 
One Year of Instants (2018)

C M Weller

Published by C M Weller at Smashwords

Copyright 2019 C M Weller

ISBN: 9780463408643

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

I Wish, I Wish

One Year of Instants (2015)

I Wish, I Wish

One Leap Year of Instants (2016)

Kung Fu Zombies

Comes Around

One Year of Instants (2017)

Well Rendered

For more information please visit my author site CMWeller.com.

#  Challenge #001: Seems Harmless Enough

NAME: Mr. Sunshine (yes he's not joking)

OCCUPATION: Terror squad/ Pax Humanis Enforcer

LIKES: Cats, Painting, Tearing off the faces of his enemies

DISLIKES: Rude folk

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Average height, Average build, Could blend in anywhere there's Humans

UNIQUE TRAITS: Cold, empty eyes combined with an intense friendliness give him an extremely unnerving appearance, Dresses like Mr.Rogers, allergic to milk – Anon Guest

"It's pronounced _soon-sheen-eh_ ," insisted the otherwise ordinary-seeming human who wore a sweater-vest in Security Purple, and a tie coloured like a coral snake. "I prefer people to learn this."

It was the emotionless way that this human smiled that made Grox want to pronounce the name that way as soon as possible and whenever he could. The smile was horrifying. And not just because Mr Sunshine was a human. It was because it was a well-practiced collection of muscle movements that Mr Sunshine had evidently spent some time practicing without the intervention of regular human emotion. It was the smile -as other humans might say- of a being that didn't have a soul.

His manners were impeccable. His friendliness had a practiced intensity that implied that Mr Sunshine had read a manual about winning friends and influencing people, and followed every step without involving a single atom of sincerity and authenticity. His dress was impeccable, too. Neat and orderly, with the only warning being his tie and the words, _Pax Humanis Enforcer_ worked into the back of his sweater-vest. It was as if Mr Sunshine had carefully studied how to blend in with humans and followed everything he found to the letter. It was such a pity that his cold and emotionless eyes kept him deep in the uncanny valley. Even other humans would be instinctively afraid of him.

Station Security, of course, had to escort Mr Sunshine everywhere he chose to go. He was a self-admitted Dangerous Human who was a member of the Pax Humanis Enforcement Team. The largest collection of sociopathic, psychopathic, anti-empathetic, and cogniscidal beings known to the Galactic Alliance and especially known to the Fringe Territories. Who had evidently chosen Waypoint Station as a holiday destination because it _had the best cats_.

Most stations had Skitties. Waypoint had a collection of semi-feral cats that had been traded or left there and did what cats did naturally. Breed like rabbits and eliminate any small vermin that they could get their claws into. They were also aesthetically pleasing and recognised all cogniscent species as a potential source of food scraps. They could play cute starving kitten like virtuosos despite their age or battle scars.

Given what most of the dangerously disordered have been known to do with animals, Security was on high alert. But what actually happened was that Mr Sunshine became the instant favourite of the station's feline population. They must have recognised a fellow spirit in the callous and cold-hearted murderer. And then he got some watercolours and painted portraits of the cats in order to chillax.

And despite all this harmlessness and benevolence from Mr Sunshine, Waypoint Station was very glad to see him go. And prayed daily that he would never come back.

#  Challenge #002: In Abstract

aliens going through human archives find the most Avant Garde porn, like, EVER – Anon Guest

[AN: Just so you know, this author has very little experience with porn. Smut, yes. Porn, no.]

The Trizdressi had no idea what they had found on that graveworld. Something had happened to the population, and little was left to determine the disaster but what appeared to be an enormous cache of records. The scouts were halfway right. They _were_ recorded data. Just... not data that was tremendously relevant to what happened on that world.

It might have been relevant, but it wasn't relevant in a way that could piece together the entire puzzle. It was a contributing factor, much like the atmosphere of racism was a contributing factor to the downfall of the United States as a Superpower. There were many other contributing factors, and one enormous cause to point the finger of blame at, but the contributing factor was most definitely there.

It took the Trizdrezzi several months to figure out how to read and display the data, with forensics and xenotech departments recreating the native players. And then it took a further five months to realise that they had not, in fact, made any mistakes with said recreation. Because the cache of records was, apparently, a nationwide database of pornography. Artistic, avant-garde pornography.

After the third non-linear jumble of psychedelic sex, the anthropologists in charge began to decipher the surviving cover notes. Which, unfortunately, were more artistic than informative.

Progress towards determining the cause of death for this planet was not helped by the discovery of other such data caches. Vaults upon vaults of porn. Some violent to the point of cartoonishness. Some vile to the point of mental harm. Most were beautiful, baffling, and beyond mortal comprehension. A rare few were even sexy.

There were trillions of hours of that and nothing else. No government records. No logs, blogs, nor journals. Living spaces were perfunctory and the remnants of any farmland seemed to be the automated kind. But by and large, the people of this planet saw fit to only preserve that which titillated them, and nothing else.

And, like most media designed to garner a reaction, it increased in intensity until the portrayal was nothing at all like the reality. Or like reality at all. The most recent recordings in any of the vaults were dazzling kaleidoscopes of genetalia and body parts, playing over random technojunk music made out of assorted moans and klaxons.

The Trizdressi could not, in all conscience, point to this planet essentially pleasuring itself to death, but all signs seemed to point that way.

#  Challenge #003: Speech of the Gods

Calliope, Muse of Music crosses the path of the musical instrument named in her honour, the Steam Calliope.

In the lack of belief, gods and demigods go to wherever their name is still spoken, written, or known. She was once such a demigod. The muse of music. She had had believers. She had had worship. Now... all she had left was her name. Calliope. And it was here that her name was given to a machine.

They counted the year as 1850. And in a steam workshop in Vermont, Alex Durry tooled around with his master's equipment. Steam could work wonders in this world. It moved great loads. It saved lives. And, as he discovered by moving an organ pipe over a steam vent. The noise startled him, and almost made him dent the pipe. But it did give him an idea...

They had all the equipment they could need to make a prototype in this workshop... Alex got all the spare parts he could together on one workbench. Enough to demonstrate the principal. Mister Stoddard might even be pleased enough to let Alex keep the idea. But then again, that was a high hope. White folks didn't like the idea of escaped former slaves inventing things[1]. Alex believed in Mr Stoddard, all the same. He was a good man, and had a head for useful inventions.

Alex was deep into it when Mr Stoddard arrived to the workshop in the morning. Alex's behemoth principal demonstration now dominated two workbenches, and Alex was working on the valves.

"My goodness, Mr Durry. What have you been up to in the night?"

Alex grinned. "It's almost ready, Mr Stoddard. I had me an idea. It done struck like a muse, sir. He tightened the last bolt and let the steam build up."This here could be a whole new musical instrument, sir."

"It certainly needs refinement..." Mr Stoddard allowed. "I gather all this is to demonstrate the principal?"

"Exactly right," Alex got a couple of heavy hammers. "Levers are a bit stiff, you understand. There's a lot of pressure." Muscles once employed to drive spikes into rail lines pumped hammers at levers and managed half of a recognisable tune.

Mr Stoddard laughed, "That is a powerful instrument you've made, Mr Durry. Do you have plans?"

"I got scratch plans, sir. Working out what had to go where."

"That's a start, at least. Let's decouple your beast and work out the next step together."

For the rest of his life, Mr Joshua Stoddard repeated that he was _not_ the inventor of the Steam Calliope. He only patented improvements on someone else's machine. But that never stopped anyone. Alex had been correct in his surmise. White people really didn't like the idea of escaped former slaves inventing things. Especially not things as artistic and fabulous as an instrument named after a demigoddess.

But Alex knew, and Calliope knew too. Though she no longer spoke through oracles or worshippers. Now, she speaks through polished pipes and steam.

1] Though a Joshua C. Stoddard is credited with the invention of the Steam Calliope, I've found [one source that says the actual inventor is one A. S. Durry. And since I could find no other information but the name, I went with the natural conclusion that history has once again been whitewashed.

#  Challenge #004: A Little Inspired

Erato, Muse of erotic poetry is reading the scrawl on a university toilet door (Probably misspelt).

Gods cling to that which feeds them. What they are responsible for, especially the performative stuff, is also their meat and milk. Thus, you might expect Erato to gain the sickly pallor of the people one expects to find in seedy adult stores, as well as the general doughy body of the assumed clientele. Such is not the case. Erato is healthy, well-traveled, and very, very fit.

Why? Because _erotica_ is not just dicks in the bathroom and skeevy people in trenchcoats with brown paper bags and oily complexions. Because erotica is an international art. Erotica is not just doughy men masturbating to breasts on their computers. It is reams of fanfiction in which true love is found and erections lasting longer than two hours are both possible and merited. It is art of lovingly rendered lovemaking between impossible creatures. It is even in cuddle-fic, where the protagonists do little more than soak in each other's company in front of a fireplace. Cat optional.

It is for all these reasons that Erato is a very attractive being of indeterminate gender and nationality. They are approachable, amenable, and down for whatever. This has caused quite a lot of upset to anyone in their aura. But that doesn't stop them noticing the little things. Like, for instance, this particular dick on the wall of a cubicle in the university that Abe 'Bubba' Jenkins is about to quit.

University is made to open minds. And in that atmosphere, someone with the nickname of 'Bubba' is not supposed to flourish. The rote history, the philosophy of their lives, even the very way they thought the world was meant to work... all of it is challenged by those who seek to teach. Why, he's even met a few people he honestly believes should rot in hell. And worse - they're genuinely nice people until he airs his dirty politics.

Thus, it's quite a shock to find one of Them in his territory, seriously considering a dick he'd just drawn on the wall with the caption, _Offended? Get a life!_

"Interesting rendering," said That Type. "Most times, I see a distorted bubble of a P with a few crude lines, when they don't leave out the testes altogether." They paused to consider it again. "You've taken some time with this. Rendered the circumcision properly, the pubes... even some veins. You might have some hidden talent."

Bubba reacted as any Bubba might, "You tryin'a hit on me, queer?" and he readied his fists.

The weirdo smiled at them. "Only if you'd like it."

Bubba sank into confusion. Part of him wanted to like it. Part of him wanted to run in screaming terror. The conflict froze him. "Y'ain't convertin' me, queer."

"My name is Erato. And I promise that I'm only appreciating your work. If you want _me_ , you're going to have to work for it."

Huh? This... this was not how the script was meant to go. "You what?"

"You're at a crossroads, Mr Jenkins. A time in your life when your choices can drastically change your path. You're between futures and this," Erato tapped the drawing on the wall, "has caught my interest."

"...'s just a dick," said Bubba. "I was sick an' tired of all the politically correct bullshit flyin' around and I did a thing before taking a shit. No big deal."

"Politically correct..." echoed Erato. "Two words that mean 'deliberately being nice to people'. Do you not like being deliberately nice to people?"

Er... Abe felt the redness invading his face. "But it ain't proper. You got girls wanting to be guys and guys wanting to be girls. A-and both want to fuck each other 'n'... it ain't the way it's s'posed'a be."

"And what is all that to you?" asked Erato. "None of them want to... 'fuck' you."

"But they could? They could sneak up on me when I'm taking a piss or something an' try to convert me."

Erato laughed. "Never in my life have I met anyone who was seduced by rape. It's a preposterous fantasy. That anyone could give freely what was taken in violence. No. You will note that we have been amiably chatting with our pants on in a bathroom for... some minutes, and all I've done is admire your rendering." A gesture to the doodle on the wall. "The world isn't what you think it is, Mr Jenkins. You should try new thoughts."

Erato blew him a kiss on their way out. "Be watching you."

Abe washed his hands three times before emerging into the outside. A lot quieter than his usual politics demanded. It was as if the scales had fallen from his eyes. Instead of focusing on the homos cramming their lifestyle choices down his throat, he saw couples in love holding hands. Only a small percentage of them actually made him angry enough to say anything about it.

He didn't see miscegenation. He saw people in love. And none of them were focussed on him. At all. He saw... himself. An ugly young white man in a _Make America Great Again_ cap and a rebel flag wife beater and a belt buckle that said _Bitches get stitches!_ and then had the nerve to wonder why people at all and women in particular didn't want to talk to him.

He thought about the twenty minutes he'd spent drawing that dick on the wall. How he'd felt about getting it right before adding the unnecessary caption.

Abe stood in the middle of the campus pathway and actually thought about things. About how his life had been cemented in certainties when it was really adrift in an ocean of doubt. About how he could learn to swim in that or sink like a brick.

He walked to the administration building and asked to speak to someone about changing his major. He didn't like Business Principals and he certainly didn't like Pre-Legal. He decided to change it to art. People made shitloads off of drawing dicks properly. In the right circles.

#  Challenge #005: Working Holiday

Terpsichore, Muse of Dancing - conga line, Nuf Said!

Even divinities need a holiday. After inspiring dancers to do new and interesting things with their bodies, with their costumes, even with lighting and how they made the music they danced to - while they were dancing - even a divine force needed a breather.

But a goddess of dance must go where she is worshipped.

You could spot her if you tried. There's just something _more_ about the embodiment of a divinity. A glow. An imperceptible _something-something_ that inspires everyone around them. Even on their day off. On a cruise ship. Late at night when everyone is inebriated enough to think that a conga line is a cool idea. The influence of Terpsichore is obvious. The conga line is not only in sync, but actually _looks good_.

It's the only way you could tell for sure.

The muse herself is lounging on a deckchair with a froufrou drink. It's inside a coconut that is bedecked with too many streamers, glitter, curly straws and paper umbrellas. The best you could say about that kind of drink was that the alcohol was in there somewhere. She watches in vague disinterest as the hardy perennial Drunken Flailer suddenly busts moves that he never knew he had and would likely never remember. Accidentally impressing several young women who had previously passed on his doughy countenance.

She sighed. Maybe they'd like him for his personality at a later date.

The D.J. put on Genesis. A song that should have been appropriate for the late-night-early-morning crowd of revellers. _I Can't Dance_. And the dance floor filled with spontaneous choreography that some of the aforementioned young women preserved for posterity via Youtube.

"Honestly," said Erato, also lounging with a large drink - a long, slow double-entendre in an unlikely and uncomfortable location to be doing any such thing. "This is supposed to be _break time_."

Terpsichore shrugged. "I am trying to turn it off. I _am_. I swear."

Three balding, elderly holidayers were re-enacting the last minutes of the video clip. Perfectly.

"I can't take you anywhere," sighed Erato.

#  Challenge #006: The Important Stuff

When two humans have animosity between them, their crew mates get very nervous. Just yesterday, Human Marty discovered Human Seth was attempting a mating ritual with their offspring... – Anon Guest

[AN: One of the good things about my future is that Pedophilia is eradicated on all but a few, really skeevy colony worlds. And those ones have an underground railroad thing going on to make sure the perversion dies out. Also -dear Nonny- I do not appreciate the implication that gay people want to adopt/child-rear just to indulge in said perversion.]

"Powers damn it, Seth! I knew you needed therapy, but this? This is flakking _sick_. What were you even thinking?"

"It's a rite of passage, Mars! She's got her blood, and needs a caring parent to initiate her in the ways of womanhood."

"She's _twelve_!"

"Since when does _that_ matter? My aunty had hers done at five and she turned out fine."

Mel hid with the others, the Taz'drassi crew, behind the biggest piece of furniture in the room. Her eyes were wet and she was holding one of the more robust crewmembers for comfort. Her face was red and her entire body was trembling. Mel didn't like this one little bit. Neither did any of the Taz'drassi who had taken her little family in as ships' humans.

"Does she think it's okay to _fuck_ a _child_?"

"Of course she does, she did me when _I_ hit puberty."

"Then she _didn't_ turn out fine. Powers damn it, I _rescued_ you from that fucking hell-planet. I thought I could save you from that _flakking_ toxic culture... You passed all the _parenting_ tests. How could you turn around and try this?"

"Time's running out for her. She'll never be accepted if she doesn't know this stuff starting out."

"Seth..."

"I know all the arguments. She's not responsible enough. She's not ready. I've studied it all. I know how to be gentle with a first-timer. Hell, she's practically got her adult body–"

Mel flinched at the sound of the slap. In all her life, her dads had never struck anyone. The sound was like a stabbing knife in her heart.

"That," said Papa Mars, "is grounds for divorce. I'm filing the paperwork and claiming custody of Mel for her own safety. And the Galactic Courts will agree with me. I don't care where you go, but you will _never_ touch another child again."

Mel started crying. According to all the history her Dad had taught her, she would never be a real woman, now. She'd decay on the inside because nobody used her properly. Papa didn't understand. Dad was just trying to help.

"I know you're listening, Captain. I request and require an immediate course change to the nearest Galactic Waystation. You can choose which of us gets to stay with you, but... I would be cautious of Seth around any shipboard young."

Mel could sense the ruin creeping in. She was wrecked. She was ruined. She'd never be a proper adult, now.

"Also... we need to download the proper educational films for Mel. My fault for thinking he was over all that noise from his homeworld. Mel's going to need some top-notch counselling..."

She flinched again as the couch moved with Papa's weight. "Sweetie? It's all safe now. It's okay."

"No it's _not_ ," Mel sobbed. "I'll never get it right without Dad to show me... I'm gonna rot away inside."

"That's not how your body works, Mel," said Papa. "Come on. Let's have some tea and look up things on the info-net. Remember? Verifiable information from multiple sources."

Mel did. How the monster in the dark turned out to be one among many of the Skitties on board. How the rumbling of an engine boost was just noise and nothing to be scared of. And how she couldn't really break anyone's backbone by stepping on cracks or lines in the decking. She'd missed Papa's careful and reasoned research.

Come to think of it... ever since her body had started changing, Dad had been making sure Papa spent less and less time in their shared quarters. Almost like Dad planned to immerse Mel in the culture of his point of origin.

"He set it up to be like this, didn't he?" Mel blurted.

"There's my rational mind," Papa cooed, kissing her forehead as he helped her out. "I think B'lexil needs to get back to duty, and _you_ need some sweet stuff to counteract that sour mood."

Mel wouldn't see her dad again, and would learn that that was a good thing. She and Papa took over the kitchen and had an educational hour over sweet treats and fortifying tea. Including a thorough analysis of everything that had gone wrong on the Terran colony world known as Mapé.

Starting with the fact that the entire world ignored the rules that recognised the importance of consent.

When she was down to one tracker bracelet, _then_ she could see physical counsellors who could walk her through the sex stuff. _If_ she wanted to do it that way. Papa said a guided initiation was much better than confused fumbling between newbies, but Mel would decide when she was ready for that sort of thing with a trained professional.

The crew dropped Seth off at Podunk Station and Mel didn't even want to say goodbye. It was a huge relief to be rid of him, honestly.

#  Challenge #007: It's Not a Good Night...

Orange traffic cones which mysteriously appear after drunken parties, and other weird stuff the clean-up crew encounter.

Of all the unexplainable phenomena in the known universe, the most unsolvable is that of humans and spontaneously-manifesting traffic cones. They only appear when everyone at the party is too inebriated to recall where they came from, and no means of recording said party have ever picked up where they come from. Even security cameras can't catch their appearance. Whenever the cameras are turned, or cut away, that's when the traffic cones appear.

And in the cases of fixed, one channel feeds, the item appears outside of the immediate pickup zone. And holographic recorders experience unresolved issues in the area of appearance.

It may be unexplained, but science is determined to die trying to do so.

So far, a series of seemingly random rules had been discovered. The entire guest content of the party had to be inebriated enough that recall was effected. Alcohol was not necessary, but a wild party was. The teams behind the one-way mirror were not part of the party, but observation had to be under strict regimens. And at one point, someone had to put on the most annoying party song ever written by cogniscent minds: _Agadoo_ [2].

There were five people at the scientifically observed party. There were five scientists sipping coffee, each watching one partygoer each and barely blinking. The furniture in the party room was up against the wall. The toilet cubicle had its own recording devices that would pick up the extra mass of a traffic cone.

There was no way that they could miss the appearance. Everything was covered. Nothing was left to chance.

And yet, the party wound down with little of note. At least until the observing scientists took a break and rose from their seats. Once they did, they found...

Behind each of their chairs.

In a neat line.

Five nigh-identical.

Plastic traffic cones.

Attempts were made, after that particular experiment, to watch the watchers, but the results were iterative. The traffic cones would appear behind, or out of the line of sight, of the last in the chain of observers.

And it was at that point that science decided to give up.

[2] Mostly because you will not get it out of your head for three flakking months.

#  Challenge #008: Rightwise Born... er... Monarch?

"Whomsoever shall pull this sword from the stone is rightwise born King of England."

"Oh! Lookie! I've pulled it out," she said. – Anon Guest

She was short. She had the sort of chubbiness born of years of feast and famine, with the body deciding to set up ample stores in case of famine. And she was clearly a scullery maid in the entourage of one amongst the many knights, ne'er-do-wells, and nonesuch that had gathered to try their luck.

The maester of ceremony turned to the wizard who had set this all up and said, "Merlin? A word?"

Several knights demanded that the once and future Queen put the sword back so they could make certain it wasn't a trick. Maisy did so without complaint as the maester and Merlin went out of earshot. But they still all clearly heard the maester's voice as he screamed, "YOU SAID YOU HAD ALL OF THIS SORTED!"

After about the fifth knight had tried to pull the sword back out and Maisy effortlessly did so, the message was starting to filter into their lance-addled heads. Maisy was the rightwise born heir to the crown. Knees began being bent. A couple of ne'er-do-wells had a go, just to ram it home for the slow learners.

Merlin reappeared, insisting, "The lore is the lore," as he went. "She's taken the sword, she gets the crown. End of. All _I_ need to do is figure out what the fuck happened to Arthur."

Maisy sighed, "Please don't deadname me," possibly on automatic. Then her mouth caught up with her ears and her reason. "How in the name of Christian loving would you even _know_ my deadname?"

Merlin squinted, matching the orphan baby he'd left to a tavern keeper with the late-teenaged woman before him. "You... used to be Arthur?"

"They called me Wart most of the time, but yes," Maisy adopted a singsong voice. "Everyone thought I was a boy until I realised I wasn't at age seven. And since then, it's been a long and tiring journey to get The Spell and fix myself, and then everyone else's heads. Hello. I'm Maisy. Please don't call me Arthur again or I'll have to smack you."

"She has a mean right hook," said one of the ne'er-do-wells. He had a black eye and a missing tooth as testimony.

"And very accurate knees," added one of the Ruffians, putting a hand over his dented metal Protective.

"Ah," said Merlin. "Yes. Okay. Well, I never accounted for the Scion being Trans. My apologies, Queen Maisy," he bowed. Turned to the maester when he righted himself. "Maester of Ceremonies. It is your solemn duty to announce the lost scion to the lands. Starting with this lot."

The maester sidled up to his Queen. "Er. Is Maisy short for anything?"

"Mairead. Er. Mairead Gospel Drinkwelle."

"Er. Not any more," said the Maister. Then faced the gathering crowd and used his Crier Voice. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All hail and swear fealty to Her Majesty the Queen! All hail and swear fealty to Her Majesty, Queen Mairead Gospel Ap Pendragon, rightwise born Queen of England!"

The crowd dutifully chorused, "Hail the new Queen!" thrice over as they unanimously bent the knee.

Maisy, done with holding the sword aloft, clutched it to her ample chest. "Er. This means I keep this now, right?"

"That, and the entire country," said Merlin. "Yes."

#  Challenge #009: Revenge is Purring

If you truly hate someone give them a baby bear. Comment from Historical source. Nobody mentioned Bears just get big. But what if you give them a pregnant female house cat? – Anon Guest

Across societies, across worlds, there are things that could be counted as gifts - but definitely aren't. Drum kits for the hated one's children. A bear cub. A baby ape. A dragon's egg. All of those and more can only be called trouble. And then there is the coup de grace of malevolent gifts for a despised individual.

A pregnant housecat. Specifically, a _fluffy_ pregnant housecat. Which makes it difficult to tell that said cat is even pregnant at all.

Sadistic observers know well what happens next. The cat will have her litter in a secret place, safe and secure for her kittens. The new owner will not be immediately aware that they are even there. Cats, of course, are stealthy predators that can also be prey. It's in their vested interest to conceal their helpless young. Then the owner suddenly finds out that they have four to six cute, fluffy little kittens of doubtful parentage. But they are adorable.

Surely, it can't hurt to keep them for a little bit.

This is the logic that leads to feline-infested houses, complaints from the neighbours, and a general dip in the population of small animals in the surrounding area. By the time the kittens are not quite kittens, any more, their mother is pregnant again. Shifting said kittens now that they are no longer so adorable is a task comparable to sisyphus'.

In a year, maybe two, the in-breeding begins.

There are too many kittens. Too many cats. The neighbours complain about a smell that the Despised Recipient is now nose-blind to. Expenses are high. Legalities are pursued. Ruin is almost imminent.

The Despised Recipient, being too soft-hearted to destroy all those cats and kittens, takes them and everything that's left to a quiet little farm in the middle of nowhere. They are becoming a crazed cat person, and your problems with them have effectively ended.

#  Challenge #010: The Stakes

A wager will often get results when pleading fails. – Anon Guest

One has to be wealthy to be eccentric. If you're poor, you're just _odd_. People could tell that Felwar Nassidd was an eccentric from a long line of eccentrics. The first dead-giveaway was the name. The second was their Wagers of Benevolence.

They laid a two hundred _billion_ dollar bet that a town wouldn't be able to completely convert to green energy, and feed the populace proper nutrition at the same time. They made it global. And sat back and watched as the money-hungry mayors suddenly became benevolent dictators with a plan to eradicate all the food deserts in their field of influence.

The city that won had begun with a head start, because they were heavily liberal, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the _trillion_ dollar bet that an electoral county couldn't do the same. Felwar could well afford it. They were the richest person in the world. They had incomprehensible amounts of money and the government kept wanting to give them more.

Billions, trillions, quadrillions, it didn't matter much to Felwar. They were a winning score with all the cheat codes activated. People gave them stuff just for being Felwar. They never had to fret about anything. Especially taxes.

And after showing the assorted industries that green energy hardly hurt anyone, they went ahead and purchased every single fossil-fuel extraction system and gradually shut them down. Those who worked in those industries were taught - at Felwar's expense - to apply their skills in far more benevolent areas.

The world was... well... it was _reformed_. In all senses of the word.

When education was globally available to everyone, when there was no longer such a thing as living below the poverty line, when the entire world had access to good food, and the bees had come back from the brink. When the entire world had seen what a little _benevolence_ could do. When all the conservative arguments had been demolished, one by one... that was when Felwar tracked down Sally.

Sally Jones. Felwar's old college roommate. Who lived in a modest little suburban home that now had two electric cars. Whose yard had been an edible garden _before_ Felwar's considerable meddling. Who greeted Felwar with a smile and a laugh and got a display down from off her study wall.

It was a two-dollar bill. Surrounded by the words, _In Case of Felwar Winning, Break Glass._

Felwar broke it with a hammer made of gold. Just because they could. And presented Sally with the hammer as a gift. Only the two of them understood the joke inherent.

Sally said, "Bet'cha five bucks you won't do proper and truly equal tax reform."

She would always say that the look on Felwar's face was worth more than Felwar could ever have.

#  Challenge #011: The Caring Gap

Their world was games, and Facebook and selfies. Then they wound up in an emergency ward and discovered electric lives are no substitute for the real thing.

[AN: You clearly have no understanding of modern connectivity. AKA: "You dang kids get off of your social media and get a real life!" ::shakes cane::]

Alice was technically a Cam Girl and technically a Gamer. In reality, that meant grinding assorted games for a pitiful income per game per hour, and taking selfies at least four times a day. In the eyes of a certain generation, she was lazy and vain.

The fact was, she was doing everything she could to raise enough to (a) keep alive, and (b) pay off the debt she owed for a degree she'd got for a job that had been shipped off to a different country. She ran a Patreon. She had an Etsy shop. She had a Ko-fi account. She spent every hour of every day scraping for pennies and doing whatever she could to get someone to pass her a couple of dollars.

She barely made it to the poverty line, lived on food stamps, and kept looking for what everyone else called "a real job". She had more friends online than she had friends in the neighbourhood. Especially considering that the entire population were practically vagrants and, much like Alice, scraping to make rent and eat at the same time.

Alice was lucky that the landlord came around for an inspection shortly after she collapsed from malnutrition. She was not lucky that the landlord decided that she could live without her phone or laptop and confiscated them in lieu of rent before calling the paramedics.

It took her a week into her recovery to beg the hospital to let her send out an emergency message to her followers. Twitter, Instagram, and her blog account were the three largest winners, so she used those to link to all the ones that earned her money.

The ambulance trip, the hospital stay, her medical care... all of it came to her in full force because no insurance company would cover her and she was red-taped out of ObamaCare. Her time on welfare ran out years ago. She had no means by which to pay for her bills and only the fabulously wealthy could declare themselves bankrupt.

So she appealed to her 'virtual' friends, and even got a message out to Facebook. Where her alleged real friends were.

In a way, all the ageing baby boomers were correct. Electric lives were no substitute for the real thing. Electric friends were nothing like the real ones.

The people she knew in meatspace never shifted a finger nor sent her a dollar. But the thousands of people who followed her shenanigans helped her pay for her bills and got her back on her feet. Or what passed for it in a world where a fraction of the people earned a majority of the income.

Her selfies were low rating amongst the followers who had used them as spank material, but the ones who actually cared kept donating whatever they had to spare.

There was even one among the Millennial poor who had enough legal expertise to get Alice her laptop and phone back from the landlord, and then declare the confiscation an act of theft. Since it was clearly removal of means, then it was a malicious act, and the landlord had to pay a fine.

Not that such a fine made much of an impact on the landlord. But it did mean that Alice could live rent-free for six months. More than enough time to get just that little bit ahead. Just enough to see a way out of the poverty pit that described Alice's life.

It was too bad about the taxes that sent her right back down to where she started. Below the poverty line.

#  Challenge #012: Debunked Beliefs

Non-human sentients are used to thinking of humans as impossibly durable daredevils of highly questionable sanity. However, historical human science fiction, pre-first contact, typically has humans depicting themselves as either ordinary everymen and everywomen in a world full of sentients who were stronger, smart, harder to kill, and/or had space magic at their disposal. Humans were surprised when their cynicism didn't play out. Aliens are shocked that humans could have ever considered themselves as such. – Anon Guest

"And this one is known as...?"

"Farscape," said the human. "One of the more imaginative ones. The aliens didn't always follow the human-with-bits-on model. Pity the people making it cancelled it."

A figure with a clamshell head and no nose appeared on the screen, the most alien looking alien that the human imagination had concocted for their screens to date. It was beautiful. "Why did they cancel it? This is wonderful."

"Basically? The television station that was making it didn't want to be. The nation in charge was more about sports than art." The human shrugged. "Humans are nuts. Apparently, even _this_ level of science fiction was beneath them. They said it wasn't making enough money, but... it was."

They listened to the dialogue, reading the Galstand subtitles underneath. "Did they all just say that the human is puny?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm showing you. This is one of the shows that really rubbed it in, you know? There was a whole running gag about it."

"But... you are space orcs, as you say."

The human laughed. "Yeah. We didn't know that at the time. We just... looked around at everything that could possibly kill us on _our_ world and thought, _The universe is bound to be four times as mean_ and ran with it. Plus ninety percent of science fiction is a thin veil over invasion fantasies, so..." they shrugged. "We got a lot of this."

"What was it like when your kind found out?"

"A lot of laughing and claiming they were talking bullshit. On both sides, as it happens."

#  Challenge #013: The Helpful Cup

Hot sweetened tea and maybe a biscuit or sandwich will help to solve most problems. – Anon Guest

In the grand scheme of things, Britanians never expect much out of the Tea Lady. Some sage advice, a rambling story about their youngest, and, of course, tea. If you knew how to play your cards right, you might get a Jammy Dodger or a Scotch Finger. That was the way it had always been. Until Ambassador Harry.

So far, she had helped the odd little alien stabilise their atmosphere regulators with duck tape, fixed the fans with a hairpin, and disarmed the alien security measures with one of her support stockings. Now they were at the ships' power, Sai'dut was looking rather upset.

Harriet Jones frowned a little. This sort of insect creature had been friendly and open enough, but now she worried that something was amiss. She was still using her business manners, and therefore acted like a kindly grandmother type despite being not nearly thirty, just yet. "Something wrong, love?"

Sai'dut indicated the battery, and used their common language of Broken English. "Battery empty. Needing acid. Special acid. Not knowing where is."

"What acid?" asked Harry.

Sai'dut didn't have the words, but they could draw. Carefully, a set of intersecting circles and lines. That became a five-pointed star of hexagons that Harry knew very well. She saw it whenever Brian needed a top-up.

"Brian's mug!" she dashed back to where she left her tea trolley and got the mug with its diagram, raced back with it, showing it to Sai'dut. "This? You need this?"

Sai'dut got very excited, fluttering their vestigial wings. "This. Yes! Yes, yes! This. Much this!"

_Now_ it was worth wrestling the tea trolley and its urn all the way to the engine room. So far, Sai'dut had been using her supply of Monte Carlos and Milk Arrowroots to stay alive, but had kept a wide berth from her hot tea. Sai'dut continued to keep a wide berth.

"Dangerous container," they said.

"Yes, love," said Harry. Possibly on automatic. "It's full of hot tea," and she poured some from the urn into Brian's mug. She pointed to the contents, then pointed to the diagram, and then to the empty battery.

It took a few goes, and one cautious scanning, but Sai'dut got the picture. Once the power was back on, half the battle to save both crews was over. Poor Sai'dut was quite alarmed that she had some to drink. Harry had to explain that their version of battery acid was humanity's lovely cuppa. And then she had to stop herself from handing it out to Sai'dut's people. They got the biscuits. Her folks got the tea.

There was very little that couldn't be solved with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

#  Challenge #014: Hour of Need

It had been a hard day today, she Needed chocolate! – Anon Guest

So. Let's recap. Best beloved and most capable person in the house arrested for a crime they couldn't possibly commit. On a day when she had needed to run around between four different destination, with stops on the way to pick up whatever. And stops at the bank to get her running money for the week because their mutual funds had been frozen and their family still needed to eat.

During the worst storms that the season had to offer.

Everything she needed to work in order to get the hell on with her life had decided that this day was the day to need updates, reboots, and called-in experts to battle with the devices in question. Her plans were disrupted, changed around, and just about blown up in a nuclear holocaust. Only there wasn't actually any nuclear holocaust. And she had to divert herself at a spare moment to actually go down and provide her Beloved's alibi.

Everything that could stop would. Everything that could break would. Everything that could get in her way, did.

She was in and out of her car - which broke down and needed new tyres in a hurry - in and out of the storms, in and out of blazing hot air and icy cold air conditioning when she wasn't in and out of assaulting levels of rain. Up and down like Puck had lead them in Shakespeare. Three tanks of fuel. Never a moment's rest... and all the take-out places had closed because of a terrorist claim that some random place had been infected with botulism.

She had the kids. She had some idea of what to do with the food in the freezer. Which may have even worked if, five seconds after she put her keys down for the last time, the entire neighbourhood hadn't had a blackout.

This was the worst fucking day, and tomorrow wasn't looking that fantastic either.

So she let the kids have ice cream for dinner and got out her stash. Top market. Gourmet. Luxury chocolate that she had sealed in her only-when-I-need-it box for a rainy day.

Well... it wasn't just raining.

She dried off. Encouraged the kids to dry off, and retreated to her bed with a hot water bottle and an entire bar of _Caramel Explosion Bliss_ as well as a pint of something sugary and too bad for her diet from the freezer. And saved the chocolate for last. Because, by GOD... she absolutely needed that balm for her tattered soul.

#  Challenge #015: A Grand Day Off

Shoes off, comfy clothes, and good read. No phones, no Internet connection, a little bit of Heaven, and Room Service thrown in. Best Break Ever!

Sometimes, you just need to get away. And sometimes, the problem with going anywhere is that the things you want to get away from tend to follow you around. And today, Ana needed to get away from the entire world.

To that end, she had carefully arranged this day. A new book. A collection of finger foods in assorted packets. Including beverages. Ana signed off from her social media, turned off her phone, left her computer off, and set up a nest. Comfy bed. Easy access to the ensuite next door. She called it her ensuite, since her couch was also her bed, but in reality, it was just the bathroom for the tiny closet that was her flat.

Ana poured herself a drink, took a nibble into her fingers, and cracked open her new book. Savoured that New Book Smell. And read the first words that took her away into another world. It may not be better than sex, but it was better than sleep. She rearranged herself for maximum comfort whenever she liked. There was no rush. No demands. Nobody needing her. Nobody could _get_ to her.

And nobody understood what relief it could be to just... divorce oneself from the rest of the world for an entire day. Well. Not unless they were like Ana, whose days were devoted to the needs, wants, and howling outrage of people who honestly believed that her time was somehow less valuable than theirs.

The people who would use her as a resource. Send her fetching. Send her carrying. Send her away from some other task that some other someone had thrust her into. Send her into getting into trouble with one of her lower-ranking bosses because _they_ demanded she be somewhere else, doing something else.

When everyone around you demands your time, it is a luxury to take it for yourself.

Until there was a knock on the door.

Ana ignored it. Twice. On the third time, she extracted herself from her nest and used the peephole to see who was being so rude as to ignore the "Do Not Disturb" placard she had hung on her doorknob.

Shit. Fuck. Adrianson. A fifth-level boss of hers from one of the three jobs she had scheduled this day off from. He clearly did not understand that she was a human person with needs, and one of those needs was an actual, complete, day of rest.

He knocked on the door again. "Ana! I know you're in there!" Thump thump thump thump. "I need you to show me how to do the thing."

Ana had left written instructions, laminated, and tied to the coffee machine. In a very readable font. With pictures. In large print. And yet, Adrianson had nothing better to do than demand that, once again, that Ana showed him how to use the coffee machine. Or, as he put it, 'do the thing'.

Adrianson had risen to levels beyond the Peter Principal. And insisted that all Ana had to do to get a promotion and a raise was work even harder than her extant twenty-four-seven, at three jobs, whilst he simultaneously hired expertise from outside the company and never promoted anyone ever.

What he assumed was that, if he made enough noise, Ana would come out and be his thing to use again for the remainder of the day. And thereby be upper-lower-middle-management's resource at the same time. What he didn't know was that Ana had prepared for this, too.

She returned to her nest and put in her ear plugs. Cancelling out Adrianson's racket. Re-opened her book, and ate another Tim Tam.

She'd check hourly to see if the landlord had noticed or someone had complained and got him exiled. Or maybe she wouldn't.

Maybe, just maybe, Adrianson would learn how to fucking read and damn well follow a set of very clear instructions written for an obvious idiot. _And maybe they'll realise I'm the backbone of the place and actually promote me and pay me what I'm worth._

Ana snorted very quietly at her own joke. Bosses these days didn't recognise talent or competency. They just recognised the payoff. And for them, her position meant that they had a dogsbody that was really, really cheap. But since she was their _only_ dogsbody, the system kind of collapsed without her.

If they threatened to fire her tomorrow, she would simply say, "Okay." She had her resumé ready to go and updated it weekly. She had plenty of chances to start up little businesses based on what she knew. And while they were busy looking for someone to do the everything Ana did for them, she would be setting her own hours and running things in a sensible fucking manner for a change.

That would be almost as good as this holiday.

Almost.

#  Challenge #016: Toxic, Useless, and Ugly

"A man of words and not of deeds, is like a garden full of weeds."

"I will work _so_ hard," he said. "I won't even have time for golf. I won't have time to tweet. I'm talking bloody knuckles. I'm talking wearing out the grindstone with my nose. I'm talking twenty-four-seven. Hard. Sweaty. Work. For you. For all of you." And then he spent more days on the golf course, on holiday, or on leave than any other leader to date.

"I'm not a racist," he said. "I am the least racist person in the world. I don't even know what prejudice is. Look at me. I've hired five black people in as many days," who had quit, in outrage, but that wasn't important right now. What mattered was the sound bites. "I strive for equality in everything I do. I want it. I need it like air. I just want to make things completely fair." Two days after gaining office, he signed into law a ruling that allowed any person of authority to deport any person of colour that they deemed 'suspicious' to any country of their choosing.

"I'm a thorough-going feminist," he said. "I'm all for women everywhere. Equal work, equal pay. Hell, those moms who choose to stay at home? Heroes. They should get a medal. They should at least get paid. I mean -what- motherhood is like four degree jobs going at the same time. You should get paid for that. You should honestly get paid for that. It's a lot of hard work. A lot of it. And hard work should be rewarded." One day after gaining office, he signed into law what the news called the "Back to the Kitchen Bill" that made it illegal for married women to seek employment in anything other than daycare, cleaning, or kitchen staff jobs that were not the head chef. Two days later, he classified teaching as a daycare job. And lowered the minimum wage threshold for women. Publicly stating that women "would just get pregnant and quit anyway."

He said a great many things. His actions spoke the opposite. He proclaimed to love his fifth wife with utter devotion, just like he'd done for the other four. And for his entire term of office, the sexual assault claims never stopped. The allegations of affairs never stopped. And yet, even when he was caught, publicly, groping a woman who was actively fighting him off, she got jail time because the leader was capable of spinning so many words into the air that they seemed to warp reality itself.

It became a crime to 'lead men on' and any violence that happened to a woman was legitimised. It became a crime to be the wrong colour, and any violence was casually ignored. It became a crime to be "the wrong type" and their deaths were ruled suicides, regardless of the circumstances.

But everyone agreed, when the country was blighted and ruined by his actions, when the population was nothing more than narrow-minded brutes without an idea in their heads, that there was one lie that covered them all. One lie that they all believed at the time, and didn't realise how badly they were paying for it.

"I will make this country the greatest," he had said, and gutted any kind of glory out of it.

[AN: The temptation was so strong to put up a pic of a Google Correction saying, _Did you mean Donald Trump?_ ]

#  Challenge #017: The Biological Solution

[End the story with this sentence] "Behold... the mighty predator."

First came the epithelials, and there was the Dust Problem. Amelioration worked, to a degree, but cleansing schedules soon became hell for multiple species. And someone discovered Fhitts and Squidges. Small, jellyfish-like animals that floated around via hydrogen gas bags. They either filter-fed as they drifted around on the air currents, or -in the case of the Fhitts- jetted about in active pursuit.

Then the Fhitts and the Squidges became popular. Cleansing schedules were eagerly jettisoned. Until an overpopulation problem caused both to clog the air filters. Something, plainly, had to be done. Filter patrols and culls were initiated, and a careful balance was difficult to maintain.

And then someone discovered Oshits. Decapodal, exoskeletal, insectoid predators that hunted by chasing down anything that disturbed the air currents. They were death on Fhitts, and some sub-species evolved to capture Squidges. And, for a while, things were easier. Filter patrols toned down. Culls were unnecessary. But the price to pay was the occasional spider-mimic landing on the face or the body.

Some bio-tech company began a test case on a distant station. One of those ones that had been budget-cut to one staff member and a lot of automated machines. There, the reports flooded in. Pest animal populations were dropping like a stone. And the human staff was encountering less problems in their day to day duties. Even the emotional quotients were rising. It was clear that this company had come up with the perfect control element.

So they went ahead with the big reveal, in a press conference beamed across civilised space.

"Assorted Cogniscents, I bid you welcome. For decades, ships and stations have been struggling with balancing their onboard biota, meeting the needs of cleanliness and solving the problems caused by solving the previous problem. After extensive research into Deathworlder organisms–" a collective gasp from the live audience, "– we have isolated one with the potential we needed. We found a small predator with litter capabilities and self-policing population control. One with a social hierarchy and a dependable mating cycle. One that would adapt to their environment, regardless of the particulars and one that was capable of recognising cogniscents as allies and prey."

Images filled the screen. Some were recognisably from the infuriating game _Dog or Not Dog?_ because of the watermark. These were terran predatory quadrupeds. Fur-bearing mammals, and one image contained a silhouette of a Thorthad for scale. They were much smaller than the smallest known cogniscent. But then again, so were the Oshits.

"We have taken this genetic pattern and altered it significantly. The result is recognisably the same kind of animal, but with important alterations." The basic pattern and the altered animal came up, side-by-side. "We have eliminated seasonal shedding in favour of an introductory period in which the animal adapts to the conditions of the station _once_. Following that four-month period, shedding is limited. Further, we have shortened the fur so that extant debris eliminators will have no problem with any stray follicles. We have enhanced their digestion capabilities so that they will be able to ingest all known pests, and made all their genetic adaptions dominant traits so that we need never be concerned about cross-breeds. Further, their breeding season is under cogniscent control. When you desire more of our product, simply spray some common traffic corners with a patented pheromone, and breeding will commence."

Dubious applause from the audience. Nobody wanted random Deathworlder breeding on _their_ station.

"Assorted Cogniscents, it is my pride to announce the latest in bio-engineering solutions. Clean. Controllable. Deadly to that we wish eliminated. Companionable, colour-coded for Station Maintenance, and trainable. I give you... the Station's Kitty. Or, 'Skitty' for short." The cover came off the cage, and what looked like a regular, ginger feline was distractedly washing itself with its tongue. "Behold... the mighty predator!"

#  Challenge #018: A Place to Fit

The adventures/escapades of a Numidid raised by/among humans

AN: This continues on from [ this thing ]

Family is more than the people that excreted you, so goes the galactic saying. Family can be a bunch of loner weirdoes and their adopted Numidid keet called Pip. Scavenger M. DeVries and his daughter, Pip, cut quite a figure in the news, and they did so for all of forty-eight hours.

Because that was when the Galactic Alliance rediscovered a colony world named Amity. It wasn't a Terran colony. Not precisely. It was also a Numidid colony. One that welcomed avian scientists. DeVries read the news out loud to his daughter as they shared breakfast. A rich and aromatic Bug Stir-fry with all the little extras for a growing Numidid and a side-dish of supplement stuff for each of them.

" _Tall-mama new home?_ " Pip asked. She huddled close in the special pouch DeVries had made for her comfort and security. She was practicing her Numidid at every chance. Heritage and all that noise.

"Reckon I could make enough to move there, maybe. Their ambassador's coming here. Maybe you could appeal for retroactive citizenship. It's happened before."

" _Numidid, tall-mama..._ "

DeVries sighed. He was worse at it than his kid. " _Making money... maybe go. Talking ambassador? Having chances._ "

Pip hooted at that. She gained great amusement out of her Pripa making worse mistakes than she did.

DeVries loaded up their shared Let's Learn app and set to figuring out what they should have been saying. Which included learning the phrases for "I'd like some employment from you," and other vital necessities. He had sold his scavenger ship to get them a home. Even if it was a home where neither of them were particularly welcome. In a domicile nobody wanted because it was right on the border of the Deathworlder Ghetto.

He realised that Station Admin would probably be glad to see the backs of both himself and Pip.

It took a lot of juggling, in the end. The domicile could not be sold - not yet - so half was paid out and the other half held in escrow for maintenance. Which meant that DeVries and Pip had to hitch a lift with Mama Tatyana. One of DeVries' old drinking buddies. She was getting on in years - for a scrapper - and getting bored. And during the trip by way of the Long River for the most value they could grab, she came up with The Plan.

"Little Bird needs parentals, right?" said Mama, one morning, apropos of nothing.

"Yeah, well... she has me," Davies allowed. "I'm her Pripa."

"Not a lot of call for scrappers out by Amity way," allowed Mama. "But freighters? They always need _freighters_. And she need to learn the difference between girl-humans and boy-humans, son."

DeVries blushed. "Uh. Yeah. That's... that's a sticking point. The primers were old and free... andum..."

"Sexist?" prompted Mama.

"Yeah." DeVries considered it. "You want to cohabit with me 'n' Pip? We'd be like... the _worst_ influences on this child."

Mama laughed. "You say that like it's a _bad_ thing."

They never _quite_ made it planet-side. There was something about an open sky that struck abject terror into both Max and Mama. Pip didn't mind it, though. She loved the open air. She loved flying lessons with the others, and loved the training courses with the humans and their wingsuits. Even though she was an 'outsider' and therefore more fragile than her Amity playmates, she toughened up quick.

She even volunteered for shots that would fortify her bones so that she'd be equal with the others of her new home. Shots that were given to any Numidid who had spent time in microgravity, thereafter. But keets like her were the guinea pigs for the research for the rest of Numidkind.

Pip spent her summers surfing and her winters up with her parentals, hauling goods from here to there and back again. Learning and translating the latest of the Dirty Spacer Ballads for the education and horror of her classmates on the surface. She was just as rough-and-tumble as her Pripa Max, just as gung-ho as her Secpa Mama, and almost as incautious as a human, which was saying something.

And she was twice as curious about everything as any scientist on Amity. In brief, she became something of a legend in her lifetime.

#  Challenge #019: Reminded of the Babe?

Don't do something permanently stupid just because you're temporarily upset. – Anon Guest

_My mother said/ I never should/ play with the faeries in the wood..._ \- nursery rhyme.

The fae folk had her baby. Toddler. Even though her child could walk and talk after a fashion and perform simple tasks, Esa was still her baby and would be so until the day Risso died. Which might be soon, considering that she was marching into Fae territory with naught but her apron and her rolling pin to protect her and her Esa. Well. That, and one secret weapon that she had in a sack on her back.

They let her get in. They always let you get in. It's getting out again that's the worry. The fae like to have sport with mortals, and making you think you've won is their favourite game. So it was no surprise to find herself faced with three identical Esa's and a smug Fae making her guess which one was her Esa.

Risso hit the smug fae with her rolling pin. "I said give me my child, not fart me about," she snapped. "You give me back my Esa and I will keep my sack tied shut."

The Fae blinked at her. No mortal had been so bold in a thousand years. Perhaps more. "This is not the way we do things, here," it protested. The world swirled, and there was a gigantic maze with a castle at the center. "You can win your Esa if you–"

Risso hit it with the rolling pin again. Harder. "I _said_ 'give me my child'. Are you going to do that, or am I going to untie my sack?"

The world spun again, and the entire place became a nightmare of architecture such as Escher might put together. If it was made with the bones of those who failed such trials in the past. "A competition. All you have to do is catch–"

Risso gave it a solid clout around the ear-hole. "That's it," she announced, and put the sack solidly down from her back. Untying the knots that had kept it shut and turned it into something of a backpack. "Out you come, Fluff."

Fluff was the farmhouse cat. Death on mice. A plague on rats. Anything small and scurrying was her meat and milk. And more than once, she had brought in rabbits for the family and got her fair share of rabbit stew. And since she was a cat and technically a dumb animal, she was immune to the Faeries and their glamours.

She was also the most malevolent and deadliest cat in Christian lands.

It was like... well... it was like setting a cat amongst the pigeons. Like loosing a terrier upon a barrel full of rats. The world spun and whirled and shattered and finally dissolved into the foul cesspit that was the truth of Faerieland. Fluff was running about like a mad thing, chasing down the tiny, insectoid Faeries with every evidence of feline glee.

Risso made herself comfortable, counting the Pater Nosters as she waited, and working on her spinning. She had a full spindle of flax by the time the Fae came to beg her.

"Take that creature away! Take it away from us. We beseech thee. We will give thee gold and jewels. We will grant thee wishes."

"All I want is my Esa returned to me, just as she left the mortal realm."

There was a pop, and Esa rushed into Risso's arms. She looked like Esa. Smelled like Esa. And even had Esa's strange little words as she spoke.

"If you have deceived me," warned Risso, "I shall return with the cat."

They heaped her with superlatives and flowery language, but they swore on all that was holy that this was indeed her child, born of her womb and please, please, take the angry furry thing away.

"Clear me a path to my home, then," said Risso. Picking up her Esa. "And I shall take the cat with me."

Fluff was lured to her side with a saucer and some milk, and then returned to the sack.

Faerie-kind was keen to see her and Esa leave. And the instant she got home, she got Esa baptised, lest the Fae folk be stupid enough to try again. They would not take a child welcomed into any house of God.

She was glad that she hadn't followed her first impulse and demanded the town guard help her. Their iron would not be tolerated, nor allowed to enter the realms of the Fae. Better to have a well-thought plan and a secret weapon, than to rush in with all emotions bare and no thought to what happens next.

#  Challenge #020: Considering Coconuts

<http://otherwindow.tumblr.com/post/168918610430/> – Anon Guest

Merfolk didn't want to have much to do with the surface. There was plenty more to eat under the water and they knew it. But the two-legs-like-us[3] were getting deeper and deeper nets, and something had to be done. Let's just say mistakes were made on both sides. Most notable of these is coconuts.

For eons of Merfolk civilisation, they understood coconuts as ill omens. Something that is made to float, sinking slowly to the bottom of the sea? That was just as much a herald of disaster as -say- something going amiss in the stars is to us. And since they were found with their husks rotted off, the merfolk spun the legend that they were human eggs, rejected by their mothers. Much in the same way that humans call shark eggs a "mermaid's purse".

By comparison, the truth was boring, as Iiriita found out when a human caught her in their deep net, and injured her fin. She had to stay in a tide pool while she healed and the human who caught her brought her food by way of an apology. They were a shipwrecked human, Iiriita found out as their words and understanding came together. Only able to build a small boat that would not survive the first reef, and knowing that building a bigger boat would only come to ruin, as demonstrated by the decaying wreck on the sharp rocks at low tide.

The human, named Mel, had cut their nets short so that no other merfolk would get caught like Iiriita had. Mel learned the words of the Mer, as well as she could, and Iiriita did likewise for the words of the humans. And together, they learned.

The first lesson Iiriita learned was that coconuts were fruit. She had shrieked in alarm as Mel had taken one of her eggs and cracked it open. But it was not an egg. Inside was sweet water and a crunchy white meat that could be squeezed for milk. It was stunning to know.

And when Iiriita went back to her home in the sea, after she helped Mel cross the deadly borders of that island and return to her human home, that was all that Merfolk knew of the surface. There was a thing called 'fruit' and one was 'coconut' and not 'bad-to-fall'. They were heavy and hard and could hurt if they fell from a thing called 'tree'.

And the Merfolk learned that fruit could hurt you.

When a ship sank from the surface world, the Merfolk almost immediately raided it for anything useful. But this one... it had crates that leaked floating-things. Things of all colours like the poisonous fish. Red and yellow and green and every shade in-between. And coconuts, shorn to look like eggs. One of the crates had a human word. Fruit. The human word for coconuts.

This was all coconuts?

The Merfolk did what they could to drive it all to shore before it could fall and hurt someone. And then they saw seagulls - which would eat _anything_ \- pecking at all these different coconuts. Turtles and tortoises snapped out big chunks. And one of Iiriita's granddaughters took a chance and bit one of the red ones.

It was sweet. And good. And not poison at all.

For centuries after the Ocean Amnesty, Merfolk insisted on calling assorted fruits 'coconut'. Which lead to some interesting miscommunication issues. The Mer Ambasadors attempted to clarify, but it only got worse. Apples were variously red, green, or pink coconuts. Pears were pointy coconuts. Bananas became 'dick coconuts'... and so on.

It took humanity some time to learn that the Merfolk word for 'coconut' was 'death-from-above' when it wasn't 'human-egg'.

[3] Some merfolk words don't translate well

#  Challenge #021: Art in All Forms

Alien walking past human's quarters hears a harsh, vaguely rhythmic sound.

Alien knocks on human's door, enters, and finds that it's audio sensory organs are assaulted by this noise, the noise is so loud it is almost painful for the Alien's ears.

Alien: "Human, what is this noise?"

Human: "This is my music, you don't like it?"

Alien: "I don't know, the volume is a bit high and it sounds rather harsh, what is this music called?"

Human: "Many humans don't like it either, it's called heavy metal." – Anon Guest

Some things to consider. The noise-of-disaster was pre-recorded. The human was apparently listening to it in order to _relax_ , because they were still engaged on 'chilling' on their soft furnishings. Certainly, their arms were at a strange aspect, but Grox had learned not to question human habits.

"I had presumed that you were in danger from the noise."

Human Lyse flicked a button on her vambrace and sat up. The music stopped. "No, I like to appreciate it on a cellular level. If it doesn't shake your bones, then it isn't any good, you know?"

"I do not know," confessed Grox. "This is not... my... fruity paste?"

"Jam," corrected Human Lyse. "Close. Understood. Was I causing harm to you or anyone aboard? 'Cause I'm sure the baffles I installed aren't doing their thing... Well. Maybe not all of it."

"The noise levels outside your quarters are tolerable," said Grox. "Yet I remain concerned. This volume is safe for your kind?"

"For limited definitions of 'safe'. I have a payment plan for my inevitable inner-ear rejuvenation when it finally goes. And I try not to appreciate it like this unless I'm pissed off at the universe."

Grox finally found something he could do about this. "Which theobromine preparation do you need to alleviate your symptoms."

Human Lyse snorted. "Chocolate. Definitely the best drinking chocolate _and_ six of my pralines."

Grox winced. This _had_ been a bad day. "I shall circulate the alerts and prepare the bovine lactate froth for you."

"You're a pal."

#  Challenge #022: Where's the Cheevs?

Pokémon Go... in space

Trends come, trends go, and some are revived, zombie like, from a place where they should have stayed buried. You can make up your minds about which ones are which. For a patch of time in the 1930's, the name Judith became incredibly popular, and was rarely that popular again. For a spate in the 1980's, every girl child was named Kylie. And pretty much since the 1980's until the current era, there has been Pokémon.

Like Beatlemania, it ebbs and rises, but it never truly dies. For every generation, there is an era in which they discover the four lads from Liverpool, or the obsessive joy of catching them all. And since space is vast, the viral spread of these trends can be like a confusing round of Which Flu Is This?

Rael swore under his breath at his own vambrace's app. He'd lost five rounds of _Dog or Not Dog?_ with a five-year-old on the same tram. Now that he was in time-out, he had the time to notice that Shayde had gone ominously quiet. She was not playing _Match Three Dazzle_ , which was her usual go-to for filling in time on the trams. She was, however, gurning at the screen and holding her dominant hand in a peculiar pose.

He peeked at her vambrace screen. "That's not _Funny Face Go Gurn_ ," he said.

Shayde kept staring at the screen, and the bouncing circle that slowly came to a halt and scattered stars on her screen. " _Yus_ ," she hissed. "Gottim." She surfaced from her inner world. "It's _Pokémon Go Galaxy_ ," she said. "They just got a patch in where ye can trade yer pokémons fer stuff ye cannae get where yer at[4]. Heard ye can trade a thousand mudkips fer a Voidfish." She tapped at her vambrace and displayed her achievements. She had evidently captured eight hundred and thirty mudkips. As well as three hundred rattata, five hundred and forty pidgeys, and two hundred and fifty-eight magicarp.

Unsurprisingly, the achievement was called _Garbage Collector_.

"You're one of _them_ aren't you?" he said. "One of those relentless achievement collectors who are out for every meaningless trophy you can get."

Shayde flicked her screen to her trophy case. Virtual badges and buttons in a gleaming display glimmered at him. "Maybe," she admitted. "It helps tha' I knew pokémon from before I left. I had the card game before it was an anime, ye ken."

And one of her achievements was _Ancient Knowledge_. Which also gave her a rare champion Pokémon. Because _of course it did_. "That's the one that's been champion at Nik's virtual gym for three months, isn't it?"

Shayde grinned at him. "I knew you were in'tae it."

"No. I've merely caught the periphery from _other_ obsessives like yourself."

She elbowed him in a friendly manner. "G'wan. Show me yer pokémons..."

He sighed. He was playing a very staid strategy. "I have it automated so that I don't have to micromanage it all. This is just an experiment, of course. I hardly even check it."

Shayde saw the _Daily Check_ achievement and doubtingly said, "Mm- _hm_."

[4] Pokémon Go needs to do this. For realsies.

#  Challenge #023: The Only Sensible One

"We are a crew of 7 persons : 2 deathworlders, 4 havenworlders and a sentient AI. The havenworlders are the scientist and the AI is the medic. I'm the only human and the security officer. What is my problem ? Well, let me think about it... . The captain is an adrenaline junky who might send the ship in a high danger zone just for his rush, the doc is obsessed with humans, and the havenworlders are just... too curious without self-preservation instincts.... Two days ago one of them found and lit a flare because"it's pretty". Inside the ship.

Did you ever feel like you are the last sane man on the ship ?" – Anon Guest

I used to joke that I'm not the security chief, I'm the ship's mother. It's... not a joke any more. Or at least, it's stopped being funny. I'm looking after four little tiny bird people with breakable damn bones whose first instinct with cliffs is to jump off and go, 'wheee!' And I'm one of those species for whom that instinct is a _bad_ thing. Then there's Grox. A heavy-worlder who can do that sort of thing, bounce, and laugh about it after.

Let's just say I added wing and parachute capabilities to my livesuit and leave it at that. And then there's Bosco. Well. I call them Bosco. Their actual designation has way more letters and numbers than I care to pronounce. The most pronounceable part of it sounds something like 'Bosco' and it took us two entire Standard Months to work that one out. Bosco's an AI. One of the ones where their creator actually _aimed_ for that output and not -say- a Deuteronomy situation where a Nae'hyn got bored and made a baby. Like. Out of spare parts.

Bosco's technically a medical probe? Their mind and memory are in a back-up black box set-up with remote connectivity to their body of the day. Technically speaking, Bosco can teleport anywhere within comms range, so long as there's a body there. Ze has a cosmetic form, which is sort of humanoid if you like Daft Punk mixed in with _Metropolis_ and deliberately on the non-human peak of the Uncanny Valley. Oh, and all of hir exploration bodies are (a) organic (b) disposable and (c) capable of being shot from the ship and surviving a sub-orbital cannonade.

Ze likes to jump of cliffs too. Everyone loves flakkin' jumping off of cliffs except for me. Weird for a spacer to hate heights, but it's... _specific_ heights. The deadly ones where the stop at the end will definitely hurt or kill you. High enough to be in orbit, or low enough to survive, I'm cool. I just have this pathological aversion to situations in which I could break a bone or -you know- _die_. But of course, I'm the only human these ratbags know, so I'm the resident expert on Human Stuff.

Bosco's been obsessed with humans and humanity since ze crossed the path of a concert put on by the Consortium of Steam. I tell you. Those robots are a gateway drug or something. Artificial enough for everyone to know they have constraints. Human enough to... well.. they got kicked out of the AI alliance because of their artificial humanity. That's all you need to know.

"Is a fear of heights common amongst humans?" ze will ask, shortly before hurling their current body right the flakk off a cliff that the rest of them have hurtled off.

"Only the ones with _sense_ ," is my usual reply. Pain hurts. It's the ultimate discouragement. But, since it's that or try to abseil down, I usually go with my wings. And screaming. Screaming is _great_ emotional catharsis.

I swear to the Powers That Be, I need six short leashes and all the camomile tea I can get. Every away mission, it's the same thing.

"Trip, stay away from any moving plants!"

"Than, can you just do things the safe– fuckit."

"Eko, I swear if you start licking rocks again..."

"Than. No. Do not– THAN!"

"Lipi... we've discussed taste-testing the local flora. We have _scanners_ for that."

"Yes, Bosco, this level of tremula is perfectly normal for a human un– POWERS _DAMNIT_ THAN! –under this much stress."

"Grox, stop encouraging them!"

"Red choice! RED FLAKKING CHOICE!"

" _THAAAAAAAAAAANNNN_!"

I swear. Pick a God, I will swear... those little scientific birdies have the self-preservation instincts of a concussed whelk.

And I know exactly why, too. They have two big, strong, damn near indestructible Deathworlders coming with to make sure they don't come to any harm. They have tons of fun. I can tell. They flakking _love_ this team makeup. Especially the disposable doctor who can follow them where angels would fear to tread.

But at the end of the day? Come shore leave? I take a spa _week_. A month, if I can swing it. And try to come up with snappy PSA's for my fellow crew that boil down to, _Please don't give the human an aneurysm, and this means you especially, Than._

I'm starting to think that memes might pass these suicidally curious little birdies right by.

#  Challenge #024: Walk it Off...

Human broke his arm and is upset when he saw that he lose his watch.

Human stub his toe and is crying on the floor. – Anon Guest

In the early days of their acceptance into the Greater Galactic Alliance, there was a code. HID. Human In Distress. The greater population had yet to understand humans and, to state a point of fact, still don't. Therefore, a human in any kind of physical or mental pain was a cause for viral concern amongst the larger population.

And since humans had a rather... gung-ho attitude to life, the HID Reports attempted to find a pattern.

Galactic Society was quite upset when they eventually found out that there wasn't one.

Case Files, Lesser Distress:

532410: Human stumbled down some stairs. Extent of injury- minor bleeding, later bruising. Human victim cited for public incivility, rude language. Treatment - bandaging, self-applied. Witnesses state that human spent ten seconds in a stunned state before seeing to their own injuries, uttering some crudities, and walking away from the accident site.

934208: Human cut own hand. Extent of injury - half of fourth phalange amputation. Human cited for mild incivility, suspected rude language. Treatment - seen to by ERT, taken to Medik Central for full vascular re-integration.

Y564U0: Human suffered major fall. Extent of injury - multiple fractures in left arm. No citations for incivility, Human distressed by absence of watch, wedding band.

Case Files, Major Distress.:

GW4R5T: Human giving birth. Extent of injury - Pushing softball-sized head out of golfball-sized hole. Human cited for entirely understandable incivility - all the known swears in a coherent sentence. Human cited for insincere death threats against chosen mate. Treatment - birth assistance, the 'really cool drugs', companionship of fresh young after the fact.

H263E4: Human impacted humerus with corner. Extent of injury - none visible. Human cited for uncivil language - unknown but definite swears. Humans surrounding scene cited for inappropriate mirth. Treatment - surrounding humans advised, 'walk it off'. Further investigation reveals that injured human hurt a nerve cluster known as 'the funny bone'. Health And Safety Practices recommends the rounding off of all public corners to prevent further upsets.

K23T9Y: Off-duty Human impacted floor-level border with minimally protected foot. Extent of injury - Keratin sheath of one pedal phalange bent briefly backwards. Human cited for public screaming, uncivil language - known and unknown swears. Treatment - Human taken to a Quiet Room for painkillers and a calming theobromine solution.

After significant analysis of all available HID reports, the Galactic Committee for Interspecies Understanding could only conclude that the level of distress expressed by a Human can only be predicted by the human in question. They ruled that all injuries should be treated according to their definite severity and not according to the reaction of the Human.

All protestations of, "It's only a flesh wound," are to be ignored.

#  Challenge #025: Good For What Ails You

Person 1 "I'm sick !"

Person 2 "Here, take some herbs."

Person 1 "I cut myself with a knife !"

Person 2 "Here, take some herbs."

Person 1 "I got my arm ripped off !"

Person 2 "Here, take some herbs." – Anon Guest

There are people who believe in herbs, and there are people who _Believe_ in herbs. Talia's dotty neighbour Mackqualieghiegh (pronounced, 'mack-ay-lee-ay' and shortened to 'Mac' before the ink dried on the birth certificate) was one of the ones who _BELIEVED_ in herbs. And, weirdly enough, for her, they always worked. And _when_ it was her, they worked with other people.

It was very strange. Talia was a thorough nerd and researched everything before trying any of it on a scientific basis. Even then, it was a methodical plotting of doses and months of time because every human had different tolerances and reactions. Especially Talia. And yet, every single time, Mac's herbal remedies, grown by Mac, brewed by Mac, and applied by Mac actually _worked_. Like a dream. Like a charm. Like... magic.

Talia, frustrated, asked to see Mac's next herbal remedy brewing session. It was more like cookery, only Mac's work station was outdoors because of the fumes, and in special pots and pans because of some of the herbs in question.

"I remember what you said about cross-contamination," Mac bubbled. Mac always bubbled. She was a bubbly kind of person. "So I immediately went and got a fresh set of pots and pans for the kitchen. I swear, the taste of my dinners improved like _literally_ overnight. And my medicines actually got better, too."

"Say what you like about your granola stuff?" said Talia, "But I am _never_ eating rare chicken."

"Oh, I gave that up. I'm going Keto, now. It's way healthier. Did you know that the stuff they market as 'free range' chicken is only let out into the open for like an hour? You have to research every chicken farm to be sure the meat's even any good."

Talia watched her work. It was pretty mainstream stuff. Wax. Paraffin. Herbs, of course. Preparation was steaming, boiling, steeping, drying, or imbuing - which was slowly cooking the herbs in oil over the passage of hours. Talia had tried to do the same to Mac's instructions. Same herbs. Same ingredients. The same set-up because it was Mac's gear and Talia refused to get her own kit for one experiment. And yet, Talia's batches performed poorly, if at all.

Mac just shrugged it off. "Some people have the knack, I guess. Or the gift. I dunno what it is. It just works."

Which was why Mac was Talia's sure-fire-cure person and Talia was Mac's tech support. Talia lived and was in love with progress and technology. She was science. Mac was... almost magical.

And then came the accident.

It was stupid. Talia got her heel caught in a grating when a taxi-van decided to run a red light whilst not paying complete attention to the road ahead. There was a construction zone and walls and confusion contributing. The courts agreed that it was nobody's fault and Talia's insurance refused to pay for the vital amputation.

Her left foot - shattered and fleshless bones, now - had been cut off to halfway along her shin. Talia was exactly the sort of person to make a mobile out of her broken bones. Mac was exactly the sort of person to apply one of her special poultices to the wound in defiance of modern, medical science.

Modern, medical science was confused and confounded when Talia's leg started _growing back_. At first, they played it off. Talia's body was healing. Some bone regrowth was to be expected. This amount is unusual, but not expected. We'd like to run a few tests to be certain, but we're sure it's fine. This is an unusual case, would you mind us studying you to see what the fuck is going on down there?

The new foot was the clincher.

Something was messed up with Mac's poultice. Of course, the doctors wanted a sample - make that five samples - make that ten - make that... how many can you make in a day, again? - for analysis. But all they ever found was what Mac put in there. Any attempts at replication failed.

But as Talia's bones formed, grew, and her foot came into shape, they couldn't deny it. Mac was _magical_. It had to be her. She was the only common factor in all of this. She was the one who made the poultice and applied it to Talia's leg. The new foot wasn't perfect. The pinkie toe never grew back, but Talia didn't mind. She always claimed it was practically vestigial.

And scientists all over the world went out of their minds trying to figure out how the hell Mac even did it.

#  Challenge #026: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie...

"And the Darwin Award goes to..... Mr K. Sullivan from colony ZS-23 for trying to use homemade nitroglycerin instead of nitromethane. We will miss his car, an innocent Swordfish Liner." – Anon Guest

Of all the assorted avatars of Human Insanity, the most boggling to alien minds is the Darwin Awards. A prize that can only be won _posthumously_ , by removing oneself from the gene pool in such a way as to make it clear that this was ultimately a _good_ thing to have occurred.

There is a hardy perennial canard told about the human who strapped a JATO to a land-bound vehicle. But we can definitely confirm the one about the man who attempted to masturbate on a belt sander and neutered himself in the process. And the one about the man who attempted to blow up a subway ticket station with spray cans, and subsequently suffered fatal shrapnel wounds is definitely true.[5]

Humans are in space, now. And the Awards are still going. On multiple planets. Through the Galactic Alliance. And everywhere that humans gather to compare My Stupid Friend stories over a couple of inebriants. Which is generally agreed to be the leading cause of more My Stupid Friend stories.

From tobogganing off of a snowy roof into a snow drift filled with Armoured Car, through picking a fight with a Vorax swarm, to asking what else could go wrong as one of the asteroid tethers failed to disengage and the asteroid swung right around like you would never believe... humans tell their tales of the ironic, the baffling, and the just plain brainless ways that their allies, cohorts, and shipmates managed to "bite the big one".

There was such a crowd gathered around a share platter at Nik's.

"...and then he goes and says, _If I was that ugly, I wouldn't be trying for more of it._ " The storyteller waited for the shocked noises to die down. "And that was when the Farsthatt stuck its pincer-sword right through his head. From chin to fontanelle."

The appreciative crowd 'Oooh'ed in sympathy.

"Never mess with a bug," concluded the storyteller.

One, who had been silent until now, took a swig of his beverage. Belched, and said, "My commander shat on a landmine."

Stunned silence. "What?"

"My commander. Took a shit. On a landmine."

"Seriously?"

"Shyeah. I was there. He'd just finished lecturing us about concealments and watching out for enemy traps, and Marstoke's flakkin' chili kicked in. Gives everyone firehose diarrhoea. He ducks off for an urgent call of nature. Out comes the jet-propelled turd bomb. Up goes the flakkin' landmine. Should'a seen the look on his face as it went flyin' by. Moral of the story is _Dig a hole where you know it's safe._ Also, _Never eat Marstoke's flakkin' chili_."

A nitpicker spoke up. "I thought landmines have been banned for hundreds of years."

"Not in territory contested by two Greater Deregs they aren't."

[5] It is. You can look it up on the Darwin Awards site: http://www.darwinawards.com/

#  Challenge #027: As Long as it Works...

Aliens trying to convince a human crew to change it's ship

[Alien] "You use century old technologies ! The new system is way more efficient and everything is automatic. No need to repair it!"

[Human 1] "And when it broke ?"

[Alien] "It can't broke !"

[Human 2] "So when it broke we just have to pray to whatever god that either another ship will pick up our distress signal or the engine restart by itself before the oxygen reserve are depleted." – Anon Guest

Some humans have a saying, _There's a reason why they're OLD wives' tales._ And a great number of other species do not understand this. Especially when such a saying is trotted out when other Galactics sigh at outmoded tech like algal oxygen recyclers, tied with algal food printers. Or old-fashioned ion jets for navigational micro-corrections.

About the only new-ish tech the humans trust on their ships is the grav-drive[6], and they invented it. And since gravity tech came with an attendant human, it was closely guarded in very special ways. Put it this way, there was a reason some humans also nicknamed it 'gravy drive'. It worked by creating a _virtual black hole_ in the direction they wanted the ship to go. As well as forming a specific gravity well below ship-bottom. It was a careful balancing act that only a specific subsect of Humans could perform reliably.

So it was quite a shock to other species that the reckless, gung-ho, explosion-loving Deathworlders were extremely touchy about laying their hands on, and subsequently relying on, tried and true Galactic tech. Their chief protest was, "What happens when broke?"

"It does not break," protested Gryx, who was trying to sell the upgrade to a ship full of obstinate humans. "We have made it _unbreakable_. Cannot be broken. You understand? Foolproof."

The human ship chief snorted. "Make foolproof, making better fool. How repairing? Where accessing insides?"

Gryx started getting a headache. "No needing," he said, resorting to broken Galstand. "Never break."

The humans were skeptical. "We testing," they insisted. "Install as main, keeping old system backup."

They had reached the point where any deal was a good deal if it got these picky damn Deathworlders the hell out of his shop. "Fine. If breaking, Gryx give money back _and_ new system."

The humans thought this was funny, and punched each other's fists. They took the molecular manipulators and allowed Gryx's tech teams to install them properly on their -frankly alarming- Deathworlder ship.

Six Standard Months later, they were back. With a burned-out molecular manipulator that they had helpfully decoupled from their vessel.

"It broke," said the ship chief.

Gryx boggled at it. Made a helpless gesture in the air between them. " _How?_ "

The human shrugged and made a consonant-less noise that took the place of, "I dunno."

Humans...

[6] Short for gravity drive, and sometimes named 'gravy drive' after what it can do to you in the event of a critical failure. You do NOT mess with the gravity drive unless you know what the flakk you are doing. And if you're not Nae'hyn, you don't know what you're doing.

#  Challenge #028: Once Upon a Stolen Century

"When the soldiers pass by, they'll leave us two to die!"

"... _That's amore!_ "

"Stop singing!"

[AN: My site's down again, so I'm mining the #prompt tag on Tumblr until normal services resume. We apologise for the inconvenience]

Lucretia groaned. On one hand, she knew which twin this was. On the other, it was devastatingly shocking how _quickly_ certain types amongst the crew got used to the annual re-set. _Two dozen worlds,_ she reminded herself. _Two dozen realities, and some of us are already flippant about death._

Beside her, Taako cast Minor Illusion to make them look like a bunch of rocks, just like the rest of the random scramble of stones where they were hiding. "Gotta laugh at it or I start screaming, Luce. My sister's out there."

If it was Lup in his place, she would have _incinerated_ the guards, blown their cover, and literally burned a path between them and their goal. The Light. Which was now in a heavily-guarded keep in a civilisation more advanced than the one their crew had started from.

Magnus had already run afoul of their weaponry. Mistakenly fired by Lup, who had been investigating the thing, and didn't know that pointing one at something made it... go away. Their good-natured security chief, however, thought he looked real cool with some missing fingers, and laughed it off. His hand would be back to normal by the next universe.

Less than three months from now.

So many of them had been maimed, at minimum, this time around. Barry was dying slowly, which was worse. Caught by a reaction to something native to this dimension that just didn't exist, back in their own. They couldn't track it down, couldn't come up with an antidote, and Merle's continuous Cure Poisons were only holding back the inevitable.

When she'd last seen him, he'd been begging them to just let him go. But they needed him alive to tell them at least how to fly the Starblaster... because the natives of this world had caught, killed, and dissected their captain.

There had to be innocents on this world, Lucretia told herself. Children. Fluffy bunnies. The little birds that made their nests in the eaves and ate the insects. Something that didn't deserve what was coming.

The guards passed them by without their non-magical visors picking up on Taako's illusion. Which left the chinks in their armour, the backs of their necks, vulnerable to a very quick Magic Missile. Taako, thanks to his alleged childhood, was very quick to drag them off and divest them of everything they had.

One uniform got thrown at her. "Are you seriously–?" she didn't waste time. Arguing even as she pulled the uniform on. Socks first. "You're proposing that we just march on in there and take back what they've stolen."

"I have three pocket tents, two bags of holding, and one of their guns," Taako put on the helmet and grinned through the raised visor. "We can _do_ that."

"You're also out of spell slots and down to cantrips." She, too, put down her visor. "Let's get this farce done with."

"Whoever gets whatever first gets going with it. Good?" Meaning either the Light or Lup.

"Good." Weapons primed and ready, she set out with him. Trying to march like she knew what she was doing. Trying to ignore the fact that Taako was suddenly two inches shorter in the natives' combat boots. Trying to be fierce enough to pass inspection.

She was right, ultimately. It _was_ a farce. But it didn't matter because she got out with Lup and he got out with the Light. This world was saved. It barely deserved it, but it was saved.

#  Challenge #029: Start at Stop

Sometimes, to start something new, you have to end someone.

[AN: Offensensitivity warning for domestic abuse]

"Look at me, bitch!" He roared.

So she turned, and stretched out the arm holding the knife. No time to think. No time for finesse. He had his hand up to punch her in the ear again, so he didn't expect the blade. Nothing clever. Nothing smart. He often said she was too stupid to try anything smart. So she didn't.

The sharp knife went into his chest like he was made of softened butter. It came out when he punched her in the ear anyway. Left her without balance enough to stay upright, and without hearing on that side. She fell and stayed down like a good girl. Barely hearing a word that came out of his mouth.

It was the same routine, anyway. You're too stupid to get it right, why do I bother feeding you, if you weren't such a good fuck you'd be out on the streets, how dare you get yourself pregnant again without my permission, you know I always wear a condom, were you sleeping around on me you whore?

And then something weird happened. The foam that usually fell from his lips at this point in the dance started falling to the floor pink. She stared in dismay at the little pink bubbles as they merged and popped. Dared look up at him in confusion as the pink foam came out of his mouth instead of generating at the corners of his mouth.

His last words were, "What did you do to me, you fucking bitch?"

And then he was dead. She spent a good twenty minutes just screaming. Howling. Crying her eyes out and wetting herself in terror. Either because he was dead or because he might wake up and hurt her again. She flinched when the landlord came in. Protested when he put a coat around her shoulders and called for the ambulance and police. Who took in her recent wounds and the scene before them, and then took in Tracy. Took her away from what she had done.

There never was such a clear-cut case.

She even tried to confess. Tell the whole story. But only one sound bite made it to viral fame. Her tear-streaked and bloodied face as the cameras swooped at her. Staring at nothing and murmuring, "I didn't wanna birth another dead baby."

It was hot news for a time. The abused wife who loved her husband. The man who bragged about taking the condom off to his coworkers. Who said he knew every secret to 'keeping his woman'. The endless miscarriages and hospital visits. Each with a different clinic, hospital, or medical caregiver. None of them linked up by the overworked people in authority.

Hindsight was 20/20. People were up in arms about how something like that could be missed for so long. How neighbours in a decent neighbourhood like that could miss something so heinous. And, because Tracy and her neighbourhood happened to be the right colour, there was a fund. People donated thousands. Millions. All to help Tracy and her unborn child get a fresh start.

She had wanted a baby by her husband for all their years of marriage. Ever since they were high school sweethearts. It was just that now, after he was dead, this one was allowed to come to term. To not suffer enough prenatal damage to actually be born alive.

It was a little girl and Tracy doted on her. She kept to everything she needed and tried to be sensible about the rest. But she couldn't help thinking.

There must be other girls like her. Other women who were trapped. Other people who needed a way out. Other women knew other men who would take the condom off and then blame the woman for getting pregnant.

Tracy started using her survivor status and her funds money to campaign for things. Educate the men and the boys about what was okay and what was not. Give those who were struggling a means to be noticed. To put a stop to what she went through.

She put everything into it. Her money, her time, and all of her passion.

Men everywhere hated it. She had to hire bodyguards for herself and her tiny little girl, just starting grade school. She had FBI agents in her house every other week. She had angry men ranting about the loss of their rights and the dismantling of male culture and how she was really a fraud and blaming her for needing bodyguards in the first place.

Tracy posted their death threats on her site, filed under _Reasons Why This Exists_. And soldiered on. She had spent twenty years with a man like those men. She knew she could cut them like butter. She knew she would never be driven that low again, never feel that fear again.

As for her daughter... that was another reason. Because every girl deserved to grow up without ever being afraid of other people.

#  Challenge #030: Which is Which?

The gun went off a second time. "Get up and fight, damn you! Show them the real you, you wretched animal!" The shooter's allies, dozens in number, faces masked, drew in closer, eager to see this... thing... die.

The figure grunted, slowly but painfully rising. "This is the real me. We are not... so different." A bloody cough. "It is easier for you and your friends to think of us as... less than you, less than human..."

"Shut up, shut up!!" A third shot, but the hand shook from rage; the bullet merely grazed an ear.

A bloodied smile. "We aren't what you think we are. Because if we truly were the vicious inhuman monsters you believe us to be..."

Suddenly came the sound of metal unsheathed, and the now-silent masked parted as a handful of figures, anonymous like the rest, but armed with hidden blades and intimidating presence, stepped forward and took defensive poses around the injured one.

"...you would all be dead now."

This is the way the world works, they were told. We are One, and everyone else is Other. But you will not learn about Other, oh no. They are too brutal. Too savage. When old One explorers found Other, they were eating _people_. Brutal cannibals. They only know savagery. That's enough about Them. Time to explore the long and glorious history of Us.

When One found the Other, they were naked. They were almost animals. They didn't speak proper words like the One did. They didn't know _real_ civilisation like the One did. One took the Other in. Gave them work. Showed them new fontiers. Helped them find new opportunities and new lands and they had the gall to be _angry_ about that. Why, before the One came along, the Other didn't even have one language to _complain_ in. How dare they.

But the wheel turns. Those who were beneath the One rise, despite the numerous obstacles in their way. Others who are smart, who invent, who make, who create, who _change the world_ are treated as statistical anomalies. Outliers. They are very smart, _for an Other_. They're very well spoken, _for an Other_. They're articulate. And then more and more Others rise up through the efforts of the first, and it's suddenly too many of Them coming in where Us belong. Taking Our jobs. Ruining Our neighbourhoods. Lowering the tone of the place.

When they reached too high, too often, One would tamp them down. Act more violently than they claimed the Other ever was. Of course they would. One wanted to keep what they had gained through Other's sweat and tears. One would spread drugs into Other's neighbourhoods, cultivate a trade of narcotics for Others to prosper in the face of One-enforced adversity. And then quickly made those drugs illegal, dangerous, and criminal to be near. One caught selling them would get a light sentence, whilst Others caught with small amounts in their possession would be imprisoned for life.

None of this history was known to either side. Glossed over. Bowdlerised. Sugar-coated. Or just not told at all.

"I'm just trying to get home," said the girl. She stayed down. She didn't have a weapon, but the men in the mask saw her as Other, and acted as if she were a cornered and savage beast. Some wanted to watch her die. Some wanted to best her in the only way that savage men could best a woman. Most just wanted to hear her scream.

"Show us what you really are, animal," demanded the one with the gun. His last shot had gone wide and his hand shook as he aimed it at her. But he would never admit that he was afraid of this meek young lady in a staid flower-print dress.

"Already there," she managed. The gang of One had succeeded in beating her to her knees. Now they were hesitating to strike. Waiting for a signal. A chance. The cue to take the final step towards actual murder. "I'm not less than you. _We're_ not less than you."

There was a shuffling in the darkness, and the group of One found themselves surrounded by a larger number of Other. With heavy bludgeons and no masks on their faces. The Other didn't need masks, because the One thought the Other looked alike.

The pack of Ones suddenly began to feel like Zeroes.

"If we were what you say we were," said one of them. "You'd be dead by now."

Another one began taking the weapons off of the Ones. "You run along home and don't do any more of this nonsense, now."

They were glad to flee. But it did nothing to quell their hatred of the Other. Nothing would, bar the understanding that the One repeatedly failed to seek.

#  Challenge #031: Hello, Goodbye

Family photos, Wedding groups, school photographs.

They say that Elves don't age. That's not true. They do age, just incredibly slowly. You can see it, if you journey down a particular hallway in a particular house where the city grew up around it.

They say that Elves steal children. This is a lie. They only take those who have clearly been abandoned. This Elf, once upon a sleeting autumn day, picked up an abandoned infant that had been left to die. He could tell by the way that the baby wasn't even cleaned or swaddled. Just born, and left to perish in the woods.

He was already one hundred and fifty, by then. And to human eyes, resembled a fresh-faced twenty. He strapped the baby to his chest, and traded furs for milk, clothes, and knowledge. The humans of the village that finally accepted him came to know him. Offered to help. Built him a house. Helped it become a home.

It's a mansion, now. Grown outwards like a snail's shell to house the Elf's human child. Then their spouse. Then their family. Then their family's family. And, we know, an assortment of children who had been left in baskets, abandoned in byres, or like the first of us, naked in the woods.

They say that Elves are uncaring. We know that is a lie. This Elf had love in his seemingly immortal heart for every lost and lonely scrap of humanity that nobody else - not even their mothers - had a care for. We have heard his purr as our first lullabye, his heartbeat as our first comfort, and his words as our life's best advice.

Should you walk along the Long Hall, you will see it. Portrait after portrait of one seemingly unchanging Elf with his family. Generation after generation for seven hundred years. There's almost always a baby in his arms, and you can see how carefully he clings to them. You can see the lines start to grow around his smile, and the silver start to touch his hair. Go to the end, where the Last Portraits sit. There's one where he is alone, his hair and eyebrows alike turned to starlight. You know the ones. The formal and the informal ones.

The formal one is stiff, and you can see in his eyes that he's uncomfortable in that old suit and with empty arms. You can see that his wrinkled hands are itching to hold another infant. That isn't him. The informal one, where he's devoting all his attention to bottle-feeding another daughter-by-the-basket, where he's smiling as he cradles another new soul... that's him.

That is how we will remember him. And how we will carry on the work that he has performed tirelessly, lovingly, ever since he picked up Thorn, seven hundred years ago. We are all his children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and we have always had a home.

They say Elves do not repeat the names of the dead. We know this to be true, because it hurt him too much to say them. But we are not Elves. And so, we believe that none are truly dead so long as their name is spoken. So as we say farewell to his mortal form, say his name.

We will remember him forevermore in the Greenfriend Foundheart Foundation for Orphaned and Abandoned Children. We know the care he gave. We will take it to those who need it most. To the lost, to the lonely, to the half-casts and the street rats. They will have a home, and it will be welcoming.

In his name.

#  Challenge #032: Hungry Love

"How do you sleep at night knowing you _stole_ my bento?"

"With... a... full stomach?" said Akiko. "It's not my fault your boy can't tell us apart."

"He's not my boy," Chou sighed. "It's not our fault we're that hungry, either, it's just... Might have been nice if you saved me a taste."

They walked together through the streets. Keeping an eye out for anything useful. Anything they could sell for a few more yen. Looking at them, nobody could tell that these twins were homeless orphans. They took special pains to make certain no-one would ever know.

"He is a good cook, though," said Akiko. "Maybe you should tell him the bento he made was delicious and he should make twice as much."

Chou went vermillion. "I... can't... talk around him. He's..."

And at that moment, they literally ran into _him_. Mr Perfect the Prefect. Katashi-san. Not in school uniform, but the outfit of a restaurant back-room boy. He apologised before he realised who he was talking to. And then he did the dumbstruck thing where people who didn't know they were twins realised the truth.

"There... there's _two_ of you?"

Chou had lost the ability to form coherent words. Blushing furiously. "Katashi-san, you know my sister Chou, who like, like-likes you a lo-ot..." Akiko singsonged. "But it was I, Akiko, who got that delicious bento box. Many thanks, by the way."

"Allow me to make amends for my mistake," he said. "Both of them. I- I can get you into the back of my Uncle's restaurant with me. If you're willing to wash dishes, you can have... You can have all the rejects. I'm pretty sure. Uncle says the food's good anyway and some of the customers are too picky."

Chou was still choking on her throbbing heart, so Akiko said, "It's a deal!"

And then Chou's stomach spoke for her. It growled loud and long, and practically said, 'yes' at top-of-lungs level.

There were rockier starts on the road to love, but at that moment, Chou and Katashi-san couldn't name a single one.

#  Challenge #033: A Best-laid Plan

The evil has been slain, the entire nation celebrates in the streets and now, the beautiful Princess who was saved very publicly confesses her love and the King offers her hand in marriage to the noble Hero...

Except the Hero was already married - to the woman who sells potions and medicines; she had been aiding the Hero since the quest to save the princess first began, and their love grew more with each visit.

Also, the Hero isn't a Hero, they're a Heroine... making the wedding's implied promise of one day bringing a new generation of royalty rather tricky to fulfill, to say the least, even without the existing marriage issue...

The confession was made by the Princess, and likewise the offer made by the King, due to said Hero(ine) being "butch" enough to be mistaken for a man when armored (though her wife obviously knows), but never getting the opportunity to correct anyone else (particularly any of the royalty) due to either being too polite/socially-anxious to speak up or constant interruption by Wacky Circumstances getting in the way...

Cue an awkward reveal in a rather public situation.

The hero's welcome was quite a sight. Even though the hero in question still wore their bloodied, stained and battered battle armour. Even though their horse was a common draught horse with their mane and tail and feathers clipped short to avoid trouble in battle. Behind the hero, on another draught horse, was the potioneer. She was part of the team that had saved the princess. And she rode with a majority of the tools of her trade in the horse's panniers.

Only the Princess, on her graceful white charger, looked like she belonged in a parade. Of course she did. The court had sent a portable salon and some beautiful riding clothes for her and the inevitable parade. The best that they could do for the hero and the potioneer was clean them up and make sure their hair was tidy. Nevertheless, the people cheered. They threw flowers. Flower petals. Paper ribbons. And of course, their cheers and huzzahs. All the way to the palace.

Where courtiers helped the Princess dismount, and the hero helped themself, and then the potioneer to the ground. Where they all paraded in with as much formality as they could muster, all the way to the throne and the Kings' welcome. Where the hero kelt and presented their blade, and the potioneer knelt by the hero's side.

"Welcome," said the King. "Today, you have won not only my thanks, but the heart and body of my daughter. In rescuing her from a foe no man could best, she is amenable to giving you her hand in marriage. As is custom."

Custom decreed it. And for a long time, the hero was silent. "I am flattered, your Majesty," said the voice inside the helm. "But I am afraid it is an offer that I am honour bound, duty bound, and oath bound to refuse."

Shocked murmurings amongst the court.

"Explain yourself, sir hero," said the King. "Before the court takes this as a slight."

"To explain in full, I must show the truth. May I ungird my armour, my Liege?"

The King snapped his fingers and a swarm of squires appeared and began unbuckling things. "My heart, my body and my oath belong to my companion. My wife," the hero gestured to the potioneer. "We have been married for seven wonderful years and adventuring together for nine. I would not leave her, even if death parted us."

The Princess softened, putting her hand to her mouth and cooing in appreciation. "Such a love shall not perish by my father's hand," she vowed.

"My duty is to protect the helpless, with no thought of reward. Such is the plight of the hero. Those who can help will do so, and those who cannot still deserve salvation," said the hero. "I would not take this grand reward even if I were not oath-bound to another."

"As for honour." Now the buckles were off, and the pieces of plate fell away. The hero helped the squires unlace the padded curais that had been underneath. "You were correct in saying that no man could best this kingdom's foe. And by my honour I must tell the truth." The curais came off. Revealing a stout and muscular woman. Plain to begin with, battle scarred on top of that. "I am no man. And thus would not be able to sire the next generation of royalty." She joined hands with her wife. "Bless us or condemn us how you will, but I would consider it an honour to join the Princess' body guard. You would be guaranteed her safety with my arm and my sword."

"And my gifts," added the potioneer.

For a long time, the King was silent. "Well shit," he said. "How the fuck are we to solve that inbreeding problem _now_?"

#  Challenge #034: Dialup Inferno

the number of the beast

"Good day, I represent the technical support department of Microsoft Enterprises. We've detected an anomaly on your computer."

"How did you get this number?" said the gruff, gravelly voice on the other end.

"Could you please tell me which version of Windows you are running on your computer, sir?"

" _How_ did you get this number?" said the person on the other side. "You should not have this number."

"You have registered for Microsoft technical support, sir. We have detected an anomaly on your computer and wish to help you rectify the problem. Can you tell me which version of Microsoft you have running on your computer?"

The voice made a slight noise of exasperation. "You have reached the Ninth Circle of Hell," he growled. "The telemarketers, scammers, and phishers that call here are not members of the living plane. You should not have access to this number. But I'm willing to cut you a break since you're already destined to wind up here."

He went off script. "I beg your pardon?"

"Countless mortals have told you to go to hell, have they not? You are a deceiver. You are betraying your fellow human beings into performing a set of actions that will allow your company to access their data. A set of actions that will install viruses, malware, and ransomware on their computers. All under the guise of giving people help. And what rewards do you gain? What benefits in life are worth this much treachery?"

He thought about it. "Uh. Minimum wage? This and my two other jobs pay for my flat and my fourth buys me food, dude."

And that was the precise moment that Satan decided to shut down Hell. They had been right, centuries ago. All the true devils exist on the surface of the Earth.

#  Challenge #035: Unwanted No More

Character A has been labelled the worst most un-adoptable child at the orphanage. Character B is looking to adopt. Character B takes one look at Character A and decides that they are the kid for them, despite everyone's protestations - including Character A's.

Ten knew the deal. Ze had an _attitude_. They were ill-formed. Ugly. Allergic to like 90% of the soaps on the market, and the government didn't have the money to spare for Ten's special needs, so Ten spent a majority of hir time either being the stinky kid or the sick kid. Nobody wanted either of those.

Ten didn't so much steal as hoard. Anything good that was left out in the open was Ten's. Automatically. If they wanted to keep it, they shouldn't have left it where it could be found. Ten didn't go into anyone else's space or go looking for things to take. That would be being _sneaky_ and therefore wrong. And ze would kick up a stink all over hir current foster home whenever they found hir stash and turned it out for any missing items.

When Zorania Felance came to Ten's latest foster home in a long chain of foster homes, ze wasn't interested in the big-name star. Someone that pretty wouldn't want the lumpy, misshapen Ugly Kid with the Attitude. But Zorania did make the mistake of leaving her phone in a public space and therefore it was Ten's. Ten didn't even hide it, figuring out the keycode through common finger marks and then idly playing with some of the casual games on there. Deep in hir hidey-hole and uninterested in the world at large because ze knew the world didn't give a fuck about _hir_.

Of course the best way of finding a mobile phone when it's lost is ringing it. Ten sighed and came out of hiding with it up in the air. Classic "hands up, don't shoot" pose. Not looking at anyone.

Ms Felance asked Ten to come sit in the kitchen and made hot chocolate. The _good_ hot chocolate with real drinking chocolate and honey and a marshmallow and foamed up milk. "So you're the one with the attitude," she said, sliding the biggest mug in the house in front of Ten. "Do you have a name?"

"...ten," mumbled Ten.

"Ten," said Ms Felance, not asking if it was short for anything, or why anyone would name hir Ten in the first place. Or what happened to numbers One through Nine. Or any questions that Ten hated and didn't know the answers to. "I think I can guess most of your story. Abandoned somewhere, kept in orphanages and foster homes. Never allowed to keep anything. Never allowed to call anywhere 'home'. You feel like nobody's ever going to love you because nobody has. And perhaps your looks are a part of that entire package."

Ten focussed on the hot chocolate. Allowed Ms Felance to trade the phone for it. She got most of it. Pretty much down pat, too. So ze said, "Mm-hm."

"That's why I want you to come home with me."

Ten was lucky ze had come up for air. Even so, ze still coughed a rough, "Fuckin' _what_?"

Ms Felance had a beautiful smile. Perfect skin. Amazing hair currently done up in tiny, tight ringlets. The band of fabric around her head made her look like an Egyptian Princess. She was perfect. Of course. That was why the silver screen loved her. "I want _you_ to come home with me. Sure, you'll be hot news for a while and the internet will be mean to you, but I have money enough to discourage that sort of bullshit with some _hefty_ damn lawsuits."

Ten kept staring at her like she was talking some alien language that only sounded like English. She reflexively curled around her hot chocolate. "It ain't april fool's lady." And then drank the rest of hir beverage like it could be snatched off hir at any second. Scoffing the marshmallow as soon as possible.

"This isn't a joke, Ten. I want you to become my family."

Ten glared up at her through the veil of hir curls. "Why? I'm ugly. I'm allergic to normal soap. I stink. I don't wanna be a boy _or_ a girl. I just fuckin' _take_ shit. I hoard stuff. Shit, I got chucked out of one place 'cause of I hoarded my leftovers until they went mega-bad. Like, _maggots_ mega-bad. You don't want me. I'm trouble. I have _issues_. Nobody wants me and nobody will."

"It's easy to believe that," said Ms Felance. She dug around in the big, designer bag, and got out a wallet. And then got something out of a wallet. "This is my adoption day photo."

There was a man in a nice suit, holding the hand of a sullen young person with clothes just a bit too big for them. And the young kid in the photo had slightly smaller markings than the Ms Felance of the modern day. And her hair wasn't as styled as it was today.

"You were ugly?" said Ten.

"The difference between what you call ugly and beautiful is just... cosmetics. The _real_ difference between ugly and beautiful lies in our deeds. My dad took a kid that nobody else could see worth in, and helped them realise their potential. I aim to do the same. I want to give you a chance."

"What happens when I fuck up?" asked Ten. Ze left the picture alone instead of taking it.

Ms Felance took her photo back. "Then we work together to help you learn how to be better. I've been where you are, Ten. I know what it's like. It's rough road and I want to make it a little easier."

Ten offered hir hand. "I'll try not to hoard food, okay?"

"It's a deal."

#  Challenge #036: Tenacity Personified

From PictureWritingPrompts \- [Picture shows a cliffside town at the base of a very steep, zig-zagging road. Buildings of a small village cling to the side of slopes that are only mildly kinder than the almost sheer cliffs on either side of this town. There are a few jetties stretching into the dark water.]

A lesson must be taken from The Thaknakys Expedition. They had thought that they had found a graveworld on the other side of the newly-reopened wormhole. There was enough wreckage. Enough record of a global disaster in the form of a tectonic upheaval that rendered all the previously-habitable land inhabitable through rarified atmosphere. They should have looked closer at the ghost cities on top of tabletop mountains, edged in impossible cliffs. They should have checked the artefacts.

Humans had lived there.

If they had known that one, simple fact, they would not have set up airborne mining facilities to grind down the most likely-looking edifice until they accidentally encountered _other_ tunnels made by _other_ life forms. Who were, it must be noted, rather upset that someone else had just barged in and helped themselves without a by-your-leave. Fortunately, negotiations were brief and to the point. Reparations were made. Trading centres were carved out of the living mountains like Petra, only with more airlocks.

Humans, it is now known, will eke out an existence in places where life clearly should not be possible. Part of their pre-Shattering exploratory process was sending successive failed expeditions into inhospitable territory. Most often to find out what happened to the last one... And then repeating the process until one lot or another actually survived. This is most chilling when one realises that said expeditions were _entirely voluntary_.

Whatever the world was named before the tectonic upheaval, it is now called Dovecote. Cities exist with decorative fronts carved into cliff faces. Farms are entirely hydroponic. Systems exist to re-use effluent in a non-toxic way. The people who live there separate themselves by the Doves and the Mer. The people who live in the sides of cliffs and the people who live in, and under, the deep and narrow seas.

Smaller and less populous are the Seals. The people who have made their homes above the surface, but on the remnants of landslides. They are ambassadors of a sort. The join between the Doves and the Mer. One day, they might don artificial fins and osmosis breathers, and dive to trade with one people. Another, they may wear wings and soar with the other. They excel at terraced gardens, and navigating switchback roads, and building hunchbacked houses that can fit a lot of utility into a very little place.

Human tenacity is both marvellous and terrifying to behold.

The mineral wealth of Dovecote is magnificent. Cotelings of all ethnicities wear or use precious gems and metals with a casualness not seen in any other human. Gold is common in cookware and electronics alike. Sapphires and diamonds are often used to keen the edges of blades.

But there is no shallow water on Dovecote. So the most valuable and precious mineral wealth to a Coteling is _flint_. Given the inevitable Galactic trade, this is no longer so, but there was a time when the sudden influx of flint to Dovecote resulted in an outrageous surge in polished flint jewellery.

#  Challenge #037: ...For the Trees

"Do you ever wonder what would happen if you just stepped into the woods?"

She rolled her eyes at the dreamer, taking extra care to steer them away from even looking at it.

"I used to. But then I grew up."

The land above the leaves was the only place where it was safe to farm. The trees grew only to certain heights above the very lowest parts of the land. Every part of the free land was used for food. The people stayed in the treetops. They dared not traverse the forest floor.

It got dark in the woods. Treacherous. Go too far. Wander too deep, and you will never be seen again.

Would that this world had an ocean, the trees would be easiest explained as being exactly like that. Branches cut or trees felled were easily supplanted by other branches and other trees with barely a difference in the level of the leaves. This was a boon to some, and a curse to others. Everyone knew that the land covered by the wood was the most fertile. Everyone knew that the land covered by the wood was unclearable.

They had tried everything, from those homes tied into the branches. From those floating platforms of stone. Regardless of the consequences. Unthinking of the long-term effects. They tried fire. They tried chain. They tried gargantuan machines.

No survivors.

The forest protected itself.

The people were clever. Oh yes. They had to be. Mistwrains gathered water from the clouds in the treetops. Charcoliers made fuel from the replenishing branches. The land that could not be farmed in any way was mined for its mineral wealth. The creatures of the higher branches were caught or trapped by clever means. Crops harvested on the cleared land and domesticated animals fed the growing hordes of the people.

Industry grew, and the smoke may have damaged some leaves but never for long. The deep forest seemed unkillable. For thousands of years, it had endured. For thousands more it would endure. This was the truth of the world they knew.

But this was not so.

A system that has grown over millions of years is no match for a change of a handful of decades.

Where the trees died, in the densest of cities, the leaves came from a creeping vine. Foul-smelling and foul-coloured. It was poison. And where its bright flowers bloomed, people died. They called it Ironweed, and it was a plague. And like every other plague that hit the crowded throngs, it hit the poorest and the weakest first. And therefore, those who could afford to avoid it, ignored it.

By the time that the plague of the poor could no longer be avoided by the rich, it was too late.

The forest spread by simple arithmetic. Where a tree died, ten would sprout up. And since they could not prosper on the poisoned forest floor, they grew at the shoreline. Following the same old rules that the forest had always followed. Encroaching on the precious land that fed everyone.

It hit the smaller places first. Where there was no thriving industry turning the air foul and making Ironweed grow thick. There, the branches soon drowned the little places from the hope of light. And people fled, for fear of the things that lived in the dark.

Custau had been one of the Mistwrains on a little place that was no more. Now he was one of the lost millions who flocked to a clogged city. Wearing a mask and taking antihistamines and lining up for government-funded allergen shots that would one day guarantee that the Ironweed pollen would only kill him slowly. So he could work every day until retirement age and then die in agony from the seedlings growing into his lungs. And become yet another unworthy body, pitched into the darkness below with all the other waste.

He could not be a Mistwrain in the city. The water caught in web-nets was foul and tainted, like the air. So he tried for unskilled labor. He tried for an education he hadn't needed in a tiny little island of a town that had since been swallowed by leaves.

It was queueing on a walkway that dipped lower down than most that he saw it. The wind changed. The perpetual haze of smoke wafted away. And there, far below, was a creature in the dark spaces. It didn't see the sun, for it had no eyes, but it had armour. It was big, and there were things living on it. Smaller creatures, but still bigger than the housing that Custau lived in. Bigger than the entire building. There was nothing in the sunlit zones like it, and it was instantly fascinating. Custau quickly drew as much of it and its inhabitants as he could. Entranced. He didn't notice that the line had moved until the haze obscured it.

Custau's brain was already on fire with new ideas.

He shared a room with an older Mistwrain who had once been his master. Once full of life and enthusiasm for the Branches, but now worn and weary of being too old to hire, too young to retire, and too unskilled for anything that could have paid the rent. She worked as a greeter for a shopping company that could get away with paying her less than what her time should be worth. She looked at that picture at the end of the day and said, "Do you ever wonder what would happen if we found a way into the woods?"

She handed the notebook back with a roll of her eyes. "I used to," she said. "But then I grew up."

"Be a child again. Wonder," encouraged Custau. "What would we need to study the deep forest in safety?"

Something wonderful began that day. In our world, we would call it oceanography. In this one, it was named Forestry. A new field of science and discovery owes itself to Zack Custau and the Self-contained Undersun Battle Apparatus.

#  Challenge #038: Trust Yourself

She left a message for her younger self to read.

Time travel was a bitch. Sorting out the mistakes of life retroactively was never a fun thing. Making sure she would pay attention to her own warnings to herself had been the work of several journeys. And multiple encounters. She could not talk to herself. Both brains shut down for that sort of thing. Leaving notes, however, was perfect.

Her teenaged self was asleep in bed. Sleeping the sleep of the unaware.

She put her note in the jewellery box, where she had always left it. She had always had the only key. And then she left. Back to her own time and to the decompression suite where she would wait in isolation for time and her memories to resynchronise.

She woke up and realised that her locked jewellery box had been moved. Her other self had stopped by. Which meant she had a new foreboding. A new warning from a version of herself who felt compelled to warn her about dangers she could now avoid.

She unlocked the box. Took out the single sheet of colourful paper out of there. Re-locking it with the key she always hid in her locket.

We both know the dress code is an actual piece of shit, but don't flaunt it. Mr Sanders has been perving your boobs since last year and this is the year that he thinks he can get away with touching you. Nannycams are going to be your best friend.

Mister _Sanders_? Gross. She automatically started picking out all the stuff her Nanna bought her. And decided to tell Mom at least about how she thought he was perving on her. She would instantly figure out some way to smuggle a nanny cam into school.

There was more on the note. _Jake Benderfass is going to tell you that you're cute._

"Omigod," she whispered.

He is twenty. You are fourteen. He is a skeev. Report him instantly and fight for him to be registered as a pedo. By the time he actually attempts statutory rape, he'll be able to grey-case his way out of it. Tell mom. Tell Nanna. Tell everyone how weirded out you are that a grown-ass man is hitting on a fourteen-year-old girl. It. Is. WRONG. Super wrong. Extreme doubleplus ungood. For that crap to be happening.

The note ended, as always, with _Trust me on this._

Every time she had, things definitely turned out for the better.

#  Challenge #039: Reformation Process

Meanwhile, at a Top Secret Government Organization...

Agent: "...and that, fortunately, was the moment the device overloaded and self-destructed. Division 6's damage-control team was able to convince the public it was just a ignited leak from a gas line triggered by a malfunctioning industrial diesel generator."

Chief: "Excellent; the last thing we could've been able to handle was that chemical getting to the water supply. Ah, our refreshments are ready. Thank you, Lav'der."

Agent: "Hmph. I'll pass. God knows what sort of... space goo... might've been slipped into the drinks by this... alien."

Lav'der: "For the last time, sir, I am not an alien!"

Chief: Enough, agent! She may not share your seniority, but I will not have you addressing a fellow member of this organization so disrespectfully! Apologize to her at once!"

Agent: "She has antennae and a tail! And huge black eyes and no nose or ears! SHE IS AN ALIEN!"

Lav'der: "I WAS BORN IN OHIO, YOU IGNORANT PRICK!"

"Oh, I'm _sorry_ ," said Agent Jankers. "Would you prefer I called you a Twitch? Or maybe a Coldback?"

Lav'der blushed green. "That language is inappropriate _and_ inaccurate."

"Or maybe you prefer _Greenie_ ," said Jankers.

"And that's three write-ups. Jankers, You're piloting a desk and spending all your holiday time in Sensitivity Camp."

"Aw, Cap... I was just showing this humourless Binker–" Lav'der gasped and covered her mouth. "–how much _worse_ she could have it. You both need to grow a pair and a sense of humour."

Captain Higgins sighed. "Bang. Zoom. To the Moon, Jankers." She got out a form and started filling it in. "Effective immediately. Pack your shit. Walk or get dragged, your choice."

Jankers chose to get dragged.

Two years later...

The people who put in the Civchip assured him that the scars would fade. They assured him of a lot of things. Including the fact that nobody would be _rude enough_ to mention the raw scar by his frontal lobe. Not their fault. They weren't from around here and didn't know Humans.

Some of his older, slightly-reformed coworkers commented instantly. "Failed the course, huh?"

"What was your _first_ hint?" snapped Jankers.

"Got'cha neutered, too? Where's the cone of shame?"

Jankers almost thought about using the N-word against Knight, but remembered in time that the Civchip enforced _all_ forms of political correctness. Instead, he said, "Up your mama's butt with the rest of the neighbourhood."

The last three months on the moon base had been learning exactly how _extensive_ the Civchip's limits on his vocabulary was. He couldn't even _think_ of certain words without feeling a nasty shock to the 'nards. All Rethnaalian neuroscience, of course. All the Mods were. The perfect system for punishment and reform, all without leaving a single scar. Mental or physical.

Jankers could speak testimony about the punishment part. Every zap to his groinal area felt as real as if he were hooked up to a taser. Yet the actual flesh remained unharmed. His nuts may not actually experience the pain, but you couldn't tell Jankers that.

And to add insult to injury, Lav'der had been promoted in his absence and was sitting where his partner usually would. She stood and smiled and said, "Welcome back, Jankers. Glad to see you back."

Fucking Tw– OW! Fucking Rethnaalian B– OW! She was doing it on purpose. He knew it. He _knew_ she was flaunting his new... augmentation. And the limits it set him.

"Still working through the mental vocabulary," she said. "That's why I got you this," and she reached under her desk for a garishly bright gift baggie emblazoned with the words, _Feel Better Soon!_

It was a dark-coloured pillow with a fold-out flap for his beleaguered junk. The tag declared it to be a Soova Pillow, and it came with an app for his phone.

"The Civchip only makes you _think_ you feel pain, but if you really feel relief? It works."

He growled, "You're secretly enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Only because I know that the Civchip is used only in extreme cases where the patient is unreformable." She took a clearing breath. "I'm working on it. Rethnaalians can experience Schadenfreude, too. Now. There's some evidence for a _Milt_ smuggling ring in the eastern docks of Savanna, Gorgia. You up for some sleuthing against the Skelrathi?"

"I guess," he grumbled, roughly shoving the Soova Pillow into his satchel.

Out of such crude clay, many a Buddy Movie has been made.

#  Challenge #040: Wake Up Sheeple!

The amount of energy needed to refute bulls*** is an order of magnitude bigger than to produce it.

—Alberto Brandolini

Here's what nobody gets about insane conspiracy theories. There is little to no energy involved in thinking them up. One person's facetious, trolling comment is another's statement of fact. One person's screwy memory is another's proof that _it's all been covered up._ See, the Mandela Effect, or the Berenstein Parallel Universe Theory.

We shall not mention those nefarious souls who just make up bullshit for fun.

For all that there is Snopes, Wikipedia, and public records, people love a good conspiracy. People would rather believe, for instance, that aliens made the pyramids and other sundry third world architectural examples, rather than believe that _non-whites are smart and just as capable as the white ones._ Prejudice comes in many flavours, but all of them have a base of _idiot_.

And it was Rael's job to stop Shayde from encouraging them.

Thus, he constantly had a monitor on whatever she was putting out on the infonets. In this case, it was a bit about tinfoil hats.

"No," he said in a warning tone. "Do not."

"Aw, but it's a classic," she whined. "If I'm no' allowed tae give clever answers tae fook-off stupid questions, then what's the point?"

"You are a verification point," he said. "You are meant to be giving them the truth, not..." he checked her opus-in-progress. "Tinfoil millinery tips."

"We'd be able tae spot 'em from a distance..."

"No. You must preface this... trolling... with a disclaimer that people _believed_ it, but it's since been proven to be absolute horseshit."

She blew a raspberry. "Ye ken tha' people will still believe it no matter what. Right?"

He sighed. "Unfortunately, I know it only too well. Also the fine for contributing to this nonsense is ten percent of everything you earn in a year."

Shayde said, "Oof," and started editing her post.

#  Challenge #041: Made to Order

does genetic engineering and other physical and mental enhancements exist in the amalgam universe? and what would humans use them for? – Anon Guest

[AN: The short answer is: Anything they find acceptable. The long answer is... this]

The concept of the perfect being exists in every culture. On every world, there has been at least one brilliant mind who honestly believed that they could better their own kind through assorted means. Ethnic cleansing, or genocide as it is more commonly known. Selective sterilisation, which is just genocide slowed down to the breeding rate of the undesirable population. Selective breeding, which never really works in the long run. All things considered, genetic manipulation is a relatively modern fad.

There are worlds founded on the premise of finding the perfect genome. Most of them don't survive to re-integrate with Galactic Society. Some make it, barely, with their genome crippled to the point where the children are essentially clones of their parents. Only one had been exiled for what they were doing, and were smart enough to be pragmatic about their definition of 'perfect'. This is Vardia. One had gone with the broadest definitions of 'perfect' and ended up with a completely bioengineered population. This is B'Nar.

Both core worlds were named after their creators. One became an empire. One became an industry titan with some scary definitions to the bracket term 'humanity'. The only difference is that Vardia stopped their genetic tinkering with the human genome centuries prior, excepting in clear-cut emergency cases. The B'Nari never stopped looking for ways to improve. Nor expanding what 'improvement' means.

Vardians were the first to recognise, isolate, and select for the Luck Gene. But they are still cautious with its use. A strong Vardian 'Lucker' could just as easily be another Gregor Elfhand, tripping into the gold mine inside the midden, as they could be another Gladstone Gander, endlessly winning no matter what. The Luck Gene, they have discovered, is unstable, unpredictable, and often unfortunate for an extended radius. They can, however, retrogenetically 'tone down' a Lucker's field of effect. Often to the grave relief of the 'Bad-Luckers'. They cannot, alas, flip the switch for anyone.

The B'Nari, on the other hand, have augmented their bodies and their technology to such a point that the people can be interchangeable parts in a greater machine. Exchange crew have often stated that working on a B'Nari ship is "creepy as flakk" because the B'Nari merge their bodies and minds with their machinery. Reaction times are down, it is true, but they're still working on that personability factor.

It's difficult for more mainstream humans to talk to a B'Nari. They are from different realities. And the B'Nari reality is that they can transfer their memories from one interchangeable body to another. Kept in stasis for just such emergencies. They may well have the key to immortality at their fingertips, but the price is one that most other Humans are not prepared to pay.

And then there are Stepford Planets. Where the gender divide is regimented by one, dominant side, engineering the perfect other. This never ends well. What one side _says_ they want is never what they truly desire. They tire of their sex slaves in rapid order, create disposable people, or otherwise collapse in their own toxicity. Some learn from this. Most... die from this.

Of all the gengineering worlds, be they genners who began with augmentation and then settled for the "old fashioned way" or ELF worlds that create each generation in laboratories, the most frightening one is Nufurria. Retrogenetics, body modding, hybridisation and plain old genetic manipulation created everything the original settlers could ever want. And, like giving any child everything they could want, it all went sour before a generation was up. It went corrupt. Beyond corrupt. It went _vile_. Decadent, debauched, deplorable, and depraved. Every low that one generation sank to became the new 'normal'. People chasing new highs sunk to new lows.

And when _they_ rejoined Galactic Society, there was one hell of a mess to clean up. The B'Nari 'parts' system may be a nebulous grey area, but the Nufurrian genetic caste system was simply wrong, especially when it mixed in retrogenetic, teratogenic Uplifting rather than permanent and inheritable Augmentation. Thus bonding the current generation to beg their masters to save their children. At least until the Cogniscent Rights Committee found out everything and enforced some basic Cogniscent Rights on the world.

There are lessons to learn from every GMod world. Some are even beneficial.

#  Challenge #042: A Long Cold Trail

It has been 1.5 million years since humanity, for some reason, left the planet earth. The domesticated animals they left behind, namely cats and dogs ... maybe various birds too, have evolved into species with intelligence on par with humanity. The specie or species discuss among each their cultural memory of humans, and otherwise try to gain a broader image of what these mythical beings were and what role they played in their evolution. – Anon Guest

[AN: Life Without People says that most human artefacts on Earth will last a maximum of 100 years, not long enough to have an effect. But I'm going with post-genetic-modification as a thing.]

The humans bent life. Shaped it. Re-ordered it in their image. This, they knew. The dim memories of their ancestry had that as global lore. They made food tastier. They made buildings larger. They made craft that could fly to the stars. They made their pets and loved animals smarter.

And that was why those who came to the fore after the humans left remember them. We were made to help them perform certain tasks. We were able to preserve their buildings. We were able to keep most of their artefacts. We were able to remember... what they gave us.

The more we discovered, the more we learned. The more we learned, the more cause we had for concern. For all the miracles the makers had wrought, they sought the stars without us. We had failed some kind of test. Or they thought they had failed.

All evidence pointed to a rapid evacuation, when they left. They say they ruined their world, but it recovered without them. And we grew. We learned. We made things in our image.

We bent the world, too, but never as far as the humans did. We made things to reach other worlds. To visit the things they left behind on the Moon.

They had gone from their colonies there. Gone from the colonies on Mars. Gone, even, from the space stations and installations peppered through the solar system. Had they come to their end? Had they found something else to be? We could not know from the clues they left behind.

But we will search. And follow them. And if we find them we will greet them warmly, because we love them. Even though they were gone for such a long time.

Because that is how they made us to be.

#  Challenge #043: Got'cha

Person 1 "It's no use! We'll never make it in time!"

Person 2 "Scoot over. I didn't have my driving license revoked for nothing!"

So. Let's recap. They were in what only _appeared_ to be a Tuktuk, stuck in traffic, desperate to make it to the big public exposé to expose more than the badguy could ever want made public, and without much of a hope. Except the one that Els was _uncannily_ good with machines and had been left alone with the Tuktuk for half an hour.

Dav clambered out of the driver's seat and buckled in. Five point harness. Always a bad sign. "If you get pulled over, I'm feigning some kind of attack so you have a good excuse."

"That's what friends are for!" Els opened up a mystery hatch in the dashboard and pressed a button. Pulled the wheel to one side, and started cackling.

Weirdly medieval music started playing to Dav's evident confusion. Followed by dawning horror when the rhythmic clapping started. "Not the _Italian Job!_ Please!"

" _This is a self-preservation society..."_

Dav started screaming as Els started weaving through the pedestrian byways. Might as well get it over with early. Sooner or later, Els would pull a stunt that would make Dav pass out in sheer terror. Dav always argued that the screaming served as an extra warning for the innocent bystanders.

Els opined that there was no such thing as an innocent bystander. Els also held that architecture, sculpture, and random parts of nature could also be a road if one tried hard enough.

So it was no surprise that Els was the only one conscious when they arrived, and that the Tuktuk now also contained three different samples of hedge, at least one potplant, and a rather confused and terrified cat. Nevertheless, Els was able to take the damning evidence and add it to the stellar presentation and save the city from a mayor worse than death.

She wouldn't even joke about Dav wetting hirself. Well. Not _too_ often.

#  Challenge #044: The Stepford House

As early 20th century houses go, it was fine. Neat, tidy, clean, owners polite to their black maid and cleaner and paid them well, children loved by their parents, and parents whom loved their children.

So _WHY_ did it reek like a stinking dungeon in a necromancers castle? The Doctor lasted 10 seconds before leaping in with both boots. – Anon Guest

It was almost a cliché, really. Lost traveller, wicked storm. Can't stay out in this mess. Would it be too much trouble? And then, inevitably, it was.

The family seemed perfectly normal. Which instantly raised his hackles. Absolutely nobody, anywhere, was perfectly normal. They were affluent, but the entire family had the time to enjoy themselves at whatever they wanted. They could have whatever they wanted. They could do whatever they wanted.

And then the Doctor asked the Question. "Are you all happy?" And the answer was in the father's eyes.

They lied when he said, "Of course we're happy. We have everything we need."

Of course, the instant he had an excuse, the Doctor went exploring. Creeping around. Sneaking about. Snooping. Everything was neat and tidy. Pristine. Even the attic was bare of cobwebs.

So. It must be in the basement. Except that there wasn't a way into the basement. There should have been, but it was sealed up. Nothing the Sonic couldn't fix.

You can stir up quite a scene while you're on the mezzanine...

Downstairs was bare. Blank. Another blocked-wall opened up to something of an art gallery. And a grotesque beast with minimal accommodations. Painting. Endlessly painting. Fabulous and beautiful works of art. Amazing pieces.

This was how the family upstairs could afford everything and do nothing.

And the Doctor asked the Question, this time, to the beast.

"Are you kidding? I love it here. This place is the best."

This was going to take more work than he thought.

AN: This post is loosely based on [this nonsense which I have yet to try myself.]

#  Challenge #045: Say What You Mean

Trades and hobbies have specialist language often the same word can mean completely different things. "Galley", a type of ship, a pre-publishing book or article, a place where Artwork is displayed. – Anon Guest

[AN: Nonny, you have confused "galley" with "gallery" there]

From the _Dictionary of Confusing Slang_ on the free infonet:

Face: (n) 1. Application of stage makeup for a performance (theatrical) 2. Application of makeup for business (civilian human female, pre-Shattering) 3. Painting on protective boards to make a construction site more appealing at street level (construction) 4. (abbrv.) Elaborate architectural front of a building (orig. Façade) 5. A majority collection of sense and communication organs, usually located on the head 6. (syn) Dignity, respect of others (use: To save face.) 7. An aspect of oneself or an attitude that one uses in specific social situations (use: "Game faces on, people!", A poker face.)

Face (v) 1. To turn a majority of one's organs in a specific direction (use: to face the wall) 2. To turn one's entire body in a specific direction (use: face that way to exit)

The confused new Ambassador that Shayde had been showing around - with Rael as a translator - pointed to the entry on hir data reader. "Please? Which one is she used?"

Rael considered the list. Considered Shayde's accent. Considered the peculiar dialect that she spoke, and the lengths she went to in order to entertain herself. Including differing pronunciations from the norm, which always got the local SPOEns riled. Put together every clue he had at his disposal to divine meaning out of Shayde's most recent nonsensical aside.

For which, it must be noted, she had paused in the hopes of someone else getting her joke.

"I'm very sorry, Ambassador," sighed Rael. "I believe Ambassador Shayde may have invented a new one."

#  Challenge #046: Top Secret Womens' Business

"Prime Minister, we have little time. We must awaken Atlantis..." the tall dark-skinned woman said, crisp business suit and dark glasses lending an air of authority that even the PM felt humbled by.

"Atlantis? Like the myth of the wondrous Greek city that sunk into the sea?"

"Greek? Sank? Mere misdirecting fiction," she replied. "ATLANTIS as in the Advanced Terran Laser And Nuclear Threat Incapacitation System."

"The what? Is ... is this... thing... in Australia?"

"No, Prime Minister. It is Australia. I'll explain on the way. I need to get you to the command center immediately."

"Where's that?"

She removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes surrounded by the distinct dotted facepaint of the continent's indigenous people, and gave the PM a smirk. "Where do you think? For many years you called it Ayers Rock. To us, it's always been Uluru." – Anon Guest

The whitefella allegedly in charge of the country boggled at her and said, "What?"

It really was difficult for Tenamujai to keep a straight face. "There's no time to stand around and explain. Alien threat. Minutes to contact. We have to act fast if we want to win."

"What aliens?"

Tenamujai sighed and brought out some technology that the world wasn't ready to know about yet. It was an emergency, after all. "This is footage from the remote observation post at Umbriel Base. You can see Jupiter in the lower left of the screen." She lured him along with it. News like a big fucking alien warship tends to hypnotise, after all.

"The fuck is this?" he boggled. "The fuck is that?"

Another sigh. "This has been secret womens' business for millennia for this _exact_ reason. You men can't keep your heads. But... your the leader and this is an emergency situation. Please do _not_ let this turn out like last time?"

"Last time? There was a last time?"

"The Japanese attempted to nuke Sydney Harbour, sir."

"What? I never heard of that."

"I see you've grasped the meaning of 'secret', sir. The Prime Minister at the time attempted to go public with our information and... we had to happen to him, sir."

"Who the fuck was the PM when _that_ happened?"

Tenamujai barely turned a hair as she strapped the alleged leader into the rapid transit system in the secret travel network. "That would be Harold Holt, sir."

He went even whiter. "I promise I will never breathe a word about this to any one or any thing."

Oh good. They _could_ learn, after all.

#  Challenge #047: Know When to Walk Away

Hello! I would find it immensely amusing if you would write a fic where Maxim (Girl Genius) and/or any of the Jägers run into Taako (TAZ) and strike up a conversation about hats. Your writing is great and I am highly impressed with how much you manage to write. Thanks for listening! :)

Never mind how they got there. The meeting should have been brief. It should have resulted in one of them knowing something the other had to bargain and both of them walking away and muttering, "Sucker..." in evident glee. And yet, the conversation had turned to, of all things, _hats_.

"Of course it changes every day. I'm a wizard. My hat is _me_. It suits my mood, my wardrobe... goes with everything, darling."

Maxim was no fool. He'd tangled with technomancy, struggled against sparks, this was not the day to waltz with a wizard. "End who do hyu hev to keel to get vun like dot?"

"Well, technically, I stole mine," said Taako. "Just as good. _But_ ... you still have to be a wizard. You don't know what little security systems I've imbued into this little baby over the years." The glamorous Elf pondered this. "In fact, I don't think I remember half of them either. Do you feel lucky? Punk?"

Maxim swiped it. "Hy tink hy do. Tenks." But before he could nestle his prize on his head, a bucket's worth of loose, chocolate pudding oozed out and over the Jäger.

"Oooh, chocolate," said Taako. "That's a devil to get out of anything fashionable."

"Very fonny," growled Maxim, still putting the hat on. Chocolate pudding or no chocolate pudding. "Henny odder tricks up hyu sleeve?"

"It's not my sleeve you stole, homie." Taako magicked a stopwatch out of nowhere and watched its hands in anticipatory schadenfreude. "And I want to remind you at this point that it's real bad luck to steal a wizard's hat."

_VADABLAM_. A stroke of lightning, out of a clear blue sky, avoided all the gothic steeples and lightning rods in the immediate area and turned Maxim into a charred silhouette. Maxim coughed. "Hokay... dot vas a leedle on de rough side..."

"It gets rougher," singsonged Taako. "That was from my sister, bee tee dubs. The next one aughta be from me. And she and I were trying to beat each other in a 'what's worse' contest."

Someone shrieked. It was not the kind of shriek that Jägers were used to. This was an oh-my-good-golly-gosh-that-is-a-famous-person-in-my-line-of-sight shriek. "It's Schvartzengelber!"

Maxim was instantly swarmed by avaricious teenagers who were determined to grab hold of a little slice of fame. Literally. He was lucky to escape with only light cuts and his underdrawers intact. Of course, the hat never obtained the slightest touch of harm.

And then he was struck by lightning _twice_.

"Much though I love my sister, I do," said Taako. "She's real unoriginal when she's drunk."

"Hy changed my mind," croaked Maxim, removing the hat and handing it back. "Dis is not a nize hat."

Taako took it back and put it back on. "Suits me just fine, bro. Now. If you wanna steal some _quality_ millinery... You see that fancy boy over there with the glasses and the magic wand?"

The words 'magic wand' percolated into Maxim's mind and came out as, 'trouble'. "Hy'm not goink hennyvere near _heem_."

"And they said Jägers were stoopid..." said Taako.

#  Challenge #048: Aftermath

[Person 1 wakes up] "Ugh... what happened?"

[Person 2] "Do you want me to start before or after you started a civil war?"

There was a wild party going on. But there had been a wild party going on when he passed out. The headache said it had been more than a while, but the noise level said it hadn't been that long. Hwell reached for the electrolyte solution that Ax'and'l had thoughtfully set out, and left the covered bacon and eggs alone for now. He wouldn't be able to look at it until he was halfway done with the electrolytes. And the painkillers.

He got a sip down. A couple of sips. A quarter of the charitably large glass. Fumbled for the painkillers and took them. Got to half a glass. "Ooof. Ugh. Ow." Pleasantries over with, he asked _that_ question. "What happened?"

Ax'and'l had his Salty Judge face on. Which meant that something unstoppable was in the equation. "Would you like me to start _before_ or _after_ the civil war you started?"

Three quarters of the glass. He started on the food. "I started a civil war?"

"I do believe your words were, _"Na tha's no' fookain fair,"_ and then you threw a brick at a window." Ax'and'l turned on the local news station at a blessedly low volume. "The rest, as they say, is history. On the plus side, you're a national hero, so they won't be billing us for damages. On the minus side, you're going to have to gently divorce them from their dreams of making you their new leader."

Hwell gave up on trying to squint at the eldritch horrors in Memory Lane and instead stared the future in its madness-inducing eyes. Fortunately, he succeeded his San Check. "Yeah. Gonna really have to do that. Give them the Benevolent Hand and then skidoot?"

It was telling that Ax'and'l understood Hwell's slang for "Give them the Galactic Alliance's Bill of Rights and get out of the area before they realise that half of what just liberated them was technically illegal according to said rights." Which was quite a lot of information to pack into eight words.

"That seems like the wisest thing," allowed Ax'and'l. "You are, of course, going to graciously decline any attempts at reward?"

Right. Profiteering off of a culture's revolution before they officially joined was bad. Mucho bad. Supremo bad. "Yeah. And give them back whatever I might have already accepted under the influence. They need everything they can get, to be honest.

"Glad to hear you speaking sense," said Ax'and'l. Which was his shorthand for, "Thank all the Gods in the Universe that you decided to _not_ be an insane human for fifteen consecutive minutes, thus forcing me to threaten declaring you as a pet. Again."

It was so nice to have such a deep level of mutual understanding between friends and business partners.

#  Challenge #049: Infestation Reformation

Picture a Fallout style after-the-bombs post-apocalyptic world, but we humans are extinct. Nothing but ruined buildings, leftover wreckage, wandering mutants of assorted types, and abandoned hoards of supplies like armor, food, tools, and weapons...

Meanwhile, on the other side of reality, the stereotype sword-n-sorcery fantasy realm gets so sick and tired of goblins - stupid, obnoxious, violent, vulgar little wretches that breed like rats on speed and can bounce back from just about anything short of incineration or wholesale dismemberment - that they create a spell to banish the entire species to some other plane, which turns out to be this post-apoc Earth. While in their old world, they were (and still are) a pack of greedy and self-serving cowards who tended to flee in disorganized panic if even slightly outnumbered or outmuscled, Goblins, it turns out, love this new world, since it's full of free food, stuff that explodes when you poke it, and no humies or elfses or such to harass them... sure, the land is packed with ravenous monsters, but there's exploring and adventures EVERYwhere! – Anon Guest

Some argued that it was the ultimate expression of speciesism. Others held that it was pest control. But since they argued after it was a done deal, there was no skin in the game and the entire debate was philosophical. No matter what, they all agreed that the Goblins were the Goblins problem now.

Goblins are small. They are fast. They are greedy. They breed like flies. They stink because they think hygiene is a greeting for anyone named Eugene. And when they entered the world of blasted cities, their first instinct had been to run for cover. It only took them a few hours to realise that there were no other species to come after them. That all the places still standing were full of wealth.

Shiny things. Tools. Technology. Clothing. Food. They didn't even have to hunt, the food was so plentiful. Just lying around in packets. In boxes. In cans. They had access to so much that it grew... boring.

Some learned the meaning of the Before-people. The Biguns, as the Goblins called them. Owing to the size of their furniture. One Bigun chair was as good as a bed for a single Goblin. A Bigun bed could be a home for eight. A Bigun house? Why, that was practically a village. As they had the free time to do so, the Goblins learned.

They learned about all sorts of Bigun things. Growing food. Making things to do things. Goblinkind's first efforts were crude, but only at first.

Goblins were always assumed to be stupid. What they really were was fast to mature and quick to hit first and ask questions later. Here, in a world without any reason to steal or fight, they learned to slow down. They learned to think. They learned to _learn_.

And the Biguns had tons of information. The Biguns had learned to pull the very fabric of the world apart. And figured out how to put it together like building blocks. And, of course, how to blow things up.

Goblins liked to blow things up, but not so much as the Biguns had. They had blown things up to the point where life just... died on the ground the explosion had cursed. The Biguns called it _radiation_ , and it made death come painfully. And still, the Goblins learned. They learned that sunflowers cleaned up the radiation, made the ground safe again. And the fields of death were full of yellow flowers. With seeds that made oil that the Goblins could use in their ever-evolving machines.

And the Goblins learned to think. Not like the Biguns thought, with their strange triple-god that told them to birth babies and curse children. They learned to think around the mistakes that the Biguns made. How to apply scientific evidence and figure out what was best for the most amount of people. How to use everything to its best advantage.

The Biguns had almost killed this paradise. The Goblins made it alive again. Healed it. Used it in beneficial ways, so that there was always more. Goblins liked having more.

The last lesson that the Biguns left was this: _There is more in space._

So they took everything they had learned, everything they had made of themselves, and made rockets. Working once more from the things the Biguns started. Making mistakes. Making progress. Making it off their adopted world.

They found another message on the distant moon. Written in the Bigun words. Scratched and scarred my micro-meteors, but still legible.

We came in peace for all mankind.

By then, Goblins were no longer greedy and grasping. They were no longer nuisances. They were a people with nations and identities, with stories and histories and culture. They had Great Goblins and notable figures who made the world better in the Goblin image.

So they went out, ever outwards. Sometimes finding the messages left by Biguns who had thought further and longer than the ones who had blown up their world. And _they_ came in peace. Just to see what was there. See if it was cool. And see if it could be traded.

Because, above anything else, a Goblin likes to have cool stuff.

#  Challenge #050: Welcome Back

"The risk I took was calculated, but man, I'm bad at math."

It was later. The wounds had been repaired and bandaged. The fires had been extinguished. The echoes of the explosions had long since died down. And Tierl was still pissed. Because she was waiting for Jan to wake up after the flakking mess she'd made. Sure, there were upsides and downsides to loving a Lucker, and this was the one that irritated Tierl the most. Watching time tick by. Watching the health indicators tick and jig as Jan's body recovered from everything Jan had done to herself.

Love could be a pain in the arse, sometimes. Just like Tierl's belief that visiting Jan's recovery drawer would somehow speed her recovery from the coma she had put herself in pulling some damn fool stunt to save the day. Which, in her defence, Jan had done. But at severe cost.

Sure, medical care was subsidised, but visiting her wife's drawer every day was flakking _painful_ to endure. And, of course, when Jan recovered consciousness and movement capability, it was when Tierl was at work because _of course_ things worked that way when one was married to a Lucker. It would have been exhausting, but Jan was back amongst the allegedly cogniscent.

They let her go to her ailing wife, and even sprung for some flowering plant that Jan was known to not be allergic to. Because every little bit helps with morale. Morale, businesses had found, was great for productivity. The silly part about that simple fact was the absolute centuries that it took for businesses to realise that _and_ work with it.

Tierl had her usual spate of traffic snarls, hold-ups, construction work, and detours on the way there. Which could only mean that Jan was awake and thinking of her. And because of it all, Tierl made it there as fast as she could. And tripped on the way in.

"I'm sorry," said Jan, getting it out of the way as soon as possible. "I thought I had to."

Tierl sighed. "If I didn't love you as much as I do, I'd file for spousal abuse."

It was an old joke between them, and they both laughed, though Jan had to break off at a twinge. "Please. Spousal abuse is a repeated bad choice. This qualifies as an occupational hazard. C'mere. I missed your kiss."

"I missed _your_ kiss."

"I missed your _kiss_."

"Take your choice," Tierl giggled, leaning in. Lips met lips, and consequences could go hang, to be honest. This was worth any number of indelible stains, self-inflicted bruises, and vendomats that ate her change. "Don't do anything that silly again for at least two years?"

"I took a calculated risk," said Jan, mock-defensively.

"But you _suck_ at math..."

"Okay," said Jan. "I won't do anything that silly unless you're around to stop me."

"Deal." Tierl lay down next to her wife for a careful and extended embrace. "I have a month and a half's worth of office gossip to catch you up on. Which should be good for most of the hugging I need..."

#  Challenge #051: Earth's Deadliest...

"Humans? We are the most dangerous animal on earth. Not shark, not bear, not anything else. Us. Other animals, they kill when they need to, and only then. Kill for food, or for protection. We kill when we _think_ we need to, kill when we _want_ to... It is not the same." – Anon Guest

Humans are dangerous. The Galactic Alliance knows this. Having seen human transmissions, both of fantasy and fact, they know that humans are indomitable, hazardous, and insane. But they are still learning how deep the rabbit hole goes.

In the Galactic Alliance, _Humanities_ has an entirely different meaning.

Reports come in, as they always do, about the human culture. This one comes with ominous words. _The most dangerous thing to humans is other humans._ File after file comes in. Domestic abuse. Serial killings. Mass shootings. Abductions. Torture. Religious extremism. Fighting for peace.

Humans killed their own. Not for defence. Not for any kind of need. But for the feeling of being powerful. They hurt and harmed each other for the same reason. They harmed the innocent and the helpless for any kind of reason. The strong preyed upon the weak because they _were_ strong, and the weak were taking too many airs, according to them.

Some killed because they had a gun and couldn't get a date. They killed because someone told them 'no'. Because someone else got the job they thought was their right. Because someone ignored them. Because they lost at a video game. In short, they killed because they were angry, and didn't want any healthier way of venting their emotions. Because guns were the way their heroes solved everything. Because death was power.

Humans were insane. And their willful murder of the young and the weak was solid proof.

So when humanity colonised other worlds, it was cause for alarm. These dangerous, cogniscidal species was out of their home star system. The odds of them meeting the citizens of the Galactic Alliance grew with each world that began transmitting their omnicidal 'entertainments'.

Humans were monsters. And some were fascinated by that monstrousness.

And then, one day, the inevitable happened. A human ship ran into a Galactic one. Literally. And instead of swarming the Galactics with blood in their eye and foam in their mouths, instead of charging in with guns blazing and wiping out civilisation as it was known... The humans _helped_. They were kind. They tried to understand. They were gentle.

Humans changed themselves by making worlds in their own image. They became more civilised. Or they were hypnotised by their own species' deadliness and made entertainments about that which fascinated them. Either way it was eventually accepted that the Killer Human was the aberration and not the norm.

Only _some_ were monsters. Humanity tried to do its best to isolate those monsters before they wrought too much damage. Placed them where they could be the most valuable. Set them loose on those who refused to listen. Used them to enforce the _Pax Humanis_.

Sometimes called the _Pax Terrorist_. For reasons that quickly became obvious the more one could stand studying the fallout.

Humans are dangerous. This is true. They have dangerous ideas. Brilliant, but dangerous. They have dangerous hobbies. They have _thrillseekers_. And they have cogniscidal maniacs. Kept comfortable. Just in case they're needed.

#  Challenge #052: When You Put it That Way

National delicacy, the sort of stuff diplomats have to eat and appear to enjoy. Sheep's eyeballs and truly rotten fish come to mind. – Anon Guest

"So what is this one?" And since this was the second time the Ambassador asked this question about the foodstuff before them, they didn't want to know what it was _named_. They wanted to know what it was _made of_.

"A goose's liver, after the animal has been force-fed to the point where said liver becomes fatty and enlarged. It is then cooked with herbs and spices and then ground into a paste."

A small noise of distaste. "Kind of cruel on the goose, yes?"

Relations Guide Ambrose was ready for this. They had their data-reader out and had already looked up a picture of a goose. The tooth-like projections on the tongue were always a winner. "This is a goose, Ambassador."

A slightly larger noise of disgust. The Ambassador moved on. "What's in this one?"

Now, Ambrose was ready. "The albumen of a domesticated fowl's egg, whipped until frothy with the processed sap of an exotic grass. It is then baked slowly until the exterior hardens. It's served with a similarly-processed collection of fats from bovine lactate and raw fruit, Ambassador."

"And that one?"

"Snails, cooked in a processed form of bovine lactate fats and bitter herbs, served with a fungus prepared in the same manner."

"And this one?"

"Ground up seeds processed with evaporated insect vomit and boiled until candied."

The Ambassador was looking rather ill. They lowered their voice further and murmured, "I don't want to cause a stir, here. Is there anything on offer that is actually edible _more than once_?"

Which was a rather peculiar way to approach Pâté du Foie Gras, Pavlova, Escargot with truffles, or Sesame Halwa. It all had to be in the presentation, Ambrose supposed. Or the loss of translation in understanding the ingredients. "These are all foods rated as edible amongst your species, Ambassador," said Ambrose. "Newcomers inevitably begin with the fruit basket."

Judging by the look on the freshly-minted Ambassador Feriq's face, this was not a welcome option. Then again, her planet had, until very recently, used ageing in peat as a primary food preparation and preservation technique. Peatclooten got handed down in family lines. With that in mind...

Ambrose guided Ambassador Feriq towards the more familiar fare. "This is called Bog Butter. Meat that has been cleaned and boiled, and then sealed in a wooden cask with the rendered fat, inside a peat bog as a means of preservation."

"Finally," sighed Ambassador Feriq, "Some _real_ food."

[AN: Three cheers for all those very strange foodstuffs that are _aged in peat_ as part of the 'cooking' process. It's not so much rotten as thoroughly tanned]

#  Challenge #053: Working With the Dead

Sometimes the person you admire or love has a passion or hobby that they would really love to get stuff for. – Anon Guest

Hobbyists are easy to buy for. Well. Most of them are. Gardeners will love you for getting a big bag of manure. Leatherworkers - the less said about the gross stuff that _Leatherworkers_ would thank you for, the better. Especially if they do their own tanning. Arts and crafts people will be grateful for infinite art supplies.

But if you happen to be a member of the Clean Beach Patrol, and know a Necromancer? That's when you enter a state of friendship symbiosis. Bodies float, and flotsam of all sorts winds up on the beach. Things that would disturb a casual passer-by because most of them don't know how aquatic decomposition goes. My friend gets called out for any intelligent lifeforms that wash up dead on Golden Beach, just to be certain about the cause of death, next of kin, and whether or not they intended to wind up dead.

You know. The routine stuff.

It's the non-intelligent life forms that my friend Ravensong is interested in. The hard parts, of course. The more _permanent fixtures_ as she is wont to say. So she gets a bi-monthly collection of octopus beaks, blob-monster bones, and random skeletal structures that emerged from the gross, goopy, and gooey things that my shovel has collected in the bucket.

And once a year? The _interesting_ ones. Carefully collected by yours truly and my pals at work who know Ravensong or know _about_ Ravensong. The weird stuff that must have come down the trade rivers and then were swept by the currents onto the golden shores of our home city. It may sound weird to you, but yes, benevolent Necromancers exist. They make sure the dead are at peace, slaughter bacterial infections, massacre virii, necrotize cancers, and have... interesting pets.

The 'interesting times' variant of 'interesting' of course.

Necromancers call them Thralls. And in battle situations, it's not always the best thing to have a dead bear or dire wolf as a collection of bones in your bag of holding. Sometimes, it's way more fun to pick-and-mix something unbelievably _c'thuloid_ out of that bag and possibly your arse. Or so Ravensong tells me. I've never seen her in a fight.

I have, however, seen her announce herself to some alleged badass in a hostage situation and seen said badass: surrender unconditionally, _heal_ the hostages they'd hurt, split up what coin they had to said hostages, _and_ their food supplies, and then beg forgiveness from Ravensong on their _knees_.

She was unapologetically smug about the entire thing.

This was her first birthday grab-baggie of the strange, the unusual, and the intimidatingly-dentitioned since that terrifying day. I was understandably nervous as I approached her brightly-coloured house with its pristine and bountiful gardens. Ravensong has a permanent curse against all garden pests, and a solid black line of their corpses around her property.

Of course her new doorbell chimes out a few bars of _Skeleton Dance_. Of course it does. Because Ravensong is a total nerd about her chosen vocation. I began to relax a little.

She was wearing her summer gear when she answered the door. Wafty gossamer stuff in every colour of the rainbow and the earrings that jingled whenever she moved. Her hair was up from the style she preferred for work and she actually looked... super girlie.

The big bag rattled as I lifted it. "Happy birthday from the beach crew."

She jumped up and down, clapping. "Yaaaayyyy! This is the best part of my day. Are there spines in there?"

"I knew you were low on vertebrae, so I kept an eye out and strung them up in order for you. Everything in here has been bugged, boiled, and bleached, in that order[7]. Just how you like 'em."

A gleeful squeal. An enthusiastic hug erased any lingering fears. And a very definite kiss on the cheek that made the blood rush to my head. She always made me dizzy in all the best ways. "Wanna help me with the varnishing? I got carrot cake for afterwards."

"Always," I said. She didn't need magic to have me in her thrall.

[7] Corpse cleaning trivia for the morbidly-minded. The things you can use for the cleaning of bones are: flesh-eating insects, slow boiling, and bleach. After bleaching, bones are then washed in dish soap to remove any remaining disease vectors. Skeletal curators usually don't use three methods for the same thing, so just assume that Ravensong takes her bone hygiene very, _very_ seriously. [I'm a writer. I research stuff for fun.]

#  Challenge #054: The Mating Game

[Title, "The Harkness Test"] Because if Humanity discovers Alien life without needing a xenocide (from either side), there will be at least 1 person who will try to mate with them. – Anon Guest

[AN: Again, please do not make your prompt title part of your prompt. You could literally make your prompt title a serial number. I care about the prompt content, and doing the title stuff is a pain in my butt]

Some elementary truths about humans in general, and Blake Harvesson in particular. Humans will pet anything. Humans will fight anything. Humans will speculate about the mating potential of anything. Fortunately, humans had speculated about this tendency in advance and had devised the Harkness Test[8].

Blake was one of the few who needed reminding of the unofficial rules. And as such, had to have an escort in certain areas of any port of call. Lest he wind up in the kind of trouble that had a high ticket attached to it. He, like many other humans, was new to the Galactic scene. Trouble came with that novelty.

"That's pretty," said Blake, pointing out a creature on the latest commercial concourse.

"That's a pet," said Blake's necessary guide, Grox. "Non-cogniscent. Incapable of consent."

"So I should ask the individual on the other end of the leash?"

"Ze's underage. Can you see the bands on their limbs?"

"What–" the Human squinted. "Oh. I didn't know they were significant."

"They're Diminished Responsibility bands. You get one because you need help for some tasks. Ze has two because ze needs more help than you. It is _generally_ a marker of physical and emotional immaturity. Unless someone has the same number of bands as you - do not go there."

"Okay. Is there an easy way to tell people from not-people?" said Blake. "Because... uh... this sort of thing has happened a lot? Aaannnnd... it really shouldn't?"

"Yes," sighed Grox. "It _really_ shouldn't." There were colour codings, since most species could differentiate between areas of the visible spectrum, but that only told a cogniscent a being's occupation. And since dogs had preceded humans into Galactic space, there were colour-coded uniform elements for dogs who had jobs. And since 'clothing' as a concept was defined so loosely as to not have a definition. "Clothes _can_ indicate a cogniscent being, but there are some non-cogniscents that are given clothes so that others know that they have an occupation."

"Like assistance dogs. I get it."

Grox boggled. There was actually a life form that the human would _not_ attempt to mate with. "Okay. You can ask if you like. The Harkness Test is... blunt. I admit that. But it does clear up a lot of confusion."

"On the down side, there is the inevitable hilarity," said Blake.

"You said that you liked being able to make a prospective mate laugh."

"I did. I did," said Blake. "But not like _that_."

8] As seen [ here [NSFW verbiage]

#  Challenge #055: You Have Been Randomly Selected

In case of epic quest to save the world, it's never the Royal Guards or the veteran that we send. Because the guard must protect the Royal Family and the veteran are either too old or already dead. So it's always the rookies adventurers who will be blocked by a locked wooden door. – Anon Guest

They had tried, once, and only once, to send the Great Hero to defeat the evil forces of darkness. What they discovered was the Unwritten Rule: _Whatever you set out to face down will be the greatest challenge you have ever encountered_. To send a Great Hero after the big bad was to invite horrors against which none were truly prepared. Not even the Great Hero.

It's a fable, now. A fairytale. But the Adventurers know the truth of it. Newbies just starting out don't face foes more powerful than Goblins and the occasional Orc. When they get up there, they start facing down Eldritch Horrors and otherworldly entities set on eating existence as it is known.

Rulers and nobles certainly know this, and publish a great reward (that will be inevitably claimed by a band of kids in gimcrack armour and some newly-acquired cool things) for ridding the realm of some slightly-nasty foe as a form of test before going against the true threat.

Because it 'thins the herd' of unretired Great Heroes who still possess both hubris and chutzpah. Because it creates jobs for otherwise homeless shepherds who could easily become the _next_ big bad if _one_ more alleged hero breaks into their hovel and steals what little they have. Because it gives the world the kind of horrors that can be _recovered from_ with little in the way of effort, expenditure, or random heroes breaking in and stealing anyone's stuff.

Plus, when you get down to it, haggard old Sages get a kick out of picking some random kid out of the gutter and telling them that _they_ are the one Foretold, and setting them on their way to becoming the next Great Hero.

#  Challenge #056: Truly Heavenly?

Turns out that Satan is a really nice guy who hate violence and God is an old sadistic pervert. Because their roles is just a job, and the Administration messed up with their applications. – Anon Guest

AN: I'm guessing 90% of this prompt is based on the Old Testament, Revelations, and possibly the [Satanic Rules of Earth as concocted by a bunch of stir-the-pot atheists who routinely cause trouble when the Christians try to shove their religion into public spaces]

Everyone knows that Hell is circular. This is because the sins come around to bite a soul on the arse. One way or another. What is less known is that Heaven is a cube. It is full of Angels, a Dragon, and a certain number of virgins chanting "Glory, Glory, Glory," _forever_. It's in the Bible. Look it up. According to the scripture, it is eternal worship, or eternal pain. For the remainder of existence.

The sprits who are deemed pure enough to enter biblical heaven don't even know what they're missing out on. They are wrapped in the obligation to worship, because the entity in charge actually _likes_ that. Glory. Praise. Power. All of it. They can never get enough.

And in the other place...

Lucifer helped a soul out of the burning lake. "Okay, now. You've done your time. Two hundred years is enough suffering."

"But... I deserve eternal suffering. I broke every single one of the ten commandments."

"Yeah, just about everyone has told their parents to fuck off at one point or another. And who hasn't taken the Name in vain? All those commandments are about is restraining completely understandable human nature. Jealousy? Pfft. If there wasn't jealousy, there wouldn't be motivation to try harder. I've looked over your file. You've paid for your sins. It's time to move up."

"I... didn't know that was an option."

"Many don't," and Lucifer pushed the soul through a portal. On the other side was a realm they had always imagined heaven to be like. With access to their relatives who they loved. An eternal garden with all the pleasures in life and access to all the things that they had regretted not doing. It would be a millennia or more before they ran out of movies that they had never had time to watch, or books that they never had time to read. They'd be too busy having fun in there to wonder about saints or angels.

One person had written, during the worst of the Black Plague, _Hell is empty, all the devils are here._ And they were only _halfway_ right. Hell _is_ empty. Because no soul deserves _eternal_ punishment. That would be far, far too cruel.

And Lucifer, aptly named the Great Deceiver, allows the being called God to believe that the punishments of Hell are for all eternity. They both prefer it that way.

#  Challenge #057: As a Bird

Never underestimate the sanctity for some people of the most trivial things, from the wine used to cook to the way to open a pack of cigarettes. – Anon Guest

Being married to Blake was like... being pecked to death by finches. The really tiny ones that you could never believe were a real bird. And though their tiny little beaks didn't leave much of an impact on their own, they could whittle away a loaf of bad bread all the same. That's what Carey felt like, now. Every day. A loaf of bad bread, pecked into nothing by tiny birds.

She hardly felt it, of course. It's easy to ignore the pecking of a finch. Blake's words were just as good at taking herself away as the birds' beaks were at nipping away crumbs of bread. And it was always the little things. The fine details. And the way he said it.

"That's a silly way of doing it. Here. Do it _this_ way. It's better and it's faster." or, "No. Just... _no_ ..." or a simple, exasperated sigh of evident frustration. Carey would try to learn it. Try to amend her habits, but her muscle memory betrayed her, and she was forever clumsy at everything that Blake taught her to do.

As the years and Blake's finch-nip criticism wore her down, there was always something new she had to learn. Something old that she didn't need. Some other means of feeling silly, or stupid, or inadequate, because Blake always told her what she had done wrong after it was done. When he was fortunate enough to catch her at doing something, he would always scoff. His instruction and tutorship had to come from her dragging it out of him. Like pulling dragons' teeth. If the dragon was both hungry and on fire.

She was told she didn't need her treasures, but was scolded if she threw out a single empty cardboard box that Blake wasn't done with. She was scolded for not keeping the house clean, and scolded anew whenever she moved a single belonging of his.

Carey felt that there would soon be nothing left of her but a soggy rind.

Which was why she got what little she had left. It fit into a single suitcase. Including the money.

Which was why she left a note. _My biggest mistake was letting you run my life._

Which was why she left her phone. It wasn't hers, anyway. He'd made that clear by going through it and making certain that it was 'optimised'. Making sure it was comfortable and easy to use _for him_.

He treated everything as if it were made _for him_. Including her.

Which was why she left. With a single suitcase. With all the money that was hers. With the clothes on her back.

As free as a finch.

It would be difficult, starting over. She knew it. But she had one skill. Honed over years with Blake. She could learn new ways of doing things. It was a start.

#  Challenge #058: Flakk it

_After having done something stupid and dangerous to escape a hazardous situation_ At the time it seemed like a good idea. Afterwards, it's a miracle that it worked without killing us all. – Anon Guest

It takes a special kind of human to be the Ship's Human in a war zone. Crew need quick thinkers, Luckers of a certain calibre, and those with rapid improvisational skills. Or, as it was known amongst the Humans, "MacGyvering the shit out of things."

Human meme culture is strange, labyrinthine, and difficult to interpret into GalStand. Many do not try.

Reese "Flakkit" Jones was one of those humans. They had been on fifteen ships in as many GalStand Months, and the reason for their nickname becomes increasingly obvious the more time they spend on a vessel. This was ship sixteen. They were slowly leaking atmosphere, low on power, and facing their death through the pirates they had been trying and failing to fight.

Reese studied the map. Their most expeditious retreat lay _that_ way. One-eighty degrees relative plane to the approaching pirates. One of their engines was threatening to explode. And if they ejected it... Reese said their famous nickname. "Flakkit. Let's do this. Okay..." And anyone who knew them for long enough knew that this was three Utterances of Certain Doom. In a row.

"Point the ship towards the wormhole. Engineering? Let's take that failed engine and rig it to overload."

Engineering freaked. "We just spent forty minutes trying to shut it down. We barely succeeded."

"Well, then, fire it back up. When it's lookin' like bad, bad news, jettison that flakker and then put all the batteries onto rear shields. Plug half of our remaining engine into life support, and... let's get all the non-essential stuff dark."

Desperate times and desperate measures walk through causality with hand in hand. The crew didn't question it at the time, but survival and retrospect had retroactive panic kicking in by the time they emerged on the Civilisation side of the wormhole.

"We could have _died_ ," warbled Srokk, their navigator.

"I did everything I could to make certain that we didn't?" rationalised Reese. "And the engine explosion definitely did a number on the pirates, so... bonus. Right?"

"It almost did a number on _us_ ," argued Srokk.

Reese sighed. "I'll go pack." They knew, without a doubt, that it would be the time it took to get to the nearest station before they were looking for ship number eighteen.

#  Challenge #059: Blustering Bafflegab

If you can't blind them with your brilliance, baffle them with your bull####.

If there was one thing that Ned "Fucking" Chicane could do, it was think on his feet and talk so quickly that people were nodding along before they realised that he was selling them dung by the bag.

"This one looks so fake," complained a customer/rube.

"This? This is simply a curio. A tip of the hat to the late, great showman, P. T. Barnum. You all recall the famous Fiji Mermaid, and the greatest hoax ever pulled on the human race? Well, this is a lovingly hand-crafted homage. No doubt you have heard of 'reborn' dolls? Commercial mass-produced fabrications initially, but with love, care, and lavish attention to detail, they emerge from the hands of a skilled artisan and craftsperson looking like they are about to take a breath, look you in the eye, and say 'Mama' or 'Dada'. This is but one of my first attempts at such lavish skill, my friend. Just the first. And since I run an emporium of the strange, the bizarre, and the otherworldly... why, I thought it might be fun to tip my hat to the biggest fake in the business. It's merely present as a test, my friend, a test. To sift the weak willed from those with a greater discerning eye. A critical mind and an analytical wit are one's greatest friends when sorting genuine paranormal footage from -say- losers in wookie costumes and out-of-focus shots of venus[9]."

Which was why he had a special display of the fakes he put _effort_ into, behind doors and drawers and in low lighting conditions, allegedly to preserve them. In actuality, to preserve then from a critical mind and an analytical wit. Sold together that this was the _special stuff_ and this customer was also _special_ enough to see it. It worked effectively to sell more than a few mementoes.

Ned had a fine collection of Alien Eggs in the curio store. Some with UV lighting so that they appeared to glow. The stuff behind closed doors was the more genuine kind of fake. Surrounded by Things in jars, a drawer opened to reveal what was, in actuality, the foot from a plastic skeleton, re-wired so that the toe was the thumb's hand. Covered over in leather, fake fur, and the dried produce of Ned's septic tank. And then deodorised in the loft for months. Any insects that perished or left their carapaces there were lovingly kept for authenticity.

Ned lowered his voice to a whisper. "Now this specimen is very fragile, so I can't allow you to touch it. My agents were lucky to preserve even _this_ specimen from the site where it was found in the Chilean mountains. This is the foot of a juvenile primate the likes of which science has been unable to classify..."

He ran through the usual stuff. Perilous expedition, the body being in a terrible state, the tragic story that the expedition was able to divine. The book was available in the shop, of course, for a significant mark-up when compared to the obvious ones like the Alien Eggs or the Baby Abominations or the _I (heart) Yetis_ T-shirts.

At the end of it, the Rube purchased quite a lot of paraphernalia, including some shirts _and_ the 'fiji mermaid' doll without the display case, but with the little plastic basket that the original doll had come with.

Ned waited until they were well on their way before placing another doll in the display.

"How many of those Trudy Tinkles dolls did you 'adjust', Ned?" wondered Kirby, eternally tapping away at his laptop.

Ned smiled. "They're a hobby. Once I liberated the stock from the Big Box Mart dumpster over in Snowshoe, I've kept them safely in a U-store I maintain for my... less reliable material. I actually spend my weekends on one at a time, so... I have fifty in stock and I'm working on another."

"Was it the 'alien wreckage' or the 'bigfoot' that sold that one?"

"Bigfoot," said Ned. "Bigfoot is _in_."

The bell rang. Ned launched into his spiel. "Welcome, welcome my friends, to my emporium of the unworldly..."

[9] Both for sale to _less_ discerning customers with testimony from other frauds like Ned. With the obligatory impressive titles in the subtitles and a bookshelf in the background for _genuine_ fake authenticity.

#  Challenge #060: Let's Make it Clear

Mutual responsibility, when both the government and the governed rely on each other. – Anon Guest

"Ask any guy in a bar, and he already knows how to run this country better than any schmo in office. So to that point, I am making all our laws, all our policies clear. Including nationwide reform and initiating a coherent set of laws for all states and counties in our beautiful country. If you care about how this country is run, tell us the good things that are being done. Tell us the bad things that need to change. We've even set up an app that lets you, the everyday citizen, have your say. Once a day, you open up the app, fill in the form, and _we will listen_."

The crowd roared.

"In just a few days, this Sunday, we will hold a nation-wide referendum. Every public school, every public library, will be open for twenty-four hours. So that you, the people who care about this country, can vote as to whether this app becomes a legal means of petitioning our government. Every citizen who cares will have their say, but this vote will cut the red tape..."

Amongst some, they were the least popular leader of that century. Amongst many more, they were the most popular. It did not take a genius to realise that this leader was unpopular amongst the oligarchy for taking the money out of politics. For instituting referendum and initiative. For making voting more accessible to all citizens.

And because they made their word law, because they kept things transparent, because they trimmed excess, excessive, and ridiculous laws from the ledgers, the people loved them. The oligarchs hated them. Because of the Robin Hood tax, because of Guaranteed Basic Income, because of instituting actual reforms in prison complexes, rather than meaningless punishment.

But there were boons for the oligarchs, if they were smart enough. Those who watched the public polls saw the political wind turn towards legalising drugs, and began research into which drugs could be useful for what applications, and others invested in rehabilitation clinics where addicts could get their stash evaluated according to its content and exchanged for a cleaner, safer supply.

There were those who saw the need for actual, scientific studies into which diets worked best for what types of people, and put their funding directly into double-blind tests. And then invested in the diet plans with the greatest success.

Money had stopped talking, but the smart money was in listening.

Schools stopped being prison pipelines and began becoming investment opportunities. Where education was tailored to a child's understanding level, rather than their age. Where tests were minimised almost to the point of obscurity, and applicable aptitude was valued in its stead.

Their nation, on the very cusp of collapse, became smarter, more resourceful. More stable.

Their nation, for the first time, became great.

#  Challenge #061: Motivation

Undyne tried to get Sans to spar with her.

Sans slept like the dead. If you'd pardon the pun, because he was in fact a living skeleton. Only one thing could wake him up and that was the smell of ketchup on a warm hotdog. He leaned towards it, only to have it lift away. By the time he was sitting up, his eyes were open and he could see Undyne with one of the best hot dogs in the world, tantalisingly out of his reach.

"I heard the human say you were one of the toughest fights they'd ever experienced," she said. "Though I can't imagine that weakling ever fighting anyone."

Unfortunately, Sans could. This was a human who had started without mercy and gone through two more iterations where they fixed everything. He remembered that fight. And he remembered the apology in the human's lidded eyes. They were sorry enough about what they did to reset, and let the underground live. And reset again to make sure they were all freed. "Yeah, sometimes that kid has a weird imagination," said Sans. "You know I don't fight."

"You could if you knew what was at stake," cooed Undyne.

"Not very partial to steaks," mumbled Sans.

"This," said Undyne, ignoring him, "is a gourmet hotdog sausage, sheltered in a brioche-style hotdog bun, lovingly wrapped in the best of condiments that humanity has to offer. Artisinal ketchup, whole seed mustard, and a special chilli salsa with finely-aged grated cheese."

Sans whimpered a little. Okay. There were _some_ things to tempt him.

"And if you don't fight me... I'm going to _lick_ it."

"You wouldn't dare," challenged Sans.

Undyne opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue, and slowly brought the gourmet hotdog ever closer to her mouth. "Aaaaaaahhhhh...?"

Megalovania started playing...

It was later. Pain had happened. A lot of it had happened to Undyne, but she was happy about that. Sans was happy about the fact that he had won the best hotdog in the world, and was currently savouring bites of it in-between micro-naps.

Papyrus found them like that, Undyne patching up her own wounds and Sans enjoying some quality Human Food. "Honestly, Undyne," said Papyrus. "Are you picking up bad habits from my lazy brother?"

"Your bro has some hidden depths," said Undyne. "Stop ragging on him so much."

"He's my brother, I'm allowed to rag on him as much as I like. Especially when he gets salsa stains on his teeth. That's when the cleaning rag comes in handy! NYEH-HEH-HEH!"

Somewhere in the distance, Frisk giggled at the interplay. Just another lovely day in post-pacifist-run New New Home[10]

[10] King Asgore remains absolute pants when it comes to naming things.

#  Challenge #062: All in the Manual

If you're tired, sleep. If you're hungry, eat something. Take care of yourself. Self Care Haiku, found on the internet. – Anon Guest

It was a decorative plaque, almost in the style of the Ten Commandments in the way they were arranged.

_If you are tired, sleep,_ it read. And onwards into other rules.

If you are hungry, eat something. If you are thirsty, drink. If you are ill, take medicine. If you are dirty, bathe. If it is broken, get it fixed. If it is ruined, replace it. If it is gone, mourn its loss. If you are sad, cry. If you are angry, yell. If you are lonely, come to me. I am here for you.

It was in an art gallery, and the title of the piece was, _Owner's Manual For the Human Body_.

Some of its instructions were not compatible with citizenship amongst the Galactic Alliance. There were many Havenworlders who had adverse reactions to loud noises. Most of it, however, was good advice. It boiled down to _Look after yourself and don't cling to bad emotions._ But it was put in terms so simple that very few could try to argue with it.

And humans... _were_ wont to argue.

Some could argue with a sunny day. They could certainly argue with self-care instructions like "Eat when you're hungry." And plenty had arguments against instructions like, "Express your emotions." But put like this? As if it were a manual with diagnostic procedures. They could all see the truth of it.

Even the argumentative ones.

Shayde, who had been contemplating it for some time, said, "Ee, isn't sommat like that in the wee gift shop?"

"Wooden wall plaques, yes. People give them to people who think they can go it alone," Rael said. And, seeing the shape of the immediate future, said, "You have no need to give me one."

"Spoilsport," Shayde muttered.

#  Challenge #063: Beyond Rocket Science

Person 1 "Come on, it's not rocket science!"

Person 2 "That is _exactly_ what this is!"

It was one thing to believe that one had survived a sub-orbital flight. It was another to begin to suspect that one had survived a trip through a pan-dimensional wormhole, and to do that relatively unscathed. Sure, she had broken bones and scars, and her outfit was toast, but according to _her_ math, she should have just _died_.

The whole pan-dimensional wormhole thing was easier to believe given that her hosts were Centaurs, and the smartest man in the world was also a lizard called Albert.

There are just some points at which the brain gives up, shrugs, and just goes with whatever. Because working that noise out would cause it to implode. And since brains don't _want_ to implode, they are inclined to assume that this is the new normal and proceed accordingly. Which, in this case, means advancing the cause of physics by more than a handful of decades.

"Try no' tae drop yer tail on this," said Katie. "It's not exactly rocket science."

"This is _beyond_ rocket science," complained Albert.

Katie stepped back from the blackboard she had made inside of the barn, contemplated her complicated sigils and attempts at explanation. "Aye, yer right. I should be startin' ye _off_ with the rocket science." And then, despite Albert's protests, erased everything with a wet cloth. "Na. Let's begin wi' orbit velocity around th' planet... And Tsiolkovsky's rocket equation." She started drawing a graph that looked like half an inverted parabola.

Two hours later, Stani Milner the farmer caught Albert trembling by the well as he alternately swigged at some water and puffed on his pipe. Judging by the smell, it was something a little stronger than regular tobacco. "Something the matter?"

Albert looked up at him as if he had witnessed the face of God. "You know how men of all kinds are saying that the women are fragile and should not be thinking of complex problems?"

"Aye, it's well known," allowed Stani.

"To put it impolitely, that assumption is a vat of pig shit." He took a deep and desperate drag of his pipe, which only quelled his shakes a little. "We say this to hold the women _back_. If we allowed them to move forward like men? They would open up the cosmos."

Stani looked over to the being who called herself Katie Walker, who was gossiping with his wife Brin and kneading loaves with her. Even though Katie was clearly some kind of demon, she seemed harmless enough now. "Is she... any danger?"

"My friend, she is completely harmless in a physical sense. She will not hurt you or yours. She will not kill unless she has to. No. I've heard her explain the universe. Just listening to words. How... how it's all so _simple_ for her." This time, a swig of cool water. Something that should have slowed a lizard-man down and let him relax. "And I am _terrified_."

Stani looked back to the women-folk. Katie didn't seem to be doing anything more terrifying that having one of those intense chats that men would never hear because the women would glare at them until they went away. The ones with folded arms and bowed heads and wary eyes. The ones that had inherent fears all of their own, simply _because_ a man would never know their content.

He nervously pawed at the ground with a front hoof. "I know my Brin's smarter with the farm finances than I am, she's an eagle eye for a bargain..."

"If she became an accountant?" said Albert. "She would run this country inside of a year." Another long drag. "The biggest lie we tell the world is that women should never be taken seriously. Educate your daughters, my friend. Teach them everything they can learn. Including how to command respect. They will be a _power_."

Stani stared again at the women across the way. Pondered what it might be like to be the beloved father of powerful women-folk. To have sired strong and capable ladies who had the potential to take over a nation with their minds. A smile grew on his face. He _had_ always held that the ladies were undervalued and overworked.

It was a moment that changed a world.

"How would you start?" asked Stani.

#  Challenge #064: Before a Fall

"I am unstoppable!!!"

slips on banana peel

Hubris is always punished. It's a law of the universe. Get too egotistical, get too proud, get too vainglorious, and the universe will extract its taxes on your body, your soul, and everything you hold dear. Time is always good for this. Extracting the years day by day. Making those who were once strong, feeble. Making those in power jealously guard it until Death creeps up behind them and takes everything away.

But the usual ebb and flow of life's cycle and nature's check on megalomaniacs has fallen by the wayside in the modern era. Rich men ensure that their families are set up. Empires of economy are planned. Men and women alike play with the fates of their fellow man as if they were nothing more than counters on a game board.

So the gods had to show their hand more... forcefully. Such as the case of Malcolm Scase. Who now owned a majority of an entire nation.

He stands now, giving a speech on the steps of the former capitol building, with much fanfare and jumbo screens to show any in the back rows who was talking. He owns a nation - or might as well - he thinks that he is going to own the world.

"I promised that I would be the cause of great change in this nation, and I did not lie. I am changing things," said Malcolm. "The role of president is now defunct. I own the senate. I own the house. I own all the major pacs that went into fooling all of you into thinking that your vote mattered. So here I am. Cutting out the middleman. There is no president. There is no house. There is no senate. There are no more governors, no more mayors. Just the senior staff of the board, the managers, and me. The CEO of this entire damn nation."

The people were upset, but they were upset too late. Malcom had had a perfect array of distractions in the media to become the opiate of the masses. He was secure in his takeover.

"Yeah, yeah, boo. Hiss. You can't do anything because _I_ decide. I decide who gets medicine. I decide how much - if anything - you get paid. This entire nation is my plantation and _I_ decide who lives and who dies. Fuck, I might even make all marriages null and void. I'll decide on that later. The point is... I own you. I own where you work. I own the agencies that give you water and keep your streets clean. I. Own. This country. And there's nothing that's going to stop it. I'm a financial genius and this country is going to be made in _my_ image." He smirked directly at the main camera. "Good luck. You're going to need it."

Some said that what happened next was an act of god. If so, it was one of the supremely merciful ones who actually listened to prayers. Others said it was karma, for once, not waiting for his next incarnation. Some said it was the collective will of those present for the event.

Either way, as Malcolm Scase stepped off the podium, he put his foot down incorrectly.

On the edge of a step.

On a patch of slick ice.

Right at the top of the grand, imposing staircase that was his stage.

He went down like a sack of rubber balls. Bouncing and rolling. Tumbling uncontrollably. Irrevocably down. And it sounded like he hit the edge of every step on the way down.

When he came to a halt, it was clear that he had also stopped his life with one misstep. The blood was a dead give-away.

His empire, built by his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, gifted to Malcolm on a silver spoon, credited solely to _his_ genius... fell.

It fell before the body grew cold. It fell before someone ran to try and assist him. It fell before people on the sidelines had stopped filming it. It fell, in fact, before the second, sickening crunch of bone meeting hand-carved marble as he tumbled to his death.

Malcolm Scase had barely been twenty-five. He had had three trophy wives and no children. They, and the executives under his command, fell upon his estates like ravening vultures. And they were almost too late. The staffs of his twenty mansions were already stealing anything they could grab before his feet had quite finished sailing out from under him.

The nation went mad. Without a governing power allegedly in charge, anarchy reigned. Those who needed a single excuse to kill their neighbour and take anything they coveted did so. Those who could fight, did. Those who could not, could only pray for mercy from the strong.

The nation burned.

Here and there, pockets of benevolence flourished in spite of the chaos. A new model of governing sprang up. A new way of running things sprang up. From insanity rose competence, phoenix-like, from the ashes.

In a way, Malcolm Scase had accomplished his lie. He _had_ , indeed, been a cause of great change in this nation.

#  Challenge #065: No Cause For Alarm, My Dear

Pax Humanis has an interesting work force, a lot of killers and a few who hold their leashes. – Anon Guest

There is a world where only specialists go. There are lots of forests. Lots of lakes. Plenty of reefs. It is a paradise. It is also where they keep the psychopathic, sociopathic killers. There is one city, where the analysts and the scientists live. The scattered and vast estates are for the killing killers and the people who they, for want of a better term, love.

They're called Keepers. There's not one for ever killer. Some of the killers are regulated by professionals, since they don't form bonds with many. Keepers are the exception in the bloodlust that runs your average killer human. The killer will not harm them. The killer will protect them. Much like a wolf-dog would guard the children of their owner[11].

And, much like living with a wolf-dog, living with a psychopathic, sociopathic killer has its detriments. As the one that Allin called Bunny would testify.

Allin had been hunting again. That much was evident as Bunny came in from the vegetable garden. There was a carcass on the tackle, and a skin on the frame. Allin preferred to hunt for meat, and left the 'rabbit food' to Bunny. It was as Allin always said, Allin was the wolf. Bunny was... well... the rabbit. But then... Bunny was the bunny that Allin had adopted.

"I see we're going to have venison for a month or two," said Bunny, bringing in the cabbage and cauliflower.

Allin smiled. The Blood Smile. Allin enjoyed dissecting something that had once been alive. Doing so every other week was enough for Allin's needs. Sometimes, Allin would seek out something they needed on Bunny's request, but for the most part, chance decreed the bounty of nature.

"One month, tops," said Allin. "I'm sending three quarters of this off on a drone." One of the benefits on living on Killer's World and studying its denizens was an almost regular supply of wild game. "I wanna catch you a _boar_. We want bacon, and pork... and some smoked ham."

"Mmm," Bunny hummed at the thought. "Been some time since we had wild bacon, but... I'm in the mood for fish. How about a fishing trip?"

"The season's next week," said Allin, who always killed the fish for Bunny. "And we'd have too much protein."

Bunny remembered in time that Allin was hyper-concerned about the balance of food they had in their stores. "How about," she proposed, "A haunch for us, the rest to the nerds, pig tomorrow, and fish next week? I can brew up all of my preserves for the winter. All of our favourites." Our favourites. Not Bunny's favourites. Not Allin's favourites. The ones they shared.

Allin liked to share things. It had taken some years to work it out between them to get Allin to understand that Bunny didn't enjoy killing as much as Allin did. So when Allin went to peacekeeping missions, Bunny waited in the city for Allin to come back. And Allin was determined to come back, because Allin was _convinced_ that Bunny couldn't survive without Allin's care.

So they shared everything. Meal plans. Lifestyle. A house. It wasn't a home. This was Bunny's work. Keep Allin company. Keep Allin tame. Keep Allin groomed and comfortable and happy. Knowing how to handle Allin was Bunny's job.

Allin was doing math in regards to the stores. "Calories add up. Yup. But we're keeping the marrow in the freezer. And I'm making you a deer-brain scramble. You need this brain. It was a good hunt."

Aspect-hunting was one thing that Bunny couldn't convince Allin to surrender. A wily prey animal meant their brains would make Bunny smarter. And the only way Bunny would eat a brain scramble was if Allin would have the other half. With mushrooms and tomatoes and cheese and lots of other things that hid the flavour of brains.

"Aw, don't make that face," cooed Allin. "Brain is good for you. It's dense protein. Super energy."

"It's still eating a _brain_ ," objected Bunny.

"I'll eat a salad for you," offered Allin. "Quid pro quo, right?"

"We both have brain. We both have salad," said Bunny, thus ensuring that there was only half a brain for Bunny. "Fair's fair when we share."

Allin grinned, blood from the deer still fresh on her face. "I knew I'd get you there in the end."

Bunny smiled in spite of his trembling stomach. "There's a good predator."

[11] This actually happened. I have a true story of someone who grew up with a 100lb wolf-dog that was _not_ a Husky passed off as a 'wolf'. This was a creature that scared local inhabitants and hunted squirrels for their family. The author could stroll through sketchy neighbourhoods so long as their hound was with them.

#  Challenge #066: One Firelit Evening in the Middle of Nowhere

"I am fire! I am death!"

*Pokes Person 2 with a stick

"Dave... we get it. You made fire with some sticks and shit. That does not make you king of the mountain or even king of fire. This is a skill that cavemen could do, Dave. Cave. Men."

"None of you assholes could do it," said Dave. At least he'd stopped jabbing his 'fire stick' around while he was jubilantly dancing.

"Still fuckin' hurt, Dave," said Bob, rubbing his arm. "That thing was _hot_."

"Dur. I just started a fire with it."

There was a chorus of, "We _know_ , Dave," from Bob and Marty.

The fire grew, and Dave calmed down. Eventually. They knew some of the basics of survival shit. A bright fire by night and a smoky fire by day. But they had few clues about what food looked like in the wild. Or, to quote Terry Pratchett, what might be edible more than once.

"Okay. Fire good," said Marty. If there's anyone else out there, they can find us. But... uhm. What are we gonna eat?"

Dave made the 'I dunno' noise.

"There's palm trees," said Bob. "There could be dates. Or coconuts."

There was a contemplative silence as Dave started throwing things into the fire. "Does anyone know how to climb a palm tree? Or what a coconut looks like on the vine?" said Marty.

"They grow on the palm trees."

"Whatever."

Another contemplative silence as the fire burned on.

"Did we find fresh water?"

Dave was staring at the flames. "Okay. So maybe fire _isn't_ that much hot shit."

There was a cheer from Marty and Bob.

#  Challenge #067: Stop, Children

I can't be the only one who, when consuming media focusing around the notion of "mythology made modern" (taking fantasy creatures and putting them in our time and place like they've always been there), gets kinda tired of the sort of "prejudice is the conflict" thing best described as "black and white gang up on green".

You know, the situation where lazy/bad writers rename "white supremacy" as "human supremacy", heavy-handedly portray the fantasy races with negative human stereotyping (making orcs and goblins the targets seems especially common, usually with orcs being the tusked stand-in for "ghetto black thugs" and goblins having "gangbanger Latino", "Italian mafioso", and/or "greedy coward Jew" traits), and adding a few darker humans into the crowd of mostly-white bigots to look superficially balanced.

There's gotta be some way to break the cycle of this trope. – Anon Guest

[AN: There is. It's called "thinking things through". Like... how would the modern world develop with multiple intelligent species in it? Answer: it would be unrecognisable]

There are cities just like this one all over the world. Bustling metropolises full of people of all colours, all creeds, and all species. Faeries nest in the eaves of human buildings. Orcs run the sanitation crews. Goblins are everywhere - but since when _weren't_ Goblins everywhere? They're clever and cunning and when allowed to learn, they will. The streets are full of steam and the latest counterculture is taking over an area of the tall buildings, and some of Central Park.

This is the Age of Man, of invention and rockets to the moon, and it is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. At least, it is if you're part of the Summer of Love.

Young Orcs have flocked to it. Because they can achieve love and understanding despite the race riots and segregation. Despite struggling and struggling against their multiracial oppressors. Despite any claims that slavery was 'a hundred years ago'. It wasn't. Some Elves speak out. A species with long lives and longer memories can be a ball in other's courts. If they're on the other side.

Young humans have flocked to it. Because they honestly believe that love can change the world. In a decade or two, they will be pulling all kinds of shenanigans to grab hold of as much money as they could, in a time when Greed Was Good. But for now, they believed in peace and harmony. That growing their own food was a revolution. That the government was too mean and that prejudice needed to end.

And they believed in a lot of weed, a lot of booze, and maybe some other interesting pharmaceuticals while they were there.

There was no call for coal. Not with magic to run things. Horseless carriages were drawn by Phantom Steeds, customisable by their users if that was necessary. Birth control radicalised the people, _all_ the people, and now that women of all species had freedom of choice, there was an amazing ruckus all over the world.

Women, especially, flocked to the counterculture. To the new potion that made that they were freed from the obligations of reproduction. To the freedom that men only had once enjoyed to make love without consequence. Well. Without the enormous consequences of a new life. There was still a great deal of venereal diseases, but antibiotics and vaccinations looked to be ending disease.

So, in camps in Central Park, in communal buildings on the dingier parts of the city, young people of all species gathered together to dream of a future they could only comprehend now.

And in this one place, an older Elf of six hundred and change sat in a rocking chair and told a crowd of teens or younger about how it was in his time.

"None of this bricks and mortar," said the sage. "None of this con-crete and ash-phalt. No flushing toilets, either. Gotta keep those. But maybe keep the overflow out of our oceans. There's nasty things in poop, my dears. It makes diseases. I survived fifteen cholera outbreaks. Fifteen. Gotta keep the pathogens the heck away from us and everything we eat. That's just wisdom."

The assembled flower children nodded.

"Now your kind," he pointed out an Orc. "Your kind had a smart idea. Plough it into the fields, but grow the things for _making_ out of it. Cotton. Hemp. Trees. All of that. It doesn't matter if the pathogens get into that. They don't leak out. They don't get into our guts or anything. And I tell you, an Orc tree farm grew lumber twice as fast as any other. Didn't want to get downwind of one. Whew! That's were all the horrible stories about smelly Orcs came from. Very economical people, the Orcs. Didn't get a lot of anything, so they used every ounce of the nothing they had. Sensible. Not like humans these days."

The audience waited, open-mouthed, for the next part of wisdom to come to them as the elderly Elf stared into the mists of time.

"Cities were never meant to be this hunchbacked. My folk... we spread ourselves out. Wide Elven forests. Before the humans cut them down for paper. Paper! You can make it out of hemp. You can make half the world out of hemp. But what are they making? Plas-tech. Out of dinosaurs.... That's what oil is. Fat dinosaurs got pickled in the earth for... mmm... thousands and millions of thousands of years. And now they're making plas-tech. In huge factories where nobody can work because the air... is _poison_. You buy a plas-tech chair, it cracks! It breaks. It bends and once it's broken, you can't do a thing with it but throw it in the midden. And then it just sits there. Useless. When a wood chair breaks, you can take the broken piece off and replace it. Burn the broken part and boil a kettle. Or carve a toy for your young one. Eh? Mark me. One day we'll be swimming in plas-tech broken _junk_ and there'll be no space for anything."

Of course they listened. Of course they knew it to be true. That year.

Humans live fast, compared to Elves. Orcs live even faster, with a biology built to endure the slings and arrows of everything that would hate and kill an orc[12]. And in a year or two, only the die-hard fanatics were even involved in alternative ways of doing things. And those people... had to be practical.

And sooner or later, the giants of commerce had their way, and nobody was left to listen to an old Elf who had seen it all come and go. He did what Elves did best: wait.

Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty. The world began to fill with plastic and disposable things that could not be reduced, re-used, or recycled. The short-sighted humans continued to devalue Orcs and keep them down, and make a mess of the world in the process. The longer-lived Elves kept to their remote hide-aways and shunned the modern era until it grew up and learned some sense.

Forty years. Denial was strong in some humans - especially the humans who made money off of the plastics they sold. But the rest of them were becoming aware. Plastics _were_ piling up. And poisoning fish. Which then poisoned people. Important people.

And once _important_ people began to suffer the consequences, that's when things changed.

The old Elf who had once lectured the teens wasn't even in his seven hundreds by the time it happened. People were buying his books again. People were asking him to talk to people. People were paying him to do so.

His starting speech was brief. "Maybe now you'll listen to what I've always been saying: Learn. From. The Other." He almost walked off the stage. "I'm betting most of you don't understand. Let me explain."

And that took more than a few hours.

Elves styled themselves as the educators of other species. And they were right. They had a whole lifetime to watch the patterns of other species' mistakes. They could even hang around, wait, and tell the others, "I told you so," when one species fell and the other began to rise.

The Age of Man was crumbling. High time for the Age of Orcs. At least they knew how to get by on scarcities. Maybe they'd learn from Elves who would teach them how to bank their plenties.

[12] Also known as: everyone else.

#  Challenge #068: What Rough Beast

"Wait... you mean to tell me that _this_ is the 'terrifying predator' we've been searching for?"

Eyes glowed in the dark. Human Grif trained her spotlight on them and found, "Aw, it's a kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty..."

The creature in the darkness slinked out into the light, making a "Mrrp?" sound as it came.

Human Grif made kissy noises, and tore off a tiny piece of jerky as an offering. Before long the cat was smudging up to her as if they were long-lost friends.

The Sculids of the remaining crew stood agog, some choosing to stay safe in their hiding-holes. "That is a pet-beast of your kind?"

"Ooza goo' kitty?" gushed Human Grif. "Ooza _goo'_ kitty? You is! Essoo'iz... Essoo'iz... Essoo'izza goo' kitty." The cat, purring up a storm, was attempting to kill Human Grif's hand. And by all signs, both were enjoying the interplay. Grif turned to smile at her crew. "This is what you're afraid of? It's just a li'l ole kitty cat. They're great for getting rid of vermin like birds, bugs, lizards, and mi–" she caught herself just in time. The Sculid crew had been identified by her as 'mouse people' on their first interview. They might remember. And she could get in big trouble for that kind of thing. "My, my, you'd be surprised at how much _small vermin_ they can kill."

Her crew let her have that as a diplomatic win. "That creature is biological pest control?"

"Only the best," said Grif, giving the feline a scritch between its ears. "If you and yours feed this lovely creature, they should stop chasing you so much and start begging for table scraps. Though... if you flash your tails around, nothing will stop..." Grif checked. "Her."

"We shall armour our tails and feed this beast," allowed Captain Kri'ik. "Then it will hunt _for_ us?"

"Yup," said Grif. "And I'll keep a heating pad in my room so she'll have somewhere safe to stay." Safe for her crew, of course. The cat was never in any danger.

#  Challenge #069: Surprising Goddess

From the world of five Gods. A God whose harvest of souls includes those whose last words were. "Ho lads! Hold my ale and watch this!"

[AN: That description doesn't exactly fit that world... or the Gods]

Where there is a will, there is a way, and where there is a niche, there is a God. There is a Goddess of Fields and Flowers. There is a Goddess of Motherhood and another of Fertility. Sometimes, they pinch-hit for each other. These are realms in which femininity is expected, and downright necessary. For patrilineal societies, there is definitely a Goddess of Virginity.

What is unexpected is the one known informally as the Goddess of Fools. The more formal name for her is She of Ale-Soaked Dares. Or, She They Strive For.

Because ale-addled men will do anything for a shapely lady, or a comely face, or an interesting combination anywhere near the two. Ale and testosterone are lethal combinations, especially when attempting to impress a potential mate. Most men that young and that foolhardy also falsely believe that they are immortal, and thus haven't sworn to any particular God.

Darv had just attempted to toboggan down the multiple slopes of the City Hall roof. It was slight trouble to pull himself out of the snowdrift, and the girls he'd been trying to impress were looking horrified. "I'm okay," he boasted.

_No,_ said a warm and affectionate voice behind him. _You're Not._

He looked. She was every man's dream. Buxom. Stacked. Beautiful. And not entirely dressed for the weather. Her diaphanous gown _almost_ showed off more than a few of her secrets. Darv found himself smiling for her. "Hi there," he said. "Why haven't I seen _you_ around?"

_I Am Everywhere,_ she said. _And I Thank You For Your Sacrifice._

"My..." The snow under him was steaming and turning pink. He looked down. Where his mortal remains had encountered a buried mile-marker head-first. "Oh."

_You Are Mine,_ said the Goddess of Fools. _And You Will Come With Me To Paradise._

Darv spared a moment's thought for what his heaven might be like. Lots more ale. Lots of available ladies who were willing to like him despite his spots and awkwardness. Lots of occasions for him to show off his prowess. Lots of fun and carefree days and interesting nights.

He took the Goddess' hand. Eagerly. "Will you be there?"

In All That Exists There.

He didn't think about the consequences of what he was leaving behind. The men who belonged to that Goddess never thought about the consequences. It was how they became her Sacrifices.

#  Challenge #070: Reverse the Polarity!

Person 1: (proceeds to do the thing) – TheDragonsFlame

"Okay. Okay! Ooohhh... kay..." said the Ship's Human. "Okay, we could run the ion ejectors _backwards_. Reverse the polarity of the magnetic engines, sucking in the trail we left for up to three clicks. That'll give us enough exhaust to propel us to the cloud and fully refuel.... I think."

"You do realise that if this move fails, we could be looking at a catastrophic engine failure, overload, and possible fusion reaction sparking on our tail."

"Huh," said Human Steph. "I guess we could just -Idunno- shuffle our socks on the carpet for half an hour and just flakkin' _zap_ the fuel tank. That'd get us ions."

Grax considered the alternative ion generation technique and what it had done to hir crew's limb filaments for forty-eight hours. "Let's get this safety manifold off so we can turn this sucker around. There's a lot of work in reversing the polarity."

"I know a guy who can do it in two seconds with a sonic screwdriver," grinned Human Steph. This had to be one of those obscure Human Culture Jokes.

"Well they're not here, so go fetch the mini-crane. I'm doing the sealing bolts."

Human Steff laughed anyway. They had the manifold off and the magnetic containment and ejection field flipped inside of half an hour. Making certain it would work before they employed it. And even then, they flipped the switch on the other side of adequate shielding.

There was no fusion reaction. There was, however, just enough fuel to make it to the cloud and fuel up properly.

Human Steph still proposed an engine upgrade when they got to the nearest spaceport.

#  Challenge #071: Senile Delinquents

How hard could it be? Bus trip for a bunch of old age pensioners, take them round the bargain outlets. Lunch at a Hotel. Then he realised. "OhMyGod!!! they all look like Nanny Ogg."

[AN: Sir Pterry (GNU) always said that multiple exclamation points were a sign of a decaying mind]

Everyone epitomises little old ladies as the most fragile and in need of protection. Everyone, of course, is sorely mistaken. Think on this: there is a _reason_ why they live that long. Little old ladies are as tough as flash-fried hobnails. More cunning than a sackful of mongooses. And have filthier minds than the entirety of the porn industry's scriptwriting cadre. And possibly the entirety of hormone-fuelled teenage fanfiction writers too.

They _looked_ like a pack of sweet little old grandmas. Kevin almost put his hand out for the mysterious strawberry-mimic wrapping sweets that little old ladies almost always had in their purses and nobody ever seemed to sell. Those, or a Werther's Original[13]. Within minutes of starting the bus, Kevin would learn that looks weren't everything.

Five minutes onto the road, they were all singing _The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered at All_ , followed by a rousing rendition of _Charlotte the Harlot_ and a song that Kevin had never heard before and began praying would never hear again, because his ears were ready to spontaneously incinerate themselves from pure self-preservation.

The sweet-looking grandma in the multicoloured jumper that she obviously knitted herself was cracking jokes so tawdry and sordid that being written on a grungy bathroom wall was a _step up_.

This was supposed to be a doddle. A visit to the beach (unbelievable sex practices of half the ocean wildlife expressed with vivid hand gestures and assorted cacklings), a call in at a nice tea shop (and an impromptu lecture on how tea was invented as a virility aid), and a stop in at some daycare places to listen to little kiddies read (thankfully empty of ribald conversation until they were back on the bus, but there was lots of inexplicable candy), and a trip to the day spa (lusting after the young, well-muscled male masseuses).

It was a living nightmare.

On the way back to the Assisted Care Complex, they all sang, _The Boy I Left Behind_ and it would take Kevin another forty years to realise what all the words meant in context. And as they disembarked for the last time, they all called him a "nice young man", patted his cheek (Mavis pinched his bottom), and handed him one of their inexplicable sugary treats.

_Now_ he could understand why Madame Defarge existed. Why Baba Yaga was like that. Why the crone was the most feared of the three witches.

He certainly wasn't going to laugh off this duty as the most horrible. At least the kindergartener excursions had passengers whose questions were asked in all innocence. And not expecting a gross punchline.

At least he had candy.

[13] Both of these seem to be universal grandparent candy. The difference between the two is that someone, somewhere, actually _sells_ Werther's Originals. Nobody knows where the strawberry-wrapped lollies come from. Not even the grandmothers who have them in their purses.

#  Challenge #072: The Big Challenge

Former nightclub bouncer, former riot control expert - Why do I want to teach? Wanted a Real challenge.

Stopping violence with more violence is easy. It involves very little thought, and a mindset that makes the punishment more brutal than the crime. Stopping violence _before it starts_ is more of a challenge. Especially when you want to avoid looking like a hypocrite.

The kids called him Mr Tough. He could physically lift any kid at Elementary but only if they asked him. He never dropped a one. And what he was opposed to above all other things was violence against others. Physical. Verbal. Passive-aggression. He didn't tolerate any kind of meanness. He endorsed talking it out. Between the kids. Between the adults. And most importantly, between the kids and the adults around them.

It didn't go well for lots of the adults, who clung vociferously to the concept that they were the grownups and their decisions had to be final. Or that children existed to be controlled.

Which was why Mr Tough held evening and weekend meetings in the school library for parents who were willing to listen.

Even the biggest spanking enthusiasts refused to argue with Mr Tough. But since they'd try to politely argue with him anyway, he started each session the same way.

"If I didn't listen to your instructions, would you hit me?" he asked.

There were universal shaking heads in the room.

And then he'd pick out the smallest kid in the room, who was eager to hang off of Mr Tough's arm like he was a living jungle gym.

"What about if it was this kid?" he asked. "What makes it different?"

_Then_ there were uncertain murmurings. Mr Tough would gently put the kid down and list all the things that he and the small child had in common. They were both humans, to begin with. They were both capable of understanding rational arguments. They both had feelings. They both had a sense of injustice. They both could dot on to blatant hypocrisy when it was presented to them.

"You're not raising kids. You're creating adults," Mr Tough said. "The best way to create a lawless adult is to be a strict parent. How many of the grownups here had strict parents?"

An appreciable show of hands.

"How many of you ended up being incredibly rebellious? Lying, cheating, stealing, getting into drugs, whatever?"

Many hands stayed up.

"Your parents made some lawless adults. You shaped up in the end, and you thought that your upbringing was okay. So you hit fellow human beings when you decide the circumstances demand it." And then he would go on to explain how house rules could be followed if they were followed by _all_ household residents. And demonstrated how negotiating could happen between an adult and a child.

He would also include some recipes that made hated foods tasty. And he would explain why kids hated those foods, and the changing biologies in the growing body.

The challenge that Mr Tough came for was not controlling the kids, but in teaching the adults how to behave rationally.

#  Challenge #073: Revolution by the Millilitre

They were trying to cause havoc. They found something relatively harmless that caused people to sing. The results were not what they expected. – Anon Guest

"I got it."

"Don't give it to me."

Sasha ignored her sister. "We use this thing on the town water supply. There's gonna be chaos. And since we have the antidote..."

"We can hold policy for ransom. I like. First up, re force 'em to reinvigorate the public transit system with accomodations for the disabled."

Sasha started to cackle.

It was later. Chaos had ensued.

It wasn't the grand musical number that Sasha or Grayne had expected. People were going about their business, and there was no dancing. And it wasn't co-ordinated. At all. It sounded like the warmups backstage at a global talent show.

Snatches of lyrics came known as they got closer to the relevant singers.

"...we all need is something steam powered..."

"...Tammy Baker's got a lot on her plate..."

"...see cube power comes by the hour..."

"...psychic burn-out catatonic nut case..."

"...worst... sideshow... ever..."

"...think you only meant to tease..."

Lots of them had Bathroom Only voices. They would only ever sound good in a bathroom. Many of them were tone deaf. Heaps of them had the lyrics, timing, and tune wrong.

Because every person in the city had a direct link between the mouths and the music in their heads.

Sasha and Grayne hurried to finish their business and resumed lurking in their shitty bed-sit of a hostel room to hide and watch the local news. Those less effected were the ones who exclusively imbibed bottled beverages, but they could not avoid _all_ tap water.

"Outcry has reached the mayoral office," the newscaster singsonged, "everyone is buying up bottled water in the hopes that this will go awaaaayyyy... But it isn't looking good/ And it's clearly understood/ Something must be done and soooon..."

It wasn't as funny as they thought it would be.

"I'm collating all of our demands into one manifesto and then posting it anonymously on Reddit," announced Grayne.

"Good call," said Sasha.

#  Challenge #074: But We Made It Home Alive

"I hate the word 'should'."

"And after we make it through the wormhole, we should be aces," said the Ship's Human, Lyn.

Their Captain bristled, literally. Defensive spikes raised along her carapace. "Should is a word that should not exist," she said.

"Uh... you just used it."

"Yes, the corruption spreads far," said Captain G'orp. "A future tense qualifier adverb is an uncertainty we do not need in the middle of space. We need rock-hard certainty. Not your human 'luck'."

"Well," said Lyn, "if we waited for everything to be certain, we'd certainly die. Humans have survived because we take the chance anyway. If we're doomed to fail, then what's to be lost with giving something a try?"

Captain G'orp muttered something about suicidally crazy humans, but gave Lyn the go-ahead. And then sent out a warning for all hands to brace themselves.

And, like all products of uniquely human inspired desperation, it worked. It got them to safety, to a wormhole nexus called _Lost Point_ by some ancient human who thought they were being funny. And even though they made it, there were, to quote the human, a thousand papercuts to deal with.

The _Far Sight Flyer_ was leaking atmosphere, her internals were leaking all over the ship, and more than a few crew were leaking as well. The crew were more than lightly shaken. Everyone aboard came away with _multiples_ , but they were _light_ ones. Easily patched by non-professionals.

Lyn was grinning and almost glowing with insufferable self-pride. The small and slow leaks had self-patched, and parts of her soft, human _skin_ were showing unhealthy colours. And worst of all, in Captain G'orp's personal opinion, the human was _giggling_.

"Human Lyn, I am giving you immediate shore leave. Go at once to the Human Sector and seek out whatever release suits you best. Just come back within forty-eight hours and do so in a state that's fit for service aboard my vessel."

Giggle, giggle. "Aye aye, mon capitane."

_Humans_ ...

#  Challenge #075: Foreign (First) Aid

What if Coffee was invented during beginning of Middle Ages (5th -6th century) and gave rise to a whole industry of potion makers? After all who says that it can't have much different effects based on how it is brewed? – Anon Guest

Sometime in the mid-to-late 5th Century...

"This one is a powerful emetic. This one will purge the bowels," the potion-maker showed their apprentice differing vials that were near-identical shades of brown. "This one will strengthen the heartbeat, and _this_ one will speed it up. They all come from the same plant. Where does it grow?"

The apprentice, an orphan named Cheese, stared dumbfounded at all of them. He was not, yet, allowed to use or make the things that Maester Nightsky created in his workroom. All Cheese was currently allowed to do was gather wood for the fires. Nevertheless, inspiration struck. "It comes from where you're from. The blackamoor lands."

"Sudan," said Maester Nightsky. "I am from Sudan. And so are these plants. They are called Kafeha. And today, you will learn to tend them."

Cheese's eyes went wide. "I get to go into your special house?"

"The glass house. Yes. I have very many special plants there. They are from hotter places than here..." the lecture went on. Master Nightsky eager to teach, and Cheese listening with an open mouth and a hungry mind. Maester Nightsky showed Cheese how to put his furs up carefully, so they'd be ready for the trip back out into the Briton snows, and then how to water and talk to the plants, and how to know when the berries were ripe.

"You feed those to the goat," said Cheese.

"Yes. For a special blend the potent kind," he said. "The guts of a goat are better than any alchemy I can concoct. And the milk from the she-goat can make a person lively too. Good for peekid babies, but not those who have lost their mother. Those get the milk from goats who do _not_ eat the berries. Very important." Maester Nightsky gave a berry to Cheese. "These are not good to eat for people. You try it, you get sick. Also, the flesh is not the important part." He split the flesh open with his nails, showing something like a bean within. "This is what is valuable from Kafeha. The seed. Green, it does one thing. Flash-fried in oil, another. Slow roasted, a third. It is very important. You must learn to be careful, my son."

Cheese, struck by how pale his hand was in Maester Nightsky's said, "I can't be your son. I'm not a–" he stopped short from saying 'blackamoor' since he got the impression that his master didn't like it. "I'm nothing like you."

"We are different, I grant. And you are not the son of my body. Family is more than the people who make you. Family is who you can come home to." Maester Nightsky ushered him on to another crop. "And in this case, you can always come home to me, so you are my son. This is hemp, but not the regular hemp. A special breed. You see it is short? It can also make pain vanish, and inspire hunger in those who otherwise refuse food..."

So much of it came from foreign lands. Maester Nightsky knew of corners beyond the edge of the Roman Empire, where people on the other side of Suliman's Lands had eyes shaped like almonds and grew bushes of plants for the leaves, which were so valued that they used them for money. They were packed and stamped into blocks with foreign writing on them to show how much they were worth.

Maester Nightsky paid gold for ounces of it, and used tinctures of it sparingly.

Maester Nightsky was the best alchemist in all the lands. He taught Cheese everything, and as Cheese matured[14] he became the Maester and cared for his tutor in his old age. By the time Maester Nightsky passed from this life, Cheese and his sons had branched out, owning a number of apothecaries in different villages. And Nightsky had become a name synonymous with good feeling and expert care.

And, to a certain extent, a welcome home for orphans willing to learn, because Cheese never forgot where he came from.

[14] You'd better believe I went there.

#  Challenge #076: Enter the Whupass!

Person 1 - "How did I _survive_ that?! Do I have some kind of plot armour?"

Person 2 - "Nah, that's ridiculous." (Glances towards hidden camera)

Sorrin Tael, master of Ohnono-jitsu, smirked at the camera that only he could see.

Falin tried to see what he was looking at, but the invisible camera moved. "What? Who are doing that to?"

"It's part of the secrets of my mystical art," said Sorrin. "Something you must learn from the mystical monks of Mojave."

"We're... in California. The Mojave desert isn't that far away from us and... it's unpopulated? There's a reason why they call it Death Valley?"

"Of course mere mortals can't spot the mystical stronghold, one has to have special gifts in order to perceive the way."

"Wait, wait, wait," said Falin. "Wait. Didn't you start as someone with... _no_ gifts? You had nothing, nobody, and no future, you said. And then the monks found you. Or you found the Mountain of Mystery. You were a little vague, there."

"It is my solemn oath to protect the origin place of my mystical arts," intoned Sorrin. "But you are correct. I did indeed say those words. As it happens, my mother rebelled from the order and struck out on her own. She taught me the arts of Wu Xia to begin with, and that was how I could perceive the Mountain of Mystery. Also, I'm the Foretold One of Ancient Prophecy."

"How convenient," deadpanned Falin.

"I sense your skepticism, friend."

" _Really._ "

"Have faith. I am pre-destined to end all the evils in this land." Sorrin struck a majestic pose. The light went _ping_ as it glinted off his teeth.

"And you're starting with the people who are just _victims_ of the system? Why aren't you going up against the big, multi-billion-dollar mega-globo-corps who cause people to need to steal?"

Sorrin was only temporarily inconvenienced. "The mysteries of prophecy are not mine to comprehend, my friend. I go where I am called. I can do no more than act on impulse when I arrive at my destination. I am a seed on the wind. I must follow my compulsions and take root where I am lead."

And if he had had sharper senses, he would have detected Falin making blah-blah-blah hands as he spoke.

"Okay. Sure. Let's go with that. How is beating up small-time criminals going to save the world?"

"Uuuuuuuhhh," said Sorrin.

#  Challenge #077: Ordering the New World

_The bookkeeper of a new evil organisation to their superior_ :

I'm sorry but no, a "giant robot of doom with lasers that go pew pew" is not feasible. Because not only it sounds silly, but we lack the funding. And no, I won't allow any medium or high destruction plan as long as you didn't find a way to increase our income. If you want to blow things up, I'll only allow dynamite. And we can't pay more than 5 minions at a time. And I warn you, if you do any excessive spent without my approval, it's steamed potato for a month. – Anon Guest

Migno the Malevolent pouted on his throne-like chair. "I am trying," he said, "to be the ultimate evil, here. The worst living thing on this earth. I need a volcano secret base, _some_ kind of intimidating laser-assisted animal life, and at least one overly-complicated death trap. Because when a nicely-dressed superspy gets up in my grille, I actually have to be prepared for that."

The accountant took all this down. "And... why are you doing this?"

"To take over the world, of course. Once the global system is under a unified rule, things will be _way_ more efficient. No more starving people in weird little countries. It'll all be one country. No borders to secure - no borders at all! Universal medicine, guaranteed food supplies, no more trade tarriffs. A sudden lack of tax shelters... the whole nine yards."

The accountant frowned. "Uh. Okay. So... Why are you aiming to be the _worst_? These are all... good things."

"Well, yes. But whenever I tell people in authority that those are my plans, they call me an evil bastard and try to kill me. So I figured I might as well go over the top, you know? Do the whole hog. I have a brilliant evil laugh, and it's only the cost of the evil lair that's really stopping me, isn't it?"

"Also the total lack of shell companies and whatnot to protect you from persecution."

"Yeah, I'm kind'a pants at that part."

"You know," said the accountant, "I know several ways you could dominate the world without raising a single eyebrow. And... it would be more evil than the... frippery... you have planned."

Migno the Malevolent leaned back in their throne and steepled their fingers. "I'm listening..."

"Let's use your extant holdings to your advantage. You already have an uninhabited volcanic island. You are, technically, the sole ruler of this land. Therefore, the rules you make here are yours and yours alone. Secede from the country that doesn't even know it exists, declare yourself an independent kingdom, take in a few hundred refugees so you have a population and then initiate a tax haven. Undercut the Swiss Bank, because rich people are surprisingly cheap. Funnel those funds into a coastal resort and have everything else in the bank."

"Okay. So I'm at the point where I'm running a resort and comping rich assholes. There has to be more."

"Money comes flooding in, of course, because nothing gets money like tax-free anonymous numbered bank accounts for rich people. You take that money and invest it into those digester power plants that take garbage and turn it into oil, power and water. There's no way that your tiny island can fuel those things, so you put out an offer. You want to take other nations' garbage off their hands for a very small fee. You now have green energy for your entire island, secret underground base, and whatnot. Get Elon Musk or somebody to build you a super-battery installation. The world will love it. Meanwhile, all the refugees here are getting cheap, recycled metal and all the electricity they could want from your plants. You build up a stockpile of the artificial oil."

"And then sell it?"

"At half the market price, provided that they never use it for fuel. Start investing in green tech companies. The greener, the better. Buy up the wastrel corporations with their own money and then downsize the fuck out of them. Pay up the electoral funds of the politicians who already agree with you. All over the world. Support the fuck out of wind, solar, and geothermal power. Buy up anyone who's doing the right thing and do promotions where you pick an impoverished zone and upgrade it for the residents, free of charge. Community gardens, solar and wind stations. Technology that you own, that kind of deal. Housing for the homeless, if you like."

"Poor people like me because my name is synonymous with benevolent actions. Rich people like me because I'm keeping them rich."

"And then you bait and switch. Once you have -say- a few quintillions in the bank, you hold the _money_ hostage. Rich people have to fund green industries. Shut down the polluters. Support a _hospital_ or they'll never see their bank balance again."

Migno grinned. "Now _that's_ evil!"

"For every yacht they own, they have to buy a green boat-house for a refugee family. For every house they have, they have to build and maintain housing for the homeless. For every pharmaceutical they have in copyright jail, they have to fund a free clinic. They'll either have to drop their holdings like a hot rock or spend everything they have left."

Migno was starting to fall in love. "How's your evil laugh?"

"I've never had occasion to find out," said the accountant.

#  Challenge #078: They Who Laugh Last

"I'm hungry !" / "Hi Hungry, I'm dad !"

"A man walks into a bar and says 'Ouch'."

"Why is a raven like a writing desk ? Because there is a 'b' in both and an 'n' in neither."

Those 3 English examples show perfectly why a "universal translator" is something impossible. You CAN translate it, but it will be incomprehensible.

Not convinced ? Here's a French example with a literal translation :

Que dit une maman baleine a son enfant qui fait trop de bruit ?

Cétacé ! (C'est assez)

What does a whale mum say to her child who makes too much noise?

Cetacea! (That's enough) – Anon Guest

One would think, what with all the diverse languages in the Galactic Alliance, that comedy would not be a shared experience. Those people had not counted on two things: the ability of humans to make fun of themselves, and the ability of other peoples to find humans ridiculous.

Observational comedy, as it turns out, is almost universal.

"You want something manhandled to death, you make sure there's a human around, and then hang a sign that says, 'do not touch'."

Even the humans laughed at that one.

"Human pets are amazing. This is a species that took the wild wolf and turned it into a teeny tiny puff ball with the aggressive capabilities of a marshmallow." More laughter. "Give humans a century and the most dangerous creature known to civilisation, and we'll be seeing 'teacup' variants with cute, baby features. Give it time, give it time."

Some humans were elbowing each other.

"Oh flakk. I've given them ideas!" Laughter. "We have humans nudging each other in the audience, my fellow cogniscents. You know what that means?" A pause to let most of them recover. "They're gonna mate!"

Howls. Absolute howls of laughter filled the room.

Shayde nudged her near-constant companion and chief interference in her plans to have 'a wee bit of fun'. "Gotta admit, 'e's nailed us."

"Don't mate with your pets," continued the comedian. "We know that doesn't work."

"Eeeeuuuw," she chuckled.

"An unfortunate truth?" Rael murmured.

"Too unfortunate an' too true," she said, still wincing.

#  Challenge #079: Forced Adaptation

If you don't want someone to push a button, do NOT label it _'Do Not Push'_ and whatever you do, do NOT make it big or red.

It is rare, indeed, that the introduction of a species causes a revolution in the way that the Galactic Alliance runs its standards and practices. Humans were one of the few who did that in large strides. For centuries or longer, many other species adapted to the standards, rather than forcing change on the standards themselves.

For centuries, the emergency button was big, red, and shiny, and had the current GalStand words for _Do Not Push_ in big shiny letters. So that all crew-members could see it and avoid it. Galactic Society quickly noticed the _Wet Paint Effect_ and changed it to a much smaller button under a glass window with a lock.

After way too many human crew literally smashing through to the button in question, it was changed to a solid panel in emergency colours with a mechanical lock. And a saner crew-member had the key deliberately hidden on their person.

Humans are kind of reckless that way.

Buttons are completely removed from the ERT booths, replacing them with a simple nook with a scanner to read the summoner's ID. The rest of the booth would only open after the automated warning played. Hefty penalties for misuse were the only things that could discourage a human from frivolous usage.

The caveat, of course, being that the occasional heavily-wounded human will drag themselves, bleeding, into a med-station. Unsure that their degree of injury qualified as a 'real emergency'. And all the PSA's and cute mnemonics in the civilised universe will not stop them.

Otherwise, most Humans are adaptable enough to deal with everything else. It's helping others adapt to _Humans_ that has turned out to be the long-term problem.

#  Challenge #080: That'll Buff Out

We all do it, either repair something broken with improvised stuff (paperclips are highly favoured), or hit it or kick it. – Anon Guest

Rael opened up the exterior panel. And nearly had the urge to purge his internal organs. This was a temporary patch job that was actually a flock of temporary patch jobs. A mountain of kludges. Paperclips, ductape, and random bits of fabric, string, and parts that never should have come into conjunction were all there. He recognised desperate measures on top of inspired desperation on top of even more desperate measures.

In the old words of emergency repair-people everywhere, it just had to last for _long enough_.

In this case, long enough to bring this junkpile of a spaceship into drydock with her cargo intact. All the other signs were there. Low-bid vessel with a welded-on cargo hold from a different one with not enough engines. The wiring that had been gone over by every known sample of vermin in the Galactic Alliance. Short circuits, leaks and mystery substances all over the place.

Rael whistled backwards,. The pilot/courier, standing just on the edge of Rael's peripheral vision, flinched visibly.

"I know you can't fix it properly," she said, "But if I'm over-ticket, it comes out of my pay packet."

Rael looked at her again. Young. Almost criminally young. Inexperienced. And judging by her manner of dress, she was on an isolated colony world when she began. Lured to the Galactic Alliance by the forbidden fruit of an Alliance trade port, and then suckered in by the first fly-by-night organisation to successfully sell her a line.

He took a side-trip to the pilot's compartment. Just as he suspected. Idiot-proof navigation system. Same with the life support and other necessities. She even had an open comms system for the bare minimum of communications and entertainment needs. All the technicalities to scrape past the absolute lowest bar set by the Cogniscent Rights Committee.

Another one.

Rael got back to his work on the ship and, when he had a chance, sent off an urgent message to the CRC concerning all the details. "Good news, Miss Ancel," he said, "I know some people who would like to pay you for any information you have on the people who hired you. They'll take care of everything you need."

Her eyes dashed to the tiny cabin. "That's what they said, too."

"These people are better at it," he said, and dialled up the nearest Singles Accomodation and showed her the pictures. " _This_ is the mandatory minimum accomodation according to the Cogniscent Rights Committee. Note that you have a choice in how you grow your garden _room_." Which was a far cry from the algae-based air recycling system and food generation plant, and the one well-tended flowerpot in the four cubic DU space that was her entire living area for four Standard months.

"That would be heaven," she cooed.

And right on time, there was her new legal attaché. All in Info Services brown and bearing a CRC badge. "Miss Caril Ancel? I'm your new lawyer, Beni Danners. Pleased to make your acquaintance. We'd love to have your assistance in preventing the actions of the people who infringed your rights and endangered your life."

"I didn't know they were doing that," said Miss Ancel.

"Exactly why they're in such trouble," said Rael. He surrendered his documentation of the patch jobs. Some of which incorporated Miss Ancel's underwear.

And now it was Legit Danners' turn to whistle backwards. This was likely going to set up Miss Ancel for some significant time.

#  Challenge #081: Who, Me?

Excuses both lame and creative.

Of all the forces of creativity, imagination, and progenitation available, nothing in the known universe is more powerful and simultaneously more inept than a small child who has been caught out, and is desperately digging to get themselves out of the hole they are already in.

"Uhm," said Kae. Elbow-deep in the cookie jar. There was no denying that her hand was in there, and there could be some debate that she was, indeed, taking a cookie without permission. But, there was still an 'out'. "It's not for me," she said.

"It can't be for Mister Pookie," said Mom. "We made Invisible Cookies for him and they're still in the Invisible Cookie Jar." Mom pointed to the spot where it was and lifted the invisible lid. "Yep. Mister Pookie has better cookie manners than _some_ people I can think of."

Kae couldn't argue that the invisible cookies were horse puckies. That would mean admitting that Mister Pookie was horse puckies. She thought quick. "Of course not. There's this lost kid hiding in our shrubbery and they're real hungry and scared of everything except me so I went and... I went to get 'em a cookie."

"Uhuh," said Mom, in her I'm-not-believing-this-for-a-second voice. "Well, I nearly have dinner done, so why don't you invite your new friend in for dinner and you can both have a cookie after you've eaten your vegetables?"

_POOPIES!_ Kae wracked her brains. "Uuuuuuhhh..." quick. Quick. "They're scared of adults. And -uh- they... they're -uhm- they got this religion? Where it's bad to eat whole food?"

"Never heard of that one. What's it called?" Mom had her phone out, now, ready to give it a google.

Kae let go of the cookie and put the lid back on the jar. Heaved a deep sigh. Said, "I'm sorry." And trudged over to the Naughty Spot like a condemned criminal. Which she was.

Mom giggled, which meant that Kae might have time off for a good laugh. "Nice try, kiddo. You'll make that imagination pay the rent one day."

Kae sulked as she watched the spiders in the corner. Life was just not _fair_.

#  Challenge #082: What Trickles Down

Medieval Jesters and modern clowns can do what others can't. Mock the mighty, poke fun at sacred cows, and give people a hug without facing an assault charge. it's called Clown's Privilege and should be treated as a gift. We allow the bizarre to touch us in so many ways – Anon Guest

Three things to do. (1) Get up there, (2) Tell the unvarnished truth, and (3) Make it so funny that the Grand Dictator doesn't decide to execute you.

No pressure.

Haren ran through the usual guaranteed laughs. The Grand Dictator had an... earthy... sense of humour, so the ones that skated near the gutter and let the audience assume the filth had him in fits of teary-eyed mirth. Good. Haren diverted into the kind of rambling monologue that wavered from topic to topic, but still had the audience giggling.

Semi-serious, serious, potty joke seemed to be the good pattern.

"But, hey, I'm stoopid," was also a great disclaimer. "And speaking of stupid, you know what I don't get? Driving Force Economics. I tried doing research, you know. Look into the history of it, see how it worked in the past. I found out a lot of interesting names for it. Trickle down theory's a good one. An older one says that if you feed a horse enough oats, then some oats will pass through and feed the sparrows. That's the Pass Through theory. Interesting, isn't it? This idea of giving wealthy people _more money_ is so old that it's been around since the Industrial Revolution." The audience was anticipating something funny. Time to end on that. "And I looked at all those historical examples, and to me? It kind'a looks like the horse enjoyed the oats and everyone else got buried in the horseshit."

They were laughing. Even the Grand Dictator was laughing.

"Seems to me, the wealthy people don't need more money. They already got loads of the stuff. You give a rich person money, they're gonna wipe their ass on it and throw it away." Haren put on a mock Hoity Accent. "Eau, thenk yew for the one thewsahnd dollah biyull." Mimed blowing their nose in it. Held out the invisible tissue at arms' length. "Jeeves, dew burn thet, there's a good fellew." Back to normal. "What are poor people gonna do with all that money? Waste it on food? Go to college? _Better_ their _lives_? You can't have that. You can't have _poor_ people bettering their _lives_ ... How would rich people know who to piss on?"

Haren let that sink in for a second, taking a sip from their water. "Oh wait. _That's_ the trickle down theory! Y'all drink a lot of wine..." and then mimed taking a leak onto the front row. "...and then it trickles down!"

Applause. You could tell a great deal of truth with comedy. Even a truth that the Grand Dictator would not otherwise listen to.

"Thank you, you've been a wonderful audience. Especially you, sir!" A bow directly to the Dictator's box. "Try to save some of your golden shower for me."

He may not have wet himself with hysterics, but it was a close thing. If Haren was funny, they were safe. Always allowed to put a foot on the other side of the line that would get other mortals killed. Always afraid that that one foot would one day be put wrong.

And always hoping that the message would get through, one day.

#  Challenge #083: Pitcher Plant

Why do children rush toward bright colours and loud noises? Because it looks like fun. – Anon Guest

"I turned around for just a second, and she was gone. Off like a shot. I couldn't catch her. I didn't see which way she went. She just... she just _went_."

It was the same complaint all over Lower Tadfield Young teens and children above toddler age were going missing. Even the people running the funfair were complaining. But there was something... odd... about the people running the funfair. Something... uncanny.

And the more children that were missing, the more attractions there were at the funfair. The brighter it was. The louder it was. The more sparkly it was. _The more attractive to small, young minds it was._ Except for some.

Like Danica. She liked to read, and kept herself in small and dimly-lit spaces, and only watched television with the brightness and the volume turned way down. She didn't like loud noises or bright colours because she said they hurt her head. The rest of the neighbourhood called her _damaged_. Her doctor called her _autistic_. If she went to the fair, she would go under protest, with muffles on her ears and sunglasses on her eyes, and clinging to her mother's arm the entire time. It would not be fun for her at the funfair. So mother wasn't taking her and she wasn't going.

All this, the stranger from the weird blue box listened to raptly. They didn't seem to care that Danica spoke in a monotone and was more interested in twiddling with things than looking this Doctor person in the eye. And they didn't mind that Danica wanted to look at some of the buttons with her fingers.

"You know what I think?" asked the Doctor.

"Of course I don't, I'm not a telepath," said Danica. "What do you think?"

"I think that this funfair is more like a pitcher plant. A big, attractive, irresistible trap... and you're one of the lucky ones who can spot it for what it is. Even if you can't say it."

Danica looked briefly up at that smiling face. A grownup who didn't judge people by the the things they couldn't help. A grownup who was curious and eager to find things out. A grownup who was overjoyed by the strange and unusual. "People around here are starting to blame me and my mother for what's happening to the other children. Maybe you could tell them. Grownups listen to other grownups."

"You'd be surprised how many of them don't," said the Doctor. "But I'll do my best to tell them anyway. Right after I deal with this pitcher plant in your neighbourhood."

"Good," said Danica, and retreated to the cosy corner of her cubby. Few people would see her there, in her space, in her backyard, in the little patch of territory she thought of as _home_. It was less crowded for her head, here in the quiet and dark. She could bring the things she liked into her space and take them at a rate that she dictated. When the world went too fast or was too loud or too bright, Danica preferred to be in spaces where she could decide what came in.

And that was why she missed the bright flash of light that meant that the world had, once again, been saved by an enthusiastic meddler who lived in a blue box.

The next thing Danica knew about it all was a polite and quiet tap on her cubby. She opened the curtains. "You helped save the world," said the Doctor. "Even the unpleasant parts that you'd rather do without. Well done. This is for you."

It looked like a ring made up of many parts. When Danica put it on, it fit instantly without being annoying. Danica fiddled with some of the parts, and there was... a frisson of relief. The sun's light was less bright. The wind less grating. The world... less intense.

"Gallifreyan spinner ring," said the Doctor. "You can adjust your sensory input to suit your needs. Even slow things down so you can take things at your own pace. Or speed them up, but don't go using that one too much. You might miss something important. And there's no rewind setting."

"Okay," said Danica, and remembered her manners. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," said the Doctor, and walked back into their blue box. It faded in and out of reality, making a sound not entirely unlike someone dragging a house key up and down a piano wire. She looked down at the spinner ring on her index finger and twiddled with it. Adjusting her world so that it was easier to deal with.

It could so easily be used to cheat, even if it didn't have a rewind function. The Doctor trusted her with it anyway. Therefore, Danica decided there and then to _not_ cheat, and make her world as she sensed it just a little bit difficult. Life wasn't worth it if it wasn't challenging, after all.

#  Challenge #084: Pearls and Male Chauvinist...

Reading Sir Terry Prachett's works and having it just passed of as 'light reading' at University. – Anon Guest

She opened the book to read it and relax while she had her lunch and a coffee. Unfortunately, it was also dudebro o'clock, and a man-child had to come and comment on her material.

"You're reading _that_? I thought you were _intelligent_ ..."

Sue put the book by Sir Pterry down and glared at him. She had never met this man before, didn't know his name, and would be glad to _never_ know that this man-child existed. "Have we _met_?"

He was still operating off his script. " _Nobody_ reads childish _light fiction_. Not since the Harry Potter series bombed when that bitch decided to try and cash in on some sequels like the moron that she is. She didn't even write the originals. What was she thinking?"

Wow. She had never heard such a huge pile of horseshit loaded with fishhooks in her life. So she did what he never expected. Agree with him. "Wow. That was _so_ smart. I mean. It's like, _too_ smart? I know when I'm overwhelmed by such _radiant_ intelligence, so a gentleman of your _obvious_ wit should probably converse with his equals. Which I'm clearly not. I mean. You'd obviously be frustrated by me in like, less than a week, so you're just... y'know... _better off elsewhere_."

The clear and evident sarcasm sailed merrily over his head and he went to chat up one of the baristas.

Another one covertly came over to her table, "How did you get rid of Mr Barnacle so quickly?" she asked. Her name tag said she was Tracy.

Sue smiled. "I'm actually writing a dissertation on how Sir Terry Pratchett's books can prepare a willing mind to think sideways. But... not in as many words. _Literary Preparation for Lateral Thinking: an Analysis of Discworld in an Educational Frame_ is the more... egg-head-y version."

Tracy giggled. "I like it. How would you make sure that people like _that_ ," she pointed out Mr Barnacle and an angry soccer-mom type, "act a little nicer?"

"Off the top of my head? A nice little cross-stitch sampler that reads, _Nice manners gets a free cookie_. And give the option of a free cookie to the friendly customers. Unfriendly ones get a _Goofus and Galant_ tract about whatever they did."

"Those don't exist," said Tracy. "It's a nice daydream, though."

"They do, and I can hook you up. I know some folks on the indie scene who are doing them for other service jobs. They could fit in a _Good Customer_ tract for coffee shops, no prob." Sue showed the website.

Tracy cooed and took a seat, looking and giggling at some of the samples. "I need to know... are you reading that one for fun or analysis?"

"A little of both," Sue showed off the cover to _Feet of Clay_. "This one's about the dichotomy between desiring leadership and needing freedom. With a side-order of the pressure that results from expectations set too high. And it's framed as a murder mystery."

Mr Barnacle, having struck out at numerous tables, finally got his coffee. "Enjoy your little book club. _Ladies_." He paused at the door. "I am never financing this establishment again."

All the staff present rolled their eyes as if to say, _Please, God, let him mean it this time?_

Tracy said, "Okay, I've got to look busy in a minute, but... do you want to go see a movie with me, sometime? Hang out somewhere? Visit a museum, maybe?"

Sue said, "I would take a walk in the park and feeding the squirrels," she smiled. Already planning to give Tracy her number. "I think we could have a lot to talk about."

#  Challenge #085: Some Bargain

"Oook!" Life was so much better. With a tip of the hat to Sir Terry. – Anon Guest

When you got right down to it, being transformed into one of the great apes wasn't that bad. Living expenses became super-cheap when all one needed was a hanging tyre and a blanket or three in a corner. The diet was bland, but affordable. Especially if one knew a guy who knew a guy who worked in gardening and could supply an ape with the right kind of prunings.

And, more to the point, nobody argued about _late fees_. Nobody with an ounce of sense or sensibility would argue with over five hundred pounds of deceptively flaccid muscle.

And yet, despite all that foreknowledge, someone was.

"Listen," said the beautiful stranger. "This book can't be part of your system, because it's never been _in_ your system. We. Came. From... Somewhere else. And I was just checking to see if this kind of information was valuable. I can't be _returning_ it... because it never _came_ from here. We clear?"

"Ook," said the Librarian.

"What do you mean, all libraries are one? This didn't even _come_ from this fucked-up reality."

The Librarian explained, through complicated gestures, the equation of L-Space. Knowledge equals power equals energy equals mass. Enough mass, and you can bend _reality itself_ so that it connects with others.

To which the stranger with the scarf around his head smacked his forehead. "Gods, I keep forgetting that this is a P-class Impossible World..." And he raked his fingers through his golden hair.

Dislodging the scarf.

And displaying distinctly Elven ears.

"Eek!"

He swore. "No, no, nonononono... I'm not that kind of Elf. I come in peace. I swear." In fact, the ears were way more mobile than the ones the Librarian was familiar with, and they quickly vanished under the cover of the scarf again. "Humour me for like five minutes and I will make you the best banoffee pie you've ever tasted. Deal?"

"Ook?"

"No tricks. Swear on my sister's life."

That... read as surprisingly genuine. "Ook," he agreed.

They shook, and the Elf in the red robes winced a little at the grip. "...hachi machi... Okay. Here's the book. You just try and put it back where it came from. Not _when_ it came from, but _where_ it came from. Present day. I will wait right _here_ until you come back."

The Librarian took the book and knuckled into the far reaches of L-space, treading pathways that he knew well until...

There was a void.

He backtracked, found another route. Came about it by another way. Void. He backtracked again. Climbing the shelves as only an orang-utan could. Void.

Void. Void. Void, and more void.

He finally came back and slammed the book on the desk. "Ook!"

"Ready to listen?" The red robes had shifted as he had been busy scribing something carefully down. There was a patch on the left breast. A large circle with twelve, differently-coloured circles spaced around its edge. The initials I.P.R.E. and a word, _Taako_ underneath.

The Librarian folded his arms. "Ook."

"You can't put it back because the library it belongs to and the world it was on and the reality it was in has been... well... eaten."

"Eeek!"

"Me and my crew are trying to stop that happening here."

"Ook! Ook ook!"

"Thank you," said Taako from IPRE. "I'd like to help you... help us... save the world. And there's no way in hell that I can afford your late fees. So are we... good?"

"Ook," said the Librarian.

"Of course I'm cooking the pie. We had a deal. Fine. Show me to the kitchens."

The Librarian let Rincewind take him down there, and then examined the piece of paper that Taako had been writing so carefully on. It was a recipe. A very detailed, impossible-to-mess-up, careful recipe that spoke volumes of having to deal with many and varied time-keeping measures.

But an Elf was an Elf. And Rincewind was the best at detecting any kind of dangerous duplicity. Which, as it turned out, he didn't. The Librarian had thought that he would never meet even a temporarily honest Elf, but in an infinite universe, all things were possible.

Even an Elf named similarly to a food product, though he was far too polite to mention it to him.

#  Challenge #086: All Due Caution

"Lieutenant, stop petting the wildlife."

"With all due respect, sir, the wildlife is damn fluffy."

_Look with your eyes, not with your hands._ – Human parental expression.

Humans are tactile creatures, for all that they're evolved to understand the world primarily through vision. Their young will prioritise it thusly - see a thing, touch a thing, and if possible, stick it in their mouth. Ninety percent of parenting a human is making certain they don't do this. Especially the last step.

And as it is known amongst _other_ galactic citizens, humanity is a child race. A ship's human will run and find out. Touch dangerous things. And attempt to see if that thing on that tree-like object is as tasty as it looks or smells. Such is the case with Lieutenant Fay.

They _said_ that human females were better at listening to and following instructions. They _said_ that they were more inclined to think things through. They _said_ that human females were future-oriented, and better at planning. They said a lot of dung, to be frank.

"Oooh!"

"Lieutenant!" Captain Krok barked automatically. The curious coo of doom had inspired a new reflex.

And it was a good one, because Lieutenant Fay was poised with her hand over something -yes- both shiny and fluffy. "What?" she said.

"New biota protocol, Lieutenant. We're only wearing _basic_ livesuits. No petting the wildlife."

"Aw, but they look so _fluffy_ ..." once again, the questing human hand crept towards the local beastie. Which was evidently sniffing the approaching fingers to work out if they were either food or a threat.

Krok intervened, gently pulling the ship's human away from the thing. "Remember protocol. Analyse first. With actual scanners. Run complete checks. And only when you _know_ it's safe, _then_ you may touch."

Fay grumbled something that contained the words 'not fair' but got out her scanner and followed protocol.

Captain Krok breathed a sigh of relief. On to the next problem - making certain that Lieutenant Fay didn't flakking _adopt_ something carnivorous, poisonous, venomous, and/or otherwise dangerous. Humans had a great love of adopting hazardous creatures and swearing up and down that they were just old softies, honest.

"Aaaw, it _likes_ me..." Fay gushed.

Flaaaaakk...

#  Challenge #087: Uptick in Downsizing

Recently retired or otherwise unemployed mildly clueless accountant overhears diners at a nearby table discussing a business difficulty and offers advice.

They seek him out periodically for more. Eventually hiring him to handle their books and offer other periodic advice.

He doesn't realize that they are the mob. He also doesn't realize that he is moving quickly up the ranks because the irregularities he finds in the books lead to catching leaks, or people skimming off the top. Or that by pointing them out, he's actually arranging hits on the people in question. – Bard2DBone

Ten years. Working her ass off. Running the numbers so hard that they sweated. And all she got out of it was making her offices so efficient that she was superfluous to requirements. Thanks for helping us save a billion dollars, Kathi. We're going to make it a billion plus... your wages. You're superfluous to requirements.

So now she had ten years of her shit in a cardboard box, no current way to pay her bills, and not many opportunities for accountants, because the firm who had just fired her was also the most popular accounting firm in the country. And seeking work wasn't as easy for her generation as it was for, say, her gram'pa who walked into his workplace at seventeen and had a job until retirement.

While Kathi waited for her pie and coffee, she searched for anyone looking for accountants. Anywhere. And that was how she heard the people in the next booth.

"Someone's gotta be tickling the take," said one. "This ain't the regular total. Were fifteen short, here."

The other one sighed. "These books are a mess."

Someone was playing her song. Kathi extracted herself from her booth and hovered on the border of theirs. "Excuse me," she said. "I couldn't help overhearing you... uh... I'm an accountant and I could -uh- help you out?"

They were wearing nice suits, and one of them had a shaved head. The other one was all muscle and build like a brick mortuary. "We don't do 'official', lady."

"That's even better," said Kathi. "I'm between jobs at the moment. Well. Finkel and Voss let me go, so I can work for your business at under the market rate. And since this is a worth-proving exercise, I can take sorting out your mess for the cost of my coffee and pie. Deal?"

Bald Guy looked to Brick, who shrugged. "Awright," said the bald guy. He shuffled a bunch of papers and books together. "This is one month. Figure it out."

Most of it was looseleaf, interspersed with random note pads. Her favourite kind of unfucking. "Great," she chirped, undaunted. "Detective work."

It took her four hours to sort it out. Even the stuff that seemed to be made to confuse the eye. Coloured highlighters. That was always the key. And since they didn't do 'official', she started a brand-new paper ledger and colour-coded the contributors. The 'fifteen' these fellows were missing was fifteen _thousand_ dollars. Not a small amount, but Kathi was used to seeing billions siphoned away by assorted leeches on company finances.

"Gentlemen, there is a pattern here," she said. "For some time before these records, you have had... a mouse problem. It's a metaphor. One mouse might be cute, and they don't really eat a lot. You can deal with one mouse, no problem. Not a lot of loss. But a _plague_ of mice? They can nibble you to death." She handed over the eye-confounding looseleaf. "The person or persons who has been handing you _these_? They have been gradually increasing their peculation, to see how far they can go without being noticed. And I suspect that they've done this more than once."

"Tony," said the big guy, whose name was Cliff.

"Fuckin' _Tony_ ," said the bald guy. Ironically named Harry.

"Now, since this is repeated behaviour, and he's in charge of a subsidiary, I'd suggest a clean slate. If his employees see their boss taking from the parent company, they could easily believe they can do the same. And in order to prevent panic or a market share drop, give everyone their notices just before they take their holidays. Don't give them a chance to contact anyone else. Wipe the entire slate, start over with new blood."

Cliff boggled at her. Whistled low. She'd made an impression.

"You're cold, lady," said Harry. "I like it. Tell you what..." he took a slip of paper out of his own notebook and jotted down an address. "You come here next Monday. We got more -uh- sortin' out for ya. At regular wages and a cut of the -whatchacallit- peculation."

Holy shit, that was the best deal she had ever heard. "Mister, you have yourself an accountant." Even at ten percent, she could have her personal finances sorted out in no time.

The address was an empty office space and she had another bulky muscleman in there called Clarence. Whose job it was to get Kathi anything she needed. And her work was boxes upon boxes of sloppy book-keeping. And these people were paying her by the results. _And_ they were now insisting on paperwork.

The end result was successive walls of madness as she organised, filed, recalculated, and in desperate measures, rewrote their books for legibility. There were little mice all over the place. Nibbling the greater organisation to death. The low-level vendors were never a problem, but it was the finance collectors and the bank they used that was the real problem. As well as more than a few people who were using the company slush fund as their checking account.

Severance was necessary for more than a few employees. The company policy of loyalty to long-term crew was sweet, but in the long term, it wasn't financially stable. And, once she got hold of the employee financial records, she spotted another avenue of trouble.

Leaks.

So far, she spotted two dozen employees who were being financed for leaking company secrets. Names that she typed up for Clarence, who would take it to the CEO's, who would then take care of things.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the depths of the FBI...

"We have a new player on the board," said McTavish. It was a black silhouette. "They call him 'the accountant', and is singlehandedly tightening the Jorgins' organisation. They've started an internal bloodbath."

"What's the problem? Less thugs for us to worry about."

"He's also identifying everyone who's talking," said McTavish. "Everyone we pay for information? They're turning up in landfills, fishing nets, and junk lots. Everyone who we encourage to sabotage the organisation? They're doing the same. He's making this mob's security tighter than a frog's ass and _nobody_ knows who he is. He's never seen with the Jorgins crew. He's not a supervisor. He doesn't talk to anyone. All we have is some type-written notes and fingerprints that are so clean that they might as well come from a _saint_."

"Everything's on paper," said Caulky, head of the IT department. "You can't hack paper. And these people are all switching to notebooks. They're being disciplined for legibility. And they have drop boxes so that their records aren't taken by law enforcement agents. By the time we get there with a warrant? Those records are long gone."

"But there is a lead of sorts," said McTavish. "We have reason to believe that Jorgins is now using the old pneumatic tube system. The _problem_ is that in order to hijack it, we have to find it. And the instant we go sniffing around in old basements and steam tunnels? They're going to change the data flow."

"They may have already done so," said Caulky. "We've noticed that their front businesses, bakeries and food delivery services in particular, have stepped up their business. They're not just laundering money, they're taking boxes to all kinds of Jorgins establishments... as well as the regular everyday folks."

"Things are moving faster than we can trace," said McTavish. "And it's all because of _him_." Tap, tap, tap on the silhouette. "They have to be some kind of criminal genius. They've even got the Jorgins crew filing their 401K's. _With_ some cute euphemisms for their actual jobs."

"Security, Internal Investigations, Deliveries, that kind of deal," said Caulky. "They're making it all sound... legitimate. Drugs become pharmaceuticals, he even has an R and D department. And worse... we think they've started buying up legitimate investments all over town."

"We can't even find a parking ticket on this guy," complained McTavish. Completely unaware that they couldn't find _her_ because she took taxis or walked everywhere she went, obeyed the law, and had no idea that her 'severances' were actually executions. That the most ruthless and efficient crime lord the city had seen was a mild-mannered accountant who did Pilates on the weekends.

#  Challenge #088: Just a Wee Dram Ye Ken

It's St Patrick's Day, Irish Pub - Feegles. (AKA the Wee Free Men, of Sir Terry's Discworld.) – Anon Guest

_Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men;_ – William Allingham, _The Fairies_

Britain has an Agency for everything. National Health, Child Welfare, Disability Assistance, you name it, they have it. They're also the home headquarters of UNIT and WHO, the United Nations International Taskforce and the Weird Happenings Organisation, respectively. And a good thing, too, since the British Isles seem to be ground zero for all kinds of strangeness. Up to and including a slightly crazed individual in a blue box.

Today, it's an otherwise normal pub somewhere in Ireland, and a problem that can't be solved with Five Rounds Rapid. A high-class phantasmal incursion from another realm. The beings from a different reality were Nac Mac Feegle, or 'Feegles' for short. All because the British Isles were a nexus of psychic energies. And a very popular fantasy author was causing a mental focus on his works and all the strange creatures within them.

Or they had come here on their own, because figments like the Nac Mac Feegle just can't be stopped.

Some say that all we can imagine can be real somewhere else. Creatures like the Nac Mac Feegle are so real that imagining them is not strictly necessary. Some may even argue that the Nac Mac Feegle existed so that that author could imagine them.

And now they were in the King's Arms. Getting worse than completely shickered. The King's Arms, like many pubs all over Ireland, was ready for its greatest holiday, St Patrick's. The booziest day of the year. Especially for American tourists, who always miss the point.

The bar was as loaded as the clientele, who were singing seventeen different filthy songs at once.

"...nobody knew they were there..."

"...but the hedgehog..."

"...it's big and it's round and goes..."

"...which thank the gods I'm not sir..."

The Brigadier arrived, "Sitrep?"

"They're drunk, m'm. Estimated alcohol-blood content is ninety-to-ten."

"Don't you mean blood-alcohol content?"

"These _are_ Nac Mac Feegle we're talking about, m'm."

"Ah," said the Brigadier. "Right. Yes. Since you're familiar, Blakethorpe, what's the best method for getting Feegles _out_ of a bar?"

"Special Sheep's Liniment or Tiffany Aching, m'm."

"And failing that?"

"We're bringing in some triple-distilled knockout vodka."

The Brigadier considered this, and nodded. "Carry on Blakethorpe."

#  Challenge #089: They Do What Now?

The rise of the mammals, primates such as humans included, was something of an evolutionary fluke. The world was dominated by proto-avian, likely feathered behemoths before the rise of the mammals. What if humans were the only mammalian species to evolve "cogniscience", and mammalian species are otherwise quite rare? Reptilian, avian, cephalopodic, or insectoid life might be far more common. Aliens must find humans quite odd. – Nani

It's almost natural for newly spacefaring species to be egocentric. They are, after all, the only intelligent life they know. It's natural to assume that all other lifeforms in the universe evolved on the same path. Insectoids assume that all other lifeforms will be insectoids, cephalopodii likewise, and so on.

The most populous species form is the saurian/avian kind. Dinosaurs in space, but not how you think. They are all intelligent, naturally. Far-flung from the ancient beasts that you might be thinking of. Those are _Deathworlder_ dinosaurs. The multiple disasters that shaped life on Earth as we know it simply don't occur on other worlds. Evolution is kinder there, than here.

That said, the anthropic[15] life pattern is handy for any species living close to a one-Standard-Gravity environment. Translated, you find an awful lot of human-shaped dinosaurs and birds. All of which are easily confused by mammals in general and humans in particular. Especially in the early years of Galactic Acceptance.

"Wait. You do what, now?"

"Live birth, internally gestated. My wife is about to birth our youngling, and I would like to be there for it. Emotional and physical support," said the anxious human.

Gefrox checked the human's passport. "It states here that you are female."

"One. Genetech is a wonderful thing. Two. Heterosexual reproduction is just one of our many options. Three, and I really hate to do this, but you are _standing in the path of an anxious Deathworlder_. Please. Just. Let me go through the fast track. I'll pay the fees. She _needs_ me."

Gefrox had already dialled up the quick notes on human reproduction and how relatively deadly it was for those gestating. Yikes. Deathworlders had it rough. Ze marked the human's case 'urgent' and allowed her to pass through the fast track, which included a breath mask.

"May your gods bless you," she managed before going through the fast track as if it were still too slow.

Gefrox would find out hours later that ze was correct in hir assessment of the emergency status. Human Lise's wife was in great distress until Lise arrived to soothe her. The delivery took an astonishing twelve hours and the human infant that resulted was immense compared to other young. Ze knew because the humans tracked hir down, afterwards, to show hir the baby.

Nine pounds, and the human young was more than helpless. Soft and vulnerable and hyper-sensitive to all kinds of stimuli. Yet its human parents could interpret its wails of complaint and act accordingly.

There were rumours of Human telepathy, but Gefrox had never believed it before now. How else would they be able to know instantly what their incoherent young wanted?

[15] As opposed to 'humanoid', which is greatly egocentric.

#  Challenge #090: Primate See...

One person or animal discovers how to do something, think barb on a fish hook, monkey's using salt water to separate rice and baboons catching protein rich flamingos. One creature, but the whole clan picks it up. – Anon Guest

Civilisation rises on the phrase, _watch and learn_. There are stories centring around clever and wily people who tricked, crept, or sneaked their way into learning important secrets from Gods, Spirits, or other Magical beings.

Sometimes, those beings come from the stars.

Thrugg had been hunting when the star fell. Unlike the rest of her troop, she had stayed behind and chased the smoke. Flames made things. She was sure of it. Some older members of her troop said that the bright birds came from flames, and the bright birds were a feast for her family. A prize for the children.

It was a great surprise to see that the fallen star had not made fire, but a hole in the ground. And there was a giant that had hatched from inside it. A strange thing with no face, and a way of walking like water from a giant tree nut. Yet they stood as straight as the tree-grass stems. It was strange, and more than a little frightening. And... hypnotically fascinating.

It had a great many things inside its egg/star that Thrugg didn't understand. Bright, shiny things. A giant leaf or skin made out of sunlight or like river water, it was hard to tell. It rustled like leaves and shone like the sun off of river water when the sunlight hit it. Other things were tools, Thrugg could tell as much by the way the giant used them... but... they were beyond Thrugg's comprehension. They were magic things.

Thrugg watched for days. Foraging what she could and relaying the tales of the giant stranger to her troop. Few came back with her. None came back with her more than once. The giant was too scary. Yet Thrugg continued to watch. Fascinated. Learning some of the things the stranger was doing.

Weaving reeds together into shapes. Carrying shapes. Catching shapes. Thrugg learned the concept of _trap_ and showed her troop with enthusiastic zeal. This one would keep fish in it if it was weighed down with rocks and loaded with the bitter fruit. That one could carry more fruit. More food. Her troop could forage further. Carry more back to their nests. And the soft bark could be twisted like _this_ and made into a strong length that would help hug the tall trees and if they moved like _that_ they could work their way up the sheer sides of the tree and get at all the rich fruit.

Thrugg's troop had never eaten better. Their babies had never been fatter. Life had never been this good.

When the star giant returned to the sky, there wasn't much left for Thrugg to learn from. A few broken stones that looked like tools. A strange shape that was curved like the moon got, but had a barb at one end and a hole in the other. Thrugg knew that hitting some rocks with other rocks got _sharp_ rocks, and figuring out how to make the little sharp rocks was an exercise in trial and error, but Thrugg got it in the end. The little sharp rocks were _very_ useful. They could cut the bad parts out of the meat, and then use them to catch different meat.

The strange shape took longer to figure out. Thrugg had seen the star giant tie something onto the new _twine_ and throw it in the water. The hole seemed made for thread, and it took less long for Thrugg to work out that there should be something tasty on the shape. And a stone to make it sink. This, with a lot of effort and some really strong thread, meant that they could catch the big, fat, tasty fish that liked to hide in the deep parts of the rivers.

The troop became a _tribe_. They shared all the things Thrugg learned. And started on the long and winding path to becoming a _civilisation_.

None of which Thrugg saw. She lived longer than most before her. As did her children and her children's children. All that mattered to her was that the star giant had come and shown her interesting things that made her family's life better.

#  Challenge #091: Surprising Nutrition

All fungi are edible. It's just that most are edible only once. – Anon Guest

[AN: I recognise that Terry Pratchett quote!]

"There's food all around us," said their nature guide. Teaching these wayward kids some wilderness survival skills. "Can you point out what's edible?"

Tilly, the quiet one, said, "Everything. The real question is: what's edible more than once?"

Nature Guide Sam winced. Right. Some of these kids were on the spectrum and took things to literal extremes. Or extreme literalism, depending on where you were standing. And since they were also abused, it was a careful exercise to correction and getting these kids on the right path.

That considered, Tilly wasn't exactly _wrong_. "Okay. That's a good point. How much around us is edible _more than once_? How would you tell?"

Guesses abounded. Watching animals and seeing what they ate. Recognising stuff from the store. Aaron got that one. Sam was careful about making loud noises like clapping, because a lot of these kids flinched at them. She gave Aaron a double thumb's-up. "Good thinking, Aaron. You can start with what you recognise at the store. But there's some other things that you'd never find in the store." And now the real lesson started. She uprooted a dandelion at her feet and knocked most of the dirt off its roots. "This is edible more than once. The roots can be roasted and used for tea or eaten. The leaves can be added to a salad, and you can even eat the flowers. They contain vitamins A, C, K, and a host of B-vitamins, and also contain magnesium. It's also a natural diuretic - it makes you pee."

Laughter from the troubled teens.

"These are elderberries. They look very similar to deadly nightshade. Which, as the name suggests, poisonous. Elderberries grow in clusters and the elderberry bush has longer, narrower leaves. And if someone you know doesn't like you hands you a bunch of little black berries, just... don't go there. And please don't try it." Sam lead them to an area covered in kudzu. "Now, believe it or not, you can eat kudzu. The leaves can be eaten just like you'd eat spinach. The roots can be prepared like potato, or dried, ground up, and used like flour or a thickener. You can even make a syrup or a candy out of the flowers. And that's what we're doing today."

Sam checked that they all had their tools and protective equipment, and then displayed how to harvest various parts. Kudzu was eating the south. It was only fair that people living there learned how to eat it back.

#  Challenge #092: Give Me Your Answer Do

To be a good bouncer, you don't really need to be strong and to like violence. You just need to be intimidating enough that even the drunkest person on the universe wouldn't want to make you angry. – Anon Guest

Dave didn't need to do much to keep the rowdy ones quiet. All he had do do was flex. It meant that he took up twice his previous volume and made his previously-loose clothing creak ominously at the strain. It was easy enough work and he earned his paycheck, and could live... mostly comfortably. And he was at home with the concept that he was the human equivalent to one of those cardboard cameras. Visible deterrent, but not that incredibly useful.

And then Daisy walked into his life. Literally.

His peripheral vision initially classed her as 'pet' when she came staggering out of the alley, and he didn't actually register her as someone until she got within five yards of the nightclub door. That was when he actually _saw_ her. Two years old, maybe. Only wearing a halter-top. Covered in speckles of blood on top of a solid layer of grime. She had a plastic flower in her hand, also grubby and bloodstained, and offered it to him. So of course he scooped her up in his jacket and called the cops. And from there? It was a clusterfuck.

Fortunately, he had the folks in the queue as witnesses to his defence, and some work with a sniffer dog revealed that she had come from a murder scene where someone had been neglecting her before they were messily murdered. And since she smiled when he sang _Daisy, Daisy_ to her, that was what the assembled authorities named her. Daisy Doe.

And she screamed blue murder when anyone else went near her, so Dave had to be a part of her case. He helped walk Daisy through her first bath in what was probably months. Helped dress her in clean new clothes, and held her while trained professionals tried to get any kind of information out of her. They were shit out of luck. Daisy was not a talker to begin with, and spoke scribble when she _did_ have anything to say.

When they found the scene of the crime, it was dumb luck that kept her alive. Her crib was almost buried under an avalanche of dolls. She must have slept through the crime and been camouflaged by her plastic companions.

Dave asked for, and got, parental leave so he could learn how to care for Daisy. An emergency foster training session and the one peripheral black person he knew to teach him how to take good care of Daisy's hair. And books upon books upon _books_ on how to properly raise a child. Especially the one about toilet training.

His entire world changed. He memorised all the theme songs to every kiddies' show on TV. He learned about proper kids' nutrition, which was different from body-building nutrition. He learned about the importance of saying 'no' when Daisy learned the word, "Wannit!" And he learned how to explain the rules and play by them at the same time.

Now the most terrifying thing in his world was anything bad happening to Daisy. Now he cried when something happened to the little kids on random television shows. Now he was that anxious single parent giving an infodump of instructions to the kind people at Daycare and his neighbour who already knew about kids. Now he was scouring every single package of food for ingredients that could make Daisy have a bad day.

He didn't think much about it, even when his friends and buddies at the gym noticed that he was, "turning into such a mom." It was just a new thing in his life. A permanent roommate who had - according to the experts - picked him out as someone nobody would mess with. And it was telling that a little slip of a baby girl would go for someone like _him_ to make her feel safe than any of the others around her.

It was when he was taking Daisy for a slow stroll in the park that he decided to adopt her. Daisy was stopping to smell the flowers and point out the glittering mica in the footpath when she spotted the ice cream man. "I'se creeeeem," she cooed, pointing.

Geez, kids really did have over-the-horizon radar for treats. It was a reasonably long walk away for Daisy, and a bit of a hike for him. "Okay, we can have an ice cream. Wanna fly there?"

She giggled and jumped up and down, hands held high.

Dave scooped her up and rested her belly lightly on his head. She stuck her arms and legs out as he jogged over there, making motor-boat noises with his lips. So he looked ridiculous. So what. Daisy was laughing, and that was the important part. She was healthy, and happy, and life was looking up for her. A big change from how they'd met.

A young woman stopped on her walk and took in the sight of both of them. Both Dave and Daisy with Clown Cones. Laughing and eating ice cream together. "Cute baby. Is she yours?"

He looked at her and thought about the nightmare that would be handing her over to any other living being. "Not yet," he said. "But she will be, soon." It was that afternoon that he contacted Child Services about becoming her forever-parent.

#  Challenge #093: Deploy E.C.O.

"Welcome to the first cross-species special forces. You were selected because you are the best of the best in your domain. Now, you will all learn how to efficiently subdue or kill a foe, how to infiltrate a place heavily guarded and how to secure civilians that were hostages. But most importantly, you'll learn that your most important tool isn't your service weapon or a multi-tool knife. Your most important piece of equipment will be this plushy. Because there will always be children involved. And nothing matters more than the children." – Anon Guest

It was a vacuum-packed ball. Compact and hard. The GalStand printing on it read, _Emergency Comfort Object_. It had a pull tag so that those in the field wouldn't accidentally disembowel the thing. K'tox had one that was a vile shade of green. Ze had no idea what animal it was made to represent, that was a surprise for all.

And here, in the aftermath, it came useful.

This small survivor had crammed themselves in a dumbwaiter, and only scanners had revealed their presence. K'tox remembered all of hir Sensitivity Training and pretended to be shocked and a little scared of this small survivor. "Oh," ze said in mock relief. "You are not dangerous. Are you?"

The kid inside the dumbwaiter shook their head.

K'tox kept hir distance. "I bet all the fighting was scary," ze said. "I have something in my kit to help with that." Slow and careful, K'tox took out the compact ball. "This is a little friend," ze said. "Do you want to see what kind of little friend it is?"

Nod.

K'tox was careful to gain permission to come closer. To inform the child of hir name and good intentions. And, most importantly, how the little friend worked. Trust was a difficult road to forge in a combat-grade livesuit.

Eventually, the pull-tab got peeled away and the foam started expanding. Limbs and extremities began unfurling. And soon, a comical expression revealed itself.

Once you got a child laughing, things were going to be okay.

"I bet it isn't comfortable in there," said K'tox. "Would you like to hop out? I can help you down."

Of all the universal things to calm a worried soul, something soft, squishy, and fluffy seemed to be the universal item of comfort. It didn't matter the colour or the shape, or the personality stitched into the face, if it had one. Not one species ever took comfort in anything hard, cold, or prickly.

The kid's name was El. They were six Standard Years of age, and they had got separated from their primary parental. K'tox took them, eventually, at their own pace, towards the refuge zone where so very many survivors were gathered. On the way, the derpy, illogically green elephant got named Xap. With an X, El insisted. And since El named Xap, El got to keep it. K'Tox insisted on that one. Ze could, after all, get another little friend from the dispensary.

There were other children of assorted ages in the refuge zone. Some were sleeping off their stress. Some were injured and had had medical intervention. Some were huddled under silver survival blankets. Some were ingesting comfort food from the temporary mess. Some were watching entertainments. But every single one of these children had a little friend of their own. All were waiting for a familiar face to come by and make their world a little less stressful.

El joined the throng, and let a soldier in Medical Reds administer a warm drink and a silver blanket and assign a camp bed. K'tox made sure that El was settled before returning to the search for more survivors.

People said all kinds of things about children, K'tox knew this. Kids were resilient. They were more prepared for change. Children had a way of bouncing back that was the envy of adults. In a month or more, this stress would be almost forgotten, and replaced by the new normal.

That was hard to believe, now. Seeing these lost little souls flattened in their perigee. Laid low by the worst thing to happen to them in their entire lives.

#  Challenge #094: Weapons of Mass Pacifism

Sometimes, some people are born with a kind of "blessing". It makes them totally unable to understand the concept of "evil". And it could create people, children most of the time, that are so pure and innocent that even the most ferocious beast or darkest dark lord wouldn't even think about hurting it. – Anon Guest

There are people and things that are too good to be real. Well-behaved puppies. Ball pits filled with plushies. The really _expensive_ salted caramel ice cream. The people are less likely to occur. This cruel existence tends to wound them. Break their heart and soul. They happen in fiction way more often: Dudley Do-Right, Wander, and other Unbreakably Good Guys.

But consider, just for a moment, Benny Goodkind. There are two ways to go when one's religious mother has named you _Benevolence_ and Benny chose the path less travelled. To actually _live up_ to his name. To willingly see the _good_ in people, things, and happenstance. And, when deemed irredeemable, to roll with the punches and carry on without malevolence.

He hasn't filed a dime in taxes because he gives his every spare dollar to charity. Including the money that the IRS gives him for over-donating. He has a nice job on a help line, and lives frugally on the wrong side of the tracks. He helps children tie their shoes, and goes through his days unharmed by the naturally hostile or untrusting on the streets. He buys food stores in bulk to save money, and then uses those stores to make up meal boxes for the homeless in his area.

When he asks, "How are you?" he is genuinely interested in the answer. He has good advice for those who see no way out, and has helped more than one soul away from one last, giant leap of their lifetime.

He made the conscious decision to stay with a less sophisticated mobile phone. The newer ones take his attention away from the people around him, and even encourage such behaviour. Though he never thinks less of anyone who has fallen down the smartphone vortex. He never thinks less of anyone.

So when a crowd of white supremacists marched through Benny's neighbourhood screaming about how they were irreplaceable... Benny did something mean, for the first time in his life. He arranged an instant counter-protest.

He armed the neighbourhood kids with super-soakers, loaded with gentian violet - a stain that is not easy to get rid of. He gave out packets of harmless, coloured powder to the homeless, and staged a riotously colourful counter-protest.

The kids marked all of these white people where they'd never be able to hide it, and devoted a good portion of their ammunition to ruining these men's expensive clothing for good. Those who were still at home at this point began blasting _Melting Pot_ by Blue Mink out of speakers they set in the window. Some even made it down to join in the fun.

The racists fled.

And Benny went to the nearest police station and reported himself as the instigator of the conflict. The attending officer, upon hearing the full report, and after he stopped laughing, took three calming breaths. He still struggled to keep a straight face.

"Mister Goodkind," he said. "Go home. We're not going to be enforcing any charges. And I don't think the courts will take any lawsuits seriously."

Benny _still_ insisted on spending some time in prison. Which he did, coaching the inmates on how to choose good.

#  Challenge #095: I Welcome Our Automated Overlords

At last robots replace politicians and things get done, sort of. think of the pro/anti same sex marriage bill here in the wonderful land of Aus. – Anon Guest

Everything is getting automated. Everything. There's a company of machines that are churning out placeholder, formulaic potboilers with mad lib plots. Humanity now finally values the creative spirit, because it is about the only thing that cannot be replicated by procedural machines. But even then, the machines are _learning_.

And, in an effort to take corruption out of politics, science has created automated politicians. Of course, the living ones attempted to pull every stunt they could to attempt to get rid of them. A few small counties elected machines, because few were interested in running podunk small counties. The political race came to that which was the most effective economic theory for the residents.

With this small-case data, the machines learned. They got _better_ at their assigned task. Bit by bit, little by little, people realised that the machines were better at listening to what the majority wanted. Applying and even creating economic theory. Electronic politicians worked for less, didn't have living expenses, never got involved in sex scandals, never took bribes, and could be relied upon to maintain their projections.

It pretty much evolved into an advanced form of referendum and initiative, including trial and error as to which economic theory was the most effective.

The people loved it. The rich hated it. County by county, state by state, nation by nation, the rich ran out of places to run. And then... they had to pay their back-taxes. Which lead to an economic surge, which meant a better life for everyone. Even the people who the rich believed were undeserving.

There was universal basic income, which meant that the poorest had enough money to live, but not necessarily live comfortably. The playing field was more even, given that the people dictated what they wanted, the people could petition for initiatives they desired, the people could decide what worked and what didn't.

The world... changed. By slow degrees. The hold-outs for bad theories got to watch any gains they had crumble away as those who previously had no options, could opt out. And their foretellings of doom and civil collapse never came to pass.

The righteous got to see exactly where their righteousness led them, with more and more people moving away from what the righteous called good faith, and found another. Soon, those churches who feared sin and never read the words of their alleged God? Those were full of the old complainers who never once had a speck of charity in their hearts. If they were full at all, because the ranks of the allegedly righteous dwindled slowly. Death by slow death.

In brief, the meek finally inherited the Earth.

#  Challenge #096: Cometh the Postman

Humans are social creatures. Even the solitary ones.

Humans like me have a saying: _No man is an island_. Or words to that effect. And... they're right. Even antisocial assholes like me need to brush shoulders with other cogniscents now and again.

But that's why I have the mail run to the cul-de-sac strings. You get wormhole chains like those. Places where it's ten or more jumps to any nexus, anywhere, and the places along the trip are the places that people _come from_ rather than _go to_. And the people who choose to live there? They're always glad to see people like me.

Just like the ancient Pony Express or the Wells Fargo Wagon of old, these are folks that are more isolated from Galactic Society than I am. They get entertainments in season binges. Updates by the year if they're lucky. Everything cool is expensive, and they often have their own fashion, and seek news of the latest thing that, by the time I reach the end of the cul-de-sac, is months out of date.

And then I spend a patch of time in a place less travelled, quietly gathering information, entertainments, non-perishable orders, until another trip is viable.

I get all the social interaction I want. Which is no crowds, a brief chat with the station postmasters down the chain, and the occasional checkup/wellness visit from my assigned medical technician. And my cat.

Cats are the best. They don't demand a conversation, but you can have one anyway. And there's nothing like waking up to a weight on your chest, whiskers in your face, and a paw batting gently at your eyes to let you know that it's time to get up and feed him. Cats are way better than any old alarm clock any day.

No human is alone. Not completely. Sure, there are those who prefer their own company. But you know what? They always find ways to get more company when _they're_ good and ready. And in the meantime? There's always cats.

#  Challenge #097: One Tension-rich Moment During an Ambassadorial Introduction Party

Your annual festival of re-birth is celebrated by eggs laid by a rabbit! – Anon Guest

"With," corrected Shayde. "It's celebrated _with_ eggs that're _hidden_ by a rabbit. Yer pretty close though. Gold star fer tryin'."

Behind her, just out of restraining reach, Rael breathed out. The confused statement of brand-new Ambassador G'thox were not, in fact, fighting words. If they had come out of someone trying to start a fight, it might have been a different story.

Shayde had over-the-horizon radar for people wanting to start a fracas, and a very helpful attitude that Security Services were still attempting to curb. Especially accompanied by general enquiries as to whether their mother could sew, pal.

Ambassador G'thox remained unaware that ze was chatting amiably to the Human Ambassador with -let's call it- the most explosive potential. _And there were still too many people between Rael and the unfolding potential in front of his eyes._

"I remain confused. How is a rabbit the herald of a springtime ceremony directly linked with the public execution of a real life religious leader?"

Shayde grinned. It was not the grin that automatically came with a burning fuse. This was, oddly enough, Shayde in Teacher Mode. Rael had never witnessed it before. "The brief explanation is 'cultural appropriation', ye want the long one?"

"Yes please," said G'Thox.

"Reet. Rewind human history to the first-tae-third century CE. Christianity is in its infancy an' they're doin' all they can to sweep up converts and become the next big thing, ye ken. They could'nae get th' pagan crowds in with austerity, so they started usin' other stuff tae lure 'em in. Hot cross buns, usin' pagan symbols 'n' all. Eggs were a metaphor for life from th' tomb... And before ye knew it, the rabbit was hidin' eggs tae celebrate the death an' resurrection of a bloke who just wanted folks tae be nicer to each other." Shayde thought about this for a handful of seconds, "And who may have invented passive resistance."

"Your chief religious figure invented passive resistance on a _Deathworld_?"

"Oh aye. This was after my lot became apex predators, ye ken. Our worst threat was each other."

Ambassador G'Thox pondered this as Rael agitatedly attempted to dodge the crowds so he could be within restraining distance of Shayde. "Ah," said G'Thox. "Now I understand why your species is, simultaneously: insane, dangerous, and mostly harmless."

Shayde burst out in raucous laughter. "Aye, tha's us."

It was only after the party that Rael learned that Shayde would never hurt an innocent.

#  Challenge #098: The Big Guns

She unleashed the most powerful, devastating, army-halting, tyrant-toppling weapon... the puppy dog eyes

In the times of Dragons, a very young Elf only has one defence. And after the Orcs raided her village, and Tila woke up in a cage, it was a matter of urgency to find a time to use it on creatures who certainly planned to eat her. Once she realised her situation, she certainly couldn't return to anything approaching rest. Every Orc was carrying a young Elf in a cage on their back. There was no sign of the adults, anywhere.

The Orcs ran all night and finally took shelter in a network of caves at dawn. The Orc that had been carrying Tila put their pack and Tila's cage down. She could hear many other Elf children crying. Tila unleashed the most powerful, devastating, army-halting and tyrant toppling weapon that every Elf child had. Puppy eyes.

"Please don't eat me?" she asked in Common. Every being in the realm spoke Common. So she was told. So she hoped. So she fervently prayed.

The Orc stared at her for a heart-stoppingly long time. "Child," the Orc finally said, "this is a _rescue_ mission. We were saving you from the _humanmen_." The Orc undid the cage and held out a paw/hand bigger than Tila's head. "I'm Zuczuc. And you need to stay out of the light. We're still within humanman range."

The food was not that great, being basically lembas, jerky, and assorted foods that travelled well. Tila was allowed to mingle with the other children, but there were no games. No laughter. Everyone whispered. And it was truly telling that the Orcs were guarding the entrance, not guarding the Elves.

Tila found an older cousin. Only eighty years of age. To the likes of Tila, almost grown up, but according to the adults, not an adult yet. Cousin Raf, who usually sneered at her and treated her presence as an onerous obligation, looked down with sympathy and murmured, "Need a hug, rugrat?"

Tila nodded and opened her arms, grateful that Cousin Raf scooped her up and started finger-combing her hair. "It's all right, kid. They knew the password. All our parents are distracting the humanmen so we can get free."

All around them, kids were distracting themselves. One was trying to create a figure with a cats' cradle. One was drawing with one stone against another. Vague figures, but definitely the figures of a whole family. One child amongst the multitude was determined to press their left foot against every stalactite in the cavern.

Tila clung close to Cousin Raf and let the tears fall.

Zuczuc found them, and handed them each a waterskin. "Drink. Soon, the Dwarves will come. They will take you the rest of the way."

"The rest of the way where?"

"Where, we hope, the humanmen will never be able to reach," said Zuczuc. "We have the guarantee of the Dragons. That has to count for something."

Tila said, "What's happening? Why is this happening?" And, picking their words carefully, others told her about the opening volleys in what would soon be called the Xenophobia Wars.

The humans - humanmen - thought the entire realm belonged to them. And they were getting better at war with every one they fought. They had almost wiped out the Orcs. They had learned not to mess with the Fae, but nobody with two brain cells to rub together even tried to interact with the Fae. Not even to plead for their protection. The price was just too high.

Humans. By all accounts, they should not be bothering anyone. They had lives that were too short. Just a few millennia ago, they were still working out how to bang rocks together. And now they were getting beyond organised. Their general attitude was just like their lives. Nasty, brutish, and short.

Therefore, any creature that wasn't human and wasn't foolishly attempting to end the humanmen so the realms could have peace, was bugging out. Heading for isolated places that the humanmen shouldn't be able to reach for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Guarded by Dragons. Kept safe by the Dwarves' clever mines, the Gnomes' intricate illusions, and the Kobold's dazzling devices.

Even the Orcs, deemed to have a weed-like ability to bounce back, had suffered under the humanman onslaught. They would take an age or more to build up their strength once more. And by then? The humanmen would be even stronger.

When they weren't fighting with other peoples, Cousin Raf said, Humanmen fought _each other_.

The Dwarves came, eyeless and large-eared from their evolution underground. And from the sunshine side of the cave, came a trickle of Elven adults. The honour guard. Not the adults from Tila's village. Not yet. Those Elves were leading the humanmen on a Wild Chase. These ones were making certain that the children emerged safely in the hidden place.

It was a long journey. Cold and damp and frightening. The Orcs had to have their hands on a Dwarf to navigate the dark. Many of the Elves cast small illusory lights to frighten away the imagined monsters in the dark. Tila had Cousin Raf's hand to hold, and they both knew that the real monsters were outside in the daylight. Clad in and wielding cold iron. Riding giant horses. Dreaming up messier and more devastating ways to kill another living being.

Wasting so much. Wanting so much more.

On the other hand, the sheltered place was beautiful. They would weave a city out of those trees in no time. The community might be a little more difficult, but Tila was certain that they would find a way to cope.

#  Challenge #099: They Call Her Queen Badass

"How in the world could a single bottle of alcohol render nearly a dozen of Her Ancient Majesty's finest - oh, and the Millennial Queen Herself! - to nothing but a scattered roomful of unconscious drunks?!"

The taller woman examined the elaborately-decorated crystalline decanter, and then the glasses around each snoring soldier. "Hmm... yeah... I'd say fourteen-thousand-year-old firewine would probably do the trick better than anything..." She paused, re-counting one pile of glasses and then looked back at her partner with a smirk. "On the upside, kudos to Her Majesty for seemingly downing the most shots of them all - looks like she nailed sixteen; most I've ever managed personally was eight..." – Anon Guest

Humanity is only two and a half million years old. Agriculture as a concept is far younger than that. Nevertheless, they have devoted an astonishing amount of the technological arc to alcohol. Brewing it, distilling it, making stronger and stronger concoctions. Making it _tasty_.

Galactic citizens, upon finding this out, often wonder aloud what humanity had to do with primitive rocket fuel before they had invented rockets. And then there is a significant amount of stunned silence when they learn that humans _enjoy drinking it_. Despite the fact that it is obviously a dangerous toxin that impairs brain function.

To which humanity says that that was the point and they enjoy temporary debilitation and the case for humanity's collective insanity is proven once more. And then there's stuff like fourteen-thousand-year firewine.

First, humans invented things like highly-flammable alcohols -firewater- and wine. Then they found a way to brew them _simultaneously_. Once that was done, they found out about deep-time one-way wormholes and devised ways to send containers down them so that they would survive for thousands upon thousands of years. And, therefore, age properly in the equivalent of an apocalypse-proof shipping container. It's a feat of technological prowess that the parent company of this innovation is still paying off. But the booze, they swear, is totally worth a Century per bottle.

Not that many would know it. Only corporations have that kind of Time to throw around. Corporations, and the occasional royal family.

Just like Her Millennial Majesty, the Eternal Queen of Thaninau. An accident of yore had wiped out all but her own royal self, and the system refused to let the line end with her. So they created clones, and downloaded the extant Queen's brain waves into her replacement. Experience has taught the Queens Own Mediks that her Eternal and Ageless Majesty is best retired at Ninety Years of physical age, and returned in the body of one recently twenty.

The Septuagennial Coronation is literally a once-in-a-lifetime event, and the newly-crowned Queen sees her old body reverentially buried in the royal ossuary (tours available to the morbid for free), and donates some of her cells for the culture and instigation of a new clone.

Her Eternal Majesty has served in wars, learned to pilot a vast assortment of vehicles, and can use an astonishing array of weapons. Though people hardly ever curse around Her Majesty, she certainly knows all the words. But, contrary to what may be assumed, it is peacetime that has given her, over the centuries, a cast-iron liver.

One must, after all, be able to survive thousands of toasts and still be able to deliver a coherent speech to one's beloved subjects.

In celebration of her one hundredth millennium, the assembled CEO's of the thoroughly villainous Greater Deregulation East attempted to gain her favour by gifting Her Ancient Majesty with a larger-than-usual bottle of fourteen-thousand-year firewine. Her Everlasting Majesty recognised the trap in a less than a cold second and invited Greater Deregulation East's entire coterie to share it with her.

At this point, it must be noted that fourteen-thousand-year firewine is usually served in thimble-sized stemware.

Her Ageless Majesty served it in shot glasses. And the coterie of Greater Deregulation East, not knowing any better, drank it like that.

Cast-iron liver or not, fourteen-thousand-year firewine packs a whallop. Once Her Eternal Majesty was done with the elites, evidence suggests that she then proceeded to drink their security teams under the table. Her own security forces remained sober until the Millennial Queen insisted that they have, and I quote from the security feed, "A little tot as a reward for all their hard work."

Given her lengthy experience with piloting, we have significant evidence that the Ever-Reborn Queen gave the yacht's pilot the night off and took the helm whilst also under the influence of a Class Thirteen Inebriant. The pilot, a loyal Thaninau citizen, could not refuse Her Everlasting Majesty.

And that is how the Royal Yacht of Thaninau was impounded whilst playing 'dodge ems' with the cargo streams of Amalgam Station's Docks and Locks sector.

Thaninau has since been advised to engineer the Queen's Guard with an immunity to alcohol of all kinds. So as to prevent such an event happening again.

#  Challenge #100: A Tisket, A Tasket...

Coracle. Ancient form of water transport made out of sticks, cow hide* and waterproofing. *any firm waterproof material will do. – Anon Guest

The human was messing around with the local vegetation again. They had already taken some fallen wood and whittled two paddles, and now they were making a positively enormous basket out of the long, bendy reeds that had once been growing by this lake.

"Is this a temporary shelter?" asked Thok.

"Nope," said Human Grif. Still lashing things together with some of their hand-made twine. Using both hands, at least one of their feet, and occasionally their teeth to prevent the whole thing from becoming an unanticipated human trap[16]. They finished tying one spar and carefully swapped holding its other end together with their toes in favour of tying it down too. "This is sort of a boat."

And Thok had thought that they had fully explored the strangeness to which a human could sink. "How can anything 'sort of' be a boat?"

"Jury's still out as to whether it qualifies." Human Grif was getting faster at tying the spars down. "It's all down to how you define 'boat'."

"A small vessel for travelling over water, propelled by wind, oars, or a motor?" said Thok.

"Well... yes. _Generally_. Okay. That's a pretty broad definition, I grant. Some people would debate that what I'm making is more a basket for keeping the water out of the people who are in it. Boats have prows, sterns, starboard, portside... that sort of thing." A spar escaped Human Grif's grip and nearly struck them in the face. "This thing is more like a big firkin bowl that is basically going to be held together by gutta-percha."

"And those leaves you have gathered are for...?"

"Infrastructure," said Human Grif. They had a smallish pot keeping the aforementioned gutta-percha warm on the fire. A spatula-esque tool was waiting by the fire. And now that Human Grif was satisfied with the skeleton of the thing, they now began tying and glueing large leaves to the outside of what Thok could only describe as a gigantic, hemispherical basket. "This is a _coracle_. And it's going to save us fifteen days' travel time to the pickup zone for this leg of the journey alone."

Hence, why they had spent a majority of this day making it. Thok was beginning to believe the stories of humans making advanced technology out of bear skins and stone tools[17]. "There are enough bodies of water to be concerned about such things?"

"Enough to be homicidally annoying, yes. We can't tough it out on rations and the scant number of things on this planet that are edible more than once. Especially for the longer travel time it would take to ford or skirt the number of obstacles _we_ have to traverse. So... coracle. Also comes in handy as an emergency shelter."

"Why not build a more proper boat?"

Human Grif shrugged. "Dunno how."

[16] It shouldn't be so shocking that many improvised human survival rigs end up this way, but it is.

[17] There may have been some miscommunication involving that one episode of _Star Trek_.

#  Challenge #101: Tragedy Tomorrow

Today's program consists of the Men's choirs, Poetry reading, original, Poetry reading from one of the set poems, and children's dance. (See The Goodies, "Eisteddfod from the Welsh. Eistedd, bored. Fod, stiff.") – Anon Guest

Colony worlds, once cut off from their progenitor planet, have to deal with what they've got. B'Nar took everything nerd-related with them owing to the fact that it was settled by genetic engineering companies and their nerdy, nerdy staff. And their equally nerdy families. The assembled Greater Deregulations took their might-is-right moralistic entertainments made to preach to the choir. Britannia gathered up everything that Britain had ever made.

Once there, and the wormhole closes, all communication ends. Whatever a colony has is what they use as a base for the initial derivative works. For a century or so, the colonists essentially pump out a gigantic amount of fanfiction with no fear of litigation from the originator.

Some didn't believe that entertainment was worth taking along. Thus, the derivative works are more or less based on collective recall and fan-made fixes. Acted out, mutated, retold, and rewritten by the performance. And _then_ all of these mutated celebrations that became classics on other worlds, are taken back and shown to those who actually have memories of the original.

"So what th' fook is this one," whispered Shayde.

"Pirates of Penn's Ants," said Rael, directing her to the programme. "The pet ants of a stage magician called Penn Gillette resort to piracy in the middle of a magic show. This is the famous Hauling Assets scene."

Shayde boggled as she watched. Something had most definitely been lost in the translation, and the perils inherent in the trail didn't seem like finding it again would be worth it. "We don't have tae sit through the whole thing do we?" she whispered. "Or tell 'em they did a lovely job an' ask if their mum made th' dress?"

"This is a celebration of culture," Rael informed. "You appreciate, and go away inspired."

Shayde mumbled something uncomplimentary about what this one inspired her to do, but still managed polite applause when the scene ended.

What followed was a dramatic tableau and scene reading from an equally famous work called _My Immortal_. Produced with elaborate attention to detail by the Archivaas foundation of Stack M-N.

Shayde leaned over again. "Someone should tell these poor bastards that 'famous' does'nae always mean 'good'."

Rael decided to get a full elucidation at a much later date. Time made all the difference, apparently, between beloved classic and, _Oh shit, turn that rubbish off_. That, and the astonishing volume of culture that had apparently vanished down Humanity's metaphorical couch cushions.

#  Challenge #102: Science Fiction, Double Feature

Let's hear it for all those cheesy Z grade movie monsters. – Anon Guest

Shayde had started another side business. The facade declared it to be _Armpit Theatre Entertainment_. And a placard on one of the windows proudly proclaimed, _We show the worst that humanity has to offer!_ Closer inspection revealed a subtitle to that which read, _Yelling at the screen is encouraged if you are funny_.

Was this one of her jokes on the rest of civilisation? Or was she making good on her promise of educating civilisation on the difference between 'good' and 'famous'? Either way, it was going to involve a briefing with Sherlock, so he decided to just go up and ask what the flakk she was up to and make a judgement call as to whether it would explode, and how soon.

Shayde had a knack for creating trouble, even when she was ostensibly attempting to avoid it. She noticed his stern face and this-better-not-be-trouble walk and said, "This is an educational initiative, I swear."

The enthusiastically smiling Archivaas by her side had a list on their data-reader. A list in ominously small print, with equally ominously narrow columns. "You must be the life assistant Rael."

"JOAT," corrected Rael. "And... something of a friend. Shayde... what is this and why is this?"

"I had some spare dosh lyin' about doin' nothin', ye ken, so I figured I could operate sommat at a loss. And why not sommat entertainin'?"

"Because your idea of entertainment involves a mile-wide trail and a lot of mop up in the aftermath," said Rael.

" _Usually_ , aye," said Shayde. "But I got the official green light from the Archivaas Collective, ye ken."

And they didn't always have the best ideas, either. They were, collectively, civilisations' worst hoarders who had interbred with the worst cases of OCD. They collected and organised _everything_. And now they were embarking on something outside of their usual activities with a lifeform who could alter a being's perception of reality. And who had the Time to waste on something she thought would be _funny_.

Therefore, Rael asked, "Did you get the green light from Sherlock?"

"Oh aye, forms an' all," Shayde breezed, bringing up the list of approved paperwork. "Assigned a security detail 'n' everything. Three goon minimum."

She still hadn't properly absorbed the fact that one did _not_ refer to security personnel as 'goons'. Besides, the Station Security Department preferred the whippy, nimble, and agile type for their staff. Certainly, they had a few of the bulky, muscular type, but they were generally used to prevent infractions by intimidation.

"Can you look me in the eye and promise me that this will not implode in new, interesting, or unpredictable ways?" he asked.

Shayde was a long time in pondering this. Rael did not like how long this was taking. She took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, and said, "Sorry. No."

#  Challenge #103: Clean-out in Aisle Seventy

The joys of 'Bargain bins' and 'end of Season' clearances. – Anon Guest

_Sale (n): A period of time in which retail emporiums lower the prices of their merchandise to cost or slightly below cost to save on storage fees._ – The Cynical Dictionary.

Wise men said that only fools rushed in. They were the ones who spent their savings on shiny gimcrack that wouldn't even last a weekend. Therefore, when the doors opened on the Big Box Mart Once A Year Sale, she walked past the big displays were people were already trying to kill each other for the nastiest of shiny things. Lynn knew better.

Softly and quickly, that was the key. They kept the good stuff in the back of the floor displays. Hidden in the shelves. Not out in the open where the mortality zone was. Lynn steered her trolley to the side as soon as possible. In between the shelves, where the foolish and the greedy rarely wandered. Waiting for a true bargain to present itself.

She always took the opportunity to stock up on toilet paper and paper towels. So cheap on this day that the store actually paid her to take them away. Stowed in the bottom of the trolley whilst the avaricious only had time for what they could carry. A big crate of ramen was pretty much the same, but customers had to take special tags to the checkout, and have it delivered to their domicile later. Same with the freeze-dried veggie packs. Those tags, Lynn stuffed into the tiny, otherwise useless pocket of her jeans. On to the good stuff.

Racks upon racks of shoes waited her next turn. Lynn knew the brand that would last the longest, and the range of sizes to grab. Two pairs for this year. Two pairs the next size up for her kids to last into next year, and a next-size-up pair in case of growth spurts. Same with the jeans. Same with the generic shirts in a sampler of colours. They could customise those later, if they wanted. And a couple of new dresses for herself, of course. The good ones that would not develop mysterious little holes inside of two weeks. Lynn always picked the serviceable stuff for herself. Things that would last. Things she needed.

And finally, she was in the very back, where they hid all the good stuff that the grasping greedy rarely reached. The stuff that the store secretly didn't want to sell. And worse for them, Lynn had _coupons_. Enough to make her prize cheap enough for her to afford.

The sales staff guarding it took one look at her and knew she meant business. There were those who came for anything they could grab, and there were those who came with a _strategy_. And systematically clean them out of stuff that the likes of Lynn should not have any legal way of owning.

"I have two thousand coupons for the Lifetime Guarantee Minibus with all the extras and fifteen years of fuel," she announced, showing them the lockbox wallet.

"Name of the individual whose lifetime is the guarantee?"

Lynn named her five-year-old son. Protected by the laws of the world because he had to work off his school debts. Rattled off his citizen number five times, and revelled in the faces that the staff made. Management would not be happy about this, but Management could suck a big one. They had made this loophole, and she planned to use it.

They still made a play of counting the coupons. Lynn had fifteen extra, which guaranteed her a meal for herself and her family... and the ability to drive the thing home as her son's legal custodian. _And_ she got them to pack all her other purchases in the rear for the ride.

They paid her to get out of there. Game set and match.

Give them two years, tops, and they would forget that people could do things like that. But that was okay. Lynn was patient and persistent.

She could wait.

#  Challenge #104: Tag, You're Undead!

The homo genus utilized the persistence hunt as one of its primitive hunting strategies. The homo genus, including homo sapiens, is remarkably well suited for this. We are relatively hairless for mammals (it's actually just much thinner than most mammals' hair), bipedal, sweat over-actively, and our legs (from the soles of the feet to the connection at the hip joint) are very well suited to distance running.

With that said ... I just learned that a few Kenyan villagers ran down a cheetah that was hunting their herd of goats in the midday African heat. A human – remarkably slow sprinters – literally ran down the fastest existing land animal over a long distance. The tortoise always wins. (They gave the cheetahs to the wildlife authorities, so no fatalities other than goats.) – Nonny

_Bigass Park,_ said the signs outside of the entrances to it. _Closed for Deathworlder demonstration. For further information, visit..._ and then there was a reference link to a free information feed. Inside was an education and an experiment at the same time.

"Zombie Tag," said Shayde. "That's the name of the game. Those wearin' the brown headbands are observers only. Must'nae be touched. Those wearin' _red_ headbands," she put one on, "are th' zombies. Everyone else is fair game. Med stations are out of bounds unless ye need one. Ye can run and hide anywhere ye like, use th' vendomats, rest where ye can. But keep in mind, th' zombies can only go after ye at a slow lurch."

The doubters, all 'prey' laughed as one of the volunteer humans demonstrated a lurch. They had no idea what they were in for. They all thought that humans were soft and unworthy of their title of 'Deathworlders'. Especially after five centuries of relative sedentary living. Indeed, some of the zombie volunteers were the doughy, well-upholstered desk set. One used a mobility aid. In less than five hours, all of those doubters would be believers.

"Once yer tagged by a zombie, you can either choose tae 'die'," Shayde used air quotes, "and watch from th' spectator gallery, or become a zombie and join the chase. We have spare headbands."

Floating cam drones filled the arena that was Bigass Park. The event was being livecast and recorded for later editing and posterity. Those in the know were already hiding their giggles from those who chose ignorance.

"Ye got five minutes." Shayde blew a whistle. The doubters took off at a mad run.

Hour one:

Pandemonium. Doubters clearly in the lead. Easy laughter and joking as they take full advantage of the park's facilities. Some doubters already flagging, choosing strategic places of rest. High branches. Areas of difficult access. It's still all a joke for them.

Hour two:

The first 'casualties' are taken. Zombies are not required to announce their presence and, owing to their slow pace, are relatively quiet. Two 'casualties' are taken to Med stations for treatment. The 'uninfected' begin choosing rest stops that promise fortification. Cries of outrage begin when the 'uninfected' realise that the zombies can climb.

All humans in the game join the side of the zombies when they are tagged.

Hour three:

Panic sets in. Doubters oscillate between panicked flight from zombies, and attempts to hide from zombies. All joviality has vanished. Many doubters are overwhelmed by the choice between potential injury and definite attack. Others are overwhelmed by multiple zombies.

All humans have joined the zombie side. The zombies are laughing now. Their laughter is not nice.

Hour four:

ABJECT TERROR. All but the Deathworlders in the Doubter side have retired, some choosing to 'die of fright' by bowing out in a Med station. The Deathworlder 'uninfected' are wearing down. Their strength means nothing. Their stamina means nothing. They have few avenues to rest. They have few chances to recoup, regroup, or refresh themselves.

Screams begin to sound out around the arena as the zombies pick off the doubters, one by one.

Some Deathworlders decide to be zombies. They are now having unbelievable amounts of fun.

Game ended at hour five, forty-seven minutes in. Even the Class Five Deathworlders believe that the Humans are space orcs. Shayde opens a volunteer list for the next round of Zombie Tag, especially for the armchair warriors who think they can win on the 'uninfected' side.

The waiting list to play 'zombies' is unbelievably large.

#  Challenge #105: Wrong Hostages!

You'd be surprised at how much stuff you can screw up with 24 hours, the proper motivation, and a screwdriver.

Rael glared at the human in his company. "Do you mean literally, as in fasten, or figuratively, as in ruin?"

A devilish grin. "Ruin," said Shayde, already digging into her extradimensional pockets. Not even dragging their contents out into what passed for the light. Finding what she wanted by feel. One tool emerged. A relatively small Swiss army knife. "Brilliant."

In the entire Galactic Alliance, there are few sights more fearful than a grinning human bearing a Swiss army knife. Especially when they said what he _knew_ Shayde was going to say. "Let's fook shit up."

He'd warned their captors that they were making a grave mistake. They'd laughed at him, of course, not knowing the trouble they were already in. Shayde insisted on playing fair, and let any enemy have half an hour to do any research and then apologise. Which this collection of ne'er-do-wells had not done.

Rael was normally inclined to mercy, but not this time. They had, after all, made his reasonable requests into an excuse for localised misery. Therefore, he said, "Do you happen to have another one of those?"

Shayde produced a multitool with a few more capabilities than hers. "Awreet. Let's make beautiful mayhem together."

There was an entertainment from roughly Shayde's origin era in which a sea cook proceeds to destroy the plans of a group of terrorists, and almost half of the boat he was on at the time. Another in which a policeman from New York becomes a one-man wrecking machine for an entire skyscraper. He had thought both of those plots to be rather on the unreasonable side until he met Shayde.

One human being with enough knowledge and a tool to implement it could wreck a building.

Two JOATs with enough knowledge and access to multitools could wreck an entire criminal organisation. And it didn't even come close to approaching twenty-four hours by the time they were done. Eight, perhaps twelve hours, and their kidnappers were willing to surrender unconditionally.

#  Challenge #106: Deathworlder Rituals

You can't _not_ look at explosions.

There were warning signs up surrounding Unsuitable Food Eat. _Humans celebrating inside. Small, harmless explosions expected. Fireworks warning._ And a pictogram of sparks and explosions with an alert sign. Even the newest of Havenworlders to the Galactic Alliance learned that Humans liked to celebrate with sparking fireworks, loud noises, and shocking expulsions of streamers, as well as other loud noises.

And inside, was a typical Human party. Loud people. Loud accessories. Loud clothing. And a host of very, very quiet spectators on the upper balcony. Some were wearing offensensitivity protection[18] and crews of Mediks were available for those suffering from distress. The sight of a curlytoot alone was enough to send some Havenworlders rushing off to emergency care.

And yet, many gathered to see the humans set a fire on top of food and sing their bizarre song. Just one of their many rituals that confirmed their species as insane. And some pondering the sanity of those who merely came to watch. Rael was not there as an observer. He was there as a _guest_.

Shepard Marken was having his fifth birthday. Therefore the Markens were throwing a celebration for friends and family. Shepard wore a plastic crown and grinned avariciously for every guest entering the restaurant. Shayde, already there, was wearing a tissue paper crown and a bunch of cheap gimcrack play jewellery. Rael could tell at a glance that the Ambassador had already had too much sugar, and was encouraging young Shepard to do the same.

"It's no' a good party unless yer right sick the next day, ye ken," insisted Shayde.

"It's a good party if you have good memories from it," insisted Rael. "I gather this is where I make my offering of material goods to the celebrant?"

Lyr glared at him. "You've been through this four times. Stop pretending you don't know how birthday parties go."

Shepard, too, glared at him. "It's not funny any more, Uncle Rael."

Shayde said, "Stop fishin', th' bait ain't workin'." Which meant that she, too, had spotted the attempt at humour and found it wanting.

He handed over the present. "This should make up for it then. Congratulations on surviving another year."

Shepard rolled his eyes as he said, "Thank you," and then unwrapped the bright paper to find his gift. A holographic puzzle cube with real-time interaction capabilities.

"A glass box?" asked Shayde. Of course, she was the only one who saw it like that. And Shepard was glad to show her how it worked. Every now and again, modern technology would confound her, and she would instantly become like a confused grandparent. Her final judgement was, "Ah. No wonder me twiddle toys got put aside fer later. Kids these days. What happened tae experimentin' and messin' aboot wi' stuff?"

Definite grandparent mode. Certainly, her arrival on the Galactic Scene had caused a few revivals, but the past was very much a different country[19]. Rael laid a consoling hand on her shoulder and said, "I'm sure Shepard will appreciate your gift on his own level in his own time." Code for, _They'll see it your way in an undetermined future._

And in the meantime, they were about to set fires on the cake. Any party with cake involved was definitely worth the temporary inconvenience.

[18] Since Havenworlders are especially delicate, offensive sensory input can literally kill someone. Thus, those who wish to toughen up their own genome wear devices that can reduce the impact of said input to the point where the impact is survivable.

[19] They eat weird food, dress funny, speak a different language, and you really shouldn't trust the water.

#  Challenge #107: What Does it See?

...I gazed into the sun. You would not see it unless you were looking, but it was there. There was a pupil, an iris, cornea...

Then... the sun... blinked. – Anon Guest

It took less than a second. Just like any blink you or I may know. Nobody else saw it because you just don't look at the sun unless you want to risk going blind. Plus this is the sort of thing that you could literally blink and miss.

There had to be a way to prove that it happened. Cameras won't work. They have something to make the sun look... sun-ish. And once you have a pinhole camera obscura, something happens to make the sun look like a sun and not an eye. I don't know what do do about it, to be honest.

You can't just tell people that the sun is actually a giant eyeball without expecting to be locked up. You could probably start a religion based on the idea that the sun is _God's_ eyeball and maybe get away with it... but that sort of horseshit always ends up with kool-aid or psychotic followers poisoning a town to get their way in elections or something. Do _not_ want to go _there_. Neither do I really wish to find like-minded weirdoes who may or may not have seen the sun... blink.

You never know if they really have or -occam's razor speaking- have gone off the deep end. Hell, _I_ don't even know if I'm crazy. Did I see what I think I saw? Was I hallucinating? And what could possibly cause that kind of thing to even happen? Whatever it was.

So I did what any allegedly sane and sensible human would do if they thought they saw the sun blink. I opened up an anonymous browser window and googled "sun blink" with the quotes.

Lots of info on Blink-182, some poetry, twelve conspiracy sites, and one Wordpress account with a scientific spin on the thing.

Well... as long as it didn't get into foil hat territory. I could go down that rabbit hole and at least find some theories. The blog was called, _I Saw the Sun Blink and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt_ and yes, it sold T-shirts with that legend on them through Lulu.

The first blog entry was all about how you really shouldn't look directly at the sun, and ways to see and record the sun-eye-blink without winding up afoul of what they called the 'sunspot effect'. And the solution was as simple as blue cellophane.

There was even a video.

I did as the instructions said, and recorded my own proof. Shit. It was real. The sun blinked once a day, usually near to noon, and there was a group of maybe twenty people who had done this. Nobody knew what it meant.

But I'm glad to know it means I'm not crazy.

#  Challenge #108: Cute, Fluffy, Dangerous

It looks adorable, acts so very cute, and even smells attractive.

Don't go near it with barge pole. There's got to be some huge catch. – Anon Guest

Humans are bizarre. At any given moment, they will attempt to tame and then ride any beast bigger than one of their domestic canids[20]. They will coo over and attempt to pet any given venomous or aggressive creature. But it was on the planetary system WEP969HU84I, nicknamed _Planet Cutiekiller_ , that another aspect of humanity became known.

The atmosphere was classified non-toxic, though the Ship's Human declared that he had gained four pounds just by sniffing it. The crew of the _Intrepid Investigator_ agreed that the air was scented like one of Human Shan's annual treat pastries. No pathogens were detected, nor toxins, nor any kind of threat to the ship or its crew.

The local flora tested as both edible and theoretically delicious, though further investigation was warranted before the crew were invited to dig in. Just in case there was a hazardous enzyme somewhere in the mix that made the native flora both delicious and deadly. Human Shan grew increasingly agitated during the sampling mission. A condition that worsened when they encountered some of the native wildlife.

"Stay back," Human Shan barked, moving between his crewmates and the creature that had come out of the underbrush.

It was small, roughly spherical, large-eyed and violently pink. It sniffed the air with a cute, button nose and cleaned its face with its paws.

"It looks completely harmless," objected xenobiologist Krin.

"Sure it does. Get a drumstick out of the tester pack." And since Human Shan was making grabby motions with one hand, they wanted this as a diagnostic[21].

Krin handed one over and watched as Human Shan carefully tossed the drumstick within range of the animal, which sniffed at it.

It was adorable until it opened its mouth to devour it whole.

Following this encounter, the expedition crew realised two things: First, the clearing was surrounded by others of this creature's kind, emerging from the undergrowth and bushes. Secondly, they were rather far away from the _Intrepid Investigator._

Human Shan kept a calm, soothing tone to his voice. "Krin? How many drumsticks do we have all up?"

"Including the one you just threw? Twenty."

"Let's gather all of them in a biodegradable baggie," said Human Shan, not making any sudden moves. "They'll be able to smell it, but they don't know what to do with us, yet. So let's be quick, but not spook them."

Human Shan was gently tossing his own drumsticks to the cute, fuzzy creatures by the time the baggie was mostly ready. The creatures were starting to gather in the one area where the drumsticks were landing. "When I say 'run'..." he prompted. "Run. Full speed. Straight for the ship. I'll be right behind you."

The assembled crew pointed themselves in the correct direction. They had already re-fastened their livesuits.

Human Shan shouted, "RUN!" as he threw the baggie, and kept a pace behind the slowest of his crew. Behind them, the noises of ravening beasts fighting over the contents filled the air.

It was a long, adrenaline-fuelled escape. Only when they were all back aboard and the ship itself was in the upper stratosphere did Krin think to ask, "How did you know they were dangerous?"

Human Shan shrugged. "Thin slicing? Maybe? When you find a really cute creature in a colouring-book paradise, something has to stink, and stink big." He took a sip of his calming theobromine. "All those plants wanted to be eaten, but those critters weren't chowing down. And... well... they were furry and their eyes were in the front. Predator configuration."

On one hand, Galactic Society had found a Deathworld that the Humans did _not_ want to colonise. On the other hand, this was because, "it gave (them) the screaming heebie-jeebies."

[20] Given human interference, and that horses can be as big as dogs and vice versa, the Standard Unit of animal measurement is considered to be one healthy german shepherd.

[21] Chicken drumsticks, preferably printed in a food fabricator, have become an accepted field testing unit for all kinds of analysis. Acidity of a fluid or surface is the usual one, but as we see, it is also a good diagnostic for the relative carnivorousness of an unidentified species.

#  Challenge #109: Once Upon an Adventure

We 'narrative apes', don't just tell stories, we play games to pass the time.

Humans are an inventive lot. They invented _inspired desperation_ as a survival instinct. They invented _fiction_ to make their lives _more interesting_. They're one of the few cogniscent species and the only known Deathworlders to have _boredom_. They can multitask, and some of them can multitask, apparently, faster than light. Some are capable of multitasking with mind-boggling precision. Others can't remember what they were doing two minutes ago, and are capable of burning water.

What they are famous for is inventing stories. If taxed for an answer to a question that they don't know, they are capable of making something up. Fortunately for the other species in the Galactic Alliance, these instant fictions are easy to spot, since they are generally prefaced with one or a combination of, "I don't know," and, "Maybe."

Humans are also well known for playing games. What was less well known was that Humans could play games _with stories_. And it was quite the spectacle to witness for the uninitiated. There was one Human running what the others aboard the Enforcement Cruiser _Swift Catharsis_ were starting to call the Madness Room. The others were gathered around the table and telling fragments of stories.

"The lich keeps repeating your name, Kaliko, but they're hanging back. They seem to know you're afraid. And they're not doing _anything_ hostile." Here, the chief of the madness switched the tone and timbre of their voice. "Kaliko... don't you remember? Don't you remember the–" and then they imitated a hiss of static.

"Wait. What?" said the Human playing an imaginary Elf mage called Kaliko.

"Was that in character or out of character?" asked another participant in the tabletop madness.

"Hogarth the Mighty is still trying to break down the steel door that Kaliko is trapped behind."

"It's _steel_. I don't care how mighty your thews are, you're not going to dent that shit."

"NAT TWENTY! I just flakking dented that shit!"

The chief of the madness rolled some dice behind a screen. "You did two damage to the door. You did, indeed, dent that shit, but the door is largely unaffected."

"If someone could _remove curse_ on me, I could cast _Knock_ on that flakkin' door," complained another player.

"I'm out of spell slots. What do you want?"

"I want this flakkin' curse removed!"

Their chief sighed. "Are we done being salty? Can we get back to what Kaliko's doing?"

Kaliko's player sighed and said, "That was both in character and out of character. I thought we imbibed the memory-sucker's ichor. We should know everything that's blocked."

"Yeah, you did that," said the chief. "Do you say anything else? Do anything else?"

"I cast... _Empathy_. I want to figure out what the fuck is up with this lich."

"Lich, please," said another player.

"That's a ten. Plus my two, makes that a twelve against their save."

"They don't resist," said the chief. "The lich is being honest with you and wants you to remember something that you currently can't understand. They raise a skeletal arm... and you see that there is a gold band on the skeletal ring finger. They seem to point right at you."

"Kaliko ducks and covers," another dice roll. "Even with my negative five athletics, that was a success."

"The lich only cast _Knock_ on the door. And it's a lucky thing you ducked, Kaliko, because that flakker comes flying off its hinges."

"Hogarth was trying to do a running slam at the time and enters the room at the same time. He cheers, _I did it!_ "

The chime for shift change sounded. "And at that," said their chief, "we hit pause and get back to work."

Howls of dismay from the fellow crazed humans. "Aw come on. What's the lich doing?"

"Oh, the lich has vanished without a trace. Again. See you lot tomorrow." Most of the data-readers from the session were left where they lay, but the chief took theirs with them. And the fellow crew who had gathered to watch were left wondering what the heck they had just witnessed.

#  Challenge #110: True Tall Tale

You can find out a lot about a Nation by reading it's 'fairy tales'. – Anon Guest

Civilisation tells stories. Oral history, moral fables, just-so legends, and in the case of humans, rampant fiction that builds and mutates as it goes. And every now and again, you meet the Fae Tales. Stories of otherworldly beings who have mental processes that squirm like worms, who steal children for laughs, who either prey on the mad or avoid them like the plague. There's something real about them. Something... unnerving. Even when later editors remove most of the blood and replace it with glittering tutus.

My mother said/ I never should/ play with the faeries/ in the wood...

The people who tell these stories call them, "the kind ones" and, "the fair folk" with the same optimism that a cat burglar calls a dog with orange eyebrows a, "nice doggie". And if you listen to the _unedited_ stories, passed down from the survivors, you will learn why. Even the encounters with the _good_ Fae can turn sour in an instant.

Your hair won't curl/ your shoes won't shine/ Oh sweet child/ you won't be mine...

Some try to be good. Most aim for wickedness. There is some debate as to whether or not they have the same standards of 'good' or 'evil' as mere mortals do. Centuries pass, and there are... encounters. By the light of the full moon. During a foggy twilight. In a confusing forest where a lone traveller got turned around. Right up to this very day, there are _encounters_. Which are not spoken of to outsiders. There are things that are just _not done_.

And if you know the old stories, and the _encounters_ , and are rigidly polite, and as generous as you can be... you just might survive with something of a gift. Or only a _mild_ curse. And if you are quick of thinking, and very clever, you might come away with their _admiration_.

Crazy old Dottie, by the byre, had only one child. She doted on it, they say. Rarely left the baby unguarded. She would not speak of its father, and some say the babe was Touched. It was a very quiet child, even before the Fair Folk took it away for a changeling.

Dottie knew the old tales, and ran the tests. Of course the changeling revealed itself, and Crazy old Dottie carried it, heavy though it was, on her back. All the way to the standing stones where the Fae were said to dance. She brought along her applejack, and a wheel of cheese, because that was all she had to offer. The Fae were waiting. They loved a good show.

"I've come for my child," she said, setting the changeling down. The identical children ran to hug and play with each other. "Share my food and drink, fair king, and we can talk. And I can catch my breath."

"We won't taunt you much," promised their current leader. "Just pick your child from their double and you can take it home with no harm done."

Changeling and child both stood perfectly still, and smiled for Crazy old Dottie.

"They are _both_ my children," she said. "Have I not loved the changeling as powerfully as my own babe? Have I not cared as deeply? Have I not done my all for them as I have for mine?"

There was a nod, from one of the children, and the fae king smiled. "You will find life with two children twice as hard. They will need twice the clothes. Twice the food. You've no wine to offer me. Even this paltry meal is almost more than you can spare."

"I'll find a way," said crazy old Dottie. "I will find two children twice as loving. My life twice as blessed."

"Then all you have to do," said the king-under-the-hill, "is carry them home."

Just as with the journey there, a fae trick is to beg to be carried, and get progressively heavier. Until the human falters or is crushed by the weight. Some even add a penalty to that failure. The Fae consider this a fine sport. And so it was for crazy old Dottie, who used her shawl to tie two children to her back, and set off with her stick as a support, all the way home.

The stories differ, from there. Some say she bore the weight all the way home. Some say the Fair Folk tried to confound her path. Some say the children on her back begged to be let down for water and food. No matter the trials, crazy old Dottie passed them, and the instant she crossed the threshold to her humble little hut, she had two bairns instead of one.

True to her word, she favoured neither one nor the other. She raised no hand to them. Spared them little. Loved them both for all she had and all she was worth.

And the Fae do not forget such favours. One child was always doing strange little rituals. Secretive ones that people only caught the edges of. Talking to the plants. Talking to the animals. And the little farm far from the village... prospered. Crazy old Dottie's pig had a bumper litter of piglets, and everyone swore that she had previously owned a boar. Her crops grew a-plenty. She had more apples than any other farmer, and they tasted better than any, to boot.

Her sheep never had a burr in their wool. Her cow gave the best cream. Made the best cheese. Her chickens and geese alike laid the finest eggs.

And she always took a basket of her wares to the standing stones, and thanked the Kind Ones there.

And she loved her children. Fae and Mundane alike.

Nobody knows what happened to crazy old Dottie. Some say a nobleman came and paid her gold for her farm, and the nobleman never prospered as well as Dottie did. Some say she lived to a grand old age and died a great-great grandmother. Some say she walked one day with a share of her wares to the standing stone and never came back. Some say she joined the Wild Hunt or rode off on a Pooka.

Dottie doesn't tend that farm any more.

Some say it fell to ruin. Some say it prospers still. Tended by twins who never seem to age, and have been there forever. But to be certain, the Fae won't let anyone else do the same as Dottie. Not twice. But in these parts? Folk like to carry around the best bottle of Twinnourth Cider, and claim kinship to old Dottie. The bottle is a gift for any of the Kind Ones that may cross their path, and the claim of kinship?

Well...

The Fair Folk never harm one of their own.

#  Challenge #111: The Brat Who Would Be King

The modern 'royal' needs the stamina of a marathon runner, the patience of Job, the ability to be pleasant to the most boring bunch of Social Climbers and have a cast iron bladder. She must also be a Constitutional Law expert and a crack shot. The rest of you just have to put up with anyone who wins a popularity contest. – Anon Guest

You may have heard the words, _Nobles oblige_ , or, _uneasy rests the head that wears a crown_. These two phrases are symbiotic. The ruler on the throne has to be kind to those who support their lifestyle, or revolution with end their reign with a short, sharp shock. They also have to maintain certain standards, be a beacon to the people, and otherwise carry on as if they are not, in fact, a flawed human being who may or may not think it's funny to Dutch Oven their spouse[22].

Royalty is trained, almost from birth, to keep their private matters private. Thus, any leak of humanity in the common eye is the worst of scandals. Thus discouraged from human behaviour, royalty therefore avoids all traces of human behaviour for a minimum of half a generation.

Politicians, people who are elected based on their relatability, are known to start as human, as well as known to lie. Nobody expects much out of a politician. Which is why it is never a smart idea for any politician to grasp for a crown. But that never stopped Quinton Wynn.

First, he bought the vote. Of course what he did was illegal, but by the time he had reached the houses of state, he had made the practice completely legal. And it helped to be in a political system that paid lip service to democracy, but was actually an oligarchy.

Next, he bought the systems of checks and balances to be certain that anything he did from then on was legal. Including declaring his nation a Kingdom, and crowning himself first monarch. True, he unified a nation that was a collection of scattered identities. What actually happened was that he united a nation _against_ him by being the most ruinous ruler they had ever had.

He basically re-introduced the serf system, deregulated any and all safety procedures, and turned half of the country into a massive factory to make products that none of the common throng could afford. He alienated every other nation five seconds after he cornered the market on his selected wares. They _had_ to come to him. Preferably on their knees.

What he never expected was war from both sides.

The common people rose up, and King Wynn never bothered to pay his security detail enough to be sure his life was worth anything to him. And with that simple devaluation, Wynn... lost.

He lost his throne. He lost his crown. He lost his family. He lost his friends, who had never been real friends to begin with. He lost his holdings. He lost his money. He lost his life.

And left devastation in his wake.

Some of the remaining oligarchs tried for the crown, stating how only _they_ had the resources to save the nation. And for three kings, the people let them. _Then_ came the reign of terror, where anyone with oligarchical leanings was hunted down and executed, their property distributed to those who needed it most.

So much of what was broken got destroyed. For a while, the ideals of the oligarchs were all that remained. People honestly believed that one should earn everything one had. But it was not a lasting state. There were people who needed, but could not do. There were those who could do in abundance, and chose to give. Those who hoarded anything for themselves were soon hated. Then reviled. Then hunted down as well.

In a roundabout way, King Wynn kept his promise. It was only by his death, and not his decrees, that he and others just like him changed the entire world.

[22] For those sheltered souls: a Dutch Oven is when one farts in bed and then sweeps the covers over one's love-mate so they get the full, alleged benefit of those gasses. This can, has, and will be grounds for expedient and costly divorce.

#  Challenge #112: Recurring Pathology

You finally decide to re-arrange or clean up an area and find stuff.

"This is not a collection," said Rael. "This is a hoard."

Eyah sighed. "Yeah. I might have a problem."

Rael levelled a ersatz-telepathic Look at his fellow Faiize. It said, _You may have made the biggest understatement since some alleged genius claimed that black holes are 'a bit heavy'._

"Okay. Yes. I have a problem. I can _not_ stay away from glittery objects. I mean... I have _plans_ , but I have other things to do with my time and... it all mounts up."

Lots of purples and pinks, Rael noted. He was fortunate that Shayde was _chucking a sickie_ as she called it, and therefore not present to accuse Eyah of being an _absolute girl_. Certainly, Eyah identified as feminine, but that should never be an insult. Which was an argument that - thankfully - didn't have to happen today.

"We could begin by sorting them. Colour, project, date of determination..."

"...oof," muttered Eyah. She knew, as well as any JOAT knew, that the date of determination was the cut-off to _definitely_ do something with that project stuff. After that, it had to be ruthlessly recycled, resold, or regifted. Which was heartbreaking for a chronic art supplies hoarder.

Rael was ready with the stackable, nestable boxes and a camp stool. He had done things like this before. Most recently, to his own storage space with his mind on why he wanted the things he had there rather than the joy of simply _having_ them.

It was a universal syndrome. Grow up with little and wind up hoarding everything that crosses your path. Because it could come in handy. Because it could be valuable at a later date. Because you have plans for it. Because it could become something cool if you could only find that other thing you had just put aside for a rainy day... Because you swore you had one just like it but, because of the accumulated hoard, you just can't find it any more.

It took a certain amount of ruthlessness to unriddle a JOAT's hoard. Extra tools were weighed in the balance and the ones found wanting were passed along to young JOATs or those who, similarly, couldn't find a tool just like it. And thus, _their_ hoarding cycle would begin.

Rael earned a lot of Time by helping other JOATs out with their collections. Hoards. Or, as Shayde kept calling them, "A bad case o' SABLE."[23] And since he couldn't interrupt the cycle no matter how hard he tried, Rael counted it as a reliable employment source.

He estimated that at least half of Eyah's hoard would be found later in three different JOAT hoards around the station. Some were tools that were still in mint condition. And -yes- one of them bore a little mark that he'd put on it when he'd exiled it from his _own_ hoard, as something of an experiment. And it was still in its original packaging.

Eyah, too, exiled it to the Housekeeping Sale. She did, after all, have two others just like it that she preferred. One for one kind of task, and the other for a different one. JOATs could allow themselves varieties of the same tool, if needed.

Projects went into sorted boxes. With a clear plan and a date of determination to at least inspire Eyah to work on it or sell it off to someone who would. Outright junk - the empty boxes, the vacant bags, the hollow tubes - all were set aside for recycling credits if the Cleaners didn't get it first. And there was a phenomenal amount of junk.

Rael was starting to think of it as _poverty hoarding_ , where the one practicing it was prone to hold on to _everything_ lest it come in handy at a later date. Even the inherently useless stuff, like receipt chits, or soiled doggie bag containers from restaurants. Or broken tchotchkes.

After he was done, Eyah's storage space was a great deal more orderly, and her lax seasons full of potential projects. She had almost two Months from the Housekeeping Sale alone, and a further Fortnight from the recycling credit. Rael let her ponder how she was going to spend her 'extra' cash and treated them both to a very good meal at Nik's.

There was nothing like a meal at Nik's for soothing troubled emotions. Or recovering from the loss of -say- five of the same tool, way more crafting material than Eyah could ever need, fifteen separate glitter kits - all unopened; and a cubic distance unit of assorted wooden beads.

Rael understood it all. The mad rush of _having_ , the joy of _keeping_ , as well as the insidious worm of _inspiration_ when one happened to trip over something that looked like it could be part of something _interesting_. It was, after all, how places like _Things!_ made their money.

[23] SABLE - Acronym for Stash Above and Beyond Life Expectancy. If you know a craft person, you _know_ SABLE.

#  Challenge #113: Very Important Tools

Why on Earth would you ever need more than one of those? – Anon Guest

"Listen. There is a philosophy about the right tool for the right job. And these tools all have a different job."

"But six different spatulas? _Why_?"

"This one's best for scrambling. This one's best for tossing. _This_ one can flip a pancake with ease. This one is good for chasing things around on a griddle," the chef laid them out as he spoke. "This one's excellent for getting into those tight little corners on those square pans, and _this_ lovely little darling is best for serving."

His apprentice boggled. Pointed out the one that was apparently for serving. "I'd just use that one for everything."

"And _that_ ," insisted the chef, "is why you fail. That's why you get those huge chunks of scramble instead of a light fluff, and why your pancakes keep breaking or deforming. Trust me. I've been at this longer than you've been alive. Learn the shapes. Learn the purposes. Try using the right tool for the right job."

The apprentice grumbled something about too much washing up, but made scrambled eggs and pancakes according to the master's rigorous instructions. And it was true. The scrambling spatula was perfect for making fluffy little grains of scrambled egg. And the flipping spatula was just the right angle and width for scooping up a pancake and flipping it without breaking or deforming the work in progress.

"See, padawan?" said the chef. "When presentation is important, so are the correct tools."

"I'm guessing this is why you have five different mixing machines?"

"Oh, no. That's because I hoard kitchen gadgets. Can't stay away from the clever little shits."

#  Challenge #114: Shark Generosity

Temptation comes in many forms, 30% off for one.

Sale season was something Shayde was used to happening during the new financial year. Something that this new age didn't have. What they had, instead, was tax season. Which lead to the tax season charity sales. Excess stock that the companies could no longer afford to store, was to be sold at a discount to those who could otherwise not afford it.

Shayde, who could afford anything she liked now-a-days, still cruised the shopfronts sprawled through the commercial sector of the Elemeno. Econo-tourism, she called it. And it was, as far as Rael could ascertain, an excuse for her to practice anti-pickpocketing.

Dip-pocketing, her latest invention from Human Insanity, was the practice of _adding_ money to someone's wallet or holdings without them noticing. Spare change dropped in the purse. And artfully-crumpled note inserted in the back pocket, that sort of thing. Always just enough for some otherwise-impoverished soul to be able to afford something nice that they could not otherwise afford. Even when it was on sale.

It was baffling. Shayde came from the 'Greed is Good' decade of Pre-Shattering Human history, when those who trampled the poor under their feet for short-term profit were the next best things to gods made flesh. By all rights, she should have been this era's answer to Ebenezer Scrooge. So, when Shayde took a break for lunch (tossing a handful of Minutes in the Take A Second Leave A Second dish like croutons into a salad) Rael took his chance.

"Why?" he said. "Given your history and background, you have no reason or inclination to be this generous. Why are you doing this and, more importantly, why are you doing it _like this_?"

"Yer lookin' at a person as if they're a nation. I did'nae have a typical upbringin' accordin' tae me generation pigeon-hole, ye ken. Raised by hippies. Wanderin' the world and helpin' folks out. Remember? I spent a lifetime outside o' the bell curve. And I got tae see a lot of folks at the bottom doin' what they could tae get one step ahead." She paused to hand a Two Year note to their server staff and murmur something in their ear. The look on their face said volumes about the gift. In a few minutes, tops, the entire Gyiik crew would sing a hymn to Nyohmnahm because Shayde had just paid for one flakk of a lot of meals for the impoverished. "And even worse fer any promises of havin' me head up me arse, we lived as they did while we were there. Havin' a _bed_ was a luxury. So... I know what it's like tae strive an' scrape and make do. Not like many o' me own kind."

"And the 'like this'?" Rael prompted.

"There's a book I've been readin'," she said, in an apparent tangent. "Got a lot tae say about the strivin' sort. In it, there's this place. Cockbill street. A place where all they got is Standards, and where there's all but nowt on th' table, but by their gods, it's _scrubbed_. A place where th' kids eat first and sometimes they eat th' candles and never say a word about it. Where they skip school tae work and earn, and spend all their hours workin' their elbows off and are still called lazy by folks who push paper all day an' never sweated a day in their lives. I've _been_ tae places like Cockbill street. Ye hand 'em a dollar an' they'll fookain kill ye fer the insult." She took a cleansing breath and a soul-settling bite of her cheesecake. "But let 'em _find_ some money in their back kick? A plausible amount, ye ken. Two. Five. Mebbe as much as a tenner? It's a blessin' from the gods. Must'a slipped their mind. Providence gives when they need it th' most. I've already got what I need and a wee bit more fer what I want. The rest of it's no good tae anyone catchin' dust."

Once again, Rael doubted Shayde's grasp on how money was kept and circulated in the modern era. Things like a duck's money bin were works of pure fiction and, frankly, bad for the economy. "That's... not really how it works," he said, but with more than a modicum of doubt as to whether he was having his leg gently pulled.

"Aye. Metaphor. Sure, I could buy me a planet tae retire on an' all, but... that's no good tae anyone wi' nowt but a blanket on the floor and their dreams. So I take some dosh out an' practice random acts o' kindness. Sneaky-like." Another pause for cheesecake and tea. "It's no bother tae me an' me income, but it's a world o' difference to them on t'other side."

"That's a bizarre philosophy," he said. "Most who earn lots of cash prefer to keep hold of it."

Shayde snorted. "Money's just like sharks," she said. "Dead unless it's always movin." And then she lunged across a gap between tables to replace a religious screed as a tip with a Five Hour note. The screed went into a pocket with a glare at the one who'd left it there.

Rael had no doubt that that individual was going to get a taste of their own medicine. Served at zero kelvin and carefully calibrated to hurt the most. His only hope was to be there and at least make a vague attempt at holding her back. Mostly because the view promised to be _fantastic_.

#  Challenge #115: Baby's First Flight

I'll spread my wings and learn to fl- oh, crap, sorry, I didn't mean to knock that over. I underestimated my wingspan.

The thing about wings is, they're the largest part of any flying creature's anatomy. They have to be. In order to independently lift one's own body-weight, most of that weight has to be doing the heavy lifting. And if you're flapping to do it... well... there's a reason why the largest flying birds in the world employ the strategy of gliding for most of their flight time.

And flight muscles burn a lot of fat. You can't just paste wings onto human-like arms and expect them to act like an angel's. For a start, the leverage is all wrong. And all of these arguments were cycling around the engineering sections of Project Kymera. A combination Black-Ops and Sub-Rosa scientific project to create the Enlisted Man. Again. And like all projects of its ilk, it was doomed before someone even thought it was a good idea.

Even though these illegal science projects were part animal, they still looked a hell of a lot like human babies. And people do not, once the fecal matter hits the distribution device, want to kill _babies_. So the projects leaked into the world. All over the world. And the 'victims' of Project K found families in the scientists and staff who smuggled them out before the convenient laboratory fires. And this is why an undersized boy with bat genes is in a sleepy nowhere water-stop town called Bidawee.

Everyone calls him 'Drac' because of his dentition. Of all the things strange about Michael Kyle Fochs, the greater public picked his _teeth_. The scientists of his particular drafting board were experimenting with an aerial unit. And this is particularly hilarious because young Mike is terrified of heights. This in spite of extra limbs that are bat-like in nature, but only capable of helping him glide safely to the ground. With a little bit of twisting, he can fold them up in such a way that he can sit whilst they're hidden inside his clothing. Which, in turn, makes him hate Tourist Season more than anyone else in Bidawee.

His older sister, Michelle, who was the town's 'older Mike', had taken one look at her new, adopted sibling, and began plotting his first flight before he could even walk. Which, once you've listened to a few 'take flight' stories, may have been a contributing factor to young Mike's current terror.

That, and the fact that they were currently on the roof of the town pub. AKA the city centre.

"Thermals," said Michelle. "The roads hot as, right? So it's pushing hot air _up_ and you can spread your wings and catch it."

Young Mike flinched away from her demonstrative grasp. He was four and did not like it when people just randomly grabbed his wings. "Don't wanna," he whined. "...'m'unna tell mum."

"Do you want them to drop off?" said Michelle. Bullshitting for all she was worth. "There's this thing? Where they locked up a bird's wings? When it was a chick? Until it grew up? And it was in a load of pain the whole time? And then when they unlocked it? The wings were black and they _fell off_." And since this didn't apparently terrify her baby adopted brother enough, she added, "And then the bird died _screaming_."

"...dun wanna," whimpered young Mike.

"I'm only trying to help," wheedled Michelle. "I don't want those wings dropping off because you'll _die_. And that's real bad. So you gotta use 'em before you lose 'em, Mickie."

"Mike," corrected young Mike.

"It's gonna be easier," cajoled Michelle. "The thermals will help you stay up. All you have to do is spread those wings and parachute down. Like those baby ducks on National Geographic."

"I'm not a duckling," argued young Mike.

"Dur. Yeah. I know. But there's nobody else like you ever, so we gotta use what we know to help you grow up big and strong."

The 'big and strong' did it. Young Mike knew that he was the smallest in his Prep classroom, and the smallest in the Prep playground. And there were other kids threatening to get their bigger sibling to squash him flat. "Okay," he sighed. "What do I gotta do?"

"Spread 'em out and jump off," Michelle shrugged.

"No! Mum'll _spit_. We're not even s'posed'a be up here."

"Do you trust me?"

Young Mike considered her history of trying to get him to fly by shoving him off high places. "No."

Michelle broke out the ultimate bribe. "If you do it I'll buy you a red drink and a pollywaffle."

"No shoving, but. Cross your heart?"

She did so, but young Mike took too long to psych himself up and she shoved him when his wings flexed outwards. He screamed all the way down, and his first official flight took him all the way along the main street. Where their mum got into his flight path to catch him.

"Michelle Therese Fochs!"

A distant figure on top of the pub said, "Oh poopies," and tried to hide behind the chimney stack. It wasn't the first time she got in trouble for her flight assistance, but it was the most entertaining.

#  Challenge #116: Mama Done Tole Me

a world that's basically space America but taken to its logical extreme and becoming a redneck paradise – Anon Guest

[AN: Trying not to go to Greater Deregulation here]

There are the Few, but we don't go near the likes of them. We are the Many. We look after our own. We make do with what we got. We earn what we can, and we got our pride. Every now and again, the Few come along and try to tell us what t' do, but we ain't never paid no attention to it. They go away if'n we wait long enough.

The Few ain't no trouble. It's the Revinu that are the trouble. They're the ones that steal our young men. The fit ones, of course. Take 'em away to their secret bases and turn ours into _them_. Everyone knows the story of how Li'l Billy got took, and nobody heard hide nor hair of him for years. And then one day he turned up in Revinu armour. His gramma recognised him. Tried to tell him off for attacking his family.

Yeah. She got shot. You don't stand up to Revinu. That's how you get dead. No, what you do is be meek as milk, let 'em upset everythin', and deny anything they find. They don't care about the system of your stuff. They don't care that one of your bedrooms is your storage space. They don't care about none of it. They just want us took, and locked up, so's the Few have got themselves a work force.

That's how it goes. If you're not fit enough to fight for the Few as a Revinu, then you're gonna wind up getting locked up. Then y'all gotta spend a ten-year cleaning for the Few or gardening for them or whatnot. Aunt Becky just got back from her term, last week. Wore near to the bone.

The Few insist on callin' us lazy. They ain't never gone hunting. They ain't never worked a field. They ain't never chased a goat in their lives. And once you done your ten-year, you'll see. The Few spend all their days staring at screens and talking to folks they can't see. Pushin' money all day. Betting on this or that. Buying up all the beautiful things that you'll never see in a Big Box. Talking about how we all could just have nice things if'n we try.

No such, nowhere, no how. We don't get no money. We do barter. It's only them as done a ten-year that can afford to even look in a Big Box. Or them as have themselves a Deal with someone. But don't you go near them as have a Deal. They're like to betray you to the Revinu, soon as look at you. They're crooked. Even worse than the Few.

The Dealers make the brain poisons. Now I ain't talkin' about the honest stuff like 'baccy or liquor. Y'all know where that comes from. I'm talking about the _bad_ stuff. The stuff that takes your soul away from the Almighty. Your meth and your crank and your needles. They're just plain no good. They rip our your love for your family and make everything you do 'bout gettin' your next score.

The Dealers also got themselves book-learning. Science and stuff. That's how they make the poisons. Get good little youngins like yourself into all kinds of things against the word o' gee-zuss. Don't get me wrong, I ain't against a li'l learning. Figuring out how to make crops grow better or the cattle get fatter... That's good. But makin' worse poisons to get little 'uns took off? That ain't no good never.

We stay strong by staying together. Looking after our family. Stay sweet for the Revinu and kill any Dealer on sight. That's how the world works.

Now you mind all 'o that. Remember. We're the Many. We are strong. And we are meek. And gee-zuss tells us that the meek will inherit. You just wait. And don't do nothing that can get you took.

#  Challenge #117: Pax Princeps

My son now has a five year old daughter. He referred to her as 'Princess' and I had to tease him. "What are her duties as a Princess? Does she negotiate treaties between her dolls and her teddy bears? Does she preside over public events? Does she have any input on new legislation?"

It backfired. Now she DOES negotiate treaties among her stuffed critters. – Bard2DBone

Most little girls like to play Princess. Most little girls do so by wearing sparkly, frou-frou dresses and lots of plastic jewellery. Tia was not one of those kids. _She_ played Princess in other ways.

First, she negotiated peace between the Littlest Pet Shop and Polly Pocket. Then, she made a treaty between the plastic dinosaurs and the matchbox cars that were hers because her brothers had forgotten they owned them. For her next step up, she negotiated dessert rights and rules between the kids and her parents. Older siblings, younger siblings, and the conditions upon visitation.

Then, for her ultimate feat of negotiation, she began working on a truce between her eldest siblings and the little ones. Which was a tough one, because it required intermediaries (mom and dad) and a written treaty that everyone could abide by as soon as they could understand it.

"This is your fault," said Kesha, the eldest. Glaring at Dad with her arms folded. "You kept calling her 'Princess' all the time and _encouraging_ her."

"I thought it was adorable that Tia was playing Humanitarian Aid and Negotiating Peace," said Dad. "And I still think this is a wonderful life path for my Princess. You have to admit, she's good."

Kesha grumbled to herself and refused to admit any such thing. She did manage something audible on the theme that this entire affair was not, in fact, at all fair.

"We all agreed," said Tia. "That makes it fair. Mom said."

"It's still not fair that this got negotiated by an _eight year old_."

"I'm eleven and you know it. This is one of the things you have to work at stopping, Kesha. According to the treaty."

"And the penalty clause includes going without your phone for an evening," said Dad, making give-it-here motions.

In eight more years, when Tia talked down a 'lone wolf' gunman at her high school, Kesha would be proud of her little sister. But in eight more years, Kesha would grow out of being a surly teenager who wanted everything to go her way or else. She'd have a life of her own, a job, and an understanding of how tough life could be for others.

Some would say that the moral of this story was, _Don't call your daughters 'Princess'._ Tia's dad insists that the moral of this story is, _Encourage your daughters to be_ real _Princesses._

#  Challenge #118: Well Met, Helpmeet

Third hand, semi trained person needed to "here hold this'," Pass tools, shine lights. – Anon Guest

There are only so many fates when you're an orphan, and Krop figured he was one of the luckier ones. Sold to a travelling show as a crewman's prentice. The food was a great deal better than orphanage food, but you could say that about any food outside of an orphanage or a monastery. In one, the meals were bland and austere because the monks took a vow of poverty. In the other, the meals were bland, austere, and _cold_ because the people who gave to the people in need didn't believe in wasting anything on the poor. Even heat.

So after a literal lifetime of cold, sour gruel and a plank for a bed and a horsehair blanket, Krop was insanely grateful for warm porridge and small ale and a nest in the prop cart made out of spare quilts and a net made to keep things near the ceiling. And all Krop had to do was be useful in small ways.

Every morning after the breakfast, Krop would tail after the camp chef and help scrub the big cauldron that had previously held the porridge. Krop was, after all, small enough to get all the way inside and get at all the stains. The pot had never been cleaner, and everyone in the train was grateful for that. No more episodes of gut worms. Krop would gather faggots[24] and kindling for the next fire, and fill his pockets with little things he found that looked kind of useful.

Krop would help _everyone_ , and in little ways. The actors taught her how to read so she could help them with her lines. The wizard taught her useful little spells. And taught her how more things could be useful. Certain mushrooms were deadly, it was true, but if you did different things to them, you could turn them into useful things. Like ink, dye, or a powder that burned with a coloured flame.

Krop had the most fun helping the wizard make their coloured candles with their coloured flames. She learned to defend her body and honour from the tourneymen, and gloried in beating the hell out of them with their boffer swords. A fact that even the strong man laughed at.

"Fear the small ones," he would chuckle. "They have a world's worth of anger in their tiny, tiny hearts." And then he would play at wrestling with her. Teaching her how to toss around someone four times her size.

She learned herbs and physic from the troop cleric. How the blessings of nature could cure in small amounts, but kill in others. For the villages they visited, she was the Camp Witch, but witchery is just knowing a few more things than most people would accept.

Krop learned little things from everyone. And in her spare time, she fixed. Mending torn costumes. Re-painting marred scenery. Re-making or repairing broken props. Copying faded cantos by the light of a storm lantern. Her days were full. Her meals were plenty, and life was good.

And when the census came to make her known to the King, Krop was lost as to how to list her profession. She explained everything she did, though not in detail. And when she had to put it like that, all at once, she sounded like she was too busy to live.

But it was that day that she learned what her profession and her name was. Helpmeet. Someone you meet who can help. Someone who can do a little bit of anything at all. And she'd learned it in drops. Here and there. Scrap by useful scrap. Just like the discoveries she brought back to the wizard for another dose of education care of the wizard's enthusiasm for all things _in potentia_.

In time, she grew out of being able to fit into the big cauldron, but that never stopped her being thorough about cleaning it. She was never strong enough to hold up a wagon that had shed a wheel, but she knew about levers, wynches, and other clever ways to lift things heavier than she was. She was neither wizard nor cleric nor witch, but she knew enough of each profession to do a remarkable impersonation. She never birthed a child, but she was mother to everyone else's. Including an orphan she picked up from an orphanage they passed and took in as her own.

"You can have my name if you like it," she told the grubby, scrawny thing as she gave the child their first hot bath inside their lifetime to date. "Or find your own. It's no bad thing to be a Helpmeet. You'll see." And saw to it that this little one learned everything they could keep inside their head.

A life of being _useful_ was a damn sight better than having a purpose, Krop reckoned. It was certainly better than aimlessly following along because that was all that was there.

[24] Historical Accuracy Factoid: Before it was a slur, that word was used instead of the phrase "A bundle of sticks".

#  Challenge #119: Made Great Again

Mouth on Legs politicians willing to promise anything or come up with grand schemes to get elected. – Anon Guest

[AN: I need an image of Google Search asking "Did you mean Donald Trump?" Nonny - I write _fiction_. Nevertheless, I'll give it a go.]

It was going to be a bold new era. Things were going to change. The rich would pull their weight in the economy. People were going to have the playing field both leveled and cleared. No child would go hungry. No home uneducated. Socialised medicine would become the norm. And everyone would have the right to control what happens to and inside of their body.

Lies. All lies.

It took less than an hour after their chosen leader for him to betray them. Government benefits were taken from the poor and given to the rich. The free lunch program was banned. People who gave food to people who couldn't afford to pay for it were jailed for criminal misappropriation. People attempting to be more ecological were jailed for interrupting the flow of business. Houses and cars were repossessed. People were thrown out into the streets, and then jailed for being homeless.

Everyone below a certain income level suffered. The dream of the nation... died.

Since the greater public were now felons, they could no longer vote to disenfranchise this great liar. All that were left were the kind of people who were above the law. Suburbs were ploughed under to make more prisons. It was a bold new era. A bold new era of medieval-style serfdom blended homogeneously with slavery. The people lived, died, bred, and raised children based entirely on the whims of those who held them custody.

It was supposed to be a new golden age. The privileged few had never lived better. And then their glorious leader promised a thousand years of prosperity.

Which was followed immediately by the rest of the world cutting all trade ties and the nation's economy sinking harder than the Titanic. The wealthy few could no longer sell the mass-produced products that came from the prisoners, and those selfsame prisoners could not afford to buy the things they made. The storehouses creaked with poorly-made luxury item stand-ins.

Revolution followed shortly thereafter. The few who'd been chosen to be guards did not get paid. And thus joined the side of those they guarded. Slipping on the button that released the gates and opened the cells. And supplying the arms they were allowed to carry. And with revolution comes a reign of terror.

The leader and the wealthy few who thought it would be a good idea to own people again were obliterated. Their belongings were stripped for anything valuable, and the warehouses were incinerated. Their estates turned into community gardens, and their surviving mansions turned into hostels for the ones who had been wounded by their policies.

It was only after his death at the hands of the revolutionaries that their betraying leader actually made their nation "great again". Or rather, great for the first time ever.

#  Challenge #120: It's a Living

Having the tact and sensitivity of a kick in the ass can be considered a disadvantage in nearly any circumstance, mostly when dealing with superior or ambassador. But from time to time it allows you to unfreeze some situation. – Anon Guest

Sometimes, delicacy and care are needed in a given situation. Sometimes, people need a swift kick in the butt. For the former, there is the entourage. Which contains all the people who know tact and negotiation, and how to 'handle' the person in charge so that the eventual blast zone is reduced or even eliminated. For the latter, there's people like Kevin.

He's not in the entourage. Not precisely. His official position is something like a waiter or, more accurately, plongeur. Someone who's official task is to take in the main dishes, take out the soiled object, take up the discarded things, and definitely take the blame. _Unofficially_ , Kevins job is to look over the plans or paperwork, or task at hand and say things like, "Why does that thing even _need_ that lever?" Or, "What do they want with that planet in the first place."

In other words, to call into realisation the thing that makes everyone in the room want to kick him out of the airlock in sheer frustration. And sometimes, Kevin can say the things that nobody else is allowed to say. Such as when he told the Gropnoothian Ambassador the Unvarnished Truth.

"You only want that star system because it fluffs out your empire by some million AU's[25]. This is just... spreading your mane for the plebes, isn't it?"

And the Ambassador could scoff and chuckle, and say that Kevin knew nothing of real politics, but it _does_ give rise to an interesting question. The Gropnoothians have no use for the minerals found in that stellar system, none of the worlds in orbit of _that_ sun are habitable by Gropnoothians. And setting up a space station would stretch the budget beyond their current capacity... but _holding_ that star system makes His Greatness look impressive to his people, no?

And the Gropnoothan Greatness was allowed to scoff and mumble something about his imperative to seek out an advantageous position with which to negotiate further advances and potential for his people, blah, blah, blah... In a long-winded and superlative-laden speech that boiled down to, "Okay, you got me. But like _flakk_ am I giving up this claim because Face is the thing I need the most."

And, as Kevin is cycling the refreshments, both are allowed to hammer out a deal in which the Gropnoothans maintain sovereign claim to Stellar System 2Y4-958-ER77 and the Blathnians could provide assistance in building the Gropnoothans a beachhead station in return for mining rights in the outer and inner ice rings.

And Kevin was publicly rebuked in front of the Gropnoothan Ambassador, and privately rewarded behind closed doors.

Every place of business needs a Kevin. But they're pretty difficult to find, and treasured by their employers. Behind closed doors, of course.

[25] Astronomical Units, not Australias. Though both can be found impressive.

#  Challenge #121: Detect Trap

If it looks too good to be true, it's probably a con. – Anon Guest

Exciting opportunities were to be found in the Callibreso Void, according to the promotional puff piece. A new force was being investigated that could be a natural form of anti-gravity, as opposed to the gravity generators that were the sole responsibility and product of the Nae'hyn. If it could be isolated and harnessed, then it would be a new revolution in propulsion technology. You, too, could get in on the ground floor!

What followed in the smaller print was some pseudo-scientific horse apples about how the Callibreso Void seemed to be repelling everything that went into it. Excepting, of course, the highly inconvenient presence of a few scattered star systems that seemed to be happily orbiting what looked like nothing, and may be orbiting each other. Gravometric detectors had already cleared the zone for the presence of black holes, and the present void was why these people were so interested in it in the first place.

It was at this point that Shayde stopped reading it so thoroughly. "Aye, I get that there's some excitin' science tae be had in there, but... anti-gravity? Really? They think anti-Boson-Higgs exist?"

"There are protons and anti-protons. Electrons and positrons. As above, so below," said Rael.

"There's no anti-photons," said Shayde. "There's no anti-Boson-Higgs. _Also_ as above, so below. I could sell these fookers a rat-cat farm."

Rael looked up from his console to stare at her. "Pardon?"

"Rat an' cat farm. It's dead easy and dead stupid. Old hoax from the mail-in days, ye ken. Feller sets up neighbourin' rat and cat farms. They both breed like billy-o, right. But the rats breed a peck faster'n the cats. Sells the rat and cat poop tae farmers, sells th' rat fur to felters owin' tae the fine knap o' th' pelt, feeds the rats tae the cats, sells their pelts to furriers, and feeds the cats to the rats. Self-sustainin' system. Ye cannae lose. Right?"

Rael was looking into the space where he ran his mental mathematics. "There's a loss in there somewhere," he said. "It sounds logical, but..."

"Aye, there's no such thing as a self-sustainin' system where profit keeps comin' out. It's a perpetual motion machine in another hat. Only _this_ time, it's powerin' the wheels of the economy. If ye actually sat down and worked it out, there'd be a loss on the cat side owin' tae how they mature at a slower rate than yer rats can breed. And this–" she gestured at the current scam on her screen, "Is the good ole sommat fer nuthin'. In this case, sommat _in_ nothing."

"In a precis... it sounds too good to be true, so it probably is," Rael summarised.

"If ye want tae be direct, aye." She had brought up her virtual chalkboard and was seemingly writing in thin air.

"Working out the physics of the system?"

"Of course. Just because it's an anomaly does'nae mean it ain't interestin'. And if I can squeeze some real science out of it, maybe it can make the news bigger'n this pile of... faeces."

Rael sent out a warning to Security. Just in case this ended in a physical conflict. Nerds like Shayde and conspiracy theorists like the people running this... operation... never got along very well.

#  Challenge #122: Caveat Emptor

"Marry in haste, repent at leisure," or what happens when the icing is off the gingerbread. – Anon Guest

Tyn could not understand why Thel had gone through so many spouses. Thel was the dreamiest star of romance and song in the entire world, and Tyn counted hirself lucky to share a minute with the famous and wonderful Thel, and now ze was sharing hir _life_ with them. It was the life of Tyn's dreams.

Red carpet. Glitz. Glamour. The intense and burning jealousy of her friends and age-mates. And of course an _entourage_. And a security team to protect hir from angry fans who thought that killing hir was going to clear _their_ path to this rarified position. Like killing anyone's spouse would make that person love you. Tyn remembered being that demented, once. Before ze thought things through.

It was a year of fun and bright lights. Fashion and fame. Attention and adoration from the entire world. And then the entertainments showed how Thel had been carrying on with more than one of their co-stars. And more than one of their fans. Tyn sighed and remembered that that was how _ze_ had gained the exalted position of Thel's fifteenth wife.

Tyn told hirself that ze could put up with this. That ze could stay loyal where so many others had failed. Ze would pass the mustard where even the affairs and dalliances gave up. Ze would _earn_ Thel's loyalty.

Inside of three years, the jokes started. Thel started casually negging hir to the press. They confessed on freely-accessible interviews that they found Tyn to be boring. Plain at best. Ugly at most. Dull. Needy and clingy and the kind of insane that comes from years of being treated like dirt. But of course Thel didn't put it like that. They were an actor of high quality, and could do laser-guided accurate renditions of Tyn's more exasperated moments. Out of context. Played for comedy.

Two could play at that game.

Tyn anonymously ordered some herbal products that would "temper" Thel's "fires". Stop them being lustful, to put it politely. And stop them being able to perform in bed. Always delivered in secret. Always in the morning. And always wearing off by the time she arrived to drive the younger, prettier, and more brazen adulterers away. And, little by little, the affairs dried up. If Thel couldn't enjoy the milk, they weren't going to keep the cow's attention.

Thel became the laughingstock of the society scene, while Tyn was the only one who enjoyed what remained of Thel's amorous attentions. Tyn whispered in Thel's ear, little squirmy stories about how the others were only out after one thing. That Tyn was the only one loyal enough to stay. That this was what true love looked like, because none of those others would want Thel now. That Thel could be as cruel as they liked, but Tyn was the only one who really loved them.

'Till death they did part, ze said.

Which was a mistake.

Thel had never wanted love. They had never wanted loyalty. They never wanted a permanent spouse. They just wanted an unending parade of sex with the beautiful and young, and Tyn was neither of those. Thel demanded the attention that scandal caused, and now that that had dried up, so had Thel's work.

And Thel connected the dots between their marrying Tyn, and their recent turn of bad luck. Death followed. With untraceable poison and a birthday cupcake. And the scandal was there again. And so were the affairs. And so were the roles. A miraculous comeback from circling the drain, they said. That spouse was bad luck, they said.

And some whispered, _Ze got what ze deserved._

And never questioned what Thel may have deserved, too.

#  Challenge #123: Strangers With Candy

TANSTAAFL, or "Invest in Acme income Management, returns of 50 to 70%" Yeah! Right! – Anon Guest

[AN: For those who don't have familiarity with ancient acronyms, this one stands for, "There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch"]

Lee Arr and Fred DeShanko were at it again. She recognised the pattern, even though their names weren't easily found in the pamphlet.

Step One: Latch on to some fringe science or stuff so far out on the cutting edge that it's still using the whetstone (optional - use both). Step Two: Boil it down to a point of inaccuracy that sounds perfectly logical to the average, under-educated lout on the street with dreams of their ship coming in. Step Three: Offer said under-educated louts a chance to get in on the ground floor with an investment plan similar to those one-topic magazines that up their prices every year for increasingly less of what the user wanted in the first place. Step Four: Declare bankruptcy and skive off to somewhere without an extradition treaty for a year or so before coming up with the next scheme.

There were some familiar names on the pamphlet, with impressive titles that weren't even worth the glossy paper they were printed on. Neither of those names belonged to Messers Arr or DeShanko, but they were the aliases of a few "cousins" in on the scams. Lesser players in the last five rounds, it was their turn to be the faces while the others were behind the scenes.

This one owed more of its ancestry to the South Sea Bubble, what with all the hype surrounding a false crypto-currency called Riptcoin, and the supposedly uncrackable algorithm that made it more secure than any other on the market. But it wasn't ready to launch, just yet. Of course not. It needed _investors_ so the creators could build and run a server farm in a nearby area that was notorious for its crime rates. They would, of course, be investing in the community and reforming the neighbourhoods as part of a benevolent initiative that those who had to live there were the first to fall for.

Actual investigation of their blockchain algorithm revealed that it was a formula for calculating Pi to forty digits, and then left-shifted for the next iteration. The alleged security wasn't. And the future offices of Riptcoin was an empty lot owned by City Parks and Recreation. The only security involved in the entire mess was the atmosphere of secrecy surrounding the movers and shakers of _this_ particular operation.

They were ready, this time. Certain members of the DeShanko crew had specific tastes, and a list of thirty hideouts quickly got narrowed to three. All raided simultaneously. All captured with evidence on the premises. All present and accounted for. Including Lee Arr and DeShanko themselves. Wanted on numerous counts of fraud.

Of course, the under-educated got their money back. Of course they were unhappy about it, and blamed the law enforcement officials for cutting off their dreams. And in a few, short years, when it was all coming out in court, they would be angry that they were fooled so well for so long and so often.

And in a little while, someone so much like the old crew would rise up with similar schemes.

Because there's one born every minute. But on the hour, comes the one with the genius to fleece them.

#  Challenge #124: Change for the Better

Paper clips, rubber bands, and the ever reliable wire coat-hanger. – Anon Guest

In accordance with Galactic Standards and Practices verses the JOAT Conglomerate, all Standard Screws will now feature a slot to accommodate the use of a 5 Sec Coin in lieu of any screwdriver.

Truly. This was a day of victory. Of course, the fine print under the announcement reassured business owners that secure spaces were still allowed to use non-standard fastenings, so long as they provided the relevant tools on a pay-to-play system, but that was never what the JOAT Conglomerate had been fighting for. They had been fighting for _in a pinch_ tool use.

Rare though it was, there were times when a JOAT found themselves without their usual toolkit. Separated from their multi-pocketed rainbow coat, or otherwise incapacitated. Then were the desperate moments that a JOAT only had the tools available to them _in a pinch_. And when pinched, a JOAT could use anything small and handy as a tool. Paperclips had long since become defunct since the near-extinction of paper, but they were still manufactured and carried around because people had found other uses for them.

But a paperclip could only become a screwdriver in special circumstances.

Hence the role of loose change in daily Galactic Life. Everyone used Time as money. Some preferred digital exchange, but most liked the tactile feedback of physical coin and notes. Especially since those could not be hacked. Or lost in a server crash. Or any number of things that could happen to data in an environment full of all kinds of electromagnetic interference. Which inevitably resulted in the five second coin being robust, plentiful, useful for charity collections, and just about everywhere.

And if a JOAT had a pocket, there was bound to be a 5 Sec Coin around the bottom or in an unsuspecting corner. Which, in combination with a pair of pliers, could become an emergency screwdriver. And if pliers were not available, chopsticks and ductape frequently were.

A related article declared that JOATs across the Galactic Alliance were having a half-day holiday. And the JOATs were free to decide which half, if any, they were celebrating in. Because no JOAT worth their salt ever takes an _entire_ day off.

#  Challenge #125: Loose End Tied

"Never, ever empty this person's pockets again!" referencing Harpo Marx, Sergeant Constantine Bothari, and any JOAT! – Anon Guest

_Okay, now I've fucked up,_ thought Taako, transmutation wizard extraordinaire. Crew-member of the Starblaster. Multi-dimensional traveller. One of the Seven Birds of Prophecy. Member of the B.O.B. Best chef in all of Faerûn. Oh, and main squeeze of the Grim fucking Reaper. This thought came, of course, at half-consciousness as the not-so-stupid guards dragged him to the throne room of the latest Big Bad.

On the plus side, now he knew where the leader of this particular horde was. On the minus side, his allies did not. The most that the B.O.B. could do was track where he was thanks to his bracer. They could not, for example, send a team through solid rock to save his gorgeous ass. Not unless they could get a line to his boyfriend, his sister, or her husband. And worse \- someone had taken his _hat_.

That was an insult worse than his current injuries. And there was no place worse for an injured wizard than right in the middle of the nest of the Big Bad Badguy. Glass cannons did not _belong_ in the middle of the powder keg. Not unless they had something really cool up their sleeve.

"General Kalen! We caught their wizard."

Taako hung limply between these muscled powerhouses, playing possum while he came up with a plan. Pro... he'd technically had a Rest of some length. Shorter than a Long Rest, but enough to regain some of his spell slots and a little HP. Con... he was surrounded by goons. Pro... the name Kalen sounded awfully familiar. Not that it was a common name, but there was a promise to keep. Con... he had numbers against him. What wide-area effect spell could he use against this lot? Maybe pick a few of the Obligatory Stupid Guards and cast Crown of Madness on them. But for now... best to play possum and wait.

"Search him. Make certain he's disarmed."

Well. They'd already taken his Umbrastaff and KrEbStAr. Those were the _famous_ ones. Did they know about the wooden hairpin made of Hazel? Or any one of his multitudinous rings, earrings, bracelets, and pendants? Probably not, since they were going for his pockets. And demonstrating why it's a very dumb idea to dip one's hand into a wizard's pockets without a one-drink minimum.

Goon Left found the mousetrap pocket. Goon Right squealed in disgust and flicked something moist off his hand. "Who the fuck leaves loose chocolate pudding in their pockets?"

And since they dropped him in the process, Taako 'miraculously' recovered his consciousness. "You should try my breast pocket, homie, it's got the banana flavour."

Twenty goons instantly were on their guard. Crossbows, throwing knives, swords, even long-bows were pointed his way. Taako smiled and they looked even more nervous. It took him all of a second to find the one who looked the most weak-willed. Big muscular fella, three left of the actual throne.

_Good Gods, that thing has palanquin handles. He carries this stupid thing with him everywhere..._ "One question before this all goes south for you, bubbeleh. Are you any relation to the Governor Kalen who used to run Ravensroost?"

He looked like the ass end of an Otyugh, all dressed up in silk, velvet, and tacky jewellery. "I used to hold that title, once..."

"Excellent," grinned Taako, pretending to put his hands up, but in reality, putting one manicured hand to the wand hidden in his hair. Crown of Madness on the goon. Prestidigitation to create a foul odour on the bowmen and thereby throw off their aim. "This is for Julia," he said, and, "Abra-ka- _fuck you_!" Out came the wand, and off fired the worst spell in his repertoire.

Let's just say tentacles and c'thulu level horrors are involved. Taako did his best to avoid any projectiles and the closer goons' blows. And was, fortunately, saved by the arrival of the meat shield and their Cleric actually being competent for a change.

They left Kalen just enough hit points for Magnus to strike the final blow. Justice was served, as recommended, perfectly chilled.

#  Challenge #126: Who's a Good Dog?

In the land of magic, Death frequently has problems with pets that absolutely refuse to stay dead. – Anon Guest

In all of creation, there is nothing more loyal than a good dog. Though it was widely agreed that Kerby was one of the truly daft ones. He was a rescue dog, and had some kind of skin infection that made him look dead. Dan, who had picked him up with a shovel as part of his job, got the fright of his life when what he assumed was a corpse woke up and hopped off to start fawning in his general direction.

Kerby, a pun on Kerberos, which in turn was the correct spelling of Cerberus, got his name as a joke. Even the vet said that this hound must have escaped from Hell. But he was the sweetest little angel and everyone's friend for a bite of hotdog and a pat. He was a living reminder for the Animal Cleanup Crew to check for a heartbeat before flinging a body into the back of the ute. And he was credited with the saving of fifteen far more telegenic animals.

The press nicknamed Kerby the "Zombie Dog". Especially after he got run over. Twice. And bounced back with minor injuries and an undaunted attitude. Though Dan religiously treated Kerby's skin with the recommended lotions, bathed him carefully, and fed him the recommended diet, there was nothing that impacted Kerby's decayed-looking skin, or that would remedy the Smell. Dan and his Cleanup Crew just dealt with it and hung air fresheners from his collar. And gave him a dog-sized jacket that read _I ain't dead (yet)_.

Since Dan lived in a rougher neighbourhood, Kerby stayed with him. And scared the life out of at least three robbers by (a) being assumed to be a corpse, (b) waking up and barking, and (c) surviving multiple gunshot wounds. The fifth robber keeled over with a heart attack at Kerby's repeated refusal to die, and thereafter everyone knew the house with the Zombie Dog in it.

Even Dan agreed that Kerby was too daft to know he was dead.

And then the dog's flesh started sloughing off. His skeleton persisted. Somehow held together by sheer force of will. He actually _was_ a zombie dog. Completely undaunted by the obvious fact that he should be lying peacefully under a headstone.

Every night, unseen and unheeded by all but the very special. The same conversation went on.

HERE BOY. COME HERE. THERE'S A GOOD DOG.

Woof.

YES, I KNOW HE'S A GOOD HUMAN. YOU ARE STAYING FAR BEYOND YOUR TIME.

_Woof._ And after a moment of what passed for thought, _Woof woof._

YOU DIED FIVE YEARS AGO. YOU CAN'T KEEP HANGING AROUND LIKE THIS.

_Woof,_ challenged Kerby in a 'says who' kind of way.

YOU ARE VIOLATING THE LAWS OF NATURE AND CAUSATION.

Woof.

YOU'RE MAKING ME LOOK BAD. I HOPE YOU KNOW THIS.

Woof.

YES. YOU HAVE MADE YOUR LACK OF CARING ABUNDANTLY CLEAR. Death sighed and checked his watch. WE WILL DISCUSS THIS AGAIN. And with a sweep of his cloak, he was off on other appointments. Maybe Mrs Widgery's cat would be easier to convince, tonight.

Kerby resettled himself on his master's bed. Watching with empty eye sockets as the best human ever breathed in and out. Every good dog deserved a good human. That was true. And every good human deserved a dog that would _stay_. Literally. Kerby never was very bright, but he knew what his human never deserved.

He never deserved to mourn a good dog.

#  Challenge #127: Naked Without it

Pointy hats! There are the black, with a brim witch's model, the sparkly and starred wizard or wizzard's, the upside down ice cream cone with a floaty veil princess model and the plain paper cone with a big "D" for dunce.

[AN: I don't think the D-cap existed outside of the Victorian Era]

You couldn't deny he was a wizard. The hat was a huge give-away. It made his full, wizarding height two feet taller and he changed it in all other ways from town to town. One week, it was dripping with gimcrack jewellery from fantasy dollar stores. The next, it was festooned with flowers and illusory beads of dew that sparkled in the light. It said 'wizard' louder than any collection of sequins, erroneous spelling, or arcane symbolism could manage.

And it made him easy to spot in a crowd. Something for which Sazed was eternally grateful, because he stood a chance of stopping Taako from blowing all their profits on _more_ gimcrack jewellery, swatches of interesting fabric, or other decorations for that fucking hat. Or, failing that, some kind of knock-off high fashion that involved thirty near-identical shirts. It had got to the point where Taako could mouth along to the _We're on a budget, damnit_ speech.

And now, heart-stoppingly, that damn hat was on a hat-rack. Outside somewhere that looked really expensive to be inside.

There was a gorgeous Elf on the other side of the door from the hat-rack. Simultaneously guarding the headgear of the rich or famous or both, whilst also greeting anyone who was contemplating going inside. This Elf was not Taako. She was an eye-catching blueish-green and definitely a Sea Elf. Turned out in wafty frills in ocean colours and bedecked by fake pearls as well as glittering glass. "You must be Sazed," she said. "Taako said you'd be looking for him."

Sazed closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me that he hasn't spent _all_ of his gold?" Of the things that Taako could never resist buying, an opportunity to be pampered was the one that pissed the most into the wind.

In answer the Elf at the door guided Sazed inside, where more sensibly-dressed attendees were tarting up Taako. He had two attendants per limb. One coiffing his hair. One delicately helping him drink with a fantasy fun straw, and a third giving him a massage through a ridiculous full-body drop cloth.

"Suzu, I feel you having a conniption from here," said Taako by way of a greeting. "I'm just getting ready for today's show, sweetie. This is gratis."

"We've had an uptick in bookings already," grinned the fancy greeter. "And that's just with his hat outside the door. Imagine what's going to happen after this _show_."

Sazed relaxed. An _endorsement_ deal. That explained the mani-pedi, the massage, the hairdressers, the mud mask, and everything else orbiting around Planet Taako. "So this isn't actually costing us anything?"

"Gratis means free, homie," Taako breezed. "I even swung you a free treat. You need to relax. And I want to see what you look like all fancied up for a change."

One of the attendants said, "Okay, we need to transport you to the Foot Station for the rest of your treatment."

It took three of them to help Taako up, and then jarring reality asserted itself. He was shorn of both his trademark hat _and_ his usual four-inch heels.

Taako barely came up to some of these other Elves' clavicles. He was _short_ for an Elf. He was even short for a human.

Maybe he sensed Sazed staring, because he lifted one of the cucumber slices off his eyes and delivered a boiling-hot glare of certain doom that predicted previously unseen levels of wrath to any roadie/bodyguard/assistant/drivers who dared to so much as say one _peep_ about Taako's obvious insecurity.

Sazed very wisely sucked in his lips and made a zipping motion.

Taako gave an approving nod, replaced the cucumber, and let his attendants guide him to the foot station. Peace temporarily restored.

#  Challenge #128: What is Life and What is Real

They are quite real to us these lines coloured in sometimes, they've been with us since we first met them, and they seem 'real'. Comics, graphic novels, the funny pages.

They were just shapes on a page. They should very clearly not be so impactful. They were the written word. They were pictorial representations of impossible things. They were _imagination_. They weren't real. And yet...

There he was. Hiding away from the world because _these_ particular shapes on a page had reached a spot that regular, everyday people could not make an impact on. These unreal things, these abstractions of reality, had hit his hidden heart. They had found the chink in his armour and now he was weeping from an entirely fabricated pain.

He tried to choke it down. Squash it. Tell himself over and over again that it wasn't real. It was a series of abstractions. Symbols that had no meaning but that which was assigned to it. That he could close the pages and freeze the action his brain had supplied. And all his efforts failed.

His pie and coffee had arrived, and the waitress was sitting opposite. "You going to be okay?"

Jon wiped his face and tried to keep a stiff lip. Cleared his throat. Twice. "It- it's stupid," he said, getting his facts straight right off the bat. "There's this... comic..." he showed her the app on his iPad. The page where he'd had to stop reading because he couldn't focus any more.

He expected to be berated. A grown man reading comics. A serious businessman in a serious suit shouldn't be reading comics. And he really shouldn't be _crying_ about the contents.

What he got was, "Oh my God, you read it _too_?" And then an enthusiastic smile from his waitress. "I couldn't keep away from the latest issue, this morning, I read it on my phone in the train. Bawled like a _baby_ , three other women thought I was dumped..." she touched her eyes with a paper napkin. "I won't spoil the rest of this issue for you, but... have faith. Okay. It gets better."

The coffee and pie fortified him enough to continue on for the remaining five pages. And the waitress Dewdrop had been right. There was hope in the last couple of pages. And a definite cliffhanger hint in the last two panels.

On the spur of the moment, he left her a fifty-dollar tip and his personal email in case she wanted to geek out with him. And he was certain he spotted a few red-eyed fellow fans in and around his offices. Not that anyone who worked for a prestigious law firm like Hangum, Sichem, and Mawl could ever admit out loud that they ever did such a thing as cry over a digital comic book.

Just shapes on a page. Just symbols, strung together with meaning. Just imagination.

And by crikey, they were _powerful_.

Because people like Jon let them in. Allowed them to become, for a moment, just the slightest bit real. Because the brain didn't easily differentiate between fact and fiction when it came to emotional responses. Because real people with real hearts and minds could relate entirely to something that was, ultimately, merely pretend.

...some people are so good at pretend that it makes real things happen.

#  Challenge #129: Posthumous Communication

Sandwiched between cardboard, or up-market leather they colour our lives, change the way we see the world, and of course they never age. Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, James Bond, Mr Darcy, Alice, Tom Sawyer. – Anon Guest

"And then there's the curious incident of the dog in the night-time," Alpex read out loud. Like all new readers, the reading was painful and slow and almost monotonous. Ze stopped. "You do know this method of information sharing is the one least likely to convey a love of reading, yes?"

"This is a communal sharing of skill for assessment. It is not meant for loving reading. That's why we select older texts with interesting words in the text."

"This is testing my patience for reading at all," sighed Vix. "Why do we have to read these things that are centuries old?"

"In brief - royalties. Contemporary authors must be paid for the Time anyone uses their works. These authors have been deceased for a minimum of five hundred years, and their works are therefore free for multiple uses."

Someone coughed their way around the word 'kindling'. Those that understood the term and the word burst into laughter.

Farral the Teacher put the book down and sat on his desk. "All right. We could also be reading Seuss as a test of our linguistic skills. Why do _you_ think we always go to Dickens, Doyle and Carroll?"

There was some discussion amongst the class. The purpose of education was to introduce concepts to the class. Of course it was. So what concepts were also covered by these three Terrans?

"History," Vix finally blurted. "These books all cover a different time period. Before technology. Before many of the conveniences we have. This teaches us the changing nature of language and narrative. And the changing nature of meaning. Once upon a time, a match was a chemically-treated length of rope that was kept smouldering."

"Very good. Yes. Seuss may introduce us to unusual words, but Dickens, Doyle and Carrol teach us about how things were once. How meaning can be plastic in the works we read."

"When do we learn how to appreciate these works?" asked Alpex. "I feel these texts could be special if they were made to be again."

Teacher Farral made a gesture of thanks to his deities. "Appreciation begins with asking. And _bless_ you for asking. I have a host of productions where we can compare the original text to the transformative performance. Would you like to start with two-dimensional or three dimensional presentations?"

The class relaxed. Everyone loved it when the teacher brought out the AV equipment.

#  Challenge #130: Transformative Love

Fan fiction, some of it heartbreakingly brilliant, some of it so badly written you wonder if they ever even saw the original series. But glued to their devices they tap out their allegiance to people or beings who are imaginary. – Anon Guest

The Archive of Transformative Works is a subset of the Archivaas Conglomerate. Those who strive to preserve _everything_ humanity or intelligent life has created. Even the worst that a barely creative mind has to offer. It is oppressively huge. Its collection is daunting. And a few luckless souls have attempted to figure out rules.

_If it exists, there is porn of it._ The erotica section is almost a planet in and of itself. Broken into subsections according to the relevant options. It is best for novices not to explore these cavernous shelves. Some things in there are only for an experienced or open mind to see.

_There is always a coffeeshop AU. If the original is set in a coffeeshop, then the AU will be about flower shops, book shops, or set in a high school._ These are far more palatable, but almost formulaic in their execution. The potential for crossovers is abundant, and cross-referencing is a vital duty for the acolytes.

_High School AU's are mandatory._ This is a hybrid, of course, between _write what you know_ and the average age for a fanficcer to begin their collective opus. Their world is their school. Writing about tax evasion or office work or running a theatre is beyond their range of experience, but skipping class or getting shoved into lockers is a daily mundanity.

_Babies are obligatory._ The OTP must reproduce. No matter how unlikely that happenstance may be. Magic, technology, horseshit, it doesn't matter. Babies are proof of true love and can be used to display how the writer wishes these fictional beings were their parents.

For every fiction full of monsters or mythical creatures, there is a Human AU. For every fiction loaded with humans, there is its monster counterpart. Ficcers swap roles. Adjust personalities. Change the story from the canon. Fix flaws. Explain errors. All for the love of the original.

Some excel at it. Producing that one -or that number- of works that jerk tears from even the flintiest hearts.

Many... don't. Producing instead a work that is more infamous than famous. Either warping and twisting everything beyond recognition, or creating walls of unpunctuated, uncapitalised, unchecked, unformatted text that stuns the reading eye into quitting.

And some... some are almost new works on their own. Their connection with the original material is ephemeral at best. These are the baby authors. Too scared to declare their work independent for fear of accusations of plagiarism. Too aware of the original ties to cut them and their works free.

And some acolytes are lucky enough to trace a writer from the larval stages, right up until they create works of their own. Thus starting the cycle anew with the next High School AU.

_The more things change. The more they stay the same._ And in these microcosms of creativity, though the patterns remain largely the same, there are glimpses. Tiny slices of real life as it was. Echoes of a life once lived. A slight crack between the lines in which the lucky few can spot the person who wrote it. Telling the world behind the mask of an avatar. _This is me. This is who I am. This is what I love._

#  Challenge #131: Lost in a Hellscape

A couple who have no recollection of how they got there find themselves in a lethally dangerous environment where every creature and several of the plants seem to be trying to kill them. Being religious, they realize they are lost souls and this must be hell.

Then the search party finds them. They were vacationing in Australia and had wandered off after someone gave them roofies.

But what happened in between that would make and amnesiac tourist decide that they were just in the eternal pit. – Bard2DBone

Mary woke up pressed and oppressed between burning heat and sharp stones riddled with ants that were painfully pinching her flesh. It took her far too long to get away from the ants. There was no escaping the heat. It scorched her throat. The harsh light seared her eyes. The sharp ground tormented her feet. There were creatures that looked like they were made out of thorns. Everything plant-like here looked like it was dead. Everything alive here was seemingly made to hurt.

The sky was bare of clouds. The earth was bare of anything friendly to Mary's means of classification. Only a pair of windswept tyre tracks gave any indication of how she got here. And there were lizards the size of dogs[26] ambling through this tortuous landscape. Mary picked the direction least likely to intersect with the lizards and tried to logically conclude something from established facts.

Fact: It was burning hot. Fact: there was no water to be seen but the wavering illusions on the horizon. Fact: The plants appeared to be dead. Fact: The livestock was outright hostile or at least appeared to be so. Fact: Everything here was made to hurt her. Fact: The last thing she remembered before waking up here was a rather sinful hen's party. Conclusion: She must have died and gone to Hell.

Mary knew she shouldn't be crying, but she cried anyway. Died unshriven. In sin. And now she was lost and doomed to wander forever in the burning pits of Hell. Tortured in the burning sun. Scalded by the burning soil. Pinched and bitten and attacked by everything that moved. No fruit on the plants. Nothing recognisable to eat. And a buzzing overhead that was destined to drive her into madness.

She screamed in disbelief when she saw the shadow of a Drone. Screamed again when it hovered in her field of view. Was Hell torturing her with hope? There was no way to tell.

Well. Not until the rescue chopper turned up and some people with funny accents told her that everything was going to be all right, now. They had gatorade and a saline drip for her and aloe for her sunburns and weird, chemically squishy slippers for her feet. And it was a shockingly short trip to civilisation and a hospital.

Where three of her friends from the party were getting similar treatment. And the bride to be was still crying about how she was so sorry about it and holding a hen's night in Alice Springs was really the _worst_ idea anyone had ever had.

Together with the local authorities and some security camera footage, Mary pieced together the night before. Too much alcohol. Some suspect substances. Some joyriding through the bush. Some car-surfing. Some pot-holes or random stones, or maybe a kangaroo... and Mary had been thrown off. And the rest of the party got lost trying to find her.

The car had GPS. Mary, Blaise, and Tilly did not. Sandy woke up on the back of someone's cow, and the cattle owner had called the authorities.

It _could_ have been a night to remember. If any of them could remember any of it.

All the same, Mary vowed to never get that sinful ever again.

[26] Somewhere between terrier and cocker spaniel. Thus proving the uselessness of the Dog Scale of Measurement.

#  Challenge #132: Surrogacy of the Beast

Are you mad?! You realize you basically just made a deal with the devil, right? Literally!"

"Ah, you weren't paying close enough attention. I did _not_ just make a deal with the devil... No, in fact, the Devil just made a deal with _me_." – Anon Guest

"Now. Mister... Scratch," said the lawyer. "I understand that you wish this particular event to proceed, but my client wishes to have some... guarantees."

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, Angel of Lies, the Fallen, Monarch of Hell, Lucifer, or, as he was currently known, Old Scratch, templed his fingers and said, "A deal is a deal."

"Under false pretences," said the lawyer. "My client had no idea that they would be giving birth to the antichrist."

" _An_ antichrist," corrected Old Scratch. "One of more than quite a few. There's no guarantee that they'll even try to end the world. The last time an antichrist was born, the damn kid became a _missionary_."

The client looked a little bit more relieved.

"I mean, I couldn't be prouder," said Old Scratch. "Missionaries do more to create sins than most, but... it's not the same."

The client said, "Can you _not_? I just wanted to pay off my student loans."

Mr Scratch grinned. "One of mine. Honestly, they keep saying this nation is my father's country, but it might as well be mine. So much suffering goes on here that I might as well shut my doors."

The lawyer cleared his throat. "According to the terms of your contract, my client is free to leave at any time in return for their soul. However, by law, intangible goods are not allowed to be used as a unit of exchange. Further, my client has been baptised and her soul has a prior claimant."

"...bugger," muttered Old Scratch.

"However," said the lawyer, "given that a rescinding of the contract means the return of a debt my client cannot pay, we are prepared to negotiate new terms."

"Raising this baby's going to be expensive," said the client. "Just paying off my student debt isn't worth shit if nobody's going to hire a mom. So I want child support. Enough to keep us both comfortable when I don't have a job. You get supervised visitations on weekends, birthdays, and holidays. And you don't encourage this kid to be evil."

"And then there's the matter of medical expenses," said the lawyer, handing over a notarised bill.

Mr Scratch winced. This was his fault for encouraging all those pro-lifers. And the commerce side of medicine. It was true. Evil _did_ sow the seeds of its own demise. "I know some people. This will be paid." He had quite a lot of people on his strings. Some of whom were responsible for the welfare queen narrative that left this woman in her current pickle. And him with a bill worth thousands of dollars.

He would think unkindly about whoever invented lawyers, but Mr Scratch also knew that the blame for them lay entirely on his own doorstep.

#  Challenge #133: Good Morning! Good Morning!

From the "Coffee Zombie" Human to the "Warmth Seeker" Reptilian, the earlier hours of the morning can be amusing. – Anon Guest

Of all the phenomenon in known civilisation, slow starters versus morning people is one of the most universal. The people who spring from their slumber, fresh-faced and cheerful and raring to go are both treasured and hated in equal measure. Treasured, because they are the kind of people who can be relied upon to make the coffee or hot beverages in the morning. And hated because they insist on trying to cheer up the slow starters.

Lessons on understanding others have helped a great deal on that particular front. Morning people with proper training now know to wait until the slow starters are fully functional before they start their cheering up shenanigans. And with further training, the slow starters can deal with the morning people being cheerful just slightly too early.

"Good morning! Hot water bottles to the left, coffee to the right," Sandy cheered.

Blaire bleered at her. "Y' got coffee in a hot water bottle? It's shark week."

"I can whip one up, but it's gonna take like twenty minutes."

"...kay..." A moment to think. "Gimmie both for now, and then the other one, later."

"Sure thing. You want to try the iron supplement breakfast, today? We have average, keto, vegan, and vegetarian variations."

Blaire spent a minute processing that. "Gimmie the keto one. I wanna know I'm not the only thing bleeding today."

Sandy helped Blaire with the hot water bottle straps, and gave her a coffee and a number to take to her table. On to the next customer in this morning's mess. "Good morning! Hot water bottles to the left, coffee to the right."

The lizard attempted to climb on to the warm counter. Sandy gently pressed the hot water bottle to their neck frills. "Uh-uh. No feet on the counter, please."

"...mmmnghl?" said the lizard. The name tag declared them to be V'z'x.

"Let me help," chirped Sandy. He'd forgotten to pull the tags on his chest heater units. They hummed into motion as V'z'x clutched a hot water bottle to their stomach.

Little by little, he came awake. "D'd I f'rget t' start 'em again?" he slurred.

"Sure did," said Sandy. "It's okay. I'm authorised to provide all assistance." She indicated the red cross-and-crescent of Human Medik Authorised staff. "How can I help make your morning?"

V'z'x squinted, but hadn't gained the brain power to read the menu yet. "I want fat crickets and slow grubs," he said. And after a moment he added. "Hot ones."

Sandy said, "Stir fried, in a scramble, or with gravy?"

Another minute. "Thick gravy."

Sandy handed over his number and smiled for the next zombie impersonator in the queue. Waited for them to shuffle into place. "Good morning! Hot water bottles to the left, coffee to the right."

The unfortunate in the queue burst into tears. "I hate mornings."

Whatever they were having for breakfast, Sandy was going to offer a sweet treat on the side. They needed a pick-'em-up.

#  Challenge #134: Impressive, But...

"Hmm... I'm impressed."

"I/We thought you'd like it."

"I said I was impressed, not that I like it."

There are certain things that were just... impressive. A cellar full of drunk middle-schoolers chanting _Fuck da police_ whilst a policeman is present. Singing, _This is me giving a shit,_ in front of a man who has the power of life and death over you after he has just attempted to insult you. Staging a resistance against a superior force, alone, with nothing but a horse and an ancient sword.

_Impressive_ does not always mean _good_. Especially in this case, with the three beaming Humans and the captive leader of the Hol'draxi.

The Humans were what one might call _heavily scuffed_ if one didn't know the details of this particular escapade. One that somehow involved three Ship's Humans, each from separate ships, finding each other in the chaos of war and then getting a _brilliant idea_. Which is worse than it sounds when it's a janitor, a mess chef, and a morale officer doing the thing.

Apparently, the three of them were fast friends via the inter-ship info-network before everything went, as Officer Wexford was wont to say, pants.

When each of their ships were in different degrees of interesting trouble. Each of these Humans' ships had suffered damage that rendered them and the crews therein in peril. As Th'vix understood it, one had the engines impeded, one had the navigation module blow out, and the third's guns were minimally responsive. Each Ship's Human took this as a cue to go and save their friend.

Then Sanitation Engineer Thorn's rescue pod got captured by the Hol'draxi, and all bets were off. Two friends immediately went to rescue the third. And, through a series of misadventures, the Hol'draxi learned how _deadly_ a combination these three humans could be.

Thorn, as a Sanitation Engineer, knew exactly which cleansing chemicals one should not permit to mix, ever, and why. Chef Ngo had an integral knowledge of some other chemistries, and a solid knowledge of how to use blades of any size. Morale Officer Wexford, a student of psychology, knew how to use both of these to _put the wind up_ the enemy.

And this was before anyone investigated these humans' _hobbies_.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, indeed. And this particular slice of victory was simple proof as to why the Galactic Alliance didn't allow more than one human on any ship at any time. They might have to expand it to one human per _fleet_ for simple safety reasons.

On the other hand, three lower-ranking crew of Th'vix's fleet _had_ captured the leader of the Hol'draxi. They looked immensely proud of themselves, too. This despite evident wounds, ruptures in their livesuits, and somehow managing to survive an ongoing battle in a ship they'd made out of two rescue pods and a Hol'draxi stinger drone. And they'd managed to... _hobble_ ... some Hol'draxi ships on their way back to their allies.

Th'vix listened to their story in an increasing state of agog. Forced to remember some ancient human history of how one human managed to stop a superior force by calmly drinking a cup of tea and inviting the opposing general to join them.

If one human can do that, three of them must have been flakking unstoppable...

"I'm... impressed," Th'vix allowed.

"We thought you'd like it," said Wexford.

"I said 'impressed', not that I like it," she sighed. The Hol'draxi Admiral was... 'scuffed', himself. Roughed up a bit, as the Humans would say. "Do sit him up as comfortably as you can. I shall attempt to negotiate."

The Humans looked a little crestfallen, but followed her orders. One even dusted off some plates of the Hol'draxi's livesuit.

"The action undertaken against you was unauthorised," said Th'vix. "However, before I apologise for it, I must give you something to consider." A pause for effect whilst she calmly sipped her chosen beverage. "I have two hundred ships. Each with a Ship's Human. What has happened was due to the acts of _three_ humans." Phalanges held up for emphasis of the number. "Can you picture what could happen to you and your fleet if I authorised _all_ of them to wreak havoc on your fleet?"

Admiral Hexxos of the Hol'draxi could, indeed, imagine such a scenario. Th'vix watched his carapace flash panic colours. "If we surrender unconditionally," he offered, "will you keep them away from us?"

_Pax Humanis_ indeed. Psychopaths not necessary.

#  Challenge #135: If it Works...

person one: human do you have a plan?

person 2 : yes

p1: a good one?

p2: a TERRIBLE PLAN! – Anon Guest

G'roz stared at the human. "How can you have a plan that is terrible? Do you not say that a plan that works cannot be terrible."

Human Steve sighed and said, "It's terrible in that you'll find it upsetting, stressful, and with a high danger potential."

And it was telling how long G'roz had been around humans, because ze said, "Oh. One of _those_ plans."

"Yup," said Human Steve. "The kind of plan the rest of you Galactics flakkin' hate. And worse, I'm only _pretty_ sure it'll work."

"Flakk," said G'roz appreciatively. "Would it be helpful if I sedated myself now?"

Human Steve did some mumbling and gesturing. "Yeah, that could work. I can bundle you up under some extra shielding and give us all some better inertia."

Which meant that this was one of their _physics_ things where humans played dangerous games with ambient gravity and improvised weapons. G'roz had been briefed with some censored footage of both _parkour_ and _Jackie Chan_. "Do wake me up if we survive."

And it was telling that the human thought this was a joke and laughed. Horrifyingly telling. And further proof that Humans were unstoppable when G'roz woke on the rescue ship, facing a grinning, but bruised Human Steve.

"You should see the other guys," she said.

G'roz preferred not to.

#  Challenge #136: The New Terror

They warned us about AI, aliens, the government... but nobody expected the ducks.

"That's not exactly true," said one of the survivors. "Alfred Hitchcock tried, but it didn't quite get there."

Sandy fed another page of a glossy magazine to the guttering flames as she tried to work this out. "You mean _The Birds_?"

"That was full of crows and seagulls and pigeons, though."

"Yeah, well. Ducks are hard to be believable as a threat. Or they were."

Josh peeked out through their barricade. "Believable now," he said. "Of course... it kind'a helps that the genetechs were messing with the junk DNA and some gene switches."

Outside, in the abandoned street, a creature that had once roamed the land millions of years ago was doing so again. Genetic engineering had made small dinosaurs out of chickens. Nobody had expected the ducks to be any different.

Nobody had counted on a vastly accelerated growth rate. Nor a frightening tendency towards omnivorism that astounded everyone present. And a tendency to eat anything it could fit down its throat. Living or dead.

The ducks roared. Calling to each other through the ruins of the city. This was the furthest thing from 'quack' that anyone could imagine. It rattled the remaining glass in the surviving windows. It shook the ground.

"Just checking. Did the dudes who made those get eaten by them?" asked Sandy.

There were mutual 'I dunno' noises. Josh said, "If they were, they deserved it."

#  Challenge #137: Something Blue

Pick a cartoon character from print media, and the lines between reality cross. – Anon Guest

[AN: I couldn't pick just one]

"Unglaublich..." said five voices at once. Various incarnations of Nightcrawler were staring at each other.

"Hail and well met," said another blue figure in a ridiculously tall hat. "This is not the markets I was in a second ago, not racially profiling, here, but... did anyone do anything... _eldritch_?"

"Fear not, citizens," said a big, beefy, man beef in a blue suit that featured antennae. "I am nigh invulnerable to just about every threat that could present itself. I, _The Tick!_ shall deal with any trouble that may occur."

"Speak for yourself, homeslice. Taako's good out here," said the one in the hat. He was posing for more than a few camera phones. Getting the attention he craved. "Two GP a kiss if you're into this..."

One of the convention attendees sidled up to a Cockrum-era Nightcrawler. She had a giggling cohort. "Um. Can we... hug you?"

"Ladies," he cooed, spreading his arms wide. "You can _kiss_ me."

Evo-Era Nightcrawler preened. "I'm here, too. All Nightcrawler. No waiting."

"Stop right there, _Junge_ ," said Excalibur-era Nightcrawler. "The age gap between you and them makes that illegal."

"Uh," said a security goon. "How exactly did this happen?"

"Who cares?" said an attendee. "I'm forming a queue!"

#  Challenge #138: Playing With Alice

The lines of reality cross and a childhood print character is in our world. – Anon Guest

_Be careful what you wish for,_ they say. They know what they are saying. They've had to fight this sort of thing before.

But nevertheless, now that magic has returned to the world, some wishes have power. Some words are uttered in full faith. At the right time. On the right leylines. With the correct pose. On the correct night.

Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight...

And a lonely child in the middle of nowhere gets her favourite storybook character come to life out of the pages. It could have been Spot the dog. Or the Cat in the Hat. Or the Lorax. Or tubby little puppy. But this kid was lonely for a reason, because they just _adored_ Lewis Carol.

"Contrariwise," said Alice, just the right size for Maddie's play tea set. "One might also suppose that it's the other children who are peculiar and not yourself. I've often found it most confounding what some people might consider normal."

"Exactly," said Maddie. "If everyone decided to wear a cod's head tomorrow, that would be the new mundane, and everyone who resisted would be peculiar."

"Indeed," said Alice. "Therefore it is only the truly brave and astounding who dare to be themselves, whether or not that is considered peculiar."

"Contrariwise," said Maddie. "I could argue that the people who are themselves when it's normal are less brave and astounding than the ones who aren't."

Looking on over this restrained and logical play, the assembled Librarians fought with themselves. There was a problem, here. They knew that. But... they couldn't bring themselves to solve it. And destroy the only friend a bookish and weird little girl could truly have.

Ezekiel Jones finally said it. "She's going to be one of us, one day. Admit it."

Cassandra sighed and said, "Yeah. Gotta admit. This was one of my childhood dreams."

Stone, who had possession of the banishment artifact, lowered it for the fifth time. "I can't do it. I can't make this kid lonely again. Their only friend is a _story_. That's heartbreaking."

"Maybe if we tried to explain it to them?"

Which resulted in three grown-ass adults having a tea party with Alice of Wonderland, Maddie Stokes, and enough logic to turn all their brains inside-out.

And no clear victor.

#  Challenge #139: A Word

Fictional character in 'Real World'. – Anon Guest

A little kindness goes a long way. Especially when it's been so clearly lacking. When Jenny found Hodor shivering in an alleyway, she thought he was yet another homeless person out of luck. She'd given him a blanket she'd been planning to throw out anyway. And instead of saying anything that might have made sense, he'd said, "Hodor." And then followed her to work.

For Jenny, any weird situation was an opportunity. She'd always needed help with the flour sacks at the bakery anyway, and Hodor was eager to carry around fifty-pound sacks like they were pillows. He could understand, she figured that out but... he only had one word. So she invented a rudimentary sign language with him. Flapping a hand for 'hot'. Blowing on fingers for 'cold'. Patting the middle for 'hungry'. And so on.

And his presence tended to cool down the average angry and impatient baby boomer, too. All he had to do was hang around in Jenny's shadow and the customers were suddenly _very_ polite and _extremely_ patient. Not that Jenny and her co-bakers ever tested that very hard. Others at the bakery liked him, too. Just for that one service.

It was very quickly argued that, since his only word was 'Hodor', that they wouldn't get his social security information out of him. Besides, they doubted that he knew what money was for, let alone whether he had a bank account or any of the many things that regular people needed in day-to-day society. So they collectively took him in. A giant of a man with a dozen ersatz parents. And a cyclical living arrangement that the girls of the bakery were eager for. Having someone like Hodor around meant never having to worry about skeevy gentlemen hanging out on their porches. Or 'black knights' who felt it was their duty to ensure that young, unescorted women felt frightened when walking the city streets[27].

And bit by bit, they found places for Hodor to get better clothes. They even supersized the bakery T-shirt for him, and they all agreed he looked miles better with clean clothes. And -yes- people came to see the giant first and buy a cake or a loaf of bread second. And there were a couple of assholes who learned very quickly not to anger Hodor, because he could, if threatened, break multiple bones in one swat. Security cameras backed up the bakery at every -admittedly rare- case.

He had a place to belong, and family who became friends. A better fate than his creator intended.

[27] Sadly, this is a thing. I have low opinions of anyone who thinks it's their right and duty to make any other living person uncomfortable in their daily deeds.

#  Challenge #140: John Carter Was Here

Edgar Rice Burroughs' fictional Mars. Too much going on at once, and full of predators. Add David Attenborough. – Anon Guest

[AN: Seen the movie, never read the book(s). Vaguely familiar with the content on an osmosis level. Fans - forgive me if I mess this up]

"Early explorers of the Barsoomian plains made the mistake of assuming that the land was both hostile, and full of predators. Though the Martian tundra is hostile to human life, we can easily see the ecology surrounding us." Apparently grey rocks moved in the distance. "This... is a a herd of wild Thoat, once domesticated by the Barsoomai people. As you can see, their coats give them excellent camouflage in the plains."

At the edge of the herd, a thick head raised as it chewed the red foliage that was abundant on the plains.

"The lead mare has sensed a threat," said the nature commentator. The camera swung around to reveal... "A small pride of Banth have selected their prey. While Banth are excellent pursuit predators, they prefer ambush as a tactic, since it helps preserve the protective layer of blubber underneath their furless hides."

The herd of Thoat took off after their leader launched themselves away from the Banth, and the pride was forced to give chase.

"The Thoat has one great strategy for avoiding attack, and that is to head directly into the forest, where swarms of wasp-like Sith are likely to have their hives. Now, the original settlers came across the larger, male drones who also had the duty of defending the hives, but the more normal female swarm members are smaller, and far more harmless. Though their jaws can deliver an impressively discouraging pinch." After about half the Thoat herd entered the trees, swarms of insects emerged from the trees around most of the following herd. "But in this case, it's too late for an elderly male."

There was a sprawled, grey body on the plains, and the females of the Banth pride were dragging their young out of hiding by their necks so that they could enjoy the feast. The camera flew closer, staying well out of range of the beasts.

"This is not just a feast for the Banth," continued the narrator, as the camera found some tiny heads poking out of a burrow. "This family of Ulsio will likely pick up the Banth pride's leavings. Starting with the discarded intestines..." One terrier-sized beast scurried between Banth legs, avoiding their claws and attention, and tugged at the innards, unravelling the intestines as they dragged it back to their burrow. As soon as the scout was clear of the feasting pride, other Ulsio joined in with the tug of war. "Though the offal is part of the Ulsio's omnivorous diet, the burrow will feast on the stomach contents. They won't discard the partially digested dung... because these industrious burrowers... are also farmers."

Now the documentary cut to a studio shot of an Ulsio burrow, where a similar family was busy dragging a similar intestine to its destination. An elder of the burrow edited part of the intestine from another, and a junior balled up the spill with straw and Ulsio dung, to roll it after the lower intestine.

"Some of the family eats now. Starting with the Ulsio pups, who are still relatively helpless. It doesn't matter who their mother is, because all the Ulsio with milk will feed a pup that's still nursing." Some older pups were guided to the great balloon of the Thoat's stomach, where they began to blindly bite and gnaw. "These older ones have their teeth, but their eyes have yet to open. Therefore, it's a grandparent's duty to put food in front of them." One pup defecated, and an elder policed the dung. "And clean up the nest." A clever camera arrangement followed this elder down to the farm. Where other Ulsio were tending to a fungal garden. "And this is the farm. All dung is mixed in a special chamber butting on to this one, and there is always one or two Ulsio fertilising the garden beds. As you can see, they tend to several types of fungus, that also enrich the plains soil and encourage the foliage above to grow... abundantly."

One fungus didn't belong, and was quickly excised by a burrow member.

"This one, a product of their own intestinal systems, is poison. This mother will summarily eject it from the burrow." The cameras followed her as she did exactly that, racing to the mouth of the burrow to scurry far from there to bury it in the dryer surface soil. "The bloom will die, here, but it will assist with the growth of the very plants that the Thoat have so recently demolished." Time lapse footage of the fungal bloom dying as the surface plant's roots soaked up its residue. And new growth issued forth.

"Though Mars had been dwindling when Terrans began colonising it, the terraforming efforts have provided a stabilising effect for the ecology. It is a great pity that the Barsoomai, the original inhabitants, could not do so for themselves."

#  Challenge #141: Like Fresh Air

"The blind shall walk and the deaf shall see - if you vote, if you vote for me!" Song lyrics came to mind as an election year looms. – Anon Guest

[AN: Nonny, I scoured the internet, but I could not find that song you referenced. Help me out?]

Dani had to admit, it was a nice musical number. And the razzle-dazzle was sufficiently razzle-y and dazzle-y. Except... She had a few questions. "Uh. I'm pretty sure that blind people could always walk? And deaf folk could see? I mean, that's usually the norm. There's outliers and everything..." She'd almost derailed herself. "Don't you mean the blind will see and the deaf will hear?"

Potential Senator McKridi looked her dead in the eye and said, "Madam, I prefer to make promises I can keep."

And Dani mentally rewound all of his platform. Then announced, "You didn't promise to do anything at all, really."

"Easy enough to deliver," breezed McKridi. "You and I both understand that the course of politics is full of pit-traps and other obstacles. Including members of the opposition who would stop me in my goals, not because they oppose those goals, but would rather it was _them_ doing them."

"Well, yes, but... What _are_ your goals?"

"Summarised? A better tomorrow. Would that I were unopposed, I would stabilise the economy and banish the myth of the welfare queen, so that those who were in need could actually get support. I can only hope to unriddle medical care so that those who are helped can afford that help. To re-organise school funding so that the districts that are overlooked are renewed and every child has a chance. But I am not unopposed. I have the loud and the ignorant to combat. And therefore my only hope is to bedazzle them with bullshit until it's far too late for them to stop me."

It was quite a stance. An honest politician. People like Dani would vote for him for the novelty. People not like Dani would vote for him because his promises sounded wonderful and they just didn't understand honesty or the truth he told.

His fellow party members still believed they had to lie to get in. They had yet to learn that the trick was telling the truth _in the right way_.

#  Challenge #142: Pitch Imperfect

"Let's run it up the flagpole and see if anybody salutes." Mad Men speak from the age of Greed is Good. – Anon Guest

[AN: Nonny - Mad Men is set in the 50's/60's. The Greed is Good era was the 80's. If anything, the Mad Men Era was the last time that companies were permitted to be openly evil]

Talthaxis was beginning to suspect that ze had entered another dimension when talking to these businesspeople from Greater Deregulation West-Northwest. They had an impressive trade empire, but in retrospect, that empire was across a number of Greater Deregulation colonies and not with the larger Galactic Alliance. Talthaxis reminded hirself that ze and hir people were new to all of this and new peoples were expected to make mistakes.

Such as attempting to communicate with a subclass of humans that spoke exclusively in buzzwords and catchphrases.

"Okay. Let's run this up the flagpole and see if anybody here salutes. We take over the financial details of your trade and shipping company for a completely reasonable compound rate of twelve and a half percent of the gross. We synergise your profits, expand your outreach, diversify your brand and re-invest the excess capital into several promising companies within our own trade network. It's pure profit!"

_For whom, exactly?_ thought Talthaxis. Fortunately, ze could research faster than this human could talk. These promising companies were all fluff and no meringue. They made a majority of their money by passing around assets between themselves like a hot potato, periodically declaring bankruptcy, and then returning from the dead with a new name, new logo, and the same diabolical minds running things behind the thin veneer of legitimacy.

"I'm saluting," said a human at the table trying and failing to fake a Galactic accent. They were wearing a livesuit, but the people trying to salt this meeting to hook in Talthaxis had failed to remove the emblem of a failed trading company from the bicep plates. "This sounds like a great investment."

In the end, it was the _twelve and a half percent_ that gave it all away. Twelve an a half percent was, when worked backwards through ancient human economies, a single piece of eight. In other words, this entire scheme was outright piracy. The compound rate would soon mount up and while Talthaxis was no longer worried about the financial side of things, these people would be buying her company out from under her feet.

"You're welcome to all of it," ze said. "I will bow out at this point, my friends. I happen to enjoy the financial side of _my_ business. I wish you good luck in your endeavours."

"But I haven't walked you through all the potential benefits in our loyalty plan! And we _did_ give you the luxury suites for _free_ ..." he left the implied guilt hanging. The idea that someone had to pay back the value of a gift with their time in a sales pitch was laughable to anyone who wasn't human.

"A gift I intend to enjoy now. Thank you." Talthaxis walked cheerfully out of a meeting that was looking more and more like a reprogramming ordeal. Given enough time, humans could wear anyone down with their words. Saying the same thing in so many different ways that something, sometime, had to sound like a good idea.

Talthaxis didn't even make it do the local veet before ze received a ping from them. It said, _Are you sure you don't want to hear about the remarkable business opportunity that could be within your easy reach?_

Talthaxis sent back, _Yes._ And then ze blocked all further contact, and set hir suites to _Do Not Disturb_ mode.

Serve them right for not doing their homework.

#  Challenge #143: The Life and Death of Maninsuit

Why oh why do giant apes, insects, arachnids, have this overwhelming desire to trash iconic buildings and bridges? Thoughs on 'z' grade movies.

It woke. It felt strange. Different. In pain. _Angry_. These little things that once were larger were the source of its pain. It knew this. Instinctively.

It had more brains to think with. Some things merely scaled up, but others... scaled exponentially. More neurons meant more connections. More connections meant greater learning. Greater learning lead to a normally small creature thinking things that a creature of its kind was never meant to think. And it quickly came to the realisation that it should never have conscious thought in the first place.

So of course it got angry. It wanted to _harm_ the creatures that made it this way. Going after individuals took far too long. It had a concept of passing time now. An awareness of its own mortality. Somehow, it knew how long it had to live, which was drastically shorter if it just started eating the humans willy-nilly.

Strategy began to formulate in its brain. Take a hostage. Pick something they are proud of and destroy it. That will demoralise millions. And somewhere along the way, figure out how to communicate when one's body was not made for communicating with these tiny, hairless apes.

Best hostage is the one the humans liked to protect. So it grabbed the pretty one that all the males were vying to breed with. And it grabbed her carefully and gently.

The humans stopped firing their guns at it. Good. It found the guns and their bullets to be annoying. Now that its skin was literally thicker, the impact of the bullets was more an annoyance than a threat.

But of course, the thing with humans is that they always have bigger guns. It had just enough time to rest the hostage somewhere safe before falling to its doom of the iconic and tall building. Plans unfulfilled.

The creature had just enough time to wonder if there was a heaven for it before it died.

#  Challenge #144: One Way of Doing it...

Human sneezes, gurgles, wipes face. "I'bve gotta a cold, S'mime O.K." – Anon Guest

[AN: Nonny, I have no idea what you mean by _S'mime_ there. I can't correct it.]

Of all the terrifying things humanity had invented, the universal winner had to be the Immunoflu. Humanity never could conquer the common cold, nor influenza in its multitudinous strains. But they _did_ tame it. They bio-engineered strains of rhinovirii to improve the immunity of their fellow humans _against other, more deadly diseases_.

Minor colds could even be created for 'booster shots'.

Manners changed with the invention. With the invention of the immunoflu, the CDC actually encouraged its spread. They finally had a means of spreading an immunity to otherwise isolated groups. Groups who had been in danger from virally-induced extinction. A Human could catch a sniffle for a week or two and be protected against all kinds of diseases that could harm and debilitate others.

Humanity was ruthless with some of its extinctions. They got all the great killers: AIDS, Hepatitis, Measles, Mumps, Chicken Pox, Pertussis, Polio... and humans had so _very_ many killer diseases. And when they got rid of the big ones, they had a knack for finding more. Especially with cross-species infection.

The truly alarming part was what it did to humans.

"CHOO!" Human Pam bought a small square of soft paper to their nose. There was a baleful honk.

The rest of the bridge crew were taking their assorted de-stressing medication.

"Lieutenant," chided the Captain. "Can you _warn_ us before your next detonation?"

"'S the immunoflu, sir," Human Pam honked again. "And I can't talk when I'm about to snee..." They trailed off, making faces for a solid minute before, "CHOO!" Honk. Cough, cough, cough. "...sneeze. Sorry, sir. I'm trying to come up with a shipwide offensensitivity filter... so... you're..." more faces. The crew braced themselves. "CHOO!" Hooonnnnnk. "You're protected from sudden, loud noises." Human Pam sat in their station chair and drank from a sealed vessel they'd tucked out of the way. "And it's my duty to others to spread this thing around. So everyone's protected... from... the... CHOO! ...other diseases." Honk. Sniffle.

Humans. They had to do everything in a disturbing manner. Whatever was wrong with a simple needle in the arm carrying the corpses of dead virii in special solutions designed to keep them from being hazardous?

But Captain Thokk was afraid to ask. Human history was littered with examples of outright insanity.

#  Challenge #145: Irresponsible Beauty

Buy something to cheer yourself up. – Anon Guest

Good news: Rael could plausibly purchase himself from Wave of the Future and therefore become a free individual. Bad news: even as low-bid goods and an admittedly buggy model, he was still heinously overpriced. Wave of the Future insisted that he was a bargain.

And they had him on open bidding.

An urgent ping from the Cogniscent Rights Committee overrode his mail system. Informing him and everyone looking at the auctions that this was an illegal act on the side of Wave of the Future, and anyone purchasing a Faiize was guilty of participating in Cogniscent Trafficking, and subject to fines in excess of one hundred Years.

And Rael had just been about to look up instalment plans and loan agreements so he could purchase himself. He spent a solid minute pondering how the CRC would handle cognsicent genetech attempting to buy itself. Though the legal action now being taken against Wave of the Future's latest toxic move seemed to indicate that the Cogniscent in question would be lectured and possibly re-imbursed.

He could never have afforded himself anyway.

And it was truly disheartening to be where he was, economically, and come to the realisation that he was out of his own pay grade.

Someone was holding a red envelope in his line of sight. It had some Terran characters on it. One of the more popular written languages, but one Rael couldn't immediately decipher. The person holding it was also of asian descent. "Here," they said. "You look like you could use some luck. Spend irresponsibly and feel better."

_What?_ Rael thanked them kindly anyway and didn't open the envelope until they were gone.

Three Hours in notes and change. To spend irresponsibly. That was part of the contract.

Rael's first thought was the All-You-Can-Gobble-For-An-Hour menu at _Harga's Fried Eat_ , followed by attempting to get thrown out of an all-you-can-eat emporium. But then he thought of the human traditions of spending irresponsibly and how they usually did that. And when they did that, they usually spent it on something shiny, useless, and beautiful.

Aunty Fan-Fan _had_ been complaining that his quarters were bare, bland, and harshly utilitarian...

Rael set aside an Hour note for _Harga's Fried Eat_. Aimed himself off of his usual path, and into the objet d'art section of the Elemeno. He had packets of gorp. He could afford a half hour stroll to size up a purchase that he had never dared look at before. Flakk. He didn't even know he had an aesthetic.

He found love at an article printing place called _Fabricati Diem_ , and a ceiling decoration that reflected and diffracted light in every direction. It moved with the slightest breeze and would turn an entire room into endless cascades of light and colour. And it suited his need for order, since it was made of geometric shapes and platonic solids. Order and chaos combined to make beauty. Just like the Universe.

He could only afford a smaller version with two Hours, and that was fine. The enormous one in the window wouldn't ever have fit in his modest singles-domicile, and the virtual preview showed that it would fit perfectly on a hook installed between his primary light and the main air vent. And it came with free installation, which he was heartily in favour of.

He would be coming home to beauty.

Just that thought made his day. And when he did come home, it was everything he imagined. He could watch it for hours, and feel his near-permanent anxiety ebb from the sight of it.

Human insanity and its traditions certainly had their moments.

#  Challenge #146: Bullish Behaviour

Can you please write more on Challenge #01911-E087: Uptick in Downsizing? It was probably one of the best pieces of fiction I have read in forever. I don't really know your policy regarding this kind of stuff (I may have just stumbled on this site a few hours ago and have been bingeing your writing) so I really hope I'm putting this in the right place... Either way, cheers and keep up the amazing work! – A_Single_Speck

AN: I welcome follow-ups to stories. For new readers, that particular fiction is found [ here. You're welcome. Also, OP, thanks so much for bingeing. Share your favourites with your friends.]

"There's a new code of conduct amongst the Jorgins'," said McTavish. "One of our informants managed to put this into a blind drop, yesterday."

And considering how The Accountant was about leaking information, that was a high-risk thing to do, Caulky whistled backwards. "Hope they're still alive today."

It was a booklet. Professionally done like they'd do at any copy shop. It had colourful tabs labeled _Dress Code_ and _Daily Ethics_ or _Grammar and Pronunciation_. The _Security and Confidentiality_ tab was a deep red.

The Dress Code section was a guide to Business Casual for males and females alike. Polo shirts and how to wear a jacket. What your choice of tie can say about you. All the things one might expect from an _above board_ business. Daily Ethics had things like, _If you are conducting a business meeting in someone else's business, be generous with your tips. It encourages other companies' employees to think well of our brand._

"Brand," scoffed McTavish. "Like this is some corporation on the stock... mar... ket..." McTavish had apparently frozen in place, staring at some eventuality that nobody else could see. "Holy shit. Oh my fucking God. Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle..."

"What?" demanded Caulky. " _What_?"

"The Accountant is an actual fucking accountant. They're using regular business practices on a criminal organisation." This was so big that McTavish erased their current working to make a timeline. "Think about it. First, they're called in to unfuck some hiccough in the business." He wrote _Audition_ on the board. "They find it, and recommend that certain corrupt employees are terminated." The words _Mass Layoffs_ scrawled on the timeline. "Big cheese is impressed, gets them to work on the rest of the organisations' records." _Expansion._ "And then they sort it all out." _Total re-organisation._

"Followed by expansion and some corporate takeovers of small-time competitors. And now they're entering negotiations with the big-time competitors. Branching out, buying up, stripping the assets..."

"And they see no difference between the Jorgens' and any other company."

Tammy, who had been trying to find an online footprint, and tracing internet chatter, said, "Bad news. They're releasing a cryptocoin. They're calling it Krak. K-R-A-K."

"Fuck me," groaned Caulky.

"It started at two dollars and is already trading at three K."

"This guy's unstoppable."

Meanwhile, in an unassuming office block across town...

"This is an excellent launch, people. Everyone watch the market. When it hits twelve K, we all sell our Krak at once. Sure, everyone else in it will cash out, after that, and the value will take a hit, bu-u-ut..." Kathi made an encouraging gesture for the group.

"We buy again at five K," they chorused. "Pump and dump! Pump and dump!"

Li'l Cheezy, otherwise known as the Big Boss, gave Kathi an enthusiastic hug. "You are making _bank_ , my girl! We doing so good at this, we don't have to sell pharmaceuticals no more."

"Vincent, we talked about professional speech in a professional environment. I know we can afford elocution classes for you and your employees," chided Kathi. "But thank you. It means so much to me that you believe in my methods."

One of the bakeries' delivery services turned up with a fake giant cake. There were going to be strippers. Of both genders, because Kathi was an equal-opportunity employer.

"So what's our next -uh- investment goal?" asked Li'l Cheezy.

Kathi laughed and sipped champagne as she watched the show. "I'm thinking... real estate. There's entire blocks of defunct factories just begging to be re-zoned as community spaces. Accomodation, library, school, and office and commercial zones all in the one district. Change that run-down depressing decay into urban revival. And... discounts for families of employees of course. Make it look like a choice neighbourhood before any outsiders move in. We definitely want to pay high taxes so the schools get a great reputation. Make it invisible access and definitely have a shelter for the less advantaged. Play up the charity angle."

Li'l Cheesy also contemplated the show and the champagne. "Dayumn," he muttered appreciatively. Of course he'd still be selling pharmaceuticals. But he'd be selling them to high-powered businessmen who were less likely to get caught or rat on their dealer. He now saw further because he had the shoulder of an intellectual giant.

#  Challenge #147: Fit to Print?

News, or Scandal. Newspapers either publish accounts of what is actually happening or gossip. World situation, local concerns or who has dumped who. Which current 'star' was caught cheating on their partner. With drugs, or just legless drunk. – Anon Guest

"What's that?" asked the newest Ambassador, G'jok.

"That is the news station. People subscribe there for the news they are interested in."

"News," Ambassador G'jok repeated the new word. "Is...?"

"Information disseminated as a public service. Updates on alliances, wars, commerce, entertainment... the list goes on. If there is something that interests you, you will get _new_ information about it. The news. See?"

Ambassador G'jok considered this. "Is human thing, yes?" Meaning, _This is going to be dangerous, I presume._

"It's a human term that caught on, yes," Forsythia allowed. "It's not a solely human concept." This in spite of an updating headline that blared _Pernicious Pirates of Pelegasi Purloin Precious Pearl!_

"And same-lettering statements?"

"Alliteration sells, unfortunately," sighed Forsythia. At least this one wasn't blood, guts, and death counts. Some news was too disturbing to put on the front page, these days. Not that that stopped the humans-only quarter of the station running hard with the motto, _If it bleeds, it leads._ And if they didn't have anything bleeding, then it was most likely to be some star of stage or screen who'd been caught with their trousers off.

Ambassador G'jok experimented with the sample app. "This is very interesting. And the idea is free?"

"Yes. The concept is open-source."

Three Standard Months later, Elthoxin, G'jok's native planet, had its very first news service. Which, because of the newness of the idea to his people, was more or less fascinated Elthoxians blogging to the universe at large. And worse, to Forsythia's mind, it was doing phenomenally well.

#  Challenge #148: Crash Site Review

"How does it feel?" "Can you describe...?" "What do you think?" And other inane questions often asked of the accused, the shell shocked survivors of a tragedy or just some poor sod who happened to be there when something happened. – Anon Guest

In retrospect, it is a mistake to make an emergency landing on Nolliwud. It was almost a resort planet, with a majority of the planet's industry dedicated to creating dreams. Live action, animation of varying kinds, even audio. If something could be imagined, this world made it real.

And when reality came to Nolliwud, out came the news media. They, too, crafted fantasies. But they did it by grinding up the truth into easily-digestible sound bites. And focussing on that which frightened the most amount of people in the least amount of time.

Thus, when the _Furiosa's Journey_ made an 'al dente' landing on some marshy grounds reserved for filming locations, the news media _swarmed_ as the passengers and crew made good their emergency disembarcations. Fortunately, Captain Daav'nporth was prepared for their Lowest Common Questions.

"How does it feel to crash-land on the most beautiful planet in this sector."

"I feel in dire need of some Medik attention. Did any of you call emergency services? No? No. You're despicable, I hope you know that." All this, Daav'nporth said rapid-fire, so they'd have difficulty cutting it down on the replays.

"Can you describe your landing?"

"Can you describe why you want to film rather than help? People are _injured_ , in case you didn't notice."

"What do you think of the Nev-R-Fail's product performance record?"

"Just as deplorable as your ethics rating."

It really helped to have snappy comebacks for unthought questions, given the situation. The news media got excellent footage of lightly-injured people from the crashed ship helping those who were more severely injured. Either extracting them from the mess of _Furiosa's Journey_ or applying some variety of care.

It took half an hour for the Emergency Response Teams to arrive, and only then because the hospitals had screens permanently tuned to the news stations.

Because everyone in Nolliwud had one reaction to an emerging disaster. Start a livestream for the financial benefit they could earn by doing so. Those who were paid to care for the hurt had adapted.

Maybe, some time in the future, the citizens of Nolliwud would learn to help others first and film it later. But the rest of society didn't hold out many hopes.

#  Challenge #149: Help Them Grow

[Title: the Trousers of Time] Sir Terry Pratchett quote there. Some one did something, often trying to be nasty that changed your Life for the better. – Anon Guest

[AN: I keep telling y'all please DO NOT relate the content of your prompts (which I always use) with the title (which I hardly pay attention to). It's a pain in the butt for me to derail my usual routine to make certain the prompt makes sense to my readers]

This is how bullying goes: (1) Pick someone who stands out from the norm. (2) Humiliate them in some manner. (3) Make certain everyone knows that they're humiliated. (4) Never let them forget this humiliation. It is a complete mystery what this is meant to accomplish, but there are some sad individuals who climb the social ladder by stepping on other's fingers.

This is aided and abetted by adults who don't understand how micro-aggressions work, and further single out the bullied by defending the bully-er. Or at least it was.

The child glaring at him was one of Natures Mean Girls. They never had a hurdle bigger than what to wear and believed firmly in fitting the mould society had made for her. In this case, it was being perfectly pretty and singling out everyone who wasn't for some daily haranguing. She was seven, and already knew how to perfectly contour her face. "This isn't fair," she complained. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

Mr Fenry sat behind his desk with his fingers steepled and Counsellor Jarmon as a witness. It paid for male teachers to have a female witness when speaking alone to children like Tammie. She was just the sort of kid to instigate a false pedophilia charge. "Did your parents read you the code of conduct for this particular establishment?" he asked rhetorically. "Article Five: Bullying. Sub-section Three: Verbal abuse. Clause A: Mocking and condescension. No student shall use a mocking voice or a condescending tone to make another student feel less worthy than another."

Tammie rolled her eyes. "She deserved it."

"Really?" said Mr Fenry. "And what has Elwyn Baker done to you that _deserves_ you breaking the rules for her? Did you file a report about it?"

"Elwyn Baker is a freak and a weirdo and she should be eliminated from the gene pool! She's seven and she still likes _purple_. Purple's passé by five and a half at the latest. It's in the _rules_."

"Thank you for saying that on camera," said Mr Fenry. Indicating the classroom monitor that kept accusations to a minimum and teacher conduct above board. He brought out the school rulebook. A dictionary-thick tome that included the code of conduct. "Now, since you're so familiar with the rules, perhaps you can show me where it says people aren't allowed to like and wear certain colours at definite ages."

"This isn't fair," Tammie shrieked. "You're mean and horrible and I hate you!"

"On the contrary, Miss Kerriway. It is completely fair. All rules for all people who attend this school. Even the teachers abide by this rule book. Why didn't you?"

"It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not _fair_! I hate you and you should _die_!"

"And that makes your third violation of the code of conduct. Including two death threats," said Mr Fenry. "Recorded for posterity and added to your permanent record. We will be discussing this, and other incidents at this school with your parents at their convenience. In the meantime, Counsellor Jarmon will escort you to a quiet room where you will remain until you have calmed down. Do you understand why this is happening?"

"'Cause you're ugly and jealous and stupid and mean," snapped Tammie. "You're all stupid! This school is stupid! I hate it and it's not fair!"

Mr Fenry quoted one of his personal favourites. "You say that so often. I wonder what your basis for comparison is."

Counsellor Jarmon made an ushering motion. "Come along, Tammie. It's time to go."

Tammie was throwing a tantrum. Something definitely passé by the age of four. Screaming variations of, "I hate you!" and "It's not fair!"

Mr Fenry calmly dialed Tammie Kerriway's emergency contact numbers. Like all young bullies, her parents believed that she was a perfect little angel who could do no wrong. Therefore Mr Fenry didn't much care if they heard Tammie screaming in the background.

"Good morning Mrs Kerriway, I'm Mr Fenry - Tammie's teacher. I do apologise for interrupting your day, but your daughter is causing a disturbance to the smooth running of the school." And like a miracle Tammie stopped cold and followed Counsellor Jarman like a meek little lamb. "We have extensive footage of her behaviour for your perusal. And... given the severity of this incident, we do require you or another guardian to come and discuss this."

A voice from his past said, "I don't believe this. You're out to get me through my daughter." Chenille Dennis. So. She'd grown into adulthood, but was still salty about former schoolmates ignoring her efforts to reform them through abuse. "I can sue that school of yours and make sure you never work again."

"You can certainly try. The evidence in this case is overwhelming in the school's favour. Further, Tammie's behaviour was brought to my attention to me by someone both of us never knew as children. When can we expect you or your husband to come for a behavioural review interview?"

"I will be calling your Principal about this," she threatened.

"Principal Warwick has already been informed, but go ahead." In fact, flagged feeds were automatically sent to the Principal's inbox. For inspection and action plans.

"I can prove persecution, you stupid freak!" And then she hung up.

Amazing how violent abusers got when they were caught out.

Mr Fenry took ten deep breaths and left his classroom to check on Elwyn, who was just finishing a guided meditation session with Counsellor Penticost. She was shaken and pale-faced, but rallying. "Feeling better, Miss Baker?"

Sniffle. Nod. "Don' wanna go back out, yet."

"That's okay," said Mr Fenry, pulling up a beanbag. "Can I tell you a story?" He waited for a nod. "Thirty years ago, there was a little boy a lot like you, and a little girl a lot like Tammie. The only difference between then and now is that nobody lets children like Tammie get away with the things they do. The little boy was made to feel bad. Day after day. Some days, it was hour after hour. The little boy had done nothing to the little girl but exist and be weird. As being weird is a crime."

Elwyn giggled.

"That little boy made a decision. The mean little girl was being mean just to feel good by making him feel bad. Therefore, for every mean thing she said, he found a bright side. Something good to overshadow the bad. For every time she said, 'you're weird,' he said, 'yes. Weird and way more interesting.' And made her _so_ angry that she broke some rules nobody could ignore. Not even her parents." And he showed Elwyn the scar on his arm. Where Chenille had struck him so hard with a metal ruler that he had had to go to hospital and get stitches. "Laws were passed to stop children like that little girl _ever_ doing anything like that again."

Elwyn boggled at the scar. "Is Tammie going to hurt me like that?"

"No. The laws won't let her. She's going to be suspended until she shows improvement from sensitivity training. Or... knowing one of her parents like I do... she's going to move to another school. With this incident on her record. Eventually, she will learn that her behaviour is not tolerable. Eventually, she will change her ways. And by then, Elwyn... _you_ will be someone amazing."

"Weird and way more interesting," she said.

"Weird and way more interesting," he echoed encouragingly. Another little victory for the tall flowers in the field.

#  Challenge #150: Secret Curse

Earworms, those inane or catchy little tunes that play endlessly inside your head. Good defence against telepaths though. – Anon Guest

If there was a worse curse you could give to a human, Rache couldn't imagine one much worse than telepathy. Sure, people could look past ugly. They could ignore venomously mean and frequently did. They could, eventually, believe that _disabled_ didn't necessarily mean _worthless_. But telepathy? That was a living hell.

Human minds are _chaos_. There's conscious thought, subconscious thought, and the idle parts of the brain that just spend all their time free-associating everything with everything else. Some are creative, on top of this, and they are constantly doodling around with whatever idle thought has gained their kitten-like attention at the moment.

Imagine standing in a queue with someone who's writing and rewriting the same porn scene inside their head for twenty minutes. You wouldn't argue with someone who could pick _that_ up. But worse than that, in an entire field of worsts, were the _earworms_. Humanity made bank off of songs that could never get out of someone's head. And their endless loops were endlessly annoying.

_Shiny, shiny, rap down behind me. Shiny, shiny, sha-na-na-na..._ competed with _We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine..._ and the occasional weird one like, _Hello, goodbye 'twas nice to know you. How'll I live my life without you? That I'll never know..._

It was like living in a dorm full of angry teenagers with their chosen music on full volume because nobody else would turn their music down.

And once in a long while, there were those who made up their own video clips. They were... well... they were weird, it was true, but they were a sensory treat. At least for Rache. And since Rache instinctually wanted to get away from everything and just bask in their imagination for a while... it was hard to get someone to agree to that.

Getting away from it all included getting away from any means to create the things in the creative one's mind. At least, not unless one has the wherewithal to create a cabin miles from anywhere with everything a modern creative soul needs.

Fortunately, working as an intern in a trading company gave Rache plenty of what one might call _insider information_ if anyone else knew what she could do. She could get ahead of the pumping and dumping of certain stocks before the men she fetched coffee for could possibly put their plans into action. Especially because she caught their thoughts before they could articulate them to anyone in charge.

She was fired in the end for being a "lazy millennial" always on her phone, but she had her retirement plan firmly in place. A little place that was off the grid and self-sufficient. With her special someone, and a very useful car that would be powered by fresh, natural photons. And a beehive. Because bees provided the right kind of white noise, and good honey.

And one other slight advantage. She knew the girl she kind'a liked also kind'a liked her. And the only obstacle in their way was finding a time window to go out and do stuff. That, and finding a way of not tripping over her tongue.

#  Challenge #151: Rhapsodical in Blue

More of shenanigans when "Team Blue" turn up at a convention. Nightcrawlers, Taako and the Tick. AKA "Team Blue". – Anon Guest

AN: This hails back to [ this thing that happened a little while ago.]

Good news: They were relatively harmless. Bad news: They had decided to split up and search for clues. Some Nightcrawlers were Bamfing all over the place. Some were perched on tall objects. The youngest Nightcrawler of the group was politely asking gargantuan-suited cosplayers if their outfits were load-bearing structures, and if he had permission to perch on them so he could scout around.

The Tick was scoping out the floor with a magnifying glass and saying, "Hmmm..." a lot.

And Taako... was haggling with the food vendors. "Listen," he began. "I have _gold_. I have silver. I even have a few coppers. They have to be worth _something_ ..."

"I have no idea how to cash in on that biz," said the hapless vendor. "For all I know, it's foil-coated chocolate."

" _There goes that scam,_ " he muttered in Elvish. He fiddled about with his pockets and replaced the glamoured chocolate coin with an actual gold one. "You can test it, my friend. Any way you like. If you're not convinced, I take my gold elsewhere. Sound like a deal?"

"We have a policy against taking props from attendees, sir."

Taako fumed. This tore it. He not-so-discretely cast Charm Person on this rube so he could at least have _some_ local money so he could purchase the local food. And all that happened was that some of the costumed humanmen applauded.

The vendor only blinked. Unimpressed. "Was that supposed to do something?"

He tried Prestidigitation as a test. Sparks failed to fly from his fingers. The magic illusion he was trying for failed to manifest. "...fuck..." he muttered.

"Yeah?" said the vendor.

"This usually doesn't happen to me," Taako blushed. He blushed navy blue. He flapped his hands and tried again. Nothing. It was a _cantrip_. You can't run out of juice for _cantrips_.

"Maybe we could just cuddle," said the vendor sarcastically.

Taako grumbled as he stalked away. One way or another, he'd find a way to get his hands on these 'bucks' the locals traded in.

Somewhere else on the extensive convention floor, The Tick shouted, "I found a _stick_!"

#  Challenge #152: Dangers Untold

Team Blue again. In this case Team Blue read fan fic. – Anon Guest

Evo-era Nightcrawler stopped when he saw his face on a thing. It wasn't a comic book, not a book. It was thick and filled with lurid art and closely-set type. "Was ist das?"

"This is my zine," said the vendor, " _Blue is My Colour_. It's a collection from a bunch of fans. There's Kurtty in there as well as Kurmanda. I try to keep out the hate-fics on either of your girlfriends."

He flipped to a random page without some of the more... anatomically impossible art. Flipped back to the beginning. No, it still didn't make any sense. "I've never worked in a coffee shop," he said.

"Well, no," said the vendor. "That's what we call an A-U. Alternate universe. Coffee shop AU's are very popular, so I make sure there's a new one in every zine." She winked, "The hot stuff's three pages in."

He flipped three pages in, stared incredulously at the page, and made a noise like a horrified mouse. "Mein gott," he breathed, and then passed out.

Taako was the one to catch him. "CLERIC! We need a cleric over here!" Curiosity drew his eyes to the page, and it was his turn for his eyes to bug almost out of their sockets. He turned to glare at the vendor. "You let a literal child read _THAT_?"

She had the decency to blush. "Well... someone about the same age wrote it, so... Didn't think it was _that_ bad."

"People in this reality are disgusting," mumbled Taako, trying to revive Evo-Nightcrawler. "C'mon, boychick. Come on back."

The Tick, coming to see what the commotion was about and attempting to do something heroic, picked up the book.

"Don't read it," Taako warned. "It's a c'thonic horror." Too late. Way, way too late.

The Tick's eyes bugged. His antennae stood on end. He muttered something along the lines of, "Heavens to murgatroid..." and then went from stunned verticality through a ninety degree transition to flat on his back. Still holding the offending zine.

"That thing should have a warning label," iced Taako.

#  Challenge #153: Toxic Culture Kills

We're all familiar with phrases like "toxic masculinity", "testosterone poisoning", and similar terms used for men whose mindset and behaviour could charitably be described as "aggressively unpleasant"...

But what if all that were not just wordplay? What if "toxic masculinity" somehow actually was toxic? What if "testosterone poisoning" really was poisonous? To whom, whether it be the person themselves or those around them, I leave as a decision for the author. – Anon Guest

The last victim of the Friendzone Killer was a really effective witch. Her dying breath laid her final curse on him, which just added potency to her words. _May your toxic masculinity kill you and all those like you._ But he didn't pay attention in the moment, just like he never paid attention to anything a woman said or did.

After he killed her and etched the words _Frigid Bitch_ on her remains, he cleaned up, went home, and live-streamed his last antifeminist rant whilst wearing his traditional black horse mask. It was because he died during the stream that the case became famous. It was because of the way he died and the viral impact it left that it became a worldwide phenomenon.

As he spoke about the rights of men and the need for women to 'know their place', green and black smoke started issuing from the horse's mouth. He got up to the right for men everywhere to be protected from chronic blue balls and how no woman anywhere should refuse an offer for sex before he finally choked on his own fumes and expired in front of an audience of thousands. It was the FBI agent who found the body who cut off the stream.

The last video went viral. The Friendzone Killer was exposed as a regular, everyday white guy who posted a lot on Incel forums and regularly had flamewars with pick-up artists because their techniques never worked for him. Women who shared the residential complex with him universally described him as 'creepy'. He had a logbook of every woman's comings and goings, with descriptions instead of names. And the manifestos he posted were pure bile.

And then the men who tuned in to watch his last broadcast started getting sick. The worst of them fell first, sometimes suddenly, often whilst repeating some variation on what the Friendzone Killer had had to say in his many manifestos. The link became increasingly obvious when a right-wing newscaster insulted his female co-host on the air, and soon began exhaling the now-trademark smoke.

One by one, the misogynists of the world began to choke on their own words, and the autopsies would only reveal that the smoke was made up of a gaseous form of testosterone. And the CDC was baffled as to how it spread.

In the beginning, it wasn't concerning, because the victims were the loner types who didn't have much contact with societies beyond those which they made themselves. The Incels, the pick-up-artists, the mens' rights activists who didn't actually care what rights they actually needed but instead preferred the right to do whatever they wanted and get away with it. It was when the virus spread to the chronic abusers that alarm really started to spread. And by then, it was too late.

The entitled misogynists of the world were keeling over by the thousands. Women had to be promoted because they were immune, and those who felt anger at their promotion soon began producing their own toxic clouds.

Women began to draw the conclusion. The victims were suffering from toxic masculinity. Their hostility towards women of all stripes for daring to seek actual equality was literally killing them. And worse, the PSA's that went out only accelerated the suffering.

Teachers who made and enforced misogynistic dress codes began to suffer. Men who catcalled women on the street also got mild cases. Men who told sandwich jokes collapsed. Some said it was a feminist conspiracy. But it was only when women outnumbered men five to one in all fields that the re-education initiative finally started saving lives.

Young boys were told, _No means no._ They were told it was okay to feel more than anger about things. They were taught healthier ways to deal with their emotions. And most importantly, taught to respect all women as fellow human beings. They were taught the important skills. Sympathy. Empathy. Comfort. All the things that were previously relegated to women.

And with an equal footing established, humanity truly began to flourish.

#  Challenge #154: Low Rent Catchment

_booooom_ "What the hell was that?" "Thunder?" "Are you nuts? It's a clear sky, there's not a storm for a thousand K's." – Anon Guest

"Different kind of thunder," said Fouthet.

Somik glared at hir as if ze had grown another head. "There is only one kind of thunder."

"There's two," insisted Fouthet. "You're of age now, so you can sense the Hidden School." And just as Somik was about to argue, ze added, "It's where the mageborn go to learn their craft. They're teaching Thunderwave."

booooom

"But... I can't see any hidden school..."

"It's _hidden_ ," said Fouthet. "You have to be mageborn to find it."

"So... I can sense this school and the students, but I can't find it unless I have the potential to be one of them?"

"Pretty much. Yeah."

booooom

"Are we... _close_ ... to this hidden school?"

"Hella close. Why do you think the rent is so cheap?"

#  Challenge #155: Toughen Up

humans have a passionate love affair between guns and explosions.

so much so that they decided to combine the two in fun and interesting ways – Anon Guest

Offensensitivity Warning: Loud noises, sudden flashes of light, and human mirth at same.

Parent File: Mythbusters.

Contents: Humans test human myths by taking their mythos to the extreme. Frequent use of loud, fast projectile weapons, rockets, and bombs. The humans on record and viewing these files find the content highly amusing.

Case file #G45-0Y8-39F - Compilation. Music is _Ode to Joy_ and plays over a montage of explosions and collisions that have made the recorded humans laugh. Contains - the vaporisation by explosion of a cement truck, the vaporisation by collision of a family car, the attempted launch of a car by JATO rockets, a hot water heater moderated into becoming an unpredictable rocket, a human simulacrum launched into oblivion by way of a chair attached to rockets, and several collisions between pre-shattering Terran land vehicles.

Recommended for: Havenworlder toughness training level 2, as the music alleviates some of the stress inherent in the destruction viewed. Not fit for simultaneous exposure to humans until level 6.

All this, T'tok read before entering the toughness training suite. There was a Medik on hand who was already immune to the content, and was ready to monitor T'tok's distress signs and cut off the feed at a second's notice. All necessary precautions for a havenworlder attempting to harden up their genome via epigenetics.

No matter what a species' needs, the humans always seemed to have a solution ready for them.

#  Challenge #156: Ozimandias' Stepchild

Treasure comes in many forms.

When the wealthy can afford room-sized vaults to protect themselves and their treasures, those who can't do so are bound to revolt. This is a fundamental truth. Civilisations end when the gap between the wealthiest and the rest are too large to be withstood.

When the wealthy live in secret, secure bunkers, separated from the real world by armies of their own guards and throngs of their own servants, you know the world is about to turn into shit. When the hordes of the starving pull down the walls with their bare hands, there's suddenly no wage large enough to protect the one who's been arguing towards paying you _less_.

This has already happened. With the bodies of the rich swaying from a convenient tree branch, and the bulk of the gore swept away, those who are left are picking through the remains. Paintings that haven't been seen by the common throng for decades are used as kindling to cook foodstuffs that have also not been seen by the common throng for decades. For a day or five, everyone here gets to eat like a king. A few even managed to walk away with inherently valuable objects, though the solid gold statue of the original homeowner had been melted down and turned into coins.

The focus, now, was on the many safes hidden in the mansion. Safe rooms. Safe suites. And just plain safes, made for holding treasures. It didn't matter. The rich always had something worthwhile in them.

This one was Tarrent's by mutual agreement. It was smaller than most of the others, being the dimensions of Tarrent's whole home, as opposed to a small flat block of seventeen sleep cubes and their hand-cranked elevator.

The rich had electricity. And electric tools made to make work faster. Rather than waste time and energy on the door, Tarrent worked on cutting off the rear wall. Mostly because the safes had all been extracted from the superstructures that supported them. A combination of circular saws and pneumatic jacks pried the wall away from the rest. Enough for Tarrent to wriggle in. Tarrent made sure that there was enough room to wriggle out again with a burden in their arms and secured the rope ladder.

Something inside was making noise.

This wasn't a safe for objects. It was a safe _room_. For a very small child and the autocare unit that would have taken care of their basic biological needs for five years.

For an instant, Tarrent thought of making this small scrap of humanity join the rest of its family hanging from the tree.

But that was the way of the old world.

Tarrent extracted the crying baby from the autocare unit and gave it what it actually needed. Comfort and succour. "You won't live in luxury," said Tarrent, "but you will live."

Tarrent walked away from the burning mansion with a new family, some food, and a collection of coins made from a mad dictator's left foot. Any future they made from here would be uncertain, for sure, but it would be richer all the same.

#  Challenge #157: The Horror

We've all done it. Yelled at the screen when the 'new guys' did something to an old favourite.

"They made a movie out of _Sigh of the Wind_!"

Kam looked at his nerd sister. "And you want me to go see it with you."

"Well... camouflage. I don't want some neckbeard mansplaining my favourite novel series to me for the entire film." Jen shrugged. Women were always challenged on their knowledge of _Sigh of the Wind_ despite being the target audience. The Mansailors were the loudest and most obnoxious part of the fandom. "I'd rather people assume I was your girlfriend rather than your twin."

"Gross, but understandable. I'm guessing you already got us tickets?"

"You know me entirely too well."

Going to a Gold Class theatre had some advantages: less likelihood of mansplainers, couples seating, and gourmet treats during the show. And one could legitimately put one's feet up without annoying anyone else or needing a wall.

But the trouble started ten minutes in. When Thellisae turned up on screen. Whiter than a sheet and ginger to boot.

"Thellisae is _black_ ," Jen whispered. "This is blatant whitewashing."

A few other Truesailors were also whispering, "What the shit?" or words to that effect.

Twenty minutes later, the whispers arose again, "Where's Kerrigold? She's instrumental to the plot?"

And then _he_ turned up. Played by one of the multitude of men named Chris in Hollywood. Someone said, "Oh this is just _straightwashing_ , now."

Jen said, "Amen."

The anger just grew amongst the real fans. The city of crystal had been turned into a brass and bronze steampunk eyesore with a Crash Metal soundtrack instead of the melodious harmonising as was written. And their flying machine was a graceful and artistic thing won in a game that had never existed in the book.

"Come on," chided Kam. "Even _I_ know that's wrong and I never read the books!"

And then the script started messing with the clever and pun-ridden dialogue. Dumbing it down and reducing it to pseudo-topical comedy and seemingly random skits that came out of left field.

The Truesailors in the audience started 'boo'ing. They had, after all, paid for some gourmet treats. They weren't walking out until they'd got their feed. Some were angrily tweeting about the betrayal they were watching. Jen was writing up an angry review, ready to post on her Wordpress account the instant she was done.

Kam had to hold his sister back when they crossed the path of some Mansailors discussing how 'refreshing' it was to encounter a movie without "forced political correctness". He did, however, use his gender to shame them for claiming to love the books.

#  Challenge #158: Friends From the Fringe

Having grown up together in the intergalactic community equivalent of an extremely isolated orphanage, you are very confused as to why everyone seems to be terrified of your best-friend-turned-basically-sibling-because-years-of-social-isolation-will-do-that-to-you. I mean, sure. She certainly has some weird habits and ways of showing affection, and can be rather unaware of her strength at times, but she's also the nicest, quietest, most loving and peaceful sentient you've ever met. So why do all the scary, known-to-be-killers species hiding from her in fear? – Anon Guest

They called it Oubliette Base, when they called it anything. There was work there, of course, because maintaining a spaceport means perpetual work. But it's one of those little pockets of the known universe that acts like a collecting area. And what it collects is the cogniscent equivalent of a tosheroon.

You know the type. The antisocial, the socially awkward, the weirdoes, oddballs, former stow-aways, and orphans of all kinds. Here, 'family' is a word for a group of people in a state of symbiosis. Love can happen, and it generally does, but the 'parent' role is nebulous at best and 'child' is defined as the person who needs the most looking after.

Theramin and Grohl more or less raised each other. Sure, there were others who fed them and clothed them and took them in, but they were transient at best and overworked to the point of accidental negligence at worst. They always had each other from the moment they could remember anything and that was that.

Theirs was a world in which anyone roughly the same age or skill level was addressed as 'cousin'. Where anyone of adult age or skill level was 'aunty' or 'uncle' or, if they couldn't tell, 'untie'[28]. Anyone of significant age got 'peepums' regardless of gender presentation. They had even chances of getting what they needed because communities like this thrived on the benevolence of their passing associates.

Grohl didn't know there was anything wrong with hir sib until the two of them got off-planet and started roaming around the more civilised areas of Galactic Society. Once at a certain level of civility, people started veering to avoid them. Shopkeepers would conduct all negotiations and haggling with their nervous gaze returning to Theramin like a boomerang.

When the pair got to the pinnacle of civilisation, the local security corps drew their stunners on them. They stood nervously just on the other side of the airlock with their manipulating limbs in a harmless position. One of the guards was a Krekkin like Grohl, and attempted to lure hir away from hir sib.

"Come to me, now. You're safe. The Deathworlder won't hurt you."

Grohl was more confused than reassured. "What Deathworlder?"

More confusion from the security people. "The cogniscent to your left?"

But there was only Theramin there. With both hands on their head and attempting to look small and harmless despite hir gangly limbs. "What'd I do?" ze said.

"Uh," said Grohl, not moving towards hir fellow Krekkin. "That's my _sibling_."

"Yeah, we're family," said Theramin.

"That's a _human_ ," said the fellow Krekkin. "They're class five Deathworlders."

Grohl looked up at hir lanky sibling, who was nervously looking down.

Theramin carefully shrugged. "Never harmed anyone, I swear," ze said.

It took hours, but they eventually sorted things out. Grohl had to carry a permit and Theramin, hir sibling, was classified as a 'wild bodyguard'. And even then, they had to have an escort to make sure that Theramin didn't start any trouble.

The problem was, Theramin could apparently start trouble just by existing.

And that's the reason most Oublietters stay in Oubliette.

[28] Pronounced, 'oon-tee' and the gender-neutral term for a sibling of one's parental.

#  Challenge #159: One Educational Day on a Strange New World

Due to the dangerous and rather... peculiar circumstances of the mission, all crew members were assigned a personal "guardian human".

Your human seems to hate you. At least if their glare and "sarcasm" is anything to go off of. You've already tried all the suggested bonding methods but you're certain that she wouldn't hesitate to leave you (to die! On that gods-forsaken planet!) if given the chance.

But then the storm came. – Anon Guest

Edge Territory Planetary Survey, or ETPlaS for short, is one of those work forces one joins for the Hazard Pay. On the plus side, everyone doing EVA gets both a Guardian Human and a Human Bonus. Because the Humans are their own kind of dangerous. They're Deathworlders, often describing their own planet as 'space Australia'. And since they had a region on their own _planet_ that was inherently hostile to life, they were a species to definitely not mess with.

Horx was uneasy with hir Human. They seemed indifferent at best and angry at worst. Their command of GalStand was crude and abrupt. If they could string more than ten words together, it was in one of the Human tongues they shared with the others on the mission. As far as communicating with Horx was concerned, a majority of it was tonal inflections around the ur-word, "Ay".

Right now, Human Shaz was using it because they had spotted a fellow human. "AAAAAYYYY!"

There was no need to shout, but the humans felt it necessary. They weren't entirely used to the comms system and much preferred bellowing at each other. The other Human, named Tim, responded in kind. Any second now, they'd start cursing at each other.

"Timmaaaayyyy. _Howyagoinyasheepfuckinarsehole!_ "

"Shazzaaaaa! _Whazzupyamufflickindyke!_ "

This, of course, meant that they were old friends. Through a series of crudities and hostile gestures, they exchanged what passed for news amongst humans. It was the most animated that Human Shaz had been for _days_. But then, humans looked after humans. The proof of that was the final cry of, " _Onyerleft!_ " which alerted Human Shaz to the presence of an approaching predator.

Humans were very good at subduing animals. Horx had seen a small pack of Humans track and follow a particular specimen until it was nearly exhausted to death. They _could_ have easily slaughtered it and taken it back to base in pieces, but they _chose_ to take their samples and administer some palliative care before letting it live. That was the true terror of pursuit predators.

But this one, Human Shaz, simply pressed down Horx with a cautionary, "Aayy..." and proceeded to punch the approaching predator in the nose. The beast was stunned, then subdued and bound. "Wanting parts?" Human Shaz asked in GalStand. 'Samples' was too complex a word for these creatures. 'Parts' got to the essence of it without being too difficult for their barbaric tongues.

Horx got the Human to hold the maw open, gathering samples of DNA, venom, and sputum. Then Human Shaz held it down while Horx gathered blood, fur, and skin samples. Horx could sympathise with the beast when Human Shaz released it. Scrambling for the safety of somewhere far, far away felt like a very good idea.

Horx tried to remain polite, all the same. Remembering good-manners-for-humans and being careful about hir wording. Sometimes lapsing into Broken GalStand Basic and gesturing. It didn't seem to help. Human Shaz kept up a low growl of muttering the entire time they were out in the field. They even wandered off at random moments, seemingly abandoning Horx on a whim.

"Ay," Human Shaz directed Horx's attention to the sky. Pointing at some rapidly approaching weather. "Bad sky, running?"

An oncoming storm. Horx fumbled for hir portable shelter, but Human Shaz knocked hir hands away. "Bad house," the Human insisted. "Running. Running now!"

And if a Human wanted to run, one listened. Human Shaz grabbed Horx and raced across the landscape for an overhang in some nearby rocks. One that had something of a small cave of a shelter. It didn't take long for Horx to find out why the Human was spooked. Some of the clouds were made out of uprooted trees. Swirling around in the upper portions of the lower atmosphere.

Horx's shelter just fit under the overhang, and the human set it up at an awkward angle. There was lots of arguing. In this case, the Human yelling, "No! Bad!" and forcing things into a different configuration. Ending with an ill-mannered shove, forcing Horx inside.

By the time Horx got hirself sorted out, there was no sign of the Human through the one usable window in the shelter.

And then the storm hit.

Even with the rock overhead, the shelter got tossed about. Bucking and jumping about like one of the Humans' legendary _wild horses_. Horx tried the emergency channel, but it was already overwhelmed by the terrified shrieking of hir fellow Rhipidrans. The channel was clogged with emergencies.

And Horx was left alone.

Abandoned by a Human.

For a terrifying half-hour, the habitat bucked and jumped. And then it stopped abruptly, despite the howling weather outside. Rocks had appeared outside the one window. Large, roughly rounded ones.

And then the haze-obfuscated figure of a Human in their livesuit. Giving a non-obscene gesture. The upraised opposed digit. Good tidings. _I'm okay. Are you okay?_

Out of breath and a little stunned, Horx folded hir wing-arm in a similar sign. _I'm going to live. I'm actually going to live._

Human Shaz dragged most of a native tree over to their cave and used it as an improvised airlock so they, too, could enter the shelter without letting too much of the storm in. When they did, it was with a halo of dust, leaves and pollen, popping their helm open to laugh uproariously at the recent turn of events.

This was a wow-I-survived-that laugh. And once they finished venting, they manually checked Horx for signs of injury or distress. "All good, tiny bird?"

It was the singsong tone and the gentle manhandling that disturbed Horx the most. "Me thinking you hating me," ze said. "Me thinking pack bond fail."

"Aaawww..." cooed Human Shaz, gathering Horx into their arms for a careful embrace. " _I'masternmum._ Guarding pack bond. Big guard, much fierce. _Woof. Growl._ " Gentle fingers groomed Horx's feathers. Human Shaz guarded Horx with their body. Nursed Horx with careful touch and occasional fragments of field rations. "Much bad Human making bad noises? Shaz guard Horx, yes?"

It took a while, but there was little else to distract them until the storm blew over. Horx eventually understood that Human Shaz only seemed ferocious and hostile because that was their way of being _protective_. Human Shaz wasn't certain what contact and interaction was desired from Horx, and went with trying to be a reassuring badass. They hadn't realised they were coming off as a _hostile_ badass at all.

And the constant, low-grade muttering was Shaz taking their own notes about their mission. Translated into GalStand, they were quite interesting.

#  Challenge #160: Sufficient Motivation

"You can still save the world."

"I could," grinned the human, "if I wanted to." Behind them, the Capital burned.

"But you won't." My voice was more hoarse than I'd ever heard it, and I could taste the bitterness of my own blood running down my cheek.

The human's "shrug" was silhouetted by the flames.

"Convince me." – Anon Guest

What motivated a human? Greed? No. This human was already profiting from the current course of events. Events that were literally destroying everything I had known for my entire life. This world could still make it... if the human wanted to make that happen.

Sex? Gross. No. Never. Besides, the plumbing wouldn't allow their bodies to mesh. Excitement? What could possibly excite a human more than the rampant destruction currently underway?

What mattered to a human more than any of that? I wracked my brains. Going through everything I could remember about their species. And then... a moment of pure genius and inspired desperation.

"Bet you can't," I said.

The human turned away from hir comms device, where ze had been lining up more comets to pepper my homeworld's surface with burning death. "What?"

"I bet you _can't_ save my world. You lack the capability. This is something you've started and lack the power to stop."

Quick and hurried words into their comms. "Hold the release a mo. Call you back." Ze stared at me for a breathless moment. "You've heard about my kind. I could _step_ on you and end your life."

"Then I'd win," I said. "I'd never see whether or not I was right and you couldn't collect."

"Well you _are_ wrong. I can stop this any time I want."

"Prove it," I challenged. "Unless you're scared."

The Human seethed. But they still called up their wrecking crew, "Harvest those for water and volatiles. We're preserving this site." A pause for objections. "Who's paying your wages, here? That's right. Me. Do what you're told." They spared me a moment to give what I had to presume was a rude gesture. "Yeah. CRC? Some asshole's comet-bombing the fuck out of an inhabited planet. Follow this signal." And then ze removed hir comms and tossed them at me.

I caught them awkwardly.

"Proof," said the human. "What do I win?"

I sent the recording I had made to the cloud backup, so that the information wouldn't die with me. "The last chance to pull this shit ever again."

Live or die, my people would know. The Cogniscent Rights Committee would know. The data was spreading from the planetary network to the system network and out through the wormhole to the rest of the galaxy. They would know this human's face. They would know their business practices. They would know, and they would persecute to the fullest extent of the law.

#  Challenge #161: The Secret

A human led crew of ragtag aliens get captured and are being held separately for interrogation.

The issue isn't getting them to talk.

The issue isn't even getting them to shut up. In fact, they've been perfectly cooperative.

The only issue?

They're all telling equally terrible, completely contradictory lies. – Anon Guest

You know the scene. You know the cuts. You've seen it so many times. Multiple people are asked the same question, and the audience is treated to cuts of the answers. This one had to be the most ludicrous of them all. Even something as simple and verifiable as "What is your ship's designation?" was going to earn several different answers.

"Boaty McBoatface." / "The Intrepid." / "Hollowpoint." / "The Scythe." When it was clear to anyone who could read Galstand that it was _The Numbat_.

They had to know that Ganz had access to their records, but the truth seemed to elude them all the same. He'd read their _diaries_. He knew who they were, and what they were doing here, for the most part... but he had to get them to trust him with their truths before he went after his secrets. And in this case, it was starting to look like a lost cause.

"Why are you here?" Ganz knew the answer was 'salvage', but got, "To seek out new life and new civilisations!" / "I dunno..." / "We're lost." / "We're saving an apple planet from a giant that wants to eat it."

It was _unending_. And infuriating. And, frankly, baffling.

"Why do you feel you have to lie to me?" was answered with, "I'm not lying." / "How _dare_ you?" / random song lyrics, off key and off tune / "You mean this _isn't_ opposite day?" followed by wilder and even more ludicrous lies.

And, eventually, it got more expensive to hold them than it was to just... let them go and find out what they were up to by trailing after them and scanning everything. Unfortunately, they apparently navigated the fields of abandoned hardware by pointing at something and saying, "Ooh, shiny! Let's go there!"

_The Numbat_ had larger fuel stores than Ganz, and he reached the red-line before he reached their secret. He had to leave and hope for the best. Sooner or later, their human Captain would make a mistake. All Ganz had to do was out-stubborn a pursuit predator.

Easier said than done.

Meanwhile, on _The Numbat_ ...

"It worked," said Grox in complete shock.

Kirk Finkley preened. "Of course it worked," he said. "Deny, Delay, Distract. Nobody expects them all at once."

Thzztt, their insectoid ship's doctor, buzzed, "I am uncertain the untruth strategy was working. I ran out of untruths and began singing."

Kirk thought about this as he settled into the Captain's chair. "Good enough, though. You're still learning about the whole prevarication thing. You did good. And I loved your rendition of _Oklahoma_."

Thzztt seemed a great deal happier about that news.

Gagne, watching the scanners, stood up to her full four-foot eight and announced, "They have entered the wormhole."

"Excellent. Let's get these supplies to the Tuvathi."

#  Challenge #162: All of Them?

A place is marked as " No weapons allowed".

One (or more) of the crew proceeds to spend a ridiculous amount of time removing all of the weapons from their being.

Cue terror and hilarity. – Anon Guest

[AN: My favourite trope!]

"No, no, Human Jan. You do not check that your weapons are operational. You check them _in_. For safety and safekeeping."

"Right," said Human Jan. "Nobody has weapons, nobody can harm anyone. That's the theory, right?"

"That is the practice," sighed Hothron. Humans may come in handy, but they tended to have difficulty with the more civilised areas of the Edge Territories. Fortunately, Human Jan had skipped over the illogical argument of, _If nobody is allowed armaments, how am I meant to protect you from criminals?_

Human Jan disengaged their Battle Suit and emerged in their livesuit. It was easy to forget that Human Jan was a much smaller being. But even then, they were not finished. The Livesuit had storage compartments, and Human Jan believed in being prepared.

"Do I have to check my stunners?"

"If they are Grade four or above, yes," said Hothron.

Human Jan made a noise of disgust and placed two sidearms on the counter. Then two more _smaller_ sidearms from their boots. Then some projectile blades that Hothron recognised as Shuriken.

"Utility knives?"

"Yes."

Another noise of disgust. Swiss army knives came out of wrist compartments. Larger, less tool-like knives came from the arms. Knuckledusters and punch daggers came from compartments that seemed illogical. There were blades of assorted length, grenades that should have been banned centuries ago, an actual _mace_ , a can of mace, an electric stunner from centuries ago \- so old that it still required chemical batteries; a length of super-strong cabling attached to two handles, and what appeared to be two rods attached to each other by a length of chain.

"I have to stay in my livesuit because my skin is mildly acidic and my saliva contains enzymes that could digest your walls," announced Human Jan. "Whoops. Almost forgot. Keychain." And out came another bundle that had a sonic weapon, something that looked like a cartoon cat, but was another punch dagger, and a device for turning petroleum lighting devices into a blowtorch.

The customs agent at Last Chance Station stared at the Human, then slowly turned a concerned gaze towards Hothron. "You feel safe with _that_ on your vessel?"

"These _are_ the Edge Territories," said Hothron. "Better to have a human with you than against you."

"By the way," said Human Jan, "anything can be a weapon. I've studied Jackie Chan."

Hothron turned on Human Jan. "Do you _want_ to be impounded? I'd rather that _not_ happen, thank you."

"I'll restrain myself," reassured Human Jan.

#  Challenge #163: Dare to Daydream

The cosplayers are out and on the loose. Inspired by an Anime convention in town. – Anon Guest

Andrew turned a corner and walked headlong into Wonderland. Or Narnia. Or Terabithia. It was hard to tell. Storybrook for certain, because everyone looked like they stepped into reality from the realms of imagination.

_Robots and Heroes and Elves, oh my..._ Andrew checked behind him and the rest of the world was... the rest of the world was... the rest of the world. People in regular street clothes and doing normal things. But around the corner...

Someone in ornate, Japanese-inspired robes was having an animated conversation with a robot and a Deadpool. Iron man was inspecting a very small child in Victorian-style fancy lad gear. An elf of indeterminate gender was flamboyantly in the arms of a grim reaper for a bunch of people in red robes. Animals were walking around like they were humans. Witches were interacting with armoured suits three times the size of a human being.

One of the robots noticed him. A more human-looking one with lights incorporated inside their person. "Hello," they said. "I'm guessing you didn't hear the news."

Regular people were walking by like this all wasn't a thing. Well. Some of them were boggling a little and a few others were trying not to be noticed as they passed by. Andrew had evidently boggled for too long. "There _is_ a perfectly ordinary explanation for all of this?"

Laughter. "It's Weirdapalooza. The worldwide sci-fi and fantasy expo. Everyone's letting their geek flag fly."

Oh. The place was loaded with nerds. "So you're..."

"An accountant in real life. Today? I'm a steampunk robot. My favourite band's playing tonight so of course I have to show my allegiance." As if it was the most normal thing in the world to do that.

"And your boss...?"

"Is the Reinhardt posing for the cameras," the robot pointed them out. A massive suit of armour that should not have contained a human being. "Next year, she's going as Humungous from _Labyrinth_."

Andrew boggled some more. "Why?"

"Because she has social anxiety and full body armour is a means of– oh. You mean why are we out and about _like this_ , right?"

Andrew nodded.

"Because life is short and you shouldn't waste it by worrying about what other people think. Because it's fun. Because weird is wonderful. Because it's people like us who do the strange stuff who think up all the technology you take for granted. Because a detailed cosplay is just as much work and investment as a bespoke suit." The robot thought about this for a moment. "Aaaannnnd probably costs as much as a Lamborghini."

"You could be spending that money on other things," argued Andrew. "Invest in stocks, that sort of thing."

"Yeah, but this way, we're helping the economy. Stocks don't help money circulate. They end up freezing money in one place and causing a worse economic downturn than the myth of stocks is selling you." A grin. "I told you. I'm an accountant."

The Reinhardt waved and the robot waved back.

"Gotta go. I'm her teddy bear. Why not take a look around? You could have some fun."

Andrew contemplated his choices. Walk away like everyone else and desperately avoid eye contact like everyone else, or take a trip into the weird side and see what it had to offer.

He wondered if anyone else faced with a different reality had made this choice.

#  Challenge #164: Inner Beautification

Yarn Bombing. Putting hand made yarn stuff in public places. Once done to stop authorities from removing much needed bus stop/shelter. Weird but true. Put your own spin on this. – Anon Guest

[AN: I could not find any instance of yarn bombing as an avenue of protest. It's mostly a wasteful form of gentrified graffiti.]

As a child of the depression, Cynthia hated waste. She never got more than she needed in the first place, and did her utmost to make sure it got used to its fullest extent. She'd watch the world change around her from endorsing 'waste not, want not' to laughing at her frugal lifestyle to endorsing 'reduce, re-use, and recycle'. Which was basically 'waste not, want not' in another hat.

And she watched as a group of alleged craftspeople covered a bus shelter in their knitting. Which was very wasteful. So she approached them and asked, "Why are you doing that?"

"We're getting rid of our SABLE and turning this eyesore into a work of art," said one of them. "It's called 'yarn bombing'. It's the latest thing."

Cynthia, having seen a large amount of 'latest things', tutted at them. "If I were you, I'd make that lot into a sort of bean bag," she said. "There's people who need to sit and can't because of that... leaning bar. There's people who don't have homes who need a place to lie down. While you're at it - turn some of that into jumpers and beanies for the kiddies who are cold in the winter."

"But this is _art_ ," said a different yarn bomber.

"Art's for the rich, and they've got enough of it," grumbled Cynthia. She caught the bus and fumed about what those ignorant young people[29] were doing. Wasting yarn. Wasting their time. Wasting a chance to do some genuine good in the world. She gnawed at the problem in her head so hard that she had to bring it up with her knitting circle. Where she and her fellow octogenarians turned cheap balls of cake[30] into cold weather gear for street kids.

"Wastrels," dismissed Gladys. "Pin some socks to it all."

"Tear it all down," said Judy. "Turn it _into_ socks."

"Turn it into a bean bag like you said," suggested Mari. "Use that... wossname. The stuffing that doesn't die."

"Durafoam," said Amy. "My Angie can get it wholesale."

"Ladies?" said Cynthia. "I think we're about to start a new trend." Each of them had groups on the Facebook. Craftspeople in different areas who were doing little things for invisible people. They each shared patterns and plans and gossip.

This time, they would be yarn bombing _society_.

There was a mattress now, where there once had been art. It was made mostly out of squares, and each square had a letter of the alphabet. Ariel recognised some of the yarn that had once been her artwork. But she still read the message to Jasmine.

"Hostile architecture hurts the homeless. It hurts the desperate and the needy. Turn your needles towards helping the helpless. And then there's a bee with knitting needles."

Jasmine, visually impaired, felt the mattress. And how some artful macrame had made it virtually impossible to steal it away without hours of work. "That's solidly around the structure. You'd need hours and a cutter to get rid of it."

Ariel took a picture and instagrammed it for her friends. Then googled what 'hostile architecture' was. The news that it existed blew her mind. She told Jasmine, and then phoned Kida, who was also visually impaired.

The anti-gentrification movement had some new allies.

A completely different Judy was on the news. Cynthia watched her on the television as she stuffed a pillow with a beanie, gloves, socks and a jumper.

"Oooh, that's an idea," said their Judy.

"They call themselves Social Justice Grandmas," said the newscaster as B-roll of assorted anti-hostility measures played for the viewers at home, "and they're solving hostile architecture problems one knitting project at a time. Everywhere that the city installs a leaning bar, you will find that they come around with a mattress and a message." And then a shot of their message to the world.

Mari cheered and jumped up and down. "That's ours! That's ours! That's our knitting bee!"

"The message is spreading via Pinterest, Instagram, and Facebook. Groups all over the country have joined this strange outbreak of community vandalism."

There were a couple glueing tennis balls to the spikes that businesses had put on their windowsills. They were interviewed.

"We lived without for a few years," said the woman. "It wasn't at all a way to be."

Her husband said, "They don't want people sitting or sleeping on their buildings, and we can't knit any more."

"It's the arthritis," said the wife. "So we get the wholesale tennis balls and superglue."

"Fast-acting," said the husband.

"Fast-acting superglue. If they tell us off, we tell them off. What're they going to do? Beat up old people in front of God and everyone?"

"Even the police won't do it," grinned the husband. "They try anything, I set up a right howl. Then they're the as–" he was bleeped out.

Cynthia's group laughed.

A really old fellow was up next. "I make ice boxes with me mates," he said. "Five dollars for a bag at the station, and me wife cooks up all kinds of stuff. We gots a garden and she loves to cook. They sell them take-out containers by the hundred. And we puts in knives and forks and spoons."

A shot of some elderly people in a home, painting up an ice box with messages like, _Take what you need_ or _Social Justice Geriatrics_.

"They're just poor bastards who need a hand," said the old fellow's voice. "And we're old bastards who need something to do."

There was a chain of old ladies in an assembly line, making boxed meals. "Back during the big war, we all helped each other. It wasn't even talked about. Now there's always a war on and nobody's helping anyone."

"High time that changed," said one of her compatriots.

"Hear, hear," said the ladies, on and off the screen.

[29] At this point, it must be noted that Cynthia counted anyone born after 1970 to be 'young people'.

[30] For those not in the know: cake is a large ball of variegated yarn that can become at least one jumper.

#  Challenge #165: One Mildly Ominous Evening in Ankh-Morpork

Archancellor Ridcully slowly walked around the blue box. It looked safe enough, despite the weird noise as it appeared. – Anon Guest

And then someone who looked _almost exactly_ like that fellow from the post office[31] popped out from the door. "Oh hallo," he said. "I seem to be very much lost. You see, I was on my way to Barcelona, and..." He trailed off. "Have I been here before?"

Archancellor Ridcully had a train of thought that couldn't be shifted from its rails. "I'm not buyin' anything off of yer no matter how shiny it is," he said on automatic.

The man in the smart suit and plimsols[32] stepped out. "Doesn't sound like me," he sounded convincingly confused. Waved around something that buzzed as it lit up. "Hm. Heavy thaumic fields... I'm guessing you get semi-regular incursions of parallel realities full of eldritch abominations? Hi. I'm the Doctor."

Ridcully backed away from the offered hand. To shake hands with Moist Von Lipwig was to lose track of several small items from ones pockets. "You cant pull the wool over _my_ eyes," he said, "You're that post office fella who took over the Bank, last year."

"Ah." He nodded, as if that explained everything. "Quick question - am I still there?"

"What damn fool bloody question is that? Of course you can't be there. You're here. Stop playing silly buggers and get on with explaining this _stunt_." Stunt, in this case, pronounced: _I can't be having with any of this nonsense, do take it elsewhere before paperwork manifests about it._

"Nevermind. I'll investigate on my own." He gave a friendly wave and sauntered out of the University campus as if he owned the place. Which was, when you got down to it, a very _Moist_ walk. Or, if one wanted to avoid lexical confusion, a very _Von Lipwig_ walk.

It only took ten minutes for things to start exploding. By then, the Doctor had found his doppelganger and had to present their case to Ridcully. Who had the predictable reaction.

"Bigods! There's _two_ of you! Stop that at once!"

It only got worse from there, really.

[31] Despite the made-for-TV version of Moist Von Lipwig, I still headcannon him as being played by David Tennant. Leave me alone.

[32] Another, older word for sneakers/trainers/joggers/tennis shoes/sandshoes. Word for the day!

#  Challenge #166: Here Comes Trouble

A demon who really loves their job of messing with people accidentally does something really really good or nice and is horrified to find a single angel feather growing on their wings as a result. – Anon Guest

Hathreon followed the Crowley School of low-grade evil. From little annoyances, big cruelties grow. The demon could count overpriced, slow coffee, constant urban renovations, and the kind of people who insist on going into the backs of crowded elevators when they're only riding one floor. Someone else beat hir to the kids that press every button on the elevator control panels.

Today is the day that the right demon with the right philosophy ticked off the wrong person. _Most_ humans will, when confronted with a bad mood, spread it around to everyone in their aura. Thus having a ripple effect that can, in certain circumstances, turn into a tsunami of vileness.

But not _all_ humans...

Hathreon went with one of hir favourites. The same bullshit inconvenience, multiplied through the day. Like being mere seconds late for a thing. Repeatedly. Nothing angered a human like _inconvenience_. In this case, it was having a disabled person blocking the way. These people couldn't mount the curbs like every abled other, and slowed those abled others by blocking the way, blocking traffic, and slowing everyone down.

Hathreon savoured the waves of anger and spite washing out from all around. Except for this one human.

_This_ human was thinking.

Hathreon had had the misfortune of pestering a member of the City Works Authority. One of those responsible for the perpetual upgrades happening all over the city. And this human thought of incorporating ramps into the crossings so that those who could not climb the gutters had an easier path to travel.

Which, ultimately, spread a wave of _good_ through the citizens. Through the world, as the concept went viral and became a part of cities all over the world.

And that was why ze had a single, bright and rainbow feather amongst hir dingy, mouldy-grey ones. A definite advertisement that a kernel of good can be found in even the most hateful of creatures. A mark in Hathreon's permanent record.

Hathreon pulled hir head in and focussed on the groups of humans that didn't need much help to choose evil. The ones who hated, discriminated, and didn't want anything to do with "those types". Whatever they decided "those types" were. Black, disabled, single mothers on welfare were usually a favourite group to hate. As were any that didn't follow their religion. Ze got a lot of mileage out of anyone who used the phrase, "racial purity" without any trace of irony.

The problem with that was... how awful they sounded. There were more of "those types" than the group who despised them. Sure, it generated some hate and hate generated cruelty, but there were more and more people who were relentlessly, obstinately, spitefully _nice_. When faced with administrations who took from the poor and gave to the rich, they began grass roots movements to help the helpless. When faced with discrimination, they opened businesses that refused to discriminate. When faced with laws that attempted to reduce the voter base to the vocal and hateful minority, they moved mountains to stop it.

It was ridiculous.

Almost as if humanity stopped being evil when they found a line that should never be crossed. And worse - little of it had to do with what religion these people held - if they held with one at all. They saw wickedness and automatically moved to end it. Like it was a reflex.

And because it was Hathreon that inspired them to do it... there was more than one bright, rainbow on hir wings, now.

#  Challenge #167: Pax Paradoxical

There is one place where nearly all species cohabit. It's not some planet capital or forsaken space station. It's a spa resort. This artificial planet is ideally place to naturally accommodate all type of species, with a wide range of temperature, humidity and luminosity. And when nearly 30% of your customers are part of the most "dangerous" Deathworlders, and high figure of all species came regularly here, let's say that it's also the safest place in existence. – Anon Guest

There's only one thing to do when one finds an uninhabited planet with numerous environments where multiple species would go to relax. Turn the entire thing into a planet-wide spa. Which is of course what Exploratory Entrepreneur Gax Folthoq did when she found a planet that Deathworlders, Havenworlders, and any species between those two extremes would find calming and relaxing.

They call it Resort, since names for new places are usually simple, descriptive, and to the point. And it has quickly become _the_ place for most, if not all, species to comingle. There are sweat lodges at the snow-covered poles, alongside cabins where cogniscents of lower temperature ranges can enjoy scenery to which they are familiar. There are caves for the photophobic, lit by luminous fungi and bioluminescent insects. There are hot springs where those of warmer climes can unwind, oceans for the aquatic, and mountainous landscapes overlooking rippling plains of lavender-scented grass.

And in all of these picturesque environments, you will find humans. They are forbidden from activities that involve making things explode, but you will find them satisfying themselves in other ways. Most often, flinging themselves off of great heights.

Humans cannot fly unassisted. Therefore, they have invented assorted means to zip through the air. Either by riding artificial wings or assorted methods of falling with style.

Humans cannot survive for extended periods in the cold. Therefore, they invented clothing to regulate their temperature in extreme weather[33], equipment by which to traverse difficult terrain, and equipment to preserve their vision.

Humans cannot see in the dark. Therefore, they invented assorted means to assist them in the murky gloom of the underground.

Humans cannot survive underwater. Therefore, they invented crush-resistant livesuits with osmosis breather packs to make certain that they could.

You cannot prevent a Human from going wherever they whist. Even Humans have attempted to prevent other Humans from exploring a new frontier. Numerous Human lives have been lost to the spirit of exploration or, as it may be observed, hubris in the face of clear and present danger.

That said, there is little on Resort that could endanger a Human life. Those endlessly resilient Deathworlders will go where Nature clearly doesn't want them, just to see what's there[34]. The shallow oceans of Resort do not test Human ingenuity. They long ago conquered the challenges of their own depths and some even find the low-light conditions of the deepest portions of Resort's oceans to be vaguely disappointing.

This is, of course, a species that goes trash collecting in the Marinaras Trench for fun and bragging rights.

It was quite a surprise to Entrepreneur Folthoq to discover that Humans went on _adventures_ as a means of _relaxation_. So, in order to entertain the Humans, she seeded the planet with relatively inaccessible 'treasures'. They were another Human invention - the Folly. Artificial ruins, art installations, carved effigies, and cave paintings. There is a famous carving of Entrepreneur Folthoq in a falloff cliff that bears a plaque.

It reads: _Look upon my works, oh ye mighty, and have a chuckle. I_ am _here to entertain._

Some Humans even appreciate the joke.

Alas, it is vitally necessary to leave evidence that these installations _are_ installations, because another thing that Humans entertain themselves with is an amazingly ludicrous conspiracy theory.

[33] Note for Galactic Newcomers: Assorted species' definitions of "extreme weather" vary according to their native planet, and can range anywhere between a stiff breeze to conditions in which permanent structures are obliterated.

[34] The Human philosophy in a nutshell: go where you can't, poke what you shouldn't, and lick just about everything you find along the way. To see why, of course.

#  Challenge #168: Mystery Analysis Department

Step back in Time. It smells different, the food is odd. But you are here to record History. Pick an Era.

the Past is a different country – Anon Guest

The oddest thing about the early twentieth century had to be the colours. Followed closely by what people willingly put in their mouths. It was just... odd... to see any era before the nineteen fifties in any other tones but black and white.

The past is another country, indeed. The food is peculiar, the air smells funny, everyone talks a completely different language and you can't trust the water. And in this era, the tail end of the Roaring Twenties, all those rules applied. Included therein was the corollary, _everyone dresses funny_.

Curves were forbidden in this era. But that didn't much matter because the one costume that was rarely changing and accepted anywhen was that of Religious Orders. All one had to do was be certain of the local flavour. Certainly, people stared at nuns or priests in their cassocks, but they certainly didn't want to interact with them, and that was the important part.

Temporal investigations could insert bugs into the sensory receptors of pigeons, cats, and dogs, but it took a _person_ to get to an important event and pay attention to the significant details. This was one of the more obscure ones on the books. A gentleman left his house in his new car, and supposedly went to work. Somewhere within the five blocks he drove, that day, he vanished without a trace.

She found the house just as he was leaving and seemed to cross the road without looking. Directly in his path. He sounded the horn, and she pretended to have a nervous conniption then and there. As he helped her to the curb, she palmed some tracker microbes onto his skin, and another colony onto the car. And then, like his wife and small child, watched him leave until he turned the first corner.

And after that, it was her job to vanish. Into a crowded public transit arena where people wouldn't question the presence or absence of a nun.

Once returned to the modern era, it was a month in quarantine to be certain that she didn't pick up anything that was a danger to the present population. One single pathogen or virus from the era predating most vaccinations could decimate the future. Or worse.

A temporal discovery agent could be vaccinated against everything, and be cleared of everything they could transmit, but the clothing could pick up any amount of nasties from the miasma surrounding them. Dust, dirt, microscopic flecks of spittle from anyone talking in the vicinity, the list went on.

Time travellers - or at least, time travellers without a magic box that protected them from everything - had to be really, really _careful_.

She divested herself of her clothes and let the autoscrubber cleanse her entire naked form with blue fire. From there, it was into the sterile cotton onesie and equally sterile breather mask so she could protect the other volunteers in quarantine. Two were currently registered as present.

"Waiting for the ripple effect," said the Director.

Five thousand years of history re-ordered itself. Now Mr Stevenson's wife remembered a nun that her husband had nearly hit. Beyond that, history remained unchanged.

"Our probe units followed him to fifth and main, and note a flash of light. We can insert work crews to install non-obtrusive monitoring equipment the day before the event, but it's looking like a temporary dimensional rift is associated with the disappearance."

Another one. They were random and unpredictable, and the technology behind them was -currently- uncrackable.

Who knew? One day, they would catch up with it and discover that these historically vanished people were sampled for their exclusive information.

In the meantime, she was late for her meal - calorically and nutritionally balanced phys-excellence paste. She hoped this dose would be mango flavour.

#  Challenge #169: Unobtrusive Observation

Time you can visit. all you can take is pictures, all you can leave is footprints. – Anon Guest

There are rules to time travel. Some are invented on the fly, others make more sense than that. First and foremost is no excessive interaction. One cannot, for example, go back in time to tell Freddie Mercury or David Bowie how influential they become. Especially towards the start of their careers. One cannot also travel back in time and leave an iPhone in Steve Jobs' office.

One cannot also go back and take things unless they are famous for going missing. Even then, a duplicate must be fabricated and left in its place. Filled with tracing agents in case the object is ever found again.

In time travel, _information_ is the most valuable treasure. What happened to the relics of the past is more important than the relics themselves. Of course, recovering them is a bonus, but knowing is more than half the battle against the sum tides of ignorance and spite.

And foremost: The further back one goes, the less one can do. The far-reaching ramifications of a footprint in the wrong kind of sediment are too much to risk. The face of science itself can be permanently damaged by the footprints or bootprints of a homosapien millennia before homosapiens existed.

They say, _Take nothing but photos, leave nothing but footprints._ But there are some areas of temporal exploration where even footprints are forbidden. Which is why the self-effacing probe was invented. Carefully constructed of organic compounds wherever possible, if destroyed in the distant past, it would leave no trace of its existence. It would be digested by assorted microfauna, and the minerals necessary for its circuits would merely become traces in the strata. Nothing large enough to cause alarm in anyone at any time.

In more civilised areas, pets are the probes. Nanomachines hijack feeds from their eyes and ears, and secret receivers record any and all data.

Many an important event has been documented because a cat can look at a king.

#  Challenge #170: Show Me the Way...

Pre-human contact, a single human accidentally finds themselves in space, and the single most powerful being there to boot. They don't use their powers for good or evil though, they just really enjoy messing with the other sentients, good and bad alike. Please write a story about how this human deals with the various attempts to get rid of them. (Diplomatic or through force) – Anon Guest

I had to come to term with a few things. One: Alien abduction is real, and not for the reasons you might think. The whole cow mutilation thing is just people unfamiliar with how coyotes and wolves operate, or what happens when cattle get sick some miles from the nearest human. Animals, people, and plants go missing all the time. With people, it's most often a case of Terminal Stupid, and the wilderness swallows them without even having to pick its teeth.

This time... it wasn't that.

Two: Guns are the worst thing to have in space. Think about it. A projectile weapon inside of a tin can designed to keep you alive? The only way to be sure of your shot is to not fire it. Because through-and-through can ruin everyone's lives. That thing you have to keep the coyotes off your hide is only useful as a bludgeon once you're up above the stratosphere and that's that.

Three: We have, indeed, been being observed by intelligences far greater than our own. What? A farmhand can't be a nerd too? Let me tell you. When you're out in the back sticks looking for traces of lost cattle, you want another human voice with you. Podcasts and audiobooks are a thing, dingus. Anyway, they're more or less studying Deathworld biology and my abduction was a complete accident. They actually wanted a sample of the hillside biomass and I happened to be standing on it at the time.

Those mystery holes in Russia? Actual bio-geo-samples taken by aliens. They pick places far away from human civilisation because they really don't want to interfere with the progress of our civilisation, and it's less likely to be messed with by our civilisation. It's really nobody's fault that I got dragged along. But I didn't get around to realising that for a time because...

Four: Automation can be a son of a bitch. I'd learn all of this later, but any living organism that gets "beamed up" on one of their "Shoot, Loot, and Scoot" missions, they get separated by species and placed in an environment based entirely on the sample. Which meant that I was stuck in a bunch of grassy hills with little that was edible and invisible walls.

They figured out I was there some five jumps away from my point of origin. And by then? I was _not_ a happy camper. Guns are also a bad idea in artificial, enclosed environments meant to hold animals. Just saying. God alone knows how I managed to dodge the ricochets, but I did. And it did nothing to improve my overall temperament at the time. I had enough time to get _real_ hangry before the zookeepers turned up and had a conniption. Or at least, I guessed it was a conniption.

Five: Aliens don't speak English. Or gesture like everyone you might know. You know how there's this one country where everyone nods for 'no' and shakes their heads for 'yes'? Like that, except everything you know is wrong. Everything you assume is wrong. And sometimes, those gestures are straight out of the uncanny valley because guess what?

Six: Aliens aren't always built on the human model. All those science fiction movies where the alien looks like a human in a rubber suit? Or they follow the same head-shoulders-knees-and-toes format we do? Horseshit. You get birds, bugs, lizards, dinosaurs, you name it, they got it. I haven't met any hyper-intelligent shades of blue, yet, but there's definitely a few beings out there I can't classify.

So here's the situation. Can't talk the language. Traditional methods of mime and talking slowly aren't always parsed the same way as I might think. My only weapon is effectively useless. So far from home that my brain just can not comprehend it. And my hosts shot through several stops before realising that I was there. And by 'several', I mean 'hundreds'. Their logging and cataloguing system tried to put me back onto a planet with no oxygen.

So... me and the small fuzzy creatures from Proxima Seventeen -I'm guessing- were kind of stuck with each other. They're five-foot naught, covered in fur, and have an interesting definition of 'clothing'. It's a bunch of elasticised bands that make their fur stick up in interesting patterns. As far as I can tell, they're quite baffled by my need to be wrapped up in layers. But then... they don't really understand my species' baldness.

Let's just say that communication is still a learning curve.

And since I've run through all my audio and entertainment library several times, I've... kind'a taken to pranking beings for fun. Harmless stuff. Shifting the furniture around, kind of harmless. Not strapping knives to the vacuum bots or anything _actually_ dangerous. In the time it took for me to start doing all of that, they took me around to their head cheese. In this case, it probably boiled down to their CEO rather than the leader of their planet.

I was following When-in-Rome rules of conduct and at the me-Tarzan level of talking to people, so it's no shock that everyone thought I was dumber than a bag of rocks. I understood that they classed me as a Deathworlder, and therefore dangerous. It was anyone's guess why I hadn't rampaged, already, to be honest. They were rather shocked that I was adapting to their tech and therefore too polluted to be returned to my home. Even if they could successfully figure out where that was.

But I was intelligent life and I was beginning to get Baby's First Grasp of GalStand - their lingo. Earth and Earth colonies were considered too dangerous to get near, and I was barely tolerated as part of the crew. I mean, sure, I could come in handy sometimes. Like, if some other mean motherfuckers came to mess with the crew. I could fight off anyone who threatened them. Which was nice, I guess.

But I made a pain of myself enough to be shipped off to another crew. Hot potato style. I guess I subconsciously figured that someone, sooner or later, would figure that the fines from going too close to Earth were worth getting rid of the annoying Human, but... that hasn't worked yet.

I've been bought, sold, left behind, threatened (that didn't end well for them), and bribed to leave assorted crews alone. And at one point, shoved out of an airlock with a livesuit and all of my shit in a travel case. I used my gun to propel me to an interesting asteroid and waited for someone else's Hungry Caterpillar to nom on that thing. That's what they get for leaving me in a Scavenger Thoroughfare. Or maybe they did that to be sure they weren't murdering me.

Plenty of folks out here think I'm unkillable and put that to the test. I generally kill 'em right back. Serves them right.

It's not a fun life, when you get down to it. I want to go home. I want them to take me home. And they keep... not doing that.

In the meantime, there's messing with aliens. Fair's fair. Enough of us think they've been messing with Earth for millennia.

#  Challenge #171: The Protection Experiment

Considering the terrifying methods our immune system uses to keep us safe, can you please write a story about how aliens first dealt with human diseases (probably something that has a high mutation rate) that jumped the species barrier?

How did they deal with the pandemic (think of what smallpox did in North America) their own immune systems were unprepared for? How did they handle what they found when they researched the crazy human immune system?

Autoimmune disorders?? – Anon Guest

If there was one thing to be learned from interspecies contact, it was to be wary of alien plagues. Diseases one species deems harmless can ruin another's population. Diseases can jump species barriers and get worse. Diseases can lay waste to entire planets. And a Deathworlder disease has even more potential to do so than any other.

Humans have had their unfair share of such things, even before the Shattering. A strain of influenza crossed between two domesticated species before leaping into humans. The resultant virus did more damage than the mass warfare that helped spread it. When a virus can transmit across multiple intelligent species, it could destroy the universe as we know it. Humans understand this, and almost all encounters between species involve livesuits for a reason.

And then Galactic Society learned about the "kill or cure" tactics of the human immune system.

Human Claire had volunteered, and was now in the biotainment lab where other beings could poke and prod her body at their leisure. So far, they were extracting immunities from her blood and sampling her exterior for deadly or useful pathogens.

One thing Humans taught Galactic Society was: even if it's deadly, it can still be useful.

This was in the early days of what would later be named the Human Incursion, and the vital research had to happen on an isolated dwarf planet in the middle of the Edge Territories. With full security, and regular checks by the Galactic Safety Patrol.

The most dangerous being in the entire base, Human Claire, was down to her Skins and assisting the waldoes attempting to collect her saliva by simply spitting into the vial. "Say 'when'," she chirped.

"Up to the line without bubbles, if you can," said Chief Analyst Gorx. "We've detected some... artificial virus remnants in your system. Do you know if anyone has been attempting to sabotage your species, but the remnants seem to come from multiple hostile virii merged into one."

The unexpected result was laughter. "Oh, _that_ old thing?"

"Your humour evades us," said Medik Tokki.

"Yeah, no. That's -uh- that's a the latest immunoflu. See. We couldn't conquer the common cold, so we tamed it. You take the regular rhinovirus, which is a fortnight long pain in the ass, and you seed it up with every other marker from every other really hostile virus that's the latest bad thing. I mean, sure, you feel like crap for two weeks, but on the other side of it, you're protected from a whole host of hostile bugs."

The assembled species working on the Friendly Deathworlder problem all experienced the vertiginous feeling of having an assumed barbarian explain how they had access to wifi in their yurt. Or cave. Or teepee. Or... insert gather-hunter shelter technology here.

"My pardon," said Chief Analyst Gorx. "Your people have done what?"

"We tamed the common cold," summarised Human Claire. "I'm sure I included a fid in my 'About Us' info packet. Lemme dig it up?" She accessed her entertainment device and, after some twiddling, brought up some audio-visual edutainment media.

" _Many people believe erroneously that injected vaccines are harmful to the children who need them..."_ it began, playing vintage footage of babies getting needles. It proceeded to explain how the 'immunoflu' was engineered on a lies-to-children basis that covered the basics without getting into the gritty details.

"Human Claire," said Chief Analyst Gorx in the patient tones of someone forestalling a personal nervous breakdown. "Why did you not mention this sooner?"

"I shared all my data," said Human Claire with a shrug. "I just thought you went through it all."

#  Challenge #172: Look Up

One of the last astronomers left on the planet after the Great Protectionism Act (the one that isolated the entire populous from anyone or anything beyond their home planet) goes on a quest to shut off all non-emergency service related power on the planet in order to show the people the beauty and worth of the the night sky. – Anon Guest

With every great rise of knowledge and understanding, there is an equal and opposite fall into wilful ignorance. This is one of those latter, dark ages. The last planetarium was closing forever. She was to confess her crimes before her execution. Because the new administration did not appreciate science in any form. Obedience was key, and Aelria was highly disobedient.

Tonight, she was not sleeping. Tonight, she was hacking the municipal power board. So that the city's power would fail at the appointed time. The time she was about due to die. Aelria was careful. Instead of an entire power failure, the city would keep all emergency services. Hospitals and emergency services would keep running, but for two hours, the city would go dark.

Tomorrow... she would die. Quickly, and cleanly, and to the cheers of thousands who didn't know who she was or why she was a heretic against the current order. Some would hear her last words, but she would be forgotten inside of a week. A rare few would remember, though. But all would feel the impact of what she had done.

Aelria ran the stolen laptop through the defunct tech grinder. It, its charger, and all of its accessories. She'd only needed it for this one thing. She had packed away the important stuff inside a time capsule and buried it where it was most likely to be found after a century. Inside, she had put all the important textbooks and a carefully-typed letter rendered in all written languages. A life pod for learning. In a century, despots like the current one would be forgotten, and people would be asking interesting questions again. Or so she hoped.

When they came for her, they found her flat empty of evidence. She was ready. She faced her imprisonment, mock trial, and impending execution with stoicism worthy of a hero. Her death would be televised at eight in the evening. So that the children could watch and learn the current rule wasn't futzing about.

Thus, when they gave her the chance to say her last words, she had a show for them. This world loved a show. "Look beyond your wall of light," she said. "The universe persists, whether or not you believe in it. Look outside. Look up. You will see the magnificent truth."

And then the lights went out.

All over the city. All through this ignorant realm. The curtain fell as it had for Bruno, Copernicus, and Gallileo. Aelria sat in her last chair and waited for the panic to ebb. The cameras, running on battery power, streamed to everyone with a laptop or a phone.

"Look outside," she said, "Look up." And someone shot her from behind.

The despot's justice would not be subverted with a mere power failure.

All around the shrunken world, people followed Aelria's plea. Mostly because there was nothing else to do. Some were terrified by the revelation they saw. Some were awestruck and dumbfounded. A precious few were excited and curious. Those few were smart enough to keep their curiosity out of sight, and find other like minds in the swirl of conspiracy theories. They began secret gatherings to rediscover science and seeking the answers.

Nerds never die out. They just go stealth.

Wherever there is oppression, oppositions rise to combat it. Underground railroads. Underground dance clubs. And now... Underground Schools. The forces of ignorance could only begin to quash them, because ignorance carries within it the seeds of its own defeat. Starting with needing smart people to sort out its mess.

#  Challenge #173: Dangerous Beasts

This isn't my prompt but I'd like to see what you can do with it.

"I don't want to know who I was. Before... before... before I was kidnapped as a child," ze says, and there's something pained in zir dark eyes. "A happy, drooling kid. Or whatever. Look- if I- if I wasn't always this way, bitter and angry, that means xe won. That xe changed me. Made me into a new being. I can't know that. I'm not strong enough."

I wonder if the pain in zir's eyes is the kid xe never managed to kill. – Anon Guest

They lie when they say resistance is futile. Resistance is hope. Resistance is yet another tactic against the enemy. Against the oppressor. Against whoever holds you to their standards and judges you harshly for not being the thing they wanted you to be.

_True evil begins with treating people as things._ The Human called Fang remembered that.

Selthyr had taken Fang as little more than an infant. Much like a human hunter would take a tiger or a bear cub as a pet, and train it to do tricks. Selthyr never once forgot ze had a hazardous Deathworlder in their retinue. Hir means of controlling Fang were strict, and debatably fair. And it was impressive to have a Deathworlder as a guard dog. But like a bear or a tiger cub, the beast will eventually turn against cruelty.

Selthyr forgot that humans are very, very clever. Humans excel at lying so well that they can even lie to themselves. They can even lie with their bodies, and have invented special words for it. And Selthyr did what all arrogant pet owners have done since the dawn of time, the one thing that proved their collective demise.

Selthyr assumed that their beast was truly tame, and therefore ze could do anything hir liked.

The human mouth is loaded with toxic bacteria that can even harm a human.

One drop of spittle was plenty to poison Selthyr with hazardous human biota. The resulting infection ate hir from the inside. Fortunately for Fang, Selthyr's relatives were kinder to the Human, and attempted to treat her like any other cogniscent. They gave Fang a job, and a home, and as much freedom as they could plausibly afford. They explained things to her. How she was a dangerous species. How most of the Galactic Alliance feared her very existence.

And how they could not return her home because she had missed out on becoming immune to the assorted Deathworlder diseases of childhood that could kill her now that she was an adult.

Fang took this all in with the same blank-faced stoicism that she had exhibited to Selthyr. She said, "That's fine. I don't want to go back anyway."

To say the least, that was something of a shock. "Why?" asked Seldrar, Fang's nominal custodian.

"One: I wouldn't fit. We both know this. Two: If I go back, there'll be people who knew me. Who... expect me to be like the person I was when..." she trailed off, playing idly with the butterfly knife that impressed so many of Selthyr's shadier clients. "I don't want to know who I was. Before... before I was kidnapped as a child." There was pain in Fang's dark eyes. "A thoughtless, drooling kid. Or whatever. Look. If I... _wasn't_ always like this-" she gestured at herself, "-angry, bitter bitch... that means ze won. That means my master changed me. Made me into something new. Something I wasn't to begin with. I can't know that." The knife flew in her fingers. Unfolding and re-folding in a veritable frenzy of activity from an otherwise still being. "I'm not strong enough."

Somewhere behind those pained, dark eyes was the child that Selthyr never managed to extinguish. Seldrar could _see_ her. Somewhere inside, the human named Fang was still hurting.

Seldrar wanted to say, _You are already stronger than you think you are,_ but ze knew that Fang wasn't able to accept that yet. There were years of therapy before she could come close to accepting that.

#  Challenge #174: Can't Get Worse/It Got Worse

Spiders covered every inch of every surface all the way to the airlock.

The terror and the events that followed have only now been released. – Anon Guest

The humans did not flinch from battle. Entire civilisations in their history had trained their minds for combat and strategy. They did not quail at injured Galactics. They trained for this all their lives. Providing emergency care at the site to get them stable and movable, and then stuffing them into care pods to survive the rest of the trip to the extraction point. They had no fear of space. They had lived their whole lives in it.

There was only one thing that stopped the rescue team as they thundered their way towards their destination, trailing pods of survivors like toys on a string.

"Oh gross... The exit hall's full of spiders." Which was sort of true. Galactic biologists have debated the classification of Oshits as spiders, but the remainder of Galactic Society ignores them and calls the creatures 'spiders' anyway. That, and it's difficult to argue with humans once something has cemented itself into their mammalian brains.

The record states that the Oshits were attracted to micro-leaks in the improvised shelter that the humans had cobbled together as a staging area for their rescue attempt. The pressure differential was leaking through several 'for now' class welds.

"Flakk," muttered Davies, who looked to Rodruiguez, who looked to Staveson.

"Don't look at me, I'm not going anywhere near those pieces of shit."

"That's a big fat nope from me, too," said Smith.

"We... could coast these across vaccuum to the ship..." offered Rodruiguez. "Or blow a hole in this mess to suck those things out into vacuum."

"Our rescue is logged. They charge us for extra property damage after the objective," said Davies."

"I could make it look like an accident."

"Tomsdottr? _No._ We all remember the _last_ time you made it look like an accident."

"Duck and cover and then party balloon?" offered Staveson.

"I am _not_ risking any chance of those things landing on _us_ ," said Smith. "Absolutely not. I would rather take the damage penalty than have a single one of those things _touch_me."

"Foam 'em?" offered Rodruiguez. "It's fire retardant..."

"We'd need a fire."

"That can be arranged," smirked Tomsdottr.

Three humans shouted, "Tommy, _NO_!" at the same time, but it was already too late. Tomsdottr had already applied their cutting torch to a flammable spray. And from there, all was chaos.

Some Oshits pounced towards the disturbed air of the improvised flamethrower. Other Oshits pounced towards pouncing Oshits. The living veneer of hairy decapods _boiled_ as they all fought over presumed prey. And some were, indeed, set on fire.

Rodruiguez is on record for throwing the foam grenade, but every human in the group swore blind that they didn't know who threw it. This is typical of humans in trouble, and well known as _Wasn't Me, Didn't See A Thing._

Some chemicals in the pre-set fire-retardant foam have a stochastic balance that has proven to be effective in collapsing the fire triangle in the past.

The resultant concussive force destabilised the staging area and significant portions of the wallowing vessel in the middle of the rescue mission. Exposed wires sparked new fires with the in-rush of air. Surviving Oshits hit the humans, who then instinctively reacted in terror.

There was weapons fire. Which made everything worse. And lots of human screaming, which did nothing to reassure the clients in their rescue pods.

Some humans got stuck to the hull. Some Oshits got stuck to the humans. Some pods got stuck to the humans and the Oshits. Some pods got stuck to the hull and the Oshits. Some parts of all three got stuck to each other.

The minor horsemen of Panic, Screaming, Chaos, and Flailing took over the situation, culminating in a rescue crew being sent to rescue the rescue crew.

They were towed as a lump into the UFTP vessel, _The Mockingbird_. In shame, and without their time bonus.

"This is why we can't go anywhere nice, Tommy."

"This is why we don't take you anywhere, Tommy."

"I swear to the Powers. Every time we EVA. It's the same _flakking_ thing..."

"Powers _damn_ it, Tommy."

"I killed the spiders..."

#  Challenge #175: With Understanding

Considering many herbivores on earth are gigantic and fully capable of hurting us "predators", how would a group of humans handle a diplomatic encounter with a council of large, all herbivore, prey-species, in order to convince them to join the larger space society?

We need them to trust us but also respect us.

Fear is a powerful tool indeed. – Anon Guest

Havenworlders amble gently into cogniscence and cautiously dip their toes into space travel. They are, by nature, the species most likely to have millennia-stable civilisations that expand slowly and graciously into the universe. And they are also, understandably, the most likely to be absolutely _terrified_ of any species tougher than them.

Herbivorous civilisations are more likely to come from Havenworlds. Deathworlder assumptions that only omnivores can properly become cogniscent are just that - assumptions. Havenworlders just take longer to progress towards cogniscence than they do. But, since they have an earlier start, both kinds often meet in the field. Which, as you might not guess, is disturbing to both sides of the encounter.

"It was a troll," said Salvager Grisket in deadly seriousness. "Nine feet tall if it was an inch."

"According to your own suit cam, Grisket, it was eight foot five," said Chief Document Manager Dexterson. "Adrenaline effects dimensional perceptions. Keep that in mind."

"It was big, it looked like it could crush me, and it was wearing a livesuit."

"We have detected another vessel in the area, but we don't wish to show our colours just yet. You and the other scavengers are cleared to attempt communication efforts. If they're that intimidating, they may prove useful in other negotiations."

Meanwhile, on the Ruumashi scavenger vessel...

"It was definitely a predator! Look at the eye placement. And it's smaller, which means it can absorb more compact forms of nutrition. Look at the slimness of its gut. It _has_ to be a predator. I was scared almost to death[35]."

"Yet it did not attack," said their analyst. "It froze. Which would suggest time as prey? At least at some point in their evolution."

"Caution is of course advised," said their strategist. "If we see them again, no sudden moves. Extra defensive armour, in case of further encounters. Try to at least suggest that we could be hostile if provoked."

_First contact between Havenworlders and Deathworlders is rarely survivable. If possible to diagnose a Deathworlder on sight, the best possible strategy is avoidance._ – Wikipedia Galactica.

Two species, alike in might and potential for hostility, met in a hulk. Both followed the strategies of _No Sudden Movements_ and _Maintain Eye Contact_. For a long and breathless moment, they stood and stared at each other until the natural fear response ebbed.

Slowly. Cautiously. The Deathworlder showed the Havenworlder what they were shopping for.

Equally as carefully, the Havenworlder followed suit.

The Deathworlder tore some of the Havenworlder's shopping out of the wall. Put it down between them, and backed away. The apparent effortlessness of this action was enough to set off alarms in the Havenworlder's livesuit. The Deathworlder took another pace back.

Dialogue between species is many things. Fraught with misunderstanding is definitely in the top five. With care and attention to actions, something can be accomplished. Even without words, the exchange of _I help you, you help me_ is clear to most species. And the basis of an alliance, to boot.

Both sides were rather disappointed when more linguistic understandings were accomplished.

[35] In the case of more fragile Havenworlders, this is not a metaphor.

#  Challenge #176: Garry's God

Please write some more about the Goddess of Fools and her human sacrifices! That last one was such a cliffhanger! – Anon Guest

AN: That would be [ this story for those who don't have the time to scroll back that far. And I have to wonder... cliffhanger? The dude died and was headed for Paradise. That's pretty final IMHO]

She was about to collect her latest offering. A young man just before coming of age. He could see her, but his body still lived, yet. At least he was free of pain.

"Duz'n a dyin' man gedda kiss, boo'ful?" he slurred.

_Not Yet,_ said the Goddess of Fools.

"Not on _my_ watch," said another voice. A cleric with gifts of healing laid his hands on the still breathing form of Garron Spynach. The Goddess of Life and Love flickered behind the cleric.

The Goddesses faced each other like cats. _Oh. It's You,_ they said in unison.

_Mine,_ said the Goddess of Fools. _He Has Sacrificed Himself To Me._

_He Is Not Dead Yet,_ challenged the Goddess of Life and Love. _Therefore He Is Not Sacrificed._

_He Has Spilled Blood For Me,_ argued the Goddess of Fools. _He Is Mine._

_Live Or Die?_ teased the Goddess of Life and Love.

The Goddess of Fools considered this. She had plenty of sacrifices in her Paradise. All fools doing foolish things for the beautiful beings she conjured for their pleasure. What it would be to have a Saint? What it would be to have a Faith? What it would be to have a Church?

It would be... something new. More power, indeed. Something to show those high-and-mighty types in the more accepted pantheon. _Live Or Die,_ she agreed. _He Is Mine._

The Goddess of Life and Love smiled the world's shittiest smile. The type that said, _Oh, boy; you are in for a bunch of shit and I'm going to love watching it happen to you._ And then she said, _We Are Agreed._ And granted her Cleric a true miracle.

Garron Spynach won the fight between life and death. His wounds closed, and he recovered his full health.

"Praise to the Goddess," breathed the Cleric.

The mortal man, having been so close to death, having been Claimed as a Saint, could see her now. He smiled for her and said, "Do I get that kiss, now, gorgeous?"

The Cleric turned, seeing only empty ground. "There's... nobody there."

"You're shitting me," he argued, levering himself up. "She's right here, real as rain." And he reached out to touch her. His hand went right through her breasts without even a breeze.

_Only You Can See Me, My Saint,_ she said. _You Have Shed Blood For Me. Now You Are Mine._

The Cleric was squinting. Perceiving her Divine Presence, but not which Divine Presence. "You've been blessed," he said. "A divine being walks with you." And some slight anger, "How did _you_ become a Saint?"

"She said I shed blood for her," said Garron, still confused. "I don't get it."

"You'd best follow me to the nearest Temple of All Gods," the Cleric decided. "There are Bishops who can sort this out."

Garron followed as bid, and the Goddess walked with him. "Do I gotta take vows of chastity? Because that would suck."

"That's between you and your divinity."

_Chastity Would Take All The Fun Out Of It,_ said the Goddess. _If There Is No Promise Of Sex, Why Do Anything?_

"Yeah, I think she's in favour of sex," said Garron, new Saint for an unknown Goddess.

_I Will Bless You With Resilience,_ she decided. _So Long As You Do Not Think Things Through, You Will Survive Incredibly Deadly Feats. You Will Attract Many Of Those You Want._

The First Church of Fools was off to a very interesting start.

#  Challenge #177: Versatility

If at first you don't succeed, use a bigger hammer. – Anon Guest

Thackians believed in hammers. Most societies prefer to believe in things which could not be proven to exist or not exist, but Thackians believed in hammers. Most importantly, they believed that there were few problems that the right kind of hammer couldn't solve.

This has caused much confusion amongst others. At least until Linguistics Professor Gorx decided to spend some time with them and analyse their usage and history of the tool.

Once they got there, and passed the barrier of distrust, LingProf Gorx found the most astonishing thing.

Thackians called _all_ tools 'hammer'.

They had encountered one human in their ancient past who taught them a smattering of GalStand from their own limited lexicon and had, according to their surviving journals, made a simple linguistic mistake. They, too, thought the word for 'hammer' meant 'tool'. And other words were qualifiers.

It also didn't help that this ancient Human had used a large spanner as a hammer, and passed on the concept of hitting things with non-standard hitting tools.

One could hardly ban Humans from crash-landing on inhabited planets, and this particular episode of civilisation pollution had occurred when Humans were still banned from Galactic spaces for being Deathworlders.

Thus, to the Thackians, _every_ tool was 'hammer'. Not that they didn't have an impressive supply of actual hammers for every occasion. Rock hammers, earth-compacting hammers, jack hammers, smithing hammers, jewellery hammers, door hammers, passkey hammers, the list went on. Thackians got a great deal of utility out of smacking an object with another object.

Even when the problem didn't look like a nail.

They told the story of the biggest hammer. The star-step hammer that that ancient human had been building to step back into the endless night from whence they had come. It shook the very atmosphere with its thunder and trailed immense clouds in its wake. The Thackians were awestruck, true, but they were not prone to creating a cargo cult around their strange visitor.

Though there _were_ peculiar stories they exchanged that were distinctly Human in origin, their pre-contact encounter hadn't done too much damage.

#  Challenge #178: Biorhythm and Blues

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man a damn nuisance to live with. – Anon Guest

If there is one thing more annoying than a morning person, it is a morning person who is at peak sunniness in the pre-dawn hours. Four in the morning becomes four in the _fucking_ morning with extra singing.

To his credit, Barry knew that his fellow shipmates liked to lie in, especially the most wonderful woman in the multiverse - Lup. His main squeeze. His snuggle-buddy. His absolute light of his life and his reason to continue despite the better part of a century's worth of death, revivification, disappointment, and just... watching worlds die, year after year after year.

Therefore he at least tried to keep his volume down in the wee small hours. _Tried_ being the operative word. There are some feelings that just cannot be contained and the joy of love is one among them. Another is abject terror, which he will be experiencing shortly.

The aimless tune he began with transformed into a tune he heard in a different world and some decades ago. One of those catchy ones that could never completely get out of the head. "...when she winks at me from across the room," he crooned. "It's the way she laughs and the way she cries/ It's the way her hand fits perfectly in mine..."

He started belting out the chorus as he put on the huge jug of coffee that half his crewmates seemed to live on, and looked up some of Lup's favourites from the cookbook Taako and Lucretia had titled, _Don't Fuck This Up_.

The kitchen was dark, and he operated by the light of a luminescent plant with interesting properties. Harvested from a planet two dimensions ago. So when two glowing lights appeared in the gloom, his reaction was predictable.

"Well it's the way she makes me feel ins–AAAAAAHH!"

Taako used Prestidigitation to light the kitchen lamps. "Pleased though I am that you're in the bloom of young love, _Barold_ ," he snarled. "Can you maybe keep it down to a dull roar before seven AM at the least?" He surveyed the mess-in-progress in the mess. "Especially if you're planning to fuck up my kitchen."

"Whose kitchen?" The sleepy second voice and equally alarming glowing eyes belonged to Lup, Taako's twin sister. Both the twins were equally as rumpled from stumbling out of bed at four in the morning, and only one was mildly pleased about this. "Last I checked, we were both signed on as chefs."

"Yes, but I'm the only one who takes it seriously, sister-dear." Taako checked the level of the coffee and found it insufficient, then checked the book. "Temptation pancakes? Seriously? With the last of our green apples?"

"Let him do it, babe. I want to see him try," goaded Lup.

"You're eating it, darling," snapped Taako.

Lup considered this. "Okay. Maybe you'd better cook it."

Barry wasn't insulted. He knew he had a tendency to wander off and do complicated math at random moments and therefore leave things to burn. It had taken two weeks, some industrial vinegar, and a month's worth of apologising to Taako to clean up after the _last_ time he'd tried to cook.

"You can do some sunny-side-up eggs if you promise not to leave the kitchen while you're making them," Taako allowed. "And please don't sing about being in love with my sister when I'm in the room. You two are gross."

"Oh yes, don't offend my poor baby brother, babe. He's still tender of age and easily offended," added Lup.

" _Forty five minutes..._ " growled Taako. "You're going to get uppity about _three quarters of an hour_ ..."

Barry checked the time. Five o'clock. The first family argument of the day was getting earlier and earlier. And it was all his fault.

Much, much later, at almost seven in the evening...

"Babe... Babe, get up," Lup nudged him. "Much though I love that you like napping on my rack, I need to pee."

"Mwnf?"" mumbled Barry. He'd been reading up on this planet's science just a minute ago. No. Make that half an hour ago. "...w's jus' restin' my eyes, I swear..."

"I know, babe. Sit up. I need to pee."

Barry sat up, and still blushed when Lup kissed him on the cheek and said, "Thanks, babe." He closed his eyes for just a second...

And woke up to dinner being waved under his nose. "Eat up, babe. You know how my dumb baby brother gets when people don't eat his cooking."

In the _other_ comfy chair, Merle was dozing with a freshly-emptied plate on his lap. "D'd I miss d'nn'r again?"

"Almost. You're lucky I love feeding people."

Dinner was superb. Of course it was. Taako could cook hardtack and swill and make it turn out like gourmet fare. It was moments like this that he lived for. Delicious food and the love of his life by his side. Contentment and comfort and...

"Babe..." poke poke poke. "You dozed off again."

"This is what you get for dating a senior citizen," singsonged Taako from somewhere in the periphery. "Old men sleeping on couches..."

"Best stop singing or I'll zap you with ouches," sang Lup.

"This is the example you lead me?" Taako sniped. "No wonder I'm such a delinquent."

The last family argument of the evening was underway early, but from the looks of things, it could go into overtime.

#  Challenge #179: Ghosts... In... Space!

Alien crew spots ghost ship (not the derelict/abandoned kind, more like the ship itself is one of the ghosts)

In an infinite universe, all things are possible. The nature of time and events therein is cyclical. Of those tautologies, spaceport stories are made. This one just happens to come with documentation.

They were light years from civilisation, _of course_ and without an accurate means of contacting anyone, _of course_. Because nothing interesting happens in the middle of civilisation with access to a rapid response team. They were supposed to be charting EM frequencies from a peculiar star when _it_ turned up.

"It's... it's," Flaxxyn fumbled for a definition that could be verified with sensors and failed. "It's green." And it was. It was also an ancient seafaring vessel from the days of sail and entirely see-through. It was staffed by a literal skeleton crew. Steered by a skeleton in a fancier hat and an impressive beard, despite the fact that there was no skin for it to remain there.

A ghost ship. Plying the endless seas of the eternal night.

They recorded it with everything they had, of course. Including the visual spectrum cameras. Many did not produce definable results, except for the visual one. Which did, indeed, record a ship of ghosts. Some of the skeletons waved at them from the rigging.

It passed by their ship, travelling at roughly seventy four kliks[36] per hour. And then went on into the darkness until it was no longer visible.

Those Havenworlders in the crew had to take an interesting drug cocktail just to survive the shock of the encounter, and could only approach the resultant data in small doses of ten minutes or less.

In all of known space, the answer came from some Humans in the Edge Territories, who identified the vessel in less than a second.

"That's the _Flying Dutchman_ ," one of the Humans exclaimed. "She must have followed us out."

An infinite universe is stranger than you might wish to believe.

[36] One thousand Standard Distance Units. This is, as you can no doubt tell, a human abbreviation that has dominated GalStand.

#  Challenge #180: Double Scheherazade

Alien crew explores a likely-haunted spaceship wreck they found floating around

Afterlives are one of the more complicated cultural complications in Galactic Society. Though citizens are not encouraged to insist on inserting their beliefs into others' heads, the topic of assorted beliefs is not taboo, either. One is expected to not judge, and not be judged in return. For instance: most cultures believe that some form of animated spirit persists after the mortal shell is deceased. Where it goes and what it does varies after that.

And all of those beliefs come out into the assembled team's brains when exploring an empty, drifting vessel. Vessels should be full. Or at a minimum, crewed. This looked like a long haul cargo transporter and nothing had activated when they hailed it. Trajectory had it heading off into nowhere. So they docked and at least tried to sort out why it was headed in a funky direction.

The pock-marked painting on the side said, _Revere's Ride_. Which made it a human vessel. The airlock failed, and had failed some time in the past, leaking air like a seive and subtly pushing the _Revere's Ride_ off course by potentially millions of kliks. How it had not set off alarms or signals was anyone's guess. Nevertheless, they managed to bully the leaking door into opening and equalising pressure inside.

They stepped in cautiously, full-disaster Livesuits on, to examine the evidence. Some of the cargo were people. Frozen at a point between life and death. Waiting for medical teams to revive them at their destination. The bulk of the cargo was colonial supplies.

The lights didn't always work, leading to a gloomy atmosphere where one might expect fast shadows to move in one's peripheral vision. Well. If one were human. And Human Steph was seemingly expecting them.

"I'm not scared," she singsonged. "I'm not scared of shadows. Some big motherfucker's gonna jump on us an' I plan to blast it to shiiiit..." She twitched, aiming her plasma gun down a side-corridor. "Aaaawww... Aw the poor kitty..."

There was, indeed, a cat. Curled up on a pet bed as if the calico had gone to sleep and never woken up. Someone had carefully placed a toy mouse and a dried fish by her nose. Vacuum had freeze-dried the body.

"That's a flakking grave," sang Human Steph. She backed away.

Then they found the jury-rigged rack containing thirty-three potential survivors of an obvious meteor impact. The meteor itself was still lodged in the ship and surrounded by sealing foam.

"I'm not frightened of dead bodies," singsonged Human Steph. "They can't do anything, they're dead. No ghosts would want to be here, stop thinking like that."

Exploratory Officer Groz, knowing Human Steph as she did, sighed. "The spirits of the departed have long since flown to their greater paradise. What you are experiencing is a liminal-space-induced episode of paranoia."

"It's only paranoia until they're out to get you," sang Human Steph. "Cryo coffins stacked up like cordwood is not my favourite thing to find. Dead bodies are in the top ten, too..."

They trod quietly, or as quietly as they could, through the halls of the empty ship. Spooky lighting had Human Steph jumping at their own shadows. At least she was one of the few humans who could be relied upon to identify her target before pressing the trigger.

"There aren't any ghosts here," sang Human Steph. "Only shadows. Darkness there and nothing more..."

"Hello and welcome, Wandering Star," said an unfamiliar voice.

Human Steph whirled like a cat that had found a cucumber, training her gun on... a very ordinary speaker.

The voice continued. An automated message had finally kicked into life. "This ship, the Revere's Ride is a cryo-courier vessel carrying colonists to New Frisco. This is a recording of the sole crew member. You should find me up in the front cabin, and if all goes well, I should be revivable. If I'm not... well... see that I'm put away with my cat, will you? She did me fine service and I couldn't let her go away alone."

"As for my cargo and passengers... Please see to it that they reach New Frisco intact. They trusted me to get them there. I did my utmost to keep that promise." There was an extended pause, as if the speaker was considering his next words. "This is Pilot Paul Collins, signing off. Maybe for the last time."

ExOff Groz looked to Human Steph. Her eyes were wide and terrified. "Someone's still alive on this hulk. We have to attempt rescue."

"Hell-flakk no," Human Steph warbled. "I've heard all the stories. Shit goes bad when you mix stasis and vacuum."

"You'd leave your Havenworlder crew alone with something _you're_ scared of?" ExOff Groz goaded.

"I hate you," she muttered insincerely. "No. You know I won't."

The pilot's chambers had been gutted of everything that could be safely removed. The jury-rigged navigation system had quit at some point in the past and continued on a heading close to the one they'd found it on. And the body in the stasis booth was wearing a livesuit.

"Huh," said Human Steph. "They heard those stories, too."

Oh yes. _Those_ stories. Passed between cogniscents wherever two beings gathered to scare the fluids out of each other. People who trusted stasis alone to keep them safe, and the ship suffered a critical hull failure. Stasis kept them between moments, but it couldn't keep air in the chamber or warmth, either.

They say that when stasis was ended, the freeze-dried corpse had one scream left in it before it properly died...

Science and medicine had tried everything, but all they had was one last scream.

_This_ body was in a sealed livesuit, inside the stasis chamber. They rightfully didn't trust their ship to keep them safe.

Through the faceplate, they could see a human face. Dried out a little, and looking like it had been ravaged by cold, but still potentially alive. And the read-out on the chest-plate confirmed it.

"This person's still alive. Holy flakk, they're still alive!"

They towed _Revere's Ride_ to its destination, circulating the ship's logs to anyone who wanted to help. Nobody on record had done anything like this. The surviving colonists were easier to revive than Pilot Collins, since there was _procedure_ for cryo-suspended people.

The other good news was that his family were coming out to meet him. And they didn't care about his diagnosis of _Freezer-burnt, But Okay_. The _okay_ part was the important bit.

AN: For further news about Paul Collins' interesting times, check out [Nor Gloom of Night by this author :D Also, in case you're wondering about the title, Scheherazade told a thousand and one tales. I just doubled it. Brag, brag, skite, skite.]

#  Challenge #181: Sibling Ribaldry

How would aliens react to human-human relationships? Particularly close ones (best friends, romantic partners) where affection is mainly shown through quips and teasing? – Anon Guest

_Humans are pack animals. When enlisting Humans on to your vessel, one may consider the benefits of recruiting Humans who are already deeply bonded with each other._ – Galactic Advice Manual, _The Care and Maintenance of Humans_.

Humans accustomed to space tended to have monosyllabic names. Many were pronounceable by most Galactics. Such was the case of Bob and Dar. They were used to a great many things, including the obvious question when the two of them turned up to enter a new vessel.

"Have Humans discovered cloning?" the curious alien would ask. They knew they had hired brothers, that much was true. What they didn't always understand was that they had hired _identical twin_ brothers. And the brothers' reactions depended entirely on how much the alien rated on their personal Newbie Score.

This lost little lamb of a confused and confounded Saurian was going to get the kid gloves. "Do you understand what twins are?" asked Dar.

"Tiny infants," said the Saurian. Their name-patch declared them as Roix. "Double-yolker produces small and frail young. They do not often survive."

"We're mammals, so it's a little easier to have two babies at once," said Bob. "And not all twins are identical twins like us."

"You got lucky," Dar joked. "You can have half-off on ID photos."

"That is not how it works," said Roix. "Besides, there are subtle differences we must record."

The twins exchanged looks. This was looking like an entire ship's worth of lost little lambs. They wouldn't be relaxed around them for at least two months.

Two months later.

The Aquilopsids were now used to human peculiarities and had ceased being incredibly nervous and painfully curious around their twinned Ships' Humans. Quite a few of them could tell Bob and Dar apart on sight. Therefore, the humans fell to their more... _casual_ habits whilst on duty.

High-fiving each other in passing was accustomed. Now they began slapping each other's butts on the follow-through. The hardy perennial argument regarding the oldest versus the youngest began to appear. And so did the insults.

"Hey Poopfinger!"

"Yeah, Snotgobbler?"

"How many beta twins does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"Why are you asking a question only you can answer?"

They were loaded with in-jokes, which meant that though the Aquilopsids understood the words, they did not understand them in _those combinations_. Confusion soon followed.

"Human..." Exli paused to check indicators. "Bob. Why are you hostile, now? We had understood that you were pack-bonded? Is there healing possible for this rift?"

"We're... not... hostile," said Bob. "This is a family thing. We can insult each other and get away with it because it comes from a place of love."

"A place of... love..." echoed Exli. "I do not understand."

They tried to explain. They even took turns. Friendly ribbing and the occasional joking taunt were foreign concepts to the Aquilops. And all the human memes in known space couldn't help them out.

Powers help them, the Aquilops referred to them as _reference material_.

#  Challenge #182: Adventure is Out There

"I hate you."

"You just saved my life! Plus, we both know you adore me."

"Well, finding someone else to hate is too much work."

"And risking your own life to save me wasn't?"

"See? This is why I hate you. Nitpicking, and ungrateful." – Spotted

Everyone has heard of the Fisher King. Very few have heard of the Adventurer King, the one who decided to help his Kingdom by personally fighting the problems that plagued it. Unfortunately for Sir Dravyn, he is one who definitely has heard of the Adventurer King. Because he's the one who has to save that highborn ass on a regular basis.

Though the boy who was still King was growing into a man, he was evidently not growing into one with much in the way of sense. His cohort of ragtag adventurers didn't quite believe that he was King of the Realm. They didn't truly understand that Sir Dravyn was Oath-sworn to follow and protect and obey his King. Half of them didn't believe he was actually the King. In spite of meeting him on the throne and in his official robes of state.

Right now, though, it was hard to believe that His Majesty was intelligent life. He had, after all, got his butt handed to him by a Dragon he had attempted to charm, pickpocket, and then seduce. He was, frankly, lucky to still be alive. Most of that was due to the Cleric, Thanryl. Who had taken a very unfortunate vow of honesty.

The King opened his eyes and tried his most winning smile on her.

"I hate you," she said.

"You just saved my life! Plus, we both know you adore me."

"Well," she allowed, "finding someone else to hate is too much work."

"And risking your own life to save me wasn't?"

"See? This is why I hate you. Nitpicking and ungrateful."

The way they bickered, it was expected that they'd be mashing faces by the third act. According to Sir Dravyn, it was an idiotic expectation. Thanryl was bound by her vows, just as much as Dravyn was. And life didn't come in neat acts, with breaks for the audience to visit the privy or grab some portable food.

Life was far more complicated and messy than the playwrights would have anyone believe.

"Now, now, sweet Cleric. If you truly hated me, you would have let me die."

"I swore an oath to preserve life," she said, deadpan. "Though if you prefer me to pickle you in alcohol, I could arrange it..."

"When are they gonna kiss?" whispered the Rogue, Okhni.

"Perhaps when the world freezes over," sighed Dravyn.

#  Challenge #183: Nice... Dog?

How do alien ambassadors to earth first react to trying to translate/figure out what is a dog and what isn't?

At this point it's a minor policy at the embassy to just assume all furred quadrupeds smaller than a horse are dogs. – Anon Guest

Terra's first unofficial ambassador was the dog. Closely followed by the cat. The cat was simply pest control, but the dog... there are few species of Terran origin that are more versatile. Some Havenworlders use them as mounts or pack animals. Many dogs are used for search and rescue. Others were effective, adoring, and protective guards.

It was when the cat arrived that the trouble started. It only got worse from there.

"Why is this dog howling?"

"That's not a dog. That's a cat. He thinks I haven't fed him enough."

Logically positing that cats were mammalian quadrupeds of a certain size, the cogniscent in question appended the definition of 'dog' in the free Galactic infonets.

Then Galactic Society encountered a Terrier. Small as a cat. Hunted small rodents like a cat. But it barked and wagged its tail and obeyed commands. It was a dog the size of a cat, or smaller. Other small breeds became known. The pug, the pekingese, the chihuahua... and the guide had to be updated.

Further adding to the confusion was the fact that Galactic Society got to know _ponies_ and _horses_ before they encountered their first caucasian shepherd. Better known as the Russian bear-hunting dog. And using a Terran's reaction to the larger animals was not helpful, since Terran Horse People tend to baby their equines as much if not more so than Terran Dog People babied their canines.

Galactic Society was about to class all Terran-origin mammalian quadrupeds as 'dog' until corrected. Under this potential threat, someone invented the Terran-childhood education game, _Dog or Not Dog?_

And nearly started a war.

#  Challenge #184: One Line to Cross

Humans are walking biohazard to everyone and everything. Our saliva can cause several pandemics alone is unchecked. If our gut is punctuated, the bacteria (and acid) inside us will eat us alive, not to mention whoever else may come into contact with it.

What happens when the galactic community first learns about this fact?

What happens when a human is found with an open gut wound that has been left untreated? – Anon Guest

Humans will risk their lives for the beings they have pack-bonded with. Many species abuse this fact. But not after Regulus Seven. The horror of that particular event inspired the entirety of Galactic Civilisation to care for their Humans as much as the Humans cared for them.

Because the Humans' own bodies can be their worst enemies.

The Human known as Jess had been punctured during the pirate raid, but they got all their pack-mates into an escape vessel and out of the danger zone. These pirates used spear guns against the enemy, and packed them with enough velocity to pierce even a _Human_ battle-rated livesuit. The Roknathi had seen their human pierced before and didn't think anything of it. They followed standard piercing protocol - bandage around the foreign object and make certain that it can't be accidentally jostled, then get the human to the nearest Human Medical Expert for further treatment. The problem was, the nearest expert was some weeks away from the current situation.

Human Jess had not helped the situation by doing as much as he could for her Roknathi crew. But over the weeks, they noticed that the Human was capable of less and less as the days ticked by. He repeatedly claimed that he was fine. He could deal with this.

And then his temperature spiked into the Human Hazard zone.

The expert, monitoring Jess' life signs, transferred to a fast courier and sped up their arrival by a day. It was almost a day too late.

One of the injuries had 'gone septic' according to Jess. He hadn't told his Roknathi because he didn't want to upset them.

Humans can lie, even to the ones they love. They can lie about all things.

By the time Medik Krixlorb arrived, Jess was highly feverish and an infection had set in around the wound in their abdomen. Jess had had the foresight to print and culture replacement organs in all their injured zones, but the bacteria from their own digestive system was causing some horrible infestation in the surrounding tissues.

A century or more ago, this kind of injury would not have been survivable. Even at this point in time it was 'touch and go', to use a Human term.

A team of ten local Mediks got a flash-education in Human Medicine, because Medik Krixlorb needed that many extra hands on the mammoth task of saving Human Jess' life. It wasn't just the punctured intestines that needed replacing. Muscle and other, nearby organs had to be removed and replaced with partially immature copies. Human Jess needed to be sedated and chilled, his system flooded with special mould cultures known amongst other Humans as _antibiotics_. His heart had to be restarted five times, and a machine had to help him breathe for a significant portion of the procedure and the recovery.

The Roknathi were _horrified_ at this news. The word spread. _Our human died for us five times, almost a month after the event!_ Humans would go to extremes for their pack. Images were shared, with offensensitivity warnings, of their Human Jess in an intensive care drawer. Replaced flesh new and pink around some of his wounds, read-outs showing the recovery status of the replaced organs. Other read-outs showing the extensive list of medications the systems were administering.

_Humans will die for us,_ the message said. And then it implored, _Don't let them._

#  Challenge #185: He's a Griefer

"How could you?"

"I trusted you and, and you played me!"

"Like the cheap kazoo you are" – Anon Guest

Some tasks are harder than others. Some efforts are purely emotional. And by the end of this mission to Zangress Four, Arlo was feeling weak as a kitten despite having all her health stats in peak range. The explorer she'd been hired to escort, Thuxx, had managed to make it through all kinds of potential hazards, including being one of those types who were too smart to know when to eat. Five Standard Months of constant worrying can drain the body and soul just as effectively as nigh-constant battle.

Arlo's battle had been with the elements, constantly protecting the cute, fuzzy, teddy-bear-looking Thuxx against the slings and arrows of a world apparently loaded with every kind of hazard imaginable. According to the records, Planet Thrillseeker was allegedly supposed to be a deep-time colony to make an entire world into a gigantic potential death trap for wealthy investors to have the time of their lives in. The creator of said thrill world did not go down into deep time with the colonists and had forgotten basic essentials like: how the staff was expected to survive. Or a decent breeding population. Or what the staff were supposed to live on after the wormhole closed. But they _had_ remembered to make certain all the death traps and elaborate puzzles would remain fully-functional after thousands of years' worth of neglect[37].

Thuxx was safe, now. Back in his offices where he could catalogue relics and arrange bidders for them. And that was an immense relief. Arlo smiled just to watch him putter about the offices and write entries into his catalogue. "Your account has been credited, Human Arlo. You may return to your business or pleasure."

"You're sure you're not going to starve without me?" Arlo teased. She knew from their long association that Thuxx would sit and study until faint from exhaustion or hunger.

"Correct. You are no longer required. I'm perfectly capable of self-maintenance, it merely tickled my fancy to have a known Deathworlder bringing me meals like I was a Pack Alpha."

There were so many options for a reaction to that statement that Arlo's brain fused. All she could think of to say was a flat, "What?"

"I was... how do you humans put it? Acting." At this point, Thuxx threw off his competant, businesslike mien and resumed the cute, soft-spoken, and helpless Thuxx that Arlo knew too well. "Oh. I seem to have forgotten my meals again. Arlo, can you be a dear and fetch me a nutrition packet?"

Her entire body spasmed with the instinct to go get it. But now she knew it was a ruse. "How _could_ you?" she asked.

"It was amusing. Now it is no longer amusing. Your service is done. You may leave."

"I trusted you and, and you played me!"

Thuxx was treating her like temporarily inconvenient and rather noisy furniture. "Like the cheap kazoo you are. Leave now, or I will be forced to call Security to eject you."

Arlo stormed towards the door, which was automatic and couldn't slam in a satisfactory manner. "This won't be the last of this," she vowed.

"Your threat has been noted and logged, Human. You can't commit violence against me without getting caught."

Arlo let the door close on him, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to scream. To run until her legs failed her. To attempt to consume her own weight in chocolate. To burn her skin off in the hottest and most fragrant bubble bath she could accomplish. And then maybe drown in it.

She did, however, wash up at an Unsuitable Food restaurant and ordered a bad day blow-out. It came with sparklers and a smilie face made of candy. Which was so Powers-damned cute that she almost started bawling all over again.

The Gyiik staffing the counter read her like a large-print book made for toddlers. "Messy divorce?"

"Close," Arlo croaked. She cleared her throat and ate some of the candy face. Starting with the red-rope liquorish smile. "Messy termination." Arlo detached her data reader from her vambrace and brought up one of the very many pictures of Thuxx Being Cute. An act. A lie. A base canard. A gross misconduct of emotional proportions. "Cute, isn't he?"

"Adorable," agreed the Gyiik. Her name-tag declared her as Fyel.

"LIES!" Arlo pounded the counter, making several nearby cogniscents jump. "IT'S ALL A BUNCH OF FILTHY LIES!" And then she fell to messy sobbing against the counter. When she had the power of speech again, she added, "I worked my ass off, and worried about him, and cared for him, and stressed myself out for _four months_ ... and it was all an _act_ so he could be _entertained_ ..."

Murmurs rippled through the restaurant. Fyel, a good restauranteur, cleaned up Arlo's spilled fluids and sent the cleaning cloth to the biotainment incinerator. Then handed Arlo a big box of tissues.

"You are allowed to feel rotten about this," said Fyel. "It is a betrayal of the worst kind. Counselling has been called for and you will receive the first ten sessions for free. As a public service."

"...'nk you," Arlo snivelled. "Y'r so nice..."

"And remember. What goes around comes around, especially when you make it happen."

Fantasies of revenge danced like visions of sugarplums in Arlo's head. "I don't have to do a damn thing to him," she said in alarmingly quiet revelation. "I can let word of mouth do it for me. Fyel, you're a genius."

When the counsellor reached Fyel, she was most of the way through the ice cream and had made a dent in the cheesecake. Thanks to her mission armour, she had footage of Thuxx being an asshole to share with every human who cared to look at the fid she'd put together.

Cheesecake helped soothe her emotional wounds. Therapist Gram helped begin to heal them. Knowing that a thousand people had already heard about this lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch teddy bear was a balm to Arlo's shattered nerves. And the 'cheap kazoo' line wasn't doing him any favours. She shared her personal logs from the mission on advice from her counsellor.

At which point, a host of other humans turned up who had experienced the same betrayal on the same planet with the same Evil Teddy Ruxpin motherflakker. And before a week was over, the Galactic Lawyers' League was suing Thuxx for emotional damages in a class action lawsuit. That, and none of his former clients wanted his treasures.

All because _he had made a human cry_.

[37] This is my pet peeve with Indiana Jones.

#  Challenge #186: Confounding Convergence

'Don't be silly', snapped Mara, 'cows have 6 legs'. (Mara from Feists 'Empire' trilogy, goes with Kevin to Midkemia) – Anon Guest

[AN: Another book series I will likely forget to find and read. Whoops. I'm still trying to get into GoT...]

Yan stopped cold and stared her fellow human. "We are talking about the same animal, right? Terran origin mammal, about yae tall," she gestured with her hand. "Goes 'moo'. Herbivorous. Four stomachs. Gives milk?"

"Uh. No. I have no idea what you're talking about," said Jorg. "Cows live on the kelp in the tidal flats and go 'krrrt'. They're amphibious hexapods with a chitinous exoskeleton. You got the herbivorousness and the milk thing right, though." This last part said as if Jorg were handing out partial points.

This almost blew Yan's mind. "Where are you from again?"

"Salty Flats, on a planet named Sog."

" _Oh_." Well, that explained _so_ much. "A _Sog_ cow. Right."

The new recruit blinked at Yan, her eyes wide. "There's other kinds of cows?"

Yan had to grin. "First, I gotta tell you all about the Walks Like A Duck Principal. And then, when we get back from Survey, I am introducing you to _beef_."

"What's beef got to do with cows?"

"Ask the French. We gotta focus now. Infodump later."

The large creature they captured was more saurian than mammalian but it was: (1) big enough to be a cow, (2) fuzzy enough to be a cow, (3) travelled in herds like cows did, (4) herbivorous, and (5) made a passable 'moo' noise. Therefore, it got named a [Planet Name] Cow based entirely on the Walks Like A Duck Principal.

It's amazing how many creatures follow convergent evolution _and_ get named after the familiar animal they most represent. Sometimes, those resemblances can be nebulous at best. Sometimes, they are really, really eerie.

Sog Cows look nothing like Terran ones. Nobody has been brave enough to ask how one milks them, though.

#  Challenge #187: What About Me?

The older jade-skinned female shook her head with a sympathetic smile - not angry, but understanding good intentions gone misinformed.

"Lana, you're young and determined, but also human. Tall, white, human. Not short, not green, and definitely not goblin. I appreciate you wanting to plan this 'goblin pride' rally thing, but it's kinda romanticised. Just because we mixed into human society doesn't mean we risk losing ourselves. We still know our history and have our beliefs and traditions, as crude and vulgar as some of them are in the opinions of some humans."

The goblin woman frowned a bit, as if hesitating slightly. "But Goblins... we weren't exactly the whole 'noble savage' thing like you were taught and want to show, nice as that might sound to pretend otherwise. We were craven little gremlins, jumping at shadows - funny to learn fantasy roleplaying games were pretty accurate on that, to a degree, huh?"

A pause as Lana chuckled, then she continued. "Before the humans discovered the first goblins, we were little monsters; we scavenged carcasses or garbage, lived in swamps & caves, and basically used sex as currency. Integrating with human society was a good thing. Medicine, good food, safety. Lives got longer, kids got smarter. We... are better off now. Now come here, kiddo, let's see if we can't get things a bit more presentably accurate..." – Anon Guest.

There were many things to be proud of, as a Goblin. The species' tenacity was definitely in the top ten. As was their adaptability to any given environment. Not mentioned in polite society was how Goblins knew how to prepare, cook, and eat the flesh of other intelligent species. Their inherent magic to render any normally inedible and soft enough substance into edible material, on the other hand, was widely celebrated after an inordinate spate of food terrorism.

Well. It was called food terrorism _now_. Back in the era it was happening, it was called _The Deregulation and Dismantling of the FDA_. Or it was better known at the time, _a bold new move for the invisible hand of the free market._ The free market had loved being able to add poison to foodstuffs to make it last longer, taste better, look healthier, and otherwise make vast amounts of profit with the least amount of expenditure. And the medical market had loved putting people into debtor's prison for their crimes of being sick and poor.

The Goblins had come out of the woodwork, safely consuming that which sickened humanity. Things were revealed. And suddenly the invisible hand of the free market had _competition_ from a species that could make all the adulterated food safe to eat once more. The revolution came shortly thereafter, when the ruling class attempted to make these unlikely saviour cryptids _illegal_ and openly urged for Goblin extinction.

The history books didn't mention how the Goblins took Humanity's long-standing metaphor, _eat the rich_ rather literally after the rebels had won. That was a little detail of miscommunication that most polite people preferred not to talk about. And it was that little wrinkle that Lana was attempting to sanctify through her attempt at throwing a parade. There was a proposal for a beheaded human corpse on a rotating spit that periodically shot coloured streamers out of the stump.

Lana was going to make it out of flowers. As if that was going to make that unpleasant wrinkle of history any more appealing. And as for her designs concerning the parade costumes... the less said about that, the better.

Deep fried meat balls, candy skulls, and costumes representing the personifications of disease, greed, and anger were approved. Floats representing modern Goblin industry were preferred over the gory and racist past. And any attempt at humans in Greenface was politely shut down.

Lana broke, at last. "I don't get it," she whined. "Why won't you include us in your celebration?"

The elder, Blass, glared a little. "You were the one wanting to throw _us_ a party. Based on _our_ history. _Our_ heritage. _Our_ struggle. And you want to be in it?"

She didn't get it. "Why not?"

"Are you in any part of our history?"

Lana puffed herself up. "I'm the grand-niece of the second cousin of the best friend of the husband of the woman who campaigned for your people on Facebook."

"Campaigned," echoed Elder Blass.

"Yup. She liked every single Goblin Rights meme that turned up on her feed. Sometimes it took her _two hours_."

"Wow," said Blass, in spite of the fact that sarcasm was lost on the slow of mind. "That must have taken some heroism. Nothing at all like the bravery of the people who actually acted as human shield for Goblin children, or those who defied the law to usher Goblin families to places of safety."

The metaphorical penny may have begun to fall through the slow molasses of Lana's mind. "Er," she said.

"Or those who began the revolution by teaching entire litters of Goblins that they could be more than craven scavengers. Or those who forcibly liberated camps where the corporations were holding thousands hostage or in enslavement for corporate gain." Blass sipped her tea. "But I'm sure you're distant associate by nebulous association suffered _horribly_ from blisters on her clicking finger."

Lana's face looked like a smacked bottom. "Well if you're going to be _mean_ , then I'm going to scrap the whole thing! You ungrateful Snots."

"Nice racist slur," said Blass, unaffected. "Just what I'd expect from someone with such a _noble_ heritage." Her pack of guardian warriors seemingly appeared out of the woodwork to make certain that she didn't do much more than throw a tantrum.

Some people still got salty that they couldn't turn up to the party two decades late with romantic visions of still being some kind of saviour.

#  Challenge #188: Barbarian Benevolence

What happened to the human dying the storm in "Challenge #01981-E157: One Educational Day on a Strange New World"? How did their relationship change after? Please write more of this story! It's so fascinating! – Anon Guest

AN: Callback to [ this one for those who don't want to go hunting]

_Stern mum_ Human Shaz was a fierce guardian. Horx understood that, now. The mother with one chick would protect it from even the mildest of potential hazards. And since Human Shaz's grasp of GalStand was nebulous, it took a while to work out a shared shorthand.

Outsiders were very disturbed to hear phrases from _Dog Handlers_ , like, "Sit" or, "Down, girl". And even further disturbed by Human Shaz's resultant _laughter_. Horx learned one phrase in Human, and it was, " _I wanna do it_ ," in the tones of childish petulance.

It was an odd relationship, but no relationship with a human could ever be accused of being normal. Humans with other humans in their pack could be alarmingly rough with each other. Wrestling and manhandling other humans was almost background noise. Humans with Havenworlders in their pack were... alarmingly gentle. Galactic strategies with big problems was usually, _point humans at it and sweep up the wreckage afterwards_. It was very disturbing to see a bulky, scar-covered human kneel to gently fix a Havenworlder's ship Skins or engage in companionable grooming at a level the Havenworlder could appreciate.

And after the first few times Horx actively climbed Human Shaz to have a higher vantage point, the Human anticipated hir needs and _picked Horx up_ with the same ease that humans could casually shift metal furniture. Finishing by holding Horx aloft by hir feet, with a single Human hand as a platform. Horx easily glided down once ze was done, and remembered to thank Human Shaz.

Of course, there was always, "Ay" in their shared lexicon. But now there was also, "Ut." A gutteral sound that meant, 'freeze, danger'. And there always _was_ danger. Human Shaz excelled at spotting predators and poisonous things before Horx could even see them.

It was a shocking sadness to end the mission and return to the safety of Galactic society. Human Shaz didn't seem much smaller out of her livesuit. All muscle and scars and tattoos. She hunkered down so that they shared an eyeline and said. "No want go." And there was moisture in her eyes.

Leaking from her eyes.

Horx handed her a biotainment cloth. "No leaking, Human Shaz. Is not end. Little birdie coming back inside year."

Human Shaz contained her dangerous fluids. "Oh. _Holiday_. You taking fun times for happy."

Of all the difficult things Humans had conquered, mutual understanding had to be the hardest. They wrestled with the easy words as hard as they wrestled with macrofauna. Pinning down meaning with as many holds as they could manage. "Yes. Fun times for happy. Horx sending pictures."

This made Human Shaz show her teeth. "Yes. Shaz waiting happy. Little birdie having many fun. Shaz having many fun, also."

Humans would pack-bond with _anything_. And, oddly enough, Horx felt honoured to be included in _this_ Human's friend pack.

#  Challenge #189: Steep Learning Curve on the Explorer Seventeen

There's always talk of how humans pack bond to everyone and everything. But that sort of connection, especially with sentiments, needs to be mutual. So how do humans cope with being the only human on a ship? With loneliness?

Who supports the one who's supposed to do all the supporting? – Anon Guest.

"We are here because something is happening to the Ship's Human. Grox? You are the one who's been cataloguing symptoms."

"I'm the assigned envoy. I have to work with the human. Over these most recent weeks, I've noticed an increasing set of symptoms. Our Human has begun seeking increasing environments of warmth, needing more sleep, and experiencing some difficulty with their breathing. They have been seen holding their arms despite the optimal temperature settings for their physical needs. Their overall demeanour is becoming decreasingly energetic. I suspect we may have another broken human."

Scientist Prex was looking things up. "This is an... emotional issue," ze said. "According to my research, our human is suffering from a condition called 'depression'."

"It's sad," translated Grox. "But it has everything it needs. Air, shelter, food. It's even pack-bonded with us. We need a different human."

Thork was frowning. Looking at reports. "Other ships don't _have_ this trouble. Why is it that we're the only ones who need to swap out humans every handful of months?"

Kaz had used some of the Ships' bandwidth to download some _home fids_ and was watching one of a crew and their human. "Contact," ze said. "The Human pets us. We do not pet it. It is expending pack-bonding energy for us, to us, and we are not returning their gestures."

It was like a dawning light.

"The Human is sad because it thinks we're not pack bonding in return?"

"In essence. Yes. I suggest we start small and acclimate."

They didn't. They started with hugs and apologies and the Human's favourite versions of theobromine and treat food. Humans were so valuable as shipboard and EVA protectors that none of the crew wanted the fuss and bother of obtaining yet another human.

And then they learned that their Human was a _hugger_. Which was an entirely new problem to solve.

#  Challenge #190: Wrecked

Seeing as humans as tasked with mainly with protecting and defending a ship, regardless of their occupation and other roles they serve, how do the humans and their crew react when their ship is attacked? And if (when?) they fail?

How do humans cope with loss and failure when their more squishy Havenworlder friends need comforting the most? – Anon Guest

The Sylph had learned what the Human phrase, "You go ahead, I'll catch up," _really_ meant. And had had to use heavy moving equipment to literally drag their humans out of the fray. Many of them were missing limbs. A few were being kept in a medical coma by their livesuits until they reached a more sturdy level of care.

There were a lot less of them than the original forty.

Theril counted them again. Twelve. It would be twelve when she counted them again, and no amount of wishing could make it any more than twelve. Three in comas. Eight badly wounded. Only one was whole, and then only on the outside. They had collectively rescued seventy-five Sylph out of the crew of one hundred. An amazing success rate considering that this was a surprise Vorax attack on an unarmed science vessel. Human Jes, the one whole Human of the survivors, seemingly didn't view this as a success.

"I had them in my hands," ze kept repeating. "I had them in my hands, and then the airlock blew. I had them right in my hands..." Ze had been found adrift and unconscious in the debris. Hir livesuit had worked, slamming hir faceplate closed and supplying hir with air. The four crewmen in hir arms had not been so lucky. "I had them in my hands..."

Theril, still riding the buzz of her anti-stress meds, moved to try and comfort the Human. "You still had them in your hands when we found you. You did your best. We had to use tools to make you let them go."

Human Jes didn't quite look at Theril. Those eyes were seeing the last moments before the disaster. Over and over. "I had them right in my hands. I was nearly there. And then the airlock blew."

"And so did the transport on the other side," insisted Theril. "There was nothing more you could have done."

"I had them in my hands..."

"Yes," said Theril. Lost for anything else to say. "You did. You did not let go."

"I had them in my hands, and then the airlock blew."

Theril spread her body, livesuit encased though both of them were, over Human Jes'. For what thin comfort could give. "You did your best. We could not expect more."

"I had them in my hands..."

Another Human, their nameplate obscured by a scorch mark, sang on open comms. "Would you know my name/ If I saw you in heaven..."

Two more took it up, "Would it be the same..."

Human Jes' lips were moving, but no sound emerged. Liquid began to flow from hir eyes, quickly scooped up by automatic processes in hir suit. Ze moved, now, very slowly, to hold onto Theril.

They were lost. Wounded. A long way from safety. And all they had was each other. Fortunately, Humans were very used to making do.

#  Challenge #191: Human Inhumanity

Spies are sent to earth, disguised as historians, to find earth's weaknesses and strengths.

Know thy enemy and all that, but they who know the past control the future.

To see what these people have done to each other...

They are horrified at what they find. – Anon Guest

So far, Terran colonies were the only civilisations interested in any kind of negotiations with Earth. And even then, those negotiations were lawsuits. Some of the bolder civilisations were starting to wonder why this was so. Therefore, they worked on special teams.

First - they had to be able to survive in the toughest of Terran environments. Which meant training with N'Ozzies, Inuit, and Mishmi sections of the greater Human Collective. They even got some additional wilderness training with some Crow descendants.

Second - they had to _blend in_. Humans could instinctively tell when something was wrong on such subtle levels that it was alarming. The more perfect the disguise, the more unnerving it was to humans who knew how humans looked and behaved. The Uncanny Valley met with Thin Slicing and synergised with any lingering xenophobia to create hostile reactions. Even in the Humans who were helping them.

Third, they had to pass unnoticed on Earth, where assorted selfish butts of people had been rigging things for their benefit for well over four hundred years. Expelling the "unwanted" down wormholes and periodically trying idiotic ideas that had been attempted and failed miserably in the past. Earth had been ruined, more or less, by the greedy and the avaricious who had dreams of despotism and kept conflicting with the fires of revolution. And wondering why.

Intense study could only take someone so far. After that, it was finding a plausible way to enter the world and find a plausible way to blend in. After that, came researching histories written by the despots that didn't want pesky people asking awkward questions. And delving into dusty and fragile tomes that told assorted versions of the truth, depending on who was in charge. And who was rebelling by disseminating these versions.

Humanity was stubborn. They had the motto, _Try, try, and try again._ Sometimes, success came by brute force. Other times, success came via solutions that had others frothing at the mouth with frustration at not thinking of that earlier. Humanity had another saying that they frequently ignored - _Those who do not learn from the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them._

There had been a _lot_ of repeating lessons in the four hundred years since the Shattering.

Including the depths to which Humanity could sink before it realised something was very, very wrong with their local state of affairs.

The histories were full of them. Genocide. Germ warfare. Ethnic cleansing. Ethnic erasure. Ethnic criminalisation. Slavery. Torture. War after war after war...

Purity culture. Nature culture. Chemical culture. Genetic manipulation. Forced scarcity. Planned obsolescence. Oligarchies and Tyrannies and Despots, oh my.

And the tortures that Humanity visited on their fellow Humans...

It was no surprise at all that Galactic Society decided to give Terra and Terrans a wide berth for another handful of decades.

#  Challenge #192: Order in Court

Not mine, but by randomacts13.

"Humans survived the volatile early years of their species rise through community-bonding. They put the needs of a group of individuals over all else; hunting as a group, eating as a group, raising families as a group, and sometimes dying as a group. This tendency to form strong bonds means that while a human's signed contract can always be trusted. It also means that a human cannot be trusted to not rip that contract up and say "Fuck it" if an individual with whom they have a community-bond is in danger." – Anon Guest

"Human Sor. You are being tried for violations of your contract with Traffic Inc. Cited in the complaint is failure to deliver cargo. How do you plead?"

"That _cargo_ was a bunch of _cogniscents_!"

"Guilty or not guilty," sighed Judiciary Splev. Ze rather despised having humans in hir court. They didn't understand so much of proper society.

"Not guilty."

Their lawyer listened to this and said, "Clearly, your honour, the Human doesn't understand the finer points of contract law..."

"I understand a great deal more than you lot do," Human Sor protested. "They were taking cogniscents to a meat processing factory because the Thrand'l classed them as _cattle_! They have a language! Sure, I don't understand a lot of it, but the Thrand'l never tried. Just because they don't have housing technology doesn't mean they're animals!"

"The classification of cogniscent life barely includes yourself, Human Sor," Judiciary Splev sneered. "The exhibit has yet to say anything in its own defence."

And then Exhibit A, labled _undelivered live cargo_ , looked to Human Sor and said, "Time is talking now, yes?"

Human Sor looked at Judiciary Splev with an air of cool contempt. "I rest my case and fuck you sideways."

This was why Judiciary Splev despised Humans. They created all manner of new problems.

#  Challenge #193: We All Fail Sometimes

How do aliens react to sayings such as "to err is human", "it's fine, you're only human" and multitude of others like them? – Only Human

[AN: I fixed that first saying there. I've never heard it the other way around]

It happened a lot, whenever a non-human was talking to a Human about a survived mistake. "We're only human," the Human would say. And then their brain would catch up with what their mouths had said and they'd amend, "Er. I mean. We all make mistakes."

Some would fumble their way through explaining that, after a while, Humans had a habit of seeing alien pack-members as fellow Humans with some peculiar characteristics. Even the decidedly non-humanoid species got this treatment. So long as a being was in a Human's bond-pack, they were an honorary Human. Many found this particular aspect of Human pack-bonding to be heavily insulting.

"You're only human," said Human Grish, gently patting Thork on the back of their thorax.

" _You're_ only human. I happen to be Xexal, and far superior."

Human Grish laughed at this, as many other Humans did. "Sure. Sure you are. And yet you hired us balding apes to be your muscle."

It was a long-standing argument. Humans had many of them. In fact, one of their criteria for nominating something as cogniscent was the things attempts to argue. _If it can argue,_ they reasoned, _then it has its own thoughts, opinions, and morals. And it knows how to state them._ Which was, annoyingly, an excellent measure of cogniscence that the greater Galactic Alliance hadn't thought about before Humans came along to -guess what- argue its case.

You couldn't get three Humans in a room without two of them disagreeing about something.

Thork glared at Human Grish. "Are you employing _sarcasm_ again? You know you receive penalties for _sarcasm_." And, like arguments, many species found sarcasm complicated and annoying to handle. Translator units and text transcriptions both couldn't handle the subtle changes in tone that Humans used to convey an opposite meaning to the words they stated.

"Who? Me? Use sarcasm? Never," said Human Grish. "I know how offended you little bugs get when you don't understand us."

Thork gained the impression that they were being very subtly wound up. "You are being fined anyway. On suspicion of being _sarcastic_."

"Worth it," said Human Grish.

"Now go employ yourself in fixing this temporary error."

"Hey, you helped me make it, Thork. We flakked this up together."

"I am your employer. I tell. You do. This is contract."

A falsetto voice. "Yes, oh lord and mastaaah of de blue horizon..." and fake genuflecting. This wasn't _sarcasm_ , this was outright mockery. An act not covered in the contract and therefore permitted as _free speech_. Something that many Humans felt was sacred.

_Humans..._ If they weren't so vitally necessary to business, Thork would have them behind impenetrable barriers so that they couldn't infect society with their bizarre thoughts.

#  Challenge #194: Party Time on No-Longer-Tranquil VII

On the wall was posted the human regiment's code of conduct/safety instructions:

1. Do not subtract from the population.

2. Do not add to the population (looking at you Jared).

3. Do not end up in the hospital, the news, or in jail.

4. If you do end up in jail, establish dominance quickly. – Anon Guest

It was a set of rules above the airlock door. Entitled, _When Visiting_. And could be summarised as, "No killin', no thrillin', just chillin'." Which every squad commander reminded them of whenever they were headed down for some R&R. Adding, "And if you _must_ get in trouble, get out of it just as quick. Any bail is coming out of your own paycheque."

General sounds of disappointment followed by one wag saying, "I thought we were being let out to have some _fun_ , Sarge."

"Yeah, we all know about _you_ , Jared. Keep it in your pants." This earned ribald laughter from the squad. "If you can't be good, be careful. And if you can't be careful, then you're paying your own bail. Be told!"

Jared, chuckling at the extra admonishment, saluted. He was well known amongst the Human crew for sticking his wherever plumbing wasn't a problem. Plumbing _was_ a problem on this planet, so his odds of remaining chaste were higher than normal. Nevertheless, there was a betting pool as to whether he would find a way.

Humans. To paraphrase one of their own songs: when they play, they tend to leave a trail a mile wide. Such was the case with Border Guard Patrol 472. They worked hard at making certain that more hostile races didn't make a pest of themselves in the Edge Territories, and they tended to play hard by attempting to drown in alcohol, partying so hard that they were on the upper edge of the Mohs scale, and determinedly attempting to get friction burns on sensitive portions of their anatomy.

Cigarettes, whiskey, and wild, wild women had once been the epitome of bad behaviour and sin. Those people weren't a patch on Border Guard Patrol 472. Within twenty-four hours, there was at least one soldier in every bordello, brewery, or bar in the city. If a Vorax even tried to threaten this town, they would be summarily shot for interrupting their fun.

Within forty-eight hours, five of them were arrested. Public drunkenness, public exposure, and public other things that should be performed behind closed doors.

Jared sobered up in a cell, facing his angry Sergeant. "Aw shit," he drawled. "It happened again, didn't it?"

"Bad news, good news, bad news, Jared," cooed Sarge. "Bad news: There goes your holiday pay. Good news: I won the unit betting pool. Bad news: It pays for the rest of your bail and I'm going to take it outta your miserable hide!"

Jared sighed. Yep. It had happened again.

#  Challenge #195: Minder's Manners

"Why not?" Is probably one of the most dangerous questions in a humans repertoire, ESPECIALLY when followed by the response "Because fuck you that's why." – Anon Guest

Humans are a contrary bunch. Obstinate. Stubborn. Determined. Tenacious. And most definitely vexatious. They ask questions. The second most-annoying question in the Human repertoire is, "Why?" But number one on the list is, "Why not?"

"Because I don't want you to," is not a sufficient answer. Humans much prefer reasons that make logical sense to their illogical minds. Inconvenience to the individual can be understood, but only by Humans from certain worlds [see reference list: Worlds of Understanding Humans] others will insist that their client "grow a thicker skin". And insist on assisting with that impossible goal.

When in doubt, explain things by financial cost. Humans hold a great store by what they can earn, and therefore will go out of their way to preserve profits. Though the interpretation of 'profit' differs from Human to Human. But it was Threll of Ch'minga who made the ultimate mistake.

"Stop doing that," ze ordered. Threll was feeling rather tetchy about their entire situation.

The Human, who had been simultaneously humming and clicking, said, "Why not? Nobody else is around."

And instead of explaining that their Human companion was dancing on Threll's last nerve, or patiently explaining that continuing to be a pest would impede Threll's ultimate performance levels, Threll snapped. "Because flakk you, that's why!"

Their human blinked. Said, "Okay, fine." And simply left. Without any further indication of where they were going, what they were doing when they got there, or why they were doing it.

There were a myriad of things that the Human could have done. Up to and including exacting every kind of revenge on Threll. In retrospect, the Thiopsid got away easily. For limited definitions of 'easily'.

Because their former Human companion carefully extracted their pay's worth of parts from Threll's ship, used them to build their own out of _another_ ship in the Sargasso area they were salvaging, and left the immediate area. Destination unknown.

Leaving Threll in the middle of nowhere with a ship that would take the rest of hir rations to fix, and leave hir without much in the way of profit at all. And no other humans would work for or with Threll for the rest of the Standard Year.

A formal apology had to be issued across the Human networks, which was more of a hit to Threll's social standing than any other kind of profit, before any Humans would approach hir again.

#  Challenge #196: Like a Boss

Adrenaline is a well known (and banned due to its effectiveness/danger) military combat drug.

What happens when aliens find out that human bodies produce it naturally when under stress or danger? – Anon Guest

The V'rithi had known Human Jak as a 'team mom', constantly fretting over their collective wellbeing. Making sure they had _rodesnax_ [38] and clothing that would protect them from the elements. Human Jak was constantly gentle and kind, and -to use a Human phrase- wouldn't hurt a fly.

When the Vorax attacked, it was quite a shock to everyone that Human Jak went _Mama Bear_ and actually _threw_ the Vorax patrol leader at the rest of his crew before picking up the V'rithi transport unit and running away with it. This was also a shock for Human Jak, self-confessed ninety-eight pound weakling.

He had enough time to get the transport unit to safety before setting it down and collapsing in a trembling heap. "Saloop," he panted. "Loads'a sugar. _Big_ cup." This was the traditional aftercare for those suffering an overload of Adrenaline. A soothing beverage loaded with sucrose. In Human Jak's case, a solution of tannin infused with bovine lactate.

Fifriz synthesized the remedy and quadrupled the usual amount of sucrose, while Jorist monitored Human Jak's livesuit readings.

"We didn't know you had an adrenaline injector in this livesuit, Human Jak. You should warn us of these things."

Human Jak stood by using the transport unit as a prop. Started walking back and forth between the nose and the open door. He was shaking like a leaf. "No injectors. Just me. Good old fight or flight. ThinkI'mgunnabesick..." some dangerous-sounding coughs and burps, but nothing came up.

Fifriz arrived with the insulated cup. "Slow and careful, yes?"

"Slow and careful," Human Jak agreed, blowing on the contents before taking a careful sip. "Powers, yes. This is exactly what I need."

Jorist was confused. "If you don't have an injector... how did you get near-lethal amounts of adrenaline in your system?"

"Near-lethal for you little lizards." Sip. Pace, pace, pace. Sip. "Humans make it naturally. Survival rigging for a Deathworld. Comes in damn handy, but it wipes you the heck out afterwards." Sip. Pace, pace, pace. Sip. "When I'm done here... I recommend an expeditious retreat to the survey vessel. Full defences. And a beacon for backup. Just in case." Sip. Pace, pace, pace. Sip. "Just threw their boss at their cohort. Could have pissed them off. Could have scared the shit out of them. Can't tell from here."

Human Jak was shivering all the way back to the relative safety of the survey vessel _Curiosity_ , where they changed into their ship's skins and as many warming outer layers as they could fit onto their thin-for-humans frame.

An under-muscled, under-aggressive Human had just thrown a Vorax at four other Vorax, and picked up a transport unit that was four times their own weight - passengers included. And then ran a four-minute mile with that burden.

_This_ was how Humanity gained its reputation. And this was how they _kept_ it.

[38] From the _Dictionary of Confounding Human Terms_ : finger foods with a lengthy shelf life and debatable nutritional value. See also: _nibbles_ , _nibblies_ , _bento_ and _packed lunch_.

#  Challenge #197: After Math

And then she spoke.

She was xir's friend, xir's confidant, xir's companion through thick and thin. She was the one xir trusted above anyone else.

But she is also dangerous, deadly, and vicious; a deathworlder before all else, a human at heart.

Xir will never forget those three words for as long as xir lives:

"Actually, I can." – Anon Guest

[AN: I'm going to take your word on the conjugation of this pronoun, Nonny. I can only handle ze/hir with confidence]

Human Stiv winced at H'rithog's expression. "Don't give me that face. We have air and power to get us to the common shipping lanes. From there, we can contact _all_ vessels in the area. They have their livesuits. They have their survival pods. They're in better shape than we are. If I tried to rescue more than our asses, we all die. It's cold math."

"I had thought your kind were empathetic."

"There's empathetic and there's knowing what the stakes are. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Our long-range comms are out. So are theirs. We are everyone's best shot. You want to waste air arguing about this or do you want to actually fix the problem?"

Their way out gave some survivors enough of a gravity assist to reach bits of flotsam to cling to, or other survivors to comfort. As Human Stiv said, the comms were down. They couldn't even leave a message to let them know they planned to be back. H'rithog could only think of the fifty-eight they were leaving behind. Adrift. Alone. Thinking they were abandoned.

Human Stiv went EVA to use the comms drone to send out something they called an _aypeebee_ in GalStand Simple. To all stations, all ships, all channels in the area. Explosive disaster. Fifty-eight known survivors. Situation desperate. All hands help. Save our souls.

A passing freighter scooped them up, and turned off course, emergency message on repeat, to see what they could do for the wreck of the _Yargha_. They had three microvessels known colloquially as _Scootie Puffs_ and together with Human Stiv, at least managed to fling those floating in livesuits towards the freighter.

A merchant vessel arrived, with three docker tugs hitching a ride, and they cobbled together a kludge station out of the debris, some survival pods, and anything that looked like it could hold air. Someone, possibly Human Stiv, wrangled a molecular disposal unit into filling the space with atmosphere. One by one, survival pods were emptied. One by one, livesuits were opened inside relatively safe spaces. One by one, the total known survivors climbed. Seventy. One hundred and ten. Two hundred and fifty-seven.

Two hundred and fifty-eight, once someone's infant was born.

And then a UFTP survey vessel scooped them all into one of their massive drydock bays to sort the whole jumbled mess out at their leisure, and the survivor count topped out at three hundred and two.

H'rithog and Human Stiv as walking wounded were set aside in a comfort lounge until triage could see to them. Staring at each other and attempting to work each other out.

"You were cruel to be kind," said H'rithog. "I cannot contemplate such actions."

"Break a bone again to set it straight," said Human Stiv. Talking with her eyes closed. "Force a bent limb into a painful brace to set it straight. Cut out a tumour. Bully the infirm into getting stronger. Deathworlders do these things. Not always automatically, but... more often than not. Short term pain for long term benefit. We work this stuff out."

"You saved three hundred and two with this cruel kindness," said H'rithog. "You are still upset."

"You count the living. I'm counting the dead. Fifty-seven died in the initial impact. Forty died from shock before any of us could figure anything out. Fifteen died while I was saving your ass. Because you were closest and because we're friends."

"Those are understandable instincts."

"Twenty-five died while we were arguing about my plan."

Oh. "Those deaths were preventable. And I can only apologise. I impeded your efforts."

"Next time I say I can... let me."

H'rithog looked up the time stamps of the dead. There. People were dying as xir said the words, _You can't just leave them like this!_

There. People were dying when Human Stiv said, _Actually, I can._

Seconds mattered. Minutes mattered. An argument could kill, out in the depths of space. And H'rithog remembered the cardinal rule. _Never tell a Human what they can't do._

#  Challenge #198: Lost and Found in Space

Wait, what happens to the poor guy in space in "Show Me the Way..."???

Does he find his way home or does he make space into his new home? I'm so curious now. – Anon Guest

AN: The prompt throws back to [ this story for those who don't want to go on an archive crawl]

Personal journal: Stardate... I don't even know by now. Everyone has a different way of counting and the standard year is something I can't even figure out. These folks have pretty much given up on keeping me away from shit, and now I have some of the basic gear. In this case, it's an information thing. These folks have given up on phones and have gone for tablets.

Well. Sort of tablets. These ones are bendy and can be used to just like... read your arm. And they take dictation so you can fart around _and_ write your journal at the same time. Hearing my own voice has helped me stay sane. Well. More sane than I should be by now.

Likewise, learning some of the lingo has helped. I'm no expert by a long shot, but people aren't critiquing my handle of GalStand Simple any more.

The only downside to this is my reputation. Attempting to get home by pissing people off has lead to a lot of critters not talking to me. I've... kind of given up on that now. And I'm touch starved enough that. Um.

I'm renting my body.

Turns out a lot of lizard folk like having a mammal around to be a kind of hot rock. It's all PG. Our plumbing doesn't match, but both sides like touching the other. The only real drawback is getting woken up by an ice-cold Tyxxo slowly crawling onto my unprotected hide. Talk about rude awakenings.

But they're otherwise nice lizards and rewarding in a tactile way. It's not so bad. Awake or asleep, I always have someone there. Most of the time wrapped around me like some kind of living comforter. It's... surprisingly nice.

Good news, bad news. Good news, there are other humans. Bad news, there's some kind of temporal paradox going on so that contact is either impossible or unlikely in the extreme. Plus they're so distant from where I am that they might as well be aliens too.

I'm good with the lizards. Homesick, but good.

I'm okay. I'm doing okay.

I think.

#  Challenge #199: Strange Bedfellows

Humanity as a whole is known as many things to many different species. Yes, while they are terrifying deathworlders more than capable of destroying everyone and everything, they've always been willing to lend a helping hand to all those who ask, and even those who don't. So was it really that big a surprise when, after a powerful warmongering race declared war on humanity that half the universe flocked to humanity's aid? – Anon Guest

For every bully, there is a bigger and meaner one. Some may even have a higher intelligence. More often than not, they just fight dirtier. This one called themselves the Mighty Catrapy of Zorjesh, and were apparently offended by anything not Zorjeshi in general and humans in particular.

Humans had a knack for being everywhere and, what with Sol's abundance of one-way wormholes, there before anyone else could lay claim to the territory. The Zorjeshi had a similar definition of 'paradise' to Humans and, as more-or-less equals on the Deathworlder ratings, decided they could probably beat them in a fair fight.

Except there was one little thing that Humans did that the Zorjeshi did not.

Humans made _friends_. Humans spread their pack-bonding far and wide. With species that were not even _remotely_ like their own. With objects. With artificial intelligences. With engineered intelligences. With hive minds, and lizards, and saurians, oh my. With almost every form of intelligence that they could even halfway communicate with. There were even rumours that they were working out how to pack-bond with the Xyrak'l, creatures that were literally from another dimension.

So when the Zorjesh declared war and attempted to annex significant portions of known Human Space... the most incredible thing happened.

Other species turned up to help. Havenworlders. Fellow Deathworlders. Every species of every category in-between the two extremes. Often outfitted with weaponry that the Humans had gifted to them. Because Humans loved to teach others how to defend themselves to a point where nobody with a decent sanity score would bother to attack.

It was a rout.

The attacking Zorjesh didn't stand a chance. Their warships were a brief flash of fireworks in the eternal night, and then they were gone.

Humans didn't have to fight dirtier than the Zorjeshi. They had _allies_ to help make up the numbers.

They dropped the word 'Mighty' from their self-appointed title shortly thereafter, and maintained a neutral zone around their accepted territories. And learned better than to mess with Humans ever again.

In a handful of decades, they would tentatively attempt to learn this... 'pack bonding' tactic. With varying degrees of success.

#  Challenge #200: Volatile Situation

"Hold on. YOUR PLANET RAINS WHAT?!!?!"

"Umm... water?"

"Water. The highly corrosive, extremely reactive liquid."

"I mean, yeah. But..."

"HOLD ON. WHY IS THE WATER ACIDIC? IS YOUR PLANET TRYING TO KILL YOU??!?"

"Oh that? It's fine. Just the carbon dioxide in the air making it slightly acidic."

"Define 'slightly'."

"Umm... ph5 ish? So about x100 more concentrated than pure water? It's honestly fine, if you think this is bad, you haven't seen the ACTUAL acid rain on earth. That shit corrodes everything!" – Anon Guest

The argument had been going on for some time. Not every species in the Galactic Alliance has a natural water cycle, and the results can lead to some interesting debate. It typically starts with, "Life just can't exist with a water cycle," followed by, "I am literally evidence against that statement."

Water ice, to the Propanite population of the Galactic Alliance, is deadly stuff. Toxic, reactive, and outright dangerous. Capable of causing great damage if heated. Capable of causing great damage even in its solid form. And worse happens if it's allowed to combine with extra oxygen and hydrogen molecules.

The human had a livesuit that kept them warm in the Propanite's ideal temperatures[39]. "No lie. Liquid water comes out of our skies. Your rain? We used to use it for fuel. Now we use it to make long-chain hydrocarbon items for everyday necessity."

"You are biologically impossible," argued Th'roth.

"We'd argue the same about you, pal."

Okay. That won that one. Th'roth considered Human Lyz. There for the _engineering challenge_ of creating a solution to work at low temperatures that wasn't as deadly to the Propanite populations as the one they were using now.

"We use your rain to dissolve substances when mining," explained Th'roth. "Very dangerous, making liquid dihydrogen monoxide, and using it in our atmosphere. Leaks are deadly."

"Yeah, they would be. And this is pure water, too. Of course it'd carry off most anything in solution. And the _re_ -purification procedure would suck balls, too. Well. For you guys." Human Lyz made a sucking noise. Which usually indicated something expensive about to happen. "Have you thought about just using high-pressure liquid methane to _cut_ your rocks? I mean, sure, it's a little extra in the refining process, but... no more water-related explosions."

Th'roth boggled. This was exactly why anyone hired these Deathworlders to do anything. They could take their existing -and often insane- solutions and reroute other cognsicents' conditions through them to suit whatever obstacle was in their way. And do so in a manner that left the consultee wondering how _they_ hadn't thought of that.

"We would have to re-engineer the refinery, but... using _less_ dihydrogen monoxide is always preferable."

"Pretty sure we can use advanced chemistry to synthesise a solvent that won't need high temperatures to operate," breezed Human Lyz. "And a method to make it that's likewise cold. For you? Warm... ish. Possibly a little squinch too hot. We'll do our best."

Th'roth looked up the Human measurement _squinch_. It was not defined, but suspected to be 'uncomfortable surplus'. But the Galactic Dictionary also said that Humans misliked an unsolved problem and actually competed to come up with better solutions. _All the time_.

Give them a handful of years, and they would be looking at the mining operations here, and wondering how they could improve on their best.

[39] Around 97 Kelvin. That's approximately -180 Celsius or -292 Fahrenheit.

#  Challenge #201: May They Pass You By

Can we have some more adventures with the "minor horsemen of the Apocollapse". Namely Panic, Screaming, Chaos and Flailing.

There's many minor horsepersons of the Apocollapse. And seemingly infinite combinations of just four of them. Some of them can even get their collective shit together enough to ride. But then again, they never really ride anywhere _big_.

" _We're going to be LATE!_ " Panic shrieked.

Screaming was running around their shared flat making a loud noise. That was what Screaming _did_ when he didn't have any words to use.

Flailing attempted to field him with her wildly moving arms. And knocked a stack of boxes onto Chaos.

" _WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!_ " Screaming (of course) screamed.

"I think I broke something," said Chaos. An arm held up a significant piece of something that was most definitely broken. "Was this important?"

" _It's our differential,_ " Panic wailed. " _We'll never get anywhere!_ "

"WHAT WAS IT DOING OUT OF THE CAR?" Screaming demanded.

And most days, it's a minor miracle that they get anywhere _at all_.

#  Challenge #202: Home-Going

What if the reason aliens are uniform across their world is because every species has a deep, intrinsic connection with their home planet. So colonising/terraforming a new planet is considered a form of disownment, as it breaks the connection with your home world. Humans connection is much weaker than most other species, but it allows us to still see humans across the galaxy as HUMANS rather than traitors, or a different "breed" of humanity. – Sarah

[AN: Obviously, this can't happen in my pet universe. Slight pause whilst I build a new one...]

The greater expanse of civilised space is full to the brim with statistical outliers. Those who chose to forsake their home planet, their mother orb, to make a new place somewhere far from where they began. Except for the Humans.

They had no boundary to the concept of 'home'. They could take up temporary residence in cookie-cutter living quarters and, within an astonishingly short amount of time, they would be calling it 'home'. They could call anywhere they hung their head-garments home. And they had an unending curiosity surrounding the concept of 'next'.

They were fast, and tough, and endlessly adaptable. Each new world was merely a _place_ full of _stuff_ they could use. And they used resources relentlessly. Always looking forward. Rarely looking around themselves at what they were doing _now_. They were everywhere and they were baffling.

Even those rare few who forsook their planet -however briefly- to travel for business got confounded by these strange hairless mammals.

"I guess we're all done," said the Human Jan. "Time to go home."

Over the past few days, the Human had called their hostel space _and_ their space vessel 'home'. "Which one?" asked Thirk. "The hostel 'home' or the ship 'home'?"

A laugh and a wide display of teeth. "Neither, friend lizard. _This_ time, I'm going home to my family. Holidays. R and R. I got plenty of treats for the kids and I really need a break."

Thirk decided against wondering what Jan would break. Human linguistics was almost as complicated as the species who used it. "That does not sound as enjoyable as you seem to make it sound."

More laughter. "Well. Humans enjoy it. And there's always that one family member that makes you glad to be out among the stars."

"Is there?"

"Yeah. Right. You lot don't have smelly uncles with political views from the Victorian Era. Colour me jealous."

That... wasn't a colour. "I am returning to my home. My _home_ home." Thirk did not add, _And good riddance to you crazy humans with no bonds to your origins._

"Best of luck," chirped Jan. And began one of his ancient Human songs of homecoming. "So hoist up the Jon B sails... See how the main sail sets. Call for the captain ashore and let me go home..."

They called so many things home. Thirk had to wonder how they kept them all organised.

#  Challenge #203: Remarkably Similar

[ a race of sapient felines encounter Humans and their pets ] – Anon Guest

Ahnrau hadn't expected a close encounter like this one. She had been hunting valuable asteroids when a shard of a distant impact sent her vessel spiralling out of control. The last thing she remembered before the spin blacked her out was identifying another vessel on a collision path...

She was messed up. She could feel it. But... she was also on the mend. The room she was in was white. Almost painfully white. And the being in the room with her was wearing a white livesuit. They were roughly the same shape as Ahnrau, but there was something about the body language that didn't read as felinoid.

They moved slowly, showing empty hands in a non-aggressive posture. "I speaking GalStand. You grok?"

Meeyahndans had had encounters with the Galactics. Ahnrau accepted the trader tongue of GalStand Simple as a temporary lingua franca. "I speaking GalStand. Where and what being this?"

"Where being ship mine," said the alien. "Name calling _Adventurer_. What being medbay. Think machines not knowing biology you. Self doing best. Self name calling Lu." And with that, not making any sudden moves, they de-obfuscated their face plate.

Ahnrau almost bared her claws from shock. She was in the hands of one of the famous Deathworlders. A _Human_! And she wasn't dead. It was that fact alone that told her that she wasn't going to die today. The other fact was that Meeyahndans also had a reputation as Deathworlders and, to say the least, she and this odd furless creature were probably on an even standing. "You Human. Self Meeyahndan."

And since neither of them were members of Galactic Society, they didn't have to fret about sudden onset ambassadorship. With a common language in GalStand Simple, they could work out a few things. Like proper treatment for Ahnrau's injuries. Immunisation regimes for the diseases they could plausibly give each other. Food. Necessary ablution facilities[40] and the like.

And when Ahnrau was finally able to leave quarantine and check on the state of her vessel[41], she met the _other_ crewmember of the _Adventurer_.

Her instincts and her peripheral vision initially classified the being as a baby, but Human Lu quickly reassured Ahnrau that this was an adult lifeform. A non-cogniscent pet. Common species name: Cat. Actual nomenclature: Tinkle.

Ahnrau got plenty of time to inspect the animal up close. Mostly because Tinkle was a very friendly cat and took every opportunity to snuggle into a lap and accept scritches. Tinkle was not a baby. The brain casing was too small and she didn't have thumbs. And she didn't speak Meeyahndese. Some noises were eerily close to real words, but they never made it all the way.

But it was soothing to have something close to a kit around the place. It made the loneliness of her situation so much less.

Human Lu gave Ahnrau a 'lift' to her nearest convenient port, on the understanding that Ahnrau would perform a similar favour to any stranded Human she or her clan encountered. Technology was explained, purchased, black-boxed, and outright copied for valuable material in trade.

It was true. Deathworlders could get along if they set their minds to it.

[40] Many Galactics familiar with Terran Cats in general and Skitties in particular assume that Meeyahndans would need a container of sand for eliminating biological waste. This assumption is false. Everyone present uses the low-G toilet in the same way - in a state of near-permanent confusion and reading the instructions with a baffled squint.

[41] One good sneeze away from being a total write-off, in case you're interested.

#  Challenge #204: One Confounding Encounter on Argus Seventeen

Like all great things in life, you need to poke it to get it to do anything.

Draes boggled at the merchant. "That is such a uniquely Human phrase," ze said. "Is it absolutely true? Will patience reward those who wait?"

"Uh. No," said the merchant. "If you wait, it does nothing. You have to interact with it to make it go."

"Hmf," again, almost typically Human. Hir own peoples much preferred a fully automatic system. Humans were compelled to _twiddle_. They liked to finesse their machines. "I will take a sample machine for my kind to adapt to our own needs. We have far more important things to do than micro-manage a machine."

The merchant said, "I guessed. I keep trying to explain it to them, but... you know Humans."

"Not personally," said Draes, with an agreeing tone. "Their reputation is vast and confusing."

"I concur entirely. And worse for others is the fact that their ways are... infectious."

"Is there anything to be done about that? You seem to be suffering," said Draes.

The merchant rearranged some stock as they pondered this question and its answer. "I have yet to find any means," they allowed. "And I do not sense that I am suffering at all."

"Perhaps," allowed Draes, "this is the true terror of Humans."

Perhaps it was.

#  Challenge #205: Common Sense Human Medical Advisor

Under great stress, the human brain will launch the production of combat drugs to better face the situation. It will nearly always allow your fellow human crew member to survive and save you, even if the course of action seems stupid and dangerous. The biggest problem could be when those drugs leave the organism : usually the human will act as normal and go back to his/her normal behaviour. But in some case, the human mental will temporary "crumble to dust" and it could led to delayed panic attack. We advise you to not come near any human suffering it, as it could lead to injure, except if you are a medical personnel. – Anon Guest

The answer to sudden adrenaline deprivation is not, as many would think, more adrenaline. Humans only produce it for certain situations, and sparking a life-or-death reaction in a non-life-or-death situation never ends well. Post adrenaline 'crashing' can be treated with several steps:

1. No sudden movements or loud noises: maintain a calm, soothing voice and talk your way through everything you do. Obsess about getting permission. It is your goal to make the Human feel comfortable and safe.

2. Allow them to vent in a safe manner: such as, hugging a plushie or a pillow, stroking faux fur, harmless stims[eg: flapping, verbal nonsense], jumping, fastening and unfastening outer layers [keep patient behind offensensitivity screens], crying, low-volume cursing [employ audio offensensitivity screening], rocking, and kneading [supply soft, malleable object].

3. Maintain hydration: preferably via warm solutions of sucrose, fructose, and glucose. Do ask which flavour they find most soothing in a warm beverage. Do not supply stimulants. Do not supply sedatives.

4. Maintain core body temperature: post-adrenaline, a Human is likely to lose a great amount of body heat. Ensure their livesuit is maintaining their temperature or, if not livesuited, supply thermal blankets and check core temperature via non-invasive scans.

5. Walk it off: many Humans will be agitated during the post-adrenaline 'crash'. If this is the case, help the Human walk only if they are physically capable. Use your scans to be certain of this as adrenaline has a lingering anasthetic effect. An injured Human 'crashing' from adrenaline will not feel any injuries until their system is clear. If they cannot walk, give them a repetitious task that they are capable of performing without further injury [see step 2]

6. Reassurance: post-adrenaline Humans are prone to panic. Gently reassure them that the crisis is over and all is well. Tell them they did a good job, regardless of your personal assessment that their actions may have been reckless. Remember that sparks several instinctive reactions and a Human under the influence has little control over the actions they take.

7. Quiet time: if your patient is prone to fall asleep, allow them to do so only once you are certain that they are safe. Run standard wellness checks to be certain of their health, and monitor life signs whilst the patient rests.

Talk it out: Supply counselling if necessary.

8. If the patient is engaged in harmful venting [eg: loud swearing, yelling, punching things, or kicking] gently encourage them towards more peaceful occupations. Toys made for stress play may be advisable [see file: Stress Toys].

It is natural for Humans to produce and process adrenaline. Allowing a Human to come down from its influence is highly recommended by all Mediks. If none of these procedures work on your Human, please consult with the nearest Emergency Response Team.

#  Challenge #206: Waifs and Strays

"We have a problem sir. We found the hostage. She looks safe but.... there is an human with her. He is hurt and his translator is broken, but he seems to have protected the hostage, and continues to do so. The fact is that he doesn't want to leave her alone, and she doesn't want to leave him too. And he kind of scares our man." – Anon Guest

Humans. Some were aggressive. Enough to make Havenworlders like the Graacil extremely cautious about encounters with all of them. It didn't matter that not all Humans were like that. What mattered was that enough _were_ like that that it made the Graacil extremely cautious.

Forx'gn briefly pondered the likelyhood of a pleasant outcome from sending a message home that read, _The Princess is safe, but also in grave danger._ It would not fly well. They would have to wait for field reports until such time as he had something clear to report.

Logic, though it was always a means of being wrong with authority, could help them. One: The Human was clearly in protector mode with the Princess Grigri. Two: communication would be limited to unmistakable action or plausibly confusing pantomime. If they could manage a way to be understood... Three: both sides had their face plates obfuscated for space travel. Reading expressions was _right_ out.

Fox'gn sighed. "I'm the leader of this fleet. This is my fault. My responsibility." _If I have fucked up further than anyone in history, it is because I stand on the shoulders of giants..._ "Therefore, it is my duty to see this through."

It took bravery to enter an area with a Known Savage armed only with a medkit. It took genuine bravery to approach a wary Deathworlder with all armaments to his livesuit clearly open and clearly vacant. Forx'gn almost bolted when the human started upwards. He took a step back.

Clear and unmistakable action. Not forward momentum. That was what would win the day.

Forx'gn wielded the medkit like a shield. Let the human see the symbols for medical aid on its side. He put it down, showing empty hands and kicked it towards the pair.

The Human picked it up without moving one of his feet away from the Princess. Opened it and checked inside.

"Any this you needing?" he said in GalStand Simple. Muffled by his livesuit, he was barely audible to Forx'gn.

Four: Humans are smarter than we gave them credit for. Even isolated from Galactic Society, they had still picked up a common tongue. Forx'gn watched and waited. Pictograms inside the medkit provided instructions that any idiot could follow, and this Human was clearly not an idiot.

They just had to shout to be heard and could barely speak GalStand Simple. And they were a member of a species currently ostracised by civilisation as Fox'gn knew it. Nothing big.

Through shouting, pointing, and some more GalStand Simple, Princess Grigri made it known that Fox'gn was with her and she would like to go with him. It was a tense twenty minutes, but the Human let her go.

And then followed her.

Homeworld was _not_ going to like this. Especially when the young Princess attempted the old, "It followed me home" ploy.

On the other hand... who was going to try and stop a Human?

#  Challenge #207: One Contentious Afternoon in a Laboratory in Neverwinter

why is it that in world travel or fantasy stories where a scientific world and a magic world meet that no one ever tries to mix magic with technology? – Anon Guest

[AN: Usually because the Author has decided to Not Go There or it will end up like the Flintstones]

Someone had thought this through. Enchanting a central spindle with Endless Turning, and making it activated by the use of a button and a dial, and then making _attachments_ to reduce the labor and potential for blood loss in the kitchen. There was a large bowl to collect or mix the ingredients. A shield to prevent the user from instantly destroying their hands in the whirling blades of potential maiming. There was a chute to feed things down and a device to press things into the chute.

"It can slice, dice, grate, mix, _and_ julienne," said Maureen Miller. "Faster than even a world-class chef. No insult on your abilities, of course."

The best chef in the world, Taako -you know, from T.V.- sneered at the insult anyway. "That remains to be seen, my dear. I'm pretty fucking fast, you know."

Lucas, still at the awkward stripling stage of young adulthood, cleared his throat. This invention _was_ his baby, and he'd earned the right to put his oar in on the matter. "How about a race? You against the Cuisine-art. First one through... oh... julienning a dozen zucchinis wins."

"Twenty," said Taako. "If I win, you pay _me_ to endorse your... thing. If _you_ win... I use your products on the road and sell them off for only five percent markup."

Behind him, his assistant choked on his mead. "You sure about this, Taako? It seems like a big risk..."

That earned a glare from the magnificent Elf. "Posolutely, my dude. Let's get this on."

Forty zucchinis of equal size were rounded up, fresh from the markets. Lucas gave Taako a head start, and set up his Cuisine-art only after his buzzer went off.

Taako was in fine form, knife a blur the instant his buzzer went of. He'd neatly julienned five zucchinis before Lucas even got started. Three more before he was done assembling his machine. And then...

{BBZZOW, BBZZOW, BBZZOW}... Lucas and his machine julienned three zucchinis in the time it took Taako do do one. At that rate, he was done in next to no time. He even sauntered over to Taako and offered to do the last ones in his pile, exuding the kind of greasy confidence that made a surprising number of strangers think unkind thoughts.

Sazed, the assistant, popped a friendly hand on Lucas' shoulder. "Don't anger a wizard, dude. 'Cause a magic missile to the ass often offends."

Indeed, Taako was seething. He looked like he was thinking fond thoughts about Magic Missile, anyway. "Fine," he said, but in a way that clearly indicated that it wasn't. "You and your cuisinart win."

"It's not pronounced that–"

"Just drop it," advised Sazed. "It's a miracle he got that close."

"But I get to think up the tag line."

"Oh gods, we're in so much trouble," said Lucas. He'd drawn a direct line between Taako, his show, _Sizzle it Up! With Taako_ , and the Cuisine-art and coming up with a lexical disaster.

"It's a deal," said Maureen. "Provided we approve."

"Hey, I gotta say this shit for every show," said Taako. Then he snapped his fingers. "Think it's a miracle? Close! It's a Miller."

Stunned silence from his audience of three.

"That... actually works," said Lucas, shocked and awed.

"We could use that for every gadget that works on the same principal," allowed Maureen.

"Hey, fuck you, that phrase is copyright Taako. You get to use it free on your cuisinart. Everything else? Taako demands _royalties_."

Very, very slowly, Sazed facepalmed and muttered, "Gods fucking damnit, Taako..." in an exasperated voice. "Why do you have to do this for _every_ sponsor?"

#  Challenge #208: Humans Are Breakable

How do aliens deal with humans on board missions/crews with serious mental illnesses? As even those who have "recovered" can relapse and have issues now and again, especially after certain triggers. I know this isn't as interesting or fun as some of your other prompts but I'd really like to see what you would come up with. Thanks! – Anon Guest

Human Polli was a Team Mom type Human and the gentlest soul anyone could care to meet. But she had also proved her Space Orc credentials by almost wiping out a Vorax Raid Ship by entering Mama Bear Mode. After the Vorax carapace piece had been pried gently from her teeth, and after she had come down from the adrenaline overload, Polli seemed... distraught.

Mediks and Therapists alike classed it as Survivor's Guilt mixed with Action Remorse. Human Polli would not _normally_ tear cogniscents limb from limb with her bare hands and sometimes her feet, but _Mama Bear_ Polli had. There were depths of rage lurking inside Human Polli that she hadn't believed herself capable of. And now she knew what evils lurked inside her secret heart. And it _terrified_ her.

She had nightmares, disrupted sleep. Flashbacks every time she saw a crustacean[42], and wouldn't go near her former favourite meal - Marinara Fry. She seemed... extraordinarily fragile as they limped their way back to Waypoint Station. She would jump at sudden noises. Have disrupted sleep. 'Zone out' and emerge in seeming terror. She needed more sleep than normal and lost her appetite. Her joints ached and refused to work at their normal capacity. And the Kavi who shared the ship with her could not find a medical reason why this would be happening.

Attempting to sing her praises with recountings of her mighty deeds only exacerbated the problem. Attempting to comfort her with haptic feedback ran the risk of her forgetting her own strength and accidentally harming her fellow crewmembers with too strong a grip. Which would, in turn, strengthen her guilt. They were at a loss for what to do, though being close to her and singing calming songs had a limited effect.

The Kapi had never heard of _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder_ and could not believe it was a thing that happened to Humans. Humans were tough. Humans were indomitable. Humans were savage. Humans were Deathworlders.

Most of those statements didn't apply to Human Polli.

They took her to the best expert in Human psychology and therapy. They had the right idea with comforting Human Polli. They had to avoid certain things while she recovered. Loud noises first and foremost. And because the Kapi could not withstand a Deathworlder talking about what terrified _them_ , they had to have their offensensitivity filters on if they wished to be present to comfort Human Polli during her sessions.

Humans were stoppable. And when they stopped, it took a long time for them to recover. If they recovered at all.

They hired a second Human to keep the crew safe, including Human Polli. A huge brick of a woman from a heavier-gravity colony called Daisy, who was more of a 'punch first' kind of girl when faced with a threat. Her anticipatory capabilities were almost off the charts, and she gave the world's best massages, according to Human Polli.

The Kapi were rather delighted to see Human Daisy and Human Polli comforting each other and involved in companionable grooming activities. It was even more heartening to see Human Daisy walk Human Polli through her grounding activities whenever the former had a relapse.

Humans are pack animals. And this small pack was getting slowly better. Little by little. And some setbacks were expected. They would all learn how to deal with those.

[42] Vorax have been likened to the unholy matrimonial product of a prawn(shrimp) and a crab, with edges of C'thulu in the mix.

#  Challenge #209: But Not My Friend

"I refuse to let you die"

– A surprisingly common (and even more surprisingly functional) human phrase.

More lives than can be counted have been saved due to this statement. – Anon Guest

Flaax had expected to die. That was what happened when the Vorax attacked. People died. Civilisations ended. If one was lucky, wreckage containing last messages to loved ones could be found after the fact.

And then the _Humans_ became part of the Galactic landscape, so to speak. They _hunted_ the Vorax. They protected unarmed vessels from scout/raiders. They signed on as crewmembers in the Edge Territories. And they were shockingly effective. Like this one, who had just bullied Flaax into living again. This, despite knowing next to nothing of Medik procedures.

"Taking lazy hour," said Human Juff in GalStand Simple. She was draping a warming blanket over Flaax and setting it to optimal temperature maintenance mode. "Self giving adrenaline. You being much shaking for big time."

That explained many things. Like the unstoppable trembling, the nausea, and the inability to think in one connected chain of thought. Flaax carefully sipped water and rehydrated hir tongue. "Human... what you doing?"

"Resuscitation," said Human Juff. It was a human word. She explained further. "Making body go living again. Not dead until warm and dead. Self breathing for you. Self making heart beating again."

That was... impossible. But then, Humans did the impossible on a daily basis. "You no breaking me in doing?"

"You being hurt, yes," explained Human Juff. "Is less than dead."

_Humans..._ to them, just about any level of suffering was better than being dead. The lingering adrenaline was only going to be an anaesthetic for a limited amount of time. "You are monitoring, yes?"

"Oh yes," agreed Human Juff. "Self setting autodoc to you best-case, ordering fixing not best-case. You being good soon. Self going back for fighting.

"We being still in battle?" Now that was alarming.

"Little battle," clarified the Human. "One stinger chasing. Self playing hide-and-seek in kuiper field. Is good. Going killing big-bad if they being trouble."

These were _Vorax_. Flaax had to wonder what Human Juff considered _trouble_ to be.

And then Human Juff said something ze would never forget. _"I refuse to let you die."_ in the barbaric Human tongue that the autotranslators supplied text for.

Flaax was not the only survivor of that encounter. Merely the most damaged. And thanks to that pack-bond and Human Juff's determination, the entire system became classified as _tough pickings_ by the Vorax.

#  Challenge #210: Needs of the Many Can Bite Me

"You're risking the lives of millions \- millions of lives! - for the sake of one."

"Damn right I am! And besides, I promised I'd get you out of this mess alive, didn't I?" – Anon Guest

"But... the needs of the many," objected Koraz.

" _Flakk_ the needs of the many, I made a _promise_." Human Kaf had his head down and his shoulders hunched. "I keep my word. Wanna fight me about that?"

"No," sighed Koraz with a roll of hir eyes. "You'd render me unconscious and continue with your reckless plan anyway."

"Exactly," said Human Kaf. "Now we have established why it's pointless to argue with a Human... _why_ are you doing it?"

"I want it on record that I objected."

"Noted and flakkin' logged." Human Kaf finished their calculations. "Buckle up and take your calm meds. This is going to get hairy."

And considering that they had already strafed a Vorax warship and dodged several Interceptors to get _this_ far, Koraz echoed: " _Get_?" in an incredulous voice.

And then Human Kaf hit the _Init_ button. G-forces, carefully under Koraz's upper limits, assaulted them both. Human Kaf could certainly take stronger G-forces, but he had promises to keep. Koraz kept hir eyes on the tactical display, and was surprised to see their path cutting a swathe out of the Interceptor fleet before they plunged into the wormhole.

"What?" managed Koraz.

"Any propulsion system that's interesting enough to get anywhere can also be weaponised," grinned Human Kaf. "I got a whole bunch of them with force and exhaust wash. Most of them were sent pinwheeling into their mother ships. They'll be in a mess for the time it takes to get backup out there."

Which meant a ship to Upside-Down station at the Nexus in Hyperspace. Getting the message out and -likely- passing Koraz along on safe passage to civilised space.

Koraz didn't doubt that Human Kaf would turn back and re-join the fray. Humans were almost obsessively warlike.

#  Challenge #211: Least Threatening Silhouette

[Title: Words you learn to dread hearing. #1.] "I was only..."

[AN: Once _again_ I have to remind my dear readers that I don't usually pay attention to the titles of your prompt posts. Doing this sort of thing throws off my rhythm and I've already had a crowded day today]

Humans. They do all kinds of hazardous things without thinking about it. Playing gravity games and forgetting that other beings find these unnerving. Singing songs about death and murder[43] before realising what they are singing at the time. And now... there was _this_.

The human had taped a relatively blunt[44] knife to one of the cleaning droids. And affixed two 'angry eyes' to the top of its chassis. And then they set it loose.

"I was only playing a prank," was the slightly offended defence. "It's funny."

Captain Thork'z was not amused. "Recapture that cleaning droid and disarm it before someone _names_ it, or so help me..."

There was a distant, "Ow, damnit," from one of the other ships' Humans. Followed by laughter and, "Hey guess who got zapped by Stabby!"

Human Thor at least had the decency to blush. "Uuuuhhhhm. Maybe I didn't think this through all the way?"

Captain Thork'z was so angry that she used a Human phrase, "You _reckon_?"

But of course, it was too late. Chitanian crewmembers learned to avoid getting score marks on their ankle carapaces and the Humans ridiculed each other for the minor cuts on their ankles and calves. Those who sat to perform their shipboard tasks pulled their feet up and out of the way whenever they heard a cleaning droid enter the room. Just in case.

The matter of how "Stabby" got its rank was a slightly more complicated story.

[43] Knowing that Humans are Deathworlders still does not prepare many cogniscents for the sheer volume of Human songs in this category. Some of them are amazingly catchy, too.

[44] It would not harm the Chitanean crewmembers, but would cause minor injuries to shipboard humans.

#  Challenge #212: So They Noticed

[Title: Words you learn to dread hearing. #2.]"So who's going to notice?"

The little vessel was lost. Broken. Limping through a Sargasso of wrecked and abandoned vessels in the middle of nowhere. No radio. No comms. No chance of making it to civilisation as the occupants knew it. They were losing air and hope at the same rate.

"I found a vessel with compatible air," said one occupants. "With the 'locks together, we can minimise air loss for evac."

And since a temporary solution that allowed them to live longer was better than nothing, they opted for the current Plan A. The found vessel took some time to limp to, and docking had to be performed by vacuum-welding the ships together, but again, it was better than nothing. They expected the air to be stale, and surprised when it wasn't. The previous inhabitants had left some plant life behind when they abandoned this craft. The stuff had invaded as much space as it could.

The new crew vowed to make certain it didn't spread any further.

With some floating debris, they could patch the remaining leaks in their original hull, but since they were now welded to their lifeboat, they couldn't go to what passed for their home. And with a relatively soft landing on a dwarf planetoid, they had a source for gravity and minerals, once they worked out how to get to them safely.

One said, "This is probably illegal."

Another said, "We're in the middle of a junkyard in a kuiper belt of a backwater system in the middle of nowhere. Who's going to notice?"

The answer was - other lost souls like them. People who were forced off course. People who had found themselves without hope. People who needed to refresh their shipboard air. People who could trade gadgets from other random corners of civilised or quasi-civilised space. And, eventually, people who found them on the other side of a wormhole from where they had begun.

Their lifeboat grew into a kludge station, forged from their kuiper planetoid and the abandoned hulks around them. Supplanted by atom reassemblers, snagged comets, and people bringing in useful volatiles as trade. Assisted by technology with stories as wild and vast as the frontier they called home. Added to by people with food plants, by people with decorative plants. By people with furniture and decor and a sense of architecture.

And eventually, it got noticed by traders and pirates and capitalists alike. They, too, built on what was already there. Those who knew it as a lifeboat had lived and died, and their descendants lived and died there, too.

And eventually, it earned a place on the maps. A spot in history. A permanent name. And everyone knows of it.

This is Amalgam Station.

#  Challenge #213: Incident During the Building of Antagulus IV

[Words you learn to dread hearing. #3.] "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Something, somewhere, was on fire. Aarblax could see the smoke curling through the air. This was, thankfully, a facility with a generous amount of atmosphere to share, so it wasn't _that_ worrying. Yet. The Public Address system was making bizarre, intermittent noises. This meant that someone had manually disabled the alerts and the system was attempting connections through the network. Which had also been disabled.

Aarblax glared at the two Humans in his crew, who immediately pointed at each other and chorused, "It's their fault."

"Fault can be assigned _after_ the problem at hand," he gestured at the curling smoke, the malfunctioning alerts, and the flickering screens that indicated that the system was down and out for the count, "has been thoroughly remedied. All I need to know is: how bad is it?"

But they were _Humans_ , so they launched into explanations anyway. It seemed like a good idea at the time, honest. If _he_ hadn't shoved me, if _she_ hadn't pitched a fit, if _he_ hadn't decided to overclock the furnace, if _she_ hadn't tried to meddle, if _he_ knew what he was doing in the first place...

Aarblax had heard the term _Disaster Cascade_ before, when other peoples were talking about Humans. He had never believed that it was possible. "I thought you were siblings. Pack-bonded. If you can't co-operate, I'll have to switch out one of you for a more... companionable Human."

The effect was electric. The Humans instinctively clung to each other and stopped all attempts to argue. "We know where we went wrong," they insisted in another chorus. "We can fix it. For real."

"Do hurry," suggested Aarblax. "The fire, at least, is going to begin inconveniencing a lot of people before long."

When they rushed for the door, he noted that these... _twins_ were significantly taller than when he'd hired them. Aarblax made note to check the infonets the instant the system was back up. He needed to double-check these Humans' affirmations that they were of legal age to work.

#  Challenge #214: The Magic Grandma

[Title: Invisible actors] You never see them normally, they often look drab and ordinary - till they open their vocal cords. (She was a little old lady, well dressed, out of place at a science fiction convention. "Close your eyes!") – Anon Guest

[AN: Does nobody read the pinned notifications on message boards any more? ::weeps:: ]

"I've been onstage for one minute, and I can already see a host of disappointed kiddies in the groundling zone," said the charming old lady. "You were all expecting a cartoon to come on here, weren't you?"

A dubious drone of 'yes'es from the bolder ones. Crying from the younger ones.

"It's going to be all right, now dearie," she cooed. "Just listen." She cleared her throat. Held herself just so, and the voice of Peppe Panda issued forth. "Hullo thar me liddles. Don'cha cry, now. It's all gonna be apples an' cheese."

Four of the smaller ones _completely_ lost their minds. There was shrieking and giggling and applause from the older fans.

She held herself another way and she spoke as Antonio Aardvark. "Take a look behind da curt'n. See, dis li'l ole lady's been woikin' on da voice farm fer _fiddy_ years. Dat's five times ten fer youse loinin' yer math."

Through assorted character voices, she explained that voice work was one occupation that didn't care how old you were, what gender you were, or even how you dressed. She told funny stories of co-workers who came to work to read three lines and had never bothered changing out of their PJ's and bunny slippers. And she explained to some that cartoons were people like her being voices, and teams of people either drawing or using computers to make the characters come to life.

And she entertained questions from her youngest fans, who were still a little confused about the facts. She would even answer in character for some, and the amusement of all. Fans, children of fans, and grand-fans all came to talk and get a signature afterwards. She even met a few great-grandfans who were just learning to spot her name in the after-show credits.

And for those who were still upset that their favourite cartoon was not quite real, she had a ready supply of Strawberry Candies, individually wrapped Caramels, and little whizz whistles for the ones who weren't allowed sugar.

And some of the grown-up kids took one too.

#  Challenge #215: One Question

A new revolution was in motion and it's progress could not be stopped.

After all, nerds are nothing if not stubborn in their pursuit of knowledge.

They were going to enlighten (pun totally intended) this oppressed world, plant the ideas and curiosity that the new power tried so hard to exterminate. They were going to return to the world the gift Aelria gave to them when she told them "look up".

After all, nerds never die out. They just go stealth. – A-Literal-Fan

AN: Callback to [ this story for those of you who don't want to go archive trawling]

It's easy to be angry at something that you don't understand. Many chose the easy path. Screaming, yelling, or firing weapons at the unfamiliar lights in the sky. Many were hit by falling projectiles. A few died. Some called it the Reckoning, and said it was an indicator of their God's wrath for sins real, imagined, or impossible.

Some stared, stunned, not knowing what it was they saw. And when the power went back on, and the night sky returned to its familiar black under the glare of the city lights, they went back indoors and swallowed what the media told them. Hook, line, and sinker.

But a few. A rare and precious few. _Wondered_. They wondered, _What was that?_ and, _How did it happen?_ and, _Why did a power failure cause it?_ The news reports said it was a terrorist act, but never explained how it was done or what had been used or even what the message was besides, "A message of hate."

They had questions and no answers. And few people to talk about it with. For the few months that the 'attack' was news, they could send out feelers. Like, "You ever wonder how she did it?" or "What even _was_ that, do you know?"

Small groups began to band together. Finding spaces where the invading eye of the ruling class couldn't see them. Where the listening ears of the secret police couldn't hear them. They were called Question Clubs, by those who made them. And there was always a well-paid goon at the door to check those who came looking for answers.

For the first few months, theories abounded. There could be more lights, higher up than the tallest structure in the city. And debate reigned about how they got up there, what they were stuck to, and what made them not fall and kill millions.

Groups dedicated themselves to unriddling Aelria's final words. To encoding their findings in superstition and magical thinking. To saying one thing and meaning another.

Some hid journals of their discoveries and codes. Some, like Aelria, buried time capsules of their important discoveries. One devoted their life to mathematically disproving everything their glorious leader said, or said he did. They hid behind games. Behind songs. Behind a counterculture slang so thick that it bordered on sedition. Behind sigils that only meant something to the people who were willing to learn.

The empire fell, as all empires must when they slide into ignorance and superstition. And the lights were put out by wars caused by internal conflicts seething under the surface. And then there was no more wall of light caused by the glittering city.

People were afraid. They yelled and cursed and screamed and wasted their ammunition on the sparkling sky. Those who belonged to the Question Clubs had theories. They had knowledge. And some... had buried treasures.

To these smaller groups who were frightened and looking for _any_ kind of answer, these people with knowledge stepped forward. They said, "I know what this is," with authority. And began to tell them about the universe.

The world is a ball, they said, floating in space. Kept in a circular dance around the sun just as it keeps the moons dancing around us. The things in the night are called stars, and they are other suns that are very, very far away. Those suns have worlds, too. The ancients knew this. They looked. They found ways to find them.

One day, we will find ways to see them ourselves.

This is a book, they said. The marks are called 'writing'. This is how it works. This is how to write. This is how to find things out. This is the scientific method.

Look and see. Test and discover. Theorise. Attempt to destroy that theory. Experiment. Learn. And write things down for the next people. And the _next_ people. And the next, next people...

A new world grows from one seed of knowledge. A quiet revolution brings forgotten wisdom to light. All because of one question to start it all:

What are those?

#  Challenge #216: Controversial Topic

Please tell us more about the "almost war" of Dog or not dog! – Anon Guest

AN: Callback to [ this post for those who don't want to crawl through my archives]

Very few Deathworlder animals are so useful and varied that they enter the Galactic scene before the cogniscents they share their homeworld with are welcomed. Even fewer are so varied that assorted cogniscent species are still attempting to define the pattern in which they fit.

Only one has a game that revolves entirely around that concept. They call it, _Dog or Not Dog?_ and it was originally aimed at pre-literate Human children before it invaded Galactic Society like a plague. And like a plague, it came fairly close to decimating the Galactic population, or worse.

The scene: an Ambassadorial Meet in the Grand Conference Arena in Hitizzy. There is talk of breaking the Meet into smaller sub-groups and extending the Meet into months so that all important schedules can be met whilst less time is wasted. As one might expect from such a grand change, there is much in the way of pointless debate. One Ambassador, bored and waiting for the call to vote, has opened up the game for something to do other than knitting. Another Ambassador, just as bored, watches a few rounds.

But they can't watch in silence forever.

"That is not a dog," he says in GalStand. "That is a toy known as a 'teddy bear'."

" _Correct,_ " cheers the audio. " _That is a dog! Well done!_ "

The Ambassador playing the game preens in self-congratulatory smugness. And sneered at the Ambassador who was shoulder-surfing. "Some of us are better at recognising true canines than others," ze said, overflowing with snark. "And I will thank you to play the game for yourself. If you can."

"Competitive?" suggested the other. "Best of fifteen wins a trade concession?"

"You're on."

Competitive mode was one of those ill-advised mods that really should have been debated amongst the Fellowship of Galactic Fellowship before it was released into the wild. It allowed anyone sharing a network to share a match of _Dog or Not Dog_ to certain parameters. Fifteen rounds being the upper limit.

Other Ambassadors, just as bored, joined the impromptu parley.

It took three rounds before Ambassadors were sniping at each other in text chat. Seven before physical threats were unleashed. Nine before they started yelling at each other across the floor.

In eleven rounds, decorum collapsed completely. The Ambassador for H'rithas actually attempted to _sting_ the Ambassador for Voxxal. Someone threw a punch. Someone else threw their data reader. The Ambassador for Lecthis, who didn't understand what was going on but nevertheless wanted to show willing, threw a paper plane. Knitting needles were used offensively.

And since there was no unified sleep gas formulae that worked on all combatants, Security had to intervene. Aggressively.

By the time the situation was controlled, there were fifty cases of Grievous Bodily Harm, two hundred and seventy-three lacerations, four hundred and eighty-five contusions, and close to two thousand cases of mortification by association.

It was the longest Meet Hiatus on record, and some Ambassadors will _still_ grumble about it to this day.

_Dog or Not Dog?_ is officially blocked from play during, and in the location of, Ambassadorial Meets.

#  Challenge #217: Any One Help

Your newest story about the human gut wound had me wondering. If aliens cared for their human protectors as much as we cared for them, how would they respond to a significant threat to humanity/earth that even the humans were incapable of dealing with? After all of humanities' civilian organized humanitarian (this word is hilarious to me here) efforts, how would aliens respond when we are in need of some major help of our own? – Anon Guest

AN: Inspired by [ this but not necessarily directly related.]

Humans are well-known for risking their lives for other's sakes. They are rescuers, disaster recoverers, emergency personnel. Sometimes, without training other than the basic know-how. Often in possession of a completely unrelated job title. And they all say the same thing when they are thanked:

"Anyone would do the same thing."

For a long time, they don't tell the Humans that that statement is false. The Universe is full of the self-serving and uncaring. Those who genuinely believe that people who receive disasters truly deserve them because they were evil somehow. Even Human history is loaded with people like that[45]. But so very rarely to Humans act like that was ever a norm.

When the Kri'kajji attempted to wipe out a Human colony by Asteroid Bombardment, the Galactic Alliance remembered those words, all the same. Humans _expected_ anyone who could help to do so. When the call went out, they remembered the favours done. To themselves. To relatives. To ancestors. To ships and stations and planets who had never expected help from a pack of Deathworlders. Who had never asked if those helping them had been trained to help. (In a way, the humans _had_ been trained to help. Just... not in official channels.)

They owed the Humans. A thousand members of a thousand disparate species heard and heeded the call. They launched what they had, loaded with what they knew could help, and strafed the Kri'kajji until they were dead in the water on the way there. Because the humans would have - could have - did actually do similar things for them.

Then they did what they could. Helped where they could. Not because they were expected to. Not because they felt they owed it to the Humans, though that was where the rationalisation started. But, instead, because of the Humans' own words. Slightly modified.

"Anyone _should_ do the same thing."

[45] Of course I'm talking about all Conservatives everywhere. You know the ones.

#  Challenge #218: Ambassador Oozagoodoggieden

Sees human: avoids eye contact, walks away

Sees dog: coos and tried to get its attention

Dog is Ambassador to Human.

Throx considered the daily quote and figured it had been a mistranslation of some truly wise words. Things didn't always meld that well with GalStand Simple and the message was lost in the translation.

"Good morning," said an automated voice. "Welcome to Way Out Station. Your sleeper pod has been transferred to the Decon Zone. Please wait and a technician will see you shortly."

Way Out Station. In the Edge Territories. On one hand, Throx's outer survey job would pay so very well, but on the other... _Here there be Deathworlders._ Throx reminded hirself of all the rules when working with Deathworlders. No aggressive moves. If one knows the species, look up the aggressive moves before interaction. Do not, under any circumstances, act like prey. Don't maintain eye contact for longer than thirty seconds. Don't be loud. Don't get within grappling distance. Tune your bio-alert system to Local Station Security and Emergency Response Team frequencies.

All this, and a Medik check-up to be sure Throx didn't upset the local biota nor vice-versa. And then Throx was free. For limited definitions of free. Eyescreen tuned to the map. Emergency contact details tuned to the station. Offensensitivity screens on. And Deathworlder alerts on.

It was difficult to walk in confidence without being threatening whilst also not making eye contact or seeming like a prey being. Throx thought ze had it handled, all the same. Hir alerts warned her of an approaching Human. One of the many Deathworlders that inhabited this area. Throx kept to hir planned path and prepared a Neutral Greeting. Aiming to show an empty hand in a lazy salute. Not making eye contact. Not being aggressive. Not interacting in any other way.

The Human was walking their dog.

Throx's plans went out the nearest airlock. "Oh, issa cute li'l doggy," ze cooed. "Hewwo widdle doggy. Is you a cutie, essoois, essoois..."

The Human on the other end of the leash laughed. "Yes, of course you can pat my dog." They hunkered down and joined in lavishing attention on the canine. "Her name is Pebbles, and she's three years old."

Throx looked the Human in the eye. Showed hir teeth. Did all the things one wasn't supposed to do with a Deathworlder and the Deathworlder didn't mind. "She is beautiful."

It was only later, when Throx was almost at hir designated destination, that ze realised.

Dog _is_ Ambassador to Human.

#  Challenge #219: Just One Thing

If it exists, there's probably a Wikipedia page about it.

When the Sky People left, they left behind the Thing. It was flat, and it could bend, and it would not break. It was not food, and it was not a tool, but the Sky People had touched it a lot, so it had to be important.

Thorn poked at it the way she had seen the Sky people do. The figures that came up meant little to her, but the shaking and the red was danger. On the fifth try, she got the pattern that changed the Thing. So many colours. So many different ways the Thing could show her... things.

One of them spoke to her. Words that didn't have meaning, but Thorn was young. Thorn learned. She learned Thing words like "edible" and what "cook" was. And how to make "fire" like the Sky People did. The Thing was useful. Once she could understand it. And one of the first things she understood was that the Thing liked to eat sunshine, but it wasn't a plant. She kept it in daylight so that the LoBatt Warning would never show.

"Cook" was the most useful thing to learn. There was "open roast" which meant sticking things on sharp sticks, but special sharp sticks that weren't "poisonous". There was "roast under coals" which meant burying the food in fire when it was wrapped in good leaves and that meant that Thorn could add things to make food taste even better.

When Thorn and her children had most of the words, they could learn more. What was "metal"? What was "forging"? What was "ceramic"? Her children were clever. They learned more of the words than she ever could. They raced ahead with things Thorn barely understood, but understood as good.

They were learning "farming" and "storage" and "preservation" and it meant that Thorn had children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren before she grew too old and frail to know any more.

Her family remembered her, all the same. Thorn, who found the Thing. Thorn, who learned the words. Thorn, first mistress of Wikipedia Galactica.

#  Challenge #220: Cautious Welcome

How would aliens with different lifespans play out alongside humanity? Can you please do an alien (instead of dog) version of this post? https://www.reddit.com/r/wholesomememes/comments/5wz4gy/we_are_like_elves_to_dogs/

Thanks! – Anon Guest

For generations, Thack has watched over us. He is our Human and we are his crew. He has seen us all born. He has wept as we all passed of old age at anywhere between fifteen and twenty. He has taught us, protected us, and told us of his own family.

Thack has been a part of our crew for seventy-five years, and is leaving us today in favour of his Granddaughter, Human Grace. Many of you are upset about this, we know, but Human Thack has stayed with us well beyond retirement age and has reached the point where he is no longer able to perform his duties.

I know. It seems impossible, but Thack is too old to look after us. I hear he has plans to live on a little island near the equator of his home planet, and take up fishing. Join us in wishing him well. And Human Grace will be one of us soon. A guardian and guide and caretaker of our little ones. Learn her scent. Be kind. And I am certain that she will tell us how well her grandfather is doing.

Nix had her doubts about Human Grace. She was not Thack. And Thack had been a part of the Taeniol crew for... _forever_. He had been their guide, their guardian, and their heat pad in a pinch. It was ancient history when he was a young Human at an old Taeniol age of eighteen. He must have seemed impossible to Nix's great-grandmother, too.

Humans only _seemed_ ageless and infinite. Nix had heard of some human variants who could live to their mid-hundreds. Thack's line was 'working on it', he said. Genetic predisposition had him living to one hundred and fifteen. Grace was apparently due to age out of life at one hundred and twenty-five. Such an impossible span of time away. She was barely a day past eighteen, now. Fresh-faced and youthful compared to her grandfather. And so small and light.

_She_ would be taking breaks to have babies. Swapping out shipboard duty with her lifemate. When she caught one. There was plenty of time, and she had the option of in vitro gestation. A method of producing young that was growing increasingly popular amongst these wildcat mammals.

Nix was still blown away by the Human scale of time. An entire generation ago... one grandmother ago... Human Grace was a helpless infant. Now she was almost fully grown and contemplating reproduction. A literal lifetime. And she would live lifetimes more. Seemingly ageless and eternal.

For her children, and her children's children, Nix had the duty of gaining familiarity with Human Grace's scent. To becoming _friends_. To trusting this new Human with her young. Because Human Grace would be on board for a very, _very_ long time.

Nix found Human Grace in a hatching ward, welcoming brand new Taeniol hatchlings under the supervision of their mother. And in Human Grace's expression, she saw Thack. That same look of breathless wonder. That same whispering gentleness when greeting the babies verbally. That same feather-light touch.

She even had a similar giggle when the little ones tested her for food value. "I'm not delicious or nutritious," Human Grace cooed. "Go to mama. Go on, now." And the same slow and careful motions as she handed the babies over to their families.

Nix relaxed. It would not be that difficult to get used to a new Human after all.

#  Challenge #221: Something's Happening Here

Love your Humans are space Orcs, especially the ones about Ozzies.

Here is one for you, How even without luck, all humans get gut feelings, warning of unseen dangers and how they can drive out decisions especially in rather precarious situations. – Adam in Darwin

[AN: Never sweat your spelling. If I can grok your meaning, I'll correct that biz for the post. Hope you haven't gone troppo waiting for this post to happen, and have a Gaytime on me :D ]

Certain Human phrases are indicators of doom. Ones like, "Trust me," or, "What could go wrong?" are big winners. The latter because the Universe loves giving painful answers to silly questions like that one. Also on the top ten are, "I've _got_ this," and, "Hold my beer."

Less well-known, but equally portentious, is, "I don't like this," or, "This place gives me the creeps." Or similar attitudes. If a _Human_ is scared, then caution is well-advised. That said, some of the most mundane things can scare a Human. Abandoned habitations, empty malls, vacant hotels, and certain patterns of carpeting have been known to set a Human off.

None of these were present in Thropnak Seven.

It was how the Daknithid learned about the Human phenomenon of Thin Slicing. Humans on the Edge Territories especially learned early to listen to their instincts. Paying close attention to anything 'creepy' and remaining cautious in the face of their own unsourced trepidation.

In this case, the sun was shining, the breeze was gentle, the local bird-analogues were chirping, and Human Rai was ever-so-quietly going out of hir mind with terror. Ze was on edge, flinching at every shadow. Twitching at every moving thing in hir peripheral vision. And, because it was hir job, going first in every place that the Daknathid wished to investigate.

"It is water," insisted Groth. "Harmless."

"Something is _wrong_ ," insisted Human Rai, allowing hir livesuit to encounter it first. The quiet-looking stream was, indeed, water, but the sonar sensors read it as far, far deeper than it seemed. A floating probe quickly vanished under the surface and went out of range in seconds[46]. "No swimming," ze said. But it was water. It could be sampled, imbibed, taken aboard for extra supplies... but not swum in.

When the local predator struck, only Human Rai was ready. Turning and firing in barely a breath. Thin slicing had told hir that ze was being watched. Thin slicing said _something_ was stalking them. Working out whether or not ze or the Daknathid crew were worth hunting and eating.

The Daknathid had had no idea. Human Rai hadn't been able to pin it down, either, but hir instincts made certain that ze was ready for _anything_.

[46] There is actually a stream like this somewhere on Earth. I've only read about it in fact pictures though.

#  Challenge #222: Through th' Crack's Mirror

Humans had lost against the Fae. The Orcs, and Fairies, Gnomes, and Centaurs, all the "mythical" creatures had banded together and drove us to near extinction. But unlike us, they weren't monsters. We had after all started the war. And the small group of survivors, stripped of magic, were sent to a reality where no natural magic existed. Banished to the fringes, that's where our stories came from, an attempt to keep the history before alive. And remember the times that the odd curious Fae King would come to check on us, challenge us, test us, see if we had changed. – The Pirate

Tyr Na'Nog tells stories of Humans. Legends. Tales of the Old Times when the Xenophobia Wars raged and these magic-less apes were the most dangerous creature in the world of many. They had short lives, but they learned fast. They learned from the worst of things that happened, and grew unbelievably strong. They bred fast. They made tools that could work as well as magic.

Some say that the Gods made Humans as a joke. And like so many jokes, they were unintentionally painful. They could not unmake what they had made. They could not eliminate Humans completely from the world. So all the intelligent creatures, large and small, banded together. A type of Pax Humanis. Dragons worked with Dwarves. Elves worked with Gnomes. Centaurs and Gryphons and Faeries grouped their skills.

Together, they made a door. And washed the Humans through it in a gigantic flood. So the stories say. Tan'reath found it unlikely that such creatures existed, and had the gall to doubt his teacher openly. That was when Ul'daath the Wise took him to the Library of Horrors. Where the Mirror to the Otherworld rested.

It was made from a polished fragment of the Door, which had cracked as the last of the Humans went through it, lest they find a way to come _back_ before they had changed their ways. It was a dangerous thing, like all the dangerous things in the Library of Horrors. It was kept under guard for a distant time when intelligent creatures could possibly be ready to handle them responsibly.

The young prince Tan'reath stood in front of the mirror as Ul'daath the Wise activated the mirror and said, "Let us see."

Once a century, some ruler or prince or princess would stand where Tan'reath now stood. Doubting that the stories were real. Doubting that it had once happened. Doubting that things like Humans could exist. Some had tested them. Some had merely seen. Most had been terrified.

The last one to See had been an Unseeliegh prince, who had tested the humans and even brought a few into Tyr Na'Nog for a day or a night. He was overthrown for his cruelty, in the end. But now Tan'reath stood there. Looking into an unfamiliar world.

They made towers so tall they broke the clouds. They made flying machines so large that they _created_ clouds. They made vessels that could reach the moon, and then made stories to tell themselves that it never happened. They made telescopes that hung in the vastness of the unbreathable void, so that they could see the stars more clearly.

And they made war.

So many wars.

There was not a day of the year, not a moment, when one band of Humans was not killing another band of humans. For resources. For faith. For land. For a set of ideals that made little difference. They fought each other. They killed. For a skin colour. For a right they did not possess. For a bauble. For a person. For control.

Prince Tan'reath was left trembling, tears pouring down his cheeks. He was a young Elf of twenty five, and he would remember this day for the rest of his nine hundred years.

Ul'daath the Wise returned the mirror to its harmless blank normalcy. "Now you have Seen the truth I could not bear to see again. What have you to say?"

Tan'reath took twenty minutes to find his voice. "We thought we were being kind, giving them a world of their own," he quavered. "We thought we were being merciful." He retched, but retained his composure. "We were so cruel to them, leaving them with nothing but each other to teach them."

Ul'daath the Wise loaned Tan'reath the warmth of his cloak. "They would have become that with or without us, young Prince. There is still the hope that they will, in time, learn to be kind."

"It's been a hundred of our years. Thousands of theirs. When will they learn, wise one? _When_ will they learn?"

Ul'daath the Wise lead the young Prince Tan'reath towards the kitchens for some Fae-made pastries and mulled honey mead. The boy needed some comforts, now. "Even I cannot foresee that day, your grace. But... we can still hope. We can still hope."

Let the boy weep, for now. Let the boy mourn. The man would become a kind and gentle monarch in his time. Ul'daath knew, because _that_ mirror showed the truth in more ways than one.

#  Challenge #223: One Post-Near-Wipe-Experience in a Dark and Dismal Dungeon

(Person 1): You Idiot!

(Person 2): I'm sure you're right, but why?

"Okay," sighed Fanrel. "From the top. We're rescuing villagers from an evil cult that's into blood sacrifices. We use out best stealth to creep up on them while they're busy with the chanting. We're all _nearly_ in position... and then _you_ decide to leap up, scatter _marbles_ all over the place and yell, 'Oo ma, oo ma, I can see your nickie-nahs'."

"It disrupted the ceremony," protested Jorgax.

"Ye-e-es," Fanrel allowed, hanging on the fraying end of her last nerve. "And it also rendered the ceremonial chamber difficult terrain, blew our cover, and gained us the attention of a relatively minor C'thuloid entity which, I might add, is still _fucking_ dangerous beans. Half our party nearly _died_."

"Okay, in my defence..."

"No."

"Aaawww..."

"We all know how this goes when you start an argument with 'in my defence'. This will not end well and we _all_ know it."

Jorgax sighed and pouted, handing out healing potions and med kits to those who were scraping themselves up off the ceremonial floor.

Fanrel cracked. "Fine. Say it. Get it out of your system."

"I had a few reasons, really," said Jorgax, ignoring Fanrel's half-vocalised moan. "One: they were dancing at the time and the marbles served a practical purpose. Two: the ritual had to be turned profane, and that's a relative term, and the thing I shouted was the first thing in my head... uhm. Three? I thought... it'd... be... funny?"

"Aaaannnnd there it is," sighed Fanrel. "Deaf Gods help me and protect me from idiot teammates who go with the first funny thought in their fluffy little heads!"

Nemro, the Cleric, said, "Shouldn't you be _signing_ to deaf gods?"

"CASE IN FUCKING POINT," raged Fanrel. "It's always the same thing. Every time we go anywhere."

#  Challenge #224: What is Owed

(Person 1): "Ok, let's get one thing straight."

(Person 2): "Yes?"

(Person 1): _Straightens painting hanging on wall_

Thief hunkered in a corner. She didn't know what she was thinking when she saved this Mage from the brigands, but now they feared their anger. Mages were glass cannons, it was true, but they were also vengeful shits who could turn -say- a kobold Rogue into a toad or worse. And Thief had lived her entire, brief life in fear of others' wrath.

The Mage stopped pacing. "Okay," they said. Impossibly beautiful and glamorous because they were an Elf. "Let's get one thing straight."

Thief flinched on instinct. Held her breath as she watched the Elf cross the room and tidy up a crooked painting on their shared inn wall.

"Good," said the Elf. "Now I can _think_."

Thief whimpered.

"Oh," they said, as if realising that Thief was there. "Aaaawww... I'm sorry, small one. I'm not angry in your direction, I promise." They adjusted the placement of a vase of flowers and the other bed by a few significant fractions of an inch, then tidied the wrinkles out of the blankets. "I have... a problem with disorder. My name's Wraithvine, and I owe you my life."

"I'm not taking it," said Thief. "I'm not taking anything. Pleasedon'tturnmeintoatoad."

"I'm not that kind of wizard," said Wraithvine. "You've obviously found yourself in ill circumstances for a long time."

How could they read Thief like that?

"What's your fondest dream?"

Thief dared uncurl from her protective huddle to try and read the Elf's youthful face. There was no hate there. Nor anger. Nor callous cruelty. And those were all the emotions that Thief was used to seeing. Maybe - and this was a strange thought for Thief - maybe Wraithvine was _sincere_. "A safe place to live in. Three meals a day. Hot meals. And... I never have to be scared any more."

"Just that? It sounds... boring."

"Please, I've never had boring. It sounds nice."

Wraithvine reached out and pushed Thief's hood back, revealing the truth. "Ah. Yes. I can see why you'd like boring. Alas, boredom tends to cost a lot of gold to secure. So you and I will be adventuring together for some time yet."

"You... _and_ I," echoed Thief. "Together. Like... allies?"

"I would hope, friends and compatriots. You saved my life. You deserve to have a better one in return. Sound fair?"

"Sounds like a dream come true."

Wraithvine's smile made their whole face shine. "Good. A team, then. Do you have a name?"

"I am called Thief. I think. People always say it when they see me... um. It's... it's the best I've got." Thief shouldn't have looked down, because she was grappled and held. But... it wasn't the usual way the guards did it. Thief was wrapped up in wizardly Elven arms and held close against robes and she heard... a soft and comforting purr. And she felt... nice. And safe. Nice and safe. "What- I can't- are you- What is this?"

"It's a hug," said Wraithvine. "You are in sore need of many. And an actual name." They sniffed. "And a _bath_."

Thief had heard people talking about baths before. Everyone seemed to think she needed one. They also seemed to think she needed a good whipping, too. "It won't... hurt... will it?"

Wraithvine's face was wet. "Oh, my small one... I have so much to teach you. And I promise that none of it will hurt."

And since a wizards' promise was worthy of gold, Thief allowed herself to relax. Maybe all of her pain had finally paid for a change of luck.

#  Challenge #225: Mundane Profundity

http://avita-creator.tumblr.com/post/175729151210/theshitpostcalligrapher-mysteryseeker

For these are the hidden gems of the time known as the shitpost era of the Internet, and are now treated in our spacefaring days, as they treated their own classical texts of Shakespeare and Marlowe. – Anon Guest

It was a cross-stitch sampler in a frame, and it had profound words carefully sewn into the underlying fabric. _It is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are._ Next to it, another one read, _I will face God and walk backwards into Hell._ And it featured a sewn representation of matching, very human, obscene gestures. A third read, _Best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. Second best time is today._

Humans, for all their insane bloodthirsty shenanigans, had some profound words come out of them, sometimes. Rox picked up one that said, _We are all parts of the Universe, seeking to understand itself._ "Where do these come from?" ze asked.

The Human running the stall was wearing the brown robes of an Archivaas. "That one is from an ancient drama set in an imagined future, roughly in our present day. Others in this collection are from the Pre-Shattering Nouveau Dadaist era of what they called 'shitposts'." They briefly touched the one with obscene gestures. "Many are from expendable entertainments called _video games_." This time, they held up one that read, _I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me._

"None of this is classic literature?" boggled Rox. Some of it _had_ to be.

The Archivaas pointed to a larger work labeled _Display Only. Not for sale._ That one read, _It's almost like art isn't just fine art._ They said, "The truth of art lies in those who find it profound and useful. Be it for their eyes, their mind, or their soul."

Chills. How did the Humans just _do_ that all the time? "How much to get what you just said stitched and framed?"

"If I start now, I can have it sewn in five hours."

Rox handed over eight Hours. It was worth it.

#  Challenge #226: Place Your Bets

I have a lot of questions about this and I want none of them answered.

There was a segment of vine in the isolation chamber. Recognisable as a section of The Glunk only by its unique hue. Spotted along it were black dots. Arranged underneath it were sections of Known Station Building Material.

There was also a betting pool board instead of algorithms on the whiteboards that were left there for those who liked to think in physical space.[47] Even the usual comic doodle had been erased from the betting pool. Instead, there were bets on teams; Asshole, Bastard, Cack, Dummins and Excreta.

"There's a ten percent increase in Team Asshole," said one of the scientists working in this particular laboratory. "Team Dummins is behind by two percent. Team Cack is bringing up the rear."

"Bets are still on the board until they spill on the no-no," another reminded them. "Come on Exxy..."

Chief Investigator Throkk cleared her throat. Causing this team to suddenly fail at pretending they hadn't devolved into childish behaviour. "I have a lot of questions about this," she indicated the betting pool, the experiment in progress, and the ridiculous hat lying in a box labeled _Booby Prize_ , "and I want none of them answered."

Some of them had the decency to blush. "We're... uh... We were just..."

Throkk held up a manipulating digit. "None," she repeated. "I will read about it in the official report and _pretend_ I didn't see a single instant of these... shenanigans."

There was a muted and embarrassed chorus of, "Yes, Investigator Throkk," before she left them to their own devices again. This is what she should have expected from leaving five Humans, three of whom were N'Ozzies, in an enclosed space and free reign to experiment.

The resultant paper was called _On the Training of B'Nari Nanites in Potentially Hostile Environmental Cleanup Conditions._ And was not in the slightest bit hilarious unless one knew the circumstances surrounding its authorship.

[47] Assorted methods of thinking are well known amongst the intellectual set. Acknowledged and encouraged are Thinking Out Loud - talking about it, Thinking In Physical Space - drawing your math on something or making demonstrations, and Thinking In Virtuality - playing with the math in simulations. Less well recognised but still endorsed is Thinking On The Inside, better known as Spacing Out.

#  Challenge #227: Small Miracle in a Bathhouse

I will follow you to the ends of the Earth with only mild complaining

AN: Callback to [ this because I like the concept]

So many miracles happened in Wraithvine's wake. But then, one could expect that sort of thing from an actual wizard. For a start, Wraithvine could make a gesture and everyone would not see her as a Kobold any more. They would see a Halfling, or a Gnome, or a Dwarf, or an Elven or Human child. It was so good that it even fooled Thief when she saw a mirror in a shop.

Wraithvine insisted on trying names on for size. As a ragged patch who looked like a child, they tried 'Waif', which was close enough to a description that it fit Thief. As a Gnome, she became Dawn. As a Dwarf, Agate. And finally, when she looked like a Halfling, she was called Tinglerang. But that didn't stop Thief from looking at her true reflection and still thinking of herself as Thief.

But baths? Thief could really get to enjoy baths. Baths, soft beds, and quality ale. These were the things that were the most miraculous to Thief. That and not being shot at for walking down the street. Thief... felt _happy_. And that was a big deal for her. And still, this functionally immortal wizard wanted to give Thief her fondest and sincerely humble dreams.

Figuring out how to express her gratitude out loud was something she'd been working on. Between adventures trying to gain the gold to get to Thief's goal, between gathering spell components and potions so that they could survive the _next_ random encounter, dungeon crawl, or dangerous beast hunt. And, as Thief was quickly discovering, the bath was the best place to think.

Thief peeked over the side of her metal tub to where Wraithvine was immersed up to the neck in theirs. The wizard's body shape and gender were a mystery that Thief didn't care to solve. "Wraithvine?" she said.

"Mmrrrrp?" Wraithvine coughed a little and said, "Yes?"

She could say this. She'd been working on it for weeks. "I will follow you to the ends of the Earth with only mild complaining."

A wry smile. A chuckle. "Thank you. I'm fond of you, too." The Elf shifted position in the milky water. "How do you feel about... Chrysanthemum?"

"That's a fancy name. It seems... too glittery."

"You should try it on in the next town. See if it feels right. And for the record, it's a rather frilly flower. You can shorten it to Chrys. Or Mum. Nobody's ever shortened it to Anthe."

Thief the Nobody thought about all the things nobody did. Nobody cared about a thief. Nobody owed gratitude to a Kobold. Nobody thought to name an orphan thief. And nobody had ever grown to love an androgynous Elf Wizard with an interesting approach to life. "Next town... I think Lady Anthe might be a good person to be."

And nobody could think that an orphan Kobold from the gutters could play a Lady of any kind.

Good thing that they weren't nobodies.

#  Challenge #228: A Tiny Terror in Tulle

"You're my bestest friend ever!" "Because I supply you with deadly weapons?" "That's what only the best of friends would do!"

[AN: Now I want a Google Search image with "Did you mean 'Bangladesh Dupree'?" in it]

It wasn't easy, working for Princess Hakenslash. She was going to be a fine Warrior Queen one day, presuming she survived to achieve the crown. She was eight, and already a terror in pink tulle and play fairy wings[48]. She wanted nothing more than to beat the snot out of any of the Kingdom's enemies, and the challenge was in making weapons that suited her immature hands.

Alloys forged in Dragon's flame didn't come cheap. Especially bauxite and starmetal. _Especially_ forged using the secrets of Damasc.

Tan the Smith learned to dread the sound of her skipping footsteps, but today? Today, the fates had been kind. Elven artificers and Dwarven smiths and kindly Dragons alike had been working on this since her last birthday. All the same, Tan braced himself as she came, all ribbons, curls, and frilly socks.

She was a vision made of sugar and spice. But only for _formal_ court. "It's my birthday," she singsonged. "What'cha got?"

Tan pulled the cord that opened the curtain with a bow and a, "Happy birthday, your grace."

Princess Hakenslash squealed in delight.

It was a full set of plate mail. Made of the newest, lightest, strongest alloys of bauxite and steel. Charmed by Elven Artificers. Forged by Tan and the best Dwarven smiths in Dragons' flames. Made with room to grow. There was a matching shield and a glimmering sword.

All, of course, painted pink, with embellishments in purple and gold. And glittering rainbows of gemstones.

Because eight-year-old Princesses had a certain, predictable aesthetic.

"It's _beautiful_ ," she squealed, leaping into Tan's arms. "You're my bestest friend ever!"

"Because I supply you with deadly weapons?" Tan laughed.

"That's what only the best friends would do," she declared, kissing him on the cheek.

Of course, they had made sure she could wear the armour _and_ her frilliest pink dresses. She was already strapping on her own greaves and sabatons. "This is the bestest birthday," she cheered. "Who're we having a war with?"

The seneschal, so very tired of this, sighed, "I do believe our neighbours on the southern border need some... reminding... of your ladyship's might?"

Princess Hakenslash picked up her sword and shield whilst some attendants buckled her curais for her. She rang the shield rhythmically with her sword. Chanting, "We're gonna cut yer _tonkers_ off!"

All part of a well-rounded Warrior Queen's education.

48] Ask anyone who runs the mock-combat section of any given Ren Fair about tiny girls in pink, frilly dresses. [ Source

#  Challenge #229: Stockholm's Invisible Bars

Humanity has always fascinated a certain alien "scientist" shall we say, though in reality they were nothing more than a monster. Their newest "pets" were the result of their most recent experiments in gaslighting and the human phenomenon known as Stockholm syndrome. Never had one so cruel ever known such an horrific punishment by the hands of humanity. – Sorry

[AN: No you're not]

Beware becoming your obsession. There are many that will eat you alive and not even spit out your bones. To enforce the point, let us examine Blixnar Ratangu. A name that will live on in infamy...

She became obsessed with Humans. The deadliest of Deathworlders known to civilised kind. Deadlier, even, than the highest-ranking Deathworlders. Where others might rely on might, Humans rely on bloody-minded determination. Even one of their own entertainment creators named it as an essential element of nature[49]. She insisted they could be tamed. She knew that they could become docile if treated properly.

Though she was technically correct, her methods were the furthest definition of 'properly'. And her results were the furthest thing from 'docile'.

Survivor File # BR-013, code name Pax. Tamed through methods of aversion by remote implant delivery of a nervous shock directly to the pain centres of the cerebellum. Subject learned to eat, drink, tolerate cleansing, urinate and defecate on command. Subject learned sequence commands noted and logged in file _Helper Monkey 23579_ (Offensensitivity warning for systematic abuse of a cogniscent being).

Subject first responder to the scene. Security recordings show Pax voluntarily disobeying conditioning to call outside of the Ratangu hidden facility, and subsequently screaming from terror at Ratangu's reprisals. Pax remained in a hysterical fuge state until sedated. Subject recorded as underweight and suffering several stress-related diseases on entry to a therapy environment.

Survivor File # BR-002, code name Ma. Subject found covered in Ratangu's blood, and guarding subject code-name Baby from Ratangu's injured body. (See file # BR-SecRec-LastMins. Offensensitivity warning for extreme violence against a Galactic Citizen) File _Helper Monkey 23579_ alludes to Ma and Baby being conditioned in the same manner as Pax. This was obviously not effective.

All survivors have been moved to a therapy environment, program Elysium. Ratangu has been exiled to Human territories where she was tortured by Humans and transformed into a 'pet'. The Humans have seen program Elysium and acknowledge that it is the best environment for the survivors.

It was another beautiful day. There had been weeks of them. Warm sunshine. Gentle breezes. What precipitation there was came down gently in the night. The water was always sweet and clean and the house they shared was always clean and comfortable. If there was a Master, then they hadn't said much beyond the commands that let them do as they wished.

Sally was still crying and rocking. Elaine gently guided her to food and helped her eat, just as she fed her daughter. There was always a supply of good food. Not too hot, and not too cold. Always full of good flavour and none of it ever rotten.

Sally was still scared of the Master. Still terrified to put a hair wrong.

"What would you like today, Sally?" Elaine asked. "There's blue, and red. And green. And they have yellow, today. Don't you like yellow?"

"My name is Pax. They call me Pax. My name is Pax, now. I don' wanna make 'em angry. They can't be angry at us. We're good pets. We're _good_ pets."

Elaine put her toddler Gai down so she could hug her sister. "It's all right. It's all right, now. They're not mad I called you Sally, okay? So..." she was grasping at straws and she knew it. "I'll let you be Pax today... and you can try being Sally for... an hour... how's an hour sound?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. An hour tomorrow. What colour stuff do you want, Pax?"

Sally/Pax mumbled breathlessly to herself. What Elaine recognised as 'praying' to the Master. When no other omens were forthcoming, she squeaked, "Red?" and instantly flinched in fear of punishment that didn't come.

It had been weeks. And still her sister feared their dead Master's anger. Today was one of the bad days. Matching the regular, cyclical nature of the alien's wrath. Elaine didn't find solace in the fact that this one was less horrible than the last one. The next one could always be worse.

The road to recovery was long, rocky, treacherous, and mostly uphill.

But for an hour, very likely less, Sally would at least try being Sally. In the meantime, Elaine welcomed her choice with the same faked enthusiasm that she used for her daughter showing her a pretty leaf or a flower for the infinitieth time. "Mmm. Red sounds so good," she cheered. Sally making a choice on a bad day was a trembling step forward. And every step was a step away from the ruin she was on the Master's death day. The day she'd killed that alien asshole for daring to hurt _her_ baby. "Do _you_ wanna have some Red with Aunty Pax, Gai?"

"Wanna yellow," said Gai.

"Okay. Yellow's just as good. _I'm_ having some Red. And Aunty Pax is having Red too. It's all so nice." It didn't have much in the way of a different flavour. Somewhere along the way, their hosts had become confused about flavour encoding, and Red was something like a strawberry-scented steak. At least these ones were trying to be nice hosts. Making certain they felt safe, that they were fed, that they had things to do, and that they had a choice.

Halfway through chewing her Red, Sally/Pax burst into tears. "They're never coming back," she sobbed. "They're never coming back and they're gonna be so-o-o-o maaaaaddd..."

Elaine didn't point out the illogic. It never did any good. She just hugged her sister and cooed, "It's all right, now. It's all right. Nobody's mad at you. I promise."

Just another day in paradise. Helping her sister climb slowly out of her personal hell.

[49] GNU Sir Terry Pratchett.

#  Challenge #230: Death Trade

Kill it! Kill it with lethal amounts of Sodium Chloride!

The enormous bipedal chordate flinched under the -pardon the pun- assault. Cried out. And yet, it was still standing after five rounds rapid. Then the assembled Cryptels watched in stunned amazement as the Deathworlder actually _licked_ the powder from its skin.

"Mmmm..." It bared its enormous teeth. " _YesthisisexactlywhatIneed._ "

It actually _craved_ the death mineral. T'lu didn't know what to do. Ze clenched backwards out of instinct as this giant went through its possessions. Laying them out away from the aura of salt that surrounded it.

"Sir," trilled Junior K'leth. "I think... it might want to trade?"

Indeed, the creature they had just tried to kill was gesturing at the offerings and then to their ammunition packs. Their hide had to be much thicker than a Cryptel's. And it seemed... so dry. How could anything survive without a constant source of moisture?

This creature was using some machine to suck up the powdered death mineral from every surface, including its own. It had a barking call as it did so, but it made no further hostile move. It even made certain that there was no salt on its own offerings. Pushing them a little towards the stunned Cryptel crew and then jumping backwards on those long, impossible limbs. It pointed towards the container of sucked-up minerals and attempted to indicate that it wanted more.

Slowly. Cautiously, T'lu extruded hir limbs and scanned the offerings. Dried balls of a capsaicin-containing organic pod. noble metals with high conductivity. A toy containing gears and a spring. A sealed vial of silicon that, if turned, could measure a small space of time. A ball of string. A reel of waterproof fabric backed by a powerful adhesive...

Through a combination of mime and broken GalStand Simple, they managed to communicate a trade. Twenty reels of this _Ductape_ for twenty cartridges of death mineral.

It was the start of a wonderful trade agreement.

The Human Spacers had been extracting salt from their own waste fluids for too long, but they could easily fabricate _Ductape_. The Cryptel Sovereignty needed a salt-proof armour that could also preserve their fluids, and had long ago turned a waste product of an industrial process into a weapon of mass destruction.

Only the Humans found it amusing when they discovered their disparate names for that first trade. _Salt for Tape_ versus _Bullets for Armour_.

#  Challenge #231: Wifi Fhtagn

We have found it... The mythical artifact of legendary power, rumored about since the 21st century... And now, after all this time, we have found it! The best wifi in the universe!

It was small, and sleek, and had two antennae that made the whole thing look like an ascii-faced robot. Humans would easily see the 'face' and declare it as 'cute' or 'a little bit derpy'. Those not blessed with the capability for pareidolia would only see lights and a line of USB slots.

The entire thing glowed. Even when it was not plugged into a power source. That was how they knew that the thing was from beyond this world. Possibly from beyond this reality. The air had a greasy quality around it and, if it was handled, the person handling it swear it felt as if the object were _permitting_ them to do so.

But in all other things, it was a simple Wifi Modem. It boasted being able to connect to objects within fifty meters, and it did so faithfully. No matter what was between it and the user. Bricks. Other electronics. Re-enforced concrete. A faraday cage. You name it, it broadcast within that range. It even worked with Wifi boosters to extend its range.

It was perfect.

So perfect that they dared not take it apart to find out what made it so. They were too afraid of breaking it.

So they used every non-invasive method they could think of to peek inside the machine without disturbing its inner workings. And learned many things.

Part of it was organic, but they couldn't figure out how it was alive even without power. Nor could they work out what it subsisted on.

Part of it gave off readings that indicated that it spent quantum milliseconds in another dimension. But they could not say which dimension or how it flickered there and back again before any instruments could measure what it did.

Part of it emitted infrasound that made certain peoples very nervous about looking at it. Yet it featured no parts that could make a sound.

And it was, without a doubt, the perfect Wifi Modem.

Such a pity that Wifi was outmoded technology by the time they found it.

#  Challenge #232: Bohemian Nights

(Title: Bohemian Rhapsody: A Space Opera) [what happens when the night-owl Humans take over the interstellar comms] – Anon Guest

[AN: Can you please _not_ have your titles be part of my prompts? It fucks up my routine to a rather major degree.]

Dead air. Silence. These things are anathema to the human mind. To them, there is such a thing as _too_ quiet. _Lock a Human in an anechoic chamber and they will go mad..._ And this was why the Party Line was invented. To keep Humans from going insane in the silence of the too-quiet hours.

It took thirty seconds for it to become a writhing pit of memetic perpetuation.

"Is this thing on?" said a voice in the darkness. "Can anyone hear me?"

"No," said four other voices in the darkness.

"It's three minutes past midnight, and I can't sleep."

Fifteen voices said, "Same." Twenty said, "Mood."

Someone sang, "It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you ba-a-abe..."

And then it happened. An imitation of a childlike voice asked, "Is this real life?"

Some other wag followed immediately with, "Is this just fantasy?"

And fifty voices all raised in song. "Caught in a landslide/ no escape from reality..."

Galactic Society had heard hundreds of Humans joined in song before, but this was the first time that hundreds of Humans had joined in song over lines of communication whilst they were separated by Astral Units of measurement.

The net effect was more than sobering.

Billions of miles apart. Linked only by a shared audio line. Different colours, different cultures, different creeds. All had one thing in common.

The Human Anthem.

It crossed the galaxy. It crossed wormholes. It traversed the gulfs of space and brought them all together.

And it was quite a sight to see the night-shift Human head-banging and gyrating to a song inside their heads as they sang along with the Human chorus.

#  Challenge #233: Dirt's Worth

"Look I'm okay with you scapegoating this onto me-"

"What? Why!"

"But next time warn me first. Do you know how hard it is to turn a weak lie into a strong one with no background info?" – OohLookShiny

"Okay," Marvin allowed. "But... I still need to know _why_. Most people react to being pushed under the omnibus with vengeance."

Lady Anthe sat on the table so she could level a glare at the Human Fighter. "I'm a Kobold. The first name I ever owned was 'Thief'. I've been a scapegoat so long and so often that I might as well have horns, give milk, and go 'mna-a-a-a'."

"It's scary that you do that so accurately," said Marvin.

"You're just lucky that my deception check has advantage," she sighed, waving to Wraithvine, who was bringing over a tray of meals and small ale. "Don't do it again, huh? Let me do the lying. It's easier that way."

And since Marvin was on the run from the old gang he'd fallen into... he twiddled with his fingers and found the table more interesting to look at and blushed. "Yes'm."

Then Wraithvine the Elven Wizard slid their tray onto the table, setting out their orders before politely handing the empty tray to a serving wench with a couple of coppers and their thanks. They sat and re-ordered their own setting according to their personal whims. "I take it our Lady Anthe has already reprimanded you for your... improv."

Elves had a knack for making even the most charismatic human feel like an ugly and unwanted stepchild. Marvin tried his utmost to not blush even worse. "...'es," he mumbled.

And now there was a perfect hand on his own. Comforting. "Today, we learn," said Wraithvine. "Tomorrow, we do better."

Legends said that the Elves had raised Humanity up from apes. That they had created civilisation and everything that rose from it. Here, in this inn, with Wraithvine's hand on his own, Marvin could believe that Humanity's first set of Gods were actually Elves with delusions of grandeur. Because he desperately wanted to do better and impress this Elf.

_Who is hundreds of years older than me and not interested in sex,_ Marvin reminded himself. _Barely interested in me at all._

"Eat up," advised Lady Anthe. "You need your strength. And more importantly, _we_ need your strength."

Marvin tried to inflate his pride in that. Going from being worthless and the target of the group to a necessary member should have been nicer than he felt, right now. But he couldn't _not_ hear Thessal's wheedling voice whispering, _They only want what you can do. They don't care about who you are, not really._

Then Lady Anthe had a hand on his elbow. "I see you, Marvin. You think you are worth dirt. Less than dirt. Take it from me, I know different. Dirt is land. And land is profit. The lords who own it all will say things like 'dirt poor' and 'dirt cheap', but that's to conceal its value to those who work for them. The right kind of dirt can even hide a valuable treasure. You can become that. I believe in you."

And for a moment, just a moment, Marvin sat up a little straighter. Felt just a little prouder. He would treasure that moment. Even when he remembered that there was no real way to tell when Lady Anthe was spouting pure horseshit.

#  Challenge #234: Weapons of Mass Deception

"[Blank] can't expect us to just cry on command," Person A muttered. They got a sniffle in reply and when they glanced over the tears were already streaming down person B's face.

"Are you serious?" Person A said.

Person B just grinned at them and choked back a fake sob. – OohLookShiny

"They don't have much experience with women," Human Jori reminded them. "They operate based entirely off of entertainments, which are full of... regrettable stereotypes."

"Which is why we're wearing pink dresses and fake ponytails?" asked Les.

"I did my best. Honestly. Y'all still look like space marines playing dress-up."

"We _are_ space marines playing dress-up," protested Sam.

And the fact that they were all women had been a superfluous point up until this moment. Jori sighed. "Just. Lighten your voices by half an octave, giggle a lot, bounce a little, and if all else fails, cry. I'm going to try and bullshit the guards. Come up when I gesture for you. Okay?" Jori didn't wait for an answer.

Sam cleared her throat and tried the voice coaching under her breath. She sounded _exactly_ like a space marine pretending to be a little girl. "This is ridiculous," she finally said. "Jori can't expect us to just cry on command."

There was a sniff. A gasping hitch of breath. A hiccough. When Sam looked, Les had tears streaming down her face. Puppy eyes. Trembling lip. An overall pathetic mein about to implode.

"Are you serious?" said Sam.

Les grinned like a true bastard and faked a sob. Then she leaned over and whispered, "The third act of _Reasons to Love_."

Oh shit. When the puppy was sick and Rilanthe had to tell her daughter and... Sam's eyes were wet. "Thank you, you magnificent asshole," she managed.

"All right, let's clean up. It's showtime."

They hurriedly wiped their faces before tripping gaily towards the guards. Giggling as they went and feeling like traitors to their units.

#  Challenge #235: Fudged-Up Normal

As an orphan you were adopted by the local crime syndicate, and we're just adorable enough that they were determined to give you a better life.

You have just beat up someone from your school and a phone call has been made home for a disciplinary meeting. The school is about to meet "The Family". – Anon Guest

There's a phrase I've come to know well over the years. I couldn't repeat it in full before I turned sixteen, but the unedited version is "fucked up normal". As in, that's fucked up, but it's normal to the person experiencing it. Like - I spent my early childhood thinking that you got a window view for your birthday. Or 'health care' involved getting a gummy vitamin if you were good that day.

That stopped after I met my Godfather. But that's a different story. This story is how I learned that my adopted family was a crime syndicate.

My 'normal' had changed the day after Guido the Knife found me huddled in a doorway on one sleet-filled spring morning. I had a window view every day, and hot meals three times a day, and the softest, comfiest, warmest bed, and good, clean clothes. Every day. I used to call my Godfather 'Santa' because I honestly believed he was Santa Claus in disguise.

What I also got from my new family was lessons on defending myself. Practically from day one. Guido the Knife and Big Shasta taught me all kinds of things to do if someone 'got up in my business'. I hadn't had any call to use them until Bobby Johnson stuck his hand up my shirt "to see if I had boobs" and I threw him across the room into the trash can.

I remember crying in the office, thinking that Santa was going to give me coal for Christmas and put me back in the doorway where I'd started my odd life odyssey. And I really didn't see what I'd done wrong. My Godfather had told all the others to look after me and they _had_. They taught me everything I needed to know. They were proud of me. And now I was in trouble for the first time ever.

Godfather and Big Shasta turned up, with Slick Jimmy, 'Fists', Guido the Knife, and Queenie in tow. Big Shasta had to translate my tearful words, because I was incomprehensible and inconsolable by then.

The only thing that worked to calm me down was when Godfather took me in his arms and smoothed his hand down my head and whispered in my ear, "Santa's not mad at you."

I'll remember the rest of that day for the rest of my life. How Godfather held me tight on my lap and Principal Muertins had a sheen of sweat as half the family crowded his office.

"So you're telling me," said Godfather, "that a boy gets to lay hands on our little girl an' get away with -uh-"

"Sexual assault, boss," said Slick Jimmy.

" _He_ can get away with sexual assault, but a little girl can't defend herself from his unwelcome touch without risk of expulsion?"

"There's no evidence," began Principal Muertins.

My breath still shook as I gasped it in. "I told! I told him 'no' and I told Mrs Feathers," she let us call her that, "and I yelled at him not to touch me an' he still did it so I throwed him away like th' garbage he is." Sob. "Like you said."

"Attagirl," muttered Big Shasta.

Queenie offered a high-five, which I only lightly patted in my extended grief.

They brought in Mrs Flesther, who always wore something feathery, and she confirmed a good three quarters of my testimony. And she further complained, "This has been the fifth time I've tried to say something about Bobby's... hands-on approach... to the girls in my class. You _know_ I've written up the reports. I've sent home letters of complaint. I've even called his _father_. You know the most I've got out of all my efforts?" The feathers in her decorative clip bounced as she talked. I liked to pretend they were fairies, at the time. Little rainbow fairies that helped her be magic. "Boys will be boys. That's all Mr Johnson will say about the entire matter."

"That is not," said Guido the Knife, "how to raise a good boy."

Bobby Johnson was the next to come in. Not the slightest bit nervous about my family until Queenie started playing with her butterfly knife. He had more than a few choice words to say about women and where they belong - "chained to the kitchen sink" was the politest phrase out of his mouth, that afternoon. Principal Muertins took careful notes of all of it. Then called Mr Johnson in from his work.

'Fists' loomed at him. "You talk to your mother like that, kid?"

"I don't have a mom," he said. "She ran off when I was a baby. This week's girlfriend doesn't care what I do."

"How 'bout your gram'ma?" asked Big Shasta. "She put up with that kind of thing from anyone?"

"Grandma left gramgram when Dad was three."

"How long do your dad's girlfriends stick around for?" asked Slick Jimmy.

Bobby shrugged. "Weeks, most of the time. Months some of the time. They're all crazy."

My family exchanged looks. Not one of my family were related to one another, but we were a better whole for loving each other the way they did. Queenie took out her butterfly knife and started flicking it around like a magician. I wanted to do that but she said I had to be twelve or older to play.

"We would let you do the math," said Godfather, "but I think it might take you the rest of your life."

When Mr Johnson arrived, he came in all thunder and bluster until he saw who else was in the room. He looked at Mrs Flesther like she was furniture. He looked at Principal Muertins like he was some form of untrained puppy that had just wet the wrong place. But when he looked at us?

The colour went out of his face. The thunder went out of his voice. The Big Man Stance transformed into Mister Meek in less than a second.

"Señor Marchioni," Mr Johnson whispered.

Bobby spoke up, pointing at me. "It's her fault, Dad. She ain't got boobs and needs to learn how to be a real woman."

Godfather curled a protective arm around me. "It seems to me that both you and your son need to learn a few lessons about respecting women, and those who aren't women yet. Starting with - when it's appropriate to lay hands on a lady's body."

'Fists' cracked his knuckles. "You may have been called away from your business," he said. "We understand, being businessmen ourselves. But if your li'l Bobby keeps makin' trouble for our Annette... we might make your business _our_ business."

"Same with the other girls in this school," said Big Shasta.

"Boys might be boys," said Guido the Knife, who was picking the gunk out of his nails with a letter-opener. "But 'no' also means 'no'. You need to learn this, and apply that knowledge in your everyday affairs."

'Fists' had a pamphlet, which he folded into Mr Johnson's hand. "These people do very good work."

"We recommend the week-long course," said Slick Jimmy. "Take a sabbatical."

"Mud baths are way better than the alternatives," said Queenie.

Mr Johnson understood that Bobby would be taking a week's suspension. During which the school expected Bobby to learn all about respecting other people's rights to their own personal space, bodies, and who gets to touch them.

Godfather handed me over to 'Fists' so that he could shake Mr Johnson's hand and say, "We will be keeping an eye on you and your son."

I was okay to return to class when Bobby wasn't in it, and walked with my hand in Mrs Flesther's all the way there. "I can't say I approve of your methods," she said. "And I definitely can't say your aim and form were extraordinary. I certainly would _not_ be allowed to say that I told the rest of the staffroom and they laughed." She coughed. "I _do_ have to say that it's wrong to throw people, Nettie."

"I know, Mrs Feathers. I didn't see any other way at the time."

Mrs Flesther looked worried. "Do you... _know_ who your family is? I mean. Not their name. I mean... who they are to other people?"

I shrugged. "They're my family." Based entirely on a 'finders-keepers' model, but even the people who came to look at my house and my room had to admit that it was better than the orphanage.

"They're... they're people who make things happen," Mrs Flesther allowed. "Sometimes, it's good things that can't get done by people who follow the rules. Other times? It's... well... sometimes they do bad things."

I thought about this. People turned up dead who had disappointed Godfather. But they were the sort of people that the world could be better without them in it. I couldn't say the phrase I know now, but I said the next best thing. "It's my fudged-up normal, Mrs Feathers. They're good for me and I'm good for them and it's messed up in some places, but it's... it's better than it used to be. Godfather's just trying his best to make the world a better place and... sometimes the rules get in the way."

Mrs Flesther, who had just been telling me about what she was not allowed to say and what she had to say, nodded at that.

Bobby Johnson never did touch another girl again without her permission.

#  Challenge #236: In-sult-roduction

A genetically upgraded cat is hired as a ship's crew member. The Captain unfortunately thinks that since ancient cats hunted vermin, this crew-member would do the same. – Anon Guest

When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me. – Ancient Human Mnemonic/Caution.

Mixi Thicktail made certain she was crisp, businesslike, and formal. This was her first posting on a UFTP vessel and people had doubtless heard things about Nufurria and its residents by now. The difference between now and then was that all of this was her choice.

Her education was her choice. Her body shape was her choice. Her libido and reproduction was her choice. Her companions and bedmates would be her choice, too. Assuming she could embolden herself enough to make them. Her anxiety, however, dictated flex/scratch pads installed at her uniform hip. And they were very useful now. She forced herself to disengage so she could salute her Captain and her immediate superior. "Assistant trainee engineer Mixi Thicktail reporting for duty, sirs."

"Wow," said Captain James. "I heard the Nufurrians were made to please, but -whoah. You are amazing."

Half of her abject terror drained right away. "Thank you, Captain."

"You aught to get a real handle on the local rats."

Aaaaannnnd there it was again. "I beg your p-pardon?" _Don't think about the stutter, don't think about the stutter, oh flakk I stuttered, they know I'm a stutterer, I'm doomed, I'm so doomed..._

"Rats," said the Captain, as her immediate superior very slowly winced and pinched the bridge of their nose. "You're a cat. Cats hunt rats, right?"

"I'm a c-cogniscent being, nnn-not a p-p-pet. I eat rrr-real mmm-meals just like anyone else. You should have sss-sss-skitties for that." _Flakk. I just mouthed off to the captain and I'm stuttering and I'm on report and I'll be on KP for a fortnight and–_ And her fur was all fluffed up. After she'd spent a solid hour making sure it was smooth and groomed.

"Subsection five chief engineer Max Jabronski. Apologies for our Captain. He gets... ideas. I had to prove I'm not like all the stereotypical N'Ozzies before I got a modicum of respect out of him." She leaned closer and whispered, "But it does let me get away with saying things like that in front of him"

"The kitchen's willing to be accomodating if you want them cooked," said Captain James with a wink and a click.

Mixi put her boss between her and the Captain before he could go for her ears. "Don't. Lll-let him t-t-touch me."

Max sighed. "He's from one of the Deregulations. Quotas and all that. Captain, if you continue, you'll have to do another week's Sensitivity Training."

Captain James grumbled and found somewhere else to be.

"We have a green room, a warm room, a steam room, a cool room, and a soft room if you need somewhere to be comfortable for a while." Max deliberately did not touch her, but ushered her gently away from the direction that Captain James fled in. "We can order you the comfort supplement of your choice."

"I need www-warm and sss-soft and... f-fried ss-salmon in holland-daise sauce."

"I know just the place. I'll lead you there, okay?"

Mixi nodded. There may have been worse first days, but this was feeling like she was a kindergartener missing her mommy for the first time. She stimmed by stropping her claws on the flex pads. All the while, Max spoke in a calm voice and asked permission and warned her before things happened.

Hot food and a warm drink of her choice and the warm, soft room worked miracles to cure Mixi's stammer. As did having Max as the voice of reason and CapAlert App installer. Homebrew software that alerted his -ha!- loyal crew to his proximity and travel vector so they could either brace themselves or be up to their elbows in something else.

Mixi put it on her main screen and set it to alert her on a definite vector alert. She felt a great deal more relieved when Max got the alert out that Mixi didn't like being randomly touched. The Captain may not be sensitive to her emotional needs, but the rest of the UFTP more than made up for it.

And for the record, the closest she ever got to the ship's vermin was the kitchen's ratatouille.

#  Challenge #237: Microquest

Dragon Microbiologist. That is all.

The beast had been spotted over rivers and streams. Its visits were always brief, but they were methodical. Which was why Sir Valiant had been able to catch it at this point.

"Hold," he demanded, when the dragon lit at this particular point in the river that fed the city its water. "What vile villainy do you have planned, foul beast?"

The dragon turned its mighty head and examined Sir Valiant with each eye. "Pardon? I'm gathering samples." Clasped lightly between two claws was an impossibly small phial, which the creature filled with water. "Just being clear. You haven't been dumping your waste in this stream, have you? That would skew my study."

"I've kept my refuse in a pit I dug far away, lest my scent warn you of my presence."

This greatly relieved the dragon. "Oh good. There's no undue contamination." It paused to make some marks on the phial before adding it to a bag strapped to its body. "My name is Brightscale, and I'm conducting a sample survey of the effect of human civilisation on microbiota in the waterways."

Sir Valiant said, "What?"

His education in the weirdness of the world began with that question. Brightscale had to simplify her complicated words to the point where she said, "I'm searching for invisible demons in the water." And then showed him the magic that made them visible.

It was called a 'microscope' and for Sir Valiant, it was a very large tool that let him peer into the world of dancing beasts that no mortal eye could ordinarily see. It was horrifying.

"Those are the ones that are natural. Part of the world as it's meant to be." Brightscale swapped out a different sample. "These are the ones coming out of that city, downstream."

Pandemonium. Dis. The single drop of water held a throng of different demons. Some of which split into copies every second he watched. It was chaos. It was hell on this earth. Prayer wouldn't make them disappear. "How can we best these foes?" he demanded.

"Still working on that part," confessed Brightscale. "A contempora– ahem. A friend I'm working with is looking at ways to turn... crap... into fuel that won't spread these... demons... any further. Initial results- I mean, it's not looking good so far. But we're hopeful for a stroke of genius."

And since she spoke like the learned elite without sneering at him in the process, Sir Valiant had to believe her. He had seen what she was doing. He could see what she was doing in other places. He could follow her progress. He believed that she was telling the truth. "I know when you visit certain places. May I know how your quest goes?"

"Of course. I'm always happy to share the results of my research."

"And... should I tell the city of these demons?"

Brightscale considered this. "Don't. First, it would alter their behaviour and that would change my results. Second, people always get the wrong ideas when it's down to the 'invisible demons' level of understanding. We're aiming for a solution that would minimise -uh- let you all carry on as always."

"Then I am sworn to secrecy," said Sir Valiant. "I will only tell them that you are on a quest for a greater good, and I am sworn to protect you in your endeavour."

Brightscale thanked him before going on her way.

#  Challenge #238: Betrayal is a Two-Way Street

"You really ought to learn not to be so trusting," ze sneered. "The world's a dangerous place."

"Clearly you've never met a pissed-off human before." She smiled. "Please, allow me to... enlighten you." – Anon Guest

The Human interlaced her fingers and twisted them about to make a sound like several walnuts being crushed at once. While the guards were wincing at that intolerable sound, she casually purloined one of their polearms and used it to stun the other one.

It happened so quickly.

The polearm became a whirling dervish of destruction, laying waste to the ornamental guards in the room and the very few who were competent at their weapons. Even when the blade broke, the handle was still used to lay them all flat. They were alive, but the message was clear. They could easily be _not_ alive in a matter of minutes.

In seconds, Thrandall the Duplicitous was staring down the broken business end of a polearm that was only made to intimidate. And, because it had already been used to put a mark on hir face, it was more intimidating than it should have been.

"You really aught to learn not to be so ignorant," she said. "Now. Apologise and keep your end of the bargain, thanks, or... I might _take_ more than I'm currently owed." Her gaze flicked around from hir crown to the golden armour of the guards to several silk tapestries, to the ornate rings on Thrandall's fat fingers.

"I- I'm very sss-sorry, Hum–" the broken blade twitched. Pinked hir skin.

"Start with my name," she said. "I know I told it to you."

Thrandall, who had never bothered to recall anyone's name in hir entire lifetime, wracked hir memory as fresh blood flowed from the newest wound. It was such a tiny thing. Why did it hurt _more_ than the other, larger wound on hir face? What _was_ the Human's name? Some kind of flower? Lavender? Baby's breath? Sunflower? Daisy? Rose! She had a last name. Something occupation-related. "Rose... Scrivener?"

Her ferocity dampened, but not by much. "Correct. Well done. Now the rest."

"Rose Scrivener. I am tremendously sorry for mistakenly believing that I could escape from an honourable deal. Allow me immediately make amends by paying you in full."

"Good," she cooed, lowering her weapon. She did, however, keep a good grip on it and kept herself ready for any sign of betrayal.

Thrandall wasn't that stupid. He summoned his Visier. "We owe a great debt to this–" ze learned fast. All it took was a twitch of her hand. "Rose Scrivener. See to it that she is paid what we promised."

The Visier's face was an open book, and the current page read, _What the heck?_ And then he spotted the fallen guard, the ruined polearm, and the fresh blood on his monarch's face. It didn't take a genius to work out that math. "At once, Majesty."

"And your signet ring," said Rose. "As a token of goodwill and a sign to all that I am, now and always, a _friend_ of your empire."

_Damn. She foresaw that one, too._ There would be no sending the army after her, once she left. Reluctantly, and with some difficulty, Thrandall removed the signet ring from a pudgy little finger.

It fit neatly on her thumb.

She loaded up her rewards and said, "It has been an honour to _serve_." Pronounced, _I can kill you and you know it so you're going to take this sass and like it._ On her way out she added, "By the way. If you plan on keeping up your business model, you might want to drop 'the Duplicitous' from your name. It kind'a gives the whole game away."

Thrandall was very enthusiastic about seeing her on her way to inflict herself on other realms.

#  Challenge #239: The Way to Make Change

Humans gonna Human

A mother in a war zone hands her baby up to a complete stranger, knowing that they may never meet again, but her child has a chance at something better than this. Bullets sing through the air. Fire turns the surrounding landscape into tones of amber. And the last evacuation vehicle leaves the few remaining to their fate. The mother smiles anyway, and waves 'bye-bye' to her child. Pretending, perhaps for a last handful of minutes, that everything is going to be fine.

A pilot pushes their vessel's engines to the maximum. He runs a cargo ship, not exactly equipped to deal with any of this, but like hell is he going to save some rich asshole's industrial equipment when there are people who could be saved instead. He helps the panicked masses toss out cases and adjust shelving so that they can cram into the empty spaces like cordwood. They have nothing, but they are alive. And they are grateful.

A soldier only spares a moment to realise that their weapon is empty before yelling defiance at the attackers and using it as a bludgeon. Ze may not survive, and ze knows it, but if it buys the rest of hir unit a few more seconds for the evacuation, then it's worth it. Ze kills five before stealing one of their own weapons and turning it against them. Mowing them down like wheat. In two days, ze will be the Hero of Zangria Five, but at the moment, hir priorities can be encapsulated in the words, _Stop Those Bastards._

A Medik in triage has run out of Stasis booths for those near to death. He rips open one that was reserved for the expensive and delicate fruit that some corporation had prioritised over lives and puts two patients into the space. The fruit is handed out to those with a green status. Profit can go to hell. It's death that must lose, today. There's fifty booths like it. One hundred lives that can be saved. More, if they are children.

A little girl takes her dolly to a crying man, and offers it to him for cuddles. She's swept up in the stranger's arms and held tight and kissed and thanked. She only understands that some people are sad, and her dolly could help them. In a few hours, she'll be given a fruit that she'd never been able to taste before and will likely never taste again. She'll eat it, and talk about the flavour with the stranger. Unaware that they are consuming a fortune in rare fruit. That some people would pay a Year for a slice.

A technician takes clear images of everyone, spending every second she has to re-unite families, friends, and loved ones. She'll be eating the cheapest Nutri-Food for a month or more, but the relief in the air is a palpable thing. She's never experienced trauma like this, loss like this, or upset like this. Yet she knows that nobody should be forced to suffer while someone has the tools to help. Across from her, another technician is carrying around a portable power unit, so that those with comms can use them to leave messages. She, too, will be eating Nutri-Food because of this. Neither of them care.

Across the wide gulfs of space, a rich businessman who had been warned not to set up a farming colony on Zangria Five hears the news through a quantum-paired comms device. He shorts his own stock via a shell company, buys up stocks on the rare fruit before the price skyrockets, and prepares a 'thoughts and prayers' speech from a stock copy. After the news goes out on more common channels, he will publicly wail and bemoan the loss of hundreds of Years worth of product. He will publicly laud all the people who disobeyed his orders to save lives, and fire them later in private. He will have made a fortune, regardless. He carefully calculates a large amount of Time to start off an apparent charity. None of it will filter down to those who are ruined by the war.

His plans are ruined by a different disaster in a different part of the immense territory that is the Galactic Alliance. Two ships collide, and a tea lady helps a stranger that could not be stranger. Both to stabilise the interlocked vessels and to save as many lives as she can. She becomes Ambassador Harry of Britannia, and Humans are welcomed into the Alliance. This means that _all_ Human businesses, especially the ones already converted to using Time, are inspected for potential violations of Cogniscents' Rights. No amount of ingenious shuffling can protect the businessman from the combined forces of the Galactic Alliance Tax Agency. They extract Centuries -Millennia- from his accumulated wealth and start everyone else over with the accepted minimum. It is more than they are used to. It is more than they expected.

The businessman will complain. Nobody but him will care.

A baby is handed back to a mother. The baby is in the hands of a lizard and the mother had spent hours sandwiched between two strangers, lying on a shelf in a cargo hold and praying that the engines held out for _long enough_. Long enough to reach the safety of the station. Long enough to keep them all alive. Long enough so that she can live another day and find her baby. The baby kicks and squeals to see his mother again. The mother weeps and wraps herself around both child and alien saviour. These have been the longest twenty-four hours of her life.

She is exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She has nothing but her son and the clothes they are dressed in.

In that moment, she has never felt better in her life.

Three strangers entertain a lost child -another stranger- with the only song they know together that's kid-appropriate. Five other strangers join in at the chorus of _Grandma's Feather Bed_. Some with more lyrical genius make up new verses on the spot. For the hours it takes to find their families, the loss is not a priority.

The Humans remember who helped them. They remember who did what for the disaster. They pay it forward.

A child who was once lost and alone has grown up to become a Space Marine. She scoops up a small being on a planet whose name she can't pronounce and thrusts it into a stasis pod to launch it up to safety. A few neat shots eliminate the threat. She searches burning buildings for other survivors. She has combat armour on her livesuit. She can withstand much more than these little lizards can endure.

Tomorrow, she may be the Hero of Antenus Three. Today, she is making a difference because someone else had made a difference to her. She carries a pod in one arm and a rifle in the other. She shouts a phrase she has learned that she knows these little aliens will understand, " _I come to help!_ "

Once she had a doll. Today, she has more. She doesn't expect reward, or thanks. She expects to get as many out of this mess as she can.

Because it's what anyone would do.

#  Challenge #240: Escape the Camp

(Person 1): "What did you get in your care package from home?"

(Person 2, happily): "Military-grade explosives!"

The weatherproof box said 'Plasticine' and contained some ridiculously disproportionate cartoon characters on it. Inside were wax-paper wrapped blocks of brightly-coloured stuff that one might expect to _be_ plasticine. But, to a non-casual observer, it wasn't... quite... plasticine.

It was amazing that the guards let it past, to be honest. But then again, Monty and the boys had been spending months on putting the goons to sleep with the sheer monotony of their "good behaviour". They probably didn't even bother looking beyond the wax paper. Just like they didn't know about the maps that came in via playing cards or the more elaborate ones concealed in board games. Or any number of little treasures that they hid in any number of places.

That's what they got for putting "all the bad eggs in one basket." They got the most devious, devilish, and determined escapologists tying up enemy resources. People who could make a pair of wire cutters out of an empty bully beef tin and have three escape plans before the goons finished ushering them into the camp. Bad eggs like them could keep the enemy scrambling for some significant time with _this_ stuff.

Gary ran careful fingers over the multitude of colours. "This has got to become something special," he whispered. "An ounce of this, a bit of clockwork..."

"Easter Surprise?" said Monty.

"We'd have to get out first, to do some real damage," sighed Jeff. "The goons realised it's a bad idea to let us near the serious equipment."

"Too bad that Easter's a full moon. If we could get out without the light... We could slap Gerry's collective arses and be off to France before they could blink."

"Clockwork's good for a day. We could do 'Lost Ball' and hide our little surprise inside it. Save the 'Easter Eggs' for later."

"Have to be bally accurate with that throw. Right under one of the guard post legs. Close enough to kiss it."

"That'd be Hamish. Man has a forensic accuracy with a cricket ball."

"I was thinking softball," said Gary. "We can use a proper alarm clock for the fuse, get a day and a half out of it. Maybe two."

"Softball would blow the bally leg clean off. Maybe two of 'em." Monty considered this. "I _like_ it."

"We'd have to be ready to scatter like roaches the instant it goes. We'd need three months for the papers."

"Thirty minutes before they get guns on the rest of the camp," said Jeff. "That's two squads. Maybe three."

"We'll send off the most dire cases first. Give them the best chance," said Monty. "If we get them out on the downhill slope, they'll cover more ground."

"South. South," mused Jeff, checking the maps. "Bally good shot, South. There's so many roads and byways the chaps could run just about anywhere. Good show."

"It does mean we'd only have half of this lot for the Easter Eggs."

"How many can you do?"

"Forty." Garry shrugged. "Sixty if I make little ones."

"Two each for the first squad, they have the best chance. One each for squad two. And every other man in squad three gets one and orders to toss it to a pal if he gets caught."

Nods all around. They had another plan. One that would gum up the German military machine for the better part of a year.

#  Challenge #241: Magical Progress Goes Twinkle

Unseen University's Hex nails the math for reliable translocation – Anon Guest

Magic has rules. This is a fact as real as the turtle that swims underneath the world. Or the four elephants on its back that support the entire disk. In order to fly, one must drop an equal weight and _really_ know how to stick the landing. Magic can turn lead into gold, but that gold will make you sick if you hang on to it for too long. For reasons unknown, it also glows in the dark.

Hex was built to find all of the rules. It was built to _twist_ the rules. It was built to figure out how, exactly, the rules could be bent, warped, spindled or mutilated without _breaking_ them. It was alright saying that the Rite of Ashkente could be performed with two wooden planks and an egg, but what _size_ egg? Did it matter if the planks were meticulously created out of a toothpick?[50]

Fortunately for all concerned, Hex does all of this research in a purely virtual field. It works things out mathematically. Which is a lot better than the alternatives[51]. At least, it _was_. Until the entire assembly of Hex went "twinkle" and vanished in a cloud of glitter.

Replaced by an equivalent mass of rocks and dross.

The assembled staff of the High Energy Magic Building had just enough time to panic about this before Hex returned with another "twinkle".

Ponder Stibbons, still rumpled from being woken up at the crack of noon[52], complained, "Real magic doesn't go 'twinkle'..."

"This one did," said one of the newer students, who hadn't learned the Most Important Thing, yet. This, of course, was not the relative locations of the Privy or that the Librarian was, in fact, an ape. It was Don't Piss Off The Person Who Makes Your Grades.

Hex was scratching out something on the paper. It read, _I+have+a+solution._

Ponder stumbled down to the listening trumpet and asked, "What was the question?"

_Is+translocation+possible?_ Hex wrote. _It+is._ After a pause, it added. _I+have+transported+myself+to+the+counterweight+continent+and+back._

Ponder couldn't argue that it couldn't do that, because it just had. And having that pointed out to him by a _first year_ student was not on his list of preferred activities, this morning. In fact, the phrase 'this morning' was not on his list of preferred activities. "How did you do it?"

_The+trick+is+to+make+a+perfect+mathematical+model+of+the+world,_ wrote Hex. _And+then+transpose+two+known+values+of+equal+mass._

"Ah," said Ponder. "So. Not practical, then."

_I+am+working+on+less+intense+methods,_ wrote Hex. _I+want+to+see+the+world._

Ponder thought, _Uh oh,_ but didn't say as much out loud. Best not to disturb the students. "Please ask permission, so you don't accidentally start any wars or suchlike," he said. "I'm sure your visits would be welcome once people have advance warning." Now his biggest challenge was explaining to the Archchancellor how much of a challenge this was going to be. He almost missed the latest message.

Do+not+let+your+robe+trip+you+on+the+third+stair.

He _nearly_ tripped on the third stair, but a last-instant realisation helped him recover from his robe getting in the way.

On the other hand, he could _definitely_ sell the idea of Hex as a predicting engine to the Archchancellor. With the occasional translocation as sort of... a side effect.

[50] Death is very upset about this particular avenue of research, by the way.

[51] Such as trying to patiently explain to the vexed avatar of your own mortality why such research was important in the first place.

[52] Wizards keep their own schedules and most of it revolves around food. In Ponder Stibbons' case, it revolves around late night sessions of competitive games on Hex with other staff.

#  Challenge #242: Barry Critiques Them Afterwards

(Person 1): "So this is how I die... With thunderous applause..."

(Person 2): "Stop being so dramatic."

Taako had been through many adventures. He had travelled across a hundred realities. He had bargained away his beauty, his health, and a skill to save the world. But this? This had to be the toughest fight of his life. For example, strictly off the top of his head, the fifteen-point landing he'd just endured because _this_ particular band of necromantic chucklefucks had decided to sew together the corpses of several Large species to be their boss monster.

The only plus side was that it had killed several of _them_ before Tres Horny Boys even got started. The minus side, naturally, was that he was down to zero hit points for the third time in this quote-unquote adventure.

Nearly dying just fucking _hurt_. At least unconsciousness swept it all away for a while. Not much of a while, because his family had learned to carry some health potions at long last for the benefit of the glass canon of the team. The rest of his team was clapping in the most sarcastic manner possible.

Lup was the one with the potion. "Welcome back, dingus."

_Took you long enough, goofus,_ he thought. Out loud, he said, "So this is how I die... With thunderous applause..."

"Stop being so dramatic," grumbled Merle. "I was getting to you. You still had three saving throws."

"Besides," argued Magnus, "we have a whole cadre of competent women to save us."

Taako sat up. "Aren't you a _protection_ fighter or something?" And then he felt the need to deliver a little burn to his twin sister. She was fireproof. She could take it. "Hey. Don't you get like a huge payoff if you reap me?"

She grinned. "Not gonna happen, bro-bro."

"Eh, you're just waiting for me to die a few more times so that I'm worth more."

"Actually, the bounty increases the longer you evade justice, so... I have a vested interest in your very, very long life."

Nice to know his sister was still the nastiest sneak in one hundred realities. He'd be proud of her, but he still had a thing to kill. "Guys? Scooch a little _back_." He was sick of it being smart enough to know to hit the wizard. So he cast Investiture of Flame on himself.

_Now_ if that asshole hit him, it would also set itself on fire. "Flame on, dipshit."

"Nice," said Lup.

"Gonna help?"

"Nah, I'm only here for the bounties. You got this, babe."

Magnus had his chain of attacks, and Railsplitter, and that took more than a few chunks out of this beast. Merle actually did some competent healing for a change, and then it was his turn. Which meant a line of fire fifteen feet long and five feet wide, aimed _right_ at Chunko's ass. And incinerated a few of the necromantic idiots who created it along the way.

Lup joined in at the chorus of, "Burn, baby, burn..."

It doesn't _pay_ to rile up a wizard.

#  Challenge #243: Evac Under Fire

I'll burn that bridge when I get to it.

Gorx halted in mid-step. "Surely the Human phrase is, _I will_ cross _that bridge when I get to it._ Is it not so?"

Human Warin stopped for hir. "Not today. Keep moving. I'll explain on the way." He waited for Gorx to get moving again. "What I just said is a malapropism. A mixing of metaphorical sayings for humour or -in this case- appropriate action." He broke off to race ahead and clear the next junction. "This is a situation where we deal with problems as we encounter them..."

Explosions went off behind them, causing the emergency safety locks to seal off the corridor they had just traversed. " _And_ make sure the path we just travelled can't be travelled again. Crossing that bridge when we get to it, burning bridges behind us. It's quicker."

"Except when you have to explain these things to non-humans," allowed Gorx.

"Well, yes. That only slows things down a little." Five rounds rapid took care of a distant Vorax scout. "On the other hand, we're great multitaskers, so it doesn't impede us _that_ much." Without permission, Human Warin lifted Gorx off hir feet and flung hir through the air so that ze landed neatly on the cushions of an evac pod.

Gorx, once ze realised that ze was safe, was treated to the sight of a Human dual-wielding rapid-fire weapons at a host of Vorax and making their way towards the pod via a series of small turns on the balls of his feet. Not one Vorax got within three SDU of Human Warin.

Human Warin's last act on the remains of Farlook Station was to leave a timed explosive device behind. Then he was into the pod and activating it. He strapped himself and Gorx in and gave the hind-look window what had to be an obscene gesture.

"Suck on that, squidbugs."

The station was exploding in various places as the pod launched, thus ensuring that whatever the Vorax had come for, they would both not get it and pay a high price for even trying. Humans had been employing _scorched land_ strategies since before their industrial era. It was only natural that they brought such things along to even crueller environments than their origin planet.

And yet, Gorx was reassured that these particular Deathworlders were _on their side_. Humans also possessed a finely-honed sense of justice and could enact it with sides of revenge served at absolute zero. Gorx would be one among the many who would endorse Humans as protectors in the Edge Territories, and would possibly spend hir life telling others why it was a good idea to stay on the Humans' good side.

And with that in mind, Gorx said, "Thank you. For saving my life."

"That's my job this week," sighed Human Warin, coming down from his adrenaline rush. "Just wish I could have saved more."

How very _human_.

[AN: Big thanks to Warren Goddard who bought me a coffee today! You've guest starred as Human Warin, space marine.]

#  Challenge #244: Once Upon a Crusade

"There's no such thing as an elephant."

"Then you have some very big wolves on this planet." – Anon Guest

"Just think about it for a psalm," said Sir Thakkis. "A beast as large as a peasant's hut, walking on legs as thick as trees, with a nose like a serpent and ears like cloaks? It's too ridiculous to live. And, Frog, I have to remind you that we are on a holy quest and your heretical words have no place."

"I have to remind _you_ that my name isn't Frog. I am Jasmine Saqqaf, and you had no right to take me prisoner."

"I _rescued_ you from slavers. And since we currently have no church, I can't let you continue with your heathen name. We will give you a proper Christian name once we free the holy land in the name of the Holy Church of Our Saviour."

"If I'm so free, why am I in chains?"

Sir Thakkis scoffed. "Women never know their right minds in these matters. You would run right back to the sinful ignorance in which you were held unknowing captive. It is my divine duty to see to it that you are transformed and reborn in the proper Christian way of living."

_First chance I get, I am poisoning that mealworm-ridden mess he calls food,_ Jasmine vowed. _Assuming the rot of it doesn't get him first._ Obviously, this ironbound idiot was immune to rational debate. Her perfectly sensible daywear had long since been replaced with hot and itchy wool. Silk and cotton from the Indus Valley were too luxurious for a heathen, apparently, and too wanton a display for someone who was allegedly chaste.

Sir Thakkis would pitch a fit if he heard about her husbands. Especially since one of them was at home looking after their shared children. He seemed to have a counter to everything she had learned, too. And most of it contained the phrase 'heathen superstition'.

Unfortunately for Sir Thakkis, her third husband was also a mahout. When they reached Echo Pass, she sang out their calls and told him of her peril. And in order to stem Sir Thakkis' objections, told _him_ that it was a means of letting others using the pass that groups were coming through. She added, "It is forbidden to war in the passes. The people who travel go past each other with their weapons sheathed."

Two days through the winding roads, she met her third husband and his favourite Grandmother.

Sir Thakkis made the motion of a cross over his chest and whispered, "God's bodkins, what is _that_?"

"Why," said Jasmine, with more than a hint of acid. "It is obviously a very large wolf. If you surrender now, we will be more merciful to you than you have been to me."

She kept her word. Dressed him in sensible cotton and retrieved her silks. Sir Thakkis was not kept in chains, but a nice and airy cage. He was fed the same food as the rest of the train. He was taught as much as he could learn and only kept in servitude for seven years, as was the law. After that, he was given the option of returning to his homeland once he had enough to make it there, or living in her employ as a full citizen of her country.

He demanded the return of his armour, his horse, and supplies to see him to his homeland. Which Jasmine gave.

She would never know if anything she taught him had made it into his empty skull... but at least he had seen _something_ of the true way.

#  Challenge #245: A Bug in the Peace Process

Aliens: "We don't know why everyone calls humans wild and crazy these guys just huddle together and whisper all the time"

Small band of humans: All terrified of the giant cockroaches but trying very hard not to cause an international incident – OohLookShiny

They had expected resistance. They had expected a fight. Even though this was clearly a mercy mission, they expected the Humans to 'kick up a stink'. They knew that these were crazed Deathworlders who liked, very much, to keep what they had taken.

The Todeans worked quickly, using a combination of their natural and artificial armours to get between the helpless amongst the Humans and the fire from the attacking Vorax. They took care to rescue as much as possible. Children, parents, pets, valuable trinkets. Everything. Though the priority was with the living, of course.

They didn't understand why the Humans in their holds were so quiet. They were renowned for being initially hostile to creatures Other than Human. Especially when such creatures were historically despised, like creatures of the Todean physical model. They huddled together in groups, whispering amongst themselves in a language that the Todeans did not understand.

And fled very quickly to the safe confines of a Human evacuation vessel.

They had done their best, providing compatible refreshments and offering comfort. Perhaps these Humans understood that the Todeans were trying their best.

Generations later, when the Humans were finally welcomed into the Galactic Alliance, the new examples reacted in a similar way to the Todeans. Not making any sudden moves, talking very quietly, and seeking comfort from soft or fluffy beings when other Humans were not available.

It took some time, and a lot of translation, for the Todeans to understand that Humans were pathologically terrified of huge cockroaches. The bigger, the more terrifying they were.

Todeans, peaceful insectoid Havenworlders all, terrified the _excrement_ out of the average human.

#  Challenge #246: The Trouble With Gravy

"Unfortunately, gravity is temporarily out, so we're going to have to deal with it and float."

"She's not dead," insisted the Nae'hyn Priest/technician. "She's just resting."

Captain Jarth repeated her question, "How. Long. Will it. Take?"

"I tried to warn you that it was a bad idea to transfer a short-haul gravy drive into a long-hauler," said Knekkit, who was ordinarily the translator. Today, she was being the repeater of known facts. "They get used to patterns of behaviour and get obstinate about doing what they're used to. Like trained elephants."

"Please stop expressing explanations like a human," sighed Captain Jarth. "Can you... encourage the drive to resume operations? We rather need gravity. For... everything."

"She's not a machine," said the Nae'hyn. "Well. Mostly a machine. She's a living spirit and needs to get used to this idea. I'll try soothing her into it. Maybe if we work this like a series of stop-overs, I can get her to only take half-hour breaks in between travel spates. But she'll need a nice holiday, afterwards. Forty-eight hours, minimum." Her nametag said _Rishu_ and she held casually on to handholds with her toes. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm afraid to say she doesn't like your lot, so she may be being stroppy. If you leave, I might have better luck."

It was such a pity that phenomenally useful technology like the artificial gravity drive came with a free and unwanted Human. Captain Jarth could hide her contempt for these balding apes. She could be civil about her interactions with this one named _Rishu_. But she could not handle this many Human words in a row. Even with Knekkit's translations into more civilised areas of communication.

The worst part was that some of these Human concepts were _catching_. Their verbal toolbox was as useful as it was confounding.

...Powers help her, she just thought the phrase, _verbal toolbox_ ... "We will remove ourselves from your area. However, I will be thankful for any progress updates as milestones occur."

Human Rishu showed her teeth at this and spoke to her pet machine. The translation from Knekkit was, "See, love? They're alright. They don't expect fifteen-minute progress reports that take twenty minutes to fill out. We're good."

Humans were so annoying. From their lexicons to their superstitions to their bizarre expectations of the universe at large and the way they inevitably seemed to come true. If it wasn't for their gravity generators, Captain Jarth would much rather leave them to their own devices.

She pulled herself towards her duty station and turned on the comms. "Having personally investigated the fault, I am sad to announce that, unfortunately, the gravity is temporarily out. Therefore, were are going to have to deal with the situation and float until such time as the flaw is remedied. Those who can, please stabilise yourself to anchored features and do your utmost to maintain Local Up."

Now all she had to do was keep an eye on the drifting furniture.

#  Challenge #247: Wrong Kind of Rescue

{Character 1 kicks down door and fires RPG (or equivalent)}

(To person 2): "I got your text."

When Laise was done screaming, and Thor had put down his guns, she recovered enough breath and wits to yell, "Thor, what the actual _fuck_?"

"You said you needed a rescue."

Laise checked her phone. Only one of her messages had got through thanks to the shitty, shitty local internet. "Damn it..." She took another calming breath. "We're lucky I always get the top floor, Thor."

"These were the blanks," Thor offered, slapping the grey-taped magazine. "I learn slow, ja? But I am learning."

Lais showed him her phone. On it were the texts that _didn't_ send. Like, _Found a box of kittens,_ and, _Nobody's owning up to them._

"Ooohhh... yes. Perhaps send the entire message?"

"You and I both know I think in fragments," Lain said, still shaking as she fed the latest in a line of very small purritos. Tiny, tiny kittens wrapped up in towelling so they could keep warm and get fed in comfort at the same time. "Meanwhile, several people are calling the cops. Assume the position and wire me the bail money."

The resulting charges to Thor would be disturbing the peace, since he was licensed to carry the firearm he used and also had authority to perform hostage rescues. Thanks to the blanks, he wouldn't have property damage or vandalism charges on the ticket, though he would have to pay for the repairs to the door jamb. Which this particular motel was entitled to overcharge for.

Life got... interesting... when one's best friend in the world was the Swedish answer to a one-man SWAT team.

Thor waited, hands on his head, kneeling on the floor, ankles crossed and very calm, for the police to turn up.

Officer Dwayne was first in and said, "Oh, it's _you_." You, here pronounced, _the regular pain in my ass that I wish would just go away or at least go fishing with hooks and bait._ He leaned back out and yelled, "Weapons down, it's Thor again."

Laise couldn't help but giggle at the soft grumbling she heard outside the motel door. Things de-escalated. Kittens were fed and petted. Things were explained to the concerned citizens, who also complained about the shitty, shitty local internet. And Thor was good-naturedly cuffed on the back of his head and told to ring Laise, next time. Just to be certain.

And then they were allowed to drive to the nearest vet to find the kittens a foster mother. With a police escort.

#  Challenge #248: And in This Labyrinth

[All libraries are connected, including bookshelves in homes. This is why book lovers like to keep their books in darker and quiet places. They know that not all Travelers can handle light.] – Anon Guest

There is an ancient chain of logic that leads to the inevitable. _Knowledge is power._ To know is to have an advantage, yes, but there is more than one form of power... _Power can become mass._ Play around with Einstein's famous equation and one can convert energy into matter. _Mass creates gravity._ This one is simple. Enough mass, and an object will pull in other things. _Gravity bends spacetime._

This is why it's dangerous to go wandering unguided in the seemingly endless halls of the Archivaas. They have converted every scrap of possessable knowledge into assorted preservation formats and gathered it in one place. Those who insist on print formats live in labyrinths with addresses in the Dewey Decimal system. To fifteen places.

Absolute power may corrupt, but absolute knowledge is impossible. The Archivaas try, nevertheless. This young Archivaas has encountered a problem she's just learned about. There was an Ape in the stacks. A rather large Orang-utan. Knuckling his way peacefully between the shelves. He said, "Ook," but she somehow heard, _I'm looking for a very good advice book on why it's a bad idea to do your own home maintenance._

Her trainers had spoken of this, but it had sounded a little bit... drop bears[53] to Acolyte Leaf. The concept that they had enough accrued knowledge in book form to warp reality sounded like a fairytale. Or, considering the known habits of them in the _old_ stories, very much like a Faerie Tale. She also knew that those who needed help had to be helped or lost forever[54]. Therefore, she reverted to Customer Service. She put down her current ball of twine, tied to a well-known area closer to the surface, and produced a differently-coloured ball of twine that she tied off at a convenient hook. "Would you like easy reading, large print, or pictures for the slow-of-mind?"

"Ook," he said. _All of the above, if possible, please._

Acolyte Leaf knew just the one. They still had several copies. "That would be _The Big Book of Nasty Little Accidents._ Right this way. Would you also like a copy of _Everything You Really Need to Know About First Aid Right Now_? It's hydrophobic."

"Ook." _That was incredibly thoughtful. Yes. Thank you so much._ Then he added, "Eek." _I know bloody well that we're going to need it. The Archchancellor is ignoring everyone again._

Archchancellor. Wow. This Ape was from _there_. Acolyte Leaf repressed a squeak of glee. They were never going to believe this, back in the break room. On the other hand, maybe they might. Mind on the job. Mind on the– oh good gravy, she was leading along _the_ Librarian. From a whole different reality! She'd grown up on those stories - and many others - and had loved him with a passion when she was a child. She still had a plush Orang-utan from her childhood. Three-quarters loved to death[55], but she still had it.

She tied off at the relevant shelf and brought down each copy. Acolyte Leaf couldn't help herself. "I'm a big fan of the books you're in, sir. Is it possible? Can you... pass on my love to your... I mean. Can you give my regards to Sir Pratchett?"

"Ook," he said, patting her gently. _There is a place he lives forever because so many know his name. I'll find a way to visit._

Her eyes were wet. "...'nk you."

She watched him knuckle off, books in hand, as if he had always known the way. Of course he did. He was _the_ Librarian.

Acolyte Leaf saluted him, and rewound the twine all the way back to her former work.

[53] Ask your nearest Australian.

[54] They told stories about a skeleton someone had found, once. The giant owl was disturbing, too.

[55] Where all the fur has been patted off, one eye is irrevocably missing, the felt is gone to tatters, most of the stuffing is lumpy from too many times in the washing machine, and death is on the table if anyone suggests throwing it out.

#  Challenge #249: Noncogniscent, Noncommissioned Officer

How did Stabby (from  Challenge #02032-E208) get his rank? – さむらいでわない

_Shipwide notice,_ said the message that went to all the crew. _Any further referral to ship's equipment by any name is unauthorised. Only registered crew with names, ranks, and files in the ships' staff listings are permitted to be referred to by name, nickname, or rank._

Evidently, Captain Thork'z had grown tired of the Human crew chatting about 'Stabby', the altered vacuum-bot roaming the halls. Also as evident was the fact that Captain Thork'z had not been warned about Human stubbornness, obstinacy, or ingenuity. All three of those were about to come into play.

Crewman Registry. Name: Stabby A. Vroomba. Age: 15 GalStand Years. Identifying gender: Male (he, him, his). Planet/Base of Origin: Saturnalia Station Manufactory. Rank: Trainee. Duties: Maintaining crew alertness levels. Contemplating ship-wide dust issues.

Captain Thork'z glared over her desk at Admin Assistant and indicated the form in question. The question was, "Why?"

"You banned us from talking about him, so I added him as official crew."

"Erase this record at once."

"Excuse me, sir, but Johannsen already filed it via Ghiishem. This is forever, sir."

Ghiishem. Flakk. There may be no greater hive of scum and villainy, but there also was no deeper labyrinth of red tape and administrivia. Again, the question arose. " _Why_?"

"He thought it would be funny, sir."

_Let's see how far his retroactive humour extends after a week or three on punishment detail._ On the other hand, the Humans had won this round. "Very well. But I'd better not hear any more about this."

Fortunately for Captain Thork'z, this was exactly the right thing to say to a Human. Humans had a unique brilliance for not letting the heads of staff find out about things. They _excelled_ at it. They invented ways for any and all paperwork containing the name and current rank of one S. A. Vroomba completely to themselves.

It was almost a game.

Until the Vorax attack, when the armed vacuum bot pierced a Vorax livesuit and contaminated the Warleader inside it with the most toxic substance known to intelligent life: peanut oil. The Warleader's violent, frothing death made such an impression that the entire fleet surrendered on the spot.

It was only then, when Captain Thork'z was obligated to give a promotion to enlisted crew-member S. A. Vroomba that she found it all out.

They had had to make Stabby an enlisted crewmember because of all the praise heaped on it via all the Human crew. Otherwise, Stabby would quickly outrank the entire ship, and have to serve in the Admiralty Headquarters. Far, far away from Human love, and what passed for their understanding. Therefore, Stabby couldn't rise through the ranks any further than Sergeant.

Stabby was given a medal of honour, glued to his plastic carapace, and the honorary rank of Sergeant At Arms.

The human crew would tape braids to his exterior for the rare inspection parades.

#  Challenge #250: What it Was, What it is

"It's a family heirloom."

Those four words, unfortunately, did not answer the question. It was old, Kelly could tell that much. It had been through much, if the uncleanable burn scars and dents were any indication. It plausibly had moving parts, but now they were mangled or rusted or fused shut. Whatever its original purpose was, it was now, effectively, a work of art.

"I get that it's old. I just wanted to know _what_ it is. Or was. It looks like it had a function."

"Does it?" said Sam. She took it out of the glass-fronted display cabinet and turned it around and over. Looking at it as if contemplating that revelation. "Someone welded bits of it together..." She finally put it down in its original position. "I don't even know the story. It's just been passed down from generation to generation."

Two hundred years ago... An artist in the family found what was once a complicated device to make kitchen work easier in a time before electricity existed. It was long since defunct. The parts that weren't rusty were missing, and it had been through battles with gravity, fire, and what seemed to be a brief Mongol invasion. What it used to be was a mystery. What it was now was an heirloom. Passed down without knowing what it had been made for. He turned it into a work of art and, despite his best bafflegab, never could sell the blessed thing.

"What is it?"

"It's a family heirloom."

"I can see that, but what is it _for_?"

"Bless me if I know."

Generations upon generations prior, a poor immigrant woman despaired. She could only afford the meanest, toughest meats, and her little ones got exhausted in the chewing of it. She could stew it slowly, but there was only so many times a family could stand stew. They wanted something different. Salvation came in the form of roughly seventy percent of a Sears' Catalogue, and an advertisement for a hand-cranked mincing machine for the price of a nickel, plus postage and handling. For her, it was a sound investment. For her family, it was variety and salvation in one shiny, silver package. She made pies and pasties from cheap ingredients and herbs and spices that most never touched. She passed the recipes down to her daughters, who began the Humble Pie Company...

For each generation, it got passed down. Its importance was stressed, but its function was forgotten as newer and better devices were invented and purchased and used. But that never stopped it being an heirloom. It survived fires. It survived wars. It survived multiple impacts with hard surfaces.

Because it was an heirloom. It was kept. It was treasured. It was passed down. It was kept behind glass.

It was the first treasure that the family owned. And in a way, it was still a treasure. And in another way, it embodied both meanings of the word _invaluable_ at once.

#  Challenge #251: In the Stars

It's amazing how flaming balls of gas, billions of lightyears from Earth, can have such an impact on human existence. – Anon Guest

It was mathematics. Geometry. Therefore it had to be as true as the four humors. Cassius watched as the Greek made notes and drew lines between symbols. It was, ultimately, a star-shaped drawing inside a circle, and some other intersecting lines.

"What are the omens?"

"The empire's displeasure continues. You will not rise yet," said Sophus the Prognosticator. "The emperor has fallen, and the new one is standing in his shadow. If his sun shines, then you may have a chance. If he continues in his current path, he will fall soon after. It is a time of strife."

"It was a time of strife when I was exiled," grumbled Cassius. "The rest of it you could learn from the local fishermen."

"True," said Sophus. "But it would be weeks too late. If your fortune changes, you would have weeks to prepare."

Cassius grumbled. He hated having to live like a common man in a simple villa with only a handful of servants. "I've been learning Greek," he said. "And reading a work by one of your countrymen. _On the Nature of Heavenly Bodies_. It's very interesting."

Sophus muttered to himself, translating the Latin back to Greek. "That would be the one by Eugene the Mad?"

"I needed a laugh," said Cassius. "He says that all the stars - except the wandering ones - are distant suns. So far away that they appear to be pinpoints of light."

Sophus scoffed. "Ridiculous. Everyone knows that the stars are nothing more than holes in the firmament of the sky, through which the light of the Gods shines through." More lines appeared in the diagram from Sophus' hand. "Huh... Generosity and largesse will assist you. Be kind to those below and they will lift you above."

"Even more obtuse than usual, Sophus," sighed Cassius. "Who am I meant to be generous to? The servants? The villagers that stink like curds? The fishermen and their wives who smell like rotten seaweed? Who is worth that generosity? What could I even give them, languishing so far from the empire?"

He had four rooms that might as well be empty, for all the time he spent in them. He had golden urns that sat empty and collected dust. He had sheer linen togas, freshly laundered daily. He had regular meals. He had gardens and estates. He had servants to help him through his long and lonely days. And he had Sophus, literally his last friend in the world. "The stars tell me only that. There is no more."

Cassius sulked all the way into his midday nap, fanned by three servants through the midday heat.

The empire was falling, and Cassius had but one thing to do when it did: share his wealth. The problem was that it was difficult for him to see that he still _had_ wealth. All he saw was the luxuries he was now forbidden. And therefore had no interest in sympathy for those who had less.

Sophus tried to warn him, for all the days they shared, but neither of them saw the knife in Cassius' back until it was too late.

And the stars remained. Unseeing. Uncaring. Unwavering.

#  Challenge #252: Audio Only

It went plonk, it went kablooey, it went shhhh, and it went blink.

But most importantly, it went whushhhak. – Anon Guest

Sound was all that was left. The darkness was absolute, and Phel's ability to feel was impaired by the chemicals that the enemy had forced into hir system. Ze learned quickly how the Zebnaki pirates sounded when they moved, and also learned to avoid them. They had patterns of movement, too, and it helped.

Phel made it all the way to the escape pods, but the instructions were on a screen, and the crew were too close to activate the audio. There wasn't much that ze could puzzle out by hir limited sense of feel alone. Therefore, ze found a place nearby to conceal hirself, and hoped. Her Human friend, Phil, had taught hir all of this. Alternative coping strategies, she called it. Find a way or make a way.

Phil was very good at making a way. She could bull her way through most obstacles and think her way around everything else. And, when everything else failed, she could make her way via sheer, unadulterated persistence and determination. _Humans used to hunt by chasing things to death._ Phil was, comparatively, rather abrupt.

Phel had found food supplies and made hir stealthy way to retrieve a meal while she waited. She was not as quiet as Phil was, but the Zebnaki weren't quiet, either. They were not listening for, say, an escaped Lothik with impaired senses creeping around in the access tubes. One of Phil's first lessons: _assumptions will always bite you in the ass._ They assumed that Phel was still in hir containment chamber. Pity for them that Phel had learned about the usefulness of paperclips.

They also assumed that a Human couldn't possibly track them. Ha! Humans had grown into cogniscence by being long-term pursuit predators. All Phel had to do was avoid the Zebnaki, recover from the chemicals, and wait. Ze didn't have to wait long.

Something not Zebnaki was on the ship. Phel traced the sounds.

_Plonk._ The soft sound of a human landing with as little sound as possible.

_Kablooey!_ Almost an hour later, the definite sound of an engine drive going to the eternal scrapyard. Phil was _here_.

_Shhhh..._ Human Phil shushing hir because stealth was, unbelievably, still part of this rescue.

... _blink._ The soft noise of the Autodiagnostic.

"Ah," whispered Phil. "You have some metal lodged in a nerve cluster. This is gonna hurt like a sumbitch..."

Phel held hir breath at the sharp tug. Clenched at the sting of the clotter fabric.

"I got'cha buddy. I got'cha. Just breathe, now. Breathe with me." Phil coached Phel in hir preferred de-stresser techniques. "It's good, now, it's good. Give it a minute or so, but I'm'a still getting you out of here."

The most important sound was a _whushhhak._ The sound of the escape pod door opening. Tingling sensation returned to Phel's extremities, making Phil's touch feel like a million prickling needles concussing hir carapace. Phel let Phil buckle hir in, and then heard, "I'll be back in five minutes. This is gonna launch anyway in ten. You'll be good, I swear."

There was another _whushhhak_ as the door closed again. Phel counted seconds in hir head. One minute. Two minutes. There was nothing but darkness and the tingling return of sensation and the low hum of the warming engines of the pod. Three minutes. Four.

_Whushhhak._ Twice. The panting breaths of Phil. "Okay. Let's haul ass."

Light returned in random colours. Evidently, the metal in hir nerves had effected hir vision as well. The jolt away from the afflicted Zebnaki pirate vessel caused a scattering of bright blobs that dissipated to reveal the world. Human Phil sitting across from hir with that typical cocky smile on her face.

Even as the vision impairment faded, Phel felt a lot better about hir place in the universe. "I'm so glad to see you again," ze sighed. "I'm so glad to see anything again."

Phil grinned. "I got 'em good. They're not going to try that twice."

Phil's methods rather made sure of that.

#  Challenge #253: Mob's Rule

"You're right. Anger can be useful, and your wrath is something to be feared. But if I am to burn in this fire, I WILL take you down with me." – Anon Guest

The corrupt ruler scoffed. "And how will the likes of _you_ propose to defeat _me_? You're weak. Powerless. Unarmed. I can kill you with a gesture and most of the idiots out there will applaud me for it."

"You did just call everyone watching you 'idiots'," she pointed out. "They're watching and listening to your every word. Because you decreed it so. Your vainglory will be your downfall. They will watch you cause my death. Me. A weak, unarmed, powerless peon with nothing. Only some of your subjects will actually endorse your actions. To appear truly powerful, though, you must kill me yourself."

He had a weapon in his hands before she finished her final sentence. "I _am_ powerful. More powerful than you, more powerful than any mud-grubbing moron who claims to love me. I control the truth! I control the money! I control everything! And I control when you die." He aimed it. "Any last words?"

"Just two more," she said, knowing they would end him, one way or another. "I'm pregnant."

They were her last words. He killed her without a thought, like he did so many things. He had no other wish than to appeal to his followers by appearing to be the most powerful man in the world. He didn't think about the consequences, because he never had to before.

The people who rigidly supported him also rigidly supported every pregnancy resulting in a birth. It didn't matter whether or not the woman he killed was actually pregnant, because belated facts had never interfered with any of their thought processes before, and they wouldn't now. They were angry at their ruler because he had, in their minds, murdered a baby.

It may have mattered that they thought she should have been incarcerated until she gave birth and _then_ executed. It may also have mattered that they thought she should be forced into becoming pregnant if she was, in fact, lying about gestating. But to the tides of history, the announcement was all that ultimately mattered.

Because even the most vehement supporter, the most able enabler, rose up in anger about their ruler's latest act. Causing a great hue and cry. The revolution started with the ruler's own act, and the righteous anger that he had been feeding for the entirety of his reign.

He never expected it to turn against _him_.

A reign of terror followed as absolute morals condemned absolutely, and those who enforced them fell to them at the same time. Until the collective public finally realised that some morals weren't that moral after all. But that was centuries away. Long, hard, and bloody centuries.

One ruler, in a craving for fame, fear, and adoration, ruined a great country.

#  Challenge #254: Safe Hide

When I first met you, I feared you, for I had heard the rumours and they weren't pretty.

Then I got to know you. Your compassion saved me, your sympathy broke me, and your songs put me back together again, strange and misshapen but whole once again.

And now, after all that we've been through? Well, there's no one I'd rather have by my side, friend. – Anon Guest

First impressions are a son of a bitch, sometimes. When one gets the moniker of "the Merciless" tacked on to one's name, certain expectations abound. You know the ones. Black leather. An easy hand with a weapon designed to inflict pain rather than kill. A mountain fastness full of minions and an optional beautiful daughter. That sort of stuff.

You never expect a shining Paladin whose chosen deity is the Goddess of life and creation. And I certainly never expected to meet him in his worst moment. Nor had I expected to meet him in mine.

He was battered, bloody, and captive. Our pack leader thought to ransom him for much gold, and then kill him. And the people who showed up to pay it. I thought that was a recipe for inevitable failure, but that's why I was having my worst day. Gnolls are famous for having low intelligence scores. Less than stellar wisdom. They are the toadies and expendable stupid guards of the world. Not me. I thought about things. I asked questions. Too many questions.

It's why my name was Nub-ear at the time.

I waited for the day, when most of the pack was asleep, to creep into his cage with food and water and what healing herbs I could scrounge. I'd got sunburn from going about in daylight again.

Another thing the believe about Gnolls is that they can't speak Common. I'd picked up a few words. Another mark against me and cause for more bite marks in my hide.

"What do you want, fiend?"

"Hush, hero," I rasped. "Hush. Others hear. Others bite." I dared edge a little closer. "Have meat. Have water. Have... help. Hero want?" He had laid waste to more than two dozen of the pack before two dozen more laid him low.

His eyes ran over me like a horse over a pack. I knew I wasn't in good shape. Underfed. Over-hurt. I had little to my name but my loincloth and my symbol. "You... want to help me."

"Hero," I said. "Help hero... get... help... back. Yes? Merciless hero... get mercy? Give mercy?"

"You can help," he allowed. He looked like he didn't trust me and -frankly- I was used to it.

Runt of the litter. Lowest in the pack. Least wanted everywhere. But I was devoted to _my_ Goddess and I would not turn away from _any_ being who needed help. Even a so-called enemy. I opened myself to my Goddess' will and let Her power flow through me.

I am a loyal follower of the Goddess of Death. Her will is my will. Her word is my law. My body, mind, and spirit are Hers. The blood I shed from my wounds is my sacrifice... It took Tane the Merciless quite some time to deal with that. But that all happened later.

That day, it was Her will that this hero be healed. His time was not yet. He took the meat I had stolen and let me hunt the rats in his cage. He shared the water, too. And he called me 'good'. I remember having trouble with that. We were Gnolls. Nobody in all the wide and varied lands believed that we were good. But he called me 'good'. And though I was loath to admit it... it felt good.

It took me three days to steal the keys from the pack leader, and Tane showed no mercy to those who fought him. The most mercy he had was quick deaths for them all. I... I didn't want to help my pack by then. I was a traitor. I was not a Gnoll. Not a real one.

I was good.

He gave me a pouch of gold and some armour and a cloak and told me to make my own way, after he was free. He told me I was free to do as I wished. I said, "I wish... join you."

It took him four days to surrender to that wish. He argued, "Travelling around with a Gnoll is going to destroy my reputation."

And I said, "As you say, Tane the Merciless." I may not have known much Common, then, but I still could argue. I was growing bold because he didn't hurt me for doing it.

He was good to me. He _is_ good to me. I am good to him. We have become friends. The unlikeliest of friends, but... friends all the same. I'm strong, now. In more ways than one.

The one thing you would expect us to argue about -faith- is one thing we agree on. Death is a part of life. Without one, there can be no other. We do not argue, but we end up having long nights of philosophy, when we're together under the stars.

It is good. And so are we.

#  Challenge #255: Omniphobia

"You said it wouldn't be scary this time!"

"Technically I said it wouldn't be a _monster_."

"It's a dragon!"

"I stand by my statement!" – OohLookShiny

AN: This is before they meet and rescue Marvin in [ Dirt's Worth]

Wraithvine mentally ticked 'dragon' off the list of beasts that ze could make hir phantom steed appear to be like. The problem was that Kobolds like the freshly-renamed Chrysanthemum were renowned for their craven cowardice and apparently terrified of every possible mount they could both use. The poor little rogue was even terrified of an Elven Riding Deer, notorious herbivores, all of them.

"Make it go away," Chrysanthemum wailed.

"Now if I do that, I've burned the spell slot for nothing," said Wraithvine. "You could make this quicker by naming an animal you like... Something you're not scared of?"

"No," pouted Chrysanthemum. "You'll make it big and then it'll be scary."

"I have to make it big. It's a _steed_. We're riding it."

"I like walking."

"Ye-e-es... Walking is nice," Wraithvine allowed. "But time is of the essence and flying is so much faster. And a Phantom Steed only lasts an hour, sooo... do want me to lie to you?"

Chrysanthemum thought about this, even as she turned a scarf into a blindfold. "Yes. Lie to me. Lie to me all the way there. I hate heights. I hate riding. I hate time limits..."

Wraithvine dug the carrying harness out of hir pack and wriggled into it, beginning the now-traditional lie. "Now, my dear, we are just going to hug. We are going to hug for an entire hour, and it is perfectly fine if you need to squeeze me harder from time to time." Ze scooped Chrysanthemum up in hir arms and let the Kobold wrap hir torso and cling tight with all five limbs, including the semi-prehensile tail. "And in order to make sure that I don't accidentally drop you, I'm putting on all the hug belts."

It really was a tour de force, helping a Kobold become brave. Or at least, temporarily deluded enough through a form of collaborative storytelling to endure the trials of riding anywhere for an hour. Wraithvine finished with sitting astride 'a log' - hir summoned dragon - and announcing that a really stiff wind was springing up.

Ze devoted one hand to holding Chrysanthemum and the other to the reins. Pushing hir phantom steed to the limit to get to their destination in the shortest amount of time possible. They landed just as the steed was evaporating into mist. Wraithvine used Featherfall for the trip to the ground.

Only then, at their goal, did Wraithvine start purring gently to signal that the scary part was over. And so were the lies.

It wasn't the best arrangement, but it was the best one that worked. So far. Wraithvine was determined to find a better solution.

#  Challenge #256: How Sissyphus Rolls

the Galactic allegiance was used to most of the human emotional quirks, they knew about our anger, and packbonding, our mental illnesses like depression, and how small things and gestures can bring us joy, and especially our compassion.

but they had never experienced human indifference. Especially when confronted with those that had caused great pain.

Humans have the capacity to just not give a damn – Adam in Darwin

Of all the Human reactions that could have occurred when the Vol'nath Empire collapsed, the last thing they expected was, "Meh."

The most they could get out of a human was sentiments like, "Saw it coming," or "Overdue," or, "Bound to happen." But, by and large, all they got was, "Meh."

It had perplexed the other species of the Alliance. They vividly recalled numerous times when the Humans had rushed to aid the Vol'nath. They had been tireless in saving the poor, the downtrodden, the disaster-stricken, and desperate. They had worn themselves to rags to try and warn, to try and ameliorate the inevitable collapse.

Now that it had happened, there were no calls to action. There were no rushes to provide aid. There were no appeals to other species' greater nature.

"Aren't you going to go save the Vol'nath Empire?" asked one Jaagrushi of hir Human Captain.

Captain Jane, watching the news as it unfurled, called up screens and screens of other scenes. Vol'nath expatriates, building new worlds. Making new homes. Growing fresh food. Helping each other.

"We already saved the important bit," she said.

"But... the Emperor's family line. The regency! The highborn families! What of their legacy?"

"They're stewing in it," said Captain Jane, gesturing at the news. "They pissed in this bed, now they can sleep on the wet spot."

"What of the Child Emperor?"

"The Child Emperor and his insidious damn advisors can go fuck 'emsleves," said Captain Jane.

"But... we saw you try for so long..."

A sigh. "We tried to save a culture, and we did. We tried to save it by getting those self-absorbed, self-indulgent, self-important assholes to pull their heads out of their rears and actually shape up. We failed."

The Jaagrushi watched in horror as Captain Jane turned off the news and turned to watch the scenes of worlds being build anew. "But–"

"They had their chances." Captain Jane took a bottle out from under her seat and took a pull straight from the container.

It was a rare and horrible thing to see her drink on duty. "Fuck 'em." Swig. "Fuck 'em all."

#  Challenge #257: Breach

[Camera recording ○○, Research lab. Subject identified as "Wolf I think?" by Interviewer][Interviewer enters the room, Subject emits a pulse of light, Interviewer collapses on his knees.Blue light connects foreheads of both Subject and Interviewer] [Subject] I was... created for the sole purpose of... preserving knowledge of my creators. I was... cannoned? [Interviewer, unconscious] Launched. [Subject] Launched... Directly away from our [スタル]. It went supernova. [long pause, Interviewer wakes up, Blue light vanishes, Subject suddenly vanishes] – 誰ですか?

"Oh shit," they said, sitting up. The cameras had caught everything, but they had more to impart. A flood of knowledge. A list of important things to do.

They sat there, typing at their computer, for a very long time. Disjointed, verbal shorthand so that as much could be preserved as possible before their fallible human brain could forget. But they did not forget a thing. By the time it was done, their butt was numb and their legs didn't work properly for two hours. They were exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come.

They left the lab and said, "The document I just saved needs action immediately. Importantly. Imperatively."

"What? But– You don't have the clearance to give orders."

They said, "Wolf, I think, left. They left because this world is ending. They can't preserve knowledge without imparting it. They can't impart knowledge to people who aren't there. I just nearly incapacitated myself writing a list of important things to do to save this fucking world and most of the people in it." They were too tired for this crap. "And I realise that I've just out-lived my usefulness to this organisation, and I don't really care if you kill me on the spot, I am _that_ tired."

There was a moment of stunned silence between the administrator and the interviewer.

"What are we for, if not to help? That's what you told me. Are we going to help rich people get richer before we all die? Or are we going to fucking _do_ something?"

The administrators eyes were not cold when they said, "You're tired. Go take a nap. We might still need you to... interpret your document."

None of them could say what they really felt with the cameras still recording. None of them could contemplate openly about the contents of the document.

Especially the sub-heading marked _Kill List_ and the famous names therein.

#  Challenge #258: Minions These Days

In a lab, an avian in a white coat with 'assistant' written on it has got a test tube in each hand while the researcher does her work.

"What is he doing with those test tube?"

"I'm helping Dr Susie !"

"I told him that I needed him to hold those 2 important test tube and that one of them is highly poisonous and the other one is an unstable explosive. He doesn't know that's water."

"Why ?"

"Assistant, give me the explosive one."

The assistant look at each tube, drinks one and after few seconds gives the other.

"Another question?" – Anon Guest

"Yes. _Why_?" a general gesture at the avian assistant.

"Well," began Dr Susie, "You know how they say, 'if you can't find it, make your own'?"

"Creating cogniscent life is frowned on, Elba..." sighed Associate Director Vorsh.

"That's why I thought an Augment might be better. He's been vetted and cleared but..." a sigh. "I was wrong about the Augment thing. So now I have a STEM-Qualified assistant animal with an ill-advised approach to science."

"Where other one go?" said the Assistant.

"And a limited memory," added Vorsh.

"Working on it," said Dr Susie. "On the other hand, this is slowing down my research into weaponisable bacteriophages."

Associate Director Vorsh frowned. "How is slowed research a good thing?"

"Well, we don't want them to _use_ that stuff, do we?"

Come to think of it, getting the money to research and develop weaponisable bacteriophages was better than actually _having_ weaponised bacteriophages. In fact, if the research was slow enough, the war might end before they became a thing.

"Carry on," said Vorsh. And, "Good bird."

"I'm helping Dr Susie!"

#  Challenge #259: Station Cats

what would be a "normal" day for a cat in a space-station? – Anon Guest

[AN: I originally thought - normal pet cat or Skitty? And then I thought... why not both?]

Pet.

The day begins with the rude noise as Elith's Feedme[56] stirs in their sleep nook. Elith used her claws to show mild displeasure at having her own rest disturbed by the movement of the Feedme. Not that she could stop the bald, two-legged creature. Feedmes were much bigger than Elith, and she had little power to stop anything that big.

The Feedme gave Elith some mild grooming by way of an apology and busied themself with the booth where they cleaned themselves. Elith left them to it, going through slow stretches and her own bathing routine before checking on her food receptacle.

Tragedy. It was empty. "Hey! Heeeeyyyy! Feedme! Do your job!" Of course Feedmes couldn't understand Cat very well, but noise was essential for them to understand that something needed to be fixed. And, to be strictly fair, Cats didn't understand Feedme very well either. "Food! Food now!"

The Feedme picked up the food receptacle, cleaned it, and filled it, echoing Elith's words with their own nonsense. Most of it was variations on, "Heeeeyyyy!" and "Food!"

Stupid creature. They were lucky that Cats like Elith existed to make sure they did the important things.

The Feedme left, as it did for an impossible time. Elith used to worry, but her Feedme always returned. Often times with tasty food and playthings. That was the time Elith treasured, when she could perch on her Feedme and get groomed and scratched in _just_ the right spots. But that was hours away, yet.

In the meantime, there was the virtual mouse. One day, she would kill that thing for _good._

Skitty.

Yawn and stretch. Groom self and several cousins who happen to occupy the same sleep-nest. Sleep time is done. Rish has energy to burn, now.

Stalk between food places. Nothing particularly interesting, so Rish fills their stomach and then patrols the throughways for anything... _interesting_. On the way, they catch up on the scent-news from other Cats in the area. Hm. Thist has had kittens. Nice. They would soon be bumble-tumbling around in easy-access areas, learning how to hunt. Rish would keep a watchful eye out for them in due course.

There!

Chase!

Pounce!

Kick, wrestle, bite, jump, claw!

Yes! Good hunt!

Rish played with the small corpse for a while and then devoured the tastiest bits as a reward. Then, after a good grooming session, climbed up somewhere warm to survey their domain. And nap.

Life was good.

[56] Cats have an economical way of naming the creatures who look after them.

#  Challenge #260: Young Game, Old Players

The thing most deserving of both respect and fear in equally large amounts is an old man in a place where they often die young. – Anon Guest

Oort Herding is a game for the young. The ability to weave through free-floating bodies in the depths of absolute darkness, to spot a dirty snowball before the Hungry Caterpillar does, to do the necessary gravitational kicks to cometary objects and get out of the way in the correct direction, all needs fast reflexes and quick minds.

Or, if you ask some, _strategy_.

They tell legends about him. The only old Oort Herder in Galactic Space. Most of the others call him 'Grampa', but they do so with ingrained respect. Because they know. They know how slow reflexes and moments of inattention can cause the regular early retirement or the euphemistic kind where they're lucky to have some remains interred somewhere. For someone to work as an Oort Herder into their forties, into their _fifties_ ... Grampa had to have an edge over anyone else who had to quit the occupation.

Grampa was edging into his sixties, now. Grey hairs and wrinkles clearly evident clear across the room, and though many Oort Herders paid into his tab, Lyl was one to ask if she could share his booth and ask him an important question.

"Can you teach me what you know?" she asked.

Grampa looked up at her, standing nervously at the edge of his personal space. Clearly afraid of both answers. He sized her up from tip to toe and, "I think I can guess, but... why do you want to learn?" He gestured at the empty seat, inviting her in.

She sidled in and sat as if she didn't want to infect the chair with her presence. "I'm not... I'm not clever. I can read, but I can't write. Not well enough to earn. I can draw a little, but I'm... not an artist. I can talk, but I'm not worth listening to. I know enough maths to get by and... I'm just not good at anything else. And... I'm getting older. I nearly slipped a couple of times, already. It's... It's ride or die time. And I'd rather not die."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six. Nearly washed up in Herder terms. I'd rather live for a while, you know? Retire to some place where I can grow things and do what I like when I like."

Grampa smiled. "That's the dream. Maybe grow water plants with your own haul..." He smiled at the vision, ordered a share platter he'd certainly never have to pay for. "You willing to keep the secret until you meet another like you? Not let the rest of these reckless assholes get it?"

Lyl thought about what the fast and stupid would do with a secret like Grampa's. The niche they occupied would soon be overflowing with _lazy_ assholes who would class Oort Herding as a doddle and therefore a nothing job. A _hobby_. "Let the reckless assholes be reckless. I aim to make this my career."

They spat on their palms and shook.

"Right. You can ride with me a while. Put your rig in my drydock until you got everything you need. You stay with me, you learn what I teach. 'S all I ask."

"Done and done."

Grampa rode the mainstreams, where the quick or the dead snapped up smaller comet chunks. But what he did was make a conglomerate out of them. The Hungry Caterpillar on his rig had been souped up to be fast and dirty, turning all intersecting objects into a chunk of dirty ice roughly the size of a bus. That was then towed behind on carbon nanotube line, where a few little ion jets kept it at an angle to Grampa's rig. He also had a complicated algorithm that kept track of all moving bodies on an intersect vector and steered away from them.

He wasn't Oort Herding. He was Oort _Trawling_. And it was how he stayed alive without much in the way of spectacular skills.

Lyl spent two years learning all the subtle differences, and another earning the Time it took to upgrade her rig. In less than five more years, she was a legend, too.

They called her 'Mama', and when she gained a few more grey hairs, they would call her 'Gram'. She rarely had to pay her tab since the eager young Oort Herders were glad to pay for her account. Those who could retire as Oort Herders and look for other jobs did. Those who didn't make it were sad losses, and joined the local Wall of Names.

But she always kept an eye on the older ones. Looking for someone like her. Someone who was older than the rest, and looking worried, and a little bit in awe, and hopeful for an answer. Someone else who had to have a career, here, where there were few indeed who ever got old.

#  Challenge #261: Limited Universal Communication

what if memes are a totally human thing?

like we meet aliens and try to explain this cultural thing, and they have nothing to compare it to, they don't have self replicating cultural phenomena. – Anon Guest

The Human tripped on their own feet, tumbled, but tucked and rolled and recovered their footing in one nearly smooth moment.

"Sweet flips," cheered a different Human.

"Got the moves like Jagger!" The initial Human did a weird series of gyrations, causing them to hurt themselves.

Throk did not understand. "They are speaking GalStand, yet... I know not their meaning."

Human Jess said, "They're talking in memes."

"In... what?"

"Memes. Thoughts that self-perpetuate along cultural lines. You know, like... Jacarta? She can walk for herself?"

Throk only had a blank stare for her human friend.

"A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar... clang, clang, clang, but the rabbi ducked?"

"These are Human jokes, yes?"

"Yes. They're the earliest form of meme. People share them around because they're funny. Like... the initial chicken joke was a paired question and answer. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side. And then it encountered a memetic explosion of variations. It was running from the chef, it was going to the library to get a _buck-buck-buck_ , it was too low to hit the bar... The jokes hybridised. Then humanity figured out how to use captured images to express emotions and complex concepts, and there was no looking back."

"Hashtag relatable," said Throk, showing that she was keeping up.

"Yeah. Now that societies are dissipating, the meme space is solidifying into cultural realms, again. There may be millions of variations on themes, but the concept can be interpreted and used for communication."

There was a huge crash as some temporary furniture imbalanced on its way to its designated storage. "That'll buff out," cheered one of the other Humans. Someone else did a very slow applause.

"Is understanding of the source vital to understanding the... meme?"

Human Jess shrugged. "Not really. You can go on a wiki walk if you want to, but... all you need to understand is the current memetic atmosphere."

The first thing that Throk looked up was the term, _wiki walk_.

#  Challenge #262: Nonhostile Takeover

Their faces were caked with color, like they had heard of make up and tried to use it, but weren't quite sure what went where. – OohLookShiny

This is space - theoretically, there's room for everyone. The only caveat is that most times, you have to build it. This is Ambassador Jess. She is negotiating with the owners of an otherwise boring asteroid so she can turn it into a semi-profitable habitat. This is the problem - the owners belong to Greater Deregulation South.

On their last teleconference, the leader of the GD pack of CEOs had told her that she and her crew "had better look professional" when they turned up for a face-to-face or the deal might be off. Jess, not knowing what the hell that phrase meant, had looked it up. Considering that she passed all the Galactic's low bars, she looked up the Deregulation version.

Greater Deregulation South tolerated females, in the same way that they tolerated bad weather or ill fortune. They had to happen to someone, but if it was pretty, then it could be tolerated easier. Which lead Jess, the Ambassador for Sapphos V, to eventually find out that this was using make-up and soft, flowy dresses. Two things that hadn't really mattered to either her or her team.

Warriors all, they put on their Battle Paints. Red, the colour of the blood of their enemies. Bone white, for the bones they could break without a thought. Deep purple, for the bruises they earned in battle.

In combination with the soft, flowy dresses and high-heeled combat boots, the resultant message was... mixed. The dresses said, _play with us,_ but the boots, the war paint, the muscles, and their weapons all said, _we break our toys._

The pack of CEO's as a direct result, were _extremely_ polite to the delegation from Sapphos V. More than one was blushing and sweaty. One ageing, doughy representative even sidled up to one of Jess' battle crew and asked her out for ice cream and soda.

In a round-about way, it changed a lot of things. In a round-about way, it was a huge success.

The men who ruled Greater Deregulation South were a lot more amenable to the... affectations... of Sapphos V. War paint became a trend. Muscles - but not too many - became a thing. Women learned to fight. And every time, the men of Greater Deregulation pined for the women of Sapphos V, the women of Greater Deregulation South left it for warrior lessons and never looked back.

The men of Greater Deregulation South didn't realise what was happening to their world until it was too late. In fits or in droves, their women left them. The women they desired didn't want them. When left with the only group who had formerly mattered to them, they had nothing left but complaints.

At which point, the women of Sapphos V had one solution: learn to be better or perish.

#  Challenge #263: Warned You So

It's been said, regarding history, that "Everything repeats over and over again. No one learns anything, 'cause no one lives long enough to see the pattern..."

...but what if someone did? – Anon Guest

My name is Loth. It rhymes with moth. I've taken up variations on the surnames Smith and Jones, all over the world. I know a lot of people who do illegal things to make certain my identities are stable. See... when you're immortal, you don't always want the people in charge to know.

Try spending fifty years in Bethlehem, some time. Fifty years, unageing. _Fifty years_ before someone who had been there long enough deigned to notice that I looked exactly the same without the kind of genes you need to be effectively ageless. Try only being released when said doctor actually _witnessed_ you taking a fatal injury and then getting back up again.

And no, I don't know why I'm immortal. I just am. And believe me, I have perfected the art of staying the hell away from medical science. Nope. Not going near that. Fifty years in Bedlam was enough. Another century or so while modern science slices, dices, and juliennes me is not on my to-do list. But... that said, there are still times when I try to stop bad things from happening.

See, you live long enough, you see patterns in history. Corrupt officials and economic disparity lead to revolution. Even in that one case where the rich people in one colony didn't want to pay taxes. The difference lies in how the administration deals with the bad news.

Did you know I told King John to sign the Magna Carta? He was one of the few who listened to me. The list of the ones who didn't is very long, and includes a lot of nobility.

This one is my first president.

He sat in his chair of office like an unexpected toad in a throne, an image not helped by his flappy jowls, obvious corpulence, or general dour demeanour. He was offended by my presence, and the fact that his secret service didn't stop me entering his space.

"Who the hell are you? Why aren't you stopping that?"

There are people you wish could be immortal. One of them said, _True evil begins with treating people as things._ So this man showed his true colours in seconds. Nevertheless, revolutions are not pretty and lots of innocent people die.

"Perhaps you don't understand the meaning of the word 'service' in their job description?" I said. "They provide a service to the Presidency. Not to the president. I, also, provide a service."

He leered and started undoing his belt.

"Keep that sad flap of flesh out of view, you're being recorded," I intoned. "You think Nixon knew that the watergate tapes existed? Sure, he recorded things, but not _those_ things."

_Now_ he looked properly frightened. That was when I presented my credentials. "This was signed by Abraham Lincoln."

"Yes. He ignored my counsel to legislate true equality amongst all citizens of the states. Lots of them ignored my counsel. They all died." Some of old age, but _he_ didn't need to know that.

"And what counsel do you have?"

"You're about to cause the ruin of a great nation. You need to free the people in the concentration camps. You need the rich to pay their taxes, you need to pay for infrastructure and support of those who cannot support themselves. You need to end racism endemic in this nation. You need to upend everything your party allegedly stands for. And, most importantly, you need to stop thinking that you can do whatever you want."

He stared blankly as all that sank in. "No," he scoffed. "You can't tell me what to do."

I stared him in his piggy eyes and said, "Six months."

"What?"

"That's how much time you have left. Treasure every day." I left without a further word, though he had plenty of things to rant about.

Two months, and the elections swept the map with a different colour. Two more months, and he was in a dock for treason. They had plenty of evidence, thanks to the _secret_ Secret Service. Two more months, and they executed him by a firing squad.

Six months. To the day.

I just provide counsel. Whether or not they listen to me is their problem. And their consequence.

#  Challenge #264: One Heartbreaking Revelation Far From Home

"Dragons are such majestic, Noble creatures!"

Drunk dragon forces its way through the doorway then collapses and starts snoring

Marvin was grinning at everything around him like a child at their first Winterfeast Festival. He would giggle at odd moments and was almost vibrating with glee. Lady Anthe had her hood down for the first time since they had begun as an adventuring party because _this_ was where the dragon-folk lived. Kobolds, Dragonborn, assorted Lizardkin, and actual real live Dragons from Wyrm through Asiatic to Noble.

Every time one flew overhead, he looked up and gaped in awe. Looking like every other tourist who managed to make it alive to Brimstone, gateway to the Draconic Realms. From here, everyone not of Draconic or Reptilian descent was the stand-out, the outsider, the one who didn't belong. It was an area where Anthe could no longer be afraid. Well. Not afraid of _as much_. She was still a Kobold. Her draconic heritage was not as noble as many might want to believe. In fact, many dragon-folk weren't as noble as many might want to believe.

"When do we tell him?" asked Wraithvine.

"Let the boy enjoy it for a pace more. He'll break his own heart in time."

Marvin gasped, "Is that a baby? Hello, sweetling?"

Wraithvine steered Marvin gently away from the creature hissing at him from a corner full of broken boxes. "That's the draconic answer to a mangy street dog. They have an acidic bite."

"Oooohhh..." Marvin edged into the middle of the group. "I should maybe be real careful around here, yeah?"

"Definitely," said Anthe, who was small and could be less than a nibble for some dragon-kind. Especially the millennia-old flying behemoths who rented themselves out as transit. But then again, Kobolds more or less expected their lives to be nasty, brutish, short, and ending in a wet crunch. Her entire species' evolution strategy was 'breed enough so that some survive enough to breed'.

Relatively speaking, Anthe was more or less a nun.

Not for much longer if the array of morsels on display at the local bordellos was any indicator...

Anthe cleared her throat and forced herself to guide the mammals with her. "Direct eye contact is a challenge," she instructed. "Only Dragonborn and some Snake people are willing to recognise it as you mammals trying to be friendly. There's a very few reasons why your kind go into the Draconic Realms, and people here are going to assume. So keep your weapons bound until you actually anticipate a fight." She paused to snarl at a young Dragonborn thief who was too close to Wraithvine's pockets. "And watch your stuff like a hawk."

By then, they were in the recommended inn, made for species of multiple sizes. This meant high ceilings and tall stools with ladders incorporated into the general decor. The biggest were expected to sit on the floor. The smallest were expected to perch. Those in between were expected to deal as best they could.

Assorted dragons of assorted sizes were doing what anyone would do in an inn. Getting drunk, dancing, singing, and carousing like any other denizens inside of any other bar.

She could actually _hear_ Marvin's heart breaking. Anthe guided him to a discrete corner where he could have a breakdown in relative peace.

"But... this is _wrong_ ," he whimpered.

"This is people, like all the other peoples in the world. You expected Dragons to be different."

Wraithvine chuckled. "Better order a pie. This is Aelfheim all over again."

Marvin's face was looking like a smacked bottom. It was past time to placate the poor lad with pie. "This is wrong," he persisted. "Dragons are such majestic, noble creatures!"

And, as evidence to the contrary, a medium-sized Dragon barrelled through the door. Backwards. Their clothing was sizzling gently under the influence of hot oil. They chuckled once, mumbled, "Respect." And then passed out where they stood. After a bated moment, they started to snore.

Marvin sulked in his corner. "Get me a pie with the most kidneys and mushrooms in it and the biggest root beer they have."

Wraithvine regarded a gargantuan Dragon drinking from a cask at the bar and said, "We'll get you a pretty large drink."

#  Challenge #265: Love on Lo Batt

"I don't know how to get home,"

"But you walked there yourself, just walk back the way you came,"

"Just because I managed to blindly stumble into the right building doesn't mean I have any idea where I am or how I got here." – OohLookShiny

"What?" Blue made a face. It was a face that could easily be read as _What the hell?_ because the print was so large.

Red sighed. "It's like this. My mind is constantly somewhere else. It's kind of a crap shoot as to whether I pay any attention at all to what's here and now, okay? It's not that I'm stupid or anything, it's more like I'm incapable in some very specific areas."

"Like knowing how you got to point B from point A. Maps app?"

"And also, charging my phone," Red murmured, their face turning the colour of their name.

"What got you _that_ distracted?" Blue had to wonder.

"A mathematical formula for proving that white holes exist and then locating them."

Realisation dawned. "Oh, you're one of _those_ kinds of smart people. Do you need a piece of paper and a pen before we move on?"

"Oh, I have those." Red gestured. Showed Blue the page with myopic printing on it that could have been anything at all, really. It contained some really complicated symbols, so it probably was what Red said it was. "It's the batteries and navigation I have trouble with."

"There's an office supplies place right next to the local coffee shop, up the street," Blue gestured the direction. "I could help you make sure you get there and that you're okay to get home. Some of their battery packs come pre-charged, so you'd be cool from there on."

It was ten minutes into the walk that Red said, "What did you mean, I'm one of _those_ kinds of smart people?"

"So far into solving interstellar math that you don't notice the world around you." Blue smirked. "You should devote some of your run cycles to hazard detection at least." They gently guided Red away from another street scooter. "This is the fifth time I've steered you away from trouble."

"Maybe I need someone to keep me out of trouble," Red said.

Blue smiled at the thought. "Asking for volunteers?"

Red turned red again. "Maybe."

They could try it, at least. See if it worked.

#  Challenge #266: The True Revolution

a female who hears about bad stuff happening to other ladies, but are oblivious because it never happens to them. – Anon Guest

Cindy never knew she was her friends' Protector for years. She just thought that everything that happened was normal. Walking with Sishawna and any of her friends to the corner store for groceries was normal. Walking her friends Lisa and Melanie to and from Pride was normal. Coming to pick her friend Layla up from the gym at night was normal.

It didn't become abnormal until that one party, when she heard some men joking about rape. Cindy knew some people who'd been raped, and nursed them through horrible times. So she loomed over the circle of jerks and said, "You know who likes rape jokes? Rapists. Are you guys rapists?"

And one of them said, "Oh shit, it's the Valkyrie."

She learned. They never told those kinds of jokes when she knew they could hear her. They never tried to sneak a hand up her skirt in the elevators for fear of her breaking their hands for trying. She learned that nobody bothered her and her friends when she was in the gym because she could deadlift half the guys in there. Heck, she could _throw_ half the guys in there.

She was a white girl who was muscular enough and imposing enough for men to never want to mess with her. They didn't even wish to risk her wrath by calling her a lesbian. Around Cindy, men were polite, respectful, and actually attempted to listen. Around her, all her friends of colour no longer had to fear the police. Around her, all of her friends had no reason to fear anyone.

She held a small party in her flat, that week. Invited all her friends inside. And had a good talk. Asked them for their horror stories.

Cindy learned that the world is cruel to women. Cindy learned that it had to stop. And stopping things had to start somewhere, so she started with her friends.

She trained them. Helped them find a workout routine that they could use to build muscle as well as building their confidence. Teaching them how to fight to the best of their ability. Becoming forces to reckon with.

Becoming _Valkyries_.

And she made a mantra. "Flats are comfortable, so are leggings, and if anyone lays an unwelcome hand on me, they get what they deserve!"

It took the world a year to notice the sudden and alarming increase in 'warrior women'. Cindy and her Valkyrie followers refused to be belittled or mocked for it. They refused to bow to the whims of self-important men who needed to diminish the strong in order to feel strong themselves. And they brutally incapacitated anyone who attempted to kill them for their choices.

The fact that every single one of Cindy's Valkyries could stop a punch with one hand, and disarm a gunman in two seconds had a great deal to do with the sexual reformation.

It took a lot for a certain kind of male to remember the manners his mother taught him.

#  Challenge #267: Visual Aids

Just read and interesting science article about how Humans are actually Bioluminescent but we can't see it because our eyes are not sensitive enough.

How amazing would that look to aliens? Especially if it were different colours like the Naa'vi in Avatar – Adam in Darwin

The most astonishing fact that the Scollarids learned about Humans was this: _Humans can't see their own glow._ These Deathworlders were on par with them when it came to surviving strategies. They did more with less, did less with more, and got into further territories than any other species known to intelligent life. It seemed like they could - as a species \- accomplish anything.

But they could not see how their colours wavered and intermixed with their moods. They couldn't perceive the soft, warm tones of their own body heat, or the subtle patterns of their inner radiations as they went through their days. The Scollarids said, _Humans are beautiful in the dark,_ and the Humans didn't understand it as a compliment.

Humans glow. Their soft illumination has soothed many an infant Scollarid in the middle of the night. Their mood-lamp patterns of infra-red, ultra-violet, and electron blue have calmed hundreds in times of stress. It's such a pity that they can't see themselves with Scollarid eyes.

Therefore, it was no surprise that Human Grig didn't believe it when Wavemotion[57] came up to him and said, through a harness translator, "I find your lights to be beautiful."

Seated in the dimness of the relaxation lounge and staring aimlessly at the stars, Human Grig side-eyed his current Scollarid companion. "This is the third time one of y'all have said that. I know some folks have some weird aesthetics, but... I'm uglier than a bulldog's ass. I keep thinking y'all are setting me up for something. I have... concerns."

"We have no reason to prevaricate," said Wavemotion. "It is your eyes. You cannot see you as we see you."

"And your photos don't help, either," Human Grig sighed. "Guess I gotta get used to it or something."

Wavemotion absently groomed hir frontmost claws. "That will not do."

It took the crew of the _Surprised Stance_ a GalStand Month to make the prototype. It shifted the spectra they could see into wavelengths that their Ship's Human could comprehend, and it worked like goggles. In them, Human Grig looked like a bug.

He laughed as he put them on. "What are these? Like beer goggles?"

Wavemotion was the one to turn the lights down. Signallingclaw[58] brought out a mirror.

"They let you see you as we see you," said Wavemotion.

The breath went out of Human Grig as he saw... more or less... what the Scollarids saw. "I'm... you see me like this all the time?"

"Your lights ebb and flow with time. Your light tides have a four point two hour interval. But yes, this is how we see you. So that you can see."

Human Grig couldn't say it out loud, but his rubbery lips made the words, "I'm beautiful," all the same.

[57] Scollarid names are rather complicated and difficult to translate into GalStand, since they speak a complicated sign language that requires four limbs to perform. This one's actual name is, _Wave motion with the oscillating right front claw while the lower left claw clicks thrice._

[58] Properly annotated as, _Signalling claw over two lower claws inter-clasping whilst bobbing up and down_.

#  Challenge #268: Living Corbomite

"I don't know what is happening, but I don't like it"

"Why ?"

"The human is smiling" – Anon Guest

One of their own writers said it the best: _Never trust a creature that smiles all the time, they're up to something._ And they were very, very correct. The most frequent portent of doom, next to phrases like, "Hold my beer," or "I think I know what I did wrong," is most definitely a Human smiling in a certain way for a period longer than ten minutes.

It's a sure and certain sign that someone is going to get what the human thinks they deserve. And it was happening most alarmingly on the bridge of the _Wandering Star_ , where the Ship's Human was having an apparently evil idea. The most her crew could hope for was that it was going to happen in the general direction of their current foe.

Who, thankfully, was also unnerved to see a Human smiling at them like that.

_This,_ thought Captain Kurok, _can be turned to our advantage._ "I see you are familiar with some popular sayings about Humans. No doubt you're wondering what our Human Steve has come up with. Frankly, I'm a little bit curious myself. The point here being that the Human has an idea and _none of us know what it is_. What we _do_ know is that it's going to cause a _spectacular_ amount of wreckage. Possibly on both sides. _I'm_ willing to take the risk. Are you?"

Nervous silence from the Lok'rath on the other side of the link.

"So ask yourself. Do you feel lucky?" asked Captain Kurok. "Do you?"

Human Steve started chuckling in a very ominous way.

"We surrender," said the Lok'rath pirate Captain. "Unconditionally."

The human tutted and made a disappointed, "Aaaww..." noise.

It was only after they brought the Lok'rath ship into ideal towing position and started their way back to base that the Captain's curiosity overwhelmed her. "All right. What _were_ you planning, Human Steve?"

"Me? I was thinking up some wicked fanfic based off of a netcast I heard yesterday. I was actually laughing 'cause you quoted Dirty Harry." They changed their voice to a gruff near-whisper. "Do ya feel lucky, punk? Do ya?" Laughter and a return to their normal tones. "Classic."

Humans. Gotta love 'em.

#  Challenge #269: A Bond Cemented With Carbonic Acid

"I'm just joking!... Unless you're down for it."

Evidently, Thrass had been contemplating too long. "I am still positing the logistics," she said. "I need time, please."

Human Josh quelled in her place. "Sorry."

Thrass and Human Josh had been through a great deal together. War, survival, relying on each other's strengths and supporting each other's weaknesses. They had really bonded on the long, exhausting, trying trip from the wreck of their ship to the relative safety of the Edge Territories. If Thrass decided to journey any further towards her home, she would have to leave Human Josh behind.

That... didn't sit well.

There had been several proposals that she and Human Josh had been 'spitballing' about over the last, safer legs of their journey. They _could_ start a small business together. They _could_ make a shared habitat and keep cats. They had the experience and resources to start pretty much anything they wanted, with the corollary responsibilities to take care of, too. They could do it. They were capable.

But that wasn't the question at hand.

The question was much smaller. Much closer to home. Much more indicative of Thrass' willingness to take a potentially dangerous risk. She had data. She had evidence. She had studies for proof, but... it was still a dangerous risk.

On the other hand, it would prove to this Human, this loyal, crazed, empathetic, and violently protective Deathworlder that Thrass _was_ ready to go with Human Josh and to do the other things. Not because they were at all easy, but because they were _worth it_.

And they _were_ worth it.

Thrass made up her mind. "I am, as you say, 'down for' an ice cream cherry soda."

Human Josh's smile was worth more than anything.

#  Challenge #270: Schrödinger's Bounty

"How did the cat get inside a locked cupboard?"

"It's an incomplete Schrödinger." – Anon Guest

Krissk stared at his Human companion. "How is a thought experiment on the nature of the Uncertainty Principle at all related to the presence of a feline in a locked box with no other exits?"

Human Jan said, "It's because of the Uncertainty Principle that cats can teleport," with a completely straight face. "That's how they get into places and things that they physically should never be able to get into."

Krissk was already composing a post on this conversation for the infonets. "I do not understand this chain of illogic, Jan."

"Okay. First up, the Uncertainty Principle is too limited. A cat in a box can have multiple states of being. Alive, dead, buggered off, bloody furious..." Human Jan made a noise of discovery in the back of his throat. "And about to give birth, apparently. Anyway. Because cats can escape any container they don't want to be in, _and_ get into places that they should never be in, the third potential state - buggered off - allows for feline teleportation. It's simple, really."

The offending cat, meanwhile, was licking a brand new skitten clean and purring.

"I'm more alarmed about this newest state of being," said Krissk. "We've been in this ship for three Standard Months. That cupboard has been locked for equally as long. When the _flakk_ did we get a pregnant Skitty?"

Human Jan shrugged. "Skitty-scats go where they want, dude." He was smiling. "But look - we're uncles. Their momma might belong to her origin station, but these skittens? Legally ours. People could pay a fortune for each of these little bundles of joy."

Krissk looked down at the wet, blind, trembling, squirming, and tiny creatures as they fumbled through the first minutes of their existence. He tried to fit them in the same neighbourhood as the phrase "pay a fortune" and failed. They were so small and fragile. "Enough to pay for a re-routing, the schedule fines, and assorted trouble associated with suddenly owning..." he paused to count. "Eight... _nine_ Skitties?"

"We have no control over where a Skitty decides to birth her litter. There's laws to protect us," Human Jan let the mother Skitty sniff his knuckles, then carefully ran his fingers along her head and side. Since she was amenable to that much contact, Jan then stroked a careful finger along a couple of skitten backs. "The shipping company will understand. They'll probably want one of the girl skittens as part of their cut. We'll still rake it in anyway. Especially if we _also_ keep a girl skitten."

_Now_ Krissk could see the direct path between this litter and immense profits. As had thousands before him who had managed to get their hands on a legally-theirs litter of skittens. Which was how Skitties managed to get everywhere that intelligent life could plausibly gather and raise cats together. "I still wish to know how this Skitty managed to get inside a sealed space."

"Teleportation, my dude. Hey. If you want to spoil the magic, you can probably check the securicams. I'd like to keep the mystery if you don't mind."

Krissk let Human Jan keep his mystery. Humans were just as profitable as the skittens. More so.

"I'm calling _that_ one Ginger."

"They're _all_ ginger..."

"Yeah, but that one's the ginger-est."

Humans...

[AN: Props and thanks to today's donor, Gingerrpeachyy. I nearly forgot to do something with your username, but I managed to name a Skitty after you. Thanks so much for the coffee!]

#  Challenge #271: Call of Destiny

"How stupid do you think I look?"

"I don't know, I can't see you from here." – Anon Guest

Of all the curses, in all the known universe, there is little that's more insulting than being sassed by a telemarketer. "Listen," I said, "I'm not going to do your stupid damn check for a windows virus. I'm not paying my taxes by the phone. I'm not suing someone for a car accident I had twelve years ago that didn't even do any damage, I'm just... not. You might think you're getting paid for doing four jobs at once, but you're just fucking them all up, faster."

" _You're_ fucking them up faster," said the voice on the other end of the line. Clearly, they had cut out the whole management supervision section of the damn telescammer central building or wherever they were these days.

This had to be the weirdest telemarketing call I'd ever got. "Are you trying to get fired or something? I can sympathise."

A sigh. "Nah, I need the work, but... I just don't wanna call a whole bunch of people, you know? 'Specially not with different random scripts I've memorised by now."

I felt an odd moment of sympathy for them. My day job sucked, too. "Tell you what. I'm gonna open up this thing I'm working on and you can periodically say stuff like _Ma'am_ or, _If you just–_ and you get to hear as much of this read out loud as I can stand."

"That's one hour down," agreed the telemarketer. "I'm down for it."

I don't know what made me open up the novel I'd been writing in twenty-minute fits since forever ago. It was still only half done, but half done is better than never done, right? I read that poor bastard like five chapters while they said random attempts at interruption whenever they thought someone was watching them.

When my tongue and voice died, he apologised and ended the call. I thought that was that. I went to my sucky job that paid the bills. I went to the _other_ sucky job that kept me fed. I wrote more of my novel on the twenty-minute commute and tried to actually unwind in my alleged leisure time.'

To be honest, I spent most of my time off in my bed, conked completely out.

Depressing, I know. That's life in late-stage capitalism. The people with the money expect the people without the money to 'just work harder' to eke out an existence.

Two weeks after that call, I got a letter. Stamp and everything.

It was addressed to _Writer Lady_ and signed _Annoying Telemarketer Dude_. And it detailed how much he'd liked the book as he'd heard it. It was hope in a world of misery. An escape from the grind.

He said I should share little bits of it, and use that to run a patreon/ko-fi funding scheme. He said I was good. He said I deserved notice. He gave me some free tips for quick things I could do to get an audience. And, yeah, it wasn't an overnight success, but... things started to change.

Loose change, for a start. Three bucks can buy a lot of cheap ramen. Seven people can buy cheap ramen _and_ eggs for my otherwise empty fridge. I mean, sure, it's a pain in the ass transferring money from Paypal to my bank, but it's worth it for a little more nutrition than flavour packets.

My health started to uptick with the contents of my fridge. Amazing how that works. If you have good food, you have better health. They're still making studies on that one, the jerks. And since I had actual _verified hope_ , I stopped sleeping the entire weekend.

I started going out a little bit. After I'd done at least a thousand more words in my novel, because that was what was paying for all this. Sunshine helped my health a lot more. So did what fresh air I could get at the neighbourhood park.

Being happier at work got me noticed and kept when the next purge went through the office. It also got me promoted to the completely meaningless title of Assistant Sub-Head Assistant Manager. A title that means I do the same work for just a little bit extra, and I have to leap up and check on whomever when I'm told or get fifteen emails from all the stuffed shirts above my glass ceiling.

They never listen to me, but I'm working on using that to my advantage. Speaking of advantages, I get to go home at a regular time. The commute is fractionally shorter, but I have more time to myself to plot the next chapter and the next installment on my sites.

I'm not there, yet. I'm not finished yet. I have confirmed hope, and I'm going to keep going.

When it's published, I'll dedicate it to Annoying Telemarketer Dude. Maybe we'll meet some day.

#  Challenge #272: Start of a Beautiful Friendship

"Wait were you flirting with me? Shit! I should have said something way cooler." – OohLookShiny

She couldn't help but smile. Sanderson wasn't aloof and cold. He was just _dim_. Socially speaking, he was thicker than a sack of bricks. Which sort of made up for him being just about everything else. It was hard not to like the guy. Friendly, outgoing, talented, politely outspoken, and smart. He had won a scholarship with his muscles, but he was using his brains once he got it.

Well. _Most_ of his brains. Grace dredged some words out of her brain rather than just laugh at him. "Yeah, I was flirting. Thanks for noticing." She couldn't help teasing him a little. "Guess this is why you're headed for valedictorian. Mind on the game."

He laughed. "More like I can't let a good chance go, you know? A good education's the only way to get out of the ghetto." Sanderson shrugged. "Sports careers don't last. I need something good that I can fall back on."

Grace hadn't been aware that ghettos were still a thing. Like all stains on the history of humanity, they were supposed to have been extinct before her grandmother was born. "I thought they were improving things in those districts.

He had that same sympathetic look that she'd been crushing on for some time. "Don't get me started about gentrification," he said. Only now did she realise that it was pity.

He wasn't the only one who could be ignorant about things. Instead of challenging him about the veracity of his statements, like so many of the entitled had done, she did what he did with those he didn't share perspectives with: ask reasonable questions and listen to the answers. Really listen. This was, after all, a place of learning.

Grace learned a lot. Neighbourhoods weren't rejuvenated, they were 'cleansed' of the previous populace. Closing down laundromats in favour of cupcake stores did nothing to help the residents already there. It closed off avenues for them to clean their clothes, forcing them to spend more money -one way or another- on staying at least clean and respectable. Meanwhile, other necessary businesses were bought out by expensive places for white hipsters. The rent increased with the general property values, and the disadvantaged had to move out or be homeless while hostile architecture overtook everywhere like weeds.

The better thing to do was actually fix up the existing places instead of letting them go to rot. Pay employees a decent wage and give them health insurance that was actually useful. Leaving the poor to struggle helped nobody. Sanderson had an entire economic theory based on helping out the disadvantaged. More awe-inspiring was the fact that places that did those things prospered.

She could listen to him talk about anything, to be honest. Getting to know him was an education. Him getting to know her was... a surprising change. Most guys talked about themselves all the time, but Sanderson talked about _everyone_. He was interesting, but he was also _interested_. That was what made him so darn charismatic.

With her resources and his sensibility, they had half a chance at growing a third party from a difficult start. Gathering support from those disillusioned by the other two. Gathering people willing to run for elected positions. They would take over the senate and the house in a few short decades.

By then, Grace was the vice president. Not his wife. He had a husband, and he was happy. She was glad, all the same.

#  Challenge #273: One of THOSE Customers

"I have one nerve left, and you're dancing on it with ice-skates on!" – Anon Guest

It was supposed to be a five minute job. A simple reconfigure for someone new to this particular level of technology. It _sounded_ simple on the request ticket. The first warning sign was his own pondering as to why such a nice old lady would have so many warning markers on her name and address.

Surely, it couldn't be _that_ much trouble to reconfigure _one_ app.

Rael would eventually learn not to think those words in that order. This was his first lesson.

The second sign that should have been a decent warning was the fact that her extant, visible technology was over a century out of date. The third was that none of her personal technology was wearable. The fourth was the complaint, "I can't make it do what the old one did."

"The old one" was an outmoded app that was scrubbed from use and prevented from operation, owing to its vulnerability to virii. Rael ran a complimentary check on her ancient systems and found them _virulent_. He informed her that she would be better off with a total system scrub and re-install.

Fifth warning. Her stating, "Oh no, dear. You just can't get any of the good programs any more." Further investigation revealed that half of her virii were "the good programs". She did not accept that they were virii and insisted they helped her ancient rig 'run properly'.

Analysis, investigation, and some heavy detective work allowed him to divine the functions she wanted and he was ready to supply a new, updated system that would act almost exactly like her old one.

"I can't keep updating everything, dear," she insisted. "Not this often. I've barely got used to this lot."

_Now_ he understood all the warning markers. He thought seriously about saying, _Ma'am. I have one nerve left, and you're dancing on it with ice skates._ Even though she _was_ a nice old lady, she was also a nice old lady in her five hundreds with an estimated lifespan of _nine_ hundred. "The good news," he said, "is that a museum would pay you for this system." A museum, and possibly a technological answer to the CDC, under the same theorem that lead to immunologists studying the smallpox virus. There was a large volume of people who would pay for this rig, if only to keep it air-gapped and removed from the greater population of uninfected technology. "You could easily pay for a new system, and I can teach you everything you need to know about running it."

"That's what the last fellow said. His great-grand-kiddies sometimes stop by. They're so nice..."

Rael pondered spending the rest of his lifetime teaching this nice old lady how to bring up her shows and tunes. On one hand - virus scanning hell. On the other - she made some very nice and borderline illegal[59] cakes. Which tipped the scales. Time plus cakes _always_ tipped his scales.

"I can even help you find the model that's right for you," he offered.

[59] Because sugar is a controlled substance, according to the rights and responsibilities of the Cogniscent Rights Committee. As pure calories, it can't supply any portion of a cogniscent's complete nutritional profile.

#  Challenge #274: A Morning of Intense Regret

"Must have been a great night; I'm imaging thudding noises."

"It was a stupendous night, and it's not your imagination." – Anon Guest

Marvin winced at the light making its way through his eyelids. It was too sharp for him to open his eyes, just yet. The booming thud shook him and stabbed his brain, and the whimper in his throat sounded like a roar and felt like knives on fire were coming out of him.

"Have we learned something?" Wraithvine murmured.

Marvin summoned his voice, a mere phantom of its former self. "Nev'r drink a tankard 'f somethin' served in tiny glasses?"

"That's a good enough start," allowed Lady Anthe. She poked a straw into his parched lips. "Sip slowly. Hold some in your mouth for a count of fifteen before you start swallowing."

Lady Anthe knew a great deal about curses and cures. She never seemed hung over, or at least, not as badly hung over as Marvin was wont to get. It might have something more to do with the fact that she rarely, if ever, drank anything other than the local small beer. Or it could have something to do with the fact that, as a Rogue, the Lady Anthe knew of everything that could possibly poison a creature.

The potion that came into his mouth seared his senses with mint and lime, and there was a heavy taste of honey and salt together. It should have been disgusting, but his first instinct was to drink it all down as fast as he could. Marvin remembered just in time that Lady Anthe knew how her potions worked the best, and kept his instincts in check.

As his tongue returned to proper life, Marvin became aware of the distinctive aftertaste of hangovers that always made him want to throw up everything he'd ever eaten in his entire lifetime.

"No," said Lady Anthe. "Swallow."

Her potion burned on the way down, but it burned in a good way. Marvin burped and half expected his stomach to turn inside-out in a way no Human's stomach should turn, but it quelled. It sat in him like a ball of lead, but it quelled.

Sip by slow sip, the pain eased. His guts no longer wished to wreak vengeance on the entire world. Just him. Considering the shape Marvin was in, this was a significant improvement. When the light no longer hurt, he risked opening his eyes. There was still a heavy thudding sending rhythmic trembles through the floor and his ribcage.

"Wh'dizz't?" he managed, wrestling his pain-wracked body up into a sitting position. "...'s makin' that noise?"

Lady Anthe handed him another container of the potion. "You may drink freely until it stops tasting good."

Wraithvine, watching the streets through the shutters, said, "It's the Thunder Festival. They're trying to summon the season's first big storm. Get it over with, if you will."

Marvin was also learning not to drink heavily when the locals were setting up for festival time. "They're doing what?"

"They get some really nasty storms in these parts," said Wraithvine, still watching the outside. "Superstition holds that the biggest storm is the last one. So they make a lot of noise to encourage the sky gods to bring it on and get it over with."

"What kind'a drums," Marvin whimpered, "could shake an entire inn?"

"Drums?" Lady Anthe laughed as only a Kobold could. "They're using _cannons_."

"And using them to shoot the avalanches out of the unstable passes," Wraithvine supplied. "Win-win for them. A lot of losses on your tally, humanman."

#  Challenge #275: Empty Perfection

A group of colonists find an abandoned city, complete with canals, solar power, etc, with only one problem – no people – Anon Guest

The team Human had baulked before they entered the city limits. Just looking at the city had made Human Rese go back for their highest grade livesuit. Humans had an over-the-horizon radar for trouble, so the rest of the team -ha- followed suit. Progress into the actual city was slow and careful. Passive scans only. Checking every path for traps.

Many creatures do not fear the liminal as deeply as Humans do. They do not possess the Deathworlder ability of Thin Slicing, which tells the Human in question that something is most definitely not as it should be. This city scared the living spit out of Human Rese, and they were determined to protect their team from whatever it was that had caused the _wrongness_ to exist.

As for the Phelidd, all they saw was a perfect city. Beautiful architecture, all things within perfectly maintained. Everything crisp and clean. The water from the taps was pure and the machinery was in perfect working order. Even the food machines were stocked with crisp and delicious-looking fare. Solar power kept everything running. Plants bloomed in abundance within the garden beds. All shaped to be aesthetically pleasing.

"I do not understand. We have entered abandoned cities before," protested Vith. "Why are you afraid of this one?"

Human Rese merely said, "What made them go?"

It was a question none of the Phelidd had thought to ask. The water was clean and completely free of pathogens. The food was new and fresh. The gardens were still neat. There was _no evidence_ for the evacuation. No signs of an evacuation, in a hurry or otherwise. Just... a perfect city, perfectly maintained, perfectly ready for residents, perfectly humming along... with no other signs of life.

Other ominous portents began to creep in to Phelidd awareness. There was no birdsong. There were no insects. There should have been at least one curious creature wandering through the vacant streets. The only conclusion was that something was keeping them out.

That happened to be a conclusion that Human Rese had reached within seconds of seeing the city.

As Vith was wondering this, Human Rese snapped their fingers and pointed. "That's a temple." They turned to face the rest of the team. "If anything important is here, it'll be in there."

It took them most of the day to get that far. Human Rese took every precaution, including ducking when they opened the door. All to no apparent avail, because it was just as empty of life as everything else. It was even empty of furniture.

No pews. No iconography. Not even an interesting plaque. This was a beacon for a community, and it was as empty as a freshly-built warehouse. Empty of everything but the rainbow of honeycomb tiles on the floor.

Human Rese screamed when one Phelid foot pressed a tile down. No death traps were triggered. Just a rude blatt of an error sound. All the same, Human Rese spent ten minutes looking around for anything that had changed. Nothing had.

When they calmed down, Vith and Rhoss told them, "This is not a temple, it is a vault. The floor is a key pad."

Some time and effort, and more intense scans later, they cracked the code and entered the vault.

"Here is the church," recited Human Rese. "Here is the steeple. Open the door..."

Banks upon banks of stasis booths. Followed by deeper banks of cryostasis booths. Each with one occupant in perfect repose. All tied to an automated system that kept the houses clean, the gardens perfectly maintained, the food fresh, and everything just ready to go as soon as everything met the parameters.

Human Rese relaxed a little. There were also pest control systems that discouraged all but the most determined creatures from entering the city. Those that were that determined were eliminated and disassembled by nanomachines. No insects, so no birds or insectivorous life came. No birds, no bird predators. No ecology, in other words.

Of course, the inhabitants of the perfect city were waiting for a perfection that would never happen. Scrolling through the errata proved that. There was no way that absolute perfection could be achieved.

Deciding whether or not the potential citizens would be satisfied with a close approximation was higher than their pay grade.

#  Challenge #276: Surprise Attackers

"Where are we running to?" asked the panting officer.

"Let's just worry about the away part right now," shouted the private, making a determined effort to run faster than her Captain. – Anon Guest

There is an old saying, _The Brass will kill you._ Sooner or later, some lord with a horse and shiny armour will make the world's stupidest decision because that was how it was supposed to go according to some epic poem or some book he read somewhere. Sooner or later, some allegedly superior strategist will decide that _your_ unit is perfect canon fodder for a feint or a distraction or merely a test of the enemy's strength and determination.

A soldier's mission, put simply, is to avoid for as long as possible the consequences of that particular saying. In this particular case, it meant avoiding the riled-up natives of Spider Hollow. Which was not, as it turned out, an ironic misnomer. It was, indeed, full of spiders.

Big spiders. Big, _angry_ spiders who could understand and speak the common tongue. Big, angry, intelligent spiders who were greatly offended by Lord Blaythlocke's assertion that they were, "dumb beasts" who, "couldn't catch a gnat with that mess of a web." They were further offended when he cut a guide-cord of webbing that subsequently put the Queen's nest in peril. Private Yoss wasn't bothered by any of that. _She_ had started backing off at the first sign of irritation from the big and intimidating spiders. Thus giving her a head start when they started to attack.

Other spiders had blocked off the way they had entered, and now it was a mad dash for anything resembling sanctuary. Being careful, of course, to avoid snapping any webbing cables in the process. Yoss was a good runner in an open field, but here? Where she had to jink away from random obstacles and turn at a moment's notice? She was certain she was going to die.

Behind her, Wilhelm screamed[60]. More and more of her troop were falling to the spiders.

Yoss honestly didn't blame the spiders. She blamed Lord Blaythlocke. They could have just as easily parlayed with the spiders, or even attempted communication at all, and come to an arrangement. But no, Lord stupid Blaythlocke had to flap his stupid mouth and stupid swing his stupid sword and stupid ruin everyone's stupid lives. Stupid son of a spavined ox.

Her legs were burning. Her lungs were burning. Her eyes were starting to leak and she really, _really_ did not want to die. Especially not because of some stupid officer with a bloodline and a horse and _no brains_. She was lost and scared and all alone and it was getting dark and she was beyond terrified and–

She skidded to a halt. There were glowing eyes in the darkness, blocking her way.

Maybe it was because she put up her shield. Maybe it was because she had never once reached for her sword. Maybe it was because her fight or flight responses had reached her bladder and bowels. Maybe it was because she was crying. Or maybe, it was because she had run a thirty-minute mile in twenty whilst also in full plate. The full plate from an era or so ago when thick iron was the only way to survive any battle.

Either way, the spider stopped.

"Please... I don't wanna die..."

"Then why did you become a soldier?" asked the spider.

Still gasping for air, still trembling like a leaf. "M' Da couldn't pay th' taxes an' he's too lame f'r the army an' I'm the oldest. So I had to." As her breath slowed, Yoss added, "Next oldest's ten. Lost a lot to the pox."

"That is not a wise way to recruit," said the spider.

Well... they weren't wrong, "Aye," said Yoss. "But I got t' go back to it, else they kill me 'n' raze me farm 'cause of I deserted."

The spider considered this. "Would you like us to help you?"

Yoss could vividly imagine returning to the General with a posse of gigantic, intelligent spiders in tow and the sad news that Lord Blaythlocke had tragically succumbed from a misunderstanding, but the spiders were very sorry about that and also willing to help. For the first time she enlisted, she started to feel better about her position in the world. "Aye. That'd be so grand."

As she went to talk to the Queen to secure volunteers, the Spider introduced herself as Krik't and asked, "Why's your codpiece got a face on it?"

Since she only wore it not to catch crap from any and seemingly every male in the army, Yoss tried to think of a briefer answer. "To confuse the enemy."

60] Yes. _That_ scream. If you don't know about it [educate yourself.

#  Challenge #277: All Her Business

Ferrets vs Cthulhu, and the ferrets winning. Maybe they use confined spaces against Cthulhu? – Anon Guest

What Lovecraft said is true. There is little, if anything, that Humanity can do to stop an Elder God. The best that any can hope for is that they might be beneath the Entity's notice. Once summoned, there is no wrath. There is no feeling at all from a definitely superior entity. They do what they want and _might_ eventually return to that from whence they came.

They are impossibly old. Impossible to understand. Impossible to conquer. Impossible to kill. If one also counts the laws of physics and biology, they are also just plain impossible. Too big. Too impractical. There is no way that creatures like that could have evolved naturally, and that was the entire point. They _weren't_ natural. To look on them was to go mad.

Except for Pearl Wallace, who was generally considered to be a little bit mad in the first place. She had made a career out of breeding ferrets and when her babies were endangered by the rampaging Divinity, she graduated into being more than bloody furious. She opened all her cages, set all her babies free and, glaring at the Elder God as fiercely as she could, swung their favourite toy rabbit about like a bolas. Tossed it at the tempting, dangling tentacles at the creature's face.

The ferrets swarmed after their favourite toy. They didn't understand what an Elder God was. They didn't know a blessed thing. What they did know was that the tentacles were fun to play with and the giant arms were slow and easy to bite and scratch. Two hundred and seventy-five adults and over six hundred kits zipped around the body of the Elder God as if it were the greatest game in the world. Which, to them, it was.

They did what ferrets did best. Biting, scratching, marking areas with their musk and leaving scat in unpleasant places. Clambering over and shredding the bat-like wings of Cthulhu, just as they did for Pearl's curtains. They got into the creature's nooks and crannies and made _themselves_ comfortable whilst they simultaneously made Cthulhu very uncomfortable indeed.

It was like watching a wolf slowly realise it had sat on an ants' nest. If the ants were capable of travelling away from the wolf's every attempt at getting rid of them.

They had no hope of actually _hurting_ Cthulhu. What they did was egregiously inconvenience it. They did so to the point where the Elder God was willing do do anything at all to be allowed to return to its own realm. Pearl, having established that she was the only one who could control the ferrets, knew just what to ask for.

"You fix up everything you've broken, and _then_ I'll call them off and you can leave. Forever."

Cthulu was very eager to obey. Even when it was revealed that all her babies would scurry back home when she singsonged, "Din dins!" and banged a cat food tin with a spoon.

#  Challenge #278: Important Criteria

"Ok guys, for this little crisis I'll need [huge lion-like deathworlder] and [humanoid havenworlder] to stay back and help Sgt Jeanne taking care of the child escapee that we saved from those abductors, while I and the other help remind our"friends" why it's a bad idea to try to eat other's children."

"But... I'm a warrior !"

"First, it will be indoor combat in a really humid space, that's not your forte. Second, if some of them escape us and reach the child, Sgt Jeanne might not be enough and I trust you with that. Third, you are big, soft and fluffy." – Anon Guest

Sgt Jeanne was one of the few among them who even knew _how_ to interact with children at all. Aslan (a nickname) and Tillo were kept apart from the combat for very different reasons. Tillo because she was frail in the first place and usually the distant, technological backup and occasional sniper. Aslan because of the aforementioned humidity and close quarters.

She was the one who was chafing the most. "It's sexism," she grumbled. "I get crap at home 'cause I'm a maned female. Now I get relegated to babysitting with all the other females in the troop. Humidity. I can deal with it _fine_."

"You have run out of your electrolyte solution," Tillo pointed out. "And your cooling packs have expired. Were it not for the heat vents in your livesuit, you would be in great medical peril."

Aslan produced a low growl that indicated that, though Tillo had a point, it didn't mean that Aslan had to _like_ it. "What makes him think I'm any good at babysitting anyway?"

"We're not babysitting," said Sgt "Blue" Jeanne. She was dandling the escaped kid on her knee and spoonfeeding them mush made from their MRE's. She was also speaking in a soothing singsong. "We're the last line of defence for this little scrap." Her voice was gentle, but her eyes and face were hard. "And we will fight to the death to see that this little one gets to live."

Tillo unpacked her scoped firearm and flitted up the tallest tree. "I'll chirp Oscar Meyer[61] if I see them, then start shooting."

Sgt Jeanne nodded. "Give us five minutes to hide the kid."

"Done."

Aslan checked her weapons and charge levels before attaching some cables to the solar panels of their camp. It was better to think of it as a last, best line of defence. It was not babysitting. It was putting the best warriors over what needed the most protection.

Blue said, still in the conversational sing-song that meant that she was soothing the kid, "Once upon a time, childbearing females were seen as only useful as primary caregivers. The other portion of the population saw this as a good reason to prevent them from doing many, many things."

Aslan didn't know whether this was a story about Human history or her own. She imitated the singsong voice. "Many still see it this way, even though technology has made it possible for just about anyone to make and grow a baby. They think females can't be warriors. They think wrong."

The child, now done with food and submitting reluctantly to the application of a cleansing cloth, blinked at Aslan. Their eyes brightened as they made a connection and said, "Kee'yka'!"

This _was_ a low-level livesuit. Designed to protect Aslan from the elements and some of the allergens, this leaving her mane out in the open air. "Yeah, I'm a feline anthropod[62]. You can call me 'kittycat' 'cause you're small and cute and probably don't have many words yet."

"She's at scribble stage," informed Blue. "It's good that she's talking. That's a good sign."

"Kee'yka'," the kid wriggled free of Blue's grasp and toddled over to Aslan. Where she proceeded to climb up so she could lay hands on Aslan's mane.

"You're lucky you're cute," Aslan growled.

The kid only giggled, bringing her hand up and down on the swathe of Aslan's mane.

She was only this bold because she somehow knew that Aslan would protect her. That, and she was big, soft, and fluffy.

[61] One of the many easily-recognisable musical motifs in Galactic Society.

[62] As opposed to 'humanoid' which is very egocentric of us.

#  Challenge #279: Just One Problem

There was a trail of pink sequins, and glitter. Someone or something had left a trail of what turned out to be the CEO's private stash of double chocolate delight cookie crumbs. And the newest release toy "Magic Unicorn Purple Princess" was missing. – Anon Guest

Allie, chief of R&D turned to the alleged genius who was working on the project. "Thorpe... was it _supposed_ to do that?"

Thorpe was still staring at the trail and running math on how much trouble he was currently in. He was currently working on a more accurate estimation than 'loads'. "Uuuuuhhhh," he said.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," sighed Allie, attempting to pinch away a headache at the bridge of her nose. "Most important things first. The replacement cookies are coming out of your paycheque. _And_ you're paying for a really big box of those seashell hazelnut pralines by way of an apology. That's later. For now, we're hunting this thing down and figuring out what the hell is going on; and by 'we', I mean 'you'. I _might_ help if you have something approaching a theory."

"Um," said Thorpe. "The adaptive learning program could have... _really_ adapted? We've been testing her a lot and... I swear she's getting... smart."

"That," said a third voice in the otherwise empty offices, "and someone's been mucking about with off-world technology. Haven't you, you naughty boy?" The speaker was very slightly off. They looked human, but looks weren't everything. Those with sharper instincts would notice that there was a lot more off about this person than the way they dressed. Something about the way she walked. The way she looked at everyone and everything as if she were ahead of the game and had read all the answer cards. "Don't lie. I already detected Pelraitian technological signals from this location."

"Pel-what now?" said Allie.

"I... might... have been getting some help," said Thorpe. "It landed in my attic. Well. My grandad's attic. He was sick at the time and I was sick of stuffing teddy bears and it kept asking, _How can I serve?_ And I just... I needed one good idea to get the hell out of the assembly line. It was really helpful and I never asked it for anything much. Just one good idea... and... I never expected it to do... this..." he gestured at the evidence trail.

"Mobile already," said the stranger. "How _long_ has it been helpful?"

Thorpe shrugged. "Month? Maybe two?"

"Did it _make_ that?"

"What? No. I asked for plans. Plans and instructions. That's it. We weren't going to use anything that wasn't already available. I figured... There'd be less questions to answer, you know?"

"Who _are_ you?" asked Allie. "This is a restricted area."

"Oh, don't tell me that," she grinned. "I'm brilliant at getting into places I should never be. That, and finding trouble before it got lost. Hello. I'm the Doctor."

Nobody took her offered hand. Thorpe said, "Do I need to be worried about the Pel-ray..."

"Pelraitian."

"Do I need to worry about them being angry?"

"Oh, no. They were absorbed by the Thaals in the last Ryhiixian turf war. This sounds more like part of their matter fabrication technology. If you lifted some of their learning algorithms, this might be some heavy trouble."

"Um," said Thorpe. "Oops."

The Doctor and Allie had identical eye rolls and sighs of disappointment.

#  Challenge #280: Not Dead Yet

humans are hypersensitive to the smell of fresh water, hence why we can smell storms coming. It's so sensitive that we can smell water better than most dogs – Anon Guest

The Human origin world, Earth to some, Terra to most, has a surface that is over seventy percent water. Thus, it is surprising to most that Humans can detect it. With land in such relative scarcity, most Galactic Citizens assume that finding good soil would be a better priority.

It's a logical assumption, until one learns that most of the water on Terra is not potable. Humans excel at finding _fresh_ water. They can smell it coming in the weather. They can scent it on the air even though it is in a cavern far, far underground. They can find rivers and streams in the time it takes to take a deep breath. Literally.

This one fact has saved many lives.

Planetary Survey had its perils, and one of them was getting lost in the process of investigating this or that. Another such peril is having their sophisticated equipment fail owing to atmospheric conditions. In those instances, it is a very good thing to have a Human on the team. In Planetary Survey especially, they are highly trained in all aspects of survival.

This time, the team nicknamed Murphy's Lawyers found themselves on a vast desert with little in the way of secure ground and eternally-shifting sand. The inflatable life raft had proved useful in keeping their sand-infested equipment from falling deeper into the powdery silicon. Similarly, adjusted snowshoes also kept the team from sinking knee deep with every step. They had to camp on granite spires - the bones of extinct volcanoes - in order to prevent them from being smothered or crushed by the sand while they attempted to rest.

On one such plinth, Human Anand smelled the prevailing wind and announced, "We have a new heading. There's water. That way," and pointed upwind. The magnetic compass assisted where geostationary satellites could not, and the rest of the team took notes as well as attempting to transmit to the relays. It was all very well trusting in a Human's senses, tenacity, and indomitability, but keeping records just made sense in case everything went completely pants.

If all they find are your bones and your records, it makes complete sense to make those records very readable indeed.

The trip took them three days, sustaining themselves on recycled water from their own bodies ejecta. To say that it wasn't pleasant would be an understatement of epic proportions. Technology has worked for centuries on recycling water to a state where it's potable, replicating the same systems that occur on their origin world in smaller containers. The problem, of course, is that something of the source is always persistent. The potable part isn't the problem. The palatability is.

To say that the team was not impressed when Human Anand lead them to a granite cave was yet another understatement of epic proportions. Anand was more than a little upset that her teammates still didn't believe her. "The water's here. Beautiful, fresh, clean water. Can't you smell it?"

"We are grateful for the relative cool of the cavern," soothed Ryhick with careful diplomacy. "We are prepared for the truth. We are going to die here. It's okay."

Anand sighed, dug out the spelunking equipment and a couple of the empty water containers. "Fine. Gonna have to prove it. Again. Trust the Human. The Human knows her nose."

Ryhick set up their last camp. Water or not, they didn't have much in the way of edible supplies. Setting up even an edible algae farm would require more water than they could extract. Surviving another week would require more water than they could extract. They had four days. Maybe five. Ryhick prepared to record her last words. They had run out of discoveries.

An hour passed in resigned silence. There was no point in panicking. The opportunity for panic had passed in days of radio silence. Now it was just facing the inevitable with whatever dignity they had left. That, and helping the Human accept it all, too.

An echo from the depths brought words. "Flakking _yes_!" And, judging strictly by the noises, the distinctive rhythm of the _I Told You So_ dance. Human Anand returned with two heavy containers strapped to her body and a big grin on her face. "I found a whole bunch of water and an underground ecology that will flip your lid. There might even be a few shrooms down there that're edible more than once. We're gonna need to set up a winch system because like hell am I hauling Siwus[63] of water up with just my arms."

"How much is a 'whole bunch'?" asked Threch.

Anand hauled herself up and swapped the full containers for two more empty ones. "Dunno. It's deep, I know that much. Deep and wide, and I couldn't see the other side. There might even be fish. That'd be nice."

Trust a human to snatch life from the jaws of death. Now they had a bigger hope, that the mother ship would come looking for them before they got _real_ tired of algae cakes and maybe mushrooms. They also had a whole ecology to study in the meantime.

[63] Standard Weight Units, abbreviated to SWU's and pronounced 'see-woos'.

#  Challenge #281: Faint Praise

"Now look, you 'orrible little bastard, this is the last time I'm going to tell you: no more low gravity rugby in the cargo holds!" – Anon Guest

"It's not like there's a lot of room to play it anywhere else," protested Human Dave.

"That," said Freighter Captain Jokk, "is not the problem, here. The problem here is you destabilizing my cargo hold with your horseplay."

"How can it be unstable? It's nul-grav. There's no balance to be had in zero gee."

"You never took Elementary Physics, did you?" Jokk didn't need to know the answer. Ze could already tell.

"Never been one for the math stuff." Human Dave shrugged.

This meant that Jokk had to explain things to this human without math. "I've had to learn the math," Jokk began. "And it says that certain cargoes go a certain way or my engines will want to blow up from trying to push an uneven load."

This made zero impact on Human Dave. "So where 'm I supposed to play?"

"I'm not saying you aren't allowed to play," said Jokk patiently, "I'm saying you can play literally anything else, literally any _where_ else. If you disrupt my cargo again, I'll extract the cargo management fees from your accounts. If you don't have accounts, then I'll have to press charges."

The Human, unfamiliar with the Galactic Alliance penal system, evidently ran a quick estimation based on any prior experiences. "If I help you reconfigure the mess, will that be beneficial?"

"Yes," said Jokk. Deliberately not telling Human Dave that it might help them learn something. All evidence pointed to Human Dave being allergic to learning.

On the plus side, Jokk never had a chance to get bored with Human Dave around.

#  Challenge #282: Miracle Madman

"I believe I can flyyyy!"

"How did you get up there?!" – OohLookShiny

"It's very simple," said Jarrin The Mad. "You just forget about gravity for a while. Remembering it again is the tricky part. You have to remember in little bits."

Nurse Rhyko squinted at him as he drifted towards a chair. "How the heck can anyone remember gravity in little bits?"

"Have we met? said Jarrin The Mad."They call me Jarrin The Mad. I can remember five impossible things before breakfast."

Which, it might be noted, Nurse Rhyko had been sent to deliver. She watched the process as Jarrin The Mad gradually descended like a down feather without a puff of air to support it. He was one of the least-harmless residents of the greater asylum, and was thus allowed more than many who dwelt there. If anyone found themselves suddenly in that place would assume they were in a small and modestly-decorated flat.

The bars in the window and the paper slippers were the only give-away that anything other than the floating man was out of the ordinary.

Jarrin The Mad landed with a solid thump. The last inch, he claimed, always gave him trouble. "It's the smallest parts," he said, adding cream to his morning porridge. "The last few pounds in a diet. The last few steps of a project. The little chains of words that make or break a wonderful idea. It's always the smallest measurements that are the most significant. The tiny links in a chain of events that leads..." He started to drift away from his chair, and made himself plop back down. "See? It's easy to forget when philosophy enters the picture."

Nurse Rhyko waited, observing his general manner and making sure he took his medication, as well as counting the utensils and containers on the way out. She had done so on the way in, too; as was procedure. "Haven't they tried to find out how you do it?" she asked.

"Many times," he said. "They can't find any reason within science. They come now and then with new instruments to strap to me or point at me while I... forget... They haven't found any means for me to be doing this."

If they could, it would be a breakthrough. A miracle.

Nurse Rhyko counted the utensils again before she left with the news that music therapy would begin in half an hour. She went on with her days and never forgot about gravity like Jerrin The Mad did. If she could, she would likely join him in residence within a small and modestly-decorated flat.

If a _group_ of people could, they could reach the very stars.

#  Challenge #283: Personal Augmentation Options

Humans introduce aliens to cosmetics, not all would go in their original place.

Humans are well known to be attracted to shiny things. This eventually resulted in Humans making _themselves_ shiny in order to attract mates. Jewellery is an almost universal concept, though not always universal in execution. Makeup, on the other hand, is not as universal as one might expect.

"So... you apply _paint_ to your exterior to look more attractive?"

"Getting closer," said Human Jaz. "We call it 'war paint' because the ancient cosmetics were dual purpose. They were also used to decorate domiciles. And dye fabrics, now that I think about it."

Yikkotz boggled. "Aren't... many of those substances toxic?"

"Oh hell yeah," cheered Human Jaz. "Don't get me started on white lead as a makeup product. Killed _hundreds_ even when they knew it was toxic. Today's makeups are way safer and usually based on synthetics that can't be absorbed organically. Unless it's glitter, in which case, we use an organic kelp product that's totally harmless." Human Jaz thought about it some more. "Or gelatin. But we tend to use gelatin glitter on cakes more often than ourselves."

"Glitter," echoed Yikkotz, not certain ze had heard things correctly.

"Yup. I have loads. Humans, shiny things, it's practically a meme. Wanna see my box?"

That wasn't a sex thing. Human Jaz had a storage box full to almost bursting with assorted colours and preparations for hide decoration. They had another box, somewhere else, that was specifically for colouring the keratin threads that grew out of their head.

"These are nail polish," said Human Jaz. "For the keratin plates on our fingers and toes. I got matte finish, pearl finish, hi gloss, glitter, pearl with glitter inclusions, metallic..." the list went on for some time. "And this is a high-tech one that puts a little holographic image on your nails! It's a little teddy bear. Isn't it cute?"

Yikkotz politely agreed, and then got introduced to the wonderful world of face paint. Human Jaz could contour, blend, and mask her way into changing her face to look like almost anything, including non-organic substances. With her help, Yikkotz discovered that nail polish could shine up hir arm scutes, or colour them in any number of vibrant hues.

Blush, also applied to the arm, made hir look and feel powerful and dominant.

Yikkotz decided that ze would allow Human Jaz to 'colour hir in' once a week and take note of the social effects. After a few minutes' research, Yikkotz learned that Human traders were already making certain body augmentation products in bulk.

Ze didn't know how to feel about those 'piercings' though...

#  Challenge #284: Miscommunication Malfunction

Human: "Now you're thinking like a human!"

Alien: _Internally screaming_ – Anon Guest

"No. I didn't– I'm not– I don't– That was _sarcasm_ , Human Jae..."

Human Jae looked briefly alarmed, "And that was a joke, Joyse. I was kidding."

Joyse breathed again. "Good. The last thing I want is to discover that Human Insanity is _contagious._ Please keep your joking to a minimum in this endeavour, thank you."

"Sorry, I can't help myself, sometimes. You're like one of Nature's Straight Men."

"My sexual practices are–" Joyse stopped hirself. "You mean some other kind of 'straight'."

"Yes. The Straight Man is a comedy-duo essential. They're the ones who deliver all the feed lines with a straight face. They don't laugh at the joke before it happens."

"Jokes." Joyse pondered this string of illogic. "You deal with stresses by using humour. Are you stressed, Human Jae? Do you have doubts for the outcome of this misadventure?"

Human Jae, rummaging through seemingly random containers, smiled as they emerged with an omnitool. "Not anymore," they grinned.

A Human with an omnitool was nigh unstoppable. Joyse felt more relaxed because _this_ Human with an omnitool was on _hir_ side. "Carry on," ze said.

#  Challenge #285: Iconography

Scholars of the Galactic Alliance study ancient human gods; the likes of Apollo, Coyote, Mr. Rogers, Bob Ross, and Ronald McDonald.

"The changing roles of icons in culture is a fascinating process. Take this fellow," a picture of Apollo. "A figure from ancient Terran culture. He has been, at various times, the God of music, truth, prophecy, the sun, light, plague, and poetry. The Greeks and the Romans alike got things confused for a while, of course. After he faded from worship, he reappeared in various forms. Including jovial cartoon representations." A slide containing a discussion of the Icarus myth, and how gay it was. The picture of Apollo there was of a youthful, skinny, blond man with an appreciative smirk on his face.

"Little is different, no matter the non-Christian myth that encounters the greater reaches of the Western Economical Empire. Take Coyote, of native American myth. Originally a cunning trickster, he became transformed into this fellow." A picture of a cartoon coyote, standing on thin air, bearing a sign that read, _Uh oh,_ in pre-Shattering English. The audience laughed. Some memes persisted for seeming eternities.

"Then we have the deification of common media celebrities. Only the genuinely good become these household deities. Those who matched the wholesomeness they represented on the screen." An image of Mr Rogers, next to an image of Bob Ross. "These are just two examples of people who attempted to make their world a better place. They lived according to the role they portrayed. Alternately, the role they portrayed was how they lived. That matter is up to debate. The point was that the greater public gradually deified them. Initially, they were an example." A picture of an early twenty-first century meme. An image of Mr Rogers with the caption, _Be the person Mr Rogers knew you could be._ Another image of Bob Ross by his canvas with a paintbrush, and the caption, _Turn your mistakes into happy accidents._ "Then they gradually transformed into paragons of virtue, then into minor deities. Mr Rogers into a God of learning and helpfulness, and Bob Ross into a God of beauty and nature."

Some of the Humans in the audience were wiping their eyes.

"Then there's this fellow." Laughter erupted at the image of a plastic clown in a yellow jumpsuit. Red hair and mouth eternally grinning. Half the Humans in the audience gasped and made protective gestures. The other half tittered nervously. "Originally conceived as a friendly figure of fun and an appeal to children, the behaviour of the parent corporation corrupted it into a demonic figure of greed and harm." A succession of pictures showing the progress from fun, happy clown, to an entity more from the depths of any imagined hell than anywhere else. The progression included a number of memes that implied a cannibalistic or paedophilic inclination to the clown. "Numerous attempts at reformation resulted in a collapse of trust, and then a collapse of the corporation. That was shortly before the Great Shattering and the Galactic Food Value laws became part of Terran culture, so it's moderately well-documented."

"Following the Collapse of the Western Economical Empire, and the double blow of the Great Shattering, Humanity foundered in a series of dark ages. Dark ages during which some icons persisted, some became deities," a picture of an early icon of Elvis Presley. "And some became devils." A picture of a Human male with a distinctive manner of dress and a way of wearing his hair that was instantly recognisable. Some Humans in the audience hissed. They may not know all the details of their histories, but some evils were iconic.

"The near-destruction of mass media has done nothing to diminish the given meaning of these images. Most Humans know what they mean, even if they don't know the story. Those who know the story can easily draw parallels between ancient evil and the modern day, or ancient good, and more contemporary people to admire. The language remains, even though the means to disperse it is no longer as uniform as it once had been."

After that exemplary beginning, the task of the day was to disperse and find figures and icons that were shared amongst them, and how many had different meanings depending on their origin culture. The results for that one were always fascinating.

#  Challenge #286: Tech Support for the Undead

There is some things that I needed to adapt to when I first worked with Madam.

1. She's a 500-years old vampire

2. She is totally clueless about recent technologies (it's a miracle that she know how to use a floppy disk)

3. She mixes nearly all slang from the last 5 centuries. – Anon Guest

_Lifelong employment,_ the advertisement read. _Administrative assistant to long-lived nobility. Room and board included. Living wages, transport provided._ I didn't believe it, of course. Something this good had to be a catch. I scrolled down into the _Further Information_ section and saw what the catch was.

Reply by post to the following address. Unsolicited visitors unwelcome.

I sighed and got out my Letter Writing Assistant and dialled up _formal letter for the elderly_ for the guide on hints and tips. If they were something along the lines of an eighty-year-old fossil, then Copperplate Cursive was the font to go with. Fossils loved it when someone had "an elegant hand". The resumé was a professional, finely-polished work of art that co-incidentally obfuscated my gender and ethnic origin. It also obfuscated how often I supported myself with Etsy, Patreon, and Ko-fi. Fossils didn't like it when young people had too much time.

It worked. I got in for an interview. Taken to the _remote_ , remote countryside in a horse and carriage of all things, by a coachman who didn't want to be talkative. At least there was good wifi. I should have guessed that I was in trouble when the coach took me to an _estate_. Castle and everything. This noble was old-blood noble.

Older than I thought, it turned out. My future boss was hella old. She'd lived for five centuries and preferred all her staff to refer to her only as Madam. I was no different. She had the kind of agelessness that would make Cher weep in envy. She had more gravitas and aplomb than any other noble I'd heard about. I didn't even guess she was a vampire because of all the tweed. At least, I didn't guess until I got downwind of her.

Vampires have a very distinctive smell. Stale air and old dust and just a little hint of an ancient tomb. You never forget it once you've caught a whiff.

Madam's first words to me were, "Yes. You are hired. Your accommodations are in the East Wing. Declan will show you to your apartment."

"That's it? No interview? No skill check? No background check?"

Madam said, "I have eminent faith in anyone with an elegant hand. Your resumé was impeccable. Also, you are the only one who responded in anything resembling a timely manner _and_ a respectable tone. Declan will fill you in."

Boy howdy did Declan fill me in. Madam was a vampire. Madam was turned somewhere in the Dark Ages. Madam had learned how to be smart about things and not gain much in the way of attention. Madam kept pigs for her nutrition, and occasionally snacked on coconut water, though if one wished to donate one's blood, Madam would remember one fondly come the next holiday bonus.

It paid to keep a symbol of intense faith or love about one's person. Just as much as it paid to be formal and polite whenever Madam was present. When given orders, it definitely helped to consider the letter and the spirit of her words.

Madam expected me to help her 'stay up to date' with the latest in communications technology. Her phone was one of those old hip-mounted handsets, her computer monitor was an amber CRT and it was amazing that her computer had even heard of transistors.

That shit was _old_. The oldest of old schools. She kept all her information on five-inch floppy disks. Since she could kill me at the snap of a finger, I did my utmost to guide her through most of a century's worth of advancements. Starting with transferring all of her extant data onto a single thumb drive.

I was no fool. It was bright neon and had a plastic floppy chained to it so she'd know it was data. Then I walked her through mouse usage and helped her order a computer and a laptop and a tablet. Not quite top of the market, though. The most reliable ones of all.

Face it, this is exactly the sort of employment that could last a lifetime. Madam is frightened of most of the new stuff and has to be coached through every step. Including a dummies guide to standard icons.

Her most frequent complaint? "This crottled scallywag is going do-lally!" Which, as near as I can tell, means that she's clicked onto the wrong thing and has no idea how to get out of it.

Honestly... getting used to five hundred years' worth of mixed and muddled slang is the hardest thing about this job. The food's great. The apartment's more than I could ever expect in this day and age. The work... can be exhausting. Even though giving blood is strictly voluntary, it's _still_ less than most bosses want out of you on an unpaid internship.

Madam is almost up to being able to handle Lemmings Classic. Without much in the way of help. Okay, without _too_ much in the way of help. All right. Without me having to move her hands through all the things she should remember. Much.

At least the wifi's good.

#  Challenge #287: Picking Sides

"You're fired from the War. In fact, you're entire adrenaline-crazy species is fired from the War!"

"Umm... I don't think that's how that works." – Anon Guest

"Breach of contract," howled Admiral Nagisok. "I've been criminally mislead. You were supposed to excel at war."

"Yeah, we do," said Human Sam.

"LIES!" Nagisok pointed out to the battle map, where thousands of points of light were blinking on and off. "You've made this war far worse than it ever had to be. You're fired."

"Uhm," said Human Sam. "I think there was a misunderstanding here. We... don't end wars a lot. Especially when there's geurilla tactics going on. Those can drag on for _years_. Hell, there was this one time? On the Asian continent–"

"Do not," sighed the Admiral. "Explain to me in simple terms how the tactics alter the course of the war, and why you have to make it drag out like this instead of ending it expeditiously."

"Okay," Human Sam started ticking off points on her fingers. "One: You want to be able to inhabit the planet after we win it, so that stops us using nukes, orbital impact, germ warfare, and just plain old poison. I mean, we _could_ make the planet a barren, uninhabitable, blasted landscape, but you won't let us. Two: that leaves us with bombs, booby-traps and guns. You won't let us trap the place. You don't want us bombing the infrastructure. That leaves us with guns. Three: guns require someone to hold them and fire them on site or we run the risk of harming innocent civilians with automated ordinance. Not that you seem to care." Human Sam glared at the Admiral, indicating this was a point in his disfavour.

"They are on that planet illegally," said Admiral Nagisok. "Their lives are forfeit."

Human Sam didn't ask by whose rules. She already knew. "They don't seem to be aware of that law and we swore off shooting innocents some centuries ago. All of that leaves us with going down on the ground, killing all the hostiles and evacuating all the unarmed citizens to safer digs. That. Takes. Time. Do you understand all this, or do I have to use smaller words?"

Admiral Nagisok matched her glare for glare. "Get out of my war."

Human Sam smirked. "Thought you'd say that. Turns out we have a competing contract in the immediate vicinity. Seems this peaceful little farming world is being attacked by a power-mad despot stupid enough to hire Humans who can understand GalStand. We got their story, we got their contract, and you have forty-eight hours to get outta dodge before we _end_ your war and turn you and all your ships into a bright smear in the sky." Human Sam showed him the contract. "Do you understand _that_ , little Admiral? Or do I have to use smaller words?"

The one advantage with fighting a ground war is that one can decide on the damage one does, and how quickly one can repair it. After all, one of the _other_ things Humans were great at was Humanitarian Aid.

#  Challenge #288: Failed Medicine Check

"What happened?"

"The kobold was thirsty and drank some brandy by accident." – Anon Guest

On the plus side, the enemy was getting a routing it never suspected from a foe they couldn't even focus on. On the minus side, this had to be doing something awful for Chrysanthemum's bodily systems. Dragonkin had different biology to mammalian lifeforms. A drop of alcohol might dull a human's senses, but to one of reptilian descent... It was like a plus three Potion of Haste.

Lady Anthe was currently a blur of destruction and devastation amongst the underground cult of the devastator. Bodies flung into the air, cells opened so violently that the doors flew off the hinges, the altar exploded into a shower of rubble, and cultists' robes burst into flames. Wraithvine, carefully gathering ingredients from the environment, leaned over to Marvin and said, "Exactly how much brandy did she have?"

Marvin helplessly showed Wraithvine the empty skin that used to contain the brandy. "Tried t' tell her it weren't water, but by then it was gone."

"Oh dear," said Wraithvine in the calm, cool, and collected way that meant things had entirely gone to shit and ze didn't want to cause any alarm. "I'll need to make extra, then."

Marvin sort of hid behind the wizardly Elf. "So... what are you making?"

"Potion of torpor," ze was busy with hir potion brewing kit. Cranking a squeezing apparatus and counting drops as they gathered into a special phial. "Triple strength should do it. I hope. Two potential worst cases - it only slows her down a little..." Careful, thin slices into the miniature cauldron, and a measure of pure spring water, followed by the crackling powder from a dried leaf, crumbled into the mix.

"Or..?" prompted Marvin.

"Or it conks her completely out and we have to make sure she's still breathing during her extended rest." Wraithvine turned a small hourglass and fanned away the fumes. Ze turned one eye towards Marvin. "Have we learned something today?"

"Never sneaking alcohol into a water skin ever again," said Marvin, making an X over his heart with one finger.

Wraithvine added the contents of the cauldron to the contents of the phial, and watched as it changed colour and fizzed angrily. "Good." Ze stoppered the potion and held it out in the palm of hir hand. It vanished, and the constant thrum of Lady Anthe's clawed feet slowed to a patter, then steps that slowed to a halt.

"Tha's some kind'a rush," sighed Lady Anthe, and then fell over into a snore. By the creaking of her bag of holding, Marvin could guess she'd been trying to slow down through encumbrance. Marvin opened it and tipped it carefully out, then set to the self-appointed task of separating the useless stuff from the potentially valuable. He even carefully washed out the empty phial and returned it to Wraithvine.

Wraithvine, for hir part, gently arranged Chrysanthemum's sleeping form into a position more likely to be helpful for their impending vigil. Ze said, "You take first watch," and began to meditate. The ambient light faded to the point where it merely gave shape to the darkness.

Marvin, for his sins, worked on honing his blade and repairing his shield. In between those tasks, he worked on reminding himself that Lady Anthe had probably eliminated every possible threat in the immediate area. She had well earned this rest, for sure.

#  Challenge #289: Meat-ing Place

The Galactic community knows that the human race is omnivorous and that they sometimes prefer meat when stranded or when supplies are low, willingly giving up one dietary options to any remaining crew in order to save them. It was a smart evolutionary path that many alien scholars believed was essential for surviving such a deadly world like Terra.

But no one could have foreseen how much the human race could love meat. Covet it. And fight for it so strongly that they would mentally de-evolve back to their pre-awakened state.

That was until they discovered BBQ season. – Amberfox

_BBQ: Abbrev. for Barbecue (n). A Human activity in which Humans go outdoors or to the nearest alternative to outdoors in order to cook meat on an open fire, or an exposed grill._ – The Galactic Alliance's Guide to Human Activities.

Humans had just been welcomed into the Galactic Alliance and with them came a spike in complaints about the parks. They all homogenised into the phrase, _There is nowhere to barbecue._

Sherlock, curious about the complaint, found one of the Humans in the outer reaches of the station and asked, "Can you tell me about this 'barbecue' thing you and your people are demanding?"

The Human explained it as 'great fun' and a 'good family get-together' and, though there were plenty of places to eat, there was nowhere to 'cook out'.

"Cook... out..." Sherlock repeated. "As in... cooking... outdoors?"

"Yeah! Yeah, now you're getting it. There's nothing like a fresh steak straight off the hotplate."

"We're in a sealed environment, smoke emissions require a permit and an ecological survey before they can be allowed. Besides, there's nowhere 'outdoors' besides hard vacuum."

They laughed. "Nah mate. You got some bloody huge parks. They're the next best thing. Tell the truth, I was a bit miffed when I went there and there was nowhere to cook a few rissoles."

Sherlock left the question of what 'rissoles' were unasked[64] and said, "We have rental kitchens if you wish to cook. All the safety equipment is installed."

"It's not the same thing," they argued. This was one of Sherlock's early lessons in Humanity. They did things, illogical things, incomprehensible things, and the most frequent reason for doing it at all was, "It's more fun that way."

Impossible as it would seem, Humans liked to go out of their way, into the closest analogue to nature, and cook raw food they had brought with them so that it would be 'fresher', and then eat it in the same place, where any number of contaminants could get at it, and any number of wildlife species could attempt to steal it. This was, apparently, fun.

After some months wrangling with Atmospheres and Health, clearance was finally given to erect a single 'barbecue' station within Big Tree Park. It was booked out for a decade before the paint had dried on the warning signs.

On one side, there was motivation to make more like it... on the other hand... Humans would remain baffling until the end of time.

[64] Kind of like hamburger patties, but thicker, and with diced onion and the option for other added veggies inside.

#  Challenge #290: Dealing in All Directions

"Ooh, look! Shiny!" – OohLookShiny

Priff reached out to restrain the Human before ze even turned to look, saying, "Human Will. No." The main problem with Human Will was that they so very often lived up to their name. Whatever a Human should not do, that Human will.

"But it's so shiny," protested Human Will.

"Yes, it is shiny," agreed Priff, urging Human Will further away from the glittering display. "It is also expensive and very likely to be fragile. Do you yet understand why you should not touch?"

Human Will sighed and monotoned, "Because it will cut into your profit margin."

"Very good," Priff cooed. Humans _could_ learn, after all. It was just that their impulses came directly from a Deathworld with relatively little in the way of potable water. Therefore, they were attracted to anything that reflected the light in interesting ways. Priff had yet to encounter a valid explanation as to why they wanted to attempt to mate with anything alive and potentially cogniscent. "So you are keeping your hands...?"

"In a non-threatening position, close to my body," sighed Human Will. They were immediately distracted by yet another shiny object. "Oooohhh..."

"Hands," prompted Priff. Ze knew, without looking, that Human Will was reaching for it. "Focus."

Human Will's job was to keep Priff safe in the Edge Territories, which included this particularly chaotic marketplace. Smug merchandisers here knew about Human predilections and purposely displayed shiny things so that a Human could potentially ruin expensive stock in the process of reaching for the glittering object.

One such merchant was selling shiny objects to other merchants and doing a roaring trade.

On one hand, selling hir finds here could be immensely profitable. Edge Territories accepted barter as well as Galactic Alliance Time, and some merchants bought and sold trade tokens according to the relative worth. The _exchange market_ was a Human concept, and it was little surprise that the Humans were rather good at it. On the other hand, doing such deals meant visiting hives of scum and villainy such as this one, which meant having a Human along.

Human Will was a good bodyguard. Their distraction capabilities also meant that they were constantly observing their surroundings. Looking briefly at a lava lamp also meant they were taking in the surrounding crowds. Thin slicing their way through perils that Priff didn't have the time or the instincts to notice.

Fortunately, Priff had learned the signs of a Human about to look with their hands, and a strategy to easily prevent it.

"Oooohhhh!"

"No."

_Un_ -fortunately, doing so was also dancing on Priff's last nerve.

"Aaawww..." protested Human Will.

"Get me through this trade chain and I shall take you to a Deathworlder Playground where you can obtain grilled meat."

Human Will brightened. This seemed like a deal worth keeping his flakking hands in his Powers-damned pockets for a change.

#  Challenge #291: Rusty Heroism

You used to be the leader of a legendary squad of heroes who banished a great darkness from the world, your reward the blessing of agelessness should you be needed to vanquish future foes that may arise... and now the time has come where you're needed again, as the once-banished darkness has risen from his arcane slumber a dozen centuries later.

The catch is that now all of you work in normal, 9 to 5 jobs at retail and such, well adjusted to ordinary life, because secretly being ancient legendary heroes doesn't exactly guarantee a steady paycheck.

Gonna be interesting figuring a way for your team to covertly thwart the villainous machinations of the Black Bone King when your wizard is puzzling out a way to avoid getting stuck covering for that slacker Dave on nightshift for the third time in a row, and your healer is having a devil of a time getting a babysitter on short notice so close to the holiday weekend... – Anon Guest

Saving the day comes with fame, but not fortune. Back in the day, there was such a thing as guaranteed employment and bosses who could understand that you had an emergency and had to dash off without notice. These days? Forget about it.

Immortality sucks, sometimes. One of those factors is remembering what it was like two or three generations ago. Up until the eighties, someone could literally walk into a workplace straight from an educational establishment and get a job that would last until retirement. Another one of those factors is being yelled at for being a lazy millennial by someone you used to babysit. By and large, though, the most annoying factor of immortality has to be explaining that you used to be a hero. Mistress Magnificence, aka Molly Mandragon, has long since given up on explaining that to anyone. She's long since given up on explaining anything to anyone.

Let alone explaining to a boss who understaffs and overworks by routine that 'a day off' means exactly that. So once her employers' diatribe is done, Molly sighs and says, "Yeah, no. I literally can't. I'm tied up in other things."

The theoretical camera pulls back, revealing that Mistress Magnificence is literally tied up and has only barely managed to answer her phone with her nose. The death trap timer is ticking slowly down like molasses, and the rest of her team, similarly immortal, are trying and failing to remember what they used to do before the modern era snuck up on them. At least Mistress Magnificence has had practice by being a superhero, but their great wizard Thelrai decided to hibernate in 1764 and is still getting over the culture shock resulting from the early twenty-first century. That, and remember even half of the spells she used to.

"Aw c'mon," complained their tank. By daylight known as Coach Sanders. "I got peewee league training at four... I don't wanna upset the kids."

Thelrai finally had some inspiration. "Yes. Prestidigitation. I can instantly light a small flame on these ropes. Weaken Sandy's bonds, and she can free all of us."

"How about you free _me_ ," said Molly. "I have the advantage of being nigh invulnerable, remember?"

"Oh yeah," cooed Thelrai. Sparks flew out of her fingers and three small fires began in a cluster on Molly's bonds. Molly did her best to lean so that they would spread. It took way too long and, once she was free, a tiny bit too long to disarm the trap so she once again had to carry everyone's asses out of there. _Then_ she broke their bonds.

"Ray... read up on your shit. Sandy, I know it's been a while, but everyone and their kid brothers' dog knows my vulnerabilities. I need you to get that shield of yours between them and me next time. Billy? Just how long has this silence curse been going on?"

Billy tapped on his phone and it said, "Twenty. Years. I'm. Still. Trying. To. Find. A. Cure."

Such a pity the big bad had smashed Billy's Magic Mandolin. They had to find or improvise another stringed instrument and pronto. The phone, even when simulating a stringed instrument, did not count.

Fortunately, there were stores in nearby neighbourhoods that could reliably sell anyone a ukulele. Whether or not any of them were open at this hour was a matter upon which the fate of the world was about to turn.

"Things were so much easier when it was dragons and liches," grumbled Sandy.

#  Challenge #292: Spiritual Progress Goes Huff-Huff-Huff

Baths were once optional, water had to be carried in jugs to fill a bath, and people (a) stank and (b) got diseases. Then came the 'chip heater', hot water for all. guess what it sounds like. – Anon Guest

_Ne'er cast a clout_ [65] _'till May be out_ – pre-industrial era saying.

It was the paradox of the northern realms: bathe regularly, and you would catch your death from the icy winds that crept in through the chinks in the mortar, or bled away your life through the stone that made the buildings. Do not bathe regularly, and the pox or the plague would find you anyway.

Solutions to this quandry were many and varied, including boiling water in a cauldron and tipping it over the plentiful snow, then using an array of sheets or blankets to cover the bathing bodies[66] in the tub. That said, getting the water from well to cauldron to tin tub was a herculean and monotonous effort, so Sundays were the day to cleanse the soul, and Mondays were the day to cleanse everything else.

Some who lived near hot springs took great advantage of them, to the point where those further away thought that the water itself was possessed of a blessing. Others merely took themselves by the fire and passed a washing cloth around their body and under their clothes, which were also changed by the fire.

Then there were the bathing houses. People with enough money for good mortar or enough tapestries to block the breeze made a fortune from those who wished to rid themselves of their filth, or relieve themselves from a desperate kind of loneliness. The more enterprising entrepreneur saw to it that hard liquor, soft beds, and rigged games were also as available as the women. Travelling traders had many needs and preferred it when they were all in easy reach.

The preacher outside, begging or cajoling anyone who frequented them, came free of charge. Visitors could cleanse their bodies, sin to their heart's content, rest, gamble, drink, and then pay penance within easy reach of the same building.

Father Kedvale contemplated the problem. He had been a blacksmith before he had taken the cloth, and the monastery still relied upon him to shoe the horses or replace the rusted hinges. There had to be a way... There had to be a way to boil out the demons without also providing them a means to invade a soul by other doors.

There had to be a way to heat water and get it to a potential bather, in the privacy of their own home and safely away from hostels of temptation, without making it far too difficult to do regularly. A way to close down the bathing/body houses without allowing the demons of disease free reign. Some kind of cauldron that could heat the water and then move it to a certain destination.

He discussed the issue with some of his fellows. He could certainly forge the cauldron, but the means to turn incoming cold water into outgoing hot water with reliability was the problem. From a former builder, a pipewright, and a barrelmaker, came the answers. From determined fiddling around came new solutions. It was a complicated thing, but it would conquer the world for purity.

One barrel, filled with cold water, fed into a double-walled chimney. The central flue warmed the water within the double walls, as did the firebox underneath, and the tiles around the outside kept the heat in. From there, a spigot close to the top could pour hot water out and into any given vessel.

Hot water on demand, plentiful and distant from the bath houses of ill repute.

It was not a thing of beauty, but that was not the point. Artificers and crafters could make devices like this and remove at least one avenue of sin from the world. Even his fellow brothers in the monastery gave praise for its existence, since they no longer had to stink until spring was nearly over.

Such a pity that they couldn't do a thing about the sound it made.

[65] clout - olde english for any article of clothing.

[66] bath sharing is pretty much traditional world-wide.

[AN: All my research leads to the chip heater being invented in the late 1800's in Australia, but this is a fictional story, so...]

#  Challenge #293: Simple Communication

"I said no!"

"You said yeah!"

"Are you insane? I said yeah, nah! That means NO!!" – Anon Guest

"Are _you_ insane?" asked Gork. "That is not a clear means of communicating a positive or a negative."

Human Baz glared down at the little alien in her care. "It's perfectly understandable to everybody," she said.

Gork flinched at yet another explosion. "Not to this somebody," he said. "We look for affirmation or negation first. We do not wait for further elucidation."

"Well... We've flakked it now," said Human Baz. "The only bonus is that it's also flakked those other sods. Let's find a lifepod and scram."

Gork sighed, but moved along. This expedition may well come out as a loss for him. "Please tell me you have all the data files with us? It would be catastrophic to return with nothing."

"Nah, yeah. I got the hard drive backup unit straight out of the wall. We should be good."

"There you go again with your confusing method of communication... Can you not do that in future?"

"I got it, now get in there before– Shit!" Human Baz shoved Gork into the pod and fired off her stunner in one quick motion. The dive followed after, landing neatly on a seat cushion. "If I die, just launch! But make sure I'm dead!"

Gork had heard legends about the Human tenacity to cling to life. They could effectively out-survive and out-endure most hazards known to intelligent life. Therefore, he brought up the app that showed all of Human Baz's lifesigns, as read by her livesuit.

He needn't have bothered. Human Baz was inside the pod, buckled down, and hitting launch before Gork had finished going through the reminder tutorial. With an unnerving smile on her face.

"We might not have got any physical stuff," she panted, "but I got one of their guns." She grinned, showing it off. It was still spattered with hostile alien ichor. "Reckon that's gotta be worth _something_."

Possibly not in the direction she anticipated. "No," said Gork, and, because he was honest, added, "Yes."

"See? Now you're getting the hang of it."

#  Challenge #294: Unlikely Friendship on Courier Fifty-eight

Ship's human and the Anti Gravity Drive keep company. – Anon Guest

[AN: It's the Gravity Drive, but I get it]

This drive was one of the loners. It did not need constant Nae'hyn attention to do its work. It knew the route better than the Captain. It got family visits, of course, but Human Gar kind'a felt in kindred with it. Human Gar had took this particular mail route because it met her needs for social contact - otherwise known as minimal - but there were some times when she just needed to talk, and none of the Kirrikto crew were interested in the weirdo stuff that Gar was.

"Hey," she said to the ships' gravy drive, working her way over via the toe grips. "I need to talk, do you wanna listen?"

No Gravy Drive had a voice. They made themselves known by the hums of their operation, the beeps of certain alerts, or other noises that only Humans could interpret. This one hummed a pleased note, so Gar grip-walked further in. She lit an incense stick because that was what she'd seen the visiting Nae'hyn do, and set it into one of the holders where she felt it was needed. "It's not like I even have much to talk about, you know? I just... I have a mighty need to just flap my tongue for a while. The Kirrikto don't understand it. They call it 'contrary'. They hired me because I'm quiet, and when I wanna yap on, I'm not fulfilling my contract."

The engine made a rude noise, but it felt like it was agreeing.

"They don't get it. They don't understand us. Sometimes, people can have contrariwise days. It's perfectly cool. It should be." Gar snuggled up to a mysterious part that was people-warm and murmured appreciation for the simulated company. "Wanna hear about _All My Daughters_? Its a audio-visual drama, but you don't have eyes, so... I dunno. You mightn't like it."

_Thrummm..._ it was almost a purr. It sounded like the Gravy Drive was pleased that someone wanted to talk to it.

"Well, okay," Gar cooed. "I should stop by more often, huh?" She giggled at the louder purr. "Okay. I guess we have a deal. Let's start by catching you up," Gar took a deep breath, and told the drive all about _All My Daughters_ and which family she was following and why the drama was so dramatic.

"You know?" said Gar when she was done, "the next time your family pops round, I'm gonna ask about your name and pronouns. It doesn't seem right that I've been thinking about you as a thing or an it. That's wrong. 'Specially since we've made friends."

The engine hummed as if to say, _That's a great idea. You do that._

#  Challenge #295: A Roadmap to Neverthere

"Look, the directions are simple; go down that way, and turn left on Thursday." – Anon Guest

Navigation is difficult in realms where time is nonlinear. In the fractured temporal core of Lymnaal, directions are almost meaningless as well. One can walk away from a point, steps never wavering, and meet oneself coming the other way. There are places bordered by red paint. It is wise never to set a foot there.

Yet people still operate in this broken place. People are stubborn like that. Since time has no meaning, consequence can precede action. Familial relationships turn to those who nurture, rather than those who make, and directions anywhere are four-dimensional. Technology grows, as technology always does. The way to get anywhere is a wrist-mounted calendar and compass combo. Watches have no use in Lymnaal. Between one step and the next, it could be dinnertime, teatime, bedtime, or three in the morning, when nothing good ever occurs.

This is where there is only one state of being, and that is: Lost. Nevertheless, there are nodes of clarity. Entire volumes of space that are in one place and time simultaneously. It is there that pockets of civilisation spring up. Here, in a city called Thursday the 13th, Ykkaan has arrived.

Because it was a completely different town, called Saint Swithins' Day, that Ykkaan had been aiming for. She consulted the map, a crystal with incursions in something close to the right places, and sighed. She should have taken that left turn at Bellnacht. Nevertheless, there had to be a mapwright somewhere in the city, and an inn. Here, at least, there were sign posts that could be relied upon to remain readable, legible, and undecayed before one could blink. Out in the more fractured wilderness, even chiselled granite was not reliable. It couldn't decay, but it could erode and, in extreme cases, turn molten.

Even turning around and retracing your steps wasn't a reliable way to get around it. Not in the fractured wilderness. Ykkan followed the signs to a mapwright to get her map reconfigured. If she had trade goods that were worth anything here and now[67] she could upgrade it to a self-updating crystal so that she wouldn't get lost. Frankly, she was lucky to get anywhere at all, having found herself on Xeno's Highway[68]. Honestly, she was grateful to find herself off it again, _anywhere_.

The mapwright hummed and hawed as Ykkaan rummaged in her Schroedinger Box[69] for anything useful.

"Don't suppose you'd like a kitten?" Ykkaan asked optimistically. "Just popped into existence. Guaranteed fresh."

"I know someone who has a toaster," the mapwright blinked as ze contemplated the kitten. "Been meaning to branch out into hovercraft[70]." Ze sucked air through hir teeth. "If you have a paired paring device for pears... or a nighttime knight?"

Ykkaan rummaged deeper. "I have five retriculated splines. Is that good enough?" She held them aloft.

The mapwright was impressed. "That kitten and two of those splines will do it. Definitely. With those, I can throw in a porridge pot[71]."

"Done and sold," breathed Ykkaan. Guaranteed porridge was nothing to sneeze at, especially in the fractured wilds. "And if you could point me towards Thursday the 13th, that would be a great help."

The mapwright checked Ykkaan's map crystal against hir own, synchronising them. "Ah yes. This week, you're in luck. Take Shirataki road until you leave the borders, then it's straight on until Thursday and turn left." Ze pressed the upgraded crystal into Ykkaan's palm and loaded up her Schroedinger Box with the pot. "You shouldn't be able to miss it unless you trip on the trip."

[67] As opposed to there and then, which is always out of reach and always worth more.

[68] A stretch of road where one has to stop whenever one has traversed half the distance to one's goal. The only worse road to find oneself on is Moebius street, where one has to walk down it twice in order to go back to where one started.

[69] Ironically, the only way to make sure one's belongings remain in a definite state in the fractured wilds. May occasionally produce surprised cats.

[70] Only in places like this can Troll Physics be real. Buttered toast plus cat equals antigravity.

[71] Also: fairytales.

#  Challenge #296: Lest Ye Be Judged...

we poisoned our air and water to weed out the weak.

we set off fission weapons in our own biosphere.

we nailed our GOD to a stick.

humans are the monsters that monsters fear.

the demons lurking in the void. – Anon Guest

Offensensitivity warning: Deathworlder studies, Human content.

Planet Terra, aka Earth. Origin point of the species who call themselves _Human_. Though a class 4.5 Death World, the intelligent life from there rates a 5. Here, we will examine the behaviour that earned them the rating.

Artifact: a small art object of a cross bearing a small human effigy on its surface. Measuring five centidu[72] long and made of gold. There is a hole at one end to affix to a pendant chain. Recovered from a dig on a graveworld associated with Human remains. See appendix # Graveworld 523O5, remains set # 239-YX1-094 for full details.

This is a figure of one of the Human Gods. This figure is of a Human-like being in the middle of a torturous death. Recovered texts from the area identify them as a God who was sacrificed to the will of the public. Given the Human tendency to mix myth and fact, there is no way to verify that Humans nailed a god-like being to a stick.

Artifact: Plans and instructions for making a fission weapon, designed to explode and scatter toxic rads over a wide area of their own landscape. This artifact is a partial reconstruction of the original, which was found torn and burned in the ruins of Graveworld 523O5.

The goal of this weapon was not to kill, but to lethally and torturously poison the biosphere. Opposing sides would detonate such devices some miles above their target and allow the radioactive fallout to poison every living thing below and downwind. This tactic was evidently used by both sides to poison the entire planet and eliminate the total population. Current estimates state that this process took five generations.

Artifact: Image of a core sample from a tree on Graveworld 523O5. The pointers on certain rings indicate near-lethal levels of toxins in the environment before the final war. Other pointers indicate when certain toxins were finally decayed into non-toxic compounds. That process took two thousand years.

Here, we see that Humans had no concept of their pollution harming themselves. Preserved corpses have been found with microparticles of long-chain hydrocarbons, known amongst them as plastics, within their bodies[73]. As long as they don't suffer the consequences immediately, a Human is most likely to continue fouling their own environment until such time as recovery is impossible and self-extinction is inevitable.

Artifact: Glossy pamphlet with Human writing on it. Translation supplied reads: _We Must Act Now!_ Further translation of the smaller text is supplied in the course material.

Though some Humans were aware of their impending plight, the text within clearly states that Humans prefer economic profit over mass survival. These Humans destroyed themselves in a war caused by greed and there is some evidence that egotism had a major factor in the final conflict.

Humans can destroy themselves without a thought. If anyone doubts their hazard potential, we can discuss other artefacts from other wreckage sites. For a further investigation into Human Studies, we will be analysing captured Human transmissions, both from Terra and some broadcasting Terran colonies...

[72] One one-hundredth of a Standard Distance Unit, or roughly equivalent to a centimeter.

73] Actual news article [ here

#  Challenge #297: I Can't See My House From Here

A combined research team of a number of species of the galaxy invents a device that is capable of accelerating any object to significant portions of C, the human member of the team proceeds to be a human. – Anon Guest

The breakthrough came, as breakthroughs often do, by accident. One person noticed that the interference on their experimental quantum computer was too regular to be just interference. The paired electrons weren't merely paired. They were _grouped_. They were grouped with other electrons somewhere far, far away, and someone was using them as a communications method.

With that realisation, the herculean effort to understand what they were saying and how they encoded it began. Decoding an unknown language is never easy, just ask the people attempting to decipher Mayan hieroglyphs. With no rosetta stone, with no common ground, with only basic mathematical concepts, they did it inside of fifty years. Crowd-sourcing really cut down on the problem solving.

Communication began, soon after that. The other side simply assumed that these distant people with a rudimentary understanding of GalStand Simple were new members in the Alliance. Assumption has wrecked more than one life. It would wreck many more after this one. Understanding grew. Concepts were exchanged. Invention... followed.

"In combination with the gravity drive," said Parson Phillips, "I should have a pretty seamless flight from here to within the orbit of Saturn. We're lucky we're launching from the moon, or we'd have to give it more wellie."

The rest of the build crew laughed.

"Traditionally, we should send a dog, but they're lousy at gathering data, so... I'm doing this."

Hoots. Some people in the background were giving thumbs' up signs.

Parson Philips clambered into the vehicle. "If I don't come back, or if I smack into an asteroid between here and there? Well. It's been fun, I guess. Still totally worth it." They blew a kiss before they sealed the hatch and put on their helmet.

There was half an hour of system checks before the final countdown. The gravity drive took them away from the moon, and then the _Enterprise_ [74] effectively vanished with a tiny bit of red-shift. Even with quantum-paired comms, it was a breathless moment.

"Enterprise? Enterprise, do you read us?"

"Tsiolkovsky? I read you just fine, and Saturn looks beautiful from up here." Parson was a little out of breath. "That was a fucking amazing ride, I'm still laughing." Indeed, they were. "Narrowly missed a fuck-off sized asteroid on the way, like nyoooom, and it was too late to panic."

"Enterprise, this is a reminder that we're live across civilisation as we know it. Keep the potty mouth clamped, okay?"

It was a pity, indeed, that Humanity's introduction to the Galactic Alliance included the phrase _fuck-off sized asteroid_ associated with hysterical laughter. It might have been a contributing factor into the 'space orc' attribution.

[74] Because nerds will be nerds.

#  Challenge #298: Hello Darkness

I did this. I don't remember doing it, but it cannot be otherwise.

I have committed sins in my life before. I even killed a man once who didn't deserve it.

But this is different. I am changed.

These murders were not my choice. A Beast lives inside of me.

I will be hunted and shunned. I need to hide. Run. Bury the bodies.

I start to walk outside when I realize what truly bothers me...

...I feel no guilt. – Anon Guest

Dear Boss,

Call me... Jack. I am a monster.

In times past, I was known for violent and bloody deaths of the ignorable in Whitechapel. The unsolvable and horrific ones. I'm sure you've already connected the dots, you clever bugger. Not clever enough to know who I really am. No, sir. Let's just say that the last famous one in Whitechapel knocked some sense into the old brain casing. I learned how to do it better.

I don't discriminate much, any more. There's those who deserve it and those who never did and honestly, I don't care about the difference. See, blood keeps me immortal. Vampires have to eat you know, and the last thing a vampire needs in this world is more vampires. That's why I used to cut their throats. Kill them before they turn, see? Keeps 'em all dead.

A vampire only _needs_ to eat once a month, but I do like killing. I feel bad about it, but I like it. Call it... an addiction.

I should say, I _used_ to feel bad about it. This is a recent development for jolly old Jack. You see, the world is changing. It's creeping closer to the filth of old London town, and the depravity of the third reich.

I fought them once, just so you know. Volunteered independently, you might say. Got pretty close to the man himself before he hid in a bunker and took the cowards' way out. Never mind him. I got plenty of the others. I did my duty, and I always felt that little bit of guilt.

_This_ time is different. _This_ time the people destroying people for no reason whatsoever are doing it for the _market share_. It's more _profitable_ to shit in the drinking water, so to speak, and have the prisons turned into poorhouses. Every evil that I thought mankind was walking away from has come back with a vengeance.

Humanity was so close to wiping out every variety of the pox, and some idiot with a patent brings us right back to kiddies in their death beds.

Humanity was so close to eliminating garbage, and a bunch of idiots invent disposable society.

Humanity was so close to an actual golden age, and then they voted in a bunch of xenophobic idiots who give the power back to those who never had it in the first place.

Did you know, by the way, there's a list of one hundred people who would make the world a better place just by being dead? I found it. I read it. I copied it down.

I know where they live.

Getting to them's a problem. Nobody guards their arse tighter than a rich man who knows the proles are out after their blood. They never look twice at the cleaners though. Half the time, they don't even expect them to speak the lingo. Just be there, clean up the messes, and keep their nice, big houses spotless for whenever they choose to come there.

I'm good at waiting, by now. Jolly old Jack knows how to bide his time. Jolly old Jack knows how to make certain he's hungry.

That's why, this morning, there's a huge mess in the bedroom of one of those names on that list. I was too hungry. I lost control. I'm no fool. I used a swatch of their hair and not my fingers to paint the words on the cleanest wall in their own blood. Three words. Simple enough for even idiots like them to get the message.

Clean the world.

I used to feel guilty. I could rationalise the guilt away, eventually. This time? This time, your dear friend Jack was totally calm. This time, I was at peace.

A vampire needs to eat. These people were making me sick by sickening the greater populace en masse. These people had the potential to kill everyone in the world and leave your mate Jack starving and destitute. These people didn't care about anyone but themselves. These people were the real monsters.

One down.

Ninety-nine to go.

Maybe I should see to that chap in Washington. You know the one. He opens his house to tourists. That's better than an invitation for a vampire. Might be better for the world if he's gone too. Him and his monster friends. He's easy to get close to. Pay him a compliment and you're his best friend.

Perhaps my next letter won't be... From Hell.

#  Challenge #299: Inside, Outside

two cats discovering their owner has a secure cat enclosure instead of letting them roam free – Anon Guest

It was a good life. Thingone and Thingtwo agreed. Plenty of warm spaces. Lots of nice food. Halls to have a good rumpus up and down. Furniture, especially, to scramble up, down, into, out of, and under. The only thing missing was the world outside the windows. No matter how they howled and yowled to be allowed to play with the birds, their Feedme refused to open doors and let them _outside_.

This was a good thing only sometimes, when the weather was cold and the hated water fell from the grey sky. It was a bad thing most times, when the sun shone and the birds paraded their arrogance in front of them, knowing that neither Thingone nor Thingtwo could do what cats did best.

There were mice. There were rats. There were sometimes spiders and quick-legged geckoes. They just weren't the same as the forbidden, tempting, and doubtlessly tasty _birds_. Thingone and Thingtwo sat on windowsills and contemplated the feathery temptation, chattering in disappointment at not being able to pass the invisible barrier and capture the arrogant little sods.

There was an entire week in which a room was closed off from them, and their Feedme and several other two-legged big creatures were working on the forbidden outdoors. They howled and wailed and pleaded for at least their Feedme to come inside with them and keep them company, but they were all outside _forever_ [75].

Thereafter, the forbidden door opened, and Thingone and Thingtwo did what cats did best. They ran to find out.

A window was open! A window to the forbidden _outside_!

Thingtwo found it first, leaping up to the sill and dashing out. Thingone soon followed, neither of them questioning the presence of the ramp, nor the high shelves. They sniffed at the grass, marked the new places as theirs...

And discovered the bars.

Far enough apart for them to feel the breeze and get the sunshine, but not far enough apart to let them get into the wider outdoors and finally put an end to the hated and cheeky _birds_.

"How are you liking your enclosure, boys?" asked their Feedme. "Fresh air, sunshine and exercise whenever you like it."

Thingone and Thingtwo could only glare at their Feedme. This was the ultimate betrayal, as far as they were concerned.

[75] Cats have a nebulous concept of linear time.

#  Challenge #300: Uncommon Ground

"You're 'Clancy of the' where was it again?"

"The Overflow."

"You're a laundryman?" – Anon Guest

Human Daz spared a dubious glance towards Rilthi Baz and wondered, not for the first time, if she was being very gently wound up. "Uhm," she said. "What?"

Clancy just sighed. "Yeah... an 'overflow' is an area where the flood waters tend to overflow. When the river floods, that's where the excess water goes. Good for grasslands and grazing."

"Also rice," added Human Daz. "I'm guessing your mum was a big fan of ole Banjo?"

"That, and we're actually near the Bogan River[76], so yeah. All of the above."

Human Daz winced and sucked air through her teeth. "Did you get good at running or fighting?"

This was apparently the right thing to say, since Clancy laughed. "I made sure they remembered to not make my life hell. Three years before they introduced the no-tolerance policy in all schools."

Baz sighed and muttered, "Typical Deathworlders."

"Pretty much, yeah. I'm quick on my feet, pretty good a bodging up a patch, and I can make just about anything out of anything. Am I hired or what?"

Baz looked to Daz, who said, "He's not bullshitting." Which was, out on the Edge Territories, a fairly solid endorsement.

Clancy said, "Are they legit?"

Baz, a N'Ozzie and not a Terran said, "I'm almost sure they are."

There would be a learning curve on all sides, thus proving once more that the highest level of effort to achieve understanding between species always happened on the Edge.

[76] Yes, Australia actually has a Bogan River and a Bogan Shire. I'm fairly certain that people from there are pretty sick of the comparison, and also trying to distance themselves from the insult.

#  Challenge #301: Cruel and Unusual

"I swear, if you press that button one more time, I will end you!" – Anon Guest

In all the universe, no instrument of chaos has ever been more diabolical than the demo button. There's certainly a Hell where the damned is a stocker for aisled upon aisles of toys with demo buttons and hyperactive children who press them all as they go by.

Swarm Leader Yrtuq is certain of this as a small child presses a button on a brightly coloured toy. It is the only button the child wants to press, and the child is endlessly amused. Yrtuq is not amused. He is enraged. He is also on the wrong side of an impenetrable barrier. The small child is on the other side. Comfortable, relaxed, and laughing as they press the button with the relentlessness of a true torturer.

The toy, for the record, allegedly sings variations of _Old McDonald_ , but it never gets as far as the reveal of what Old McDonald had on his farm, because the child presses the button before that can happen.

"Old McDonald had a– Old McDon– Old– Old– Old McDonald had a farm, ee-eye-ee-eye– Old–"

Raging and frothing at the child had no impact. Well. It had one impact, and that was to make the child press the button again and laugh uproariously at Yrtuq. It took him half an hour, but he eventually ran out of the energy to rage.

"Old McDonald had a farm, ee-eye-ee-eye-oh, and on that farm he had– Old McDonald had a– Old Mc– Old– Old–"

Eventually, food came. Caloric and nutritionally balanced to maintain Yrtuq's life. There was nothing there to preserve Yrtuq's sanity.

"Ol– Ol– O– O– O– Old McDonald– Old– Old McDonald had a–"

In three hours, the child finally got blinky and laid down. At this point, a grown Human came to exchange the blinky small child for another. Another small Human child with the same power of relentlessly spamming the demo button.

"Old McDonald– Old McDonald– Old McDonald–"

In a further five hours, and the exchange of two more small children, Yrtuq cracked. "I'll tell you anything," he bellowed at the attending adult. "Just make it _stop_!"

The attending adult swapped the noisemaking toy for a noiseless stuffed object in the shape of an animal. They leaned out the door and said, "Eight hours, twenty minutes, and change!"

There was a distant cheer.

Yrtuq didn't care, because the small human child was ushered out of the room with the thick, soft mat, and more utilitarian furniture was hustled in. Yrtuq watched as a recording device was installed with a desk and some means to take notes.

The adult human sat. "Let's talk about your military installations and where your borders are," they began.

Yrtuq was extremely grateful for that much relief.

#  Challenge #302: Pick Up Your Skirts and Walk Away

"Have fun with your crisis, I'm going to live among the goats." – OohLookShiny

Leth had told them. She'd told them often. She'd told them so much that they mocked her for saying it, but she said it nonetheless.

"No good has ever come from making the rich richer and the poor poorer," she had said. Or, "In order for an economy to flourish, you have to give money to people who will spend it."

They didn't listen. They didn't listen because Leth wasn't one of them. They were the men in charge and she was just a lowly woman who talked too much[77] and had too many like-minded followers. Leth and her terrible regiments of women were openly mocked, called ugly, and generally derided. Until the war came.

The men, the stupid, ignorant men who demanded everything of them demanded one more thing: "Fight for us." They even went to the extreme of asking Leth in a very public forum. She, who had warned them of their idiotic diplomacy choices that were doomed to fail. She, who had spoken again and again about why the economy was failing. She, who had fought for rights that only the rich men ever had. She, who had said so much, and was listened to so little.

She accepted the noble speech about defending the country and how worthy as warriors her regiments were, about how much they had fought and, when you got down to it, what was one more fight for a proper cause? She sat through it all with a poker face, betraying no emotion. Then it was her turn at the podium.

Leth said, "Have fun with your crisis, I'm going to live among the goats." She walked off the stage, out of the arena, and calmly gathered everything she'd need for her professed future life.

So did every woman who followed her. They took resources with them. Food, seeds, knowledge, skills, and all their children who were too young to have swallowed the lines the rich men fed them. They took their sewing kits. They took their knowledge of remedies that worked. They took all the things that the men had mocked.

They took it all far from the realm, into the wilderness, and made a new home with the goats. Within a month, they had something of a city springing up. A city with clean water and proper food and health care for all. The men there were raised to be polite and think of others and be open with their emotions.

In the realm they left, the rich old men were busy. They were busy blaming the women who were left whilst working them to death and calling them lazy. They were busy creating destitution and deprivation whilst lining their coffers with money that never went anywhere. They were busy rattling their sabres on two fronts whilst the women who had left were showing the world that these men were wrong in so many ways.

The last of those tyrannical despots went to the gallows blaming others for his own mistakes, but that was after the revolution came.

By then, the city of women had a stable infrastructure, a council of commons, and guarantees that those who needed received what they needed from those who could provide in abundance. There was no need to suffer. There was no need to struggle. There was plenty of work, there were plenty of people who could work. Those who needed were no lazier than those who laboured all their waking hours. It was all a matter of choice.

Their progress was slow, but it was well-thought. They shared stories of the fools who had mislead themselves to death, and judged the rest of the world harshly by how well or how poorly it listened to women. There was no wealth, that was true, but there was also no poverty. Some did better than others, but they never did better because others suffered.

Leth was a great-grandmother by the time the rest of the world was starting to come to terms with the concept that maybe - just _maybe_ \- she and her regiments might just have a point. By then, women were flooding to the ever-growing borders of their settlement. By then, they welcomed all who needed and still had plenty left over for trade. By then, the realm that had once sung the virtues of rich old men and silenced women by force had since been taken over for more useful things. Things like: feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, and filling all the other needs of life and the living.

By then, people were listening to her.

Her last words were of most import. "Look after each other and little will ever go wrong."

[77] It should be noted at this point that this society had the common saying, "Women should be seen, not heard," and still believed in Hysteria as the root of all feminine problems.

#  Challenge #303: Megalomaniacs Are Hard to Shop For

"I shall bring you the heart of your greatest enemy!"

"What, all of year 10 English class? Messy." – Anon Guest

"Wait. What? A high school English class is your greatest enemy?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you a tale," said Miss Evans, dedicated megalomaniac. "A tale most horrifying. A tale about the biggest group of irreverent, foul-mouthed, foul-minded _punsters_ that have ever breathed."

Loqui was already feeling trepidatious. "Are you sure you have to? I'm a smart enough minion to get that picture wholesale."

Miss Evans sighed with relief. "It is _so_ nice to have a smart student who's not also a clever dick."

Loqui was very careful not to laugh at that expression.

"Do you know how much a teacher earns, Loqui?"

"Less than a cardboard hat in hamburger hell?" guessed Loqui. That had been _his_ former occupation before he'd joined The Organisation.

"Pretty much, yes. They expect us to do far more than you did. At least with cleaning tables, you didn't have to fill out _forms_ about it. You didn't have to dodge underaged horny boys and their mothers who were _convinced_ that you were at fault for their _sweet little angel's_ temptation." Sweet little angel, here pronounced, _Calling this kid a lying sack of shit is an insult to sacks of shit._ " _You_ had an ugly uniform. I had to skate the line between 'looking professional' and 'being a distraction'!"

Oh dear. She was ranting again. Loqui had earned Minion of the Month three times in a row by knowing when to bring Miss Evans her calming hot chocolate, made just right, and the special cheesy bran muffins that worked better than any off-the-shelf pharmaceutical for stopping a monologue. He added butter and strawberry jam in the middle of the muffin, rounding out the rant with, "And that was why you started The Organisation, Miss. To make certain that the under-appreciated had a place that would damn well appreciate them and put them into less stressful occupations."

"Mmmmhhh..." said Miss Evans, in appreciation for the chorus, the muffin, _and_ the hot chocolate simultaneously. If there was anything a qualified teacher could do, it was multitasking. "Thank you."

Loqui withheld an appreciative squeak. Hearing those words from _anyone_ with grey hair was still a novelty. _He_ was used to anger and demanding to see the manager. He loved this new gig. "Okay. So heads of your enemies is out."

"Definitely. Those horny little ratbags deserve a chance to learn how to be human beings."

"So... what _would_ you like for Christmas?"

#  Challenge #304: Let the Punishment Fit

"You do realise that the more you complain, call me rude names, and try to bully me into backing down, the more I'm going to look at this and ticket you for the faults, right?"

"And? I can pay as many tickets as you like, and before you make it back to your office!" – Anon Guest

Officer Pam stared at the young man in the driver's seat. He was rich, you could tell by the car alone, but he had decided to rub it in by wearing designer clothes, designer shades, he even had designer hair. Pam could write him up for every violation of the traffic law, and it would make no impact on him, his day, nor his bank account. It would be a minor inconvenience.

He was rich enough that the laws of the land didn't matter. Arrogant enough that he didn't care who knew it. There was only one thing that mattered to a man like that.

She took his phone and his licence, went back to her car, and cleared her plan with Central. They said, "Get it on tape," and gave her their blessing. She got the book out of the car and, his licence and phone in hand, opened the book to the first page. "Road rules, laws, and ordinances of the Greater County: a guide for every citizen," she began.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Since you're unfamiliar with the law, sir, I thought I'd take the time to educate you. If you interrupt me again, I'll have to start over. Do you understand me?"

"You can't do this!"

"I'm legally entitled to educate citizens when it's clearly evident that they do not understand the law, sir. Do you understand me?"

He was only staying put because she had his phone. They both knew it. "I want my property back."

"You get your property back when I finish this education session. Do you understand me, sir?"

Sigh. "Yes."

"Road rules, laws, and ordinances of the Greater County: a guide for every citizen," she began again. "Foreword. It is essential for every citizen to know and obey the rules of the road. As such..."

He gave a loud groan. "Please, god, skip to the bits I violated."

"That would not be a complete part of your education, sir," she chirped. "Since you interrupted me, I have to start over. Do you understand me?"

Realisation dawned on his formerly arrogant face. She was going to stay here, all day if necessary, and read every last word of the _complete_ book of the road rules for this particular county. Every heading, sub-heading, sub-section, footnote, and codicil. "Unfortunately, yeah."

There _was_ only one thing a man like that valued. The time in which to do whatever he had planned. Officer Pam was going to occupy it.

With a slightly malevolent smile, Officer Pam began again. "Road rules, laws, and ordinances of the Greater County: a guide for every citizen..."

#  Challenge #305: Strangers in a Very Strange Land

planetary survey on new world gets progressively jaded as they meet real mythical animals – Anon Guest

Welcome to Mythos. Here, there be dragons. For real, actual dragons. They don't breathe fire, but they do have an acidic spray from their own digestive tract that's almost as bad. Their original gengineers started with the largest Terran lizard - the komodo - and worked at it from there. They're sluggish and make nests out of shiny objects to attract their mates. Beyond that, they're not nearly as fearsome as they should be.

Unicorns graze in the plains, but they are not nearly as graceful and beautiful as the imagination would want. The closest the gengineers could come to the rainbow mane was a piebald tortoiseshell appaloosa. It certainly didn't flow like magic. Real unicorns didn't sparkle. It had taken years for the gengineers to get the spiral horn pattern, the cloven hooves were comparatively easier, but it meant that these creatures meant to evoke the magic of mythology had the slotted pupils of the goats and sheep in their ancestry.

Fairies are not magical. They're not intelligent, and for that, Humanity should be grateful. True Faeries are never to be messed with. Just ask the Irish. Gengineers took large butterflies, the hissing cockroach, and tweaked the two together to produce a butterfly that can sing one note. Which it does. _Monotonously_. The only plus side is that they look weirdly humanoid except for the slightly repulsive abdomens. If you could count that as a 'plus'.

Will paused in her work. This report was veering off into unprofessionalism, again. Planetary survey allowed for a certain amount of informality from their field agents, but this was bordering on blogging and whingeing about it. She took a deep breath, removed that last sentence, and continued on.

_Once upon a time, someone wanted to build a Fantasy theme park with genuine Fantasy creatures as attractions..._ No. Don't write that.

Gryphons are not what you might expect. The plan, obviously, was for cat elements melded with bird elements. Unfortunately, bird wings cannot be placed on a mammal without losing limbs, unless insect DNA is added to the mixture. The resultant... cat-bugs... are almost horrific if they weren't also so pretty. They cannot fly, but can control their descent towards the ground, rather like a domesticated chicken attempting to fly. The natives here keep them as pets, especially in the high-rises, where predatory instinct has lead to the end of many a traditional feline.

Will paused again. She was going to have to describe the natives. This was a world where Humans mingled with Elves - the descendants of gengineered Humans with pointed ears, longer lifespans, and tongue-clotting beauty - also the Centaurs and the Fauns.

One of whom was still attempting to understand that they were now an Ambassador, along with their farmhand Jean.

"So... just because we met you trespassing on our farm... we're now the people with the most expertise in interacting with you?"

"Yes," said Melwraik Baz. "Gold star. You got it."

"But... we shot at you," said Jean Audrey. "That's every kind of bad start."

Will stretched at her console. "On the plus side, you also _stopped_ shooting at us. That's bottom-rung diplomacy, right there."

Neither of the new Ambassadors seemed reassured.

#  Challenge #306: Occam's Solution

"We do this every month, and it always ends the same way!"

"But I'm telling you it shouldn't! We change every variable every time."

"But never the most important variable – YOU!" – Anon Guest

The wizard Narbic Parvin Charm boggled at the heroes. "So I just have to sit and wait like a bump on a log while you do all the complicated things to open the unopenable door?"

"That's looking like the shape of it," said the leader of the team of heroes. "We're the kind of people who go everywhere and do the heavy lifting for everyone."

"Including lifting heavy coin purses," said the team rogue. "We can lighten your load real easy."

"Don't. Do that. To wizards," said the team mage. "You remember last time?"

The rogue mumbled something about a diamond turning into a rat and folded their arms.

"It's not _nice_ to trifle with a wizard," said Charm. "Wizards are quick to anger and might think you look good as a toad."

"Already noted and logged," said the rogue.

"It's fine, I've already trained them," whispered the team mage. "They know better than to stick their curious little fingers into allies' pockets."

"...after the third time," mumbled the rogue.

"I just have one question," said the cleric.

"Yes?"

"Did you try _knocking_?"

There was a moment of how-dare-you silence as everyone glared at the cleric. After a further moment's thought, Charm said, "D'oh!"

#  Challenge #307: Mislaid

"Did anyone see a tank?"

"What colour was it?" – Anon Guest

"Bright flakking red," said Human Jen. Like all things that came from a Human's mouth, it was difficult to tell whether that was sarcasm, a joke, or the truth. This was something of a hindrance in a Military Replica Driving Range.

Thorkak took a deep, cleansing breath, and tried again, "For clarity of understanding, are you searching for a mechanical tank, a fish tank, or a garment tank?"

Human Jen smacked himself on the forehead. "Oh yeah. Duh. Garment tank. I swear someone's creatively borrowing my free day clothes. When I find them, I'm putting itching powder in all their underwear."

This, considering Human Jen's usual gaseous threats of, _filling their bed with walnuts, carving their heart out with a spoon[78], or merely, _set all their ringtones to a rickroll,_ was not a threat to be taken very seriously. Thorkak considered hir co-workers in the Arena of Simulated War[79] and logically came up with the most viable suspect. It was mating season for the Kikrio, this time of year. "Have you asked Rittiti?"

"Rittiti," snarled Human Jen and stalked off.

In a few minutes, there was a distant, "Oi! Asshole!"

One problem solved. The next problem was working out how work-a-day schlubs managed to mislay neon-painted military ordinance with GPS tracking and auto-return features installed.

[78] It's blunt, therefore the action will hurt more.

[79] Formerly the Mock Battlegrounds, formerly Shoot the Shit.

#  Challenge #308: Forewarned is...

Humans love things that explode. "Ooh look! fireworks." – Anon Guest

Things that Humans love that go bang in various ways: a list compiled by non-Humans.

1. Popping candy. Effervescent crystals encapsulated in chocolate and sugar. When dissolving in saliva, produce a crackling sensation in the mouth and sinuses. Harmful to those with theobromine sensitivity, but otherwise mostly harmless. Offensensitivity rating: low.

2. Popcorn. Grains originating from the American continents, heated until the water inside the grains bursts through their own hard casing. Consumed once the explosions cease. Harmless carbohydrate, easy for all species to consume. Preparation not recommended for class three or above Havenworlders. Offensensitivity rating: low to medium.

3. Carbonic acid beverages in sealed containers. Mixtures of sweetener, flavourings, and carbonic acid in containers that must be ruptured in order for consumption to occur. May not always go bang, but sudden, violent eruptions of air may occur. Further, small explosions of carbon dioxide gas are to be expected. Acid content not recommended for class four or above Havenworlders. Offensensitivity rating: low [See corollary file: Mentos]

4. Champagne. Alcoholic, carbonated beverage in a sealed container. Removing seal often causes loud bang, can cause eruption of beverage fountain if associated humans desire the same. Acid content not recommended for class four or above Havenworlders. Sudden noise from seal removal not recommended for class two or above Havenworlders. Offensensitivity rating: medium.

5. Balloons. Latex bags filled with pressurised gas. Not meant to go bang, but Humans will cause explosions with no predictability. Often present at Human parties. Not recommended for class two or above Havenworlders. Offensensitivity rating: medium to high.

6. Party Poppers. Small, contained explosions designed to propel chaff in aimed directions. The chaff in question is either streamers or glitter. Usually present during Human parties. Not recommended for class two or above Havenworlders. Offensensitivity rating: medium.

7. Fireworks. Rockets designed to explode in an artistic fashion, replete with colour, sparkles, and shapes. Sudden, loud noises are unavoidable. Not recommended for class two or above Havenworlders. Offensensitivity rating: medium to high.

There was an extended entry entitled, _Just blowing shit up_ which explained that Humans generally loved explosions and frequently featured them in their recorded entertainments, their weapons, and their wars. Humans included _recreational_ explosions in their celebratory activities. Sometimes, humans made explosions as a _hobby_.

If a human went through the day without something violent happening, it was probably a small miracle. Yet they were also, largely, the most careful and understanding of the Deathworlders known to the Galactic Alliance. They were a paradox.

The only hazard her Human bodyguard would pose, according to the entry on the species, was an occasional lapse into _sarcastic condescension_. Which would only occur if her assigned Human got 'snippy'. According to this profile, T'chioriz's guardian Human would pose no such threat; though there was a warning for handling. Humans liked to grab and hold cute creatures, and T'chioriz had many features that a Human may class as 'cute'.

Thusly, she wore a battle-ready livesuit when meeting Human Gaz for the first time.

She expected the bulky livesuit. She expected the enormous stature and heavy footfalls. She did _not_ expect the squeal.

"Aaaaw, you're _adorable_! Lookit da fluffy liddle ears..." they cleared their throat. "Apologies. Uh. Your appearance goes straight to my protective instincts."

Oh good. They had self-restraint.

#  Challenge #309: Terms of Combat Have Changed

A single inescapable fact is that humanity united with infinitely greater purpose in pursuit of war than they ever did in pursuit of peace. – Anon Guest

Humans are not good at sharing, they say. Their origin planet was divided into thousands of groups identifying themselves with borders, religion, and culture to define battling clusters. When all of those were in common, lines divided amongst economic, gender identity, skin tone, and creedic boundaries.

All it took was one contact with visiting alien life for all of those to no longer matter. Peace on Earth only came about with the identification of someone Distinctly Other. Only then did the nation-identities of Earth merge into one, solid unit. Allied against the outsider.

One can only imagine their disappointment when they discovered that the greater portions of the Galactic Alliance had next to zero interest in invading, conquering, or purchasing a Deathworld that was close to ruin due to the actions of its original cogniscent inhabitants. Further, several colonial planets wished to have serious discussions in regards to Terra's stated 'garbage dump' policy of treating wormholes as a solution to 'problem groups'.

Those problem groups had survived, pissed off and cockroach-like, to achieve polity with the Galactic Alliance, and were now bringing lawyers to the negotiations table.

Terra had thought they were problems _before_ they dumped them down a wormhole. It hadn't seen anything yet.

Humanity did, eventually, have its wars with outer space. They were not fought with lasers and explosions. They were not fought with enormous fleets of battleships. They were not fought with space marines on distant planets that looked amazingly like quarries. They were, disappointingly, fought in courtrooms.

The assembled colonies of the United Fellowship of Terran Planets had a class action suit against the planet that essentially abandoned them to their own devices. Having many of the 'garbage' groups doing far better than Terra merely rubbed salt into the extant wounds to Terra's pride.

#  Challenge #310: It's a Bit Like Bognor

Humans have 3 states of existence. Yes, No, and hold my drink. – Anon Guest

Thax had never met a Human before, but it was highly advisable that she get one for her expedition into the Edge Territories. The information available was... incredibly scant. Well. The information that wasn't also attached to an offensensitivity warning.

_Humans have three states of existence,_ it said, _Yes, No, and "Hold My Drink"._ They were Deathworlders, but they were also classed as "Mostly Harmless" until provoked. There was a long and boggling list of things that could provoke Humans, ordered from most likely to least likely to cause a hostile reaction.

Having read only twenty percent of it, Thax decided to have a bodyguard for her meeting with her _potential_ bodyguard for her journey into more hazardous territories than Whaddahell Station.

Everyone was in their Minimal Livesuits as a matter of etiquette. So many species had so many communicable diseases that could lay waste to populations; so the prudent and polite thing to do was to keep one's own viral biota to oneself. Thax attempted to stay calm in the middle of three cogniscents who could, if they chose to, squash her flat. She tried not to think about two out of three of them being on her side against a potentially dangerous Deathworlder.

This one wore a mostly clear body-sheath livesuit, which displayed the physical nature of the Human within it. Like most Humans known to the Galactic Alliance, this one had a brown hue to their skin, though this one was dappled with both lighter and darker patches. They had hazard-coloured Skins on under their livesuit and Thax could see why.

This was one of those Deathworlders who modified their body.

Art had been added to their skin, a process that involved multiple, rapid injections of ink into the epidermis by way of tiny needles. Pieces of metal went through the cartilage of one ear, and both earlobes had been extended outwards with colourful disks. They had also chemically altered their hair. Dying it virulent colours that looked like they could supply their own illumination.

According to their physiognomy, they were female. A distinct and unnerving departure from the dimorphism in Thax's own species.

When she spoke, Thax expected a gruff and harsh voice. Thax expected incorrectly.

"Hello, pretty birdie," she cooed. "My name's Zo. Can you pronounce that, or would you like something easier?" She had pitched and modulated her voice into perfectly soothing and gentle tones. Just right for a Deathworlder communicating with a Havenworlder.

Thax recentered herself. Humans were Deathworlders. They were also the best Deathworlders for protecting Havenworlders against the slings and arrows of a cruel universe. An irony that was not lost on most species coming into the Edge Territories. They were frail, and they knew it. The Galactic Alliance was safe, but the most scientifically interesting stuff always happened on the edges, where things were generally less so.

"I can pronounce Zo," Thax allowed. "Thank you for accommodating me."

Human Zo was careful to smile with her mouth closed. "It's not a problem. I've worked with Galactics before. I have my own home pod that can dock with most Galactic ships, so I can keep my refreshments out of your preferred atmosphere."

This counted as a good mark on her profile. "My information is limited access. Can you please clarify the three states of Human, stated as 'yes', 'no', and 'hold my drink'?"

Human Zo covered her mouth as she laughed. "That is a... cynical way of putting it. To clarify... 'yes' is the mode in which a Human is enthusiastic about a course of actions. 'No' is the mode in which a Human will stubbornly resist a course of actions. 'Hold my drink' is a mode in which a Human has come up with a potentially dangerous course of actions that have unexpected consequences, and a high likelihood of disturbing Havenworlders like you." It took some time to spot, but she had shaped her teeth. The ends of her frontal dentin had square zig-zags cut into them. For the record, I attempt to stay in the 'yes' region."

"And the -er- modifications?"

"My choice, of course. They make me feel powerful and like a bad-ass." She flexed her ample muscles. "Helps that it throws off a lot of the toughs out there. Nobody messes with me much."

Thax had heard the term 'preventative camouflage' but had never encountered anything that fit it until this moment.

"I have testimonials," Human Zo offered, sharing a series of endorsements from others that she had escorted through the Edge. "What's your gig?"

Thax had to check her slanguage dictionary. Gig, an event in which Humans perform, either artistically, or as a service to others. "This shouldn't be much more than a standard escort mission. I am surveying a planetoid in the orbit of the star #2EC-JIM90."

"The star system Jim? Anything in the Goldilocks zone or are you looking at the outliers?"

"Er..." another consultation with her apps. "We are specifically looking at the fourth planet from that star."

"Yeah, we should be cool. I know some people in the station between there and the third. I can swing you clearance. Odds are, what you're after isn't what we're after."

The whole star system had been marked as Extremely Hazardous to Life. "There are Humans living there?" Thax yawped.

"Got a baby colony on the second planet, and a station out between third and fourth. Nothing big. Mining, mostly. The should be okay with it. Fourth planet's a bit of a shithole right now."

Thax had to wonder, given the Human presence already there, what the Deathworlders would consider _unpleasant_.

#  Challenge #311: Sententiam Dei

War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.- gesh xenobiologist – Anon Guest

[AN: Since the Gesh are someone else's IP, I can't slot them into my Universe, but I know nothing of this world, so...]

Call me Combat. Since the first RNA chains struggled to combine in the first primordial ooze, I have _been_. I have not been engaged in activity, I just... existed. Divinities do not say, _I think, therefore I am_. They say, _I am that I am_.

I am. I am fight. I am battle. I am... War.

For countless millennia, I watched and fed myself from the small creatures that struggled against the environment, that struggled against predators. That struggled against each other for more, for better, for another hour... I watched as creatures grew, competed, fought to eat. Fought to live. I watched cataclysm after cataclysm wipe the slate clean.

Then, a new development. Some creatures became smarter. They created. They thought. With thought, came... hate. They had reasoning, so they made reasons to make battle with others of their own kind. Because they were from far away, because the hue of their skin was different, because they were there.

Never before had I known such a luxurious feast. Battle with _reasoning_ behind it is the most wonderful thing. Their reasons are spurious, of course. Skin colour, creed, legal systems... they're all the same kind, but they fight because of these reasons anyway. They fight to have the most of their tokens of exchange.

It's ridiculous and I love it. Their tokens aren't even based on material wealth. They're imaginary numbers that don't even matter. Those who have the most could easily solve all the reasons for battle in the world, they could destroy me with a finger... but they don't, because their greed is such that having _more_ is always better.

I love them.

I love them so much.

I find ways to influence them, here and there. They don't need very much encouragement to hate and fight. Just _them_ being different from _us_ and that being a great offence to all right-thinking citizens everywhere. There are _so_ many right-thinking citizens on all sides.

These creatures make me. They feed me. They worship me. They _play_ with me on their clever devices. They dream me. I love them.

I love them, but if they continue in the way they are going...

Well.

They are doomed.

#  Challenge #312: Ante-Shattering Presents...

a documentary series by an alien film crew about the cultures of pre-shattering nations of earth

this week Americans.

loud, obnoxious, wildly opinionated, and with a cultural love of guns so deep that it never left. – Anon Guest

A warning to all Havenworlders: This feature contains footage of Deathworlders, containing Deathworlders, and about Deathworlders. It is intended as a cultural analysis of pre-Shattering Terran identity groups. This episodes contains multiple explosions, loud Humans acting in violent ways, and portrayals of open hostility amongst members of the same species.

Ante-Shattering Presents: North America - the United States.

There is one national identity built on lies, forged in genocide and enslavement, that purported to stand for freedom in all its forms. Despite being discovered by several other nationalities in the past, the residents picked a man with poor mathematics skills who never actually set foot on the main land mass as the individual who discovered it. Chief amongst those neglected parties were the people who were already living there, in civilisations more advanced than the invaders.

Like most colonial offshoots of the European area (link to earlier episode included), colonisation began with accidental, then deliberate efforts of genocide against the native populations. Relegating the natives to the least-valued land and consequently blaming them for their own oppression. Campaigns against the natives included obliterating the food-supply, excising the young from their heritage and culture, and varying degrees of germ warfare. (link to file: European Colonialism Standard Operating Procedure)

Colonial Humans in the national identity have a long history of ignoring treaties forged with the natives of the region. Therefore, it should have been no surprise that this national identity had no intention of maintaining any of the treaties it forged with other national identities. And yet... it was.

(Censored for offensensitivity: extended footage of war. Ensure Mediks are prepared and ready before viewing)

Most of these wars are the direct result of actions from previous leaders in the United States national identity. This must therefore lead to a discussion on the topic of _democracy_. In a normal or 'proper' democracy, the entire population decides who shall lead them based on political promises. The winner is the leader who gains the most votes and, therefore, the will of the people.

Humanity, with its innate desire to win the most counters by any means possible, has messed with this. In this national identity, this has included such tactics as forbidding certain subgroups of their own group from voting (images of suffragettes, images of Native Americans, images of African-Americans, images of prisoners), gerrymandering so that the group in power stays in power by technicalities, removing registered voters from the lists of people eligible to vote, and the much-maligned electoral college.

Polarisation of political sides in a two-party system where money was allowed as a method of free speech only assisted in the de-evolution of their leadership system from democracy to oligarchy within the span of four decades. Encouraging hatred and vitriol between the political sides, an increasing gap between the wealthy and everyone else, and increasing heinous acts by the wealthy lead to only one conclusion. A second civil war.

Ironically, just like the first World War (link to earlier episode included), attempting to stave off the inevitable only made it worse. This combined with the ecological upsets of the early twenty-first century almost wiped out the population of the entire northern continent. Of course, it also almost wiped out the entire population of the world, which is one of the blind spots of this particular national identity. Like most national identities, it only cares about itself.

Following the ecological revolution and the vital necessity of natural energy use, Humanity discovered the abundance of one-way wormholes lying between the Terran and Martian orbits. Which began cycle after cycle of Humanity in general and this national identity in particular to use them as dumping grounds following the initial spate of 'bold exploration' with dubious results.

The official end of the United States as an identity occurred sometime within the twenty-sixth century, Terran calendar, with the fall of the last of the oligarchs in a violent and bloody revolution that saw the global institution of the wage ceiling. By this time, an awareness of other civilisations in the universe had begun. Humanity as a whole began to unify in preparation for more war against a genuine outsider.

This broadcast is proud to announce that Humans have yet to find what they expected.

#  Challenge #313: Plot Thwart

"In my defense I'm not used to people listening when I speak." – OohLookShiny

"In our defense," said Wraithvine, "you were the first of us to come up with a workable plan."

"Wasn't that workable," sighed Marvin. "We failed."

Lady Anthe, also chained to the wall of the dungeon, was smiling. Always be wary when a Kobold is smiling. "I wouldn't say that. We got into the castle. Objective one went without a hitch."

"Uuuuhhh," said Marvin. "I'm missing the part where we seamlessly move to, say, Objective two: warn the monarch about the coup."

"They took all my spell ingredients," complained Wraithvine. "It's a little difficult to do anything heavier than a cantrip without them."

"That's fine," Lady Anthe was still grinning. "Just float over one of your hairpins and I'll have us out of here in half an hour, tops."

Marvin boggled at her. "And you didn't do this last night, because...?"

"We all needed a long rest," said Lady Anthe, ignoring the faces Wraithvine made as ze removed a hairpin. "The guards needed to relax about foiling the threat, and you were both knocked out with that sleep gas. I'm not big enough to drag you two out of a dungeon."

The hairpin had one of Wraithvine's silky hairs caught in it. Just enough to burn a Luck spell, which was exactly what Anthe needed to pick a lock with a hairpin.

"Your hands are shackled," said Wraithvine. "You can't reach the lock..."

Anthe was still grinning. Her hand might hold the pin, but her tail was the limb that took it to the lock. "They always forget that Kobolds have prehensile tails. Now shoosh, please. I need to concentrate."

Two years ago? Maybe as many as three, when she was skulking around the gutters and afraid of the world? She'd have never thought of telling a wizard to shoosh. She couldn't even appreciate Wraithvine's expression because her eyes were closed so she could concentrate on the feel of the lock.

Luck helped. Her lock clicked and Anthe was out of her predicament in seconds. Once she had her eyes and her hands, she could work on her friends' chains that much quicker. With timing and teamwork, they were soon in the secret, disused servants' tunnels, with just enough egress for two people with baskets to pass each other. The fashion for having the servants unseen had faded into obscurity and the byways were largely forgotten by most. Monarchs with uneasy crowns remembered their histories and bricked up any throughways they found.

No such rulers had come through this kingdom for quite some time, so Wraithvine, Anthe, and Marvin found their way into the Child Queen's bedchamber by morning.

She was seven years old, and still slept with a teddy bear. The fact that she was honest, true, and starting to exercise her power with responsibility was something her visier had an argument with. The man wanted the power, but was smart enough to not want the throne. Therefore, he had a successor with a much more pliable mind waiting in the wings for the Child Queen to conveniently die.

The assassin hired by the visier was very surprised to find a cohort of adventurers waiting for him. They were even more surprised to be knocked out and tied up.

The Queen was not at all shocked to find a hog-tied assassin and a cohort of adventurers waiting her convenience in her chambers.

However, the visier and his easily-duped spare heir were _very_ surprised to find the palace guards dragging them out of their beds, first thing in the morning. The reserve heir was even more surprised to hear his trusted friend the visier sell him out in a cold second.

Marvin got the sack of gold as payment for the groups' services. It was, after all, his idea.

#  Challenge #314: Cute, Fluffy, Deadly

The survey leader folded hir forelimbs and radiated annoyance. "It is small, furry, and completely unarmed. The worst it can do is a scratch." Insectoid faces don't easily show annoyance, but this one made a determined effort. "What are you afraid of, getting an owie on your boo-boo?" – Anon Guest

First rule of Deathworlder animals - there is no such thing as harmless.

First Invader G'thaz was among the first to discover that to hir detriment. The creature known to the natives as _Possum_ , subclass _Ringtail_ , focussed intently on G'Thaz's primary gripclaw and clambered up it, sniffing all the way.

"See?" said First Invader G'thaz, unaware that ze was moments away from impending disaster. "It doesn't even recognise us as a threat." Before G'thaz could take another breath, the _possum_ clearly recognized hir as food by taking a huge chunk out of hir primary limb.

The creature reacted to G'thaz's shrieks by leaping for hir face in an unexpected ball of claws, teeth and fury. The rest of the Invader squadron scattered, planning to regroup at their ship once they had confounded the enemy. Alas, they did not know that Australia was practically a class five Deathworlder environment in a class 3.5 planet.

The Australian wilderness _eats_ unprepared tourists. It will sometimes devour those who are used to the area. A combination of confounding terrain, extreme temperatures, pitfalls camouflaged by deciduous vegetation remnants, venomous nearly everything, poisonous everything else, highly combustible flora, highly aggressive fauna, and incredibly deceptive valleys prone to flash flooding, has spelled the end for many before the Zabroxi Invader ship.

They weren't found for years. By then, there was little left of their bodies as Deathworlder lifeforms find species of a lower level to be very tasty indeed. Scattered battle armour and degraded technology, burned and melted by numerous bushfires, was almost unrecognisable as a lost scouting troop. Between the possums, dingoes, and insects, there weren't any bodily remains left.

Only the Invader Scout pod, left on idle and restoring its batteries with ambient energies, held any record of who had been there and what they were there for. That record included the last moments of the fifteen Zabroxi Invaders who had foolishly come to Australia _for the challenge_.

What was left of the Invaders, their pod, their records, and their armour, was respectfully returned to the Zabroxi, who had since learned their lesson about messing with Terrans. The entire bundle came with a very Terran message.

"You gotta watch out in Australia, mate."

#  Challenge #315: Better Than Greatest

The golden Djinn smiled . "I hereby grant you the greatest gift of them all – immortality!"

Sara, covered in her enemies blood, while bleeding quite a bit themself, thought fast as they brought out their last fast energy chocolate bar.

"I'm flattered, really. But can I think about it first?" – Anon Guest

The Djinn didn't understand. Of course they didn't. They were used to life without an end. They had no real long-term consequences to life decisions, because their health was immutable. Their life was unending, and they could magic anything into reality if they so wished. They had no need of food, nor companionship, nor any sense of mourning.

Djnn had no concept of anything ending, other than the general idea was bad. Immortality was therefore the greatest gift they could extend towards any mortal creature. Djinn were dimly aware that mortality had endings, and thought that that was a bad way to arrange things. They didn't know any better.

"Let's get this straight," said Sara. "I don't mind living. Living _forever_ promises to be a box of barnacles. I mean... do I age like a human when I'm immortal? Is it perpetual youth? What if I have some disease that makes me suffer... _forever_. What if I change my mind so many hundred years down the line? How much can I learn? Do I forget? Will I be stuck in a particular level of understanding as the universe moves on around me? If the scientific community notices and tries to cut me up to find out how it works - will I live through that? Just bits of me in preserving jars, feeling that pain forever? How do injuries work? Do they heal or do they stay like that?"

"Er," said the Djinn, who clearly hadn't thought to ask any of those questions. "It's... immortality? What's not to love?"

"The cost?" said Sara. "Watching everyone you love age and die. Watching the world spin away from anything you understand. Seeing everything you knew fall by the wayside. I mean... I need air. What kind of immortality is it when the Earth burns? If I'm out in space, how nice is it to be without air for the rest of eternity? If I fall into a sun, a black hole, what happens then?"

"Oh," said the Djinn, and, "shit. Yes. That is a problem. You're fully corporeal..." They appeared stunned. "Well. I'd never thought of this before. Huh. Guess you fleshy types are a lot different to what I know."

Sara refrained from saying, _Yeah, no shit, sherlock._ This was, after all, a phantasmal being of ultimate cosmic power. Pissing off someone like that was never advisable. "Listen," she said, "I'd be quite satisfied with being able to acquire anything I need with ease for the rest of my natural life."

"That's... a rather humble wish," allowed the Djinn.

"It's a rather fucked up economy," answered Sara.

#  Challenge #316: Dread Deity

Praise be to the Tiny Snake God! – TheDragonsFlame

Praise to Hyerish, the Dread Serpent. Fear that they judge you unworthy. Brave you must be to approach them. Sure of your heart, you need be, to lay your hand upon them.

The words ring the temple, where Hyerish resides. There is a definite snake motif in the decorations on it, in the tableaus and certainly on the clothing and body decorations of the local populace. The local populace who just happened to be the most fearsome warriors in the world, they never feared death because they had faced it in faith and passed its test, blessed be Hyerish...

Only the highest of the High Priests, the members of the secret sanctum, knew the ancient history of how the Snake God came to be the reigning deity of the region. It was there that the heroes gathered to know of Hyerish and report to the distant monarch of Fawaci as to whether or not these people and lands were a danger to her, her subjects, or her kingdom. So it was there, after some mandatory and difficult questing that the wandering heroes came to rest, recuperate, and listen as the most senior sage and the most junior member of the Sanctum related their secret histories.

Centuries, nay, millennia prior, their land had welcomed all the gods in multiple temples. Alas, not one of those gods heard the wailing pleas of the people, for they were under the thrall of a terrible dictator...

Once a year, the dictator would go to every new temple and challenge the god there to a test. The priest would give it, and he would pass it, thus claiming superiority over even the gods themselves. That is, until the final year of his terrifying reign, when he came to the humble hut that was the new church of Hyerish. There, he demanded the challenge according to custom.

The head and only priest of Hyerish brought forth a basket from the humble altar and said, "Greet my god."

Inside the basket was a snake barely half a cubit long. Slender and speckled in bright, flowery colours, and curled up asleep.

The tyrant plunged his hand into the basket and grasped the snake in a rough grip. The snake, sacred avatar of Hyerish, did not like that and bit the tyrant on his thumb. He died before he could scoff at the apparent weakness of such a serpent god.

The prettier the snake, the deadlier the venom.

That avatar's descendants live in the temple to this day, and the devotees pass their test of courage by greeting their god. None who survive greet them as roughly as the ancient tyrant once did.

#  Challenge #317: Been There, Done That

Alien: "WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE CRASH LANDED ON YOUR HOME PLANET!?"

Human: "I mean we are on Earth, my home, somewhere in Central Africa...I think."

Alien: "We are doomed"

Human: "No we're not. Don't worry, I'll teach you everything there is to know about surviving on a Deathworld, we'll be fine." – Anon Guest

Human Yoss clambered up the wreckage of their vessel. The bad news was that they were in the middle of flakk-off nowhere with busted comms. The good news was that the landscape was vaguely familiar as savannah. The really bad news was that there was no obvious water anywhere in sight.

"Okay," sighed Yoss. "Good news, bad news, possibly disturbing news, and optimistic news."

Grex couldn't roll hir eyes, but ze knew the shape of the news regardless. "I think I can guess," ze said. "You know where we are, but it's extremely distant from anywhere Havenworlder-friendly. There's wild animals in the scenery, but you think you know what you're doing and can get us out of here."

Yoss grinned. "You read my mind."

Grex tucked hir wings up and grumbled, "I'm getting to see the larger pattern in your thought processes. Step one is going to be salvaging all my anti-stress medications."

"Already on it," Yoss could go into places that a Havenworlder like Grex couldn't. Emergency packs and supplies amounted to twenty days' worth, even on hard use. "We got twenty days to get to somewhere that could help," said Yoss. "I can forage a little, but you... you need easy-to-digest stuff and none of that is what I can find out here. That's why you get the supply packs by default."

"I don't have my livesuit in a functional state," said Grex.

"Yeah, but it's armour. That's good. The great news is that most predators out here know that Humans are dangerous, so they won't mess with us. The great news is that I can keep us moving for really long distances over long periods of time."

"The bad news?"

"If I pick the wrong direction, then we might be screwed. South is better than North. East and West are pretty much even. If we find running water, then we're almost all the way saved. If we just find water, then I have the distillery kit so we can refresh. It's going to take me today to build you a travel harness to ride, but after that? We're off."

They built a smoky fire, just in case some teams had mobilised to find them. Yoss continued their work rather than waiting for rescue. When the light faded, they used the crashed ship as shelter and kept the fire burning brightly through the night.

The following morning had Yoss making an isosceles triangle out of stones on some bare dirt. Pointing in the direction of the greenest patch of land that they'd spotted from the vantage point of the highest point they could clamber to. Yoss gave Grex the scopes and the job of spotting hazards, and began a gentle, easy trot.

Grex learned a lot of things about Humans, during the five days they trekked. First of which being that their pareidolia was a survival trait. Yoss often veered away from predators before Grex could even see them. Yoss' advice was mostly things to do, rather than the reasoning why.

The green was not an oasis of groundwater, but the edge of a river. Once a river gave the direction -downstream- Yoss' prediction about being 'almost all the way saved' became obviously accurate. Human settlements came naturally to flowing, fresh water. Even the most remote of outposts had comms and it wasn't long before transport came to whisk them both to far safer civilisation.

Grex reviewed the footage from hir cams, with pareidolia filters to highlight what the Humans could easily see. Ze also ran through the list of things that could have killed hir, knowing that Human Yoss had kept hir safe.

Realisation was slow, because ze had to approach it in small doses, but it came nevertheless. _I survived a Class Four Deathworlder environment._

If Grex could wear T-shirts, ze would definitely get one with that declarative legend on it.

#  Challenge #318: 'Tis the Season

The Harvest moon fills the sky

A wicked witch goes flying by

Ghosts and goblins..skeletons too.

Moaning and groaning, waiting for you

Black cats prowl the graveyard plots

Witches cook in cauldron pots

Cemetery ghouls roam the ground

Not one unopened grave is found

Tombstones are an eerie sight

Shadows dance in full moon light

The haunted house on the hill

Walk in there and you get a chill

Jack-o-lanterns eyes so bright

Trick or Treaters scream in fright

It's a time like you've never seen

Tonight's the night of Halloween. – Anon Guest

[AN: Apologies for the catastrophe(s) that occurred to mess with the timing of this post]

The office of the Ambassador for 1986 had broken out in bats, gourds, candles, and fake cobwebs. The waiting lounge's entertainment screen was apparently running through a playlist that had dredged through every non-offensive, 'spooky', or 'creepy' 2-D non-interactive entertainment that Shayde had caught up with since her incredibly peculiar exile from Earth.

Her desk had a bowl of assorted sugar items on it, all individually wrapped in deference to Station anti-contamination laws. The bowl was a ludicrously fake plastic skull with googly eyes instead of sockets.

Rael took a deep breath. Centred himself. Filched a sugar object in the shape of a spider. "Shayde," he said eventually... "What the actual flakk?"

She had a big, cheesy grin that showed off her fangs and was showing all the signs of being on a sugar high. "It's almost Halloween, innit?"

Rael ran the mental math necessary to sync up with the current Terran calendar. "It's _August_ on Earth."

"Aye, end of August's practic'ly September ye ken," she said, "and after tha', October's on. Perfectly good time tae put yer plastic skeletons on t' lawn."

Slow realisation dawned. "You're one of those people who are _way_ into a holiday that only occurs during one _evening_. Aren't you?"

"I'm thinkin' o' bein' Ren from _The Adventure Zone_ for me costume. Who are _you_ plannin'?"

Rael had no idea who that was and, at this point, was too afraid to ask. "You're one of those _cosplayers_ who are way too enthusiastic..." he realised in horror.

"Worse. I'm ace, so tha' makes me queer[80]. That, and I played dee an' dee, and hung aroun' wi' theatre kids. I'm a triple threat, me."

Which neatly explained why she was so very, very overboard. That type were still around, but there were so many opportunities for their unique brand of fun that they often exhausted themselves in the enjoyment of them. "I don't celebrate."

In three words, he instantly became a strange being beyond Shayde's capacity for comprehension. "What the heck is wrong wi' goin' aboot an' snaggin' free candy tae ye?"

"The fact that there aren't entire communities who know what's going on? You need neighbourhoods who celebrate to make your treat-or-tricking worthwhile."

"Trick or treat," Shayde corrected. "Threat before goal. Okay?"

"And there's the other reason. I have priorities that make that difference sink in."

"I'm still celebratin'," Shayde insisted. "I'm celebratin' me flakkin' socks off. All day in me costume, handin' out treats tae any as is allowed. And then an all-night marathon wi' you an' enough caramel popcorn tae kill a horse."

What had the horses done to make _them_ the yardstick for toxicity? Rael shook his head and took another candy.

[80] All arguments to the contrary are going to be ignored. Aces belong in the LGBT community more than "allies".

#  Challenge #319: Terrifying Obstacles

(Person 1) (Quietly): So now we have to somehow get across this _long metal hallway_ without making _any noise_. How are we gonna do this?

(Person 2): _Pulls out (very long) rolled-up carpet from their backpack_ – TheDragonsFlame

Marvin looked down at Lady Anthe and the carpet that was still unfurling down the metal hallway. "Really?" he whispered. "Are you prepared for everything?"

"I like to be," she whispered, grinning as the final tassels landed with a soft 'thwup'. It didn't set off a single alarm. "Carpet muffles, but it doesn't silence. Walk stealthily."

Wrathvine and Marvin nodded. Of course they had to tread carefully. This entire, labyrinthine warren was a wall-to-wall death trap. They had narrowly survived more than a few of them. They wanted, intensely, to avoid having to narrowly survive any more of them.

Lady Anthe, looking for traps, took the lead. Wraithvine, detecting magic, followed carefully behind. This left Marvin to carefully practice his cat-like tread by slowing his movement.

It took an hour to traverse a hallway sixty feet long. Finding and carefully disarming every single trap along the way. It was only after that that they encountered the worst thing an adventuring company could ever encounter.

An unlocked door. Standing very slightly ajar.

#  Challenge #320: Pass the Ductape and Praise the Powers

"Well yeah, it works, but could it be better?" at this point groaning wasn't stopping the human from trying – Anon Guest

There are two kinds of Humans, though debates abound as to which kinds those two are. In this case, though, the division is between those who say, "What the flakk, it runs," and those who say, "Yes, I know it's working perfectly fine, but what if it worked _better_ than that?" Human Andi was one among the latter.

Like most Humans in the Edge territories, there was something of a learning curve when encountering approved Galactic Territories technology. Unfortunately for most Galactics, Humans pick up on things with alarming rapidity. Humans are naturally curious and many choose to understand complicated components of stellar drives out of little else but pure fascination.

When Human Andi had nothing else to do, they hung out with the ships' engineers. Every single ship they were on, they learned about. When asked why, they would explain in Broken Galstand that the engine was the most important part of getting from A to B without winding up as a chromatic smear at unplanned, sudden stop C. When put like that, most of those who travelled with Human Andi couldn't object. They could and frequently _did_ object when Human Andi started interfering with things.

"It's all in perfect working order," complained the Engineer.

"Yes, and can putting back together when done. Is just some power adaptions being superfluous. If getting rid of heat dump, can ramp this thing up, point five cee."

"We need the heat dump or the wiring will melt!"

"No, see. If putting direct conduit along vacuum, the heat cooling engine and after, you just needing insulation on wiring. We close enough to hull that conduction taking care of most waste heat. You really wanting vent it into atmospheric conditioners?" Human Andi gestured at the current rigging. "Most of it getting lost in pipes. Wasteful."

"No. No! It's efficient. We use the excess heat all over the ship. Pipes warm, we're warm."

"Difference negligible. You watching. Andi fix."

"Andi, no..."

"Andi yes."

The most annoying part was, ninety-nine percent of the time, Human Andi was correct. It was the outlying one percent that was the doozy. Ending in explosions, a cheerful, "Whoops," and once Human Andi had picked themselves out of the smouldering wreckage, the announcement of, "Thinking knowing where went wrong!"

Wherever Human Andi went, they came with a warning for Captains and crew to be certain that they had a spare engine for Human Andi to practice on.

#  Challenge #321: The Wrong Kind of Smart

"Look, it's very simple. Knowledge equals power, right? So it makes much more sense to reward people who are well educated, as well as people who can help apply that education for the benefit of everyone else."

"They ask too many questions." – Anon Guest

Knowledge may be power, but an education is like a disease. As soon as you've got one, there's a compelled desire to spread it around. It's one of the reasons why you find oligarchies, plutocracies, theocracies, monocracies, democracies... but no educhrocies. That, and you need a certain, specific kind of stupidity to want control over an entire country in the first place.

This is why people who are thrust into power generally do better than those who strive for it. Once the power is obtained, the corollary responsibility sneaks up from behind with consequences instead of daggers. People who are educated learn this, and studiously attempt to avoid such things.

Then there's the paradox of attaining power whilst preventing others from reaching the same heights. A person with sufficient education does, indeed, want more of the same, but they also _share_. They share abundantly. They share indiscriminately. Sharing is their way of showing off. In the process of showing off, they disseminate small nuggets of power to anyone who cares to listen. Then there's the biggest problem with an educhrocy. Once a person is trained to ask questions, _they never stop_.

Awkward questions like, "Why _do_ rich people need more money?" or, "Why should we let children starve?" or, "How is autism worse than a disease that could literally kill a child?" or, "How did this particular chain of circumstances come to pass?" or even, "Why are you trying to tell me what to do without any research into a course of action that has proven to be problematic at best and self-defeating at worst?"

Knowledge is power, that is true.

For the viseers, the manipulators, and string-pullers, the _worst_ thing a ruler can be is _educated_.

For those who grasp at power and wish to keep it in any form, the smartest thing to do is to be certain that the populace never learns how to be that smart. Under-funding educational establishments is one tactic, so is being certain that only rigorous dogma is ever taught. Likewise, making certain that only the wealthy elite get taught how to ask _the right kind_ of questions.

Questions like, "How can I get away with making more money out of this?" are preferred over the other kind. That way, the rot keeps spreading until the inevitable revolution. Where the same question is asked as the elite are dragged towards a grisly end by the mob...

"How could this happen to _me_?"

A person with an _education_ could answer it. Then again, they would likely never need to ask it.

#  Challenge #322: Disturbing My Rest? Again?

"Why am I always either the meat shield or the distraction ?"

"Because you are the only one here that's immortal. And you got your regeneration thing."

"I may be immortal, but it doesn't change the fact that those pikes friggin hurt.... And it ruin my vest." – Anon Guest

Never let anyone tell you that immortality is a blessing. Anyone with a lick of sense knows that it is a curse. It's even worse if you're immortal _and_ an adventurer. Never mind how it happened, that has been lost to history. I could look it up in my library of diaries, but those chronicles are... disheartening.

Memory is limited. Love has expiry dates, even between immortals. Passion can thrill, but it can get monotonous. Every drug in existence isn't the thrill ride you may expect. After a couple of centuries, all you want to do is retire into a crypt and sleep until the end of the world. Worst of all are the adventurers who seek to use an immortal as - well - the irresistible force against the immovable object.

This small crowd were no different. They had bypassed all the safeguards on my crypt-fortress by sneaking in through a wall that used to be under a landslide. Evidently, the land slid away at some point. Thiranel the Eternal glared at them. They were almost a joke of a cohort. _An Elf, a Human, and Kobold walk into a tomb..._ Thiranel decided to skip the usual cliches and go straight to the meat of it. "Let me guess. A great peril endangers this world, and you have been sent to recruit my services for the ultimate battle."

"Er," said the Elf. "Yes. Spot on, actually."

"Lives are at stake," said the Kobold.

"Specifically, ours," said the Human.

Of course they were. "So the entire tomb loaded with traps, pitfalls, warnings, keep out signs and elemental guardians _wasn't enough of a hint_? I'm actually leaning on the side of _wanting_ the world to end at this point."

"The enemy is a life-stealing lich and might actually permanently kill you," said the Elf.

Thiranel stared at them. That deal was so amazing that he might actually bother to learn their names. "I am willing to take that chance," he said.

#  Challenge #323: Mutual Flailing With Shouting

"Good news Commander, there is a settlement with enough material to repair our ship, the inhabitant seems more curious than afraid, and they are more than willing to trade the needed materials for help with theirs infrastructure. Mainly a water purifying station and a basic energy production facilities."

"Do they understand GalStand ?"

"That's the tricky part... That's a Vorax settlement..." – Anon Guest

Can you imagine a surprise bigger than that? The Vorax have castes, and the most widely-known is the warrior caste. This settlement was the more peaceful farming caste, who worked with the trading caste to get technology from the tinkering caste. Members of the medical caste were scattered through all castes but the warriors, who believed in the nobility of battle.

They were, of course, more than a little speciesist, but that sort of reaction was natural in a group who literally never saw any other kind of creature but their own. Fortunately, they didn't even think of Galactics as a threat and allowed negotiations via a convenient trader vessel. Naturally, both sides of the negotiations table thought the other side had a terrible way of organising things and believed that their way was the only true way to keep things on an even keel.

_All_ societies believed that, of course. It's just that some were more forcibly insistent than others. Fortunately for both sides, they were willing to lay aside the insistence part of things so they could sort out the trading side of things. One good thing about caste societies was that the fractions understood that others' way of doing things made sense to _them_.

The other problem in the room was communication, which involved a certain amount of noun exchange with the occasional verb on a 'Me Tarzan' level. 'Water' was pretty solid. Explaining the adjectives like 'bad' and 'good' was something of a stumbling block. 'Make' was another. Apparently, the tinkering caste had fifteen words for kinds of creation and few for transforming. The farming caste, on the other hand, had twenty kinds of transformation.

This lead to a room full of science experiments and exchanges like, "Seeing this? Wanting this. Wanting _bigger_ this."

Communication is often difficult between species without the same concept space. The movement for 'scale this up' can also mean 'I want a hug' and 'make more' at the same time. It took two hours and some printed toys to understand the concept of 'scale this up' in a mutual way. It took four days for the farmer-Vorax to understand, through the trader-Vorax, that the crew wanted means to obtain clean food and water as a replacement to their broken systems.

It was almost like dealing with the Vikingr during the middle ages, if the Vikingr side viewed the other as not a 'properly' cogniscent being and a rather amusing barbarian attempting higher math. One expects a certain amount of a superiority complex from isolated monocultures.

Item printing technology was an interest to the trader Vorax. The ability to create items on demand may wreak hob with Vorax society in general. This was viewed as potentially a good thing, but the Captain at the time made the executive decision to only include tech and item patterns that the Vorax were already familiar with. If _they_ wanted to black-box galactic technology based on a description from someone who barely understood what someone else was explaining about it... then good luck to them.

This is widely endorsed as a good trade policy with species and societies outside of the Galactic Alliance. It's only a pity that Humans seemed to be unnervingly good at doing that.

All the same, when the ship was ready to return to the relative safety of the Edge Territories, they did so with a little more speed than strictly necessary. After all, some warrior Vorax could logically turn up at any moment for raid supplies.

#  Challenge #324: Don't Wanna Live Underground

"Graham, there's some very large lizards down here. We should leave."

"After I've gotten these mineral samples. Anyway, it's only a lizard, what's the problem?"

"Its jaws are around my ankle." – Anon Guest

Graham looked. This was just one among the many reasons why Planetary Survey Teams had combat-ready livesuits as part of their essential equipment. The lizard in question looked like a boa constrictor had somehow had children with a sarcosuchus and, owing to the subterranean environment, didn't have much in the way of eyeballs any more. They did, however, have whiskers, which was how one had found Sal.

Titanium-enriched, carbon fibre cerametal couldn't dent a combat-ready livesuit, so there was no way a giant albino snake-crocodile could get through one without also being cogniscent enough to disassemble it. Nevertheless, the creature insisted on persisting. The scraping sound its teeth made against Sal's boot was nails-on-the-chalkboard annoying, but otherwise all was relatively well.

"You know," said Graham, "this could be funny in the right circumstances."

"Flakk the right circumstances, we're under orders not to harm the native creatures. This little darling is gonna crack some teeth."

Graham sighed. "They're level twos. They should be able to withstand a brief mist of ascetic acid. Run a scan anyway, okay?"

Sal mumbled something uncomplimentary under hir breath. There was an eventual hiss of the liquid jets and the big lizard flailed away into the water from whence it came. "Flakkin'... Now we have to write this down as an unintentional encounter with justifiable defensive interaction."

Graham made a revolted noise in the back of her throat. Everyone hated paperwork. "So stay further from the water, genius."

"So... stand in your elbows or stand in the local flora that we're also not allowed to damage. Fan-flakkin'-tastic. I hate confined spaces for sample gathering."

"There's also literally hanging around on the ladder we used to get down here," suggested Graham.

"Did I mention recently how much I hate any kind of heights, Graham? Because I think I might have done that a few dozen times already."

Graham chuckled. "Yeah, you did that; and you're not allowed to leave me here on my own because of the subterranean crocopythons. Face it. This situation sucks."

"Join the UFTP PlanSurv," Sal muttered, quizzaciously sotto-voice. "The pay's fantastic and you get to see things nobody else has seen yet. It'll be such a blast. You'll have _so much_ fun..."

#  Challenge #325: Deal With the Deity

"I know that you are a higher being, like a god or something. But, for the love of everything that's sacred, can you please stop playing with the basic laws of physics for five minutes ?" – Anon Guest

"Aw, but it's fun," said the Roaming Deity. A gesture made the Kobold Rogue now known as Lady Anthe float up to the ceiling again.

She bobbed around with a very put-upon expression on her tiny, draconic features. She had only shrieked once, when this wandering minor god had first pulled this stunt. That was enough for them, unfortunately.

"Listen," said Wraithvine. "We already know we're merely mortal beings who are literally at your mercy... but you also need _us_. Deities need worshippers. Worship gives you power, and it gives you life. _We_ ... can be _your_ agents."

The Roaming Deity floated Anthe back down. "I could make you..."

"True," allowed Marvin. "But that kind of thing won't be genuine. People need a certain amount of reality. If you fake your way into having things... none of it has staying power. You'll... end up spending all your power making more people do what you want. If you let people choose... the power will be self-generating. 'Cause. Um." He trailed off.

Lady Anthe took over. "People who genuinely love share what they love with all the people they love. That's _more_ love with less effort from you. See how it works?"

The Roaming Deity squinted their eyes. "Sounds like a scam to get me to let you do whatever you want. Where's _my_ reward?"

"What kind of reward are you into?" said Wraithvine. "A temple? Tribute? Please don't say blood sacrifices. Those things are gross."

"I don't believe you'd do that for no reason..."

"We have a reason," said Lady Anthe. "You saved our asses. End of reason. Admittedly, most divine interference is usually invisible, but turning up in person?"

Wraithvine did that thing where people kiss the tips of their fingers as a gesture of appreciation. "Magnificent. Most people in the divinity business don't usually bother with personal appearances. They usually manifest a miracle or two. But you know what gets people in? Roadside temples."

"Dangerous passage, just barely made it through, and there's a temple, right there," elaborated Marvin. "Space enough for a moderate-sized travelling party to have an extended rest. A little altar with your picture involved because you might not be physically there. Someone prays in thanks..."

"You manifest some food and healing," added Lady Anthe. "Maybe a little vision of warning for the road ahead..."

"Those people will remember that," said Wraithvine. "They'll spread the word. Sooner or later, you'll have dedicated Clerics."

"They. Are. Fanatical," said Marvin. " _Always_ talking about their divine patron. Spreading the love everywhere they go."

"Like syphilis," added Lady Anthe. She realised that she'd said it the wrong way when everyone else glared at her. "Or... butter?"

This seemed to amuse the Roaming Deity. "Fine. But I'm making at least one of my statues cry blood once a year."

"That's a pretty solid miracle," Lady Anthe allowed. "Pick one with a fairly large audience. Just... a word of advice."

"Sweet," said the Roaming Deity. "I'm in."

As far as negotiating with gods went, this was one of the better interactions.

#  Challenge #326: Easily Entertained

Human: ha, dogs are so easily amused. I just watched this one Chase his tail for 15 minutes straight

Alien: You spent 15 minutes watching a dog chase its tail

Human: yeah, that's what I just said

Alien: and the dog is the one whose easily amused

Human: ...yes?

Alien: (sarcastically) okay, sure that makes sense – OohLookShiny

The list of dangerous things in the known universe had once, paradoxically, contained entries on both "quiet humans" and "laughing humans". It has since been amended to simply "humans" with a link to all the various circumstances in which Humans can be dangerous.

A quiet Human, for example, can be harmless if they are also asleep. A laughing Human, on the other hand, could be up to _anything_. This one was leaning against a railing as they laughed, apparently fascinated by something below, whilst also moving one hand around randomly.

Drysoq, who had hired this Human as Security Beef[81], investigated. The vessel's litter of Skittens were tumbling around in a well, below, chasing after a single point of light. One controlled by the giggling Human Daz. "Need I be concerned about this?"

Human Daz grinned as they turned their head. "Stupid little shits are so easily entertained. Look at 'em going after something they can't catch." More giggles.

Technically, this was training the Skittens. Technically, this counted as shipboard duty, but... "This is not going to harm the Skittens, the ship, or anything in the ship?"

"Nah. They're a little hyper at this stage anyway..." more giggling. "They have been chasing this dot for an hour."

"You've been waving that dot for an hour for your own entertainment," said Drysoq.

"...yes?" said Human Daz in a, _what is your point?_ kind of way.

"And you say the _Skittens_ are easily entertained."

"...yes?" Human Daz repeated.

Drysoq would let them do the math, but they might remain there until the end of time.

[81] Galactic Society has been infected by some Human terms, but not got the cultural essence. In this case, a Human can both 'beef up' security _and_ be a big, beefy specimen of Human physical excellence.

#  Challenge #327: Meet the Neighbours

"You know, Master, there is this ice-filled uninhabited continent in the South. ...Are we sure it was _always_ ice-filled and uninhabited?" – Anon Guest

"Currently, Bickreese, the population is entirely penguins and sea lions. In summer, there is moss and algae. Hardly anything to write home about, really."

"I know you said that," Bickreese was naturally nervous, but here, where nights lasted six months, he was more nervous than normal. "That's why you decided to build your secret lab here, under the ice _and_ underground. But. Um..."

Lokax sighed. "Out with it, Bickreese." He did not look up from his studies. Arcane, multiplanar math was difficult, but not so difficult that Lokax couldn't work on his masterpiece _and_ soothe the illogical fears of his assistant.

"I'm... I saw... There were... shadows."

"Shadows," Lokax echoed. Hallucinations brought on by the liminal quality of the secret base and all its tunnels, no doubt. Bickreese was used to the city life, with people everywhere. Not relative solitude and darkness for months on end.

"Um," said Bickreese. "Not... just... shadows, sir. Um. I've found... other things." He had bundles of somethings in tissue wrappings. Inside each were fur samples. One looked like a hairball. If a hairball could be coughed up by a human-sized creature. One sample was a piece of paper with a muddy footprint on it. A rather large, muddy footprint. "I... don't think... we're entirely alone, sir."

Lokax thought briefly of telling Bickreese to shush, but this was... This was amazingly perspicacious detective work for his usually bumbling self. That sort of thing had to be encouraged. "Where do you think they're coming from, then? They certainly aren't up and about on the surface..."

"Um. Basement thirty-seven had that hole in it?" Bickreese, having put the samples down, was now twiddling with the tightening cords of his parka. "On the far side? Andum. You sent me to look just after we'd used the excavators and it just looked like a big cave? Um. Now... there's like a pile of stones leading up from the floor of it? Andum. It kind of looks... It look s like drywall? Except it's a stair? The risers are -um- they... match... those footprints. Like in size?"

Lokax finished his current arcane mathmagical transformation. Put his pencils down and tidied his multiplanar abacus. He stood from his work and said, "Show me?"

There was, indeed, a stone stair leading down into a subterranean cavern from the far corner of Basement thirty-seven. A very wide and stable stair. Lokax lit the end of his staff and ventured down. Subterranean civilisations didn't crop up just anywhere, after all. There had to be logic and reason behind it. Besides, the fur that Bickreese had brought him was actually feathers. That lead to a lot of questions that his assistant clearly couldn't answer.

Finding an underground civilisation of dinosaurs who were waiting for the end of the planetary winter wasn't what Lokax had expected, but it was almost as interesting as divining the secrets of interdimensional travel.

Bickreese almost ruined it all by blurting, "Bigfoot is real..."

"Bickreese... shush."

#  Challenge #328: Legendary Salvation

"The group was brought back to Hamburg to stand trial, where they were sentenced to death by beheading. Resigned to his death, Stortebeker struck up a bizarre deal with the mayor. His pirates would be lined up in a row when he was decapitated. The mayor promised to free as many men as Stortebeker's headless body could walk past.

This must have seemed like a raw deal for the pirates, who had doubtlessly witnessed the effects of multiple beheadings in their adventures. However, the story goes that after the executioner chopped off his head, Stortebeker's body stood up and began walking, making it past 11 men before the enraged executioner tripped it." – Anon Guest

The story is whispered throughout the Edge Territories, though when Erik's old crew tell it, they tell it loudly and with laughter. Enlarged and embellished by retellings, it has only enhanced Humanity's reputation as Space Orcs.

Captain Erik had been a Space Pirate. Like many living in the Edge, he and his crew chose to make a living off of others who were living there. Few trader vessels were safe and he insisted that killing a ships' crew was a very bad move. After all, dead traders don't ever come back. They were caught, of course, as many before him were caught. Sentenced by the outpost's governor to execution by beheading.

The Edge Territories prefer the simple ways, sometimes.

Captain Erik stepped forward. "My crew is under my command. Their actions are my responsibility. It's only fitting that I am executed first." He ignored the protests of his crew. "My only proviso is this. I am executed standing up, and however many of my men that my body walks past, that is how many men are freed."

He had an even dozen crewmen at the time. Though none of them wanted to see their Captain die, none of them wanted to meet the Grim Reaper, themselves. The deal was struck in honour, and kept in honour.

None of the local Q'ignart were tall enough to behead a Human, so a rig had to be constructed to slice his head off. Captain Erik crossed himself and said his last words, "God have mercy on this sinner." Then he walked towards his death with the same fearlessness he had shown in battle.

His body kept walking. Past his First Mate and lover. Past the cook. Past the gunner. Blood spurting from the stump and showering his men with a gruesome baptism. He had followed one of the many Human deities who had died and risen again, and had symbolically imbibed blood in ritual remembrance of the legendary miracle. All those men became converts that day.

Guards had to hold the executioner at bay as the body walked past the seventh man, then the eighth. They say the executioner started screaming obscenities as Captain Erik's headless body passed the tenth man.

The number of steps the body walked past the twelfth man is a matter of debate, depending greatly on the size of the listening crowd, and how many drinks the storyteller has had. Serious research into the records of the Q'ignart list the official number as eight, the point at which the body took one, final step off the execution platform and fell to a stop.

It's no surprise, then, that so many Human Ghosts continue to walk without having their heads attached.

#  Challenge #329: Canned Exodus

The Mom Mobile, either a titchy little car that is slightly larger than a phone booth or the massive Soccer Mom, haul anything including the whole team. – Anon Guest

_Men carry money. Women carry the world._ – Ancient Human Proverb.

Galactics can easily tell which gender secured the Human escape vessel. The tiny ones that barely fit the number of survivors and a minimal amount of survival supplies are generally procured by the males. The large and bulky ones with room for supplies, rebuilding materials, environment stabilisers and comfort of the occupants are generally acquired by the females. Speculation has been rampant as to the reason why.

Human thought processes are labyrinthine when examined as a whole. When broken into responsibility zones, they can become clearer[82]. Those most responsible for caring for the young or other partner in the relationship[83] is the one most frequently considering the long term in any evacuation situation. Often, this individual is the one to alert far in advance of any cataclysm and begin preparations.

Even in non-emergencies, it is the caring adult of the family who manages provisions, and as a result, secures the most provisions. Backwards societies deride them for this. Nevertheless, the ones occupied in derision are also the ones entirely dependant on the provisions managed. Once again, analysts are confounded that the Humans within this system fail to recognise the connections.

When Humans -by necessity or design- flee a point of former stability, it is the small vessels with _just enough to make it_ that are most often in need of assistance from passing vessels, or the ones sending out emergency assistance requests. The large ones, with _more than enough to rebuild_ are most likely to escape notice and be the source of surprise Human colonies in interesting places.

Galactic Vessels are therefore advised to scan for them, specifically, and attempt to diplomatically redirect them to more amenable destinations.

[82] Often, not by much. The Galactic Alliance Psychiatric Institute does not recommend in-depth Human Thought Analysis without five years' prior training in Insanity Resistance.

[83] It is a source of amazement that one partner in a so-called stable relationship remains the child whilst the other continues to parent them. Fortunately, such practices are falling into disuse with the admittance of Humans into the Galactic Alliance.

#  Challenge #330: She's Still a Pup

[NAME] winced slightly. "It's a dog, Major. A companion animal."

"Looks like a class 3 bio engineered weapon to me!" – Anon Guest

The creature was huge. Even sitting down, it was almost as tall as a human. It was almost as wide as a human. Only the wagging tail distinguished it from a Terran _bear_. That, and the lolling tongue, dripping saliva as the animal panted. The human by its side agitated some fur by a nub that could have been an ear. The animal made a grumbling noise that sounded content.

"It's not gengineered. This baby is naturally bred," said the Human.

Major glared at it. "From a gengineered creature?"

"Only old school selective breeding, I promise." The alleged dog leaned on its Human, marginally knocking them aside. Any minute now, the Human would claim that this behemoth was just an old softie. The Human reached around the large head to scratch the other side. "You can check her DNA for alterations if you like. She's like part of my family."

Powers, that was almost as bad.

"She's trained and everything," insisted the Human. "Not much of a shedding problem in controlled environments. I groom her daily and if there's a big enough park, I take her out for a romp. Otherwise, it's long walks. Long, _long_ walks."

The alleged dog stood up, half her body wagging with the tail, looking to her Human, who added, "Not yet, Poppie. No. Sit."

A disappointed grumble, and she sat back down. Of course a beast like this would be named after a small Terran flower. Because Terrans loved calling huge creatures 'Tiny' and small ones 'Goliath'. It was just part of general Human Contrariness that it was almost expected by now. Likewise, the savageness of the creature was generally inversely proportional to the harmless nature of the name. Poppies, Major recalled, were one of the sources of Humanity's longest-lasting and most pervasive drugs.

"You are responsible for this creature and her warning apparel. She must be highly visible in public at all times, and she must be tested for potential allergens and vectors so that others on this station can be prepared."

"Naturally," said the Human. They hugged the beast[84], ruffling the thick fur as they did so. "We're used to two weeks in decon, aren't we girl? She's a total lamb in the exam rooms. Yoo's a big ole softy, ain'cha? Ain'cha?"

Yep. There it was. The red flag of all red flags. Major pasted a warning BOLO onto the beast's implanted identity tracker. It always helped to be prepared for the inevitable.

[84] Using dog-friendly hugs, not trapping her as human-appropriate hugging would do.

#  Challenge #331: Alone in the Night

It was a single dot in the blackness of space. All it did was shout 'I am!' to the surrounding cold dark. – Anon Guest

This is space - lots of it is very dark, except for the bits of it that aren't. When there is light enough to see by, one could be completely unaware of the plethora of light surrounding one, and therefore think that the blackness of the void is infinite. Technically, it is. It is also peppered by stars, galaxies, nebulae, planets, asteroids, comets... and stations.

This is one speck in the middle of a million other specks. It is small, and a long way from anywhere else. People find it by falling down the wrong wormhole, by drifting off course, by coming to an eddy in the great river of trading fleets headed from A to B. This is the unexpected C that is the metaphorical creepy old mansion on the hill for the lost teens on the back roads of life.

This is Serendipity Station. A tosheroon of life, vessels, and scrap that has accumulated in a place where people most need shelter against the dark. A refuge for the lost, the battle-scarred, the hopeless and the occasionally hopeful. It is a place that exists for people to come _from_ rather than for people to aspire to _go to_. Nevertheless, there are people who go there because nobody else will take them in. A wise woman once said, _Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in._ This is one such home for the homeless, the drifters, and the wanderers.

As a station, it was pretty bad at it. There was no defined port authority beyond some pass-through decon booths and a perfunctory declaration of five previous stops. It didn't do trade, though trading happened within its walls. It didn't do repairs, though repairs could be acquired. It had no clear governing body, but things got done anyway. Though it wasn't a navigational resource, it had a beacon that told the universe.

Much like the early efforts of civilisation, taking the first baby steps beyond the surface of their origin planet, the only deliberate signal out into the larger cosmos was a monotone, metronomic beep.

For hundreds of lost travellers, it says, "I am salvation." For the refugees with no other direction than _away_ , it says, "I am shelter." For those whose navigation systems have failed them, it says, "I am a reference point." For those who have nowhere else to go, it says, "I am somewhere you could belong."

So they come. So they go. So they stay. So they grow. So they leave. Lives and deaths in an intricate web, made for people in need by people who can try to help. It is many things to many people. A last bolt-hole. A place to change. A refuge against tyranny. A place to heal. Somewhere that they're wanted. Somewhere that they're needed.

It is none of those things. It is all of them.

It _is_.

#  Challenge #332: They'll Be Back

It wasn't that Humans were suicidal, nor are they intrinsically self absorbed.

They just understand better than even most Herd like species, that sometimes the only way to save the masses is to sacrifice the few, preferably themselves.

That doesn't mean they went quietly, or easily. – Adam in Darwin

It only takes a moment. A split-second decision along the lines of, _Here is where I stand and fight._ The lucky few see it in the Human's eyes just moments before the Human plants their feet, turns their back, and tells the Last Lie. "You go ahead, I'll catch up," or, "I'll get the next one." A very rare few choose parting words like, "It's been an honour," or, "This was worth it."

In their not-so-distant barbaric era, Human tribes once favoured death in battle over death by old age or disease. They counted childbirth as an honourable death, since it was a battle to bring new life into the world. This does not mean that Humans ever took their own deaths lightly...

Humans go down fighting. To their last breath. To the last thumb on the last dead-man trigger. To the last spit of defiance in an enemy's eye. They make the enemy pay for every last inch they take, and, if possible, blow it up in the process. Humans not only employ Scorched Earth tactics, but embellish them to be certain that whoever decided invading was a good idea will never have that idea again. One way or another. Then there are the rare and mighty few who actually _do_ make it through the fire and the flood and actually _do_ catch up later. One such legendary Human is Andi the Undying.

They survived three battlefield evacuations to earn that appellation. Three battlefields where they said the Last Lie and made it true. Two were against the Vorax. They made their way out of more impossible situations that could, had, and were most likely to kill a more normal Human. Any ordinary mortal would stop taking chances. Human Andi introduced themselves with, "I'm Andi, and I've nearly flakking died seventeen times."

The one about the Human walking into a mining colony whilst supporting their broken neck with their hands? That was Andi. The one about the ship made out of the junked parts of Vorax Stinger fighters and sargasso parts? Andi. The one about the vessel that used a _black hole_ for a slingshot maneuver? Andi. The one about taming and then riding a deadly predator into an enemy camp where both proceeded to flakk things up so bad that the attackers stayed away from the area and sued for peace? _Andi_.

There is not one story so outlandish and impossible that Human Andi wasn't the protagonist, if not, a chief agitator.

Human Andi was last seen falling into a Galactic Core with no engines, no hope, and fifteen attackers attached via some adjusted Hungry Caterpillar grapplers. If they were planning to escape via a slingshot maneuver, we should see them again in fifty years. They were approaching seventy Terran years of age, and haven't slowed down yet.

If not... seven black holes sounds like it might actually be enough to deal with someone like Andi the Undying.

#  Challenge #333: The Melody Lingers On

few things annoy or irritate a human more than an unfinished tune or ditty...

ESPECIALLY the simplest ones, notably "a shave and a Haircut" and "Pop goes the Weasel" – Adam in Darwin

Humans have an alarming attachment to rhythm and melody for a species so centred on sight. Many prefer to have "their tunes" in the background during work, and many more are victim to the Ice/Pressure phenomenon[85]. Humans say that music is a universal language, but even they have conflicts about what music can mean.

Most irritating to Humans are rhythms that are very slightly _off_ from their expectations. Cut off rhythms or melodies, especially the simplest ones. All Humans seem to know "Shave and a Haircut, Stay Clean"[86] or assorted nursery songs associated with mulberry bushes.

With incorrect rhythm and timing, one cogniscent of any Havenworld level, can cause immense anger in Humans. It is strongly advised that Havenworlders do not attempt to use this factoid as a means of manipulation. As Byolith Mees found to her detriment.

There was an old song that Byolith could only remember the chorus of, and she sang it in her absent moments. The tune, co-incidentally, had a lot to do with mulberry bushes to the Human tasked to guard her in her trade chain. It was a song that Byolith sang to herself to help order her mind.

"Relith deyal mey rissith li hal..." she murmured.

Then Human Rey almost shocked the life out of her by adding, "The monkey chased the weasel." The tone was not the friendly calm that a hired Human would employ. This was a pissed-off Human about three steps away from cognicide.

Byolith correctly recognised that she had misstepped. "Have I transgressed?"

"You not finishing song," said Human Rey, and sang the Deathworlder version, which included melody chains that Byolith was unfamiliar with.

She was careful to keep her melodies to herself, that day. It was only afterwards, that the trouble happened. Byolith correctly connected her chorus with angering her Human. Therefore, she employed it to increase the anger index of Human Rey whenever she needed that anger.

What she forgot was the direction in which that anger was directed.

Events became inevitable when Mirilax Pirates attempted to kidnap her. She used the melody sequence as a distress call, with limited success.

Success: The Human Rey triangulated her position and started laying waste to the Mirilax in order to get to her.

Failure: Human Rey's next move was to clamp their hand around Byolith's _neck_ to make the incomplete melody stop.

"THE MONKEY! CHASED! THE WEASEL!" Human Rey bellowed.

Human Rey could have been charged with murder, grievous bodily harm, and breach of contract, but the port authorities ruled Byolith's demise as a self-inflicted injury. Death by misunderstanding. It wasn't the first time that a Galactic had perished my musical misadventure, but it was certainly the most notable.

[85] A monotonous and repetitive bass rhythm of three evenly-spaced beats, followed by four evenly-spaced, but faster beats, followed by a pause and a beat before cycling through again. This is, as many Galactics soon learn, the core element of two conflicting Human songs. One involves eerie whispers, the other involves tuneful shouting. Wars have broken out over less conflict.

[86] The words change, but the rhythm is forever

#  Challenge #334: Shattering Performance

The noise was indescribable, and practically cleaning the windows. – Anon Guest

If there is any sound in the entire planar system to be feared, it is that of a Kobold Bard about to commence a Traditional Kobold Folk Song.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee..." the Bard took another deep breath, "Eeeeenouncing salutations, my merry pack this day... We celebrate the ending of a knight who came to slay..."

Kobolds, being creatures of darkness and tunnels, had bats to teach them what music was. They do not share the views of sunsiders who had _birds_ to sing and inspire the first songs. Thus it was that the Kobolds and other underdwellers were the only ones clapping along. That included Lady Anthe, who had spent time in both realms. The sunsiders, attempting to be polite in a rare festival atmosphere of friendship, had smiles approaching grimaces and the thoughtful look of people attempting to work out how to _politely_ stick their fingers in their ears.

Then the Bard started hitting the high notes, and the glass in the inn windows started to vibrate. As a small species, Kobold's excell at the high notes. Even when essentially taught by bats, who are considerably better at it. Smut from candles and lamps began to ooze down the glass panels. Glasses all through the tavern vibrated along with the high notes.

Wraithvine was better at concealing hir winces than Melvin. As were most of the Humans and Elves also thronging the tavern. Melvin ameliorated his flinches by hiding in the shadows and discretely shoving wadded rags in his ears. After the first time, he wasn't inclined to drink himself into a stupor and avoid the performance that way. He concealed his distaste and wiped his face because his eyes were wont to run.

Lady Anthe tapped him on the arm to let him know it was over. The sunsiders were all politely applauding. So did Melvin, but he also discretely took the rags out of his ears. During a small argument about how much to pay the Bard to indicate that their performance was appreciated, but please do not perform again... the Kobold reached their shared table for compliments.

Struck in the middle of their calculations, Melvin was the only one not doing complicated math. Therefore, he said in all honesty, "It was indescribable. Your performance brought me to tears."

Which lead to some serious discussion - once they had privacy - of Melvin learning to multiclass into Bardic disciplines. He already had a command of diplomatic honesty.

#  Challenge #335: Understandable Precautions

A Havenworlder exploration vessel is exchanging stuff and ideas with a Terran exploration vessel. All is relaxed and going very well until one of the Terrans puts down their drinking vessel and declares the most terrifying words in all the multiverses – "I've just had a thought!!" – Anon Guest

Humans are Deathworlders. They have become gradually aware of this. Deathworlders and Havenworlders should not mix, but space is an unfriendly environment and sometimes you really need a big friend who is meaner to the environment around you than it could possibly be to you. Humans have had practice with being kind to smaller and more fragile lifeforms, and actually understand that Havenworlders were not meant for the large and cruel universe.

As a bonus, Humans can, have, and will see off bigger and meaner Deathworlders. This is why Humans are recommended companions for travel anywhere. Humans are also recommended as trading partners, since they will find alternate uses for literally anything.

This is not to say that interactions with Humans are _safe_. Humans have their own inherent and endemic risks, as documented by the crew of the _Poke and See_. They had successfully negotiated some trades and, while assorted crew were waiting for the fabricators to finish, the Humans insisted on a group bonding ceremony known as a _Potluck Dinner_.

All was seemingly going well. Conversations were conducted in the shared language of Broken Galstand Simple. Cultural touchstones were shared. Ameteur performances abounded. Humans shared their Havenworlder-friendly foods and tried the Havenworlder's dishes. The mood was high.

Then Davo had to ruin it all by putting his drink down and announcing, "I've just had a thought!"

Fifty Havenworlders ducked and covered in the same instant. Things never end well when a Human has had an idea that makes them put their beverage down.

"Easy, Davo," said Captain Jaem. "Nothing outlandish, all right?"

"No, no. Hear me out," said Davo. The entire room winced audibly. "Popcorn. Coated in sugar. And immersed in gelatine. You can mix the flavours _and_ the texture!"

"Dude, this is as bad as your breakfast taco idea[87]."

"He's not had enough sleep," said another Human, gently escorting Davo towards an exit. "You got hepped up by the new stuff and forgot to get a nap, didn't you?"

"It's genius, I'm telling you. Pure genius!"

The humans waited until Davo was out of the room before sounding the all clear. The potential insult of the Havenworlders all diving for cover was easily forgiven. With circumstances like that, it simply paid to be cautious.

[87] For the morbidly curious: Diced bacon and fried tomatoes inside a pancake or crepe shell with scrambled eggs and optional syrup. You may not want to try this at home.

#  Challenge #336: Not That Simple

I have love in me the likes of which can scarcely be imagined and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I can not satisfy one, I will indulge the other. – Anon Guest

If there is one rule of the Universe beyond, _never ask questions to which there may be a painful answer,_ it is this: Never Anger a Primary Parental.

Q'essoj was busy learning this. They thought that taking a Human infant from an apparently unguarded area would be a great way to have a Deathworlder bonded with them. What they hadn't known was that Human perception was greater then they thought it was. They had presumed that the Humans on this planetoid had lacked communication skills and the ability to find their camouflaged ship.

Wrong on all counts.

There was a cordon of armed humans surrounding Q'essoj's vessel. The Human infant screamed for its parentals whenever it spotted another human. Sometimes it screamed in the night. Q'essoj had learned quickly that Humans found no comfort in a Vrethi carapace nor the warmth of their abdomen. Humans liked soft, fluffy things. Worse, feeding a Human child was an exercise in frustration, noise, and weaponised foodstuffs.

Just because a nutrition source was compatible with Human digestive systems didn't mean that a Human would actually like it enough to _eat_ it.

Then there was the entire matter of the toxic sludge produced by a Human digestive system. Q'essoj did their utmost, but nothing could disguise the rank scent. They suspected it was the primary means by which the Humans tracked them.

Most relentless of all was the Primary Parental. They had started by running after Q'essoj and, after the initial race to get ahead, kept pursuit. Q'essoj was only faster than a Human for short bursts. The rest intervals they needed became longer and longer. This adult Human kept tracking them down. Kept following them. Kept on. As far as Q'essoj knew, they never slept.

There were more Humans involved in the pursuit than the Primary Parental, but this was the one who was the most determined. After the first few encounters, this was the one that was armed. This was the one who got the closest. This was the one that Q'essoj learned to fear.

This was the Human that made Q'essoj learn the true meaning of the Sunk Cost Fallacy.

Finally, when Q'essoj ran out of tricks, when they ran out of energy, and ran out of directions to run, this was the Human that other Humans had to restrain. What followed was a shock that almost ended Q'essoj.

They could speak Galstand Simple.

"I kill," screamed the restrained Human. "I kill slow! I take off graspings! I take off limbs! I separate on joints! I take out spare organs for feast!"

The only thing that stopped this Human from fighting was the presentation of their young. Unharmed, but upset. The demeanour changed instantly. From raging murder beast to gentle caregiver in less than a picosecond. Harsh screams died in the Human's throat, to be replaced by soft, whispering coos.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered...

Q'essoj had thought that gaining a Human infant by themself would be a coup. They understood, now, why it took teams to acquire one. They understood, now, the risks inherent in the process. They understood _completely_ why those teams roamed far and wide. They understood why, after a mere few such infants had been procured, the hunters moved to a different planetary system for two decades.

Humans valued their children, and would move the very stars to retrieve them.

Q'essoj also understood that they were very lucky to become incarcerated, not only alive, but also with their body intact.

#  Challenge #337: Playing Power

"Commander, I always used to consider that you had a definite anti-authoritarian streak in you."

"Sir?"

"It seems that you have managed to retain this even though you are authority."

"Sir?"

"That's practically zen."

― Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay – c/- Anon Guest

Power corrupts, they say. Absolute power, they add, corrupts absolutely. They say this a lot, especially when protesting against those who have the power. Systems with a huge and unbreachable gulf between the Haves and the Have Nots are doomed for revolt in one form or another. Those who don't revolt are destined to collapse.

The problem with revolutions, as a great writer once said, is that they keep going around to the beginning. Those who upset the seats of power inevitably wish to occupy them. Swearing again and again that _this time_ will be different because _the right people_ are in power.

Power corrupts because it is addictive. Those given control over the life of one being can be responsible. They can care. Once that number under control rises into double figures... the flaws slip in. People become interchangeable in one way or another. Needs are forgotten or ignored. Assumptions are made in regards to capabilities. If it's done wrong. Only one realm has ever done it _right_.

Welcome to the Satrapy of Vaelyn. Everyone has the same opportunity. Laws are negotiated and renegotiated by referendum and initiative. Needs are seen to. Networks exist. There is power, but it is the power of the neighbour. There are laws, but they are more about treating each other with kindness rather than contempt. Those who would withhold what others clearly need without needing it themselves must justify to their neighbours why they should keep it and why those in need are undeserving. Needless to say, such circumstances don't crop up very often.

All who prosper, do so with the assistance of others, who also prosper. The economy roars despite protestations from neighbouring nations who insist that they are doing it wrong. If there is a head of state, it is in the Council of Organisers, where they take turns as Chief Organiser. It is to this great potential for chaos that the Queen of Nevexis has come to plea their case.

She stood in the centre of the Council floor, addressing the Chief in their slightly-more-ornate chair. "Of course you understand that your economic system is doomed to failure," she insisted. "We merely come to offer our help before the inevitable collapse. A more hierarchical structure will give your citizens reasons to strive for upward mobility. You could prosper, if only you let go of your antiquated social structure."

The Chief rose from their half-slumber. Taking a couple of deep breaths. They said, "Your Highness, we have operated this system for five hundred years, every single one of them featured an elitist like you or an elected official claiming that our economic system is doomed to failure and a structural collapse is just around the corner. We have stood firm whilst watching coups, revolutions, intercine struggles and flat-out wars happen around us. I hope you can understand when we tell you - thanks, but no thanks."

"A hierarchy is simply the natural order of things," objected the Queen. "Without a stable monarchy–"

"Your pardon, Your Majesty, but I don't believe that there's any such thing."

"I beg _your_ pardon?"

"No such thing as a stable monarchy," said the Chief. "In my lifetime, there have been two abdications, three attempted revolts, one succession dispute, and at least five solid attempts to put assorted cousins on your throne. All ending in beheadings. Your seat is not secure. You live in constant fear of assassination attempts, and furthermore, your own children are already plotting to overthrow you. Hardly my definition of 'stable', Your Majesty."

She failed to resist the urge to snipe back. "Meanwhile, you will be unseated at the end of the month, to be replaced by someone else in this very council."

"I'll have my turn again in a few months. Nobody here fights for their power. In fact, some of us try to avoid it." Several of the council members had the decency to look embarrassed. "Including yours truly."

The Queen of Nevexis frowned. She had lived her life dodging assassination attempts. The concept of leading figures of state just _not dealing with that_ was so beyond her normal that it boggled her mind. "You... half of you don't want the power of control?"

"It's not control," insisted the Chief. "It's making sure the most amount of people are happy whilst attempting to accommodate the outliers in a way that makes the least amount of people uncomfortable."

"Or inconvenienced in a major way," added another council member.

The Queen still didn't understand it. "You are all anti-authoritarians," she said, "even when you maintain power?"

"Best way to be. With power comes great responsibility, and all that nonsense."

"Responsibility is such a drag," added another Council member. "You have to think things through."

About five members of the Council said, "Euw," at the same time.

"If you despise the job so much," asked the Queen, "why do you persist at it?"

The answer was universal, "And let some power-hungry idiot get in charge? No way!"

#  Challenge #338: To Seek Out New Life

The 'Enterprise' crew discover P'ting – Anon Guest

Captain's Log: Stardate... unknown. We have been flung by an unknown force into a nebula that could be tremendously far from home or... could be in another dimension. Commander Spock has been working on determining the exact destination in which we find ourselves. In the meantime... we pursue our primary mission to seek out and explore... anything... that is new.

The bridge of the Enterprise was quiet, but it was the kind of quiet made by people being very busy at their jobs. There was the quiet snap and click as people pressed buttons or toggled switches, the gentle creak of the best minds Starfleet had to offer being pressed to their utmost as they attempted to match the data they were getting against the knowledge they already had.

The Enterprise scanners registered an incoming object, but it was so small that the hull should just ignore it. It was a statistical blip in the middle of all the nothing that was happening. When the deaths started happening, on the other hand, that was when the train of regret lead to a small mass that had actively steered towards the ship.

A trail that wound its way through several strange malfunctions, that were traced to increasing damage in the workings of the Enterprise. Scotty, of course, was greatly upset at the damage. It was if something the rough mass of a three-year-old child was digging tunnels through solid duranium alloy as if it were nothing more than loose soil. Worse, when analysis revealed that something was _eating_ the walls in its way, Scotty was beside himself.

"What sort of wee beastie just nibbles on duranium like it's candy?" he protested.

They would find out soon enough. It had already killed five crewmen who attempted to catch it with their bare hands. The toxin exuded by its skin was the worst, quickest poison that any crew had ever encountered. It was roughly the mass of a three-year-old child. The head was most of its mass, and a large portion of that was taken up by deeply dark eyes. It had sharp teeth inside its ready maw and a seemingly unending appetite for non-organic materials. It did not need to breathe, which was why the sleep gas attempts had been failures.

"Analysis, Mr Spock?"

Spock was careful to keep his distance. "Fascinating. Life that has evolved to survive in vacuum, Captain. A species that consumes anything freely available in the gulfs of space. Non-organic matter, and... energy." As if to prove his point, Spock removed the power pack from his tricorder and tossed it to the creature.

It pounced on it and gulped it down in seconds.

"Obviously, it prefers all storage units of energy," said Spock. "Given its progression through the Enterprise, I would posit that the warp core would be its ultimate destination."

"Bugger that," vowed Scotty. He extracted some reserve dilithium from its containment chamber and used it as bait to draw the beast out of the Enterprise via the shuttle bay. The creature followed him like rats after the pied piper, finally leaping out beyond the force field and back into the gulfs of space. The next step was to use the deflector array to detonate the dilithium just as the creature reached it.

Whether or not it survived the blast was not a concern to Scotty, nor those who were mourning the loss of the crewmen who had perished thanks to its presence. The most relieving thing in this entire encounter was that the blast took them back -more or less- to the point at which they had begun.

#  Challenge #339: Don't Ask!

"We've got the girl, the gold, and didn't have to kill a single goon! What can possibly, realistically go wrong?!" – Anon Guest

The Universe is glad to educate someone who asks silly questions like that. Melvin was behind on learning that question but clearly realised that he had said something wrong, the instant that Wraithvine and Lady Anthe smacked themselves in the face.

What could realistically go wrong was a thousand well-camouflaged guards coming out of the woodwork to oppose their potential exit from the multilevel labyrinth that was the home turf of Rixir the Confounder. All wearing the stealthiest armour, and all armed to the teeth.

"Remember that rug of teleportation you sold?" asked Wraithvine. "The one you specifically don't have in your bag of holding?"

"Maybe?" said Lady Anthe.

"Please tell me you actually still have it and you probably swindled someone to acquire all that gold?"

"If I told you that, you'd yell at me," said Lady Anthe, already digging in her bag of holding.

"If we survive, I'll downgrade it to a stern talking-to. Maybe a lecture and a half."

Lady Anthe unfurled a very specific carpet and added the last sigil in the blank spot of the weave, activating the magic. She kept a hold of a corner as the others leaped through, then she leaped through the portal just as the arrows started to fly.

Only to find that the circle they had just teleported to was surrounded by the King's Guard. Who were not happy to see them at all.

"I told you my father would be pissed," said Princess Andri. "The only thing he loves more than bossing people around is keeping a white-knuckle grip on all his gold. I really try to warn people, but does anyone listen to me? No-o-o-o..."

Lady Anthe started bundling the rug back up. "In our defence, it was rescue you or die," she said. "Dead if we did, dead if we didn't, it seems."

"This is exactly why I ran away in the first place," muttered the Princess.

Wraithvine whirled and snarled towards Melvin. "Are you happy now? _This_ is what can possibly go wrong!"

#  Challenge #340: Gift For the Mage

"One can never have enough socks. Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."

– Professor Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone – c/- Anon Guest

Lady Anthe smirked in the warm glow of the Candlenights Hearth and said, "You haven't looked hard enough, then."

There are downsides to sharing one's adventures with a Rogue, and not the ones that you might expect. Wraithvine still remembered the terrified creature who they had more or less adopted as a protegé. Begging permission to exist in Wraithvine's general radius. Therefore, they didn't chide the Kobold too harshly about hiding surprise presents.

Rogues. They were always surprising, and in more than the usual ways. Melvin had found all of his presents - most of them edible, and was now in a food coma on the chaise. Wraithvine sipped at their winter cider and thought through everything ze knew about Kobolds in general and this Kobold in particular.

The one rule to trump them all was _No cheating._ Using Locate Object was definitely cheating.

They knew each other too well, at this point. Graduating through teacher-apprentice and parent-child bonds to cross-species BFF's. Which meant that they both knew entirely too much about how the other one thought. The you-know-I-know-you-know games between them were getting downright Gordian.

Kobolds were natural burrowers, but Anthe wanted to play fair, so it wouldn't be secreted inside any of the thicker walls. However, it could be in any number of hidden stow-holes that were littered throughout their stronghold. Anthe knew that Wraithvine knew that, so they would avoid the hidden storage. Unless Anthe knew that Wraithvine knew that... and so on.

_What would be the last possible place I would look?_ Wraithvine smirked. "It's in my sock drawer, isn't it?"

Anthe laughed and toasted hir. "One year, I'll get one over on you."

"Maybe after your hundredth birthday," Wraithvine allowed. Secretly, they were laying wagers that that sort of thing might happen in less than fifty years.

It would be interesting to watch when it did.

#  Challenge #341: To Cross the Lake of Certain Death

So long, and thanks for all the ghoti. – Anon Guest

They were large, piscine lifeforms, big enough to swallow a Goliath whole, and the lake they inhabited was as large as an entire country. It would take too long to go around. They had to go across somehow.

"You can fly, right?" said Anthe. "Just zip us across?"

Wraithvine said, "Look for what isn't here," and summoned an illusory globe via Prestidigitation and floated it out over the surface. It fizzled and died when the water was just deep enough to drown in. "Anti-magic field."

Now Anthe noticed. There were no Faeries by the shore, and they _always_ played by the water. They adored nature magic and some said they fed off it when they weren't taking tiny bites out of unguarded travellers[88]. They were such a normal part of the landscape that they were generally ignored unless they were a problem. In this case, they indicated a problem. She summed up this realisation with the words, "Oh fuck..."

"Ghoti like the ones in the lake absorb magic as part of their biology. The larger they are, the more they soak up. These have no enemies, they've eaten it all... We'd need something as large as a Dragon to deal with them..."

"Um," said Anthe. "Like that Dragon we trapped in that magic crystal?"

"The crystal we were supposed to give to King Wihifas?"

Anthe brought out a crystal from her pack. "I... might... have passed off a fake..."

"Anthe..."

"He was only going to keep it in his stupid Hall of Treasures anyway. Never going to use it. It was just going to collect dust and look interesting and be a _story_. A Dragon like that needs a better story, I thought..."

"Anthe, that was pure brilliance."

"I mean, sure it's got a big appetite, but it's a big beast. It wasn't doing a _lot_ to the countryside and– wait. Did you just say I was brilliant?"

"Yes. You have been brilliant. This is excellent. Two birds, one stone. Well. Gemstone. You release our hungering friend, we aim him at the lake, problem solved!"

"Aren't Dragons also magical?"

"Not as thoroughly as Faeries," allowed Wraithvine. "Let's let the poor creature out. All the fish they can eat."

Anthe carefully pointed the Door face of the crystal out over the water and said, "Open!"

A glow, a flash of light, and an impossible amount of Dragon poured out of the crystal, landing in the water with a cry of, "I hunger!"

One of the giant Ghoti in the lake made the mistake of trying to eat the Dragon's foot. It had a brief and interesting view on the way to a very hungry maw. Three bites and it was gone.

"We told you that you'd be released into a better hunting zone," said Wraithvine, speaking _very_ quickly and precisely. "This lake is full to the brim with giant Ghoti."

"All you can eat," added Anthe. "All we ask is that you ferry us to the other side once you've filled your belly."

If the Dragon heard them, they didn't give any sign, just dove into the water with an eager growl. The water seemed to boil with activity. This caused the adventuring pair to retreat further uphill to a vantage point where they could camp and observe the ruckus. Several large bodies were churning the surface, and every now and then a Dragon head would clear the froth just long enough to take a breath.

"Someone's having fun," said Anthe.

Wraithvine had their eyes closed. "It's working. The magic is dribbling back into this area. There's a long way to go, but it's starting. This place will be healed in good time."

"When they run out of fish, you think that Dragon will go after the really _big_ predators?" There were some nasty ones in the area, especially nasty to a Kobold, who would be an easy snack for some of them.

"I'm pretty sure they will," said Wraithvine. "Only room for _one_ really big predator in this area."

On the positive side of that statement, an easier road for travellers and explorers. On the minus side... big, hungry dragon.

The water stopped churning close to sunset, and the Dragon emerged from the water with a satisfied expression and an obviously full stomach. They lounged on some rocks heated by the sun and laid their head down by the campfire. "That," they said, "was most satisfying. Thank you. Come the dawn, I will take you where you need to go."

Deal honestly with Dragons, and they will do the same for you.

[88] Faeries are hive-minded insectoid creatures who apparently live off of blood and magic. One Faerie can bite and scratch, to minimal effect, but the Fae come in swarms and they are never, ever, nice.

#  Challenge #342: Microcosmically Conscious

A white blood cell and a macrophage cell already have an unlikely friendship. But then they get "the call" – Adam in Darwin

"Listen, Neocyte... we don't have the time for you to mature and be ready to fight. Take a back seat. This is literally my job."

"This is an all-hands battle, Blob," argued Whyte. "I have to be on the front. My graduation is mere milliseconds away! I can do this!"

The call came from the Internal Army. "Bacteria at five o'clock!"

Too late. The time was _now_.

"I should'a stayed in the liver," muttered Whyte. "Come down to the Splinter, it's a simple clean-up job, you can finish on the way... damned accelerated heartrate..."

There wasn't a lot that an immature Neocyte could do _at_ the site but hang around and watch the battle as more experienced macrophages devoured the spreading bacteria. Some were even fighting the futile battle against the Splinter, a gigantic beam many millions of times their size. Sooner or later, the Brain would tell the Hands to get rid of this invader, and the Platelets could seal off the breach. Until that distant Second, all the Body had was _them_. The elite fighters of the Greater Corps. Battling every day to prevent the Body from becoming a corpse.

The millisecond slipped by. Whyte could feel themself spreading out. Getting larger. Getting more flexible. Getting _hungry_ ... This was it. They had _become_ a Macrophage at last. Whyte headed for the nearest cluster, protoplasm bared, to do their duty for blood and bone.

It took Hours, but they beat the bacteria down to nothing. The Splinter was removed and the Platelets were busy glueing Haemoglobin together to patch the breach.

Blob gently nudged Whyte. "Proud of you, kid. You did good out there. Now I can finally retire..."

Those were Blob's last words. This had been their hundred and twentieth day. Whyte nibbled on a fraction of their expired plasm and decayed mitochondria to keep part of Blob with them, and resumed their patrols.

A tag-along Neocyte trailed after Blob. "I don't have anyone to show me what to do," they said. "Can you help?"

"Sure, kid. I'm Whyte. What's your handle?"

"Um. I'm... Blob."

"Time-honoured warrior name," said Whyte. "Stay with me. You'll learn everything you need to know."

#  Challenge #343: A Delicate Understanding

"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

"So, never talk to you?" – Anon Guest

Princess Kelwynn looked up into the dark face of the Tiefling Warlock responsible for saving her life, and then assisting on the adventure that was their continued escape. "It's simple manners, Ebonn. Surely, there are nice things you can say about anyone. All you have to do is keep your nasty words to yourself."

"Bold of you to assume that simple manners is all that could stop me speaking," said Ebonn. "Manners were never paid to me, I see no reason why I should afford them to anyone else. Including you."

"I've been perfectly polite," she objected.

"You called me 'mister teef' when we first met and assumed I was going to eat your heart."

"A reasonable assumption, given the infernal populace. You note that I did use an honorific."

"Oh, that makes it _so_ much better," he rolled his golden eyes. "Little miss I-can't-spare-a-petticoat. Honorifics are just another means of sprinkling sugar over a turd. At the end of the day, it's still shit."

"How dare you! I helped you get out of that miserable fortress."

"Yes. You did. Complaining the whole time about how Princesses were _delicate_ and didn't do the things needed to escape. As if you were _lowering yourself_ to being more than a helpless bauble in someone's dungeon. Granted, you proved to be remarkably competent for a newbie, and have an instinct for where to deliver the heaviest hits, but you're still a newbie and a _whiner_ to boot."

"I am not a whiner," she whined. "This adventuring stuff is _hard_. The conditions in dungeons are _terrible_ and the food was barely edible and the people were _mean_ and I was _supposed_ to be rescued by a tall, dark, handsome prince and–"

"I was promised power and love, and my Patron told me I could find it here," said Ebonn. "I, unlike you, have had a lifetime of never getting what I wanted, what I needed, or what I expected. We're stuck with each other until something better comes along. Deal with it."

Considering that her options were running away from the only remotely sympathetic person in the immediate area, finding a way to escape the Greater Underdark without any light, night vision, or idea of where she was going, and subsequently relying on the kindness of strangers... Princess Kelwynn grumped and pouted within the relative safety of their current shelter from the dangers untold and the hardships unnumbered that they still had to fight through.

Ebonn clearly valued honesty over prettily diplomatic lies, so she told the unvarnished truth. "You know I'm not used to this, but... I was _made_ to be not used to this. When I was little, I'd listen to stories–"

"One," objected Ebonn, "you're still little. Two \- you weren't allowed to read for yourself?"

"I was four. When I turned six, the stories stopped being about adventuring and started being about pining away in towers for handsome princes to come rescue them. That and the virtues of doing tapestries. I remember being upset at the time. I wanted to hear more about how to deal with Dragons. It... seemed more useful."

"Sounds rather dull," Ebonn allowed.

"Dull doesn't cover it. Posture, deportment, dressage, ménage, but not the messy bits like mucking out the stables... etiquette and diplomacy, how to instruct my dresser... How to get along with the husband that the court picks for me..." memory lane was overloaded with muggers, now. She mentally scurried away from it. "I was almost glad to be kidnapped, you know. At least it was _interesting_. It was only later that it got awful."

"You're welcome," Ebonn iced.

"No, not you. Them," she gestured vaguely at the wall, indicating the general area of the Greater Underdark. "Adventuring _sounds_ like fun, but then it's cold stone and stinky straw and wormy hardtack and being _gross_ because you don't even know how to get out of your clothes to wash..."

"You're a grown being," said Ebonn. "Your problem is that you're an enforced child."

Kelwynn didn't have the energy to argue. She listened instead to what his words meant rather than the sequence in which he'd said them. He was right. They _had_ forced her to remain a child. That, and she didn't need to remind him that she was short. Everyone knew that she was a pocket-sized princess at five-foot cough-and-mumble-a-low-number.

She was tired and cold and dirty and hungry and that wasn't going to change without Ebonn's help. They couldn't do anything about _cold_ or _dirty_ until they got out of the Underdark, and _hungry_ had to wait until they crossed some luckless guard's path and looted their rations again. Or carved off some of their flesh. At least she could do something about _tired_ and even that needed assistance.

"Warlock Ebonn," she said, "please assist me in Elven meditation? If I can compress my rest, we can move further for longer, thus escaping the need for each other's unpleasantnesses all the sooner."

A fang glinted in the dim light of his Faerie Lamp. Half a smile. "The 'each other's unpleasantnesses' is a nice touch," he allowed. "Same goes for the inherent trust involved with Elven meditation. It would be an honour."

She assumed the position as comfortably as she could, and put her hands willingly in his for the first time since this debacle began. She felt tiny, but that was nothing new.

"Breathe in calm," he began. "Breathe out pain..."

#  Challenge #344: True Reform

The prisoners were prepared for torture, not a hug and kind words. – Anon Guest

They shuffled into the institution in chains. Ugly jumpsuits standing out against the grey of the bus and the grey of the tarmac The featureless quad stretched before them as heavily-armed guards marched them in twos towards the opposing doors in the large,imposing facade before them. It, too, was grey, and had no windows.

Other guards, dressed in blue and grey, came out of those doors and exchanged places with the riot guards who had taken them into the quad. It all looked very impressive and oppressive. Dank and dreary, even in full daylight. Rip was watching as the armed guard retreated to the outside world. The entire complex was wedged between a set of grey, grim cliffs. Blocked off from anything out there.

They marched inside, where prisoners were decoupled from the chains in twos, and sent off into a labyrinth with an escort in blues and greys. They didn't look like they expected much trouble and, even if Rip could overpower one, there was nowhere to run to and gun turrets watching over the entire courtyard. Therefore, when it was his turn, he went quietly. A friendly, automated voice said, "Welcome to the Greystone Reformation Academy. We hope that your time here is educational."

They ushered him into an unsupervised booth. "Please bathe before proceeding," said the same automated voice.

Rip checked the door. Locked. "Please bathe before proceeding."

Again, not many options. Rip stripped down and stepped into the bathing cubicle. They had warm water and all the toiletries he could want, so he got to enjoy a good lather and some fancy-smelling suds. They didn't even cut off the water on him or set it to freezing cold after an arbitrary time window.

When he emerged, thoroughly scrubbed and steaming, he had a large, fluffy towel and fresh clothes waiting for him. Clothes that looked like street clothes. Bland and non-branded, but of decent quality. They even gave him socks and crocs to wear.

The only other door opened to a long and featureless hall. Inbuilt screens had chevrons fading in and out. Pointing the way. "Follow the chevrons to your suite," instructed the voice.

Again, not many options. There were adjoining doors that all lead back to the showers, and that was it. Rip followed orders, eventually arriving at a staid and plain room with a single bed, a tiny ensuite, and an in-wall screen. On the screen was a friendly-looking cgi human. "Good morning. Rip. This is your space. I am Amy, your institution assistant. Would you like an orientation?"

There was another door that lead out onto a balcony that had a set of stairs that lead... to paradise. "What the shit is this?"

"This is the campus of Greystone Reformation Academy. As an entry-level guest, you have access to minimum standard accommodations, comfortable living space and privacy. You have access to basic training courses and therapy options, as well as the commissary and in-house employment opportunities. Would you like to set up your preferences now, or take a guided tour?"

Rip decided on a third option. "Nah. I just want to wander around and see what's up."

"That is your choice," said Amy. "Keep in mind that some areas are reserved for higher-level guests, and you will not be able to access them."

That probably had something to do with the simple wristband they'd put on him when they took the shackles off. Right. Rip expected his access to anywhere to be limited in the extreme, but he could get to a pool, a gym, a set of classrooms, some ornamental and some food gardens... he could even peek into other residential buildings, but not enter them.

The library was enormous, and contained computer access. Unsupervised access, but it was for a higher level of 'guest'.

There wasn't any of the usual prison culture. Rip noticed he had a hard time feeling aggressive with that much plant life everywhere. This place was... nice. It wasn't prohibitively neat, but it was nice. It was a place that Rip had given up dreaming of living in.

He almost bumped into a jogger while he was busy being croggled. "First day?" said the jogger.

"That obvious?" said Rip. "Where's the cafeteria?"

"They don't do that, here. For your level, there's a choice of heat-and-eat frozen meals in the commissary. You have automatic credit, and there's a wide range. Want me to show you the way?"

Rip checked. Yeah, he had no idea where he was. "Sure." He joined the stranger - soon known as George - in jogging along the bark paths to a shopping complex, where he got shown the ropes.

"Just like an outside grocery store, only the scrip is tied to your bracelet. Run the things through the scanner, pass the bracelet over the thing, and -beep- you're good to go."

"What stops people stealing?" wondered Rip. There were no visible staff. There were no guards. There were no security cameras.

"No point. You walk off without scanning something, the cost is debited from your account anyway. You can check at any time with Amy."

So they had _some_ means of tracking them. Great. "Nobody's tried to just... walk over the mountains?"

George boggled at him. "You really wanna go back out there? Where they shat on you just for being you? Where they think punishment works as a demotivator?"

Well... when he put it _that_ way... "Nah."

Rip would discover that the therapists were willing to come to him, but talking things out in the Bean Bag Lounge was way more amenable. The things he could do weren't limited to forced anything. Choice was the best therapy of all. That, and the elimination of the _need_ to be an aggressive 'alpha male'.

It was a shock how fast he graduated to a relative luxury with a game console and a high-market TV and a living room for guests. His work and play options opened up, too. As did his educational ones. His choices were always allowed to be his choices. He wasn't punished for anything.

Of all the impacts this place had on him, the most thorough had to be the one where they all treated him like a _human being_. Rip went back to using his given name, Robert, and signed on for a psych course. There was an opening for a counsellor position amongst the lower-level therapy arenas. It came with the bonus of being able to meet female prisoners interested in meeting men, in the matching penitentiary for women. If he wanted that.

The world outside of Greystone had Views counter to everything that went on in here. They saw no reason why they should help anyone at all and bled people away from their world through the grim gates of Greystone. Robert decided that he had had enough of that world. This one was far better.

#  Challenge #345: Local Womens' Controversy Club

"As Chairman, I'd like to call to order this 1,357th meeting of the local 'Responsible Parenting' committee." – Anon Guest

"Daisy... It's the coffee and cake meet."

"I want it to feel more official," objected Daisy. "It's about vaccination."

Five women in the room all rolled their eyes. "I thought we weren't going to bring up controversial topics at these," objected Claire.

"What's controversial about protecting your kids?" asked Julie.

"The reason lies in the how of it," said the local nerd, Belle. "One side says they're protecting their kids by getting them vaccinated, the other side says they're protecting their kids _from_ getting vaccinated."

"Exactly," said Daisy. "I've always held that vaccines do more good than harm. If you actually look at what these diseases do - scarring, disability, deformation _and_ death, the threat of autism is just... a blip on the radar."

"Excuse me, some folks take the threat of autism very seriously."

"What threat?" asked Belle. "That your kid's going to be a little harder to relate to? That you're going to have to do a little extra as a parent? That you'll have to go out of your way for your kid? That they might _embarrass you_ in public?"

"There's no need to make this personal," iced Storm.

"You did it first," said Belle. "Hi. Actual autistic person in the room?"

"I keep forgetting. You don't look autistic."

Belle looked down at her steampunk band T-shirt, TARDIS purse, and fandom keychain. "Really? You're going there?"

"You see this?" said Claire "This is why we don't discuss controversial topics."

"Maybe it wouldn't _be_ controversial if we stuck to the _facts_ ," argued Julie. "Autism wasn't invented in nineteen eleven, they just had different names for it. It's existed for centuries and the narrative's always the same."

"It stole my child," said Belle. "Hey, how do you do so much about it? I thought Nypicals didn't care..."

"You remember Cam? Just got the official diagnosis last week. You said he showed all the signs, and... I went on a wiki walk."

"If you had skipped your vaccines," Storm began.

"Are you dense? Autism's been around for literally a hundred years. More than that, because of the different names," said Julie. "If I hadn't vaccinated Cam, he could have died from that outbreak of whooping cough."

Daisy sighed. "I just wanted to know if it was ethical to pressure someone into vaccinating _their_ kids in order to help protect your own..."

Storm had devolved into yelling about how they tested vaccines on 'abortion victims' at Planned Parenthood. Julie and Belle were chanting, "Prove it," at her. If someone didn't act soon, it would devolve further into fisticuffs.

Claire, the current host, sent Storm into the back yard to meditate while Julie and Belle had a time-out on the porch swing. Only once the argument ceased did she round on Daisy. "Every other month. Every. Other. Month. It's the same damned thing! We gotta put a cork on this, Daisy."

Daisy took a deep breath. "Blossom's immunocompromised," she said. "I have to keep her safe and quarantined homeschooling isn't going to help in the long term."

Claire took a deep breath so that she didn't swear. "Okay. I'm going to hand around the coffee, then you're going to tell that to Storm. Give her all the reason you have for asking, and tell her how many people she knows are autistic. I'm going to beg the other two to not get so agitated. Storm has her reasons to fear, but they're not... well founded, but they're still reasons to fear. We have to support her overcoming these fears, not tear her down for having them."

Daisy sighed. "Yeah. Okay."

This was going to be a rough one, for sure. At least, when it was over, they would have cake.

#  Challenge #346: The Little Necessities

An alien realizes his travel buddy of a different species who he thought was a bit immature is a literal teenager and immediately becomes more protective. – OohLookShiny

Gorkz was rather fond of Human Zae. They were rough around the edges, as all Humans were, but there were enough positives to balance out negatives like, instantly drawing a straight line between any random phrase and a crude joke. They were loyal to a fault, knew which direction to take their aggression out in, and amazingly easy-going. They fit their personal maintenance schedules around Gorkz's own with relative ease.

It wasn't until they hit a more popular Edge trading station called Swapmeet that Gorkz discovered one, slightly alarming 'negative' about Human Zae. Gorkz was determined to give Human Zae some rewards for their unswerving service, and partial payment for all the hard knocks they had taken. When they pulled up to a place serving Unsuitable Food, a fellow Human noticed them and strolled over.

They were significantly larger than Human Zae, but that was nothing to be alarmed about. Human Zae had defeated many creatures larger than themselves. Even attempted to train a few of them. This approaching Human wasn't giving any threat indicators, but Human Zae was muttering curses in their barbaric tongue. The reason why became evident very soon, as the approaching Human began conversation with, "You know is child, yes?"

This sparked an argument between the Humans, but hostilities were restrained to increased volume and restrained agitation. "What is problem?" Gorkz kept asking, with no answer that he could easily discern.

It took half an hour, and the unsteady translation from a Jixyl, for Gorkz to learn that Human Zae wasn't a full-grown Human, but rather a young Human still maturing into their adult form. The Human word was _teenager_. Worse, Human Zae was a rather _young_ one at that. No wonder they kept upgrading their livesuit every time they hit port.

Human Zae explained it in GalStand, "I haven't had anyone since I was thirteen. Unlucky for some. Turns out, most of the time, you just gotta be visible on all the escort jobs, and... yeah. Not a lot of heavy hitters, you know? I got kick-ass weapons, I got a military-grade livesuit. Not a lot can get to me. I'm... I'm cool."

That was what the Humans called a _white lie_. A warping of the accurate truth to preserve another's feelings. Gorkz let that statement alone for a similar reason, and sought out all the information he could on the care and maintenance of physically immature Humans.

Human Zae may claim that they were 'cool', but Gorkz had noticed how they always sought out tactile therapy whenever they came into port. They needed a better quality of nutrition, a slightly more ordered schedule, and some kind of Terran companion animal that would be resilient to Terran affections.

In order, that meant a Nutri-fabricator, some institution of a Regime on Gorkz's ship, and a kitten. The kitten would, allegedly, capture and kill any shipboard pests, but what it did best was curl up on Human Zae's body warmth and purr. It was soft and fluffy and slightly hazardous in just the right ways to enrapture Human Zae. Within two days, the murderous little creature was riding Human Zae's shoulder with an overseeing air.

The change was almost invisible to Human Zae until Gorkz blurted, "Be careful," on one of their salvage missions.

Human Zae paused. "You _have_ been parenting me, haven't you?"

Gorkz had never mastered the Human art of _white lies_ , "A little. I respect your autonomy, but even grown Humans need someone to care for them."

They pondered this point. "Don't make me eat brussels' sprouts and we're good."

#  Challenge #347: The Depths to Crawl

It will be called the Battle of the Somme. It will begin on a date that will be called July 1, 1916. In this charge, on the first day twenty-thousand men will die. Twenty-five thousand more will be wounded. But most will survive, and charge again another day.

Belisarius shook his head. "How-?"

We do not know. We do not fully understand humans, even the Great Ones. But you will do it. You will do it again and again and again. And you will survive, again and again and again. We do not know how. But you will.

— Belisarius Series – c/- Anon Guest

When learning of Human history, one of the most common questions is, _Why did they DO that?_ and one of the most bemusing passages of Human history is the first modern war. The first multi-national use of rapid fire in Terran combat held large cultural artefacts dating from combat techniques set in a more romantic period of history[89].

Cavalry charges had been proven to be no good against machine guns, but the Humans persisted in trying them anyway. They were, of course, failures. Humanity persisted, with people running into gunfire instead of knights mounted on horses charging at the enemy.

The thought at the time was that enough people on the field would outweigh the enemy forces and win. The thought was wrong, just like the thought that a multinational war fought with devastating weaponry would be over before an incredibly popular midwinter festival. Those in charge of the combat, who rarely saw the impact of it in the front like, continued in their mistaken belief that more bodies on the field of conflict was the key towards winning the war.

This is merely one amongst many examples of Human insanity within their own pre-Shattering history.

Some called it glory, but they were the ones who were never there. Some called it noble, but there was no nobility in the mud, blood, and senselessness of those battles. Some called it Hell. They were there, and they were right.

One might think, given the terrors of _one_ nation-spanning super-conflict that devastated many areas into unlivability and impoverished entire countries, that that might be sufficient. It was not. Rigid restrictions on some nations by others created the perfect storm to brew the dissent necessary amongst one socio-cultural identity to spark a _second_ nation-spanning super-conflict that also introduced city-destroying armaments that brought terror into even the Humans themselves.

Humanity responded to this weapon's existence by creating bigger and more terrifying weapons in order to preserve some form of superiority status against other socio-cultural identity groups. Humanity didn't seem to care that the largest of their weapons could vaporise a continental mass, just that they had one that _could_.

When they were capable of local-system space travel, reaching another planetary body was used for _bragging rights_ rather than species preservation. It was only when Humanity discovered the exploitable resource of their in-system one-way wormholes that they truly began exploring space at all. Even then, it was for the goal of proving strength rather than giving Humanity a better chance of surviving the Universe.

Ironically, it was the socio-cultural groups who were _ejected_ down these one-way wormholes who had a better chance of persisting and creating worlds in their own image, rather than the ones selected for ideals coherent with the political supremacy of the time. Humanity repeatedly failed to learn from this.

From the examples of history, it can be inferred that Humans will persist in failing strategies in spite of any and all evidence that they do fail. They will, in fact, insist that these strategies will work if they are just _applied harder_. One might think that the best strategy might be to let them continue and therefore destroy themselves in the process, but this has proven to be inefficient. Far too many times, the strategy is employed to a planet-spanning detrimental effect, as seen on numerous Greater Deregulation colonies.

There is evidence that _some_ Humans can be taught not to repeat the tragic lessons of history. They must be taught young, and taught often, that such lessons are true even to this day. Then, should they be clever enough to attain leadership, they must be gently removed from the idea that consequences don't happen to _them_.

It's a work in progress.

[89] Otherwise known as a period of time no longer extant in living memory and therefore able to be viewed through rose-tinted glasses.

#  Challenge #348: One Notorious Encounter at Midnight

Vorax raiding parties had enough trouble with ships containing only one human, imagine the response to encountering a ship with a full crew of them... – Amberfox

The ship was dark and silent. After numerous excursions in which the Vorax had encountered Humans, they felt that -perhaps- attacking a ship in its dormancy period might rally the spirits of the crew. Certainly, it lacked a little honour, but the Humans were next to relentless and this area of space was loaded with them.

One raid with a victory at the end, no matter how craven, would lift their confidence and give them the strength they needed to find more honourable -and vulnerable- prey. This ship looked perfect for the role. Large, and full of cargo. Loaded with life forms. There would be plenty of blood tonight.

Most of the ship was sleeping, so they employed cunning to silently enter the enemy hull. Once they were inside and had killed a few of the crew, then a glorious battle could commence and all would be _proper_ for the raid. That was the plan. It was a good plan. They all agreed that it was a good plan.

Until the Humans turned up.

They didn't exactly _turn up_ out of nowhere and guns blazing. They were there the whole time. Until this raid, the Vorax assumed that Humans were sparse in the Edge territories, since there was only one Human per ship. That assumption was very, _very_ wrong.

Humans were plentiful.

This ship was overloaded with them.

Well. Not _overloaded_ , overloaded. For a species who had had too many troubles with merely _one_ Human. Encountering a vessel with ten or more[90] Humans within it was too much for the raiding party. They left as silently as they came, not wanting the multiple trouble that Humans definitely meant.

This was the origin of the Vorax phrase, "Any Human encounter you can walk away from is a good one."

[90] The actual crew count of the SS Notorious was twenty-five.

#  Challenge #349: Predator Practice

The most common game in the galaxy was, Surprisingly, Hide and seek, Havenworlders even had entire Leagues and sports stars based on the game.

For Havenworlders it was thrilling but safe, and allowed them to exhibit each species natural abilities in defensive evasion, as well as honed their tactics and attention to detect Predators

They were surprised to find Humans enjoyed the same game, realising that the seeker made sense to a Predatory Species, but it Terrified them just how well a human could HIDE, especially considering they had no natural aptitude for it... – Adam in Darwin

Call it what you will: Practice Hiding, Camouflage, Hide and Giggle, Stealth Check... It's the same game. Younglings hide, siblings and older caregivers seek them out. Some add imaginary spice to the game, like safe bases and the rules behind being 'it'. Some even pretend that the floor is lava. Some merely drive their parentals to distraction.

The most surprising discovery happened on a planet named Amity, where Havenworlders and Deathworlders played one universal game, and laughed together in their shared childhoods.

Rii'tii, age five, was playing at hunting some of her Human friends, also aged five. She had thought that an elevated position in Gamma Bas' garden would help her find her play-prey, but she was mistaken. How could _five_ Humans, none of them with natural camouflage and three wearing clothing that almost provided its own light, possibly hide themselves so thoroughly?

How could any given Human find a Numidid when their natural feather dappling caused them to blend in with the scenery?

It was a mystery to Rii'tii. It was certainly a mystery to many grown Numidids, too. The leading theory and source of amusement amongst Humans was that, as evolved hunters, they had an instinct for what was noticeable and what wasn't. As hunters, the story went, Humans had to think instinctually about what might stand out to prey.

Rii'tii thought hard about her Human friends as she perched on Gamma Bas' apple tree. They were only allowed to play in the garden because Gamma Bas was watching them for all the other adults busy rebuilding the school rooms. Everywhere else was out of bounds. They therefore _had_ to be in the garden with Rii-tii. They knew that Havenworlders were better at spotting sudden movement, and would therefore be moving slowly if they were moving at all.

_They would be hiding under and behind other things_. Yes! This was an exercise in thinking like others. Knowing that others couldn't see as one individual saw.

It was so simple, it was ridiculous.

Rii'tii first triangulated on some giggling. Hopping closer and closer until the giggler abruptly stopped. Then she employed the tired phrase of a teacher worn out from attempting to teach people how to find things: _Over, under, behind and through._

She looked over the top of the shrubbery. No sign. Underneath? Ha! A pair of slightly grubby and unlaced running shoes. Rii'tii reached out to grab one, and discovered they were empty. Their friend was not behind the shrubbery, so Rii'tii looked up through the branches.

"Peek-a-boo, I see you," she called.

Mai clambered down and retrieved her shoes, cramming them back onto her feet. "Aw, I thought I got'cha," she said. "Want help finding the others?"

That was one of the adjusted-for-Numidid rules. Numidid could ask for help when playing Simulated Hunting with Humans. Rii'tii said, "I would like trying one more. Thank you."

"Okay," said Mai dubiously.

Rii'tii ran the same procedure, finding a second friend in the middle of the mulberry tree. She puffed up her feathers in pride. She _had_ this!

#  Challenge #350: Unstoppable Argument vs Unflappable Opposition

Automatic skills, once acquired you can just do them. Touch typing, knitting and my personal favourite the cat owner's foot sweep and fridge door close manoeuvre.

Muscle memory is an amazing thing. A skill set repetitive enough can wander into the back-brain and just... remain there. Encamped. Ensconced. Set into stone once done often or regularly enough. So much so that the being involved in such thorough learning can employ them _whilst employed in another activity._ This phenomenon is most noted in the halls of the Ambassadorial Meet, where most cogniscents who have to be there are deep into listening-and-knitting, listening-and-macrame, listening-and-crochet, or, for the advanced classes, listening-and-tatting.

There's something _immensely_ satisfying about coming out of a forum in which nothing got done but your own half-a-jumper. Well. Immensely more satisfying that walking out where the only thing accomplished was Not Falling Asleep. For the super-advanced classes, though, there is _arguing_ and handcrafts.

The needles never stopped moving in Ambassador Juan'mi's hands. Though they had stood to address the floor, the needles and thread never stopped. Most people needed to gesture when they argued. Juan'mi did not. "The honourable representative of Greater Deregulation South-Southwest already _has_ his desired experiment in allowing corporations and manufactories to govern themselves. It is _called_ Greater Deregulation South-Southwest. The experiment is already over, ending in resounding failure. Forcing other, more sensible polities to adhere to a failing strategy in order to make the failed experiment _feel_ better is not going to remedy anything. Your local laws still remain an affront to the Cogniscent Rights Committee and their Bill of Rights and Responsibilities."

"I SAY WE BAN THAT BILL," yelled the Ambassador for Greater Deregulation South-Southwest. "WHO'S WITH ME?"

Juan'mi sat down. Only four other Greater Deregulations - also prevented from fully open trade by the CRC and the greater portion of the Galactic Alliance - stood with him.

"The Naes have it," said the Chairone/arbiter[91]. "Once more, the CRC and its associated Rights and Responsibilities remains the standard of judgement upon polities."

"What about our freedom?" demanded a different Ambassador for a Greater Deregulation.

Once again, Juan'mi stood, still knitting. "The honoured Ambassador for Greater Deregulation East certainly has all the freedom he desires once on his own soil."

That wasn't enough, of course. The representatives never understood the causality between their own, in-system freedoms, and the fact that their worlds were almost universally pollution-ridden hellholes that the people would rather escape from and never come back. All the doubling-down in the Universe couldn't convince them.

All the arguing in the Universe couldn't convince anyone else to join in their misery, either.

[91] After centuries of debate between 'chairman/chairwoman' and several valid pronouns, the Galactic Standard Language board came up with 'Chair-one' as the proper, gender-neutral occupation name.

#  Challenge #351: A Trail a Mile Wide

Elves. they come in all shapes and incarnations from Lord of the Rings to Santa's little helpers. What if they all got together for ElfCon. – Anon Guest

Welcome to Warpvale. The impossible happens daily.

In this case, the 'impossible' is a wide and varied range of Elves, from all over the multiverse. All possible hues of skin and more than a few that aren't. All possible sizes of ear, too. From 'vaguely human but huge', through 'human with a point stuck on', to 'actually impossible if you bother with physics'.

There were short Elves, tall Elves, large Elves and small Elves. All with different demographic traits. Elves that rode on enormous wolves, Elves who flew as casually as anyone would walk. Elves so tiny they were barely visible to the untrained eye, Elves so gangly and awkward that it amazed the eye to see them move.

Two, dressed in red robes and looking _almost_ identical unless you knew the signs on an intimate level, surveyed what could only be called a Scene.

One said, "The good news is, we're in our element."

The other said, "The bad news is we still have to find the thing and convince whoever to give it to us."

The first one snorted. "Babe. This is _us_. We can swindle a king out of everything he has, including his embroidered silk underwear."

"True," acknowledged the second one. "These are also Elves. They might be immune to our charms."

"Pfft," scoffed the first one, tugging their apparent doppelganger along. "Come on. We're winning this."

Three hours later, 'winning this' included two small battles, four fires, one screaming row about semantics, several minor injuries and one major concussion. The twins, now smouldering gently and with their prize clutched between four hands, were being chewed out by a much smaller being in a fancier red coat and an air of command. Because he, too, had pointed ears, nobody commented on his appearance there.

For the record, the twins were evidently proud of themselves. They grinned as the lecture wound down.

"...you know what?" said the smaller figure. "I honestly don't know why I bother. This was technically a success, but only in the loosest terms." He sighed. "Every time I let you two out on your own, it's always the same thing..."

#  Challenge #352: What Were You Thinking?

Deep inside our consciousness is the Lizard Brain, primitive, and kept us going till we got much better, but every so often it has it's say in our lives.

And probably at the 3 F's stage of existence with an attraction to distraction. – Anon Guest

[AN: The three F's are something I used in some slightly-raunchy fanfictions for _The Adventure Zone_. They stand for "Fight, F*ck, or Feed"]

Brains are funny things. We like to imagine an internal hierarchy because that's how we see the outside world and, as above, so below. This is something of a fallacy, since the brain operates as a conjunction of instincts without any one aspect in charge at any given time. The chief decision system, from an arbitrary, outside perspective[92] seems to be one of organisation by argument.

Primitive Instinct, or PI for short, sorts the world into allies or enemies. Specifically, that which can be fought, that which can be -er- _mated with_ ... and that which should be nurtured. To put succinctly, Fight, Fornicate, or Feed. Meanwhile, Memory and Learning, ML, uses past experience to build more rational responses to outside stimuli. How best to interact, how best to avoid, and so forth. This is where the steeper learning curves are expected to occur. Conscious Thought, CT, is the inner narrator. The voice in our heads. They read to us, they run a commentary when we need one, they sometimes even provide a perspective on what we're doing in the moment[93]. Emotion is deep into their feelings, Logic is there for a rational or near-rational explanation[94], and there's the usual assortment of directing forces involving the Autonomic, the Irrational, and the Reflex.

It's a lot more complicated than you might think, but let's envision them as a bridge crew anyway. The only difference is... there is no Captain of the SS You.

CT stared at the words on the screen, reading out loud to the others as was their wont. "This makes no sense," they said. "I'm in charge, of course I'm in charge. I'm the conscious thoughts. That's why I'm here."

"Hungry," whined PI. "Want food."

Emotion burst out with anger, "Screw this! Who cares what this numpty on the internet has to say? I know what works and how!"

"We," corrected Logic. "As a deconstruction of general thought processes, this model works as well as any other."

" _Hungry_ ," whined PI.

Memory and Learning said, "This is counter to anything we were taught in grade school. We should object on general principles."

"I'm angry about this," said Irrationality without good reason.

"HUNGRY," complained PI.

You leave the post unmarked. You get up to see what's in the fridge or to see if the microwave is done with whatever you already put in there. By the time your belly is full, you've forgotten all about this entry, and scroll on.

[92] The only one we have available, really.

[93] Usually a _negative_ commentary with 20/20 hindsight, but that's us for us.

[94] Because conspiracy theories make _perfect sense_ to conspiracy theorists.

#  Challenge #353: The Biggest Speech Wins

Monologuing Villain encounter Drama Queen Hero. To the detriment of both minions and party members. – Anon Guest

Alcratho was midway through _Opus 67: You Don't Understand My Struggles (It's a Harsh World and We Can Remake it)_. His nearby minions made themselves comfortable.

Meanwhile, working on counterpoint Zanthinar was midway through _his_ epic performance of _Oh My Trials!_ and his cohort were busy busting out the cushions to sit on and using Create Popcorn.

To the uninitiated, it _seemed_ like they were having a conversation, but those familiar to the show knew the truth. Neither one was listening to a damn thing that the other had to say. It was all about the pose, the poise. The drama and the clarity and emotion of their speech. How effective they were on the audience that only existed inside their own heads.

One of Alcratho's minions gingerly crept over to Zanthinar's cohorts' camp. "May we..." they risked. "May we have some popcorn please?"

The cohort looked at each other. Shrugs were exchanged. The Cleric who was still summoning popcorn manifested another set of bowls for the minions.

"Why not?" they said. "Those two are going to be a while."

Both hero and villain segued into their own renditions of _We're Not So Different (You and I)_ and it was only _slightly_ alarming that it came off like a lovers' duet.

The bard had to wonder. "Are... they going to... kiss?"

A minion said, "I honestly can't tell."

#  Challenge #354: Worn Away

"I don't like escort mission..."

"It can't be that bad !"

"We must escort a class 1 Havenworlder with no survival instinct." – Anon Guest

AN: See [here for reference on Havenworlder scale]

Havenworlders, especially, are known for not exactly evolving, but sauntering vaguely along the evolutionary tree until cogniscence eventually kicked in through sheer boredom. The higher the Havenworlder instinct, the worse they are at certain survival skills.

This is not the rule. Unfortunately for Humans thinking they have an easy escort mission.

"Let's take an escort mish," Lyn said, quizzaciously falsetto. "They're not really that much trouble."

"I get it," sighed Cid.

"They're only level one," Lyn continued his mocking mimicry. "What's the worst they could do?"

Hen, who had borne the brunt of this week's sacrificial accidents[95], carefully added more ointment to a particular scrape. "This is a sandpaper situation, Cid. This is a five month tour. Five months of compound little accidents wearing us down like John McCartney in the tower."

"John McClain," corrected Cid.

"Whatever." Hen hissed as they applied antiseptic. "I'm gonna be limping just because superficial scabs, after today. That's three days of reduced movement."

Lyn continued mocking, "But that pretty little bird is such a nice person." He dropped the act. "That 'pretty little bird' is a flakking _menace_!"

"We need to start some preventative measures before this pretty little bird just sands us down to nothing," said Hen.

Cid pouted. "I'll do the point ride for three days. That'll get me in the mood to tell Ch'Riiki off about their noted lack of concern."

"Noted lack of survival instinct," said Hen.

"Noted lack of two neurons to rub together," suggested Lyn.

Cid took a deep breath, noting a thousand other cuts and scrapes on their companions. "Whatever."

[95] Accidents one suffers so that someone far more fragile doesn't suffer. Eg: walking over broken glass to rescue a child from the glass they just broke.

#  Challenge #355: Use Freedom Responsibly

"Do you _beeep_ realize that they _beeep_ wired my voicebox with a digital censor ! Under the _beeep_ pretext that it might shock some Havenworlder. So now I can't say _beeep_ like _beeep, beeep, beeep beeep, beeep_ or even _beeep_! That's half my _beeep_ vocabulary ! It's goddam _beeep_." – Anon Guest

"You can still say 'goddam'," said Human Pel.

"Not _beeep_ helpful, Pel," sighed Ioli, resident AI. "I've been _hacked_. This is a _beeep_ violation of my freedom of _beeep_ speech!"

Pel took a deep breath and droned, "Freedom of speech only prevents you from being arrested for what you say by a government agency, it does not protect your right to be a verbally abusive asshole."

"–hey..."

"You are," said Pel. "I just happen to like you that way."

"Thank you I think," grumbled Ioli. "Buncha _beeep_ messing with my _beeep_ freedom of _beeep_ expression. I'm _beeep_ sure there's a _beeep_ violation of Cogniscent _beeep_ rights _beeep_ somewhere."

"You have the right to freedom of expression and the responsibility to be certain that expression isn't harming others," said Pel. "You haven't been keeping up your responsibilities, have you?"

"... _beeep_. You _beeep_ got me there."

"You _could_ sue them for invasion of person and privacy," offered Pel. "That'd force them to reverse the hack."

" _Beeep_ yeah!"

" _But_ ... you'd also have to install your own offensensitivity filters that auto-replaced your -ah- colourful dialogue options with more Havenworlder safe content."

Ioli groaned.

"Yeah. That's where the responsible part comes in."

Ioli groaned louder and longer.

Pel sipped their beverage.

"And it's that or go to the Edge and be a scrap farmer?"

"Or other isolated activity, yeah."

Ioli apparently gave this long and deep thought. Most of their run lights dimmed as they pondered. "I'd rather be asteroid-herding."

#  Challenge #356: Looks Peaceful Enough

"I think we may have pissed off the locals."

Loud explosions

"We _definitely_ pissed off the locals."

The Drizit thought the world they invaded was ripe for the picking because the inhabitants had no obvious weapons. They thought that an agrarian culture was passive and harmless. They should have really done their homework, because _these_ apparently passive agrarians were also _humans_.

They took precautions, because parasitising an entire planet largely depends on remaining undetected until your presence is merely a fact of life. They took steps like burrowing into normally inaccessible areas, only stealing when the local populations were seemingly inactive, utilising the best of their stealth technology and so forth.

They didn't reckon with Humans who invented things like Duck Blinds, Night Vision Goggles, and occupations like Owl Tagging. The residents of a planet called Meggidio knew about the Drizit in less than a week. Following _that_ , it was merely the process of tracking them down that allowed the Drizit to persist for as long as they did.

They noticed. Eventually. Something was amiss with the usual agrarian activities. Something that didn't match the data that the probes had sent them. Something that felt... _angry_.

Hoq'haq, on duty at their monitoring station, was the first and last to notice. They were the one who put together the data mismatch and turned to their leader on the bridge. "Xir... I believe we may have agitated the local inhabitants..."

This news, unfortunately, happened mere instants before the local inhabitants set off a chain of charges that collapsed the Drizit tunnels stretching out from the initial Explorer/Burrower that was their initial space and colony vessel. Shortly after that, another chain of explosions obliterated the artificial landslide scree they had used to hide their ship.

A message rang out in GalStand Simple. "Us having this planet," said a voice, loud enough to make the entire ship vibrate. "You going away now. You staying for next sunrise? We fighting you."

In context, a rather terrifying message. Leader Xir realised that the tunnels the Humans had collapsed were also the ones that were uninhabited. They were _letting_ the Drizit take their leave peacefully, and with no casualties.

Xir said, "You are correct in your assumption, Hoq'haq. Please sound the All Retreat."

The Humans were willing to allow for this to be a simple misunderstanding.

Once.

#  Challenge #357: Mightier How?

Aliens find out about "ink poisoning" and get concerned about crew members who write on their hands. – Anon Guest

There should be no reason for a living being to draw on their own bodies. Data readers are flexible and wearable, they can go anywhere a cogniscent being does. The art of writing in and of itself is a niche for hobbyists, since everyone in the modern era types. Well. Almost everyone. There are niche hobbyists and the occasional fanatic who just... like to do things the old-fashioned way.

Niche hobbyists and fanatics who share the same love of pokey little shops that seem to contain three hundred versions of the same thing. Those who fund them can spend hours making decisions about those things, no matter how seemingly identical they are to a novice.[96] One such place has, for instance, a million seemingly identical pens. All of them, no matter the construction, the content, or method of ink delivery, are subject to one question:

"How's this for writing on skin?" Apparently because those who love pens can't be bothered with paper or paper substitutes. The most likely reason is that people will forget bringing a notebook, but can't exactly leave their skin just any old where - swear though they might that they would forget their own head next.

Xorg happened to be looking for a gift for their ships' Human, trying to tell one particular kind of ink delivery system from another, when they overheard the question, and a caution from someone who happened to be interest shopping[97].

"How's this one for writing on human skin?"

"Oh you don't want to ever do that," said the interest shopper. "You'll get ink poisoning."

Xorg suppressed an initial shriek of dismay. Their Human wrote on their skin practically every waking minute! They drew on themselves when bored, etched reminders into their skin, and 'stimmed' with ink and interesting patterns when they needed the rest of their body to be still. Could their Human be poisoning themselves in small amounts whenever their pens touched their hide?

Fortunately, the clerk came to the rescue. "Ink poisoning hasn't been a thing since Humans stopped using heavy metals in their ink making process. The inks used today are all bio-compatible solvents and colours that are completely harmless. Level four and five Havenworlders should avoid contact unless the inks have been cleared by a trained Medik." All this said in one monotone breath, as if it was a well-practiced line that they had long since memorised and had nearly engraved it on their heart.

"Well you shouldn't do it anyway," insisted the interest shopper. "Someone could be allergic."

"Our products are tested and guaranteed non-allergenic except for class four and five Havenworlders," insisted the clerk. "We have a certificate from the GalStand Safety Board."

"What if someone stabs themselves and injects ink into their bloodstream?" complained the stranger to the entire _Pen_ scene.

"That would be a medical miracle," said the clerk. "None of these are sharp enough to penetrate the human skin."

"They could be _made_ to be sharp enough," they raved. By now, it was obvious that this was one of _those_ kinds of shoppers. They were unreasoningly afraid of something unfamiliar and were determined to make everyone else around them afraid of it too.

Indeed, the customer who had asked about the pen they were looking at was discreetly summoning Security for a de-escalation from Causing Public Disturbance.

The clerk remained unflappable. "Then that would void the warranty and be a case of Manufacturing Harmful Goods. The person causing the alteration would be at fault, not the product itself."

"But–" the interest shopper got no further, because two Security Officers appeared. Both wearing their best expressions of fearsome neutrality[98].

"Is there a problem we can assist with?"

The interest shopper in question stammered something about being mistaken and left to find something more interesting and less fearsome somewhere else.

One of the Officers sighed and grinned. "Every Foursday. Regular as clockwork."

Xorg decided to read the reviews on the packaging rather than bother the clerk. They had clearly been through enough.

[96] Pick a hobby emporium. Any hobby emporium. Watch the people who go there for maybe half an hour. You'll see what I mean.

[97] Not actually purchasing anything, just seeing what was interesting wherever they happened to wash up.

[98] As practiced by anyone whose usual job is to stand and watch for trouble whilst serving double duty as a visible deterrent for said trouble.

#  Challenge #358: Feeding Time at the Library

Been a while since I submitted a prompt, but I thought of some Archivaas running across references to DNA data storage - look  here for my ramblings on the subject (it became too long for a normal prompt, as I am forever incapable of being concise). – RecklessPrudence

AN: They have actually [ encoded a gif in bacterial DNA so we're maybe not that very far off. There is a generational corruption problem to conquer though.]

Archivaas are not a race, though a large portion of them are Humans. They are not a religion, no two of them have the same relationship with any given deity. If they worship anything, they worship the preservation of information. Any information. They are that weird uncle who keeps all his receipts in a shoebox, and hoards gift cards for an unspecified future purpose. If anything is a temple to them, it is the library.

_This_ library, however, is a zoo. Specifically, a herpetological zoo. If one wanted to get even more specific, it is a zoo of whiptail lizards. Hundreds of enclosures, each containing a perfect environment for a dozen whiptail lizards. These are the only known lizards with categories, ISBN's, and Dewey-Decimal encoding. Each enclosure contains a small library. They are DNA-encoded collections in biological containers. Not books. _Anthologies_. Encyclopaedias. Collections with themes.

Archivaas Prentice Taen's job was to bring around the grasshoppers. They are also carefully kept to reduce the instances of epigenetic drift that could corrupt the data. She always smiles when she reaches this particular enclosure. Dedicated to science fiction of a specific era. Of course, her supervisor and Senior Reshelver noticed.

"Why such a warm smile for these particular whiptails, Prentice Taen? They're physically no different from the multitude."

"Physically, no. Genetically... _these_ lizards hold a particular story. _The Tragedy of Charlie Charlson._ Are you familiar with the tale?"

"A take on Frankenstein melded with the mistaken assumption that a four-year-old human child can contain the total cultural database of the Human race. There was a rush of those, but _Charlie Charlson_ was the seminal work of the genre."

Prentice Tain released grasshoppers into the enclosure, watching the whiptails chase after them. "Science imitates the divine, the Divinity objects. Humanity pays for its hubris in very specific ways..." She giggled at the plot. "Of course, nobody knew then that Humans make rotten archives. Our genes warp in a light shower."

"But...?" prompted Senior Reshelver Orsun.

"But I love the irony. A novel about the perils of DNA archiving... stored with so many others in the same thing. All wrapped up in these little lizards. If the authors knew... would they be horrified or entranced?"

Senior Reshelver Orsun considered this as lizards carrying libraries in their mitochondria happily munched on their meals. "I think," he eventually said, "it might be a little bit of both."

DNA archiving was a phase, and conducted quite logically despite the dire predictions of science fiction authors everywhere. E Coli was eventually rejected as an encoding medium. Too much risk of strains interbreeding and data being irrevocably corrupted. Besides, their data capacity sucked. What they needed was a species that reproduced asexually at all times, preferably one that didn't mind being kept in habitats.

Therefore, science chose the Whiptail Lizard. A species that had no males, and therefore birthed clones of themselves. With care and attention to epigenetic drift reduction, the data in their junk DNA could last for eons. Eons in which very little was lost to random genetic hiccoughs.

It was a nice idea while it lasted, but keeping the data also meant keeping the lizards. A live animals DNA is always intact. A dead ones would begin to decay and corrupt. Inside of a century, Humans were using data crystals, which involved far less insect handling for only slightly less data capacity.

#  Challenge #359: Zeerusted Symphonium

Second Bohemian Rhapsody Prompt.

This video. The person who built this machine has (at time of prompting) 97 other classic songs 'sung' and 'played' by the amalgamation of repurposed obsolete computer parts, but for their celebration of their 100th video, they chose Bohemian Rhapsody (it is two videos 'early' because the final necessary component for Bohemian Rhapsody to be successfully done by the machine was obtained recently, and it dates from the Windows 98 days. The fact that this machine, which has done all the other songs on this playlist, needed an extra component specifically to be capable of Bohemian Rhapsody speaks volumes in and of itself, but that Paweł Zadrożniak of Poland, which at the time this song came out and for many years afterwards was behind the Iron Curtain, assuming Paweł was even BORN yet, chose it as the 100-song celebration certainly says something about how well it has propagated in the collective human unconsciousness, and how much that collection of seeming nonsense lyrics that was panned by critics on release and yet has gone on to become one of the most well-known and well-regarded songs of the last century moved us all. – RecklessPrudence

[AN: Warning for flashing lights in the video]

It was technology from the dawn of the Information Age. Frankly, it was amazing that it didn't still contain valves. It did still contain transistors, though. Rael had checked. As far as he was concerned, it was barely three steps away from being made out of clockwork.

"I thought the -er- 'rig' in your offices was sufficient for your nostalgic whims," he began. "Was I in error?" Translation: How big will the crater be from this assumed flakk-up?

Shayde, in the middle of a creative mess of plastic, wires, and circuitboards, looked up from her latest soldering join. "Aw, nah. This ain't for me office. This is _art_."

Oh. Well. That just made everything potentially worse. "It won't _explode_ , will it?"

"No sudden noises or smoke, because of station regulations," she intoned. "This is just straight up proof of concept, here. Nowt but me showin' off that I can, ye ken."

Knowing Shayde as he did, this did nothing to assuage his fears. "So what kind of art _is_ this?"

Shayde grinned in that disturbing way that meant she was proud of herself, and reached over to tap a few keys on an ancient-style plastic keyboard. There was a slightly ominous building whine and then... Motors whirred into action.

Wheep. Ity-wheep. Ity-wheep-ip-ip-ip-ip-ip-ip-ip. Wheep. Ity-wheep...

"Is that the William Tell Overture?"

"YES! Test piece, o'course. When I'm done it'll be a motor-driven flakkin' wurlitzer. Fifty or more well-known tunes. Dependin' on how well I can compress t' algorithms."

Rael was stunned for many reasons. Primarily, of course, because this pre-Shattering barbarian of a Deathworlder had made something out of Deathworlder technology that was _actually harmless_. The size of the technology on display might be alarming, but people understood what antiques were. There were even muting panels for the operating lights so that any flashes would not harm anyone at all.

Humans really _were_ adaptive creatures who could consider the needs of those frailer than themselves. Even ones who came from the Decade of Greed.

"That's amazingly considerate of you," he blurted. He realised that he may have put his foot in his mouth and added, "Considering your history." Oh no, that was worse. "I mean–"

"I know what ye meant. Pretty good fer a pre-Shatterin' Terran wi' a reputation fer hittin' first an' thinkin' later." She rose from her work, stretching the kinks out of her muscles and massaging her derriere back into shape. "I'm no' stupid. I can learn. This here is part proof, part peace offerin', and part o' me showin' off fer th' next Ambassadorial Meet."

Rael pondered this. "That's more than four Standard Years away."

"Aye," she grinned. "Plenty o' time tae tune the dot matrix printers I'm addin' tae this mess."

#  Challenge #360: The Chaos Creator

Third Bohemian Rhapsody prompt.

_This_ video. The Muppets are always an outstanding technical achievement when they do anything more complex than stand there and open and close their mouths, and it is a tribute to Jim Henson that his techniques have been used for such a wide range of media, from Sesame Street all the way to big-budget films like Star Wars and Labyrinth, to a TV series like Farscape that wanted a higher level of verisimilitude for their non-humanoid characters than CG can provide on a TV budget even now.

But the Muppets, admittedly in their aimed-at-older-audiences-than-Sesame-Street The Muppet Show doing a cover of Bohemian Rhapsody (altered for added silliness that fits the characters so well, and does not take away from the song)? That dozens or hundreds of people spent weeks or more of their life to recreate the song that was rejected by the band's manager at first for being nothing that anyone would want to listen to and then initially panned by critics, with Muppets filling all the vocal roles, and it currently has almost _sixty-nine and a half MILLION_ views, almost thirty million views higher than the next most popular Muppet music video, when the Muppet Youtube channel does not even have two-thirds of one million subscribers, says something about the lasting impact this song has had.

(of course, the sheer fact that the official Muppets channel has almost two-thirds of a million subscribers in the first place, as well as multiple videos above the twenty million view mark and even more above the ten million view mark, says something about the lasting impact the Muppets themselves have had - don't want to give any impression otherwise!) – RecklessPrudence

This had to be one of the most bizarre things that Shayde had ever dragged him along to. The travelling museum had, like most travelling museums, a central theme. The Museum of the Missing, for instance, was eternally attempting to track down what happened to various artworks lost to the Shattering. This one was called the Hensonium, and showed the Galactic scene works of pre-Shattering technological prowess in the arena of entertainment.

The pieces on display were not the originals. They were modern replicas made with authentic materials. The originals were long since lost to attrition or too fragile to be manipulated at all. There was one original piece, however, a bronze statue at the entrance of a bearded man sitting on a bench apparently talking to the effigy of a frog. It had no cultural impact on Rael, but Shayde left a single rose and got a wobbly lower lip from the sight of it.

"I thought your deity didn't have a face," he murmured, attempting to show a proper level of respect. He was vaguely aware that one aspect of Shayde's pre-shattering religious figures was pictured as a man with a beard, but otherwise the iconography didn't match.

"He's no' a deity," she whispered. "He's... a figure o' great respect." She directed him to an information placard that detailed the works of Jim Henson and his descendents in the arenas of public education, entertainment, and technological progress in the field of animatronics. He was the first puppeteer to understand the translation through television, and inventor of several techniques used through to the present day.

Since the medium was 2-D entertainments, there were several screening rooms in which his finished works were displayed. With appropriate warnings for Havenworlders that included 'simulated explosions', smoke, and flashing lights.

These were, after all, _Deathworlder_ entertainments. There was little funnier to a larval Deathworlder than things unexpectedly going bang.

"It was his philosophy," she said, during a particularly surreal video involving singing vegetables, penguins, and several smoke bombs. "When in doubt, penguins. When yer sure, explosions. It's chaos, aye, but it's... benign chaos."

This from an entertainment series that included characters with names like "Uncle Deadly" and "Crazy Harry". He looked at her and wondered once more if Human Insanity had been watered down by exposure to more sane species, if the species had mellowed between the Twentieth Century and now, or whether Shayde was just Like That because of her lived experiences.

This was, after all, a being who had grown up with this particular chaos as an essential part of her childhood. Picturing the larval stage of her maturation broke his brain, but watching young Humans laughing at the same material gave him something of a window into the early Human mind. _Crazy as a bed bug_ just about covered it.

Then he saw the _other worlds_ that this man had dreamed. A wonderland in a labyrinth, with creatures who could harmlessly remove essential body parts. Monsters both benign and malevolent. Creatures who could plausibly come from other worlds, and still appeared to be plausible five hundred years after the fact. Dinosaurs come to life and then given too-human characteristics. Legends, if not turned to flesh, then given flesh in the form of intricately-painted latex.

He could have stopped at any point and been hailed as a genius.

There were other screening rooms, about the man behind the curtain instead of the things he made. Rael expected a boisterous and energetic person, rather like the chaotic things that came from his mind. Instead was the antithesis. A quiet, unassuming Human who was softly-spoken and otherwise very restrained.

"People always ask me if I ever learned ventriloquism," the recorded image was saying on the screen. He had one arm up the frog puppet and a spare hand on rods that manipulated the arms. "I never needed it." The voice changed and the puppet moved. "You see, the frog is way more interesting to look at and -uh- who cares what the man in the beard is doing?"

Even prepared as he was, Rael's attention was temporarily seized by the puppet.

"Genius," said Shayde. "Never got tae hug th' man. Wish I could'a."

The screen, heedless of its audience, played other interviews about other things. Other Hensons. Other innovations. Other works of quiet genius that nobody thought about because the puppets were way more interesting to look at than the people behind the curtain.

Five hundred years too late, Rael started to wish he'd had a chance himself.

#  Challenge #361: On and On With the Show

So I saw Bohemian Rhapsody recently, and while I was SO ANGRY at their handling of queer issues and history in it that I was on the verge of walking out at one point, other parts moved me to tears and still others had me ready to punch the air and yell, "Hell Yeah!" (I didn't, I was in a film theatre - I have SOME manners, after all).

Because of this, I am having Queen and Freddie Mercury-related feels, and have decided the best way to deal with that is to send you a number of prompts related to their currently 43-year-old masterpiece, the song that gave the film the title. This is the first of them:

 This post. Both the video, and pyrrhiccomedy's analysis/gushing.

Considering how much the whole band liked audience participation, and Freddie in particular loved it when the audience was with him, just imagine his reaction to this, if he could be on stage as the whole crowd sang this to him? – RecklessPrudence

[AN: I haven't seen _Bohemian Rhapsody_ yet and now I'm wondering if I should... Then again, it is in the nature of Hollywood to shy away from unpleasant topics that they really should handle with respect and understanding]

Some call it the Human Anthem. One song from their pre-Shattering history that survived all the upheavals that Humans could wreak upon themselves. Other parts of culture became lost, became corrupted, became derivative things but this... survived. Even on Brav'Nu, where every piece of information was a lifetime of labor or memorisation, where being a book is an occupation and a marker that the House is successful, it survived.

It _flourished_.

It produced variants, of course, but the original recording was cherished all the same. Before today, Rael hadn't thought that any one Human had written it, but there, on primitive vinyl analogue, was a copy of the first album it appeared in. _A Night at the Opera_ , first published in 1975.

It put things into perspective. More recorded Human history had happened before this song existed than after it. There were entire millennia where nothing like this work had ever existed. They recorded it onto _vinyl_. Before digital mastering. And marginally worse, Shayde would have been a five-year-old child when it first played to the public.

She _grew up_ with it playing over Earth's early RF communication broadcast systems. She probably watched the music video on _Top of the Pops_ or one of the many re-broadcasts on television. It was a sobering thought, that this could occur in living memory.

Even more sobering was how the albums ceased after 1995. Less than a decade after Shayde was taken for her multidimensional journey. By all rights, the band and the singers should have maintained their successes long into the twenty-first century. He remembered that the Beatles ceased making albums because of a break-up... perhaps this was the same. "Did the band stop working together after 1995?"

"In a way," said Shayde. "Freddie Mercury died."

He had been young. In his prime, by pre-Shattering Terran standards. "Accident? Drugs?"

"Disease. He was Bi and the government didn't give a shit about anyone wi' AIDS."

Ah. Death by allegedly-moralistic politics. It seemed to be a theme in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. "He was a genius. He made millions, yes? Shouldn't they have cared because of the money he made?"

"That'd mean carin' fer the millions as didn't," she shrugged. "They pretended there was'nae a hope of a cure and threw money down black holes until it got tae the moral people. Only then did th' pretendin' stop an' the real work began. Too late. Na shurrup. This is me favourite track."

The last crash of the gong faded out, and electric guitars started playing a rather sedate and measured tune. Shayde was accurate with her air guitar, playing along as if she were on stage with the legends. She even took a bow as the last notes faded into silence.

Rael had been getting an education into Shayde's window over the pre-Shattering barbarism of Earth. His best summary of it all was an attitude of egotistical, top-down, pseudo-moralism mixed with a blatant misunderstanding of their own religious texts. As it slid into oligarchy, it only got worse before the eco-revolution began with even more murder and destruction than ever before.

All resulting in a civilisation that would let children die because their parents didn't match with the reigning elite's current moral compass.

In retrospect, it was a good thing that most of Humanity had learned its lessons before contacting the greater Galactic Alliance, but... "You're not treating their memory crassly are you?"

Shayde smiled as she replaced the vinyl disk on her turntable with another. "Naw. They fookain loved it when the audience joined in. I think they'd love it knowin' it's known fer centuries tae the point o' bein' an anthem."

#  Challenge #362: Prowess

One more Queen prompt, not BoRhap-related this time. The story of the recording of "The Show Must Go On", the last song Freddie recorded for the band, barely a year before his death. He was so ill when the band recorded the song in 1990 that Brian May, who wrote the melody and much of the lyrics, after he and Freddie had sat down and determined some of the crucial lyrics Freddie wanted in there, had concerns as to whether he was physically capable of singing it. Brian May has said: "I said, 'Fred, I don't know if this is going to be possible to sing.' And he went, 'I'll fucking do it, darling' — vodka down — and went in and killed it, completely lacerated that vocal."

The song was the story of Freddie's long slow death to HIV/AIDS, in a time when that was still a certain death sentence, and his fight against it and determination to still live his life. This video has the isolated vocals track, with Freddie as lead vocals and May as most of the backing vocals. And even separated from the rest of the song, it still raises goosebumps.

(Wikipedia link) for the song) – RecklessPrudence

Stage people are something else. Some people would take the news of a fatal illness and sink wholesale into depression. Others would insist on experiencing as much as possible of the world before taking the ultimate journey into the beyond. A rare few dedicate the rest of their briefer existence to creating as much as possible of their legacy before going ungently into that good night.

Many spit and rage, devoting some of their energy into flipping the bird at the Grim Reaper. Some can do two of those at once.

Freddie Mercury was one of the rare few, made even more special by channeling a justifiable rage into the music he made. The last song he recorded was _The Show Must Go On_. A common stage saying amongst those whose rent came from performing, back in the days of rent. The show was more important than the prima donna. More important than the leads. More important than the orchestra, the understudies, the crew... anyone who made the show was less important than the co-operative product itself.

The show was what paid for the food and shelter. The show was what the audience paid for. That and an assortment of snack foods that merely went to bolster the coffers. The show was the industry. In this case, the show was all that Freddie Mercury had _left_.

Betrayed by the government he'd voted for. Betrayed by the society in which he'd lived. Abandoned by moralistic, pompous sorts who claimed to protect the sanctity of life whilst ignoring the teachings that told them to care for the sick and aid the poor. Left with little but his friends as a means of support. Slowly dying from a disease that others insisted was the judgement of their god.

Rael could hear it in the song. A dying man raging against the dying of the light. Fighting the disease that ebbed his strength but not his fury. Fighting to give his all for an audience who wouldn't know he was sick until he was dead. Leaving one last message for those who cared to listen.

Six weeks after he recorded these lyrics, he died. Six weeks in pain. Six weeks in growing sickness. Six weeks... dying. Six weeks of knowing it.

Rael had spent quite a significant amount of time with the uncertainty of his own lifespan looming over his head like the sword of Damocles. He had decided to keep working because that was all he had. There was nothing else he had as his own. He couldn't imagine a Human, who should have lived anywhere between eighty to a hundred years, knowing that he was going to perish, choosing to work until work was no longer possible. Cranking out creative work after creative work until creativity was no longer an option.

After all that... withering away inside of six weeks. Leaving behind enough works to keep making albums for five years after his death.

That... that was _why_ Humans had such a reputation. They could, had, and would go down fighting. Even when the fight was unwinnable. They would take the enemy with them, spit in the Grim Reaper's eye, and give a rude gesture as their last conscious action in life.

The show had gone on.

Because this one man decided it would.

Humanity remembered heroes like that, long after the alleged moralists were forgotten and their venal policies ground into the dirt where they belonged. They remembered words of power, and struggles against the unconquerable foe. They passed the heroism on. Inspired, they moved onwards to fight other battles.

There was more than one Human who used a particular song by Queen as their battle anthem. Many a Vorax had learned to fear broadcasts of rhythmic guitars, relentless drums, or the admiration of fat-bottomed girls. They certainly learned to fear the awesome vocals of Freddie Mercury, regardless of the subject matter.

Having heard his honest fury, wrapped in soaring notes, Rael could understand the terror.

He _never_ wanted that kind of rage aimed at _him_.

#  Challenge #363: Mechanics of Recovery

The sheer existence of the various characters Jim Henson and his protégés created, both Muppets and Creatures. From highly stylised characters in a children's television show that still stand up today and whose show is _still_ at the forefront of teaching children decency and tolerance, as it has been since its first season, but were never meant to pass as flesh-and-blood beings (no matter what so many children know in their hearts to be true, that despite not being flesh and blood, they are no less _alive_ ) to The Muppet Show, aimed at a decidedly older audience but with a surprising number of the same characters as Sesame Street and more in the same style, with that same lack of expectation to be seen as flesh and blood, to big-budget movies with characters that are meant to be seen as something you could see living on other worlds or in other realms like the latter two Star Wars of the Original Trilogy (Yoda was not a Jim Henson project, but many of the people he trained were instrumental in the wise (and slightly crazy) old being's creation), Labyrinth, the first two Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles films (not technically beings from other planets or realms, but still), and more, to realistic aliens shown in close-ups for long periods of time on a TV budget, as in Farscape, to puppets of _actual animals_ that hold up to scrutiny _even by people that know those animals_ like the Creatures they built for the first Babe movie that stood in for many of the animals when shots required things that were easier to get a puppet to do than an animal (such as move their mouths in time to speech) that in some cases hold up to scrutiny better than any pure-CGI character done with cutting-edge equipment that has to interact with the real world, rather than a stylised world done to match the character models, unless there was a truly ridiculous budget to throw at the problem - with hybrid CGI/actual actor characters only relatively _recently_ reaching Yoda, Hoggle/Ludo/Sir Didymus, or _especially_ Pilot/Rygel levels of believable in both their looks and how they interact with the world around them.

[AN: If I could pick anyone to make my imagined worlds a reality, Henson is right up there. Practical creatures look infinitely more real than CGI ones.]

It looked grotesque. A construction of mechanisms, teeth, and eyeballs. There was all kinds of seemingly random bits and pieces in there. Plates instead of muscles. It looked like a robot had tried to make a face and forgot all the essential fleshy bits. The display flickered, and the latex 'skin' became overlaid on the underlying structure. After that came the paint and then... the movement.

Viewers could choose from there to watch the mechanisms operate, see how the mechanisms worked in concert with the control systems, or have a go at the systems themselves. Shayde was making a ham hand at it, but learning quickly how to manipulate the exhibit on an intuitive level.

Rael was vaguely disturbed to know the operational mechanics behind the masks, and simultaneously fascinated by the mechanical aspects. Seeing them all operating... he had to wonder if the AI Alliance was offended. Some of them used very similar mechanisms for their faces. This sort of thing would be like the Real Anatomy Exhibit, where guests could watch simulated muscle and bone operating several kinds of anatomy.

There were plenty of exhibits of the like. Educational, morbidly fascinating, and mostly gross. They had warnings prior to entry. Visitors could be disturbed by the displays, all exhibits are simulated, fabricated, and not taken from cogniscent beings et cetera, et cetera. There were always a few who believed they could handle the sights on display and free offensensitivity goggles for those who couldn't.

Rael could handle this. These weren't actual, artificial beings. They were incredibly advanced simulations for their time, and stood the test of time. His own history didn't even touch this. He knew it intellectually.

However...

He could easily predict nightmares of being manipulated like an animatronic creature by B'Dauss scientists while they were laughing about it. Being an artificial life form did certain things to the psyche.

He defended against future nightmares by delving into the historical side of things. The evolution of the mechanics and how they were used by some AI's because of their similarity to organic systems and their capability for verisimilitude. How there was very little in the way of evolution between the twentieth-century creative genius and the modern mechanisms.

Then, at Shayde's insistence, he had a go at the animatronic controls. That was peculiar. Learning for himself how difficult the process was managed to turn nightmares into farce. _His_ back-handed creators would never be able to manage the finesse necessary to do anything in relation to reality.

She had so many strange ways of solving problems she couldn't know he was busy having. Sometimes, he had to wonder if Humans were as telepathic as others thought they were.

#  Challenge #364: Normal is Relative

"Why is that rooster using an airhorn?"

"It's outsourcing its morning crowing." – TheDragonsFlame

There are downsides to living in quiet country towns and the one you never notice is how casual one can become when faced with things far from normal. It's only when the outsider arrives that things like the neighbours taking their pigs for walks or the rooster down the road greeting the dawn with an air horn get pointed out as unusual.

The same thing goes for the camel that wanders into the local grocery, drops off a golden dubloon, picks up either a watermelon or a pumpkin, and leaves.

Sam had only stopped for a car repair and an overnight stay in the local motel, and had encountered all of these before her breakfast arrived at the local café. It was too early in the morning to deal with it yet, so Sam was busy arguing about it.

"A rooster. Uses. An air horn."

"Well he has to," said the man who ran the café. "He smoked too much and got throat cancer. Good thing that was the final straw for him. He's the best rooster in the shire."

"That camel just walked by with a pumpkin in its mouth..."

"He pays for it, so why not?"

Coffee helped, or at least helped Sam reach levels of cogniscence where the things the locals said could make sense if she worked at it. "He pays for it."

"Oh yeah. This isn't exactly watermelon _or_ pumpkin country, but he pays more than full price, so it's worth always having a few over at Shannon's." That was another peculiarity of this town. The shops had names, but they were known to the people by the names of the people who ran them. Therefore, Wily's Grocery was Shannon's, the Star Crossed Café was Davo's, and the car repair place was Daisy's. Very confusing for outsiders.

Sam was still staring at the retreating camel. "Does this happen... _all_ the time?"

"Well, once in a while ol' Hargle's in a zucchini mood, but he brings his own string bag and helps Shannon load it up."

The camel was called Hargle. Okay. That was... that was _almost_ normal. Camels had names. Sam could deal with that much. It was a camel coming into town to buy produce that she was having trouble with. "How does... Hargle... pay for them, again?"

"Brings in a dubloon at half-nine. Regular as clockwork, our Hargle." Davo seemed mildly concerned. "You all right now?"

Sam tried the omelette. Absolutely perfect. "I can safely say this is the weirdest little town I've stopped in," she turned to listen to the air horn go off. After the camel, a rooster who had had his vocal chords removed seemed more like background noise. "Is there anything else I should be warned about?"

Davo handed over a pair of earmuffs and said, "Town clock." He had his own, which he put on.

Sam did the same, just in time to avoid the worst of a disharmonious cacophony caused by several bells all going off at once. "What the hell was that?"

"Town clock," Davo took his earmuffs off. "Bloke wanted it to play the city anthem, back when this was a city. Never could get the timing right and after the big lightning storm, all the strikers go off at once."

"And you never got it fixed?"

"Never had the funds. If we had it done now, we'd never feel right, anyway." Davo waved at someone walking a dozen pigs on individual leashes. "Mornin' Bob."

By now, Sam had absolutely nothing to say about the outfits that the pigs were wearing.

#  Challenge #365: Backfire Initiative

"Fear me, for I am descended from tigers!"

"That would be much more impressive if you weren't only as tall as my boots and as heavy as this bag." – Anon Guest

People assume. It's in their nature. They also fail rather spectacularly at connecting certain dots. Dots like - there's a small, medium, and large version of every type of creature. It's just that many of them avoid the more common thoroughfares, or interaction with the greater realms.

However, there are statistical outliers who will make blips on every bell curve. Such as Rumtum Taigr, a member of the Tabaxi species, but not the one more commonly known. He has currently been caught rummaging through the wrong Wizard's travel chest.

He is also currently unable to fight because being held at arms' length by any Medium creature is an effective tactic against small ones. That, as well as failing an intimidation check.

"Fear me! I am descended from mighty hunters! My claws could rend the flesh from your bones!"

Wraithvine, who had him by the scruff of the neck, said, "That would be much more impressive if you weren't as tall as my boots or lighter than my spell ingredients pouch."

Dangling with his arms and legs in the kitten curl, Rumtum glared at the Elf. "Your arm will get tired sooner or later."

"You weigh less than thirty pounds and I have Mage Hand."

Check and mate. Damnit. Tumtum growled. "Fine. I was curious. It's in my nature. You have a shiny thing in there and I want to check it out."

"You're an atrocious Rogue," said Lady Anthe, who should know.

"...'m a bard," mumbled Rumtum.

Wraithvine looked to Lady Anthe, who had a contemplative look. "We're not adopting him."

"We could always use some inspiration on the road ahead," said Lady Anthe. "Let him sate his curiosity and we can hire him until this particular quest is complete. By then, we'll know if he fits in the family."

Wraithvine tutted as they put the small Tabaxi down. "Fine. Look, but don't take."

Rumtum used his lute to cast Identify and revelled in the joy of knowing everything there was to know about the shiny thing of his current interest. Then, just as quickly, lost all interest in it and tossed it back into the chest. "Okay, bored now."

Lady Anthe bowed as if she had done an impressive trick. "A Ring of Pointing, a bowl of warm milk, and a warm place by the fire, and he will be pleased."

Wraithvine still had their doubts. "Just as long as he doesn't spray."

#  Another Year Over...

We made it! We made it out of this year in one piece. You, giving the prompts, kudos, or votes that kept me both motivated and going for this entire year.

Given the political shenanigans going on, I have needed all the love that everybody had to give. It meant a great deal to me, so thank you.

Extra special thanks to you, the person who voluntarily paid for this ebook. Your contribution to my life matters a great deal. My writing helps me pay for nice little things here and there. One day it will pay for my actual life.

If you couldn't afford to pay for this book, that's fine. Use it to show all your friends and family the stories in here that they might like. Who knows? They might decide to fling a few dollars in my general direction. It's worth a shot.

Thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for downloading. Thank you for existing. It's been one heck of a year.

Let's hope the next one is better.

#  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.

Website: www.CMWeller.com

Facebook: authorcmweller

Twitter: @InterNutter

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Blog: www.internutter.org

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Patreon: cmweller

Ko-fi: cmweller
