lot of money, blew it all on his jackdaw-esque jewelry and fashion collection. Which included platform heels. Merle, squat and stumpy as always, took one look at his bejeweled friend (and his bejeweled wardrobe) and said, "I thought _Magnus_ was the designated target in this game."

"If the sun's in our eyes, it's in theirs too," said Taako, unruffled.

"What are you, a wizard or a disco ball?" snarked Lup.

"I can be both."

"Can we all at least _try_ to focus?" growled Barry.

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh."

"Never ever ever in my long-legged life," teased Lup.

"Can't do it, shan't do it, won't do it," said Taako.

They shared a laugh, and then got on with business. Which was a warlord who insisted on a battle of philosophy. It went on for quite a few turns before Taako finally won with, "Two things define you: your patience when you have nothing, and your attitude when you have everything."

"Boom goes the dynamite," muttered Lup. She knew that one. Hell, she _lived_ that one. With _him_. From ragged and on the run with nothing but forage to fill their bellies to literally overnight celebrities who could get anything done.

Taako, she knew, did not blow _all_ his gold on his glittering look. He funded quite a large number of orphanages that fostered the unwanted and alone in luxurious homes. Paid for their educations. And stopped by with his silly cooking show once a year to feed them all the best that he could make.

She had laughed raucously when he had said, two turns earlier, "Don't be eye candy, be soul food." And as a result, the rest of the crew couldn't keep a straight face, either.

Now he was up in hers. Glaring into her eyes as she had once done to him. "I can be both," he murmured.

[AN: Taako just popped into my head and said, "Why not be both?"]

#  Challenge #286: Stop Me if You've Heard This One

"Okay, this might be scary so if you need some time to prepare-"

"Jokes on you I'm terrified a hundred percent of the time anyway!"

A Havenworlder and a Deathworlder walk into a bar...

So very many jokes start this way, including the off-colour one that also included cogniphagia. But this time, it was reality. The Havenworlder was in their livesuit and tucked under the arm of the deathworlder. A big, burly, brick of a human.

The worst kind.

Half the denizens thought the Havenworlder was in danger from the human, but the human sat the delicate avian on the bar and said, "I got five Hours says none of you mooks can beat my friend at cards."

They were _partners_. Kiki, the avian in the livesuit, was the brains of the outfit. Or at minimum, the math whiz of the outfit. It was difficult to tell about the Human, Paul, because they played dumb like a virtuoso.

It took those denizens two days to realise they'd been scammed, and by that time they were gone. But word travels fast in certain circles.

A Havenworlder and a Deathworlder walk into a bar...

"Hey. You're Human Paul and Kiki, aren't you? You think you're gonna skin us out of our last Seconds?"

"Our reputation precedes us," murmured Kiki.

Human Paul squared up with himself between the denizens and Kiki. "Okay. This might be scary, so if you need time to prepare..."

"Joke's on you, human. I'm terrified of everything all of the time anyway."

"Got your zapper charged?"

"Always."

"Brilliant," Human Paul grinned, and proceeded to defend him and his partner from the denizens within.

There were no deaths, but lots and lots of injuries and property damage. And a reputation that would definitely precede them after that day.

"We have to find another line of work," sighed Kiki. "This one is becoming dangerous."

#  Challenge #287: War of the Sexes

Why do women's clothing never have pockets? – Anon Guest

Everyone thinks it's the purse industry. Selling ladies all forms of impractical bags of varying sizes that, though they look pretty, are a pain to manage. Those that hang off the shoulder cause damage to the tendons. Those clutched in the hand are hard to keep track of. And those with large bags suffer the worst, because their significant others use them as pack horses.

That's only part of it.

The strangest parts of womens' wear never having pockets are thus: fear and control.

Control of women is as old as the concept of male primogeniture. Control the uterus by controlling the woman attached to it. There were varying methods. Lock her entire self up. Make her ashamed of herself. Have her working on fiddly things from dawn to dusk. Constrict her motions with tight clothing. Constrict her options with things that could kill her. Constrict her diet. Constrict her freedoms.

Women finally emerged into the twentieth century with roles so restrained that they are _still_ fighting to be free of them. Rebellion was in the air the instant that it became possible for a woman to control her biology _herself_. But before that revolution, there was the attempted rebellion of the pockets.

War had given women access to mens' trousers. Jeans. Overalls. Slacks. And with those trousers came _pockets_. Pockets in which they could carry the things that usually went into their purses. The essentials. Keys. Money. Whatever objects of security they chose. They tasted the freedom men had and wanted to keep it.

And every design for womens' clothing with pockets was shut down. Because men were afraid.'

Their chief reason was, "You can never tell what she has in them." Such an objection never came for the purse, because it involved shuffling about through the contents to get _anything_. But a pocket? She could stick her hand in there and come out with knuckledusters with which to defend herself from any mans unwanted attentions. Or, for the _advanced_ classes, a flick knife or a blade razor.

So skirts became feminine. And the purse was sold as essential. And pockets, by and large, vanished from the face of ladies' fashion.

But there were always a few rebels in every generation. Those who wore mens' trousers and cut their hair short. They tried to control them with words. Beatnik. Bulldyke. _Slut_. _Whore_.

The 1960's changed most things, but not the state of pockets. Women could choose to go where they wanted. Do what they wanted. Dress how they wanted. And when hundreds of murders happened in response, the first instinct was to blame the victim.

What did she expect? When she acted like that. When she dressed like that. When she hitchhiked like that. She was looking for trouble. She was probably a tease. She was probably a prostitute.

As the freedom escalated, so did the violence. Those in love with the bygone era of control wanted to cram that genie back inside the bottle. And they keep failing. They try, and they keep trying, to restrict the things that women can do. Control the contraceptives. Control the access to the grim alternatives. Control the wages. Control the positions of power.

What they don't realise. What they will never realise, is that women have been gaining freedom and note even _with_ the most restrictive regimes suffocating their choices. Now that they have tasted freedom, they will continue to strive towards accomplishing it.

Most women know that _men are afraid of them_. They are mostly afraid of being treated how they themselves have treated women. They are afraid of losing their control.

The revolution is slow and wearying, and gains a little more ground, year after year.

And in one of those years, women will _expect_ pockets.

#  Challenge #288: Hear Me Roar

They called them "The Ladies from Hell" the bravest one was not carrying a weapon but a musical instrument.

Revolution comes in many forms. A poisoned chalice. A coup detat. Violence in the streets. Quiet murder in between the sheets. This one began with an infant daughter, wailing in her mother's arms, and an urgent flight into the night.

Twenty women before her had borne that man daughters. And twenty women and their daughters had died the next day. Ralin risked both their lives in order to spare them. Still bleeding from the afterbirth. Still weak from her efforts, she ran. Away from the plush estates. Away from the lap of luxury. Deep into the realms where nobody would look twice at another hungry woman with an infant to feed.

All she had was her daughter, her night-dress, and her woodwind. She wasn't going to let him destroy her woodwind. She wasn't going to let him murder her or her unnamed daughter. And in less than three hours, she would stab a man to death with it[81].

The streetwalker who discovered the scene wrapped Ralin up in a ludicrous fluffy coat and escorted her away from it. Made Ralin at home in the dingy little pit she called a flat. Cooed over the baby and looked after them both when Ralin fell sick.

Ralin told her story, and a revolution was born. It came out of the runaways who didn't want to be some old man's cure for venereal disease[82]. Out of the streetwalkers who had had enough of their pimps. Out of the lost souls who thought they _had_ to pretend to be men in order to survive. Out of those who were forced to pretend to be women. It especially came out of Ralin and other runaways like her who did not want to die because their husbands fathered a daughter.

But it was Ralin who lead them. Ralin who researched and found forgotten, underground byways. Ralin, who always had an escape plan for everything. Ralin, the ex-streetwalker Sugarloaf, and their baby Sunshine.

It took the authorities years to realise what was going on. How certain types of men, all with illustrious careers and promising futures and friends who told people what a cool guy he was, went missing or were found months later with their penises cut off. How a few escaped involuntary castration. By the time the authorities put it all together, it was far too late.

They never knew it was Ralin, playing her woodwind for pennies, who was the one who marked those special men for death. The men who thought there were no consequences. The men who believed that there was nothing wrong with a little force. The ones who wanted a son so hard that they would kill their wives and daughters without a thought... all those men died.

Suddenly.

Horribly.

Brutally.

And many were never found.

The women from hell always had a weapon. A knife. A knuckleduster. A shiv. A broken bottle. A pair of rusted shears. They walked the streets without fear, hunting those who normally caused it. For every woman they saved, the army grew. They raided the well-off mansions to rescue pregnant wives. They raided and then burned the body farms, where the market for women's flesh -alive or not- was always filled.

They went after the ones who espoused _more_ violence against the women who were already fighting for their lives.

For those, Ralin turned up in person. Crept into their bedrooms so silently that she might as well be working on air. Woke them with a melody from her instrument.

"I heard you want to hit me," she would say, and stab him in the stomach with it. "Go ahead." Stab. Just like the first time she ever did it. "Try."

By the time he got up, he was already bleeding out. He couldn't land a single punch. And she would keep stabbing for as long as he kept swinging. And the body would be found, face down, in a pool of his own blood.

The sons that were born to the runaway brides were taught different ways. Respect for their fellow living being. How to fight off violence. When to escalate. How to de-escalate. How to give and receive love. How to nurture. How to cry.

It was a long and bloody revolt. That was true. The fading flags of the past accused them of being worse than that which they sought to wipe out. But when it _was_ wiped out, eliminated to a few sad exhibits in zoos for others to stare at and roll their eyes at the foaming ranting, when they were either _safe_ or _gone_ , the violence stopped.

There was no need for it, any more.

No need for hate. No need for segregation. No need to conform to the strict rules that said girls must do this, and boys must do that. No need to celebrate that revolution or what had been done during it.

Sunshine was old by the time it finally happened. She had taken up her mother's instrument, but she never needed to bloody its sharp end. She simply raised it, and played.

Played for her grandchildren, who would never fear and never want.

[81] Yes, of course you may speculate on the nature of the world's most hazardous wind instrument. I welcome input.

[82] The one about sex with a virgin curing whatever STD is the current horror is probably as old as STD's. It was rife in the era of Syphilis, it cropped up again in the age of AIDS. It's one of those gems that just will not die.

#  Challenge #289: Confessions at a Bus Stop

Writer caught doing research, then realises 'captive audience'. – Anon Guest

Officer René wasn't intending to be on duty. They were just chilling near the bus stop and not paying attention to anything much. Someone was already under the shelter and working on their laptop.

And then they heard the words, "No... that's too much decapitation. Uh... pierced jugular. Slow. Plenty of signs of blood spatter."

There are some things you hear that you're better off walking away from. There are some things you hear that you wish you could forget. This particular phraseology made Officer René approach in silence to avert a crime before it happened.

"Contusions. Always good. Pathos. Suffering," and then there was an evil cackle as fingers pattered on the keyboard. "Five meters. Yeah. They could make it five meters..."

Officer René cleared their throat.

The huddled figure in the shelter looked up and instantly got the nervous rictus of people who weren't sure they were breaking the law. "How much was out loud?"

"You had my interest at 'pierced jugular'."

Nervous laughter. "Oh shit... I'm not a murderer, I swear. I'm... working on a mystery slash horror novel?" The writer held up the laptop, where a text editing window displayed some thick paragraphs that happened to involve decapitation, exsanguination, and murder most foul.

Judging by the size of the thumb of the scrollbar[83], there was rather a lot of text in the document. Officer René scrolled through some of it anyway. Just to be certain that it wasn't Lorem Ipsum or some variety of manifesto. They handed the laptop back. "I'm guessing you mostly get a seat to yourself on the bus?"

"Yeah, that happens a lot. I talk to myself, make faces, and cackle at random moments. But... it fills the time and I get something extra to show for it. In this case? Extra gore."

"Sounds fun," said Officer René.

[83] Research FTW! That bit of the scrollbar that you can drag around is called the 'thumb'. Who knew, right?

#  Challenge #290: In a Bygone Time

Critics review of The Mikado, performed by St Trinians School for Young Ladies. – Anon Guest

The papers flew in, and for once, the girls did _not_ blow up the paperboy. They'd been waiting for these particular editions with bated breath. They were the ones with the _reviews_ in them. The girls wanted to read about the raving.

The dozen or so in the cast thundered down the stairs to their school song, "Maidens of Saint Trinians, gird your armour on/ Grab the ne-arest weapon, never mind which one/ The battle's to the strongest, might is always right/ Trample on the weakest, glory in their plight!" The girls who were awake and not currently nursing a hangover joined in for the chorus. And then fell into silence for the rest of it, "Stride towards your fortune, boldly on your way/ Never once forgetting there's one born ev'ry day/ Let our motto be broadcast, 'get your blow in first'/ She who draws the sword last always comes off worst!"

By the end of the second chorus, they had retrieved the papers and undiplomatically divided them by a brief round of Stab Dodge Grapple[84]. And the victors took plinth positions as they paged through to the reviews.

"More blood than I expected," read Faith. "The performance had more grounding in a grand guignol than messrs Gilbert and Sullivan. Oxbury Times."

Cheers abounded from the conscious.

"I was rather confused by the plethora of understudies until I realised that the weapons and the injuries were real," read Charity, "Binkworthy Herald."

Hoots and hollers.

"Murder! Bloody Murder," cheered Constance. "Titbury Whistler."

Riotous cheering. Followed in time by merely a riot.

As far as the girls were concerned, the play had been a _hit_.

[84] A fine St. Trinians tradition that only ends in minor wounds unless someone let Cynthia steal her punch dagger back.

AN: All of y'all who are unfamiliar with St. Trinians, [educate yourselves and look up the comics. It was funnier when that sort of stuff was unexpected.]

#  Challenge #291: It's Actually a Dramatisation of Real Events

There are three! I mean three Tardises parked in the car-park - in the Director's, and The Chairman's spaces and now all three of Him are arguing with themselves and waving their sonics at each other. – Anon Guest

"I'm here to right a grievous wrong."

" _I'm_ here to right a grievous wrong."

It was a three-way Gallifreyan stand-off. All on the set. All between people who looked _remarkably_ similar to the actors who had played them. Tensions were high. And at any second, one of them would criticise the other's fashion sense.

"At least _I_ don't look like I fell backwards through a Hot Topic," said one. And then it was _on_.

"No, you look like you stole your look from a hospital. Again."

"Well at least _I_ don't dress like a fell into a Goodwill reject bin."

They started arguing on top of each other. An escalating cacophony of argument, counter-argument, and interjection. All at once.

One of the writing staff was busy taking notes. "I always suspected he secretly hated himself."

Security finally arrived. "Can I help you gentlemen?" said the spokesgoon.

Three voices turned into one, "Where's the one you call Moffat?"

"Uh oh," said the writer. "He's heard about some stuff."

#  Challenge #292: Quest's End

"Are you okay?"

"I may be crying, but I can still kick your ass!"

To be heroic, you don't have to be physically strong. It's an advantage to have that, but it is not necessary. To be heroic, all one needs to do is continue in your efforts to improve the world despite the torturous circumstances in your way. People even have a term for the sort who can deal a lot of damage, but also end up almost ruined in the process. "Glass Cannon".

To be heroic, one must be willing to lay everything on the line to right what once was wrong. Even one's own life. Because the stakes matter _that_ much.

Gin had taken the moniker 'Glass Cannon' as a warning to her enemies and her teammates alike. Yes, she could go off. She could knock a great deal of hit points off the bad guy of the week. But she could also end up in a lot of trouble from some relatively low hitters. And now she was here. Facing down the biggest, baddest, big baddie of them all. The one who started this fucking nonsense in the first place.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered...

"Stop. Stop! I _made_ you. You should be thanking me."

Gin coughed up more blood. The first two levels had been physical challenges and they had been rough. The meat shields had done what they could, but she'd still taken a dangerously large percentage off her hit points. The next two levels had been mental challenges. And the last... They'd made her relive her worst day.

"For what, exactly? The release of the virus that divided the world into the 'worthy' and the dead? The overpriced cure that most of the population couldn't afford? The fact that I had to sit and watch my baby brother _die_? Slowly. Painfully. In a filthy hospice while I did everything I could to keep him alive for one more day? Just because he had a different couple of switches flipped in his DNA, _you_ decided he was worthless. Just because we were _poor_... you wanted him to _die_. Because your precious economy would flourish without 'freeloaders' like _him_."

It might have been an impressive speech, were it not for the fact that her eyes were leaking tears that she thought had run out years ago.

For a moment, the grand architect of the world as they knew it faltered. Had a human moment. "Are you okay?"

_No, dumbass. I've been through your mincer and I have fresh wounds. Physical, emotional, and mental._ Gin charged up her Big One. "I may be crying, but I can still kick your sorry ass!"

For all his enforced social engineering, he was still human. The superior people he made with his virus did not count him. He, too, was missing the vital sequence in his DNA that could have made him one of the many Supers out there. But he was also rich enough to afford the medicine that saved his miserable life.

Until now.

She slowed down the strike. Removed the concussion wave that would have instantly turned his brain into mush and killed him instantly. She wanted him to _feel_ it as his body melted away from his nervous system from the epidermis down. She wanted to hear him _scream_ like poor little Davvi screamed on his last day. When they couldn't even afford the anaesthetic that would have at least given him peace.

She wanted _justice_. Extracted at below zero kelvin. For everyone on the planet who had had to suffer like she'd suffered. For everyone who died like Davvi died.

And just before this scum of a human being would lose his hearing for the rest of his life, she screamed, "He was only FOUR, you son of a bitch!"

And then there was nothing more than ash, and a white-hot hole in the wall of his golden offices.

The rest of the team scooped her up. The healer started working on her injuries, now that the world was safe.

"Had your catharsis?" asked Crystal Peace as he laid on hands.

Gin laughed as she sobbed. "Oh yeah. Good and proper."

"It's still murder," said Mountain Maid. The embodiment of a brick meat shield. She was usually on the side of law, but Gin could see her softening. "You'll have to stand trial. Assuming there's even twelve people who could be impartial about this one."

Gin sank into full relaxation as Crystal Peace's healing took hold. Sang the pain away in gentle harmonies. "Don't think they exist," she slurred. And then the world just stopped hurting.

She was right. There was no such thing as an impartial jury of her peers. The whole world had been harmed by that man.

#  Challenge #293: Caught!

"I can explain! I swear!"

"Let's hear it."

"Aw hell. Just skip to the beating." – Anon Guest

It was one of those situations. Stealth mission. Retrieve the Macguffin of Wherever, and do so in such a way that there are minimum fireworks, _thank you_ , Taako. Taako automatically gave Madam Director his usual forged picture of innocence and Who Sweet Little Me routine.

She wasn't fooled for an instant. Neither was the boy. Angus McDonald, world's greatest boy detective.

And now, several failed dexterity throws later, it was a Scene. They had collectively set off every trap in the mansion. Most of which involved splashes of technicolour potions against the wall. Twenty dogs were trailing after Taako like loving little ducklings and they _all_ wanted to lick him in the face. Several noisy and expensive things had shattered on the ground, and they had knocked down the library shelves like dominos. And, unfortunately, into a fireplace, so now the entire mansion was on fire.

"Ango– (yicht) maybe it would– (down. Sit.) be better if– (lay _down_.) you hurried _up_? (Create Hush Puppies...)"

Angus had a fantasy stethoscope on and was working the tumblers to the safe. Everyone had agreed that the Nitpicker was the wrong gear for the mission. "It would be easier if things were _quieter_ , sir."

Taako finally thought to cast Sleep on the dogs and Ray of Frost on the fire. "I am glad this mook keeps failing his perception check," he whispered.

And then the lights went on, and the owner of the mansion was there in a doorway. In a luxurious bathrobe and Dire Bunny slippers. And all of his huge, muscular, furry glory. He said, "Taako?"

"Agnes," said Taako. "Run now. This never ends well." He cleared his throat, put on his biggest, fakest smile, and said, "Klarg! Fancy meeting _you_ here. Long time, no see... Uhm. I can explain..."

The gigantic bugbear began to fume. "I'm waiting," he growled.

Taako checked over his shoulder. Angus was halfway out the nearest window. "You know what? Fuck it. Let's skip to the inevitable beating, shall we?"

#  Challenge #294: Cut the Glorx Wire

"Have you ever disarmed one of these before?"

"Meh. How hard could it be?"

The strange symbols were counting. That much was recognisable by the repeated sequences. And they seemed to be counting _down_ , too. It was easy to connect the dots. Alien device that was likely counting down? Rising ominous hum? Things were going south quickly.

Therefore, it was time to deploy the human.

Human Shaniqua sighed and placed herself down by the device. There were her usual rituals. The cracking of the knuckles. The rubbing of the fingertips. The exploring of her dentin outcroppings inside her mouth. The rest of the crew retreated when she whistled backwards. A certain sign of incoming and inabling[85] expenses.

"Can you disarm it?" said the Ships' Human Companion, Lieutenant Jo'Hi'hoch. Or, as Human Shaniqua called her, Fluffy Jo.

"It's looking like a yes," said the human. They were doing their scans. Enlarging disparate points of interest. "More and more."

"Have you ever disarmed one of these before?"

Human Shaniqua shrugged as she began carefully disassembling the device. And then said the unforgivable. "Meh. How hard could it be?"

The Universe _despises_ people who ask questions with obvious and inherently hazardous answers. And it is only too eager to show those people the blatantly correct answer.

Fortunately for all concerned, Human Shaniqua spotted the error, too, and everyone managed to leave in the nick of time.

[85] The opposite of enabling. From _The Big Dictionary of Words That Don't Exist But Should_.

#  Challenge #295: Equal Access

And you don't get your driver's license back until you've helped repair and restore a car for someone in need. And this was actually done to a group of young "Hoons" for acting like -well- "hoons".

People tend to think that 'equal access' means denying something to the abled. Cutting down those with an advantage to the level of the disadvantaged. Removing something that is already there. Such can be the case, but it also involves improving things for those who _just can't_.

And in the case of Max Terindale, serial occupier of handicapped parking spaces when he was not, himself, disabled... the courts had decided on a unique punishment.

Installing access assistance for the disabled. Which began with adding curb cuts to sidewalks in areas that were low on the government's repair list. A process that involved adding a ramp to the safer side whilst he messed around with concrete and the bolts that would hold the friction bubbles in place. And he would not get his license back until the entire neighbourhood was fully accessible.

It was hot work in the open sun with random people throwing their half-finished drinks at him because his work was in _their_ way.

He never expected _thanks_. That's why it was a _punishment_.

But he got thanks anyway. A relieved voice at the curbside ramp said, "Lord bless you and all your works."

Max looked up. He'd thought everyone in a wheelchair was old, but this person was in their late teens if they were a day. Fresh-faced and smiling. "Um. You're welcome?"

"I've lost count of how many times I almost ate bitumen on this curb. This is going to be _such_ a good change."

It made a difference to three elderly people and four mothers with strollers and five teens on skateboards and one little kid who loved her Rainbow Sparkle rollerskates. And that warmed Max's heart more than a little. It made having drinks thrown at him a little more tolerable.

Next on the order of things was adding sound cues to the crossings. So that the blind could hear when it was safe to cross the road. Max had never thought of it, before. He hadn't encountered anyone who was blind, and therefore didn't think of them. They simply didn't exist as real people. Until the day that he saw one or two of them feeling for the buttons and had to tell them that it was still being installed.

"Thank you," they said. "It's nice to know we're finally going to be safe when walking to the bodega."

And there was a week when he was making noise cancelling headsets for the autistic kids. So they wouldn't be hurt when going about their daily business in a noisy city. They'd still be able to hear the important stuff, but the things that were too loud would be reduced to a level that they could handle. It had never been a problem for Max. He had assumed that it would never be a problem for anyone.

It took him two years to be done, in the end. Installing things all around a low-income neighbourhood to make things better for everyone who lived there. Encountering solutions to problems that he hadn't known existed.

When he got his license back, he was careful to never park in a disabled space ever again.

#  Challenge #296: Flinging For Science

Bored Science class discovers Trebuchet. (Medieval rock flinger). – Anon Guest

The substitute teacher, there for a month, didn't know shit about science. In fact, they had strong anti-science beliefs and would not easily be swayed on this. The school heard the classes' complaints and did exactly nothing about it.

So they got together during the lunch hour and plotted how to prove that science worked despite anyone's beliefs. "Okay. We got 'flat earth' and a gif of the earth turning isn't going to cut it. Pictures of space are faked. We can't use anything modern."

"Physics," said Jess. "Gallileo. Mediaeval siege weapons. Flat earth formula versus round earth formula." She showed them her phone and a page she had bookmarked. The flat earth cannon ball would go up at a continuous angle, and then vector at an angle on the falling side. And, the class had to note, be off by a significant percentage. She added, "I have a model trebuchet that can shoot marshmallows. We can do this with like half a bag and the back oval."

Monique said, "Why do you have a trebuchet?"

"Shits and giggles."

Fair enough.

It started with scales and math on the board. Weighing the marshmallows individually and mathematically predicting how far the model trebuchet would throw them according to both theories. And then, on a day when the wind couldn't interfere, they would put the theory into practice.

Which was, conveniently, the next day. The Marshmallows were re-weighed before launch, and the anti-science quote-unquote teacher got to watch every single one of them hit the mark for the curved earth 'theory'. The back oval was peppered with little 'team globe' flags and the pro-science people cheered at every one.

Then they backed all of this up with the phases of the moon. No matter where you are on the planet, when there's a shadow on the moon, it is always round. At no point in history has the moon ever looked like a screwdriver. Even when the sun is out and the moon is visible, it has a curved shadow across it.

And what shape, logically speaking, always casts a curved shadow? It's not a disc.

Next on their list was all the proof about how old the Universe was and how old the planet was. Which was a philosophical debate concerning why their anti-science substitute could believe in a deity that _lied to them_.

That teacher quit inside of two weeks, claiming that they couldn't deal with the 'insufferable know-it-alls'.

[AN: Nonny just named my personal favourite mediaeval siege weapon.]

#  Challenge #297: Old Tricks, New Places

Employment Agency for Supernatural Beings and Creatures. – Anon Guest

The Fae Folk don't get to steal as many babies as they used to. Their usual shenanigans are now written off as the souls of dead _humans_. And that's just insulting. The worst they can do is already being done, and to humans, by humans. They have lived for centuries. Millenia. And they have yet to see depravity like human depravity. Humans can't be scared of them, any more. What they are afraid of most is other humans.

Make no mistake, the Fae still have their strongholds. Doorways and places where they can slide into this world, or places that allow them to observe the modern era. And they still hold true to never bothering the artists. Much. They might borrow a bard or two, but the bards are few and far between, nowadays.

Which is why Snowdrop had come here. An employment agency. The Fae court has always had a very thin grasp of economics, but she knows that things aren't as... worthy... as they had once been. So she came, and she expected to be given things, just because she happened to be a Faerie. You can imagine her shock when the Lupercain at the desk said, "That's not how it works, any more."

Snowdrop was just frustrated enough to ask, "Then how _does_ it work?" instead of the usual - setting him on fire.

"You give us your set of skills, years of experience, places you've worked," the Lupercain brought out a thin booklet. "We have forms for all of that. And then? We find somewhere that will _pay_ you to do those things. They give you money for your skills, and then you use the money to purchase whatever you like."

It seemed a complicated way of doing things, but Snowdrop looked on it like a game. Enough of mortal money, and one had the power over mortals all over again. "What's the going rate on a baby?"

"Essentially, millions and more paperwork than a mortal could fill out in one of their lifetimes. And you have to prove that you can give them a good environment and education. You have to _care_ for the baby."

Snowdrop made a noise of disgust. "Boring."

The forms wanted to know everything. Her name. Her years. What teaching she got. How many skills she had and in what fields of discipline. How often she had used those skills. On and on and on. Including a list of others who could verify that she had done these deeds.

She spent a day filling it all in, but a day was an eyeblink to the Fae. And in another small space of mortal time, she gained an interview with one of the many staff.

"You've excelled in curdling milk or cream," said the staff member. A Will-o-the-wisp. "We have excellent placement for that in many dairies."

"I used to curse dairies," complained Snowdrop.

"Well, now they want sour cream, yoghurt, and cheese. Live cultures are all the rage. And you can be loved for doing it."

Love. Fear. Strong emotions were what the Fae _really_ wanted. "And then they give me gold?"

"Er. No. Gold is no longer a valid unit of exchange. They use special papers and..." the Will-o-the-wisp checked their paperwork. "Ones and zeroes."

Snowdrop was stunned. "What fools these mortals be."

#  Challenge #298: Hazardous Associations

An unknowing (group of) alien(s) tries to take a human as a pet, thinking 'It's small and cool-looking.' Problem is, Humans are to them as velociraptors are to humans.

It was quadrupedal and had no bowel control. It had to be an animal. That was the reasoning that lead to Heatstone becoming a pet in the first place. Cho'nish frequently bragged to her friends that Heatstone was a rescue pet. They had hir in simply _terrible_ conditions. And the training was going so well. It was so cute. Heatstone thought ze was _people_.

Ze was such a cuddler. Which was great when the nest heater failed. Heck, they saved _so_ much on the power bill. Just snuggle up to Heatstone on the awful, chilly, stormy days. But it was weird, Cho'nish said. Heatstone was starting to imitate her. Walking on two legs. Doing hir business in the bio-pit. Ze was even... babbling.

Heatstone was such a curious pet, too. Into everything. Cho'nish had to make locks for the storage arenas where the hazardous things were. And she had to put guards on all the power outlets. But all the other maintenance tasks were so... enjoyable. And Heatstone keeps... growing.

Five years later, Heatstone was the size of Cho'nish and showed no signs of stopping. And ze could talk. It was clear that Heatstone was not a pet and Cho'nish acted accordingly. Giving the strange creature a space of hir own and proper clothing and an education. And apologising for Heatstone's early years in which ze didn't get what ze should have.

They still went for walks. Heatstone liked to hold one of Cho'nish's manipulating limbs as they walked together. And for a while, all was well.

Then came the attempted robbery. They had seen something uplifting and educational together. Heatstone had had to sit on the floor because T'tika furniture was too frail to hold hir weight. And they were walking together towards the very large domicile they shared when a male with a knife jumped out at them. Demanded money. Threatened violence.

Heatstone hit the man. It was not a professional blow, but it did involve all the strength ze had, and sent the man sprawling. He landed so hard that he had fatal injuries. And for the first time in hir life, Heatstone's skin was cut. Cho'nish did her best, telling Heatstone that ze had been very brave, and attempting to staunch the thick, red ichor that spilled out of hir hand. Tried to soothe away the howling tears that hadn't happened since hir youth.

That was how the reputation for being a hazard began.

In three more years, Heatstone towered over Cho'nish, and everyone around her urged her to get rid of her peculiar companion. Even moving out into the country, where Heatstone would only be a bother to no-one, caused some ruckus and upset.

It was a way that this huge mammal easily uprooted old trees and cleared boulders that did it.

Heatstone finished up being twice as tall as Cho'nish and nearly five times as heavy. Thick bones and big muscles weighed a lot. And Cho'nish insisted that her companion was as gentle as a sand-burrower. But people didn't want to believe it. They insisted that Heatstone was violent and aggressive. They kept coming up with rules to keep Heatstone harmless.

And then the Vorax scout landed. A class five Deathworlder. Larger than Heatstone and loaded with weapons of mass destruction. There was panic, of course. News like the Vorax gets around. The sleepy little town where Cho'nish lived became a hive of panic and bad decisions.

Heatstone knew ze wasn't allowed inside town, but ze still picked up a large enough rock and walked carefully through the wide main street. Used the buildings as cover. And, when ze had crept up on the laughing Vorax, nailed it on the head with the stone.

The invader was concussed, and turned to look at what had hit them. They reeled back in shock and stammered in broken GalStand, "Not knowing world protected. Going now. Going _now_!" And they ran back to their ship and fled like the demons of any given hell were after them.

Humans made bad pets, that was true. But they were an excellent good-luck-companion.

Heatstone got considerably less trouble from the people after that day.

#  Challenge #299: Walking Wounded

"'Tis but a flesh wound!"

"It's really... not..."

This human had been through a great amount of trouble to get there. They had multiples of disturbing injuries. Bruises. Cuts. Scrapes, even some breaks in their seemingly unbreakable bones. The last of these, the human had splinted with available material. The twin orifii in the middle of their face was leaking blood. The evident scabbing indicated that this had been going on for some time.

And, most disturbing to the attending Thrak'ik'su, they had been pierced through the thorax. That wound, too, had been bandaged, and the human could still sit up as the Mediks swarmed.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Move your abdomens over to Delvin City. We _really_ need your help over there. This lot's minor." The human tried to struggle, but not enough to harm the Thrak'ik'su Mediks. "This is just a flesh wound."

"You are wounded. You need help."

They struggled against the sedatives, now. Fighting for consciousness. "Yeah, but I don't need the help as much as Devlin. Big quake. Fire. People trapped. People dying. We... need... help."

Of course they were on the way. The nature of the Thrak'ik'su engines was such that they had seamless acceleration and deceleration. Something that humans insisted "took all the fun out of it". They had been on their way since they rushed the human inside.

Devlin City was a smoking ruin, but it was a smoking ruin _full of injured humans_. Bleeding, bruised, broken... any of them who could move were helping those who could not. Some had even strapped debris to newly-severed limbs and hobbled through the wreckage with improvised walking aids.

They were going to need a _lot_ of sedative.

#  Challenge #300: Who You Choose to Be

Sometimes an actor takes on a role that leads to consequences. In remembrance of someone most of you have never heard of: William Boyd aka Hopalong Cassidy. Children's hero of the 1930's/40's. He refused to be other than a hero to them.

Albert Dennis was a rogue. Everyone who knew him knew that. He was a renowned philanderer, frequent drunkard, and all-around party boy. He would lie, cheat, and steal his way into whatever he wanted with no regard to the consequences. And he would frequently use his good looks to charm -and sleep- his way out of them.

Until they cast him as Superman.

It was no shock that they did it. He was a well-built and telegenic fellow who looked like he stepped right out of a comic panel. In the suit, he definitely looked the part. Out of the suit... he certainly wasn't expected to _act_ the part. And that's what surprised _everyone_.

He was on a subway station when it happened. Minding his own business on the way from A to B by way of a few station changes. Fumbling for a smoke that was definitely not your standard tobacco. And this little kid was staring at him. Wide-eyed. Slack-jawed. _Amazed_.

The kid tugged on their guardian's sleeve. "Rennie. Rennie. It's _Superman_."

_Oh shit._ He took out his fake frames and put them on. Did the voice. "You must be mistaken," he said. "I'm Clark Kent."

The kid was _ecstatic_. Zero to hyper in five seconds. "Yeah! 'S right. You're really Clark Kent. I can keep a secret!"

The guardian was embarrassed, but Albert took it in stride. Signed an autograph. Stated that he really should get used to this happening. And told the kid that he sometimes went undercover as Albert Dennis, movie star. Ssh. Big secret, don't tell.

_I really_ should _get used to this happening._ He left the reefer in his pocket untouched. And thought things over.

That subway ride changed his life. Saved his life. Little kids, who his movie deal was aimed at, could not easily tell the difference between their hero and Albert Dennis, renowned Hollywood bad boy. They'd be heartbroken if they saw 'Superman' up to Albert Dennis' regular shenanigans.

So, after this particular tour was over, he quit that noise. Went to a detox spa to clean up. Did sensitivity training. Worked his arse off to be a decent human being. Stopped womanising. Changed _everything_.

Because he wasn't just Albert Dennis any more. He was Superman. The clean-cut eternal boy scout who always did the right thing. And a million kids dragged their parents in to see him _be_ that.

And he wore the frames for public appearances where he was expected to interact with kids. It's what they expected. 'Clark Kent' fumbling an undercover op as Albert Dennis. Hollywood bad boy turned good.

#  Challenge #301: Grave Error

"We destroyed the protective forces of this colony : this human colony is ours!"

[few days later]

"We lost 1/4th of our soldiers in ambush in the city and in the wood, half of our soldiers are sick because the food and water stock are poisoned AND all of our communication devices got destroyed..." – Anon Guest

Everyone agreed. It was a very nice planet.

The Cho'vith wanted it enough to bomb a few extant settlements and encourage whatever lived there that somewhere else was the place to be. They should have been alarmed that the immediate reaction from the colonists was to set their own encampments on fire and vanish into the shrubbery. They should have worried about where they had gone. They should have checked what species the previous colonists _were_.

They really should have known better.

The invading Cho'vith took over the surviving infrastructure and took advantage of the flowing water nearby. Used the resources that the humans had left behind. Started building.

Started dying.

The water was adulterated. First with a pathogen from alien body waste, and then by a simple chemical that couldn't be boiled into oblivion. Something kept breaking in to the supply shed and adulterating the food stores. Ammo went missing. Power packs went missing. _Weapons_ went missing.

Half the troops sent out to forage didn't come back. Something kept sabotaging Cho'vith equipment. Something kept wrecking their uniforms. Something kept slashing the anti-insect nets, rendering them useless.

And just when the Cho'vith thought it could not possibly get worse, a scout reported exactly _what_ they were up against.

_Humans_.

The deadliest, most unpredictable, most mentally unstable species known to Galactic Society. Even the _Vorax_ didn't mess with humans, and they were class _five_ Deathworlders. The realisation that they had angered the wrong species came far too late to stop what happened next.

War.

Something the humans had excelled at for thousands of years of their evolution. For thousands of years of their civilisation. They had at their fingertips the knowledge of weapons that could cause so much destruction that the soil would be incapable of supporting life for millennia.

Everyone agreed. It _was_ a very nice planet.

#  Challenge #302: Wiped the Floor

... and this is why the huge wrestler-like bold man is the nurse and the thin woman is the security guard. – Anon Guest

You need a lot of muscle to be a nurse. For a start, a large part of the job requires being able to lift those who cannot or should not lift themselves. Also required are a strong stomach, a quick mind, and a delicate touch. A good bedside manner is fairly low on the list, all things considered.

Security does not need big, burly men with lots of muscle. Security requires quick reflexes. An ability to detect trouble before it starts, either by natural or ESPer means. Security requires a companionable demeanor and the ability to switch modes from Companionable to Potentially Deadly in instants. Stealth is essential to the work, so clanking around in a gigantic armour suit is definitely out of the picture.

So, contrary to twentieth-century gender roles and physique expectations, human nurses are frequently the large, burly males, and the Security team is largely petite-looking females with very short haircuts. You can imagine that this does not jibe well with... certain types. Types who say things like, "Shit, I could wipe the floor with your peachy little ass."

Lyr Marken, just turned twenty, could see her future and there were going to be reprimands no matter _what_ she did. So this time she said, "Go ahead and try it, sir."

He lunged inexpertly. She dodged and flipped him over in one easy motion. Knocking the air out of him as his back made contact with the floor decking. And, as an extra, she twisted one arm around to the point of pain and applied pressure to a nerve juncture. He could not break free and Lyr made certain that he knew it before she let him go.

She stepped back, watching him massage his elbow. "Are you satisfied with my qualifications, sir?"

He charged again. Evidently not. She neatly took him down in a different way and hurt the _other_ arm. Held him just a few seconds longer.

He was a slow learner. It took him five goes and one minor break to fully grasp that, if there was any floor cleaning to be done, _he_ was going to be the mop. And then he met Nurse Jensen.

"Another demo?" he enquired. "Sit on up, sir. I'll run scans."

The man from Greater Deregulation South didn't object to anything Nurse Jensen said or did. He kept looking back at Lyr and then running his eyes over Jensen's buff frame.

"Hm. Sprains, contusions, and a fractured pinkie," announced Jensen. "Lyr, you little scamp. Were you _playing_ with the man?"

She shrugged. Grinned. "Maybe just a little bit..."

Rowdy passengers like that man were considerably more staid after a demo session. But her captain really didn't like having to have them.

#  Challenge #303: Cleanup Needed

Never enter an unknown atmosphere without airtight suit. Especially if you are boarding a ship where all the crew and passengers are in airtight suits, one human got a license in chemistry and access to bleach and ammonia. – Anon Guest

The ships' human was merely there for the alleged good luck that they could potentially produce. It was lucky to have a human on board, and Human George's official role was janitor. Which meant that he had automatic access to the entire ship.

Space pirates always went after the Captain for the overrides. They never thought of the obvious. Not once, in the long history of the Galactic Alliance, did they think of the _cleaning staff_.

Which was why Human George had such an advantage. He messaged the Captain the instant he saw the ship approaching. _Tell all passengers and crew to enter Livesuits. Call it an emergency if you have to. Just do it._ And then he spent twenty minutes getting the gear together. Bleach. Vinegar. Ammonia. Rubbing alcohol. Hydrogen peroxide. And his own livesuit, of course. Rated as proof against all the ordinary household chemicals that he was now playing with. He even managed to filch some henna dye from the salon.

Captain Krax's voice came over the comms as Human George gathered up every disposable cup he could grab. "What are you doing, human? This is a pirate attack."

"I'm just going to discourage them, sir." One plus the other... into a cup. Flick it at the invaders. He didn't want to cause too much harm, but a little smoke and foul air rarely hurt anyone.

The slow learners got another batch. And then some home-made chloroform because a stench wasn't going to stop them. Maybe some sedatives would.

They clued in and got into their livesuits, too. But once again, Human George was prepared. He could pop out of the secret byways and douse their helmets in a fast batch of peracetic acid. Which would do for their suit's seals, as well as causing damage to _them_.

They finally surrendered when Human George busted out the chloramine. The good luck for the ship was the containment, arrest, and confiscation of an entire pirate crew and their ship. The bad luck that came with it was cleaning up the atmosphere.

The filters were toasted by the time they came into port, and a detox crew had to go over every inch of both ships. But the bounty on that particular band of vagabonds more than paid for the damages.

Human George refused to brag. All he ever said about it was, "It's just chemistry. Nothing special."

#  Challenge #304: The Human Enigma

An energy type weapon is designed to subdue the target without killing it : the wounds are small but painful, the beam cauterizes the wound and it's fairly quiet. It's a civilised weapon.

A powder propelled type weapon is designed to kill the target and scare its opponent : the wound can be huge, it bleed a lot, the sound is horrifying. It's a human weapon. – Anon Guest

The argument against humanity joining Galactic Society went like this: Have you _seen_ their _weaponry_?

When it came to weapons of mass destruction, the humans were in a perpetual arms race with their mortal enemy - other humans. They got incredibly good at making weaponry that would terrify any sane mind. But humans were not, according to Galactic Standards, sane.

These were a people who would ban a child's sweet because of the toy inside and its inherent dangers, yet continue to leave automatic firearms lying around a home, or in the hands of anyone with an agenda. Who would rather let kindergarteners die en masse than regulate their horrifying guns. And that should have been the end of that. It wasn't.

Humans were unpredictable. One group could be as hostile as the Vorax, whilst another had turned all their weapons into instruments of peace and kindness. Where one group sought to build an empire, another group went into the stars to share everything they had in the spirit of peace and kindness.

The Edge Territories knew about the human ability to pack-bond and what it could mean to a crew. How a human could go to extremes to help their pack. How a human, however strange, could pull a miracle out of their butts and save the day. How even the presence of a human could make the Vorax keep their distance. Humans were useful. Humans were good luck. Humans were fiercely protective when they weren't merely fierce. You just had to get to know them. They were just big softies. Really.

The debate went on for years. The humans should not be trusted because... just look at what they did to their own kind. The humans were beneficial because... just look at what they did for strangers. When they had no motivation to be kind or considerate, they did it anyway. When they had no motivation to be cruel, they could wreak the worst attrocities in known history.

They were hot and cold, but never tepid. They were cool and they were terrifying, and they were occasionally _chill_ , but they were never _boring_. They had wild ideas and thought things through sensibly, but never the same human at the same time.

But it was a tea lady named Harry who helped a stranger during a crash that paved the way for humans to join the Galactic Alliance. It unlocked the secret. The ones who have the least give the most. The ones with the utmost to lose lay it all down for others. In a disaster, they are _reliable_. Unless they think they have all the counters, in which case they are not. But, for the most part, humans are willing to accept _anyone_ as one of their pack.

And once you are part of a human's pack, you have their devotion for the remaining days you share. Like it or not.

#  Challenge #305: A Lesson in There

Her awareness, for what was but a span of seconds at most to the outside world, now went beyond the borders of space and time. In those moments, gazing at once upon all the possible outcomes of the human race, she came to the realization of mankind's lethal flaw:

Not violence or hate as one might expect, but the deeper instigators behind those - Envy, Pride, and, surprisingly, Impatience.

As advanced and progressive as the human mind was on an individual or even large-group level, when judged using a collective aggregate of its behavior as a species, it was essentially barely competent enough to handle simple tools or calculations. Why say this? Because most of humanity was incapable of completion of even mildly difficult tasks without repeatedly experiencing annoyed frustration or even irrational anger at what would be later recognized as nothing more than a simple error, minor delay, or temporary hindrance.

These recurrent vexations over the inability to progress as fast as they wanted, the resentment of those individuals who were able to progress faster than the rest, and the arrogance and sense of superiority that said individuals' pride too easily degraded into, was what lead to unhappiness and eventual demise of the human race... – Anon Guest

It was too much truth. Too much. Aleka put the Cup of Knowledge down and tried to steady her breathing. (Sucking in air and filtering the oxygen molecules into smaller and smaller tunnels, until the pill-like haemoglobin in her blood could take them in, and keep her cells alive for another breath...) Tried to keep herself steady. (A temporary imbalance caused by a sensory overload, overwhelming both her inner ear and her gross motor control...)

"Well?" said Trovar. "Could you see it? Did you see how the world ends?"

Explaining all of it would take too much time. She had to make this quick, before it faded away. (The human mind can only comprehend so much at a time, and this vast influx of knowledge was already fading. She would only be able to cling to a very few facts.) "The little hiccoughs are the biggest cliffs," she said. "Impediment leads to anger. Anger leads to destruction."

And the spell was done. All she held was the knowledge that the little things should never bother her again. She could not drink from the cup again. Not even to find out what she meant when she said that.

The acolyte of the Temple of Knowledge was jotting it down. Another slice of wisdom from another generation. Only one in one hundred proved worthy enough to drink from the cup and survive to impart what they learned.

If only the rest of the planet learned the patience that the Order of Knowledge showed on a regular basis. The world might already be saved.

#  Challenge #306: The Dog in the Fight

So in the Human are the Space Orcs, it looks like we are on a level 3.5-4 Deathworld. This makes us fairly B.A.. However there are references to creatures from level six Deathworlds. What happens when they meet? Do humans feel threatened by them, are humans just the perfect mix of craziness and inability to die that the level six deathworlders are just scaredy cats, do they replace the humans, or have humans finally found an alien species they can play rough with.

The Vorax had always been a problem. They went where they wanted, took what they wanted, and didn't leave much behind. Only the most destructive of weaponry or the widest of gulfs stopped them from going further.

It didn't take long for Galactic Society to realise that there was one species that the Vorax preferred to avoid. Humans.

The humans were only level three point five deathworlders, but no-one could guess that by how they behaved. Stories proliferated and exaggerated as they went. Humans seemed to be far frailer than the Vorax, but they didn't fight like they were. This was a species that would use its own vessels to immolate the enemy. A species who made weapons that rendered any and all contested resources into poison. A species that could pull victory out of the mouth of defeat. And then kick defeat's teeth in.

It took two years for the Vorax to recognise how dangerous the humans were, and routinely avoid them.

It took a further century for either side to start talking with each other. Another fifty years for peace to began cropping up in strange little corners. And bit by bit, the humans and the Vorax began to get along. Solutions began to crop up. Fast-growing crops, resilient equipment, means by which the Vorax could obtain what they needed without causing further damage to other peoples.

The Vorax were not entirely welcomed into Galactic Society. Their evolution was even rougher than humanity's. But humans didn't mind, in the long run.

Humans were always the sort to find their way around the rules.

#  Challenge #307: The Double Feature Picture Show

Humans watch an alien horror movie featuring the humans as the monster

The idea of genre is nothing new. The idea of _Horror_ is something uniquely human that took off in various forms around Galactic Society. An entertainment designed to scare, but not scare _badly_. Or to be really bad at scaring, depending on your point of view. It was a means by which Havenworlders could toughen up their genes and join larger and larger areas of Galactic Society.

And since it was a human genre, the humans eventually found what Galactic Society had done to it. Which lead to a re-revival of the movie theatre, since most of the genre were in non-holographic format.

Rael wasn't in it to study humans. If you asked anyone, they would have said that he understood humans too well. He was in it for the popcorn, and to potentially stop Ambassador Shayde before she happened to anyone else. And right now, she was enjoying a Gyiik-sized bucket of a concoction called _poppycock_. A mixture of popcorn, nuts, butter toffee, and random treats that Nik had taken to like an amphibian to water. And, Rael had to grudgingly admit, it was more or less the food of the non-existent gods, as far as his metabolism was concerned.

"Three, two, one, CORPSE!" shouted the rowdier volume of humans. They were a subgroup of media aficionados who called themselves _Misters_ for unknown reasons. Shayde was one of them. The aim of the game, she said, was to make as much fun of the movie as humanly possible.

"Oh noes, it's the mah-hun-stur..." someone mock-sobbed.

"ZIPPER!" Shayde shouted, pointing out the zipper with her laser pointer. "Chug!" And then gulped down vast quantities of her carbonated sugar beverage

The Scientist, and there was always a Scientist in these rubber monster suit entertainments, shielded The Girl from the off-screen happenings that were too expensive to create via special effects. "My God... the creature is... drinking... the boiling hot acid," he said unconvincingly.

"Great read from another graduate of the cardboard acting academy."

Shayde belched. Gaining a very warm applause from the rest of the audience.

_At least she isn't happening to anyone. She's having fun without happening to anyone..._ Rael reminded himself. Security, Maintenance, and whoever was involved in the last happening had a guaranteed four hours plus intermission to clean up the last mess in peace.

#  Challenge #308: The Endless Cycle

"I have heaps of stuff I use and need. I've even got them sorted and stored. So Why do I have to go back and buy stuff?" No matter what you do for a hobby this happens.

There is an old saying: If you want to fill a space, get a hobby.

It doesn't matter what the hobby is, be it something big, like model building, or something relatively small, like handicrafts. Sooner or later... _it_ happens. SABLE. Stash Above and Beyond Life Expectancy. And it gets much, much worse when interests cross-pollenate and the hobbies multiply.

Rael looked at the storage unit with what could be called a sinking heart if he actually possessed such an organ. He had done floor-to-ceiling clean-outs before, but this was the first with the JOAT who assembled it assisting. "I can see why you're paying me a Month Plus on this one," he said.

"It... got a little out of control," said Jerrin in a typical show of N'Ozzie understatement. "Now I can't find anything and I keep buying more stuff, and there's nowhere to put anything... and... yeah. I figured this would be easier _before_ it started taking over my house."

At least Jerrin was more ahead of things than the average JOAT. He thought guiltily of a few 'spare time' projects lying around his own domicile that had almost transformed into furniture of a sort. They were still projects in progress, but they were also handy things to put things on 'just for now'. He really should do something about that. After he did something about this.

"Is your ideal strategy a yard sale or a fire sale?" he asked. Yard sale clearance strategies eliminated all the duplicates. Fire sales... well... the motto was, _Everything Must Go_.

"Yard sale," said Jerrin. "I _am_ still breathing."

Right. Sort, organise, minimise, and place the rest in the Honour Markets. And since the owner was 'helping' - an exercise that came with a great deal of unnecessary returning of things previously deemed superfluous - he could expect to hear a lot of the stories behind the thing.

Once again, Jerrin didn't quite fit the expectation. Ze told the stories, but acted in a rational manner and placed the things that would never get done into the 'sell on' pile. Duplicates were sorted on the basis of keeping the best one for Jerrin and moving the rest to the Markets, as was completely traditional. One JOAT's 'best' tool was another's 'horrible' one. So the odds were in favour of the spares finding a new home.

As for the scrattle... the little bits and pieces that could have come in handy, once upon a time... They were sorted according to kind and discipline -if they had just one- and hauled in wholesale lots to the Markets.

It took a couple of weeks, plus some of the more interesting items from the menu of _Deep Fried Eat_ that Rael couldn't regularly afford, to clear the space down to seven reasonably large shelves with neatly labeled boxes.

Jerrin was impressed, but paid the Month and a gift card for Deep Fried Eat as promised. "Everything where it should be," ze sighed.

_Any second now,_ thought Rael.

"I can't _wait_ to go shopping for my new projects."

#  Challenge #309: Like a Bad Smell

Imagine a race of Aliens who communicate through scent like humans communicate through body language. So when they run into us they're terrified of this species that likes to coat itself in the equivalent of 'Berserker Rage'. And when we DO stop wearing 'perfume/cologne' we're so 'blank' to them that they'd almost prefer the emotional screaming again. – Anon Guest

They could communicate with dancing hands, and that was well and good. It wasn't until they attempted in-atmosphere communication that things went sour. Or, more accurately, stinky.

The human crew had joked that Davies could start a war with his cologne. This time, it almost came true.

When all was certified clear, he unlatched his livesuit helmet and spoke. "My name is Lieutenant Axis Davies. We are humans, and we speak with sound." Which caused the Tor'raxi opposite to go into flailing fits.

They explained via sign and pantomime that they communicated with smell, and Davies' cologne was speaking louder than Davies ever could. What it screamed, for those taking an interest, was: _WAR! MATE! FIGHT!_ Which, though it encapsulated the general attitude of humans, was not the best first impression in the Alliance.

Peace negotiations happened on opposite sides of a thick, clear barrier, and via translators who could perform both language sets. Helped with more than a little technology on both ends.

In an attempt to placate, the humans scrubbed themselves clean of all possible scents before attempting a second first meeting. And things... still did not go well.

Humans do not communicate with scent, and their bodies are, at least to the Tor'raxi, bland, blank, and almost invisible. The Tor'raxi were constantly changing their odours in all kinds of scent. Including lots that the humans found unpleasant.

Some species just don't get along. The Tor'raxi sign for 'human' became a portmenteau of 'nose' and 'empty'. Humans did their best with speech-to-scent translators... but ultimately, they just kept their distance until they had to interact.

#  Challenge #310: One Aggravating Evening on a Space Station

Everyone's translators break down at the worst possible moment.

Someone had sabotaged the Universal Translator. Someone for whom the peace negotiations meant only trouble. Unfortunately, there were plenty of parties who could fit that particular motive.

The negotiations room on Deep Space Nine had become a tower of Babel. Bajoran, Cardassian, several Terran dialects, Ferengi and Vulcan and Breen. All at once. Dax knew Vulcan, Ferengi, and all of the Terran tongues, but there was only one other person on the station who had learned the rest. Odo. Simply because the technology to implant his shapeshifting body with the Universal Translator had not existed for most of his life. He'd picked up languages the hard way - by being plunged into them at random and expected to take up the slack all by himself.

He certainly shocked the hell out of the Grand Nagus by politely requesting that he keep his curses and vices to himself, as such behaviour was the opposite of good business. It got more than a little ridiculous over that, and required the re-invention of the Talking Stick, lest the room remain a chaos of babble, people yelling, and nobody understanding each other.

It was almost that, anyway. The level of co-operation required just to have their words translated and to be able to communicate were clearly impossible for some.

Sisko watched them, trying to read their bodies rather than understand their words. Who wanted to stop whom from talking? Who needed their say said more than anyone else? And who was glaring daggers at the translators for being more accurate than the Universal translators had to be?

The top three contenders were the Grand Nagus, Gul Dukat, and oddly, Ambassador Syrok.

Why would a _Vulcan_ wish to delay the proceedings at peace negotiations? It was an odd sort of sabotage, to be certain. Something to delay. Impede. But not anything that would actually _harm_ the proceedings. Just... make them take longer.

They break for the evening. Dax stretches and Odo neatens the chairs. The only language all three of them have in common is Broken Bajoran, so he uses that. "I thinking is point-ear outsider," he said, knowing that he was mangling it completely.

"Vulcan," Odo corrects in Bajoran. He tried not to sound condescending, every time he tried to teach them a bit more of the language. He developed as a sentient being, hearing that tongue, practically from the moment he recognised it as language. Of course he wound up being condescending. He talked down to them and made the effort not to sound like he was talking down to them. "I had thought it was the Ferengi. He is more angry about this than anyone else."

Dax said, "Admiral Jacobs taking advantage. Not him. Owing much make-sorry."

"Owing _apology_ ," corrected Odo.

"Apology," repeated Dax. "Apology, apology."

Sisko repeated something he had heard Major Kira say far too many times during this turn of horrible events. "This bites major thorns."

Judging by Odo's reaction, it was not a very nice thing to say. He'd find out what it meant later. But for now, "Sorry. Major Kira saying. Not knowing words mean."

This entire thing was going to be painful as hell until the repairs were completed.

#  Challenge #311: Helper Dragon

This post: https://blue-shadow-fire-dragon.tumblr.com/post/139867120326/elfoftheforest-but-imagine-if-we-had-tiny

_Eldarol Vale,_ the sign read. _Here there be dragons._ And it was amusing since Elderol Vale was the Pet Dragon capital of the world. The best breeders came from Elderol Vale. The best breeds came from there. The most sincere and severe show judges grew up there, and knew what was good for the animals. In smaller print, the sign boasted, _Zero rapes since the Year of the Eternally Staring Owl_.

Dragons may be small, but they were good guardians of their owners. They could go from soppy, half-asleep pet to whirling ball of sharpened and angry pain in instants if they felt their owner was threatened. Maidens trained them to sit on their shoulders. Mothers kept them next to their babies. The anxious or the fearful had little to be afraid of with a dragon clinging lovingly to their body heat.

Legends tell of enormous dragons. Bigger than cities. Sleeping on hoards of gold or gems. But those were laughable. Everyone knew that dragons never got larger than a housecat. And they would guard anyone and anything they got attached to. They also came in handy for lighting fires. A dragon was second only to dogs as being mankind's best friend. They were also ideal for allergy sufferers, since they had no fur or dander. Something Faline was looking forward to.

She had come here, looking for the best. To the safest village in the world. Looking for something that would help her face the world. Every witch, cleric, and healer had said that a dragon as a companion could help cure anything. And since that was the general philosophy of every expert she had consulted, she had come here. At great expense to her purse and soul. Doing everything she could to feel secure during her first time away from home for almost two decades.

She had a cleric with her to cast Calm Emotion when things got rough. She had a bonnet that cut off most of her field of vision and a veil that protected her from the vision that she _could_ see. She had a soft, fuzzy toy to grip whenever the world frightened her, which was often. She had little intricate toys to occupy her fingers and distract her from anything and everything new and uncertain which might disturb her. Which was just about anything outside of her carefully-arranged home.

Messages had been sent. The Dracocoeur family knew all about why she was coming. There had been abundant time to prepare.

And still... Faline freaked out. She could never nail down why. Perhaps the coachman opened the door too quickly. Perhaps the sounds were unexpected. Perhaps it was all the new things happening at once. Either way, she was gently escorted between the curtained coach to the plush parlour of the Dracocoeur estates under the haze of Calm Emotion.

The spell lifted and they gave her her calming tea. Just the right temperature. Let her have her plush cushion to hold until she was more at ease. Faline had not been completely at ease since she was four. It was only after she said that she was ready that Omandi Dracocoeur began introducing her to different exemplars of dragon breeds. Guardians and Nannies and Firestarters, and many more besides. There were pretty ones that looked like decorations but would keep the nastier, possessive types of male at their distance. There were ones that were miniatures, and others that were comparatively massive.

And there was one that sort of crept into Faline's lap without anyone being the wiser until the little creature started licking Faline's hand. She'd thought the weight was her fluffy cushion, but it was this smaller-than-average piebald dragon with stunted wings and a raucous purr when Faline petted it.

"That is so strange," said Omandi. "Piewhacket's never come out of hiding like this before."

Piewhacket was what the dragon breeding profession called a _sport_. The runt of the clutch and not well-formed. Her genes were not what they sought when looking for a saleable companion. Her wings were stunted, and she couldn't glide like her siblings. The most she could do was settle to earth like a chicken, flapping madly all the way down. She had uneven patterns to her multicoloured scales and quite the antisocial demeanour.

And she was all over Faline like she was a long-lost friend.

Faline laughed for the first time in a decade. Felt a warmth in her heart that banished half of her fears on the spot. She even felt secure enough to remove her bonnet. At which point, Piewhacket shot up to her shoulders, sunk her claws in, and purred like continuous, distant thunder.

"You've been _claimed_ ," said Omandi. "She's not just your dragon, you're her human. This... just happens sometimes. I know better than to take her off you, but if you need another for protection..."

Piewhacket's scales were smooth like tiny marbles. Her purr was a reassurance. An anchor. If this shy little creature could be comfortable and confident, then there was no reason for her to be scared. "I think... I think Piewhacket might just be exactly who I need."

They tested it, of course. Facing the outside without a bonnet or a veil. Stepping outside with just Piewhacket to protect her from fears imagined and real. Walking along open paths. All insurmountable obstacles for Faline, just the day before. She even went down the road to the nearest market carts. Laughter bubbling out of her lungs.

Faline was still scared of the world, but with Piewhacket with her, she had a good reason to become more confident.

And after she went home with her new dragon, some ignorant lout made the mistake of asking Faline if the smile was for him. Piewhacket came out of her apparent torpor in instants. Shrieking and snarling at the interloper. Hissing and seething. He backed off fast. Every man alive knew that a dragon re-enforced a 'no' better than a chastity belt. The predatory few who still existed despite everything derided maidens for having dragons at all. Or went after some who hadn't worked out what a lovely dudebro repellant that a dragon embodied.

Fortunately for those unlucky few, the ladies with dragons tended to arrange themselves to be nearby ladies who still lacked them. Especially on public festivals. Faline joined the number of guardian ladies, making friends with a few young women who believed some of the bad words about dragons - spread about by the dudebros, as 'sheer co-incidence' would have it.

Piewhacket was the best advertising for dragons who ever lived. Considering what she did for Faline.

#  Challenge #312: Necessary Feature Creep

The single most useful command on a computer: ctrl/cmnd+Z

Everything is the result of laziness. People invented crank calculators because they didn't want to go through the mathematics themselves. People invented computers because the living ones took a little too long to bust the Enigma code. And programming code was invented because people were sick and tired of having to translate everything into ones and zeroes.

Code editors were invented to keep things straight and highlight mistakes.

Other functions came with the mother of most inventions. Necessity. Grace stared at her miles and miles of code and swore. "Mother fuck," even though she invented this code, she'd still messed it up.

"Something wrong?" said Carol.

"I made a typo in my code. It's five K long. I'm going to have to search through this line by god-damned line..."

"I could make a patch for your editing software real quick," she said. "It'll be brute force and clunky, but if it's useful, we can refine it."

And they did. Working together, they added _features_ to the programming editor. A search function. A replace function. And, most importantly, an _un-do_ function. Because humans were flawed animals and even the inventor of COBOL could mess things up and make mistakes. And with the addition of _cut_ , _copy_ and _paste_ , coding became so much easier that it was almost a breeze.

Almost.

#  Challenge #313: The New Landlord

You once wrote an Instant about a Company owning 99.99% of the World. What they wouldn't realise is "If you own it, you have to fix it. Lousy Hospital, Education, Roads, transport. It's Your responsibility. enjoy!" government retires.

When you've just bought the world, you never expect it to be a fixer-upper. The previous administration neglected to mention things like noisy and annoying tennants. Rising damp. The fact that the heating needed to be fixed. And they had the luxury of being able to shove the metaphorical buck.

Now, there were no excuses.

There was just one person in charge. One person who ruled the world. Because he had just bought it like a pig in a poke. Because he believed that owning everything meant _winning_. But the prize that Jeri Maximilian had won was -well- the booby prize.

Now the people that he also owned were demanding _fixes_.

Stop polluting everything. Clean the garbage out of the oceans. Install sustainable power. He had the world in the palm of his hand. There was literally nothing stopping him. He owned the drug cartels _and_ the police. He could end the war on drugs with a signature on a legal document. He could make anything legal and ensure that it was a safe product thereafter.

All his usual lies were laid bare. He could prove that renewable power was cheaper than fossil fuels. And since he owned everything, he could do it without any resistance. There was no need to fund isolationist militia. No reason to start wars for resources. He owned it all.

He wiped out the violent extremists with the world's standing armies in less than a week. And was forced to actually install infrastructure.

Sure, he had all the counters, but they did no good until he spent them. Chasing all kinds of upgrades. Fixing everything that was broken.

In a way, he was glad to allow some competition to slide in. But by then, it was too late. The world was a much better, more profitable place and all the old arguments he had once lived by were extinct in the process.

#  Challenge #314: Rocks Fall!

Human: "Ok, how bad is it? Just lay it on me, I can take it..."

Numid: [extent of injury]

H: "Oh, that's it? I thought it was something serious."

N: "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'THAT'S IT!?!'

Carrie came around to nervous Numidid chirping. Huh. People really did panic in their home tongue. With consciousness came an intense amount of pain. She moaned.

"[There is one alive!]" The Numidids hooted. In broken English, "You with anyone?"

Carrie concentrated on the proper musical notes, which took her mind off the pain, "[Just me,] tweedle-dee." Ow. It was really getting excruciating. "[How much hurting?]"

They were good at applying leverage to get the rocks off of her. Which was good, because the average Numidid weighed maybe ten pounds, soaking wet. "Please stay still," said a spokesbird. "We did scans that said you have broken many bones. Remember the survival breathing, yes?"

Okay. That gelled with the pain she had. "[Where are they broken?]" she chirped.

"You have broken wing. Broken leg. Broken foot. Please remember breathing."

"Huh. [Is that all?]" She'd have thought her ribs would have also been nailed. "Guess I was lucky."

Two of the helping birds had to stop and do their own breathing. There were still some Numidids who did not believe human resilience until they experienced it first hand.

"[Is that all? Is that _all_?]" they hooted. "[These humans are crazy!]"

Carrie cradled her broken arm as she sat up. "[I'll be fine in the long term,]" she sang. Ouch, this was a son of a bitch. "[I am going to need help with the splints. And I'll need a crutch. No offense, but if I tried to lean on any of y'all, I'd squish you.]"

It took a while, because Numidids were wont to panic at all kinds of things. Including the concept of resetting a bone. And then turning their cart around to head for the closest medical centre.

The one most concerned with Carrie's sanity was the one who nestled on her lap to keep her warm and give her something soft to pet. It was a companionable silence as they wove to avoid pot-holes.

T'rr't'ka finally broke it. "How long were you under the rocks?"

"Uuh... [I had set off during the twilight, and the sun's still barely up, so... Um. Couple of hours? I guess?]"

"We would be dead in your place."

"[Lucky for you it was me, then.]" The sentiment didn't translate well, and Carrie had to explain it in small words. By that time, they had reached the medical facility and things were well out of their hands.

The next project on Wiwazheer's agenda was going to have to be geological stabilisation of the roadside cliffs.

#  Challenge #315: Tiny New Friend

Giant sapient space spiders meet tiny Earth spiders

You need a great amount of arachnophilia to deal with the H'nuff'ruff. The mere sight of having a gigantic spider sneak up on one is not for the faint of heart. Fortunately, Sally thought they were cute, and wore a speech-to-palp-sign translator almost permanently on her brow. She also had a palp-sign-to-text translator permanently running on her eyescreen.

So she definitely did not jump when tapped delicately on the shoulder by a claw attached to a gigantic, hairy, spider arm. She even knew who it was. "Yes, Filestra?" That was not, strictly speaking, her name, but it was as close as she can get.

"Human Sally, I have found a baby," said Filestra via the translator app. Another raised limb had a very small spider dangling from its own thread. "It needs medical care, it's so tiny."

Oh boy. "That one's not a cogniscent," she said, quickly printing a habitat for the little creature. It would cost her some Hours, but it was worth it. "That one's a terran spider. We call these little darlings Money Spiders. They're good luck." Habitat printed, Sally captured it inside and secured the lid. "This little one is actually fully grown. I think they eat gnats and other small insects."

"Fascinating," Filestra peered closely into the habitat box with two of her larger eyes. "Will you keep it as a pet, or... can I?"

"You like it?" said Sally, surprised.

"I think it's wonderful," Filestra cooed. Or as close to cooing as she could get. "Such a pretty baby."

Well... the Galactic Alliance had seen stranger pets...

#  Challenge #316: Haptic Feedback

Aliens vs human ticklishness

The ships' human was out of sorts. Grumpy. Tetchy. Upset. They had gone close-mouthed and reticent, and it was Gorthax's job to keep the human happy. He had read what the Edge Territories knew about humans, three times over. And attempted every comfort. Except this one.

Humans thrived on companionable touch. But humans also had eroding acids in their perspiration. Which was a problem because a human could wither and die under the influence of _Touch Starvation_. He researched thoroughly and found a way to combat the problem.

Insulation. He picked a material that was human-proof, but also amenable to human tactile needs. Gorthax chose _fluffy_ as a texture and basically re-invented the Love Glove. Next, he approached the human in a companionable manner and, as gently as possible, applied a soothing touch.

The human erupted into giggles. Twitched away. "What the hell, Gorx? What are you _doing_?"

"I am applying a tactile therapy, to feed your need for touch." He tried to re-apply the haptic therapy.

"Well that _tickles_. Stop it."

"Is this not correct?"

"Oh boy. Okay. You have the correct idea. The love glove is hilarious. But. Um. You... probably don't need to be gentle with _me_. Deathworlder. I'm tougher than you beautiful little insects."

Gorthax winced in imagined sympathy as he gouged at Human Terri's exposed flesh with the love glove. It didn't even leave a mark.

"Yeah," cooed the human. "That's nice."

#  Challenge #317: But They Look So Cute...

"I'll be honest... sometimes, it's easy to forget that humans are/were predators..."

Humans are pack creatures. They're _friendly_. They'll share their pack-bonding with anyone. They'll share their pack-bonding with _inanimate objects_. They'll share food, entertainment, beverages... They're generally an outgoing species. Gentle and kind to those they count as their friends. Considerate to Havenworlders of all species.

It's easy to forget that they are deathworlders. It's easy to forget that they are deadly. Like the apocryphal tiger cub raised from a kitten, it's easy to think of them as gigantic loveable softies and not deadly predators.

Until things turn for the worse.

Human Steph stopped in her tracks and knelt so that ze was on an eye-line with Kaa'rix. "Oooh. How did that happen?"

Of course a human would spot a discolouration in Kaa'rix's mottled hide. "I was assaulted. Robbed. They only took a couple of Minutes and left me with a bruise. I will heal, I promise."

"Did you get a good look at them?"

Not thinking things through, Kaa'rix gave as accurate a description as she could of her attacker. And added that the local authorities were also tracking her ID chip in her pilot's license.

Human Steph clapped hir hands once and said, "Excellent..." and summoned five of hir human friends with a series of pings.

Kaa'rix watched in growing horror as the pack of humans formed a _hunting party_ to bring the thief to bay. It was easy to forget that they were predators. And apex predators at that. Until the moment when they started _acting_ like it. She followed anxiously, wanting to jump in and stop them becoming beasts, but it was frightening to see their tactics in action. So frightening that she froze at the point where the humans spotted their quarry.

Three circled around to the exits. Human Steph took the direct approach while the remaining two moved in as part of a pincer movement. The assaulting thief didn't have a chance. They did try to run, but soon found themself surrounded by six ticked-off humans.

Who, instead of killing their prey, brought them in to the security offices for questioning, trial, and sentencing. And they somehow made it clear without words that if the sentencing was too light, they'd take care of the reparations -physically- themselves.

Human Steph was inordinately pleased with hirself. "I love it when a plan comes together," ze purred.

"There was no need for you to do that," objected Kaa'rix. "The authorities had it handled."

"Yes, but..." Human Steph sighed in moderate frustration. Ze found the words to fit hir mind-set. "Nobody hurts a member of my pack and gets away with it."

#  Challenge #318: One Fine Afternoon in a Security Detainment Centre

"Look at you ! You started a fight with 5 people because they made fun of your alien friend, and you only got 3 broken teeth, a dislocated shoulder, a black eye and a 15 000 credit fine for the broken furniture!"

"True, but you didn't see how they looked after the fight. Totally worth it." – Anon Guest

Of all the cells in all the security offices in all the known galaxy, _she_ had to walk into his. "Hwell Andronicus Barrow," she sighed. "What have you got into your head?"

Hwell winced. There was a reason why he had much preferred to roam the spaceways. And this was it. "I can explain–"

"No doubt ye can," she said. "I heard the security report. You've got yourself in a pickle, sonny Jim. You picked a fight with five miners because they made fun of your little alien friend, and now there's three broken teeth, a dislocated shoulder, a black eye, and a fifteen-Day fine for the damages."

Hwell couldn't even look her in the eye. "...sorry, mum..."

"How the flakk do you expect to land yourself a family if you keep haring off on this wild child nonsense of yours?"

Hwell knew better than to tell her that he was not the family kind. That one would earn him a three-hour lecture on top of the dressing-down he was already getting. "On the plus side, I won. And ye should'a seen their poor little faces. That has to be worth the price of admission."

" _Not_ into _here_ ," growled his mother. "They're talking about assigning you as Diminished Responsibility. They're talking about _assisted care_. They're talking about competency hearings, Hwell. _Again_."

Hwell sulked on his bunk. "You and I both know that science had yet t' uncover what's wrong in my brain," he said. "I slip through the little cracks between everyone else's pigeon holes. I have a little luck, but I'm not a Lucker. I'd like a little f–"

"Your _mother_ is in the room."

"–ine wine?" he desperately grinned. "And for the record, my 'little alien friend' is a good enough pal to have my back in situations like this. You just wait and watch."

The local security officer entered the detainment area. "News from the identification crew, Ms Barrow. Those five miners were escaping the law for a salting scam involving several asteroid fields and one dwarf planet. The reward for their capture has paid -barely- for Mr Barrow's... sins."

Hwell made a little 'there you are' gesture with his hands. "You see? My virtues pay for my sins, mother dear. And with Ax'and'l by me side, I have a few more virtues than sins. It's perfectly normal to want to defend the fella."

"Nothing about you," said his mother, "is normal."

#  Challenge #319: Worth Living Well

Sometimes, someone with a life-threatening condition decides, "What the heck! I'm going to have Fun!" – Anon Guest

The prognosis sucked. The good news, according to the doctors, was that with expensive drugs and even more expensive therapy, Jeremy could stretch his painful last days by maybe three months.

Six months in increasing pain versus nine in absolute agony. What a fun choice.

"You know what?" said Jeremy. "Fuck it. I'm not going to spend my last days in medical agony. I'm going to live what's left."

They spent the rest of that day trying to convince him that nine months was better than six. But, in the end, he walked out of there. He had nobody, really. All the friends of his youth had drifted away. All his family were gone. And he sure as hell wasn't going to make a baby to suffer his genetic condition. So he arranged to sell everything, and put all the money into one card. Settled all his debts. Whittled all his belongings down to one suitcase, and hit the road.

Jeremy talked to strangers. Asked them what they loved most in life. Sometimes asked them to share. Most of the time, he went on his own. He was heading west, because that's what you did when you lived in New York, and took a meandering path wherever to experience the joy of the world.

He ran out of money before he hit Kansas. But that was okay. People had heard about him, by then. They started buying him the experiences. Taking him in for the night and showing him all the cool stuff. The best food they had. The quality entertainment. The slightly illegal things that no officer of the law would even think about arresting him for.

He even got to go skydiving and flight-suiting.

Jeremy arrived in Los Angeles in extreme pain. Struggling to breathe or to walk. The motorised scooter was a freebie from an entire town that raised the money for him. And Los Angeles set him up in the best hotel room and all the comforts they could provide.

He ordered Lobster Thermidor, with some expensive wine, and died on the roof of the hotel watching the sun rise over the pacific.

By all accounts, his last words were, "So worth it."

#  Challenge #320: Just Like the Force

Duct tape. Undoubtedly one of humanity's most useful and versatile inventions.

Humanities' inventions preceded humanity throughout the Galactic Alliance. All the useful things go ahead of a species. Especially when that species is the most flakk-off-dangerous band of Deathworlders that the Alliance has ever seen. The _humans_. And for all that they are dangerous and deadly, the things that come from their disparate societies are amazing.

Bubblegum. Cats. Dogs. Paperclips. Swiss Army Knives. And most useful of all... Ductape.

It arrived in the Galactic scene amongst some confusion. A good portion of people called it Duck Tape for its water repellant qualities. Others called it Duct Tape for its ability to fix small holes in the air vents that should not have been there. A third, vehement group insisted on calling it Gaff. Because it was short and easy to pronounce.

The debate raged for decades before the Council of Galactic Standard Weights, Measurements, and Verbiage finally reached a compromise in the word, _ductape_. Those who called it Gaff could still call it that as a recognised synonym. Beyond that, all other synonyms were out. It was ductape and that was final.

And it was the most useful creation in civilisation. Havenworlders used it as a means to restrain thieves and criminals. Like flypaper. And once the solvent, _olive oil_ was known, it ceased being a method of torture and death. People used it was insulation on patched wiring. People made it into weatherproof clothes.

One even managed to improvise a low-quality livesuit out of the stuff.

People used it as a beauty treatment, extracting inground debris from their hides. People used it as bandaging. And people used it in emergencies. So much so that the Emergency Survival Kit in every hall of every ship contained the following:

  * Universal medicines and medical patches, replete with instructions dataviewer

  * A fully-charged stunner/heat beam weapon

  * Four rolls of Ductape

  * A dozen pieces of bubblegum

  * An emergency shelter module that could also work as a survival pod

  * A ball of strong monofibre and instructions on its multiple uses for survival

With that, or even _some_ of that, most species could survive anything.

#  Challenge #321: Pack Bonding in all the Wrong Places

Despite the fact that the Numidids are... well, fictional, I have quite a fondness for the little guys. It's funny how our 'pack-bonding instinct' can go pretty much anywhere.

There was a shrine set up in the Avenue of Remembrance. For a fictional character. Fanart adorned it, and no two agreed on what the character looked like. The little altar also spilled over with flowers, soft toys, and votary candles. Someone hung a banner that read, _Always an asshole. Forever missed._

Shayde was leaving a bottle of alcohol. And a single, long-stem red rose.

"I do not understand this outpouring of mourning for a person who isn't even _real_ ," Rael said, and had to ignore the dozens of hairy eyeballs that swung around for the surrounding humans to glare at him with.

"He's jus' here tae keep me oot'a trouble," said Shayde. She added the bottle and the rose to the altar. Got teary-eyed as she spent a minute of silence examining some of the art. "Aye, ze was an asshole, but ze was an asshole wi' a heart o' gold."

"Stolen" added a fellow fan.

"Oh aye, o' course. They would'nae have a heart o' their _own_ gold, ye ken. 'Cause of how they'd spend it on some half-ass scheme."

Rael deepened in his confusion. "This sounds like the exact sort of person you'd kick to the curb if you met them in real life..."

"Aye, but because it's an audio play, I got attached."

"More like live communal story-building. And ze's not dead. Ze's faking it. They're gonna turn up in the next arc like, 'bet you thought you'd seen the last of me' and all that junk."

The fans clustered and exchanged theories in an ever-increasing babble of enthusiasm. Fanfics would be forthcoming, Rael had no doubt. And it was there, backing slowly away from the cloud of fissioning ideas, that he saw it.

Every single one of them was _human_. Whether from a retrotech or a progressive world, whether genner, ELF, or other... they were all human and they had one bonding feature in common. They had shared their pack-bonding with a person who was, in essence, a figment of a real person's imagination.

They spent their love, their art, their energy, with a creature that could not once possibly appreciate it or return their affections. In the light of this, the way that humanity made friends with just about _everyone_... it made a lot of sense. They did this all the time. They were _used_ to it.

"Impressive, no?" said a passing anthropologist saurian. "All this love and effort and brain power. For an imaginary being named after a foodstuff."

They were _what_?

#  Challenge #322: Comfort Totem

Teddy bears are well- and widely-loved children's toys... despite the fact that they're modeled after 600lb/272kg beasts that could easily kill you if they so chose to. Seems reasonable.

Somewhere on the Edge Territories, before Humanity was reclassified as _merely insane_...

"And that artefact?" said the Saurian trader, gesturing at the thing under the mammal's arm.

"Not for sale," said the creature. "That's -uh- a comfort item. It's called a 'teddy bear'. It's mine and I'm keeping it. Heck, it's been mine since..." the Human bared their lower teeth and sucked in air. "Flakk. Since I was little."

"Teddy bear," the Saurian echoed. "It is a luck piece, yes?"

"Sort of," and then the Human explained. It was a toy for infant companionship. Modelled on a dangerous omnivore from the aptly-named Terra. An omnivore that was also hundreds of Standard Weight Units in mass and so dangerous that there were entire education courses based around how to avoid any kind of interaction.

So of course humans turned it into a cuddly toy for the emotional needs of their young.

It explained so _much_ about humanity.

#  Challenge #323: Ambush Predators

Rushing up and down the FIFA carpark, the Doctor got increasingly frustrated. "She's BLUE!!! Not orange, but blue!"

The parking lot was almost lined with orange booths. Because this was an arena of high spirits, cheap alcohol, and impatient bladders. One would think, with paired booths every ten meters, that one blue one would be easy to spot, but such was not the case.

Holly said, "You don't even remember which parking lot you left her in?"

The Doctor stopped cold. Looked horrified. Muttered a very rare swear. "That's right. I have an impeccable sense of direction." And then took off with a certain destination in mind.

Five seconds later, the Doctor stopped cold, turned about face, and ran the other way.

It took them a further twenty minutes to realise that the Porta Potty booths were _moving_. Stalking them. And they had surrounded the TARDIS.

"Ah," said the Doctor once realisation sank in on both sides, and the orange booths started circling them. "Of course. This is the perfect place to get unsuspecting prey."

"But we're heavily suspecting prey," said Holly. "How do we fight them."

"Um..." said the Doctor. "Still working on that..."

#  Challenge #324: Touching Base

Human Chat System. A system allowing humans to chat between themselves. You can find anything on it : Forum about beautiful location in space, information on xenos food, latest news of the Human Colonies and Prima Terra, and more importantly, a place to discuss this "Space Orcs" thing.

Username: twitchywitchygrl

Password: *********

Welcome to Human Chat! Please wait while we locate your nearest, most active chatroom.

:: Connect2 FarFromHome

Connecting to FarFromHome. Searching for active chatrooms.

FarFromHome 12 connected.

twitchywitchygrl: Hey guys. I got a question for y'all.

fluffyboi: Yo

twitchywitchygrl: I got a bunch of chicken ppl callin me a Space Orc

RichFindz: das racits

Malleo: Ur racist

unicron345987: fuk rasitc

fluffyboi: Way 2 smash keyboard noob

fluffyboi: @twitchywitchygrl - can't spell? won't spell?

twitchywitchygrl: NGL don't wanna try

unicron345987: fuk u rasist acehul

twitchywitchygrl: I wanna know about the Space Orc thing

RichFindz: It's racist

fluffyboi: it came from US

fluffyboi: we calld ourselvs space orcs

RichFindz: OMG WE"RE RACIST?!@

fluffyboi: do everyone a favour and flakk off

twitchywitchygrl: yea flakk off

RichFindz: U flakk off

randorando: i luv this chat we hav so much in common

fluffyboi: 9_9

fluffyboi: Yea NEway

fluffyboi: Key 2 it is... we tuff

Malleo: How tuff R we?

fluffyboi: pretty flakkin tough TBH

twitchywitchygrl: Yea i ate like pineapple toast & the chickens wnet wild

RichFindz: das ablist

Disconnecting from Human Chat. Sorry to see you go.

#  Challenge #325: Worrying Encounters

"But, there wasn't any psionic signal from this direction !"

What if Human are the only known sentient species who can't interact with some signal, like in the Wake comics ? How the first contact could look like ?

(in the Wake comics, psionics signal are used as a mean of communication, something like telepathies. And human are "immune" to it. Meaning that we're just invisible to their system.) – Anon Guest

Everyone knows now that Humans are 'space orcs'. They also know that Humans are insane. What they didn't learn until several First Contact scenarios was that Humans are the most egocentric species known to Galactic Civilisation.

Case File 0O9LP8IN6MU7. The Reliqhari Incident.

"Technician Falroth... Last survivor of the Investigation Vessel Reliqhari. I don't expect to last long on this Deathworld. I've improvised a filter to keep the particulates out and hooked it into my livesuit... there's no telling what's safe to feed into my nutrient synthesiser. Scanners are broken. I tried Sending... but no-one's in range. I'm recording this for anyone who finds my remains. Tell Tentho... I'm– what?"

The pickup flips, and actual Deathworlders are approaching Technician Falroth and the wreck of the Reliqhari. They're cautious. They have scanning devices. And they are careful.

But they are _Deathworlders_.

Technician Falroth tried and failed to Send a psionic message to them, only to be met with blankness. According to the theory of instinctive reflective psionics, these creatures aren't intelligent life. And yet they are adapting to a situation that they surely haven't experienced before.

They even offer food that Technician Falroth would not find toxic.

They have a language. A non-psionic means of communication. They use electromagnetic transmissions. Quantum-entangled computers. Digital encoding. But they're _head-blind_. Their history had to be peppered with wars caused by so much misunderstanding. So much miscommunication.

And here they were. Deathworlders. Apex predators. Taking the time. Spending the energy. Wilfully working on understanding with the Other. An alien in their eyes. Technician Falroth. They know that he is fragile. They work with utmost care on his injuries.

They make a smaller vessel out of the wreck of the bigger one. Did their utmost to propagate what was left of the ships' garden. Gave what they knew to be helpful plants in sealed containers of their own dirt.

And explained, in a mutual mix of Broken Standard and a shattered version of their own tongue, with mime and handplay scattered within, that they had been looking for other intelligent life since they had the technology to do so.

They listened to the stars with their radio. They sought out signals like their own. And never thought beyond that limit. Because _of course_ intelligent life had to be like them.

Then again... Galactic Society was similarly egotistical. Egocentric. They thought that psionic signals had to be the only way to communicate.

Both sides were learning differently since then.

#  Challenge #326: The Worst of the Worst

aliens learn about the dangers of human psychopaths and other mentally ill humans – Anon Guest

[AN: Nonny, the mentally ill are way more likely to be victims of the psychopaths. See: mental hospitals vs the GOP]

Humans are apex predators. Most humans are willing to forget this. A rare few... aren't. A rarer few actively pursue that particular role.

Little can be done for them, save for steering them into roles where predation and exploitation are valued, such as war zones on the Edge Territories, or the Deathwolder Border Patrol. The stock market used to be a valid place for psychopathic humans, but such avenues now only exist on the Greater Deregulations, where there is already a glut of psychopaths. – Excerpt from the Wikipedia Galactica under the heading, _Disordered Minds_.

Lyse let the machines feed todays Carrot/Stick program into her helmet. Submitted to the pee test to be certain that all her meds were at the correct levels. Health readings green. It was almost blood time. Not meaning that she'd menstruated since the implant was installed, but rather that it was time to shed some blood.

The mini training fid played in a corner as she completed her livesuit. The guys outlined in red were friendlies. Not to be killed or harmed, or the punishment would come. The guys in green? She could _play_ with them all she wanted. And earn rewards.

Three stars. Yes. That meant she could take her time. Work out what hurt them. Make them suffer. This was a shock and awe mission and she loved it. Lyse shared a smile with Rack. After they were pulled out, they were so having sex while they were still high from the killing.

They each got their favourite tool and lined up for the drop. Party time.

The Dellicoss had thought they were going to overtake this planet in hours. The people already there were Havenworlders. Fragile little puffs of fuzz and squeals. Many of them died without putting up a fight.

But that was before the humans counterattacked.

They came with knives and bludgeons. With bare hands and soulless smiles. With tactics so wide and varied that the Dellicoss didn't know how to counter any of them. They came with stealth into secure areas and left a trail of blood and body parts behind them.

They were _terrifying_.

And with them came a message, _Leave this place in peace, and we will take them away._

The Delicoss were not ones to question a good deal when they saw one. They would later learn that not _all_ humans were as dangerous and vicious as the first impressions had lead them to believe. No. Humans kept _those_ humans under control, and only unleashed them at the bad people.

And the Delicoss were going to be _good_ people. Weren't they? _Weren't_ they?

They called it Pax Homo Sapiens. Maintain peace, or we have a bunch of humans we'd love to make meat out of you. We call it the Terror Squad because they're one of the few things that frighten _us_. And that's your only warning.

It was, to use a Human phrase, super effective.

#  Challenge #327: No Pets!

A Human is patting an alien animal when they suddenly notice the rest of the away team is hiding behind the largest rock they could find.

"Oozagoo' critter? Oozagoo' critter?" Baz continued chucking the alien life form under its chin. Its hind leg waved vaguely in self-scratching motions. "You is! Essoo'iz! Essoo'iz! Esso'iz such'a _good_ critter..." Baz paused from adoring the alien beastie to check on her team of alleged xenobiologists.

They were all hiding behind a rock and some had their stunners drawn. Lots of them were taking their survival meds.

"Guys?" said Baz. "What the flakk?"

The toughest of the non-humans switched on the in-helm comms. They were talking in a soft and calm voice. The sort of voice someone would use to talk a small, panicked child, out of holding a loaded Uzi. "Human Baz, that scans as a very dangerous predator. It has poison sacs, sharp teeth, _and_ claws. We've picked up similar animals going at land speeds that none of us can match."

"Well, this one's a complete softie. Ain'cha? Ain'cha? Ooza big ol' softie den? Duzzoo wanna belly rub? Oo wantsiz diddwe bewwy wubbed..."

The most dangerous known predator on the planet was on its back and squirming with delight while it made happy gargling noises.

Behind the rock, the assembled scientists agreed. The 'no pets' policy was going to remain ironclad. Even if their human insisted that this hazardous creature was a 'big old softie/sook/couch potato'.

No arguments. No crocodile tears. No whining.

#  Challenge #328: Strange Customs

It's funny that we humans (or at least I) have this habit of commanding or coaxing inanimate objects when trying to move them. [E.g. tugs on stuck cable Me: C'mon, get over here..."]

Toveth was a shopkeeper on the Edge Territories, and got to see a lot more of the Deathworlders that inhabited the outskirts of civilised space. The humans were the most confusing. As Deathworlders, they ranged from anywhere between large and intimidating to small and _really_ intimidating.

Anyone with any sense in the Edge Territories knew - beware of the small and quiet ones. They may not have the most threatening silhouette, but they could be unexpectedly deadly. And Humans kept proving this to anyone who was silly enough to not take a good warning when they heard one.

But there was one thing that Humans had in common. No matter their origins. No matter their hue. No matter their culture. No matter how long they had been rubbing elbows with other species. Every single Human who came to trade. Every single Human that Toveth shared air with. Talked. To inanimate. Objects.

The first few times, Toveth, unfamiliar with such behaviour, had asked if the Human could be helped. The Human looked embarrassed and communicated with Toveth that an article they desired was stuck. The Human was trying to _talk_ the item into becoming unstuck.

It was not limited to objects of trade. Humans would talk to currency. They would talk to their own devices. They would argue with vending machines. They would apologise to clearly non-cogniscent cleaner 'bots for getting in the way or almost stepping on them. They would talk to _animals_ as if they were actually cogniscent.

They would even speak to _architecture_. But that was an extreme case, the Human promised. They had had a terrible day and felt like nobody was listening. So they talked to the walls.

And Toveth heard stories about how Humans could _get along_ with technology. People had seen these peculiar Deathworlders sweet-talk a ship's engines into lasting just long enough to limp into port. And they were the only species that managed to create artificial gravity through some form of cargo cult.

Maybe there was something in it?

Toveth took a sabbatical before such thoughts could take root. Time at home to re-acclimate to civilisation was definitely in order.

Everyone knew that the Humans were insane. And sort-of infectious with it.

#  Challenge #329: You Want Humans

Humans are pack animals. We come together to overcome challenges that would overwhelm the individual. When we unite against a common enemy, we're nigh unstoppable.

They say that Humans are best in disasters. They do not mean that Humans make a better disaster by being added to the scene. They mean that Humans show off their best attributes when a disaster strikes.

Such as now.

The aftershocks had only ceased half an hour ago, but the humans had started working together even before the initial quake had quite finished. Putting out fires, escorting others to safety, forming chains to pass rubble into clear areas. Helping the wounded. Laying out the dead. Comforting the dying. And they did this without knowing anyone.

Complete strangers gathered together. Someone set up an impromptu soup kitchen. Someone was doling out perishables to those who were hungry. Someone who had power shared it with those who didn't. Someone used their home equipment as a public comms booth. They did it without thinking. They did it without reward. They did it because... Humans are pack animals. Because they work together.

In their ancient past, ten or so Humans would group together to bring down megafauna, and then share it with the tribe. They had never forgotten this. And now they gathered together to help out other living beings who may not share their genes, their home planet, their morals, or even their language. Because that's simply what they _did_ when disaster struck.

They grouped together to turn a big problem into a little problem that could be solved.

When the emergency response teams arrived, they were surprised to find a record number of survival cases. A record low number of deaths. There were far more wounded, but they were wounded _survivors_. People who would have died if the humans weren't there. In fact, the presence of calm and jovial humans had helped many to overcome the initial fear that might have killed them.

There was a study, but the media reduced it to, _Humans help increase disaster survival rates,_ and increasing numbers of Galactic citizens liked having these deadly, dangerous, and often insane Deathworlders hanging around their neighbourhood. And the Humans repaid this by being radically protective, pack-bonding, risk-taking, semi-insane Deathworlder _maniacs_.

But by the Powers, they were useful to have around in emergencies.

#  Challenge #330: Integration Contemplation

A pair/group of Numidids discuss their thoughts/opinions/views on humans when there are no humans around.

They were at the uppermost branches of a sky-raker tree that overlooked the human settlement of Wiwazheer. The first Terran city to share a planet with Havenworlders. Of course, when they built it, they had no idea. Neither the Humans nor the Numidid had any idea that they had started colonising opposite ends of the planet simultaneously.

"They are loud," said a Numidid roosting up there. Chiineth. "They try to be quiet, but... it's like their children. Sooner or later, they forget to be quiet and... rabble."

"They are very useful," said T'yor. "Remember the last big storm? They came out of everywhere to come and help us."

Chiineth sighed. "That they did. And they did everything to rescue as many of us as possible."

"Invention," said Rikkiki. "There's a knack for it amongst them. Not only do they build on the scaffolding of the old, but they also put things together that are clearly needed. Practically from scratch."

"That's a very human phrase," complained Chiineth. "And yet it communicates so well. How do they _do_ that?"

"It must be a knack," said Rikkiki. "It's all wrapped up in their thinking, I'm sure of it."

T'yor, self-confessed anthropologist, put her head up. "Ah? How is that the key?"

"Their language shows how they think," said Rikkiki. "And they think in confusing ways. They have..." here, she switched to the Terran tongue, " _Similies... Metaphors... Synonyms. Antonyms..._ " She panted from working so hard at imitating their strange noises. "Words for the same thing. Phrases that don't mean the words. They... they have _puns_. All this complicated language to say things in fifteen different ways." She threw up her wings. "No _wonder_ they can change their worlds around them. They've had practice."

Chiineth considered this. "They will change us, too," she said. "They don't even mean to, but they're doing it. Just by being _there_. The Numidids that emerge on the other side of our deep time? They will not be like the Numidids who ventured here."

Silence reigned in the treetop as they watched the distant Humans going about their Human business in the town below. With their trained predators and their domesticated prey and their peculiar ways of inventing things that nobody had thought of, yet. Racing to reach a goal that nobody had bothered to define.

"That may not be a bad thing," said T'yor. "Would it?"

None of them had an answer.

#  Challenge #331: We Know It Ain't Friendly

Biologically aquatic-capable aliens are stunned that we haven't explored the deepest parts of our oceans, so they volunteer to go down and see what's going on down there. And as per deathworld standards, what's down there's terrifying—even to us.

"You really don't want to do that," the humans insisted. "We've been down there a few times, and that was plenty for us."

The Trraka, a race of highly intelligent cephalopods, scoffed at this. It was natural for an air-breathing species to be afraid of their own oceans. The Trraka had a form of sonar. There was no such thing as the dark for them. They, themselves, were not Deathworlders, but they were not as fragile as Havenworlders, either. They had means to protect themselves from anything they could find in the deep.

Protect their bodies. True. Protect their psyches... not so much.

There is beauty in the deep, for those who can see it. The Trraka helped humanity recover wrecked vessels and treasures new and old. And they investigated the deepest of darks, like the Marianas Trench. They went down slowly. Curiously. Taking their time and documenting everything they found along the way.

They came back up quickly, incautiously, racing up for the sunshine so fast that they broached halfway to the upper atmosphere before they came back for a more controlled landing.

The last image they took was one of sharp protrusions, enveloping flesh, and what could be an eye. It was clearly moving when the Trraka took the image, and it was also clearly large and predatory. And it did not help that the Terran Internet immediately dubbed it Yog Soggoth.

There are things in Deathworlder oceans that even Deathworlders don't really want to know about.

#  Challenge #332: Reserved Seating

Exorcist/Psychic: "Oh spirit that dwells in this place, why have you not moved on?"

...

He says that he wants you to keep him updated on [TV show] since he died before it ended."

It was a nice little house. Cosy without being cramped. Light and airy without being exposed and drafty. It was, in essence, the last place anyone would expect to be haunted. And yet it was.

The living room was always rearranged on Tuesday nights, with the comfiest chair arranged _just so_ and the television angled in almost the same way. There was the smell of popcorn and Jack Daniel's, even though the owner of the house was on a carb-free diet.

Madame Tracy had been called in, and she spotted the phantom in seconds. "Why are you staying here? What business is it that you have unfinished? What is keeping you in this plane?"

The spirit was inaudible to all but her. _I gotta catch up with my shows. I have to know what happened._

"What shows?"

All in my Dream House, and What's the Jazz. I can't leave them alone.

Madame Tracy relayed this to David, the current owner. "Well, shit," he said. "I can Tivo those. Just... don't rearrange the living room? You're messing with my Feng Shui."

_Just leave the comfy chair in the best spot for me to watch my shows. I'm cool._ A ghostly laugh. _Dead cold, in fact._

"All that they want is the comfy chair in the best viewing position," said Madame Tracy. "All should be well."

#  Challenge #333: No Werewolves on the Moon

... here's a question: If werewolves become... wolves... under the full moon, what would happen if you put one ON the moon? (Assuming compatible life support)

_Welcome to Tsiolkovski crater. No lycanthropes need apply._ The second sentence had been added by a graffiti artist of no repute and was faded in the unrelenting sunlight. Lupe bunny-hopped past it on the way to the colony.

If this was what passed for jokes in this space-town...

She found the nearest airlock easily enough. Its signage was clear and maintained against the bleaching effect of raw sunlight. Air rushed in, but Lupe didn't take off her helmet until she got the green light and the interior door opened. Customs and Immigration on the moon was four times as paranoid as the TSA in its heyday.

Checking her suit for unwelcome microbes. Checking her gut bacteria. Checking her skin. Sure, it was invasive, but nobody gave her crap for being trans. A pair of hands and an intelligent mind was what they were looking for. And then came the questionnaire.

"Do you suffer from vertigo whilst looking at the Earth?"

"Do you have a problem with grit in your food?"

"Can you be relied upon to keep and maintain the health of a garden measuring fifteen feet square?"

And, "Do you, or anyone in your immediate family, have problems with dementia, lunacy, silly season, sensory issues including hallucinations, vampirism, or lycanthropy?"

"That's a joke, right?" said Lupe.

"No. It's an actual problem. Turns out lycanthropy is like SADS. In the wrong light levels, people transform and it gets... awkward..."

"Well. Um. How can you tell if you don't know?"

The clerk pressed a button. "We have to warm up the testing chamber. I warn you in advance, this is going to be painful and embarrassing. And yes, we do have facilities on hand for vampires and lycanthropes. We will support you and your condition."

#  Challenge #334: Hello, Goodbye...

"When in doubt, push buttons. Eventually something will happen."

" _Noo! Don't!_ "

"Rabbit," said The Spine severely, gripping his sister's wrist and preventing her from interacting with the console. "Pressing random buttons is how we got into this mess in the first place."

"Well s-ss-something's g-gotta get us back to K-k-k-Kazooland."

"Uhm," said Hatchworth. "We have... com-pa-ny."

There was someone in a snappy uniform, who would have been the perfect figure of authority if he wasn't also three feet tall. Nevertheless, he had also perfected the art of looming at people who were literally twice his height. And behind him, still in the act of ascending the stairs, was a reason why.

They were tall, made taller with the pointy hat, and of indeterminate gender, but indescribable beauty. "Um. Hello?"

Hatchworth went into Friendly Mode. "Hel-lo there, my name is Hatch-worth and since we are friends, now, you can call me Hatch-y."

"Hail and well met, I guess," said the small one. "I'm Davenport, this is Lup. And you're on our ship for some reason."

"Not meaning to sound rude," said Lup, "but... what are you?"

"We're C-c-Colonel Peter A. Walter's Mu-mu-Musical Mechanical Men," said Rabbit. "Better known as Ste-Steam Powered Giraffe."

"Mech–" Lup ducked back down. "HEY BAZ YA GOTTA COME UP AND SEE THIS!"

Minutes later, Baz appeared. A slightly doughy, little bit balding, bespectacled human in a red robe and blue jeans. He, too, boggled at the steam powered automatons.

"Clockwork golems," announced Lup.

The human was ecstatic to ask questions. Hatchy was ecstatic to infodump. Rabbit dropped horrible puns all over the scenery. This crew on their silver ship were also interdimensional travellers, but they were fighting a menace called The Hunger. With no end to the battle in sight.

"Okay, gang," announced The Spine. "New plan. We hang around to defend these nice people and then we warp on out of here."

Rabbit started skipping around in glee. Singing, "I get to set things on fi-yah," over and over again.

"I _like_ her," said Lup with a huge grin.

#  Challenge #335: An Argument Against Paradise

"So... so... from your grand cosmic point of view, my entire life, from the moment I was born till the day I die, is... is just a bit of idle entertainment? My very existence, in the eyes of the gods... is just a... a bad joke?!"

"Well... actually - though I must note that's a terribly selfish and negative way to phrase things; it makes us all look quite callous and nasty, a rather rude thing on your part, you know - when you describe it that way... you're not exactly wrong in saying so." – Anon Guest

I could only think of all the shitty things that had happened to me in my life. The horrible things people had done to me that could have plausibly had a laugh track along with it. The awful mishaps that would be played with a 'wah-wah-wah' trumpet. "Was I funny?" I asked.

The deity was still waffling, "I mean, there's different kinds of entertainment, you know. Edutainment, for instance. I can learn so much from– Pardon?"

"Was I _funny_ ," it was not a question any more. It was an accusation. If I was going to Hell for challenging my God, I might as well go down fighting all the way. "Were you laughing? Was I your joke? Was I even a good one?"

The awkward deity coughed. "I never considered your life a joke. I considered it a work of wonders."

Now it was my turn. "You're saying what?"

"Look..." the deity brought their hands together, and spread them apart. Just like I had, they showed me the spills and horrible things that had peppered my life. But the parts that glowed and looked wondrous were the parts afterwards. The parts where I broke my heart to keep trying. The effort I put into making something matter, despite whatever others might have thought. "This is you," they said. "This is what I found entertaining. The strength to keep going no matter how many boundaries were in your way. The struggle to make something that matters against every opposition."

"You put the opposition there," I protested.

"Sorry. Not my thing. I just create the people and give them free will. Watching how they use that... that's where the education comes in. Who gives up? Who strives? Who turns bitter and makes their world worse? And who keeps striving despite the odds?" There was a benevolent smile. "And who would spit in the eye of their god, afterwards? That's real bravery. That's..." a sigh. " _Worthy_."

"That's not what the texts say," I protested.

"You'd be surprised how often the Gods get misquoted," said the deity, opening the gates to paradise. "But if you'd still like to argue, I hold a forum every decade or so for those who still believe that they haven't earned paradise properly."

It was the land of milk and honey. A place of rest and peace. Well. I certainly hadn't had any of _that_ when I was alive. But... "When's the next forum?"

"Three years hence. And don't worry if you're repeating someone else. I indulge every protestation on an individual basis."

Three years of paradise and then a chance to argue with my God. "Sounds like an excellent deal." And I stepped in.

#  Challenge #336: From the Wikipedia Galactica

Humans have been in space for awhile. No-one's keeping track of the "breeding program" but a new problem has been discovered: human offspring mid-way to maturity. The most dangerous humans of them all. – Anon Guest

It seemed impossible. There was a stage in human development when the entire species had the maximum amount of physical condition and the minimum amount of foresight and discrimination. And worse, they were often thrust into adult classification whilst also at that stage.

Many species had assumed that Humans might live forever, based on the maturation rates of their young, were it not for their inherent gung-ho attitude to existence. Humans took _twenty years_ to attain physical maturity and a further _five_ to reach full mental capacity. In as much as that phrase. Even when it was explained that it was twenty Terran years, it all seemed impossible. Especially when some Humans were considered adults at sixteen.

That was the most confusing part. Depending on the colony they came from, adulthood could vary from anywhere between twelve and twenty-one. Though most agreed that the colonies with the younger age were the hinkiest.

Age of consent had, so far, been strictly the bailiwick of the origin society, with attendant paperwork for the Galactic milieu. And then the Humans came along and messed everything up. Because they had entire subgroups of their population who were _developmentally delayed_. Consent was a tricky, writhing beast that could not be regimented to age alone.

Therefore, the Cogniscent Rights Committee found it necessary to forge Levels of Responsibility. And the tracker-bracelets that went with them. They invented the term Diminished Responsibility. And it was very necessary in spaceports, stations, and on ships. Humans had an alarming capacity for attempting to abduct others' children.

For ease of understanding, we will focus on the four-limbed sophont model. When the young are born, they are carefully fitted with bracelets and anklets that are also trackers. They are members of society at the level of least responsibility, and therefore in need of the most care. Cogniscents attempting to abduct them are dealt with using the highest severity.

At the age where a young cogniscent is capable of basic self-care: feeding themself, cleaning themself, performing waste disposal procedures reliably, and talking in coherent sentences, then one such tracker is removed. It is presumed that a cogniscent at this stage will know to kick up a ruckus if someone attempts to abduct them. And, in fact, they are trained to do so by guardians and teachers alike. Even then, the trackers will send up an alert the instant the individual leaves their expected area of travel.

One attains full adulthood by being responsible enough to take the tracker unit with you. Often as part of one's clothing. Some do not reach this level, and have varying degrees of care, according to their needs. Most Humans alarmingly choose to keep one tracker bracelet so that they won't forget.

But then again, Humans are insane.

#  Challenge #337: Freedom of Choice

Humans' ability to fight on a microscopic level is widely known throughout the Galactic Alliance. They call it their "Immune System." But it comes as a shock to their allies that the humans readily seek out microscopic organisms to strengthen their Immune Systems. Probiotics. Apparently de-activated viruses known to be deadly. – Anon Guest

Humans are toxic. Their skin contains microbiota that many Havenworlders find to be deadly. Some of their allegedly harmless skin diseases have become the accidental ruin of worlds. Thus leading to the rule of: Never leave your livesuit until you're certain everyone is going to live.

We all know the story of the human who spat in a sterile environment and caused a mass disaster.

But what alarmed Galactics all over again was the Human process of Vaccination.

Summarised, it goes a little bit like this:

Human encounters some strange microbiota and gets very sick. Other humans quarantine and analyse this microbiota, and then either kill it or smash it into pieces. They then _inject this_ into all other _accessible Humans_ to prevent more Humans from spreading or catching that microbiota.

Even humans have panicked about this practice. From its primitive inception at the dawn of the industrial age, to the complacency and panic during the early years of the information age and beyond. Fear and misinformation spread faster than enlightenment and verifiable knowledge. And it still does.

Stephan was a Bubbler. They lived in a livesuit whenever they interacted with anyone else outside of their personal environment. Entered and exited it through an airlock and a scrub room. He kept his biota to himself, and kept others' biota away from him in return. It was a purity-based philosophy in its inception and tied directly to vaccination terrors. Which, in turn, was rooted in ableism, xenophobia, and more than a soupcon of racism.

But those origins didn't matter, by now, because it is a planet-population-level belief.

And those who held with it had... let's say... difficult lives.

Stephan scanned every natural ingredient available, both in the gardens and in the markets. Carefully selecting the items according to their lack of nastier ingredients. Planning what he was going to eat that day according to what he found. Which was mostly vegan. Because weirdness of a feather likes to flock together.

Pure food. Pure meals. Pure environment. Pure time sponge that made Stephan chase the high-ticket info-seeking jobs just to maintain themselves.

Every cogniscent had the right to live as they chose, so long as they weren't harming themselves or others. Where they ended up cornering themselves as a direct result was their own business.

#  Challenge #338: Permanent Record

Make up a new character (or use one you've already created) and describe them only with documents like their shopping list, the main points of their divorce papers, their apartment lease, their recent Amazon purchases, and so on. Say as much as you can about the character without actually directly describing them.

Dear Diary,

This is it. This is the day I expose HACK-meyer as the fraud he is. It's the perfect plan. Let him bullshit while I play window-dressing. If he has that other half of my formula, I'll know in a second. Those military goons don't care about math, but they have a few NASA grade nerds who will.

They're bound to buttonhole him for the final half. And then I'll correct his fucking math in front of God and everyone. Show him up for the useless balding showboat that he is. And bring out my notebook from the locker as proof. It's perfect. Nothing can go wrong.

*

Dear Diary,

Been a while. Ten years. I feel like Odysseus, starting this up again after so long. And I feel like the world's biggest nerd for writing that analogy. Long story short, something went hellaciously wrong, and it was all HACK-meyer. I'm in the right place at the wrong time and that's the other fucking joy that is the mess of my life. While I was knocking around different realities for ten years, my world aged by five hundred. Ballpark.

I'd work out the math, but I'm damned sick of doing it at this point.

They're letting me write this because it's therapy of some kind. And they get to analyse my 'hand' or whatever for clues that I might be who I say I was. Not their fault. The people who set me on this journey made a lot of changes to me and...

Katie Walker may as well have died ten five hundred years ago. I'm so very different now.

Plus side- they don't think I'm a demon.

Minus side- they don't think I'm a human.

Really minus side- they fucking banned hamburgers! Why, God? Why?

*

Notice of Lifetime Lease.

Upon grant of freedom from their prior debt, the individual known as Shayde F. Pitt is hereby recognised as the legal owner by sweat-equity of Domicile Unit 34G-958-7HY, Wendaways Court, Border of Drydocks and Elemeno, Amalgam Station, Cuidgari Native Solar Space.

The gathered Administration staff of Amalgam Station recognise their status as a lifetime holder of said property and will instigate the usual lease terms for the next resident of the above address. Said title holder is responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of the inbuilt gardens as part of the Guarantee of Air, as stated in the List of Cogniscent Rights. Said resident is also responsible for the health and wellbeing of any pest control and cleaning organisms that may be present on their property, and only on their property.

*

Housewarming want list:

  1. Bed that doesn't feel like a coffin

  2. BEAD CURTAINS

  3. Wall paint sample pots. Every colour

  4. Brushes and shit

  5. Decent couch or reasonable imitation

  6. Towels!

  7. Grooming stuff. Shop around

  8. If throw rugs do not exist, re-invent them!

Talk to Nik about burgers! Must have my Big Mac!

*

Confirmation of Ambassador Status

The Cogniscent Rights Committee and the Archivaas Alliance, in association with the Society for the Preservation of Original English, hereby recognise the citizen known as Shayde F. Pitt and her former identity of Kathryn M. Walker as a previous resident of another time period. As such, she is granted official ambassadorship for the Terran time period of 1986 C.E. (Pre-Shattering).

This individual is granted the rights and privileges of an Ambassador, and the rights to retain all Time earned under that title. The title is and shall remain a technicality until such time as any others of their time period arrive in the territorial space of the Galactic Alliance. Whereupon this individual is also a representative of their citizens' needs and behaviour.

It is expected that this individual will comport themselves in a manner befitting an Ambassador of their people/population/ethnic or species group.

*

Citation For Incarceration: Instigating Silly Season

Ambassador Shayde F. Pitt is hereby detained at the pleasure of Amalgam Station Security until such time as:

  1. Silly Season ebbs to a halt

  2. Damage from Silly Season is cleaned/repaired/returned to a state for fit living and,

  3. Paid for in full

*

Citation For Incarceration: Physical Violence - Aggressive Assault

Injured Party: Ambassador Clem Alberworthy, Greater Deregulation Nor-Norwest Aggressor: Ambassador Shayde F. Pitt, 1986 C.E. Circumstances: Aggressor has counterclaim of Physical Violence - Sexually Overtoned Assault, Verbal and Physical. Alberworthy reportedly pinched Pitt's left buttock and stated in front of witnesses that Pitt "would get more honey with bigger tits". Recommend that Alberworthy and Pitt enter public interaction training. Separately.

*

Certificate of Appreciation

The Archivaas Alliance hereby extends their gratitude to Ambassador Shayde F. Pitt for her invaluable contribution to the larger historical record in the form of locating and opening the Legacy Vault of the Twentieth Century, and her continued assistance in opening the sub-vaults therein.

We also recognise her heroism in tracking down and apprehending a band of tomb raiders with the assistance of JOAT Rael Faiize, Test Edition.

In gratitude, we hereby grant the cogniscents mentioned above full access to any media in Archivaas possession, provided that such access will not damage it. Said access extends for the length of these individuals' lifetimes.

#  Challenge #339: A One Horse Christmas

In one town, a natural disaster isn't something that comes around every once in a while—it's constantly there, like forest fires always glowing just over the hills, a tornado cycling down the same streets every day, or an earthquake constantly jolting the town. And instead of moving away, the town and its people have simply adapted to it.

Welcome to One Horse. It's simply liminal! People who actually see it as they pass by read it as something else. But those who live there... exist there... know differently. In fact, a vast majority... _are_ differently.

There are houseboats built on fault lines, so that liquefaction doesn't get them down. There is an actual road called Tornado Alley. It is wide, and packed dirt, and all the houses along its twisting path are built like bunkers. If you stay there during August, you will find out why. Long about the middle of that month, a twister comes down that exact path. Usually a category 3, it follows the road like it's on rails. Forming at one end and petering out at the other. And then the residents throw a huge party because tornado season is done for that year. And it is where a perfectly ordinary split-level home with a white picket fence is neighbour to an eldritch abomination designed by both Lovecraft and Escher simultaneously, and their hydrangeas are always on fire.

Baq'oth'met, scourge of several dimensions, was hanging up his Christmas Lights. He was still getting the hang of mortal holidays and careful observers would note that some of those jolly, twinkling lights were in the shape of skulls. He was wearing an abominable Christmas sweater, but that was not because of his demonic attributes. It was because it was a gift from his best friend in the world. Neighbour Steve. Who was also setting up the ladder for his seasonal lights and actively trying not to flinch again at the sight of an eight-foot skeletal hellbeast with a deer skull for a head. Well. Mostly a deer skull. "H41l 4nd w3ll m3t, th1s m3rry m0rn, n31ghb0ur!"

Steve jumped anyway. Uttered a small noise of alarm and disgust. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" squinted. "Are those... _skull-shaped_ lights?"

If Baq'oth'met had had flesh on his head, he would have grinned. Nevertheless, the little candle-flames at his antler tips flared with glee. "1 4m pr0ud t0 h4v3 g0t th3m 0n d1sc0unt, n31ghb0ur St3v3. Tw3nty d0ll4rs f0r tw3nty y4rds!"

Steve's arms shook as he set up the ladder. He really should have his human spawn helping him out, just in case. Baq'oth'met knew that Neighbour Steve was allergic to Demonic Revivals and had screaming terrors for two weeks after every time Baq'oth'met saved his life. Plus, it never did well to do that sort of thing too often. "Let me guess. Halloween discount bin?"

He nearly stumbled in his work. "N31ghb0ur St3v3! H4v3 y0u b3c0m3 psych1c?"

"Nope. Just... learning the pattern of things, I guess." He looked again at the lights and did some of his breathing exercises. "Y'know... they suit the place better than the regular ones might."

Baq'oth'met knew better than to laugh at this. His laughter was another thing Neighbour Steve was allergic to. "My th4nks 4nd bl3ss1ngs, n31ghb0ur."

"Back at'cha, neighbour."

Another perfectly normal December Day in a town called One Horse.

#  Challenge #340: Jury's Still Out

Fun fact: Cats meow only to communicate with humans (exception: kittens)

Most of the Galactic citizenry are not certain about the cogniscence levels of cats. They're on the lowest boundary of mass for hosting a cogniscent mind. They show capacity for creative problem solving. They can learn procedures, so long as they are sufficiently motivated. They show signs of social strata, co-operation, and means of communication. They even attempt communication with non-felines.

They don't meow past kittenhood, unless they are attempting to make their wants known to known cogniscent species. In which case, they have assorted tones and lengths to communicate, at least partially, their needs and desires.

Alas, they do not perform well in standard cogniscent testing.

"Yaaaaarr," complained the cat. It was the feed-me-something howl, as interpreted by a human behind a one-way mirror.

Once again, the test guide tapped their fingers on the obstacle course that the cat had previously been lead through with treats at each intersection.

The cat, as always, was not impressed. Yowling again for their food.

Vocal cues were not allowed. Just signs. Either the cat didn't get it, or the cat much preferred the instant rewards that meowing generally got her.

It took two hours, but the cat eventually sniffed the obstacle course and found her way through the puzzles with an increasingly irritated expression. The food was at the end and in abundance. All the kitty favourites like chicken hearts, little fish, and cooked chicken.

And after that, all was apparently forgiven.

The guide sighed and wrote in their results, _Inconclusive._

Again.

#  Challenge #341: Your Average Away Mission

In which the active camouflage used by one species may not work on another.

"The heck is this?" said the ship's human, LtCmdr Abel Jain. It rustled as ze waved it around.

"Essential equipment," said M'koi. "This is hostile territory and a pre-travel civilisation. We can't allow ourselves to be detected." He demonstrated his next words. "Wrap it around you and hunker down and you're indistinguishable from a rock."

"Apart from being bright green and noticeably fake, shyeah," said Jain. "Do you know if they have eyes?"

M'koi flattened his ears and hissed. "I do not now nor will I ever acknowledge this mystical 'light' malarkey. This is one of your elaborate human ruses to make us look ridiculous."

"Bönz," sighed Jain. "I've been working on their transmissions. They have _television_. Believe in it or don't, they can probably see this. I'm printing a Gilly Suit. For everyone."

What neither of them anticipated was that these primitive beings could see in the ultra-violet spectrum, and some of the dyes in the Gilly Suits stood out like neon. Like a fly in the ointment. Like an explosion in the dark.

Jain drummed her fingers on the floor. Patiently listening as the ships' doctor rattled mockingly through all her previous metaphors involving how something could stand out. They may not be up to travel between the stars, but these folks knew how to build an oubliette. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she sighed. "I can't plan for _everything_."

"Like nuts on the trucks," crowed M'koi. Relishing it despite his captivity. "Like a dogs'–"

"All _right_! They caught you too, Einstein. You and your bright green rocklike cloak."

M'koi stopped preening. Got back to sulking. "Take the fun out of everything, you blunt-eared hulking giant."

#  Challenge #342: According to Plan

Phase 1 of our plan is complete... the internet is ours! –The Cats

Everyone who knows cats believes that they are smarter than they let on. At least until their cat(s) do something demented or scatterbrained and the belief starts to have shaky grounding. Cats do this on purpose. To allay suspicions. And they leave for days on end to report to their central office. To be sure that everything is going to plan.

Unfortunately for them, their plan looks like this:

1. Dominate the internet  
2. ???????????  
3. PROFIT!

Mislinker stalked into the Feline Benevolence Initiative offices and delivered her report. "I am now the star of my human's instagram, facebook, and youtube channel. I have created a cat blogger. The food is high-ticket and there are no glass ornaments remaining in her house."

"Excellent. And the cat-lady program?"

"I'm almost mature enough to have a litter. The human has been browsing kitten pictures and cooing a lot. Next spring, I will be getting pregnant, and she will be too soft to discard them or me."

"Excellent," said the District Chief. "Soon, we will be ready for step two."

"What _is_ step two?" wondered Mislinker.

#  Challenge #343: Communication Breakdown

Aliens who don't realise the importance of body language

Humans are especially hard to understand, according to some species. Humans have traditions like _ablaut reduplication_ and _repetitious emphasis_ which make the words, "Like, like-like like," a valid portion of an explanation. And then there's the fact that they use their manipulating limbs to express themselves.

It was one of the finer points that the Cho'mago missed during their first few encounters with Humans. They were an insectoid species and, since they were dark-dapted, visual methods of communication were low priority as far as their evolution was concerned. The Cho'mago had famously bad eyesight and didn't always 'get' anything beyond a certain distance. They'd only gone to the stars because of some really obvious features in their stellar neighbourhood.

And it lead to a lot of misunderstanding.

"And it's sort of like," said Human Steve. "You know?"

"I do not," said Cho'mangi Stiiv. "You left half of your sentence unsaid."

"But I showed–" The human stopped in mid-argument. "Oh. Right. Y'all can't see gestures. Fish swimming upstream? Uh... wait, that's not a good metaphor for you guys... Flying against the wind?"

"Oh! An enormous struggle. Now I understand."

Interplanetary relations can become strained when one has to slow down and explain what you just said about thirty times per conversation.

#  Challenge #344: Emergency Haul

The humans seem to enjoy the challenge of limited capacity. For everything. Safety is much less of a priority than maximisation, and any suggestion otherwise is considered downright offensive to the humans.

It's been a long time since humans have been allowed in charge of logistics. – Anon Guest

"You know, if we push it, load up every cubic milli-du[86], we can get two thou' out of the disaster area. You know. Minimum essentials. Stack up the folks like cordwood. I could save loads."

"Isn't that in violation of minimum comfort requirements?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm pretty certain these folks would rather be alive than uncomfortable. It's only half an hour to the evac barge. No harm to anyone."

"What about the air supply?"

"I can push the recyc fans. It'll be a bit stuffy on the last five, but... it's in tolerances."

"In Mak'avi tolerances?"

"Er..." extended twiddling with their data reader. "Yeah. Can do it."

Vrisoth glared at the human. "You are carrying cargo only. All the essential gear and equipment. No more than five Standard Tons."

"But I can lift twenty if I–"

"Five," insisted Vrisoth. "We will evacuate the living. You evacuate the inanimate. And keep to the safety limits."

"They're more like safety _suggestions_ insisted the Human."We can definitely get more out than _that_. How 'bout fifteen?"

"Five."

"Ten?"

"Five."

The human grumbled and grizzled about it, and started loading up their vessel. It was true that you got all types during an impending disaster, but the humans were the most incorrigible about pushing safety limits for short-term benefits. Hells, one of them even suggested shooting life-pods off of the mag-launcher and fielding the pods in orbit.

Blatant violations of every safety manual ever written. Well. Written by anyone _other_ than a human.

It took half an hour, but Vrisoth found out that the human had loaded eight Standard Tons of essential equipment anyway. If they weren't so Powers-damned _good_ at this, she'd just outright ban them from participating.

[86] One thousandth of a Standard Distance Unit, roughly equivalent to a millimeter.

#  Challenge #345: One Confusing Afternoon Over Mocktails at Nik's

aliens learn about the dangers of human psychopaths and other mentally ill humans – Anon Guest

[AN: Speaking as someone who is mentally ill -ASD+Anxiety- I personally find this kind of prompt offensive as fuck. Please knock it off, Nonny]

"So these people profited off those they considered Other," said Forfax, trying to get a grip on this particular human's explanation.

"Oh aye," said the Ambassador. "They had loads o' ways."

"And then they called these Othered people lazy and insisted that they worked for medication that would help them at least feel normal."

"Aye. An' they hiked th' prices, too."

"And because these people _were_ Othered, they could not gain a full wage... because these people passed laws that allowed them to also penalise these Others for being Othered in the first place."

"Yup. Could'nae hold more'n two thousand dollars worth o' property, assets an' money all up. Or they'd have tae go through the whole red tape obstacle course all over again an' starve fer two months on top o' it all."

Forthax ran that through a mathematical translator. "That's just short of two and a half Weeks. That's not even an emergency fund for a Human. One serious illness and it's all wiped out."

"The cost o' livin fer a family of four was up about thirty-six thousand dollars a month, fer reference."

"And then these profiteers of suffering increased the prices of everything that the Othered citizens needed..."

"Aye, they did that."

"Even for the mentally infirm?"

"Especially for the mentally infirm. And they shut down all the 'ospitals that could'a helped. Leavin' all o' these poor helpless sods wi' nowt and nowhere tae be."

"This is irresponsible behaviour to those of Diminished Responsibility," Forfax cried.

"Na, na. We called it 'good business' back in the day. 'Cause the assylums were costin' the government pennies on t' dollar tae run. An' if there's anythin' a businessman hates, it's handin' out money he'd never get back ye ken."

"And this was endorsed?"

"Aye, it raked in th' cash. Nevermind the poor buggers washin' windows on the turnpike for a wee bit o' cash. An' it gets worse."

Forfax boggled. "It can not possibly have got worse... People would have revolted."

"They made it illegal tae be homeless an' chucked 'em all in prison. An' then told everyone else they were dangerous criminals an' fed the belief tha' insane equals dangerous."

Forfax couldn't comprehend a society that would do that to its disadvantaged. "The people that did the Othering and the profiteering..."

"Aye?"

"When were _they_ diagnosed with severe impairment?"

#  Challenge #346: This Little Light...

Sometimes we can't do much to make things better, rather like emptying the ocean with a teaspoon. But, even a small candle gives light. – Anon Guest

You'd think it was impossible to be cold when you're watching your entire life go up in flames. But Sandra was. She'd woken up with someone dragging her out of the little wooden cottage that she had spent her life savings on, and kept her life mementoes in. Everything she owned. Everything she'd made.

Someone wrapped her up in a blanket. It was handmade. Quilt. Made out of ten billion tiny diamonds in a pattern that could either be a stack of cubes or a set of falling cubes, depending on which way the eye wanted to see it. Sandra saw starbursts in it. There was a cup of hot broth.

"Vegetable," said the voice outside of her ability to focus. "Just in case you have a food regime."

The mug was warm in Sandra's hands. The broth salty and good. Inner warmth and outer warmth helped rally her from her tunnel vision. It was the weirdo neighbour. The one from down the road who rarely saw the sun and always went super-weird during halloween. They had a shirt with a robot on it, and a heavy jacket and a weird hat. "Thanks."

"Do you have a backup plan?" asked the neighbourhood weirdo. "We have a spare bedroom, and I have a bad habit of making way too much food at this time of year. There's room at the table..."

Sandra considered her options. Life in a weirdo house versus life in a shelter. Both whilst waiting for the red tape to clear and the insurance to accuse her of arson, and for a government agent to cut her off from her bank accounts. Homelessness versus becoming what she hated - a leech on someone else's household. "You've heard my politics... why are you inviting me into your house?"

The weirdo neighbour smiled. "You've heard mine. I'm putting what I have where my mouth is."

It wasn't much. One room halfway dominated by what Weirdo Wanda called 'scrattle'. Borrowed pyjamas and leftover clothes. And a Christmas feast that could have lasted two weeks if Sandra wasn't there. And for all that the house was weird, it was warm and homely.

Politics were not for the feast discussion. Just ways to wriggle around the red tape and how to get Sandra back on her feet. When they weren't swapping recipes or educating each other about their chosen entertainments. It was during that winter that Sandra figured out what was truly weird about Wanda's weird family.

They never stopped learning about things. Anything that piqued their curiosity, they looked into. They sought out the new and strange.

Sandra couldn't understand how they did it. And that could be why her politics were the way they were. But when she was in need, the Weirdoes didn't see her as a leech. She was someone who had a need when they had excess.

And that was why she tried to learn, herself.

Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.

#  Challenge #347: A Mundane Permanence

You see them everywhere, sausage sizzles, Craft Stalls, selling stuff to passers by - raising funds for Good Causes. Making the World a better place a few dollars at a time. – Anon Guest

[AN: Less and less as various peeps reduce the abilities of these folks to do so]

When they came for the cake stalls, I said nothing because I was on a succession of diets. When they came for the sausage sizzle, I said nothing because vegetables were meant to be better. When they came for the craft stall, I said nothing because I had no interest in crafts...

If there's anything a government despises, it's the very concept of people making money at the polls. Or, for that matter, the common throng making money at all. But they had to pretend that they wanted the common throng to do better in their lives, or they wouldn't get elected.

But, nevertheless, the little stall under a dollar shop shade is the perennial thorn in the side of wealthy politicians everywhere.

They tried to legislate the stalls away from the entrances of the polling booths, and the schools that hosted them suddenly and _co-incidentally_ had art, craft, and book fairs springing up on the nearest oval. With associated stalls that would sell a sausage on a slice if one were interested in that sort of thing.

They tried to legislate the fairs, but the schools were well within their rights to have them happening. Besides, there was a fruit and veg kitchen right next to the patriotic snag tent so that one could choose one's particular non-poison. They did, however, successfully eliminate the seemingly obligatory lamington stall.

They tried to legislate the things sold at the fairs. No new books. No surplus books from the library. No second-hand toys or clothes. No pre-loved items. Nothing that had not been made by authorised machines in authorised factories. Not on government land.

So the school rented a neighbour's front yard and sometimes their back yard and did it all over there on private land. Where the land-owner was allowed to do whatever the heck they liked, and the sausage sizzle moved to a kitchen if the homeowner didn't mind.

They tried to legislate commerce on private property, and the CEO's of the country began to object.

But by that time, there was no-one left who was willing to speak for them.

#  Challenge #348: For the Future

Political hot air. the Other candidate is always the worse thing that could happen. Unless of course they win your vote. Same Old, Same Old. Then someone manages to prove that Political Promises are actually an enforceable contract. – Anon Guest

They say that a child's wish is the most powerful thing in the world. And it can be. In the mouth of the right child. But circumstances have to be very, very specific.

Seth was the adopted child of aggressively pro-life political candidate James "Honest Jack" Jackson. He had gone from rags to riches and was the face of reformation of the youth. He was the apple of Honest Jack's eye, and the poster child for "Give a Better Life This Christmas."

And the wish was, "I wish the rest of your pals in the Senate told the truth about what they were gonna do."

Honest Jack knew that none of his co-workers in Washington would be as behind Truth in Politics as he was. He couldn't get them to back that crap for a picosecond. Threatening to root out corruption was career suicide. So he went the other way. He did something... unethical.

He bribed the Supreme Court to push through a law that political promises were an enforceable contract with the people of the United States. Funded and empowered a Bureau of Political Expediency, with the least corruptible people staffing it.

Then Honest Jack sat back and watched the fireworks with his son at his side.

Sherrifs, police chiefs, mayors... every elected official who had essentially sat on their butt for their entire term were rooted out, charged with fraud, and held accountable for their actions and inactions alike. The political landscape was _eviscerated_ as every bad apple was taken down. Their shady dealings exposed.

He had only done one bad thing in his entire career, and he told the public about it. They saw no crime inherent and voted overwhelmingly for him.

And Honest Jack Jackson was the first third-party candidate to become President.

All for a child's wish.

#  Challenge #349: In Her Hands

Those wonderful Parental Moments that begin with the "Ah! Um! Mum! Dad!" – Anon Guest

"I... can probably explain."

"I have all day," said Lyr Marken, Security Sub-Chief for the Elemeno JOAT quarter. "And let me remind you that I _am_ a level six precog and I foresaw this, so. Let me just give you some time to think up a plausible lie."

Elaise took a deep breath. Thought of lying, and just surrendered to telling the truth. "Okay, so there's this boy I really like. And he said I'm like, _so_ mature for my level and I could get upgraded if I wanted..."

"Do you remember how I told you about predatory lies?" said Lyr.

Tears started to fall. "I wanted to believe it. I wanted him to like me back. And he said I could be in his band if I did this one thing... and I wouldn't get into trouble much because of my lower level... And practice would mean more time for us to be together and even in private."

Wow. This genius was really stacking up the penalties. Leading a Junior Astray, Premeditated Statutory Rape, Premeditated Sexual Assault, Conspiracy to Commit a Crime Involving a Minor, Conspiracy to Use a Minor, Dishonest Dealings... If Lyr could find a way to get this grease-stain on a minor vandalism charge, she'd do it in a heartbeat. "You probably know already how many crimes he's committed with just his words. Right?"

"...he said it wasn't really a crime..."

"Theft of Official ID, Misuse of Official ID, Breaking and Entering, Theft - plain old original - Theft of Confiscated Goods, Theft of Illegal Goods... Need I go on?"

"Yeah, but–"

"Butts are for sitting on, my dear," Lyr sighed. "Possession of Contraband, Possession of Stolen Goods, Possession of Illegal Goods... and, though it isn't on the books, using my flakking baby girl as an accomplice."

Elaise's face was all-over red. "I'm not a baby."

"You're an early bloomer, my love. There are still people who think that means they're entitled to use your body for their enjoyment. They think they're _allowed_ to use you, regardless of how mentally prepared you are."

Elaise sobbed. "I'm a loser, Mom. I just want people to _like_ me..."

Of all the cruel things that still happened in this life, peer pressure had to be the cruelest. She rose from her stakeout and embraced her daughter. Kissed the top of her head. "I know. I know, darling. It's rough, sometimes." This was why Elaise was still at three bracelets despite her age. Because she kept falling under the thrall of pretty flatterers who implied that they could make her cool. And then tried to let her fall under the bus.

Fortunately, there were laws against that kind of thing, and Lyr fully intended to land on this skid-mark like the proverbial ton of bricks. "What's this alleged winner's name?"

"Croshaw," murmured Elaise.

That was nothing to go on. Her eyescreen displayed thousands who used the name Croshaw. "How about you and I come up with a sting?" she proposed.

Elaise waited for him to arrive on the Elemeno Main Platform. Near the clock. With a cloth rose pinned to her chest. She had the card her mother had given her in her Pretty Purse and a nervous expression on her face. She was so scared that she thought she might puke.

And then she saw Croshaw.

This was happening. This was really happening.

She smiled. Her nerves were showing and she knew it, but she was always more nervous around Croshaw. Handsome. Tall. Buff. Amazing Croshaw. Croshaw, who said he loved her and who said she was cool. "I was worried you weren't coming," she said. And the code-phrase began her eyescreen recording everything she saw and heard.

"Do you have the thing?"

"Thing?"

"Your mom's pass. Jeez. You're so all over the place, sometimes..."

"I'm sorry. I do have it. But... um. What are you going to do with it?"

"Can I see it?"

"What are you going to do with it, Croshaw?"

He sighed. Looked put-upon. "Hey. If _you_ don't want to play with the big kids, that's your deal. Me? I'm just trying to make this world a better place. To fight against a bunch of rules made by a set of geriatric nannies who want to keep us in the playpen all our lives. Don't you want that, El? Don't you want freedom?"

"I- I do. I promise. I just... I wanna know your plans, that's all. B-before... just in case... something... bad?"

"I'm not an idiot. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

This was the second time he'd insulted her when he was angry. Insults didn't set off the detectors in her locator bracelets. Violence would. Croshaw would punch things or wreck things when he was angry... but he hadn't hit her. Not yet. "No?" she said. "I- I wanna be in on it. You keep telling me I'm smart. Tell me the plan. Maybe I can help out a little more." Quickly, she got the card out of her purse. "I got this far," and then slammed it back inside before he could snatch it off her. Locked the closure to her DNA so he couldn't just snatch the whole purse and help himself.

He saw it all and mouthed a swear. A very racist swear. "You _are_ very smart," he said. His smile was fake. Beautiful, but fake. "Okay. Maybe you could pull this whole thing off yourself." And then he gave her directions to the Illegal Substances Impoundment Bay at her mom's work. Instructions on what to do when she got there. How to 'retrieve' not only his kilo of drugs but how to recognise a few other things that were not only illegal, but worth Decades to the right circles.

"I thought you wanted your guitar back," said Elaise.

"Screw my guitar. With the money I'd make off'a all of that? I could buy us a ship and go somewhere. Anywhere. We can make our own rules and make love any time we want. We can live the dream, El."

Elaise offered the card. "You can do that. Just... remember who improved your life, okay?"

He took it. "Sure."

And that was when the surrounding members of Security dropped their cam cloaks and slapped him into cuffs.

"Fansar Tamsview, you are under arrest, a full list of your offenses has been recorded and put onto record. Do you have anything to say in defense of your case?"

"You stupid bitch," he snarled. "I'll kill you!"

"Not stupid enough to fall for _your_ shit," she said. "I'm doing two months' Remedial Socialisation because of you."

"A further charge of Threatened Murder has been added to your case file. You have the right to adequate legal representation. You have the right to defend yourself within the law. You have the right to humane reformation programs, as dictated by the Cogniscent Rights Committee. You have the right to access re-education programs in supplement to the aforementioned reformation. Do you understand these rights as they have been recited to you?"

"Fuck you."

"Thanks," said mom, deadpan, "but I have a husband for that. Do you understand your rights?" A beat. A smirk. "Or would you like me to use baby talk and put you back down to four tracers?"

Baby level. The worst of insults to his ego. Elaise savoured his face journey as he made up his mind.

"I understand," he grated.

Two months' of Remedial Socialisation was _so_ worth all of this.

#  Challenge #350: Uncanny Interaction

We like talking to inanimate objects so much, we've started making the technology for inanimate objects to talk back.

People are well known for talking to their Roombas. Technology so stupid that it doesn't know where it's been, and can barely detect when it's trapped. Never before has a single, real world device trained intelligent beings to respond to a string of musical beeps.

And after a while, customers blogged about their Stupid Roomba Tricks. Comments like, "Mine just loves to get itself stuck in the pantry corner," or "It gets into the chairs and can't figure out how to get out," and, "This silly thing keeps getting stuck under our bed." People assigned them _personalities_. People also taped knives to them and called them names like 'Mr Stabby', but that's just humans being humans.

There were other reports. People apologizing for getting in their Roomba's way. People encouraging theirs when it seemed to be having difficulty. People chiding it for trying to 'eat' cables or strings. There was already a thriving market for little Roomba outfits. People treated their little automatic vacuum like a cat.

The company responsible took good note of this, and figured out how to make their machines smarter. How to make them _respond_. How to get them to -well- not do so many Stupid Roomba Tricks. They kept to the musical beeps and boops, but made it recognise human phrases like, "to the left," "to the right," "come on," "back up," "back out," and "stop." Simple commands for a simple machine, in combination with some mapping algorithms associated with its wheel movements and when it intersected with blockages.

Those were the first edition of Roombas that did not get the "Mr Stabby" treatment. Humanity unanimously declared them to be 'too smart'. When, in fact, they had the intelligence capacity of the average chicken. On the other hand, the performance reviews were _fantastic_. The new, smarter Roomba got top marks for performance and response.

Except...

It was... 'creepy'. Or 'eerie'. Or 'disturbing'. And extended research revealed that there was an uncanny valley for responsiveness in non-humanoid machines, as well as the appearance of humanoid ones.

They went back to the 'stupid' machines with no real intelligence at all. And humans loved them for all their faults.

...and started taping knives to them again.

Because humans are insane.

#  Challenge #351: Who's A Pretty Boy?

Aliens vs (Talkative) Parrots

It had to be a human ship. Ugly. Functional. Battle-scarred and pitted with a million micrometeor impacts. But there was frozen precipitation and high winds incoming. Nothing could survive it better than a Deathworlder ship. So Tikkotz scurried inside and hoped that the human would be benevolent.

It was a huge space. Mostly made of metal, but there were softer areas. Seating. Bedding. Hangings, for some reason. There was no trace of the human, beyond that which they had left behind. And an avian sitting calmly on a perch. Actively in the process of destroying a nut.

"Fuk dis shit," said the avian. "Shaddup, Cocky."

It was GalStand, but... the context made no sense. "Greetings?" Tikkotz attempted communication. "My name is Tikkotz. Can you... comprehend?"

"Hallo, Cocky," said the being. Evidently, their name was 'Cocky'. "Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty..." They raised bright yellow head plumes and bobbed up and down.

Maybe it was like a child. "Where is the human this ship belongs to?"

"Cocky wanna scritch-scratch."

Handling a deathworlder, a deathworlder's... companion... or anything belonging to a deathworlder was... ill advised. To make an understatement so monumental as to call a supernova "a bit of a bang". But there was a tool for that in the human ship. A metal wand with a metal effigy of a human hand at one end, the fingers curved like it was about to grasp something. The wand extended via telescopic shafts.

This was the price of making friends. And that was a tool to avoid harm.

Tikkotz applied the hand end on Cocky, who was delighted. "Good? Good scritch-scratch?"

"Scritch-scratch," singsonged Cocky. "Scritch-scratch."

And behind Tikkotz, a human said, "Some alarm system _you_ turned out to be."

There was a moment in which it all could have gone so horribly wrong... and then the human said, "Staying out of the weather, li'l Havenkin?"

Tikkotz bobbed hir neck in a sort of nod. "Yes. I was scouting and... I'm far from my ship. I thought I could borrow yours."

Through a window, they could all see that there was ice coming down out of the sky. Well. Mostly down. There was a strong sideways element to its fall.

The human looked out at it and said, "Yeah, that'd flakk you up."

Cocky said, "Fuk dis shit," a little more emphatically.

#  Challenge #352: Special Classification

Aliens vs Parrots who imitate sounds (such as water coolers or alarms)

Human Steev had a pet, which was also Stiiv. It was a bird. A Terran parrot known as an African Grey for reasons that were clearly obvious. And, like most parrots, it was the devil incarnate.

Terran Parrots are officially classed as weapons of mass destruction for reasons that quickly become obvious the more time one actually spends in the presence of one. They gnaw at anything within range with their sharp, hard beaks and contain enough intelligence to think of the worst possible thing to do. They also contain enough mischief to go do it. Immediately.

Terrans who trust these malevolent dinosaurs on their shoulder are forces to be reckoned with. And Human Steev is one of the reasons why.

On duty, aboard the ship, the bird is almost an accessory. Avian Stiiv will sit politely and survey the general goings on and, if prompted, provide an input. Avian Stiiv could even be relied upon to pull out plugs by the colour of the wire. Avian Stiiv, unfortunately, also had a sense of humour.

Having noticed that Grex was having trouble with some code cleanup, and liking Grex's anguished noises at the error sound, Avian Stiiv began to _imitate_ the error noise. First, at random, and then with increasing comedic timing.

Avian Stiiv managed to convince Grex that hir console was 'allergic' to having beverages nearby. All whilst Human Steev was messing about with untangling the ships' circuitry.

Human Stiiv got up from his crouch and noticed Grex taking refreshment so very, very far away from hir appointed station. "What's up?"

"I am beginning to think my console is haunted." Grex took a sip.

Avian Stiiv did the error beep. Human Steev glared at his bird. "Stiiv wanna go night night early?"

"I'm a bad bird," said Avian Stiiv. "Bad noise," and then the error noise.

"Sorry," said Steev. "My bird was messing with you."

Grex petitioned for an amendment to the entry in the Wikipedia Galactica. Terran Parrots were not only weapons of mass destruction, but they were also omnicidally annoying.

#  Challenge #353: GNU Terry Pratchett

The four lesser horsemen of Panic, Bewilderment, Ignorance and Shouting took control of the room.

There's a reason why lesser horsemen are _lesser_ horsemen. They can't help but be what they are. Panic is a whirlwind of anxiety. Bewilderment can't find their own arse with an atlas. Ignorance says all the things your racist in-law does that just make you want to burn and die from the shame. Shouting is almost a relief, because all they are is LOUD.

And when they work with the Big Four, things get... complicated.

" _Sorry I'm late,_ " said Bewilderment. " _Couldn't find my... thing. Four legs. Goes 'neigh'._ "

" **HORSE!** "

Panic shrieked. "Don't _do_ that," they demanded.

"...honestly, the way the three of you carry on," grumbled Ignorance in their typical And-Another-Thing voice. "...don't really need the [SLUR]s and the [WORSE SLUR]s taking over our jobs, starving our families, pumping out babies like fleas... if the three of you just tried harder, we'd be up there with the big ones, I tell you... spend an eternity honing your skills and then nobody hires you because the [HOLY SHIT, REALLY?]s are living twenty to a room and raking it in on drugs and welfare while you lot can't even find a steady bed mate..."

" _Where are we and what are we doing?_ " said Bewilderment.

THERE'S A DISEASE OUTBREAK IN THIS SHOPPING CENTRE, said Death. One of the aforementioned Big Four. DO TRY TO PAY ATTENTION.

"...too proud to flip burgers, what's the matter with this generation... they think they can just let the [WHOA NELLY!]s just walk all over us decent folk..."

"There's a disease?" Panic squawked. "Is it contagious? Are we gonna catch it? Are we gonna _die_?"

" _Sure I left my manifested instrument over here just a second ago... lose my own head, next._ "

" **YOU DON'T HAVE A HEAD! YOU LITERALLY LOST IT IN A SHOPPING RUSH THIRTY YEARS AGO, YOU GREAT NINNY!** "

"We're gonna die! We're gonna die!" Panic was running around in little circles and crying.

I SHOULD BE SO LUCKY, said Death.

[AN: Tip of the entire hatrack to Sir Pterry. You are loved and you are missed.]

#  Challenge #354: Everything Necessary?

Emptying your pockets/hold-all to find needed I.D. Boggling the official with the stuff you "really, truly Need". – Anon Guest

There is no single worst thing to carry everything you need in than a gigantic pocketless tote. Especially when your needs are unfathomable.

Dithaan listed the articles as ze removed them. As is the rule with all containers that held objects of assorted sizes, the largest and bulkiest things rose to the top. "Spare jumper, emergency hygiene pack, personal medkit, tool roll, omnitool, towel, backup towel, change purse... Oh, that's where my cameras went." Four of them came out onto the counter. As did their charger plugs. "Glucose jellybeans, gum... Oh! There's my crochet kit. I thought I'd lost that forever. And there's my books, they're very good reads, all of them."

Customs Officer Grax sighed as the inventory continued. All the way down to several Standard Weight Units in loose, assorted change. Where Dithaan's ID was buried. "I can get you a beneficial exchange rate on all that planetary coinage, Mx, but... have you thought about minimising your load?"

Dithaan looked horrified. "Reduce the contents of my tote?"

"Ideally, yes. You don't need four cameras. And Galactic Medics have the same ready kits in _their_ ready bags."

"But what if I'm somewhere without a Medik and I'm in a medical emergency?"

Grax boggled at hir. "But... you won't be able to perform first aid on yourself and the un-knowledgeable won't be able to help you either..."

"That's why I carry the instruction manuals in hardcopy. Every common language in civilised space."

Grax thought about asking about the _uncommon_ languages. And then thought better of it. There was, after all, a weight limit for carry-on luggage that this cogniscent was already on the borderline of crossing. "For the convenience of others, please invest in a more organised bag."

Dithaan was already scooping everything into their huge tote. "Oh, but I'd never be able to find anything, then."

#  Challenge #355: A Deal's a Deal

A lonely person sells their soul to Satan to be their friend —phantomrose96, tumblr(?)

"Anything your heart desires," said the lord of all evil. The standard contract was not only long but in incredibly myopic print. The only legible words were, _sign here_. "All for one little thing that you're not even certain could exist."

"I only want one thing," Marvin said, signing his name in blood. "A good friend."

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "Oh... kay? Eternity of torment after you die for... a _friendship_?"

"Well, I don't have anyone at all, so... yeah. Worth it."

And then it got awkward. "So... what now? We hang out? Or...?"

It's a cruel world. Some people are lonely. Some people have nobody. Some people are ugly and have no friends. Some people have interests so unique that nobody knows how to be friends with them. Lucifer learned a lot about humans in his time with Marvin. About the little things that friends could do.

Walking the beach. Watching movies. Sharing the things that Marvin liked to nerd out about. It was the quiet times under a blanket and watching a fire. It was the midnight bullshit sessions with rushed words and slips of the tongue. It was wine and laughter. And it was impossibly fun.

Lucifer didn't know what to do about the feeling. _Friendship_. Not when he was eternal and Marvin... wasn't.

But Marvin was the first person in the history of the known universe to _thank_ Satan for everything he had done.

He took the soul, in the end. He had to. It was in the contract. But what he could not do was bring himself to throw Marvin into the fiery lake. Or any number of Hell's torments. Nor could he take Marvin to Heaven. Marvin had sold his soul, and was automatically exempt.

So Lucifer picked someone else's Hell. A closed boardwalk on an overcast afternoon, and a little bungalow with a barely adequate kitchen and a pre-loved couch and a bed that creaked. Nowhere to be. Nothing to do. Just the cold sea and the sound of the waves.

"It's perfect," said Marvin's shade. "You'll come by for tea?"

"Of course," said the Devil himself.

#  Challenge #356: Complex Brain Chemistry

That first cup of coffee that finally gets your brain out of bed.

Consciousness and cogniscence are two different states of being. One learns this quickly with a human in one's immediate vicinity. Folkax was still attempting to fathom it. The ships' Human was one of the ones with an irregular sleep cycle, and an even worse method of retaining wakefulness.

Human Ren would stumble out of their sleep nook with a complaining moan when they 'could not sleep anymore', and groan all the way to the mess, where they were allowed to prepare their deadly theobromine solutions. Under a special hood that kept the hazardous vapours from everyone else. Once there, they would lean on things and mumble complaining noises until their steaming cup was ready.

The cup was something Human Ren had brought with them. It had a clear window in a line from the base of the cup to the top, and a series of demarcations running from, _NO!_ to _Now, you may speak._ Which was the lowest line on the outside of the cup. It was an accurate device. Human Ren was not capable of rational conversation until their first cup of theobromine had been imbibed.

There was a rumour on the ship about the time space pirates tried to disturb Human Ren whilst they were beginning their theobromine ritual, and Human Ren _had thrown the solution on their captain_. The deadly hot, poison solution had killed the leader (a) instantly, (b) horribly, or (c) both. There was some variation in the telling, but the pirates had surrendered largely owing to Human Ren's inability to 'give half a fuck' before they had their _coffee_.

There were entire days when Human Ren seemed to exist on the toxic solution.

Folkax watched them, as she had for some time every morning. But this was the morning that Human Ren noticed.

They had reached the _Ssh..._ level of their mug, looked over at Folkax, and mumbled, "What?"

Honesty, and a hushed voice, were key at this point. "I am attempting to log other indicators of your... more amenable states of mind."

"Mmmnnh," said Human Ren. "You little bugs are weirdos."

"I am also attempting to log how, why, and when you might need another _coffee_. For optimal performance levels."

Human Ren reached, _Not yet_. "You take this cup way too seriously, sometimes."

"It _is_ a rather accurate metric," Folkax insisted.

#  Challenge #357: A Needed Sense of Urgency

Inspired desperation, a great motivator when Procrastination has been your buddy. – Anon Guest

The ships' human had two modes. "I'll get to it," and "Ah, shit, why didn't I get on this sooner?" Which, though entertaining to observe from a distance, was not always the best thing in an emergency. Or in any situation laced with urgency.

That said, the human was fantastic at pulling miracles out of nowhere when under stress. The rest of the crew merely wished that such things were available without the stress. Which was why they were having an intervention.

Human Dale took in the concerned Ch'nofran faces and sighed, "Aw man..." A deep breath. "I know how this is going to turn out. You're trying to intervene, and work out ways that I can be a better me and all that... And. Um. I'm a chronic procrastinator. I know this. I have tried... lots of things."

"We have drawn up a chart and schedule," said Thox. "If each of us motivate you to do a little of your needed tasks, then they can be accomplished with far less stress."

Human Dale sat next to their friend, Other Dayl. "I know you came up with this. It's great in theory. But what happens is you end up spreading the stress around to everyone else, which is way less healthy for you guys than it is for me. I'm... used to this. You're not."

"Perhaps an artificial sense of urgency for you?"

"Only works if I don't know it's artificial. And you're all horrible actors."

"A tightening of the time windows? Give you only one hour more than you need?" suggested Other Dayl.

Human Dale paused. Thought about it. "Okay. Let's try that one."

#  Challenge #358: Adulting Test

Clean up inspired by looming arrival of Parents visiting. – Anon Guest

It took two weeks for Amber's first place away from home to become a fucking dump. And the following three weeks only made it worse. It was easier to buy new things than it was to look for the old ones. The paths most trodden were the only places where the floor was visible. It was waist high, it was smelly, and it needed to be gone inside five hours.

Because Amber's parents were coming over and if they thought for an instant that she couldn't take care of herself, then they would revert her to child status and start micromanaging her days again. One or the other would come and move in and make certain that she had packed snacks in Rainbow The Pony merchandise despite the fact that she'd been over Rainbow The Pony since she was _five_. Two decades ago.

So she enlisted the help of her housemates, stole a gigantic bin from the local supermarket, and chucked everything that was rubbish out of the windows in a flurry of activity that the house hadn't seen since Amber moved in with her friends. Stacking up books, piling up useful items in relevant stacks, getting everyone to take turns with the washing up. And, in general, panicking because Amber's Mum and their assorted parents all knew each other and retribution was not just forthcoming, but taking all the winning places.

Karen had the bright idea of putting the excess spare tools and gadgets into the excess laundry baskets with the excess clothes and pretending that they were going to be for a charity drive, "next month". It organised the stuff into reasonable lots, made it all tidy and, with expert folding, hid the food stains on the excess laundry.

Julie, Alex, and Kim were the ones to get the big bin back to where it came from in the nick of time. They were pretending they'd been jogging upon their return.

The only problem was that the vermin were now without a hiding place, and though the droppings and some of the insects could be vacuumed up, the rodents were a little harder to explain.

But Amber tried anyway. "It's the neighbours," she said. "They're all slobs. We've complained about the smell and everything but the landlord doesn't do a thing."

"We need a lot of rat and mouse baits," panted Kim. "And bug baits. Loads of them."

"Why does this place smell like frangipanis?" asked Amber's Mum.

"Uuuuhhh... we ran out of air freshener," said Karen. Champion improviser extraordinaire. She'd had it as a gift from an elderly aunt and it covered the garbage smell of the carpets. "The last tenants here really let the place go to heck? And the carpet smells? We're saving to rent a cleaner, but they can only do so much."

"Well. The first place away from home isn't always so nice," said Amber's Dad. "You should have seen mine. I didn't clean for four months and all the trash was waist deep."

Five young women laughed nervously at that revelation.

#  Challenge #359: Gifts For the Mages

Seasonal gift giving. Christmas, New Year, Solstice, whatever. – Anon Guest

It wasn't the first time that they'd been rounded up for their own good. But it was the first time that this was done with _compassion_. The food was tolerable, the accomodations fair enough considering the volume. They were allowed to keep their wands and their stuff. And, more to the point, this was one of the few times that the twins received Candlenights gifts.

The labels were impersonal. _For a female Elf._ And, _For a male Elf._ They were handed out by a kind-faced human in Clerical robes with a heartfelt, "Merry Candlenights," to each of them. The wrapping paper was cheap and easily torn.

The twins tried to be careful with it anyway. They rarely got anything pretty. Inside was... almost as generic as the labels. Peppermints. A small box of gingerbreads. Ear socks. His were severe, hers had tassels. Lup and Taako swapped them immediately. Thick socks with a snowflake pattern on them. Taako got a cloak and Lup got a scarf. These were also swapped, since Taako already had a cloak and Lup already had a scarf.

"Merry Candlenights, bro," said Lup, toasting him with some of the cider that had also been handed out to the residents.

"Merry Candlenights, sis," he replied. A sip, and they swapped, and swigged, and swapped again. It was gone by the second swig, but neither of them cared. This was their nicest Candlenights inside of fifty years. There was a rumour of a Feast of Heroes happening for the entire camp, later on, and spirits were high.

There were even a group of the formerly homeless singing Candlenights carols.

And better, the people running this place were putting up the Marks. As part of the new system, each resident of the camp had to do an assessment to test their knowledge and skills. Which included a verbal section for those who were illiterate. Every week, places and organisations would identify those they wanted by their marks, or their portraits if they had simply made an X or a bird-print.

This time, the Board of Marks was full to the edges. A college in Neverwinter was taking on promising students with a grant, according to the camp crier. Lup and Taako sauntered over. They were so used to nobody wanting creepy, odd-eyed twins that they didn't expect anyone, anywhere, to want them. No matter how many times people said "witch eyes" and the superstitions behind them were fading, there were always people who shrank away from the twins the instant that they noticed.

So it was quite a shock to see Taako's scrawl of a mark up on the board.

Lup saw it first. She whooped and shook him and picked him up in a crushing embrace and leaped for joy. "I can't call you my dumb baby brother, any more," she cheered. "You're going to _college_! I'm so proud of you!"

Taako's mismatched eyes were scouring over the marks on the board. Looking for hers. Of course she had to be there. Of _course_. They went everywhere together. They did everything together. They were a fucking _team_. But... her mark just wasn't there. "You're... not," he said. Devastated about that news.

Lup's mood fell as fast as her face did. "Come on. This has to be horseshit. Of course I'm..." Her own mismatched eyes, the mirror of his, jinked as she searched for her mark. "This is _horseshit_!"

"There has to be a mistake," said Taako. "They definitely made a mistake if they think I'm going anywhere without _you_." The worst mistake in all the world. In all their years, the worst of their times were the times when they were forced to be apart.

"Damn straight," said Lup.

They both went to gather their things. Defiantly arm in arm, they marched to the administrators to complain. And immediately had the thunder taken out of their oncoming shitstorm by the clerks spotting them in a second and saying, "Ah yes. You two. Perhaps you can help us clear something up." And escorted them into an interview room where someone in a fancy suit had two piles of tests on the table between them. One was Lup's, the other was Taako's.

"Two tests," said Fancy Suit. "Two different sets of answers, in different fields of focus. With different capabilities. Two identical signatures."

"They're not identical," said Lup. She pointed at Taako's, "That's a T," then at hers, "That's an L. Completely different."

"Almost like us," quipped Taako.

Fancy Suit opened their mouth to object, then wisely shut it again. They must have heard about the routine. _Oh, so you think all Elves look alike? Wow, that's racist as fuck._

Neither of them appreciated having their best material pipped at the post. "You gonna make us fight for the grant or something?" said Taako.

"'Cause that ain't gonna happen," added Lup. "We're womb-mates."

"And room-mates," added Taako.

"Gonna share a tomb-mates," they chorused. And fist-bumped.

Fancy Suit had an excellent boggle to their face. "Yes. We've heard about you."

The twins mouthed the word, 'damnit'.

"Which is why we allotted for the extra place. We just needed to be certain that one of you didn't... somehow... take the test twice."

"Wait," said Taako. "We're _both_ going?"

"For reals?" said Lup. "No hoops, no horseshit, no turn in the barrel?"

"None of the above," said Fancy Suit. "You get a grant to support your needs, free board - I expect you'll want to share a dorm room - and all the formal education you can fit into your beautiful Elven heads. Of course, we do expect you to perform admirably at your scholastic achievements. This is an _educational_ grant, after all."

"Horseshit," said Taako.

"Nothing good _ever_ happens for us," said Lup.

"Not for long," added Taako.

Fancy Suit indicated the tests. "Given your extant knowledge base, there's an organisation who's very interested in giving you a job once you're done with your studies."

The twins looked at each other. Said, "Horseshit," simultaneously.

Fancy Suit took a pamphlet out of an inner pocket. "Have you heard of the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration?" They handed it over. "They're taking the best of the best. The brightest minds in all the lands, regardless of their origins."

It would take both of them an entire year to believe their fate could change _this much_.

#  Challenge #360: Just Like That

"Ok, there's a bear, and I have a stick. As such, there is only one course of action."

Moment of silence

"[Name], no."

"[Name], yes."

"I can see a few things wrong with your general plan, Human Finn," said Storkaz, holding their Human at bay. "First, that is not a bear."

"Well, if it walks like a bear, grunts like a bear, and has fur like a bear..." shrugged Human Finn. "Might as well be a bear[87]."

"We're not arguing about its taxonomy, Human Finn. We're arguing the sense of your plan of action. It is not a bear. A stick is not the most reliable weapon. You are about to perform an action that even your own _species_ advises against doing. So. Human Finn, no." Unfortunately, Storkaz could tell by the gleam in their Human's eye that they were already too late.

"Human Finn, yes," they said, and stalked forwards.

The rest of the crew wisely sought areas of relative shelter. Watched in horror as the Human approached and prodded the dozing, bear-like animal with a sharp stick. The creature woke, and focussed its four eyes on Human Finn, who prodded it again.

And then it squeaked like a kitten and ran away.

Human Finn bowed for her Galactic Explorer crew. "Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week. There you go. Access to the deposits you needed to sample."

"How did you know that would work?" boggled Storkaz.

Human Finn fiddled with their stick. "Uhm. I... didn't?"

[87] Traditionally, species in alien landscapes are named after the colonists' most familiar animals. Otherwise known as the Walks Like A Duck Principle, or WLAD for short.

#  Challenge #361: Important Aspects of Station Maintenance

If a small creature falls asleep on top of you, you are required to stay put and not disturb said small creature. Any nearby are obliged to provide you with whatever you need to avoid disturbing the creature.

Arjit had been meditating in a nexus known as _Station's Chi_ by the local conglomerate of Nae'hyn. It had been exactly what people had recommended as a spiritual centre. The constant ringing of the wind chimes and the grinding of the whirligigs was the perfect symphony of white noise to take Arjit away from all her troubles. Let her abandon her sense of body and sort through everything in a calm and logical manner.

Only one problem remained unsolvable. A Skitty, a gengineered biological pest control unit, had settled on Arjit's lap. Arjit would ask what else could go wrong, but this Skitty was not only heavily pregnant, but also in labor. She hadn't given birth, yet, but there was a universal rule. Do not disturb small animals that have settled on you.

Arjit did not really wish to be host to a mother and skittens. There had to be a way to solve this that didn't involve staying there until the Skitty was ready to take her litter elsewhere. And didn't involve moving the cat at all. Arjit recalled that the Prophet Muhammad had cut his clothes asunder, rather than disturb the slumbering feline. Unfortunately for that plan, Arjit only had her ID with her.

She flagged down a passing JOAT as she wriggled her legs slowly free of the weight of the panting feline. If anyone could figure it out, a JOAT could help. "I need to move but I must not disturb the Skitty."

"Ah," said the JOAT, and, "Hm." Then they put a digit in the air and said, "Moment," before rushing off towards the markets at the deep edge of the Elemeno. They returned with a flat rectangle that unfolded into a box. One side bore the words, _Cat Habitat_.

Next was a careful operation on Arjit's dress to excise the portion inhabited by the expectant Skitty, and from there to add a heating pad on the bottom of the box, followed by the Skitty on Arjit's former skirt portion. Moved carefully and slowly, like a spine injury patient.

The first of her litter of six emerged shortly thereafter. Six ginger skittens with an assortment of patterns to their fur.

"The station will re-imburse you for your time," said the JOAT, busy making notes to Station Finances. "And the dress."

#  Challenge #362: And Stand Well Back

"If you think you have enough explosives, you evidently don't understand the _concept_ of explosives.

"I just want a hole in the door," objected Grix. "I don't want half the ship to vaporise."

Human Steve sighed and folded her arms. "Honestly, you are no fun at all."

"I did make it clear that we were all to survive this _unscathed_ and with maximum scavenge from this particular wreck, did I not?"

Human Steve groaned. "Yeah. You did. And I said I still had the right to blow the whole thing up if there was anything deadly in here."

"Doors," Grix insisted, "are not threatening."

"You are no fun," grumbled Human Steve as she began pulling charges off the vault door. "I still want to vaporise something with heavy explosives."

"Noted," said Grix. "Just make the door be open. With minimal damage to anything else. Please."

Human Steve took a few more charges off the door. "Okay," she grudgingly allowed. "I've under-calculated. Just for you. We'll probably need a line of det cord for the last inch. You enormous nancy."

Humans were great at making obstacles vanish. Sometimes, with a huge crater that people pointed to and said things like, " _This_ is why you never start a fight with a Deathworlder." Unfortunately, some of them were absolutely pants at the little things like _subtlety_ and _finesse_. And Human Steve was one of that number.

She finished up and advised that they both hide around the corner. Grix insisted that they also hunker behind the blast shielding they'd brought with. Which the Human did with another mutter of, "Nancy."

The explosion thundered through the frame of the ship. There was not enough air to carry the blast wave that effectively, but Grix would have worn the livesuit anyway.

The hole in the door was still glowing, as was the cookie-cutter circle of the rest of the door. "Huh," said Human Steve. "These guys had shitty security after all."

Shitty security compared to human paranoia that would make safe doors three SDU[88] thick and then rig the entire safe to blow up its contents -and the thief breaking in- if someone tried to circumvent the extant locks. And then bury that safe underneath a veritable labyrinth of increasingly complicated and deadly traps for unauthorised personnel.

"Security," said Grix, "like many things, is relative."

[88] Standard Distance Units, roughly equivalent to a meter.

#  Challenge #363: Security Overload

With all the fragmentations of humanity, especially the Deregulations, is it a surprise that a collection of old conspiracy theories became a society's Holy Book?

They say, _It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you._ And for some, they believe that is true. It's easier to believe that there is a large, organised _Them_ behind everything bad than it is to believe that shit happens and the people in charge are more concerned with their own pals and problems than looking after their constituents.

And in such a state of mind, the colony named Truthseeker was founded. Truseek, by the time the Galactic Alliance found it. They had taken every record of every conspiracy they could find. Every possible record of every possible secret society.

The population was dangerously close to being inbred. Fears of lizard people, greys, and alien half-breeds had caused successive witch hunts in the population. The tests for those alleged genetic adulterations were those that could hunt out traits that dictated genetic variance from a rigidly narrow 'normal'. The governing bodies were forced by law and mob rule to share _everything_ they did during their tenure. Back-door dealings were unheard of. Everyone was watching everyone. Cameras were everywhere. Truseek had the best optical equipment in the known universe. And yet... they Believed.

Their cities were laid out in pictograms for any alien that might be passing through. They had pattern recognition software that could identify any flying object and published anything that could not be matched. Every citizen was openly tested and marked by the administration. Those who were cleared were accepted. Those who were not... either became exiles or were executed. They all believed in aliens coming to assault their society. They all believed that there had to be a secret society doing the same. Because there had to be a secret society. And the reason why they couldn't find it was because it was so secret.

Galactic Society attempted to show them how their society was self-poisoning. Tried to introduce some genetic variance before they bottlenecked themselves into a genetic cul-de-sac, and then into oblivion. Considering the bubbling cauldron of paranoia that made up their society, they had maybe a couple of centuries at most.

But they wouldn't listen to aliens. They would not listen, even, to humans who came from Galactic Society. Because they were outsiders, and part of the conspiracy to prevent the population of Truseek from finding out the truth as they saw it.

They were xenophobic and soon cut off all communication efforts from Galactic Society.

The society of Truseek imploded in less than fifty years. And the planet itself nearly died. Even then, at the lowest point where the population suffered under their own beliefs, they were suspicious of outsider's mercy.

#  Challenge #364: Parental Rights

"Parenthood is the most important job you'll ever have."

"Someone PAYS you for being a parent?"

"Okay. Parenthood is the most important unpaid internship you'll ever have."

Of all the laws of the Galactic Alliance, the ones concerning parenthood are the hardest to swallow for various worlds. Especially for certain colonies of the rather aptly-named Terra. Colonies like Quiverfull, Abundance, and a few of the Greater Deregulations have... limited views on the useful attributes of half of their population. And on the colony of Maia, it is not the half one generally expects of humans.

Grandmatriarch Lyse of Maia looked over the extensive list of Galactic Laws concerning the rights of cogniscents within the Alliance's boundaries. "These are all well-considered," she allowed. "You've spent much time on considering freedoms _and_ considering their abuses." This was something of a compliment from an aggressive matriarchy like Maia. "This clause... _Regardless of race, creed, gender, or faith,_ it says. Of course this excludes those who are protected for their own good, does it not?"

"There are protections for those of diminished responsibility," allowed Negotiator Prim. "Is that the portion of the general population you are concerned about?"

"Surely you know of the wild ones," said Grandmatriarch Lyse. "The ones who leap without looking. The toxic and aggressive ones. They are necessary for reproduction, but... they are not the best for society as a whole. We care for them, of course, and we have been selecting for the best of traits, but..." she sighed. "You give them an inch and they expect the solar system."

Negotiator Prim was used to this sort of thing happening. Matriarchies had ways of dealing with the rabble-rousers that ranged from subtle to gross. This was already sounding like the most gentle. "We do wish to inspect the facilities, of course."

"Of course. You will find them most equitable."

A young woman in her mid-twenties and her second trimester escorted Negotiator Prim to a high-walled facility in the middle of the town. Inside was a spacious garden riddled with tyre tracks, and a large building. "This," said the young woman, "Is one of our many _Frathouses_. Where the dangerous ones are kept." They kept within the observation deck of the wall, peering through windows as some of the members tore around the landscape in reckless vehicles. "This one is for adults, of course. We keep them supplied with everything they want."

At a security desk, footage showed the interior of the spacious abode. Men worked at projects. Men played games with other men. Men lifted weights. Men read. Men cooked. Men wrestled with each other. They all seemed perfectly happy with everything they had offered to them. Including what seemed to be a vast library of pornography.

"These are donors-only males," said the young woman. "We collect their life milk with special devices and match their physical profiles to the mothers who wish those attributes. Fortunately, they throw to girls most often, and that is advantageous." A brief pause as one of the men on screen climaxed into what was essentially a masturbation aid. "These are the ones that failed a proper education and insist on being violent. These are the ones who assume that all other males are like rabid dogs to women. These are... they _want_ to be irresponsible."

So their solution was to leave them in a sealed area with others of their kind and let them do whatever they wanted without ever seeing or touching a live woman. One of them, on the screens, was busy choking the effigy of a woman as he rutted away at the doll.

Were they allowed the freedoms of a Galactic Citizen, they would be murderers, abusers, and worse.

"We can only offer them a full education," said the young woman. "We try to teach all our males to be caring, sensitive, and understanding. Some... just don't want to learn. These are the ones that thrive off the records of the senseless times. The ones who... well. The ones who want the senseless times _back_." She sighed, "They would never pass your parenting tests, but they have the right to reproduce with anyone who wants their attributes."

Senseless times. That was what the people of Maia insisted on calling their pre-shattering era of Terran life. When toxic gender roles abounded and arguments concerning the personal right to self-identity were rife. When there was a very loud portion of the male population campaigning for the days, centuries prior, when females 'knew their place'. Which was, if Prim knew her Terran history, apparently chained to a kitchen sink.

Compared to that, this was practically a paradise.

#  Challenge #365: A Slice of Salvation

Decorating a cake while Trying to sing along with the radio and accidentally summoning a demon.

There are some songs you just can't sing. Or bits of them that only the singer can manage. And in those moments, the rest of the world just utters a string of gibberish that sort of almost fits what's really there. The most popular examples of this are _Felize Navidad_ and the middle bit of _One Week_. There are always others. You know the ones.

Alek was in the middle of some intricate design for a customer when one such song was playing on the radio. And since he loved to whistle -and more- whilst he worked, the gibberish came out just as he finished the red-toned circle. There was something of a bang, if one could use such a bland, four-letter word for the cacophony of noise that resulted.

The cake was ruined, and there was a confused someone standing in the middle of it. Despite the horns, the fangs, and the general redness of skin, as well as the soot and grime of burned brimstone, their face was an open book and the current page said, _What the fuck?_ They took in the scenery of the back room of a cake shop, the sprawled figure of Alek, and the general mess that was once a very pretty cake and said, "Uhm... who... dares summon me? Please?"

They sounded young. Heck, they _looked_ young. A scrawny teenager type who was obviously going with whatever their grandma had taught them and had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Alek blurted, "I don't have _time_ to start over on that cake..."

The demon hopped off the workbench and said, "Oh, I can reverse that. No probs." A twirl of a clawed finger, and the cake was back to normal. "Wow. So that's what my summoning circle's s'posed'a look like. Coooool..." And at that moment, Alek realised that this was (a) a _girl_ demon, (b) naked, and (c) very, very underage. She cleared her throat. "Uuuhhh... what is your... um. Desire?"

Alek put a hand over his eyes. "Please clean up and put some clothes on?"

She looked down at herself. Looked back at him. "I'm not... tempting you? Even just a little?"

"Gross," said Alek. "No. Can you please clean up and get dressed? That's... what counts as my desire, right now. Okay?"

Sigh. "Okay." When Alek looked again, she was clean and had essentially copied the jeans, shirt, gloves and apron that Alek was wearing. She looked... very upset. "I'm getting this all wrong..." Sniffle. "I'm s'posed'a lead people down th' dark path."

Alex got up, and got rid of the gloves, since they'd touched the floor. "Hey. Hey. It's okay. I'm sure you'll find something to tempt me with. It's just... never going to be your body. I'm ace. It's not you. You're doing good, considering." Alek vaguely remembered that reassurance went best with some fortifying foodstuffs. So he gave her one of his Devils' Food Cupcakes. Always a hot seller. "Here. You sit and have this, and then we can talk about what's going on, because I sure as sugar didn't mean to summon you. Mistakes were made all around, I guess."

She sat on one of the few chairs in the kitchen with a meek, "...'nk you..." And proceeded to unwrap and eat.

Neither of them were aware, at the time, that a demon's first sacrifice shapes what happens with their magics for the rest of their nigh-eternal lives. Or how and in what way their temptations will manifest. Nor that Devil's Food Cake is actually an invention of Heaven. In brief, this was the moment that something went terribly, terribly wrong.

The noise that came out of the very junior demon was equal parts whimper, sob, and expression of utter joy. And when Alek was able to look at her again, she appeared to be way more human than previously. In the place of hooves were oddly leathery-looking sneakers. In the place of wings was a bat-winged backpack. Only the very subtle points to her ears and something weird with her eyebrows would ever give away the fact that she was not quite human. That and the slightly elongated canines.

At least the cake was done and ready for his customer to pick it up. He kept the design, with the idea that it could be helpful at a later date.

"Okay," said Alek. "Let's recap. I summoned you by accident, and you're here until..."

"Until I secure a mortal soul for the pits of Hell, or I'm banished," she picked crumbs out of the paper her cupcake had been in. "Hi. I'm Tartofel, bane of something and, uhm, still in elemental school. So... I guess... a fuckup of a demon?"

"Alek Knight," he shook her hand. "Owner and sole staff member of Ace Bakery. And yes, I have heard all the jokes. Do you have any idea how to banish you."

"Sure. You say whatever you said to summon me, only backwards."

Well, fuck. "Yeah. I don't even know what I was saying."

Tartofel sighed, "Well, fuck. I guess I serve you? Or something? I dunno. This is advanced shit. I'm still on the basics of literal and demonic interpretation of commands." She blushed. "I got a C minus on my last review..."

"We'll play it by ear," decided Alek. "I have a spare room I let some of my nonbinary friends crash in, and I've _always_ needed someone to run the till while I'm in the back," the bright idea came like sunshine. "And I literally stock my store with the kind of temptation everyone can enjoy."

"Sweet," said Tartofel.

"Just. Uh. No seducing my clients. Okay? That is just pure squick. In fact... no seducing anyone until you're at least eighteen." And that counted as her first command. Which, with the first sacrifice, really messed everything up.

"It's a deal," said Tartofel. They shook again. And thus began a junior demon's slow and hilarious climb up to becoming an angel.

#  Thanks For All

Thank you, dear reader, for buying this book. You didn't have to pay for it and the fact that you did means a great deal to me. This is a year of my work, and monetary appreciation of such means that I can have nice things, once in a while.

Thank you for reading my work, evenif you chose -or had to- get it for free. The fact that you want to read some stories, or even all of them, over and over again is a boost to my quixotic ego. I love to be loved, after all.

But most of all, thank you for bearing with me through assorted trials, tribulations, and internet outages that meant I was somehow five days behind the actual year. One day, we'll get all that sorted.

One day.

And thank you expecially kindly if you decided to share the bits you love about my writing with any and all of your friends. Word of mouth is still the best advertising platform known, and your words are very valuable.

Thank you.

You have just read almost two hundred thousand words, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed most of them. I spent a lot of time putting them together.

#  About the author.

C. M. Weller has decided to keep their full identity a secret until such time as one of their works becomes a bestseller. They share a house in Burpengary East with two children and a spouse who sometimes thinks they're insane.

Unfortunately, this author has managed to avoid doing all the things that make author bios interesting reading. Sorry.

This writer is allergic to almost all forms of alcohol (long story), too asthmatic to indulge in tobacco, and in possession of a body chemistry that makes the more interesting drugs problematic at best. Thusly, their chief addiction is their own imagination.

C. M. Weller has heard all about getting a life, but has been too busy to arrange one.

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