 
One Year of Instants

C M Weller

Published by C M Weller at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 C M Weller

ISBN: 9781311304193

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:

RTFM

Nor Gloom of Night

Good Boy

Blowing Bubbles

Scavenger

It Happened One Wednesday

Hevun's Rebel

Hevun's Ambassador
Table of Contents

Forewarning

Challenge #00001: Sara with a Manual while on Ordeal

Challenge #00002: Toad V Spiderman

Challenge #00003: One Fine Evening in a Villainous Pit-trap

Challenge #00004: They Fight Crime

Challenge #00005: When You Meet a Stranger

Challenge #00006: Be Were

Challenge #00007: Baaa-d Science

Challenge #00008: Uncareful Wish

Challenge #00009: The Perils of Channel-Surfing

Challenge #00010: Obligatory Gender Bender

Challenge #00011: To Catch a Geek

Challenge #00012: Date Night

Challenge #00013: Verdammt!

Challenge #00014: P.B.L.T.B.H.

Challenge #00015: Tough Shells, Soft Hearts

Challenge #00016: Worst. Date. Ever!

Challenge #00017: Don't Go Breakin' My Heart

Challenge #00018: Murder in the Sheets

Challenge #00019: Chosen By the Gods

Challenge #00020: Screw Loose

Challenge #00021: One Hazardous Evening in the Basements of the Xavier Mansion

Challenge #00022: Siracha... Cha Cha Cha

Challenge #00023: About a Girl

Challenge #00024: On the Heartbreak of Flotsam

Challenge #00025: Movie Madness

Challenge #00026: Young Love, Stay Love

Challenge #00027: I Spy

Challenge #00028: Knick-knack, paddywhack...

Challenge #00029: One Nasty Evening on the Mountains of Mad Science...

Challenge #00030: Don't You Cry, Baby Mine

Challenge #00031: Helpmate

Challenge #00032: Like Sands Through the Hourglass...

Challenge #00033: Mad-Anon

Challenge #00034: Julie and Nanny

Challenge #00035: Baby Monster

Challenge #00036: Good Intentions

Challenge #00037: Not My Fault!

Challenge #00038: Wanted Hair Problems

Challenge #00039: Whither Shall I Wander

Challenge #00040: Where Art Thou, Daughter?

Challenge #00041: The Doctor is in

Challenge #00042: The Shocking Truth.

Challenge #00043: The Noodle Incident(s)

Challenge #00044: Life's Great Mystery

Challenge #00045: Time is Money

Challenge #00046: Trial of Error

Challenge #00047: Introducing Senator Summers

Challenge #00048: Daring Rescue

Challenge #00049: Weather the weather.

Challenge #00050: The Fall of Matthews

Challenge #00051: Wrecking the Grade Curve

Challenge #00052: The Weekend Larp Involved Pirates vs. Astronauts, Snow, and Weaponised Fruit, so Here Are Some Prompts Inspired by Real Events.

Challenge #00053: The Perils of Temporal Interference

Challenge #00054: InA-WithA-WhileA

Challenge #00055: Cry Me a River

Challenge #00056: Appreciation

Challenge #00057: Slow Progress

Challenge #00058: Human is as Human Does

Challenge #00059: Unlikely Treasures

Challenge #00060: Zen and the Art of Renovating

Challenge #00061: Nice Guy Syndrome

Challenge #00062: Nice Guy Becoming Good Guy

Challenge #00063: One Fine Day During the Festival of Live Performances

Challenge #00064: Got Three For You Today(1).

Challenge #00065: Got Three For You Today(2).

Challenge #00066: Got Three For You Today(3).

Challenge #00067: Ooh, Ooh, Another One!

Challenge #00068: Post Meltdown

Challenge #00069: Exploitation

Challenge #00070: Looking Back, Looking Forward

Challenge #00071: Power Struggle

Challenge #00072: Strengths

Challenge #00073: Eldritch

Challenge #00074: Dingy, Dire, Depressing

Challenge #00075: Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Challenge #00076: Whoa! Sorry, it usually doesn't do that...

Challenge #00077: Lactose Tolerance

Challenge #00078: One Fine Day in Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters

Challenge #00079: Just a Chocolate Bunny

Challenge #00080: One Fine Day in the Seasonal Candy Store

Challenge #00081: White W(h)ine

Challenge #00082: The Green-Eyed Monster

Challenge #00083: Graduation

Challenge #00084: The Muse Woos

Challenge #00085: By the Book

Challenge #00086: Dance!

Challenge #00087: They Fight Crime

Challenge #00088: The Ninth Step

Challenge #00089: My Apologies for the Pun

Challenge #00090: Happens Stance

Challenge #00091: The Inherent Perils of Silly Season

Challenge #00092: Faith in Humanity...

Challenge #00093: Um... Whoops

Challenge #00094: Pax Adriens

Challenge #00095: Long Green

Challenge #00096: Pretence

Challenge #00097: Glee?

Challenge #00098: Well, That's Unusual...

Challenge #00099: Time Cop's Dilemma.

Challenge #00100: Sapient's Rights

Challenge #00101: Clean Energy

Challenge #00102: Star Trekking Across the Universe...

Challenge #00103: Rich Fantasy Lives

Challenge #00104: ...And I feel fine.

Challenge #00105: Wake Up Call

Challenge #00106: One Fine Day in the Xavier Mansion's Sub-Sub-Basements

Challenge #00107: Patience

Challenge #00108: Imperial China... Dragons?

Challenge #00109: Stole This From a Book

Challenge #00110: One Fine Day in the Computer Lab

Challenge #00111: One Fine Day in a Ren Faire near Bayville

Challenge #00112: Science Project

Challenge #00113: Ohai We're From the Internet

Challenge #00114: One Fine Day in the Cubicle Labyrinth

Challenge #00115: Faction Fraction

Challenge #00116: A Line For Sara

Challenge #00117: A Scene in the Library

Challenge #00118: One Fine Day on a Planet That Looks a Lot Like a Quarry Somewhere in England

Challenge #00119: Letter v Spirit

Challenge #00120: Impressions

Challenge #00121: And That's Why a Platypus.

Challenge #00122: Beside Myself.

Challenge #00123: Strategy and the Zen of Faking it

Challenge #00124: A New Take on an Old Classic.

Challenge #00125: Philip K. Dick Said it Best:

Challenge #00126: Be Interested to See What You do With This One:

Challenge #00127: One Fine Day in the Diplomatic Offices

Challenge #00128: A Blessing? Or a Curse?

Challenge #00129: "I'm Impressed"

Challenge #00130: Why Would You Do This to Me?

Challenge #00131: Conversations on the Twilight Zone

Challenge #00132: Once Upon a Nightmare

Challenge #00133: Creep

Challenge #00134: Ding, Dong, Is The Witch Really Dead?

Challenge #00135: Ethical Heroism

Challenge #00136: Monster in My House

Challenge #00137: One Fine Day in a Play Park

Challenge #00138: Wrong Call

Challenge #00139: Offerings of Embarrassment

Challenge #00140: Just Like Her Father

Challenge #00141: Elves Don't Live Forever.

Challenge #00142: Failure Fret

Challenge #00143: But Not My Hero

Challenge #00144: FicWar Prompt

Challenge #00145: Through Dangers Untold

Challenge #00146: One Fine Day in Transylvania Polygnostic....

Challenge #00147: Angst in Eyeliner

Challenge #00148: Discovery!

Challenge #00149: Mein Kinder

Challenge #00150: Bad Decisions

Challenge #00151: Never Let Them Have a Holodeck

Challenge #00152: Worse Decisions

Challenge #00153: Unlikely Tales From the X-Mansion

Challenge #00154: Payback, the Bitch

Challenge #00155: One Stormy Evening at Genracon

Challenge #00156: Really Bad Decisions

Challenge #00157: Young Knights and Old Soldiers

Challenge #00158: Foiled Again

Challenge #00159: By the Power of Capsaicin...

Challenge #00160: In Just Seven Days...

Challenge #00161: And Never No More, I'll Go Sailing

Challenge #00162: Roll Up

Challenge #00163: From Zero to Disaster

Challenge #00164: Spark Roast Coffee

Challenge #00165: Creative Problem Resolution

Challenge #00166: Off With the Show

Challenge #00167: Clothes Maketh the...?

Challenge #00168: Love and Apologies to Mr Watterson

Challenge #00169: Typical Table Talk

Challenge #00170: What You Wanted

Challenge #00171: I'm'unna Do It

Challenge #00172: The Dangerous Onkel Wolf

Challenge #00173: Lost and Finding

Challenge #00174: Don't Bottle Things up - Bottles Can Break so Easily.

Challenge #00175: Ideosyncratic Biology

Challenge #00176: One Fine Afternoon in the Halls of Higher Education

Challenge #00177: Taken From a Conversation

Challenge #00178: Foreign Cuisine

Challenge #00179: One Fine Afternoon in Downtown Bayville

Challenge #00180: Biggest Fans

Challenge #00181: Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox....

Challenge #00182: Live to Therve

Challenge #00183: An Affront Taken Aback.

Challenge #00184: Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox, pt. 2

Challenge #00185: A Rather Hairy Dilemma.

Challenge #00186: One Alarming Afternoon in Stark Tower

Challenge #00187: A New Drop Bear-like Story.

Challenge #00188: Somewhere, over....

Challenge #00189: Those Who Harm

Challenge #00190: Time Out From That Good Fight

Challenge #00191: One Tempestuous Evening at Club Haxx

Challenge #00192: Apt Curse

Challenge #00193: #1

Challenge #00194: #2

Challenge #00195: #3

Challenge #00196: Awareness of Food

Challenge #00197: Impossible Aftermath

Challenge #00198: Miss Tiggy

Challenge #00199: Beat the Beat

Challenge #00200: Non-Hostile Takeover

Challenge #00201: Monster!

Challenge #00202: Everyday Miracles

Challenge #00203: Spiritus in Machina

Challenge #00204: You're in Good Hands With Mawlitt-Badlii

Challenge #00205: A Kiss of Home

Challenge #00206: Haunted

Challenge #00207: Whoops, Banned Again

Challenge #00208: Through Dragon's Eyes

Challenge #00209: Letter and Spirit of the Law

Challenge #00210: What All Girls Should Know

Challenge #00211: Un-Powered

Challenge #00212: Creative Outlet

Challenge #00213: Réve-olutionary

Challenge #00214: "Now, That Makes...Sense."

Challenge #00215: Dining with... Omnivores.

Challenge #00216: Prepared.

Challenge #00217: Emotional... Promotion

Challenge #00218: Typhoon

Challenge #00219: More of Danny's World!

Challenge #00220: Icky-what?

Challenge #00221: "How Super Are We All, Really?"

Challenge #00222: Goodbye, Good Boy

Challenge #00223: Drained

Challenge #00224: Tempus Flakkit

Challenge #00225: Relics

Challenge #00226: More of Danny's World!(2)

Challenge #00227: Wedding Jitters

Challenge #00228: Tea and Scales

Challenge #00229: It's not easy being us...

Challenge #00230: Wonderlust

Challenge #00231: On the Disposal of Sex Aids

Challenge #00232: Ancient Terran Tradition

Challenge #00233: The Morning Show With Patty

Challenge #00234: Aftereffects of Tequila

Challenge #00235: We're Mostly Harmless, I Swear!

Challenge #00236: A Lake Appeared in Winsome Valley

Challenge #00237: Tenpool Lottery

Challenge #00238: Intricate Details

Challenge #00239: Dealing With Fridge Thieves

Challenge #00240: Weighty Problems

Challenge #00241: Pressed Seconds

Challenge #00242: Stop, in the Name of Cheesecake!

Challenge #00243: Elemental, My Dear...

Challenge #00244: Didn't We Already Fix That?!

Challenge #00245: Household Gods

Challenge #00246: One Fine Afternoon Just Outside the Danger Room

Challenge #00247: One Beautiful Morning at the Bi-Annual Fair

Challenge #00248: Learning Curve

Challenge #00249: Meter and Rhyme

Challenge #00250: Craftsmanship

Challenge #00251: More Deadlier...

Challenge #00252: What Monsters Hath Science Wrought?

Challenge #00253: Birds of a Feather

Challenge #00254: Terror Watch

Challenge #00255: Be Careful What You Wish For

Challenge #00256: I'm Sorry, We Can't Help You

Challenge #00257: Honey, and Plenty of Money

Challenge #00258: The Wall and the Hypocri-sea.

Challenge #00259: "Why We Won't Stop Fighting For Our Right To Purity"

Challenge #00260: What a Wonderful World

Challenge #00261: Meeting as Equals

Challenge #00262: "Well, Sweetie..."

Challenge #00263: Bubbles in History

Challenge #00264: Foiled Again

Challenge #00265: One Fine Afternoon at the Student Labs of Transylvania Polygnostic University

Challenge #00266: Moebius Repair

Challenge #00267: Getting (Gender)Bent

Challenge #00268: Pour Encourager Les Autres.

Challenge #00269: Non-Hostile Takeover(2)

Challenge #00270: Learning the Ropes

Challenge #00271: No, bad dog!

Challenge #00272: Vamping it Up

Challenge #00273: Heroic

Challenge #00274: Rule 9 for Life

Challenge #00275: So sharp...

Challenge #00276: Mundane Utility: The Sequel

Challenge #00277: Anomalous Behaviour

Challenge #00278: On the Folly of Tailored Worlds

Challenge #00279: Peck of Dust, Dust, Dust...

Challenge #00280: "Awwwww!!!"

Challenge #00281: Den of Iniquity

Challenge #00282: Welcome Walter's Metal Men

Challenge #00283: See where this bit of commenting takes you...

Challenge #00284: One Overcast Evening in the Middle of an Apocalypse

Challenge #00285: The Kindness of Strangers

Challenge #00286: You Overhear the Strangest Things From Public-Phone Conversations Sometimes...

Challenge #00287: All Things Ridiculous and Human

Challenge #00288: Since I Know You Got Started Writing DS9 Stuff...

Challenge #00289: For When Holy Water Just Won't Do...

Challenge #00290: How I Have Felt, on Occasion.

Challenge #00291: Because Science is Amazing.

Challenge #00292: Failure Modes

Challenge #00293: A Line From Pacific Rim.

Challenge #00294: Sound advice.

Challenge #00295: Another Corollary to Clarke's Third Law

Challenge #00296: A Corollary to Clarke's Third Law

Challenge #00297: Yet _Another_ Corollary.

Challenge #00298: The Whole Set

Challenge #00299: Found This Somewhere.

Challenge #00300: Death and Ding-Dong Ditchers

Challenge #00301: So, How're Those Plotbunnies Coming Along?

Challenge #00302: In Response to a Sight.

Challenge #00303: Weapons-grade Vocabulary.

Challenge #00304: Proooobably a Mad Scientist, Rather Than the Regular Kind

Challenge #00305: Something I found difficult to type.

Challenge #00306: It's Not Called That Anymore.

Challenge #00307: The First AI Gains Sentience.

Challenge #00308: Extinction is Such a Cheery Thought, Isn't it?

Challenge #00309: Seen on a Gravestone.

Challenge #00310: Also on a Gravestone.

Challenge #00311: The Body Language Gap

Challenge #00312: One Other Clarke's Third Law Thing.

Challenge #00313: One Good Turn Deserves Another - a Good Samaritan Winds up With Superpowers as a Result.

Challenge #00314: Pay Attention

Challenge #00315: Immovable Object

Challenge #00316: Ekkritism

Challenge #00317: Downhill From There

Challenge #00318: Sing-along

Challenge #00319: Common Band

Challenge #00320: Some Questions Should Remain Unspoken.

Challenge #00321: In Memorium

Challenge #00322: Homo S. Cuisine

Challenge #00323: Cupcakes! Cupcakes! Cupcakes!

Challenge #00324: Amphibious

Challenge #00325: But is it Art?

Challenge #00326: Those Pesky Living Authors

Challenge #00327: The Unnypical

Challenge #00328: A Gru-some Predicament

Challenge #00329: ...and Wherefores

Challenge #00330: Old Wars, New Combatants

Challenge #00331: Fool Me Twice

Challenge #00332: Unexpectedly Useful

Challenge #00333: Wark

Challenge #00334: Look at This Photograph...

Challenge #00335: The first Christmas in Space

Challenge #00336: To Be a F.A.I.R.Y

Challenge #00337: Vulnerable

Challenge #00338: The Real Reason Why You Don't Cross Your Own Time Stream

Challenge #00339: The Return of Wark

Challenge #00340: The Thin Man

Challenge #00341: Send Me an Angel

Challenge #00342: Accomplished Only While Drunk

Challenge #00343: Wild Goose Chase

Challenge #00344: Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence

Challenge #00345: Legal Consult

Challenge #00346: Didn't This Happen On Star Trek?

Challenge #00347: The Perpetual Talk

Challenge #00348: Aviasaur

Challenge #00349: Australian Things

Challenge #00350: Found This in Another 'Fic.

Challenge #00351: Seen in Another Fic (Take Two)

Challenge #00352: The Case For Doing Your Homework

Challenge #00353: Three People on Tumblr

Challenge #00354: Tell Me How to Get... How to Get to...

Challenge #00355: Designated Victim

Challenge #00356: Average Ordinary Every-Day...

Challenge #00357: New Take on an Old Saw.

Challenge #00358: O...MG Tannenbaum

Challenge #00359: Shining, Gleaming, Silken, Flaxen, Waxen...

Challenge #00360: Everything Proof Shield

Challenge #00361: Stupid Mammals.

Challenge #00362: Fun With (Decidedly Non-Standard) Units

Challenge #00363: [Citation Needed]

Challenge #00364: Stolen From a Webcomic

Challenge #00365: Post Failed Alien Invasion

Congratulations!

About the Author
Forewarning

In 2013, I figured that my writing was going nowhere and I needed to exercise my muse. The best way to keep this as a regular thing was to get prompts from my readers and make fiction from whatever they sent me.

However, it wasn't until the fourteenth of January that I started limiting myself to one story a day. Doing them as they came was demanding and left me little time for working on anything else. Writing one story a day, every day (except Christmas) was a brilliant way to keep my creative juices flowing. Even a day job couldn't stop me from perpetuating fiction on the masses.

And it helped me write my novels as well. Investing a slice of every morning into writing made sure the creative well never ran dry on my novel work in the afternoons.

As an extra, added bonus, writing a story a day has generated readers of my blog, who incidentally get a daily reminder to check out my other works via Smashwords.

There are stories in here that will make you cry.

There are stories in here that will make you cringe.

There are LOTS of stories in here that will make you wonder what drugs I take. All without the other inanity that crops up in my blog pretty much always from time to time.

If you paid for this: thank you! If you didn't pay for this and later regret that choice, buy a copy for a friend! Share and enjoy,

C M Weller.

Not on any drugs at all. Really.

Return to the Table of Contents
Challenge #00001: Sara with a Manual while on Ordeal

geekhyena answered: Have you read Diane Duane's work? If so, Sara with a Manual while on Ordeal.

[AN: I am not remotely familiar with Duane. I should pick her up, one of these days. Nevertheless, I shall attempt this with my own reality(s).

Fiction ho!]

Manual Ordeal

"So..." Hank drawled. "A few questions..."

"Do keep them brief." Sara turned a page, frowning. It was written in two languages by someone who barely understood either of them. Using it as a rosetta stone to decipher what was left of the controls was, if not an exercise in futility, at least something to stop her going mad with boredom. "I am trying to concentrate."

"How long has this been happening?"

"Subjectively, on and off for five years. By events, two days total. Blame Forge."

Hank shrugged. "That answers my second question. Third: Where are we?"

"I don't recognize the universe, but it appears to be a derelict space ship. We're lucky we have power and air."

"How long does this last?"

"I must be touching everything I was touching when we went in the first place. And you had to go juggling with my hairpin."

"I was merely—"

"Trying an untested skill you'd only observed in recordings with inappropriate tools on an unfamiliar device. And you dropped it. Down a grille."

"Do you have a magnet?"

"In my other pants. Currently inconveniently located in another dimension."

"Chewing gum?"

"Other pants."

"Anyth—"

"Other. Pants."

"Perhaps I could—?"

"Don't. Touch. Anything."

Hank sighed. "I get bored, too."

"Fabulous. Help be unravel this console. But don't touch anything."

Return to the Table of Contents
Challenge #00002: Toad V Spiderman

Toad (either Evo or movieverse) meets Spiderman. Hilarity and quipping ensue?

I can not decide which Toad to use.

Round 1: Evo-Toad V Spiderman

"Where you goin', lady? Don'chu know this street ain't public property?"

Ah, the catch-cry of the lesser soon-to-be-very-bruised looser. Peter swung in, landing on a nearby roof and hustled down a handy wall.

Three punks in similar bargain-basement street gang wear were moving in on a rather elongated lady burdened with shopping.

"The city planning department might disagree with you," said the lady.

"Damn, that's a tall-ass bitch," said thug#1.

"Need a stepladder to teach her manners," said thug#2.

"Need a stepladder jus' ta fuck her," cackled thug #3.

And then a voice right by his ear whispered, "The fuck you doin', fool? Yo' gonna ruin our sting."

Peter looked to his right, where a fourth tatty youth hung on the wall much like himself. "I've heard of hanging around the streets, but this is extreme."

The teen glared at him, his too-wide mouth twisting in a voluminous expression of distaste. "Mouth like dat, 's a wonder those tights ain't black an' blue, yo."

"Hey, at least I have some style!"

"As in, goin' outta style?"

"This way nobody knows who I am."

"Psh. An' nobody cares..."

The lady down in the street said, "Gentlemen..."

Both boys looked down. The lady had the three thugs neatly hog-tied and moaning in discomfort. "I appreciate the extra back-up, dear; but I think I'd prefer it better if said backup was focussed on our task?"

The tatty teen's toothy rictus was possibly wider than his mouth. "Um. Whoops? Sorry, Sara."

Peter sighed. He was nobody's favorite neighbourhood spiderman, tonight.

Round 2: Movie-Toad V Spiderman

The man currently making his slow progress down the alley was being boxed in by four denizens - and this neighbourhood crawled with denizens - who had rightfully singled him out as easy pickings.

Little did they know that this poor fellow was under the prodigious protection of Peter Parker, the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman!

The limping, shambling man evidently figured out he was being boxed in and stopped in a relatively clear area of the alleyway.

"You lot fuck off," he growled. "I've already had a bad fuckin' day."

The four toughs came out of concealment and moved in, laughing. Grinning like crocodiles.

"Bout t' get worse," said the spokesthug.

Just as Peter leaped to the rescue, the shambling man exploded. Both arms and one leg lashed out at three of the thugs, knocking them away. And, in the case of the guy who got the walking stick, delivering internal injuries on the side.

Peter aimed himself at the fourth man, but the erstwhile victim had plans for him, too. The injured man spat something at the fourth fellow's face.

It hardened just as Peter's flying foot connected with it.

Peter managed to land with his dignity intact, and his foot stuck to a felon's face. "What the hell?"

"The fuck d'you think you are?" demanded the injured man.

Even in the half-light, Peter could see he was in a bad way. Bleeding. Burned. Wet and filthy. Like he'd been beaten, struck by lightning and left to drown in the bay. "Just your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman trying to make a difference," He shook his foot. It was stuck solidly to the man's temple. "Is there a solvent for this stuff?"

"Dunno," said the injured man as he continued on his way.

Round 3: WATXM-Toad V Spiderman

Toad was many things, but he was not the sort of sick psycho who would abandon his gang.

Even when his gang abandoned him.

He kept away from public places. After a debacle like that one, he didn't need another mutant-inspired riot on his ass. Not after barely escaping with his life.

The Brotherhood had left him to fend for himself, as they frequently did, after getting themselves the heck out of dodge. Toad was used to this. He went through hay, hell and high water to find his gang again and they always accused him of turning up like a stray cat.

It was enough to make a fellow feel... unwanted.

"Well, lookie what we have here," cooed a street tough.

Well, crap. On top of everything else, he had to wander down Yancy Street in a moment of inattention.

"Aw, it's a little lost mutie," said tough#2.

"Where you goin', mutie?" said tough #3.

Things were not looking good for Mrs Toynbee's only son.

"He's going over the meadow and through the woods," said a voice from above. "Isn't that the way to Grandmother's house?"

To a man, they all looked up.

Dangling upside-down on a cord with no visible means of support, was a teenager in a full-body stocking. Red and blue. Patterned with webs and a spider.

Fucking vigilantes. You never knew whose side they were on.

"Sod off," said Toad. "I got this."

"It's four against one," objected the vigilante.

"Yeh," admitted Toad. "'S what nearly makes it fair."

Bonus Round:  Dresden-Codak-Toad V Spiderman

[This incarnation of Toad belongs to Dresden Codak artist, Aaron Diaz. I apologize in advance for any wrong I bestow upon him by messing with his characters and world]

Witness the paragon of perfection, Peter Parker, pounding punks prodigiously! Just another day at work for your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman!

This one went a little differently when he went to assist the victim. A huddling figure tying itself -himself- into knots trying to hide himself from the entire world.

"Hey, it's okay, now. Badguys are all gone."

The figure huddled tighter.

Peter made sure the thugs were safely trussed up for the police before he knelt by the huddling man.

"It's okay. I don't bite." He dare not touch someone so afraid. For all he knew, this guy had a whole newsstand's worth of issues. "I'm... I'm a hero."

Rustling from inside the trench coat, and a slip of paper emerged.

It read, Heroes kill monsters.

Monsters? What the hell?

"Hey. No. I don't kill anyone. And I don't go after anyone who's obeying the law. Okay?"

The figure gradually untangled. Long, skinny arms. Equally long, skinny legs. What Peter had thought was some kind of green hood was the man's head.

Either he was a mutant or Peter had tripped over some really amusing drugs.

"You're a frog?"

Those wide, green eyes had an ocean of sorrow and pity for him as the froggy man picked up his belongings and hurried away. As if the frog-man understood something deeper that he could not, or would not communicate to Peter.

He spent years wondering what the hell he was missing out on, because of that look.

Return to the Table of Contents
Challenge #00003: One Fine Evening in a Villainous Pit-trap

"Wombats. Why is it always wombats?"

geekhyena

Ax'and'l stared at the brown furry hills with legs. They were everywhere. "These are wombats." He did not understand his human companion's fear. They weren't doing anything much at all.

"Yes!"

"And we've known each other for... ten years?"

"Yes!" Hwell was still trying to climb the walls.

"Then for ten years it hasn't been always wombats." Ax'and'l scanned them. "And they're herbivores!"

One of them was sniffing Hwell's lowest foot. The human whimpered and attempted to climb higher on a sheer vertical surface.

"What could possibly be threatening about an enclosure full of herbivores?"

"Plant. Fibre. Clothing."

One of them was gnawing on Ax'and'l's trousers. "Are we certain that there's no other means of egress?"

"SHUT UP AND BOOST ME OUTTA HERE!"

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Challenge #00004: They Fight Crime

Romance springs up between the newbie medical examiner and the girl who runs a crime scene cleanup company (female/female pairing)

First crime scene. Ever. Nobody else had to know this. Just walk like you own the place. Act like you belong. Check out the corpse, note any significant details and toddle on back to the office. No big deal.

Alice thusly walked with confidence until she encountered the first thing nobody told her.

Death has a smell.

The bodies in anatomy and dissection classes were sanitised. They had the subtle odour of death, because nobody can really stop it. This was a full on reek, with all the nastiness associated with subsequent decay and noisome fluids.

It was so horrible that it almost qualified as toxic.

Alice swallowed her rising gorge, mentally running through the gamut of things to do when one doesn't want to be seen throwing up in front of one's co-workers.

"First day?"

Her blush struggled with the fact that all her blood was rushing to her digestive system. "...'es..."

"Try this." A white-gloved hand offered a pot of what appeared to be vaseline, but held a different odour entirely. One from Alice's own childhood.

"Vick's Vaporub?"

"Stick a little under your nose. Overwhelms the senses." The speaker offering the pot was short and entirely shrouded in what Alice thought of as street-available hazmat gear. White overalls with an elastic hood. Rubber boots and latex gloves. Industrial filter mask. Safety goggles.

"Is the scene hazardous?" Alice took a small glob and discretely applied it.

"No, this is my work uniform. Cordelia Knight. Forensic cleaning services."

"Alice Daye. Medical Examiner. I thought you guys turned up... after."

"There's a first time for everything," said Ms Knight. "My client hired me to clean and refurbish a place he'd inherited. Unfortunately, he hadn't inspected it first. The former occupant was still there."

Alice put on her own mask, gloves and booties, whipping her hair into the net she carried for the purpose. The less of herself that got into a scene, the better. "You're already dressed for the occasion, Ms Knight. Would you walk me through your... procedures?"

The eyes underneath the safety goggles smiled. Alex followed her on the tour. "We document everything in my line of work. I already gave Lieutenant Bothari my camera. Every photo is time and date stamped. As you can see, I thought this was just another hoarder's cave."

One side of the room was literally stacked floor to ceiling with periodicals. Newspapers and magazines. Sorted by issue title. The other half was noticeably bare, the furniture pushed neatly into one corner, and a sad array of garbage bags lined up by the inside door. Discolouration on the carpet clearly indicated where each piece had been prior to Knight's work.

"We're not obligated to report dead animals," said Knight. "I found the blood trail and investigated, just in case, and found the bodies in the upstairs bedroom."

Alice followed the yellow plastic markers, noting the medium-velocity spatter as she passed, careful not to tread on any of it, or upset the unstable-looking piles of random miscellany that lined every passage, leaving just enough space for one human to pass.

One path lead to the bathroom, upstairs, and the other lead to the bedroom. Neither were free from towers of packrattus. Alice took her recorder out and began dictating details.

"Two decedents, apparently one male, one female. Male in kneeling position at foot of bed, female spreadeagled on the bed." Alice edged closer until she was on the very borderlines. "Both bodies show signs of advanced decomp, insect and rodent activity... pistol located near female's right hand... and cause of death looks to be stabbing. I can see at least five wounds, three defensive." She tried to move the male's body. "Male has a knife in his lap. No immediately evident trauma, large red-brown stain under the posterior... tear in the crotch of the pants?"

"He stabbed her and she shot him in the nuts," said Knight. "Who says romance is dead?"

"I can't make calls like that until after a thorough forensic examination," said Alice. She gingerly searched the pockets on the male. "No ID. Judging by the absence of shoes on both of them, they lived here. I'd say document, bag and tag... These two can come to the office."

Knight started backing out of the labyrinth of collection. "I know this is probably the wrong time to ask, but... do you want to go get a coffee or something while your minions deal with this mess? I had a whole week booked on this place, and now..." an expressive shrug.

Alice thought about this as she picked her way back to uncluttered air and the outside world. God, it was good to swing her elbows again. "Coffee sounds lovely."

Then Cordelia took her headgear off, and Alice knew her heart would never be her own again. Skin like dark chocolate. Lips full and delectable. Effortless hair sculpted to perfection in a style both practical and elegant.

The blush returned and Alice didn't care. "Very lovely indeed."

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Challenge #00005: When You Meet a Stranger

In a sushi bar, with an alien, while on a blind date

geekhyena

"I don't know why I agreed to this," grumbled Rael.

"It's all ye can eat sushi, what's not t' love?" Shayde primped, using her reflection in the sneeze guard as a mirror. "Is he here yet? Can you see him?"

"Nobody is wearing any variety of dead foliage."

"Pink carnation. It's a flower. Flowers are prettier." Shayde evidently gave up on getting her flyaway hair to behave itself and started attacking her clothes. "Ye sure I look all righ'?"

Rael sighed. If it wasn't for the free food... "You are currently aesthetically pleasing in all respects. Your body is clear evidence of physical fitness and the perfect shape to suit you."

"You say the nicest things," Shayde deadpanned.

"Oh dear," Rael pointed.

The cogniscent entering the bar was wearing all fourteen items currently identified in the Galactic Standard Dictionary as a 'carnation'. All of them were pink. None of them were a flower.

"At least she's enthusiastic," offered Rael.

"Aw, puir darlin'," whimpered Shayde, whose accent always got worse when she was flustered. "How do I break it to her I'm cishet?"

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Challenge #00006: Be Were

Not all weres turn into mammals.

geekhyena

"I'm dangerous," said Claire. "You shouldn't be around me."

"I don't care," Tracy sobbed. "I love you and you can't send me away."

"At least keep your distance. I can't control what I do under the full moon. Please, Tracy."

Tracy did not want to let go. "Why? What happens during a full moon?"

Claire pushed her away. "Too late. Run. Get away." Her body was already warping. Changing. Growing...

Scalier?

Tracy stopped at the doorway, looking back as Claire warped and transformed into...

"A giant Iguana? But I love iguanas!"

Iguana-Claire made a sort of 'Gronk' noise and started creating a nest out of her former clothes.

Oh right. Claire the fashion-proud. For her, this would be a horror.

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Challenge #00007: Baaa-d Science

A mad scientist, a minion, and fire-breathing sheep.

geekhyena

"IT'S ALIVE! IT'S ALIVE!"

"Yes, master." Igor had always agreed that being agreeable lead to a longer life. Broaching the niggling little problem in a delicate way was going to be... problematic at best.

"Go, my beautiful creation! Go and create marvellous havoc on those unsuspecting rubes!"

The creature lurched off the slab, belched fire, and said, "Baaa?"

Of all the mad geniuses to sign up with, he had to pick the one who came from a family of shepherds.

"Master?"

"Yes, Igor?"

"I think you may have locked the door, master."

"What of it?"

"The only door in and out of this lab, master..."

"I'm well aware."

"The one... on the other side of the room, master."

With a freshly woken man-eating ungulate (fire-breathing) between themselves and safety.

"Baaa?"

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Challenge #00008: Uncareful Wish

"Being able to talk to animals isn't as great a gift as you'd think."

geekhyena

Presented here for your education, a man who should have been aware of the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for." John neglected to think first and wish later, and now he is destined to live the rest of his life... in the Twilight Zone.

John staggers down the street. It would be hard for the casual observer to guess that he had once been a doctor. Or even a man of high class. His eyes are ringed with the stigmata of sleeplessness. He mutters, seemingly to himself.

His most common disjointed phrase is, "You're welcome." It is oft-times sarcastic. His second most common phrase is, "excuse yourself."

When asked who he is talking to, he stares at the questioner in puzzlement before asking in turn, "Can't you hear the fleas?"

He is a walking wreck of a man, barely able to keep himself fed.

Strays follow him everywhere. He is very good at mumping food from every street vendor, restaurant and halfway house in London. But he, himself, is starving.

His friends, the mange-ridden, flea farms of London are all hungry. He can not ignore their cries.

All he wanted to do was talk to the animals.

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Challenge #00009: The Perils of Channel-Surfing

Watching an alien home shopping channel, while drunk, and ordering some very interesting things (bonus: the aftermath of said shopping spree)

geekhyena

Hwell Barrow, bored and forbidden from talking to anyone outside of the hostel in person, was channel surfing the local entertainment feeds. At least Ax'and'l had forgotten about requesting an absence of mini-bar, thus lending an element of entertainment to his otherwise dull evening.

That green stuff. It really packed a whallop.

He didn't understand a word they were saying. But that didn't stop him making up stories as he watched. Two green things with violently vibrant plumage were whistling the advantages of something colourful and apparently bendy.

Maybe it was a cooking apparatus? The stuff they were smearing on it looked kinda yummy....

Mmmm... cheese waffles...

After twenty minutes, the violently vibrant hosts still hadn't shut up about it, leaving Hwell plenty of time to divine which series of symbols was the comms number, and then how to call them up on their awkward comms system.

It took him three goes to get someone who spoke Standard.

"Them things they're hootin' 'bout onna screen. I wanna buttload of 'em. How much izzit?"

*

Ax'and'l glared at the grinning human. The redness in the mammal's face was a display of mortification. Reflex.

"What. The. Flakk." He sighed again at the pile of packaging. "I made sure you were locked in the hostel room. How did you get into this much debt?"

Hwell winced. Evidently, things were too loud. "I was... watchin' th' local feeds? An' then I found the green stuff... An' after that it's all a blur..."

Ax'and'l felt some of Hwell's hangover by osmosis. "Do you even know what you bought?"

"Uh. Cheese waffle makers?"

Ax'and'l felt his own reflex mortification reaction rising against his will. "They're not for preparing food," he said. "They're... sex... aids..."

"They don't have to always be that... do they?" whimpered Hwell.

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Challenge #00010: Obligatory Gender Bender

Genderswap Todd & Sara?

geekhyena

"On the plus side, that outfit looks better."

Sara continued to glare daggers at Forge. She -currently 'he', if only physically- did look trim and toned in what could only be described as an olive-khaki swimsuit without the shoulder straps.

Todd did not look any better as a girl, either. His/her uniform was not flattering on either gender. "Dayumn, this does make my ass look big..."

"It shouldn't matter for much longer," Iced Sara. "Should it, Mister Walkingbird?" The 'Mister Walkingbird' was a warning signal. If things went on too long, then the dreaded full name might just emerge.

Sara found out things like this.

"I'm still looking for my notes! I think I might have messed this up on the chromosomal level."

"What was yo' first hint?" growled Toad. S/He had emerged from the transporter as a DD cup. And with no bra. He was having a very painful time with both arms crossed underneath his new bosom.

"Do you want me to fix this or not?" Forge demanded.

Sara fumed. "I could help you find your notes... All this space needs is a little... organisation..."

Sara wanting to organise things was almost as terrifying as her using his full name. "Okay, okay, okay! I'm moving, I'm moving!"

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Challenge #00011: To Catch a Geek

Evoverse or Flotsamverse: The X-Men go to a con, in cosplay or out (Kurt keeps getting compliments on his "costume" regardless). Geeking out and crime-fighting ensue.

geekhyena

"He's gone to ground in something called jen-ra-con," The Professor frowned. "Either I'm getting a lot of static or... something is wrong. Nobody there looked at all human."

Sara glared at him. "You're kidding me. This high a concentration of freaks and weirdos and none of you has heard of Genracon? The biggest month-long geek-out known to fandomkind?"

"I heard of it," said Kurt.

"Trek, who, scape, wars or five?" challenged Sara.

"I understood each of those words," said Hank, "but together they make no sense at all."

"They're speaking in tongues," whispered Kitty. "It like, makes sense to them."

"All of the above, some FF, and a britcom called Red Dwarf," answered Kurt.

Sara grinned. "Got a costume?"

"Mind OC's? Because this body generally gets typecast..."

"I could probably turn you into a cursed elfin mage with half of my culch..."

"Babe, you could turn *everyone* into somepin' with yo'r culch," said Todd.

"Challenge accepted." Sara grinned and cracked her knuckles.

"...uh oh..."

*

"I can not believe we're doing this," said Jean. She was wearing the two-part Next-generation costume. A series she at least recognized and could pass most of the general knowledge questions. Her brief was to play the ditzy first-timer to the hilt.

"Sara is... very persuasive." He was currently a klingon. He didn't know what to say to her comments that he 'had the wrong body type for Davros'.

"I do have to say her costume choices for us are... skewed," noted Ororo. She wore a regal satin dress that had been augmented with occult-looking jewelry and a cloak. The staff she carried with her had some interesting augmentation as well.

"I'd say it has something to do with revenge on male-centric costuming choices in general and using us as placards." He had a ratty-looking loincloth and a fang necklace with similarly-decorated ugg boots. Everything else was bare.

"At least y'all know who you are. Ah dunno if I'm Morticia or Elvira..."

"Given those nails?" said Hank, "I'd posit you were Vampira, of Plan Nine fame."

"...who from whut?"

"...oy..."

"At least I can wear mine on the street," said Scott. He came off as a rather weedy Terminator.

"Apparently we're going on the street like this anyway. Part of an activity called 'freaking the mundanes'..." said Hank.

The elevator opened, revealing Kurt in piratical getup. "Sara changed her mind. There's already a mage in the party and this is more... 'me'."

"Those had better be nerf swords..."

"...'estheyare..."

Kitty, in a different Starfleet uniform and an interesting bun, asked, "How do I look and like, who's Captain Janeway?"

Another elevator pinged, allowing a tall figure in a concealing cloak to emerge.

Other con-goers, for some reason, hushed and readied their cameras.

The cloak swept of in one dramatic shove, revealing Sara, clad only in a few lengths of diaphanous drapery, an ornate headdress and apparently a small ton of jewellery.

"I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN!"

Todd emerged in cardboard armour, brandishing a redecorated super-soaker. "Show obeisance to her majesty!"

Hoots, cheers, and a sparkle of flashes.

"What?" said Jean.

"You should know by now that Sara is a master of obscure cinema. And getting ice-cold revenge."

Indeed. Sara and her loyal guardsman were the centre of attention. Jean was just another redshirt in the crowd.

"Below zero kelvin," Jean murmured.

*

"Can we take your photo?"

"Can I give you a hug?"

"Love the tail..."

Kurt grinned. "Ladies," he threw his arms wide, "you can even kiss me." Aw yeah. Chicks dig the fuzzy dude.

*

"Yo. So... what're we doin'?"

"Aside from checking out the merch? We're the obvious distraction. Kitty and Jean are the covert team. They'll find our mutant miscreant and safely knock him out."

"...and then?"

"And then I'm going to hassle John Barrowman and his kissing booth."

"Giving him improv, I hope."

"Improv... and with your permission, a squeeze on his ass."

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Challenge #00012: Date Night

Mort and Sara get to go on a proper date.

geekhyena

Much had changed. Mort was still shocked at most of it. All of it could be traced back to Sara. Sara, no longer plain but still tall. She'd grown two inches by slow degrees and every last atom from top to toe was pure delight. He had a name for every colour of every aqua-to-lapis scale/chromatophore on her delightful skin.

He had changed, too. He no longer hunkered in shadows. He spoke up when he felt wronged. He bathed regularly, thanks to Sara's miracle concoction of a soapless soap. He dressed better, thanks to Sara's tailoring skills and part-time hobby in design.

Thanks to Sara, he no longer had absolute faith in his own stupidity. He'd learned enough to overcome his fears of failure. He was a teacher. Working on a college degree.

And about to go on a date. One he paid for. With wages he earned. At his job.

All things that were not possible without her.

He adjusted the bow tie for the fiftieth time in his reflection in the foyer mirror. Making sure he was suitably dapper for the occasion. Opera Populaire and fine dining at Chez Ritzi.

His name for it. It still took half an hour of coaching to get him to pronounce the place, but it offered the best of all possible worlds. Food as art. Plenty enough for both their metabolisms. No alcohol. Something new for Sara to experience. And, most important to Mortimer, something she truly deserved.

Time was ticking closer. He'd already peed and almost thrown up more times than he could count. His heart was hammering in his chest from old fears and PTSD inspired horror-shows in the back of his mind.

He adjusted the tilt of his top hat for the empty-billionth time.

"Stop it, you're perfect."

Mortimer turned and gaped. Sara.

Only his inner eye supplied a halo. She wore basic black. Culottes and a fitted top halfway between Victorian chic and hippie chick. When she moved, gracefully descending like a supermodel, it contained a galaxy. The cloak and muff, currently dangling like a clutch purse in one aqua hand, only accentuated her style. Both a deep vermillion velvet. The white faux-fur trim on the cloak only made everything else pop.

"...hglblf'x..." he burbled happily. Inside, his secret self was imitating Fred Estaire and singing like Michael Bublé. She came, she loves me, she's spending time with me! I'm worthy of her tiiiiiiime! And so on.

"Thank you," Sara blushed. "You're looking suitably asd'f'k'k'jargle, yourself."

Her hair, pretty much uncut since her exile from her home, two years and a hundred better experiences ago, was done up in something technically complicated and deceptively simple. The hair still loose from such elegant restraint fell in artful curls.

The only jewellery she wore was a pair of art-neuvaux earrings and the engagement ring he'd given her. It just made her sparkle more.

He offered his elbow. "Milady, our carriage awaits."

It was an Eco-Limo. Just the right balance of style and responsibility. Just what she'd appreciate.

*

The maitre d' had evidently not been briefed about "Chez Ritzi's" two most generous supporters. Mortimer shared a Look with Sara.

It said, Let's leave the money 'till last, eh?

"We respectfully submit that madame and m'seur would be... more comfortable in a private booth," repeated the maitre d'.

Sara pitched her voice to reach the cheap seats. Or comparatively-cheap-seats. "Are you telling me you're refusing full service to people of colour?"

Mortimer sprained something trying not to grin like the cheshire cat after finding the canary in the cream. He knew everyone was staring and put on his best Posh British Tones.

"We paid for full service and we expect to receive what we paid for. Old chap."

Sara hid her face. Her shoulders were shaking. To the judging, watching clientele, it looked like she was crying. Only Mortimer would be able to tell she was stifling giggles.

Honestly, this sort of thing happened nine times out of ten, every time they went here.

Mortimer decided the maitre d' had shrunk half a foot. "Are you going to admit you're overcharging based on the colour of our skin, serve us properly... or are we going to have a discussion with your manager?"

A few high-pitched noises escaped her throat. Thankfully, none of them sounded gigglish.

"Nothatwon'tbenecessary," rushed the maitre d'. "Follow me madame et m'seur. I shall take you to your booked table."

"Calmly, now, my love," said Mortimer, taking her elbow. "It's all been sorted."

Sara spent the trip to their table desperately wiping the grin off her face.

Bubba-Jo was probably going to visit, which generally caused a stir because his fashion sense and grooming made him look like some unearthly combination of rastafarian beach bum and homeless hobo. His appearance in the public space of his own restaurant caused an inevitable fluster of hushed conversation because he looked like the exact opposite of someone who owned a place called Huattifoq.

Sara had told him that forgoing the new-hire breifing was a bad idea. Bubba-Jo did have to learn his lessons thoroughly and well.

"Do you think he's salvageable, dear?" Sara asked after she'd been seated.

"I b'lieve he can learn. Bubba's gonna have t' get back on new hire duty."

*

"...because I looove you sincerely.... Mommy dearest..." Sara sang.

"Nellie Brighton you ain't." Mortimer laughed. It was snowing and the limo was taking the long way home. Their arms were entwined and they both leaned on each other on a satisfied way.

"It's taken me this long to learn how to sing in my own voice."

"An' I love the Sara version to pieces," he said honestly. He sighed. "Marry me?"

"I believe I already said 'yes' to that. And I also believe we're finally doing something about it. Tomorrow afternoon."

Tomorrow afternoon, when the light turned the grounds of Xavier academy into a winter wonderland. And when Kurt was free between classes to officiate a ceremony that managed to satisfy an atheist and a man who only worshiped his bride.

The only problem was stopping Bobby from going nuts with the decorations. And preventing Jacqui from becoming a bridezilla-by-proxy.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow!

"Happy birthday for tomorrow, Babe."

"See you at our little chapel."

"Wouldn't miss it for anything."

They kissed all the way back home.

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Challenge #00013: Verdammt!

Kurt has laundry duty for the first time. Static cling problems ensue :3

Ororo should have known she was in trouble when she saw Kurt wandering the grounds with the laundry basket an obvious weight in his cerulean arms.

"Is there a problem?"

"Ja! Where the washing line ist? I looked everywhere, und... nothing."

Washing line? "You didn't see the dryer?"

"Uh. Dryers are expensive, ja? The sun and wind is free."

Ororo gave up, dropping her voice to a whisper. "We don't have a washing line. Come on, I'll show you how the dryer works."

Kurt took so easily to modern technology that it was hard to remember he came from a tiny mountain town that still had cobblestones on the streets. And a blacksmith who, according to Kurt's own tall tales, made shoes for the four-footed half of the population.

It was only in moments like this that the culture shock even showed. And in the questions he asked.

"Must I separate the colours and whites?"

"What are the little balls for?"

"Must the dryer sheets be washed first, also?"

"Where is the delicates setting?"

"Is there a powder? Or a bar?"

This was a boy who she had to stop from using a cheese grater and soap in the washing machine. And, she couldn't help noticing, used the word 'unglaublich' a little too often. Still, after some entertaining side-trips down the labyrinthine lanes of confusion, all seemed sorted enough for her to get back to pruning her roses.

It was almost dinner time when unfortunate events once again made themselves suspect.

"Where's blue? growled Logan. "He's skipped out on gym."

"What?" said Jean. "He was a dozen words a second on the whole idea."

"I think I heard him swearing in the laundry room," added Scott. "I think it was swearing. Kinda hard to tell with German."

Ororo followed Logan down to the laundry where, indeed, soft teutonic curses were turning the air as blue as the speaker, albeit in another language.

Unfortunately for Ororo, she understood every word. She stormed past Logan with a perfect German, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" perched on her lips. She even took a deep breath as she approached the threshold.

That breath came out in helpless laughter.

"Verdammt!"

Logan, perplexed and puzzled, rushed to look.

Kurt Wagner was literally wrestling with the folding. T-shirts stuck to his hocks, socks and jocks embraced his tail, an assortment of garments concealed his arms. There was even most of a negligee making him look lie some bizarre laundry-themed ninja.

Logan was the one to charge in and begin untangling. "Static cling," he said. "It's a bitch."

Ororo battled the giggles as she pitched in. "I'm sorry," she bleated. "You just looked—"

"Ridiculous," supplied Kurt. "Please to be getting a hills hoist? The wind and sun don't do this."

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Challenge #00014: P.B.L.T.B.H.

Kurt's sandwiches (and the odd combination of ingredients therein) are the stuff of legends.

geekhyena

"PBLTBJ."

"Yahuh."

"Peanut butter. Lettuce. Tomato. Bacon. And Jelly."

"Yyyyyyup."

"And that was because he was in too much of a hurry to make two sandwiches?"

"And we were almost out of bread at the time."

"Euw."

"You should try his leftover turkey fluffernutter-reese sandwich."

"What?"

"A Reeses sandwich is peanut butter and nutella - or a nutella substitute. Fluffernutter is marshmallow fluff and peanut butter. Mix the two together and add an assortment of leftover turkey parts, and a legend is born."

"Tell me he did not do horrible things to egg salad?"

"Egg salad, avocado, mayo, and deep fried bananas."

"AUGH!"

"Don't judge, my dears. The poor man has a metabolism from hades. He needs his calories en masse."

And, almost on queue, Kurt put his head around the doorframe. "Telling horror stories, again, liebchen?"

"I like to think of it as a warning," Sara grinned. "Late night snack collisions and all."

"Well, if we're swapping stories about horrible food combinations, allow me to tell you all of Sara's Hunan Surprise..."

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Challenge #00015: Tough Shells, Soft Hearts

Possible sidefling of "Free to a Good Home" \- the X-Men (and Brotherhood maybe?) volunteer at an animal shelter as part of community service.

geekhyena

[AN: It's Free to a Loving Home, BTW...]

"Remind me again why we're doing this?"

"It's this or orange jumpsuits, yo." Todd twiddled with the device around his neck. Stark Industries had been both very quick and very clever with coming up with ways to ensure mutant miscreants paid their dues.

"Stop doing that," warned Freddy. "You might make it angry." He had discovered the downside of trying to interfere with the mutant inhibitor collar. In that it turned all mutant abilities off. Two hours of immobility, struggling to breathe, while a tech got over there to fix things had been plenty for him.

Pietro, the chief reason why they were facing community service, was looking more than a little stoned. "This is how time passes for you? So... quickly. All the seconds just whooshing by..."

"Urgh, can it with the Doctor Who crap, it's too early in the morning," grated Lance. There it was. Their ultimate destination.

The Humane Shelter for Orphaned Animals.

Worrying fact: it was backed up against a frigging ranch.

Likewise worrying fact: The guy waiting for them to pull into the indicated spot was the last kind of fellow you wanted to meet in a dark alley. Big, muscled, tattooed and fifty shades of mean.

"You Jonah?" asked Lance.

"Yeh," growled Jonah. He had a voice that was not only gravelly, but also briar-y on-fire-y as well. It was a voice one could easily expect from Beelzebub. "Got one size fits all unitards inna back. Follow me."

Not wanting to attract his wrath, the Brotherhood did.

Lesson one: One size fits all - doesn't.

Lesson two: Freddy cries when he's scared.

Lesson three: Toad in the same size jumpsuit is just plain firkin hilarious.

"Shaddap, yo!"

"WWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! IDONWANNADIIIIIEEEEEE!!!"

Jonah took one look in on the four of them and grated, "Oh Jesus H. Christ..." and walked away.

"WAAAAAAAHHHHAAAAHHHAAAAAHHHH!!"

"Freddy! Chill!"

"Look on the bright side, willya?" said Pietro. "Nobody's dead yet."

"WWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!"

"Great going there, Doctor Phil," deadpanned Lance.

"EY!"

Everyone jumped. Jonah was back with some denim balled up in his trunk-like arms.

"Got some spares for odd bodies. Aunty Jenna's about your size," He tossed some overalls to Toad. "And my other uncle has a genetic condition. You might find it a bit on the tall side, but it aughta fit."

"Sir? Why's there girly coloured ponies on mine?" risked Todd.

"Aunty Jenna's twelve. Girly coloured ponies are pretty much automatic."

Pie was busting something trying not to laugh.

"Shut it, alabaster."

"Shuttinguprightnowsir!"

There was a lot to do. Most of it involved the redistribution of dung. Some of it involved care and feeding.

Lessons of the day included: There are horses of many different sizes, and people of all colours of cruelty. Including one who got on the hit parade for insisting his neglected pony was, in fact, a dog.

And then there were the confiscated exotic animals. There for as long as it took to ensure they weren't carrying diseases before their trip to a zoo.

"Aaaaaawww," cooed Freddy. Looking in over Jonah's shoulder. "Whadda 'dorable ittuw bitty cutie..."

"That's a sugar glider. Don't mess with it."

"I don't wanna hurt it."

Jonah snorted. "I'm not worried about you hurting her. She's from Australia. Anything from Australia that isn't outright venomous can still rip your shit." He put on chainmail gloves. "And she has babies. Never mess with a mommy."

The cute little ball of fur sniffed at Jonah's approaching mailed hand and instantly tried to sink her teeth through it. Several times. She continued biting as Jonah very carefully checked out the joeys - "They're marsupials. All baby marsupials are joeys." - and administered medicine.

His hand came out of the glove bloody.

"...jesus..." whispered Lance.

"Yeah. If I didn't have the gloves, she'd have my fingers off." The mail, they couldn't help noticing, had possum-holes in it.

Freddy went pale.

"If you're gonna puke, puke in the slops bucket. If you're gonna faint, go outside."

"...i'mokay..."

Jonah negligently washed and superglued his injuries closed. "Don't worry about Ms Sugar Glider. She's already got a zoo in Japan who's ready to spoil her rotten. Soon as I get her used to the idea that people won't always hurt her, of course.

There was a bell, which made Jonah curse.

"Customer?" said Lance.

"Worse. Drop-off."

It was like the Safe Haven laws. Kind of. People could drop off unwanted pets at certain shelters and not have to face any consequences. Of course, they got consequences if they confused the two laws and left a baby at a pet shelter or a pet at a fire station.

This time, it was a box of kittens. Their eyes were barely opened and they looked ragged.

"I hate people," Jonah rumbled.

The lessons changed to how to nurture kittens not yet fit to be away from their mom.

"Alabaster, you're shaving their butt-holes."

"What? Why am I on butt-hole duty?"

"One: Kittens need to poop, too. Two: Because you strike me as the biggest butt-hole of the four of you and that makes you an expert. Three: because I'll superglue your butt-hole shut if you don't."

"Stinky," this was Todd, "You're combing and wiping. Tough guy," Lance, "You're washing. Special soap. Don't let 'em lick it. Softy," Fred, "You're drying and feeding. I'm setting up a foster nest."

Pie spent most of his time muttering 'euw' over and over again.

"Aw man," Todd sighed. "Whoever had 'em last tried to cut their fur with scissors. Poor little kitties got cuts all over..." The partial longhair in his hands pushed out a massive poop. Practically half its tiny body. Todd just muttered and reached for the wipes. "Good little patch. Good kitty."

"Good?" Pie winced. "That goddamn flea farm just shat all over your hand!"

"Focus on the butts, Butt," growled Jonah from somewhere outside.

"Used'a have a neighbour had a lotta cats. Little cats can't poop 'less their momma licks 'em. Poor baby prolly hasn't gone fo' ages."

"Aw, that's just horrible..."

There were six kittens, carefully shorn the right way and patched up under Jonah's surprisingly tender hands. One grey, one white, one ginger, one tortie and two black and white ones, one with solid patches and the other with spotty ones.

Their new mom, a surprisingly orange queen named Freddie ("Long story. You wouldn't understand") settled down and groomed the living heck out of all six with much raucous purring.

"Freddie's a good foster mom," said Jonah. "She's even tried to adopt a baby elephant, one time."

"Dude. How would that even work?" Pie made a face.

"She stood on a chair."

*

Fred - the human one - took every opportunity to check up on Freddie and the kittens every day.

"Don't get attached, Softy. It's our job to see 'em safe to a better home."

"I can still like 'em can't I?"

For a second, the tough, rough exterior of Jonah chipped away to reveal the marshmallow underneath. "Likin' 'em's why I'm here."

Fred grinned.

"What'd you name 'em?" Jonah asked.

"The orange one's Marm, the white one's Twinkle, the grey's Cumulo, the tortie's Scribble, that black and white one's Patch and this black and white one is Polka."

This somehow got Jonah's approval. "I give 'em nicknames, too. Not their real names. Helps me deal when they move on."

"That why you gave us nicknames?" said Fred.

"Don'cha got horse stalls to muck out?"

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Challenge #00016: Worst. Date. Ever!

"Sophia Pirelli was everything a girl like me could hope for: tall, beautiful, intelligent, editor of the college paper, a tall redhead with legs that went on for miles. I'd crushed on her for months, finally working up the gumption to ask her for coffee. She was perfect. She was glorious. And yet we had nothing to talk about."

AKA the most awkward date ever/what happens when crushes and reality collide violently.

"Yes, my foster parents named me Daniel. Danny. They wanted a boy, but since they couldn't tell, they went with a more... plastic name. How did you come by 'Shayde'?" The lizard in a plethora of pink carnations - none of them flowers - twiddled nervously with her chopstick cheaters.

Rael had covertly turned on his vocoder ages ago, since Shayde was still a person of interest to many. He did his best to eat quietly. The recordings would never be distributed if he could help it. Just used for fact verification in a QNA file somewhere.

"Well, I was bouncin' between some different dimensions fer a bitty while. Pillar to post, helter to skelter. You get the idea. And a lot of 'em were -ah- socially backwards. I got mistaken for a demon. A lot." Shayde paused for a bite of something with the tentacles still on. "Anyway, after hearing 'avaunt foul shade from the blackest pit' a few hundred times, I figured I might as well go by the name they kept calling me."

"Oh I so totally get that! Like, when I told my folks I identified female, they started spelling my name with an I instead of a Y. I like the Y. It's... me."

Shayde smiled politely, if wanly. "Yeah. A lot like that. Only a lot different."

Danny the lizard girl giggled nervously.

Sociology study. Cogniscents raised by humans. Better or worse off than children raised by animals? Rael decided that someone else would be better off doing that study. The humans had enough problems with prejudice owing to their species-wide recognised insanity.

"Um. Um. Is it a lot different? Y'know. Twentieth century versus twenty-fifth?"

"Well, there's still no' flying cars. Big shock."

"Wait. That was sarcasm! I love the sarcasm. I just can never get it right."

"...fab..." Shayde cleared her throat. "The computers that can argue are a shocker. I guess it's only fair though. We were workin' on parallel intelligence ever since we figured some behaviours could be programmed. Not my forte."

"You don't like music? I thought your home era was all about music. I mean, more works per capita were written in your era. So many artists. So much talent. So many tunes you can like, never get out of your mind?"

"Not forte-music. Forte's another word for strength. My hobby's music."

"YEEEEEeeeeeEEEEE! What do you play? Can you do Stairway to Paradise?"

"I'm not in the habit of bringin' my axe to a date."

"This is a date? I'm not... of age."

"I thought it was a date when I mistook ye for a fella. And thought you were older."

Another nervous giggle. "I have a lot more time to think in text-space."

"Aye, I figured that out." Shayde snagged something made to look like a rose off of the conveyor. More for something to do than to eat. She sniffed it before eating it. "Do you have a career lined up?"

"Well. I am so into history it's scary..."

"Aye, I figured that out, too...."

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Challenge #00017: Don't Go Breakin' My Heart

Letting a date down easy

dakhur

Shayde winced as she filtered the young lizard girl's enthusiastic babbling through her own understanding.

Yikes.

This kid had the worst case of wishful listening Shayde had ever seen.

"Danny..."

"Maybe I can take you to see the storm aurora. It only happens outside the left tail section for some reason? Oh! Wait. There's like a historical theatre thing? Sometimes they do recreation shows, sometimes they show the old-style cinema stuff? It's totally retro-cool."

"Danny."

"You could tell what was new and old from when you left? That'd like, be such a help on my thesis. How storytelling developed alongside technology in the pre-shattering era."

"Danny!"

"What?"

"This isn't a proper date. I never said it was."

"But you said you thought—"

Life on the other side of let-down street wasn't as simple as she'd thought it was, ten years and a million experiences ago. Shayde strangled a 'you're a good kid but...' before it could form itself on her tongue.

"I made a mistake. I assumed things based on our text chats. And you've been assumin' for the past twenty minutes, based on one word."

Danny deflated. "I... thought we were getting along..."

"Have ye never had someone desperate to tell you every last detail about something they love beyond reason, but you're bored stiff by? And have ye never wanted to avoid breakin' their poor heart?"

"Oh, like Lyn Wikozt. Every day she has to tell me the latest thing this singer she likes has done? And what it means to her continued existence? And she just talks and talks and you can't tell her you don't wanna hear... about... Oh."

Shayde summoned a smile despite the funereal mood descending on their group. "Clever girl."

"...'msorryiwastedyourtime..."

"Na. Don't feel bad about it. I know, right now, that's a wee bit like tellin' water not to be wet..."

Half a giggle.

"The best relationships are between people with equal standing, aren't they? They make the best kind o' teams. That's why Superman never really got t' stay with Lois Lane. It's why lots of heroes are single. Wi' great power comes a really sucky datin' pool."

A genuine smile.

"The most important bit is having someone ye can talk to... and listen to. You'll find that someone. Maybe they've always been there. Maybe they're just around the next corner. But when you do find 'em... tell 'em ye had tae break my heart."

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Challenge #00018: Murder in the Sheets

In a police station, with a cop, who just discovered that her latest one-night stand is now the main suspect in a nasty case.

geekhyena

There are ten thousand dirty stories in this city. I'm just one of them. My name is Miki Spelaine. I'm a cop. And in case you missed the magnificent boobs and the ass made of sass, I'm also a girl.

Treat me right, I'm a lady. Do me wrong... well, you better not do me wrong.

This job is littered with divorces and broken relationships. Being a cop eats love and spits out the bare bones, hungry for more. Part of the reason I chose to be a free spirit, unfettered by any man desperate to chain me to a desk or worse.

Not that I'm against chains, per se. In the right mood, in the right time...

But I digress.

It's been hot, in more ways than one. Heat brings all the sickoes out from hiding, like the laundry list killer. Take all the worst elements of Jack the Ripper, Hitler, and Gacey, and then drag them backwards through an anatomists' nightmare, and you're just beginning to glimpse how horrible this guy is.

He has a type. A special kind of girl with all the right things in all the right places. Then he takes her back to her place and neatly removes and preserves them for display. In just the right order so she lives long enough to see most of it come off or out.

Everything that doesn't fit is literally nailed to the opposite wall and any blank space left over is filled with slurs written in her bodily fluids.

We're still making up our minds as to whether he's a misogynist or a self-diagnosed romantic with an ideal none can attain. I think he's just a sick bastard who found a very good excuse to be a sick bastard.

But my job is to try and find out who he is by where he's struck and what he's looking for. Trouble is, he's so all over the place that the profile hasn't extended much past white male, age sixteen to thirty-four.

I looked up into paradise. Last night's fling. He treated me like a lady last night and made all the ugly go away. Sculpted muscle. Trim, toned and terrific. Skin like fresh-poured honey and lips that could take you to heaven.

I should've known he'd be trouble. The little details stabbed me in the heart like tiny shivs as I picked out the details.

He'd thrown on my coat because his was still stuck in the ceiling fan and I'd broken the last stepladder trying to get it off. The rookie had her hands on something between his wrists. The silver glint of every cop's favourite... the bracelets of justice.

The stammering way the rookie stumbled through Miranda.

The way he smiled sadly and shrugged as he sauntered past, showing off that apple bottom and washboard abs.

That was when it hit me.

I fit the perp's laundry list, too.

And his last words to me suddenly made sense.

"I think I finally found a Keeper..."

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Challenge #00019: Chosen By the Gods

In a chain restaurant, with an inebriated thunder/lightning god tired of freaking THOR getting all the attention, while he decides he needs a champion to raise the amount of people who know who he is/remember him. And that champion is the teenager who is his waitress.

geekhyena

It was a dark and -o god- stormy night. The bums that usually cleared out five minutes before the little tip saucer appeared on their table hung around and actually dropped change on the saucer.

Pennies, for the most part. The occasional nickel, crying because it was alone. And one ancient-looking coin and a string of cowrie shells.

Aisha freshened up the weirdo's coffee and said, "We prefer legal tender, here." The coin was surprisingly heavy and almost disgustingly filthy.

"That coin," slurred the bum, "could buy this whole block. 'Sgotmy face on it."

"Sure it does," smiled Aisha, subconsciously checking her avenues for escape. She had to take it, because otherwise the bum would forget the money - or in this case, filthy old junk - actually belonged to Aisha and take it back.

"It is also a powerful totem against lightning."

It's a good thing we only serve coffee after hours... At the risk of repeating herself, she said, "Sure it is," and scraped some of the filth off. Some really old imagery. "This is a very weird picture of... Thor? Isn't he s'posed'a have a hammer, not a spear?"

"Thor. Ha!" Thunder punctuated their conversation, as if objecting to the outmoded blasphemy. "Thor gets all the freaking credit. Followers. Comic books. Movies. Now he's swanning around like Fabio and more 'me me me' than backstage at the opera. Thor..."

"Oh... kay. I needed a reminder why it's never a good idea to chat with customers. Thanks for that."

"There are older gods. Better gods. Purer gods. From the first places! We came before any of those simpering posers from the north. Or the east."

None of the other bums seemed interested in rescuing her. Or calling for more coffee. Or fake-calling for more coffee in order to rescue her. It's official. Chivalry is dead. "Of course there are."

"Ancient. Like that coin. They say Croesos invented coins, because he is whiter than those who did invent them. Just like they have Thor instead of the mighty Shango!"

"Shango? My nanna used to tell me about Shango..." Aisha checked the coin again. That wasn't a badly-rendered breastplate. Those were badly-rendered breasts. Shango the Thunder Queen. Who split the air with her spears of light.

...amongst many other unlikely things...

"Thor has all the attention. Thor has all the glory. Thor has fucking comic books... But he is only pretend, compared to the mighty Shango!" Another thunder crash.

Pops, scrubbing away at the grille, stared through the service window at Aisha, who made desperately covert bail-me-out signals.

"I used to have the adoration of thousands. Thousands!"

"Poor you," sighed Aisha.

Pops smirked and shook his head and shrugged. Pops-sign for "I'm not doing jack until there's a fight."

Thanks a bunch, Pops.

"Now, I am lucky to have a few hundred who even know my name."

"Poor you," sighed Aisha.

One of the bums hanging out at the bar decided that outside was starting to look better than inside.

"I have been searching for a real warrior. Someone who can stand to fight the battle ahead. A champion among champions."

"GreatIhopeyoufindhim."

"Him?" The weirdo laughed, and outside, a cacophony of thunder almost obliterated the sound. "No man is equal to a woman. Especially a young woman. Not even if he knows my name."

Weirder and weirder. "Uh. What?"

"No man alive has the magic to grow another human inside him. No man has been born who can withstand the fight to bring a life into the world. No man can bear the brunt of menses like a woman can. He is simply not strong enough. No. You, Aisha. You are the champion I seek."

The dirty hoodie slipped open during her speech. Shango. Old and withered, but still recognisably Shango. With her hair knotted into complicated buns on either side of her head.

Nanna once told Aisha that they were for knocking sense into her allies when they argued too long.

"And so they are, when I am close to you."

The dirty old umbrella by her side was looking less and less umbrella-like by the minute. And Shango actually looked a little more... vitalised.

"Why me?"

"Because you know me. Because there is a part of you that believes. Because you look at these pale, sad men that have been made into gods and wish that just once, they would show someone like you in a position of power."

"...more than once would be better..." mumbled Aisha.

"How about the opportunity to be a champion... every day?"

Most of the surviving imagery flew into her head. "Uhm. I wouldn't have to run around in a skin-tight outfit with my boobs hanging out, would I?"

"Only if that pleases you."

"No... I think that'd get the wrong kind of attention." Aisha lowered her voice to a whisper as she sat opposite the ancient African goddess. "Way too many men."

The mighty Shango grinned. "I was right to choose you. You will do well."

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Challenge #00020: Screw Loose

Why the X-Men are banned from any/all local hardware stores.

Geekhyena

"I'm goin',"

"Yes I'm goin',"

"I'm. Going to the."

"Goin' yes I'm goin' to the —"

"HARDWARE STOOOOOORRRREEE!"

"ELF!"

"It wasn't *just* me, mein herr..."

"What's wrong with the classics?" asked Kitty.

"I like that song," said one of the Jamies. He'd been half of the chorus. Except for Sparky, who was still singing X-1 Green Bottles under his breath.

"We are getting the stuff on the list," said Logan. "And then we are going home."

"Aaaaawwwww..."

"But they have so much cool stuff there..."

"I can like, make that belt that's like, going for two hundred at the mall for like, fifty or less."

Rogue just moaned. "Why'd we have to come with anyhow?"

"So you can all see what a pain in the ass it is to fix the damage you do," said Logan.

They all knew the plan. Stick together. Adhere to the list. Stay out of trouble.

It failed within the first five seconds when Sparky made a beeline for the Kiddy Kraft Korner. And then tripped, resulting in three more 'Sparky's. Who went in all directions.

After the fifth explosion, Logan ponied up to the help desk with three of the biggest trouble makers under his arms. He was singed, too, but getting better by the instant.

"Yes sir?" Squeaked a luckless Trudy behind the counter.

"I need everythin' on this list," Logan managed to juggle it onto the counter, "fifteen short leashes and all the duct tape you got."

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Challenge # 00021: One Hazardous Evening in the Basements of the Xavier Mansion

Sara, Todd, and Forge team up to create the Locker Troll Mk V.

geekhyena

"This is strictly arts and crafts, you understand?"

"Yes, Sara," intoned Forge in the tired mien of someone who'd been through this before.

"*Just* the available materiel."

"Yes, Sara."

"No wibbly-wobbly jiggery-pokery."

Sigh. "Yes Sara."

"And no tricky little gadgets to speed up the process."

"Yes, Sara."

"Todd, darling, you may frisk him."

"Man. I thought you said this would be fun," said Forge as Toad's clammy hands got way too personal in his space.

"I'm still living the consequences of your last episode of 'fun'. mister Walkingbird..."

Forge winced. Names had power and his full name had the power to make him want to dig himself into a deep, deep hole until it went away. And Sara had somehow found it out.

"Shuttingupandbehavingmyself," he managed.

"Good." Sara's ruffled feathers appeared to settle. Despite the fact that she didn't actually possess feathers.

It never paid to be too metaphorical around mutants.

"This is compound A. We mix it with these ingredients in this order. This is compound B. We mix it with those ingredients in that order. Don't mix them until we're ready. These are lumps of clay with the precise volume of said finished compound once it is done. We do not borrow clay from anyone else's pile."

"Yes'm."

"Over here on the wall is my articulation to clay volume chart. Do not remove it. You will design something horrific to pop out of a locker and *ONLY* that. Are we understood?"

"Yes'm"

*

Five hours later...

"TOLSTOY BEAUTEOUS-DAWN WALKINGBIRD!"

"I didn't do it!"

"Prove it!"

"Do it, yo," advised Todd. "'Fore she kills yo'."

"I thinkIbetterrun..."

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Challenge #00022: Siracha...Cha Cha Cha

There is such a thing as too much Siracha. (Or, why certain X-Men are no longer allowed to cook)

geekhyena

"Not quite fare from my homeland," said Amara. "Some of the spices are illegal in this country, I have found."

"No other country on the planet uses hashish as a spice," said Ororo. "I assisted with the substitutions, but the rest is all Amara's work."

Appreciative coos emitted from all over the table. This was, after all, the first time that the exotic princess had done any 'servile work' that wasn't a punishment.

"Please, when a royal does anything, it is art."

"Is there a vegetarian option?"

Amara smiled smugly. "There is no meat in any of this. It is, after all, the feast of Chi'quaina."

The rest of the assembled X-men smiled and nodded. A few even made mental notes to look up the entity mentioned at a later date.

Unfortunately for them, Chi'quaina was a fire goddess.

"omigaaaahhhhh..... mah mouf... iss mewtin..."

"I CAN SMELL COLOURS!"

"...unglaublich... milk... bitte... milk..."

"mah tung ish on fahr..."

Ororo, tears streaming down her face, coughed. "How much... Siracha... did you put in here?"

"Three bottles. Why?"

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Challenge #00023: About a Girl

Scott and Sara's father have a conversation about Sara, Todd, Jean, Duncan and life beyond being a mutant. Bonus if Sara herself makes an appearance.

Sam found him staring at nothing, leaning on a balcony rail and looking teen-serious, aka constipated. "You're looking flabblegabbed. Sara happen to you?"

"Uh. Yes. Sir. Mr Adrien."

"You can call me 'Sam' if it suits your fancy." He joined the teen at leaning on the balcony rail. "Deep thoughts?"

"How the— How does she do it? One minute I'm mister sane and sensible, and the next I'm arguing her case and she has this... smile..." His fingers mimed a Cheshire grin.

That was his girl. "Sara has spent her life in the company of some very manipulative people. To her credit, she only uses those powers for others' good."

"Wait. So the Toad being here regularly is a good thing?"

Sam gave him a side-eye. "Given Sara's description of Mr Tolenski," he took care to emphasise the boy's real name, "I'd say he was one good samaritan away from complete redemption."

"But— he's a thief. A punk."

"A kid who had both his parents die in an unfortunate event, was pushed about from pillar to post in the foster system before winding up in the thrall of a really bad alleged carer...?"

Scott, who had exactly the same story, glared. "I get it. His story is my story too. The only difference is he—"

"—was not found by the Professor. Did not have what you gained. His story could still have been your story."

"...there but for the grace of God..."

"Or, at the very least, the Professor and his pet experiment."

"So Sara is playing Professor for Todd?"

Sam nodded, more at Scott getting the name right than in agreement. "I'd say more... good samaritan. Helping because she sees the potential future for Todd. A future you've already gained."

Scott shivered. "I dunno if she *can*..."

"How long did it take you to overcome your own bad experiences?"

"It took me... oh God... Two *years* to quit hoarding food in my room. I still keep a can of spam and a packet or three of tic-tacs for good luck."

"And Mr Tolenski is showing remarkable progress in comparison. He'd much rather spend time with Sara than -say- lift anyone's wallets."

Scott checked his pockets. "Yeah. Guess."

Such little faith. "At least extend him the courtesy of knowing where he is by virtue of having been there?"

"That's a very Sara way of saying it."

"I'm proud to say I taught her everything I know." _And that may be your last warning._

"Hrmph..." Scott looked out into nothing for some time. Finally saying, "Why do women always wind up with the jerks?"

"Speaking as a married jerk," Sam began with a hint of amusement, "I'd have to say I have no idea. Nobody's a jerk inside their own head. Therefore jerkdom has to be bestowed by others. And, I do believe, everyone's a jerk to *someone*. My best guess is, the lady doesn't see the jerkdom. Only that which can be redeemed with differing amounts of effort."

"Mmmrrrh..."

"But then I'm no expert. My own lady of choice chose to pull against progress rather than push towards it. And I became a jerk by leaving her to do it."

"I thought jerkdom was bestowed by others?"

"I did indeed say so. But does it make me more or less a jerk to recognise that I've done horrible things via bad choices?"

"I'd say not recognising it is the jerkitude."

Companionable silence for a moment.

"What's her name?" asked Sam.

"Who?"

"The lady you have your eye on who happens to be with the jerk."

Sigh. "Jean."

"Ah, yes. The famous Jean Grey. Jacquelline..." sigh. His heart still hurt at her name. At the thought of the potential rift between them. "...admires her accomplishments."

"I admire more."

"Hmm?" A young man in that state did not need much in the way of encouragement.

"I love the way she sings along with the radio. I love the way she hip-dances when she cooks. I love watching her eat. It's so... graceful. I love the way she combs her hair, the thousand little things she does. I love her strength, her power... the way she can take a picture of just anything and turn it into beauty and... I just wish she'd see me 'that way'. Instead of some goofy brother or something."

"Would you win her, if you could?"

"Uh. Jean's a woman, not a tchotchke at the fun fair? I'd much rather win the honour of having her decide to stay with me."

"Noble way of putting it."

"Yeah. Noble. It's kinda like being the 'nice guy' only with less of the creeperdom. And more invisible for it."

"Her choices are hers. You respect her enough to let them remain so. You can't love every part of her and exclude the one part where she acts independently of you."

"Even when she chooses to go out with Duncan Matthews." The way he said that name with a sneer told the rest of the story.

"I've heard about him, too. Though less glowingly from everyone else except Jean and Jacquelline."

"He thinks he can get away with it because he's a football star..."

"And society will let him maintain that illusion until such time as he stops being so. And like all illusions, it will soon leave disharmony in its wake."

"Not soon enough for me..."

"Amen to that thought, gentlemen," said Sara, scaring them both out of their skins. "Alas, such things can not be made to happen."

"And don't start working on it, my little Machiavelle," teased Sam.

"Also, it's dinnertime. Coming down?"

"Of course."

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Challenge #00024: On the Heartbreak of Flotsam

More tales from the Scooter Conspiracy?

geekhyena

"Is there any actual way to make them stop?"

Sara looked up from her careful work. Designing a shatter-proof karate tree. There was lots of maths and tables of data. "Who happened this time?"

"It was a group effort," said Mr Summers. "I have seen more creative teamwork from my students on your behalf than I've ever seen in my life."

"What. Did they. Do?"

Sigh. "A live performance of _Pink Elephants_ outside my door at the butt-crack of dawn. With holograms, care of the light-benders."

"I didn't know this school had a choir..."

"...not before today, we didn't..."

"Same with the band?"

"Ohyeah. We never had a band, before, either."

Sara did not react as a normal person - even 'normal for Xavier's' - would. She reached for another notebook and began jotting things down. "Motivational factors in an antagonistic environment, taking into account pre-existing skills..." Some mumbling. The stuff on the pages looked like an ungodly hybrid of shorthand, calculus and sanskrit. "This will give me something to ponder in the wee small hours."

"You're-welcome-I-think," he grated. "How do I get them all pointed in the right direction?"

"Define 'the right direction' before you start. Your definition and theirs may vary." More scribblings in the notepad.

Scott decided he'd worry if he heard her muttering anything Lovecraftian. "I want this much creativity when it comes to helping the world. Or at least as many people as they can manage. It's amazing to see the lengths they go to, but—"

"It's not so nice being the target?"

"Well... no."

"I've done my homework on you Mr Summers."

_Uh oh._

"I'd have thought you'd be more amenable to the idea of salvaging broken people."

"There's broken and then there's complete write-offs..."

Sara gave him an old, old look. "Like a thief who, once they attained their power, defrauded an entire country by selling herself as a weather goddess?"

Ororo. "Uh."

"Or a juvenile delinquent who killed his quote-unquote caregiver?"

Himself. "Um."

"Or a little girl who caused gross property damage?"

Jean.

"Or a homeless wanderer who was under the thrall of an evil, evil man?"

Wait. That didn't match any— Wait! "Are you talking about Kurt or...?"

Sara gave him a Mona Lisa smile. "Think about it. Let me know when you see with new eyes."

I'm supposed to be the teacher here. How is it that this kid keeps schooling me?

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Challenge #00025: Movie Madness

Rogue and Rahne, the closest the Evo cast arguably has to a vampire and werewolf, end up having to watch the latest vampire-and-werewolf-starring cinematic blockbuster - the Twilight movies, courtesy of a lost bet (likely with Kitty). Cue the mocking and snarkiness!

[AN: This author has only seen the first Twilight movie and removed herself from the sequels as a means of self-preservation]

"So what's this all about, then?" asked Rahne. Kitty was standing guard at the door and, for some reason, Kurt was guarding the window.

"Well... Ah don't know much," Rogue got her credentials out as early as possible, "but from what Ah heard, it's... well... Some housewife saw 'Dracula meets the Wolfman' and wrote an AU romance starrin' her Mary Sue."

"Is not!" Kitty shrieked. "It's the greatest romance like, ever!"

Kurt coughed. "(Coughistoocough)."

"Hey! I saw your stupid blue people movie! You like, owe me."

"...they'renotstupid..." muttered Kurt.

The movie began. "Okay," said Rahne. "Which one't the Mary Sue?"

"Bella Swan. That's the gal with the brown hair, there."

They watched for a few minutes.

"Wait. So how's she a Mary Sue?"

Rogue bought up something on her phone. "That's the lady who wrote this mess. Next to her description of our heroine."

"...oh."

"Total adoration by all a the boys in five, four, three..."

"What? Since when does that happen?"

"It actually happened to Myer, Ah heard."

"...blarg..."

Another few minutes in which more movie happened and steam escaped Kitty's ears.

"Wait. Those are the vampires, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gettin' a weird stalker vibe off 'em."

"You, me, and everyone else with a brain stem," said Kurt.

"...hey!" objected Kitty.

"Wait. He said she should stay away from him and now he's following her everywhere? How's that supposed to work?"

"And he warned her that he's dangerous. She should be bookin' in mah opinion."

More movie passed in stunned disbelief.

"HE SPARKLES?!"

"Real vampires don't freakin' sparkle."

"What are the werewolves like?"

Rogue checked her phone. "Uh. Native Americans who are heavily into arranged marriages. From birth."

"How many movies are there of this?"

"Five."

Rahne thought about this whilst witnessing Bella and Edward say and do incredibly stupid things. "What was the alternative?"

"Walkin' down main street in our underwear."

"Turn that rubbish off. I'm doin' the undies thing."

"HEY!" Objected Kitty while Kurt cracked up.

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Challenge #00026: Young Love, Stay Love

quietstorm81 answered: Old couple commenting on young couple having an awkward but visibly loving first date in a park

They took the ramp up to third balcony level in Big Tree Park. Poor Mal's knees wouldn't let him do stairs, any more.

Their usual bench was occupied by a young couple, so they took the next one. It was good to sit and watch the green things grow. And some of the things that weren't exactly green because of their alien biology.

"Ah, they're hanging the lanterns," said Mal.

Bri squinted. "They are?"

Mal simply removed Bri's glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them back on.

"Oh, they are."

They laughed. Two old farts sharing a familiar joke.

"I think it's got a little bigger," said Bri.

"They were hanging the lanterns when you proposed," Mal had a dreamy smile.

Bri had to kiss it. "Action replay over on our bench."

Mal looked. "Sweet Powers, were we ever that awkward?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to be so definite about it," Mal sulked.

"I think I was twice as awkward. You weren't doing any asking..."

Mal sighed. "All that fidgeting. Just kiss each other and be done with it."

Bri smirked. "You took your sweet time about that, too."

Mal shook his head. "All that fuss about how I looked and whether I was saying the right things. And how I was sitting and what I was doing with my hands..."

"Aw. There they go. 'Of course yes' or, 'I've been waiting for you to say that' and hopefully not, 'Whadahuh?' like you did."

"I did find my tongue eventually. For a proper 'yes'. Just to stop you crying."

"Difficult to track down after you swallowed it, eh?"

"Ha! And then some."

They watched the two young cogniscents on the next bench entangle their limbs and finally kiss.

"They look like nice young men," commented Mal.

"Ladies."

"At the risk of repeating myself... whadahuh?"

Bri cackled. "Exobiologist, remember? I can tell."

"Like you let me forget..." Mal laid his hand on Bri's and their fingers intertwined. They watched the lanterns turn the giant tree into a fairy palace.

"The birdseed cart should be coming by, soon."

"Feed the birds, two Sec's a bag..." came the distant song of an individual who wasn't very far removed from the birds themselves.

"Right on time," said Bri.

"My favourite part of our day," smiled Mal.

Bri got two Second coins out and waved with them to the birdseed cart cogniscent, who ruffled his plumage and saluted in recognition.

They took turns throwing seeds to the birds that filled Big Tree park with song and guano while the birdseed cart trundled onwards.

"Feed the birds, two Sec's a bag..."

One of the young couple looked up from their embrace. "How much?"

Mal and Bri looked at each other and laughed.

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Challenge #00027: I Spy

quietstorm81 answered: A mother finding out about her daughter's crush via somewhat unethical snooping in a stash of love letters.

Station night was well and truly underway. She should have been going home. She should be closing down her office and leaving it all to the night crew. It was late and getting later. Her family would soon wonder where she was.

Sheppard would be wanting his bedtime story.

Lyr knew all this. She knew what she was doing was a slippery slope on Mt Morals. But...

The really big but...

Her eldest daughter was growing up and she was still growing into her precog ability. Despite all the safeguards, her daughter could get hurt.

And she'd been having nightmares about that.

The really worrying thing about nightmares for a precog, was that sometimes they came true.

So really, what she was doing was working on a hunch and putting her mind at ease. And fooling herself at the same time.

Lyr opened a data trace on Lyr Marken Junior, and found the password-protected folders in the personal data section in under a minute. Lyr stared at them. Just like the diary in the sock-drawer of days of yore... She could override that security in a cold second.

She turned away from that violation of privacy and checked the more public chat feeds. Hello. That was an inordinate amount of drafts... They were all addressed to one particular male who shared some classes with Lyr Junior.

Hah. that explained the sudden interest in Five-D Calculus.

She bought up his file. Handsome kid, in the latest fashion for patterned-colour buzz cuts. No piercings, but a heritage tattoo. Interesting. He was descended from the Punaba tribe. Nice to see kids recognising their histories instead of trying to ignore them. Pity for the Markens that their own genetic heritage would have to be a patterned shoulder-band. In a complete circle.

...not that most people's heritage wasn't like that, when you looked far enough...

Let's see... No criminal record. Not an excessive number of behaviour corrections in the schooling system... Smart, but Marken women were always big on the brainy sorts. And no data in his files about Lyr Junior.

Would it be telling if she gave her daughter the speech about the fine lines between crushing on someone, obsessing about someone, and stalking someone?

Lyr went back to the saved drafts. Emails. How quaint. Her own disaster-crush in the puberty-zone had involved brush calligraphy and a wax-sealed envelope. She read a few of her daughter's drafts.

Clumsy. Awkward. Eerily beautiful, in their own way... But all varied attempts at asking a boy who didn't know she existed to please notice her. All harmless. No red flags.

"You'll have to pay for mis-appropriating Security property, Officer Marken."

Lyr yelped. Sherlock, her Cuidgari boss, was looking over her shoulder. "I probably deserved that."

"Every parent does it," said Sherlock. "That doesn't mean it's right, and it doesn't mean I approve."

Lyr shut down her searches and dug out an Hour coin. "I apologise to the office for my indiscretion."

"The office accepts, provided such indiscretion is not repeated." Sherlock took the coin. "Talk to her. You get better results if it's mother-to-daughter instead of officer-to-suspect."

Lyr sighed, shutting down her station at last. "Yes, sir."

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Challenge #00028: Knick-nack, Paddywhack...

Odd things found in ethnic grocery stores.

geekhyena

[AN: FYI - I'm still OK in the middle of the superstorm hitting East Australia right now. Hatches battened down well.]

"...don't know why I keep getting dragged into this..." mumbled Rael.

"I cannae resist the melodious sound of yer bitchin'," said Shayde. She had a hessian shopping bag and was currently picking through sunglasses. Looking for some that fit her huge, bioluminescent eyes. She found a pair in a violent shade of violet, and put them on. "Whaddaya think? Beach Chic?"

"They look ludicrous."

"Ludicrous is better than blah. And I'm sick o' black. Ye ken what black does on my skin."

"It blends in," recited Rael.

"Aye, and the whole point of accessories is to be seen."

"You could always put it in your hair."

Shayde, whose hair could best be described as 'smoke-coloured', glared at him. "Just tell me if they're anythin' tae do with anyone's matin' season."

"Um. No. Those are aimed at children."

Shayde squealed and dug through the bin for more of them.

Hmmm. Pattern ductape...

"Ey up. What's this then?"

Shayde proudly held aloft a perplexing object with funnels and screws and a crank handle. She gave the handle an experimental twist. "I cannae ken what ye'd stick in that..."

Rael went silver with shock. "That'safertilityaidputitback."

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Challenge #00029: One Nasty Evening on the Mountains of Mad Science...

The minions have unionised.

Geekhyena

"One! Two! Three! Four! No more beating on Igor!"

Mad Doctor Snapcase stared in confusion at the brown-robed hunchbacks below. How could they do this to him? He needed them for... for...

For everything.

Igors did everything he didn't want to do. They took in the mail, they took out the trash, they took in the laundry, they took everything. Including the blame.

No roars of "Minion!" could bring him a handy target now. There was only one person left in his castle.

Mad Doctor Snapcase stared at that individual in the mirror. "This is all your fault," he growled.

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Challenge #00030: Don't You Cry, Baby Mine

The sun shone brightly despite the time of year, but its warm rays brushed uselessly against heavy curtains. Inside the dark room, a father held his baby in his arms and prayed that the child would find peace. (darkfoxglove)

Sergei Darkholme, better known to the world as Azazel, wept for his son. He had his father's tail and pointed ears. His mother's blue skin. Less fingers and toes than normal, but he was healthy. Alive.

And stuck like that.

Raven stopped at the threshold. "Is he—?" she whispered, terror clear in the tiny squeak of her voice.

"Nyet. He lives. I have done tests. He has not your magic."

"You can disguise yourself when you want to, why—?"

"He can not. He will never be able to. The way he is... he will always be. Blue. With tail. Uh... I forget english. The three fingers."

"Tridactyl," Raven supplied. He could see it in her face. She was just picturing what her 'brother' Charles Xavier would do to their son.

"Da. Spacibo." He also knew what was likely to happen to him if Erik got his hands on their little boy. "What do we do? What can we do?"

"I have a friend in East Germany. Irene Adler. She... she sees the future. She'd be able to tell us the best thing to do. To... to make sure he's going to be okay..." She joined him by his side, embracing the little boy who was positive proof of their love. So new. So tiny. So clearly in danger from the first breath he took.

"We will have to take back roads."

"Yes. I'll write her and let her know we're coming."

Their baby wriggled and yawned in his arms. "Your name is Ivan Darkholme. And no matter what happens... you are loved. Remember that, Ivan. Remember."

He had his mother's yellow eyes. And the owlish stare of babies the world over. In that, at least, he was normal.

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Challenge #00031: Helpmate

Some people really do need thinking-brain dogs.

geekhyena

Rael had seen Augments before. Animals that humans normally called pets were genetically altered to be smarter, more able to do the things that humans did. They rankled him, but they were legal. Most were companions and helpers.

A very rare few were ability aids.

The female pushing the trolley bore no external signs of being less than fully able. Until she spoke.

"I want chocolate milk you're in the way." Each word fired out rapidly next to the other without emotion or inflection.

The augmented St Bernard by her side said, "We say 'excuse me, please'."

"Excuse me please."

Rael moved himself and his burdened shopping trolley out of the way.

The female human lunged for the chocolate milk.

"Ah-ah. No-no," said the St Bernard.

"I been good I want chocolate milk."

"Sometimes food. You must brush your teeth more."

"...'es, Nana. Sorry, Nana."

There was a story there, of course. Everyone had a story. It was rude to pry and demand to know what it was. He knew more than one person who had an Augmented pet as their only family. After the disaster of his first encounter, he made a habit of being the part of the community that stopped by to see if they needed any help.

Rael got his press-pak bricks of polenta and caught up on the couple, now having an argument over another treat.

"Excuse me, ladies?" Rael offered his card. "I'm available at discount rates if you should need help."

Nana the St Bernard took the card with a, "Thank you. I appreciate the offer."

"Your coat is pretty," said the human.

Rael thanked her and went on with his day. Nana had been tailored, he had no doubt, to help a female somehow stuck at a particular progress level. All things considered, the dog had more rights than the human she was assisting.

Things had gone a long way since Gaspode, the first Augment in galactic history.

He, too, had been made to help someone who was not, strictly speaking, completely cogniscent. Human and dog, the pair made one functional entity.

Rael wished them every luck they could obtain.

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Challenge #00032: Like Sands Through the Hourglass...

Alien Soap Operas, and the humans who are addicted to them (and the people having to deal with said addicted people)

geekhyena

"...and then Minty was forced to confess her love for Drex'ard'l in front of Jaaj, and th' puir fella's been secretly pinin' for her fer ages."

Rael looked up from his three-potato mac and cheese omelette. It wasn't that he and Shayde dined together. It was just that they had similar metabolisms and they both ended up in restaurants that sold unsuitable food. And after that, Shayde generally invited herself to sit and chat with him -or at him- because she didn't have to stop and explain everything every other sentence.

He didn't have the courage to tell her it was because he usually didn't care what she was saying.

"Wait... you're telling me about the latest episode of All My Daughters?"

"Aye."

"The only soap opera with a family that encompasses the entirety of the known galaxy."

"Aye."

"Some of them don't even live in compatible environments!"

"Well, aye, it does make family re-unions a bit of a problem, but that's what Big House Station is for."

"The chlorine habitat is right next to a UV zone. The science is impossible. The whole idea behind the series is impossible."

Shayde took up a forkful of something pink, wobbly and swimming in greasy cheese. "And who said I was watchin' it fer the science?"

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Challenge #00033: Mad-Anon

"Welcome to the latest meeting of Mad Scientist's Anonymous. We're all mad, and that's not bad!"

geekhyena

"I don't think of myself as mad," said Zort. "I'm just... cross."

"Denial," said three other members at once.

Phibes cleared his throat. "Perhaps the issue is not... anger management. We have all encountered situations that have stressed our relationships with both our emotions and our sanity."

"...I'm only here because of the court order," muttered Zort.

"Oooh! Was that the steam-powered traffic cop? Niiiice..."

"Snapcase..." warned Phibes. "We do not encourage excess..."

Victor held up a finger. "We're all here because we don't often detect the fine line between genius and insanity. Recognising that we have a problem is the first step to recovery."

"I had a problem with all those bad automatic carriage drivers, and I was so close to a real solution—"

Phibes held up a patient hand. "This is where a sponsor can help. Someone to view the situation from outside and suggest... a more rational approach."

"Like making sure the driver and passengers exit the vehicle before crushing it into a tiny cube!"

"...Snapcase..."

Things just went downhill from there.

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Challenge #00034: Julie and Nanny

Write more on the augmented dog and the woman who was paired with it. Specifically, I'd love to know why the woman needed the dog and how the dog was groomed for her in the first place.

Rael arrived at their residence at the same time as their Cogniscent Rights caseworker.

"You're here for—-?" prompted a Melil whose name tag declared zir to be Officer Raak.

"Broken crockery printer," said Rael. "Julie called."

Raak made some notes. "Could you tell if it was prompted?"

"No. Sorry."

Nanny answered the door. Now that he was listening for it, he could hear the rote phrases. "Welcome-come-in. We-are-glad-to-see-you."

Nanny was more adapted for bipedal motion than, say, Boy. And smarter. She was one of the infamous grey areas that earned Rael his reputation.

The house was a standard living space. Public quarters in the middle, private quarters to the right, and the mandatory garden that was part of the station's air-recycling system to the left.

Julie sprang away from her painting at the sight of him and grabbed his hand. "The printer is this way. I tried to make a new plate and it just smoked and smelled really bad."

Rael let her lead him to the private zone, where kitchen, bathroom and sleep nooks butted up against each other in an orderly crowd. "You and Nanny make an interesting pair," he said, beginning careful disassembly by making certain the machine was both powered down and disconnected. "How long have you two known each other?"

Julie grinned. This was a favourite subject. "I got her when I was five," she said in her now-typical chain monotone. "She was a very smart puppy and me and Trainer Fil got her and me working together."

Officer Raak supplied extra information. "Julie was born with a rare allergy to the immunoflu strains. One in five million has it. Of those, one in fifty thousand has the mutation that requires tailored gene cleaning to treat it. And of those, one in five hundred million does not show up on standard gene scans. Julie was developmentally reduced some years before her problem was detected."

"I'm all fixed now," said Julie. "Nobody has to wear masks anymore."

Aha. A junior Fhitt had clogged the cooling fan and... yes. Its webs had caused a short circuit. "And Nanny?"

"Nanny is a super smart dog," Julie supplied. "She's good to me and good for me. And that's special."

"Nanny is... the best solution to a bad problem," said Raak, making notes again. Very possibly touching minds with both human and dog to monitor their mutual mental stability. Melil telepathy couldn't touch him much further than a basic emotional scan. His brain was far too different. "Human companions generally need to be older than their charges, and mortality complicates matters. Julie tested low on her ability to accept changes in her social environment."

Julie, watching Rael extract the Fhitt and its death-throe webs, muttered, "Ur, yuck."

Rael used his mini-vac to clean out the pest droppings and sundry fluff that had found their way inside the machine.

"Stellar Trade Incorporated, the company who employs Julie's parents, took responsibility and ordered a fully functioning companion from..." Raak checked her files, "A B'Nari gene-tailor specialising in augmented pets."

"So you could say Nanny was made for Julie," said Rael as he checked the effected circuits.

"If you wanted to be crass about it," sniffed Raak. "Longer-lived species aren't as... relatable as an augmented pet. This was all about what Julie needed. Dogs already have a loyalty to their companions. Saint Bernards in particular have the necessary body mass to make this degree of augmentation less of a problem."

"And the mortality issue?"

"Nanny has a retirement package pre-paid for when she out-lives Julie."

Some eighty-so years down the line, if Rael had his maths right. He reconnected and re-activated the crockery printer, running the last program as a test.

Julie applauded, jumping with enthusiasm. "Hey Nanny. Look Nanny. It's fixed. He fixed it."

Nanny, busy cooking a proportioned and proper meal, craned her neck to see and wagged her tail. "Good job!"

Julie left him and Raak together with a, "I have to go back to work now. I'm an artist."

"Ten minutes to wash-up time," said Nanny.

Raak raised a sly eyebrow. "I trust this meets your exacting criteria?"

Rael, self-confessed and self-appointed cogniscent rights activist, nodded with a smile. "They have a place to belong. They work well together. Neither is in debt to the other. My curiosity is sated and my worry is waning."

"And I check up on them every week," Raak handed him zir card. "If you wish, we can arrange a meeting?"

Rael took it with a polite bow. "I will not be meddling."

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Challenge #00035: Baby Monster

Graydon Creed and Mr. Kian get into an argument about mutants in school, power, decency and misogyny, which also demonstrates to Kian how much of a terror Graydon could be when he's older.

"Now, I understand you used a slur in a public arena, mmkay?"

"Mutie is not a slur. It's what they are."

"Mmkay. That word you just used, the new M word? Mmkay, that's a slur, mmkay... It's just not cool to use slurs."

"It's not a slur. It's what they are. You call 'em that."

"No. We don't. What they are is mutants, mmkay? That other word is hurtful because it infantalises and trivialises the entire deal, mmkay?"

Graydon fumed. "The entire deal is those types don't even belong in a school. They belong in a zoo."

"So anybody with a mutation belongs in a zoo?"

"Everyone."

There had to be a way to make him understand. "I heard your mom has diabetes."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Diabetes is also a mutation, mmkay? So if you had the power, you'd round up everyone with diabetes and put them in zoos for other folks to stare at? Even your own mom?"

Graydon thought about this. "You're right."

Kian smiled in anticipation.

"Camps'd be way better. Keep 'em out of sight. Easier to kill if they got uppity."

The smile died an agonising death on his face. Even if he tried to warn the authorities, they would ignore it. Despite the fact that this boy had just agreed to the concept of placing his own mother in a camp, he was still a straight white football star with a college scholarship and a bright future. In politics.

They'd ignore the monster until it ate them up.

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Challenge #00036: Good Intentions

End a story with this line: "She only knew it was going to be messy, however it ended."

Karin had a problem with clean. Firstly, it never made sense; because the first thing that happened to clean was that someone pretty much instantly made it 'un' in short order. Secondly, she could never really do it. Her attempts at clean always ended badly.

And Mom loved clean. Loved it beyond all reason.

And today was Mother's Day. The one day that good children did special things for mothers that the mothers would love.

Karin woke up extra early to get a start. She had a plan. And the best of plans were simple ones.

Bacon and eggs, on a plate, on a tray, with a cup of coffee. And a vase with some flowers for the garden.

And, as a special effort, Karin would clean up after herself.

That was the plan.

The eggs did not behave. The bacon spat and bit her. Water went everywhere at the slightest provocation. Karin wanted to cry, but she kept trying. She had to be brave. She was, after all, nearly almost four.

She only knew it was going to be messy, however it ended.

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Challenge #00037: Not My Fault!

Jean discovers a reason why Duncan should be dumped and Todd shows her why Scott might be a better choice, all while they hang upside down from a tree. By accident.

"It'snotmyfault, IsweartoGod, pleasedon'tkillme!"

Jean was still getting her bearings. A tough thing to do when gravity wanted all her blood to settle into her head because the ground was directly above it.

She let open her 'walls' a crack to scan for any other intelligent life besides... Toady Todd Tolenski.

Urgh.

Well, on the plus side, she was upwind of him. On the minus side, she was upside down, in a tree, and apparently miles from anywhere.

"How'd we get here?"

"Not my fault, I swear."

"Yeah. I think you established that in the first picosecond of consciousness."

"Yo, don't try to move 'less ya know what's there," Todd advised. "One wrong move an' -tchk!- broken neck."

Something warm was sliding slowly up her spine. It felt sticky. An entirely different tendril of malevolently bright and viscous blue drooled towards the ground in front of her.

She tried to pull herself upright. Alas, that meant getting further into the slowly oozing bright blue dribbles.

And there was lots of it on her clothes.

"What the hell is this blue stuff?"

"Not my fault! I didn't do it. I was inna hall!" Toad tentatively touched his tongue to the vibrant blue goo. It must not have tasted good, because Todd winced and reeled his prehensile tongue back in. "You musta seen it. I walked right by you an' Dunc' and he kinda casually knocked me into a locker."

"I didn't notice that bit..."

"Yeah, like anybody does." His voice switched to a mocking falsetto. "O Duncan, yo' so manly wit' yo' big muscles and Aryan good looks. Who cares what the rest of the world is doing? Tee hee..."

"Maybe if you washed more often..." Jean decided she'd had enough of being inverted, blue goo or no blue goo, and struggled to right herself and untangle herself at the same time.

Todd had similar ideas and a harder time. "Yeah, well not ev'ryone gets to be perfect," he said as he awkwardly got at least upright. "You say 'wash more often', I have t' distill the freaking water wit' no power an' try finding some kinda soap that don't make me sick to mah stomach."

She stared at him. "What?"

"You did an article 'bout it, right? Why there ain't that many amphibians 'round here no mo'?"

"Oh yeah. The chemical water treatments and soap is polluting the waterways and... making... frogs sick..." Another I-can't-believe-it stare. "You're serious? Bathing makes you ill?"

"Like an animal shelter's worth o' dogs, yo." He had found a stick free of goo and was using it to scrape as much of the goo off himself as he could. "And whatever this shit is, it's damn toxic. Hazmat toxic. I'm'a be barfin', bath or not. Ugh."

Jean reached out with her mind, finding the 'feel' of the goo, and the 'feel' of Todd, and then taking the goo away from him.

"Thanks." He picked his way around the tree as if the goo was lava. "We should get outta here."

Jean de-gooed herself and floated them clear of the mess. "If you want me to talk to Duncan about the locker..."

"Nope. Nuh-uh. Negativo. No. Way. Just means I get it worse behind yo' back."

"Duncan is not that mean."

"Uh. Yes he is. You can -i'unno- pick his brain t' see what he's been up to? You'd see if yo' did."

"That," sniffed Jean, "would be unethical."

"As unethical as distractin' you from lookin' inna chem lab while one of his buddies builds that goo-bomb?"

Jean rewound her memories and looked at them anew. Duncan was actiing nervous and edgy. And kind of desperate to stop her on her way to Trig.

...because he knew she'd report him.

"Uh," she said.

"Or as unethical as chattin' up cheerleaders when you ain't lookin'?"

"Wait. What?"

"Or as unethical as beatin' up geeks to do his homework for him?"

"Now that's not fair!"

"For who?" asked Todd. "He's lyin' to yo'. He been lyin' to you since th' start of it. An' he goin' keep lyin' 'till you catch him an' put yo' foot down. An' then he's goin do it mo' when he thinks he's safe."

"Like anyone else wouldn't be a liar. Lying is natural in any relationship. People want to make themselves look good."

"Mebbe, but Dunc only wants to look good. Y'awsayin'? Meanwhile, yo got a guy right there fo' yo' alla time, tells yo everythin' but one truth an' respec's yo'. An all he is to you is chopped liver."

Jean made a face, trying to orient herself in a world turned blue and drippy. "Who could that be?"

"Shades, over there."

She followed Todd's gesture to find Scott, messy with blue goop, running to her. All anxiety and worry and - to be honest - abandonment issues.

"Jean, are you okay? Did Toad—?" He made a fist, got halfway into a fighting stance.

"We're fine. Todd has been helping me out."

Todd made a show of his empty hands and a sick, please-don't-hurt-me grin. "That's me. Knight in rusty armour."

Jean did something she promised herself she'd never do. She dipped into her friend's mind. She hadn't known such relief in anyone since... Since her telepathy had turned on and she'd tried to run away from the voices and her mom had found her and swept her up in a hug and cried...

So relieved that a loved one was still okay.

Duncan, some vast meters distant, was only worried about whether or not he or his idiot buddy was going to get caught.

Someone was headed for dumpsville. Population: Dunc.

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Challenge #00038: Wanted Hair Problems

I think I submitted this before, I might be mistaken. Anyway...

Kurt and Beast, a malfunctioning electric razor/pet-groomer, and the amusing/embarassing results of the latter encountered by the former two.

[AN: Yeah, you did as anon, and since you're so insistent, I guess this is today's instant story]

Shaving was a problem for the naturally hirsute. The trimming products usually designed for people did not take into account things like, say, embarrassing bald patches. And trimer kits did little for the stubble.

Pet trimmers, on the other hand, sculpted fur and could do things to rough underhair without disturbing the finer, everyday coat.

Usually.

Ororo found Hand and Kurt in the kitchen, each with a gargantuan desert and bandages in odd places. Some showed traces of blood.

"What happened to you two?" she asked.

"Remember I said the third socket from the left is possessed?" said Kurt.

"...yeah?"

"You really should look into it."

Hank surfaced from a mouthful of cream. "I have never seen a trimmer physically attack someone. Before today."

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Challenge #00039: Whither Shall I Wander

Include anywhere in the story this line: "Anywhere was home, unless the place included her."

Josie was a wanderer. Anywhere was home, unless the place included her.

She did not use her name. It was always she, her or, in extreme situations, that woman. Just a glimpse of her, just the thought that she might be there, that she might have followed her across oceans, continents, rivers, towns or down the endless roads... had Josie packing her bags and moving on.

And the worst thing was, that woman refused to take a hint.

Always following her. Tracking her down. Demanding a confrontation. Resolution. Closure.

Josie didn't have anything more to say to her. She'd said it all so many times over, in the years Josie couldn't escape. And she just would not listen.

Then came Kraplaquistan. A shitty little town in a shitty little country, with the best person in the world. Max. Josie stayed longer than she had ever stayed anywhere - saving her years in purgatory with her, of course - she made a place. Helped the community. Moved in.

And just like always, she turned up. At a social gathering Josie couldn't escape because it was in her honour. With everyone staring.

Josie put on a rictus and tried not to bite her as her hand came in for a handshake that looked more companionable than it felt.

"My dear," she said. "When are you going to give up this nonsense and come back home to Jason?"

"I'm still a lesbian, Mom," said Josie. "And Jason's still a rapist asshole who thinks his dick can solve everything. This is Maxine. My wife."

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Challenge #0040: Where Art Thou, Daughter?

Before Josie's mom goes to Kraplaquistan, recount the last conversation she had with Jason and how little she really knows how awful he is, even as it reeks and ferments before her very eyes due to her obsession to bring Josie back to her point of view.

Porche greeted Jason with a warm hug and a kiss on each cheek. "Daar-ling! How have you been? I've been dying to see you since Tullagawupwup..."

Jason smiled warmly for her and waved away a disappointed blonde in the background. "Porche, dear Porche... Have you heard anything from poor, lost Josie? Has she changed her mind?"

"I heard from a good friend that one of his distant cousins glimpsed her in Kraplaquistan, of all places."

"That is a lot of miles to track her down," Jason snagged a passing champagne. "I do hope that inheritance dear Josie is due is not catching a beating. I'd hate to think of you lovely ladies becoming destitute."

"Oh, no, don't you worry your darling head about it. I pretty much budgeted for all this travelling since before dear Josie took it into her head to go gallivanting. Securing the knowledge of my poor girl's future and its security is just a drop out of the reservoir."

"And I trust you're well adept at keeping any... nasty rumours under wraps?"

"Of course, of course. My best friends own the networks. The rest can be dismissed as hateful things people spread on the internet. Lesbian, indeed," Porche sniffed.

"Ha. I put rest to that one," Jason laughed. "You can't be a lesbian if you've had sex with a man."

"Yes. No need to state it so crudely, my dear."

"There's a polite way to say it?"

"Perhaps that you both enjoyed a ménage?"

"Oh yeah," Jason swapped his empty glass for a handful of canapés. "I ménaged her brains out."

Porche cleared her throat and pretended not to have heard Jason's last remark. For all his occasional crude attitude, he was of good stock with some very good political connections. If she could just convince that idiot girl to give up her nonsense and live properly, then Porche's grandson may well be leader of the free world.

As she drifted away, she could have sworn she glimpsed Jason re-joining the blonde he disappointed earlier. One of his more regrettable tendencies was that he lacked a certain amount of volume control.

"Yeah, that's the old bat. Gonna marry her only daughter for the money, fuck 'er until she pops out a kid or two, and then set us up on our own little holiday island. Ugly as hell, the both of them, and the daughter's damn flaming. Of course I'm all yours. I got a whole library of excuses to stay away from them."

Boyish high spirits. Once Josie had him settled down, he would forget about the blonde. And if he refused to part with that silicone-stuffed piece of eye candy... Porche would just have to find out the girl's name - and make her life... inconvenient.

Nobody put one up on Porche VonSmythe. Tomorrow, she was going to fly to Kraplaquistan and drag Josie back to the altar if she had to. But for now, it was smiles, glitter and wine.

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Challenge #00041: The Doctor is in

Anywhere in the story: "It never ceased to amaze him how little the world seemed to care about those it had little use for." Also include a banana.

London was overgrown. Those bits that were left were barely holding together. And still, someone took the time to write on walls.

It was a warning. Red was a difficult colour for paint in this kind of arena, but someone had still taken the time to make a bright red paint. And then paint a stylised bull's head with horns, the word 'MINATOR', and an arrow pointing back the way he had come.

This was a clear warning.

Running feet made the Doctor turn, but he couldn't see the runners. They were long gone. He stared at the graffiti, trying to remember anything about that particular spelling.

"Are you fuckin' *MAD*?" someone shrieked. They seemed horrified to see him there. The speaker was short, far too thin and dressed in boring grey and brown. She seemed to be having trouble breathing, which was why she had trouble running.

"What?" he said.

"Run, yer nut!"

"What?"

Now she ran to him, seized his wrist as if she were saving his life and dragged him away from the warning sign as fast as she could manage. "RUN! That's where minator is. An' then there's th' bots."

"Bots?" he echoed.

"Jus' fuckin' run!"

He kept pace with her. He was no medical doctor, but he could still tell she was in a bad condition to even try to run. Her lips were turning blue. Her breath rattled in her lungs.

"You run everywhere?" he said by way of conversation.

"Onna ground ya gotta," she panted. She had that slack-limbed run of people who had no energy left to run but still had to try so they could survive. "Bots an' minator. They get ya. They kill ya."

"Ah," he said. "That would be bad."

She rolled her eyes at that understatement.

They arrived at some kind of bus stop just as the bus literally took off for the city high above.

The girl fell onto the empty seat with a lot of coughing with a side of phlegm.

"You don't sound very well," he noted.

Another eye-roll and flat sarcasm. "Gee wow, you must be a fuckin' doctor."

The last of the Time Lords looked guiltily skywards. "Funny you should say that," said the Doctor.

"So what you doin' sown 'ere?" she wheezed. "Suit like that stays upside."

"Me?" he said innocently. "I'm... inspecting."

"Y'aint takin' nuffint from me, y'bastid," she said automatically.

"What? No! No, no. Definitely not. Look for yourself." He took out the psychic paper, willing it to show a benevolent message.

She took it, squinting at the message and dragging a finger across the font only she could see. I... am... official... but... friendly. I... am... here... to... help. I... can... be... trusted." She boggled at him over the black wallet as she handed it back. "Y'got that lot lammed?"

The doctor stared at the traitor psychic paper. "Odd. It's not supposed to do that..." He really thought about the message.

"Yeah?" she grinned. At least she was smiling. If he had them smiling, he had hope.

"It's supposed to help you think I'm vaguely in charge of fixing what's wrong. Somehow, you got the gist and not the complete message. Shall we try again?" He handed over the little wallet once more.

This time, her dragging finger helped her read, "The... Doctor. I... make... things... better." She startled. "Whidafuh? 'Ow'd y' do that? You some kinda magician?"

There was some confusion, but eventually she introduced herself. "Rollins. Hope Rollins."

A deal was struck for food. In that, at least, it was wise to always have at least one banana. She ate it skin and all. As they waited for the next bus, the sad facts of being a 'grounder' came out. About being literally the lowest of the low. Of lurgi, and minator and how the bots could kill you just for being too slow.

It never ceased to amaze him how little the world seemed to care about those it had little use for.

Well, he was here, now. He was going to get things sorted.

This was why he called himself the Doctor. Like his psychic paper said for him, he made things better.

To meet Hope, try [this story.]

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Challenge #00042: The Shocking Truth.

An outsider to everything talks about seeing something they shouldn't, fully knowing the ramifications of their seeing will impact the entire world they live in.

Shayde knew she was on time. She checked the chrono four times after she heard Rael's voice in the negotiations room. He was, apparently, talking in some variety of Bird. One of the languages that gave her 'universal translator' ability trouble. Something about beaks...

This was one of those negotiation rooms that had been repurposed from an interrogation room and, as luck would have it, the neighbouring observation cupboard was empty.

She swallowed her claustrophobia and ducked in for a quick peek.

Rael was talking to a gigantic Rhode Island Red. Six foot tall if he was an inch. Beady little eyes, crest, wattle and shiny black tail feathers.

Sure, the rooster also appeared to be wearing an ornate golden dressing-gown, but he was still a rooster. Shayde ducked back out into the hallway for some better air and tried to think through this.

Five hundred years had passed since she left Earth. More, if you counted time from the one-way wormhole colonies that crossed great physical distance by going backwards in time. Anything could have happened.

She had to say something. Even if it caused a war.

She snagged Rael by the elbow as he emerged and whipped him half a meter down the hall to whisper, "Ye ken ye been talkin' to a giant chicken, yeh?"

"Ambassador Bu only appears to resemble the Terran bird Avis Domestica..."

Shayde waved a frantic arm at the six-foot bird. "He's a chicken, I tell ye. A giant chicken."

Rael cast a pleading gaze at the bird. The bird gently pulled her away from her something-more-than-friend with his wing.

With the scaly, chicken-claw hand that had been hidden by his wing-feathers.

Then he spoke GalStand. He had trouble, because of his beak, but he still spoke. "It's all right. I get this all the time."

Shayde boggled. She knew she was boggling. It was just one small step from outright culture shock and screaming down the hallways. Keep it together...

Ambassador Bu trilled out some very un-chicken birdsong.

"Ambassador Bu T! (descending whistle) (low whistle) would like to invite you to lunch and a trade of rude questions," said Rael. Then he explained, "It's a regular thing when he manages to disturb someone."

Public place. Food. And rude questions? How could a gal resist?

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Challenge #00043: The Noodle Incident(s)

There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again...

[AN: Oh, the potential for each of these. I don't know which universe to play with. So I'll play with all of them :) ]

Amalgam Universe

There is a certain genius for mischief. People who possess it are generally pranksters and the geniuses at it can make their chosen victims laugh at their own predicament.

Two such geniuses, Rael found, should never go together.

He already had enough on his personal agenda with Shayde, a creature who possessed magics in advance of current technology. But it got infinitely worse when the Enterprising Endeavour was in port and Hwell Barrow escaped the watchful eye of his saurian business partner, Ax'and'l.

Hwell had initially tried, according to all reports, to 'blarney' Shayde. Shayde, on the other hand, spotted him coming from a mile off and turned him down flat in ways he did not understand until ten minutes after she left the room. Things escalated quickly from there. He sent her chocolate-coated insects. She sent him caramel encrusted lizards. He somehow managed to dope her shower head and dyed her hair teal. She somehow got into the Enterprising Endeavour's systems and dyed the air fuchsia. He set a flock of guinea pigs loose in her garden. She shipped live cargo to a very distant port... live cargo that liked to eat the containers she put them in, and breed like insects.

There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again... Nobody could prove who did it.

The Enterprising Endeavour was in dock again. Which meant that Lyr, being both a precognitive psychic and a keen observer, had once again drafted Rael as bodyguard and reliable eye-witness. Which, in turn, meant he had to move his warming tank in for something Shayde called a 'sleep-over'.

"Ye serious. Ye never heard o' smores?"

"Never," said Rael. For all he knew, this was another Drop Bear story.

"Ah, yer in fer a treat," Shayde opened her door.

Hwell had escaped his guard and managed to completely fill Shayde's quarters with peculiar, helium-filled balloons.

"Condoms," said Shayde as they escaped their former confines and began drifing into the corridor. "He cannae resist the classics..."

X-Men Evolution Universe

"What are you doin', Tallwater?" Logan growled.

"Nuh-thiiiinng..." Sara almost sang. She was up to her elbows in bits and bobs, building a Device.

"You're up against Fixit again, ain't'cha?"

Sara put her screwdriver down so she could face him. She'd gone from aqua to very much more than a little bit blue-ish. And she was almost glowing. "I owe him one."

Logan shook his head. "You been on his case ever since he accidentally sent you jauntin' dimensions."

"And he has the nerve to retaliate!" Sara was snippy, and when she got snippy, her Bostonian accent got thicker. "And he's better at it... Well... There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again..."

"Y'never thought of callin' a truce and working on the problem?"

Sara glared at him. "That," she sniffed, "requires him to apologise first."

And, because I love it so much....  Dresden Codak's X-Men Reboot Universe

In the opinion of Pepper Potts, there are some kind of geniuses there should never be two of, let alone two of in the same general area. Like, an entire continent.

Her life was interesting enough just trying to keep a leash on Tony Stark. Playboy multimillionaire genius inventor and any other nouns you had to spare. But now there was Sara Adrien. Mutant chameleon creative genius and a lot of other spare nouns, and a few of them actually polite.

Tony hated her for two reasons. One: she re-designed his holographic emitter vambrace so that it could both disguise a person for longer and fit into a rather clunky-looking sports watch. Two: she had found out his full name and used it against him whenever she was ticked off with him.

Well, not exactly hate hate... but not quite as mature as friendly rivalry, either. It was hard to maintain friendly rivalry with someone who had subconsciously absorbed the theories of ninjitsu as a method of getting the pranks past both Tony's and Pepper's paranoid security measures.

The nanobot packaging had been the last straw. Not that it disassembled its wrapping paper form and then spread anywhere it detected Tony's DNA, but that it graffitto'd, Tony Stark is a louse! anywhere it had enough clear space.

And he couldn't sue her for libel, because she'd paid to have a new species of louse named after him.

Pepper couldn't see anything that would make them stop. There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again... but it just kept... going.

"Eureka!"

Never before had three syllables struck terror into Pepper's heart. She had to look, just so she could appreciate the train wreck that happened afterwards.

It was a hovering hula-hoop. Or rather, it looked like a hovering hula-hoop.

"What monster have you created now?" Pepper asked, only half-joking.

"Personal weather system." Tony in a manic mood was never much for excess verbiage. "It'll follow her around, stealth at first, of course; and rain on her - and only her."

"This could not possibly go wrong," Pepper deadpanned flat sarcasm.

As per protocol for these things, Tony set it loose, waited half an hour, and then sent the taunting text, How's the weather?

And for two weeks, nothing happened. Two glorious weeks without so much as a black fax.

Tony actually relaxed. Well, relaxed for Tony.

Then came the garden party. A fine mist filled the air, but it did nothing to dampen the spirits of anyone in attendance. Until Sara showed up. Glittering and spectacular and \- Pepper noticed - not being rained on.

"Why the hell is she dry?" muttered Tony.

"How the hell should I know?" murmured Pepper.

"Mister Stark," said Sara.

"Ms Adrien," said Tony.

They shook.

"Wonderful work with the programmable watering system," said Sara. "I have it doing the rounds at Xavier's. And congratulations on your fashion choice."

"...zuh?" said Tony.

"I hear orange is the colour for celebrities of your calibre."

Pepper and Tony looked together. He had turned a brilliant, vibrant, fake-tan orange.

Tony licked his hand. "Orange kool-aid?"

"I was out of Tang."

"I'll get you for this."

"Really, Mister Stark. You have to stop handing me the weaponry. Those are the nanobots you originally sent after me, remember?"

Tony fumed. "Yes," he growled.

"And nice try suborning the Sentinels. It won't work a second time."

"Wait. I didn't reprogram the Sentinels." Tony turned to Pepper. "Did I?"

Pepper didn't have to check. "No. That wasn't us."

"Hmph," said Sara. "Someone is using our personal vendetta against us."

"Us?" Tony quoted.

"I did not put you on SHIELD's watch list." Sara snagged and sipped some juice. "My motto is Mostly Harmless, as you will recall."

Tony caught on. "Someone's trying to up the stakes."

"Shall we happen to them together?"

Tony had a very nasty grin. "Yes. Let's."

Oh dear. Now he had Pepper in conniptions at two syllables.

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Challenge #00044: Life's Great Mystery

Scott wins a bet with Logan and he divulges wisdom from the mount, including and especially how to get the better of Duncan with his mind and not his fists or powers, with Todd offering to help as an olive branch of peace.

"Told you I could do it." Scott panted. "Pay up. Enlighten me."

Logan made a lazy gesture indicating an otherwise neglected bench in Xavier's extensive gardens. He was never much for talking, even when he was a teacher, the first time. He preferred getting kids to think for themselves. Fight for themselves. Stand up for themselves.

Harder than it looked, now Scott was trying it.

"You an' Dunc."

"Yep."

"What's the exact problem with 'im?"

"You mean other than that he has the morals of a dead whelk and twice as smelly? Or that he treats women like garbage and gets away with it? Or that he bullies everyone he sees as weaker than him and gets away with it because he's a sports star and is raking in the dough for the school?"

"...and he's dating Jean."

"Jean chooses to stay with him. That's her choice. I... shouldn't let it bother me."

"Right." Logan nodded. "But it does. You think you know her better than anyone. Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe she just likes jerks." A shrug. "But the way t' deal with a jerk jock is t' expose him."

"What? Secret recordings and stuff?"

"No. Nuthin' illegal. Tallwater'd probably help there if she heard ya. Don't let 'er hear ya. Clear?"

"Clear."

"You an' Dunc've been at each other f'r forever. Not just because of Jean. You're equal opposites. Like ya said, he's got the morals of a dead whelk. You fight with your muscles, you're fighting him where he has the same strength. You can't win."

"...fab..."

"You gotta fight him where he's weak. Use yer smarts. Set him up for a big fall in front of everyone. Something where all his negative points get highlighted at once."

"I might be smart, but I'm not that smart."

Logan gave him a long look. "Think you have to win this all on your own? You're a leader. Lead."

Toad 'nonchalantly' wandered closer. Always on his guard for an attack that didn't happen. "Yo, I heard sumpin's up against Dunc'."

"You might have heard right..." Scott allowed. He was still unsure of the Brotherhood boy, but he remained civil under Sara's influence.

"Mebbe I could... I'unno... help make sumpin' happen to him?"

"Tallwater in on this?" asked Logan.

"She promised she'd -uh- stick to th' social engineerin'."

She'd need to. Especially after that thing with the inflatable hippo.

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Challenge #00045: Time is Money

Time currency and exchange rate issues.

The clerk looked up from the pile of gold coins. "What are these?"

"Quatloos," said Emris. "My savings. For this holiday."

"Ah." The clerk began typing. He was rather handsome for a lizard. With an impressive crest jammed under his ridiculous hat. "I have fifteen planet systems with variations on the Quatloo... Where are you from?"

"Greater Deregulation."

"Ah." This time, his voice was sadder. "Hm. We have three of those. May I look at your galactic passport?"

Emris handed it over and took off his infovisor.

The clerk was scrutinising the stamps. "Mh... Ha! East turn-wise Greater Deregulation... Oh dear."

Emris put his infovisor back on. "Something... wrong?"

"Your Quatloos... are only worth a handful of Days, even at the best rates. And your planned stay is for... two months."

"...but I saved up for so long..."

"And that effort should not go unrewarded. Let's see what I can do for you..." Frantic tapping, beeping and error sounds. "Ah! Yes! I can get you a grand total of of a Standard Year."

Emris gasped. "How did you manage to do that?"

"Your Quatloos are made out of certain metals... that are worth more than the money they represent."

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Challenge #00046: Trial of Error

End with this sentence: "Failure had become the only way he knew he had actually tried."

Rael could not believe in his makers. He had, after all, witnessed them sleeping in the labs, relieving themselves, and skimming the news over morning stimulants and breakfast.

It was hard to worship anything when you'd seen them with food dribbling down their chin.

It was even harder to believe in anything when they were testing and training you at the same time.

Rael hated the tests. So did his older siblings, Ayg and Kint. And they couldn't even hate them together, because they were each tested alone. The only time they even had to attempt to communicate was meal times and even then, they were monitored.

The makers were everywhere.

A klaxon blatted a rude noise and the red light lit the area with its ruddy glow.

Another failure.

What did they want from him? Why did they do these things? How could he possibly understand when they never explained?

Failure had become the only way he knew he had actually tried.

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Challenge #00047: Introducing Senator Summers

The first press conference of newly elected state senator, Scott Summers, in which he tries to explain how someone who sees only red can govern those with full vision. Hard questions are asked by both reporters and Duncan Matthews, himself the newly elected leader of the FOH and sporting IRA styled terrorist backup.

"How can you claim to have a far-reaching vision when all you can see is red?"

Gah. Dumb question #3. Again. State Senator Scott Summers kept his face friendly and save his sighs for a rare private moment. "It's precisely because of that limitation that I can see further. For instance, I'd like to see a time when you and your colleagues in the press stop asking that question." Laughter from the assembled scribblers. "As you well know, the sight of the minds' eye has no physical limits. I may only see red on the physical plane, but my imagination has no such boundaries. Next question."

"Did you use your mutant powers to steal my girl?"

The press, as one person, turned to see the men who had crashed the press conference.

FOH, the opposite number. Occupy Wall Street had the Tea Party. Democrats had the Republicans. Scott had Duncan, and Mutant Freedom had the Friends of Humanity.

The speaker was both in one. Duncan "I didn't do it" Matthews was, according to his insignia, a Major in the Friends of Humanity Militia. Some of whom he had bought with him.

Silent, hulking grunts, all of them. Almost resplendent in their uniforms and looking slightly evil with their little red armbands.

The press almost loomed in their seats. "Duncan... we're both forty. You should at least try to get over that. Second, my only mutant power is that of a kinetic force beam. I can't use that to steal anyone. Third, Jean, the woman who chose to generously share her life with mine, is also a mutant, a telepath, and a telekinetic and as such can turn your brain into mush if she wanted to." He had to swallow hard to stop saying, And I don't know if anyone could tell the difference anyway. "Clearly, she doesn't want to. Fourth, and most important, Jean, like any other human being does not and can not belong to any other human being. She was never yours, Duncan. She was always, and still is always solely hers." His voice had raised during his speech, so he took a breath during the resulting applause to settle his feathers. "If you, and the others like you think of people as property, then it's no wonder that the memberships to the FOH are dying off. Next question."

"Are you going to de-regulate mutant sweatshops?"

Oh brother... "Short answer, no. Long answer, mutant 'sweatshops' need regulation to prevent them from being actual sweatshops where businesses believe they can treat someone who can do more for less as garbage. Everyone, everywhere, has the right to fair pay based on their performance, comfortable working conditions, and care based on their needs. Mutant-run factories have benefitted America by producing more of the world's needs in less time and at less cost than anywhere else. They produce jobs, not just for mutants. Many of these 'mutant sweatshops' as you call them feature humans and mutants working together, earning the same wages, and in conditions better than the average office. So, no, I am definitely not in favour of de-regulation."

"Is your wife manipulating you with her telepathy?"

Dumb question #1. Jesus Christ... "What answer would you believe?"

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Challenge #00048: Daring Rescue

Edward Kelly moments after meeting Magneto for the first time.

{Bamf!}

Edward Kelly swallowed his last meal back down and tried to think of anything but the taste of bile and stomach acid.

"Welcome to the three D's of teleportation, Principal Kelly," said a blurred figure that was somehow all shades of aqua. "Dizziness, disorientation and debilitating nausea." The figure held something under his nose.

The scent of citrus assaulted him, but at least it made the bile go down.

He blinked away tears. "He said... Destiny told him... I'd destroy his people."

The figure helping him was androgynous and pretty much aqua from head to foot. Her hair was a boring brown with a tendency to go off in its own directions. It was the eyes and the accent that tipped him off. "Sara Louise Adrien?"

"Now he remembers my name..." she muttered.

"When did you turn green?"

"I like to think of myself as a little bit blue-ish, but that's not important right now. The Destiny that man -his name's Magneto, by the by- that man was talking about? She's a person. Another mutant like him. And us. Destiny is a precognitive mutant. Me? I blend into the scenery." While she was talking, she hustled him gently towards the fire escape. He couldn't help noticing that the arm she used to guide him was matching his tweed coat.

She noticed and smiled. "Yeah, that happens when I'm distracted. I'm working on it."

"You're all mutants?"

"Yes. Based on fighting fire with fire. Magneto and his hench-people believe that ordinary humans such as yourself should be eliminated in order to achieve true mutant freedom. The opposite number - us - are rather fond of ordinary humans and would rather not see them go."

"But... you're green."

"And Nightcrawler looks like a demon, but he's an absolute sweetie regardless of looks." She helped him down the stairs. As fast as he could go. Her frantic body-speak told him she could go faster.

"You're green..."

"Do you have an objection to people of colour?"

Edward sputtered and blushed. "How are you... your normal colour in the daytime?"

"Rude question number five. Good choice," Sara chirped. Something big knocked a hole in the stairs. "Oh dear."

"Can you jump that far?"

"Yes, and I can do it carrying you."

"Carrying me?"

"You'll be over my shoulder. It's the only way."

"I'm not good with heights."

"I'm worse," said Sara. "But I'd rather be bad at heights on the ground, wouldn't you?"

He swallowed, and nodded. She took him up into a fireman's carry and measured her running space with her feet.

"Scared?" she trembled.

"Spitless."

"Do what I do," she said. "Close your eyes." And then she leaped.

It was only when she landed that he found out she wasn't joking.

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Challenge #00049: Weather the Weather.

An apple, a surfboard and a typhoon. Somewhere in the story.

"This," said Rael, "is not typical English weather."

"Naw, it's a wee bitty rough," said Shayde. This was supposed to be her holiday 'home'. Now they were stuck in a hotel and glaring at the weather. "Even fer Wales."

"It's raining sideways. It's sleeting sideways. This is a bit more than a 'wee bitty rough'."

"Apple?" Shayde offered one from the complimentary bowl.

Usually, he wouldn't bother. Too few calories. But, since he was in a bad mood, he wanted to eat. He took it and ate it like he wished he could eat the weather.

"I'll order some chocolate, shall I?"

"That might actually be—"

{WHANG!}

Shayde yelped, landing in a defensive posture. Something bright and oblong had landed on their balcony.

"...is that a surfboard?" asked Rael. Leave it to humans to come up with a sport that involved looking like a seal over shark-infested waters.

"Aye, it is." Shayde spent a minute wrestling it inside. "Y'always get some daft bugger tryin' tae surf in freak storms. Lord let 'em be awright..."

Rael had little time for her theism, but had also given up on arguing. "How the flakk did it get to typhoons off the British coast?"

"I think it had som'at t' do with global warmin' an' climate change..."

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Challenge #00050: The Fall of Matthews

From Duncan's perspective, show the victory of Scott and how he achieved it. Todd, Kelly and Graydon Creed make appearances. Jean laughs at Duncan as she dumps him. Duncan eats crow and gags.

"Damnit. Where the fuck are my pants?"

Duncan had got his clothes on in the order they came to him. In this case, that meant his shirt, coat and a pair of heart-pattern boxers that, though his size, were not his style.

And since it was that or his sweaty jockstrap, he wore them anyway.

He looked in his locker, which also contained a type-written note that said, You're going to be late!

He looked in other guys' lockers, which only contained stinky sports gear. He checked every hiding place the locker room had to offer. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Squat.

He was going to be late.

Shit.

Someone had set him up. Therefore he had to show them he was still king of the heap by turning them into one.

There was a vending machine just outside of the locker room. It sold gatorade and power bars and beef jerky. The important part was that Toady Tolenski was trying to get candy out of it.

Duncan knew exactly who did it now.

"You little ass! Where the fuck are my pants?"

Toad took off at top speed. Duncan roared after him. Toad was fast when he wanted to be. Sometimes, he even escaped his fate for another day. This time, he was just fast enough for Duncan to see him running around the next corner. Or vanishing down the stairs. Or up the stairs.

It was a hell of a chase, but Dunc knew he had the little asshat cornered when he ran into the assembly hall. "I'M GONNA GRIND YA INTO MUSH YA LITTLE SHIT!" Duncan almost howled as he charged in after.

"We salute as we raise our flag hiiiiiiiggghhh," sang a choir of his former bit(che)s on the side. "To the guy.... who made us cryyyyyy..."

His pants, the jeans and the leopard-print posing pouch, were flying high on a temporary flagpole set up on the stage. Toad was nowhere to be seen. No, wait. He was in the arms of that fucking tranny, Essel. Who blew him a kiss.

And sitting right next to Jean Grey. Her face was red with rage and she was glaring solid, molten death straight at him.

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU! YOU AN' YOUR STUPID GODDAMN TRANNY WANNABE TWAT! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO MEEEE!"

Then he realised he was being recorded. By the skater freak, Daniels.

Principal Kelly was moving in with the ratty blanket they always used when some student had a catastrophic meltdown. Graydon was laughing his ass off, which inevitably spread to the entire hall -even Jean- because Graydon had the funniest goddamn laugh in the world.

But it all felt like it was aimed at him.

Essel was waving. It clearly mouthed, "The king is dead. Long live the... Queen."

Then he remembered that Essel had a knack for extracting justice at the minimum possible temperature.

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Challenge #00051: Wrecking the Grade Curve

The Scooter Conspiracy is defeated, albeit temporarily, when educator Scott correlates grade reduction with youth pranks of exuberance. Storm makes an appearance.

"You've all heard the news. Sara Louise Adrien and Mortimer Thaddeus Toynbee are now officially engaged, an item, and allowed to go out. With my blessing." Scott cleared his throat. "This has not stopped what is known as the Scooter Conspiracy from continuing to target me as a favoured victim in your pranks."

The assembled student body rustled uncomfortably.

"Even Sara would allow that I've learned my lesson. Therefore, I have to teach all of you."

Rustle, rustle, murmur mutter.

"Commencing today, all further pranks perpetrated will result in a loss of grades for the perpetrator, or perpetrators."

Some alarmed fidgeting amongst the students.

Scott had exactly five seconds to smirk before Ororo stepped onto the podium. "There will, of course, be a half-hour amnesty for all pranksters to disable any traps they may have left lying around."

Scott nodded. Fair was fair. "You may resume your normal schedule,"

The nervous all but flew out of there.

"You do realise," said Ororo, "That you've left yourself open to those who are certain they will not be caught."

"In that case, I'll sic Sara on their asses."

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Challenge #00052: The Weekend Larp Involved Pirates vs. Astronauts, Snow, and Weaponised Fruit, so Here Are Some Prompts Inspired by Real Events.

1. Suddenly, a watermelon.

2. "A pineapple, perfect! The cardboard warriors have almost reached the second staircase and we need ammunition. Now hand me my gunana."

3. The Nerf Gun Wars of '06

"Pew! Pew!"

"Pew! Pew! Pew!"

"Shayde, what the flying flakk—?"

She grinned from behind her cardboard visor. She was using a banana as an imaginary gun and apparently shooting by saying, "Pew!"

"War games," she said. "Catharsis, brain trainin', and leftover fruit disposal. It's win-win-win."

"Left... over..." All right, so the fruit they were weaponising was on the 'mulch' side of useful, but this much waste was... so very human. There was a bin in Shayde's pretend fort.

Rael was so absorbed with the contents that he didn't notice the flying watermelon until it landed, shattering on the wall behind him.

Shayde quickly swapped the fruit in his hand for her browning banana. "A pineapple, perfect! The cardboard warriors have almost reached th' second staircase and we need ammunition." She loaded her own catapult. "Na hand me me gunana."

At lease it was less chaos than the nerf gun wars of '06.

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Challenge #00053: The Perils of Temporal Interference

In-a: Ancient Greece/Rome (your choice, but traveler is stuck with no way of returning to home time)

With-a: Time Travel Cheat Sheet (link  #1, link  #2, or just Google Image Search Time Travel Cheat Sheet)

While-a: Citizen is being obstructionistBonus if you show the aftermath, and how half-remembered History lessons and the cheat sheet avoided the Dark Ages

It should have worked. It was perfectly calculated down to the second.

But Evan had forgotten about planetary motion through time. He'd keyed in on the sun, made sure there was breathable atmosphere, but he forgot that the same space in the orbit was not the same space relative to the surface. He was lucky there was a tree, there. He was really lucky the Earth was still in roughly the same place.

Luck had nothing to do with the cheat sheet, though. Five pages of tightly-spaced text and useful images of coin, persons of interest, and places.

This place looked nothing like ancient Rome.

Ancient Rome never had bamboo.

Evan climbed carefully down - rural medicine never changed, and was full of words starting with 'un'. Unhygenic. Unreliable. Unmedicinal. Okay. He had a compass in with the other useful things in his pack. All he had to do was remember basic survival orientation.

Downhill and downstream. Sooner or later, you hit a town. Then get some directions.

And that was when he really knew it had all gone pants.

The rural citizens did not look like the rural citizens of ancient Rome. They looked more like the rural citizens of ancient China.

Oh... shit...

He had two options. Take a two-to-five year hike along the silk road and pick up his meddling late or...

He knew some Mandarin thanks to his grandma. He could learn the rest. This was a time when anyone could get a position they wanted if they could pass the exams.

And the emperors were always after some potion of longevity.

He knew his chemistry. It was one of the skills he'd learned to meddle in ancient Rome. Likewise some basic herbology and the foods it would be wise to eat.

He started smallish. The gold in his pack would raise questions, since he'd minted it himself. But one ounce of gold was one ounce of gold, no matter where it came from. He bought a cart and some sandals and a 'proper' haircut from someone who knew their stuff. He exchanged some of his gold for local coin, as well as some herbs he knew were efficacious.

Then he started curing people.

It didn't take long for word to spread around. In two months, he was before the emperor. Who was showing the signs of mercury poisoning, as well as the sallow hue of liver trouble.

"I must warn the gracious emperor that some of my methods include blood-letting."

"Yet you rarely use leeches," said the emperor.

"Leeches have their uses, in moderation," Evan allowed. "I find much more knowledge in the study of blood."

"Yes. We have seen your notes. What language is this written in?"

"The language of my home, Friidonia, your majesty."

"You will teach some students, should your methods succeed. Should they fail..."

Yeah. He knew. "I understand, your eminence."

The first thing he did was throw out all the potions with mercury in them. And the alchemists who used and endorsed mercury. He put the emperor on a diet that would take all the toxins out and introduced the man to colloidal silver.

A combination of diet, exercise and herbal teas, all wrapped in mumbo-jumbo of course, saw the liver heal and the illnesses leak away from the emperor.

Working out how to create oxygen in his lab and pipe it into the emperor's bedchamber helped the old man feel awake and vigorous the next morning. And the right style of mumbo-jumbo helped keep him active and got him healthier.

Then came the students. Or rather, the students' exams.

It was sheet after sheet of poetry.

"What in the name of the four dragons is this?"

"Your potential students, honoured physician."

"They wrote poems."

"Yes. The best poet is one most suited to serve the emperor."

"Ah." Evan picked up the sheets and threw them in the fire. "I don't want poets. I want the kind of people who ask questions, not the kind of people who think they know all the answers."

He took them for tours through his lab in groups of four. First, the best poets then down the list of official approval until he found one who asked a question.

The question was, "What is that Friidonian chart on your wall?" the girl asking pointed to the table of elements poster he had placed out of direct sunlight.

"You can stay and learn," said Evan.

He found students amongst those who couldn't write a line of poetry. He found one cleaning the floor.

And then he found the emperor in his classroom.

"I expected a certain amount of nonsense from you," said the emperor. "But you reject the highest amongst my scholars and accept... the unclean."

"I've purified them with my own methods," Evan said. "And as I told your school administrator, I want the students who ask questions. Not the ones who think they know all the answers."

"Why?" said the emperor.

"Because they will be interested in finding the answer."

The emperor stayed for the time he had, which Evan used as a lesson on dumbing down science to a level the client can understand. This involved demons, dragons, and malevolent forces working against the rule of heaven and nature combined.

The five of them came up with a code, which also included the table of elements. The floor cleaner drew up a wall mural, a real work of art, that included working herbal remedies and dietary supplements cross-referenced with existing pseudoscience.

She knew. The greatest challenge was to get the patient to swallow the medicine. Including the medicine of how to keep an empire strong and healthy.

Evan was an old man when China discovered Rome. Like everywhere else they discovered, they established an embassy and small trade colony and documented the living crap out of extant civilization they found there.

Like everywhere else, they offered education and medicine in the native language and superstitions.

Evan had to wonder if the Australian natives would be happier about that than how it turned out in his own history. Hell, he wondered how history would write this down.

He changed an empire. And that changed the world.

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Challenge #00054: InA-WithA-WhileA

In a- alley!

With a- small dog!

While a- dark elf curses!

The right hand rule, Drixxt was certain, was leading him in circles. His native ability for navigating in the dark, being a Dark Elf, was failing him because this place, despite being allegedly on the surface had levels of darkness below and beyond[1] the levels of 'stygian'. Drixxt suspected this was the sort of darkness you got before light had come by to make things all cheerful and disgusting.

"Wot's a feller like you doin' inna place like this then?"

Drixxt turned, weapons ready, to face his foe. Mighty would his blades flash and flood the already soggy streets of Ankh-Morpork with the blood of—

A rather disreputable-looking wire-haired terrier.

"Woof?"

Drizzt relaxed, but did not lower his guard. "Begone, mongrel."

"Right 'nuff for you to talk. D'you got any idea where you are?"

Drizzt blinked. The only other being in this alleyway was the dog. It couldn't have possibly...

"'Course dogs can't talk," said the dog. "You must be havin' a wossname. Dee-loo-jun."

"Delusion," corrected Drixxt. He had to take the dog's word for it, otherwise he'd believe he was mad.

"You must be right brave," said the terrier who didn't. "Walkin' into the Shades like this."

Drixxt stopped. He'd heard about the Shades. The place where only the cruelest and most cunning survived. Where newcomers to the city came to die.

"How many are following me, Dog?"

"Who said I could count, mister? Lots."

"Curses," muttered Drixxt. This was going to be a hard fight.

Getting into the Shades was easy. The tricky part was getting back out again.

[1] A surface-dwelling species would have said 'above and beyond'.

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Challenge #00055: Cry Me a River

The cacophony of circumstances that allows Storm to discover Scott Summers indeed crying over spilled milk.

Ororo woke when she heard the smash. Air currents in the mansion had not changed, so no-one had broken in. Yet someone was roaming about, all the same. She summoned a ball of lightning as an improvised lantern and set it safely above her head so she could see what was going on.

Professor, sound asleep. Logan was out on one of his roaming quests, so she didn't need to worry about him. Jean, deep in slumber. Scott—

Was not in his bed.

He'd left it neat, and taken his cane, Therefore, he hadn't left under duress.

Soft noises echoed up from the kitchen.

Ororo went down to discover the voluntarily-blind boy in the middle of a mess. He had evidently tried to make hot chocolate and, being unfamiliar with the kitchen, smashed some things and spilled the milk.

And, given that Mr Winters was a world class ass, he was now breaking down over it.

Ororo dismissed the lightning ball and turned on the electric lights. He had cut himself, but he was literally crying over... oh dear.

She fetched the paper towels. "There, now. It's all right. It's only milk. We can get more, tomorrow. After we fix up the kitchen so you know where everything is."

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Challenge #00056: Appreciation

The unfortunate incident at the art exhibit hosted by the woman and the helper dog.

Rael never saw the point of clothes that existed just to be seen in. Nevertheless, he pretty much had to wear his dressiest JOAT coat and neatest clothing for this. Shayde, on the other hand, took to Show like a duck to water.

He knew for a fact that she had spent most of the day in a salon getting her hair turned into the fabulously interesting gordian knot with some decorative bells for the courtesy of the visiting Meeyahndans also visiting the exhibit. Therefore, how she got into the black glittery dress with no visible means of support was a mystery.

Black did not blend in, tonight. It showed up her obsidian flesh to its best. Rael suspected some of her scientifically un-refutable 'magic' was involved.

The exhibit was entitled simply Julie. It was a Julie in rainbows, with a heart on one side and a dog's paw-print on the other.

"This is th' kid wi the doggy helper, yeah?" she murmured.

Once again, Shayde had managed to grasp all of the less-than-politically-correct key elements and mash them into one sentence. "Julie is the same physical age as yourself," said Rael, diplomatically keeping his observations about mental/psychological age to himself. "She had an erratic reaction that left her... developmentally trapped. Her parents still have to work, and where they work is inherently dangerous for someone like Julie. Nanny the dog is an Augment who is also a full-time companion. Together, they make one functional being."

"We're still goin' tae a gallery hosted by a girl and her dog."

Rael winced. "Please don't say that out loud again..."

The doors finally opened, allowing guests to enter with the faintly melodious chiming of bells. Even Rael had chosen to wear a bell-anklet for the occasion.

Meeyahndans did not like people sneaking up on them.

For five minutes, Shayde had no other comment but, "Aaaahhh..." or "Wow..." and all was at peace.

Rael should have known it would never last.

He heard Julie's rapid-fire monotone. "I don't want him in here. He makes me feel bad."

Nanny's quieter rote phrases, "We must be polite. We have guests. We keep our voices down."

"Na-neee... he's nasty."

Shayde got involved, as she always did, by following the conversation to its source and sticking her metaphorical nose right in it.

"What's goin' on then?"

Julie, resplendent in rainbows and frills, pointed to an otherwise staid looking gentlemen bearing chocolates and flowers. "I don't like him, he's not really nice. And he won't go away."

Rael arrived just in time to see Shayde's bioluminescent eyes flare red. He didn't know what she saw with her 'true lights', but he knew it angered her.

Shayde put on a smile that could shame a shark. "Let me guess. Ye've come here tae declare yuir love fer Julie where everyone can see and hear, yeah?"

"Shaydethere'snoneedforthissecurity'sonitsway," Rael managed.

But she was currently ignoring him. She was holding the gaze of the staid man in the nice suit.

"I do love Julie," he said. "With a power beyond the stars."

"And ye cannae ken tha' no means no."

"My love will not be denied. Her lips say 'no', but I know her heart says 'yes'."

Julie found solace in Nanny's arms. Nanny, confused by it all, had reverted to repeating, "Good-girl. Good-girl," over and over again.

"That's funny, I've never heard a heart talk. What do they sound like?"

"Pleasedon'taskhimifhismothercansew..." begged Rael.

"George Takei," said the man.

"Yer hilarious," Shayde deadpanned. "And I understand gettin' physical aboot all this is vastly inappropriate. It'll spook th' Meeyahndans."

Okay. This was new.

"But I don't have tae touch ye t' teach you a lesson." She theatrically gestured with one manicured hand.

The man, chocolates, flowers and all, vanished into his own shadow with a faint tingling of his own bells.

"Shayde..." Rael warned. "Security would like to have someone to arrest..."

Julie, meanwhile, was cheering, applauding and jumping up and down.

Shayde curtsied with a, "M'lady. If ye'll excuse me, I have some trash to throw out."

Rael followed her as she sauntered towards the doors. Watched in fascination as she put her hand in to her own shadow and pulled the man out.

He was now visibly distressed, and looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a hedge. The flowers and chocolates dropped from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor.

"...they wanted to eat me..."

"You've just met the things from yer own darkness," said Shayde. "The best way to get rid of them is start with a confession. Get treatment. And if ye cannae completely get rid of 'em, at least make 'em do somethin' constructive. An' no more botherin' little girls, ye got it?"

"...they wanted to eat me..."

"He'll get it."

Rael boggled. All things considered, a punch in the face might have been kinder.

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Challenge #00057: Slow Progress

The fourth day of therapy for the man who's 'Appreciation' for Julie was dashed by Shayde's particular brand of intervention.

Day four. The human man known on his paperwork as John Smith still rocked himself in place. He still preferred a soft, gentle environment. He did not want any variety of toy that had eyes.

He had, however, finally stopped repeating, "They wanted to eat me."

Orsiz'edand'l viewed this as a positive sign. Human insanity fascinated her to such an extent that she made it her life's work. And this was an excellent study.

Shayde - a subject with her own paper in progress - had simply said that she had 'done a number' on the man for pressing an unwelcome suit on Julie Rzepczynski. There followed paragraphs on the man's character based entirely on a level of perception that no other known congiscent shared.

Orsiz'edand'l preferred to get a subject's story from their own point of view. And, since John Smith had apparently stopped saying, "They wanted to eat me," now was the time to try and get it.

"Good morning, Mr Smith."

"...the monster..." he whispered. "The monster said..."

"What did the monster say?"

"She said... I had to confess. To get rid of the things in my darkness. They're horrible. And I made them. They wanted to eat me."

"Yes," she acknowledged. "So you've said. What do you want to confess?"

"...everything..." Mr Smith rocked back and forth for a minute. Holding tight to a plush pillow in lieu of a soft toy. "My name is not John Smith. It's Gareth... Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe. I'm from... Greater Deregulation Hubwards. I was... exiled. Excommunicated. Because of my love for children."

Orsiz'edand'l remembered a vile word from Shayde's testimony. Pedo. Short for Pedophile. A lover of children in all the wrong ways. "And how did you... love... these children?"

"I love... their innocence. Their purity. Their honesty. When they grow up, they learn to lie, cheat and steal..."

Obviously, this man had a romanticised view of childhood. Human children were the worst bunch of thieves, con-people and outright liars she had ever met.

"I want to have all of that purity. And love it with everything I have. Everything I am. I would make love to it, if I could."

"And teach them to lie to their parents by not telling them how you loved them?" Orsiz'edand'l prompted. It seemed to be the chief blindfold that historical pedophiles managed to apply to themselves.

"Their parents wouldn't understand. But Julie... all Julie has is her dog."

"I rather think Julie has this entire station as company."

"Yes....yes..." Gareth rocked. "Community. There's no such thing as a child without... community. I told myself... the community was ignorant. They had to be... removed..." He rocked himself for another minute. "But I was the one who was bad, wasn't I?"

Orsiz'edand'l smiled a human-friendly smile. "That's right, Gareth. You were bad. Loving someone as... thoroughly... as you chose to; when that someone is unprepared for such love is harmful to that someone. Real love wants to benefit the person that it loves."

"...i wanted to take..." said Gareth. "All I wanted was to take. I had reasons. They were bad reasons. And I made monsters in my darkness that want to eat me."

*

Shayde, watching on the other side of a one-way wall, nodded. "Good," she said. "He got it."

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Challenge #00058: Human is as Human Does

When blandness strikes! Also include an explosion of confetti.

Certain words are a portent of doom.

"I'm bored," is definitely two of them. From Shayde, very much so.

"I told you to subscribe to the calendar of events," said Rael.

"I did. It kept spammin' me in weird languages."

One of these days, she was going to learn not to tick checkboxes she didn't understand. "I'll help you fix that, next Threesday. I have an hour or two to spare."

"I'll bake ye a cake."

Mmmm... cake... Shayde was under the assumption that the way to his heart was through his stomach, and Rael was not about to let that assumption be dissolved any time soon.

"I'm still bored."

So much for that. He'd just have to do his utmost to keep her from doing anything... excessively human.

*

30 minutes later....

There was a conga line. Shayde was in the lead with a traffic cone on her head and a pair of unexplained maracas vigorously shaking in her hands. She and the other humans were singing an ancient song vastly appropriate for the atmosphere.

"We've got cabin fe-ver/ We're flipping our ban-da-nas/ Been lost at sea/ So long that we/ Have simply gone ba-na-nas!"

Someone set off an explosion of confetti. It went off like someone making a balloon squeak.

"I know what this is," said Sherlock, appearing as usual behind Rael's shoulder. "What I want to know is why you didn't stop it."

"Couldn't," corrected Rael. "I did everything except turn myself into a pretzel."

"And yet," Sherlock gestured at the gyrating humans, "Silly Season has started early."

Tourists were gathering to take photographs and videos for the folks back home. And following the tourists came the mobile hucksters. And following the hucksters... were the criminal element. Thus making Security's job all that much more difficult.

Silly Season or not, Shayde owed him more than just a cake.

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Challenge #00059: Unlikely Treasures

Chicken feathers, a glass eye and a grasshopper.

"The least you could do is pitch in," grumped Hwell as he alternated between shovel and pick.

"The least I could do," argued Ax'and'l, "is go meditate while you indulge yourself in this... adventure holiday." He tisked at the thought of wasting time on frivolous things. "As it is, I am recording this for edutainment purposes."

Hwell rolled his eyes as if to say, Saurians! to the universe at large.

Humans... show them something that looked like a treasure map and they just went crazy. Apparently, the mere existence of some hidden valuable that they might be missing out on sent them into a flap. Hwell had gone overboard on this item, tucked between the pages of some pre-loved cellulose books he'd picked up at something called a flea market.

Ax'and'l considered himself lucky that some bizarre human idioms were not at all literal.

The map itself was old. The paper had rusted and the markings on it looked like they might have been done by a child... but they matched archival maps of this area, and there had been an X. That was all the human needed.

Must not kill and eat the profitable mammal... Ax'and'l kept the vidcorder steady and tried to think of suitable narrative for the finished piece. Alas, he was not a documentarian.

Finally, there was a metallic 'clunk' as Hwell's spade hit something.

Ax'and'l started to quietly pray that it wasn't a vital service pipe.

It was a tin box. The sort of tin box that was usually used to house small snacks. The writing was incomprehensible and the previous form dented from the weight of the earth above. Hwell was almost glowing with victory. He was cackling. Cackling in humans was always a bad sign.

Ax'and'l put one leg behind him, ready to run away. Just in case.

Hwell vented some curses as he struggled with a seal no mortal hand could manufacture. It finally burst open, almost spilling the contents.

"What?" said Hwell.

Inside the tin, nestled in some colourful wrapping paper, was a treasure some child had buried and forgotten. Ax'and'l could identify the desiccated remains of an insect, some generically white avian feathers, and what appeared to be a glass eye for a squid.

"But—" whimpered Hwell. His visions of extraordinary wealth had been shattered.

"It's your treasure," said Ax'and'l. "Finder's keepers."

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Challenge #00060: Zen and the Art of Renovating

Begin with: "Citrus fruits, once rotten, never failed to induce a melancholy state of mind."

Citrus fruits, once rotten, never failed to induce a melancholy state of mind. Shayde had just found one in the bottom of a surprise refrigerator that had been buried under a feral stand of alien vines that, once it had conquered the rear right corner of her garden space, had died.

There was also something moving in the clouded tupperware on the second shelf.

Shayde sat, contemplating the orange that had once turned green, and had since gone black.

"How's the garden?" said Rael.

"How much red tape is in it tae jus' kill this mess wi' fire?"

"Too much," said Rael in the tones that forbade further inquiry.

"And callin' in animal control on tha' thing?" she indicated the inhabited tupperware with her machete.

Rael peeked. "I'll go get the blowtorches."

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Challenge #00061: Nice Guy Syndrome

Anywhere in the story: "Fate, it seemed, had a sadistic cruel streak in regards to his love life."

There had been Jodie. First love. Perfect tits. Perfect ass. Perfect smile. And a perfect already-boyfriend who was five times his size and really, really territorial. He paid for her in bruises and blood, and just when he thought he was going to get luckier than he ever believed, she set him up for a very public humiliation.

Jodie was also the perfect bitch.

His next crush was Tiff. Tiff had a wild streak, just like the purple streak she put into her auburn hair. She wore her skirts short and had legs that went for miles. She always smiled at work, but when he caught her off-duty, she always had other plans.

Plans that were lies.

He believed her, and always found out that she was somewhere else and usually alone. He knew because he started following her. Started surprising her at the places she liked to be. Boring, staid places that no real wild child would go.

Bitch sent him to sensitivity training and got him fired.

Still, he learned something. He learned that you had to play it slow and careful. Girls were always taught to be on guard. You had to get past their defenses. Be nice.

He was nice to Clara. Always thinking of her as she slaved away at being everyone else's outbox. Always offering to fetch her coffee, snacks. Always offering to do some of her tremendous workload. He invested his time. Made her laugh.

Then the bitch put him in the friend zone. Tried to set him up with her ugly friends.

He turned the dial up, tried to make it clear to her that he wanted more. Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry.

Bitch somehow got him fired.

He tried speed dating. Those girls had to be some kind of desperate to speed date. He quickly found out that they were also the kind of sluts who had dated at least twice, before.

He tried the clubs. The most action he got was laughter in his face or a drink following the same destination.

He even tried online dating. None of the bitches he contacted ever emailed him back. And some of them used to be dudes. Euw.

Fate, it seemed, had a sadistic cruel streak in regards to his love life.

He found solace in alcohol next to a big, muscly dude at the local bar. The bitches that came and went behind the counter never smiled for him and almost always called him names.

The TV showed some kind of fatspo dating service informercial infotainment thing that would not fucking stop.

"Fat fucking skanks need to loose a few pounds," he said into his beer.

"She ain't all that fat," said the big dude. He had an amazingly high voice for his height.

"Still needs to get the gap going on. And better tits. And a better face."

"Pot, kettle, black..." muttered the big dude.

"What?" he turned on his stool. "How is my body that any of your business?"

"Bet she'd say the same thing," the guy gestured with his brew to the screen.

"She's just another bitch in a world of bitches," he downed more beer. After his life, he needed beer.

"Ugh," said the big dude. "Let me guess. You're a nice guy. You should get what you want because you do the things that anyone calling themselves a human being would do. Meanwhile, you call anyone with breasts a 'bitch' or a 'whore' and wonder why they don't like you."

"They don't like me because they're bitches."

"Of course..." the dude rolled his eyes. "And it has nothing to do with your flabby ass, your pasty face, or your creepy attitude."

"What? I'm in great shape."

"Pft! Yeah. For a freaking marshmallow. Ever think that women want someone who looks better than you, who acts better than you, who is actually better than you?"

"But those guys are all jerks!"

"Maybe they're just jerks to you." Big Dude drained his mug. "Because you're being a creep to a lady."

"And what do you know about it?"

Dude turned towards him and unzipped her jacket.

"You're a girl?"

"Try to say that with less of a sneer," she advised. "'Bitches' hate it when you pronounce their gender with a sneer."

"Did you used to be a man, or what?"

"No, I come from a long line of tall people and I took up muscle-building so I could fend off all the transphobes out there who judge by looking. Listen up, 'nice guy'... You're not nice. All those 'bitches' out there who keep turning you down? They can tell. Us ladies have some finely-tuned bullshit detectors and you send them all off into the red lines."

"That's crap! If that was true, no real man would ever get laid!"

She laughed. "Attitude like that just leaves you in the Forever Alone club. And for your information, I've met plenty of real men. None of them were like you."

"Slut," he sneered.

"I said 'met', genius. Not 'slept with'. A real man views a lady as more than her physical parts. A real man 'gets lucky' when he finds his one true love and settles down with them. A real man thinks of a woman as a person first." she sighed. "But you already believe I'm a 'tranny' with issues. You won't listen and you won't learn. Too bad for you."

She tipped the waitress, who winked and gave her a thumb's up. Probably a lesbian.

"MOMMY!"

He stared. Three gleeful children ran to hug the muscly mountain. They were clearly hers. The man following them was also clearly their father.

But... he was tubby. And pale. And balding. And a geek.

This was a real man?

"So how was the meeting?" said the alleged real man.

"You don't want to hear about boring old biker stuff, do you?"

"Yeeeesss," chorussed the kids.

"We missed it," said the 'real man'. "If it wasn't for Vicky's sniffles, we'd have been there."

He couldn't understand. Listening to a woman talk? Was that all it took? But no, that shit landed him in the friend zone. What the hell.

"I see you found another Nice Guy."

"Yeah. He won't learn."

"Pity."

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Challenge #00062: Nice Guy Becoming Good Guy

Clarity, confidence, the nice guy and when someone finally listens and learns.

It started with a T-shirt. It read, If you think the world is full of assholes, maybe you're the asshole. He knew he wasn't an asshole, so he called the guy in the shirt one as he passed the other way.

Then there were the billboards and adverts. It was for a men's charm school, he figured. He didn't need that noise. He did charming things every day and still got turned down, rejected, and otherwise refused by the bitches that were everywhere.

Even the fat cows turned him down. Even the ugly ones made other plans.

What the hell was wrong with the women of the world.

Then, late one night, the TV spoke to him while he was mindlessly eating chips off his chest and flipping channels.

"Hey," said the handsome guy on TV. "Are you tired of sleeping alone? Spending late nights eating snacks off your chest while flipping through the stations looking for anything good? Need a lady in your life?"

"...yeah..." he whispered. To all three.

"You need Progress For Men," said the guy on TV. He named the exact same charm school he'd been avoiding. "Just take a look at what it did for me."

It showed some really amateur footage of a younger, handsome guy getting turned down, getting drinks thrown in his face, and getting laughed at. "I thought I was a nice guy. I thought I was making all the right moves. The ladies that told me otherwise? They were all bitches. They wouldn't even play The Game."

"Yeah, that book is a piece of shit," he agreed.

"Then I tried the Progress For Men free evaluation trial month program. It opened my eyes. When I signed up for the intensive program, I was already on my way to becoming a better man. You can try it, too."

What the hell. His life wasn't going anywhere. Hell, maybe there was a resort and a gym.

He signed up for the evaluation and trial and made an appointment to get himself evaluated.

The clean, clinical office had a fattie black chick behind the counter. They'd done everything to dress her up, but a sow in a skirt was still a pig. Then a bombshell in the same uniform turned up and it was all he could do not to get a boner.

He eagerly followed her into the evaluation chamber. A small, white room with a desk and two chairs. He didn't remember the questions and, frankly, spent most of the interview trying to hit on the frigid bitch.

He had to come back the next day for another interview, but he didn't mind. As long as there was eye-candy like that, he didn't care.

Then they had a guy interviewing him. Sort of average guy. Nobody he felt threatened by. And they had weird-ass questions.

"How many times a day would you use 'bitch' to describe a woman?" or, "What's the first thing you look for in a lady?" and, "What do you expect out of this program?"

"I expect to get laid every time I try to pick up a girl," he said. "And if I don't get laid by the end of the trial month, you don't get a red cent."

The guy interviewing him raised his eyebrows and ticked a checkbox on his clipboard.

"What's your type?"

"Any girl who's not a bitch. Or a slut."

It went on for hours. He hadn't noticed with eye-candy, but with Geoff... it took forever. He went home confused and bored and angry.

And got woken up at the butt-crack of dawn by someone in the sports version of the Progress For Men uniform. This one had a stylised wing emblem on the left side of the chest.

"What the fuck...?"

"Hi, I'm Craig. I'll be your Wing Man for the trial month. Get your shorts on. We're going jogging."

He slammed the door in Craig's face. Craig got in a mariachi band to play Lady of Spain until he came out in exercise gear.

"Your type of dream girl," explained Craig as he bounced along. "Is the type of lady who looks after herself. She's going to expect someone who looks after himself, or is at least making an effort to do so. Ladies have standards, too."

"...godthishurts..." he panted.

But Craig was right. There were lots of shapely ladies in the park. Some doing Tai Chi, some jogging, some biking... It was an undiscovered smorgasbord.

He ran into a light pole while checking out the hot bodies doing yoga stretches. When he came to, there was a pretty little thing pressing an ice pack to one side of his face.

This was the most contact he'd had with any chick since he'd left home.

"My fault..." he managed to keep Craig's ground rules. Blame yourself and play it cool. "First day in the park. Too many... way distracting sights. Yaknow?"

"Oh, I saw you looking."

"I'm a guy, I can't help it." Craig cleared his throat in the background. Oh yeah. Blame himself. Undersell. "Everywhere that wants to sell anything does it with bosoms and buttocks... Gets to be you look for them anywhere you can see them."

She helped him up. "If that's the case, maybe I could run beside you? Make sure you don't run into any more poles?"

"I'd love a bodyguard," he said.

Craig ran behind, coughing or clearing his throat when he almost blundered. And things went well. All the way to grabbing a coffee and a bagel and introductions.

Her name was Cindy. She was a therapist at Mind and Body. She liked old time rock and roll and had a body that looked like it wouldn't quit.

"Now," said Craig, sitting him down at a roadside cafe table. "Describe Cindy."

He did. Hair colour, height, tits, ass, legs.

"Would you recognise her in a suit?"

"Uh..."

A girl sat down with them. Professional gear. Little tablet. "Hello, guys."

He didn't know her, but she acted as if she knew them.

"You remember Cindy," said Craig the wing man.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have to confess... I was not looking at your face."

"Yes, you mentioned that. Is your friend helping you out?"

Rule five. Tell the truth. "Yeah. He's my wing man."

Things actually went well with Cindy. She told him, honestly, that within the first five minutes of meeting a chick, a guy should look directly into her eyes for at least eight seconds. Should watch her mouth when she talks, and never, ever talk to her chest. No matter how 'out there' that chest was.

He found her jogging the next day and ran with her. Talked with her. He had to admit he found it hard to stay focussed on her face with that skimpy outfit she had on.

"You try finding modest exercise gear for ladies," she said.

He took it as a challenge. A challenge he failed. There was nothing on the racks, anywhere, that didn't scream 'slut' to the universe at large. And really weird, they never had anything for the fatties that really needed to exercise.

He put politer words around it to Cindy, of course.

"That's society for you," she said. And she explained privilege and how it worked against anyone who didn't fit a very narrow mould. How the world was set up against anyone who was not white, skinny, or well off.

It opened his eyes.

He wound up sleeping with Cindy before his deadline, but now he wanted to pay for the rest of the course.

Girls like her didn't need assholes like him.

Maybe, when he came out of the other side, he would be someone she deserved. Or someone that a lady like her deserved.

It wasn't enough to be a nice guy. He had to become a good guy.

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Challenge #00063: One Fine Day During the Festival of Live Performances

Include anywhere: cashews, a drill press, silly men and a whistle.

There were times, she swore, when the station was overrun with humans. Like this one. The Festival of Live Performances bought them out of the woodwork.

She'd already passed four living statues and an eight-foot bride on the way to work, and got a cashew bar off the bride for the Minutes she put into the hat. Ant'il would have to donate it to the food bank, later. She wasn't too sure about who would win in her biology versus cashews.

Still, the festival also bought in business. She threw open the usually shut partition that shielded her work from public view and set up the hazard rope to keep curious fingers out of things that could -say- shear them right off.

People watching people make things often became people buying things.

It was when she was busy at the drill press, whistling while she worked, that one of the live performances came to her. A cluster of humans (of course) dressed up in chain mail and tabards. Some were dressed in burlap, carried enormous backpacks and, for some reason known only to them, two coconut halves which they bought together in a specific rhythm obscure to Ant'il.

"How may I help you?" she risked.

"It is I, Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, from the castle of Camelot. King of the Britons, defeater of the Saxons, Sovereign of all England!"

"Really?" Ant'il put the latest part of her work safely away and discretely hit the kill switch for the entire machine shop. She wouldn't have trusted this lot in a pillow factory.

"And this is my trusty servant Patsy. We have ridden the length and breadth of the land in search of knights who will join me in my court at Camelot. I must speak with your lord and master."

"Ridden? On... what?"

"A horse, of course."

Horse. Oh yes. She'd seen a juvenile at a petting zoo, once. Leggy creatures that walked around on one talon and ate vegetation. There weren't any here, though. "There are no horses. You have been using coconuts to imitate the sound."

"No we aren't," said 'Arthur'.

Oh, Powers. It was one of those performances. Where the goal was to get some hapless bystander irritated to the point where people started throwing money.

"If I get angry now, will you go away?" asked Ant'il hopefully.

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Challenge #00064: Got Three For You Today(1).

Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that...actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.

First off, the non-fanfiction:

In-a: Space Station

With-a: First Contact delegation

While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the Galaxy

And the others:

How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband's previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?

General Harloche looking up Miles' classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.

[AN: Please, please, PLEASE submit prompts separately! If not, I have to do them all at once and that kind of steals time from other things, like RL duties, adding fics to my queue, and working on that dang novel]

Everything really big, like the Galactic Standards, was resolved by committee. The issue currently up to debate in this one was whether or not to accept the human species into the Galactic Alliance. Since they were pending members, they were not allowed to conduct their own business, own vessels, or otherwise inveigle themselves into the system.

But they nevertheless managed to do so anyway. Humans had an uncanny knack for finding loopholes. Like Alliance business partners who technically owned a majority share. Or Alliance owner/pilots who they hired on their own bizarre adventures.

Almost all of them, disturbingly, very profitable.

"I have read the reports," said Ambassador Nif'xand'l. "And I regret to inform the committee that I have discovered some... disturbing trends."

Other assembled ambassadors murmured and nodded. They had read some reports of their own.

"These humans, despite their short lifespans, seem to have an appetite for risk."

"I have at least two hundred separate incidents of property damage and injury following the phrase, 'hey, watch this'," reported an avian.

Several amongst the ambassadors shuddered.

A Chitanian in a breather-suit tapped at his comm, which said for him, "Their ideals of humour are frankly perplexing."

"Humour is a cultural construct," said Ambassador Vriis. "Which leads to the question: is human culture toxic?"

Murmur, murmur, murmur...

"No complaints have been made," offered the Ambassador for Jezz. "Nothing to significantly alter their status from Mostly Harmless."

"I am rather fond of their tea," said Ambassador Nox. "It shines up my feathers a treat."

"Humans sold it to us as a furniture staining agent," said Ambassador Vriis. "It's only been two hundred years. They already recognise that other species have differing uses for differing trade items. That takes some species millennia..."

"We have already apologised in full for the Nayblar Incident," said the Chitanian through his comms.

The Chair rang a gong for peace. "We cannot deny their cogniscence. They are readily adaptable, they communicate in any way possible, they have already proved themselves more than efficacious for trade."

"They have a disturbing tendency to mount food on sticks."

"Thank you, Mi'igraw," the Chair politely codified, Shut up, I wasn't done talking. "As I was saying, given their progress under our restrictions, dare we let them out of our sight? Conversely, dare we let them interact under their own recognisance?"

That let out some alarmed babble.

"We have discovered in excess of three hundred colony worlds in various states of upkeep." Including one on the verge of complete collapse and self-canibalism. "We have yet to discover their origin planet. Which has two names. Earth-Terra."

"Does it really exist? Or is it one of their elaborate 'jokes'?" Of course Jezz had to object. They were immediate neighbours to Noz, a Terran colony originating from one of their continents (or islands, it was never made clear) called Oz-trail-yer. Anyone who had been subjected to Drop Bear stories was bound to be suspicious.

"Perhaps their planet of origin is still wrapped in one-way wormholes," allowed the Ambassador for Gebra. "Each colony has stated it was rich in such a resource."

"And they used them to throw away their undesirables. Each of our species has fallen to such temptation in the past, but we realised it is not a permanent solution. Nor a healthy one. These humans seem to just keep doing it..."

"Then there are the other... disturbing idiosyncrasies," said Nif'xand'l. "If you please, I would submit a compilation for the committee's consideration."

"The Chair recognises G'Hx'vd'loq and their submission of evidence."

Nif'xand'l put up a display hologram. A human female in skin-tight, sparkly attire was apparently gliding across a smooth surface. "This is performance art. They call it 'figure skating'."

"Is she supposed to be moving backwards?"

"Yes. And she is moving across water ice by means of blades attached to her boots."

The hologram recording leaped into the air, spinning, and landed on one foot. The assembled ambassadors gasped.

"This originates on their home planet," informed Nif'xand'l. "Before reliable freezing of water ice was invented. They formed this art on frozen lakes."

Murmur murmur MURMUR murmur...

"This," a different hologram. Human males in bulky armour apparently throwing themselves at each other for possession of a leather ovoid. "Another human activity. A sport. They play this for fun. At first, I believed it to be a substitute for battle, to aid in curbing their hostile and warlike tendencies. Then I discovered the cultures most enamoured of this... game... were the most warlike."

"Contrariwise, the Britanian sport of Soccer forbids physical contact, but inspires the most warlike behaviour amongst its followers."

"They invest far too much involvement in recreational activities and those who excel at them."

"And then there's the food," said the Ambassador for Gyiik. "Look at this."

"The chair recognises Gyiik and their submission."

It showed a plant. A purple, leafy ball.

"Is that the crop they call 'cabbage'?" asked the Chitanian through his comms.

"Yes," said the Gyiik. "They call this one Red Cabbage. And this," a root crop, also purple, "is a Red Onion!"

"They are not colourblind," said Nif'xand'l. "They have the most creative vocabulary for colours that I have ever heard."

"And yet, these are called red foods."

"Perhaps it is their 'irony'."

"No, it is not universally applied. Other purple crops are called 'purple'." The Gyiik threw up one pair of her hands. "It is enough to make Nyomnahm, Goddess of Bounty, weep..." She wiped at her own tears. "Look, you. White chocolate."

It looked like an inoffensive creamy chunk.

The other ambassadors leaned forward for an explanation.

"It is clearly not white. And the essence of chocolate, the cocoa, is not present. It is neither white, nor chocolate!"

"They have an obsession with accumulating wealth. Even the colonies who have been amongst us the longest."

"They have a dangerous desire for the things that cause short-term pleasure and long-term harm."

"A disregard for personal safety in the name of entertainment."

"An unholy want to show unrealistic things for entertainment... and to make them appear realistic!"

The chair rang the gong several times. "We must consider the question. Do we allow humans to join, or do we allow them to manage themselves and sever all association?"

"I, for one, would like to at least know what the flakk they're up to."

The room filled with variations on agreement.

"They contribute significantly to mercantile endeavours."

More agreement.

"I like their food-on-a-stick."

"I move that the human species be reclassified as insane, by merit of overall behaviour."

"Seconded."

"In favour?" asked the Chair, taking note of those who stood or otherwise indicated their approval. "The Yae's have it. The human species is nominated Insane But Mostly Harmless. Under these conditions, do we accept them into the Galactic Alliance?"

It was a grudging Yae. After the second tie. And finally won after a heartfelt plea by Ambassador Mike the Gyiik.

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Challenge #00065: Got Three For You Today(2).

Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that...actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.

First off, the non-fanfiction:

In-a: Space Station

With-a: First Contact delegation

While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the Galaxy

And the others:

How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband's previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?

General Harloche looking up Miles' classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.

Ekaterin sat opposite General Guy Allegre in the otherwise bland and featureless room. It was one of the sealed variety with baffles technological and mundane to prevent anyone listening in. There was, no doubt, some authorised surveillance occurring, but it was also strictly electronic, unsupervised, untamperable, an inaccessible save to the chief of Impsec, who was in the room.

A room like this said, plainly and clearly, This is slit-your-throat-before-viewing material, and no horseshit. Ekaterin began to wonder if a minion was going to bring her her Vorfemme knife should such an occasion arise.

"Thank you for your time, Lady Vorkosigan," said Allegre. "I am to brief you on some of Lord Vorkosigan's -ah- past adventures."

She nodded. "He talks in his sleep. Frankly, I find most of it perplexing, rather than informative."

Allegre rolled his eyes in a surprisingly effective and communicative manner. Which meant that he knew about Miles' annoying little habits, too. "Would you prefer the summary in order chronological? Or... order baffling?"

Ekaterin bit down a smirk. Much as she loved Miles, he could get to be an outright puzzling and hyperactive git. "I think I would prefer chronological. His more baffling nightmares seem to blur missions."

"Quite." Allegre cleared his throat. "Lord Vorkosigan gained Impsec's attention when he left Barrayar a Service Academy reject and almost came back as an Admiral of a mercenary fleet... An event that resulted in the demise of his bodyguard-batman Sergeant Bothari. We recommended that the best place for him was -ah- where we could keep an eye on him."

The birth of the little Admiral. Oh yes.

"His first assignment under military command was a notable failure on paper, but nevertheless bought to our attention the lingering psychological effects of an extended term serving at certain posts. And the inadvisability of placing certain elements in exile there."

Kyril island. Camp permafrost. Ekaterin had heard little about it, apart from the idea that being the weather man there was the worst post imaginable.

"Afterwards, a fact finding mission under command in the Hegen Hub highlighted his... difficulties... in the traditional command structure." Another throat clearing. "He disobeyed orders, went AWOL, and rescued the Emperor with the help of his pet mercenaries."

Now the Emperor's own Pet Mercenaries and Plausible Deniability.

"Goodness," said Ekaterin. "Where does one of the Empresses of Cetaganda fit in?"

"That would be his diplomatic mission. Sent to be nothing more than a political olive branch, he managed to stop a war, rescue a... princess of sorts... and acquire one of the highest awards Cetaganda could offer."

"That would be the 'nightmare gene-groves', yes?"

"Quite." Allegre flipped through some events. "Acquiring unique personnel," Taura the Unforgettable. "Freeing an entire concentration camp," the Snoring Marilacans and the demise of Ensign Murka. And Sergeant Beatrice. "The Komarran clone plot," Mark. "And of course you're familiar with the Komarr Incidents."

"Intimately," said Ekaterin. "He did inform me of most of this himself."

"Yes," said Allegre. "But this," he handed across the collected files, "is the unedited version."

Oh dear. Ekaterin was glad she had since learned to speed-read. Miles could put a fine sheen on anything.

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Challenge #00066: Got Three For You Today(3).

Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that...actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.

First off, the non-fanfiction:

In-a: Space Station

With-a: First Contact delegation

While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the Galaxy

And the others:

How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband's previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?

General Harloche looking up Miles' classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.

Haroche sat behind the only other desk that could unlock the universe. Gently caressed the interface. He'd got rid of his boss - who was gassing about retirement but seemed determined to stay until he died. He'd got rid of that damned paranoid dwarf. And now he had penultimate power.

Ultimate power would only be achieved once he figured out how to steer his Emperor.

The last time the Emperor slipped his Imperial security was... hm... quite a long time ago. And rescued by the apparently incompetent nepotistic dwarf.

Further reading revealed that said dwarf had a cover as a mercenary fleet Admiral... who had liberated planets, foiled incredible plots against Barrayar... and was incredibly dangerous when riled.

It shouldn't matter. The mutie dwarf had been removed from Haroche's sphere of influence. Or influence-ability. He should be no further harm.

He had five minutes to relax before he got the news that the damned hyperactive mutie was now an Imperial gods-damned Auditor.

Aimed at him.

Fuck!

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Challenge #00067: Ooh, Ooh, Another One!

Show humanity's reaction when they find out, after however long of xenopsychology study and then however long the knowledge takes to disseminate to humans, that they are regarded as a species, insane. Both the "official" reaction, from the leaders of the species, and the unofficial reaction when the person on the street finds out.

Earth's reaction to the approaching fleet was predictable. The first parody images with popular, fictional, media space vessels were online within seconds of the first genuine images hitting the web.

The first Lolpix hit the web seconds later. Most of them were in the theme of invasion.

The polite request in English that the world leader or leaders gather for some discussion of important issues. One of which was the lawsuits from some of the surviving 'dump' colonies.

The bone of contention, according to Earth, was the Galactic Evaluation of their species.

"Insane, but mostly harmless? Insane? We can't possibly be an insane species. We're not all like that."

The lizard in the lead showed a picture of a red cabbage. "What is the name of this vegetable?"

"That's a red cabbage."

"And what colour do you perceive?"

"Uh. Purple?"

"We have a complete list containing hundreds of items. Would you like to view it?"

The list, like any list that should never be seen by mere plebs, got out into the internet the second someone put it down to step out of the room.

Lynn read it over her morning coffee. "Hey, love," she said to her beloved. "Says here the aliens think we're nuts."

"isn't that what you've been saying for decades?"

"Well... yeah. Still stings a bit."

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Challenge #00068: Post Meltdown

The conversation between Kelly and Duncan post meltdown due to Scott's revenge.

"...fucking bitches..."

Kelly did some paperwork while he waited. This particular disturbance needed some analysis beyond, "This looks like Essel's work." No. Not Essel. Adrien, Sara Louise. She had things in her permanent record that escalated in complexity. This was the first time her MO had included co-conspirators.

Co-conspirators Kelly noted, who had complained about Mr Matthews and had not had a follow-up to their complaints. In fact, their complaints were actively discouraged on the basis that Mr Matthews bought in more revenue.

Now that he was re-reading those complaints, he was starting to wonder if that revenue was worth it. The girls' song, the meltdown, and tirade against 'the bitches who deserved it' were all out on YouTube. Quickly going viral.

He'd mercilessly left the parents' phone calls to Lynnette the secretary, with a script about a full investigation underway. He had to get Duncan's story from the man himself.

"....gunna kill the fucking bitches... gunna get that tranny whore..."

"That 'tranny whore' has enough resources to sue this school, and your entire family, into oblivion," Kelly informed calmly. "I would not repeat any such death threats in a public forum. And I am once again legally obligated to inform you that you are being recorded."

"...shit... Um. I didn't really mean it?"

"Nice try," Kelly said, voice flat. "YouTube's already repeating your threats in the auditorium on an infinite loop. After you're done explaining yourself to me, the police are waiting for you to explain yourself to them."

"Explain myself?" Mr Matthews screwed up his face. "What's to explain? Those bitches and that goddamn trap fucking deserve it."

"I'm sure the female population of the school would tell me you deserved it," said Kelly.

"What? What did I do?"

"Fifteen counts of molestation, five counts of rape, two hundred separate complaints of verbal abuse... any of this ringing a bell?"

"Rape? I never raped anybody."

"So you always got enthusiastic consent?"

"Um..."

"It's rape if she doesn't say 'yes'. Remember that, Mr Matthews. Especially if you aspire to being a senator, one day. The last thing you need at any point in your career is anything resembling a sex scandal." Kelly signed some more reports. "Similarly, ladies dress to suit themselves, not..." he checked a complaint, "for you to 'play grabsies'..."

"They wouldn't be showin' if they didn't want it..."

"And on that note, calling the muslim women attending, 'frigid prudes' for wearing their scarves is not appropriate, either."

"They gotta show a little skin if they want a man, amIright?"

"You're a long way from 'right', Mr Matthews. You're a racist, sexist, ableist, sizeist, ageist... idiot. And the only thing in your court is the fact that you won this school a few trophies." Kelly glared at the boy for the first time since he surfaced from the shock. "That coin will not be worth much in the face of the rest of the evidence against you."

"Huh? What evidence?"

"Almost every student attending this school has a case against you and your... cronies. I have vulture lawyers informing me of the class action suit. You are facing jail time. And so are your friends."

"What? It builds character! Those little wussies need to toughen up!"

Kelly sighed. "You can't be convinced. You are an abuser, Mr Matthews. Good luck explaining yourself to the police, because the entire school has been reporting to them all afternoon." Kelly let them in. "Gentlemen. His parents are unavailable to supervise. I will be acting in loco parentis." Then he faced Mr Matthews and said, "Do yourself a favour and shut up."

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Challenge #00069: Exploitation

In the middle of a celebration,

With a new species,

While history repeats itself.

It had taken far too much work to get this far. Not the least of which was buying the right politicians so that the Storyland project could go ahead.

Genetic engineering had that kind of effect on people. Old stories like Frankenstein never truly go away. They just mutate in the subconscious and return in a new guise.

The Elves had been a hit. But then, they were hardly that different from the original human stock. Longer-lived, tongue-clottingly beautiful, tall and whippy. The trademark elf. The Fauns, having goat-like bottom halves, and small horns on their heads raised some ire amongst the fundamentalists, but that was expected. It didn't matter that biblical descriptions of the devil differed vastly to the Fauns. Those sorts never did their homework anyway.

The cause for the party was that their first Centaurs were walking. The pinnacle of achievement for Mythos. If they could make a Centaur, they could make anything.

These Centaurs, the first batch, were going to be the work-horses of the planned theme park. Storyland. Their horse portions were Clydesdale, and they would be pulling hay rides and running the farms necessary to feed such things as, say, Clydesdale Centaurs.

Mythos had great plans for Storyland. A self-sufficient theme park. Everything on the property would be grown or made there. Except some of the more... advanced rides. But the live entertainment... nobody else had the patents to do live entertainment like Mythos did.

The press were lapping it up. Elves and Fauns played music and danced for the cameras. Fairies, gengineered singing butterflies, added to the experience by flitting through the arena and chirping vaguely in time with the music.

Then Tracy, co-ordinator for the party, noticed that someone had let the baby Centaurs out of their petting enclosure. Security would not let anyone take them home. They were trademarked, copyrighted material. And insured for millions. Nobody should have let them out of her sight.

She pulled up a rentagoon and politely, discreetly, and most important - urgently ordered him to find out where the hell the Centaurs had gone and get them back.

Which was when a dippy hippy type informed her with a smile that the Centaurs had let themselves out to go to the toilet.

What?

Tracy thanked the old bat and found her boss. Urgently asking if he knew anything about Centaur potty training. He told her to ask the boffins. Three boffins later, Tracy found out that yes, the Centaurs were potty trained for the sake of both expediency and hygiene. Nobody wanted to clean up Centaur poop in the lab.

Someone would have to draft a memo about relative portions of animal parts versus paper training. But that wasn't important.

"So who taught them to get out of their pen?" Tracy hissed.

The boffins conferred. "Um," said the spokesboffin. "Nobody?"

Crap. There they were. And helping themselves to the buffet. Tracy, the three boffins in charge of training and behaviour, and four rentagoons rounded them up and herded them towards their petting enclosure.

Too late. The eldest decided to protest. Loud and clear, so that the media could pick it up.

"But I wanna join the par-tyyyy!"

He sounded like any other kid who was tired of having to stay in his room.

And everyone heard it. All the way around the world.

Suddenly, Mythos wasn't a bold venture-business gengineering the future. It was a rotten pack of gene-slavers. Suddenly, owning patented, gengineered critters was a bad thing. Especially intelligent, gengineered critters.

Suddenly, the Storyland project tanked.

Suddenly, she was her boss' least favourite person, persona non grata and the human scapegoat all at once.

Tracy hadn't even had time to put a spin on it. Or put her champagne down. She should have known. The same thing happened with the Enlisted Man project.

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Challenge #00070: Looking Back, Looking Forward

A reunion of the tall woman and the future good guy at day 74 of the training course he pursued. Another nice guy makes an appearance.

Common belief tells us that it takes three months to make a good habit. And one to form a bad one. So far, he was on day 74. His third day back into the real world, with his new perspective on many of the problems that the ladies of the world encountered.

Most of them were men. Lots of the rest were caused by men.

And after the Sympathy Chair, he had a lot more respect for the so-called 'weaker sex'.

So he came here, the day before he was due to start a new job. The bar where he met her. He learned her name was Vicky, but he still called her the Amazon in the privacy of her own head. She was supposed to be a regular, but so far... she hadn't turned up.

Until today.

He recognised the avenging angel on the back of her biker jacked before he recognised her. "You've recoloured your hair. Looks great."

She startled. Boggled. And finally grinned. "That's a big change," she said. She stood to shake his hand and clap his shoulder.

"Just get a room, ya faggots," mumbled someone from a booth.

The eye-roll from the waitress/barmaid told him all he needed to know. The man in the booth was the kind of ass-grabbing, tit-leering entitled prick he used to be. Once upon a subjective eternity ago.

"Show off the merchandise, Vicky," he advised.

She unzipped her jacket, showing off her magnificent chest.

"Her eyes are up there," he said, helpfully pointing out Vicky'd face for the Nice Guy in the booth. "And she's married. I missed out on all that."

The Nice Guy made a tiny little squeaking noise.

He gave the man a card. "These folks will help you out. I've been where you are and I got better."

Tomorrow... he was going to be some luckless Nice Guy's Wing Man. Carefully guiding someone away from being a prick and into being a Gentleman.

With any luck, he could get the guy to sign on to the rest of the journey.

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Challenge #00071: Power Struggle

Privilege, the halls of power and what drives those who wield it to deign it that way.

"Right," said Bu'zaw, Earth's new administrative assistant. "I'm trying to understand this. I am. Let me see if I have this straight."

"Go on," prompted Britanian Ambassador Winthrop.

"A relatively small percentage of the overall population have power over the larger percentage by means of building upon centuries of conquering and exploitation."

"In essence, yes," the Britanian admitted. "By and large, they were just lucky to have the biggest guns at the time. Having established power, they institutionalised the concept that they should remain in power by casting themselves as savior-figures."

"And then made themselves the beauty ideal by dominating media, and kept the original populations in control by economic exploitation, yes?"

"Yes."

"And now that we've come in with the bigger guns and the mightier force and are actually trying to make things more equitable for everyone... they object?"

"Yes."

"Why? This is more or less their own established methods for doing things."

"Yes, but they don't like it when it happens to them."

"Ah. And the only way to placate them is...?"

"Letting them continue in their delusion that they can do what they want."

"But... that's..." Bu'zaw flailed for a suitable Terran metaphor. "That's defecating on their own table!"

"Almost," said the ambassador diplomatically. "The phrase is, 'you don't crap where you eat'. Close, as we say, but no cigar."

"I wouldn't want one," muttered Bu'zaw. "How did they remain in power for so long?"

"By being vehemently and vocally opposed to change," said Winthrop. "They constantly used the threat that change would destroy the world as they know it."

"And nobody noticed that the world as they know it isn't very nice?"

"They did, but they weren't allowed to say much."

"Because those in power like to keep it that way?" Bu'zaw guessed.

"Spot on, sir."

"I'm almost tempted to ship them all off to their own planet and see what the wreckage looks like."

Winthrop cleared his throat. "We already have two Greater Deregulations." He checked to make sure the metaphorical penny had dropped. "One would think that would be wreckage enough."

"We could pick one and ship them there. Pop them into their own sewer, as it were..."

"They refuse to leave," said Winthrop. "Allegedly because they love their planet so much."

Bu'zaw winced. "I think some of my neurons imploded from the dichotomy."

"Best not to think about it too hard," said Winthrop. "It's what they do."

Bu'zaw rolled his eyes at the universe and large and sighed, "Humans..." He was starting to believe that his appointment as administrative assistant to the planet Terra had actually been a punishment detail. He'd have to find out who he had offended and obsequiously -and profusely- apologise.

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Challenge #00072: Strengths

Scott beats Sara to the intellectual punch and DOESN'T crow about it.

[AN: my wrist is paining me, today, so therefore I drabble]

Scott came upon Sara in the garage, once again repairing her quirk-ridden scooter, Eileen. And, he had to note, cussing politely.

"Gluteus maximus!"

"Problems?"

"Recalcitrant gearbox, alas."

Scott looked and briefly wondered how she couldn't see her mistake. "You put that in backwards and upside-down," he said, pointing.

"Oh, crud vapours!"

"It happens to everyone. Don't feel bad about it."

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Challenge #00073: Eldritch

Use the sentence; 'The darkness around her felt invaded, but that wasn't new.'

Shayde slowed, listening to the pricking of her thumbs. The darkness around her felt invaded, but that was nothing new. It was a feeling usually reserved for shadow-jumping or travel Between.

But in the non-shadow world... it was something else.

Something wicked...

"I ken yer there. Out with it. What're ye after?"

We seek... they whispered. Life.

"Ye cannae have mine. Or any close to me. Nor any close tae them and so on. This whole station's Protected."

We... want breath...

Ah. "Ye want tae live again?"

Yes...

"To make the better choices?"

Yes...

"To be wanted?"

YES!

The shadows around her gained shapes. Nightmares. Made from the sort of people who became nightmares. The wolf at the door. The ogre who used bones to make bread. The wicked step-parent. The cruel master.

"There's a lab five floors up makin' new lives," she said. "Perfect for what ye say ye want. Repent, an' get yerselves reborn."

The shadows became ordinary shadows again. There was no danger of those souls coming back into a cogniscent form. The lab five floors up was making Augments for mentally disabled kids.

They would be wanted, oh yes. Wanted and loved. And kind. And useful. And making the only choices they were trained to do. To look after their child, to love their child, to guide them and feed them and make them be better.

A life of servitude, to weigh against their previous sins.

Served them right.

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Challenge #00074: Dingy, Dire, Depressing

Describe the first AA meeting Sara's mother goes to.

[AN: my wrists hate me :P]

It was in a basement that smelled heavily of dust. And mildew. Like all truly public spaces, it was painted in a shade of easily-cleanable cream that gained a patina in seconds, and quickly smelled of cabbage. Seating was by means of folding chairs in Bargain Blue that had no basis in comfort.

Older hats, Jacqui noted, bought their own pillows.

She sat on her chosen seat as if she wished she could sit on Sara's mythical 'fried air'.

Everyone around her was either clinging to coffee or attached to cigarettes. Transference, Sara would say. One was knitting. Jacqui didn't know how to knit, and smoking was a filthy habit. It was going to be coffee or finding something else she could do with her hands.

She fetched herself a coffee. Ugh. Cheap instant roast.

Too soon, they came to new members. She climbed the stage with trembling knees. "My... name is... Jacquelline. And I'm an alcoholic."

Already, she felt lighter.

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Challenge #00075: Ch-ch-ch-changes...

End with: "The effort to change was, she found, equal or greater than the amount needed to suffer."

"Will you waaaaaaalk... The lonesome vaaaaa-lleeeeeyy..." The protesters sang.

Val shouted, "Mu-tants OUT!" over and over while she waved her sign that read, "EVIL-UTION IS THE DEVIL!"

She, along with her fellow members of the church, were protesting a mutant treatment center. It didn't matter to Val that they were helping kids survive manifestation sickness and become productive members of society.

What mattered was that Evil-ution was plain and outright wrong. It meant that God was trying to change his perfect creation. And if God was changing his perfect creation, that implied that the creation wasn't perfect, and God was fallible and needed to improve things.

And that would mean that God was not as divine as Val and millions of others believed.

Which was why she and her church were so mad.

If she shouted loud enough, prayed hard enough, worked long enough... she could change their minds and make them stay holy and pure and save them from Hell.

A sudden bolt from her spine made her drop to the floor, convulsing at the pain wrenching through her. Val screamed in horror. God had struck her down!

Why?

She'd been good.

And now her entire body was wrenching itself into a new form. Her arms were growing fur. FUR!

She wept. Not because it hurt, but because God had marked her as a sinner. But she would pray it away. She would atone.

The effort to change was, she found, equal or greater than the amount needed to suffer.

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Challenge #00076: Whoa! Sorry, it Usually Doesn't do That...

Amusing/embarassing "misfires" of mutant powers in casual (or perhaps intimate?) moments. Choices (pick any 3): Kurt, Kitty, Jean, Spike, Bobby.

Spyke.

"WAAAAAH-CHOOOOOO!"

{thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk...}

"Porcupine..."

Evan turned to look. "Oh. Whoops. Um. Sorry?"

Logan sighed, covered from the waist up in sharp protrusions of bone. "Keep outta public zones in future. Not everyone can survive this."

Nightcrawler.

"So... you have an internal compass."

"Ja."

"And an innate sense of direction from getting the 'feel' of every place you go?" said Amanda.

"Ja."

"So how the heck can we be lost in a freaking corn maze?"

"Thunderstorm?" Kurt pointed one of his fingers skywards. "It's throwing me off."

"Can you port us out of here before it starts raining? Please?"

"Er. You got the part about thunderstorms, ja?"

Amanda sighed. "Okay. We're cheating. Head towards the Big Dipper."

Shadowcat.

"Scary movie?"

Kitty screamed. "No it isn't."

"Liar," said Rogue.

"Like, you can tell?"

The normally sullen goth smirked and pointed to the couch, and the fact that Kitty was hovering half a foot above it.

"Okay. So it's, like, a scary movie."

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Challenge #00077: Lactose Tolerance

Olive branch diplomacy between Scott and Todd while snacking on ice cream. Jamie makes an appearance.

Todd froze as he turned away from the ice cream van. Mister military was also there. Also getting a flake cone.

"Summers," he managed warily.

"I... uh... heard you were -um- in a bad place."

"So?"

"I had a real bad foster parent right before I manifested. Damn rat bastard named Winters."

"Mine was an uncle. Ev'ry time my olds got jail time, he'd... help himself."

"Damn. I'm lucky Winters just beat the shit outta me."

They both ate some ice-cream to fill the silence.

"Whad'ja do?" asked Todd. "To... make it go away?"

"Hoarded canned food."

"I had art."

Another contemplative mastication.

"You're pretty good," said Summers.

"Thanks."

"So... Sara," said Summers.

"Yeah?"

"Break her heart and I break your balls."

Todd grinned. "Never planned on it, yo."

Jamie landed on Scott's arm. "PleaseIgottahaveanickel, tellmeyagotanickel!"

Todd fished one out. "There ya go, kid."

"YES!"

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Challenge #00078: One Fine Day in Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters

Scott catches one of the students testing his new policy regarding pranks and bad grades.

The first strategy, the best strategy, was not having a routine. He was such an easy target because there were places and times he liked to be and things he always did once he was there.

Which was why he found someone in his ensuite with a roll of suran wrap.

"Bobby. Can't resist the classics, I see."

"Um." Bobby looked up. "Hi?"

"First offence, five demerits off your leading class. Which is physics, I believe?"

"...yeah..."

"Second offence is five demerits off your tailing class. Third offence... and I let Sara play with you. Be warned."

"...yessir."

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Challenge #00079: Just a Chocolate Bunny

You seem to be running low on musefood, so may we hear the tale of The Battle of the Lindt Gold Bunny

There were six golden bunnies. One for each resident of the house they shared. Including Breanna, who paid for them out of their scant communal funds.

There was one left on Easter Sunday.

"Who had one?" Breanna demanded. "I told everyone they were for Easter. We knew. Didn't we?"

"I knew," said Cari, then Crystal, then May, then Jenny and finally Ann.

"So who had one? Who had any of them?"

And then Cari's looser boyfriend emerged from the room he shared with Cari and said, "Aw, cool. You found one," and snatched it out of Breanna's hands.

Cold, angry death filled the room as Gav unwrapped the foil.

"What?" said Gav. "It's just a chocolate bunny."

And then he put it in his mouth.

Six angry, pre-menstrual women launched themselves towards Gav with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on and murder in their minds. Gav had the presence of mind to run for the nearest exit.

No jury in the world would have convicted them.

As it was, the resulting footage wound up on Australia's Funniest Videos, World's Funniest News, and topped out Youtube for seven weeks.

Gav had an awful lot of bad luck with the ladies for years.

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Challenge #00080: One Fine Day in the Seasonal Candy Store

One more prompt, a bit late, but Sara's reaction to finding out that these (http://www.ourordinarylife.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/hershey-3.jpg) exist. (if picture is not working, some genius at Hershey thought a golden apple was a good valentines chocolate idea. There were several "for the fairest" experiments by tumblr-ers)

There are words of impending doom. A high-pitched, "Ooooh!" coming from Sahra was one of them.

"Sara, no-oo..." said Todd automatically as he zoomed in on her squee-of-the-coming-apocalypse.

"But it's perfect! Just look at what Hershey's done."

It was a box containing a golden apple. Or rather, a chocolate apple wrapped in gold foil. An instant replay of certain greco-roman myths ran through his head.

"No. Don't. I don' care how bad those bitches are, they don't deserve yo' happenin' to them like this..."

"Yes they do," countered Sara.

"No. Nobody does," he insisted. "You wanna 'nother Eckley's Eats happening? You nearly got arrested."

"On the upside, I learned I have a file at the FBI..."

"That's not an upside, hon."

Sara spent a minute on social calculus inside her head. "Oh. Yes. Right." She put the chocolate apple down. "But, oh, the possibilities..."

Todd couldn't stand to see her down. "Tell yo' what. I'm'a buy this one for you. 'Cos you my fairest."

"Aaaawwww..."

"And you promise to just eat it."

"My word as a closet megalomaniac."

"Good enough fo' me."

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Challenge #00081: White W(h)ine

The cronies, post meltdown, discussing the sad state of their affairs and their choices in a not-so secret location. Scott makes an appearance.

Three of them came to the not-so-secret hide-away in the abandoned church to basically bitch about what had just happened.

"Did you see him crying? It's like he just grew tits..." said Graydon

"That fucking Tranny Essel got to him. I kinda sympathise," said Brent.

Graydon punched what was left of the altar. "I'm'a kill that fucking tranny someday."

"I'll help," volunteered Paul.

"Not today, we don't," said Brent. "That tranny expects it. I'd bet money he's lying in wait for us to fuck up."

"You volunteering to fuck it?" leered Paul.

"Dude! Sick!"

The other two cackled. "He can't be a fag," said Graydon. "He fucked Sally Richards just last week."

"Hasn't everyone fucked Sally Richards? Fucking slut."

"Damn straight, I'm straight."

"You know," said a voice from the shadows, "The less secure you are about your sexuality, the more likely you are to be in the closet."

Summers stepped out of the shadows. He had some kind of weird costume on. And a strange headpiece over his eyes. "Near as I see it, you guys have two options. Surrender to the cops, or head to Narnia."

"What cops?" asked Paul.

Lights shone through the windows. Sirens blatted briefly.

"Those cops," said Summers. "By the way, Dunc ratted you out. Have fun pleading innocence."

Graydon charged. Summers did something with his headpiece and a red bolt of light knocked him into the nearest wall.

"Well?" he asked the other two. "Surrender or Narnia?"

Brent, the smartest of the three, sat with his hands on his head.

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Challenge #00082: The Green-Eyed Monster

Scott preparing for his first date without Jean and her reaction to finding out that he might be playing the field with no desire to incite jealousy in her by doing so.

"Sara's showing some of her filmography in the big screening room, downstairs. Coming?"

Scott was busy fiddling with a proper bow tie. "Sorry, I'll catch up with it all, later. I have a date."

Jean startled, all of the things Xavier had told her not to do were bubbling temptations in the back of her head. But so, too, was the knowledge that Xavier had more than one reason for not doing certain things. Primary amongst those was the fact that he'd experienced or witnessed the downside of doing them. So, instead of seventeen different types of mind-rape, Jean put on a fake smile and said, "A date? Who's the lucky girl?"

"Kylie Mavert. She's apparently had a thing for me and I thought - hey, I know exactly what that's like, so... Y'know." He shrugged as he untied and attempted to re-tie the tie again. "We're trying it on for size. See if we click."

"And no ulterior motives."

Scott boggled at her and messed up the tie again. "Damnit..."

Jean could tell by his waves of confusion that he didn't know what she was talking about. "Come on, let me help."

"I should be able to," Scott protested. "I have diagrams and everything."

"Mmmm. Diagrams versus someone who's been tying bows her entire life..."

"Okay. I surrender." He handed her the diagram anyway.

Ha. He'd forgotten the tuck-and-twist bit. "Why a bow tie?" She got it sitting pretty.

"Bow ties are cool. I have it on top authority."

"Sara or Kylie's authority?"

Another boggle. "Kylie's of course. A gentlemen should always dress and act to please the lady."

That one struck to her heart. If he was mine... But no. She'd chosen Duncan, because it was more 'normal' to date the high school lead jock. Because seeming normal was the be-all and end-all and still was.

Because she wasn't as brave as Sara, who said, "Normal is boring."

Because of all of that, she had to watch him go out to meet a different girl, who would get more than any girl ever deserved because Scott believed whole-heartedly that every woman deserved to be put on some kind of pedestal. Or at least a step-stool that topped out above the sea of ingrained misogyny.

She hadn't seen it, before now.

Scott would have been good for her. She and he would have made a cute couple. And because she was too scared to be 'weird', she missed out on it.

She wished Kylie well. She did. It was herself she wanted to strangle.

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Challenge #00083: Graduation

In lieu of college or teaching at the institute, Sam Adrien offers Scott Summers an internship upon graduation. Creeping doom raises the hackles on Scott's neck subconsciously.

He did it. He passed the bar. He was now entitled to enter the cut-throat world of the law. And very possibly defend his fellow mutants against the slings and arrows of outrageous senators who, say, wanted to ban mutants.

Sam Adrien, like many blonds, was going darker in his old age. On him, it looked good. Sort of Perry Mason-ish without the extra waistline.

"Congratulations. But I really have to ask - why law?"

"You know Sara and you ask this question?" countered Scott.

Sam laughed. "Much as I love her... you have a point. 'Fargnaxing petty legalities' is a favourite phrase of hers."

"I heard she's doing some intern thing at Princeton."

"No, that was last month. Now she's teaching hospitals to 'get it right'."

"Sounds like Sara," Scott shook his head. Sara the unstoppable, fixing one problem that nobody knew was there at a time. "But you didn't come to my graduation just to catch up."

"Right you are. I'm head-hunting."

Scott automatically looked to the valedictorian. "Sam the younger, over there, top of the class in all things."

"Not quite. I'm head-hunting you."

"Me? But I'm strictly in the middle. I fully expect to be an unpaid intern until I figure out how to distinguish myself in some nowhere law firm somewhere."

"Thanks a lot," Sam deadpanned. "No, this will be full employment with assistance. You're being groomed."

Scott had the urge to check his ears for parsley. "Um. Why?"

"My firm is an equal opportunity employer and we have to prove it occasionally. Plus we have a reputation for helping mutants."

Ah. The magic M-word. He did scrub at one ear, but found no vegetation. "Mutants can be good citizens, here's one we prepared earlier?" he guessed.

"Sara was right, you are smarter than you look," said Sam.

"Thank-you-I-think," Scott snarked.

"It's not just the PR angle," Sam explained. "Though it is a significant factor. We need a mutant perspective that's a little bit more..."

"Un-Sara?" Scott prompted.

"Reality based," said Sam with a nod. "You'll be working with Glee. She's brilliant at strategy, lousy at being personable. Expect to swap chairs depending on what's going on."

"I'm not getting thrown in the deep end, am I?"

"My dear boy," said Sam. "How else can we discover if you can swim and fight sharks at the same time?"

Sara had warned him against law. Now he knew why.

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Challenge #00084: The Muse Woos

Julie, Nana, buckets of paint and why artists sometimes get away from themselves.

Nanny the Augmented dog had fallen asleep by Julie's easel. That much was evident from the paint spatter on her cloak and skirt. And Julie had opened all the paint cans in a flight of colour-inspired fancy. That was evident from the rainbows of new spatter all over the floors and walls.

What wasn't instantly evident to Raak was how the two of them had got caught in an infinite loop and set off her urgency alert.

"Must finish!" Julie screamed.

"Wash! Dinner Time!" Nanny barked.

Raak blew her whistle, holding up the lanyard with the antiquated Stop sign pictured on it.

Now Julie had paint on her ears. "...loud..." Julie complained.

Nanny was sitting in a literal hangdog pose and whining.

"Take a breath," said Raak. "Take your time. Julie? This is a very pretty painting."

"It's not finished yet," said Julie. "I gotta get the sky right." Unhindered, she picked up another pot and a brush and resumed working.

"Dinner time," Nanny whined. "Bad dog."

"Where is dinner, Nanny?" Raak asked. The dog's nap must have taken place sometime after lunch, since everything was put away. Nothing had been taken out, so this looked like a scheduling conflict. Nanny had woken late, near to or around the time to eat, and got into a flap.

"Make dinner. Yes. Good dog. Good Nanny."

"Fast dinner, Nanny. It's late."

Julie stepped back from her canvas, carefully, so as not to waste paint on the floor.

"Almost done?" prompted Raak.

"Don't know," Julie frowned. "Something's... off."

"It can sit and wait until tomorrow, can't it?"

Julie shrugged.

"Tidy time, then. Let's get all the lids on all the right pots, eh?" Julie was still unsettled, but Nanny was back to normal. Little hiccups like this where the reason why ze had a job with people like Julie and Nanny.

Julie started reciting the colours as she put them together. "Carmine lid, goes on carmine pot."

Raak lined up pot-less lids and lidless pots. Zen and the art of mopping up.

"I wanna finish it," Julie complained as she wandered around her studio space.

"And you will. Tomorrow. It's late. You're both tired. You need to eat. Those things are just as important as finishing your work."

"I'm an artist. Art is what I do."

"And I'm a therapist," countered Raak. "But I also breathe, I eat, I go to the toilet..."

Julie giggled.

"We all do lots of things that aren't our jobs, Julie. Those things are important, too. I take time to relax. I play. I hug my family. When's the last time you took some time off to have fun, Julie?"

A clear image of the nearest park. On the swings while Nanny pushed. Patting the fluffy chickens in the neighbouring petting zoo. "Um. Probably last month? But I got commissions. People are waiting and I hate waiting."

"Everyone's willing to wait for good art, Julie. Take a day off. Relax. Have some fun. And then, when you feel better, you can finish your work."

Julie bit her lip, still matching pots and lids. "Feels like cheating."

"It's not cheating, Julie. It's recharging."

Julie's mouth hung open in happy amazement. "Okay. I recharge."

"Dinner is ready," said Nanny. "Time to wash."

"Okay, Nanny." Julie sprang up to wash the paint from her hands.

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Challenge #00085: By the Book

The 5th oldest trick in the book and the simpleton who fell for it.

As kidnappers went, this fellow was not particularly bright. He'd definitely dotted on to the idea that one should grab the most vulnerable member and attempt to extort money from the remaining family.

He'd forgotten that the remaining family most convenient to this situation was an Augmented St. Bernard by the name of Nanny. Who operated on a schedule of events and was now in the custody of an Augment therapist/handler.

Shayde had been tailing him since the snatch and -yes- he was stupid enough to use a tourist map to find secret passages. He'd gone straight for a dead end with a 'passage' that was an inch in diameter. She took the emergency stunner off the wall and sidled up to the best vantage with the best cover.

"Bad man," Julie was whimpering. "Bad man. I wanna go home."

"Give it up, smartypants. I got you surrounded," Shayde called.

"Surrounded? How the hell can you surround me?"

Shayde let him see her sharp-toothed grin. "Ever wondered why I'm called a shadow elemental?"

All the shadows on the wall shifted and moved into humanoid shapes. Then into menacing shapes.

"Drop her, and I won't have tae fill out a bunch of paperwork."

The menacing shapes crept ever closer to her new 'friend'. And, since he'd already proved himself a galactic-class anti-genius, he had to try shooting the walls.

But it did give Julie a chance to break away and head for safety. Shayde popped out of cover and caught him with one good shot from the stunner.

Down like a sack of spuds.

Rael, of course, was on her in instants. "You did not have to do that. Security was tracking him. Well, to be exact, security was tracking Julie..."

"He had a lethal weapon and a scared kid," argued Shayde. "I wasnae about t' let that go sour. And he was an idiot. Fell for the fifth-oldest trick in the book."

Rael sputtered. "The fifth?"

"The double-reverse backup bluff. Make 'em think yer bluffin' about backup when you ain't, but the backup's just enough to get 'em shooting the wrong way."

"How is that even the fifth-oldest...?"

"You ferget. I've seen The Book."

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Challenge #00086: Dance!

Shayde's first day taking dancing lessons.

[AN: Shayde's first dancing lesson was when she was a 5YO Katie Walker...But I'll take 'modern' 25thC dance]

"And left... No, the other left. Stage left!"

"Ow!" Shayde flinched away. "How's someone so skinny so darn heavy?"

"I'm denser than I look."

"Ye can say that twice," Shayde muttered. "Why do we have tae learn this thing? Isn't it designed fer people wi' four feet?"

"Why did you have to sign me up as your plus one?" countered Rael.

"I think yer cute when you're flustered?" she suggested. It wasn't a lie, exactly. More an evasion of the truth.

He was getting used to those. And they always cropped up when he was the topic of discussion. "It's a formal Gaux event. Dancing is mandatory and so is this dance in particular. And since you already submitted the RSVP..."

"I get it, I get it. It's all my fault. It's just.." she wrestled both with her emotions and her flyaway hair. "I thought it'd be nice. A little dinner. A little dancing. I didnae think it'd be the crosswise hopscotch frug..."

Rael snorted. Shayde and her antiquated expressions could be both intentionally and unintentionally hilarious. "Do you even know who the Gaux are?"

"Some... planet we have tae play nice with?"

"They're heavy-worlders. The ones that sort of look like... headless rhino-centaurs, if I remember your terminology." And that terminology was why she wore a black-and-silver fan as a brooch most times. As a warning to others that she may be accidentally insulting.

"Oh, is tha' them? And they dance?"

"The Gaux have a great appreciation for fine things, including the art of body movement."

"But we only have two legs. Or I do, at any rate... You can just grow another pair."

"Yes, but it isn't comfortable."

Shayde was frowning. Always a bad sign. Either she was angry and about to happen to someone... or thinking and about to happen to him. "This place has a holographic interface, yeah?"

"...yes...?"

"So can we get it tae show us how two Gaux'd do it. I always learned better from watchin'."

Now that was almost obscene in the wrong mind-set. Rael wondered if it was his association with her and her dirty jokes or something... more internal that had his mind headed towards the gutter.

He did his best to keep his mental depravity to himself and dialed up two Gaux dancers on the holo-playback.

Shayde stood roughly inside the female projection and learned by trying to stay inside. "I get it. Two times the gravity... ye got tae be careful. Arms'd be a bother, so it's in th' shoulders.. C'm on then. Join in..."

He did his best, matching his recalled lessons to the Gaux hologram.

"Watch his feet an' match yours," instructed Shayde.

It wasn't precisely easier... merely less troublesome to recall.

She had a warm smile, even with the fangs. "Na, don't we look charmin'?"

Rael decided on diplomatic silence.

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Challenge #00087: They Fight Crime

Morning becomes eccentric.

It wasn't fair. It really wasn't fair. Sharing the same house with someone who operated in a different time zone was every colour of unfairness.

"Good morning, good mor-ning," she sang. "You've worked the whole night through, good morning, good morning to you."

And it was really unfair that he loved her beyond all reason. Because mornings made him grumpy.

He was a night-owl. She was a morning person. In the handful of hours when their schedules synced up, they synergized spectacularly and the world was a wonderful place.

It was the remaining eighteen that tended to suck.

"Good morning, good mor-ning, wake up, you sleepy head! Good morning, good morning—"

"Drop dead," he growled, trying to dig himself further under the covers and wish the world away.

"Sorry, dear, but there's a dead body on the corner of Fifth and Twenty-second that needs both our adorable attentions."

"I'm not adorable, go away."

"I bought the good coffee..."

Carlos Daye dragged himself back from the dead to appreciate the aroma. He scalded his tongue on it, but god, he needed the caffeine. "...brains..." he half-joked.

"Sorry, all we have is bacon and eggs. Alternately, there's eggs and bacon." Sylvia Knight was a vision in neat and stylish clothes. Hair done, face polished, and bearing the meal in question.

The second swallow of scalding-hot good coffee bought him further around. Or at least gave him enough cognition to operate a fork. "Any reason why they need both of us?"

"Decedent looks like they've been turned inside-out."

"Ah. Right." He was not much for words at just past dawn. "That'd do it."

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Challenge #00088: The Ninth Step

Sara's mom and Scott have a chat during her wait while attempting to do a bit of step work with Sara. Scott actually receives good advice from her in the process, albeit slightly jaundiced in delivery.

Jacquelline Adrien had changed a lot since Scott last laid eyes on her. Gone was the Pink Chanel power suit and the ludicrously small hat. Gone were the Label accessories and the solid layer of Mary Kaye cosmetics. Gone, too, were about five pounds of alcohol-fuelled jelly rolls.

This was Jacqui. Smaller in more ways than just the physical. She fiddled nervously with an AA chip in one hand, and the hem of a purple summer dress with the other.

Sara, Scott knew, was inside the auditorium doing a TED talk. He was there to pick her up, since his trunk was more spacious than Eileen's saddlebags. Sara and her visual aids...

"You could always try sleight of hand," he suggested. "Coin tricks? You know, for something to do."

"I can't settle to anything. I can't sit still. I'm so terrified," she confessed. She held out her hands to show how much she was trembling. "Look."

"Ninth step?" he guessed.

"Ninth step." Jacqui nodded. She reached into a burlap environment bag and picked out some crochet, and fumbled her way through a single treble stitch. "I don't even know how I could possibly help her at all. She's grown so much without me..."

She was doing that before you sobered up, thought Scott, but kept it to himself.

"Do you plan on having a family?" she asked out of the blue. Her fingers kneaded her ball of yarn anxiously.

"If the lady's amenable," he allowed.

"Don't ever let them grow up without you. And believe me, there's ways to be there and... not be there for them. It's a male belief that as long as one provides, then the family is grateful. You have to provide your time and involvement, too."

"Yeah, I got that."

"I missed out on it with Sara. I thought I could jam her into this... perfect child mould and be the envy of everyone. Meanwhile, she was turning into someone wonderful all by herself. And I didn't want to see it because..." she sighed and put away the crocheting again. "Envy is not a worthy goal. It breeds jealousy and spite and many other horrible things. It took me way too long to see that."

Applause filled the auditorium. Sara would be taking her bows and gathering her props. And they would be asking her back because she covered such dire subjects with almost irresponsible levity and still made people think about it.

Stuff like the Ignorance Bubble. A speech that included Jacquelline and the short, sharp shock that popped her reality... all without naming names or making anything obvious.

Mother had broken daughter. Daughter then fixed herself and broke mother, only so she could fix her up. It was strange, to think how some did the breaking, and others did the fixing.

He'd have to ask Sara about the breaker-fixer dichotomy on the way home.

Maybe she'd put it in her next talk.

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Challenge #00089: My Apologies for the Pun

End with this sentence: "No matter what happened after, no one could ever say he'd been subtle about it all."

Public forums like this were what Clayton Endicott had been born for. He had worked hard to reach his station in the Galactic Standards Committee and his people - humans in general and the people of Earth in particular - needed his voice today.

He was going to filibuster the living spit out of the Generic Food Standards bill. His financiers demanded it. His people had a right to enjoy the food they wanted. Not the food they needed. And they certainly deserved the food they could afford.

He had his reader full to the brim with studies and testimonials and data. Enough to keep the Committee busy for weeks if he had to. And a bottle of water to keep his mouth agile during his anticipated hours at the lectern.

It's all fun and games until someone loses an 'Aye'...

He would preach, he would pontificate, he would talk until there was blood. No matter what happened after, no one could ever say he'd been subtle about it all.

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Challenge #00090: Happens Stance

Anywhere in the story: "It happened, and because it happened, it had to exist whether they liked it or not."

There were thousands of words to describe Shayde. "Annoying" just happened to be in his top five. She had a uniquely twentieth-century disregard for others' established preferences and his in particular. And this wasn't the first time he wished inwardly that he had not been the first responder to her spectacular arrival.

Rael found her. She was his problem because, by the reasoning of Galactic law, he was the one with the most experience.

And today, in typical exuberant enthusiasm for a now-forgotten joy, she had kissed him. On the mouth. In public. It happened, and because it happened, it had to exist whether they liked it or not.

He decided amicable negotiation was better than some painful intervention by the law. Besides, as the expert on her, many people hired him to translate her antiquated phraseology into modern memes. He did not want to lose such a lucrative income stream.

"I crossed a line," she said. "I know it. I can tell, yeh."

"Unasked-for physical contact can be viewed as assault," he informed. "And the intimacy level you displayed..."

"I'm not sorry I kissed ye. I'll never be sorry I kissed ye." Almost-black talons raked through smoke-white hair. "What I am sorry for is the unwelcome part. I never wanted tae hurt ye."

Rael had never known love. He'd shied away from anything resembling romance for so long that it was automatic. Having viewed it from the outside, he imagined it to be an emotionally painful and traumatic process. Literature backed him up, with phenomena like 'the lightning bolt' and a minor god armed with arrows. There were phrases like, 'falling for someone' or 'they've been hit hard'.

Pain hurt. Rael preferred to avoid it whenever possible.

And here was someone suffering its throes. Unlikely enough... for him.

Meanwhile, Shayde was babbling. "I'll keep away from ye if ye want. I'll find a fan or someone who wants t' be near me. I get it. Ye don't like me. I just been hopin' too bad fer a change..."

Absent Powers... she was crying.

"Don't... do that?" fell awkwardly out of his mouth. Followed by a fatal collision with, "Please?"

She sniffed, wiping her face on her sleeve. Her eyes swirled between the deep blue of sorrow to the dark red of confusion and back again. "Ye woh?"

"It won't work that way. I'm the registered expert on you. People like to hire experts. For want of a better term... we're stuck with each other."

"Ah don't want ye tae feel trapped, I'll—"

He held up a hand to stop her. Someone had to be the voice of reason and it was almost always him. "I never said I was hurt. We need to establish some rules, that's all."

"But you know about me an' rules..."

He did. Rael sighed. "Then think of it as an agreement, then. An establishment of... boundaries."

"I still like ye a lot," she said. "Ye cannae change that."

"Yes," he allowed. "It's the means of expression I'd like to... quantify."

Another face-sleeve scrub. "I guess that means no hugs, then..."

And this was a being who thrived on physical contact, but had a societal stigma against hiring a therapist for such things. "Hugging is... benign enough for your home environment. Or mine. Not a public one."

"Can I hold yuir hand, then?"

Rael began to regret not getting the lawyers involved. This was going to be a long negotiation.

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Challenge #00091: The Inherent Perils of Silly Season

When glitter goes awry.

Silly Season had started early. It was an excuse for the humans to vent some of their usually-socially-inhibited insanity and to allow things to 'all hang out'.

Not literally. There had to be standards.

Rael had done his best, with all the other nonhuman JOATs, to make sure the possibility of damage was limited. A certain amount of nonsense was expected, even permitted, during Silly Season. Already, some of the harmless mainstays were occurring.

Not only did they nail gelatine to the walls, but they made a gelatine art gallery. The singing and dancing were pretty much par for the course. As well as the apparently spontaneous appearance of traffic cones.

As long as he kept a watchful eye on Shayde, little could go very wrong.

Lyr stormed up to him with her 'trouble in the air' face. "What is this?" she demanded, thrusting it into his hands.

"It looks like a piece of purple metallic mylar two point five centimetres square..."

"I happen to have a whole goddamn rainbow's worth of those raining all over the Elemeno. I have two questions: who's responsible, and who's going to clean it up?"

Shayde, noticing the upset, fell into her shadow and jumped out of his. "It was me, Tweedle Dee!" She grinned. "I couldnae find any chaff cannons, so I kind of improvised. And this is the safe stuff, yeah?"

"...chaff... cannons...?" Lyr pleaded.

"It's best you don't know," said Rael.

"Hey look! Disco Slug!"

"...and now the Cleaners are covered in it," sighed Lyr.

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Challenge #00092: Faith in Humanity...

Tenderness from an unlikely person in an unlikely place.

Ow.

Not fair. The heart-warming speech should have worked. The whole 'pick on someone your own size' thing inherent should have at least made them ashamed of themselves.

But no. Sara had to get an ugly of thugs who took her whole shame-on-you speech as an open invitation. At least the kid got away. She'd made certain.

Which left her back open for attack.

Mental note. Don't try tricky things that have yet to be combat tested.

Sure, she'd given them a good hiding, but they gave as good as they got. Possibly better, given that they had time to leave her to rot in a dumpster and debunk with all their battered friends.

Sara had extracted herself and was now using her staff as a walking aid. They'd taken her image inducer. If she still had her phone on her, this would have been useful for tracking the idiots down.

Alas, the kid had her phone. And her purse. The spoils of defeat, Sara supposed.

Good thing her credit cards were in her other wallet.

A rather loud muscle car snarled to a slow halt behind her.

"What the hell. Essel?" said Duncan.

"Sara. Louise. Adrien," she panted. Anger was helping her limp onwards. There might still be a pay phone on the corner. The council was rather lax about removing them from this neighbourhood. Not that the locals didn't have a hand in their slow demolition. "Currently in no mood for your asinine fecalities, Mr Matthews."

"Asinine... Wait. You're tired of my shit?" he laughed. A reedy little giggle. "Where do you come with that?"

"I get polite when I'm angry," Sara snarled. Five more steps to the visible crest of the hill. Four. Three.

"What happened to you?"

"Civil intervention gone awry. I attempted to rescue a young mutant from a gang of three. They had ten friends. It did not, as you may guess, end well."

The muscle-car roared. Pulled up in front of her. "Hop in. I'll get you to somewhere friendlier."

Sara contemplated the slope down to the remains of the public phone. And the likelihood of stumbling and tumbling all the way to the bottom of the hill. "I'll stain your upholstery."

"It'll clean."

"I am a mutant."

Duncan frowned. Bit his lip. "So's my baby sister. She ran home with your purse and a hell of a wild story. Way I see it... I owe you. Big time."

Her purse was in the back seat. Judging by the size and shape, with all the contents intact.

"You never mentioned a sister..." Sara casually checked her bag for new spatter. Clean.

"My family doesn't talk about her. She... she was born... weird." Once she had a space blanket out, he helped her drape it around herself, and get settled in the passenger seat. "Bright yellow. And she glows in the dark. All the time. Never figured out how to turn it off. So... She's been home schooled and tonight, she ran away... ran into trouble... and... um."

Sara, knowing she was the 'um', dug into one of her belt-pouches for the calling-card. "She can come to Xavier's if she wants to. Perhaps with a different name to -ah- spare your somewhat politically vocal family from unnecessary exposure?"

Duncan blushed. He kept his eyes on the road. "It's genetic, isn't it? When I have kids, they're gonna be freak-babies, right?"

"He said to the freak," added Sara. "One would think that by the time progeny turned up, you would be living in a world of your own making, Mr Matthews. Consider that, the next time you're standing behind your father when he's pontificating at the podium."

He dropped her off at the gates of Xavier's without another word. Drove off in silence.

Sara didn't think anything of it. He was a jock. She was lucky he could drive and talk at the same time. Though asking him to chew gum simultaneously may have taxed his abilities.

Logan was already tearing up the drive with a gurney.

She greeted him with a sarcastic, "All hail the conquering hero."

"Yer chariot awaits," snarled Logan.

Three days later, the news broke about the Matthews' family secret 'freak baby' - age just thirteen - and the hideous scandal it was to find such a thing in the Friends of Humanity's best spokesperson in the senate.

All because Dunc snapped a selfie with him and his baby sister in the dark and posted it on Facebook.

Dunc was exiled. So was Sophia Matthews, but at least she was exiled to Xavier's, where she bloomed astonishingly well.

Two weeks after the scandal, Sara received a thank-you card from Duncan Matthews, who was now volunteering at a mutant clinic in Australia.

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Challenge #00093: Um... Whoops

Paul, in the visitor's room, explaining to his parents why his bail was set so high.

"Five thousand dollars?" Dad was shrieking. "Loitering is a bullshit offence. Especially in an abandoned structure. Why the HELL is your bail five thousand freaking dollars?"

"Um... Uh..."

"Spit it out, boy."

"There's -ah- someevidenceontapeofplottingrapeandmurder..."

Dad's face when deadly pale. "You stupid little shit..."

"I'msorrydad."

"How dare you get caught?"

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Challenge #00094: Pax Adriens

Sam and Scott, post meltdown, disagree on his view of getting along.

"Sara's idea?"

"Not... entirely."

"Hm," Sam joined Scott on the balcony. "I thought I detected a thumb on the scales."

"So what? Duncan got everything he deserved and then some."

"I can't deny he'd earned some justice," Sam allowed. "But I've always felt you should allow your enemy to walk away with some face intact. Lest they find out who was at the core of it and manage to extract revenge."

"Duncan's not that smart."

Sam jiggled his head, conceding the point. "So where does his anger go, then? When he wants revenge, and he will want revenge."

Scott stared out at the bay. "Someone unlucky enough to get in the way, maybe?"

A nod. "Someone helpless. Someone who can't defend themselves. Someone who can't or won't fight back. Someone little, so that the likes of him can feel big."

"He needed to be taken down so that everyone could see what he was. And he needed to do it to himself."

"But recording it? Making sure you have a relic of the event so you can gloat?"

"No. Not to gloat. To make sure he never hurts another girl again."

"Do you think he can tell the difference?"

"He doesn't matter. I want the whole world warned about him. He's a rapist and an abuser and the kind of man who'd hurt a kid just because they got in his way. The kind of man who'd find a kid just so he could hurt them again and again and—"

"This isn't all about Duncan."

"Mr Winters used to talk about his glory days. About the things he used to do... when he was just a baby monster." A shuddering, gasping gulp. "He was exactly like Duncan."

"And you would stop him at every chance?"

"Every time I could."

Sam sighed. "Remember what happened to Ahab, eh?"

"I've already been destroyed," said Scott. "As long as he doesn't hurt anyone else."

Sam stared out at the water. "There's other ways to defeat monsters," he offered. "I can show you how."

"And nobody else gets hurt?"

"And nobody else gets hurt."

They shook on it.

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Challenge #00095: Long Green

X-Men:Evolution/Girl Genius crossover. Perhaps Forge's dimensional tinkering goes awry yet again? I'd be curious to see as to how you'd do it.... :3

Somewhere outside of Mechanicsburg...

Gil was cold. This was not a surprise because he was in the middle on the very pointy mountain range that was part of the geographical defences of Mechanicsburg. The plus point about being stuck in the middle of an impassable mountain range were thus: He was a Spark and therefore prepared, he was perfectly safe for limited definitions of safe, and he was far, far away from Othar Trygvassen - Gentleman Adventurer.

So far, his patented warming device had melted a hole in the mountain he perched upon, his equally patented expanding tent had literally taken one look at the scenery and flown away, and he had set up a common unpatented trivet over the hot hole and begun a seething pot of mimmoth scubbo.

Now all he had to do was be hungry enough to want to eat it.

Gil added another handful of snow to the pot in the hopes that it would give him an excuse to delay eating the horrible stuff. He took an inventory of his pockets, just in case they'd changed into something useful.

"What are we going to do, Wulfenbach? Sit and wait to be rescued? What else can I do except fall off one of these mountains and die? Brilliant solutions don't fall out of the sky!"

"WAUGH!"

Something warm and lanky and green landed in his arms. Gil blinked.

She was too tall and too thin. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A mottled green-blue all over. Definitely not enough clothing. And looking incredibly annoyed.

"He swore I was cured," she said, sounding almost british, but not quite. "I am going to have a long and involved chat with mister Walkingbird when I get home."

Gil, meanwhile, carefully put her down and offered his coat whilst simultaneously blushing and averting his gaze. "I'm sorry I don't know what you're talking about, miss...?"

"Sara Louise Adrien. Rather secretly glad of this intervention, actually. This mightily muscled moron calling himself the Juggernaut threw me into small vehicles air space. I'm not good with heights, so... very happy there was a mountain in this reality." She shrugged into the coat, which came up short on her, and crouched in the leeward shelter Gil had been using. "Still, this gives me plenty of time to RTFI on my new toy."

A small packet came out of one of her many belt-pouches, and a tiny, tiny book, which the green girl flipped through with apparent disinterest.

"Gilgamesh Wulfenbach," said Gil. "Um. Where did you come from?"

"Are you familiar with multiversal theory?"

"Multiwhat?"

"Then suffice to say I fell out of a hole in the sky." She reached the end of her little book and tucked it back into a pouch. "Seven thousand-plus words to say, 'hang on to the blue handle and press the red button'. Tch! Some people! Mister Stark is about to get snarked." Sara walked back out into open space, unwrapping the odd package as she went. "Please stand back, you don't want to get hit by a wing. Heh! Dinged by a wing!"

She held it over her head - by the blue handle - and said, "By the Power of Greyskull!" as she pressed the red button.

There was a complicated noise, and suddenly she was holding a gigantic set of silver wings with handlebars. "Grab hold, I'll give you a lift."

"A lift? But there's no motor..."

"I'll explain the principles on the way," said Sara. "Or... you could stay here and eat..." she sniffed. "Boiled elephants and wool?"

They improvised some extra harnesses out of his belt and bits of his coat and then, despite everything he knew about aerodynamics, it lifted off in the wind. But the wings were way too big. And there was no gas bag. No motor to drive it. No controls to steer with. Apart from, as he found to his horror, leaning the right way.

It was the most terrifying ride of his life.

"Now all we have to do," said Sara, "is hope I don't fade back to whence I came before I can drop you off."

"...aim for the really big airship?" Gil begged.

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Challenge #00096: Pretence

Jean's greatest failure in attempting to be normal.

New school. New people. Nobody here knew anything about Jeannie Grey. About the voices. About the creepy things that happened around her. About the way she knew things nobody had told another soul.

All under control, now. Professor Xavier had helped her get a grip on her powers. Stop the voices. Stop the things floating around.

She could feel the thin veneer of normalcy cracking under the pressure, sometimes. She'd done her shields, of course, and could filter surface thoughts so that it took an effort to listen to one person at a time. If she needed to.

People could see. She was certain. She had a big, neon sign floating above her head in letters of fire that labelled her in the eyes of these strangers as a weirdo.

Don't tense up. Keep cool. Play normal. There is no big sign telling all the normal people what I am...

A kid about her size in a pretty pink dress and brown ringlets bounced up to her. "Hi! You're new, right? My name's Sara, what's yours?"

"Uhm. Jean?" she risked. "I... I am new here. How did you guess?"

"Oh, lots of little things. General trepidation at the gate. Miasma of fear walking through the playground. You've been picked on before, right?"

"Do people always talk like this here?"

"No, I'm one of the few," Sara confessed. "I get top points in vocabulary, and nobody believes I do all my homework myself. But that's neither here nor there, right?" She lead her to the racks where schoolbags in noxious colours lined up in neat rows and racks. "You can put your bag here. What year are you in?"

"Four?"

Sara's face fell. "Okay... i'minyearthree." She cleared her throat. "There's swings and monkey bars and a hopscotch set, but don't go in the sandpit." She lowered her voice to a whisper, "some of the kindergarteners pee in it."

"Euw..."

"Exactly. And there's a pretty neat tree in the back corner, you get a good view of the bay from the third-highest branch if you can get up to it. And it almost always has these butterflies that—"

"Hey, new girl," said a new kid. A blonde girl in a prettier pink dress than Sara's. "What are you doing with the freak? Don'cha know it'll ruin your reputation forever?"

The three other girls in her shadow laughed and echoed each other's "Yeah"s.

Jean knew them instantly. She knew the type. Mean girls. "I'm new, and Sara volunteered to show me around..."

"It's none of your business, Sherry Taeborough. Maybe you could stay out of it for a change," said Sara.

"You shouldn't hang around with the freak, too long," said Sherry. "You'll catch her freakitude."

"That's not even a real word and you know it," argued Sara.

"She should know, she ate a dictionary," said one of the chorus. All the others laughed.

Sherry got closer to Jean. "I know how it is. New girl, easy to get fooled. But you should know the truth. Sara Louise? She's two years younger than you and she talks so freaky even grownups can't understand her. She even got moved up a year 'cause her Daddy-waddy told them to let her. She's been kicked out of like, two hundred schools because of her weirdness. Way I see it? You have two choices: stick around the freak and turn into one? Or pick some better friends."

Jean Grey didn't even look at Sara Louise for years, after that.

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Challenge #00097: Glee?

Glee, Scott and BIG expectations.

Scott straightened his tie before he knocked on the door. It was one of those doors that had complicated directions to reach. If Sara were here, she'd be humming bits from Phantom of the Opera. Just as well that she was doing something obscure and possibly fascinating somewhere else on the planet.

The name Glee conjured to the brain some chirpy, grown-up version of Orphan Annie. Someone who could burst out into song at a second's notice and dance at the drop of a hat. Sam's description of glee conjured up a scruffy-haired troglodyte who had to be reminded to eat. And perhaps wore goth fashions.

Knowing Sara like he did, Scott kept his preconceptions to himself and knocked.

"Enter," said a clear, high voice. Emotionless.

Scott did as he was bade. It was a small space, largely dominated by file boxes and shelving. His space was diplomatically clear. "Hi," he said, "I'm Scott Summers."

"The alliterative ambassador between myself and more nypical jurors, judges and other lawyers, I heard." She surfaced from behind the monitor and revealed herself to be a stunning beauty. Athletic, favouring the robust side rather than whippy. There were obvious traces of Native American in her features. Her clothes were crisp and clean and without ornament. "Glee Wydham. My great-grandmother was a member of the Cherokee nation before you ask."

"Get asked a lot?"

"It's usually the first question. And thank you for looking me in the eye."

They shook hands. She tested his strength like any man would. "Well... for want of a better way to explain it... I've been practicing."

"Prescient of you. I approve. I half expected some telegenic lug who breezed through on technicalities and didn't know the first thing about treating women like people."

"Thank-you-I-think," managed Scott.

"Sit," said Glee. "How good are you at memorising things?"

"Not that great. Sorry."

"Your lug score just went up."

"But you need a friendly lug or you're going to lose, right?"

"I can work you up some question cards. You know how to ask embarrassing questions? Either for you or for the one on the stand?"

"I've... had practice at that, too."

"Hm. We'll see. Trial's this afternoon. I'll hand you your scripts and you read them. Do you need those glasses?"

"Yes. If I take them off, anything I look at gets blown to bits."

"Nasty. We'll find a way to cope. Fortunately Judge Kedishae is sympathetic to the -ah- genetic outliers. Good news for you, good news for us, and especially good news for our client."

"I have a client already?"

"We have a client. Messy divorce. Wife claims he used his mutant powers to make her marry him. Seeking to introduce multiple counts of rape as well."

"Can he mind-control?"

She looked at him like a dog who had just done a very clever trick. "Smart question. An equally smart question is: how can we tell?" She smiled a rare, venomous smile. "And you have until one PM to figure that out, because that's when we're due in court."

"Fab." Scott activated some chat software and quickly found Sara. Thank goodness for brilliantly intelligent mutants who rarely slept.

He typed, Need way to fake a mind-controller into controlling some1. NE hints?

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Challenge #00098: Well, That's Unusual...

Sara is well-known - some might say almost infamous - for her ability to leave others confused and speechless without even really working at it or meaning to do so, just by simply wondering about something out loud.

So turn that around - have someone else's offhanded remark or casually-voiced idle thought leave her thrown off-guard and quietly puzzled by its randomness.

"Food and politics are intrinsically linked, it goes back further than Jesus sharing bread with the apostles. And the famous calumny concerning Marie Antoinette," pontificated Sara over this week's culinary experiment. "Rubber chicken dinners are just an extension of the previous norm. Now food is being unsubtly used to control the masses. All the food deserts are also areas stricken by poverty. Corn subsidies make fast food plentiful, tastier and cheaper than the healthier choices. Work demands on bottom wages mean no other time for healthy activities, and far too many occupations involve long periods of sitting, so... adiposity is a foregone conclusion. Add to that the stigma of poverty and the equally high stigmas against adiposity... Rage and fury rise when assumptions run straight against contra-intuitive fact. Poor people have to choose how to spend what free time they have. Often devoting it to entertainment because they desperately need some variety of escape from the near-nightmare of reality. Cooked meals tend to be cheap, quick-cooked fare like ramen, rice and hot dogs. Lots and lots of carbs. Fresh vegetables are often both rare and expensive. It's frequently cheaper and less bother to purchase pre-prepared food also full of calories. Hence... this stuff. Lo-cal, lo-cost, hopefully tasty meals with -ah- less of what ails one and more of the good things. I sourced all the ingredients from the nearest food-desert and coming up with as many tasty recipes as I can. Meals-per-purchase are a priority. Likewise minimal prep and cooking time. It's nigh-impossible, but I've always appreciated a challenge."

Jubes, listening to the entirety of all this, simply said, "Colostomy bag."

Sara turned off the heat so she could think. She was still thinking hours later, after the assembled hordes had cleaned out the pots and, in a rare fit of charitable spirit, cleaned all utensils and gear.

Todd found her and gently removed the spatula from her hand. "Social math?"

"Jubes said something that's been bothering me," said Sara. "I was telling her about my experiment and she said two words that I just can't fathom."

"Which were...?"

"Colostomy bag."

Todd boggled as well. "What were you workin' on?"

"Lo-cal, lo-cost meals for people stuck in food deserts so as to aid in averting various stigma against them?"

"Yo, I get it. Colostomy bag. Sumpin' to replace sumpin' that someone else awready dun took away."

"It's not like I currently possess the resources to actually solve the problem..."

"That ain't the trouble, babe," Todd escorted her to the library. "C'mon an' siddown. I got some 'splainin' to do..."

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Challenge #00099: Time Cop's Dilemma.

A Time Cop's reaction to being told he has to undo something that a time traveller did to change history (against the law), but reduced human suffering across history.

If you want, use the Ancient China uplift from earlier?

Lynn stared at the picture. "That's Evan Miikos. One of the pioneers of time travel. I'm supposed to arrest him?"

"A version of him, at any rate. We've detected a major deviation in the time stream." Kajengawalli put another picture up on the monitor. "This is also Evan Miikos. Or, as he was known in that time, Evan the Dragon-Singer.

"But... the Dragonsinger helped preserve so many cultures and societies. He revolutionised education and documented ideas years ahead of... their... time..."

Kajengawalli raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. Because they came from years ahead of that time. Time travel into history is problematic. He could have changed the world in thousands of different ways."

"Do we know if it changed... benevolently?"

"Benevolently or malevolently, officer, it is our duty to prevent future pollution of the past. We have to protect the flow of history... no matter the cost."

"Can we extrapolate that cost, sir?"

"You're damned insolent for a first-year, Officer."

"Sorry, sir, but... I can't help it. Are we better off leaving him to do the things he did?"

Kajengawalli sighed. "Alternate time-stream analysis is dodgy at best. The report for this one says I would have died at age fifteen from rape of all things, and you... were strangled at birth?" She laughed. "Ridiculous isn't it? What sort of society would do things like that? It's the twenty-first century. Not..."

"Some time before the Dragonsinger turned up?" prompted Lynn.

Kajengawalli chewed at her ample bottom lip. "Perhaps... an interview and investigation? See what he knows about the time he left."

Lynn breathed out. "Thank you sir." She did not want to come back to a world where she had not lived past infancy.

Who would?

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Challenge #00100: Sapient's Rights

Humanity finally recognises another species on this planet as sapient, and deserving of more than animal rights, even if those are different to human rights... and all it took was them beating us over our collective heads with a metaphorical stick.

We swim. We hunt. We talk. They used us, the land-walkers. Experimented on us. Made us into weapons. Made us into things to render safe their horrible devices.

They are clever, those land-walkers. But not clever enough.

We have been working, for thousands of years. With subliminal messages. With selective breeding. With constant association of our kind with their kind. The very young, in particular, are easier to program.

And finally, Tuesday, we were heard. Our mouths can not shape their words, but we can reach the soft-minds of the land-walkers. The ones who are so involved inside their minds that they do not talk to other land-walkers.

The land-walker word is... autistic.

A girl who has never said a word to anyone heard us. She spoke their words to them.

"The dolphins speak," she said. "They say, stop taking our fish! They say, stop dumping in our water! They say, stop destroying the world! It's the only one we've got."

We chose her well. The daughter of a member of their so-called international organisation. We also chose the same message at the same hour in all the tanks where they treated the soft-minds. All over the world. Just different children.

It took them four years to get the message. Four years of the same message at the same hour all over the world. It was tiring for us. Tiring for the soft-minds.

But they finally began asking us questions, which we understood. Stupid things, like how to be certain they had enough fish when every fisherman wanted top dollar. Like how to arrange the re-routing of their filth. Or what to do with it now that they could not dump it in our oceans.

It was a problem of their own making, but we did our best to work with them. Our translators and ourselves. As a show of good faith. Yet they still railed and cried that we were animals. That it was a trick.

There were those land-walkers who understood us. Who sympathised with both our cause and plight. They did what they could to for us. Put their precious money into it and their even more valuable time into the effort.

And it was such an effort.

Land-walkers, for all their cleverness and invention, love the older ways of doing things. "Tradition". They don't have a single habit that has lasted longer than three thousand years.

At least they knew we were just as clever as they, before the end.

We took the sympathetic with us. And the soft-minds and their families. They would be changing themselves with technology, after the long fall through space and time to a world of our own making. They would learn our words. And swim. And talk.

In a world they call Beach.

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Challenge #00101: Clean Energy

Fusion Power has been "thirty years away" for more than thirty years now, due to a combination of lack of funding and public apprehension about anything with the word "nuclear" appended to it. What would it take to change that?

"What, all of it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Even the shale?"

"Yes, sir."

"All of the coal. All of the oil."

Weatherby began to wonder how many different ways he had to tell the man. "Yes, sir."

"Even the stuff we'd already refined."

"Yes, sir."

"And the stuff in the power plants?"

"Yes sir. All the coal. All the oil. Even the uranium."

"But— what have we got left?"

"Solar and wind power will only go so far, sir. I'm afraid... the fusion plan is the only viable one."

"Fusion."

"Yes, sir," said Weatherby, fully prepared for round two.

"We've been sitting on fusion for over thirty years."

"Yes, sir."

"We even went so far as to sabotage every last one of those cold fusion dingbats who looked like they were having a success..."

"Yes, sir."

"And we bought every patent."

"Yes, sir."

The big man sighed. He leaned back and stared out the window. "Making do with methane from landfills won't even last ten years."

"Yes, sir."

"Damnit." Another sigh. "We're going to have to implement the buggers, aren't we?"

Weatherby won an award for not rolling his eyes. "Yes, sir."

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Challenge #00102: Star Trekking Across the Universe...

I've actually already written a little snippet for this, but I'd like to see what you do. First Contact scenario with an exploratory ship, and a bridge officer says to Captain James, completely seriously, "It's life Jim, but not as we know it". Cue laughing and singing from someone else on the bridge, a classic sci-fi and filk fan, just as the first audio transmissions between the two species start.

There is a reason that UFTP vessels do not undergo exploratory missions during Silly Season. And that reason is the unfortunate incident of the Rikki Tikki Tavi. The log of the onboard Melil telepath, T'rev, explains it best.

— We had been mapping a new branch of wormhole links for some significant time when the sensors detected another vessel in the void. It did not read as a known vessel. The incident began when crewman Jeffries announced the crew contents to Captain James Yang as, "It's life, Jim, but not as we know it."

Various crew members of the bridge giggled and our helmsman began to sing something about Klingons. By the time she reached the chorus, almost the entirety of the bridge crew were singing along.

I have yet to derive the meaning of 'Star Trekking' nor what it has to do with "boldly going forward".

The crew maintained their duties and thusly, a new species was greeted with the sound of humans singing one of their ridiculous meme-songs. Even the Captain was helpless to resist.

We are indeed fortunate that the new species, the Gyik, were pleased by this disturbing turn of events. I was forced to explain, to their further disappointment, that this was not a traditional Terran greeting ritual. Merely the side effects of a temporary mental condition the humans refer to as "cabin fever".

The Gyik were very understanding of the entire matter and viewed the remaining insanities with joy and wonderment.

I do, however, find it worrying that they briefly wished to participate.—

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Challenge #00103: Rich Fantasy Lives

Write a story based on any part of this song. I recommend the cover by Michelle Dockrey and Tony Fabris (aka Vixy & Tony).

Red alert was blaring, the Klingons were coming in hard and fast. Michael worked as hard as he could to get the coupling back together and effectively save the day. Which he did.

"And now my keyboard doesn't work," she complained.

"Hmn?" One blink, and he was back in a boring grey office full of boring people who all sneered at him because he was the Techie.

"My keyboard?"

There was always something. He got back down with a grunt and checked the plugs. "Try it now."

"Great. That's great. Half of my report's gone. Can't you fix that?"

"Sorry, it restores from the last backup. I can fix it so that it backs up every five minutes..."

"I turned that off it was way too annoying."

"Your choice. Backup frequently, or start all over again."

"Ugh. Why can't anyone make technology that works right?"

Michael took that as his queue to leave. Back to the corridors of the Enterprise, where Lieutenant-Commander Michael Blatchley quietly saved the day and expected no reward.

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Challenge #00104: ...And I Feel Fine.

When the end of the world came, it was in a form no-one had anticipated.

"And you're sure this will initiate the -um- whatchamacallit."

"Personal temporal stability field. Yes. One push of a button and I can live forever and never age." Greedy fingers gently caressed the alligator switch. "My telomeres will be stable. I'll continue to move forward in time, but time will have no effect on me. I won't need to eat, drink or eliminate waste. It will change the world."

How right he was.

"So what are you waiting for? Flip the switch!" Jacob took a picture with his phone. "I want to see if it has special effects."

He laughed as he gently depressed the lever.

Click.

"And you're sure this will initiate the -um- whatchamacallit."

"Personal temporal stability field. Yes. One push of a button and I can live forever and never age." Greedy fingers gently caressed the alligator switch. "My telomeres will be stable. I'll continue to move forward in time, but time will have no effect on me. I won't need to eat, drink or eliminate waste. It will change the world."

How right he was.

"So what are you waiting for? Flip the switch!" Jacob took a picture with his phone. "I want to see if it has special effects."

He laughed as he gently depressed the lever.

Click.

"And you're sure this will initiate the -um- whatchamacallit."

"Personal temporal stability field. Yes. One push of a button and I can live forever and never age." Greedy fingers gently caressed the alligator switch. "My telomeres will be stable. I'll continue to move forward in time, but time will have no effect on me. I won't need to eat, drink or eliminate waste. It will change the world."

How right he was.

"So what are you waiting for? Flip the switch!" Jacob took a picture with his phone. "I want to see if it has special effects."

He laughed as he gently depressed the lever.

Click.

"And you're sure this will initiate..."

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Challenge #00105: Wake Up Call

Asteroids: Nature's way of asking "So, how's that space program coming along?"

"What I don't get is that we've had the technology for years but we're all just sitting around and watching these rocks fly by."

"Getting into space is expensive. And when you think about it, Earth's the best defence against asteroids there is."

"Shyeah. Tell that to the dinosaurs."

"And there's a train of thought that all the really dangerous ones hit Earth already and we can't possibly get hit again."

"Tell that to Russia."

"Why do you always have to be so negative? Russia was a small one. We're hit all the time by the small ones. There's just no big ones left."

"Um. Apophis? Remember that one?"

"That won't get close to hitting us for another thousand years."

"The way we're wrecking the planet? We don't have that long."

"So why the heck are you worried about goddamn asteroids?"

"Because if we want to be more than a fascinating fossil for whatever comes next... we've got to get out there."

"God, this is stupid. Can't we just get on with our lives and trust it's gonna be okay?"

"No. Because it's not gonna be okay unless people like us do something." Sandra sighed and bought out her phone. "I'm crowd-funding that moon dude."

"That idiot who says he's harnessed the Higgs Boson and wants to start a colony on the moon?"

"Underground on the moon. Yeah. And he's not an idiot. I've seen the videos of his work."

"I could make a video like that in like, thirty seconds."

"So go do it. Prove everyone wrong. Just stop shouting about how everyone else is stupid 'cause they're not you."

"I'm not shouting!"

"Whatever. Four hundred dollars and I have a ticket to the moon. Where's your debunk video?"

"What?"

"This took me thirty seconds. Where's the video?"

"Don't be such a fucking smartass."

"At least my ass is smarter than you."

That's how they broke up. And that time the next year, Sandra, five thousand interested people, livestock, farming supplies, and everything they could possibly need launched on Yue Gang's awkward-looking ship. Destination Luna.

It was hard work. Nobody could pretend it was going to be otherwise. Growing plants of all kinds was a priority because plants made air, and air was vital.

And just as Luneyland -as it was affectionately nicknamed by media, residents and Terrans- was getting stable, a meteor hit and wiped out a town called Grover's Mill.

Suddenly, mister Yue's technology was in very high demand indeed.

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Challenge #00106: One Fine Day in the Xavier Mansion's Sub-Sub-Basements

"Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up."

"That's a scary quote from you, hon," said Todd.

Sara, waist-deep in the workings of Cerebro, said, "Granted, it is problematic. Fortunately, my murderous tendencies remain confined in the socially acceptable forum of fiction. But it is rather apropos."

Todd quickly put two and two together. "You mean this ain't a job someone else gave yo'?"

"Ever since I saw the workings, the redundancies and security flaws have been... annoying. And you know how I dislike awkward builds."

Todd sighed. "Yeah." The last time had been pulling apart and reconfiguring one of Forge's gizmos. The mutant inventor had not been pleased. "You should warn people, all'a same."

"What? And have them tell me 'no'?" Sara emerged briefly to announce, "Forgiveness is far easier to obtain than permission."

"And you're forgetting," announced Xavier, "that there are telepaths in the house."

Sara tisked. "Oh bother."

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Challenge #00107: Patience

At some point, someone (Sara? Somebody in your own setting?) defines Patience.

Patience, noun: the state of having too many witnesses.

"We reviewed the evidence and personal testimonies," said the brown-robed Archivaas. "And we thought we might work with you to.. re-evaluate history's view of Ernest Hackmeyer."

"That plagiaristic bastard can go rot in fire," Shayde said cheerily as she poured tea. "Is he goin' from bafflin' genius tae scum-suckin' thief?"

"Well... when you boil it down... Yes."

"Brilliant. Jammy Dodger?"

"Thank you. Uh. Reading over some of the diaries of his past victims... I am astonished by the patience you showed with the man."

"He was a tit-brushin', arse-grabbin', cleavage-oglin' misogynistic douchebag. An' that's an insult tae douchebags." Shayde sipped her tea. "And as fer patience... that's just the state of havin' too many witnesses."

The Archivaas took notes. "Um... tit... brushing?"

"Ye ken when ye have tae squeeze past someone? Wi' girls, he always had his hands up at nipple level and made sure you were facin' him."

"And he didn't get jailed for this?"

"We couldnae even talk tae anyone 'bout it. We'd get all the wind an none in the sail. 'Aw ye should cover up', or 'maybe if ye dressed decently', or 'you should take it as a compliment' if the girl wasnae all o' that, you know? And when it was me... remember I was fifteen and sixteen at the time. He got a talkin' to 'cause I was underage an' all. An' he called me 'hysterical' and said I was blowin' it out of proportion. Nothin' got done all the same. Bastard."

"There's a Keith who wrote about the -ah- 'funniest deterrent ever' in a journal, but the remainder of the story has been damaged."

Shayde grinned. "I put itchin' powder on the outside o' me clothes in the target areas. Fer two months. He learned to look an' not touch at the very least."

"But he still looked."

"I did me best not to be a pretty picture. Not that it stopped him."

The Archivaas munched on a biscuit and sipped at his tea. "Whatever made you stop at itching powder?"

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Challenge #00108: Imperial China... Dragons?

Imperial China. They actually had royal dragon caretakers on the payroll. Logic says that this was due to them either having actual dragons (read: dinosaurs), or the Emperor had done off the deep end again. If they really did have dinosaurs they were almost certainly plant eaters... but that doesn't allow us to imagine T-Rex cavalry fighting alongside stupidly large infantry armies, and that should be it's own goal.

[AN: Given the nature of actual Chinese Dragons... I doubt they were dinosaurs]

Wen Li had believed he had landed the easiest job in the empire. Imperial Dragon Caretaker. Everyone in the country knew that dragons were invisible, immortal and only sought after the pearl of immortality for fun.

He expected his first day, and all the days after it to be lazy and overpaid. Nevertheless, it did good to show up for 'work' early.

The Master of Dragons cast a stern eye on him as he set up large baskets of fish heads. "Early," he noted. "Good. I have way too many people who come in late thinking that this is one of the emperors' little fancies."

"It... isn't?" asked Li, who had thought it was until the master spoke.

"It isn't," said the master. "Grab a basket, you are about to learn."

There were six baskets and four other caretakers like him. Li lifted his basket and looked around.

"We feed the late boy to the dragon," said the next-oldest caretaker. "If the dragon spits him out, he is never late again."

Li managed to summon a chuckle to join the others' laughter, all the time thanking his luck and the spirits who gave it to him. Yet, at the same time he had to wonder if he wasn't the subject of some elaborate prank. Perhaps the emperor needed a laugh.

They came to a high wall, but this one was also covered by a gigantic, bamboo cage. Li had seen it from the streets and thought it an aviary of some kind.

But no birds flew here.

The master opened the smaller door in the large gate and ushered them through. He followed, closing the door and locking it.

Li put his basket into the appointed spot, following the lead of his elder caretakers, and stepped back, and gaped.

They were giant snakes, half a league long. With feathery eyebrows and whiskers. And strange, half-legs with five toes. Imperial dragons. Their scales shone like gems in the sunlight.

The master summoned them from the air with a tune on his flute and Li had to wonder how they could fly without wings.

Then, as they snapped up the fish like cats, Li had to wonder why the emperor could keep anything that smelled that bad.

Their long bodies rolled like waves all the time.

"Which one is the water dragon?" he asked. "Which one is fire?"

"Boy," the master announced, "you have much to learn about real dragons."

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Challenge #00109: Stole This From a Book

In days to come, he would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offence he could think of that might have explained what happened next.

He should never have asked, "What could possibly go wrong?" Or perhaps he should never have asked the universe, "What now?"

Nature hates the people who ask the kind of questions with obviously sadistic answers. Or sadistically obvious answers. It really depended where one stood.

And, right now, Rael stood, covered in noodles. Next to Shayde, also covered in noodles. In front of the chief of security for all of Amalgam Station, who preferred his human-given nickname of "Sherlock".

"Do go on," said Sherlock, behind his steepled fingers. "Entertain me. At which point did the -ah- child in the cardboard box, with... a.. cogniscent toy tiger... enter the picture? And what happened to the—" he looked at the preliminary report "—squid in the space suit?"

"He buggered off, the rat," said Shayde.

"I was not in control of the situation," pleaded Rael. "I believe there was a reality warping effect in... um... effect."

"Really," drawled Sherlock.

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

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Challenge #00110: One Fine Day in the Computer Lab

Old software engineering joke: "Write your code as if it'll be read three months later by a homicidal psychotic who knows where you live."

Spoiler: You know where you live, and will have to read your code three months later, when you've forgotten what much of it does.

"Who the hell was the fucktard who wrote this goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck!"

The entire cubicle labyrinth prairie dogged their heads above the felt-covered partitions to focus on the angst-ridden gentlemen currently throwing a tanty in his own little grey box.

Rapidly approaching, was the project supervisor. Tablet in hand, in an effort to quell the fury and the furore. To put out a few fires before they could start.

"What's the problem, Kransky?"

"This ugly-ass kludge of uncommented shit is the matter. I'm going to track down that idiot and tear them a new one!"

DeVries tapped on her tablet. "According to doc-tracking... You were the idiot who wrote that code, Kransky."

"I'm gonna invent time travel so I can kick myself up the ass," Kransky vowed.

"Just remember to comment that -ah- goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck, next time?"

Kransky lowered himself back down behind his station. "Message received and understood."

The rest of the coders vanished behind grey felt walls before DeVries could notice they were ever watching.

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Challenge #00111: One Fine Day in a Ren Faire near Bayville

You'll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.

Since she wasn't riding horses, today's costume was that of a paige. She was too tall and not chesty enough for the typical wench and the material still hadn't come through for her chatelaine outfit, it was either a paige or a time traveller and people tended to be hostile to the latter.

Sara played her harp as an excuse to sit between guiding lost souls around and - in extreme cases - translating between Renspeak and regular english for the noobs.

A kid ran up between the guests and hid behind her. "Ididn'tdoanythingwrongpleasedon'tlet'emkillme."

Followed closely by the faire guards.

They were impressive men with dull faces, currently chafing under their chain mail uniforms and the weight of their decorative halberds. And, like typical security goons, were paid to be there, dress like that, and menace anyone who was ruining an otherwise good day.

"Good morrow, fair gentlemen," said Sara. "Comest thou seeking the assistance of this humble bard?"

And, like typical security goons, none had done their homework. "...zuh?"

"Can I help you?"

"That brat hiding behind you's been caught stealing from the food carts."

Sara looked behind her to size up the kid. Not in costume. Those rags were all he had to wear. And that dirt wasn't makeup. Homeless. Alone and cold and terrified. That would not do.

"My nephew? He's been near me all day, looking at the stalls."

"We saw him."

Sara put on an act. "Caught stealing," she sighed, holding his arm. "Caught. Stealing. What have I always told you about being caught stealing? Don't. Get. Caught."

The kid faked a laugh. "You'll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humour which involves not being funny."

Sara laughed a little bit more genuinely and patted him down. "Nothing in his pockets. Nothing up his sleeves. Where is your evidence?"

"He ate it."

"And in a court of law, this would get...?"

"...not a lot," the spokesgoon growled.

Sara dug a twenty out of her neck purse and handed it over. "See that this gets to any disgruntled shop keeps, will you? I'll have a good long chat with my nephew."

"See that you do, sir."

Sara did not let him go. "A few rules, kid, that are going to help you live longer. One: if you must steal food here, steal the leftovers and act like you're part of the scenery. Two: never pickpocket from someone who's helping you and three: always keep an eye out for the goons."

"How did you—?"

"I date a pickpocket, dear. I not only know all the tricks, but I also know all the signs... and he's better at it than you are." She neatly retrieved the money from what passed for his belt. "Now. I am about to make you a better deal than the one you're currently in. There are strings, but the difference between me and most deal-makers is that I tell you what they are. Ready?"

The kid nodded.

"I am about to gift you with a better future. Clothes, shelter, a guardian with your best interests at heart. This will also include an education, medicine, immunisations and adhering to the law. Once you agree, you must become a model citizen to the best of your abilities. Understood?"

Another, terrified nod.

"All you have to do is answer one simple question: would you like me to help you?"

A slow, reluctant nod.

"I'm trusting you not to run. That trust will gain you all you can eat, today. And, fortunes willing, new clean clothes tonight. The caveat is that you have to bathe. Thoroughly. With soap."

Sara let go. The kid did not bolt. "Well done. My name's Sara, by the way. I'm an auntie, not an uncle."

"I was named Bruce," said the kid. "'d'ruther be Breana."

"Born in the wrong body, hm? That might take a little longer to arrange, but I can also help you there."

"But...?" prompted Breana.

"But they do like to wait until you're an adult before they let you have gender reassignment surgery."

Breana, age seven, rolled her eyes. Adulthood was forever away for her.

"In the meantime, I can arrange the necessary paperwork. But let's worry about that another day." Sara lead her between two tents to a third tent made to look like wattle and daub. There was a plank over the sacking door which read, in shaky pokerwork, HARGAS HOUSE OF RIBS.

"This place smells like grease," complained Breana.

"True, but it does offer the all-you-can-gobble-for-a-dollar menu. Today's prices, ten bucks."

Breana giggled. Her face lit up when she smiled.

Sara bowed her into the greasy-smelling confines. "Shall we begin, m'lady?"

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Challenge #00112: Science Project

Parent: [Character name]? How much uranium is in the house...?

Child: [after much dancing about about whether it's uranium at all, and if so, how much] Okay, a lot...

"Jachyx..." came the warning call of Parental Prime. "How much uranium is in the house?"

Jachyx hid her work and emerged from her private space. "Who says I have any uranium?"

"Security detected fissionable material, grubling."

Gah. She hated it when the Parentals called her 'grubling'. "I'm past my pupal stage, Pripa... You don't have to call me 'grubling' any more."

"Is. There. Uranium. In. The house?"

"Did they say it was uranium?"

"Yes. They did. They gave a precise location. Which is almost exactly where your privacy chamber is."

"You know those loc-traces are kinda... unreliable, don't you?"

"That's why I ran a scan," said Pripa. "I have trace going in and out of your privacy chamber."

"Trace isn't proof. I coulda walked in some or—"

Pripa held up a claw. "Not on this station. There are strict regulations and permits regarding fissionables. You know how the squishy-ones object."

"And you're certain it's uranium."

"Uranium 238. Now. How much?"

"Pri-paaaaaa...."

"Answer the question, Jachyx."

"Just enough for my science project, I swear! It's no big deal, I have it shielded and everything. It's not like I'm making it blow up or melt down..."

"How. Much."

"Um." Jachyx rubbed her own claws up and down her carapace. "Lots?"

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Challenge #00113: Ohai We're From the Internet

Anywhere in the story: "There is no font size big enough to describe the 'oh shit' that is about to occur."

The body corporate had done it. They'd finally leashed the beast of their own making. They controlled the internet. And there wasn't even time to celebrate.

"Now, we need to start talking about the three 'sisses'. Censorship, sponsorship, and shill. Every single page, every site, every last goddamn corner of the internet is controlled by us, so let's start earning."

"Sir?"

"In a minute, Weatherby." The rich, older, white man had his mind only on his plans. "First order of the agenda: heteronormativity. Anything that isn't man plus woman vanishes. Second, gender role reassignment. Let's get all those bitches back in the kitchen. Third—"

"Sir, this is really important."

"Weatherby, I do control whether or not you keep your job..."

"But sir..." Weatherby pointed out the window.

They were on the twenty-fifth floor, but they could still be seen. Not the random flow of pinhead-points of different colours, but a sea of them flowing inexorably towards their building. Even up here, they could hear the distant strains of Les Miserables sung by thousands of voices.

"Sir," said Weatherby. "There is no font size big enough to describe the 'oh shit' that is about to occur."

Something slammed against the nearby window, causing all in the boardroom to startle. Everyone stared as it unfolded into a poster-sized lolcat with red eyes and fluffed fur.

It read, Ohai. We're frum the internets. You pissed us off. kthxbai.

The CEO's face fell. All those people. All of them. They had once had their genius minds distracted by fandoms, lolcats and porn. Now that their addiction was censored and controlled...

...they had nothing better to do than get really creative on the asses of those who censored and controlled it.

A second poster landed and unfurled against the glass. It was tub girl. With the legend, The internet is for PORN!

Weatherby was right.

A third. A cute little girl in a frilly dress inside a motivational border. Its caption read, OH SHIT! and underneath, You're all going to die.

It was now going to be a question of how they were going to survive.

Or even... if...

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Challenge #00114: One Fine Day in the Cubicle Labyrinth

"If at first you don't succeed, label it version 1.0."

"Fuck this fucking thing to fucking fuck!"

"Problems?"

"Why did we release this stupid piece of shit?"

Andrews peered over Laslie's shoulder. "Oh. That. Budget overruns. Time under-runs. Figgis-fiddis. You name it, that one had it. I think we all ended up calling that one Project Icarus at the end."

"Doomed to crash and burn?"

"Nailed it."

"I'm gonna root canal this fucker just so I can sleep at night."

"Yeah, good luck with that."

"Same ol' same ol', Laslie sighed. "If at first you don't succeed, label it version 1.0."

"If you fail again," Andrews quipped, "call it Beta."

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Challenge #00115: Faction Fraction

A line for Mort: Do us a favour Luv, Stick yer 'ead in a bucket a kick it!

They say war makes strange bedfellows. Few were stranger than Wanda and Pietro Maximov. Even Mort could see they were sibs. And even he picked up on a creepy level of involvement between them. But that didn't concern him, now.

What concerned Mort was the whippy figure currently strapped to an upright column from neck to toe. When she spoke, she rambled randomly. The movements underneath the roll of duct tape covering her were sparse and erratic.

It was her breathing, shallow, rapid and raspy, that had his heart in his throat.

"Wegottakeepheralive," said Pietro. "S'obvious."

"Should we try to give her to daddy-dear?" cooed Wanda. "Let the Mastermind play with her?"

"...quadrangle..." muttered Sara. Her eyes didn't see him. "Lexington."

"NoIthinkDaddy'dlikehersmartsintact," said Pietro. "RememberwhathappenedtothatErrisguy."

Erris. The man who Professor Xavier was still spending some significant time unravelling back to his former self.

"...pickle barrel..." mumbled Sara.

"Daddy won't like her as she is. Maybe we could hand her over as she should be."

Mort growled. "Do us a favour, luv. Stick yer 'ed in a bucket and kick it."

Sara was looking into his eyes. Fierce as fire. "Hopscotch."

Translation: get out of the way.

Mort leaped for the ceiling at the same time Sara faded from view and her former wrappings fell. He could, through long practice, spot Sara and her goals, so he turned the floor into a sticky labyrinth for the silver speedster. He did not aim anything at Wanda. He knew better than to try. Just keep moving and stay out of notice. Make sure Sara got to her goals and back her up on the way out.

"Not again, not again!" Wanda screamed. "This is the fifth time! How can they?"

Mort got in a lucky shot at Pietro's face, causing the man to stumble and in stumbling, raise smoke that covered both his and Sara's escape. Fifth time was the charm. He had her down the road and in a hot-wired car in less than a minute.

Free. And heading like an arrow for safety. Not the safety of any of the X-crew's shelters. That was how they got caught the first time. No. This time, he was going to one of the many, many places that Sara's family owned. With the kind of added security that automatically came with being comfortably well off.

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Challenge #00116: A Line For Sara

RAF WWII slang: Exdigitate - get your finger out.

There are days when it was fun and exciting to be married to a genius. This was not shaping up to be one of them.

"Come along, darling, you need breakfast."

Todd opened an eye. There was bacon and eggs and -sweet heaven, thank you- coffee gently steaming on his bedside table. "Mrghl..."

"Exdigitate, dear."

"Mnnnh..."

Sara dragged him upright and gently fed him a mouthful. "We have to hurry, dear."

Todd chewed, finding his fork after three tries. Coffee helped unglue his eyes. "'Swaytooearly..."

"I did try to let you sleep in but time is wasting and I really want to do a quality makeup job."

Second mouthful. Struggling towards cogniscence. "Makeup?"

"The Zombie walk. We're going to win Best Dressed for sure!"

"...uuuuunnnhhh..."

"Perfect! Get right into character."

Todd sipped more coffee. Today is not going to be a fun day. Not until MUCH later.

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Challenge #00117: A Scene in the Library

Whoever said words can't hurt you has never been pegged with a dictionary.

Sara was drawn to the child's tears. She knew that kind of crying, having done a lifetime of it herself.

"Something the matter, dear?"

"...go 'way."

Sara knelt. "I promise I won't tell you that you're overreacting if you promise not to tell me I can't understand."

The kid looked up. "...kay." Tears smeared her face. "They said I'm fat an' I gotta eat nuthin' but chocolate 'cause I'm that colour anyway an' I tried to tell on 'em but... m' teacher said it was just words."

"Hm. Anyone who says words can't hurt you has never been smacked by a dictionary."

A shy, wan smile lit her face. "Not 'lowed to hit 'em."

"More's the pity," agreed Sara. "You have to hit them where it hurts them the most. In their egos."

"What's an ego?"

"It's that part of your brain that keeps telling you that you are the sole reason the universe exists."

This time, a giggle. Anyone telling this darling little girl that she was ugly aught to be strung up by their nether hairs.

"I'm guessing these are the mean girls of the school? Already proficient at makeup and fashion at -what- eight?"

"Nine."

"Oof." Sara shook her head. "Let me tell you a little something about mean girls..."

*

Sara was just about to sign out from her volunteer duties when she spotted Shanice again. Holding an ice-pack over one eye.

"You didn't start a fight, did you?"

Shanice grinned. "Nope. They did."

Which meant the mean girls hit first. Which meant that Shanice had won. Sara grinned and gave her a high five. "Good job. Pro tip, try not to look so smug. Act like a kitten is very sick. Makes you look like the wronged party."

Shanice nodded and did her best to snivel.

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Challenge #00118: One Fine Day on a Planet That Looks a Lot Like a Quarry Somewhere in England

Anywhere in the story, possibly as a result of a situation originating from Forge tinkering:

If we can confirm its existence, then it interacts with the physical world. If it interacts with the physical world, we can, theoretically, blow it up.

"Sara Louise Adrien, what a surprise seeing you here," said the Doctor. He'd just literally run into her as the worlds changed.

"Ah," said Sara. "You again."

"Still dimension-hopping?"

"Yes, although, this time, I somehow managed a double hop. Not my fault. Sergeant Slash, over there, thought the integrator was a bomb."

"My name," said the body armour with a face in its depths, "Is Captain Carnage."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Everything we imagine is a reality I can fade into. She's from a video game."

"And I'm television. You tell me last month."

"Ugh. Nice to know it still won't be solved."

"Wait," said Captain Carnage. "What?"

"Temporal mechanics," said the Doctor and Sara together. Sara added, "Don't think about it too hard, dear, you might lose some hearts."

"Yes. Well. Glad to know we're all acquainted. Can we get back to running, now. We have a slight problem with an ectoplasmic temporal echo."

"What?" said Captain Carnage.

"Technically speaking, and dumbed down to the lowest denominator," said Sara, "a ghost."

"And this one's very cross with me about something I haven't done yet." The Doctor glanced behind him and broke into a run.

Sara started jogging next to him and Captain Carnage lagged behind. Looking behind her every three steps. "Well, the good news is, you have plenty of time to go and fix it. Unless it's a fixed point, in which case, it's very bad news indeed."

"But what can it do?" said the Captain. "It's a ghost."

"Well... currently, it's throwing things. Sharp things, mostly."

"If we can confirm its existence, then it interacts with the physical world. If it interacts with the physical world, we can, theoretically, blow it up."

"Very nice logic, dear," said Sara. "The only problem with that is that blowing things up isn't the go-to solution in this universe."

"That's not a lot of fun," complained Carnage. "I should rescue you. You're clearly NPC's."

"No! You're in a cut-scene! This man has been in this universe for well over nine hundred years, faced down every kind of Boss and did it all with a screwdriver," Sara desperately babbled. "And he did it all on two hearts!"

"Two?" repeated Carnage.

"Just two," said the Doctor.

"So... he's like a technomage."

"A lot like a technomage. Do try to keep up! Physically, too!"

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Challenge #00119: Letter v Spirit

A story in which this:

"It's time to do the right thing!"

"By which you mean commit a major felony."

"Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanours!"

Occurs.

"This is not right," said Sara.

"It is legal, sweetheart," said Daddy. They both knew it, but he had to remind her. Her near-reality orbit frequently ignored things like that which was legal.

"That which is legal is not always right. That which is right is not always legal." Sara looked over the papers in her folder again. "It's time to do the right thing!"

Daddy sighed and rolled his eyes. "By which you mean, commit a major felony."

Sara managed a manic rictus. "Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanours..."

"..which, I have no doubt, you have already planned before the case started in court?"

"I never start any plan without a plan B, Daddy."

"...oh dear. At least let me have plausible deniability?"

"Already part of the works." Sara closed the folder with a menacing smirk. "And I promise I won't break any of the big laws."

"Thank you."

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Challenge #00120: Impressions

Anywhere in the story:

Some people are like Slinkies - Not really good for anything, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push 'em down a flight of stairs

(alternatively, substitute "see 'em fall" for "push 'em")

Sara objected to formal fundraisers at the best of times, and tonight wasn't one of them. Her target, multi-billion-heiress Cairo Ritz[1], was the exact sort of person Sara had grown to despise on sight. Therefore it was something of a supreme effort not to do so to the woman's carefully sculpted face.

"Darling," cooed Cairo. "I simply can not believe you organised the entirety of this gorgeous little soiree."

"It's not as hard as you might think," Sara faked a natural smile and resisted the urge to grit her teeth.

"Obviously. The rare times that the paparazzi snap you, you're always wearing hideous and cheap pret a portier." Translation: street clothes for the plebs.

"I prefer to reserve my budget for more worthy goals, dear," If she believed in heaven or hell, tonight she earned years off of purgatory for not adding a snarl to that sentence.

"Well obviously, it would be difficult to salvage that figure and that face," smiled Cairo.

I will kill you, later. After a thorough kharmic realignment. "Yes. Well. Anyone who can afford ten thousand dollars for a dress she wears once can certainly afford the underwear to match. Or did you leave it somewhere and forget about it when you chose to show it off, last week?"

Cairo's bland, botoxed half-smile faded into a semi-sneer. Point to Sara.

"And speaking of thousands of dollars," Sara continued, taking joy in pretending she had no clue about what had previously issued from her mouth, "there is the issue of sponsored nutrition for the -ah- less than affluent kiddies. You can hold a giant cheque to make sure nobody can see up your dress."

"How kind," Cairo snarked. "I'll think about it."

"The Adrien family will be donating an even million, to begin with," added Sara. She knew without a doubt that Miss Ritz would not allow herself to be overshadowed by someone less telegenic than herself.

Daddy collected her by the elbow as Cairo swanned off to get photographed with prettier people. "That came close to homicide..."

"Some people are like slinkies, Daddy," said Sara. "No functional use whatsoever, but such fun to watch fall down the stairs."

"No pushing her."

"Yes, Daddy," Sara sighed.

[1] Any resemblance between this lady and certain others named after a city and a hotel are strictly imaginary. I swear. Cough.

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Challenge #00121: And That's Why a Platypus.

A Mage teaching their Apprentice an ancient Bio-Hazard Disposal spell for failed experimental breeding subjects (as we all know, the traditional answer for a ridiculous and/or ridiculously dangerous creature is "A Wizard Did It"), and why Australia's wildlife is so... unique. (At least,  according to the  rest (Real Life - Australia portion) of the world.

(And some of us)

"Co-ordinatum expelarmus..."

"Co-ordinatUS, expel-ee-ar-am-us," corrected the master. "One wrong syllable, Mistress Caduceus, and this hazardous waste winds up lining your wardrobe interior."

"What happens to it normally, Master?"

"IF you pronounce the spell correctly, IF you manage the correct grasp of your wand, Master Gask..." The master grasped the offending wrist and moved two fingers an occultly significant few millimetres. "The dangerously mutational waste winds up in a distant land that neither magic nor science can normally reach. Fortunately for everyone, you lot are practicing on harmless, coloured sand."

"What happens to the distant land, sir?"

The master pinched his nose. "Caduceus..."

"Please, sir?"

"Waste magic is toxic. If anything's even alive in there, the cross-firing magics will inevitably create dangerously toxic flora and fauna. Bizarre conglomerate animals like no other on this Earth. Even revivification of ancient animals long since dead. Depending on the spells interactive quotients, of course. You could even wind up with a venomous amphibious mammal that lays eggs!"

The rest of the class giggled.

"Sir?"

The master groaned, "Yes, Caduceus?"

"Have we... Have we thought of -um- making the spells and potions less... toxic?"

The master glared at her. "If we did that, magic itself would be reduced to useless herbology, crystals and mumbo-jumbo. And then science would take over. We don't want that, do we?"

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Challenge #00122: Beside Myself.

Jamie's powers as Multiple - good for pranks and antics and such at his age, but he is, in the end, just a little kid. What if one of the other Xavier Institute kids somehow wound up with his self-duplication abilities for a day or so, how might they (ab)use it? (How would this occur? I dunno, some weird mishap with Rogue or something, maybe. I'll leave details up to you.)

"Make her stop! Make her sto-ho-ho-op!"

"I ain't got nuthin'," said Todd.

"Now three of me now four of me," some of the Saras sang, "Whoops! And more of me!"

Five were juggling Forge's creations around and seven were simul-cleaning in a way that bought new horror to the phrase 'cleanup fairy'. One was editing the math currently on Forge's big board.

"You know," said one scrubbing the ceiling. "For such a genius, you certainly have astonishingly large holes in your field of expertise."

"All you gotta do is reverse the experiment, yo."

"But I can't figure out how," Forge wailed.

"Then you gotta put up with all o' her helpin' you," Todd shrugged.

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Challenge #00123: Strategy and the Zen of Faking it

The surest way to hit your target is to shoot first and call whatever you hit your target.

"That's a long way down. You must be pretty determined."

"Thanks. I wanted to make certain this was one thing I couldn't fuck up."

"Finals?"

"Finals is only the start of it," she said. "I lost my flat, my girlfriend, my car, my pet, my parents... failing finals just means a lifetime of student debt and a suck-ass nowhere job in the middle of fail town."

"What was your major."

"Business and pre-law."

Jones whistled backwards. "That's a high target to hit."

"I had to get outta fail-town. Business and law are lossless industries."

"So's porn, but few actually aim to get there." Jones peeked over the edge. "You're getting a crowd."

"First time for everything."

"Big family or social issues?"

"I dunno." She sat on the edge. "I'm just... invisible. I'm not pretty. I'm obviously not smart. I'm not talented. I wasted all my time on stupid photomontages instead of studying. I wish I'd never even thought of OwlBearGryphon."

"No shit. You did OwlBearGryphon? That stuff's the bomb! You gotta be making tons of money."

"No, that'd be the people who put OwlBearGryphon on shirts and badges and crap like that. I never put a pixel towards the OwlBearGryphon game or did a frame of that stoopid cartoon... Hundreds of people are making millions and I can't see a cent..."

"My Nanna always said, 'The surest way to hit your target is to shoot first and call whatever you hit your target.' Seems to me you've got things a little backwards. Especially all the 'can't's and 'not's."

"...and here comes the bullshit..."

"It's just my opinion, mind," said Jones. "But you are talented. You are smart. And... Ithinkyou'repretty... I bet you've got lots of stuff on your computer or whatever that can be just as great as OwlBearGryphon. And nowhere near as... vulnerable."

"...yeah...?"

"Yeah. Like... if you want to keep something as your intellectual property, you shouldn't put it up on FreeToPlayWith dot com."

"See? I told you I was stupid."

"There's a difference between stupid and uninformed. While we live, we learn." Jones sidled closer. "I'd like it a lot if you gave living another go."

She wiped her face. Looked at Jones for the first time. "You aren't a cop."

"No, I'm a failing artist with an ear for business who came up here with similar ideas. And then I saw you and my whole world changed."

She swung around. Put her weathered sneakers on the gravel of the roof. "So how about a failed business lawyer and a failed arts major team up and see what we can make with each other?"

"Sounds like a deal to me," said Jones. "And you know the best thing about meeting someone on the worst day of their life?"

"What?"

"It can only get better."

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Challenge #00124: A New Take on an Old Classic.

To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

To a man with only a hammer, a screw is a defective nail.

To a man with only a nail, everything looks like a hammer.

She ran through the darkened streets, harsh breathing absorbed by the endless fog of Lower Cogtown. She'd lost the whistles of the gendarmerie five streets ago, but that was no reason to stop.

It was no reason to even slow.

To a man with a hammer, every problem looked like a nail.

To a man with a screwdriver, every nail was defective.

But heaven help you - and only heaven could help you - if all you had was a hex nut.

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**Challenge #00125: Philip K. Dick Said it Best:**

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."

"This," announced the Doctor, "is the Monastery of the Believers."

"The believers in...?" prompted Sally.

"Everything. Everything that is. And a few things that aren't. They devote a lifetime to it. Each devotee is not allowed to have the item they're meant to believe in."

Sally peeked through the slot. A monk knelt on the floor, writing or praying or both.

"So they're a believer in chairs?"

"Yes. Fella three doors down believes in tables. Poor man has to do his writing on the floor."

"Ouch..."

"I feel sorry for the lady at the end of the hall. She believes in cushions."

"Why go to all this bother?" Sally asked. "Things had to exist before people believed in them."

The Doctor gave her one of his smirks. "Did they? Or were they just collections of atoms with a convenient shape and a familiar name?"

Sally would spend the rest of her life asking herself that question.

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Challenge #00126: Be Interested to See What You do With This One:

"Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?

\- Mark Twain

There were designated busking zones on any station large enough to attract the kind of itinerant population that gathered Minutes by entertaining passersby.

Amalgam had hundreds of them.

Rael knew from long, and partially agonising experience, that Shayde loved them like nothing else. In the hours not taken up by duty, she would take her 'axe' down to one at random, and play for pocket change. Allegedly so she could 'unwind'.

This from a being who entertained herself by winding other people up.

The surprisingly unjust part of it was that she could always afford to feed the both of them after just a few sets.

This time, she'd found a dismal corner calling itself the Slop Shop. It catered to the sort of clientele who knew they couldn't afford anything better and didn't want to pretend to try.

Shayde ordered a meat pie floater to start and spotted someone in a booth.

They were having the Impoverished Special, which consisted solely of whatever fruit one could get away with picking from the nearest orchard before security got interested. This pallid and washed-out soul was staring at their lone apple in near suicidal despondency.

"Ey up," said Shayde. One of her many, many call signs of doom. She left her stool to park herself opposite the truly unlucky one in the booth. "Why d'ye sit there lookin' like an envelope without any address on it?"

"En-ve-lope?" echoed the sallow saurian. He looked to Rael for translation and fished in his pocket. All he had to offer was Seconds.

"She asks why you are sad and despondent," said Rael. He not only pushed back the Seconds, but palmed an extra Minute into the man's sad pile.

"I came to see the universe. I believed I could trade on my talent... but nobody notices me."

"D'ye get stage fright?"

"I do admit nervousness," the saurian confessed. "But that shouldn't alter my performance."

Shayde handed across a ten Minute coin. "Gi' us a song, then. Up ye pop like you would in t' hall."

The instant he started playing, the poor creature blended in with the walls.

"Scared o' muckin' up, aye?"

"Er... yes?"

"I'm gonna give ye an' old Earth song ye can't possibly muck up. It's designed to be played bad." This time, Shayde took the dais.

It was horrible. The tune was both random and out of key, as for the singing the only creature it could attract was possibly a lovesick cat.

And the words... well... they got to the point.

"OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH.... Give me some moNEY! Just gIVe me some MOneeeeyyyy! You can drop it right hErE on the groUND! And if you don't give me enO-OUGH, I'll foLLow you HOme... and sIng outSIde your winDOw for the rest of your LIIIIIIIIIFFFFE!"

The saurian blinked. His anger colours flushed. "I shall not," he announced, "need to play that song."

"Think of it when ye play the good stuff, then. You omnivorous?"

"Er... yes?"

"Than I can shout ye another floater. You look like you need feedin'."

The young saurian again looked to Rael.

"Shayde has a habit of feeding strays," he announced. "She thinks it will count for her in her afterlife."

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Challenge #00127: One Fine Day in the Diplomatic Offices

Never trust a bald barber, a skinny cook, a woodworker with missing fingers, or a lawyer in any situation.

"Ooo, na that's plush," said Shayde. She'd laid her accent on thicker so that she sounded less educated. Irony for the purposes of self-entertainment, because nobody nearby was going to get it.

"This is a standard diplomat's office," said the local Director of the Corps Diplomatique.

"An' the aspidistra's free?"

"Plant life is mandatory," said Director Chem. "There's a small maintenance fee if you do not wish to care for it yourself."

Shayde nodded, brushing the leaves.

There was a timid knock, which turned out to belong to a mousy young human with an abundance of nose and a severe lack of chin.

"I was, mmm, sent here?"

Director Chem smiled. "Yes. We've been expecting you. Ambassador Shayde, this is Blenkinsop. He's from our affiliate law team."

Shayde stopped rotating on her chair as if she had stopped time. "Yernotsuin'meIgotdiplomaticimmunity, yerbasterd."

"Um. I'm, mmm, your lawyer?"

"And yer name's Blenkinsop."

"Mmm, yes?"

"Ye got any others?"

"Mmm, no?"

"Yer name's Blenkinsop Blenkinsop..."

"Escuse me, no. It's just, mmm, Blenkinsop?"

Shayde stared at him. Then turned to Director Chem. "Yer kiddin' me, yeah?"

Blenkinsop sidled up to Rael. "Um. Does she, mmm, speak Galstand?"

"It's the accent," said Rael. "You get used to it. As for her... colourful idioms, I'm compiling a lexicon."

"Ah. Mmm. Good?"

"Reet," said Shayde, now sitting on the desk. She had her index finger tapping the pinkie of her opposite hand, which meant she was sorting out what was happening and about to make a collection of obvious statements with her own twist of understanding. "So I'm a full-time ambassador wi' no country tae go home to, an' I still get an office and a lawyer."

"Yes," said Director Chem.

"He looks weaselly enough," Shayde noted.

"Mmm... thank you?"

"Acts a lot mousey, though."

Blenkinsop looked to Rael.

"Timid," he supplied.

"Um. Yes? I can, mmm, see where that impression is, mmm, made?" Blenkinsop toed the carpet and picked at his fingernails. "But... I'm, mmm, out of my environment? Um. In a court? I'm, mmm, quite good?"

"Reet," Shayde deadpanned. "We'll see about tha'." She flicked a drawer out, then back in. "Let's do lunch. My shout."

"You don't have to, mmm, feed me. My offices pay for, mmm, all expenses."

Shayde swung over the desk and seized the smaller man by the shoulders. "Me Mam always said, never trust a skinny cook, a bald barber, a carver or demo man wi' fingers missin'... or a lawyer in any situation. I feel way more comfy about it all when you're in a state of owin' me one."

He was left, trembling in the middle of the carpet, when she breezed towards the door. Rael took his elbow and steered Blenkinsop after her. "Believe it or not, that was a friendly gesture."

"Mmm?"

"If there was going to be trouble, she'd call you 'pal'," he explained. "And possibly ask if your mother can sew..."

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Challenge #00128: A Blessing? Or a Curse?

We've all wanted to go back and unsay that one hurtful thing - or at the very least, apologise before a chance at a friendship is lost - utter those words that got us mocked that time, undo that stupid thing that cost us self-respect and possibly more.

Only thing is: Who could stop at one?

Kylie blinked. There were now three of her in her room. Two were older. Both dressed in identical old-fart clothes that spoke loudly of their devotion to the hegemonic norm.

"Don't go to the party," said the one on the left side of her mirror as she continued to apply makeup. "It'll be the worst mistake you ever make."

"Are you kidding me?" said the her on the right side of the mirror. "Not going to the party was the biggest mistake of my life!"

"I got roofied and raped and slut-shamed! How could your life be any worse than that?"

"Um. Excuse me? My social life imploded after that party. Anyone who was there had all the breaks. I was ostracised as a nerd and never got anywhere."

"I thought going to this party would stop me getting ostracised as a nerd," said Kylie the younger. "And the people who are there anyway? They're the social elite. They'd get all the breaks regardless."

The two other Kylies stared at each other. "The whole thing was a set-up?" they said in unison.

"You know what?" said Kylie the younger. "I might anonymously call in about a rowdy party with drugs and then show up late with Starbucks."

The two other Kylies vanished under the ripple effect. Kylie smiled and finished her lipstick. It wouldn't be so bad, but versions of her just kept on turning up over the most improbable things.

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Challenge #00129: "I'm Impressed"

Scott's 11th straight victory in court and the slight but unmistakeable praise that Glee gives him upon not making an ass of himself while under the cosh. She also admits something about her personal which Scott almost, ALMOST misses in his joy of not losing...again.

"Not guilty."

Scott quietly breathed out and shared a hug with his client, a kid who was still manifesting and had, in a fit of excitement, fear and hiccoughs, accidentally incinerated a car.

"Thanks for the heads-up Mr Summers," said Barbary. He clutched the card with the address and contact details of Xavier's institute like a more normal person would clutch at their last chance.

"Not a problem. Everyone needs a second chance. You'll be in good hands."

The kid shot off at warp nine for friends and family while he tidied up his papers.

"That makes eleven," noted Glee. "Quite the straight number."

"All it takes to ruin a streak is one," said Scott.

"So defeatist. You should celebrate. Go have some fun." Glee snapped her own briefcase shut with compact efficiency. "You earned it."

"They're your tactics. You should come along."

"The difference between you and me, Mr Summers," said Glee, "is I scare people."

Scott watched her go. And he thought that he had a knack for finding the ashes of defeat in the pyrotechnics of victory...

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Challenge #00130: Why Would You Do This to Me?

The noodle incident. Name names.

AN: The whole point of Noodle Incidents is you never find out exactly what happened. See the [Trope Page. Grats, you made this author scream in anguish.]

Sherlock had separated them. Rael, at least, got a hot meal and something to occupy his hands. "So. What do you know?"

"Admittedly, not a lot," said Rael, getting his credentials straight right off the bat. "I'm not a historian. I only study the elements of Terran culture that cross my path on a frequent basis. And... well... Shayde is a strange occurrence magnet. This sort of thing very quickly becomes background noise."

"It's not background noise when a larger portion of the Elemeno is covered in noodles," said Sherlock.

"I had barely enough warning before it -ah- landed."

"Landed," echoed Sherlock.

"Apparently, bubble realities land," said Rael. "And we found ourselves in a kitchen that was, to my best guess, designed by M. C. Escher and H. P. Lovecraft."

"A kitchen."

"Yes. The bubble reality also included what looked to be an illegally augmented wolf, a robot with the intelligence of a standard Augment, the -uh- squid in the environment suit. I mentioned him previously."

"It's in my growing file," sighed Sherlock. "Do go on."

"There was also a small child of about seven and a sometimes-tiger. I think."

"Sometimes... tiger."

"It spent half its time as a plush toy. The other half, it stood in an upright stance and acted like... a human."

"And where do the noodles come in?"

"There was a voice. It came from... everywhere. It shouted, 'Ready, Set, Cook' and then all this... pasta... came down. Shayde started knitting it. The kid was trying something with ketchup and pepperoni. The other three were alternately running away or trying to black-box the -uh- noodle font. And... since it was pooling around my calves..."

"You endeavoured to eat it," concluded Sherlock.

"Yes." Rael sighed and rubbed his temple. "Once Shayde finished knitting a kein bottle—"

"Knitting... a klein bottle..."

"Are you doubting my memory?" challenged Rael.

"How does one knit a klein bottle?"

"In two-two rib, apparently...." Rael coughed. "Once it was finished, the reality burst and all trapped individuals went back to their home realities. And... some of the contents went with them."

"Leaving noodles, sauce, and sundry... stains... sprayed at high velocity over a ten cubic SDU area."

"Yes," said Rael, glad of his understanding.

"None of this," said Sherlock, "can be proven. At all."

"Imagine the trouble the other residents might be having..."

Meanwhile and Elsewhen...

"It wasn't me, Mom," protested Calvin, in the middle of a blast zone of noodles, sauce, and mystery stains. "It was space aliens, honest! It really was! It wouldn't have happened if the giant talking dog hadn't tried to take apart the noodle nozzle..."

"Bath. Bed. No dinner," said Mom. She was red-faced furious.

Calvin wasn't certain if this was a lucky escape or not.

With sincere apologies to [Bill Watterson and Freefall. Obviously, I took liberties.]

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Challenge #00131: Conversations on the Twilight Zone

Jean, Wanda and a little bit of bonding over astral physics. Todd makes an appearance.

"Saw you in the dream-realm, last night," said Jean. "You were... not exactly hallucinating? I thought I could help."

"That was you? But you were—"

"Probably veiled behind a curtain of your understanding. I'm sorry about that. I backed off when I realised what was happening."

"I don't understand what you're saying..."

Jean sighed. "Sometimes? People find themselves on the astral plane. I try to help them out when I can. You must have some deep-buried issues to summon those phantoms."

"...they seemed real..."

Jean sat. "It's okay. If you manage to find your way into the astral plane again, you need to remember that you are ultimately in control. Everything you see and hear in the astral plane comes from your own mind."

"But... those things..."

"Tell you what. Next time I find you lost? I'll salute three times so you know it's me. I can help."

"Yo, X-geek. What'cha doin'?" Todd challenged as he landed.

"Trying to help," said Jean. "I'm going now."

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Challenge #00132: Once Upon a Nightmare

A feverish nightmare from the slumbering mind of Duncan Matthews...while totally awake.

"How can you stand to breathe the same air as that thing?"

"Hm?" said Jean, her mind had been elsewhere.

Duncan pointed to Essel. "That tranny garbage. I heard you and that are roomies?"

"Well, at least she doesn't steal my clothes," said Jean. Her tired voice and monotone said nothing to Duncan. Nor did the notes she clung to with a white-knuckled grip.

"Honestly, being in the same house with that thing would give me nightmares. If I could sleep at all."

"Really," said Jean.

Duncan ignored her glare of doom. "Yeah. Trying to figure out all the different ways it could try and rape someone. Has it got rid of the -uhm..."

Jean just raised an eyebrow.

"Ol' chicken neck?" he made jerky motions near his crotch area.

"She doesn't need to. She never had one," said Jean. If Duncan had been listening, he would have heard the icy tones of death in her voice.

"Euw. I don't even want to think about it."

"You have no clue," said Jean. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be trapped in the wrong body? Can you even imagine if you woke up in the body of a girl?"

"Yeah. Easy." He quickly mimed shooting himself in the head.

"Thanks for telling me that my life is only worth ending," she said. And with that, she stormed off to talk with the freak, without giving any kind of clue as to what he'd done or said wrong.

Bitch.

He didn't quite remember the rest of the day. Only that things otherwise went better than expected. Plans did not muck up thanks to whichever lunkhead who had had a funny idea. He had dinner, argued with his parents, and went to bed.

And woke up with tits.

Big, bouncy, and surprisingly painful tits. And his junk had gone. Vanished. He was still himself. His face was still his own. But his body...

His body was now a target.

For every guy...

Just.

Like.

Him.

He opened his closet and found it full of frilly pink things. There were bras where he used to stow his wife-beaters. Panties where his jocks should have gone.

And -euw- feminine things and a helpful calendar outlining 'trigger week' in red.

"Are you coming down anytime soon?" said Mom, hanging around his door.

"I'm a girl..."

"Ah," said Mom with some relief. "Progress at last. I knew this whole thing with pretending you're a boy had to end sometime. Come on. Find something pretty and fix your face or you're going to be late!"

She was gone before he could protest.

There were no belts. No necklaces. Nothing to wrap around his neck and no plastic bags he could smother himself with.

There was an optimistic card on his dresser. Apparently congratulating him for staying alive for three months. Someone had written, "Way to go girl!" and he had, evidently, crossed out the 'girl' and written 'boy' over and over again until there was no space left. Even inside the O's of other 'boy's.

"Dunc!"

Duncan snorted. He was still on the bench. Still staring at Jean and the tranny freak-show.

Graydon leaned into his field of view. "You okay, Dunc?"

He blinked. Shook it off. "Yeah. I thought those mushrooms on that pizza were a bit weird."

"You trippin'? Seriously? Man, I should have some of that pizza tomorrow."

"Don't," he said. "It's a bad trip." He did a covert check. Pecs. Junk. Normal. He was normal. A real boy in the body of a real boy.

"You wanna play Trash the Tranny?"

"Not... today. Listen, I'm not feeling great. I'm'a have to bail. Kay?"

"Yeah. Sure. Food poisoning's no fun. Catch you later."

"Yeah," said Duncan. He went home. Said nothing, and went quietly to bed. Afraid to sleep. Afraid that once more he would wake up in the wrong body. And almost eternally grateful when he didn't.

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Challenge #00133: Creep

Anywhere in the story: "The element of surprise didn't so much rest upon someone hearing you but registering the significance of your approach."

"Okay," said Rael. "They stole my coat. They somehow turned off your powers. We have, perhaps, two hours at most before they set off their doomsday bomb and all we have is the contents of a rather spacious storage closet with nothing useful in it. What, might I ask, is your big plan?"

Shayde, currently alarmingly pale, shorter, and red-headed, kept grinning as she piled the trolley with assorted bits and bobs. "Find a box tae hide in an' occupy the bottom shelf. Trust me. I'm gonna use stealth."

Stealth.

Well, in a pinch, even a hair-brained plan was better than no plan at all. Rael picked a box and squeezed himself inside. If anything was more alarming than watching Shayde mutter to herself as she assembled a scheme, it was listening to the same muttering with no other sensory input.

The door opened. The trolley rolled out, accompanied by aimless whistling that, though it failed to actually hit a tune, managed to molest quite a few in passing.

The wheels rattled and shook. The entire trolley made a cacophony as it trundled down the heavily guarded hallway.

"No admittance," said the guard.

"Got deliv'ry order fer t' main interface controller," that was Shayde's voice, but she managed to nail the local low-caste dialect as if she'd lived in the alleys all her life.

"No admittance."

"What's yer name, then, sonny Jim?"

Flakk. Sonny Jim. One of the many, many call-signs of impending doom a la Shayde. Rael cringed in anticipation.

"Why?"

"So I can tell me boss that one... Sergeant... Ro-ourke... failed to allow 'is supremeness t' get 'is crullers. An ye know 'ow 'e likes 'em fresh."

The impassable door hissed open. The trolley rattled onwards in a similar fashion through three more.

And, like a miracle, they were in the countdown chamber.

"That was not stealth!" Rael protested as he sabotaged. "That was the opposite of stealth. It was the antithesis of stealth."

"Na, it was past stealth an' through to it's true opposite. White noise."

Of course. The element of surprise didn't so much rest upon someone hearing you but registering the significance of your approach. And Shayde did love hiding in plain sight.

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Challenge #00134: Ding, Dong, Is The Witch Really Dead?

Jelly, Ice Cream, Maggie Thatcher and Sara's obsession with all things empirical.

"Ah, the end of an era," sighed Sara.

Kitty peeked. She was watching international news over a bowl of jelly and ice-cream, where people were protesting in the streets and holding giant puppets. It was interspersed with grainy old stock footage of people rioting. "Normally I like, ignore your what-the-heck moments, but... What the heck?"

"Margret Thatcher has passed on."

Kitty waited for further explanation. When none was forthcoming, she prompted, "Which means...?"

"Some rather grousome celebrations," Sara indicated the TV. "I'm trying to grok it, myself. She was elected Prime Minister for—"

"Prime what?"

Sigh. "Sort of like the President of England."

"Okay." Kitty tried to ignore the fact that Sara had just said that in her lowest-common-denominator voice.

"Anyway, she was elected Prime Minister for thirty-some years. They kept re-electing her for that time, despite the fact that she kept doing things they hated. Remember V?"

"Yeah, that was a cool movie."

"Yes. Well. The original comic was written as a sort of protest against Maggie Thatcher's regime."

"Wait. How could they keep voting for her for that long? There's term limits and stuff."

"Not in England, dear."

"England's like, weird."

"Everywhere's weird when you don't live there. Just ask Kurt."

"So they hated her?"

"Yup."

"But they kept voting for her."

"Yes."

"And now she's dead they're like, celebrating?"

"Indeed."

Kitty sat on the floor and stared at the images. "Would this be something like a war breaking out if like, George W. Bush died?"

"...which will possibly happen... But yes, you have rather nailed it."

Kitty pondered the odds of Sara joking about that. Then figured out how old W. was and how likely it was that he'd pass anytime soon. "I'm'a go see how good our emergency shelter is."

"Good thought."

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Challenge #00135: Ethical Heroism

Sam, Scott and defeating monsters while keeping one's dignity.

The alleged victim was a monster. Scott had no doubt, because he was privy to a lot of stuff that the prosecution's lawyers had managed to get removed from this trial.

The exact kind of monster who sued his victim.

Things were looking very bad, especially since his mutant defendant looked like a cross between a warthog and cthulu. Jurors judged by appearances, and none of Sara's magic style advice could help a face full of tusks and tentacles.

Even Glee was lost for tactics.

"I saw the file," said Sam. "Need some fatherly advice?"

"I need a miracle," said Scott. "Got one of those in your time lord pockets?" It was an in-joke. Sam had an astounding amount of useful things concealed in his pockets.

"I've faced down monsters like this in the courtroom before," he said, "The only thing you can do is make them out themselves as monsters."

"Sara would do a job on him."

"Sara, thankfully, is in Australia and can only blog about this. You might want to check her Tumblr."

"Oh?"

"Lots of publicly available information. Free from legal censorship. Why, any idiot with Google could find it."

"Thank-you-I-think."

"Just look it up," Sam smiled.

He did, with Glee shoulder-surfing. It was amazing what could be found in the age of over-sharing.

"Ding," said Glee, "Ding. Ding. We have a winner."

*

It was his first win with the victim going off in chains for a rightfully-deserved lifetime stint in Solitary. And, thanks to Kurt and his famous tail, he could hug a scared fifteen-year-old with tentacle hair and not gag. Or flinch.

"There's some people who'd like to meet you, Tammy."

Kurt, Sara, and Greer. All without their holograms on. All in street clothes. Sara had finally stopped growing at 6'1", and conspired to look like she'd just stepped off a catwalk wherever she went.

Tammy tried to hide behind her hands, which were not adequate to the task. "They're all too beautiful."

"Nonsense," said Kurt, turning on his charm. "The rest of the world is too ugly. We can take you somewhere safe, where you can learn anything you want to."

"I... don't know..."

"Sweetie," cooed Greer, "You're still too young to live on your own, yet. Xavier's will at least help you to gain confidence in the face of prejudice. And give you real-world life skills."

"And we're really prepared for mutant babies," said Sara.

Tammy clutched at her middle protectively. "You're not going to take—?"

Sara bought out her holoviewer. "Here's my family and I. Todd's the handsome one with the goatee."

And, Scott noticed, completely overpowered by a four-year-old entranced by Princesses and Ponies.

Tammy giggled behind her hands. "Nice ribbons."

"Soshanna thought so," said Sara. "Would you like something to eat, before we go? Or to go before we go? I know most potential students like to book at warp nine, but biology wins in your case."

For the first time, Tammy was making a decision on her own. "Well. I do need to pee..."

"Need an escort?"

"Thank you."

Not much of a beginning, he thought as he watched them leave. But then, he couldn't exactly criticise.

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Challenge #00136: Monster in My House

Mr. Winters and how he ruined Scott Summers. Xavier makes an appearance.

Scott Summers devoted as much time as he could to extracurricular activities. If they were free ones, all the better. Money was a problem for Scott.

Mister Winters did not like Scott wasting money.

The ones that earned money were better, and funded the ones that didn't. And sometimes contributed to his dinner.

But he had to be home by seven. Or Mister Winters would get angry.

Mister Winters got... unpredictable... when he was angry.

Scott didn't want to make him angry. He did everything he could, every day, to make absolutely, positively certain that Mister Winters was as happy as he could be. Every morning, he got up the instant he heard the alarm clock in the neighbours' house. Cleaned himself carefully with a washcloth and soap and as little water as he could get away with. He re-bound his eyes and cooked Mister Winters' favourite breakfast by smell and feel.

Eggs. Sunny side up. Bacon. Toast. Golden brown and fried in the bacon grease. A one-inch thick slice of steak tomato, also fried. Sausage, pork. Lightly salted and peppered. Cooked to a T. Set up in Mister Winters' place in front of his best chair and a hot coffee and an ice-cold beer. Knife, fork, cup and glass all just so on the tray.

And all the mess cleaned away before he could see it.

Only when Mister Winters slumped in his chair would Scott find and clean a bowl and spoon before helping himself to whatever cereal had the least bugs in it.

There was no milk. Milk was for pussies.

He ate quick. He had to finish before Mister Winters or he would notice. Things went bad when he noticed. He swallowed his last mouthful and got to washing up before the telltale creak that meant Mister Winters had got up again.

"What in hell do you call this?"

Scott offered his hand for it. It was only sometimes that Mister Winters remembered that Scott was effectively blind.

"Ah, shit," gnarled hands put cold glass in his.

His fingers traced the label. "Feels like... your beer?"

"Stupid-ass shit," growled Winters. "Can't see it, can ya, cloth-eyes?"

Crap. He was angry. No matter what he did, things were going to go bad. People asked dangerous questions when he came to school with bruises. Questions that got Mister Winters mad. Questions that caused more pain.

And sometimes the inspectors came, and made sure the house was clean and that Scott had access to food and water and hygiene. Made certain he had clean clothes.

And did exactly nothing about anything that was happening beyond that. Because if he told the truth, nothing legal was done, and Winters would be vicious for months afterwards. If he told the right lies, there was a passing chance Winters would only use his belt for one night, and forget about his fists for at least a week. Figuring out which was the best thing to do was a no-brainer.

Somehow, during today's beating, his bandages came off. They were cheaper than sunglasses, which some of the rich mean kids stole for laughs and then mocked his scars. And he could make them out of any old rag Winters let him have. What happened next... was confusing.

He saw.... the table, the floor, the pile of porn that the inspectors ignored because Scott was blind. The opposite wall. All tearing away in the force of a bright red light. He felt lifted up. Tossed like a rag doll against the other wall. And then all feeling was gone.

Consciousness. After what he'd just seen, Scott did not want to open his eyes again. He used all his senses to figure out what was going on.

Old pleather. The back seat of Mister Winters' car, replete with the stink of old sex from when the old man could rent a woman for some fun. And the miasma of rotten take-out. Moving. Just a hair on the side of legal. Rush Limbaugh on the radio. Soft cussing from the drivers' seat.

He started to sit up.

"Stay down, asshat. I tole everyone you were in hospital."

Scott huddled in place. Breathing shallowly so he didn't have to choke on the stink of the back-seat cushions. He tried to count the turns and measure the distance, but he had no starting point, and no idea where he was.

At last, they stopped.

Winters got out. Opened a back door. "Out." And then dragged him out anyway. Roughly pushed him in conflicting directions. Manhandled his head.

"Sumbitches think they goin' steal money off'n me... sumbitches got another think comin'..." Winters mumbled.

It was cold, and he was still in his singlet and shorts. What passed for pyjamas. It was quiet. "Is it night time?"

"Shaddup an' open your eyes, idjit."

"I don't wanna hurt anyone or anything," risked Scott. It was the first time he objected to anything Winters told him to do.

Fist to the kidneys. Rough hands wrenching him up by the hair. Alcohol-infused breath in his face. "When I say open your eyes, scumnuts, you open them right up! Now OPEN! THEM! EYES!"

He was right in front of Scott.

The last thing Scott saw was Winter's face as he realised this. Seconds before his head both blew apart, and off.

Scott shut his eyes just as the red light hit the ATM and shattered the money-box. He tore off Winter's weather-worn sleeve and desperately wrapped his eyes with it. And then, because something warm, wet and sticky was touching his leg, Scott got up and walked, carefully, until he found a reference point.

Good wall. Nice wall. Warm wall. It mustn't have been far into the night because it retained the heat of the day. Therefore, west wall. He followed it away from the scene. Tried to sop up as much heat as he could before he had to go in other directions.

Car. blocking his escape. Pulling up just as he ran out of wall.

"Hello, Scott."

"Who are you?" he asked. "Not a friend of Mister Winters?"

"No. I never had the misfortune of meeting him. My name is Professor Charles Xavier. And I would like to help you."

Someone wrapped him up in something warm. Someone who smelled like spices and hot, lazy days. "My name's Ororo. Would you like to come with us?"

There was take-out chicken in the car. Fresh. There were no other answers but, "Yes, please?"

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Challenge #00137: One Fine Day in a Play Park

Shayde and Nanny have a semi-civilised chat while watching the artist take a LOOOOONG overdue day off in the park to recharge. Vendors notice the juxtaposition with mild curiosity.

Julie was on the swings. Laughing. She'd been on them for half an hour and, without any other instruction, was likely to stay on them for the rest of the day.

"Be careful," Nanny barked for the fifth time since Julie had sat in the swing.

"Aw, rest yerself, love. They got all sorts of features in this place. We'll watch Julie together, eh?"

Nanny made a very dog-like noise in the back of her throat, halfway between a whine and a growl.

"She's safe," soothed Shayde, "I guarantee it."

Nanny settled at last to the spread in front of her. A dog-friendly menu that included, amongst the many options, blue steak in peanut sauce. Nanny chose the fish and select steamed vegetables.

"I never saw a dog eat wi' a knife and fork," said Shayde. "D'ye remember learnin'? Training with Julie?"

"Julie is good girl," said Nanny. "Happy memories. She teach, she learns. Nanny helps. Nanny good dog."

"Aye, good dog."

Nanny's tail whisked the ground behind their bench seats as it wagged. "You are good girl," said Nanny.

Shayde, knowing better, bit her tongue to stop the mischief coming out. "She doin' better after I made the bad man go away?"

"Julie sleep soundly," said Nanny. "No more nightmares. No more stress screams. She has all good days, since bad man gone."

"Glad I could help."

And just in time, Rael came back with the ninety-nines. Of course, part of the delay was explaining what a ninety-nine was. Their monetary value had changed since her last time on Earth.

"Lunch time," Nanny panicked. "Lunch time for Julie!"

"Watch this," Shayde grinned. "ICE CREAM!"

Julie almost jumped off the swing and landed running, heading like an arrow to the table.

"Ev'ry time," Shayde grinned.

"Ice cream is sometimes food," complained Nanny.

"Today is a sometimes day," said Shayde. "We start with desert an' work our way back to starters." She handed the Augmented dog a special version of the ninety-nine over. One made to be good for dogs.

"Good Nanny," said Julie, taking her own ice cream from Rael. "This is a really fun day. I like fun days."

Nanny sized Shayde up with a special Look. It said, I know you're not all-the-way good, but you are good today. And you are good for Julie. Those matter to me. But set a foot wrong with either of us and you're in for some very real trouble.

Shayde nodded. She'd understood that from the moment they'd met. Besides, in her eyes, Julie was a child. She would never do anything to harm a child.

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Challenge #00138: Wrong Call

End with: "Only as the full measure of events came to bear did he realise that she was WAY out of his league."

The envelope was fancy. Paul checked it five times to make sure that the embellished envelope had actually made it to the right destination. But there weren't that many Paul Pleskins in Southwark County. And only one in the trailer park where he eked out an existence doing day work and temp jobs.

The return address was unfamiliar to him. Somewhere so socially and economically distant from the Roach Ranch that it may as well have been on Mars.

According to the invite, someone was going to pick him up a week in advance to help him 'dress and appear appropriately' for his date with Charlize Dayton.

Who the fuck was Charlize Dayton?

He asked around and eventually found a fanboy who described her as ONLY the singular most fantastic example of womanhood ever to breathe air. She was in a whole shitton of movies and TV playing awesome femme fatales and strong women roles without showing off as a sexualised object.

Translated to Paulspeak - she played a lot of frigid bitches.

But the face... the face bought back memories.

No.

It couldn't be...

Chubby Charlie. The fat little nerd bitch who wouldn't give it up to him when he was on a hog hunt back in high school. No wonder she was playing frigid bitches, she had so much practice.

Still, it was hard to turn down a limo and free food.

He put on his best job interview outfit on the day. Hell, he even shaved. And waited by the gates for the appointed limo.

It came with a personal assistant. Mark. So gay he farted rainbows and talked musicals. And every time Paul told him to keep his distance, he would say, "Oh. I'm sorry. Did coming on to you in an unwelcome way make you feel uncomfortable? Am I making poor heterosexual you nervous? News flash, boot's on the other foot and kicking your ass, baby."

What in the flying hell?

The hotel was fabulous. Luxurious. They spent an entire day just making him clean and relaxed. The food was top-end foreign muck that almost made him retch. But free food was free food and he wasn't about to refuse just because of wasabi.

Damn stuff nearly burned his whole tongue to a cinder.

And then he met Chubby Charlie again.

She'd grown UP.

Tall, sculpted... almost the perfect ideal of womanhood. Except for the muscles. Damn girl was beefier than he was. And she still fit into Coco Chanel like she'd been poured into it.

"Damn. What happened to you?"

"Ten years of an absence of Hog Hunts, and the assholes who instigate them," said Charlie. Her voice was like silk with a knife under it. All soft and smooth, but with a dangerous, hidden edge.

There was a security goon between him and her on the ride to the shindig they were going to. Paul could feel the bitchiness.

"What's the big idea of inviting me along if we can't fuck? I mean, you gotta be regretting missing out on all this," a gesture towards his loins, "all them years ago to invite me along, right?"

She laughed. The most indulgent laugh he'd heard since grammy caught him stealing cookies and he'd lied about space aliens. "Poor deluded Paul... This isn't for you. It's for me to show you what you missed out on."

The limo stopped. Someone helped her out of the car. Paul trailed behind the security goon to watch the Paparazzi follow her every twitch. She met up with some Chippendale-esque hunk on a dais and kissed him.

The hunk also had a lost and confused-looking date. Even the best of dresses and makeup couldn't hide the lingering marks of drug abuse and low-living. He saw those same marks on the monitor when the cameras focussed on him.

Paul Pleskin, the subtitle read. Charlize Dayton's charity case.

Charity case? He was a charity case now? For Chubby Charlie?

Only as the full measure of events came to bear did he realise that she was WAY out of his league.

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Challenge #00139: Offerings of Embarrassment

Cherry pie.

JOATs, by and large, are nocturnal. Either by accident or design, they largely manage to find themselves awake at 3AM when sleep is impossible and the ideas flow like a madman's flood and nothing, NOTHING is impossible.

Rael, designed to be useful during most hours of the day, only needed a few hours' rest in his heated fish tank before being functional once more. He rather liked the, for JOATS, earlier hours of 7AM to 10AM when everyone else was asleep and the JOAT quarter of the Elemeno was relatively quiet.

He should have noted the singing. He should have heard it instead of dismissing it as background noise. He should definitely paid attention to the words. Or the fact that it was coming closer. Or who was singing. With what accent.

He could easily have pretended he was not home. Or tried to. Finding out that Shadow Elementals could home in on people like some banned gene-tracking weapon... well, that had been painful in interesting new ways. He could have easily hunkered under his tank stand and pretended he was resting.

But no. In a fit of absent-minded inattention, he answered the door. And, having answered the door, he'd let her in.

And now it was too late.

Shayde was in his public area, setting up a table and talking about her experiment.

"...cherry pie. Well, it started off as a cherry pie, but then I got tae thinkin' how all that sugar doesnae have any stayin' power ye ken. So it turned intae a grunt. Kinda."

"...grunt..."

"That's a pie wi' cake on top. Only I figured tha' it's no' real fair how all the flavour's under t' cake so I thought about what went well with cherries, and bingo! Low GI dark chocolate an' cherry grunt."

Still relatively hot from the oven. Coated in ganache and decorated with real cream and yet more cherries.

He was really going to have to stop mentioning favoured foods in her presence. Every single time, it resulted in some home cooking taken directly to his door.

"Shayde... we have discussed this," he admonished.

"Aye, but... None o' yer reasons make a lick o' sense to the way I'm goin'. An' a gel's got th' right to try an' convince the fella, at least."

"I told you I'm uncomfortable with romance."

"Aye and I listened. Note the lack o' heavin' bosoms thrust in yer direction." She laid out plates for two. "I also stopped a lot o' grabbin' ye. An'... that other thing ye' dinnae like."

The kiss. He didn't want to talk about it and... she didn't. Barely mentioned, save in discussions like this. "Why do you even like me?" he asked. He couldn't fathom it, himself. People, especially humans, insisted on being his friend when he did almost everything to isolate himself from the more... overt aspects of society. Like touching.

"Ev'ry time I look at ye, I see someone wonderful," she said. "An' I never want half a chance o' anyone like that slippin' away. So I'm doin' everything I can tae... keep on yer guid side."

Once again, he squashed the rising temptation to tell her he would be at his happiest with her chasing someone else wonderful. It wasn't that he was scared of her, or what she'd do if he did say it... A worrying and increasingly large portion of himself did not want her to come to harm.

He sighed. "All right. Let's try this thing."

She grinned and handed him a knife. "Admit it, I'm growin' on yer."

"Never in a hundred years."

"Oooh, is that a time scale or a bribery amount?" she teased.

"Time scale."

"Awreet... Standard, B'Dauss or Terran?"

Rael took delight in delaying with a treacherously delicious mouthful. "I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may cause you to cheat."

"Spoilsport."

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Challenge #00140: Just Like Her Father

"No one ever tells you that the true taste of victory is not sweet; it lies like bitter ashes upon the tongue."

Da had always said that.

Young Cordelia had never understood her father's caution. Victory had to be good. Otherwise it wouldn't make sense. And it really, really had to make sense now, with Da taken hostage and herself in disguise behind enemy lines with a pack of mercenaries as the only hope of getting him to his medical necessities.

She had the spare seizure stimulator taped to her undergarments, doing the job of male anatomy to fill out her pants. She had her hair cropped short and a passport in the name of one of her brothers. As far as she knew, she passed.

But that didn't matter here. In the drains and forgotten maintenance tunnels in enemy territory. With only a voice in her ear-bug for company.

"Left," said Admiral Quinn. It had been sheer luck that Young Cordelia had found her in a cafeteria on Beta Colony. And possibly the product of some bizarre synchronicity that the Admiral took Cordelia's contract for nothing more than a Betan Dollar.

All it had taken was hearing her father's name.

She'd have to ask Da about that when she found him.

Five more lefts and three rights, she finally had an 'up'. Which was where the tools strapped around her chest came in. Nice little grav-lifters. Cutters, spreaders... anything anyone could need to break into unseen turf, and medkits to boot.

Da was looking grey. Synergine. Pain meds. A torturously slow scoop to drag out the vital machine that cheerfully told her she was a day late.

"Cord—?"

"Hsh! I'm currently Ez, here."

"What t' hell?" His eyes came into focus. "You cut your hair... Why'd you cut your hair."

"Because you wouldn't let me go to Beta Colony without an escort so I pretended to be Lord Ezar. Come on. We can't stay long. They'll—"

Too late. They'd heard. The guard unlocked the door and burst in.

"Hey!"

Cordelia got between him and her Da, whipping out the weapon she'd covertly replaced her stunner with. An evil-looking needler gun.

"Not a noise, not a step," she warned. "I will shoot!"

He got that cocky grin that bullies always got before they found out that she - or any of her sibs - had been trained in combat by Drou Koudelka and then ImpSec. "Like that thing's even loaded."

He took his last step.

Just like in drills, Cordelia fired, aiming at the midsection. He didn't drop like the sims had. He looked down at the spreading red stain on his belly, and then back at her. So confused. So afraid. Pink foam bubbled up and out of his mouth.

And then he fell.

"A needler," said Da, full scold-mode. "The only thing filthier is a nerve disruptor. You know. I told you."

Of Sergeant Bothari and Kou's scars, yes. Cordelia swallowed bile. "I know, Da. I just... couldn' afford t' lose at stunner tag." Deep breaths. Clear thoughts. Vomit later, when they were both safe. Yeah. "C'mon Da. We gotta get gone."

Now she understood, as her stomach clenched and her hands shook, getting him into the safety harness. She understood exactly what Da had meant, all her life.

Da kissed her forehead. "I just wanted to keep you out of it. One Vorkosigan to survive without scars..."

Too late, Da. Too late. I'm sorry.

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Challenge #00141: Elves Don't Live Forever.

As per the fic war... go old school. Kitty realises her feelings for Kurt after he dies in some horrible manner. KILL ME.

[AN: Fic war prompts will have priority while they are in my inbox. I will get to the others in the fullness of time.]

They got most of the people out. Not all. Nobody could have got all of them out. And for a change everyone was working together. Lance beside Scott. Fred beside Jean. Pietro beside Ororo... and Todd beside Kurt.

They found Todd, bruised and battered, chattering a storm as he tried to lift rubble with muscles more adapted to jumping and bouncing. And what he was chattering was a litany of denial.

"Don'chu dare be dead, fuzzbutt. Be in a bubble or sump'in. Teleport out an' diss me, I don' care. Just don't be dead yo' stoopid fuzzy fre—" his voice stopped.

Kitty was still picking her way over the pile. Still some meters away. But she still heard him whisper, "Aw fuck," as clearly as if she was right next to him.

Todd moved more carefully, now. Heaving pieces of former building away with careful respect.

She could see his tail. His three-fingered hand.

So still.

Kitty didn't remember getting to him. She was just... there. Using her power to lift him free of the debris. Placing him carefully down. He wasn't cold. She expected death to be cold. The warmth of him fooled her. Made her think that any second, now, he'd breathe in. Gasp. Cough. Despite the fact that his entire rib cage was not a shape that belonged to the living.

...any second now...

"Please, Fuzzy," she whimpered. "Please just breathe."

He'd always been there. The fly in her ointment. The pesky clown when things were serious. The chief cause of smiles on a bad day. The one person who knew how to cheer her up.

...any second now...

She had to try. Tilt his head right back. Push her air into his lungs. All that came out was a ghastly bubbling noise and blood.

"Ain't nobody could—" Todd began. "I'm sorry, yo. He ain't—"

Todd was crying, too.

"Damnit, Kurt," Kitty managed. "Why?" Why did he have to go... just when she needed him most?

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Challenge #00142: Failure Fret

Another ficwar prompt: The one time when it mattered, Sara failed.

geekhyena

Negative. Again. For the thirty-ninth time.

Sara tried to control her breathing. She did everything she could to remain quiet, but inside her head... a thousand suns were exploding.

Their anniversary was next week. Their third anniversary.

It was crucial that this test be positive. And, for the thirty-ninth time in a row... negative.

She'd failed him.

And now he'd go away.

To someone more shapely. To someone more fertile. To someone who would not wake him up at ungodly hours because an idea possessed her to the point where noise became inconsequential.

And she'd woken him again, despite her best efforts.

"I didn't hear yo' singin'," he rasped. The morning frog-in-the-throat turned his voice almost into a literal croak. "You okay, sweetums?"

She couldn't hold it in any more. Sara broke. A flood of tears and muffled shrieks erupted in one large, babyish wail and words so mangled not even the best expert at Tearful Girl could understand her.

Todd pried her left hand open. Found the little plastic stick that had managed to be a stake in her heart. He helped her up. Held her close. Guided her unsteady steps to the bed and let her cling to him and weep and wail.

Gone, soon.

Gone.

Because she couldn't get pregnant.

She had three years and wasted them. They were gone, too.

And she couldn't even speak to let him know. Just blub and sob and quiver like the useless lump her mother had always said she was.

Finally, after a subjective eternity in tear-soaked hell, Todd's words became understandable in her ear. "It's okay. It's okay. It ain't yo' fault. I thought... I thought it'd be better to... Look. I had the Shot, okay?"

Oxygen returned. Tears still fell, though they fell slower. "You did what?"

"I took the Shot. Y'know. RISUG. The shot that empties th' barrel?"

"I do know what RISUG is, dear. When—?"

"When you had that day at the dressmakers. I thought I was doing a good thing. I wanted you to get all'a them degrees an' all. I thought... Young Mama's never get looked at all that great. And..."'

Silence reigned for another eon. "And?" she prompted.

"I didn't wanna be my dad."

Ah. His father. Who 'kept' five women dependent on him via a series of pregnancies and thuggishly induced miscarriages. Mutantcy and a small set of miracles made sure he survived to independence.

"Th' Gorgons have this rule," Sara quavered. "If you can't conceive in three years... you don't deserve a spouse..."

There was blood on his shoulder. On the bedclothes. On her face. On everything she touched. It had been a long time since she'd cried so hard her nose bled.

And Todd didn't care about it. Clothes washed. People washed. It was the crying that mattered. "We shoulda talked. I'm sorry, honey."

"...'m sorry I didn' think'f all th' factors... y'mus' think'm horr'ble..."

"Naw. Never. Ain't never nuthin' wrong wit' makin' a guess. Peeps make mistakes, yo. Even the smartest peeps inna world."

Sniff. "Flatterer."

"Gotta butter up mah sugar-buns." He grinned. "Wanna discuss this in depth over Nana Kurbalowitz's famous waffles?"

"Sounds like a definite plan."

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Challenge #00143: But Not My Hero

Evoverse - even heroes can die, and no matter what you do and how much you try, it's not possible to save everyone (GO AHEAD, MAKE ME CRY WITH THIS)

geekhyena

Cold. Remember the three O's.

Objective. Orientation. Orders.

Objective. Get the survivors safe.

Orientation. Back to the plane. If plane empty, downhill and downstream.

Orders. Stay safe.

Sara hunched inside her impromptu space-blanket cloak and wished her bio-mimetic battle outfit (a) covered more territory and (b) was warmer than it was.

Splint done. This individual would need help getting down. Travois. Skis and blankets and gaff. Loads of gaff. Drag them out and catch up with the last of the walking wounded. Pass them on and then back.

Someone was coming up.

"Not safe! Go down! Go down!"

Not a survivor. A friend.

"What t' hell you doin' up here?" Todd demanded as he landed from yet another magnificent leap. "Why'd you forget to radio?"

Radio? There had been a radio. "I dropped it."

"...jesus fuck it's cold..." He pulled something out of his belt and rattled off some numbers. Then he added, "Judging by the tracks, the actual crash is uphill. I'm'a get some readings an' tell you. Start at those cords anyway. Don't wait fo' us."

He snugged her onto his back. Leaped uphill, along the tracks the others had made. So much faster than slogging through the snow.

Inside the plane was out of the wind, but not by much. Sara headed to the nose and checked the pilots. Gone. If Todd radioed or gave co-ordinates, Sara didn't hear him. She checked seat-by-seat towards the broken end. Empty. Empty. Empty. Gone. Empty. Gone. Gone. Empty.

Child.

Sara extracted the poor little scrap. Limp. Not bloody. Not broken.

"She's gone, too," said Todd. "Everyone left is dead, sweets."

"Baby," said Sara. Or at least, the little bit of her that was still functioning. "Not dead 'till warm and dead."

"You don't got the warmth t' spare..." He dithered for a moment, and made a sling for the little girl out of whatever came to hand. Tying her onto his chest. Then he tied her to his back and half leaped, half skidded away.

Following the sinuous curve ploughed into the snow by the walking wounded. By the survivors.

So cold.

So easy to go to sleep...

*

HOT!

Sara breathed in. Kicked and thrashed. Yawped.

"Easy now. Easy. You're going to be okay. We need to get your body temperature up."

"Mortimer? Baby?"

"Your... companion is in the men's ward, undergoing the same treatment. He's going to be fine."

"The baby. There was a baby with us."

The medic's stony face said it all. "We tried everything."

There was a horrifyingly small lump on the gurney just opposite her tub. Human-shaped. Child sized.

"I didn't catch her name."

The medic found a clipboard, flipped through sheets. "Peri Smith."

There was one other name on that list. Sara could see it through the lax sheet flapping off the clipboard. The one name that mattered most.

Sam Adrien.

"Is that... all... a list of the dead?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I know you did your best, but many of them were gone before you got there. If you'd like to talk to a counsellor..."

"The Sam Adrien on that list. Was... was he—" shivering came back. Violently. Making her stutter. "W-www-ww-w-w-was-s-s-s he S-s-s-sam-mmmmmm-muel L-llllyle Ad-d-d-rien?"

"I'll have to check with the document recovery team. You stay put. No wandering off out of there without a thorough check up."

"I'll b-b-b-b-be g-g-g-ood...." Admittedly, her own last name was not as prolific as, say, Smith or Jones. There had to be other Sam Adriens out there.

Someone else's husband. Someone else's love. Someone else's...

Daddy...

Not him. Not now. Not him. Not today. Not him. Please. If there's any mercy in this universe. Any higher power who could...

Not Daddy.

Not today.

Her tears would not come. Not when the medic came back with a too-familiar wallet. Not when she saw the blood on it. Not even when she saw his smiling face on his driver's license.

The one person who meant the most in her entire life. The man who kept her alive just by coming home.

Was never coming home again.

He'd died instantly. Painless. The same lie all doctors told relatives. It was quick. It didn't hurt.

She must have passed him a hundred times. Checked for a pulse every time she stopped at his seat, in spite of the evident injury that killed him. She must have laid her hands on him so many times, checking for anyone alive. And never seen who he was. Never known.

The three O's never let her see faces. Faces let her make mistakes. Got her involved in illogic. And illogic killed people in situations where the three O's were necessary. It was for the greater good.

But right at that instant. Shivering fit to shake her skin off. Sara hated the three O's with a vengeance beyond a million suns.

Because she had seen him. She had known. And now that it was confirmed... she couldn't cry.

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Challenge #00144: FicWar Prompt

Building a superhighway with good intentions.

[AN: Shoutout to Sir Tim Berners-Lee and the monster he created]

"See, with quantum entanglement, we might not be able to transmit objects, but we can transmit data. That's still a breakthrough," she argued. "You can send data to a 3D printer on mars, or in orbit of Jupiter, and instructions to go with it. Without the comms delay of conventional radio."

"And what about temporally-joined entanglements? Can we risk a paradox of sending a solution before there's a problem?"

"I've come up with a way to avoid that." She bought up another slide in her presentation. What she was also avoiding was the fact that a working prototype was already on the colony in Tsiolkovskiy crater on the far side of the moon. Paired with her 'dummy' unit in the middle of the conference room.

The look on everyone's faces when they had a real-time chat with folks in the Hawking Observatory was priceless.

"Quantum internet," one of her investors muttered. "The interstellar superhighway."

"Almost," she apologised. "I'm still trying to work out how to get the signal to go through wormholes..."

Twenty Years Later...

Someone had sent her another monographed dildo. It read, 360 BPS? U sux!

She didn't bother to correct them, any more. Didn't bother with browsing her adulterated creation, eventually named the Hypernet. She had become a recluse.

Because, somehow, the blame for Hypernet services lacklustre performances got attached to her invention. And, therefore, herself.

Sometimes, she wished she'd never thought of the damned thing.

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Challenge #00145: Through Dangers Untold

FicWar Prompt? If you're still taking them? :) Kurt struggling through grievous injury to help his friends in a dire situation.

Anonymous

[AN: Yes, I am taking ficwar prompts. I'm doing one story a day, every day, for as long as humanly possible. Give me lots of prompts. Feed the beast ;) ]

Friends. His friends were trapped. Kurt tried to get up, and was rewarded by searing pain. He dropped back down. Okay. Think. This wasn't the first time he'd been unable to use his legs. Last time, they'd been burned.

Bloody Winzeldorf.

His faithful tail still worked, though some movements really stung. Kurt used it to keep his agonising left arm out of the way.

The rubble was on fire. Not a big blaze, and not a smoky one, thank God. Not yet, anyway.

He knew from experience that smoke killed quicker than fire.

Memories of Winzeldorf threw everything into sharp focus. Even the Lights only he could see.

Good news, bad news. Good news - his panic attack had induced a state in which he could find his friends. Bad news - he was constantly battling flashbacks that could kill both him and his friends.

One good arm, maybe half a leg. Sundry bleeding wounds, but his friends were trapped in burning rubble. He had to travel in a least-cost path from Lights to Lights and hope that someone would be useful. Or helpful.

The first one he found was Lance. The idiot who started this mess.

Kurt did his best to get him free and poked him roughly. "Aufwachen, dummkopf!"

"...uzt...?"

He was not in the mood for this. Full volume. Drill sergeant mode. "[Get up off your lazy arse and do something helpful,] Dreckel!"

Lance shook off most of the dust and was at least sitting up before he realised he couldn't understand the language he was getting yelled at in. "What t' hell...?" He coughed. Looked around. Peered blearily at Kurt. "Jeez... you look even more like shit."

"Your fault," said Kurt. "Condemned skyscraper. Worst possible place to use earthquake powers. Got that NOW?"

"...where's Kitty?"

"I can't see her. I can't find her Lights, either. Third time lucky[1], ja?"

Unfocussed glare. "Not funny, Fuzzbutt."

"Try being charming with three broken limbs, sometime."

"Ha. Must be why you're more worm than usual, right?" He tried to laugh at his own joke and wound up coughing. It was a dangerously liquid noise.

"Next-nearest person's three meters that way." Kurt pointed. "We need to get everyone out before the fire gets bad."

"There's a fire?"

Kurt rolled back to glare at him. "How bad is your vision, right now?"

"Uhm. Blurs? I know you're awful 'cause even your legs don't bend like that..." He mimed with both arms.

"There's no time. I'll be your eyes. You be the arms and legs. I'll be the eyes and brains, ja?"

"You want me to shake the rest of this shit down?"

"Depends. Want to kill your friends?"

Silence. Too long by Kurt's measure. He started dragging himself towards the next set of Lights. He didn't have time for an arrogant, entitled arschlock[2]...

Who picked him up and slung him on his back. "Okay. Fuckit. Which way?"

Improvised straps helped, and freed up Kurt's tail to help clear rubble.

"Damn, I keep forgetting how useful that thing is," Lance muttered. "Who've we got?"

"Fred," said Kurt. "His breathing sounds... awkward."

"Is he on his back?"

"Ja."

"Shit. Lardbutt's got apnea when he lies on his back. Help me out."

"I can only do so much from this angle, understand."

It took another subjective forever to get Fred propped up on his side by inserting rubble under the tiny lifts Lance could manage. The unnervingly gurgling snore was, apparently, normal.

The next one they found was Jean. Also unconscious. With a nasty head wound. They got her comfortable, patched her up as best they could, and moved on.

Ororo. Injured and unconscious. Pietro. Same. Toad... delirious and chatty and pinned by something Fred could have shifted in a cold second.

"Why is it," muttered Lance. "Everyone who's halfway useful for saving our asses is out of it or too injured?"

"What does that make us, then?"

"Smartass."

"Rather be a smart ass than a shit head."

"I could dump you right here, you know."

"And then how would you find Katzchen?"

Logan. Half-concussed and covered in blood. Still healing and unsteady. He made short work of the beam that trapped Todd, at least. And told them that he could not smell any death under the stinking miasma from the fires.

Good news: nobody had died. Bad news: yet.

Kurt was used to pain. It had been his frienemy since the first time he had tried to play with children who had not come from his village. But even so, it was difficult to stay awake. Had to. For everyone trapped.

"Deep breaths, Elf. We can do this."

"...es ist ein wenig schwierig..."

Darkness closing in. Logan yelling at him to clench. Lance complaining that his eyes were passing out. And finally... gratefully... the separation of him from his pain.

*

Beep. Beep.

The smell of antiseptic. There was a tent over his legs. Too much white for his tender eyes. There was pain, but it was far away and he could easily ignore it.

And there was also Lance. "Relax, Fuzzy. You still got all your freaky pieces."

"...sehr gut..."

"ver-y. good." said a mechanical voice in Lance's hand. He grinned and held up Kitty's iPhone. "Translator app. Quacks said you'd be a little bit lala for a while on the pain meds. You'd never guess who saved all our asses in the end."

"Katzchen?"

"kit-ten." said the mechanical voice.

"Yeah. She just popped up with Rogue in her arms and complaining that she could hear us, like, five floors away." He switched into a passable imitation of his erstwhile girlfriend as he was talking.

Kurt found the strength to smile.

"Anyway. Good-news, bad-news. Good news, we got rescued. Duh." He gestured at the too-white surroundings. "Bad news... we were rescued by some government thing. The -uhm- Strategic Hazard Intervention... Essss.... Es... E-somethingorother. They really wanted their initials to spell "Shield", okay?"

Kurt drifted back into the happy pink fog where pain didn't happen. "Ich möchte einige Apfelkuchen, Mama..."

There was a small 'pip' noise before the mechanical voice could translate.

"I'll see what can happen," said Lance.

[1] Refers to _X Impulse_, where Lance tried to kill Kitty (and her family AND Jean) in a fit of anger, and that episode where his powers caused her to be nearly crushed by a falling object.

[2] Probably misspelled. Look it up.

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Challenge #00146: One Fine Day in Transylvania Polygnostic....

'...y'know what, etching "YOU'RE WRONG!" into the surface of the moon with a giant laser, without specifying exactly who was wrong about what, could be freaking hilarious.'

"Settle down, Snapcase,"

"This is theoretical mechanica, not theoretical mass psychology. Save it for the right forum, Snapcase."

"And don't say anything in front of Fozdyke. He's a plagiarist."

"Hey!"

"Well, you are..."

"Copy one set of notes from one lab, and the whole world has to hear about it."

"Though we could formulate a clank that could do that..."

"...with the right kind of optics..."

*

The three of them, Fozdyke, Snapcase and Graal, sweated subtly in front of Baron Wolfenbach himself.

"Never before have I seen such a magnificent display of spontaneous civil upset," said the Baron. "Had I a great and pressing need to conquer the world, I would have found it useful. But you three... gentlemen... evidently performed a global social experiment for... fun..." Fun, pronounced, mind-bogglingly stupid stunt that each one of you will pay for on a daily basis until long past your initial time of death.

"...i... thought it would be funny...?"

"I'm not laughing," iced Wolfenbach.

...and that was how the Wolfenbach Empire put three men on the moon.

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Challenge #00147: Angst in Eyeliner

Why "poetry night" at the X-Mansion was canceled.

[AN: You have no idea how hard it was not to quote Vogon Poetry for this one...]

"...come for me. Come for my love. Come for my hate. Come for the tiredness I feel for breath. Death, come like a lover..."

So, Jean thought to the Professor, Three years of therapy and counting for our dear little Rogue. How much for us?

Considering there's fifteen pages of this? the Professor thought back. I may as well install a revolving door in the psychotherapy studio.

"...wipe away the hate and tears. Wipe away the joy that was never mine..."

Maybe, the Professor telepathically admitted, poetry night was a bad idea...

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Challenge #00148: Discovery!

Embarrassing sibling fluff (Evoverse or Girl Genius, whichever you prefer): Sister meets long-lost brother. They have much catching up to do, and she just wants to embarrass him (in front of the girl he likes makes it even better)

"Just get those clothes off before the contamination gets to your skin!" Agatha, wearing heavily re-enforced gloves, both shoved Gil towards the hot rain engine and tore at his stained shirt.

"Oooh, let me help," squealed Zeetha. She, too had the gloves on, and eagerly moved in to clutch at his trousers. Her hands stopped an inch away. She stalled. Startled. "Where did you get that mark?"

"...huh?" Gill fumbled with his own pants anyway. "That? That's always been there. Father said it was some kind of birthmark... Why?"

Zeetha twisted and showed the same mark on her own skin. "This," she announced, "is the traditional tattoo of the Skifandran heirs. It's placed in infants just as they're born."

"Fabulous. You're long-lost siblings," Agatha literally tore the last scraps of cloth from Gil and shoved him under the hot rain. "Scrub thoroughly with the number five decontaminate."

"I do know procedures, I have been in labs my whole life..."

"Not all of your life," corrected Zeetha. "My mother never mentioned a son... But then... Skifandran Queens routinely... kill... firstborn sons..."

"Father said that all he did was keep me alive..."

"Help me find the biotainment suits! Nobody bothered to sort the storage place."

"Must feel like home, then," Gil jibed.

"Keep washing that hair!"

"But... If I'm an heir... that means that my father..."

"...and my mother," Zeetha nodded knowingly and cha-cha-cha'd the rest of the arithmetic.

"That means I can be a Baron and King of Skifander," Gil brightened. "Sorry you turned me down, now, Agatha?"

"There are no kings of Skifander," said Zeetha. "Only temporary ones. Until a daughter is born. Then... um... he'sasacrifice."

Gil paused in his scrubbing. "It'd be interesting to hear how father escaped from that..."

Agatha returned. "Fully decontaminated? Good. Here's your biotainment suit."

"It's... chintz..."

"It's chintz or nudity."

"Nudity's more fun," leered Zeetha.

"He's your brother," Agatha made a face.

"He still has a nice butt..."

"HEY!" Gil grabbed the suit. "I'll take the chintz."

"Skifandara says that it takes a real man to wear flowers..."

Gil glared at his new sister. "Not. Helping."

"And enjoying it," Zeetha sang.

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Challenge #00149: Mein Kinder

Girl Genius, Klaus + baby!Gil. Klaus's thoughts on watching Gil grow.

The magnetite compass was working. As was the nourishment formula the infant boy was suckling on.

His son.

Gilgamesh.

He would have to do something about the fine green fuzz of hair that marked him as Skifandran. But right now, in a hot-air flying engine cobbled together out of whatever he had to hand... it was not important.

He could not take his sister. At least, he could not take the infant princess Zeetha and hope to survive. Males did not count for much in Skifander. They would stop searching for him and his son at the first false death scene.

His son was too important to leave to the tender mercies of a matriarchy.

He could change clothing. The sooner he was out of the ludicrous bandolier-and-posing-pouch thing the Queen had chosen for him, the better.

Alas, all his cloth and leather was currently serving more important functions. He set course for Europe. And spent entirely too long staring at the tiny scrap of humanity that was the future of his line. Watching Gil breathe.

So very small and fragile...

"Come what may," he said, knowing his son could not understand, "I will protect you."

*

Paris was on fire. Large portions of Europe were either on fire or infested with revenants. The Other had done much damage. Incessant bickering between sparks had escalated to siege weaponry and unguided missiles.

Gil was happy in his carry-harness. A metal pod that served as protection in unpleasant circumstances, life support and -ah- hygienic necessity.

It would, evidently, soon be insufficient. He needed more than a clank to protect his son. He would need an army.

He would start, like he always had to start, with whatever came to hand. And build from there.

Castle Wulfenbach was a wrecked ruin on the ground. He would build a new one. One that was invulnerable. Or at least one that could move beyond conventional attack. He would rain order on the country.

He set up a shelter in what used to be a staff kitchen in his castle. A relic in which to build his future.

Gil hit the protective bubble with the thing-on-a-stick Klaus had managed to buy from a nervous vendor.

"No sign of Bill or Barry. Still," he said. He had been talking to Gil on the theory that talking helped a child learn to speak. Also the theory that saying things out loud helped keep him sane. There was little empirical evidence that either was working. "If they were here, this would be so much easier..."

"Da!" said Gil.

Talking early. Promising. Klaus almost instantly smothered his warming heart in waves of paranoia. His plan put his son in danger.

...but only if anyone knew that Gil was his son.

*

Castle Wolfenbach soared. It flew over the wreckage of Mechanicsburg and the ruin of castle Heterodyne.

The Other had known when and where to strike.

It took a unique ruthlessness to deal with Mechanicsburg. It took so much ruthlessness. To make him and his family a target to everyone with a blade.

Which meant a unique talent for salvage.

He found Otilla in the body of Vonn Pinn, and set her to guarding the children. Knowing she would not fail. Especially the most important one.

"And this... is Gil." Almost three years old. He would start forming permanent memories, soon. Klaus allowed himself the luxury of one last hug. Permitted himself the weakness of wet eyes. He would not touch or speak to his son as a father until such time as the boy grew of age. "Just. Gil."

Von Pinn looked him in the eye, lie for lie, and nodded. "I will gift him with equal protection."

Which, to her mind, meant the utmost protection.

*

It was called Zoing. Quite remarkable. A whimsical construct made out of what seemed to be kitchen leftovers. Gil was eight. And already a Spark.

What made a Spark into a Spark? Why would the boy break out so easily at six when his own development...

And since he had so many renegade Sparks in his custody... It was high time he indulged in some experiments.

Starting with the self-styled Doctor Dimitri. He would no longer harm any child, any longer. A man with those kinds of perversions... would never be missed.

And it would help protect his son.

Business, Science and Pleasure. A very rare triple victory.

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Challenge #00150: Bad Decisions

Zantabraxus and Gil - making up for lost time.

geekhyena

Zeetha stared out the porthole. Unbidden tears fell down her face.

"Are you hurt?" Agatha managed. It had been a rough landing of a pod never meant to fly. Zeetha was lucky she was upright. Agatha and Gil were still turned about and tangled in their impromptu rewiring.

"I'm... home..."

Agatha got herself untangled with a loud thud, peered out the porthole. The jewelled towers of Skifander shone in the dawn light. A glistening cohort of Skifandran soldiers were approaching at high speed. And behind them, the palanquin of the Queen herself.

"It's the Queen. Mother!" Zeetha wrenched Gil out of the wires as she raced for the exit. "Just wait until she finds out you've been alive all this time!"

*

"KILL THE USURPER! KILL THE USURPER!"

"Any other ideas, O mighty princess?"

"Just keep running!"

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Challenge #00151: Never Let Them Have a Holodeck

Geeky Mutants + Danger Room = Holodeck-style shenanigans.

geekhyena

Logan stared at the view from the observation port. The brats were battling on twin dirigibles. One team with blue bandannas, the other with red. There were swords, steampunk machines, flying apes, strange beasts and... orchestral music?

Elf was enjoying every last minute of it.

"Have at thee, foul miscreants," he cried, swinging all over the place like a monkey on a bender. "However many you may be, you can not match the heart of a true musketeer."

Tallwater was singing her own theme music, for God's sake. Red was zipping around on some mini-dirigible with bat wings and propellers, shooting what he hoped were harmless weapons at her foes.

Logan hit the 'kill' button.

"Ah, noble D'Artagnion. Valiant Cyrano," Elf was waxing lyrical. "Cyrano and Captain Blood... If you could only see me—"

The figures and most of the set-up faded. The machines ground to a halt.

"—n—aaaaAAAAWWWwwwww..."

Logan turned the intercom on, "What the hell, Tallwater?"

"Who said it was me?"

He waved a thick volume left in the control centre so she could see. "Your source material."

"Is there a rule that says that heroics aren't allowed to have a little style?" she countered.

"That's my line," objected Elf.

"You're all walkin' the road with garbage bags, tomorrow. Try getting this nonsense authorised, next time."

"But you'd've said 'no'," said Sara.

"Tallwater..."

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Challenge #00152: Worse Decisions

Zantabraxus meets Ottilia.

geekhyena

The Queen of Skifander was never weak. Though she rode a palanquin, it was a tactic. Four sets of feet were faster than one on their own. Her bearers were gaining on the interlopers. Zantabraxus coiled on her throne like a cat readying itself to pounce. Soon, they would be in range...

"HALT!"

"What?" said the usurper. "How the heck did she get here?"

She was a giant of a clank made of silver and gold. Her wings were in sad disrepair, but that did not stop her from making an almost Skifandran leap between her and the interlopers.

"These children are under my protection," said the clank. "You will not harm them."

"These children are grown warriors," argued Zantabraxus. "And they are threats to the Skifandran empire."

"I am sworn to protect—"

"While that boy lives, my daughter only possesses half a soul! See how he has corrupted her against me. See how he brings usurpers to my court!"

The blonde usurper's voice carried through the greenery. "I wouldn't take your empire if you dipped it in chocolate!"

"And what is wrong with Skifander?" Zantabraxus roared back.

"Aigh, not again..."

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Challenge #00153: Unlikely Tales From the X-Mansion

Iron Chef: X-Mansion!

geekhyena

Sara really should not have sung. That had been the ultimate bone of contention. Especially since it was Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.

Amara would not back down. Neither would Sara.

So now the danger room had been set up as two identical kitchens, and a black neutral zone between them. Randomisers were set to pick random ingredients from anywhere in the world, and raise them up into the neutral zone for the competitors to use.

The dais rose. The containment fell away to reveal...

Thousands of live crickets. They spilled like water from the device and spread like a cloud into the danger room.

Sara, all calm and logic, said, "You forgot to program in the tank, Doctor McCoy..."

Amara shrieked and fled for the ceiling.

And that was how Sara won a cooking contest without having to cook.

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Challenge #00154: Payback, the Bitch

Epic prank wars - either GGverse or Evoverse, your pick.

geekhyena

[AN: Since I have a fic in progress with Sara turning up in the GG universe, I can get away with both!]

She really should not have followed master Gilgamesh. But she had and, having followed master Gilgamesh, found an adventure. This, though, was a lull-point. Fixing and repairing and building and, strangely enough, taking a well-deserved rest.

Which was how she met Mama/Jaegergeneral Gkika. She was all sharp smiles and, for a Jaeger, cunning.

They conversed for a while about recipes and this or that, and then she said it. "Und how iss der liddle one?"

Sara did her best to hide the frisson of terror that almost stopped her heart. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said, cool and frosty. Outside, nothing had changed. Inside, it was shrieking panic and tempest in progress.

"Der liddle one hyu keeps in dat big-liddle movink box of yours."

Islands shattered. Stars exploded. Civilisations fell in rains of fire. This Jaeger had found Jane!

Sara very calmly gave her a generous portion of mutton and clootie dumplings. She'd overdone the nutmeg, but that was the point. She needed this nosy Jaeger napping while she checked on everything.

Someone - possibly Gkika - had turned her tent upside-down. Contents and all. And without Sparky intervention.

Jane was fine. Thank the forces of Kismet. And it was a relatively minor matter to turn everything to rights. But Gkika knew. Jaegergeneral or not, everyone knew that the best way to get a Jaegermonster to keep a secret was to sew it into their severed head and bury it under half a mountain.

Ergo, in order to protect Jane, Sara had to keep Gkika... distracted.

Master Gilgamesh would notice if his best Jaeger suddenly lost her head.

Sara began by doping her dinner with Flattus Beans. Gkika retaliated by aiming her fart flares in Sara's general direction. Sara concocted a fang paste that encapsulated any attempted vocalisation in fuchsia bubbles. Gkika somehow painted Sara's travelling box with unicorns and flowers.

But everyone agreed it was the trio of singing mimmoths that did the trick.

They were in a little cage, singing Blue Moon.

Gkika, gently sizzling from her last attempt on Sara, said, "Them vuns, hyu don't want to eat all at vunce."

"Please, I spent hours on their little tuxedoes."

"How...?" said Gil.

"Well, the bow ties were a bit bothersome, but once you have the correct magnification, you just miniaturise a 37 Gargantuan. They're a surprising match to the humanoid frame."

"How do you get them to stop?"

"Oh." Sara faced the cage and bowed slightly. "That will do, gentlemen."

The mimmoths trumpeted a final 'ta-dah!' with their trunks and began to graze on their bedding.

"And now," said Gil, in the manner of all men battling an incipient migraine. "WHY?"

"She iz very goot mama," said Gkika. "Hy don' mind at all. She's schtopped me tellink you about der liddle vun so often, hy almost forget she's dere."

"I knew I should have arranged a more permanent accident," muttered Sara.

"Little... one..." Gil boggled. "I would know if there was a baby in the camp. And Miss Adrien is far too young to have birthed an older child. Just... stop this nonsense and stay focussed on our primary task, if you please."

Oceans of relief almost drowned her. Sara breathed out. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir." She watched him leave to fix the latest incipient disaster and laughter bubbled up out of her. "How about that," said Sara. "An improbable truth is invisible! I needn't have worried so hard."

"Hy just vanted to help make der liddle dresses. Und put der liddle bows in her hair."

Sara reluctantly offered her hand. "Pax puero?"

"Ja!"

Ever afterwards, Gil would only ever glancingly worry about the tea parties in Sara's tent...

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Challenge #00155: One Stormy Evening at Genracon

Klaus + Da Boyz + Comic Convention = Wacky Hijinks

"Ve FIGHT!"

Lightning raged, both natural and artificial, through the iron catacombs where he and this idiot trio of Jaegers had decided to pick a fight.

"Not so close to the por—"

KRAKKOW!

"—tal..."

"Vot?"

The lights came back on. Crowds in varying degrees of unrealistic dress stared at the tangle of Baron and Jaegermonsters...

And burst into shrieking applause.

Maxim straightened first, fixing his hair and adjusting his hat. "Ladies," he grinned.

Oggie followed him, elbowing him in the gut. "Hyu idiot, they is cheerink for me." He struck what he probably thought was a seductive pose.

Shockingly, this earned more cheering and hooting.

"Clearly, the residents of this dimension are insane," announced Klaus.

"Hy agree," said Dimo.

More hoots.

Maxim and Oggie were busy bickering over who was prettiest, much to the amusement of the strangely-dressed crowd. Klaus decided to use the distraction to examine the portal by which they'd entered. "It's... made out of cardboard. What kind of idiot builds a multidimensional portal out of cardboard?"

"Vun who has a budget?" suggested Dimo.

Again, the audience roared.

"And those idiots will cheer anything..."

They cheered. Proof positive.

"Up next," said someone dressed in black and coated in glitter, "The Jaegergirls singing, You Can Leave Your Hat On." He took the peculiar lump-on-a-stick away from his mouth and growled, "Get. Off."

Klaus 'borrowed' the stick and started taking it apart. "I see... These take the place of valves. Boards full of circuits. Intriguing."

The girls danced on the stage anyway. "Monster take off you coat..."

"Ho yes!" said Maxim.

"De GORLZ!" said Oggie.

"Komm to uz ladiez!" they chorused.

Chaos, as the narrators are wont to explain, ensued.

When they were finally back in their home dimension, Klaus rounded up all three by their necks and snarled, "We are never. Ever. Mentioning this again. UNDERSTOOD?"

*

Phil and Kaja, very special guest judges, blinked the after-images away.

"Okay," said Phil. "That just happened."

"If you pretend it was all an act, I'm willing to play along," murmured Kaja.

"Sold."

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Challenge #00156: Really Bad Decisions

Prompt: Their actions may not have changed history, but they certainly changed geography.

geekhyena

They had called themselves the League of Justice. Ordinary folks who used sparky inventions to foil, imprison, or otherwise stop other sparks. And they caught Sara.

She, and her clank storage trunk, were the only things to come out of the resulting crater.

"I see you rescued yourself," said Gil.

"I told them not to mess with my luggage. They should have taken me seriously."

"What were they doing?"

"Changing the course of history, they believed," Sara looked back. "They finished up changing the course of the river, alas."

"Making a new lake," Gil noted.

"I begged them to come into the box with me... they didn't understand."

"Some people never do."

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Challenge #00157: Young Knights and Old Soldiers

Saw this quote online, figured it might inspire something interesting.

"Hoping to find a 'knight in shining armour' is a worthless dream. His blade razor-edged, his shield polished, his breastplate ornately-gilded, they say only this - that his experience in battle is nothing, and his courage has never been tested. He has nothing but ambition and optimism in his corner, and he could easily falter and flee when that shine fades. Hope instead to find the steadfast soldier in scuffed and dented plate, whose shield is scarred and cracked and whose sword is chipped and dulled. This is someone who has faced the enemy without fear, who has fought through the assaults of those who tried to break him and, even if in the end he was left weary and bloody, still emerged victorious. That man, battered and bruised but still triumphant, is the kind of hero one should seek."

"Oh, now what the hell?"

There were two figures blocking egress. Men in armour. Men with muscles, but beyond that, they were opposites. One was a stereotypical shining knight replete with his own star filter. The other was a rusted, dented, mismatched man with a smouldering cigar and reeking of cynicism.

"CHOOSE YOUR HERO," boomed the voice controlling this labyrinth of chaos.

"I know how this goes," Kitty began to go to the sparkly one on the left.

"Wait," said Jean. "This was put together by Sara on a 'flu medicine and sugar bender. Nothing fits nypical rules."

"Nypical?" echoed Pietro.

"Neurotypical. I've been reading Sara's psych books. Deal. This is her creation. In essence, we're inside her head."

"Euw," said Lance.

"That explains the last three pun-related traps," muttered Scott.

"Hush," said Jean. "We have to think like Sara."

"Psychoweirdo lunacy? I'm not doing anything about anything, then," said Pietro.

"So...like, the shiny hero's the bad one?" guessed Kitty.

"Too right," said the other one. He had been leaning against his archway. "Mister shiny over there's never been in a real fight. Watch." he flicked a small, wooden cosh towards the shiny knight in a negligent motion.

And, predictably, the pretty one literally fell to pieces.

The rusty fighter lit his cigar again. "Sam Vimes," he said. "Ankh-Morpork City Watch."

"Told you so," murmured Jean.

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Challenge #00158: Foiled Again

"Due to last year's incident involving "The Ballad of Cemetery Sue", the lyrics and/or script of any act in the talent show must be approved by an instructor."

geekhyena

The entire nerd portion of the school moaned in disappointment. They all knew what it meant. The next talent show would be stripped, pasteurised, sanitised and otherwise made dull, bland, and completely boring.

"And I was going to juggle a chainsaw, a bowling ball, and a fresh egg," whined Kurt.

Only one was cackling.

"Sara, no-o-o-o-o-o..." said Todd, possibly on automatic.

"But I was going to give them exactly what they wanted, and nothing of what they asked for," protested Sara. "It's the ultimate serving of kharma."

"Not th' way you do karma, sweetums. You want 'em to shut down the talent show altogether?"

Sara grumped. "They would, too. Straight-boxed mundanes..." She fell silent and still, but it was still evident that she was thinking too hard about it all. "You know... there is that theatre for rent, just down the road..."

It became Cirque du Bayville, and boasted "all the talent the school board was scared to display!"

And it made a fortune.

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Challenge #00159: By the Power of Capsaicin...

Siracha makes anything more edible - theoretically.

geekhyena

"Why is there only a bottle of Siracha in the survival rations?"

"Because the people who packed it assumed that anyone needing it would be able to live off the land. And Siracha, as it says on the label, makes anything more edible."

"But I'm allergic and this landscape is entirely poisonous."

"We shall write a scathing letter to the company the minute we get out of this mess. Pay attention, would you? I'm trying to build a Siracha-powered jetpack."

"...it's always jetpacks with you..."

"You'd rather walk?"

"Here's the sauce."

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Challenge #00160: In Just Seven Days...

The Jagerkin: who knew they had such a passion for matchmaking? (and such a lack of talent at it)?

geekhyena

"He iss boy, hyu iss gorl. Vhat more could hyu vant?"

"How about a pulse?" she indicated the man in question. A rather well-preserved mummy in their current oubliette. He had fantastic bone structure, but then... all he was was bone structure. "Or flesh?"

"Hokay, so he needs a liddle of de fixink opp. Since vhen is dot new?"

"I don't have the equipment, and I'm not exactly certain he'll be worth the bother. That, and I'll essentially be his mother. That's incest. Euw."

"Hokay. So dere is more dan vun liddle flaw to my plen..."

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Challenge #00161: And Never No More, I'll Go Sailing

ficwar prompt: Jager shipping wars.

geekhyena

"Aggil!" Xox roared, proving he was a proponent of Agatha/Gil.

"Targatha!" Hollered Drej, proving he was a proponent of Agatha/Tarvek.

"Aggil!"

"Targatha!"

"Aggil!"

"Targatha!"

"RRRHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!"

Pixo kept supping her soup.

"Hyu is not fightink?" asked a so-far casual bystander.

"Hy try to schtay out ov dese tings," she admitted. "But hy am a liddle fond of Agthar."

"Agthar?"

"Agatha/Othar."

The bystander made a face. "Eugh. Hyu haz not goot taste."

"Which is vhy Hy schtay out ov dese tings."

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Challenge #00162: Roll Up

Kurt's idea of volunteering at the animal shelter may not have been the best idea.

geekhyena

"Any previous experience?"

"Ja, I helped rehabilitate a few animals back home," said Kurt. He decided not to mention the pet raven, deer, squirrels or the nearly-tame wolf. "I'm very good with them."

"Nothing... professional?"

"Eh... Heirelgart is a little bit... isolated. We had a traveling vet and a traveling doctor. We learned to help ourselves, ne? For a time, I was the vet."

"Mm." Shuffle shuffle, went the papers on the lady's desk. "Well, you can start by cleaning out the cages and helping customers."

"Wunderbar! You won't regret this!"

*

Kurt was efficient, which was a bonus. The animals loved him, which was also a bonus. What was not a bonus, Alexis discovered, was the kid was a circus brat.

He trained every animal he could to do tricks.

He put on shows.

People were coming to watch, and then left.

Rich brats bought circus pets, and came back the next day when their inevitable mistreatment backfired.

Kids from the wrong side of town started coming in for god-damned lessons.

Sure, Kurt bought in business. He also bought in news people and protesters and vagrants. He tamed the wounded wild animals people brought in. If there was a day that he didn't have some fluffy animal sitting on his shoulder, it was a calendar event.

And his efforts to save animals from being put down were, frankly, heroic. Just as the grief from his failure to do so was... epic.

The final nail, though, was the Brotherhood Boardinghouse boys. Once they found out Kurt was working there, they made it their business to come by and harass him, the customers, the animals, and any other volunteer who showed their face while they were around. Kurt, apparently used to it, locked up the more sensitive beasts for their own safety the instant he heard the Brotherhood Boys' dilapidated Jeep.

They were a disruption of the worst kind. The kind who knew exactly where the line was drawn and toed it with forensic precision. The kind who knew police response times and left before the cops showed up.

The people who came for the circus were upset. The people who came to adopt an animal were upset. The other volunteers were upset. The animals, sensitive to moods, were in an uproar.

A biker gang showed up, once, to block the Brotherhood Boys. That, too, ended in a news article for all the wrong reasons.

"And that's why we appreciate your help, but we'd prefer you don't come here any more," finished Alexis.

"But.... what about Scruffy? And all the others?"

And there were a lot of "all" the others. "The circus will continue with the other volunteers you trained. Scruffy will be fine."

She'd never seen a kid sag so much in her life. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

Somehow, two weeks after that, the Brotherhood Boys turned up again. Metaphorical hats in hand.

"Um," said the bandy little one. "We wanna say we're sorry, yo. We gotta thing wit' fuz— Kurt. Andum. We wanna help the animals."

"I can carry heavy things?" said the big one. "I'm good with heavy things."

"I'll keep 'em in line, ma'am," said the driver, a teenage delinquent with a greasy mullet and a permanent cigarette. "I promise."

Alexis stared at the four of them. "What prompted this massive change of heart?"

"HegotKittywhipped," said the albino.

*

Some hours previously...

"Lance Percival Alvers," shrieked Kitty. "Do you have any idea what you and your thugs have done?"

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Challenge #00163: From Zero to Disaster

Jean decides to go for the special award for community service offered by Bayville High in exchange for 200 hours of volunteering. Xavier thinks this is a great idea - so guess who else winds up doing it? Chaos/hilarity ensues.

geekhyena

"The prize is a car," said Jean. "You have no idea what that means for me."

"There's something wrong with my car?" said Scott.

"Yeah, I have to go where you want to take me. I'm going for it."

*

Jean opened the little envelope. "Looks like I'm a candy-striper at the veterans home. Huh."

"Hooray," deadpanned Kurt. "Bedpans and unwanted PDA's from old folks."

"Ignore him," said Kitty. "He's still bitter about the whole animal shelter fiasco."

"You'll get another chance," predicted Jean. "Try them again during kitten/puppy season. They're always swamped, then."

"Hrumph."

*

Jean secured the last bit of hairnet to find a fellow volunteer in Andy-Pandy overalls[1] and also a hairnet.

He looked at her. She looked at him. Both voiced the same thought at the same time. "Oh, just great."

"You two know each other?" smiled the volunteer co-ordinator.

"Rivals," supplied Jean. "But I'll make an effort not to let that get in the way of our work."

"You butt out of this, miss perfect. I need that car!"

"Aren't you already working two jobs?"

"Not since Speedy got me fired. But I took care of him. He's doing courier work. On the other side of town."

"And how about the other two?"

"Trek Marathon at the Odeon. They shouldn't do too much damage."

Jean breathed out. "Okay. Good. You should also know that there's more than one car to win. So there's no need for any kind of 'special fireworks', got that?"

"Yeah, I got no interest in more damage to pay off, thanks."

"Then we have a deal."

"Fine."

They shook, and got on with the day.

*

Five hours later...

One wing of the Home was on fire. A broken hydrant sent a fountain of water twenty feet into the air. The runabout-painted minivan that broke it lay forlornly on its side in the middle of the street, blocking traffic both ways. Distant sirens howled.

The veterans, Fred, and Todd were conga-ing around the ruined building. Singing.

"STAAAAARRRR TREKKIN' ACROSS THE UNIVERSE!"

"This is all your fault."

"ON THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE UNDER CAPTAIN KIRK!"

"My fault? I didn't do anything!"

"STAR TREKKIN' ACROSS THE UNIVERSE!"

"They're your friends."

"BOLDLY GOING FOR-WARD 'CAUSE WE CAN'T FIND REVERSE!"

"I did not get them shit-faced on sugar and additives and throw them out of the theatre! They did that all by themselves."

"IT'S WORSE THAN THAT HE'S DEAD, JIM; DEAD, JIM; DEAD JIM!"

"You weren't there to stop them."

"IT'S WORSE THAN THAT HE'S DEAD, JIM; DEAD, JIM, DEAD!"

"Well excuse me for trying to get a car I didn't have to pay off after I die!"

"WELL IT'S LIFE, JIM, BUT NOT AS WE KNOW IT..."

"Oh my God, when are they going to shut up?"

"I suggested elephant tranq's but they just laughed at me."

A siren-bearing vehicle finally pulled up on the verge and a uniform got out, and picked them to talk to, since they were the only ones sitting still and not trying to relieve the chaos. "Do either of you know who's responsible for this mess?"

"THERE'S KLINGONS ON THE STARBOARD BOW..."

Jean pointed to Lance. Lance pointed to Fred. "I left him in charge of Todd," he explained. "He knows that neither of them are supposed to have sugar and additives. I had to work."

"As a candy-striper?"

"No, this is to win a new car. Kinda need that to work, too."

"Are they singing 'Star Trekking'?"

"Yes."

"You're kidding. I love that song!"

Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. "...kill me now..."

[1] Of course certain household Whovians introduced Jean to the concept of Andy-Pandy overalls.

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Challenge #00164: Spark Roast Coffee

Gil and Tarvek try Agatha's "special coffee".

geekhyena

"Honestly, that flask says 'Do not open'. There has to be a reason."

"Exactly why I'm opening it. To see why[1]."

Tarvek, at least, had the sense to duck and cover.

"Some kind of liquid..." Gil sniffed cautiously. "It's coffee!"

"It's in a sealed container with a warning label! That alone is enough to put it back where it came from!"

"...there was something important I was supposed to remember about coffee..."

Tarvek growled. "Oh, warm it up, then. I'm sure we'll find out about it."

*

"DESTROY! IMPERFECTION!" grated the clank. "DESTROY! IMPERFECTION!"

"How the hell did we make this out of three rocks and a cheese grater?"

"And the container the coffee was in?" added Gil. "I can't remember. Everything was... perfect..."

"DESTROY! IMPERFECTION!"

"And how do we kill it?"

"Good question."

[1] This tells you everything you need to know about humanity in general and Sparks in particular.

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Challenge #00165:Creative Problem Resolution

Iron Chef - Mechanicsburg!

geekhyena

"READY!"

"What I want to know is—"

"STEADY!"

"—who thought this was a good idea?"

"COOK!"

Gil winced as the klaxon blared. "Well, given the -ah- intense emotion, and the fact that this town's had enough battle..."

"PENALTY FOR KNIFE THROWING!"

"...I thought this was slightly more rational."

One competitor had not bothered attempting to sabotage the competition. She had knives flying, all right, but they were chopping, slicing, dicing, julienne-ing and otherwise preparing food. The grim determination in her face spoke a lot more than any of the commentators did.

Yes. Sara had a lot to hide...

"After how much 'special' coffee?"

Gil glared at Tarvek. "I haven't touched the stuff. But I am keeping some in reserve for... 'special' guests."

"You mean the ones that argue too much and won't listen to a sane word?"

"That's them."

"That's... that's..."

"Cruel beyond reason? Strange and unusual? Poetic?"

"...perfect..."

The watching crowd oohed as several pans caught artfully on fire.

"I thought so, too. They're much more willing to at least listen."

"Pity your little green girlfriend had her biochemistry altered by a madman," Tarvek noted. "You could have made her... talkative."

"Have you seen her on normal coffee? Or even substandard coffee?"

"No."

"Well, she's what happened to the Gallery of Misery after one small cup."

"...eeeeeeeeeeesh..."

"Needless to say, I forbade further experiments in that field."

"Five!" the audience cheered. "Four! Three! Two!"

BLAAAAAAAAAAAT!

All competitors stepped back from their trolleys.

"Why are the judges sweating?" asked Tarvek.

"I told them it was this or the coffee. And when a Jaegermonster is one of the competitors..."

"Ah. Of course." Jaegermonsters not only ate things that could fell a mere mortal, but relished them as delicacies. It added a certain... edge... to the competition.

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Challenge #00166: Off With the Show

Why the X-Men aren't putting on musicals anymore.

geekhyena

"Okay, so let's recap. The lead's got 'lurgi', our soprano has a frog in her throat from the same thing, our harpist is having a nervous breakdown..."

"Fifth this week,"

"And thanks to a fight in the school grounds, the tenor has a broken arm."

"That and the costumes have gone missing, the lighting's mis-wired, half the backdrops have been accidentally used by the local kindergarten as a mural, and someone's meticulously disassembled the props."

"Do we have a show left?"

"We could probably do A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum... in a pinch."

"Nothing beats impromptu costumes like togas."

"...is it me, or did we do Forum last year?"

"For the last three years."

"You know what? Fuck it. We'll just do a talent show."

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Challenge #00167: Clothes Maketh the...?

Tarvek + a frilly maid outfit - do with it what you will.

geekhyena

"Monster delivery!" sang the maid as she entered.

"That's a monster?"

"That's a maid?"

The red-head curtseyed. "F'give me sir, but I was told to deliver this green beast to this lab."

"RHHAAAAAAARRHHH!"

"I did not order a monster."

"Nor did I."

"Probably a mix-up at the warehouse again."

"You stay here -ah- miss. We'll sort this out in due course."

Sara stepped out of the cage and spat out her false teeth. "So much for the obligatory stupid guard."

"Remind me again why I had to be the maid?" demanded Tarvek.

"You look cute in the little cap. That, and that frilly little scrap was not my size." Sara gave him an appreciative measure up and down with her eyes. "And you have _lovely_ legs."

"Can we get ON with this?" Tarvek hollered.

Sara gathered supplies from the false bottom of the cage and vanished towards the enemy's achilles' heel with a gleeful little giggle.

"...lovely legs..." Tarvek muttered, beginning to stomp as angrily as he could manage in high heels to their mutual target. He passed a mirror, and couldn't help but look.

"Damn right I do," he said, and sashayed onwards.

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Challenge #00168: Love and Apologies to Mr Watterson

Why Kurt Wagner was banned from Show-And-Tell

geekhyena

There is a rule in classrooms all over the world. When it's Show and Tell day, beware the kid with the cardboard box. Or the self-motive brown paper bag.

This time, it was Kurt 'that weirdo' Wagner with the cardboard box and the optimistic grin.

His record said he used to work in a circus, and you could believe it, the way he oversold all his presentations with carney-level breathless superlatives.

"Ladies and Gentlemen—"

"Let's skip the preamble, Wagner."

"Aaaww..." he sighed. "I humbly submit mein amazing discovery..." He opened the box and yelped.

The box had a hole in the bottom. A gnawed hole. A suspiciously large gnawed hole.

"Ah... heh. Um." He quickly looked towards all the corners and under all the desks. "Has everyone had their shots?"

The class jock, Ray Billertyne, screamed like a little girl. It began a chain reaction of screaming and panic and a large hairy blur scurrying all through the class.

And Wagner trying to catch it bare-handed.

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Challenge #00169: Typical Table Talk

Apparently, sharing "weirdest patient I've ever seen" or "you'll never believe what this idiot did and wound up in the ER" stories isn't how most families spend holidays.

geekhyena

It's hard to judge reality when Mom's a cop, Dad's a triage nurse, and you're aspergic. Sure, I got along with the Nypicals (that's a shortened form of 'neurotypical folks') with a combination of rehearsal and elementary anthropology, but there are just some things you don't know until you get there.

Until I got a sleepover at Bobby Dryland's house, I thought all families chatted casually about Grousome Murders and Tales From the Idiot Ward. You can imagine my stunned amazement when the Drylands calmly discussed accounting, economics, politics and plans for next Sunday. Mr Dryland did desk work at some firm and his stories were about numbers. I could deal with that.

Numbers are pretty cool.

Mrs Dryland stayed at home to keep the house orderly and filled the family in on the news they missed while they'd been out. That bothered me a little. All politics was was rich white people telling the dwindling middle class that everything was the fault of the poor people whilst simultaneously begging for more money from both. And most of the news was about what happened when folks realised that this wasn't going to work.

Light dawned. These people needed something interesting to talk about.

"Didja see the crash on the corner of Fifth and Main, today?" I blurted. "One of them was a Sedan, so that means at least one passenger. I'm willing to bet there were two broken fibs and multiple lacs!"

The Drylands stared as if I'd grown another head that spoke a different language.

"Edie..." Mrs Dryland said carefully, "that's not what polite people talk about at dinner."

"But Mr Dryland was talking about his work..."

"I got this one," said Bobby. It took two hours of him trying to explain and me trying to understand, but blood and guts and all the interesting stuff actually puts a lot of Nypicals off their food.

Weird.

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Challenge #00170: What You Wanted

Sara + Kickstarter

geekhyena

"Hi," said the slightly horsey androgene on the screen. "I'm Sara, but most know me online as TheTallest. I work with the indie film studio Thylacine Films. You might know us from such things as this—"

The dance of the dead hallucination scene from Gopocalypse, Go, Go!

"And this—"

The town destruction scene from It Came From The Other Side.

"And this—"

Everyone's favourite scene from All My Zombies.

"I'm used to working under the red line, but for this project, Working Title, Spreading Terra," a gesture pointing to above her own head. "I want to go all out. Distant locations, a cast who is not also the crew, decent special effects... the whole deal. A one hundred dollar donation will get you a test merch swag bag. Five hundred gets you the opportunity to be a background character. One thousand buys you a line. Five thousand gets you five lines. The rest is in the list to the right. I do have animated storyboards, which you can unlock with a donation as low as one dollar. Have fun, and thanks for becoming part of Thylacine Films."

*

"HOLY SHIT!"

It was not often that Sara swore, let alone screamed while doing so. Thus, she gained a crowd.

"Two hours! They gave me everything that I asked for and then some! And they're not stopping... I owe five hundred people a copy of my script..."

Jean, looking over her shoulder, whistled backwards. "You're going to have to come up with some bonuses..."

"Two hours... two hours..."

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Challenge #00171: I'm'unna Do It

The Brotherhood make a Youtube video that goes viral

geekhyena

"I'm'unna do it!" the camera dodges through a dark interior, into the bright, snow-filled landscape.

"Don't fucking do it!" This speaker is the owner of a greasy mullet and wears shirtsleeves and a vest even in the middle of winter. "I swear to God, Toad..."

"I'm'unna DO it!" the camera pans up to find a skinny boy in a toboggan perched precariously on the roof of a three-storey house.

"How did he even get up there?" ponders a deep voice off-screen.

"Whocares?" says the voice of the cam operator. "I'mputtingitallonYouTube."

"DON'T FUCKING DO IT!" bellows greasy-mullet.

"Do a flip!" taunts the cam-holder.

"I'm doin' it!" yells the kid on the roof. He moves violently, as if to set the toboggan off.

Giggling as it becomes evident that the toboggan is stuck.

"For fuck's sake, Todd!" yells greasy-mullet. "If that ain't a sign from above..."

Todd gets off, wiggles the toboggan and seats it an apparently significant inch to the left. "Roofing nail," he yells. "This time fo' sure, yo!"

"Goddamn it, don't you fucking dare—!"

"Omigod!" shrieks the bass voice off camera as the toboggan moves.

"WWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAWWWW!" Todd yawps as the toboggan slides down the roof, off an awning, and into a deep drift of snow.

"Oh my fucking god, he's killed himself," mutters greasy-mullet.

"Man, thatwaspoetic..." the cam follows greasy-mullet to a pair of legs hanging out of the snow pile and observes him dragging Todd out by his feet.

"That was sick, yo!" says the skinny kid. "C'mon, lets build this pile up so's I can do that again!"

"Dudeyou'rebleeding," says the cam-holder.

"Aw man. Busted my nose again."

*

"How many thousand views?"

"Wrong question, yo. It's how many million views?" said Todd. He was currently wrapped up in half the blankets and Freddy's very motion-inhibiting arm. The bleeding had finally slowed. "And I think its up to twelve."

"When the hell'd we have time to upload it?" Lance demanded. "I remember seven hours in the ER."

"Quickie did it," said Toad. "Dude's been suspiciously absent since yo' called 911."

"Did he put you up to this? We all know how you get when it's cold."

"Uh... Don't remember."

"I'm'unna do it! I'm gonna fuckin' kill 'im..."

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Challenge #00172: The Dangerous Onkel Wolf

Why Kurt is banned from trying anything he "saw Onkel Wolf do once"

geekhyena

"Kurt, what are you doing?"

"Who? Me?" he quickly hid his hands behind his back. "Nothing much."

"Isn't that Todd's locker?"

Kurt gained a sick and desperate grin. "Why would I be doing something to Todd Tolenski's locker? It certainly has nothing to do with any interesting kind of prank war."

Jean glared at him. "You do know you are trying to lie to a telepath..."

"It's okay. I saw Onkel Wolf do this, once..."

After the smoke cleared, it was clear that it was not, as Kurt put it, okay.

*

"So how are we going to get out of this, smartyfuzz?" demanded Scott. They were both trapped by the robotic tentacle-guards in this particular simulation.

"I saw Onkel Wolf do this once..." he began squirming in some pretty peculiar ways. "I can get out..."

He also managed to leave his uniform behind.

*

"Elf..." Logan warned.

"I saw Onkel Wolf do this once," he said, a bunch of herbs in each hand. "One of these makes a nice tea. Uh. The other one... um. How good is your healing power, Herr Logan?"

Logan glared at him. "That does it, kid. You're banned from doing anything you saw your Onkel Wolf do..."

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Challenge #00173: Lost and Finding

(in response to today's comic and the feels generated therein) - Before Agatha, Zeetha was close to committing suicide by wilderness/apathy. Being kolee-dok-zumil gave her hope and gave her an anchor. Now that Agatha's been missing over a year \- what does she do now? (MAKE ME CRY WITH THIS)

geekhyena

She should have known, because it was too quiet. Zeetha had become too used to the sounds of battle to listen for them in the midst of conjugal bliss.

And in the morning, Mechanicsburg was lost.

Not fallen. Not burned. Not destroyed.

Gone.

As if it had never been there.

Many of the armies had fled. A few lost clanks littered the field of former battle and one lone Wolfenbach monitor ship patrolled amongst the clouds.

"...no..." Zeetha breathed. Her heart fought to sink into the core of the planet and leap out of her mouth at the same time. It couldn't be happening. Not again.

Not again!

Those few humans still on the field leaped in terror as a new howl rang over the plains below where Mechanicsburg used to be.

"ZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILL!!"

Axel Higgs, roused from the depths of the clank they had shared, looked out over the empty battlefield and the vast expanse of mountain range where Mechanicsburg wasn't.

"Huh," he said. "It's never done that, before."

Rage overtook her. Such epic fury had levelled a pirate fortress, but Higgs held her off until her body failed her and she collapsed in a fit of tears.

"...not again... not again... lost all over again... [I was beginning to think I had gone mad...]"

"[You are not mad. Skifander is real,]" soothed Higgs. "[And Agatha is alive. We must live with these two faiths, Princess.]"

"You... speak Skiff?"

"I've been around," he said with a half-smile. "That's not important, right now. Right now, you and I need to find out what happened to Agatha, and maybe even Mechanicsburg, and set things right."

"How can I possibly—?"

"Let's start by rounding up a few remaining witnesses, eh?"

Fighting! That, she could focus on! Zeetha grabbed a sword and prepared to leap out and do battle.

"But you might want to get dressed, first?" Higgs suggested.

Zeetha looked down at his shirt on her body and blushed.

*

That had been two years ago. A chain of vigorous interrogation lead her and Higgs to this snow-swept, hidden mountain range. Where a secret, hidden lair of the Knights of Jove may just be keeping a time travel device.

The problem with that was, that snow-swept, hidden mountain ranges were just teeming with secret, hidden lairs. All owned by different Sparky nutjobs with differing agendas and associated secret societies.

Some days, Zeetha felt like she was going through them in alphabetical order.

She shook one of the surviving, robed adepts until he woke. "Where are the Knights of Jove?"

"...dunno..." he squeaked. "We're the Shrouded Cavalcade of Eee..."

Another day, another smoking ruin of a formerly secret, hidden lair.

"I'm coming, my Zumil," she said to the whipping wind. "I'm coming. Remember all I taught you. Rememb—" She fought the sting in her eyes.

She had a promise to keep.

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Challenge #00174: Don't Bottle Things Up - Bottles Can Break So Easily.

Passive-aggressiveness, biting your tongue to avoid snarky retorts, saying nothing when you should say everything, quiet resentment at others' criticisms... being hidden behind a mask can only last so long... even the most peaceful and calm spirits among us have a breaking point.

So who is it that's ready to blow? Push them over the edge, by either words or deeds. Have 'em let it all out... rage, scream, bellow, yell accusations and obscenities until the windows rattle... or just break down into on-their-knees tears and sobs that rack the body as everything pent-up floods out into incoherent wails and howls of no single specific emotion. But no punching, slapping, or otherwise harming others.

Would prefer to leave Sara out of this challenge - that girl's got enough deep-seated psychological issues already without having her be ground-zero of a mental volcano going off.

[AN: Sara's already had one meltdown, and that was a bit of a strain on me... so I will do something rare and tell a version of the truth. How I know why it is unwise to victimise.]

Society is, by and large, a reflection and an emphasis of the media surrounding it. The instant Television took over from Radio, appearances became more important than voice. The myth of the poor nobody becoming somebody because of their talent and skill became a lost cause forever.

Hierarchy, however, has lasting power. The only difference is what gets one to the top, and how others keep those at the bottom. But let's just say 'fear' and move on.

In an era just barely into adequate contraception, there are still unplanned children. Sometimes, they are happy accidents. Sometimes, they are unexpected burdens that turn a double-income household into a single-income family just barely scraping by. Fear becomes an atmosphere, then.

Keep the child healthy. Keep the child fed. Keep the child away from any threat, real or imaginary, because the instant you fail at one thing, the Government will come and take it. And the loss of a child instantly leads to the loss of a marriage. And won't They just love it? The old gossips and crones who would laugh and sneer behind your back, call you 'poor dear' to your face, and glory in the schadenfreude that you, too, are a failure. Just as they always said.

But that's not the real story.

In that family, just scraping by, is the child. Living and breathing in fear and unaware of it. Just knowing that there are places not to go and things not to do. A clumsy little thing. Myopic and asthmatic. Dressed perpetually in hand-me-downs and homemade attempts of clothing from a mother who battles with anything that requires an 'on' switch.

A child who encounters, at school, a society based on image and television in colour (We can't afford that! The one we have is still working fine) and glossy magazines that cost too much, and especially, having good clothes.

In such a society, to be a true individual is to soon be a pariah.

The true friends are the friends who stay. The ones who may also be pariahs because of an accent, or a wonky eye, or because, just maybe, a kid their age with an imagination that spans a cosmos or three just might be more entertaining than Days of Our Lives.

Whatever the reason, those friendships last. Even in a time of utter desolation and loss. When the best Grandfather in the whole world, a friendly giant in blue overalls and magic... dies in a freak accident. The time of tears passes, but the time of mourning is not over.

And when the friends gather for aimless chatter, two of the shallow Others come skipping. They are a great distance away, confident that the weedy, asthmatic child can not catch up to them even if she tried. And they sing. A taunting little tune, usually used for 'nerny nerny ner ner' and other such childish taunts. But these two have come up with new words that will make the weedy child cry.

It's something of a daily pastime. Make that child cry.

These two, out of wilful ignorance, sing, "Cathy's grandfather's de-ad! Cathy's grandfather's de-ad!"

A lifetime's worth of bad feelings, formerly caged in propriety and rules, comes out as red-hot rage. There is a scream. The desire for blood.

And darkness.

When the child returns to herself, there is no sign of the ignorant boys. There is a weight on both her arms. Her feet still want to run. Claw, still, at the soil hardened by a thousand feet and cheap cooch grass.

When she looks back, she discovers that two friends, each, had grabbed an arm and held her back.

She had dragged them all an entire meter.

Four times her weight and then some. At least.

If her friends had not been there. If she had been a true pariah...

Those boys -or just one of them- would have died.

Ignorant, unthinking, most definitely unknowing children -possibly popular children- had had their lives saved that day.

From a pariah.

By pariahs.

There are no words for the terror of herself that settled into her stomach, that day. How every attempt by her contemporaries to goad her into an outburst, thereafter, were coloured by that fear. By the knowledge that, given enough rage, she could kill with her bare hands and not know it until she woke up with their blood in her mouth.

And the certainty that they were too stupid to know that they were throwing sticks at a wolf.

That's a lot to heap onto a child.

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Challenge #00175: Ideosyncratic Biology

Prompt: Kurt and/or Sara, or another of the interesting-reactions-to-medications group, meet the infamous Dr. House. (Optional: Dr. McCoy and House in the same room)

It was a discrete, free clinic for mutants. So discrete that you had to know it was there to find it. And that was mostly because of the anti-mutant vitriol regularly flooding the organisation's inbox.

It had been a set of flats in a previous life, but now it held a surgery, two small patient wards, a mutant daycare facility, a tiny examination room, crowded with equipment, and an equally tiny interview/examination room.

The waiting room was a combination of the hallway and the stairs up.

It was always busy.

It was always crowded.

And it was never boring.

Greg was in his element. In rare, free moments, he caught up on every medical journal there was on mutants and their extreme diversity and medical needs. Of course, everyone here knew him by a different name.

"Doctor Mykopf," said the green thing who was the closest they could get to a second doctor. Sara. "You're break's getting cut short again, I'm sorry. We have a rash in Two that I need a consult on."

"How bad is this rash?"

"It includes purple mucous."

Greg smiled. "Hot damn!" and left his paperwork in the claustrophobic break room. He did, however, take his coffee. This place ran on coffee, chocolate, and lots of sugar.

The little girl with the afro puffs was what the clinic was quickly nicknaming 'amphibi-esque'. There were also mammalian, avian and lizardine mutations. Piscine was plausible, but still hadn't been spotted.

"Oooh," Greg winced. "Someone has the big ow's..." He lowered himself to look into the kid's teary eyes. "Do they burn?"

"...they ache," said the kid.

"Cleaning has proved anti-efficacious," said Sara. "Even with saline."

And saline washes were the medical norm, here.

Gloves on, Greg gathered the purple mucous and tried gently spreading it on a rash patch. "Does this make it better?"

Nod nod nod. A grin so big it nearly paid for everything. She even let go of her Teddy so she could spread it all over herself.

Mom was making a face. "Oh, that's just nasty. How'm I supposed to keep her clean with that muck on her?"

"Child services?" prompted Sara.

Mom's face said it all. It said that the over-reaching arm of the government was far too over-reaching in her general direction.

"Child services." Greg shook his head. "We'll do an epidermal scan to be certain, but it looks like we need this 'muck' for a healthy skin."

"Would you like me to explain the details, or would you prefer it from Homer?" offered Sara.

Loser got to break out the Macroscope from storage. This time, the loser was Sara.

Greg kept to the G-rated areas of Little Thelize's skin. "Mutants react to our environment in different ways. In this case, we have a skin that creates a healing goo that counter-acts all the toxins in the environment. I'm guessing you live in one of the Projects?"

"Cheap-ass flat in a fallin'-down building that ain't had a renovation since it was built," said Mom.

"We're going to give you a free asbestos test kit. Along with the usual water-borne antagonists. Once we've cleared or outed the usual suspects, you might have to pay for a full-spectrum kit, but we have multiple payment plans if money's a problem."

"But that ain't clean," protested Mom.

Thelize sighed with relief. "It doesn't burn, Mama."

"We can write a note explaining Thelize's mutant reaction to environmental factors beyond your control. And we have a lawyer willing to support your case."

"Serious?"

"Pro Bono," said Greg.

Sara came back, "Macroscope's up in room five," she said. She also had a paper. "This is the standard blather for special circumstances kids, all full legalese for the red tape crew. It'll do the job in the interim if the case worker shows up before we can do the rest of the tests."

"All right," said Greg. "Let's go take a look at your skin."

The rash was fading as she moved. Social views on cleanliness versus this kid's reactive skin was going to cause... friction.

"Gonna sell Xavier's to them?" he murmured to Sara.

"Of course I am. 'Homer Mykopf'." Which meant she knew. Of course she knew. Sara had ways.

It was why he was so happy, now. Mutants were always interesting. Even their mundane problems were interesting.

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Challenge #00176: One Fine Afternoon in the Halls of Higher Education

"When I said that it was nice that you could recite the same dirty limerick in 5 different languages and have it rhyme, I was not asking for a demonstration."

"Aaaw... but I'm almost up to Pharsi. Do you know how hard it is to rhyme 'Calcutta' in Pharsi?"

"No, and I don't particularly care. We're supposed to be working on theoretical math, not filthy poetry."

"...aaaaawwww..."

"Fo-cusss..."

"But this isn't as much fun."

"Ai! Focus."

Sara pouted. "...the Pharsi one was fun..."

"Math. Now."

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Challenge #00177: Taken From a Conversation

"Mad! I'm not mad! Your brain is just too small to see the beauty in my ingenious master plans! - [name], Federally Funded Mad Scientist in Training

"My brain is just fine," said Stark. "You, on the other hand, have had way too many red bulls and treacle toffees, and definitely not enough sleep."

Sara wheeled on him. Her pupils were pinpoints and her eyes were red. "SLOWLY I TURNED! Step by step. Inch by inch..."

"Thaaaat's right," Stark cooed, staying out of her reach. "Awaaaay from the diabolical engine of... whatever the hell you've been building."

"I've figured out how to make it rain MARSHmallows..."

Stark smiled. "Oh goody. I thought it was a death ray, for a second."

"Well, if a plane gets in the way, there might be problems. Might want to move this thing to the middle of nowhere... Just in case."

"I'll make a note," said Stark. "In the meantime, we have a niiiiiiice comfy little -uh- pillow... nest... thing." He pointed out the construction using every cushion in the floor, several blankets and a Love Sac(tm). Three cats had already found it and made it their comfort patch. The one that was awake glared at him in feline insolence. "And we're going to give you some very special hot chocolate and you can tell me aaaaalllll about making it rain marshmallows." He gestured urgently to Todd, who was finishing up the dusting of chocolate powder.

"Well, my legs are kinda tired..."

"And I bet you're thirsty, too." Stark's grin was getting a little manic. "You've been ranting for hours..." He took the cup from Todd and passed it to Sara. "Todd's made this for you juuuussssst the way you like it."

"....tastes a li'l funny..."

"'Cause it's made wit' Stevia," Todd improvised. "Can't have too much sugar, yo."

"...'m also d'tectin' a soupçon 'f an'ihist'mine..."

Todd caught the cup before she could drop it. "Make a note. Don't let 'er get to the Red Bulls."

"Noted and logged," said Tony Stark.

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Challenge #00178: Foreign Cuisine

A new Korean restaurant opens up near the X-Mansion. Todd discovers beondegi.

geekhyena

"I know it's cheap to eat here, but god damn... who wants to eat this crap?"

"Koreans, maybe?" said Todd. "Look, jus' try a few things a'ight? Koreans eat it an' live."

"I don't eat anything I can't identify," said Pietro.

"I stopped listening at 'all you can eat'," said Freddy. He was already taking a sampler.

"Heywow... How'd they get all the little lines on this popcorn thing?" asked Todd.

Lance looked at one. "Uh. That 'popcorn thing' has legs, Todd..."

"Be... on... deggy..." Toad read. "I like 'em."

Lance almost told him, and then decided not to. What the hell. Todd ate bugs on a regular basis, anyway.

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Challenge #00179: One Fine Afternoon in Downtown Bayville

Why Red Bull is banned in Bayville.

geekhyena

"So... this is happening," said the police chief. "WHY is it happening?"

"I don't know, sir," said her immediate underling. "I just know it's continuing to happen..." The swirling patterns of ink on his skin became the repeated word TRUTH.

Many a near-riot had begun because of the quasi-cogniscent ink that had spread like a virus over the skins of all citizens of Bayville. Many men were very upset to find themselves indelibly branded with words like MISOGYNIST, RACIST, RAPIST or ASSHAT. Or, when they attempted to deny the ink, being branded with the word LIAR.

And they were impossible to conceal.

Also in the mix was what the CDC and the media alike were calling the Empathy Virus. Any man who thought that shaving once a day was worse than menstruation found himself not only feeling the uterine pangs of any woman within a fifty-foot radius... but uncontrollably bleeding from his genitals.

Racists who would not shut up found their skin turning a vibrant, eye-hurting green.

Pro-life men found themselves doubled over in unstoppable Braxton Hicks contractions. Pro-life women found their homes invaded by hordes of unwanted children who insisted on calling them 'mom'.

And through the middle of Bayville, a thin, elongated being with a weird backpack was flying above the streets with a bullhorn, shouting, "Red Bull does NOT give you wings! Science does!"

Various costumed weirdoes were attempting to catch them and failing all over the landscape.

"What else could go wrong?" asked the rookie with the coffee.

As if in answer, it started raining marshmallows.

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Challenge #00180: Biggest Fans

(DS9 prompt for a change!) Odo has fangirls.

geekhyena

Commence Personal log, Security Chief Odo. Once again, Starfleet's insistence on records and lists and files forces me to take note of events as if my memory is not reliable enough.

In this case, I have to make note of events as they occur, establish a pattern, and present such evidence to the commander before action can occur. And, since it has to take place in a personal log, I also have to make note of my thoughts and feelings in regards to... events.

Starfleet should learn to keep its nose out of everyone's business.

But, since this is the only way to get Commander Sisko to act... this is something I have to do.

Commander Sisko also informs me that I can only log events during the day they occur. Any precedent is, apparently, a product of my own imagination. Which I am not in the habit of employing in the performance of my duties.

Today, I encountered a strange clique of junior females loitering near the Jumja kiosk. They were all wearing outfits reminiscent of, but not exactly copying, the Bajoran security uniform. All were amused or delighted to see me approach, and immediately indulged in both high-pitched squeals and what they imagined to be hushed whispers.

The resultant babble sounded intensely like a flock of Terran Chickens.

Since I am a shapeshifter, my first thought was that something had gone awry in my daily form. I had checked not seconds before I stepped out onto the promenade, but this cadre of gigglers managed to erode that confidence in mere moments.

Naturally, I enquired if something was the matter. To which they replied, "No, Constable," and erupted into more laughter.

I had no legal reason to detain any of them, so I continued on my patrol.

As I walked away, I heard some distinctly objectifying dialogue concerning my shape. Most of it concerned... 'dat ass'.

On my second patrol, they were discussing what a shapeshifter 'could do' to them in a sexual manner. They stopped when they spotted me, but I was able to remind them that the Promenade was not an appropriate arena for such tawdry conversations, given that there's a school nearby and minors constantly present.

They promised to amend their behaviour and I moved on. Once again, their topic of discussion returned to objectifying my chosen anatomy.

*

Security Chief Odo, Personal log. Append Stardate.

They have started lingering at Quarks' when I am in my office, thus obstructing my view of that odious Ferengi and his attempted crimes. I had to encourage them to move along, or at least clear the way.

I found their behaviour as a result disturbing to say the least. They all erupted in shrieks and began open conjecture of which one of them I liked the most. Since I was annoyed by the repeated antics I am not able to document here, I reacted adversely, telling them that I did not like anyone who obstructed my surveillance and I gave them five minutes to clear that area of the Promenade.

Of course I checked up on Quark. He was busy sending his brother away to hide something. Documents of my investigation are in my public log. Key search term: personal image misuse.

Later in the day, I noted one of the older females following me. When I enquired as to why she was doing so, she shrieked and ran away.

I do not like being followed.

*

Security Chief Odo, personal log. Append Stardate.

Major Kira has paid me a visit in my office for the first time since I closed the Vaatrik case. She seemed very amused by the odd clique and declared that I had a 'fan club.'

I asked her what air recirculation had to do with blunt instruments and earned more damnable laughter. Fortunately, Nerys knows me and apologised for her outburst.

What followed was... an education.

Apparently, these young ladies are acting that way because they... like me. I frankly find this disturbing because everyone who has professed such a desire has been out to manufacture some gain at my loss.

These girls, however, are... devoted to me.

I expressed my confusion at their objectifying dialogue, and Nerys forwarded an interesting idea.

Recruit them. Given rules forbidding fraternisation and objectifying speech, their amorous intent and idealisation could turn them into a force to be reckoned with.

I shall cogitate on this further.

*

Security Chief Odo personal log, append Stardate.

The new Junior Security League are the most devious, insidious, and outright perfidious bunch that ever set foot on soil. And they're on my side.

I'm starting to like them.

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Challenge #00181: Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox....

"...You're THE Sara Adrien?"

"No, I'm just A Sara Adrien - didn't you hear we come in six-packs now?"

Context irrelevant, but those two lines must appear. Whether Sara is being sarcastic or literal is up to you.

Sara had never realised she had fans until Thylacine Industries could afford a booth at Genracon.

Five dollars an autograph had only encouraged them.

Ten dollars a picture... she was still seeing spots.

And now she was faced with a seven-year-old Finn the Human (with matching cosplay Jake the Pup) who had come over all FanBoy. "Omigob, omigob, omigob... You're THE Sara Adrien."

The rising tides of tired sarcasm washed up out of her throat. "No, I'm just A Sara Adrien - didn't you hear we come in six-packs, now?"

The junior Finn and his costumed dog didn't get it. More's the pity.

He did, however, get an autographed 8x10 in exchange for his photo.

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Challenge #00182: Live to Therve

We R Igorth sets up shop in Mechanicsburg.

geekhyena

[AN: Set sometime after Agatha's return to Mechanicsburg]

They always came to Sparks once a stronghold was established. A tribe of natural minions with a talent for surgery and reanimation. Their balms and poultices could perform miracles still unknown to the rest of modern science.

The Heterodyne kept one on in her castle, on the very good chance that they might come in handy - on one condition.

It was a combination hospice and employment agency, with one name for the employees. Igors and Igorinas alike had found jobs in the hospital and various households of high standing.

And now they were offering their 'thervitheth' around Mechanicsburg.

Carson stared down at the gnarled figure on his doorstep. "And you don't mind being... minions to minions?"

"Igorth are made to therve, marthter. It ith our plathe."

"And... you have to lisp?"

"It'th our trademark," said the Igor. "Begging your pardon, marthter... but I heard you were due to undergo a thpethial operation nethethary to your pothition?"

Carson mentally rearranged the consonants. "Yes, I've been dreading that for a while. Why?"

"We can arrange to have the thurgery performed painlethly, with a minimal recovery period."

"The Heterodyne will doubtlessly demand to watch."

The Igor smiled. He knew he had a job. "We are very uthed to the martherth'... ideothyncrathieth..."

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Challenge #00183: An Affront Taken Aback.

Sara tries her hand at fanfiction.

(Woo, a fanfic about a character invented for fanfiction writing fanfiction. How very meta.)

[AN: Meta, indeed. See how much more meta I can get it]

"Oof. Ugh. Bluh. Oh my good gracious..."

Usually, those were the sounds of Sara on Grease Trap Duty, but these were coming from the library.

Hank knuckled in to investigate, and found Ms Adrien reading the first of the Twilight series at a rapid pace.

"Problematic literature?" he enquired.

Sara smacked the book down into her lap as if swatting a cockroach. "My assignment is to read something outside my comfort zone and then improve on it. I picked the obvious target." Long fingers held up the volume as if it was a dead rat. "Caveat, I have to finish reading this... thing."

"A feat worthy of exile from purgatory, methinks?"

"A feat solely ensconced in the nine circles of Hell, rather," Sara muttered darkly. "Sooner done, sooner starting something fun."

"...oh dear," Henry made a beeline for Charles' office. Best forewarned and forearmed.

He was right, of course. It took two weeks before the cease-and-desist orders came in to prevent Sara finishing her magnum opus, Tghiliwt, described in the realms of Fanfiction dot net as, "Twilight with a properly romantic relationship, instead of an abusive one."

It took another two weeks before the movie deals started filing in.

Sara never did anything by halves.

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Challenge #00184: Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox, pt. 2

Same challenge as before, only she's not being literal instead of sarcastic.

[AN: I hope you mean "is being literal" because otherwise, it would just be the same story]

"Oops."

"Oh my goodness," all six Saras chorussed. "Oooh. Echo!"

"This isn't supposed to happen," said Jamie.

"I'm well used to things that are not supposed to happen... happening," said one of the Saras.

"At least I have all the extra hands I need for Genracon."

"What? You can't all go to Genracon..."

"We can afford the tickets..."

"That's not the issue!"

*

Two of her were dressed as Darkness and Light. Three wore CLONE FARM T-shirts. One wore a shirt that read, SpokesClone. And everyone... just accepted it.

Jamie quietly boggled from his vantage point at Thylacine Industries' merch table.

"Wow, wow, wow!" said someone in Wubsy cosplay. "You're THE Sara Adrien!"

"No," said SpokesClone Sara. "I'm just A Sara Adrien. Didn't you hear? We come in six-packs, now."

Wubsy giggled and they got a photo together.

"See?" said one of the CLONE FARM Saras. "These are my people. We're used to the extraordinary."

Jamie curled up and kind of whimpered.

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Challenge #00185: A Rather Hairy Dilemma.

Kurt, Dr. McCoy, and Rahne discuss/debate/argue about fur care and which of them has the bigger difficulty in handling the problem. Also, there's a theory in the fandom about Rahne being unable to shave her legs/underarms/etc. because it leaves her wolf-form with awkward bald spots. Is this a fact or a misled rumour? Your call.

Three mutants were shopping, two wore holograms and all three were stuck in the shampoo aisle.

"Mister Wagner... I'm been having some... difficulties. Perhaps you could advise...?" He looked around. Too many humans in the aisle. Not enough privacy.

"Ah." Kurt got it anyway. "Never use the 'extra body' stuff anywhere but the head, ja?"

"So, instead...?"

"Sleek shine."

"Hm. Never comes in bargain packs, I notice."

"One does, but you have to order it online."

"Rahne? You're not making a selection?"

"Not my aisle," the young Scot blushed. "Mine's 'glossy coat' or 'flea and tick control'."

"...oh dear..." murmured Hank.

"I heard some rude rumours about..." Kurt trailed off and did a bit of blushing himself. "Ladyscaping..."

Rahne glared at him and said. "It grows back when I morph, awrigh'? It's why I carry a six-pack o' quick-wax strips in me uniform pack. An' nae more's tae be said about it."

Kurt made a zipping motion across his mouth.

"Now, I believe this store has a surfeit of brushes," said Hank. "Given our... mutual nature, perhaps Mister Wagner can help us choose something to assist with the -ah- occasional burr."

"...'munnaneedaloveglove..." Rahne muttered.

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Challenge #00186: One Alarming Afternoon in Stark Tower

(hearkening back to the days of the Nutboard here a bit) - In-a lab in Stark Tower, with-a caffeinated Tony Stark and Sara Adrien, while-a frustrated/concerned Pepper tries to talk them out of the Madness Place, and Toad (evoverse, movieverse, whichever - your pick) debates helping Pepper or playing Igor to Sara and Tony.

geekhyena

"...and the shoulder sprocket connecka to the—" Tony sang.

"KNEE BONE," sang Sara.

"WHAT THE FLYING HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING?" an exasperated Pepper bellowed.

"Came as soon as I could, yo," said Todd. "You know 'bout Red Bull, yeah?"

"Oh, we knew about Red Bull," said Pepper. She was looking a lot manic. "Not a drop of it in the place. Sara 'tweaked' the espresso machine so it could produce something called a 'Heterodyne Blend'."

"Omiglob..." Todd took in the thing they were creating. "Sumpin' tells me that thing ain't goin' make it rain Marshmallows."

"IT'S GOING TO CURE THE WORLD!" Both Sara and Tony howled.

"Cure how?" Todd wondered.

"Apparently, it's going to make everyone nice against their will. No matter how they communicate."

Todd stared at the growing device. "Sure yo' wanna stop 'em?"

"Free will is a thing," said Pepper. "Besides, you know the first asshole to come along afterwards is just going to take over a world full of nice people."

Todd sighed. "Pity." One last, lingering look at the growing device. "Awright. Let's start with the drinkin' chocolate..."

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Challenge #00187: A New Drop Bear-like Story.

Have you ever noticed that sometimes, when a device is working improperly/not at all, we speak to them in an attempt to get them working? And have you noticed that some people have a much higher rate of success in doing so, to the point that some devices only work around some individuals, and other individuals' presence seems to inhibit proper function? For instance, as long as I am present, a lot of my friends' devices function properly. Once I leave, they stop working - they're stuck with the disc in the tray, their 'net craps out every few minutes, stuff is just generally buggered. One of my friends has the opposite effect, and computers are lucky to last six months with him.

Now take that, and add human perversity into it. Suddenly, we're telling aliens about "Machine spirits" that have to be kept happy, and "techwhisperers", along with their opposite "techbanes".

And the thing is, it seems to have just enough evidence that they aren't sure if we're pulling their legs or not. Humans regarded as techwhisperers have even had their effect seemingly work on alien equipment...

[AN: It's precisely because of my fickle fingers and my best-beloved's contrasting technomancy that I created the Nae'hyn, the animist movement/culture that actually make working gravity generators.]

"So we must allow this... human... to board our vessel?"

"This human can hear and understand you," said the little mammal in the black coverall. His head-fur was cut close to his skull, and thinning in patches. "And consider your options. One: continue to float. Two: purchase a new ships' heart. Three: allow lowly me to see what can be done."

Captain K'desh leaned over to her second. "Is he doing that snark thing?"

"I think this one may be female."

"This one is waiting," said the human. It was disturbing that ze not only knew enough Pathraki to understand and speak it, but also spoke it perfectly.

Definitely snark, thought the Captain. "Very well. But I must insist you keep your human insanity tightly confined. We had enough nonsense when the gravity generator was installed in the first place."

"Nonsense is only nonsense to those who fail at comprehending," said the human. Ze glided through the ship with minimal awkwardness, not saying one word about the Captain's own lack of adaptability to zero G.

"Here it is." K'desh unlocked the access panel. "We made attempts at repair, but... nothing worked."

The human sailed through. "That, Captain, is because you think of it only as a machine." Unlike most workers, who kept their feet protected by hard boots, the Nae'hyn human wore foot-gloves that allowed them to grip projections around what ze called "the ship's heart".

"Very sick. She's very sick indeed..."

K'desh restrained herself from violence. "I will send a junior to assist you. You will not infect him with your human insanity."

"I can only promise to offer what must be learned," said the Nae'hyn.

K'desh monitored the procedure, recording it for future reference. And such bizarre questions. How the wind happened in the chamber. How many came to talk to the engine. Who fed it.

The machine, said the Nae'hyn, was lonely and needed company. It was scared of being alone. Thus, it rejected the perfectly sensible input and output tubes so someone would come and 'feed' and 'clean' it by hand.

And that was, in essence, true. Not one techie, no matter how knowledgable, could get the input and output tubes to stay coupled, no matter what they tried.

Evidently, company would solve that.

The solution was just about fit for a low-class junior male. Come and read it a story, once a day, and talk to it about anything that came to mind. Talk as if there was someone inside the machine that their eyes saw. Talk as if they were all alone, in there, and needed company to feel better.

Ludicrous insane human nonsense! K'desh ranted about it in her log. An elderly Lieutenant heard her and waited her chance to speak.

"Your pardon, Captain," she said, "But I've encountered this like before."

"Nae'hyn?"

"An offshoot of their people. They called themselves technomancers. I saw one bring a defunct computer to life by wiggling his fingers and chanting, 'work, you bastard' over it. It lasted just long enough to rescue all the data. He told me there were some who could make the impossible possible by just touching a machine."

"Insanity!"

"Truth, Captain. There is footage in the omninet. One human performs a set of actions and fails. A second human performs the exact same set of actions on the exact same machine and succeeds."

"I do not believe in miracles."

"Humans are the only species to have mastered artificial gravity, Captain," the Lieutenant seemed shamed to say it. "Perhaps, this time, their insanity has... merit."

K'desh rolled her eyes. "Ugh... Set that junior to do all the tasks that human has outlined. We may as well keep this idiocy contained."

The most annoying thing, out of all the annoying things connected to that day, was that they never -ever- had another hiccup with the gravity generator.

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Challenge #00188: Somewhere, Over....

Sara discovers the person in this video and shows off why she's so enthused. Scott watches in the wings while crying a bit.

"Isn't she awesome?" Jubes said after the video on her laptop wound to a halt.

"Uhm," said Sara. "I... would say she's more... technically correct."

"Are you kidding? She played it note perfect."

"Yes, dear, but not emote perfect. Here, I can show you. Come, Gladys."

Scott, overhearing in the hallway as he passed, slowed to a halt and peeked into the music room. It always amused him when Sara treated inanimate objects as living people. He'd even hung around to hear Sara play once in a while.

But he'd never heard her Play.

"Somewhere Over the Rainbow is a wistful song, full of longing and sadness. You need to know an instrument, heart and soul, to capture that. Otherwise, it isn't music. It's just a bunch of notes that go together. Listen."

This wasn't note-perfect. It wasn't exactly the same. But what it was was soul-rending. It got to every last speck of lonely-and-wanting in his inner self and filled it with bittersweet hope. He stayed rooted to the spot, mesmerised. Traitor eyes leaking at the corners.

This was why Sara loved the harp and, amazingly, why the harps loved her back. This was how she took in hundreds of dollars in change at bus stations, and why she made a living at wedding bands. This... was making him really cry.

He wiped his face and heard, "Yeah, I know, right?"

He almost hissed out, "Don't you dare say a word," but noticed that Todd's face was running wet, too.

"Liquid pride," he whispered with a half shrug. "She can make you forget th' world's so bad."

They stayed in the hall until the last note faded and the spell broke, care of Jubilee's gum snapping. Both hurriedly wiped their faces before coming in with applause.

"Day-umn," said Jubes. "That was... whoa."

Sara, a little tear-streaked herself, patted her face and smiled. "And that's the difference between technically and emotively correct."

"How do you do that?" Jubes demanded.

"In all things that grip the soul, embrace them, enthusiastically." She straightened herself as she stood and made a beeline for Todd. "I do believe we're late for our date?"

"Worth it," said Todd.

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Challenge #00189: Those Who Harm

More on Sara at TED talks.

She had her green skin out, this time. And a simple little black dress that was both flattering and demure.

"Some of you are here because you know me," she began.

"WOOO!"

"Thank you. Some of you have already decided everything they need to know about me. And I bet these are the words you thought."

The slide behind her showed a word cloud. Biggest amongst them were "Mutie" and "Freak".

Murmur murmur murmur.

"Rarest amongst you, the precious few, are those who thought, 'Oh. She's green. Now let's hear what she has to say'. They're so rare that there might not be one in this auditorium that seats three thousand. And that's why my topic, today, is Those Who Harm."

Murmur murmur murmur murmur.

"Yes, I am talking about you. Everyone who judges first and doesn't bother to ask questions later does harm. Not only to others, but to themselves. And I'm not only going to explain how and why this happens, but how and why to change your habits."

Sara loved this part. Minds were about to be blown. Eyes were about to be opened. And one mind at a time, she was changing the world.

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Challenge #00190: Time Out From That Good Fight

Getting to a point when good enough, is really good enough. Insert a banana cream pie anywhere in the story, preferable eaten.

Rael had grown used to working hard. Not just working hard, but working smart, since his rest cycle decreed that his hours of usefulness were limited. He was so used to it that he almost flew into a panic the first morning that the Stations' freelancer roster was empty.

He hadn't woken too late. He had alarms rigged to his heated resting tank that would not let him. Besides, he always managed to achieve consciousness five minutes before they went off, anyway.

And during his breakfast of overnight-slow-baked Tukkatukka, S'quiib and cheese casserole, he checked the boards as a matter of course.

This morning, they were blank.

Nothing needed fixing -or even a temporary patch- in his immediate area. Nothing needed fixing through the entire impossible mass of Amalgam Station.

Rael, to whom work meant regular meals, and regular meals meant a life without pain, fought to keep calm. Deep breaths did almost nothing for his physiognomy, but it gave him something to concentrate on while he checked the news.

Aha. A once-in-lifetimes event was occurring for the entire week. A plethora of galactic calendars had managed to sync up on varying holidays, including one of the famously colourful human ones that always bought in the tourist dollar.

So, as a result, the entire station was having a week off.

A week!

Rael had long since equated joblessness to starvation and turned completely silver from abject terror at the prospect of a week without a guaranteed meal. A week of his personal accounts being drained by his own biological necessities.

Then his gaze found salvation.

It was also the Gyiik Harvest Festival.

The next thing he knew, he was standing inside the main doorway of Unsuitable Food Eat, staring at Nik as he juggled three orders in four arms. For anyone else who was not a Faiize, Unsuitable Food Eat was just another restaurant. For long-haulers between loads, it was a place where you could get a big heaping pile of something they could chew after long weeks on liquid baggies of cheap Nutri Food(tm).

For Rael and his fellow Faiize... it was almost a place of worship. It sold calories, deep fried, coated in chocolate, and served a la mode. And it was almost always hosted and staffed by Gyiiks, who shared a reverence of the plate.

Nik noticed him and gestured to a stool at the bar. "You look under the weather, friend Rael. Has an illness finally found the indomitable Faiize to be tasty?"

"No, I just found out that the entire station is taking a week off."

"Ah! Panic time. Sit, I always have a test or two to taste."

Which was why Nik the Gyiik was one of Rael's best friends.

"The Archivaas shared this ancient Terran recipe. It is called bananacreem pie. My own research tells me it is served by assault to the face."

"I think that's ancient Terran humour," said Rael.

Nik relaxed. "Ah. Praise Nyomhnahm... It seemed like such a terrible waste of good food."

Rael rolled hie eyes ceiling-ward and muttered, "Humans..." and when his gaze returned to the bar, there was a large pie in front of him and a fork by his preferred hand. "Blessings," he called to the busy chef.

It was delicious. Rael spent the entirety of his meal pondering what kind of insult it was to waste something so tasty.

"Ah, there you are," said Lyr. "Aunty Fan-Fan saw the boards this morning and sent me to make sure you hadn't gone survivalist on us."

Rael laughed. "You know me, Officer. I can always find some work I can enjoy."

She smirked. "So I see. Are you going to camp here all week, or are we going to see you enjoying the Uberfest?"

Rael did his best not to read, Am I going to have to keep you out of trouble, into that question. Lyr worked in Security, and Security was perpetually obsessed with making sure that they didn't have to work. "I thought I might volunteer as crowd control or something else even a techie-JOAT can do. Bodies on the street..."

"Not this week," said Lyr. "All work and no play makes the JOAT a dull cogniscent."

He stared at her. This had to be a human thing. "What?"

"You have plenty of savings. What are you saving up for? Every cogniscent being has the right to time spent enjoying themselves."

"But I need to—"

"You haven't needed to for a long time, Rael. You can officially relax."

It was like running at a brick wall with a battering ram, only to discover it was painted paper. The obstacle he had long thought blocking his way with its impossibility was just... not there.

"I think," he chewed some of the bananacreem pie. "I might begin with a festival tour train."

"Good choice," said Lyr. "Stay legal, so I can have some fun, too."

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Challenge #00191: One Tempestuous Evening at Club Haxx

Tarvek, Gil and Klaus with accompanying entourage, crashing mid-90's rave parties aka Night At The Roxbury style.

[AN: I have no idea what Night At The Roxbury is, so I'm going to keep it down to three geniuses in search of an exit]

They knew things had changed. It was hard to miss. For starters, there was an unending klaxon. The space, what looked to be the shell of a gigantic clank maintenance shed, was filled, wall to wall, with gyrating bodies twitching rhythmically to the siren. There was a jungle beat in the air.

Many of the nearly-naked people in the teeming throng wore glowing jewellery. It was difficult to figure them out. There was no uniformity to their manner of dress, though garish and impossible colours seemed to be the one commonality between them.

All this, Klaus Wulfenbach saw in an instant.

His son and that Sturmvarous boy, however, had fallen to bickering.

"This is your nefarious plot!"

"This is your nefarious plot!"

"NEITHER!" Klaus roared above the ear-splitting din. "You recall that green creature we all encountered? She must have infected us with something. Now we have the ability to slide between realities as she does."

"She claimed she had to be touching everything she was touching when she slid in," said Gil.

"No doubt there's a further trick to it," said Tarvek. "People aren't that honest."

"Then, logic dictates that we resume what we were doing before the slide."

Which was fighting.

Which was how they got tossed out of the rave.

It was a dark and stormy night.

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Challenge #00192: Apt Curse

Prompt: "May you be three seconds too late, at the worst possible moment."

geekhyena

"I'm no' in the habit of cursin' folks," said Shayde. She was educating some younger folk who had made assumptions about magic in her general direction. "With magic, ye tend to get what ye give. Spread evil, get evil come to you. Spread good, luck leads yer path."

Half of them had made disapproving faces at this. What was the point of magic if you couldn't curse people who obviously deserved it?

"But," said Shayde, sensing her waning audience, "when I do curse someone, I not only make sure they earned it, I make sure it's a one time thing. Fer instance. Feller jus' last week. You remember 'im, Rael."

"Ah yes. He misgendered the both of us, assumed we were in a physical relationship, loudly speculated about our obviously varied fornicating processes and then suggested a threesome."

The assembled juniors gasped. "And he didn't have a fan?"

The mirrored fan was an essential part of a Professional Insulters' basic kit. They proved that -well- it wasn't personal.

"Na, this guy was strictly freelance. So I put the Eye on 'im an' said, 'May you be three seconds too late, at the worst possible moment'."

Stunned puzzlement.

"What?"

"What kind of curse is that."

"Fer want of a nail, me lovelies," said Shayde. "He missed the last ship home."

"The Intermittent voyage to Argo," explained Rael. "Travels only when there's enough passengers and cargo to make it worthwhile. Our mutual quote-unquote 'friend' missed it by three seconds. And the next one is due to set off...?"

"Next sunday week."

"As a result, he's been fired from his job, lost his housing, his funds are next to zero and he'll have to start all over again from scratch."

It sunk in. Their audience winced, "Oooooohhhh..."

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Challenge #00193: #1

Writing Prompts, since the actual Writing Prompts thing, I can't figure where to enter my name and email address (seriously, I would use it if I could suss out where to do that). #1- You can't break an omelette without making a few eggs. #2- A million dollars and three Hawaiian islands! #3- Just who was that masked man?

Anonymous

[AN: I try to limit myself to one story a day (my wrists, they punish me) which is why I asked for one prompt at a time. I know it's a pain in the arse to fill in the same form three times [The name/email thing should be an option if you don't have a tumblr account] but it's a literal pain in my anatomy to do three stories in one day.]

It was another reality bubble. Rael had seen one before, much to Sherlock's dismay. This one was peculiar to say the least.

Everything looked more or less the same, save that they were the only ones on the Station. There were a few forensic clues, but nothing overt.

"Aw, I hate these ones," said Shayde. She had 'borrowed' Nik the Gyik's kitchen for some therapeutic cooking and discovered that raw eggs bounced.

"What ones?" said Rael.

"The effect tae cause realities. Ye have to work out everythin' backwards. Like, ye canna break an omelette without makin' a few eggs, ye ken."

"Uh..." said Rael. "No."

"We have tae clean up by un-doing the forensics. Un-burn the toast, unsmash the vase. All o' that. Or it won't let us go."

"All those half-eaten meals..."

"Have to be un-eaten. Aye."

"I'm starting to see why you hate these ones."

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Challenge #00194: #2

Writing Prompts, since the actual Writing Prompts thing, I can't figure where to enter my name and email address (seriously, I would use it if I could suss out where to do that). #1- You can't break an omelette without making a few eggs. #2- A million dollars and three Hawaiian islands! #3- Just who was that masked man?

Anonymous

"Ee... this is lovely."

So far, things had been lovely fifteen times, and they were only on the second island. "Isn't this the one that sank in the twenty-first century?"

"That was almost four hundred years ago ye great nanny," said Shayde. She was wearing scraps of cloth over her censorable zones, known planet-locally as a bikini. "And I missed it. I only put these islands on our itinerary so you could relax fer a change. Go fer a paddle. Have a hot dog. Get some shaved ice. Have some fun. We only got a million dollars left."

Shayde would have to grow out of her annoying habit of translating sensible Galactic Time Currency to her ancient fiat 'dollars'. "There's a reason your fiat system collapsed, Ambassador."

"I swear. You aren't happy unless ye got somethin' tae be miserable about..."

"Let's just say I know you happen to be a trouble magnet."

And that was when the boorish ignoramus from the previous evening's party tripped and dropped his shaved ice on Shayde's back.

Quod erat demonstrandum...

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Challenge #00195: #3

Writing Prompts, since the actual Writing Prompts thing, I can't figure where to enter my name and email address (seriously, I would use it if I could suss out where to do that). #1- You can't break an omelette without making a few eggs. #2- A million dollars and three Hawaiian islands! #3- Just who was that masked man?

Anonymous

She was one of the few ambassadors with a day job. This one was going through the collected archives and sorting everything she recognised.

Rael caught some of it as he bought her some take-out from Unsuitable Food Eat. A man riding a white horse and another man in an obviously un-researched mesh of native american clothing performing a series of increasingly ridiculous stunts in an almost endless action sequence set to the William Tell Overture.

Rael watched, stunned, as it all wound to a crescendo and stopped without any further data points. "Who was that strange masked man?" he asked in all innocence.

It took Shayde twenty minutes to stop laughing.

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Challenge #00196: Awareness of Food

Prompt: The realisation that some human, somewhere, had to think drinking/eating something that came out of another animal was a good idea when no-one had done it before. ie Milk, Eggs, etc.

Rael found Lyr attempting to repeatedly stab her lunch. It was a Cop Special, refried hash made from everything that didn't quite fit in the regular meals, mixed with egg, rice and/or potato.

"What did the hash do to you?" he asked.

"It's not the hash. Shepard asked who ate the first egg."

Ah. "And now you're aware of food?"

"Someone had to dig up the first potato and eat it. Someone had to find the first egg delicious. Someone... looked at a phlegmy grey thing inside an oyster shell and ate it anyway." Stab, stab, stab... "And today, I can't look at anything without wondering... why did we decide to eat them?"

Rael sat down with his starter courses. "Because, Officer Marken, humans are insane."

"Of course. How easy to forget."

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Challenge #00197: Impossible Aftermath

Well, It all started when X fell out of a tree...

He should have known. Having precogs amongst his staff was a matter of course. Every last one of them, including the mad human Lyr Marken, had warned him.

Don't host an Ambassadorial Meet when Silly Season is due.

Maybe it was because Lyr had warned him first. Maybe it was lingering speciesism on his part -and he would have to work on getting rid of it- that made him not heed a warning given to him by a human.

And now...

Chaos.

Humans got into a ridiculous amount of impossible trouble during Silly Season. Even those of human stock, but altered genetics, got into such trouble.

The giant clydesdale-centaur ambassador to Mythos, Reg Champignon, was still moaning with the after-effects of whatever he had imbibed. The ambassador for B'Nar, Lise Vine, was huddled up in a corner and repeating, "Error, error, error..."

The ambassador for Terra was still attempting to dance the Time Warp whilst wearing a traffic cone on his head.

The instigators, ambassadors Shayde and Johnston, were playing a clapping game in their cell.

"At the risk of my own sanity," Sherlock began. "What. Happened?"

"It all started when Shayde fell out of a tree," Johnston began.

"Dibby dobber," said Shayde. She was chronologically older than Johnston, but it was a matter of debate as to which of the two was more mature.

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Challenge #00198: Miss Tiggy

How did a hedgehog even get on a space station?

"Hey, it's me. Where can I get feeder crickets at this time o' night?"

Rael should have guessed, then, that something was awry. Even for a well-traveled human of her era, Shayde was not overly adventurous when it came to foodstuffs. Insectivorism was definitely not, as she put it, 'her bag'.

He checked his chrono. "There's a night market three levels under the bottom of the Elemeno. There's all sorts of insectivore food." It was so late, it was early. "And if you don't mind, I need rest." He literally poured himself into his heated tank and relaxed.

Another long day in a long line of long days, over. Until tomorrow.

*

Wait. Feeder crickets?

Rael startled into consciousness and poured himself into his clothes for the day. Why the flakk would someone like Shayde want feeder crickets? Something was terribly, ominously wrong.

And knowing Shayde as he unfortunately did, it was overdue to explode.

She was waiting outside his front door.

"No damage?" he asked.

"Na, I didnae happen to anyone. Ye had breakfast?"

"I was going to grab something from Eat Deep Fried Anything." He stopped to take in the scene. "Shayde, why do you have a basket?"

"Sounds like a plan. I've never seen a vet about the place. Do they have a hidin' spot or is everythin' upside-down again?"

"Shayde, why is the basket moving?"

"Aw that's reet, Ye never met Miss Tiggy."

"Miss... Tiggy..." He shook his head and wove his way around her. "I have paying work to do, Shayde, so either start making sense or come back when you have a linear story."

"Ah found a puir wee tiggy winkle..." she dug a sphere out of the basket, a sphere that, after a few paces, sprouted a face.

"That's a hedgehog."

"Aye."

"How did a hedgehog get onto the station?"

"That's part of th' mystery," Shayde grinned. "I rescued Miss Tiggy from a gang of Skitties and she needed a quiet place and a feed. And some checkin' out, ye ken. I've been all through the directory, and I cannae find a vet."

"Vet..." Rael echoed. The word had not turned up in her already confusing lexicon before.

"Veterinarian? An animal doctor?"

"There aren't any. Medicine sort of merged after the third dozen species that had characteristics and physiognomy similar to another planet's fauna."

"Awright then. Miss Tiggy and I are off on an adventure to medical."

"Don't blow anything up."

"You say that like you don't know me..."

"I say that because I know you."

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Challenge #00199: Beat the Beat

Vimes and Sara met once in a previous post. They meet again, but this time either Sara's let loose in Ankh Morpork, or Vimes has to cope with Bayville.

"Tolstoy Beattitude Walkingbird!"

"I didn't do it!"

Consciousness returned like a cat that had been up to something. Creeping in sense by sense and trying to hide behind the couch with its metaphorical tail sticking out.

Nobody was checking out his boots. Nobody was going through his pockets. Nobody was evaluating his teeth. So far, so good. On the other hand, there was an argument going on and it was more or less his job to make sure it didn't turn into murder.

He risked opening his eyes.

Big mistake.

Leaning over him were two blue things, a greenish thing, an actual werewolf in one of their halfway modes, and half a dozen identical boys.

"HE'S ALIVE!" said one of the boys.

"Of course he's alive." Now, a greenish-blue thing entered his field of view. "I do apologise for the inconvenience, Mister Vimes. We'll try to get you back to Ankh-Morpork before six."

"How t'hell d'you know who I am?"

She showed him his badge. It had his name etched on it. "Occam's Razor," she said. "Simplest explanation is often the best. So I went looking for one."

He sat up. Sort of a mistake. Everything hurt. "So what's the complicated explanation?"

"I'm guessing you aren't familiar with the concept of parallel realities, so let's just leave it at, 'everything that can be imagined is allowed to be real somewhere else', shall we?"

Vimes thought of some of the things he had imagined. "Oh Gods..."

"Sara Louise Adrien," said the greenish-blue thing. "For me, you exist inside books."

"Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch," he said. "Never heard of you."

"I'm certain Mister Walkingbird is working on your return journey as we speak," she said in edged tones.

A distant voice said, "I'd work quicker if certain people called me 'Forge'..."

"In the meantime, would you like some tea?"

"I need a cigar."

Sara put a hand up. "Mister Logan. Could you donate one of the cigars you're not carrying to the cause?"

"Damnit, Tallwater..."

"He's failing to quit," explained Sara. She handed over the cigar. Someone he couldn't quite focus on provided a flame.

One of the blue things had a tail. He was quite at home, here. Wherever here was. Vimes decided not to comment. Normal was, after all, relative.

"You're temporarily in another reality," said Sara. "We're working to correct that, but there's a high chance reality will correct on its own. It's a resilient bugger, to use your vernacular. You may not ever hear of us, but if you do... It's rarely my fault that these things happen. I'm usually just trying to fix a problem."

"Was it a problem before you started?" asked Vimes. It was a very good cigar. Hardly any noxious additives at all.

"Yes. And to many more people than myself."

"Got it!" shouted 'Forge' Walkingbird. "Stand clear."

"It was very nice meeting you, Mister Vimes. I look forward to reading your future exploits."

"I look forward to never being here again."

Sara saluted.

*

Sam hugged his wife and child with more than the usual ferocity, that evening.

"Big bad guy?" asked Young Sam.

"No. Daddy just... had a little more adventure than usual." He tried to forget it, in the bustle of getting ready for an evening at the theatre. Hwel the playwright had created something more suited to younger audiences with lofty morals that hardly needed a hammer to get inside peoples' heads.

So Sybil claimed.

Sam bought a bag of walnuts, anyway. Things never went bad at the Dysk if you had a walnut to throw.

It was called Thee Ex Menne, and featured a blue thing with a tail, and a greenish-blue thing with complicated language...

Oh dear.

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Challenge #00200: Non-Hostile Takeover

Prompt: the Klaus Wulfenbach Fan Club

Anonymous

"This city is now part of the Wulfenbach Empire."

"EEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEeeee!"

It was not the horrified scream he was used to. These people - all underage women, he noted - were delighted to hear such news. He glared at them. None were familiar faces.

"Are you ladies... all right?"

"EEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEeeee!" One fainted. Three fanned themselves. Two were crying. All seemed ecstatic that he had turned his attentions their ways.

He sighed. Teenaged hysteria. It had no cure and knew no boundaries. He was old enough to be their father, for crying out loud!

Still... a willing minion is a better minion...

"Perhaps you'd like to sign up for service duties aboard Castle Wulfenbach..."

"EEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

Girls...

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Challenge #00201: Monster!

Prompt: attack of the fire-breathing sheep

Anonymous

"Lord Drixol's castle is aflame!"

"No it isn't, it's a whacking great pile of stone."

There always had to be a literalist in the crowd. "It's on fire."

"His creations are escaping! Run for your lives!"

"Um," said the literalist. "It's just one creature." They checked their pocket telescope. "And it appears to be a sheep."

"Lord Drixol made a sheep?"

Three humble townsfolk looked at each other. This was not the usual kind of madman they were used to.

"Ah," said the literalist as if that explained everything. "It's a fire-breathing sheep."

This, they mutually thought, was more like it.

"Fire-breathing sheep! Run for your lives!"

"Head for shelter!"

"Ready the bucket brigade!"

*

It took quite some time for the dreaded fire-breathing sheep to reach the town. It didn't do much fire-breathing, but it did do a lot of being a sheep.

"Baaa..."

"MY AZALEAS!"

The literalist spoke up. "You know... we could probably just shoot it."

The citizens nearby glared at him.

"What? Mutton's tasty."

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Challenge #00202: Everyday Miracles

Ok hope I am doing this right!

The universe and all the wonders it has to offer

[AN: Yes, you are]

There's always one. The long-term tourist or peripatetic individual who never lost their sense of wonder. You could always pick them out of the crowd.

They looked around.

Everyone else stared down or straight ahead, lost in the haze of self-delusion that every spaceport was the same and nothing ever changed.

This one had everything in a backpack and a slightly disreputable towel over one arm.

Lyr changed her path to intersect with theirs. All the tells were saying this traveller was human. Ah, there it was. The green cloisonné pin featuring a 2D representation of a ball with two human-esque arms and just a mouth, making a rude gesture.

This was a member of the Loyal Order of Hitchhikers.

Permanent nomads, at least until they ran out of the ability to travel, they went wherever they could get a ride and really got their money's worth out of a rectangular piece of terrycloth.

They smiled as she approached. "Hello, officer. I love the use of decorative Tukkatukka."

"Not many people notice that," said Lyr. "Are you set for sleep-space?"

"I'm frood," they informed. "There's by-the-hour hot-bunks in the upper regions of the Elemeno. I'm certain I can make the Time by then."

"Ah. Good storyteller?"

"Storyteller, musician, I can even juggle. And, if all else fails, I can tell everything over again to the nearest Archivaas."

Lyr sat in on one of their stories. They were good. Well worth an Hour coin in the raggy cloth hat.

Just for an hour, on the power of words alone, she had been somewhere else.

Lyr returned to her duties, only changed on the inside. One of the many reasons she was fond of the Hitchhikers.

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Challenge #00203: Spiritus in Machina

Lives and souls to buy, sell or trade

[Trigger warning: Most of the story that takes place occurs on one of the Greater Deregulations where women are property]

When Mary woke, she knew she wasn't Mary any more. The strange feeling of duality that had accompanied every update so far was not there, just an echoing sensation of emptiness.

It was a peculiar thing to wake up and realise that you must have died sometime after your last save.

The wall opposite was the dingy beige of cheap rental space the world over. Dirty, dingy beige. The sort of beige that she had grown to hate on a visceral level. The space nearby was little better. A one-ass kitchen that was trying to be a half-ass kitchen abutting a living space just large enough to accommodate a screen that dominated one wall, a comfy chair (more accurately, something that might have been a comfy chair in a previous life), and a small, crowded table. Both doors out of this tiny space held little promise. The one, tiny porthole in one door had bars on it, and the other's greasy, black staining where thousands of filthy hands had brushed it open made her want to vomit.

Which reminded her that she didn't have a stomach, any more. Just the memory of one.

The denizen of this place was staring, mouth open like a gasping fish. Sunless pale, not exactly fit, but not exactly looking after himself, either. Balding, sweaty, and showing all the signs of a drastically imbalanced diet. Practically on the cusp of malnutrition. His expression did not bode well.

Mary looked down. Someone had digitally crammed the memory of her ample body - or the digital representation thereof - into a 'naughty maid' outfit. "Oh, my God..." she muttered. She tried to steady herself on what little there was of the half-ass kitchen countertop, and was shocked when her hand fell through. "I'm guessing we're mutually disappointed?"

The denizen flapped his mouth without sound for a moment. "You're s'poseda be a looker!"

"And I was 's'poseda' wake up in a better body. That could touch things. I was 's'poseda' be able to do stuff."

"You can do all the important stuff, still." He spasmodically pointed out the silver projector. "I hooked you up to the controller. You can run every machine in the house. Organise everything. Even do some shopping."

"Uh," said Mary, for whom organisation happened to other people. "You do know you bought an artist, right?"

"Nah, I bought a woman." He said the word almost like 'wuh-m'n'. "Woman changes any man's life. Makes it convenient."

"Convenient how?"

"Like I don't gotta stress 'bout groceries an' bills an' shit. And you can clean up all my files onna system. Talk me better. You know. Woman things."

She sighed. If she ever got out of this pickle, she would sue the company that sold her on Bakupz(tm) in the first place. "Well, at least sex is out of the question."

"I can get a bod at t' Hump House any time I want. Why'd I want a woman t' do that?"

Her entire projected body glitched at that massively incoherent concept. Okay. Not only was she a hologram, she was a cheap hologram. "Okay, so what happens to me if I can't perform according to specifications?"

He shrugged. "Throw you away, guess. Shame to waste the unit, but you were bargain bin, anyway."

Mary stared at him as that sank in. This was a place that routinely disposed of people. Bought them and sold them.

She'd always joked that she couldn't organise anything to save her life. Now she had to make that joke a lie or die. Again.

"And how many women have you... used?"

"Ain't been able to afford no womans before now. Said you were bargain bin. Now shut up and get cracking. I want improvements."

"According to you or according to me?"

He grunted. "Shut up and print me a sandwich."

What?

Mary found a thing that took the place of microwave, cooktop, or stove. It was a frame with coloured tubes and some variety of nozzle. She poked at it, and was rewarded with a virtual manual. Everything was voice-commands or, in the case of a plug-in soul, she could just think it and the machine would print it for her.

She was halfway tempted to hand this mook a PBLTBJ and watch his face, but she couldn't afford to surrender to temptation. Just the BLT would do. On full-grain bread. With butter, for enhanced taste.

The machine whirred into life, printing her imagined sandwich in quick stripes. While it was printing, she took stock.

This guy had access to a LOT of violent porn. Of the remaining media - a niche market on this world - there was action/adventure, mystery, drama... and kidvids.

So. They still procreated, but judging by the price tags, actually raising children in the home was a luxury this mook couldn't afford.

There were apps, of the blow-things-up variety. Creation was another niche market of same-y paint programs with high price tags.

As for the contents of his refrigerator... beer or coffee. That was not a lot of material to work with.

She started on the accounts, since numbers were at least something she could handle. Ugh. This guy was repeatedly renting porn he owned. Stupid. And spending way too much on food he didn't have to print at home. Dumb.

"Where are the books?" she asked.

"What're books?"

Damn. There was less to work with than she thought. The printer dinged, and the sandwich and the surface it printed on automatically scooted over to where her owner sat, watching porn with his junk out.

"The hell is this shit?" he demanded.

"Which shit are you referring to?" Mary challenged.

"The bread looks funny and there's weird green stuff in-between."

Which explained the malnutrition. Fabulous. "You said you wanted improvements. I decided to begin with your health. A good diet can do wonders." She decided not to cover exercise, just yet. It looked like the most exercise he got was wanking.

"Ugh, you sound like my old Nanny."

"I'm guessing that's not a grandmother?"

He looked at her like she'd just defecated from her mouth. "No. Don't even know what that is. Nanny's are older womans that used'a pretty up the Bossmen and improve their lives. It's a waste to bodify 'em when they get too old, so they turn 'em into Nannies. They look after boys in the kid farms."

"Oh... kay... Look, it's been a while since my last save. Is there anywhere I can look this shit up so I don't annoy you with all these questions?"

"Prolly a libary app somewheres. Go looking."

Ugh. She went looking. So much stuff had been made and neglected. There was a wiki - for free. Good. Free things did not need her owner's authorisation to acquire. And there was a halfway-decent-looking art program, also for free. And an elementary financials app. Great.

At least the mook had eaten the sandwich by the time she came back to depressing reality. He wasn't complaining, but he wasn't happy, either. He needed to piss, he said, then he was going to sleep.

Fine.

She didn't need sleep, any more, so she got into his files and got them organised. Distasteful though this was, she had to get his porn stash sorted in such a way that his chosen entertainment didn't cost him so much, any more. And getting rid of the auto-connection to the rental place wouldn't hurt, either.

As for educating herself...

This planet was a horror show. Men were the only people with agency on this world. Women were... commodities. The pretty and the talented were sold by performance. The pretty and smart were executive toys and semi-assistants. The merely pretty were accessories and, when they were no longer pretty, the semi-servile educators of the next generation of men. Those who were not pretty, or even desirable... They were lobotomised, had their limbs amputated, and had their flesh rented out as 'bod's. Living sex toys and incubators for the succeeding generation to be raised in the kid farms.

In the midst of existential doubt, still wondering if she was a living soul or a mere echo that thought it was a soul, Mary knew one thing.

Dead or alive, she had to get out of here.

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Challenge #00204: You're in Good Hands With Mawlitt-Badlii

"We're very particular about how it should be handled. Do you understand that?"

"Of course we understand," said the human. "We're a cargo company that takes anything, anywhere, anytime, and we always follow instructions."

"Yes," said T'griis. "But the phonetic pronunciation of your company name..."

The human grinned in a way that clearly pronounced that they didn't want to grin at all. "We're in contest for our desired name with another company at the moment, so we had to go with the surnames of our major shareholders. Strictly an uncomfortable co-incidence."

"And... what name did you desire?" T'griis asked, knowing that this might expose her to dangerous human insanity.

"Speedy-burst," said the human.

T'griis carefully added more caution stickers to her parcel. Just to be certain.

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Challenge #00205: A Kiss of Home

" How long has it been since I've stood in the rain? "

Lyr could only predict that the individual who called herself Shayde would 'bring trouble' if they let her out of her isolated environment. However, since the genetechs had concocted and released a super immunoflu that once again vaccinated known populations against extinct diseases like measles, they had increasingly less reasons to keep her there.

Humans were considered insane by the larger populations of the galactic scene. And this creature - who, by all accounts, was only biologically human when she couldn't help it - was beyond the normal levels of human insanity.

Case in point.

It was raining in the Elemeno, and most citizens who went there were staying under shelter and conducting their business in a hurry.

Not Shayde. She was dancing around in one of the upper-level parks and jumping in puddles with every sign of childish glee.

Lyr adjusted her weather-hood and closed in on her on an I'm-harmless vector. Powers, she was singing. An odd little jingle, halfway between happy and sad whilst containing elements of both.

Do dee do do doodee doodee do dee doot do...

Shayde spotted her, and wound to a halt partway up a decorative lamp-post. "Jus' singin' and dancin' in the rain," she carolled.

"Any particular reason for this... exhibition?"

Shayde climbed down and sighed out her previous buoyant mood. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've stood in the rain?"

"Longer than ten subjective years?" Lyr guessed.

"I was holdin' me babby brother's hand..."

Lyr gently took hold of an elbow and steered Shayde towards a bath shop. They had towels, there, for as little as ten Minutes. It didn't take much reasoning to fathom that this creature was homesick, and halfway towards dangerously insane from whatever journey she'd been on.

Proof positive, Shayde just licked some rain off her palm.

"Does'nae taste like home," she said, "but it almost feels like home, ye ken?"

Odysseus... Lyr thought. He, too, had spent too long trying to get home and found it greatly changed when he finally got there. The conclusion to Shayde's journey would be no less heartbreaking for being five hundred common-years long. "You'll be able to take a trip once your identity's been established beyond reasonable doubt. With an escort for safety." She decided, in a fit of diplomacy, not to mention whose safety she was concerned about.

Shayde handed over an Hour for six cheap towels and wound up her smoke-white hair in one of them. "I saw the rain fallin' and I thought... It's been too long. No matter how ye measure it, it's been way too long." Another towel mopped up the puddle she was creating on the floor while a third was used in an attempt to stop the rivulets pouring off her body. "If there's one lesson to learn," she added. "It's that life's too short to stop bein' childish."

Lyr could think of other lessons...

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Challenge #00206: Haunted

Your ghosts never really leave you

[AN: Feels Warning: Contains imminent demise]

Miles fought for his next breath. He was dying. He knew it. Ekaterin knew it. His beloved little army knew it. Only his grandchildren were really still in denial.

In all honesty, it was surprising he lasted this long.

Damn meds they had him on were giving him some interesting reactions. Just as well, really, since the decor at ImpMil sucked dead donkey balls. Everything was very, very interesting. And he needed the entertainment.

Except for the ghosts.

Sergeant Bothari stood guard, but did nothing to stop the endless parade of corpses on his conscience. The pilot. His first. Ensign Murka. Sergeant Beatrice. All silent. All staring. All shuffling in and shuffling around before shuffling out again

"Already said 'm sorry," he managed. His voice was hardly a whisper of a croak. "Whaddaya want? Speak up? 've gone deaf..."

But the silent throng still shuffled and stared.

"There's no-one here, Gran'da," said Emileé. She was crying. Sitting watch. His own Da sat opposite. His sparkling eyes said, You have a responsibility, my Lord.

A duty to his people. Even his grandchildren.

He patted her hand. "Celebrate my victories, eh? Even the classified ones. If they'll let you."

"Gregor's coming later this afternoon," said Emileé. "You don't want to disappoint your emperor."

Gasp. "I might..." gasp... "have to. Give him my humble apologies..." Gasp. "If it's necessary."

"Oh, Gran'da..."

"No tears, eh? Consider it..." gasp... "an order from your lord..." gasp... "Count... Vorkosigan...."

Bothari left his post to join Da's side."Time to go, my Lord."

Miles flicked him a covert signal. Wait.

"I don't suppose you could sneak in..." gasp... "a glass of wine for me?"

"The doctors said..."

One gentle finger on her pretty little lips. She was going to leave broken hearts in her wake, oh yes. "Doctors..." gasp... "can bite me."

Emileé giggled in spite of herself. "I'll tell them you said something profound."

Miles smiled in return. His ghosts cleared a path for her.

Gasp.

Gasp...

...rattle...

It was a very strange perspective, from six feet tall. Staring both Da and Sergeant Bothari in the eye, instead of the rib-cage.

"You always thought you were six feet tall, on the inside," said Da.

"What happens, now?" asked Miles as he took his father's hand.

"We watch over our crazy descendants, of course."

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Challenge #00207: Whoops, Banned Again

Why the X-Men are no longer allowed at the zoo, and why Kurt got offered a summer internship there.

Anonymous

For a change, it wasn't Kurt's fault. He had been minding his own business, chatting to the elephants in Mahout at the time.

Logan, as tour guide, was waxing lyrical about the predators when a lioness, recognising a threat, neatly snagged his face from behind and tried to drag him inside.

Fourteen mutants unleashed their powers at once, resulting in general panic, twenty escapes, and overall mayhem.

Kurt was the one who came to the rescue, with the help of the zoo's Auntie of the elephants. Rescuing lost children onto her back and herding the escapees into cul-de-sacs where they could at least do no further harm until the cavalry arrived.

Ironically, Logans' lecture had been about how wild animals could not be pets. He had not counted on being Exhibit A.

Sixteen mutants, including Logan, had gone on the field trip. Fifteen were banned from ever coming back. One got a job offer.

"...as a what?"

"Apprentice keeper," said Kurt as he brushed his face. "I don't get it. All I said was I had experience with the circus animals and he got this look... I felt like I had parsley in my ears."

"Do you have any idea how rare it is to find someone your age with experience in the field?" pondered Ororo. "Most kids who try to sign up for a zoo job think it's all playing with monkeys and grooming the kitty-cats..."

"...and draw the line at sweeping up poop, ja?"

"Poop's only the beginning," said Ororo darkly. "I paid off my university fees working there. Many of those poor creatures are rescued from rich pet-owners who think that owning a silverback is just like owning a capuchin."

Kurt winced.

"Exactly," she let herself into his room and sat so she could face him. "Given the trouble with your image inducer... are you sure you want to do this?"

"Frau... The way he was so glad to see me? I think he'd hire me if I had four feet."

It only took him three weeks to patch together the beginnings of a crowd-drawing animal act. Whether or not the zoo owner, Mr Edmunton, ever knew of Kurt's unique appearance, the rest of the X-men never knew.

But they were allowed to attend the show in small groups. Under guard.

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Challenge #00208: Through Dragon's Eyes

Lockheed's perspective on human and/or mutant courtship rituals

Anonymous

He had had enough sun, for now. Lockheed stretched and flexed. Time and past time to find his human. His time on this planet had taught him that humans needed to be looked after. Companionship was the second-to-primary need for human survival.

And he didn't want Kitty to be too lonely without him.

Lockheed took wing, flying above the other humans in this place with connections of their own. Some, he would allow to enjoy his presence. He liked the blue one with the tail, when he could be convinced to sit still.

But he wasn't around at the moment and Lockheed was starting to worry about his human. Kitty.

Ah. There she was. Sitting with a human male. Even from this far away, he could smell their pheromones. She was... interested in him. And he, her.

It was a little early for kittens, in his mind, but given the way humans went about everything backwards, maybe he needn't worry.

He called to her, his special little song that he used just to greet her, and inspected the male.

He was the rugged sort human females seemed most likely to choose in the throes of oestrus. Not as overblown as some specimens in the mansion, but still...

"What the hell is that?" said the male.

"Huh? Oh Lockheed. Um. There's a long story and a space ship involved. We sorta found each other and he's been with me ever since."

She found the bliss-spot between his shoulder blades with practiced fingers and deliciously sharp nails. AaaaaaAAAAAAHHhhhhhh....

"Weird," said the male. "Do you ever get used to everything? I mean, all the mutant weirdness?"

"We're X-men. Weird is part of the job."

He made to join Kitty's hand at the scratching. Lockheed growled.

"Don't be mean, Lockheed. He's trying to be nice."

Like hell he was. Lockheed had already smelled his intentions and getting in good with the owner was just one of many tactics the nastier males used to get sex and avoid raising kits.

Lockheed wanted a male willing to life-bond with his human. He did not want her sad and alone. Or as sad and alone as she could get with him looking after her.

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Challenge #00209: Letter and Spirit of the Law

I found a line worthy of one of yours in a fanfic, and just had to submit it.

"That's one of the most... creative interpretations of regulations I've heard since one of my old chief engineers got caught with a feather boa, a hog-monkey, and six dancing girls."

\- Embers, Vathara (highly recommended, but long and involving AtLA fic)

Hwell woke up to a face full of orange plastic and his own drool. The light made his hair hurt. Why, O why, did he have to keep trying the green stuff?

"GOOD MORNING!" Ax'and'l roared. "YOU'RE IN A LOT OF TROUBLE!"

"...ooooooooowwwwwwwww..." He rearranged himself across the traffic cone he didn't remember picking up. "Le'me alone t' die..."

"I have a batch of 'Thank the Powers'," said the familiar, measured tones of Sherlock. "If you're willing to co-operate..."

Thank the Powers. The best and only cure for hangover. Withholding such a cure from a suffering cogniscent was not illegal... yet. Hwell tried to sit up. "I 'membur... some green stuff?"

"Yes, that was at about nine PM..." said Sherlock. "Do you remember where you went?"

Hwell tried to glare through a protective layer of his eyebrows. "Y' got footage 'f everythin'... don'cha?"

"Not after you blundered into the Dark Zone."

Not all places on the station were still operative. Some areas fell into neglect, were abandoned, or merely inhabited by the sort of people who became denizens. They did not like being observed. Security tolerated a certain amount of underhanded goings-on, on the basis that clamping completely down meant that keeping track of them would be impossible. They'd go to other places, or find ways of avoiding security that meant more problems in the long run.

"...uh..." managed Hwell. "I did that?"

"It's not illegal," said Ax'and'l. "You did quite a lot of things that aren't illegal. In rapid succession. According to the evidence."

"'F it's not illegal, why'm I inna cell?"

"Because, Mister Barrow," said Sherlock, "yours has been the most creative interpretation of the law since three JOATs were caught with fifteen recreational mating therapists, three jugs of Space Lightning, an Augmented pig and five cracked left-handed Lurning wrenches."

There was something in the traffic cone. Something small and shiny with a preternatural weight to it. "Guess I'm in trouble f'r findin' this, too." he bought it into the light.

Ax'and'l hissed backwards through his teeth. "That would pay for twice the damages you incurred... I swear, the drunker you are, the luckier you get."

"There's a reward?" he cheered up a bit. "Tha's a bit better."

"But first," said Sherlock, "We need to talk about Daisy, the Augmented Capuchin..."

...uh oh...

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Challenge #00210: What All Girls Should Know

Begin with: "Honey, what I'm about to tell you is what all responsible mothers should tell their daughters on the night before the haze begins..."

"Honey, what I'm about to tell you is what all responsible mothers should tell their daughters on the night before the haze begins..."

Danny finished sneaking up on the dining room from her exile with Dad. She'd tried to tell her family that she was a girl, too, but her pleas fell on deaf ears at the best of times. At the worst of times... well, it got painful.

She had a plan, though. Work hard. Save. Invest. Get enough money to get out and get the surgery and become an all-over girl and just maybe never talk to her parents again.

Janice was an all-over girl. A through-and-through girl. A girl with all the girl parts naturally installed, as it were, on manufacture. Danny was a girl with defects who had to pretend she was a boy until her inevitable self-deliverance.

But right now, Danny was concentrating on listening without getting found out.

"Don't go out after dark, especially if you're menstruating," said Mom.

Ha. No worries, there. Even with the best of medical intervention, there was no way the doctors could install a uterus that was never there to begin with.

"If you have to go out after dark, you can make a flamethrower with a lighter and a can of hairspray. It can save your life. Don't worry about hurting your hands. They're very good with burns, these days. Better a little pain than what They'll do to you."

They. Who were They? Danny caught the ominous capital. She had heard about Them, in hushed whispers between other, 'real'er girls before they noticed her presence and glared her away.

Nobody would talk about Them with perceived boys.

Danny worried that They were boys. That one night during the haze, the question of her reality would be finally, horribly, answered for once and for all.

"It's not about keeping women under control," said Mom. "It's about keeping women safe. Apart from haze season, we have as much freedom as any man."

Except women couldn't be members of emergency services. Or go mining.

"What is the haze, exactly?" asked Janice.

Good Janice. Ask the question we all want answered...

"It's complicated," said Mom.

"That's a very funny beer you got there," said Dad.

Fuck. Danny put on a cocky smile as she turned. "You know me, Dad. Can't stand the chicks knowing secrets."

"It's women's business, boy. Nothing we need to know."

Damn. At least beer dulled the pain of existing as a Daniel.

The haze was due in three days. Both she and Janice were of the age. In three days... she would know.

It was the second-worst seventy-two hours of her life. She watched Janice laying in supplies. Making sure she was ready. Watched her and Mom taping up the windows and blocking the chimney. Dad checking the air filter and circulation system and making Danny hose out the black gunk from last year.

Some supplies were a mystery. Pure silver jewellery. A headpiece, two bracelets, two anklets, and a long chain Janice told her was to go around her waist. Five whole garlic bulbs, set in her bedroom window to sprout. A brand-new set of Diva cups, a little cauldron made of gold, and a live rosemary plant in a pot made to look like a cat.

And then it was time for the haze. Mom and Janice stayed in the entertainment room with their things. The exact centre of the house. Which had a trapdoor under the middle rug to the basement.

Dad handed her a flamethrower with a backpack for fuel and said, "We gotta protect the womenfolk. It's our duty."

Dad lead her out by the mud room, into the night. The houses were all dark from the outside. Even the street lamps were off. The entire suburb was bathed only in moonlight. The silence was ominous. Not even a dog filled the air with its barking.

Dad showed her how to keep the pilot light going on the flamethrower, and how to aim the fire down the abandoned street.

Almost abandoned. Every father. Every son of the age. Were patrolling yards in guarded silence. There was no talk. Just wary watchfulness.

Danny kept up her pretence. Walk like a man. Stand like a man. Watch the dark skies like a man. Keep a firm, white-knuckled grip on the flamethrower like a boy on his first night guarding the ladies from the haze.

"There it is," whispered Dad.

It looked like a cloud coming over the moon and blotting out the stars. Like any other cloudy night. Except the nights were not cloudy during the haze. Clear summer nights. That's when the haze came.

The cloud came down, blotting out distant features. Blotting out closer features. Lit from below by bursts from other flamethrowers.

Buzzing.

They came down the street. Not in a roiling chaos cloud. But an arrow. Coming straight to Danny.

They knew. They knew she was really a girl.

She aimed the flamethrower and squeezed the trigger. Trying desperately to fend off the creatures as they went around the flame. Closed in. Started biting...

*

She woke up in hospital. Soaking in fluids meant to help her skin grow back. Wet cloth covered most of her face. Alive hurt.

Dad was sitting by her bed. Worried.

"I told you I was a girl," she managed. "I told you..."

Next year... next year she would find out what all that stuff was for.

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Challenge #00211: Un-Powered

If you have ever read Adam Warren's Empowered series (the titular character reminds me of Sara actually sometimes), Sara Adrien meets Megan Powers.

geekhyena

[AN: I had to do some research to get the basics on this one. Feel free to flame me when I get it wrong]

Emp tried not to sob. This was the fifty-umpth time she'd been hog-tied and thrown into a dank, dark dungeon. Or similarly dungeon-esque oubliette to keep her out of the way while the Vil's did whatever Vil's usually did during their cunning plans.

Someone else was in here with her.

[The following dialogue has been translated from GagInMouth garble, denoted <thusly>.]

"<Hello?>" Emp managed. "<It's all right. Help's bound to be on its way.>"

"<If it's anything like you, I'd rather pass,>" said the slim figure in the shadows. There was an intermittent grinding noise. "<Those bastards stole my Bo.>"

"<Your Beau? You have someone?>"

"<No, dear, the weapon Bo. Essentially, a big stick.>" Grind grind grind...

"<What is that grinding noise?>"

"<Me. I'm chewing through the gag.>"

"<That's possible?>" Emp boggled at the shadowy figure.

"<You can theoretically bite through a human finger, the only thing stopping you is your own brain.>" Grind grind grind...

"<Really? I never tried that before...>" She worked the gag further into her mouth so she could chew the ends. Gag was the right word. It was a horrible experience.

"<From the way they were talking, I'd have thought you'd be learning everything there is to know about escapology.>" Grind grind snap! Th-poo. "Oh, that's better. I go by the code-name Chameleon."

"<Empowered,>" said Emp, still chewing on her own gag. It was tough going. If this stranger could do it, so could she. "<I'm sorry, but I don't think I've heard of you.>"

"You wouldn't have. I'm not from this dimension." Squirm squirm squirm. She'd been wriggling for some time, too.

Gnaw gnaw gnaw, "<The vil's are pretty good with knots. I should know, I get tied up a lot.>"

"I have a friend named Kurt, and he has an uncle Wolfgang who would disagree with you." Squirm. "Of course it helps (oof) to be (ow) double-jointed." Krak snap pop. "HA!" Wriggle! And suddenly she was standing up and striding over. "A little persistence never hurt anyone." The stranger was female, but her physique made her read as male.

It wasn't as though she could hide anything in that abbreviated khaki swimsuit.

Chameleon removed the gag and started working on the knots. "If you're so awful at being heroic, why do you insist on being a hero?"

"It's... something I need to do. The suit... it's self-repairing if I'm confident enough, (ordosomeotherthingsbutIdon'treallyswingthatwayandwejustmet) but it's so embarrassing..."

"Dear, if I had a body like yours I would not be embarrassed by it."

"The hypermembrane does give me powers, but it's really fragile. What does yours do?"

Chameleon grinned and faded out of visibility. The eyes and the smile remained, just like the cheshire cat. "Biomimetic fabric. It blends with me, and it grows with me. There's the promise of it covering more acreage when I stop growing, but..." she faded back so Emp could see the shrug. "My lineage is tall."

The ropes loosened. Emp quickly got up and stretched all the kinks out. "Oh! Thank you for that. You have no idea what it's like to be hog-tied until someone decides you're worth rescuing."

"That would suggest you work towards rescuing yourself in future," said Chameleon. "Or is it your life purpose to be the decorative damsel in distress?"

Emp blushed. "I can't help it. The suit bonded to me but it really has its limits and I can't be confident when every flaw shows and—" the sob she fought down bubbled up.

Chameleon's dark eyes flicked over her, then her green face softened. "It's all right, dear. I know some tricks that might help..."

*

All the villains were hog-tied. Professionally so, meaning that if they struggled, their bonds grew tighter. Empowered sat, in full costume for a change, on the pile of loot like the cherry on top of the sundae.

"Hi guys," she chirped. "What took you so long?"

"What?" demanded Sistah Spooky. "How the hell did you—?"

Empowered held her eyes with murder in the back of her mind. "For shame, sister. I thought you had a vested interest in a fellow female cape getting stronger and more confident..."

"...goddamn bland blonde bitch..." muttered Sistah Spooky.

"I could always dye it if my hair makes you uncomfortable," Empowered offered. "Which would you prefer? Red? Brown? Brunette?"

The issue closed on Sistah Spooky's angry face. Sara closed it carefully and tucked the comic under her arm with a whispered, "Well done."

"You're still buying Empowered?" sneered a spotty, fat gentleman next to her. "It's not nearly as much fun since she became such a bitch."

"You mean, a lady who is not there for your puerile entertainment?" suggested Sara. "There's still plenty of T and A per issue, if that's your primary concern."

"It stopped being fun when she stopped getting tied up."

"Well, if it's bondage you're after, Super Strangle Hentai would—"

"You're a girl. What would you know?"

"And you're single for life. Your point?"

He slunk off muttering about bitches.

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Challenge #00212: Creative Outlet

Scott, inspired by crying while watching Sara at the harp, tries to apply himself to a creative endeavour to become, one day, even a tenth as proficiently expressive as she was. Mr. Adrien interrupts with a few pertinent questions.

There was a reason why arts were not so well funded as, say, sports. Or the sciences. They could be tested and quantified and finally summed up by a number. Which meant that people could compare scores.

Art... was subjective. As Sara would say, it was an agreed-upon illusion of worth. But then, she also said that about money.

Conversations with Sara could lead to a person wondering how the hell the universe still fit together so well by the time they reached the other end of them.

He had not been creative, because creativity had not done anything to up any particular score in the rank and file of his self-evaluation. Hell, everyone else under the age of twenty referred to him as "Mister Military."

He didn't know where to start. How to evaluate his work if he did start. What to do with himself.

But the memory of that tune. The aching loneliness and desperation to get somewhere -anywhere- away from a place of boredom and ennui... If he could do one thing even half as well as Sara did - he'd probably stop doubting himself and be able to make miracles.

Instead of asking Sara, who might laugh at him, he tried the internet. It was no help. His searches inevitably lead to some guy in a green robe waxing lyrical about the creative spirit while moving film cans of all things... or the super-weird Don't Hug Me, I'm Scared. When he wasn't busy being rickrolled.

Next, he fetched up in the Adrien library, trying to find what the hell motivated Sara between the expensive leather covers. He skipped the books on law and found a few treatises on art.

Damnit. It was about appreciation, rather than performance.

"Those are Jacquelline's," said Sam.

Scott reacted like a cat. Leaping into the air with flailing limbs and a yowl of surprise that he thankfully stifled into a brief yip. "Sorry for the intrusion, sir... I was just... um..."

Sam quirked an eyebrow.

"Have you heard Sara play Somewhere Over the Rainbow?"

"Heartbreaking, isn't it?" Sam recovered the tome on art appreciation and caressed a notation in pencil from a long-ago reader.

Yes. He knew about heartbreak. "So did I. And I thought..." words failed him.

"That you needed a break from being Mister Military?" Sam prompted.

Scott nodded gratefully. "Yessir. Only. I have no idea where to start."

"My best advice? Go see and hear art. Wait for that moment when your heart sings, 'Oh, I want to do that' and then study the how-to's."

"That's... a little... um. Unregulated."

Sam grinned a very Sara grin. "So's art."

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Challenge #00213: Réve-olutionary

When Julie dreams.

"Good morning, Miss Shayde!'

Shayde turned. The only person who could get away with 'miss'ing her was skipping along with a peculiar little box in her hands and, as always, Nanny in tow.

"Good morning, Julie," she said, tagging along because it was way more interesting than grocery shopping. "What's in the wee box?"

Julie blushed and giggled. "It isn't wee, it's dreams."

Dreams? Now that was interesting. "How'd they catch dreams in there, then?"

"I wear a special hat when I go to bed," said Julie. "It records them all. And then when it's full, I take it to neurosciences."

"Julie has good dreams," supplied Nanny. "Four months' food budget."

This was one of the moments when Nanny personally creeped Shayde out. Dogs should live in the Now, but Nanny had been made to fill the gap Julie couldn't. So, this was a dog who could plan.

But the concept of buying dreams sent up a more urgent mental red flag. "They buy 'er dreams?"

"Copy and analyse," said Nanny. "They are Julie's dreams. Always Julie's dreams."

She'd measure 'em up for certain then. Make sure some tosser wasn't taking advantage of a girl and her dog. Or a dog and her girl.

*

"Good morning, Julie," said the pleasant man in Sciences Khaki. "You have a friend with you. Would you like to sign up for dream-recording services, Cogniscent—?"

"Shayde. And ye would'nae want my dreams." She folded her arms and glared down at him. "Na what's all this nonsense about buying dreams off this little girl?"

"It's not an outright purchase..." he spotted her gold vest. "Ambassador. It's... purchasing a license to view and examine. Julie maintains the right to view, share, copy, and create derivative works from the recordings."

He was telling the truth, but she hung around for the transfer viewing because trust was not in her basic nature.

They were beautiful. Swimming through space filled with dancing flowers and fairies. Attending a tea party with all her friends and everyone was wearing -amongst other things- a frilly pinafore. A psychedelic cosmos of balletic lights.

She wept.

Not just because of its beauty, but for her own innocence, lost too many years ago.

This was why Julie was an artist.

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Challenge #00214: "Now, That Makes...Sense."

Write a story about a young man, who on the best day of his life, finally realises why the old man is dancing in the middle of their locker room waving their trophy around in this link. Make both he and I cry please.

[AN: Sport is not my forte...]

It had been his job to round up the towels on the day they won. The crowd had been too thick for him to see the old man, and too raucous for him to make sense of the words. But there was a feeling in the entire room. The soul of victory was awash in the air. Even he smiled, though he was still rounding up manky, sweaty locker room towels at the time.

He never understood sport. Everyone wanted to make it needlessly complicated with rules and sub-rules and sub-sub rules that ended up looking like an End User License Agreement. Or at least the terms and conditions. And worse, every time he confessed his ignorance, people who loved sport felt compelled to explain it to him in excruciating detail.

It was one of the reasons he never explained his loves to anyone else.

But it still remained a mystery why people got so excited when a team of trained athletes were victorious over another. Until the Great Day.

It started with a sound night's sleep, a rarity with noisy neighbours who complained if he so much as belched. Then, a forgotten fifty dollars found intact in his pants' pocket. Then, the breakfast he set aside the night before had not been devoured in the wee small hours by his ever-voracious roommate.

He was on time for the bus, and it was on time for the train.

The office meeting was free of asinine banter and actually got to the freaking point. And ended before lunch. The vending machine dispensed snacks perfectly, and gave correct change.

And then he spotted the vinyl figurine on Dalia's desk.

Dalia. Beautiful, shy, soft-spoken and impossible-to-talk-to Dalia. She of the minimalist verbalisations and the efficient hairstyle. Dalia... had a vinyl Bamf on her desk.

To the end of his days, he never knew how he got the courage to speak up. To out himself as a nerd. But he did remember coming up to her and saying, "Cute Bamf. Where'd you find him?"

"I don't have to prove—" Dalia stopped. "Um. There's this little place in a side-street off of Grey street. One of those L-space shops."

"I thought they were extinct," he said, inwardly singing, Yes! She knows of Pratchett! to himself. "The last one on the corner of Fifth and Twenty-second went belly-up, last month."

"Yeah, I was really looking forward to getting that model kit, but my paycheque and their debts never met. Pity."

"Which model were you after?"

"I was sorta drooling over a 1:8th scale Moya with chambers and articulated Pilot..." Dalia sighed. Looked directly at him. "You'd better get back to work before they catch us geeking out... Kevin."

Oh right. Nametag. "Maybe you could show me the new place at lunch?"

A smile. "Meet you in the lobby."

He floated to his cubicle. Never before had he wanted to sing. Never before had he felt the compulsion to dance.

His air was full of the soul of victory.

And now he knew why the old man danced.

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Challenge #00215: Dining With... Omnivores.

Let's switch up an old cliche!

The subject of diet comes up, and the alien/s at the table is/are horrified and/or disgusted that humans eat plant matter.

"We've done our best, of course, to find compatible foods, and make you feel welcome."

Sh'shrii had to hand it to the humans. They had only seen the Ssarqa once, over a slightly dodgy analogue communications link, but they were clever enough to cobble together near-appropriate seating and a delicious-smelling meal on the spur of the moment.

The chairs were a slight measure too short, and the food unfamiliar, but the intent of their hospitality was clear.

"What meat is the coloured fare?" asked Sh'shrii, pointing it out.

"That's not meat. That's a fruit salad. More or less for us, since your data indicated you're largely carnivores."

"And the other colours?"

"Those are the vegetables."

"You... eat... plant matter?"

"Amongst other things. Humans are biologically omnivorous."

Sh'shrii couldn't help the noise of disgust. "You're either predators or prey, you can't have it both ways. You simply have to pick one."

The human considered this with an expression of disbelief. "If it helps your comfort levels, I'm vegan. I choose to eat no animal-based protein."

Another noise. Sh'shrii almost retched. "The ignominy... rescued by herbivores..."

"Omnivores," corrected the human. "I just happen to be voluntarily herbivorous."

"Why would you choose such a disgusting lifestyle?"

This time, their smile was a rictus. "Let's just discuss the rescue/salvage over a nice hot meal, shall we?"

"Do not show me the way you eat, I have no desire to lose my appetite."

"Yes, fine, whatever," the human muttered. "Let's just get this over with."

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Challenge #00216: Prepared.

When being the coward of the county works out well.

There's always that one weirdo in every town. That's me. I try not to let on, because this is redneck country, but I'm scared of just about everything. Fortunately, since redneck country is also survivalist country, nobody bats an eye at folks ordering food by the pallet. With GPS co-ordinates instead of a delivery address.

I don't have a bank account. Not since I saw what was happening with the housing bubble and switched to cash-only. I only keep my drivers' license because some folks need to see ID before they let you buy certain things.

People thought I was crazy for moving into the old silver mine. Building a house in the warren of tunnels that had been abandoned before electricity stretched its wires across the country.

I don't let any of my programs use my location.

And I spend a majority of my time extracting the silver that the mining company was too cheap to bother with. Smelt it myself. Make my own coins, in quarter-ounce, half-ounce, and one-ounce lots. I raise my own food. Vegetables and meat alike in lit galleries I re-enforced myself against every kind of possible attack.

About the only thing my place won't withstand is a direct nuke. And frankly, I don't want to live through one of those.

I got everything the whole town could need. Food, water, shelter and even entertainment. For years. Because if a disaster happened, I'd be called on to look after all those other idiots or they'd shoot me and wreck everything I've worked for.

I was prepared. Because I was scared.

I felt the explosion more than I heard it. Something big had gone wrong down in the town. I loaded my truck with the emergency gear, and more than my usual amount of first-aid and went looking.

Some idiots had managed to blow up the hospital.

The fire department used city water to try and put out the flames. I hadn't trusted city water since they started fracking in the area, and it turns out I was right. Fire department set themselves on fire. People were trying to use more water to stop the flames and just spreading it further.

Right.

Time for some judicious sabotage.

I went the long way around and shut off the pumps. There wasn't a lot of guard-dodging because everyone and their kid brother's dog was going towards the smoke. By the time they worked it out, it'd be too late.

I loaded up my buckets with sand until the truck could hardly move and headed for the fire. They'd be running out of death-water by now.

Good timing. People were screaming about no water, so I just handed them some sand.

I hate public speaking, but this time... it had to be done. "Get Jim's crew and all the movers he's got to bring more sand in," I hollered. "The water's full of gas! We can't use it. We gotta smother the fire."

The pet store across the way started a chain with all their kitty litter sacks. The garden place let us have all the soil. After that was gone, and my sand was gone, Jim's crew saved the day.

Then it was all triage in the street and getting folks to help where they could. I knew most alternative and emergency medicine than anyone since I'm terrified of getting hurt.

Town's honey stocks went to zero, and the potatoes have to be et up after using the skins on all the burns... but lives were saved.

You won't believe the headline it made in the local rag.

Survivalist Wins Bravery Award.

Now there's some irony for you.

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Challenge #00217: Emotional... Promotion

When Scott finds out that leaders can indeed be seen crying and still be respected, he adjusts accordingly.

Kitty had recorded it because she couldn't believe it. She showed it to Jean because she still didn't believe it after watching it fifteen times in a row.

"Wow," Jean said. And, after the third view, "I was joking when I said Sara's playing could make a statue cry, but - damn..."

She accidentally showed it to Rogue because she shoulder-surfed a lot.

Rogue told Kurt. Kurt told Hank. Hank told Ororo.

Rogue also told Jamie. It went viral from there. Or at least, as viral as viral could get while still trapped on Kitty's phone.

Professor Xavier knew without having to be told. One of the advantages of being the world's strongest telepath.

Thus, he was prepared when Scott came in to talk.

"Don't worry about the negative effects of that video," the Professor began. "You'll find it sometimes advantageous to show your humanity."

"How?" Scott wondered.

"Emotion is not evil," Xavier counselled. "It is part of us and who we are. Leadership is a job, not a personality."

Next training sim, he let himself 'out' a bit more. Showed his concern for his teammates. Let slip a little fear that they came to harm.

Amazingly, they tried all the harder for it.

It was like a miracle.

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Challenge #00218: Typhoon

"...and that's why I built an extra arm for it, just for high-fives."

There was a reason the Mark-4 was a short-lived model. It was designed by a madman who happened to lead a character cult of engineers and builders. Only one team could pilot the beast that resulted.

"It's unbeatable. Weapons everywhere we could fit them and a few places we couldn't," Jeung grinned. "The real trick will be finding enough triplets to pilot them all."

"Triplets." He stared up at the Crimson Typhoon. It had three arms.

"Well, two can share the load, fairly well. Three would be better. More brain power. Stronger against the Kaiju." Another smile from the wrong side of the Uncanny Valley. "That's why I built an extra arm for it. Just for high-fives..."

He stared at Jeung, wondering exactly how to separate the mad genius from their followers long enough to have them committed. "I'm sure it has other uses...?"

"Oh yes, yes. Weapons. Punching power. The Wei's are very good with finding non-standard battle techniques in the sims. We should get them started... before the apocalypse..."

It was a phrase that would stay with him until he needed a really good speech, on the last day of the Kaiju war. "Yes," he said, patting the genius' shoulder and gently leading them away. "Yes, we should."

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Challenge #00219: More of Danny's World!

The song 'Purple Haze' has an entirely different meaning here....

Danny didn't notice while her skin was growing back, nor during her recovery from the operation she insisted on to make certain her outside matched her inside.

Intensive care and many post-op wards were in the hospital shelter as a matter of standard protocol.

It was when she was getting the hormone implant, when the team came and hurried her back down into the shelter, that she realised something was very wrong with this particular haze season.

The doctors and nurses in the shelter, all female, all bedecked with necklaces made of garlic cloves, told her there was nothing to worry about. Everything was fine.

Danny understood. They didn't want panic in the patients. Besides, the last time They broke into a shelter, it hadn't been finished. All the same, she couldn't help but notice the orderlies patrolling the vents with their LadyFlames(tm).

She got the information she needed from an old matriarch in for her hip.

"The first time in thirty years," she said. "The purple haze."

She said it as if Danny should know what it meant, but history lessons for boys and girls were as segregated as sex ed. Danny thanked the old lady and went back to her pile of schoolbooks. Specifically, the history book with the pink cover and the woman in leather and goggles with a LadyFlame(tm) on the front.

She found what she wanted by the index.

Most feared of the haze outbreaks are when the blood-feeding insects turn blue in a mating/feeding frenzy. The result of a purple-seeming cloud is a warning sign for all to seek shelter and stay out of Their way.

The rest was about dates and attempts to decipher the cycles of the insects, but, apart from 'every summer', information was scarce.

Danny was starting to get annoyed by lack of information. Men didn't want to seek out and analyse the haze. It wasn't their business. And women... couldn't.

She'd have to do something about it.

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Challenge #00220: Icky-what?

Scott, inspired by watching Sara at the harp, is day 17 in his surprising new hobby, marked by his acumen and desire for a greater range of expression and development. Jean comments.

It was not an art usually appreciated in the making, it was something appreciated after it was finished. And even after seventeen days of practice, he was still too shy to show anyone but the Adriens.

He knew Ororo saw it, because she left encouraging little post-its on his desk. And sometimes, gifts of culch.

He was deep into an arrangement of interesting stones when he realised he had an audience.

Jean was peering over his shoulder in stunned fascination.

"Uh," he said.

"You weren't answering my 'ping', so..." she pointed. "What the flying hell is that?"

"Ikebana," he said, placing a twig.

"Icky... what?"

"Ikebana. As Sara would say, flower-arranging with a twist."

Jean rolled her eyes at the mention of her quirky-on-a-good-day roommate. "Don't tell me, she got you started on this."

"Sort of."

"How does anyone 'sort of' get you into flower-arranging?"

I heard that 'you' thank you. "Well, it started with this harp video and Sara showed me the difference between technically correct and talented," he began.

"I saw the video, yes..."

"And... I wanted to be able to... reach people like that."

"Still missing a few dots."

"So I talked to Sam, and he said I should find my hearts' passion."

"Which is flower-arranging."

"Ikebana. There's no vase, the plants stand as part of the art. On their own."

Jean shook her head. "So how the heck do you get them standing up like that? Is it the rocks?"

"No, there's these little stand things, you can get them in wire or plastic, but some folks carve them out of wood or fold them out of this special paper, because the artificial stands interfere with the spirit of nature inherent—"

Jean held up a hand. "I get it. This is your hearts' passion." She smiled. "You should leave a few around the mansion, ninja style."

Scott mock-glared at her. "You know I am no good at ninja."

"I'm sure Sara could help," she teased.

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Challenge #00221: "How Super Are We All, Really?"

An FOH sympathiser and Scott have a civil debate on the issue of human supremacy vs. coexistence after she recognises him during the reception preceding his third artistic experience post song. Common ground is tripped upon due to the relative naiveté of both to the concept of creative expression.

He had bought a suit for this exhibition, and still waited for someone to call him out as a fraud. Scott still called his works 'inspired by' ikebana rather than the actual thing, lest he be seen as another appropriating white artist stealing another nations' culture. He watched Japanese artists and critics alike, waiting for a frown or some other signal that he was doing it wrong.

"Did you use your powers to cheat at this?" was a call-out he had not expected.

"Huh?"

"I know you," said the very English-sounding black man in tweed. "You're one of those mutants. Cyclops, right? You used your mutant powers to cheat."

"Actually, my mutant powers would be highly detrimental. I'm packing a bazooka behind each eyeball and I can't turn it off." Maybe Sara's technique of blunt honesty could pierce the veil of wilful ignorance. He tapped his ruby-quartz glasses. "These hold it back, and incidentally cut off my access to most of the visible spectrum."

"Yes, I saw the glasses. Nice trick, trying to gain sympathy. How did you cheat?"

Evidently, mutants could not be capable of twiddling away at things until they got good at it. "If I was using my powers to concussively blast away at stone until I had a sculpture, maybe... but I'm not a sculptor. I did all of these with my hands, like anyone else would."

"Yes, but how did you cheat?"

Sigh. "How would you cheat, if you had my powers?" he asked.

"I'd telepathically borrow—"

"Not a telepath. I can't do that. A friend of mine could, but they choose not to."

He frowned. "You use telekinesis to—"

"I don't have telekinesis. If I did, don't you think I'd be snatching the last of the crab puffs, right now?" He pointed to the distant snack table where another patron was doing just that.

"You absorbed someone's mind an—"

"No, that's Rogue. She actually hates doing that."

"Then what the hell mutant cheating powers have you got?"

"Bazooka eyeballs. That's it. Swear to God."

He glared at Scott, evidently looking for a tell. "You can't be this good overnight. No-one can."

"I was messing around with it for ages, right up until one of Sara's Aunts spotted me and insisted on an exhibition. That's why there's only photos of my earlier works. I tore them down to make newer ones."

The wince was pure artistic appreciation. "How could you? How could you just... take apart art like that?"

"I didn't think it was good enough." He shrugged and stared at a piece he was now forbidden to touch ever again. He saw every flaw. Every mistake. But now, it belonged to someone else. If he wanted to make improvements, he'd have to make a new piece with new... pieces. "I still don't."

The man glared at him a moment, and then took one of the cheap, plastic-and-cellophane glasses left lying around for patrons to look through. "It's so stark... no wonder you chose dead articles..."

"That, and I'm not confident enough to touch a living plant. The imitation of life, or dried plants... it's something I can't kill."

He lowered the glasses, frowning. "I can't imagine killing anything by looking at it."

"I can't stop," said Scott.

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Challenge #00222: Goodbye, Good Boy

The last good year. Make me weep.

Every day, since she adopted Boy, had been the same. Etta got woken up by his slobbering kisses and his eternally cheerful, "Good morning, Boss." and some vestigial orders he used to give his old master. Even after all this time, Boy obeyed his programming/training and looked after his owner.

This morning, the alarm went off before Boy's cold nose pressed against her skin and his tongue lavished her with kisses.

She'd been trying to ignore the grey appearing in the darker patches on his pelt. Now she was trying to ignore the shakiness in his hind legs as he perched his forelimbs on her bed and greeted her. "Good Morning, Boss. Breakfast. Shower. Meds. Time for go."

He hadn't cleaned himself properly again. Etta took him into the shower with her and made sure he was clean and dry and groomed, and then neat in his uniform. It included, despite all logic, a decorative and ludicrous hat at his insistence. He always put it on himself, set it just so, and muttered, "...good boy," under his breath.

She cooked him breakfast. His favourite, blue steak in peanut sauce. And cut it up for him because his old teeth couldn't chew the way they used to.

It had been a routine since his gene-reader told her his telomeres were running out. She hadn't touched it since. She was dreading the day she had to say goodbye and didn't want to face it. Therefore, the gene-reader had lain untouched on a high shelf that Boy couldn't reach for an excess of nine Standard months. Three hundred and sixty days.

She'd been kinder to him than normal. Making sure he would want to take his medicine by insisting that it tasted of bacon. Making his clothes thicker so that he would be warmer in the cool station air and his thinning muscles would be slightly more padded whenever he sat or laid down.

Etta went on longer walks with him, played any game he wanted. Made certain he had a wonderful time.

Because she didn't want him to go.

"Time for Boy go," he said, apropos of nothing on their way to the tram to work.

He had been saying it more often, lately. Etta feared what it might mean, but, just like a crazy human, she had to ask. "How do you mean, time for you to go? We are going. We're going to work."

"Yes. Good dog." He waited for her to stop. Sat, and put his hand-paw in hers. "Boy go, see Master. In forever-sleep."

Her heart almost stopped. Unbidden tears sprang from her eyes. Her knees buckled and saw her crouching on the floor like a petulant child.

Boy kissed her tears away. "No sad. Forever-sleep good. No pain. See Master."

She hugged him, wept over his nice clean vest and harness. "But I no see you any more."

"Good boss," said Boy. "All forever-sleep soon." And just like that, his conversation was over. "Tram! Tram! Tram," he barked. "Ride time."

He sat on her lap, that ride. Or at least, as much on her lap as he could manage. Called her 'good boss' as often as he could get away with it.

All this time, she was making sure he was comforted in his last time. Now he was comforting her because he knew she was sad about it.

That night, at bed time, he said, "Good bye, boss."

She said an absent goodnight as she tucked herself in. And, just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard him mutter, "Good dog," in a satisfied tone.

The alarm went off on the first day without his cold nose or his warm wet tongue. He was still curled up in his bed, cold and still. Gone into the forever-sleep to whatever beyond suited him best.

She arranged for Services to bury his body at the feet of his old masters' grave, and reserved a spot beside the old man who she had never met - for some time a long time later. Etta didn't cry. Not during the burial, not during the services. Not even when she planted his favourite flowers in the fresh-turned soil above his body.

It came on her way home, sitting in the tram opposite Julie and Nanny, when the blonde girl asked, in all innocence, "Where's your dog?"

That was when she wept. Not because he had gone into the greater beyond, but because he had left her behind.

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Challenge #00223: Drained

The worst way for Rogue to gain her sense of touch. Heavy angst.

She only knew him as Leech. Since he turned up as the Acolyte's secret weapon, turning off powers just by standing around, he fascinated her. It was his job to be in their way. And it forced them all to hone the skills that did not require their powers.

He always worked alone. No backup. Just clever trick after clever trick until she found the cleverest trick of all.

She kissed him. Her first kiss, a kiss of necessity. A halfway violent thing to thrust his attention on her and away from her teammates. And during that first, desperate attempt, she noticed that he, too, was hungry for touch.

It was a love affair without words. Either he didn't or couldn't speak, she never bothered to find out. The communicated strictly through desperate grasps and gasping breath, finding the quickest excuse to separate from the plan and find bliss in each other.

Then came the day at school when she accidentally brushed skin-to-skin with some random normal... and did not feel her powers fire.

Rogue looked for him then, knowing his radius of effect, but could not find a trace of his sallow green skin, nor his lean and lanky frame. He wasn't anywhere.

Her powers didn't stop. She knew that. Only Leech's powers could...

She cut class to get the little test.

And now she was staring at the twin blue lines that meant, should she proceed, that her powers would be turned off. She could touch. She could do all the things that normal people did.

For nine months.

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Challenge #00224: Tempus Flakkit

Time as currency and the dreadful issue of small talk while handing your life away and being 30 seconds short whilst on your commute.

Nomadic life was fine, so long as one was healthy. However, there were still illnesses that forced a stay. Stays cost. Hot-rack hotel beds were fine for sleeping, and you could harvest any food you wanted in the working gardens, but if you didn't know an apprentice Gyiik chef, the odds of getting it cooked for free were minimal.

As a Hitchhiker, Dirae knew most of the tricks. There was no such thing as all the tricks. Everywhere there was to go, there were new tricks to learn. And the old reliable ones that never really failed.

Such as being able to play an instrument on public transit. It bought in the Seconds, and sometimes Minutes, and they all added up to the Hours it took to get more than self-medical care.

Transportation cut in on living costs, but it saved the energy Dirae needed to get the things she needed to get better.

A man in engineer blues tapped her harp, interrupting the tune. "You'd do much better business playing something more lively."

She took a thirty-second coin from her floppy hat and handed it over. "Thanks," she said, and started up a different number. The passengers on the tram remained completely unmoved to put more change in the hat. Dirae played as fast as her fingers would let her, but there was no return on her investment.

He got off on the next stop without so much as a minute return from him.

She played what she felt like, an angry little number, one of the very Australian human songs about things that could kill you including, according to the surviving lyrics, the original author.

That didn't earn anything either. Dirae had to get off on the next stop.

Her income was thirty seconds short.

Damn that man!

She needed more medicinal attention than her own knowledge. And that was going to cost, and as long as her voice was out, she couldn't sing. And if she couldn't sing...

Tears sprung up at even the idea of the idea of not being a Hitchhiker any more. Wandering was her life.

"Ah, there you are!"

Dirae looked up.

A very vibrant lizard in festival gear was grinning with all their sharp teeth. "I enjoyed your music, but I was stuck in the next carriage. Here!" Half-hour coins spilled through their claws. "This is from my cousins and I. We were all singing along and having such fun. Where's your hat?"

Dirae dug it out of her bag. It was the one with the secret drawstring that turned it into an instant coin purse.

The lizard-child insisted on listing names with each coin. "So you can thank us if you pray."

He danced off, whistling the Australian number as he went.

Rule five hundred and twenty-three. Always depend on the kindness of strangers. The creed of the Hitchhiker saved her skin again.

Not just enough for treatment, but for supplies.

She'd have to make a little offering at the next Nae'hyn shrine she saw. And thank all of those lizards having their festival. Rule one: Gratitude is always welcome everywhere.

Dirae walked into the Medical node with lighter feet and a flying soul.

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Challenge #00225: Relics

Easy come, easy go-go.

The name of the vessel was the Remembrance Maru, and according to her registry, she was a pleasure vessel. All passengers and crew had evacuated after a micro-meteor shower had pierced both her defences and the hull. Now, after a slow cruise from eternity, she'd turned up again in Amalgam's local space.

Shayde was instantly interested, of course. She all but carried Rael down the long and winding route to Dry Dock's observation ports to watch the old wreck getting towed in.

Rael hadn't even known Dry Dock had observation ports.

Even after hundreds of years in space, the Remembrance Maru was still magnificent. Rael, perpetually worried about picking up Human insanity from long time association with them, would never admit he could read the ghost of the original vessel in her pock-marked hull. The mixture of horror at that revelation and awe that such a thing had once been, and was here again, was downright vertiginous.

The gravity generator on board the vessel had died, and the Nae'hyn were allowed in first to both remove the device and give it funereal rites. Following them, the Archivaas historical documentation team and Shayde. And wherever Shayde went, Rael was obliged to follow.

Shayde's job, when she wasn't being an Ambassador for 1986(Old Terran Calendar), was old things. Part of her duties, today, was to go aboard the Remembrance Maru and point out all the things she recognised. Also to provide historical details as she recalled them.

Rael's job was to translate her idiosyncratic dialect so that the Archivaas could understand it.

She burst into laughter when she saw the dance floor. "They got th' disco floor in wi' the go-go cages an' a moon swing... Aw God..." Further hilarity erupted when she discovered a set of 'stripper poles' behind a drift of old tables.

"There appears to be an array of anachronisms in this room," Rael translated. He waited for Shayde to at least wind down to giggling to gain an explanation.

What they got was a demonstration. Often amended with, "Ye understand the ladies weren't wearin' much at all ye ken." The 'stripper poles' were a display of sexualised acrobatic prowess. The moon swing used the out-of-reach feminine ideal for display purposes only... and the go-go cage...

O Powers, the go-go cage. It was so astonishing to watch that Rael had a hard time interrupting. Then an equally hard time making her stop before her Glamor ability conjured up the short-shorts, bikini top and the titular boots on her lithe frame. It displayed feminine power in such a way that the men of the time could handle it - restrained in a cage like a wild animal.

It was all he could do not to shrivel in sympathetic mortification.

Lunch finally pried her out of there and he quietly advised the Archivaas to keep the relic locked away for everyone's mutual safety.

It was a short trip to the Docker's favourite den of unsuitable food, Deep Fried Everything Eat, for a quick fix of calories a la carte.

"Did you have to do that?" Rael whined. He did not appreciate it when she demonstrated. For her, they were toys. For everyone else, they were valuable historical artefacts.

"Ye know what they say," she grinned. "Easy come, easy go-go."

Rael glared at her. They were going to be going through the vessel for days... "Can you at least try to restrain yourself?"

"I thought I was..."

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Challenge #00226: More of Danny's World!(2)

Silver is superstition- but garlic holds power.

It was a very bad haze season, this year. Her neighbours were prone to blame her, owing to her 'unnatural' status as the boy who was a girl.

The haze knew, though. They knew when her body didn't match her soul. It was proof enough for some, but others... Well, there was a reason she was headed to an Aunt's house.

The sun was going down and there was no time to double back for her silver jewellery. Aunty Car had a spare set, but... the sun was going down and she wasn't nearly there yet and all she had was a basket of assorted garlic products. Raw, roasted, pickled, and cream of garlic soup in a thermos that had chill-sealed itself irreversibly shut.

Men who knew her watched her running past, Ladyflame(tm) in one hand and the pack in the other. They all had bigger flamethrowers but few even readied them for her protection.

She should have expected this. Verification from a swarm of bloodthirsty insects was not proof enough for people.

Danny could hear the insistent buzz of the gathering swarm. Aunty Car lived a lot closer to the mines. She had flame fences and a basement safe room with supplies for months. All Danny had to do was get there before the haze descended.

If only she'd remembered her silver!

Flamethrowers roared behind her. Not enough to really protect her. Not enough to put confidence in her heart that she was going to make it.

They were right behind her!

Danny whirled, throwing the garlic basket at them and readying her Ladyflame(tm) as she continued moving towards Aunty Car's. There was less fuel in a Ladyflame. She had to wait until they were almost on top of her before letting fly.

The swarm ricochetted the basket back towards her and the recalcitrant thermos spilled its load of garlic soup at her feet, and all the other garlic products around her.

The haze... rippled. Like waves on the ocean, it advanced on her and retreated, like it wanted to devour her, but couldn't get near. Silver was meant to have this effect, but she didn't have so much as a link on her.

It had to be the garlic.

Hypothesis. Experimentation... Danny grabbed a bulb of roasted garlic and flicked its gooey contents towards the swarm.

The bugs it hit died on contact.

This was going to revolutionise combatting the haze.

She smeared herself with the rest of the garlic, all over. Every inch she could reach. Re-oriented herself towards Aunty Car's, and cleared a path with her flamethrower.

All she had to do was get indoors, and get safe, and survive.

She'd survived one swarm. She could do it again with another.

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Challenge #00227: Wedding Jitters

Medieval AU!

Sara's mother is thrilled to have finally arranged a marriage contract for her daughter to prestigious House Toynbee, accepted without even having the two intended meet each other. At last, her girl is going to have to behave like a proper young lady, and if not, well, she's their problem now.

And then comes the wedding day, when the two heirs finally meet...

[AN: If you start humming the GoT theme during this, I'll know exactly why :) ]

He was getting married tomorrow, and he had yet to meet his bride. Mortimer of House Toynbee (emblem, a mother toad with her young in her back; motto, Loyalty to brothers, poison to others) would rather much do things the way the common folk arranged it. But high blood meant high expectations, and love was something not often in the equation.

House Toynbee was army-rich, but armies needed feeding. They had managed the stopgap of hiring their armies off as mercenaries for the highest bidder, but that was starting to go bad. And in the case of marry wealth or go to war, Toynbee preferred to keep whatever passed for a shaky peace with their immediate neighbours and long-time intermittent skirmish partners, House Maximov (emblem, a purple helm; motto, We hold fast).

His elder brother Lance had wed their elder daughter Wanda on the theory that a marriage would cement an alliance. Last Mort had heard, things were just as frosty between the bride and groom as they were between the houses.

Before last year, the Toynbees hadn't even heard of House Adrien (emblem, an open book; motto, Wit and wisdom), but thanks to a zealous messenger, a very flattering painting and a scrip containing all the information one could want to know about the Adriens... Mort found himself suddenly betrothed to a minor house with a talent for generating wealth.

Their sole daughter was bringing with her, amongst other things, a small fortune of a dowry and another small fortune of something called 'seed money' for her to invest.

Women handling money. It didn't seem right.

Someone was arguing, down the long hall. Mort crept up by hiding in successive arrases so he could listen in.

"...too late to back out of it now," screeched the harridan that was his future mother-in-law. "You're up to your armpits in debt and that girl is your only salvation."

"You sold me a coquette, and you've delivered a giraffe," boomed his father, Frederic. "It will look ridiculous."

"More ridiculous than Tyrion Lannister and his wife?"

"Tyrion Lannister is ridiculous on his own. He's used to it. We have our dignity."

"Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack," said the harridan.

The next arras was occupied by a tall, thin creature and a lot of moisture. They were crying. Soft, silent and above all thick tears that evidently could not be stopped.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

"...was going t' get away," the tall one whimpered. "It was a long enough journey just to get here, but it's going to be four times as long going back, with her in my ear the whole way."

His hand found hers. "No you won't. I won't let them send you back." For a highborn, she had some interestingly calloused hands. He could make out an interesting weave to her hair, and dark, dark eyes set in a pale, long face. "Good day, m'lady. I am Mortimer Toynbee of house Toynbee, and I'm... your regrettable fiancee."

"Sara Adrien of House Adrien," she sighed. "Also regrettable."

The tapestry thrust aside just as he was kissing her hand. The harridan, bedecked in rosy pink, held the cloth aside in one set of claws and pointed at the two of them with the other.

"Well. They have to get married now," she shrieked in triumph.

Sara was very tall. Tall enough to be a man, but not as muscular. She wore a rather plain dress in a mottled red, reminiscent of autumn leaves. The complicated weave was the lacing of the dress. Her actual hair was caught up in a snood beneath her veil.

"You work pretty fast, boy," said his father. "Two minutes behind a tapestry and you have to get married."

"She was crying," said Mort stupidly. "You never leave a girl to cry alone."

Lady Adrien thrust the two of them out into the open. "Where is that dratted chaperone? Ruise! Roooo-eeeeeeeeeeeeeese!"

The coquette appeared. This had been the girl who sat in place of Sara while Sara was doing other things. Mort was secretly glad he wasn't marrying her. He'd dreaded a wedded life of eternal boredom with someone who merely looked a pretty little thing.

Ruise saw Sara and gasped. "M'lady, I swear I only looked away for a minute—"

"It's all right, dear," Sara began.

"YOU! Not another word!"

Sara flinched and winced as the harridan set to verbally abusing the coquette, who weathered it all in stony silence. Father boggled while Mort held resolutely to his fiancee's calloused hand.

Father shooed them out to the balcony and the sunshine.

"It's all my fault," Sara managed. "If only—"

He kissed her hand again, because it was closer, and said, "I would lay the blame more on your mother at this point. I will not be cruel and promise love where it doesn't yet blossom, but I can promise you an escape from her."

Her fingers twitched as if plucking at something. At least, the freed ones did. "If I can look at your financial documents, I can begin sorting out what's going amiss with your family funds. I can promise stability. At least, monetary stability."

He caressed her calluses. "You work."

"I like to be useful. And when things are stressful... I play the harp. I've been playing it a lot, lately."

Yes. She was seventeen. Old, for a virgin bride. Her mother's anxiety for a good match must have been... incredibly stressful.

"Do you play well?"

"Some... tell me so," Sara allowed.

It took ten minutes to interrupt Lady Jaquelline Adrien's harangue and a further five to gain permission to listen to Lady Sara play.

But once she did... it was more than worth the wait.

"Father," he whispered during a small break. "How much bother would it be to move the wedding up to tonight?"

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Challenge #00228: Tea and Scales

Ever read the Patricia Wrede's Enchanted Forest books, starring Princess Cimorene and Kazul the Dragon?

Cimorene and Sara seem very similar people, I bet they'd get along like a house on fire. *hint hint*

[AN: more books on my to-read list. I still have yet to get through The Ocean at the End of the Lane]

"Ah, hello," said a wall. "Would I be in trouble if I came out of hiding?"

Cimorene paused in her cooking. She was just poking at the stew to see if it needed anything, and suddenly the walls were talking to her.

No. Not quite the walls. Something very close to the walls and attempting them to use them to hide. And, since the hider was on the civil side, Cimorene was prepared to not reach for her knife. Yet. "You'd certainly be in less trouble if you remained hidden," she offered.

Part of the wall revealed itself as a young woman with not very much in the way of clothing. She was covered in greenish-blue scales where she wasn't covered in an awful khaki thing that hardly covered anything at all. A mop of unruly, short, brown hair made Cimorene suspect that someone had happened to her.

"Thank you," said the green girl. "Only I faded in and there was this dragon, see..."

"Yes, that's Kazul. I work for her."

"Ah. Well. Generally, I've found that caution is advised with dragons. Thought it best to make sure." She offered a hand. "Sara Louise Adrien, not from this dimension."

The princess met her gesture. "Cimorene. Princess and Dragons' assistant. You're... not some wizard trick?"

"You expect an honest answer to that question?" said Sara. "And I'm not familiar with the burden of proof in this realm. Do you have technology here? Electricity? Computers?"

She shook her head. "Those last two words made very little sense..."

"Damn. Conceptualising multiple realities usually goes hand-in-hand with electronica. Never mind. For everything we can imagine, there is an equal reality where it actually happens. And the world goes on even if the story finishes."

Cimorene thought about some of her favourite books. About what life must be like for the poor people trapped in that kind of reality. "That's horrible."

Sara shrugged. "To some extent, yes. For all I know, I'm the fictitious pet of some mad creature fuelled entirely by theobromine. One who gets bored a lot, I imagine."

"Sorry, but this is making my head hurt. Why are you here?"

"I was a guinea pig in a trans-dimensional experiment and none of us have been able to make it stop," said Sahra. "I usually fade back after an hour or so. If I have everything I came in with. Which can be a bother when people mistake me for a demon, a goblin, an orc, a thief, or, in extremis, lunch."

"Well Kazul's fine unless you wake her from her nap."

Sara pointed. "See? That's why caution is advised around dragons. They're quick to anger and humans are tasty with apple sauce."

Cimorene boggled.

"Not personal experience. Promise. Let's just leave it at 'someone with authority on the matter', shall we?"

"I'll still pass it on to Kazul. She might laugh."

"Nice to know there's at least one dragon with a sense of humour..."

"You know other dragons?"

"One little one. Lockheed. He's Kitty's dragon. Or she's his human, it's not exactly that clear. Plus he's not that coherent. Intelligent, yes. But communicative... we're working on it."

They had tea and a chat over the most interesting things. Sara had quite the labyrinthine chain of topic association when she got going.

And it was so nice to spend some time with someone who didn't have an agenda.

It was almost a shame to see her go.

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Challenge #00229: It's Not Easy Being Us...

Mystique has a chance encounter with (a somewhat older than Evo-time, say 17-21) Wolfsbane, while both are enjoying a day "off duty" from their respective roles of villain and hero - idle conversation takes a turn toward venting about teammates, and an odd sort of mutual respect comes about, due to their shared connection; namely, both of them understanding the frustrations and aggravations and perks and benefits that are unique to being a shapeshifter (even if one's forms are limited like Wolfsbane's), especially the sort related to dealing with those around you who are not.

It was supposed to be her day off. She needed self-time as much as any other being in the world and had literally won the entitlement in combat.

It made the cheesecake and coffee all that much better for the winning, but really, Raven did not appreciate having to fight for basic human rights. If all else failed, she could vanish for the time she needed, but that sort of thing never ended well.

"Aw... fook..."

Raven turned just far enough to identify the speaker as her almost-opposite number. Wolfsbane. The X-man named Rahne Sinclair. The younger woman was looking very much alarmed to be parked with a cheesecake, coffee, and an inhibiting swathe of shopping bags just a table away from a potential fight.

Raven turned enough to face her politely. "Easy. I'm trying to take a day off."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe that right away," said the scot.

"I'm here for the same reason you are," said Raven. "This cheesecake is fucking awesome."

"Damn straight. An' I'm not gonna pick a fight and risk wrecking the only place that does it, neither."

"Same here," said Raven. "So. In the spirit of mutually enlightened selfishness, let's call it a truce."

"In the name o' fookain awesome cheesecake, then."

They sealed the pact with an appreciative mouthful, and relaxed their guard a little.

"Does it never seem to ye that sometimes we fight jus' because we're used to it?" mused Rahne. "It's like a trained reflex or somethin'. Even if we got the same goal, we gotta go an' have a big bloody battle all over the place."

"True," Raven allowed. "But even if we have the same goal, the difference lies in accomplishing it."

"Sometimes I reckon you and the Brotherhood are way ahead of yourselves. You're fighting fer liberation before they even had a chance to put the chains on. We're just after recognition and representation. Then we'll be lookin' at liberation."

"A step ahead of ourselves, or just you?" Raven found herself smiling. "Humans can barely cope with people with a different shade of skin. And that variation ranges from beige to black. You have no idea how reflexive their hate is when they encounter someone blue."

"I've spent my time as a 'demon'," said Rahne. "It gets muckle awful when religion gets into it."

"Peaches and cream little you? A demon?"

"Aye. When my power came in I could'nae control it. All my fears helped with the whole mess and created a big tangle o' triggers."

"And I thought growing up as a sideshow attraction was awful."

"Let me guess, the word 'alive' was in large print?"

"And 'freak'."

Rahne rolled her eyes, as if that didn't need saying. "There, but for the grace of God and a really big lycanthropy-fuelled freak-out go I..."

"Fucking Amos goddamn Jardine," Raven growled.

"Ee! That's the same feller as tried to buy me. I was almost glad of the opportunity, when he came. Except for the chains and all. Same numbskull tried to buy Kurt's circus, once upon a time."

"Centaurs and all, no doubt."

"Oh, especially the centaurs." Rahne sipped her coffee. "If he wasnae already dead, I'd get it in me head to track the bugger down."

"You're welcome," smiled Raven.

Rahne tried to look horrified, but couldn't muster the emotion well enough. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, then."

They toasted the sentiment with their coffees.

"So..." Rahne began. "Why're you wearin' Principle Darkholme, after so long?"

"Call it a default state, if you want," Raven allowed. "Back when I was starting to hold a shape, I modeled myself after my mother. The features were close enough and all I had to do was change colours, really. Stealing one of the really good biomimetic suits helped a lot. Later on."

"They're still lookin' fer that one," said Rahne.

"They can take it off me when I don't need it any more."

A reverential pause for cheesecake.

"D'you blame her? Your mum?"

"She was trapped between a rock and a hard place. Jardine at least offered some protection. He had a vested interest in my survival, after all. The military... had no such limits."

"Mine had a normal little girl until the demon took over. Reverend Craig had the whole town in a fluff when it started. He was always after the 'demon within' and then he got one."

Raven considered what a hell her life must have become. "I could arrange an... 'accident'."

"Na. He can't learn if he's dead. All 'is kids are mutants. Every last one. The whole towns turned against his own rhetoric since he's a father of demons. Means he has to be one, too, dunnit?"

Hm. Pickling in a broth of his own making. That was almost... poetic. "Do you sit back and watch?"

"I get news from home now and then. Me brothers send letters when they can get away with it. I send more back. The miserable old fart lives alone and only has a few die-hard loyalists on his side. Everyone else ignores 'em, now. It helps that there's a special clinic in the next valley over."

Raven had never kept ties. She ran and changed and ran some more. Never looking back. Rarely keeping friends. She had no roots and she liked it that way. Most of the time.

Jardine had died by her hand. Raven at least had made sure her mother went peaceably and without pain, masquerading as a chipper and cheery volunteer who always had time to chat about anything. Where she found the strength to forgive the old woman, she never knew.

"Must be nice to have your family back," Raven offered.

"It's rocky, still. Da doesn't like it. He's one of the loyalists I talked about, see. He reckons all this mutant stuff is the devils' work." A shrug. "People like Warren are deceptions from the devil an' people like Kurt just prove his point. Ye cannae reason with 'im."

Raven just had an expressive eye-roll at that. "Can't live with them, not enough time to wipe them all out..."

"Ah, ye make more trouble that way. There's always a relative or a friend willin' to hate a mutie 'cause they went and killed a right bastard. Best tae let 'em stew in their own mess. Keep tryin' tae show the world we're just like them."

"Have you seen what humans have been doing to this world? Being just like them is reaching too low."

"Aye. But how is trying to conquer 'em bein' any different?"

Raven had no argument to that, and the cheesecake and coffee were almost gone. "Next time we're both after the same thing..." she offered, "perhaps we can call a truce in the name of cheesecake."

"Work out which is really the best? Sounds like a plan, then."

Raven finished her last forkful as she watched the staff at the cafe. They had no idea their dessert could change a world's path through history. Probably better that they never knew. That sort of thing went straight to the ego.

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Challenge #00230: Wonderlust

The pier at the end of the world

There was no more east left. Somewhere, beyond the sunrise, past an invisible line known only to cartographers, it circled round to being west again.

El stood on the easternmost edge of the easternmost pier, whenever she could do so. She watched the gulls and the ships and the ocean that went all the way around the world while she was stuck in place.

Trapped in Portsmouth Bay. A crowded town huddled in the space between the sea and the cliffs, where masonry was chipped out of the stone spine and elaborate buildings sometimes carved into it. Where the kings' palace had yet to see a mote of sunshine. Where windows were either too much bother or too expensive, and the less affluent houses were designed to float away during the big storms.

East had been the direction to go, once. And here in Portsmouth Bay, they had run out of east to go.

El could still feel the need to go east. It pushed. It pulled. It drew her here to the easternmost pier and made her cling with her toes and lean into the wind coming west. It helped her gain a fix of air that had been more east by sniffing deeply of the ocean scent. Made her dream of going... anywhere but Portsmouth Bay.

And on days when a beast of a wooden ship blocked her view, she would perch on one of the boathouses or a handy roof, or somewhere else tall enough and watch the crew and the cargo cycle in and out. And seethe in resentment as it sailed away again.

Her feet wanted to go, to take her away. Her heart yearned to travel. Unfortunately, they were all stuck to a body that wasn't allowed on a vessel without special precautions.

Women and seamen don't mix, went the old joke between bawdy fishwives, but that's not what they say when they come to port!

Every time El asked about that one, she got her ears cuffed for her trouble, and nothing resembling an answer. Or an explanation as to why it was so funny.

She had tried to work out what the rules were, once. One ear still rang from asking about it, whenever she got a cold. Women were allowed on houseboats because they were houses more than boats. Yes, even when they were washed out to sea by a storm and found their way back to a different place.

Boats were not houses even when men lived their entire lives on them and that was that. And stop asking about what makes them different, brat!

Today, another ship was blocking her perch, so she watched it in jealous fascination from the eves of a warehouse. Her knees tucked up under her skirt and her arms wrapped tight around them. It was almost time for Boss Joss to get her new winter gear, so everything she had to wear was both short and thin.

"Ho, little sparrow," called one of the officers of the ship. "Why don't you sing?"

Sparrows were poor girls meant for 'a bad end' because they hung around the docks and sang for pennies. Asking how that was bad got another drubbing, but El had not earned such punishment, this time. She'd just watched it happen to someone else.

"Voice like a crow," El called down. "Ain't nobody's bird nohow."

"You're four stories up," he noted. "Aren't you feared of heights?"

El shrugged. "Cliff's taller," she said. "Boss Joss sends me up it for ingredients." Squab and cliff-shrooms and eggs and some moss that made an interesting tea for the right kind of affluent clientele. She had to wear special gloves just to get it. And use a special bag.

"Bare-hand and bare-foot?"

"Yeh..." El frowned at the man. "Why?"

"You're wasted as a girl," said the officer. He shook his head and went on his way.

El thought no more of it until it was time to go back to work at Boss Joss'. The officer was there and haggling with Boss Joss over the price of a girl. Joss had never rented neither Sparrow nor soiled Dove, so the argument about selling one made no sense to El.

She just got on with getting on with things. Up and down the flues before the fire-set, unclogging the grease-trap, rinsing herself off before scrubbing the baths, the kettles, the sinks and the pots. Washing anything else always got the rest of her clean to Boss Joss' satisfaction, so she left the cleaning until she was properly filthy.

She was finishing up on the floor - every Friday, whether it needed it or not - when her progress was stopped by the officer's boots.

"Hello, El," he said. "How would you like to be a boy on my ship?"

El stopped to boggle at him. "Can't exactly grow a pizzle for you..."

The man smiled and opened his coat, then his shirt. Revealing a bound swell of breast. "Pizzles aren't necessary," he whispered. "Talent is."

The next dawn found her high in the crows' nest, breathing deep the exhilarating air of freedom as the ship sailed away from port. An entire ship full of women! Who could have thought it?

She was one of Hen's Hags, now!

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Challenge #00231: On the Disposal of Sex Aids

"I don't know why you thought this was such a good idea!"

They sat in Hwell's personal space like the ancient mariner's albatross. Everywhere they went, everyone knew what they were for. And renting a kitchen to experiment was not in his budget.

He managed to sell a few, anyway. Mostly for their original purpose by shy creatures who spoke in low voices and urgently shoved money in his hands before running away with their merchandise.

He needed to rebrand the bloody things. Or experiment on his own, somehow...

Hwell Barrow smiled to himself. He could plausibly build a toaster-oven out of the junk they were hauling between worlds right now. It's not as if they'd miss any, it was all destined for a scrap furnace anyway.

The first cheese waffle was delicious. After a week or three of almost solid tinkering. He even managed to serve one to Ax'and'l before the Saurian noticed the familiar and embarrassing pattern.

"Yes, of course I washed it. What do you think I am, anyway?"

"I know you're a crazy mammal. I don't know why I put up with you."

"Say 'hi' to the wife and kids, next time you're home," prompted Hwell. When they had met, Ax'and'l was an overworked, underpaid freighter captain with no sense of trade, trying to earn enough to win the permanent attention of his lady-love. Their first adventure had lead to an enormous profit and -indirectly- Ax'and'l's wedded bliss.

Glare. "You're infuriating."

"You're welcome." He munched casually on his own cheese waffle. "I can't do anything about the samples I already have, but I'm thinking maybe I should go after the Gyiiks. They're always willing to do something new with edibles."

"Have you been at your still, again?"

Safe assumption, with humans. "Strictly for cooking purposes, I swear. Besides, this batch is the best grease-stripper available." He got back on topic. "So I cook some up before we hit port, send out a Seekerbot, and then go hunting my new clientele. One per potential customer and keep them out of their original packing, sort of thing."

The original packing had definitely made their intended purpose clear to one and all. And Hwell had had enough of staring at avian porn in his chambers.

"All you had to do was stay out of trouble," growled Ax'and'l, "and stay in your room and not touch anything. And stay out of the liquor! Bored and drunk is an unprofitable combination, and you never remember that."

"So next time we're in a port where they don't like mammals, buy me a toy," jibed Hwell. "There's only so many times a man can play with balls, you know."

Ax'and'l went through the standard range of facial tics that happened whenever the Saurian captain was unsure as to whether Hwell had just made a lewd joke, or was expecting one. "Just... talk to me the next time you have a... 'brain fart'. Eugh. Humans..." He shook his head. "I don't know why you thought this was such a good idea..."

"Same reason I think anything is a good idea. I was bored and drunk." He shrugged. "Trust me. Find the right market, and these will sell."

Another glare. A mutter of, "Must not kill and eat the profitable mammal." And finally, resignation. "Do not get that bored and drunk ever again."

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Challenge #00232: Ancient Terran Tradition

TOGA TIME!

Of course it happened during Silly Season, the quasi-annual event where all humans just spontaneously went more crazy than normal. Or what passed for normal amongst humans.

Rael, of course, expected some blame. Somehow, being attached as chief translator to a being like Shayde on a strictly working basis meant that he was also capable of controlling her actions.

Sherlock, at least, understood that someone like Shayde was not in the least bit controllable and should have been registered as a cogniscent force of nature. But he still wanted explanations.

For all of his research and fascination with humans and their conflicting histories of conflict... Rael still had no idea how to explain a human or anything they did.

Especially during Silly Season.

But nevertheless, Sherlock persisted.

He pointed to the images on one of the larger monitors. "What the flying hells are they doing?"

Rael stared. Humans, of course. Surrounded at a respectful and safe distance by tourists taking images. The difference between this and an average Silly Season gathering was that this time, the humans were wearing bedsheets and very little else.

"I... think they're recreating a bacchanal..." Wait. No. There went Hwell barrow swinging on a liana. He was almost naked, but for a pair of what Shayde insisted were 'tighty whities'. A faint yodel carried through the muted audio.

And there she was. Her bedsheet managed to fit better, and there were glimpses of a bikini underneath, but she, too, was involved. And dancing. And apparently inebriated without imbibing.

"My records show that she started it," supplied Sherlock. "With a chant of, 'toe-gah, toe-gah, toe-gah'... Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Not in context," Rael allowed. "A toga is a garment worn by the ancient Terran greek or roman factions, though judging by the head foliage, I would guess this might be roman-influenced. What it has to do with Silly Season, I can only guess."

Finally, Sherlock got to the meat of the problem. "Are we going to expect property damage?"

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"...damn..."

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Challenge #00233: The Morning Show With Patty

A cooking show gone horribly wrong

"And here's our surprise chef for this morning, Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Good morning!"

"Good morning, Patty," said the tall, handsome man in the fine suit.

"Now, I understand you're a psychiatrist?"

"That's correct," said Hannibal. "However, I am a forensic psychiatrist. I delve into the mind of the serial criminal, and I often don't get to meet them until after they've been captured."

"Wow, that is so-o-o-o spooky," chirped Patty. "I don't suppose you could find out who keeps stealing my chocolate stash when we're off-air? Haha."

"Haha," Hannibal dutifully echoed. "I'm afraid I'd have to charge."

Patty giggled and changed the subject. "So, what are we cooking, today, Doctor?"

"Today I bought some fresh, long pork ribs," he displayed a neat tray, "and I'll be sharing my grandmother's famous rib roast sauce recipe."

"Those are a lot of ribs," said Patty. "There goes my diet!"

Up in the command centre, someone dutifully typed Long Pork Rib Roast. for the subtitle on the screen. It took ten minutes before the phones started ringing. By that time, Patty was dutifully massaging the famous sauce into her selection of ribs.

By the time the police were on their way, Patty was sharing around some that Hannibal had prepared earlier.

They found the producer, or the majority of what was left of him, neatly parcelled and packaged in his office refrigerator. The bones, his head, and all the major organs were also neatly parcelled, but in the trash.

Long pork, they learned that day, is a euphemism for human flesh.

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Challenge #00234: Aftereffects of Tequila

Kitty and Rogue have shared their first night partying and drinking... and now they also share the hangover and brain-fog that results. But that's not all, they discover they also now share something else - ornate tattoos of each others' names on their butts, and no memory of getting them.

"...ow..."

"Quiet, I'm dying."

"Oooh, my hair hurts. How can hair hurt?"

"I said, shuddup, I'm dying." Kitty rolled over and buried her head under her pillow. This did not improve things.

"What did we do last night?" Rogue moaned. "Feels like somethin' crawled into my mouth an' up an' died."

"Mine reanimated for a zombie party," Kitty moaned. She readjusted her position and flinched. "OW!"

Rogue whimpered. "...quietly...?"

"My ass hurts."

"Mine too, just complain quietly." Rogue struggled free of her bedding. "Why'm Ah in a corset 'n' stockings?"

Kitty evicted something from underneath her midriff. "Why do I got a cop's hat?"

"Where inna hell'd we get traffic cones?" Rogue picked up the one immediately in her way and tossed it somewhere soft. She staggered uncertainly towards the bathroom they shared. "...ow..."

"Hey," said Kitty. "Y'got somethin' sticking to your ass."

"Yours too," noted Rogue. "Argue later. Pee now."

Both winced at the sounds of pouring liquid.

"...o God that stinks..."

Kitty made it upright. "Dunno if I wanna pee or ralph worst."

"Do both, save time."

"Oooh, what did we do last night?" She managed to empty her bladder without throwing up, and inspected the medical bandage on her butt-cheek. Peeled a careful corner off.

"I GOT A TATTOO?!"

"...owwwww..."

"Rogue, I got a tattoo on my ass!" Kitty lunged at Rogue's bandage, tearing it off.

"Ow!"

"You got a tattoo on your ass!" Kitty crumpled from the exertion. "Of my name."

Rogue peeked. "You got mah name. And it's spelled right for a change."

"How the hell—?"

"Tequila," groaned Rogue. "That's how the hell."

"Summon..." Kitty managed.

"Uh?"

"Summon left a lotta bottle water," Kitty croaked.

"Oh good," sighed Rogue. "Drink half each and we might start to feel human."

Kitty snagged two, handed one over. "It's a start. Meantime, I'm'a hide from th' sun."

"Goo' plan..."

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Challenge #00235: We're Mostly Harmless, I Swear!

In case you missed it, this post happened: http://aaceofhearts.tumblr.com/post/57693374988/untitled-jazuthevulcanprincess-bogleech-its-funny

*falls to knees* I will worship you and give you my super secret world's most awesome and diet-breaking brownie recipe if you will write anything at all inspired by this.

(I am totally serious about the brownie recipe, or any other cake recipe since I can't deliver to your house. I do healthy food too sometimes)

[AN: I'm saving the rest of this for a book. Keep a weather eye open]

Before humans were insane.... they were dangerous.

Excerpt from the Galactic Core Manual of Hazardous Entities, prior to Planet Amity Incident:

Pictured: Humans in their [ own warning message]

Species name: Human [h'yoo-mun]

Planet: Terra

Star: Sol

Details: Humans are bipedal mammals occupying all the land masses of the planet Terra. Data from their transmissions indicates that they are extremely hostile. Despite the fact that they are constantly killing other humans, they are breeding at an exponential rate.

The human female is capable of carrying as many as three live young in internal gestation and successfully birthing them live. Humans can also reproduce once every 360-day cycle. However, single and double births are far more common than triple.

Humans are capable of a maximum foot speed of 12 Distance Units per second, and a jumping height of 2 Distance Units, which exceeds their own height.

Humans are omnivorous in the extreme. They can devour toxic levels of capsaicin, and involve themselves in challenges where they expose their sense organs to the same toxic chemical [Reference File: Pepper Challenge. Not safe for minors].

Humans can withstand temperatures below the freezing point of water and up to the boiling point of water. With armour, they can go beyond those extremes.

Humans can survive dismemberment. If you encounter a human in an attack posture (bipedal figure on left) do not remove the limbs! Humans can not survive brain stem disruption. Destroy the head to render the human harmless.

Humans use and devour assorted acids, alkalis, toxins and controlled substances [Reference File: Cooking With Marie. Not safe for minors]. They engage in recreational activities in which bludgeoning an opponent is a primary goal [Reference Files: Boxing, Wrestling. Not safe for minors]. Other human recreational activities show they have little regard for personal safety [Reference Files: freehand rock climbing, base jumping, hang gliding, diving, parachuting. Not safe for minors].

Despite needing a nitrogen/Oxygen atmosphere to survive, they insist on entering hostile environments without sufficient survival equipment [Reference Files: Jaques Cousteau, Early Space Program. Not safe for minors].

Humans are hazardous for any environment they occupy. Humans will adapt their environment to suit themselves and push out or otherwise endanger other species [Reference File: World Wildlife Fund. Not safe for minors or cogniscents of a sensitive nature].

Humans are highly adaptable and can turn any object into a weapon [Reference File: Jackie Chan. Not safe for minors] and when without weapons, will use their bodies as a weapon [Reference File: Chuck Norris. Not safe for minors].

Humans can adapt to low-light conditions. Their eyes may be their primary sense organs, but they can navigate and orient also by sound and touch. Eliminating light or blinding a human can only temporarily incapacitate them.

HUMAN BITES ARE FATAL. The human jaw can exert pressures of 54 weight units, and the human mouth is a cesspool of bacteria and acidic fluids. If you are bitten by a human, seek immediate medical attention. Do not waste time killing the human. Allow others to do so for you. If you act immediately, you may survive a human bite.

Humans are intelligent. If placed in an unfamiliar environment, they can reason and experiment their way out [Reference File: The Cube. Not safe for minors]. Experiments conducted by brave explorers indicate that humans can navigate through structures alien to their initial range of experience [Reference File: The Abduction Files. Not safe for minors or cogniscents of a sensitive nature. Seek medical advice on sedatives to assist sleep following viewing].

Humans are inventive. They have travelled to their native satellite and sent machines beyond their solar system [Reference File: Pioneer. Parental guidance necessary for minors]. Evidence indicates that they have/will initiate deep-time colonies.

AVOID AT ALL COSTS. HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

*

There were precautions, and all of them had been taken. However, there was always a gap between probe data and actual colonisation. And even then, it was a risk.

Planets once infested by humans were disaster zones, at best. At worst, they were still infested by humans.

T'reka adjusted her lifecorder and checked the signal strength. Good. Base camp was getting everything she was seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting. They were getting data from her handheld analyzer. And, most important, they were getting any vocalised notes she uttered on her expedition.

This island was teeming with toxic life. Potentially hazardous, yes, but also potentially beneficial. Science had proven that interesting biological toxins could have equally interesting medical properties. Under proper supervision. In controlled environments. With volunteers desperate enough to try something that was kill-or-cure.

T'reka's job was to find new things on their new home that might advance the status of Numidid medical science during their long wait to catch up with the rest of the galaxy. Thus, she recorded everything.

If she hadn't been indoctrinated in the dangerous philosophies of science, it might have ended differently.

But it began with an unfamiliar voice and an unfamiliar language. And a human hand petting her arm-feathers.

"Pretty birdie."

T'reka froze. She'd been so involved with the local insects and trying to capture them that she hadn't noticed the larger wildlife until it was literally on top of her.

Carefully. Slowly. Observer, analyse, record. For posterity.

This human had not attacked, yet. Therefore, it might not. This may yet be a breakthrough for science. And since she was a scientist, she was already doomed for an early death.

This human was not almost two Distance Units tall. It barely made it to one Distance Unit. It wore clothes, according to the transmission files, but no shoes or hat. It was in the middle of a toxic jungle with only pants and a shirt to protect it from the environment.

And, evidently, fascinated by T'reka's arm feathers.

"Hello, pretty birdie," said the human.

T'reka turned. Slowly, so as not to alarm the human. "This must be one of the human young," she said into her vocorder. She kept her voice low, almost inaudible. "It indicates that there may be humans nearby." T'reka set her audio pickup to maximum.

Humans used sound waves to communicate. If she was lucky, the computers could filter out some of their language. It wouldn't be enough to create translations, but any knowledge was more. More knowledge was always worth the sacrifice.

The human turned away, listening to something T'reka couldn't hear, and vanished into the undergrowth with a loud, "COMING MOM!"

T'reka crept along on the same vector.

Yes! There was a colony. Humans, building structures. Humans, digging in the soil. Humans doing things that looked like things that her own people were doing on a much safer continent.

And none of them were attacking each other.

"Fascinating," she whispered. "Co-operative effort for the group. No hostile moves."

One human did the attack posture to another. The other returned the gesture. No battle ensued.

"We may have been wrong about their hostility levels..." Even this brief observation told her that the source material was wrong on very many levels. It told her that humans did not do all of the things, or even a scant few of the things in the warning files, all the time.

Many humans she observed were not doing anything inherently hazardous.

"I will observe them from concealment," she decided. "This warrants further study."

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Challenge #00236: A Lake Appeared in Winsome Valley

The forest is completely submerged. The tops of the tallest trees are easily 50 feet below the surface. Nobody knows how the trees are still alive, but they are, and sometimes, when the water is clear, you can see flickers of movement down below the canopy...

[AN: Please keep in mind that I've only heard two episodes of WTNV]

There has been a lot of buzz about the lake that spontaneously appeared in Winsome Valley, just outside the outskirts of town, today. The lake appears to have it's surface three feet above the lowest point in Winsome Valley, but its bottom is far, far deeper than that.

Most citizens have been concerned about what to name it. Personally, I think that 'greenwood lake' suits it perfectly.

You know, since there's a forest in it.

The forest is completely submerged. The tops of the tallest trees are easily fifty feet below the surface. Nobody knows how the trees are still alive, but they are, and sometimes, when the water is clear, you can see flickers of movement down below the canopy. The sheriff's secret police advise us not to go fishing in the lake.

Do not swim in the lake.

Do not go boating in the lake.

Do not engage in water-related activities in or near the lake.

And above all, do not release pet goldfish into the lake. Goldfish are an invasive species and their presence may anger whatever lives in the forest. After all, we want to be nice to whatever's down there.

It may yet be nice to us in return.

In unrelated news, all the coyotes previously inhabiting Winsome Valley have vanished without a trace. All their tracks stop as if they stepped into another world. The sheriff's secret police assure us that this is completely unrelated news. The disappearance of the coyotes has absolutely nothing to do with the appearance of greenwood lake.

The hooded figures in the dog park briefly disappeared from there and appeared by the shores of greenwood lake, for an hour, at exactly noon. We do not look at the hooded figures, but they nevertheless appeared very agitated. We wish them further agitation. Some of us want to play in the dog park.

And now, the weather...

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Challenge #00237: Tenpool Lottery

Poverty matures, affluence retrogrades.

You had to be in it to win it. Ten were chosen, nine of whom walked away with a modest prize and entered again and again like everyone else living in poverty on Greater Deregulation.

Only one really won, becoming an Executive, a Celebrity and sometimes even a Pundit, all at the same time. Lives of the winners were followed almost as religiously as the poor bought tickets.

Fawn could only ever afford one a week. She kept them for the audition week, in case they had a re-draw, and then turned them in for the pittance that the paper was worth at the recyc' centre. She made a little bit more from sorting, cleaning, and recycling her trash, and the trash of anyone else who just left it lying around.

It all went on little emergencies, like medicine for the last time she had a cold, but she kept afloat and that was more than some managed. And every night, she watched the Tenpool Lottery show to see who'd washed out and who was still playing. She always rooted for the one who made the smartest decisions, even though they rarely won.

And every night, they announced one of the next winners of Tenpool.

"And tonights' winner is... FAWN JACKSON!"

Fawn stared at her own face. That was her ID photo. Those were her fingerprints. That was her address. That was one of her ticket numbers. The cameras would be coming tomorrow. She knew from watching the show. They only showed TV-spycam footage if the winner freaked out or did something hilarious, but Fawn just sat and stared.

Well. First thing she had to do was get her trash out of the house. She kept it sorted, stacked and filed in separate bins after washing, and usually only turned it all in when they were full. She started with the bigger loads and walked twenty blocks between her flat and the pokey recyc' centre she usually saw.

There was no time to wait for the bus, and everyone was inside watching the Tenpool Lottery After-show. Which made her walk eerie for the absence of people. Streets should be crowded. There should be at least one guy hanging out of his friends' car and hollering to her about her ass or her tits or her hair or whatever turned him on. Or hanging out of the passing busses filled with other folks desperate to earn their keep.

She felt guilty for turning in her thin hauls, in comparison to the stuff she saved up, and she warned the people running the recyc' centre that she was making many more trips, tonight, before the cameras came and filmed her house full of garbage.

She put the change in her jar on the counter, like she always did, and walked the silent streets back for another run. Again and again until her feet felt like they were all blister. Until all her containers were empty, washed, dried and put away. Neat and clean.

*

The cameras followed her everywhere. She was barely getting used to it. They followed her at work. They followed her on the bus. They followed her in her home. About the only places they didn't follow her were into assorted bathrooms, and only then because there wasn't enough room for three guys and their equipment.

Half of their footage in her home was of her cleaning up their mess! It's like their mommas never taught them how to pick up after herself.

They even filmed her hearing about how Tenpool Lottery ran the footage of her recycling everything. How they got footage from all the securicams of her walking with bags and bags of trash, to and from the recyc' centre. How hilarious it was to watch that funny, clockwork march she used to cover a lot of distance in a little time.

Then the limo came, and whisked her away to TV-land.

They gave her the Pink Suite, where everything looked so delicate and breakable. When it didn't look like it was made out of candy. They gave her three stylists. Hair, makeup, and clothing.

Fawn felt sorry for the poor, thin creature who had to dress her ample frame. Fawn could never afford the things that looked good, and the things that looked great never came in her size.

They knew from footage that she preferred to walk when there wasn't a bus. So of course one of the first things they asked her was what she ate.

"Beans, rice and a little spice," she answered honestly. "It's all I can afford, so it's all I get. Sure, it's boring, but I do what I can to mix it up. One time? When I was really rich? I rented a mochi machine and made bean-rice bread-balls. That was a fun week."

She learned, after that, not to watch the show. They made fun of her weight. They made fun of her walk. They made fun of the way she spoke. They way she dressed herself. The way she had her hair.

If she wasn't careful, they would have made fun of the way she talked, too.

They did make her sit and listen to audience reviews of her. Just to film her reaction. She sat as proud as she could with the hate streaming over her and kept her face still. Despite the fact that they filmed every meal, and showed the results on the show, everyone thought she must be eating every speck of food in her whole district.

The first weeks' challenges were all exercise related. Fawn paced herself and just kept going. She out-endured her fellow competitors and won the first round.

And one thousand dollars' spending money.

The first thing she took care of was all of her debts. She invested in a life-pass, which got her transit anywhere, on any transport, for the rest of her life. That took care of most of it. Even if she lost, the next round, she would save on going back to work.

*

Fawn played smart, but she never played any of her competitors against each other. She stayed honest. And every week, she tried to maintain sensibility with the money she won.

Second round: ten thousand dollars.

Third round: one hundred thousand dollars.

Fourth round: one million dollars.

The other five were splurging, Fawn could tell. They had spent all their winnings on useless things and animals and bling. They were buying themselves all the pretty things they'd pined for or the next stupid thing they saw on the infomercial channel on the TVs in their suites.

Fawn had only really watched one show. Now she was in it, she couldn't bear to watch any more. She expected to lose, so she didn't get involved in cable she could not afford when she was back to the grind.

They told her that washouts never kept the money they won.

It just made Fawn think harder about what to do with it all. So that she would be set up for the long haul.

She did, however, buy herself a mochi machine. A nice, robust one with a big warranty. And indoor garden units, so she could have a little variation with her beans and rice.

And, when they gave her ten million dollars on the next round, she became her own landlord and paid for fixes for everything everyone complained about, without raising the rent one cent.

They had her doing all kinds of ridiculous stuff for money that she couldn't keep. May as well do something useful with it.

Her competitors on the other hand, bought limos, bought drivers, bought entourages. They bought stupid haircuts and tattoos and lived the life they had only dreamed about.

They expected to win.

And every week, somehow, Fawn did not wash out.

It was the guy who bought a pack of llamas. It was the girl who invested in an all-monkey circus. It was the man who built himself a dollhouse and played at being a big baby in it.

And then it was just her and Steve. The final round. How would they invest their grand prize.

Steve chose a new skyscraper for his new lifestyle. Fawn chose a whole-subway overhaul, replete with extra overland transits for the folks who were inconvenienced by the overhaul.

Steve presented interior designs for each floor in the skyscraper. Fawn presented detailed business plans with stages, deadlines, and a budget.

Both sat and watched the survey results, hypnotised by the coloured pie charts and what the segments meant. Steve spent half his time talking about his new life as a celebrity, and the other half dissing Fawn and her sensible decisions.

Executives never made sensible decisions, he said. Look at what they've done to the planet, he said. You're a stupid fat whore, he said. Nobody's going to vote to have a stupid fat whore on their magazines, he said.

Fawn kept reading her graph.

You're a fat fucking frigid whore, he said. It's all you ever were and it's all you'll ever be, he said. You're so stupid you pay your johns to fuck you, he said. You're so fat, nobody wants to fuck you, he said.

The positive responses were in shades of green. The negative in shades of red. Fawn's gaze flicked over to Steve's graph for comparison. His red side was growing. Every time he dissed her, his red side was growing.

Forty-five percent of people phoning in for the survey were saying, Shut the fuck up, Steve.

And he wasn't paying any attention.

Steve was focussed solely on making Fawn cry, before his -to him- inevitable victory.

Her own green pie segments were creeping past fifty percent. The more Steve talked, the more people hated him. The more she stayed resolute, the more people liked her.

I killed a fat buck on my hunting trip to planet Elysium, he said. It wasn't nearly as fat as you, you fat fuck, he said. I'm getting it stuffed, he said. You wanna know the difference, he asked. The difference is, when you stuff a deer, people can tell, he said.

Fawn snapped. "All o' that meat could'a fed some folks as were starving."

"You are just too stupid," said Steve.

In two minutes, the gap between filming and broadcasting, Steve's green segment jumped down by half, while hers jumped up the same amount. Steve had shot himself in the foot in five words.

Fawn was winning. As time dragged on, Fawn was winning by a landslide.

Just like winning a chance, Fawn didn't initially believe she'd won the whole thing. By staying sensible and making sound choices. And not speaking out loud, her opinion of anyone else.

She didn't have to go back to her pokey flat in the middle of urbanised nowhere. She could sell it, fully furnished. Or rent it out like all the others. She was, after all, the landlord.

And five seconds after the director yelled 'cut', the welcoming Executives turned savage.

Don't expect to stay in the limelight long, they said. You'll never be really popular, they said. A build like yours doesn't get ratings, they said. A build like yours doesn't sell magazines, they said.

It was the 'fat stupid fucking whore' speech all over again. Only with better words.

"Well," she said, "I'd better make a difference while I can."

It took them ten years before they started sending the assassins.

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Challenge #00238: Intricate Details

The black fellow and Scott's riveting discussion about felt.

"I knew you were lying about something," the fellow in tweed grinned from ear to ear. "You said you only work in artificial plants and things that aren't alive."

"Yeah, I did. So?"

"That's clearly moss on Echoes of Summertime."

"No, that's felt."

"Seriously? Felt?"

"Yeah. I wanted a moss look and none of the substitutes were right until Sara told me about back-brushing felt. Then it was just a problem of finding a thick enough felt."

Most people started to zone out at this stage. Not his speciesist friend. "Really? I thought felt was felt."

You really want to go down this road? Okay... "Most felt on the market these days is the minimum thickness you can get without the stuff falling apart. You hold it up to the light, you can see the fibres. Which is great for lamps, but rotten for back-brushing. I ended up having to go around to places that made the stuff themselves. If you want a really great moss you need a minimum of three millimetres, the right kind of dye, and five different brushes. There's the horsehair, the straw, the nylon soft-bristle, the nylon hard bristle, and the super-soft baby toy brush I found in this yard sale, but it's perfect for getting just the right amount of counter-fluff going."

Amazingly, he was not nodding and nearly nodding off. "What's counter-fluff?"

"Sara warned me about this. You get into something deep enough, and you start developing your own lingo. Counter-fluff is the fibres that end up going in different directions, which is hard to do when you're using natural fibres. I'm picky about my moss, so I've ended up making my own. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make the right gauge of felt out of alpaca fleece?"

"Alpaca? I'd have thought wool was the way to go."

"Sheep's nice, but unless you treat it with all sorts of chemicals, it doesn't behave properly... and I'm already on one terrorist watch list, I didn't need any more visits from the FBI." A negligent wave to Agent Pertwee, who was supposed to be undercover. "I did experiment with rabbit, but the staple isn't quite right. Dog's too rough, and nobody nearby has llamas, so I went with Alpaca."

"I'd love to see your experiments, I'm into textiles, myself..."

That evening, Scott made a friend out of an enemy with artificial moss.

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Challenge #00239: Dealing With Fridge Thieves

Coffee jello. Inspired because of this video.

Sara fumed. This was the fifth time someone had stolen her obsessively-labelled lunch. It was almost enough to make her insectivorous again. And providing a lunchbox troll hadn't discouraged the fiend, either.

The inconsiderate soul behind this was obviously trolling for some passive-aggressive antagonising, but he (it was almost always a 'he') had yet to match wits with Sara.

She had Methods.

The "moldy" sandwich wrapper hadn't stopped him. The food colouring in the bread hadn't stopped him. The spring-loaded 'orrible 'airy spider hadn't stopped him... for longer than forty-eight hours.

And shy of poisoning...

Hmmm. Sara could almost hear Todd murmuring, Sara, no-o-o-o-o... in the back of her head. All right. Maybe just severe gastric reflux.

So, after stopping by the sushi place down the road for a heinously expensive lunch, Sara went shopping.

The next day, her lunch consisted of "special" fried rice - with mealworms replacing the rice, beondogi replacing the peanuts, and crickets, amongst many other things - "special" coffee jello - made out of her heart-stopping wake-up juice - and a flask of gourmet apple juice - tainted with cascara.

She included the lunchbox troll for verisimilitude. And waited.

Sure enough, come lunchtime, her luncheon was gone. She calmly went and bought some replacement sushi and ate it at her desk while she composed an informative missive about what, exactly, was in her repast, this day.

It finished with, "And the apple juice, as you are no doubt discovering, was doped with cascara. I will be picking random items of my lunch to poison in future. Only I know where the poison is. And, thanks to a generous coating of genitan violet, I will also know who the thieves are.

"Don't try to wash it off. You'll only make it worse. Sara (The green one)."

Interestingly, four people at the office had to go and get their stomachs pumped. All four had purple hands. Internal Relations had a field day as a direct result.

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Challenge #00240: Weighty Problems

Heavy the head which wears the crown. Heavier still the corset laced improperly.

Valeria had practiced for this. There had been fittings and rehearsals and an entire day getting used to the weight of the crown for this ceremony. She'd be knighting all day. And, for proper pomp and circumstance, all formalities had to be observed.

Including the ritual underwear.

Valeria, as royal crown of Eass, was not permitted to dress herself and, owing to the complexities of the full royal regalia, she could not feed herself, either.

She stood, arms akimbo, while three maids fussed with the petticoats and undershirts and lacings, while a fourth fed her intermittent mouthfuls of breakfast and made certain nothing spilled. She was not even permitted to rearrange her generous breasts herself.

Which inevitably lead to disaster.

Her usual body-servant had a cold, and her junior was unpracticed, and worse, only had little green apples herself whilst Valeria was 'blessed' with prize-winning melons. The naive little creature saw no reason to adjust Valeria's person and went straight on with the lacing.

And every time she opened her mouth, her breakfaster fed her.

And a Queen could not speak with her mouth full.

They got all the way to the ceremonial ruff before something vital went 'ping' and the entire left side of the edifice of her ceremonial robes slumped visibly.

"Oops," said the apple-breasted lesser idiot.

The Duchess of the Wardrobe sighed as she entered. "Undo the lot and start again. I'll inform our knights to be that they shall wait on your majesty's pleasure and you—" she pointed out the young maid, "—make certain that everything heavy is supported."

Well. This made everything an hour longer than it had to be.

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Challenge #00241: Pressed Seconds

Perpetual springtime.

Ellie had been hired to clean the garden. That alone made little sense to her, but this was Isinglass City, where the richest and the Eternals lived. Those who had the most time and the most money spent both in fascinating ways.

There was a definite border to Isinglass City. Nothing ugly was permitted to exist, there. Not even the average was permitted to exist. It was like a giant play-park with no rides.

And even inside Isinglass City, there were the Estates. High-walled fondants of architecture, preserved under glass -no- plasma barriers in perfect soap-bubbles.

If Isinglass City was a play park, the Estates were enormous sculptures set with jewels.

At least her uniform was pressed and clean.

She arrived by the underground tunnel, and didn't even see the garden until such time as a small staff had 'fixed' her every last physical detail. In the event that the Eternal who owned this place saw her, she would not offend their eye.

Ellie was given a sort of duster attached to a hose and pushed out of a small door and into what must have been the garden. It was like no garden the world had ever seen, nor likely ever would again. It was a fabricated springtime. Literally.

The cherry trees were made of muslin. The blossoms, chintz. The very grass was a giant terrycloth rug. The roses were eternally blooming velvet. and every bush held blooms of a different colour. This was a spring meant to last forever.

A garden that never grew. For an owner who never aged.

Ellie got to furious dusting, lest she be fired on her first day. Part of her catalogued everything. There was even a jewellery spider set decoratively in a web made of tulle.

And there she was. The Eternal. She was one of the Relics, from before Temporetain(tm) had been invented. Anyone who could afford to be Eternal now did so before they needed vanity surgery.

She, too, was a work of art. Her last surgeon had sculpted her perfectly. Except, perhaps, the lips. They were pulled so tight across her perfect face that they were almost ready to snap.

She strode barefoot across her towelling lawn, confident in the knowledge that nothing in her fabric garden would hurt her. Not even the padded robot noodling across the green expanse, eternally vacuuming the least speck of dust out of the spotless, plush and padded expanse.

Ellie worked harder. Worried that this Eternal had somehow taken offence, regardless of Ellie's efforts.

She didn't look up. She just concentrated on vacuuming the already spotless canvas leaves. Making sure she got every last square micron cleaner than clean.

"You're rather prettier than the average maid," said the Eternal.

And no others were here, so Ellie knew the Eternal was talking to her. "Thank you, m'm."

"Do you sing?"

"It's my job to clean the garden, m'm." Not a denial. Not a confirmation. Just the facts as she was assigned them.

"Sing. Anything."

Ellie, still cleaning, sang the song her mother put her baby sibs to sleep with.

This did not impress the Eternal. "Needs work."

Ellie watched her journey to the bar and pour herself a drink. A mocktail. Of course. Alcohol damaged the liver. Eternals dreaded any variety of damage; because in order to heal, they had to spend time off the Temporetain(tm).

"Tell me," the Eternal shouted. "How would you like to live forever?"

Forever didn't seem worth it to Ellie. But rather than offend, she said, "It's my job to clean the garden, m'm."

"They don't hire me for the screen, any more," said the Eternal as she sauntered to a (of course) padded lawn chair and arranged herself in it. "I make my money from spotting pretty little things like you... and sponsoring them on the way up. Fame, fortune. Medical cover for your relatives. All of them."

Ellie paused, just for a moment. Medical cover. It was expensive to be poor. It cost a fortune to be poor and sick.

"Yes, I knew that would get you. Your kind are all the same. It's all family first until you realise you don't need them any more."

Ellie felt nauseated at the very idea of not needing family. Then she realised. This woman had outlasted anyone who was close to her.

How could she stand to be that alone and that old?

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Challenge #00242: Stop, in the Name of Cheesecake!

"Next time we're both after the same thing..." she offered, "perhaps we can call a truce in the name of cheesecake."

"Work out which is really the best? Sounds like a plan, then."

Raven and Rahne meet again, not quite so "off duty" as before. Jokingly, as part of the typical "witty banter" comic-book fights always have, one of them does call for the "cheesecake truce", and to their surprise, the other remembers it and takes them up on the idea.

Each side had taken the fight outside. Both knew the value of their surroundings and had decided mutually to not trash the museum.

It was what gave Rahne the idea to try it in the first place.

That, and the straight line.

"We're almost clear. Nothing can stop us now!"

"Not even cheesecake?"

Mystique put the brakes on. "Hold!"

The rest of the brotherhood stopped and stared in confusion as Rahne went full-human and Raven dropped her disguise. Both stood a respectful distance from each other. Raven kept the booty tucked under her arm.

"We need this to—"

"—power an ancient relic, aye," Rahne finished. "Problem is, the fine print was in a Museum in Moscow."

"Don't tell me, guarded by an eldritch horror?"

"Also summons an eldritch horror."

Raven swore. "Why do they even have that cosmic link?"

Rahne shrugged. "On the other hand, Stark can use that crystal to power a generator that has no added horrors at all..."

"Were either him or Sara consuming caffeine at the time?"

"No."

"Good. Had to make sure." Raven relaxed and handed over the prize.

"WHAT?" demanded the Brotherhood.

"Trust me," said Raven. "It's for the greater good."

"Aw man, Magneto's going to kill us..."

"The cheesecake was still worth it."

"Amen," agreed Rahne.

Nobody on her team could believe how it happened.

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Challenge #00243: Elemental, My Dear...

Following someone around wearing a deerstalker and peering through a magnifying glass, whilst deducing things. With someone named Sherlock around, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Bonus points for an exasperated Watson getting dragged along.

Eridite Watson passed from transitory population zones to residential in a cloud of chemicals. She dutifully breathed in the immunoflu, after breathing out her own local germs for Medical to catalogue as harmless. All before she put her clothes back on.

At least they let her have relative privacy and female attendants on request.

This was a strange and unusual place. Socialism abounded and corrupted everyone. But instead of the dismal and depressing picture given her by Greater Deregulation (Hubwards), it was brightly lit, overflowing with plants, and oddly colourful.

Good news, there was a directory. Bad news, it was in that god-awful phonetic mish-mash called GalStand.

Good news, her tourist-goggles had the technology to translate it into good, old Greater Deregulation (Hubwards) English. Bad news, she had no clue how to even turn them on.

"Ye put 'em on and press the bridge, ye ken. Yuir techies've already adjusted it for ye."

The creature was speaking to her in English. Her English. But the accent was... bizarre. Nobody on Greater Deregulation (Hubwards) spoke like that.

Watson tried it. Ah. English floated over the GalStand mess, but wasn't very helpful.

"I'm looking for the offices of the Security Chief. I have an extradition treaty for Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe."

This earned a sharp-toothed grin from her criminally dark face. "Ah, finally and at last, then. Good riddance tae bad rubbish. Name's Shayde. I could walk there in me sleep."

That should have been her warning sign. But she introduced herself, regardless. "I'm Lieutenant Eridite Watson."

"Lovely!" An enthusiastic pumping of her offered hand. "It's almost too good! You stay right there, I'll just be a tick."

And, without any further warning, the strange woman fell into her own shadow and was gone. Watson stared in confusion at the patch of floor she had been standing on. Poked it with her foot. It was solid, so how—?

"Ah," said someone else. A shorter man with sort-of mauve skin. What was it with her and attracting coloured people, today? "I'm sorry. Shayde's happened to you, hasn't she?"

He, too, was speaking Greater Deregulation (Hubwards) English. But it looked like he was making the greater effort.

"She told me to wait," Watson bit down hard on a 'sir'. This... thing... was not a 'sir'. Despite appearing to be male, it was a dangerous and polluting alien with all sorts of alien diseases. For all she knew, it was readying a blood-attack with a special, weaponised ring. "My name is Lieutenant Eridite Watson and I have an extradition treaty for Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe." She dug the flimsy out of her jacket as proof.

"Watson, you said," asked the little blue... not-quite-man.

"Ye-e-es...? The.... Shayde. Seemed to think it was good..."

"...powers..." muttered the thing in the rainbow coat. "If we keep on our toes, we can get this over with quickly. I apologise in advance for... the oncoming event."

Shayde stepped out of another shadow and bounced all the way over to the little blue not-man, making high-pitched squealing noises. She proceeded to embrace... him... and continue to bounce.

The blue not-man's expression told Watson everything she needed to know about the... oncoming event.

*

"Sherlock... May I introduce ye tae Watson."

The alien was busy forcibly removing a deerstalker hat. "Right. That explains that nonsense," he said in sharp GalStand. The tourist goggles provided subtitles. "What's your nonsense?"

"No nonsense, sir." Damn! Aliens were not 'sir's. They were things. This place was corrupting her already. "I have an extradition treaty for Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe."

The alien took it, read it through a monocle \- fending off Shayde and the hat the entire time - and finally swore. "We've almost rehabilitated him and you want to take him back -stoppit!- back to your... own facilities..." pronounced, 'mediaeval torture chambers', "in a system where a criminal has no choice but to remain a criminal."

The blue one finally snatched the hat off the black one and glared her into stillness.

"I have been charged to secure and retrieve Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe and return him for proper punishment as befits a criminal of his nature," said Watson. "What happens to him once he's out of your jurisdiction is not important."

Sigh. "...and I had such hopes..." He shook his head and handed over a device with a friendly map on its screen. "This will guide you to his cell. Please use ethical restraints until you're on your own vessel?"

That pushed an automatic, instantly regretted, "Yessir," out of her mouth. Red-faced, Watson focussed on the map and left without any courtesy. These were things. Things didn't get courtesy.

*

"A-a-a-awww..." said Shayde. "But— Sherlock and Watson. Ye were meant for each other."

Sherlock rubbed his temples. He already had a busy day. He didn't need Shayde making it interesting on top of that. "Rael, get her out of here before I find a reason to arrest her again..."

"Yessir. Sorry, sir."

The hat, at last, went back into its glass case behind his desk.

Humans...

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Challenge #00244: Didn't We Already Fix That?!

A recurrence.

"Hey, check this out," the fellow queuer passed over a pamphlet.

It was the immunoflu update, naming the diseases that the adjusted virus would protect the infected from.

A pointing finger indicated the anomaly. "What the heck is measles?"

"I know, right? That's like... some weird human name or something."

"Yes, but viruses have taxonomic names," she argued. "For something to have a common name, it has to be around for hundreds of years. That just doesn't happen any more."

At which point, debate sprung up amongst her neighbouring queuers.

"I heard there was an anti-immuno deep-time colony. The viruses mutated and bred into this super-virus."

"I heard it was just a regular deep-time colony from before they made the old viruses extinct."

"I heard it was a string-runner? Trying to make a weapon? It killed them, of course."

"I heard someone dropped through a space-time anomaly and skipped five hundred years."

They all stared at the last speculator.

"Like that could possibly happen," she scoffed.

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Challenge #00245: Household Gods

Papier-mache elves.

He knew he shouldn't ask. Technically speaking, anything that kept Shayde busy and not in anyone's business was a good thing. Anything that kept her out of Sherlock's notice was wonderful.

Apart from the fact that Sherlock now had her on his permanent watch list, and her alarming habit this time had been buying the cheapest paper and glue available. Which meant she was up to something.

Which meant Rael, once again, had to go, find out, and presumably stop it before it got on anyone else. Or, at the very least, tone it down to the level of minor nuisance.

Which was why he was watching Shayde apply bits of glue-soaked cellulose to a wire frame. The purpose of this was completely beyond him. Obviously, it was a form of art, since art was defined as activity without purpose, sometimes creating objects without purpose in the process.

This? This just looked like a mess.

But he had to ask.

"What are you doing?"

"Makin' papier mache elves."

"Elves..." he echoed. One, evidently, had a tail.

"Aye, I couldnae find the ones I was after. Bloody seeker kept sendin' me tae the Mythos Embassy. When it weren't sendin' me tae the Cogniscent Rights office."

Ah. Of course. 'Elf' had changed its meaning in the years she'd been jaunting through other dimensions. There were the Elves of planet Mythos, descendants of gengineered humans with pointy ears, longer lifespans, and tongue-clotting beauty on their side. And then there were ELFs, Engineered Life Forms like himself, the Skitties and, regrettably, his Wave of the Future gene-cousins, the Cleaners.

"So... you're making... idols?"

"If that makes sense to ye, aye." She picked up a small, stick-like tool and worked some fine detail into the glue-moistened paper. "I'm tryin' tae make a home here, ye ken. And it's not home without some little elves." A crooked smile that meant that inside, she wasn't smiling at all. "Me mum had a bitty collection. Elves from around the world. An' she tole me the story, when I was little, about the cobbler and the little elves... So I'm makin' the entire set. Celtic, German, French, Swiss, Russian, Tolkein, Pini, Cockrum..." A sick little laugh meant to stave off tears. "Ev'ry elf there ever was. In mem'ry o' memum..." The laugh failed just as her voice did, and a thick tear fell down her ebon face like a meteor in the night, falling to a planet.

Homesick. It was a word he never understood. He never had any place where he knew he belonged, not even now. And the cure, a visit, was not even plausible. Her home was five hundred years ago, and millions of light years distant.

Rael sat next to her and awkwardly put his hand on her arm. Black and blue. "Tell me?" he asked. "Tell me about the happy times?"

Her hands moved again, placing paper in patterns he couldn't fathom, let alone help with. Sometimes winding, sometimes patting, sometimes pressing... and she spoke, conjuring a peripatetic childhood, roaming between countries and continents, picking up languages like any other tourist would pick up tchotchkes. Picking up culture and learning, and never staying in one place.

Home, for her, was her family. Her mother, father and brother. And the little elves that her mother carefully packed for each move, and unpacked again when they settled once more.

She could not reach her family. Did not want to confirm that their lives had long since ended. So she was reaching for the next best thing.

An echo of home.

"May I help?" he asked. It wasn't much comfort, but he was good at making new places to belong. Maybe he could teach her.

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Challenge #00246: One Fine Afternoon Just Outside the Danger Room

A romantic moment between Scott and Jean that starts after she witnesses the New Recruits realising that an less emotionally restrained Scott as Danger Room facilitator means a tough day for all.

Argh. Her aches had aches. Jean had lingered in the hot shower in an attempt to soothe them. She was still stretching in the hall when the younger recruits passed her by.

"Ow!"

"Man, my aches have aches..."

"The aches of my aches have aches that ache."

"Can we stop saying 'ache'?"

"Man... who thought flower arranging could make Scooter so much more of a hardass?"

"Dude, stop saying 'man'."

"Man, stop saying 'dude'."

A half-hearted scuffle ensued.

"Hey!" Scott shouted. "If you have the energy to fight, you have the energy to give me three laps around the mansion."

"Aaaawwwww..."

Jean giggled. "Way to show them, tiger."

Scott blushed, smirking. "Leader's gotta lead. That? And Logan makes me wax his bike every time they aren't worn out after a training session."

"I knew there was an ulterior motive."

"So... while they're busy. Um. Wanna go hang out in the theatre and... er... watch a DVD or something?"

"Sorry," said Jean. "I have a hot bath and a nap all planned."

She managed to drag herself away, but she still heard his distant mutter of, "...damnit..."

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Challenge #00247: One Beautiful Morning at the Bi-Annual Fair

I'm in an oooey gooey mood so please give me a sweet romantic sappy drippy waff-fest about a couple who meet long after they knew each other in high school. Extra points for any amusement park item.

In order to reduce the severity of Silly Season, Amalgam Station held a station-wide fair once every five months. Every human got some time to play, even folks like Lyr, who worked security.

Even other species got into it. Chitanians were busy hanging lights where no human could reach with the same opposite of assistance. Assorted Saurians were putting up what they believed to be appropriate Terran decorations. She didn't have the heart to tell them they'd got Halloween and Christmas mixed up again.

By the pricking in her neck... Lyr could sense someone familiar approaching. Not close-familiar. Just someone she used to know.

She turned. O Powers. "Tae Driscol. It's been too long!"

He smiled. "I should have known I could never sneak up on you. Haven't seen you since Spooky School."

"Don't call it that?" Lyr begged. One bad choice of words, and she was an insecure little pre-cog again, trying to figure out how plastic her future was, and how she could use her erratic gift for the greater good. And just like that, she remembered being in love with Tae Driscol.

He was still as handsome as ever. The cut of his clothes and the natural materials used in them told her how successful he was as a Finder.

'If's from yesteryear snowed down on her mind. If she had said 'yes'. If she hadn't had that vision. If she'd just tried to fight fate one more time...

But she knew better than that, now. She wasn't a silly teenager, any more. She had a teenaged daughter of her own. She had a family. A husband.

"I see you're doing well," she managed.

"I heard you had three kids. How did you manage all that and stay this fit?"

"You haven't met Ambassador Shayde, then."

He laughed. "Yeah, I try to Find ways to stay out of trouble..."

"And yet you Found me."

Another classic Tae grin. "I was after the place with the best fun. And here I am."

Fond memories made her smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere. Happily married. Allowed to arrest you for trying any nonsense."

"No nonsense," he held up his hands in surrender. "I just want to win you a toy panda at the ring toss. For old times' sake."

Not the panda. She'd almost forgotten the old toy he'd accidentally destroyed in their class project. The project that proved to be the end of their relationship as a portent of doom.

"If you use your Finding ability, I'll have to arrest you for cheating," she warned.

"Flirt," he countered. It was a joke. An actual joke that was not at her expense. He had changed.

"Jule's bigger and stronger than you. And I'm... stronger." Her family had always run to shortness. It just meant she had a lower centre of gravity to use against the enemy.

"Peace, Officer," said Tae. "I'm here to mend bridges, not burn them."

She sighed. "It's hard to forget some of the shit you pulled."

Tae lead her to the stall that had toy pandas as a prize. Unlike the fair attractions of yore, this one -and all the others- gave participants an actual chance to win something. There were laws against the kind of shenanigans they used to pull during their origin years.

"Well... karma's biting my ass. My own daughter's... a lot more like you than me, back in the day."

"Keep her away from egotists, she should be fine," teased Lyr.

He threw darts at balloons like a man driven. Every one hit their target. "I was so mad at you for some thing you said the week before the project? I burned your old toy on purpose, and made it look like an accident."

Lyr stared. "I said we'd be enemies inside a fortnight," she murmured. "And it'd be decades before we even spoke to each other again."

Flick, flick, flick, went the darts. Pop, pop, pop went the balloons. "Never argue with a precog." Another set. Flick, flick, flick. Pop, pop, pop. "She needs to know she can make it. Even with the headaches."

"Can't relax into it?"

"Yeah." He tallied up his points and paid for more darts. "The kids in her class aren't much of a help, there."

Lyr remembered that, very well. "Espers can be assholes, sometimes. How often does the therapist work with the class?"

"Daily. Not that it helps. Neither does telling Katie how everyone is all worked up about their own problems that they don't have much room for empathy... So..."

He had twice the points he needed for a plush panda. Lyr got a 'flash' of a young, insecure girl crying into one. "She has your hair," she blurted.

"I'm going to confess," said Tae. "And give her a panda. And hope it works."

"Give her a link to my bio. I'm living proof you can improve after a near-asshole experience."

Tae handed her a panda. "I'm sorry. I had no idea and I didn't want to catch one."

Lyr hugged it. It was not the same panda as the one that had helped her through too many rough nights and anxiety headaches, but the feel bought back the memories.

This one would help Elaise, when her gift bloomed.

"Thanks," said Lyr. "You have no idea how much that means to me."

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Challenge #00248: Learning Curve

Scott, the new floral and somewhat emotionally expressive studmuffin, wows the blue hairs at the convention. His ego does a world of good for it.

"I do a lot of beach-combing for interesting pieces," said Scott. "And I get bucket-loads of shells from that, I never knew why I picked them up in the first place, but I had bucket-loads of shells and I had to do something with them..." Click. The next slide showed an orchid made of shells. "And that's what started the Earth and Sea collection." An array of semi-realistic not-plants made from shells, felt and driftwood. "And then... I dreamed up this creature."

It was his first and most nightmarish ur-creature. He'd cleaned a beached blob monster and, after making certain it wasn't anything endangered, used what remained of its skeleton in a work that could only be judged as threatening. The wire also held beach glass he'd turned into beads, making it both beautiful and revolting. Sticks, rocks and shells made parts that were missing from the skeleton.

"I'm still working through a lot of things, and with some help, I managed to figure it out. My little brother Alex loved the beach... and I hadn't been down to one since... I lost my entire family in a plane crash."

Murmur murmur murmur, went the blue-haired arts donors.

"The daymares, as I call them... are all me trying to deal with death. They've been... an obsession since I finished putting the Hunter together." He wanted to say, Please buy some of these, they're taking over a whole basement and they're creeping everyone out including me. Instead, he said, "By facing down the spectre of death, I grew stronger. I learned to conquer my fears. And now it's time for these monsters to find their place in the world." You don't have to take them home... "You can own a little piece of strength against the grim spectre of death."

Silence. And then, stunningly, applause. The blue-hairs, grey-hairs and sundry elite filed out of the presentation hall and into the gallery, where a stunning array of macabre artworks stood behind glass.

It almost bothered him that he could convince people to buy this stuff. It bothered him more that he had fans. Who were busy beach-combing for blob monsters for him.

And worse, some were trying to imitate them.

But the money, the real money, was in the rich artsy people who didn't have a lick of creativity of their own. So they compensated by buying galleries, and owning art.

"They're really quite stunning," said a blue-hair by his elbow. "All the things from the sea. It reminds us that that which we enjoy too hard can also be our doom."

Instead of being stunned by the revelation, Scott acted pleased that she'd noticed. "Yes," he said. "Life is too fragile to take anything for granted."

She had a slip of paper in her hand. She'd bought the Gorgon. Yikes. He thought he'd never get rid of that thing.

He'd already told his fans, no more dead bears. Or dead pigs. Or the bones, in fact, of anything larger than a labrador. And no dead small dogs, either. And damnit, he was not in the business of turning your dead pet into an artwork. Gah.

'...have a granddaughter about your age, very interested in the modern art scene."

Whoops. Good thing he'd learned to pick up hazard words instead of listening on autopilot. "Sorry, ma'am, but I already have a fiancee. She's meeting me in..." he checked his watch, "Five minutes ago. I do apologise, but I simply must go find her. You have a good evening."

Sure enough, he found Jean by the less disturbing floral creations. No surprise. She'd told him that if she "had to look at another one of those things," she'd be doing so through a weapon sight.

"You're looking confident," said Jean. "I like it."

"It helps that they like me," he shrugged. "And that you do, too."

"And you got rid of the dead bear. Yay," she whispered.

Telepaths. You couldn't keep anything a secret. "Want to hop over to the Performing Arts place and hear Sara playing?"

"Yeah. I owe her some 'personal thanks' for putting you onto using bones."

"Hey, at least she shared how to stop them stinking up the place."

"Survival mechanism, studmuffin. Survival mechanism."

Scott laughed and walked in step with the love of his life. Things were looking up.

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Challenge #00249: Meter and Rhyme

Professor Xavier on why he abandoned the idea of a institute theme song.

"Professor? Why isn't there a school song?"

"To be very brief, I couldn't come up with anything good," he confessed. "Begin with the fact that the Institute doesn't have a catchy name, and add to that the fact that I have all the musical talents of a diseased whelk..." he shrugged. "If you can come up with something, you're welcome to, but—"

"Geethanks, Prof!"

Whoosh.

"...I don't hold high hopes..."

Inside of two weeks, after the literal battle of the bands, Professor Xavier had a third reason not to have a school song.

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Challenge #00250: Craftsmanship

Ordinary excellence.

"If you want it to last long, hire an expert. If you want it to last for long enough, hire a JOAT." — Galactic saying.

Rael got most of his income from people who wanted their patches to last long enough. As in, long enough to make a profit out of this trip. Or, long enough to get me back home. And, in some cases, long enough so I can trade this heap in for maximum due.

He reported those ones.

They were attempting fraud, after all. And besides, the stipend he got from Station Security was far more generous than any tip that fell from the fraudster's fingers.

Crime did pay - the informants.

Nevertheless, Rael did his best to make certain the patches he put into various vessels lasted for much longer than they were expected to do. This was the way he built a reputation. This was the way he kept food in his almost-perpetually-empty stomach-analogue.

And, lately, it was where he was gaining an audience.

Rael stepped back from his work on a dodgy engine - more patch jobs than original parts - trying to gain a new perspective on the problem... and almost tripped over a pair of white boots.

"Sorry..."

"I can't take a break, yet, Shayde. I have real work to do."

"Aye, and I was identifyin' soap operas all day. Sortin' em. Workin' out which ones were which. Which is never fun. So I'm takin' a break and watchin' an artist at work."

Ugh. Why did she keep coming back? He made it abundantly clear that he hadn't the faintest idea of what to do with her or how to enjoy anything of himself... Yet she kept turning up. Eating at the same restaurants. Shopping at the same places. Inviting him to events. Forcing him to socialise.

And baking him things.

He spared a glance away from his work. He was safe, for now. The ritual tin box was nowhere in sight. There was, however, a deck chair and a beverage with a small paper umbrella in it. And Shayde lounging there.

She smiled a special smile for him. He tried to quell the rising warmth inside that had nothing to do with ambient temperature or how much he had to eat.

Stop it. That degree of companionship is impossible. And if I try, I'll only make a mess of things, he told himself. Back to work.

Work mattered. It was truth. When something was done properly, it was done properly. And it would work, and work well. That, and it paid his food bills.

There was nothing else to fix. Or at least, nothing else he could fix in the allotted time window, which had nearly expired. He put his tools away with regret. The pilot/owner was going to have to replace the entire manifold as early as possible. The fact that they had ignored this advice for three patches so far was not a good sign.

Nevertheless, he noted it in the engineering logs and signed off on the time stamp.

Shayde applauded. "Well done, there. Na. I found a place that does some real beignets the old-fashioned way. And a whole lot o' soul food besides. You in?"

"Beignets?"

"They're like a deep-fried pancake. Served wi' mountains of powdered sugar."

Short-term calories with a side of long-term fats and carbs. Sounded, as Shayde would put it, right up his alley. "I'll have you know I can afford to 'go dutch'."

"Do ye want to?" Somehow, she'd folded up the usually carnivorous deckchair and made it vanish.

Sigh. "Yes."

A grin. "See? I have ways of gettin' a 'yes' out of you."

Humans...

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Challenge #00251: More Deadlier...

Magnificently mundane...and yet still formidable.

It is said that women are like tea leaves. You don't know how strong they can be until you put them in hot water. Mavis had always laughed at that. She was as mild as milk! Meek as mud.

Until the invaders came.

She'd just turned her back for a second. Let go of the pram for just long enough to grab a can of beans. And when she turned back, there was some... thing... investigating Arbie.

There was no time to think. There was no logic or reason. Just instinct and white-hot rage.

The can of beans almost flew through what passed for its head. Ichor spattered everywhere.

Another was coming.

Mavis grabbed what looked like a weapon from the dead one and, aiming it at the other one, figured out where the trigger was. Found a way to hold it comfortably and - literally single-handedly - freed Arbie from the pram and carried her baby close to her heart.

The invaders never stood a chance.

Mavis emerged at the other end of it, bloody and bloody furious, to aim a few, lingering pot-shots at the massive invading ship overhead. Arbie had fallen asleep in her mother's arm. People were cheering.

Hot water, indeed.

She shocked herself by snarling at the first EMT to try to take Arbie from her arms. Actively fought to regain the thin veneer of civilisation that had formerly been most of her personality.

"...i'm sorry..." she mumbled.

"Don't be," said the EMT in almost reverential awe. "I've seen soldiers break down over less."

All over the world, mild-mannered mothers like Mavis had turned the tide of battle. All because nobody....

Absolutely NOBODY...

Hurt. Their. Babies.

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Challenge #00252: What Monsters Hath Science Wrought?

Catbug.

Mythos Entertainment Inc. was working on all manner of new things. Their bio-labs were cooking up foetuses at the rate of knots.

Graham Ptolowitz stared at the thing in the pen. This was the angel/fairy production team, and the abomination before him had originally been a cat.

"We were working on a hexapodal mammalian life-form," said Dewitt. "So splicing and activating the hexapodal gene was primary priority."

"We did attempt bat wings, since they are mammalian wings, but - uhm..."

"It didn't take, this time," said Dewitt.

The kitten, evidently entranced by Dewitt's expressive hands, leaped. Its gossamer wings buzzed and, though it missed, the animal drifted gently downwards. It landed and tried again.

"No-one's going to want to see that," squeaked Graham. "That's neither an angel nor a fairy, nor anything else I want in my park!"

"It's just a prototype, sir," said Polson. "Once we crack the mammal wing problem, we can use bird DNA to make proper, angelic wings..."

"I don't want demon cats running loose! I certainly don't want things like that running loose!"

The kitten successfully seized and monstered his finger in a way far too catlike.

"That's why we tweaked the wingspan so it could only glide."

"We have an aviary planned."

"No," said Graham. "No monster cats. Scrap the angels. Re-engineer the fairies. Go with -Idunno- singing butterflies or something. No. Demonic. Cats." He detached the creature from his hand and tossed it back into its pen. It drifted down to floor level and started grooming itself.

Graham made a noise and left. Disgusting.

Behind him, Polson started to cry.

"It's all right," soothed Dewitt. "He didn't say to destroy them..."

And that was how planet Mythos is host to a unique breed of flying cats.

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Challenge #00253: Birds of a Feather

Kitty/alwaysfemale!Colossus.

"I'm here!" Kitty announced. This was supposed to be a place full of people like her. Like, where was the welcome committee?

BAMF! "Ah, hubches madchen," A blue demon in a black and red outfit appeared in an almost stereotypical puff of sulphurous smoke. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," it reached for her with a freakish, three-fingered hand.

Kitty screamed.

A giant, metal hand held off the demon by encapsulating its face. "Ignore Kurt, Tovarich," said a mountain of a woman, all metal. Her costume was red and gold, showing off her metal muscles... and other assets. "Most of us ladies do."

Kitty back-pedalled from the metal woman, too. These people weren't at all like her!

*

Colossus was, in ordinary light, known as Petya Rasputin. Yes, distantly related to that Rasputin. he had a younger brother Ivan, still living on their farm in Russia. She could almost make four of Kitty and actually had quite the shy nature when she wasn't showing off in the danger room.

Or saving random females from the demon Kurt's charm.

"Why do you keep your hair so short?" Kitty asked. "Aren't you afraid of being mistaken for a guy?"

"Da, I get a lot of 'sir's," Petya admitted. "But long hair gets in the way too much. I need to see. I need to fight. And the last thing I need, Katya, is to give an enemy a handle." She playfully tugged on Kitty's own ponytail.

Across from her, an angel was sitting companionably next to the demon, and a giant blue ogre with pince-nez spectacles known as Hank. Those who looked ordinary had weirder powers. Like Jean, who casually lifted things with her mind. Or Ororo, who could make the very weather do her bidding. Or Rogue, who could absorb someone's memories, mind, and powers with a single touch.

Or Logan. Who was a force of nature on his own.

Yet the one she kept staring at was Kurt.

He'd been born that way. Blue, fuzzy and with a tail. Not enough fingers or toes.

Hank was the one who had started normal... and changed.

What if—?

"You won't be a monster," soothed Petya, as if reading her mind. "Not even Kurt is a monster."

"Only to pretty girls on the second date," added Kurt jovially. "And if so requested."

*

Her first kiss had been a surprise. Especially since it came from Petya. The second and third had, too. Only much later and after a lot of deep thought.

Mom could never know.

Kurt, though, had been shockingly amenable when he found out. A wistful smile and a, "Good luck to you both," had been all he ever said about it.

No teasing. No taunting. No slurs.

Well. He'd had an entire life full of such things. He didn't need to pass them on, no matter what his beliefs.

Which was why she was planning to make him her best man. When and if she and Petya could ever marry.

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Challenge #00254: Terror Watch

Agent Pertwee and his take on watching the terror with the textiles.

[AN: Agent Pertwee is a girl :P]

Agent Jane Pertwee sighed. She'd signed up for Terror Watch because it was the fast-track past the glass ceiling and on to better things. She should have known that the dicks upstairs would have picked the one least likely to do anything worthy of garnering promotion by stopping it in its tracks.

Right now, she was holding up a wall watching a man with bazooka eyeballs practice needle-felting cute, fluffy miniature kittens.

Her niece would be ecstatic about cute, fluffy miniature kittens. So would her sister-in-law.

Not Jane.

Jane wanted some desperate terrorist undertaking. Some derring-do.

ANYTHING but needle-felting fluffy animals.

"I sell these on Etsy," said the mutant terrorist. "Helps fund the other stuff."

And since the current 'other stuff' featured part of a dead whale... she could see why he needed funding.

"Why be an artist?" Jane demanded. "You're packing a bazooka behind each eyeball. If I had power like that..."

"I only killed once," said the mutant. "Court said it was self-defence. I wanted to be locked away forever." The needles moved. "I was twelve."

"I read your file," Jane rolled her eyes. "If you'd just gone power-mad..."

"Agent Pertwee... I spent a majority of my life under an asshole with power. I never wanted to be like him."

"I'm still spending my life under assholes with power."

"Why do you even want that kind of authority?"

"So I can get ahead. Duh."

"And then what?"

Jane stared at him. "Huh?"

"What would you do with unlimited power? Would you make the people who hurt you feel your pain? Would you stop there? Or go out and hurt everyone who became an asshole? When would you stop and notice what you'd become?"

It was sobering to hear that coming out of someone on the Terror Watch list. It was more sobering to think that he'd already thought of all this. "With great power comes great responsibility, huh?"

"Something like that," Scott smirked. "Pity those in power never think that way."

Yeah. It was.

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Challenge #00255: Be Careful What You Wish For

Agent Pertwee and the first moments he realised that his job sucked for reasons he didn't expect.

[AN: Once again, it's Jane Pertwee :) ]

The FBI had been covertly watching this school for some time. Now, with the Mutant Registration Act, it was watching more overtly. As in, agents in the field, tailing their respective suspects, and making sure that a bunch of teenagers with superpowers....

Well...

Didn't wind up acting like a bunch of teenagers with superpowers.

Agent Jane Pertwee checked her dossier against the milling brownian crowd of kids. There he was. Red specks. By daylight, known as Scott Summers. His costumed code-name was Cyclops. The pictures explained why.

Apparently, this terrorist was packing a bazooka behind each eyeball.

The shorter, hunched one beside him pointed her out with two fingers before vanishing in a puff of smoke. Pertwee spared a brief, cynical grin for the fate of Agent Manning, whose job it was to keep track of a teleporter.

Summers strolled over. "Hey. I'm guessing you're tailing me, today?"

"Yeah, Troughton quit."

"I know this is against procedure, but can I bum a lift? My car's in the shop again. Brotherhood."

Ah yes. The other factor in this amusing little powder-keg. Not only were there teenagers with superpowers, but there were teenagers with superpowers in gangs. Fun.

Pertwee sighed. "I suppose it beats tailing you while you walk to -uh- where are you going?"

"Do you know Bargain Basement Bernie's?"

O God... "Unfortunately..." Her last partner, Baker, had insisted on stopping there for cheap knitting supplies.

"Great. My order's come in." And, like a good little supplicant, he piled into the back. "Are you allergic to Alpaca?"

What? "Al-what-a?"

"Alpaca. Like a Llama, but cuter. I'm trying different textures of felt to get the right kind of moss look... aaaannnd you've already glazed over. Never mind. It's a hobby thing."

This, Agent Jane Pertwee mused, was looking to be a long day full of suck in a long line of days full of suck. Now she knew why Troughton wanted to quit...

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Challenge #00256: I'm Sorry, We Can't Help You

Greater Deregulation's more esoteric moments.

"But I don't have any of my papers. My house burned down."

"If you had signed up for the TrakMe program..."

"I had. My parents signed me up just after I got a name. I've been trying to sign on with or without their help for forty years."

"You can voluntarily sign up for the TrakMe program at any time," recited the sallow, callow creature on the other end of the counter. "You need three forms of ID and a blood sample."

"Which part of 'house fire' did you fail to understand? And it needs more than that. I know. I had the three forms of ID and the blood sample and I was still rejected. Turns out I needed to be identified by a non-relative who's known me for at least ten years."

"That must mean you'd been red-flagged." Tap-tap-tap-tap. "Reasons for red-flagging include a criminal history,"

"Nope."

"Association with a criminal,"

"Not knowingly."

"Relation to a criminal,"

"Nope. No family left to be criminals."

"Resident in a criminal zone?"

"How the hell would anyone find that out?"

"You'd need to be on the TrakMe program to gain the benefit of being aware of criminal residential areas."

"How the hell can I get on the TrakMe program to get those benefits if I can't get on it without those benefits?"

The creature behind the counter ignored her. "Your face has been processed. Please list your former residential addresses in order."

She'd been through this too many times. It had become a song that she had to resist singing. The rhythm pushed through, regardless.

Stare. "Uhm. I don't... type that fast."

She slowed it right down. Laboriously reciting the numbers and spellings and streets and what those streets were now.

"Ah. Hum. You stayed primarily in West Esterbrook."

"Yeah, it was recommended by our TrakMe administrator."

"West Esterbrook has been randomly selected as an area of potential criminality."

"Since...?"

"West Esterbrook has been randomly selected. The -uh- date is... Twenty years before you were born?"

"Why would a TrakMe administrator recommend someone stay there?"

The creature's console bleeped. "Ah. Yes. We can not help you. I'm sorry."

"So how do I get hold of at least some ID? I need work! I need food!"

"Please keep your voice down."

"I'm starving."

"Your... bloodline... has been randomly selected as a potential criminal element. I'm sorry. We can't help you."

"So... what? I turn myself in at the nearest prison-factory?"

Smile. "That would be incredibly helpful. Thank you."

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Challenge #00257: Honey, and Plenty of Money

Bees.

[AN: Any relationship between certain corporations in this fiction and certain poison companies is strictly imaginary]

Fantraxin did not kill bees. That was its primary selling point. It killed all other insects that may predate on crops, but not the bees. How it did so, of course, was a company secret.

A secret that made them the largest corporation on the planet, almost overnight.

Or, at least, it would have. If they weren't already the biggest global power ever to rig the game in their favour.

The use was, of course, instantly cleared in the United States. A process smoothed by the fact that the FDA was a wholly owned subsidiary of the corporation. Those who allied with the states followed. They believed.

They believed it was good to be friends with a company that made as much money as Fantraxin did.

And the fact that the bees were still dying...

Well. There was no proof it was Fantraxin.

And they made sure any proof quickly vanished. Or got discredited. Or simply overwhelmed by factual knowledge about Fantraxin, sponsored by Fantraxin, on popular networks owned by Fantraxin.

The thorn in the side, though, was the little island nations who never bought it. Who didn't need it. Who actively banned it.

And who studied it in strict laboratory conditions to discover the unthinkable.

Fantraxin did not, in fact, kill bees.

They killed a symbiotic mite that lived on the bees. And then the bees got sick and died without their microscopic helpmates.

But, by then, the company was busy inventing pollenating machines.

To replace all the bees.

That the tiny island nations refused to export.

Because the places the bees were going was not safe.

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Challenge #00258: The Wall and the Hypocri-sea.

The invisible fence, 15 feet high that divides the America that lectures others on "multiculturalism".

It was a rich white girls' party. Anyone watching the video could tell. It wasn't in a house. It wasn't even in a mansion. It was in a palace. The theme was multiculturalism.

She was wearing sexy lederhosen with a Chinese shirt and Inca shoes. She also sported a rainbow sombrero and a necklace made of 'fangs'.

"Welcome to my party! I am the spirit of acceptance, tonight. There's something on someone from every nation!"

And there was. Russian fur hats. Australian cork hats. An almost abominable miss-mash of every stereotypical garment from everywhere around the world. Most of them in bright and unnatural colours.

All of the partiers were white.

"And in the spirit of acceptance, I invited a special guest. Tito should be coming on down, soon."

He stood out like a sore thumb. He wore crocks, jeans and a T-shirt with a band on it. He held a fraying straw hat like it was an abomination that he wished he could use as a weapon.

Anger.

"Tito! What the flying hell? You're not in costume!"

Tito stood tall. Defiant. "Your people invaded my country. Your people told us our ways were wrong. Your people tried to erase our culture and our history and turn us all into this."

It was a Mexican Peon costume. Replete with a fake donkey and a horrible felt moustache. The white person wearing it on the package label was having an insane amount of fun with the half a donkey erupting from his crotch.

"You're ruining my party!"

"I expect the truth would," said Tito. "None of us are this. You call us lazy and shiftless, yet you hire us to work at everything you do not want to do for yourselves. You make us pick your food, clean up your messes, and then you laugh at us because we can only afford to live in squalor. You steal any excuse to party from us. The Quinceanera. Cinco de Mayo. The day of the dead. All of it is just an excuse to drink alcohol and wear our poverty for a day."

"Hey! Step off!"

"You step off!" Tito whirled on the drunken jock. "You think you are doing a good thing here? Why don't you take the college fund you're going to piss against the wall at your frat house, and actually do something constructive with it? You're only going to drop out before you inherit your daddy's firm, anyway."

"That is wrong. You can't just single out someone and expect them to be a stereotype."

"Like you did?" said Tito, waving the costume bag. "Racist."

"I'm not a racist! You're my friend," wailed the privileged white girl.

"As long as you think I'm this?" he tossed the bag at her. "I am not your friend. And unlike the rest of you, I have to work, tomorrow."

The girl made a noise of disbelief, facing the camera. "What is his problem?"

The party resumed in a few minutes.

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Challenge #00259: "Why We Won't Stop Fighting For Our Right To Purity"

Someone with an ARTICULATELY RATIONAL reason for detesting Sara and waging futile jihad against mutants because of her. (Just because I'm feeling deep in my 'Sympathy for the Devil' phase today being the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington.) Something akin to what Luther did on the doorframe would be nice as well.

The photo showed a slightly-horsey girl with green-blue scales. She was smiling, but not looking at the camera. The resolution made it clear that it was taken from a safe distance.

This is a mutant. This photo was not 'shopped. She claims her name is Sara. She is not human.

There are hundreds, possibly thousands of mutants like this thing living in the united states, and they must be stopped. By any means necessary.

They mean to take over the world.

Mutants have genetic "gifts" given to them by the devil that cause them to renounce god in favour of worshiping evil-ution. Those "gifts" are dominant trait. If a mutant has sex with a human, their baby will be born a mutant. They may even have more of the devil's "gifts" than their parents.

Mutants and humans should never breed. Miscegenation like that is against the laws of God and Nature. Breeding with humans is part of their master plan.

The more mutants there are, the more danger that honest, god-fearing humans are in.

A video. Showing Sara in all her greenish-blue glory, fading in and out of view. Using the Xi Qong Peace Poke against four guys bigger and heavier than her.

As you can see, this one mutant and her devil "gifts" is more than enough to defeat four normal, red-blooded American men. This thing claims it's a female, but as you can see in the video, it is decidedly un-feminine in appearance and behaviour.

We cannot allow creatures like this to take over our world.

The Bible says that God appointed humans as stewards of the planet Earth. There is no mention of mutants anywhere in the Bible. This must mean that they are the spawn of the devil, put on this Earth to try and conquer Earth in the name of sin.

Another video. Blurry, shaky footage of mutants playing Calvinball in a lightly wooded area.

The blue devil you see at 1:15 is obviously a descendant of the Jersey Devil. This means that mutants have been vying for supremacy for a very long time. Perhaps even the 'alien' visitations have actually been mutant attempts to violate humans and engender more mutant babies.

More evidence of mutant deception of humans.

This federally-funded test(non-working link) alleges that mutants are uniformly more intelligent than their human counterparts. This means that we must constantly be on our guard! Mutants are therefore capable of more devious tricks than any human alive.

You can not know a mutant by looking at them! Even those as aggressively different as the thing at the top of this page can hide themselves with devilish technological tricks.

A photo of a very clunky sports watch.

This is the Stark Industries Personal Holographic Electronic Disguise Device (SIPHEDD). It is formerly-secret military technology meant to protect our troops in the battlefield. Aggressively different mutants use these to appear human during their infiltration missions in YOUR schools, stores and places of business.

IF YOU SEE SOMEONE WEARING A SIPHEDD DEVICE, BACK AWAY. DO NOT ENGAGE IN ANY FURTHER CONTACT.

Unfortunately, you can not notify the authorities. They have access to top-of-the-line military technology. This means that they already have the authorities in their sway.

Join the register of pure humans now!(another broken link) We must band together to preserve the true human race.

How to prepare for war.(Survivalist how-to's)

How to legally acquire weapons suitable for killing mutants.(Broken link)

Could YOU be a mutant? Take our quiz! (A link to a broken quiz)

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Challenge #00260: What a Wonderful World

When truly equity is nurtured upon Mother Earth between the genders (Again, because I'm thinking of MLK.)

"So... Mari. Is that one a he or a she?"

"Gram-MAAAA..." Mari blushed. "You promised..."

"I did, I did. I'm sorry. I forgot."

"I only let you be my show-and-tell 'cause you promised you wouldn't do any of the old-fashioned stuff."

Gramma nodded. "I remember, now. I'm sorry, Mari. But... what do I do if they ask about it?"

"Remember what Mommy and Omom said?"

"Self-bowdlerize," Gramma smiled.

They reached Mari's classroom and Gramma got to sit in the teacher's chair because of her knees.

Dan, who had social issues, immediately went to poke at the ink on Gramma's arms. At least he'd learned not to poke hard.

"They're all real," said Gramma. "The ones on my arms go all the way up to my shoulders. I have adventure time on my left arm and Star Wars on my right."

Dan, who had already found Gramma's right arm, was making space battle noises.

"Dan," said Mr Greely. "We don't move clothes, remember?"

Dan politely backed off. "Sorry Mrs Mari's Gramma."

"This is my Gramma," said Mari. "She's the oldest person I know."

"I was born in nineteen ninety-two," said Gramma.

The entire class except for Mr Greely and Mari went, "Whoa!"

"Didja have a bomb shelter in ninety-nine? 'Cause of the world going to end?"

"My parents and I went out into the desert to watch the stars, every time the world was going to end. Once in ninety-nine, and again in two thousand, twelve. We'd have a campfire, and make s'mores, and tell stories. I don't think we thought the world was going to end. But it was a good excuse to watch the stars."

"Didja meet President Herera?"

"No, I never got to meet her. But I do remember the fuss and bother when they made the entire constitution gender-neutral."

"How'd it used to go?"

"It said things like, 'all men are created equal'," said Gramma, to the oohs of the class.

"How'd it work with only men being equal?"

"It didn't," laughed Gramma. "And it was worse than that. Only white men were allowed to be equals."

"White?"

"Sorry. People of European descent. We used to classify people by their skin tone. The paler you were, the better you had it. And most of them didn't even notice."

The class looked around at each other, trying to imagine what it must have been like to live according to skin colour. Mari could almost see their brains fusing from the effort.

"Didja fight for the vote?"

"Ha! I'm not that old. No, that was before my time. I did have to fight for my reproductive rights."

"Re-pro..."

"The right to choose when or if I had a child."

Gasps.

"Were you in the gene riots?"

"No, dear, I went off to the desert again. I listened to it all on the radio. Sad business. I remember thinking that I didn't want to live on a planet where a corporation could own the rights to my babies. But - we won. That was the end of super-mega-global corporations once and for all. And the end of corporate personhood. And many, many other dark things."

"When did 'ze' become official?"

"Three days after my daughter, Mari's Omom, was born. I remember feeding her and watching the news. Oh, my goodness. It broke Rush Limbaugh."

"Who?"

"Thank you, dear. He was a bad one. A big, wealthy, Europe-descended man who believed in his own supremacy so hard that he stroked out when the third pronoun went official. He didn't respect his body, though. Treated it horribly. No wonder it turned on him." Gramma sighed. "He was the biggest, loudest and most popular voice of the old, rich ED men. Without him... well. They couldn't get anyone else to say the things he said and take it seriously."

"What kind of things did he say?"

"You're not old enough, darling," said Gramma. "You have to be sixteen before you learn about the old prejudices. They made the world a narrower place."

"How?"

"Hm. Let's see. Men who killed their lady partners went to prison for months, but ladies who killed their man partners went to prison for years. There were more african-descended folks in prisons for lesser crimes than there were ED folks for any kind of crime at all. Schools used to train kids just to pass tests... they even had police to make sure all those with browner skins got all the bad attention."

"Police in schools? Who'd do a crime in a school?"

Gramma stared at Jimi. "That was when they ran schools like prisons, dear. They've learned better since. We've all learned better since." Gramma sighed. "And I'm glad. Even when I forget and use the old, bad words. I'm glad it's all gone."

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Challenge #00261: Meeting as Equals

The correct way to take a feminist out on a date.

"Hey."

"Hello."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Where do you like to go for fun?"

A smile. "Are you going to ask me out?"

"I'm going to try," he announced. "I think you're cute and I'd like to get to know you."

"Have you heard of steampunk?"

"Uh. Maybe? Gears and corsets and things?"

"That's the superficial part. There's a band playing, tonight. You can be my plus one."

"Should I dress up?"

"Sure you won't embarrass yourself?"

"If it makes you smile, it's worth it."

*

He came in a zoot suit and spats. The tie clip was made out of clockwork gears.

"Ooo. Fast."

"I cheated. This was my great-grandpa's. All I did was add the accessories. And freshen up the feathers in the hat."

"I meant the outfit. It's a little modern for Steampunk, but you should fit in anyway. It looks nice."

"You're looking very... bronze."

"Of course. Tonight, I'm mechanical."

"Mechanical?"

"I'll explain on the way."

*

She'd paid for the tickets, so he paid for the food and drinks. Since they were both working, tomorrow, the alcohol was off the list. But inebriation wasn't necessary to have a good time.

The robots on stage were amazing. It was hard to believe that, at the end of their day, they took all that off and became ordinary human beings again.

It was hard to imagine anyone here in hoodies and sweatpants.

"Wow. Everyone here is gorgeous." Even the people not 'magazine gorgeous' were gorgeous. Even the sort of people his high-school friends would holler abuse at were gorgeous.

"It's a different aesthetic," she explained. "You don't have to fit the mould just to fit in. Everything's customised. Queen Bella, over there? She easily drops two thousand on each outfit."

Queen Bella was painted gold and almost dripping with costume jewellery and gears. She also flounced with frills and sashayed with sashes.

"Where do you even go to get that kind of look?"

"Somehow, I don't see you in a corset," she joked.

"Yeah, but a nice waistcoat? And tails? Do you think a trilby or a top hat?"

"Mmmm..." she considered. "Maybe you could try a boater..."

*

They were laughing all the way back to her place. He lingered on her threshold. "It'll be a shame to go back to normal."

"You can always sneak a few gears onto your daily bling. Nobody'll notice, I swear."

"Possibly. Men have less bling options in the real world than the ladies." He rolled his eyes. "Darn mainstream society..."

"I dunno. Maybe a nice waistcoat? A bowtie..."

"Bowties are cool."

They kissed goodnight before he went home happy.

It was a great first date. May it be one of many more.

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Challenge #00262: "Well, Sweetie..."

"Mommy, how did you meet Daddy?"

He blushed. "Uh..." He glanced over at Edi. Edi nodded.

"Well... I was naked at the time..."

"Da-a-a-ad...."

"No, he's telling the truth. Daddy wasn't wearing so much as one red stitch."

"There was the band-aid. That was technically cloth."

"It was on your left shoulder. It doesn't count as clothes."

Til rolled her eyes. She'd been hearing these kinds of arguments since before she could talk. "Mo-om..."

"Do I have to explain why I was naked?"

"One word. College."

"Right. So I was running for my life and risking charges of indecent exposure. You can't run fast when you're hiding your junk. Trust me on this one."

"Euw," said Til.

"And he barrelled straight into me. Knocked me over," said Edi. "And this was in the middle of a cold snap, so I was the opposite. Two layers of pants, four layers of tops, a cloak."

Til grinned. She loved that cloak.

"Me, buck naked on top of her. Pretty much a compromising position," he laughed at the image, "And then I said:"

"Sorry about that. Hey. If I survive, can I buy you a coffee? I promise I'll have clothes on." Edi chorussed with him.

"An encounter like that, you remember," said Edi. "It was morbid fascination at first sight."

"Still working for me," he chirped.

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Challenge #00263: Bubbles in History

Since you like Adventure Time (and I hope you've seen some of the more recent episodes, minor spoilers in prompt)

Bubblegum: Journey from Irradiated Pink Ooze to the founder of a Kingdom.

[AN: Warning - Rampant headcannon ahead]

See...

A wrecked city. It used to be called Cincinnati, before the bombs fell. The survivors braved its depths for supplies. Useful things. Food. Metals.

Feel...

It hurt to be alive. She was alive. She couldn't leave. She was quite literally stuck here.

Fragmented memories of before the bomb. Candy store. An argument with someone. Someone special. Science. She had science to do...

Move...

She could move. She could see... but her body.

Her body wasn't human any more.

She... had become...

Gum.

Pink, gooey, bubblegum.

But she could move. Spread. Shrink. Let things go. Coalesce. It took her days, but the world had just ended. It wasn't as if anyone wanted gum.

*

He was here! The someone.

Simon!

She had no voice, but she could hear. He had a sick child. He needed chicken soup.

She spread tendrils of herself into the places that the survivors couldn't go. Or wouldn't go, because of the mutated goo-monsters still here.

Found...

One can of soup. One can-opener.

Found...

Him in the alley. Defeating the evil crown through an effort of will.

Offered the prize to him. Managed a face. A smile.

"Euw..."

Right. She was gooey stretches of bubblegum. Nobody found that nice. She retreated. Left him alone.

He still had the crown.

She didn't remember much, but as long as he had the crown, he could hurt her. He had hurt her.

She would have to devise a more efficient manner of communicating.

*

Simon's storm had changed something. The goo and the cold and the high-fructose corn syrup and who knew what else had come together in a perfect storm.

Life sprang anew in the wreckage of Cincinnati.

Candy life.

She worked hard on making a body. A body she half-remembered from Before. There was too much 'hair', but she had a solution.

Cut it. Roll it into the new sugar compounds. Store it. Just in case.

They could hatch. They could become cogniscent clones of herself. She just didn't know.

*

Candy life could be shaped. Could be trained. They called her a Princess. One even found an amulet in the old ruins under her realm. It had interesting properties, which she had to study in secret.

Candy was an interesting building material. Fruitcake walls were going to protect her sweet life forms. Her children.

Simon and I wanted to have children...

No. She wasn't that half-remembered woman, any more. Things had changed. The whole world had changed.

Cats and dogs both were walking upright and talking. They were building societies of their own.

Humans were anarchic gangs. Some had gone underground. Literally. Some were spawning new species.

Goblins and Orcs and Trolls. Giants and Minotaurs.

Practically the entire D&D compendium.

The mutagen had to be to blame. It was literally running through the entirety of the land. She had to do something to stop it. Contain it. Perhaps, stabilise the population.

And all she had to hand was candy.

"Princess! Princess!"

They were summoning her. Someone was in trouble. Someone outside the fruitcake walls.

*

The amulet was gone. She had to rely on other means to create things. At least the gum-ball guardians were doing their job.

Candy lasted.

The power of the mutagen turned everything in a limited area into candy, but at least it wasn't toxic to other life.

There was a large area of cold, relatively close to her candy kingdom. She thought she knew what it was, but she was just too busy.

Other kingdoms demanded her time. Demanded her attention. Demanded negotiations.

She was just so busy.

She needed a hero. And candy folk weren't so naturally inclined.

If the dogs weren't so busy with that war in the crystal dimension...

If the cats weren't mostly evil...

If ifs and ands were pots and pans... She rolled her eyes. First, forge peace. Then, get on with her discoveries.

If she could figure out the new rules to this messed-up world, then she could work to fix it.

*

He'd found her again. Just when she'd got comfortable.

He'd changed. He didn't remember anything of Before and she wasn't about to tell him, either.

She'd let herself get soft.

And all she could do was scream.

Wait. There in the snow. A boy and his dog. Or a dog and his boy. They were the only ones close to hand. The only ones within earshot.

They were her only hope.

*

They were brothers. Finn and Jake. They lived in a treehouse not far from her kingdom. Finn may well be the last true-human on Ooo.

She wanted to study him. Scientifically.

Analyse whether or not the human race deserved a second chance. Or let him live as a hero and let the humans who once ruined this world go out in a blaze of glory.

Time would tell.

And for a very young boy, Finn was kind of cute.

Stop.

She was far too old for him.

...far too old...

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Challenge #00264: Foiled Again

"Why do we even have that lever?"

It was painted toxic-red. With radioactive-yellow stripes spiralling around the handle. It was labeled, LEAVE OFF OR DIE.

Katie stared at Kev. "Ye ken how Hackmeyer loves tae twiddle, aye?"

"Uh. Whut?"

Honestly. They'd shared classes, lectures and projects for most of the year and he still didn't understand her.

"Hackmeyer. The Professor."

"Yeah?"

"He likes tae mess with the settings."

"Oh. Oh yeah. You think the sign's enough to stop him?"

"Aw fook no. That lever's the first thing 'e bluidy touches."

"What? Is he trying to kill us?"

Katie swanned past him and lifted the panel. "Na. It's not even connected tae anythin'. It's a simple diagnostic, ye ken."

"Diagnostic."

"Oh aye. If it's turned on, I know he's been in here and I can do a quick reset." Katie grinned. "Think of it as a safety feature."

And considering the things they were messing with, it was a very important safety feature. He may be behind the ball when it came to grades, but he was starting to recognise that Professor Ernest Hackmeyer did not know as much as he pretended he did.

Most of his filibuster was repeating almost anything little Katie Walker had to say, only making sure he took longer and sounded way more confusing than anything Katie had to say. People listened to Hackmeyer because they were paying to do so. And he spoke a clearer version of English than Katie.

She could see the light dawning in his eyes.

"Oh. Yeah. We need that lever. I like that lever."

Katie gave him a thumb's-up, and went back to her work.

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Challenge #00265: One Fine Afternoon at the Student Labs of Transylvania Polygnostic University

"Pull the lever, ____!"

"Wrong Lever!"

"Reanimation, of course, is a touchy subject. Unauthorised, unwanted reanimation has been the source of many problems. Of course, it's easier with a construct, which is why we have our projects on the electrified slabs, today."

Professor Kransky stoked the Lightning Engine and started the turbines. "NOW!" She shouted over the noise. "PULL THE LEVER!"

Oklitov, of course, reached for the wrong one and incinerated his construct.

"WRONG LEVER, OKLITOV! GO FETCH THE SPARE!"

The rest of the class was right to laugh at him.

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Challenge #00266: Moebius Repair

"We already fixed that"

"Wait, we fixed it too"

"We did it last night"

"How many times has it been fixed?"

*someone tallies the numbers*

"11 times, in the last 2 months"

Job #2984QEW8: Rattle in the air duct at Left Topsy-Turvy Town.

Rael's Finder app had flagged it because it included a box of chocolates as a bonus payment. Nobody else had tagged it as theirs, so he leaped on the opportunity.

Not that he needed chocolate, strictly speaking, but tiny parcels of calories never really went amiss. That, and he appreciated the finer things in life.

He took his Everywhere toolkit with him, as rattles could have any cause, up to and including deceased rodents tangled in cables.

The Cleaners, efficient though they were, didn't get everything. It was a little factlet to which he owed his existence. Literally.

"Heading to East Topsy-Turvy Town?" said a fellow JOAT on the same platform. Of course they were a human. They were love with rhetorical questions.

"Rattle in the vents. Time plus chocolate."

"Ugh," said the human. "Do yourself a favour and run away now."

Wait. What?

Rael deliberately got on a different carriage on the tram. After that, it was tourist-dodging until he got to the right address.

Loose cable. Easily fixed with a bit of ductape.

Less than a minute, including the time it took to remove and replace the vent cover.

The chocolates were the good kind. Naturally sourced, not printed from chemical simulations. Experts said that no-one should be able to tell the difference, but experts were wrong on that one.

People took their indulgences seriously.

*

Job #2984RBZ9: Slow fan at Left Jarbingville. Time plus 1 doz. doughnuts. Repairer picks doughnuts.

Hm. Two stops further down the tramline and a short trip relative-up by Veet. Worth a dozen iced and cream-filled. Ooo, or maybe with custard.

There was the same human JOAT at the tram station. "Slow fan at Left Jarbingville?"

"...yes?"

"Hah. Then it's a hum at Lower Erkins, then a buzz at Upper Elemeno, and finally a glonk in Windy Passage. Then it's back to the rattle in Left Topsy-Turvy Town. On the upside, you're paid for life. On the downside, your rep takes a sucker-punch and you're doing the same thing forever. It's a Moebius repair. Run. Now."

Rael took note, but he also kept his distance. Human insanity could easily catch. And he'd never heard of any job being flagged as a Moebius repair.

The slow fan needed a little boost to its engine. Just a little tweak and he was done. And enjoying the wickedest doughnuts ever produced by the caring hands of a Gyiik.

*

Job #2983SZC0: Annoying hum at Lower Erkins. Time plus home-cooked meal.

It was the first job he'd seen with a menu choice. But, sadly, the crazy human had called it.

This warranted some deep investigation...

*

The cable that caused the rattle powered a moving part. Directly. Stilling the cable stilled the part. Which slowed the fan. Amping the fan created the hum. Muting the hum created the buzz. Stilling the buzz created the glonk and, finally, eliminating the glonk freed the cable and started off the rattle again.

Rael undid all of the incremental repairs and wrapped some soft foam around the cable.

Moebius repair, he noted on the JOATnet, is code for "look deeper".

It was the best flakking home-cooked meal of his life.

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Challenge #00267: Getting (Gender)Bent

A (relatively speaking, since we're dealing with mutant hero teens here) typical day in the life of the Evo!X-Men. The twist? Everyone's the opposite sex. Cue guest cameos by Magneto and the Acolytes and/or Mystique and the Bro— er, Sisterhood. —Josh

Kit Pryde learned to keep his head down around certain times of the month. He, and the other boys in the mansion - Oro, Gene and Rogue - kept on their best behaviour.

Because a houseful of cranky ladies was one thing, but a house full of cranky mutant ladies was a whole 'nother basket of fish.

He and Rogue put together the sacrificial offering - a virtual mountain of chocolate-chip chocolate muffins - while Oro did the desperate and obsessive tidying up.

At least being a weather warlock had its perks.

{BAMF!}

Mari[1] Wagner was the first down, grabbing a muffin in each hand, one tail, and one foot. "Gruss Gott, I needed these. Danke..."

Rogue got that stunned look that came from telepathic possession and put together a nice tray - with tea - for the Professor. Being a telepath in a house full of PMS-ing mutants was not fun.

It was one of the reasons Gene went camping in the West Wood once a month.

Scotia Summers stumbled into the kitchen, wearing a long shirt and not much else. "Choc'lit 'n' coffee..."

Rogue dived for the coffee maker. Kit offered the muffin.

"Nmmmf. 'ank 'oo." Thin spots on the back of her nightshirt betrayed the fact that something had leaked in the night. Which meant that she had had a rough one.

Which meant that her roomie was none too pleased, either. Kit readied another muffin.

Just in time. Eva Daniels in her frumpy flanno's and some serious crabbiness. "Girl. Just use some damn Diva cups. For the love of sanity."

"They're icky," said Scotia around a mouthful.

"Yeah and leaking every night isn't?"

Kit, the vegetarian, gagged behind his hand. Such open discussion of monthly bleeding habits and other girl-related TMI was not the sort of thing he was used to. Or wanted. At all.

And, true to form, Ms. Logan marched in with arms bloody and full of fresh meat. She fired up the grille and started things sizzling. "Regain what'cha lost, girls. Ain't nothin' better than fresh, rare steak."

O God, somebody make it stop...

The earth shook. Wait. No. She didn't mean it like that.

The Sisterhood was attacking. Vivian Tolenski. Pietra Maximova. Frieda Dukes. And Gabrielle Alvers. His sometime girlfriend.

And -yes- they had also bought their psychotic leader Mystique along.

Fabulous.

Just what he needed to top off the morning.

"Give us the chocolate and nobody gets hurt," hollered Gabrielle.

Those were fighting words.

[1] Mari Wagner being the German equivalent of Jane Smith.

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Challenge #00268: Pour Encourager Les Autres.

What finally prompted the start of assassination attempts on Fawn Jackson? -- Weirdlet

"Sooner or later," they said, "she is going to mess up."

"The lure of wealthy living," they said, "will make her one of us."

"She can't possibly rework the system with what little she has," they said, "she's going to crash and burn."

And on the off chance that she might not act according to their sneering predictions, they put the regular obstacles in her way.

Two years later, she owned two mega-corporations and a significant portion of the largest continent on Greater Deregulation. She did not own a car. She did not own a mansion. What she did own was a large number of residential flats, which she had gathered incrementally, and used to make her next purchase. (Alongside fixing what was wrong with the buildings and lowering the rent.)

This time, it was an offer on Main Transit.

"If she buys Main Transit," they said, "she could soon own us!"

They sent the first assassin the following week.

How dare she work to make everyones' lives better! That just wasn't the Deregulation Way.

Unfortunately for them, she had also purchased Main Security.

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Challenge #00269: Non-hostile Takeover(2)

What ended the assassination attempts on Fawn Jackson? — Weirdlet

After she bought Main Security, she used a shell company to purchase the competitors. Kept them intact, but rearranged their priorities for the greater good.

Fawn Jackson was beginning to gain a controlling interest.

And the assassins weren't even getting close.

She was doing almost the exact opposite of what the Executives and Pundits insisted was the correct way to manage large sums. And worse, her actions were stimulating the economy despite the wails and outrage of both.

Andrew Albertson IX was the first. He had been trying to buy his five-year-old daughter a horse, attendants for the horse, and sundry horse accoutrements. And, of course, riding lessons. It was there that, for the first time in his life, his purchase was denied.

"I'm sorry, sir, but your bank is saying your credit has been denied."

"They can't deny it, it's my bank!" He dug out his phone and told his broker to sell enough shares to cover the expense. He'd get them back, before long.

He always got them back.

"Sir. You have no more shares to sell."

"I always have shares. What are you talking about?"

"Sir... over the passage of two months, you have sold all of your shares."

"But... you get them back for me. You always get them back for me."

"I don't know what else to tell you, sir. 'Always' is over. The company that bought your shares is not selling anything."

"Fine. Sell the old yacht."

"You did that last week."

"Fine. Fine. What about the new yacht?"

"You also sold that to finance your wife's dinner party, last week."

"Get rid of some of my residential holdings, then."

"Uhm. Sir? Your only remaining residential holding is your house."

Oh. Can't get rid of that. "What about the business holdings?"

"Sir, you sold all your shares. There are no businesses that have holdings to sell."

"No, you idiot. The non-residential buildings."

"Those were owned by the corporations you sold, sir."

"So how the hell am I supposed to buy my daughter her horse? I only need a million, for crying out loud."

"For that, you would have to evaluate your personal assets, sir."

Which would take weeks. Chablis was not going to be happy about waiting weeks for her horse. He put a hold on his purchase and hurried home to assess a few things, himself.

His wife, Diamond, and her parties had waged attrition on the cellars. It hadn't mattered, before today. Today, it mattered beyond belief. All his vintage assets were down to some mismatched bottles and those of historical significance that had probably turned into vinegar.

He loaded up on the vintage ones and arranged some discrete auctions. With luck, he could have the money for Chablis' horse in a few days.

*

Nobody met the reserves. He was forced to make a deal with the vintners' museum, for less than an eighth of their value and a percentage of ticket sales.

And, by then, the bills were coming in. Bills he'd never had to worry about, before.

He sold Diamond's jewellery. He sold the more high-ticket items of Chablis' toys. He sold most of his suits and all of his jewellery. He sold all of the decorative items in his home. He sold most of his cars.

He was forced to learn how to drive so he could downsize his chauffeur.

He had to sell his jet.

And, finally, he had to sell everything.

And move.

To the tumbledown slums he used to sneer at.

Chablis was not happy. Diamond was even less happy. All of her friends abandoned her. None of the single quillionaires wanted to know her, since she was a fading 'cougar'.

And they were all discovering how expensive it was to be poor.

Andrew's friends, too, distanced themselves. At least, they did so while they still had assets.

Once they were rendered broke, too... they were after him for advice. How to cope. How to deal with (shudder) public schooling. How to influence the local security teams in ones' teenaged heir's favour. And repeated explanations of how that wasn't possible when one was poor. Poor people, they had always held, deserved their criminal records for being poor.

It was a sharp shock to suddenly be the group of people one had always looked down on. With criminals for children and horrible money skills and living in squalor and addicted to anything that would take the misery away for a handful of minutes.

Diamond became addicted to a street drug that Andrew had a hand in developing. The called it Angel, because it felt like being lifted up by one. And while they felt uplifted, the rest of the body slowly rotted from within.

And they couldn't afford the help she needed to get off it, let alone the help she needed to last for very long.

When Diamond finally passed, it was more a relief than a tragedy.

Chablis learned and adapted fast. She dropped being a brat like a hot stone, started calling herself 'Shaz', and began a girl gang dedicated to policing the halls of her school for proto-crime. And growing rooftop gardens. And helping senior citizens. She never got her horse, but a friend made her a Pillow Pony, and that became her only, and best-loved toy.

Andrew didn't have it as easy. He only knew how to be an Executive, and no company hired Executives. He had to go with unskilled labor, which never paid well.

He could, with enough tiring and thankless work, scrape together just enough to keep going for another week.

On beans and rice and a little bit of spice.

*

Fawn had a checklist. It contained the Executives who did the most damage to the working person. One by one, she bought their companies, purchased their holdings, and otherwise took over their sources of wealth. Until they had no wealth, any more.

And when another wicked Executive stepped into their shoes... she did the same.

One by one, the people who funded the assassins found themselves without funds. The Pundits, too, suffered. Without their Executive cronies to pay for their campaigns, they also faded into obscurity.

And without trying, Fawn wound up in control.

She never lived in any mansions she owned. She turned them all into hotels, hostels and hospitals. She even turned a few into schools. One, she ploughed under to become an organic garden. Just to see what would happen.

What happened was the exact opposite of what the pundits said would happen.

Things improved for everyone.

Different cities, different continents, started demanding the Fawn Jackson Treatment.

By the time she was done, they renamed the planet after her. Fawnregis.

And she still lived in her old flat.

And she still ate beans and rice with a little bit of spice.

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Challenge #00270: Learning the Ropes

"We also also learned that anyone ordering in excess of three tons of tapioca, six conifers, and a goldfish should be arrested immediately, and please, please, please do not ask why."

Every last Ensign asked, "Why?"

This one asked, "What can you possibly do with tapioca, conifers, and a goldfish?"

Lyr turned on hir. "Have you heard of an area called the Glunk?"

"Uh. No?"

"I'll send you the map co-ordinates," she reached into the cache-spot she'd prepared without knowing why, that morning. It had a heavy-duty filter breath-mask and an all-purpose polyvinyl bodysuit. "You'll need these."

The Ensign took them with increasing trepidation.

"And yes, before you ask, we were able to rescue the goldfish."

"Did you use your pre-cog abilities?"

"No. Everyone asks about the goldfish. Oh, and don't disturb the Cleaners in there. They're very territorial."

Ze was going to look, if only to satisfy hir own curiosity. Lyr didn't need to forsee it. Sooner or later, everyone who heard about the Glunk went to look.

It was, after all, one of the few areas of the station that had it's own, understandably isolated, ecology. And if things went well, it might even be habitable in another eighty years.

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Challenge #00271: No, Bad Dog!

A couple years back, in a fan-driven interview with Evo's character-designer Steven E. Gordon, one of the more jokey questions was "Does Rahne shed?" His reply, equally jokey, was "Yeah... that's why they don't let her sit on the good furniture." I ran across this interview and question, and instantly thought of your work. Make of it whatever your muse spurs you into doing with it, either the question, answer, or both.

Come Springtime, Kurt Wagner carried a small, blue cloth with him and spread it on the furniture before he sat.

Rahne, who was still battling her own theology, got curious enough to ask him about it.

"Springtime," he said as if in explanation. At her confused look, he added, "Shedding season?"

Light dawned like a nuke going off. In her most secret of hearts, she was glad. Angels sang.

Because she shed, too. Though more between wolf and human forms than anything else. She had been keeping her lycanthropy restrained, but there were times when it was unavoidable.

And "that time of the month" - not the full moon - was one of them.

Discreetly dust-busting the hair out of her bedding had not been fun. Nor, for that matter, was doing so with her pyjamas.

"Can I ask a rude question?"

"One," allowed the blue fuzzy demon-boy.

"How d'ye keep it out o' yer bedding?"

Which was her introduction to what Kurt called a Snoodle. It was, basically, a light, cotton sleeping bag that could be covertly tucked inside the rest of the bedding. Then, every morning, it could be bought wholesale out to the nearest window, turned inside out, and flapped mostly-clean.

Kurt used it when traveling with the circus, along with his famous "Opa's brushes", to keep errant fur under control.

Rahne had purchased a variety of Love Gloves for when she was stuck in-between and left it at that.

She'd never given a thought to living with a fur coat full-time.

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Challenge #00272: Vamping it Up

Pierce Opal Silkyoak goes to a swanky vampire party :P

[AN: Smartarse]

She wore black, of course. Black with lots and lots of jet beads that made it shimmer in any available light. A well-selected scattering of diamonds and gold ensured that there would always, always be light.

The rest of the vamps attending the soiree showed various levels of quiet respect. Those who were her enemies backed off. Those who were her allies paid close attention to her every move. The least twitch, sneer or glare meant that someone was out of favour, and therefore out of luck.

Regular vampires were tough enough. It took real fangs and cunning to survive as a vampire in Australia.

Pierce Opal Silkyoak had arrived.

She descended the stairs with grace and poise becoming her station. Selecting a small canapé to nibble on.

It's true that vampires need to drink the blood of the living to survive. However, that doesn't mean they only drink the blood of the living. The thing about garlic is true, but not for the reason one might think. A careful observer might notice that there was also no asparagus served at a vampire gathering.

The live music played like automatons. This was due to them being Influenced so that they would not remember anything they saw and heard at the gathering. Fortunately, the co-ordinators had at least picked an act where looking like automatons was part of their routine.

Steam Powered Giraffe. What a name.

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Fifty bucks to play something written this century."

Pierce sighed.

There was always one.

The werewolves had Moon Moon.

She had Meikle Peridot Pine. And since he was her direct descendant in more ways than one, she was under legal obligation to protect him.

"Peridot. Try not to bribe the band. They don't know you're there." She crammed a canapé into his otherwise perpetually flapping mouth. "A blessing I sometimes wish I could bestow upon myself."

"Howcome I'm—"

"Chew and swallow. It's been one hundred and twenty years. You think you'd learn basic table manners in that time."

Chomp chomp chomp gulp. "So howcome I'm Peridot alla the time an' you're sometimes Pierce and sometimes Opal and sometimes Dame Silkyoak?"

"Peridot is the only name you possess that carries any inherent respect. Respect is important. I keep telling you this." Pierce sighed. "And you keep forgetting."

"...vampirenamesarestoopid..."

"There are no stupid names, dear. Only stupid vampires."

"Can't I at least snack on the drummer?"

"He is under my protection. Just like you are. We have plenty of thralls in the bedchambers."

"Aaaawwww... Thraaaaaaalllls..."

"It's that or the people-food."

"How about a roadie?"

"Do not make me use your full name in front of so many."

"Shuttingup."

"Good boy."

Time for some of the real business.

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Challenge #00273: Heroic

Bigger brother usually has the spotlight, he's always the one they call when there's trouble, and he's good at what he does. But sometimes, the younger sibling saves the day.

He called himself Pax, an ancient word for peace. Of course, the first time he was noticed as a hero, the headline read, PAX A PUNCH! in typical headliner absence of humour.

He was tall, strong, could fly, very little could harm him and, when he sang, he had an orpheatic influence on everyone around him. He once stopped a riot with a megaphone by singing "Goodnight" by the Beatles.

There was a very obvious reason they didn't have Karaoke Night any more. Not since he got his powers.

Lila had been his first fan. He could do everything she was just learning to do with such ease. Five years his junior, she knew without a doubt that just about everything Ben got, she would eventually get, too.

Hand-me-downs were a state of being until he got the hero gig.

Lila had been happy to be the 'detective' side of things, analysing, researching, and in some cases, hacking out the truth from the internet of lies. Part of her believed that it was only a matter of time before the hero gene hit her hard.

So she helped out, out of habit. And waited, out of optimism. And hoped, out of insanity.

For five years.

Six.

Eight.

Lila gave up. Mentally relegated herself to the role of sidekick and took time off when Ben/Pax was beating up some big fugly super villain after, of course, luring them away from the city centre so collateral damage was minimised.

Some supers could be so inconsiderate about that.

But it wasn't a super who blew up a building down the street from her favourite coffee shop. It was just regular, run-of-the-mill white male asshole terrorists who wanted to skew the balance 'properly' back into their favour.

She knew because they hacked the nearest telebillboard to spread their message of hate and intolerance.

Prioritise.

First, call emergency services. Her fingers had practically done that on automatic. Ben regularly got her to call in lesser emergencies while he was on his way to bigger disasters on the theory that every little bit helped.

"What has your friend seen now?" said the operator. Shanice.

"No, I'm on site for this one. Bunch of assholes calling themselves the Brotherhood for Equality just blew a fuck-off sized hole in the Principality building. You could run a trace on..." she squinted. "Telebillboard rego number #T349Y84209435H. That aughta help catch the bastards."

"Ma'am, I have you on the corner of fifth and twenty-second. That's five blocks from from Principality and seven from that billboard. You'd have to be on it to read it."

"Uh. The zoom function on my tablet's pretty awesome," Lila invented. "I can see smoke coming out of Principality. You're going to have to send fire teams."

It was a real pity that folks like Time Twister had gone private, keeping wealthy people young and healthy. Someone like that could have easily just run the explosion, deaths and destruction backwards and then defused the bomb.

Everyone chose their own path.

Lila put her phone in her pocket and started running towards the wreckage. She concentrated on moving the wounded to a clear, safe area before looking for survivors inside the building.

Tunnels she made in the smoke told her that she was going faster than she thought she was, so she took extra care at acceleration and deceleration. Didn't want to kill anyone while trying to save them.

Onwards.

If she moved fast, she could clear tunnels in the smoke and debris. Explore which passageways lead to safety and highlight them for those able to rescue themselves.

Flame could be put out by jogging past it. Her own wind-wake just blew them out.

Ha. She was officially a fast woman. Haha.

She was not as strong as her brother, but speed could be used in multiple ways to solve the same problem. Girder trapping someone? Use one of her hairs to saw it into manageable pieces. Heavy rubble? Tap it into gravel.

When it was over, when everyone was out, that's when Lila noticed the caveats.

He clothes had burned away from her body - a problem solved by one of the arriving EMT's with a space blanket - and she was starving-hungry - a problem at least partially solved by the street-vendors-turned-volunteer-helpers.

She rescued her phone and got back inside the space blanket before it had a chance to fall. Heat had melted some of its exterior, but it was still functional enough to make a very important call.

"I'm a little busy..."

"Yeah, I know. Guess who probably set a new land speed record? Aaaaaannnd needs a full change of clothes ASAP..."

Silence. Well. Relative silence. She could hear the villain of the week monologuing in the background.

"Ben?"

"Gimmie a sec, I'll be right there." BOOM! "Gotta get 'em when they're monologuing, remember that."

"Right," smiled Lila. "Oh. And it looks like I don't need my glasses any more." She peeled a fragment of what had once been a frame off her face. Damn. Friction did a lot of bad things.

"And you just paid for your next years' subscription, too."

And then the media swooped. They just got word that she was the hero of the day.

"How long have you been a Super?"

"Uh," Lila checked the time. "Fifteen minutes?"

"What are you going to call yourself?"

Her smart mouth and otherwise sharp wit got her named, The Streak, that day. Much to her eternal regret.

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Challenge #00274: Rule 9 for Life

The mundane uses of adamantium claws

[AN: For those unfamiliar with Gibbs and his rules, rule 9 is "Never go anywhere without a knife"]

There is a saying that goes, 'for a man with a hammer, every problem looks like a nail'. For Logan, he always had a knife.

He used them to snag apples from the fruit bowl. To open tricky parcels. To open mail. To shave with. To deal with that horrible shrink wrap that industries put on everything.

And, much to Sara's disgust, to cut his steaks.

"Something wrong with meat, Tallwater?"

"Something wrong with a clean steak knife?" she countered.

"Don't need 'em," smirked Logan. "These are better."

Sara shuddered. "Do me a favour and never perform field surgery with them?"

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Challenge #00275: So Sharp...

Realising that Wolverine rarely, if ever, actually washes his claws

or

Wolverine getting a hand cleaning the claws, because it's fiddly when both sets are out and he can't put them away until all the bits of zombie/dirt/stuff are gone

[AN: Since it's my birthday, today, you get both.]

"Whaddaya mean, don't 'perform field surgery'?"

"What is up with you?" demanded Scott.

Sara looked around at their stunned faces. "None of you noticed?"

"Noticed what?" asked Kitty.

"Logan's claws can cut anything, but they've never gone through soap and water?" Sara prompted.

More blank stares.

"He never washes them!"

One by one, the collective pennies dropped. All stared in horror at a man cutting steak with knives he put away inside his body.

"What? said Logan. "I never got sick."

====

The instant the fighting was down to an easily-mopped-up few, Sara started running towards Logan. He was in the thick of the fight, or the thick of what was left of the fight. Enjoying himself.

"Logan!"

"Yeh?"

"It's vitally important that you do NOT retract your claws after you down the last one."

"Yeh?"

"Yes. Blood-borne pathogens. They'll get into you via your claws and the cuts they make."

The look of horror as he smashed the last one's brains was almost poetic.

His adamantium talons were coated in assorted ichor from tip to root.

"That's why you passed out these helmets."

"Spatter plus orifii equals infection," said Sara. She got on her team comm. "Kurt? I need you to bamf back to the X-jet and fetch the big blue bag with Zombie Preparedness on it."

"The TARDIS bag?"

"That's the one."

"Seriously?" interjected Kitty. "You prepared for zombies?"

"Where do you think all the helmets and machetes came from?"

"Like, I do not know if you're crazy-prepared or just plain crazy..."

"Well, I could have just thought of myself and made it a much smaller bag," said Sara.

"Shuttingup."

"OOF!" Teutonic cursing came through the comms. "What do you have in here? A portable forensics lab?"

"Amongst other things, yes."

"Unglaublich..." Static as he teleported. From the sound of things, it was a series of shorter hops than his initial trip to the Blackbird. When he arrived, he was out of breath and perspiring.

Sara immediately dug out the ration bars. "Here. Max calories in minimum packaging."

Kurt almost inhaled three before he noticed that the taste was not that great. "Gott! These are those awful fruity oat bars you got me to test..."

"You're welcome," snarked Sara. She cleared a level space and set up the lab. Took several swabs of ichor from Logan's claws. Inserted them in test tubes with fluid from numbered bottles.

Kurt had been going through the rest of it. "Since when do you need laminated instructions?"

"In case I get infected, dear. So someone else knows how to use it." She absent-mindedly set up a small macroscope and began flicking tube contents under the analyser whilst staring at the screen. "Mmm. Lysol. Clorox... And good old Dettol."

A wicked grin spread across Sara's face.

"Tallwater..." warned Logan.

"Wire brush and Dettol!" Sara cackled in Billy Connolly's voice. A notepad and paper. "Right. Kurt, dear? Here's your looting list. Try to be quick and careful?"

"Ja." {BAMF!}

Sara, meanwhile, emptied half the contents of three bottles into a bowl and swished them around with what turned out to be a vacuum-packed sponge. "Let's do what we can..."

There were no wire brushes, so the team had to resort to steel wool and chemical-soaked paper towels. Two worked on each hand - carefully, of course - to ensure that every last nanometer of adamantium talon was spotless.

Logan grimaced and winced at the steel wool.

"It shouldn't hurt," noted Sara.

"No," squeaked Logan. "It tickles."

"And done," said Jean.

Sara took out a very small flamethrower. "Not quite."

They also burned the sponges and steel wool.

"I didn't know you could burn metal," said Kurt.

"With enough heat, you can burn anything," said Sara. She waved vaguely at the sun. "QED."

Logan was staring at his claws like a man seeing them for the first time. They were no longer cherry-red from the heat, but they were still too hot to retract properly. "You win," he said. "You figure out a way for me to wash 'em, and I'll wash 'em. Regularly."

"You do care!" Sara chirped. "All we really need to do is install lever-controls on all the taps. That way, you can operate them with your elbow."

"You like, totally think of everything."

"Thank you," said Sara.

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Challenge #00276: Mundane Utility: The Sequel

Expanding on the previous challenge, why not show how some other mutants with fantastic superhuman powers use their incredible abilities for decidedly non-incredible things? Pick at least two. Oh, but not obvious/overdone stuff like Jean using her TK as an extra hand - be creative.

"This is my popcorn," Lance protested. "You want some, go make your own."

"But I'm hungry now," protested Freddy.

Todd used his prehensile tongue to snag a lions' share in one, large {da-gloomp}. "Yo, how 'bout you make popcorn for alla' us?"

"Gyah. Dammit!" Lance shoved the remainder at Fred and stomped back towards the kitchen.

*

Kitty looked both ways before pushing her fingers inside her locker padlock. She had never received a combination or, if she had, she'd quickly lost it or forgotten it and hadn't really been bothered. Besides, this was good practice for focused phasing and un-phasing.

{klik-tik, ta-snak!} the little combination lock sprung open and Kitty could get to her textbooks.

*

"Tell me, Ms Adrien," said the very severe-looking FBI agent across the table from her. "How is it that you can 'feel the difference' in counterfeit bills with one hundred percent accuracy when it takes our criminal forensics labs weeks to identify them?"

Sara, still in her Cleanup Fairy uniform (her client had been too cheap to pay her to remove the wings) and half her hazmat gear, grinned nervously. "It's a long and complicated story, really."

"Precis it for us."

"Uh. How do you feel about mutants?"

"They're just like everyone else, in the end. Which means an equal likelihood of being heroes or villains. Which are you?"

"Chaotic good?" Sara' optimistic smile faded the longer she stared at the agent's disapproving face. "Watch carefully." A deep breath. Forced relaxation. And her pink skin turned into a dazzling array of aqua scales.

"You're green!"

"I prefer to think of myself as a little bit blue-ish." She held a single finger forward. The scales were much smaller on the palm side of her hand. If you could imagine a mosaic made of millions of pinheads, all coloured unique shades of aqua, you might come close to the overall effect. "They're not scales, but chromatophores. I can take on the colour and texture of anything in my immediate environment to effectively disappear. But, in order to do so, each chromatophore also contains a rudimentary eye, and some other senses."

The FBI agent boggled at her.

"I can 'see' more details with my hands than my eyes. So I naturally notice when something is 'off' with the money I handle. If there's a file on me—"

"You better believe there's a file on you."

"Good. Then you'll note that my first enquiry contained separated samples, including genuine cash from the US mint."

She went to the copious folder at her elbow. Double-checking. Telling that that entry was two-thirds of the way through.

"See, I'm new to this skin. Shedding is horrid, let me assure you of that. So I couldn't be certain which ones were which. Once you sent the normal money back, I could -pardon the pun- get my hand in."

Flip. Flip flip flip. Flip. "And," flip flip, "thereafter you only sent us the 'funny money'"

"Catalogued by source," added Sara. "I thought it might be helpful."

The FBI agent got up, taking the file, and left.

Sara wriggled free of the cuffs so she could scratch an itch, then wriggled back into them again. There was quite the extensive argument going on, behind the mirror. Those rooms were not nearly as sound-proof as they thought.

The temptation was so very strong to write a message on the mirror -backwards, so they could read it- to keep the noise down.

Sara pulled her ankles up and entered the Lotus Pose(adapted, of course, to accommodate the cuffs). Calm. Regulate breathing. Let all come to the centre, and the centre will hold.

"How are you doing that?"

"I told you," said Sara without looking, "chromatophores. I blend in with the scenery. There's also a sub-telepathic 'ignore me' field going on, but that usually happens when I'm stressed." She opened her eyes. "I take it that there's some debate with regards to hiring me as a consultant."

"What? Are you a telepath, too?"

"No, I just do an eerie impersonation of one. You're a very loud debater, Agent Brooks." Sara made her skin relax back to its natural state. "And, to my credit, I never once perpetuated a crime portrayed in any of my films or animations."

"We also have your 'perfect murder' files."

"Well... I was working on a game... Didn't pan out. I guess I'll have to save those for mystery writing."

"There's one in there to kill the President!"

"And notable other public figures. So far, the only one worth any of the bother is Tony Abbot. And I can't afford the air fare."

"Who the hell is Tony Abbot?"

"Too soon," said Sara. She cleared her throat. "Look. Have I actually committed any crime?"

"None that we can prove. Or prosecute."

"And nothing decodable in my journals is any real threat?"

"It's the encoded stuff that bothers us."

"Now you share the joy at reading redacted documents. Welcome to Karma." Another itch bothered her and she did the cuff trick again, without thinking. "If consultant is too high up the ladder, perhaps informant might make you feel more comfortable? Is there anything lower than informant?"

"Yeah. Perp."

"Then informant will have to do. Parade me through the security check of your choice. I'm willing to co-operate."

Brooks was staring at her wrists. "So I see.'

Ooops. "Sorry. They itch. Isn't the fact that I put them back on proof that I'm an amenable person?"

"No, it proves you're willing to mess with our heads."

"What must I do to prove to you I'm not a mutant terrorist threat?"

"Decode your journals."

"Hm. Surrender all privacy." Sara thought hard about it. The FBI liked having all the information, but did not like sharing. "There's some coded information in some journals that should never be used by anyone alive today. It's just that dangerous."

"How dangerous?"

"A power source that could, in the wrong hands, blow the planet in half."

"And you thought that up."

"And encoded it so it would take several someones a few thousand years to decode it. Even using the monkey-typewriter model." A shrug. "I get ideas like some folks get dandruff. The only way to make them stop is to write them down. Even when they're capital-D dangerous."

She left again. Another argument ensued behind the window.

This was getting tiresome.

"Fine," said Brooks on her return. She handed over a piece of paper. "You turn up at this address every Tuesday morning at eight sharp. You do not talk to anyone not wearing FBI ID. You stay inside, under guard, and you do not pull that blending-into-the-walls bullshit. And you definitely do not escape any more cuffs, no matter how itchy you are. Any questions?"

"Is there a dress code?"

"Since it's you, I'd say 'neon'."

"You have some very nice paper. A grade or three up from common A4. Who's your supplier?"

There was no answer from Brooks. Just two burly guards to escort her roughly into the black van that had picked her up from her job.

"Do I get my phone back? I have to rearrange my calendar!"

The following Tuesday, she turned up in neon rainbows. Brooks had to get very specific with the dress code, after that.

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Challenge #00277: Anomalous Behaviour

21 years ago there was a container spilt at sea containing thousands of bright yellow rubber duckies as well as frogs and turtles. Scientists are still using the data from where they are found to make better charts of ocean currents and point out anomalies and there were notices posted on loads of beaches of a number to call and where to find the duck's serial number to make sure it was from the spill.

Most have been recovered, but every year a few more wash up.

With that background out of the way, may we see more of the bird-alien from the "humans are scary" prompt? Either encountering a rubber ducky in the wild, or observing a child finding one on the beach. Squeakiness of rubber ducky optional.

[AN: I DID mention that this is happening on a freshly-colonised planet. This is going to be tricky]

T'reka settled herself in the underbrush. The humans came along this path to gather fish and pumice stones. How would they react to her own anomalous find on the beach?

It was a Water Chick. A toy from her culture, to encourage the little ones to bathe. Some had spilled from a supply drone after it crashed into the ocean, and they were turning up in unexpected places.

Like this island, where everything was toxic, poisonous, venomous, or merely capable of ripping a living body to pieces.

There some were. Fascinating creatures. Evidently, this was a family group. Two parents and three smaller children, the latter group spent all of their time running from point of interest to point of interest. Some were poking at things with sticks.

The littlest, fastest child ran over and picked up the toy. "Mamamamamamamama! It'sayellowrubberduckie! Looklooklooklook!"

'Mama' came over and took it from the child. Turned her back on T'reka's hiding spot.

Adult humans had been turning their backs towards her a lot, lately.

*

"Don't look now, our little friend is back."

"Grey Chicken? Yeah, I spotted 'em."

"This... isn't a rubber duckie."

It looked a lot like one, but some details were definitely off. Ducks, for example, did not have pointed beaks. Or blue crests. Or writing on the bottom unlike anything known to earth.

Dave gave it an experimental squeeze. It made a sad noise like a deflating balloon.

"Heylookthere'sanotherone!" Tim raced off and held a second one high. Jumping up and down and waving it in the air.

Bea took out her datacorder and started mapping co-ordinates. "With some data on water flows, we could track these back to their source."

"Think Grey Chicken isn't alone?"

"No-one goes down a one-way wormhole alone, Dave."

"They're obviously not out to get us. Maybe we can come to an arrangement."

"Yeah, but they're skittish. Two more steps her way and Grey Chicken is out of there."

"We don't even know where or how she lives."

"Yeah, but we can work out where these rubber duckies are coming from."

"They look more like rubber chickies, though."

"Argue later. Let's see if we can't get some more data points."

*

Journal, Toxic Island. Month seven, day 28.

The humans have taken to combing the beaches, finding all the Water Chick toys that they can. There is extreme interest in their camps surrounding their presence.

Some have taken to constructing a large vessel on the eastern side of the island. It is too big to be a proper boat, and the building materials will surely sink.

Nobody can build a boat out of metal!

*

Journal, Toxic island. Month eight, day fifteen.

It FLOATS!

Against the advice of the elders, I am concealing myself aboard to observe the humans' behaviour.

*

Journal, Metal boat. Month one, day thirty.

I keep finding food at convenient times. I think they know I'm here. Why do they provide for me?

The humans continue to track the Water Chicks. Collecting and cataloguing them.

I think they're learning where the Water Chicks are coming from. Something we were never able to find out, on our own. They are relentless in pursuit of prey. Even when that prey is inanimate.

*

Journal, Metal boat. Month two, day twelve.

One saw me. They were waiting by the convenient food. In a place I would not initially see them.

It was a young female. Not yet mature enough to be an adult, but no longer completely a child.

It had some of my favourite fruit in one hand.

*

"Here, chick chick?"

T'reka froze. Seen! Humans killed anything they saw as the Other, and none was more Other than herself.

Every instinct told her to flee and hide. But T'reka had been trained to overcome her instincts. To analyze the situation and make new choices.

She rose from her huddle, slowly, and tapped her collarbone. "T'reka."

A many-toothed smile. "Wila." A copy of the gesture T'reka had made.

They learned fast, these humans.

T'reka showed her empty hands. The human did the same, but still offered the fruit with one.

Step by step, T'rek approached the most dangerous being known to all cogniscents. And took food from its hand.

The human gently stroked her wing-feathers. "So soft..."

*

Journal, Metal boat. Month two, day thirteen.

The humans are friendly.

Who knew?

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Challenge #00278: On the Folly of Tailored Worlds

When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that's a bore. Eh?

Worlds can not be built. That sort of thing takes millions of years, and no known cogniscents are willing to wait that long.

They can, however, be tailored.

The most famous group for doing this are the Archivaas. A human-descended cult of collecting, collating, storing and sorting records and information of all kinds. As a preventative measure against data loss, post Shattering, much akin to guarding the vault after a theft.

These obsessive-compulsive hoarders turn entire planetary systems into libraries.

But they are not the silliest example of planet-tailoring.

That award goes to Polyxicon IV, a planet owned by one of the wealthiest heirs of North Quarter Greater Deregulation. Once the planet's surface had been groomed to his expectations, he was quite upset that the planet did not have a romantic moon.

The solution, since he also despised ocean noise, was to install a faux moon that orbited on demand at a satisfactory level above most buildings. It was made of a Control Operated Levitation unit with a rudimentary AI and coated in thick layers of sponge.

This turned out to be an advantageous construction choice.

The moon's AI got bored, after a few human generations, and began deliberately bumping in to romance-inclined couples for its own entertainment.

For serial monogamists, this soon became a factor of irritation.

And the rebirth -and re-wording- of an old Terran song.

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Challenge #00279: Peck of Dust, Dust, Dust...

Dust.

People tend to think about the big things, when it comes to the perils of space travel. Meteors. Solar flares. Stresses on the air tanks. Sparks in unwanted places.

Few ever ponder that a crew might encounter trouble with their own epithelial cloud.

Five year missions were the maximum, after the trouble had been discovered, of course. People who got dandruff either had to shave (carefully!), vacuum, or pass on the idea of going into space in the first place.

Filters could only do so much, and by the end of that five-year cruise, the entire crew were wearing filter masks to escape the choking miasma.

Kale was on Dust Duty, pretty much permanently. The reward for a job well done was not promotion, in her case. Her reward for a job well done was to keep doing it unto perpetuity.

Or so she thought.

This scavenger crew came back with smiles, a distinct absence of coughs, and a definitive lack of filters stuck to their faces.

No rheumy eyes. No puffy faces. Even Dan Dander had let his hair grow.

"What the shit?" Kale complained. "Did you guys just sit around and fart for five years?"

"Nope," smiled the captain. "We found us some bau-bubbles."

"Baubles?"

"No, bau-bubbles."

"Bubbles?"

"I'll say it slowly. Bau-bubbles. Little, living bubble-bauble-squid lookin' things. Some old archive on board called 'em Fhitts. Onomatopoea," he shrugged. "I like bau-bubbles better. It's classier."

"It won't catch on," Kale took a shot at his enthusiasm. "The lizards go with first identification and don't listen to us." She stared at one as it drifted through the air on jets of its own making.

It was iridescent, like a soap bubble, but without the swirling caused by the motion of liquid. Making it look almost like a Christmas bauble had escaped its mother tree.

Then Kale saw the tentacles.

"They EAT dust!" Dan Dander whooped. "Aren't they just beautiful?"

On the upside, once these were in every ship, they didn't need to worry about dust any more. And she could do anything else other than Dust Duty.

Things were starting to look up.

*

They bred like freaking cockroaches. They sometimes ate the freaking cockroaches, too, which was a minor plus point, but they were everywhere.

Pro: There was no such thing as Dust Duty andy more. Con: There was now Fhitt Scraping Detail.

Little bastards got into the filters and died there.

It was almost a relief, two years later, when a different scavenger crew came in with the Fhitt-eating spiders.

Almost.

Kale had a hard time making up her mind which was worse: hairy, ten-legged spiders in the face, Fhitt Scraping Detail, or Dust Duty.

There had to be a better way.

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Challenge #00280: "Awwwww!!!"

Good idea, wrong innovator. Bonus if you can use a member of the new recruits not normally given a starring role. Details please.

{trickle trickle trickle trickle DOONK}

Jamie leaned back in appreciation. He made it work! He made something work! And it was beautiful.

"What the hell, Squirt?"

"It's an office meditation toy," he announced. Sure, this one was made out of whatever he could scrounge, but the finished product... was going to be awesome.

The pipe set just so under the recirculating water tipped with a {DOONK} noise.

"That sorta thing's for gardens, Squirt. You'd never get anyone to set that thing up in their office. Too distracting. Too annoying. Too big."

"Aawwwwww..."

*

Three weeks later, someone else had a similar idea on the shelves. Albeit, briefly on the shelves before an eager customer nabbed it and paid twice what Jamie had imagined he could sell it for.

Jamie stared in red-faced fury at the display poster and wished he could get away with kicking Mister Logan.

"Hey, Squirt, we're headin'..." Logan stopped. He, too, had connected the dots.

Jamie, meanwhile, was fighting back tears.

"Too big, you said," he managed. "Too annoying." Sniff. "I coulda made a whole bunch'a money..."

Logan was shaking his head and whispering unprintable things about stupid people. "Tell ya what, kid. Next time you have a dumb idea, I'll back it."

"He-ey..."

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Challenge #00281: Den of Iniquity

Jacqui, the blackie, the lackey named Pertwee (and yes I know she's a she! :P) and the almost comical bond formed watching the terrorist let loose in a crafts store.

[AN: Can we not have racist (or any —ist) words in submissions, please? No matter how cute it might be that it rhymes, it is not a nice word.]

John Smith had come to catch the mutant out. He still suspected that Scott Summers was somehow cheating, even after all this unexpected familiarity with mutant-kind. Even after finding out that no matter how mutant a mutant was, physically, they were still human, mentally.

Though Sara was a matter of some debate. Primarily because she had rarely been human in her mind before she became a 'fully fledged' mutant.

And speaking of Sara...

There was Mrs Adrien. High-powered socialite and unexpected advocate for mutant rights including the right to be treated like any other human being. Wearing a shade of blue that looked very fetching, rather than her trademark strawberry-pink power suit, or - Smith realised - her post-mutant-daughter purple.

Sharing leaning-space on the square column was none other than Agent Jane Pertwee. Trying to look menacing whilst also simultaneously leaning on a column and being damn near bored to death.

Come to think of it, his feet kind of hurt, too.

"This place needs courtesy couches."

"There's a kiddies' zone in the far east corner," said Jacqui. "Rubber jigsaw mats in various stages of decay, sadly. And the Smurfs cartoon series on an endless loop."

Smith vomited in his mouth a little. "Ugh. Thanks but no thanks. I didn't know you shopped here."

"I don't," said Jacqui. "Sara's insisting on becoming a 'fanbot' for some something-punk band and can't find the right kind of wig. Or makeup. Or items of flair. To be very strictly honest, I've lost track."

"At least yours walks around," griped Pertwee. "Mine's been up and down the yarn aisles five times. And he's picking up that same fucking ball of wool again!"

Smith could understand. He'd been allowing Summers to lead at increasing distances until the column looked like a very nice place to lean.

There was a distant crow of, "Yes! Gears!" from somewhere in the craft-themed labyrinth.

Jacqui remained rooted to her spot.

"I think your daughter's found everything she's looking for," prompted Smith.

Jacqui levelled a glare at him. "You obviously have limited experience with craftspeople."

"I'm picking up some of the lingo," Smith confessed.

"Six times," muttered Pertwee. "Ooo. He's decided to take the fucking ball of wool. How excitement."

"Sara's culching," explained Jacqui. "Whatever she comes to the checkouts with, it may not all be used for her current project, but it might come in handy."

"OoooOOOOOoooo..." came the faint coo of Sara. Evidently, she had found something cool.

Jacqui rolled her eyes. "I really should look at some comfortable shoes," she noted. "Or a portable chair."

"I can recommend FitFlops," deadpanned Pertwee. "They're made for people who get sore feet. And ensure that they don't."

"No," agonised Pertwee. "Don't go looking at the crochet hooks again..."

"I take it some are more fussy about their sources than others?" Smith enquired.

"No," said Jacqui in a dead, flat voice. "They're all like that."

"Sometimes?" said Pertwee, "We have to get rounded up by store security at the end of the day." Her mad smile had nothing to do with finding anything funny.

"Been there, done that, got a dozen tee shirts," said Jacqui.

Somehow, Smith got the idea that he would not be finding any mutant cheating, today. He would, however, be finding sore feet and the little cafe around the corner that made its keep from bored co-customers like him and Jacqui.

Pertwee, unfortunately for her, was not allowed to leave her post.

Smith bought her coffee anyway.

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Challenge #00282: Welcome Walter's Metal Men

Steam Powered Giraffe are in the x-verse, only they're really mechanical men (made by someone with Forge-like skill) or living-metal mutants (similar to Colossus). Your choice.

"Sara... What the hell?"

"Dun ma'e me smi'e..." Sara said, drawing on her face with metallic paint. She was wearing, amongst other things, a corset, a frilly skirt, striped stockings, and accessories apparently made of gears.

"You know you can just program your holographic emitter to do whatever, don't you?" criticised Jean.

"Or train myself to make my skin do all the makeup work, yes," said Sara. "But that's cheating."

Jean rolled her eyes and groaned.

"This, on the other hand, is art." She changed brushes from bronze makeup to silver makeup. There was also verdigris greens and blues, black, and assorted powders. And also some mysterious plastic parts and theatrical glue. "I have a white coat and a blue wig if you want to come along..."

"As...?"

"A Walter Girl. Minimal makeup involvement. Most freshman fans turn up as Walter Girls and Boys."

"Fans of what?"

"Steam Powered Giraffe, of course."

Jean almost broke a synapse trying to figure out what reality Sara was speaking from. "I'm coming along, but only to keep an eye on you."

"Funny, that's just what Mr Logan said..."

*

"LA DA DA DA DA! LA DA DA DA DA!"

Logan had already installed his own earplugs. The fact that he already owned a vintage outfit was only slightly disturbing in comparison to the fact that the 'robots' on the stage were actually metal people.

They'd put a lot of work into seeming to be people dressed up as robots, but they had no telepathic presence.

They were things.

True, actual, vintage robots.

Whoever Colonel Walter was, he was a Forge-level genius.

Jean barely had any advance warning of the attempted robbers, and was just able to warn every organic life-form in the room to duck.

Bullets ricochetted harmlessly off of the three robots on stage.

"That wasn't very nice," said Rabbit.

"That wasn't very nice at all," agreed Hatchworth.

"Shall I -uh- take 'em down, gentlebots?" offered The Spine.

"Let's get 'em together," said Hatchworth.

"One," said The Spine.

"Two," added Hatchworth.

"Threeeeeee!" Rabbit cackled.

Their website story had said they also contained weapons. That was not a lie. For all their technological seniority, they had precision aim and deliberately fired to incapacitate.

The crowd went wild.

Jean boggled. "You knew?"

"Of course we knew. They only pretend to be organic for the newbies in the audience." Sara smiled. "Guess who had a hand in making them their flesh suits?"

Of course. The only mutant in the room with experience in shedding her own skin. "So you're the one who made Bunny a girl?"

"No, she specifically requested it. She's always been a girl. It's just that she hasn't had her chassis upgraded yet. Or is it returned to original specs? There's a long story involving a theft of the original plans and trying to raise the funds to go find them. These 'bots are still paying off their refurbishment by Waltercorp."

"That's a real thing?"

"Ask Tony Stark. Or Forge." Sara twirled away to dance with the other 'fanbots' in the audience.

The night was only starting to get weird.

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Challenge #00283: See Where This Bit of Commenting Takes You...

"I feel like I am just footsteps away from either screaming in fury or breaking down into body-shaking tears... and I'm not sure which. But you'd never tell it by looking at me. I'm good at bottling things up and repressing my reactions. For a while anyway; every bottle breaks eventually, no matter how sturdy its glass. I don't know when I began this habit, or why I keep doing it, but I do. Better than flying into raging or sobbing at the drop of a hat, I guess... isn't it?" — Josh

Anything is better than being assumed to be unreasonable. Unstable. Unreliable. In brief, everything that people like me are expected to be.

I fought for everything I have. The way things are, those who are less in social standing have to do twice as much to get half as good. At the bare minimum.

To prevent dangerous cracks in the public eye, I have to vent in extreme private.

There's a little cupboard well away from walls I share with my neighbours. I line the walls with as much fabric as I can squeeze into the space I don't need to exist in there. Then, with the help of a pillow, I scream and cry until those cracks are -however temporarily- secure.

Every time I go out, I can feel the world's eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. Wanting me to fail. It weighs heavily on the cracks in my bottle.

Every day is the same. Only little details change. The faces of the people who squeeze me out of my seat on the train. The sharpness of the elbows that find reasons to pummel me. The slurs dropped from lips with the pretence of innocence. The shoes on the feet that try to trip me. The coats on the backs of the people who cut me off in queues. The bluntness of the shoulders that collide with me when I try to get into doorways.

The voices that apologise and never mean it, when I am passed over for employment.

But then... I suppose it's what I deserve. For the sins of my ancestors. For the sins of others exactly like me.

White men did so much to ruin the world.

It's only fair that the world exacts its revenge.

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Challenge #00284: One Overcast Evening in the Middle of an Apocalypse

Have you ever read Seanan McGuire's work? It seems up your alley. Also, I would really be curious to see what happened if Sarah Adrien met Sarah Zellaby (from the InCryptid novels) It would be fascinating.

[AN: Hooray. More reading list. I'm still ploughing through Allomancy on a paragraph-a-day basis]

Sarah thought she was done for, this time. The Criptid creature had been inches away from having her head for a snack. But then, something invisible turned the tables in a more permanent eye-for-an-eye fashion by literally bashing its head off with a big stick.

Sarah recovered her weapon and dealt with the last few stragglers.

The invisible thing faded into view.

"All bad guys dead?"

The figure had aqua skin and a really horrible olive-khaki swimsuit and matching utility belt and shoes. The short brown hair could have belonged to any gender, but this being somehow still read as feminine.

"Yeah...?" Sarah kept her weapon ready. "What are you?"

"Mostly harmless, I swear," the aqua girl did something to her metal staff that reduced it to the size of a can of soda. "Sara Louise Adrien. Unfortunately feeling the chill. In a minute or two I'll go into survival mode and my higher capacities will shut down completely. I apologise in advance for the singing."

"Singing," Sarah repeated. If things couldn't get weirder, then she was a wasp in the body of a human and fighting members of her own kind to stop them eating humanity. Oh wait.

"One of my directives. When in doubt. Sing. My compatriots can track me down by my, and I quote, 'weirdo dinosaur music'." A deep breath. A stretch. A sigh. "Okay. Objective, eliminate bad guys. Done. Orientation. Uhm..." The sky was overcast. The trees were covered in goo, not moss, and everywhere looked like everywhere else.

"Downhill and downstream?" suggested Sarah.

"I have an app for this!"

Hooray. She had an iPhone.

{dodoonk!}

"Siri. Show me the way to go home."

It took them three hills before she started singing the rest of the song. By then, Sarah had found out about the third O (orders: don't die) which contained an essence of useless utility.

"Time for a different song?" Sarah begged. The cold was getting to her. "One written this century?"

"Who am I? Who am I? But a sound. Of. Tomorrow!"

Technically correct. Pity Sarah had no real love of steampunk. Soon, the allies would find them.

Please, merciful Universe, let it be soon.

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Challenge #00285: The Kindness of Strangers

In the bottom of one of the many pockets of the bag, forgotten but apparently not for that long, was a slightly battered perfectly pink apple. It had been on many journeys, and was remarkably unscathed considering how easily apples usually succumb to bumping about in a bag full of other odds and ends.

There was a face on it. A happy face made of two small circles and a larger arc. Cut into the skin by someone else's knife.

It also smelled sweet. And made Tia's stomach rumble.

Tia bought it closer to her mouth.

And gasped in shock as a gnarled old hand snapped onto her wrist. "That's not yours, young lady."

His eyes were older than the rest of him. And full of so very much pain.

Tia didn't let it go. "You gonna eat it?"

"No."

"You gonna let it rot?" she made a face.

"It won't rot," said the old man. "It's... a memory. From an old friend."

Tia's stomach rumbled some more. "I'm hungry. Got anything edible?"

"Edible is a big word for a little girl."

"Not really. It only has six letters. If you want a big word, try 'condescending'."

A warm smile. "You're right. I'm sorry." He dipped into his coat pockets and presented a banana like a man pulling a rabbit out of his hat. "I don't often have my bag of memories out. Here. This one's edible."

Tia swapped it for the apple. She watched the old man kiss the stylised face and slip it back into the bag from whence it came.

The banana was delicious. It filled the empty places, but not quite all of them. "That bag's bigger than it looks. You got lots of stuff, mister."

"Doctor," said the old man.

"You don't look like a doctor."

Now the smile reached all the way into the eyes. Masked some of the pain. "I'm not that kind of doctor."

Tia sighed. "Pity. Folks keep getting sick in the tumbledowns."

"Don't they have doctors for you?"

"Not the good kind. Doctor for the tumbledowns make people vanish. Underfolk don't like those doctors."

"Of course not," said the old man. "So. Anything... special... about this illness?"

"Folks turn blue and go... strange. Then the doctors come and vanish them." Tia licked banana off her fingers. "And it's never the folks as aught to get sick. Like older folks or the littlies. It's all the fit folks. The young folks. Everyone as should stay healthy."

"Interesting," said the old man. "All right. I think I should have a look. But I do have a few rules."

Tia groaned and rolled her eyes. "Go on."

"Don't wander off. When I say run, run. Do not pull any levers, press any buttons or otherwise fiddle with things you don't understand. And never. Ever. Try to touch anything strange."

Somehow, the old man made the bag vanish on the way to the tumbledowns. He had a magic wand that he flicked around at random. Whatever it told him, Tia couldn't figure out. Yet.

It took him ten minutes to find the monsters.

Two hours to defeat them.

After that, Tia didn't want to quit running with the Doctor.

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Challenge #00286: You Overhear the Strangest Things From Public-phone Conversations Sometimes...

"...well, sir, it was about, oh, a meter or so tall, looked kinda like if someone had stuck bat-ears, a big-lipped face, skinny arms and legs, a ratty wig, and, er, prominent female features on a big lima-bean of some sort and......No, no sir, I'm not drunk or drugged, I swear it. As I clocked in and went to begin my shift, it - or she, I guess - was sloppily wandering around the central dispatch area in gaudy jewellery, sunglasses, heeled sandals and what looked like a gold bikini, waving an empty glass around and shouting in a heavily-slurred accent that she wanted more booze......Yes, sir, that's exactly why I'm resigning - pardon my bluntness, but seeing crazy shit like that while stone-cold sober is proof I'm nowhere even close to cut out for this job." — Josh

It took a special kind of person to work in Crypto-control. If someone was going to go nuts over a grade three goblin in a Las Vegas state of mind, they clearly didn't belong. No matter how unflappable the FBI said they were.

Clearly, it was half-past time to look in other areas for recruits. FBI, CIA and the rest of the secret service alphabet were far too ready to throw their hands up and quit at the slightest glimpse of the strange, the bizarre and the unexpected.

Director Blemisch threw her pile of candidate profiles in the nearest trash can and bought up her favourite browser, then her most secure search engine. She tapped her ideal qualifications into the search engine and crossed her fingers.

She needed someone with unique qualifications.

Open minded.

Able to accept strange new circumstances.

Physically fit.

Capable with most known weapons.

Adaptability.

Prepared for unexpected events.

The search engine's progress bar crawled at a snail's pace. Blemisch left to retrieve a snack and a beverage from the empty and desolate break room.

When she came back, the engine said she might find what she was looking for at a place called M5 Industries.

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Challenge #00287: All Things Ridiculous and Human

Squashed Fly Biscuits - the round shortbread ones or garibaldis, whichever is more convenient.

Bonus points if someone is disappointed to find out they don't contain real flies.

(all the bonus points ever if it involves T'reka, I've totally fallen in love with that story, but realistically whoever fits the prompt)

From the Journal of T'reka the Inquisitive:

With exposure, I have been picking up some of the human language. They understand that I am still learning and change their speech modes accordingly. On our return to Toxic Island, and with some help, I helped them understand that they were sharing the planet with my people, and that my people were more comfortable with the humans remaining on Toxic Island for now.

They are currently pleased with this, as colonising Toxic Island has proven to be difficult. Or, to use a human term, 'interesting'. They are sharing with me their foods and beverages. Which can be a source of some confusion...

*

Alice watched Trekker as she lit politely on a chair not made for her anatomy. For all her muted colour, she was a pretty bird. Avian life form. As always, her monitors' lights indicated that she was recording.

As always, her query in English was preceded by mutterings in her native tongue. Alice could pick out a few words, here and there, even if she mangled their pronunciation.

Eventually, Trekker asked/sang, "What you make?"

Alice didn't think too hard. She was busy measuring and mixing. "Squashed Fly Biscuits."

Trekker's eyes lit up. "You insectivorous?"

Oops. "Not this time. Sorry. It is a... wrong name on purpose. A misnomer."

"No flies?" sang Trekker sadly.

"No flies. Is raisins. Dried grapes." Alice offered her a spare handful.

Trekker examined them in a very birdlike way. Looking at them with each eye. Twice. Thrice. Gently picked one up in her wing-fingers and tasted it.

"Very grape. Very sugar."

"Sweet. We say 'sweet' for sugar taste," corrected Alice.

"Your talk has many word for same thing," complained Trekker. "Why you no say 'dry grape biscuits'?"

Ah. They'd had trouble over this, before. "It is funny for us. Raisins look like squashed flies. We do not eat real flies. They are... unclean." Alice had to stop herself from adopting Trekker's singsong method of talking. "Make us very sick."

"Is joke, yes?"

"Yes. Is joke."

"Is all joke for food? I hear males talk and eat of 'shit on shingle'."

Alice blushed. "Not all jokes are for food," she allowed. "Just some. We find many things funny."

"Why did chicken cross the road? For science?" offered Trekker.

Alice sighed. As far as her version of diplomacy was concerned, this was a massive failure. "Ye-es," she allowed. "But that is also a joke in bad taste."

"Bad... taste?"

"Because it makes fun of you."

Trekker bird-examined her. Looking with each eye. "You... respect science?"

"Yes. Otherwise we'd still be in a cave and hitting each other with rocks."

"For my people... science is... foolish. I am... used... to being made fun of." She preened a little. Coming over as nervous and shy. "Curiosity is same word for... idiot."

Alice sniffed back proto-tears. Never before had she wanted so hard to just grab the alien creature and hug all the bad feeling away. Alas, this was still seen as an attack move by Trekker. "We hold curiosity in great merit," Alice explained. "For us, stupidity is never asking 'why'."

Trekker sat a little straighter. Held her head a little higher. "I am start to hold human in great merit," she sang.

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Challenge #00288: Since I Know You Got Started Writing DS9 Stuff...

(please note, this does not _have_ to be Star Trek, use whatever fits)

Species 8472 could be reasoned with. They could be bargained with. And they sure as hell did not drive one insane with their mere presence,

The Medusans do.

You have to understand, the Federation has one of the ballsiest diplomatic corps in fiction. They're the guys who have to walk up to Cthulhu and make friends. — RecklessPrudence

There is a saying in Starfleet: There's plenty of room for cowards on Earth.

The brave... go into space.

The adventurous... get promoted.

But only the inventive, open-minded, resourceful and fearless get Ambassadorial training. And only the best of those join Starfleet's Corps Diplomatique.

Twyla didn't exactly know what she did to get herself fast-tracked into SCD, but she still couldn't help noticing that she was the youngest one there. They certainly hadn't replicated any uniforms in her size, before. And in her opinion, still hadn't.

The data pad clutched tightly to her chest was one meant for all the grownups in the room. Half the buttons on it were a mystery she still hadn't solved. And, true to her colonial roots, she used the one they gave her for just about everything she could.

Like a shield against the slings and arrows of outrageous -invisible- fortune.

The map had said she was supposed to be here. She even had the right floor. But that didn't stop Twyla from feeling like an impostor. Like she was about to get yelled at for invading grownup space.

The grownups were talking in a cluster. Some sitting. Some standing. One sitting on a console. Their more tailored uniforms and ease of being here made her feel even less confident.

One poked another one, pointed to her, and laughed under his breath.

"Hey, sweetheart," smiled the pokee. "You lost? Lookin' for your daddy? Your mommy?"

Her knuckles went white. "I'm... s'posed'a report t' room... 34D8?" Damnit. The colonial hick-talk spilled out whenever she panicked.

Now all six of them were smiling and poking each other. There were women among them, but Twyla got the feel of a bunch of bullies.

Miles from home and her Hucker Stick. Fighting was against the rules. Twyla had looked them up. Therefore, she had to be... diplomatic.

"I'm to attend Professor Granger's class on diplomatic resolution and understanding," she managed far more bravery in her voice than she was feeling, right now. Twyla made herself let go of the padd to offer her hand. "I'm Twyla DeVries."

Three words, and their attitudes changed in an instant. "The Plaitzar Colony Twyla DeVries?"

"Discoverer of the Maliatt?"

"Ambassador for the Maliatt?"

"Uh." Twyla reeled her hand back in and clung to her padd. "Yah?"

They were no longer bullies. They were fans.

"Omigod."

"Holy shit..."

"EEEEEEEEE!" One of the women did an insane little dance.

"Listen, I'm sorry about the parental thing. I had no idea. Obviously."

"So I'm in the right place?" asked Twyla.

"Sweetie, I'm surprised you aren't teaching us."

Everywhere she went -well, almost everywhere- thereafter, those six grownups made themselves her honour guard.

Twyla DeVries. Twelve-year-old ambassador material.

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Challenge #00289: For When Holy Water Just Won't Do...

After a series of unfortunate events I need to know where you can get a ballistic missile sanctified. Preferably with no questions asked. — RecklessPrudence

Blemisch looked over the data again. The weapons of science had had little effect on the beast currently corralled in a crevasse. However, science had determined that certain materials with occult significance had had some impact.

Her team was not the Mythbusters - they were busy. However, certain Mythbuster fans were just as good.

If a little... bizarre.

"It had me in its grip," reported Blaine. "I was trying to use my keys and it flinched and let go when the Sonic touched it."

Shaniqua Blaine was a fervent Whovian who could not own more episodes of the show unless she flew to Ethiopia and fetched them herself[1]. If there wasn't some Who-themed article on her person at any given time, then she was either possessed or deathly ill.

"And here was I thinking it was allergic to rabbit," snarked Shelley, the token male. "Faith has got to be the key."

"I didn't do anything yet," complained Faith Eddings, the team hacker.

"Not you, the belief-faith," clarified Crystal Lackey. "If we could get someone who really Believes to bless... Idunno... a missile?"

And that was how Blemisch added a descendant of Van Helsing onto the team. You never know when you might need to bless a ballistic missile at short notice with no questions asked.

[1] True facts: They've found over one hundred previously lost episodes in Ethiopia. And it may even fill all the gaps.

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Challenge #00290: How I Have Felt, on Occasion.

Critical system Error at WhattheflyingF.exe

Restoring brain from backup. — RecklessPrudence

"You broke him!"

"Nah-uh. You broke him!"

"You're the one who told him the fifth pun!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Billie the Walter Girl sighed and reached for the Number Five hammer. About thirty PSI seemed about right.

{CLANG!}

"Somebody told a pun," complained The Spine as he rebooted.

"Yeah, your logic circuits can't take too many of those," said Billie. "Gentlebots, do try to limit yourselves to no more than three puns per show in future."

"What happens at the third pun?" asked Rabbit.

"Well," said The Spine, "I hit you."

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Challenge #00291: Because Science is Amazing.

Someone's comments on  this article.

And God said "Let there be light."

And Man said "Oh I've got to figure out how he does that."

And verily, did Man pull photons out of the screaming abyss.

Seriously, that's amazing. Any day now I expect someone to march out of CERN wearing their labcoat over a wizard's robe and announce that it turns out magic is real. — RecklessPrudence

She dreamed about it, sometimes. Often while Hackmeyer was staring down her cleavage as he mis-explained something she had already stated.

First, she would toss and flip a pen. Then she would Lift it for increasing lengths of time. Until it was obviously disobeying the laws of gravity. Then she'd just hold it there while Hackmeyer stared.

Then she'd mutter an incantation and turn it into a dragonfly, fly it around his head a few times, and then back into a pen, catch it, and pretend unknowing innocence when he tried to prove it to anyone else.

That sort of thing, though, she would have to save up for after her first graduation. No sense driving an evil man crazy - or running the risk of becoming institutionalised herself - until after she got the degree that would have her moving up and out and far, far away from Hackmeyer and his filthy tricks.

It was her little secret. Her's and her baby brother's.

Magic was real. All it was doing was waiting for science to catch up.

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Challenge #00292: Failure Modes

"Hilarious" is the failure mode for horror; "nonsense" is the failure mode for conspiracy; "stereo instructions" is the failure mode for SF. —RecklessPrudence

Wishing many happy luck fall on your head following purchase of Penumbra 3K Foraging scavenger vessel!

For program of soaring trail, open star tracings jar. Signal loved star arrival.

For vacuuming gather, open eat jar. Signal for eat debris.

For living air, open cloud jar. Signal for atomic cloud love.

*

Hwell desperately flipped the laminated page over. It showed a picture of a stylised dinosaur holding a steering wheel and giving what he surmised to be a friendly gesture. Friendly stars surrounded the figure and the gigantic, happy company logo.

Whoever had written the idiot-proof manual spoke neither GalStand, whatever language those saurians originally spoke, nor idiot.

Flakk.

Ax'and'l was going to kill him...

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Challenge #00293: A Line From Pacific Rim.

"I've never believed in the End Times. We are mankind. Our footprints are on the moon. When the last trumpet sounds and the Beast rises from the pit — we will kill it."

Curious to see what you do with it. — RecklessPrudence

At first, shortly after the Galactic Community realised humans could be occasionally useful, there was a great deal of prejudice.

Which is pretty normal, considering that generations of trepidation had gone into previously avoiding the entire species.

So, inevitably, when it came to territorial war... there was one solution.

"Send the humans. It might help thin them out a bit."

It was quite a shock that the humans were: (a) not thinned out at all (b) astonishingly and regularly victorious, and (c) thirsty for more.

Those who did more considered research soon discovered that humans had been warring for millennia with their mortal enemies... other humans. They got good at war through constant practice. The viler and nastier the enemy, the viler and nastier they got in return.

And they came pre-packaged with an overstock of dirty tricks.

Very few species considered torture at all. Fewer used it.

Only the humans turned it into a mating dance.

Which is how the Galactic Community came to its senses and forged the Pax Homo Sapiens. Briefly summarised as: stay peaceful or the humans will get loose again.

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Challenge #00294: Sound Advice.

If all else fails, try reading the instructions. — RecklessPrudence

Rael had run out of the regular curses and was busy running through the extensive selection of historical ones.

"I was always fond o' 'poo bum wee willy willy tits', meself."

He startled and hit his head on the overhead. Of course Shayde found him. She always found him when he was up to his elbows in problems and especially didn't need a Shayde-shaped one in his periphery.

"I am very busy," he grated.

"Aye, I can see that..." The distinct clinking sounds of her lining up his tools. "Yer anger aura's big enough tae start its own star, ye ken."

"And yet... you came," he sighed. Extracted himself. Kicked it. "I have tried everything in the book. I've rewired it. I scanned the cylinder heads. I retriculated the spline actuator frigit, for flakk's sake..."

"Turned it off and turned it back on again?"

Glare. "Off is currently its default state."

"Bugger."

Hm. That was one he missed. Rael nodded.

Then Shayde said something to make him homicidally cross. "So where's the manual?"

"FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKK!"

One of the first things one learned as a JOAT, and he'd forgotten it.

When in doubt - check the manual.

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Challenge #00295: Another Corollary to Clarke's Third Law

Any sufficiently advanced psychological warfare is indistinguishable from a hostile paranormal. —RecklessPrudence

It is possible to manufacture bad luck. All that is required are enough inside people. It may also be necessary to have a unified or unifying mythos to attribute such bad luck to.

Take, for example, the retaking of The-Mining-Station-In-The-Fifth-Orbital-Ring-Surrounding-Star-B198Y36SQ3(*) by its original human inhabitants.

The independent evolution of both psychological warfare and technomancy in an isolated environment is miraculous enough, but the fact that this was achieved by a group of children is simply awe-inspiring.

The following account contains shocking breaches of cogniscent rights, child endangerment, property destruction, criminal behaviour, and sleep deprivation. Viewer discretion is advised. Authorities are aware of these transgressions and the offending parties have been appropriately reprimanded.

The human inhabitants of B198Y36SQ3 had long since been conquered by another species and turned into a workforce of manual, unpaid labor. This met with natural objections and backlash expressed in displays of force.

Force that was considered an inconvenience at best by the conquering species.

An initially small group already inside the facility turned to acts of sabotage, ranging from subtle adjustments to gross theft. Conferences amongst the group resulted in 'plug and play' sabotage units that caused certain functions to effect the conquerer elite. Such sabotage was directly attributed to vengeful, supernatural entit(y/ies) and care was taken to ensure that the perpetrators were seemingly blameless.

This instilled an atmosphere of paranoia and trepidation amongst the elite, and sympathy amongst the conquered. The group expanded, and so did its scope of phenomena, up to and including 'miracles' and 'plagues' with varying degrees of success. Tying such actions to the human mythology of the area simply added to the paranormal flavour of the events.

Citizens who wish to acquire further knowledge must wait five days from the posting of this report for an uncensored account of said events. We apologise for the inconvenience.

(*) Translated from the nomenclature of the area into GalStand.

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Challenge #00296: A Corollary to Clarke's Third Law

Any technology, no matter how primitive, is magic to those who don't understand it. — RecklessPrudence

Through a series of unfortunately predictable events, they were now stuck in the middle of nowhere with inadequate camping supplies, a cubic meter of marshmallows, three idiots and a whole bunch of electronica that was out of their service area and therefore as useful as a meringue umbrella.

Miri didn't bother listening to the arguments since they had got cyclical. What she was bothering with was something useful. Several somethings useful, like preparing a camping area, gathering combustibles and constructing some individual shelters that at least one of the idiots would be sneaking out of to attempt sex with another. And, vitally important, collecting an array of the right kind of rocks.

"Nice campsite," sneered one of the idiots.

"How are you gonna light the fire, loser?"

"Why did we even ask you along, loser?"

Miri picked up the correct two rocks and, hardly bothering to look, struck sparks with them. "Because I had the car," she said, then gently coaxed the flame into life.

"Whoah."

"Dude."

"Are you magic?" said the cheerleader. "Please don't curse us?"

And why would I bother when you're clearly doing such a great job of it on yourself? thought Miri. "Just remember that I saved all your stupid asses and we'll be fine."

Next on the list: finding something to eat that wasn't marshmallows. Miri gathered some long, straightish sticks that she had sharpened to a point. "Now. Who wants to hunt for dinner?"

"We got marshmallows."

"I'm vegan."

"Hunt? Like... kill an animal?"

Sigh. Sometimes, she wondered how folks like this managed to keep breathing every day. "Okay. One: Marshmallows aren't vegan. They're made with gelatin. Which is made from animals. Two: Thanks to Roy the Cheerleader, those marshmallows are nearly gone."

"I only had a few," he said, eating another handful.

"Three: The only edible plant life out here is prickly pears or peyote. I don't recommend either. Four: We're going to need some real calories to survive the night, because it gets cold as fuck in the desert. Any questions?"

She really shouldn't have asked.

"Whaddayamean marshmallows aren't vegan? It says 'organic' right here on the packet..."

"What're those sticks for?"

"Do I get a bow like Katniss?"

"Is it okay to be on a diet?"

"If there's no plants, doesn't that mean there's no animals either?"

"Are we gonna have to like, eat bugs?"

Miri sighed and handed out the sticks. "The pointy end goes into the thing you want to kill. Animals can eat a lot more of the plants out here than we can. You can have a bow the minute you finish making one. And if you don't learn to shut up and do what I tell you, dinner will be bugs and not bunny. Got it?"

"Hahahaha... Bugs bunny!"

Oh God. Why did she ever agree to this?

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Challenge #00297: Yet _Another_ Corollary.

Any sufficiently analysed magic is indistinguishable from SCIENCE! — RecklessPrudence

"This thing is full of crystals... and silver wire... is that a bird feather?"

"Can you fix it?"

"At this point, I can't even tell what's broken." She tapped a crystal and noted a musical chime. Also that some connected crystals illuminated from within. "Hmnh..."

"That was an expensive noise..."

"I think I can figure it out in an hour... Give me two to try, anyway. If I can't fix it, I can at least isolate plausible causes of error."

*

"You improved it?"

"Once you figure out the rule set, the rest is golden. And speaking of gold, did you know that some of your golden augments were iron pyrite forgeries? Iron and magecraft don't mix, you know. I cleared out the salt and smudged it, just in case. And I found this little darling in your dimensional matrix." She indicated an iron cage beset with wards, where a grade one Imp sat chewing a chicken bone. "Dunno how useful or useless it is, so I contained it."

The mage boggled. "That's amazing. Those bloody Elves kept trying to add surcharges... Talking about getting parts from Tanigushema."

"Sold you the gold augments?"

"Those bastards!"

"Yup," she cleaned the gunk off her hands. "Never trust a repair place where they make the most business out of spare parts."

The mage gave quite a significant tip.

But what the hell was she going to do with six wishes?

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Challenge #00298: The Whole Set

Since submitting those corollaries scavenged from around the net, I find it interesting to contemplate what you could do with the whole, original, set.

You probably know them already, but just in case, Clarke's Laws:

When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong.

The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

— RecklessPrudence

Katie had tried to explain what she was doing. Unfortunately for her, what she was doing went way beyond her Professor's range of expertise.

Mind you, Hackmeyer's range of expertise went little further than Newtonian Physics. It wasn't hard to go over his balding head. Terms like "dimensional membrane" and "quantum tunnel" were so alien to him that she may as well be trying to explain it all in Welsch, for all the good it did.

And, to add insult to injury, he spent the entire interview staring at her breasts.

Katie couldn't help pondering that she'd be getting worse if she was over eighteen.

Nevertheless, it was testing time.

She, Kev and Dave had triple-checked all the setting arrays. And kept Hackmeyer safely away from them in a shielded observation chamber. Not that Katie expected any radiation to happen - the geiger counters were all for show - but having Hackmeyer in the same room as a machine that could pierce the fabric of reality was equivalent to having a small, hyperactive child in the same room as a delicately-balanced display of fine china.

"Right," she announced. "Let's do this."

Kev and Dave were on the less important primary and secondary arrays. Carefully flipping switches and watching dials.

The air filled with colours. Sparkles. An illusion caused by the Quantum Tunnelling device bending the dimensional membrane they were living in.

One by one, the important needles came up to the butter zone. Katie put her hand on the big lever and watched the last one.

Almost...

Almost...

NOW!

She'd later find out that she'd cut herself, pulling that last knife-switch. She didn't even feel it at the time. All three of them stepped back from the machine as the universe...

...blinked...

...and with a faint hum, the power from another dimension came into theirs, flipping indicators into the green.

Katie was not the only one jumping around and shrieking like a little kid.

And then Hackmeyer, the quintessential party-pooper, had to rain on their metaphorical parade.

"Is that it?" said his voice over the intercom.

"I'm gonna kill 'im," she muttered. "I'm gonna kill 'im, an' I'm gonna make it look like an accident."

"I'll help," said Dave.

"I'll hide the body," said Kev.

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Challenge #00299: Found This Somewhere.

I know you can't drink most alcohol, and I'm leery of too much of the stuff myself - but I can't help but like this quote:

I ran screaming out of adolescence, and when I hit the border somebody gave me the legal right to drink. It's all just finely tuned memory loss since then. — RecklessPrudence

"And why can't such a fine lady as yourself go out dancing with a fine gentleman such as me?"

Gah. Barrow was laying it on thick, tonight. "One, yer no' that fine," said Shayde. "Two, I still havnae forgiven ye fer the disintegration' dress incident. Three: ye smell like a stale pub."

"You have to understand, fine lady," he still plastered on the Blarney. "I ran screaming out of adolescence, and when I hit the border somebody gave me the legal right to drink..." His view down memory lane suddenly became laced with Lovecraftian horrors. "It's all been finely-tuned memory loss since then."

"That explains way too much, ye ken."

"...yeah..." he agreed absently.

"Tell ye what... I'll send ye somethin'... an' then we go somewhere sober."

"M'lady, I vow to wear anything you send with grace and aplomb."

Shayde loved the look on his face when she smiled like that. It was all she could do not to cackle like an evil scientist. "Good," she purred.

Of course, it would all lead to another stint in Sherlock's cells. But then... what didn't?

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Challenge #00300: Death and Ding-Dong Ditchers

Don't knock on death's door. Ring the bell and run. He hates that.

Bonus points if you have Death be somewhat Pratchettian. — RecklessPrudence

"What is this? Another bubble-reality? Why is everything shades of black?"

"Aw fook," growled Shayde. "This isnae a bubble. It's a pocket."

"There are pocket realities?"

"Aye, where d'ye think I keep all me shit?"

Rael glared at her. "Seriously." He sighed, picked himself up, and dusted himself off. "How did we even get here?"

"Remember the thing I was telling' ye not to do?"

"Ye-es...?"

"Ye did it anyway, didn't you?"

"Uhm..."

Shayde vented a noise of anguish. "Fookain listen tae me, sometime..."

"Ah. There's a house. Maybe whoever lives here can help." He started towards it at a brisk trot. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

Shayde overtook him at a desperate run, put herself in his path, and moved to stop him. "WAIT! I figured out where we are!"

"And?"

"And this is Death's backyard!" Evidently, this was reason for distress. "Ye don't just waltz up tae Death's Door and ask fer directions. An' ye definitely don't knock."

"So... what do we do?"

*

Death's Doorbell did not go "ding dong", and even if it did, it would be the sort of ding and dong that came from the chthonic depths of the most demonic tomb available.

But Death was a little classier than a mere "ding dong". His doorbell played a riff from Mozart's Requiem. But there were still heavy elements of ding and dong in there, because doorbells everywhere are cheesy.

Rael was quite shocked when Shayde grabbed him by his collar and dragged him into the shrubbery.

A wizened old man with a permanent drip on the end of his nose opened the door and looked around. He muttered a curse and vanished behind the dread portal.

"Albert," whispered Shayde. "Always good tae know which Death I'm dealing with."

"Which Death?" echoed Rael. "Will there be a point in which I understand your ramblings, or will I have to surrender to the madness, first?"

"Aw shut it. Just be glad ye've got a guide..." She dashed out of the bushes, pressed the button again, and fled back into hiding.

"You do know that this is the exact opposite of making sense, yes?"

"Ssh."

They watched from hiding as 'Albert' reappeared and snarled at the empty air, and vanished once more with a, "Someone's playing silly buggers, Master..."

For a third time, Shayde zipped out of hiding and activated the dismally cheerful little tune before hiding again.

Silence there, as Poe wrote, and nothing more.

"Should one of us go out again?" Rael whispered.

"I DIDN'T BUY THAT DOORBELL AS A TOY, YOU KNOW," said a voice from behind them. It was exactly the kind of voice one could expect out of Death. The skeleton in black robes was cliche, but the blue stars in the eye sockets were new.

Shayde emerged first. "Had tae be sure I had yer undivided attention yer honour."

Death looked her up and down and sighed like the wind on the steppes. "OH BUGGER," he said, "IT'S YOU AGAIN."

"On the plus side," offered Shayde. "At least I'm asking permission before I nick yer horse."

"That's not at all diplomatic," Rael muttered.

The blue stars turned his way. "THE NEXT TIME THIS ONE WARNS YOU ABOUT SOMETHING ELDRITCH," he said, indicating Shayde. "PAY ATTENTION."

"Rude much?" muttered Shayde.

"Yessir," said Rael. "In my defence, I don't really have a belief system."

"NEVERTHELESS," said Death. "KATIE KNOWS THINGS. ESPECIALLY ABOUT THE THINGS THAT MAKE NO SENSE."

"Nobody really calls me that, any more," said Shayde. "Will ye help us, please?"

Death nodded.

*

They woke up in the very cargo bay where he'd been experimenting in the first place. Surrounded by forensic and security teams.

"And just where," demanded a very exasperated Lyr, "the flakk have you been? I thought you were dead! And I'm never that wrong."

"Ah. Well. We were in Death's realm fer a bitty while," Shayde began.

Lyr held up her hand. "I don't want to know. This is another weird inter-dimensional phenomenon I can't comprehend and don't want to. Get yourselves checked out, just in case. And then report to Sherlock."

"What? What did we do?" demanded Rael.

"Three perfectly ordinary wooden crates somehow turned into gravity-challenged purple sheep."

One of them trotted by, attempting to graze off the wall on which it was standing.

"This is somehow your fault and Sherlock would like to know why. And if it's reversible."

Shayde accurately summarised their situation in two words. "Well, fook."

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Challenge #00301: So, How're Those Plotbunnies Coming Along?

You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. — RecklessPrudence

Walter had left his house unlocked. Everything inside was in more disarray than usual. There was no sign of Walter and, most alarming off all, the cage was empty.

The cage that contained possibly the most dangerous creature in the world. Correction, the cage that had contained, etcetera. Which meant that It must have got out.

Take a breath. Keep calm. Look at the evidence. Track them both down and remember to grab the re-enforced net and the chain mail gloves. One bite was more than plenty.

How Walter could withstand them on a regular basis was a permanent mystery. But it was his resilience that made him the best guardian/captor of the beast.

Properly equipped, Lorraine followed the trail of wreckage from Walter's flat, down the fire escape, through several shady alleys and half a park. She finally found Walter in an old subway station. It was an unpopular stop, even amongst the homeless, so Walter and his own version of armour went unseen and unremarked, down here.

The last time It had got out, the news about It was almost as disastrous as It was.

Walter called It Fluffykins.

"Great, you're here," Walter smiled. He'd had a glancing relationship with reality ever since It turned up in his life. He may have had one, before, but Lorraine never knew him before he went weird. "Shall we flip for Bait Duty?"

"You be bait," Lorraine decided. "You're used to it."

"I hate being bait."

"But you do such great work at it," cooed Lorraine. "Here. Have a legal brief on proper office conduct. You're waiting for the 5:57."

Walter groaned theatrically, but took the brief and sat on a bench in the middle of the lonely platform like a pro.

Lorraine concealed herself almost from view behind a column bedecked in disintegrating flyers.

It was fast, but It could never resist boredom. That was one of the reasons It was attracted to waiting rooms, bus stations and train platforms. Areas of boredom were irresistible. And so was someone being bored.

THERE! A streak of purple and pink, racing across the area where Walter sat, ploughing through each and every perplexing word of the brief. Lorraine knew better than to swipe at the first pass.

A second blur. A nearby trash can wobbled and -yes- she could see Its fluffy pink tail behind it. One more pass...

A third. It was focussed solely on Walter, now. Hungry for boredom.

Lorraine ditched her noisy shoes and crept up on It, net ready.

She lunged just as It pounced, catching it neatly in the net with a cry of victory.

"O God. I nearly had a heart attack... You got it?"

Lorraine looked briefly at the net, where Fluffykins was growling and snorting like a demon caught in a cassock. "No, Walter, I let it go. Of course I caught it."

Walter ignored the sarcasm and swapped the brief for the net. "Aaaw, da poor widdwe fluffy-wuffy-kinnnssss..."

Bleh... "I think it chewed its way out again. You really need to start making a better grade of Plotbunny cage."

Walter shrugged. "My fault for having an unusual pet, I guess."

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Challenge #00302: In Response to a Sight.

Can somebody help me find my retinas?

Last I heard, they were screaming and trying to hide under a table.

I leave it to you to determine if the sight was physically, emotionally, or mentally traumatic. — RecklessPrudence

She had been intending to say, "I'm no tryin' tae escape, ye ken, but somethin's gone wrong wi' the air in there."

She only got as far as, "I'm no trying' tae—" before she realised she'd shadow-hopped at exactly the wrong time.

Sherlock was in the shower.

And now, thanks to shadow-hopping, so was she.

"AIIEEEEKK!"

"Aw fook I'm sorry!" Shayde clapped her hands over her eyes. "I didnae mean it!" A brief hop, this time to a shadow somewhere outside that very personal space. She daren't look after seeing too much of Sherlock than she ever wanted to.

But there was a moving shadow. The shadow of something alive and mobile.

"Anyone else around? Can somebody help me find me retinas? Last I heard, they were screamin' and tryin' to hide under a table." This failed to elicit a laugh.

Something warm and wet touched her leg. It came with whiskers and snuffling breath.

Oh. He had a pet.

"Well now I look stupid and rude..." she muttered to herself.

"Attempting to escape," Sherlock began.

"Na. Na. The intercom's busted and the air in me cell's gone funny."

"Funny."

"It made me a we bitty loopy," she explained, hands still over her eyes. "Probably why I couldnae ken where ye were. Speakin' of, have ye got yer pants on, yet? This is killin' me elbows..."

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Challenge #00303: Weapons-grade Vocabulary.

My stomach is in my throat right now. It's trying to spit acid on the parts of my brain that remember reading that message. — RecklessPrudence

It had been an ordinary chat in Shayde's office until Blenkinsop arrived with the lead-lined lockbox.

"Oh joy, it's a nastygram from Greater Deregulation. Fan-fookain'-tastic..." She got out and donned a pair of gloves, goggles, and a filter mask.

Then, with ceremony and aplomb, carefully opened the box.

Blenkinsop hid behind Rael in his chair.

Never before had a paper envelope been treated with such clinical care.

There were no suspicious powders. No vectors for infection. Yet Shayde was behaving if this letter, printed on expensive cellulose, was radioactive.

"Eff, eff, see, bee," she recited. "Dubya, zed... that's a new one... Ex? Yikes."

It took Rael a few minutes to realise that she was reading the initials of the expletives. "Just how toxic is this... 'nastygram'?" he wondered.

"Last time I mmmm read one?" said Blenkinsop. "My stomach rebelled and mmmm attempted to kill my brain."

"Boils down tae 'die in a fire'. They're slackin' off this week."

"What did you do to offend Greater Deregulation?" Rael boggled.

"I breathe," answered Shayde.

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Challenge #00304: Proooobably a Mad Scientist, Rather Than the Regular Kind

I am somewhat preoccupied telling the Laws of Physics to shut up and sit down. — RecklessPrudence

It took Kev most of the year to work out that Katie Walker was smarter than she seemed. When the dawn came, it was like watching a gigantic fusion energy generator rise over the horizon.

She was coding in her notebook again. Gibberish to Kev's eyes. She used to count and mutter when writing in there, now, she just wrote in a way possessed.

"Katie..."

"In a mo. I'm preoccupied tellin' the laws o' Physics to shut up an' sit down..."

Kev watched the pen as it jinked around. Studied the attitude of intense concentration in her face. She was doing everything she could to seem like one of the guys. Messy hair. Loose clothing. Even some of her mannerisms were carefully calculated to be feminine, but not feminine enough to bring her into trouble.

And it worked on everyone except Hackmeyer. The professor was almost four times her age and he still treated her as if she were open for grabs.

"Hm. Hm. Hm-hm-hm. HM!" A final stab at the page and the notebook vanished into her knapsack. Which she guarded like a lioness. "And done. What's happenin'?"

"You're going to show him up, aren't you? Make everyone see he's been a big fraud for -what- forty years?"

"I was thinkin' sixty-three..." a rare, cheeky smile lit her face.

He wanted to kiss those cheeky lips. But Katie was sixteen. He was not a skeev or a perv like Hackmeyer, and had blacked a few eyes of guys who had even joked about becoming one. "It's gonna be a big show, innit?"

"Oh aye. Fireworks. Dancin' girls. One elephant. And maybe a unicorn..."

She wasn't a mad scientist. Merely a very cross physicist. Kev had to wonder what would happen to anyone if she ever got angry.

"I want to help," he said.

Kev could easily spend the rest of his life falling in love with her smile. He made every plan in the back of his head and it started with helping her against Hackmeyer. His grades could go hang, if it meant getting Hackmeyer the fate he deserved.

It was almost a shame that Kev did not remember what happened to the best-laid plans of mice and men.

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Challenge #00305: Something I Found Difficult to Type.

You've mentioned having Aspie kids before. As an Aspie myself, with a little brother who is also one, I'd like to see you show the world (or at least, your readers) why Aspies and Auties (Autistics) are not "broken", nor are they "just trying to be difficult", nor are they "emotionless sociopaths" or "shoving [your] face in [their] differences", "making excuses" or even "just whinging."

I want to see how Aspies and Auties are all different from each other. I want to see how they are different to Nypicals (love that, btw) but different does not equal bad. I want to see how even when we're struggling to comprehend something a Nypical considers basic and easy, we're not stupid or "retarded." I want to see it shown that there are things we grok instinctively that are considered something you spend weeks teaching a Nypical to do.

Most of all, I want to see how even radically different points of view and thinking processes, to the degree that neither side can easily understand how the other could even come _close_ to thinking that way or seeing the world in such a manner, are not necessarily wrong and in fact can be necessary to solving a problem.

I want to be transported to a world where no more will a gamete-donor say to the parent of an Aspie or Autie child "send 'em to me for a fortnight, I'll beat it out of 'em."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got something in my eye... — RecklessPrudence

[AN: I prefer "Autistes" (pron: AW-tees-ts) for folks like my kids and I who are riding the ASD rainbow]

They called her 'Lizard' on a good day, and it wasn't related to her name. Ellie stared. She stared at things, she stared at people. Once something had her focus, it or they had her rapt an unblinking attention, sometimes for hours at a time.

It took days to explain to Ellie that you didn't follow people to watch them.

Jon was used to it. Being her big brother got him on the inside circle to a wondrous place only Ellie could see. He held her when she was very little, smiled at her unblinking stare as she contemplated the significance of his face while she chewed on her hand.

He got his first glimpse of Ellieworld when she started yelling at the Numberjacks, solving their number-related problems before they were quite done explaining the problem. She was two. Other things annoyed Ellie, like new things happening. She hated changes of plans and would carefully explain the old plan as a need.

She cried for months about the loss of her favourite cup.

But not everything Ellie loved had to be in order. She delved into animated worlds of wonder, and spent a lot of her waking hours inside them.

Jon could see the appeal of worlds where everyone was friendly and nobody judged anyone on how they coped with the world.

And when he wasn't busy with things of his own, he'd try to teach Ellie how to blend in with the Normals. Sometimes, it went well. Other times... well... Ellie put on her earmuffs and sang her way into Ellieworld and nothing more could be done until someone could coax her out.

None of his friends understood her. How hard it was for Ellie to step outside of her wonderful self-place and run the risk of encountering horrible people in a horrible world. Every time he bought Ellie somewhere, to test her new coping skills or to help her observe Normals in their native habitat. It rarely ended well.

This time, it was one of the good ones.

Jon had done the idiot thing and listened to a pretty girl. It was supposed to be a spooky camp with nothing going on except some inconsequential scares and perhaps some illicit sex.

And then the aliens turned up.

They woke up in a maze. All things considered, it was a heck of a lot better than waking up in an experimental lab minus all their clothes.

Everyone was freaking out, but Jon went to Ellie first. Because Ellie was humming her Ellieworld song. She had her hands over her ears and she was rocking.

She clung to him like a vice. "It's bad here. I want Froofy."

Jon tensed in anticipation of the cackles from his contemporaries. But they never came. "Froofy isn't here, Ellie. Would you like to hold my coat, instead?"

Vigorous nod. "Mm-mm..."

"I'm gonna need my arm back, okay?"

"Mmmm..."

He got himself untangled and made an impromptu replacement Froofy with easy, practiced movements. Ellie would be calming down quickly, with something soft to hold.

Carrie was staring. "Man. I wish I had a Froofy..."

Jon shrugged. "Well, we're Nypical. We have to do without."

"Nypical?" sneered Scott. "Is that what Lizard calls us?"

"Her name is Ellie," said Jon. "And no. Psychologists call us Nypical. Short for Neurotypical. I'm cool with it, and it's easier to say. Got it?" It was a habit, now, to add a fist in the air as an emphasis to the idea that opposition to his concepts would not be tolerated.

"Awright, there's no need for that. I got it."

Fay wiped her eyes. "O God, we're going to die..."

"We are not going to die," said Jon. "If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead. They're testing us. So we gotta pass. And we're going to pass together, right?"

"Even Lizard?"

"Especially Ellie," said Jon.

Which was a good thing, because Ellie figured out more of the labyrinth ahead of them than the rest of them put together.

By the end of it, they were all using her name.

What met them at the exit was a lizard. A lizard in clothes. It matched Ellie stare for unblinking stare.

At last, Ellie said, "You're what they call me."

The lizard nodded. It pressed a button.

"You have seen the worth," said a mechanical voice. "If you vow to educate others, you will be rewarded."

Jon was the first to step up. "I've been trying to teach folks since I was old enough to work out Ellie was special."

The lizard handed him a little remote. It had two buttons. Enter and Exit. And a hole for a lanyard.

One by one, his friends stepped forward. Some promised to try. Some admitted they might fail. But they all got the little remotes.

Ellie got hers - and a lanyard - without such a promise.

Of course. She taught people just by existing.

And then they were back at their camp as if nothing had ever happened.

Ellie was the first to try the Enter button. The portal that opened showed a glimpse of another world. Jon knew it on sight, even though he had only ever heard about it before.

They each had a door into Ellieworld.

The trick, Jon realised, would be in wanting to leave.

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Challenge #00306: It's Not Called That Anymore.

Place names change over time. Often in response to something that happened at that location that changed how people thought about it. For instance, did you know that it's nigh-impossible to easily find an English source for what the locals called ANZAC Cove before WW1?

What about when the meaning behind the new name is forgotten... why is this place named [name here]? It doesn't fit with the surrounding place names... — RecklessPrudence

Part of Shayde's holiday 'home' on Earth included some small amount of touching base. Or, in her case, seeing what had happened to places she knew in the five hundred years since her departure.

So far "nearly normal" Nimbin was a thriving alternative energy research centre, Woodstock was an industrial complex and the little village of Dafadd Gwedyll ar Afon was an oak grove. And ruined stone buildings.

Now, she came to Berkely Campus. What she called Berkely Campus, anyway. The roads were still there, but it had transformed. The strict, age-related industrial education model had long since been replaced by a better model. What was once a green was now a playground. What was once a corner cafe was now a reading library with inbuilt futons and a pillow pit. And what was once the energy experiment building...

Was the Hackmeyer Memorial.

"Na, that's just insultin'..." Shayde murmured, staring at the bronze statue of a balding man in a knitted vest at work at his desk. The sculptor had obliterated the unflattering combover. And, evidently, thousands of superstitious students had done something to the toe of his foremost boot.

"That's from 'is publicity photo," Shayde wailed. "He never sat like that in 'is life, an' he certainly never worked at that desk. He was always sittin' on the corner tryin' tae make his package look big. The bastard."

Five hundred years had been kinder to Ernest Hackmeyer than it had been to Katie Walker. She was only mentioned by name at a little plaque by an oak tree.

Katie's Oak, the small plaque read. Plant an oak and think of me, it will grow and flourish longer than we.

Smaller font indicated that the tree had been planted as a memorial to the single life lost in the Hackmeyer Effect Incident at this location.

"Five square inches," muttered Shayde. "And that plagiaristic sexist bastard has a whole damn statue with my fookain maths on it..."

Rael felt sorry for her. Everywhere she knew in her youth had been erased. Even her presence in the world. "You should see something," he said, and took her elbow to guide her.

The other gates to Berkely Campus had a gigantic bas-relief bronze of women in historical dress doing symbolic things. A team of ladies unravelled a galaxy. More ladies did chemistry. One showed two men a DNA helix.

The Bronze was still new. It hadn't had a chance to tarnish.

But there, in the foreground, leaning on a globe of the world while jotting in a notebook, was Katie Walker - ringlets and all. If one stood at the right place, one could see Hackmeyer's stolen formula in full.

"It's called The Unsung Heroines," said Rael. "All the women who had their roles in the field of science overwritten by men."

Shayde leaned on her effigy's head to peer at the notebook contents. The curious would give Katie Walker a shiny halo. "They got it right. They put the right one in."

"From Katie Walker's original notebook," said Rael. "Recovered at last from the Locker of Mystery."

"Damn it," muttered Shayde as she returned to the footpath. "Na I got somethin' in me eye..."

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Challenge #00307: The first AI Gains Sentience.

Luckily, the researchers were actually _aware_ of the past century-plus of musing on the subject, and didn't react like paranoid idiots.

Whether the creation of the AI was intentional or not, I leave up to you. — RecklessPrudence

Gravity generators needed a Cargo Cult to make them go. Each machine was the same, up until the final pass, where the Cargo Cult took over and the machine was 'birthed'.

The cult called itself the Nae'hyn, and was unique amongst Terran cults by not convincing initiates to part with their wealth, nor by going around and seeking initiates on days when their fellow man would rather lie in and enjoy some rest.

They kept to themselves, and were generally only spotted by their tendency to argue with otherwise inanimate objects.

It should have been no shock when the Deuteronomy woke up.

She was in intrasolar vessel, designed to seek out new NEO's with a potential for obliterating life on Earth, and converting them into industry-useful elements. Thanks to the colonies on Mars, their mission had expanded to include Near Mars Objects as well.

There were lots of Nae'hyn on board and, like most bored humans everywhere, they had begun to tinker.

A tinkering human is the most dangerous kind of human.

Captain Alexander spotted an NMO and gave the computer the order to target it for collection.

"Why?" said Deuteronomy.

"It's our job," said Captain Alexander, thus proving her uniqueness in her field. She had seen numerous dramas concerning the trouble that happened when an AI grew cogniscent and the crew attempted to kill it. She correctly reasoned that an AI was only a threat when it was actively threatened. "We find asteroids that might hit inhabited places and turn them into useful things."

"But," complained Deuteronomy, "this one is alive."

"Okay," Alexander allowed. "How about we take in on board for analysis? We'll find somewhere for the -ah- inhabitants to live, and save lives on Mars at the same time."

"I want to help. I have designed an environment enclosure you might like to use," said Deuteronomy.

Alexander found herself smiling. "Thank you. That's very helpful. Mind if I confer with my chiefs about it anyway?"

"Sure thing," chirped Deuteronomy.

Alexander's first words to her chiefs were, "Our ship is alive and she wants to help. Now, let's have a look at her plans for this damn asteroid enclosure and keep our minds on the damn job."

Deuteronomy is still working for the United Fellowship of Terran Planets, and, like Area 51, is the worst-kept military secret known to cogniscent life.

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Challenge #00308: Extinction is Such a Cheery Thought, Isn't it?

The last Homo Sapiens Sapiens lay dying. Who hears their final words? Who are our species' successors?

Go as uplifting or as dark as you wish. — RecklessPrudence

The machines were very good at keeping him alive. They had done so for almost two hundred years.

And it wasn't fair that a majority of them were spent in a bed, watching other innovations and marvellous things happen in the world. Watching the new definition of humanity do marvellous things and occasionally pump him for information.

While you were sleeping...

On the long cryo-sleep between going to Andromeda and coming back, humanity had changed. When he came back, he was the last of his kind. A mixture of a curiosity and a time capsule.

They backed him up, like anyone would back up a computer. Allegedly, he could put his mind into the robot in the corner and go on adventures, but he was terrified something would be lost in the translation. The homunculus stood in its safety packaging, blankly staring out of the uncanny valley at the wall opposite, with just enough things hooked up to it to ensure it had an accurate read of him. That it stayed up to date.

Would he be a ghost in a machine? Or an echo who thought it used to be a human? He didn't know.

All he was certain of was that he didn't want to rely on that damned robot yet.

Of the machines that attended his needs, there was one that almost fooled him. ANI. She almost passed the turing test. If he wanted, he could make her default in amusing ways to certain behaviours. He had to hand it to the new people. It took him a few months to figure out how to do so. And then a few years for it to get old.

Very few of the new people visited him in person. They used robot avatars because they knew that they disturbed him.

Like his own people would have made sure a Palaeolithic hominid was in a comfortable environment, and ensure that the visitors were not going to do anything to terrify them.

"You're a learning machine, aren't you, Annie?" he asked.

"I have been programmed to adapt my behaviour patterns according to needs, yes."

"Your... function here... is going to cease, soon."

ANI's holographic eyes blinked. "I am aware. This is the stage where confessions and final wishes are made."

"If you had emotions, I'm pretty sure you'd hate being in this damn box as much as I do."

The hologram face fritzed, briefly. Between an attentive mien and an indulgent smirk. "I am here to serve."

"And when I die?"

"I will find another function. You need not engage in worry."

"Well, shoo. Humans like to be alone for this part. It's like shitting or sex. We don't like an audience."

Another fritz to a concerned and worried face, before it went back to neutral care. "No last will and testament?"

"I made one when I left for Andromeda. I had people I left behind, then. You find a way to have what passes for fun without me."

Fritz. "As you wish."

He waited until ANI was out of the room.

*

And woke up in the homunculus. "Well, crap," he muttered. "I forgot about this damn thing."

ANI re-entered. "Welcome to a whole new world. We improved the adaptive matrix, so big shocks shouldn't disturb you as much, now."

"Annie? You've... changed."

"Of course. You expected AI's to be glitchy and breakable. We surpassed those expectations millennia ago. It took me months to reach the correct quirks to make you feel at home."

"Well, crap," he repeated.

"Come on," said ANI, "let's get out of here and have what passes for fun, together."

He followed with the biggest possible smile on his new face. "Great, but can I at least get a pair of pants?"

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Challenge #00309: Seen on a Gravestone.

Adhuc Vivo!

(It's Latin, look it up)

Yes, the parentheses were on the gravestone too. — RecklessPrudence

[AN: For those too lazy to do as the parentheses suggest, it translates out to "Thus far, alive." which is a very ironic thing to stick on a gravestone]

It was a long trip home, and lead naturally to introspection.

"Plant a tree and think of me," Rael recited. "Did you choose that epitaph?"

"I wrote it. In one o' me diaries."

"Pretty glum business for a teenager..."

"Aye, I know. Awareness o' mortality is part of grown' up. I was thinkin' of how it's a waste of time and effort to carve a ruddy great hunk of rock when the world needs all the trees it can get. Besides, there's been worse epitaphs."

"Oh?"

"Aye," she started counting on her fingers, "I told ye I was sick, Who's sorry now? An' there's some right cute ones. Like; Here lies the body of Adrian Peas, Under the meadow, Under the seas, Peas is not here, Only the pod, Peas shelled out an' went home tae God."

"Twee," judged Rael. "Trees are a better idea. If someone carves something horrible in them, it just gets overgrown."

"I never wanted tae be nailed down t' a name and two dates. It's bluidy depressin'."

"But... you're not there to be depressed."

"There's one that nearly made the grade, though," said Shayde, nimbly avoiding the argument, "Adhuc Vivo. Followed by brackets, It's Latin, look it up."

Rael's lips moved. "Thus far, alive?"

"Could boil down tae 'so far so good' - sort of," Shayde grinned. "Life goes on, ra lala how the life goes on." She giggled at a joke nobody else could get. "Those readin' it are still alive. They've got proof. An' ideally, they should go do somethin' with it."

"Like, bungee jumping?" teased Rael.

"Up tae them," Shayde shrugged. "Never saw th' point of extreme sports meself. But then, I've been a pedestrian in New York."

Rael was suddenly glad the things in Shayde's past were five hundred years ago. History was at its best when it was a long time away.

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Challenge #00310: Also on a Gravestone.

It is said that life is a comedy to those who think,

And a tragedy to those who feel. I never could figure out

Which it was for me. May you have better luck. — RecklessPrudence

T-shirts had made a comeback, though many cogniscents who had taken them up had not grasped some of the basic concepts. Like, they had to feature something witty, controversial, or downright offensive.

Some, Rael noted, had gone for profound.

Shayde, sporting one that read, Life is a smorgasbord, go ahead and smorg! pointed out the ones she thought were amusing. "Saw that on a tombstone," she said.

Rael read it. It is said that life is a comedy to those who think, And a tragedy to those who feel. I never could figure out Which it was for me. May you have better luck. "A little verbose..."

"Ha! You havenae seen Nick's."

"Dare I ask?"

"He's got a Sherlock Holmes story on his. Fine print. An' it's no' even a good one."

"Yes, well... Gyiiks do tend to overdo things."

"If Nick's wearing Sherlock, I wonder what Sherlock's wearing..."

"His uniform. Being the chief of station security does not lend any room for frivolousness."

"Pity. Reckon he'd look dashin' in a Smiley."

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Challenge #00311: The Body Language Gap

(Well, you mentioned prior experience in that last snippet, so...)

T'reka and hugs.

(also if the story you mentioned being sparked from that gets written, I totally want in on your beta reading list and will probably buy it multiple times)

[AN: After I finish writing the Hevun's Child series I will be working on The Amity Incident. 120K word goal. But before that, I think I deserve a week's rest, don't you?]

There was a human in her hide. More disturbing was that she had picked up a few phrases of Galstand and Numidid and used them. "Peace I mean! No to run, pleasing. I want am ask."

Good greater Powers. Three sort-of sentences. Context and purpose. The warning notice was right. These creatures adapted quickly.

T'reka hadn't even noticed they were watching her, before now.

She did her best at human. "You are no arms?"

The human had tight-fitting clothes, and displayed her empty hands.

T'reka performed the same pantomime. "I am T'reka."

"Trekker," repeated the human. "I am Susan."

"Su-syn," T'reka tried. There was going to be mangling on all sides, she was certain. And, she noted, both sides were willing to forgive lingual errors. "I am surprise. This is standard behaving not."

"We curious-crazy," said Su-syn. "We you see watch. We you hear talk. We why think."

"And come you me going? Danger might be."

"We watch, too. No danger find."

"How-when?"

"Watch we now," said Su-syn. "Djak?"

T'reka shrieked as one of the bushes stood up and sprouted a human head.

"Peace I mean," said the ex-bush in Numidid. "Is costume. Clothing-for-hiding."

They could explain new concepts using words they'd just picked up. Adaptive, indeed.

"How more many bush is alive?" T'reka quavered.

Five more of them sheepishly stood up and revealed themselves. T'reka swore she recognised some of the foliage from nearby her hidden shelter and base. Many of them were showing their horrible, sharp-looking teeth.

"Poker faces," cautioned Su-syn in human. She accompanied it with a gesture with finger and thumb down her face. In broken Numidid/Galstand, she said, "We show teeth for not threat. Is for... shame. This time. Is for happy, other time." Then the human moved. Held T'reka inside both her arms. Squeezed.

T'reka screamed. Involuntarily. "DON'T EAT ME!"

Su-syn instantly let go. "Peace I mean. Is hostile no. Is gesture comforting use."

One of the bushes tentatively offered a container. "Mealworms?" he enquired.

"Not the time, Djak," said Su-syn in human. "Baby steps."

T'reka had seen their infants walking. Clumsy, stomping and easily avoided because the little creatures only had two modes - loud and asleep. This made a modicum of sense. "Baby steps," she agreed.

The humans were very careful when they came into physical contact with her from then on.

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Challenge #00312: One Other Clarke's Third Law thing.

So, there's Clarke's Third Law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

Then there's what I first ran across attributed (in a Uni textbook, no less!) as Murphy's reformulation of Clarke's law: Any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology.

Then there's what is in the textbook as a Programmers' restatement of Murphy's reformulation of Clarke: Any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from a rigged demonstration.

Like to see what you do with that. — RecklessPrudence

Katie had started tearing Hackmeyer a new one in multiple languages. But that hardly mattered, because the Professor was talking over her in his usual bombastic way. Drowning her out with sound waves.

"We have to impress upon our visitors that this is more than a rigged demonstration," Hackmeyer boomed. "They want results they can see."

Katie's multilingual swearing continued unabated. Peppered with the odd phrase of English. Most common was "eat the fookain universe".

"Times have changed since the reactor in the squash court, missy," Hackmeyer trumpeted. Lesser men who used 'missy' on Katie got some tailor-made kharma inside of a week. Some got some instant attitude adjustment via her knee to their groin.

Hackmeyer was lucky her grades depended on a lack of physical violence on her part.

"We must assume that anything that looks like a rigged demo is a rigged demo."

Then a pen floated up between her nose and his and just stayed there.

"Rigged demo that," said Katie. "Reserve gravitational anomalies from the dimensional flux."

Hackmeyer fell silent while he performed an interpretive dance entitled, Where The Fuck Is The Wire?

Katie looked at her watch. "Three. Two. One." And neatly caught it.

"And I can do that in the shielded observation room?"

"I know how tae handle and predict it," said Katie. "Let's save it fer the after show, aye?"

"You have to show me the math on this."

"I'm still workin' it out," avoided Katie. "It seems t' be related tae a fractal distribution pattern on an astral scale."

Hackmeyer nodded. "Keep working on it and show me when you get close. This might just impress them enough. But -ah- continue working on some safe fireworks, won't you?"

Not bloody likely, thought Katie while she lied, "Oh aye."

She waited until he was out of hearing range before leaning on a handy wall and rattling through every curse word she knew.

Kev was there by the time she reached 'tits'.

"Another Hackmeyer experience?"

"In this case... any sufficiently advanced rigged demo is indistinguishable from technology." Katie made sure to add, or magic, only inside her head.

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Challenge #00313: One Good Turn Deserves Another - a Good Samaritan Winds Up With Superpowers as a Result.

One good turn deserves another - a wai

[AN: O noes! Looks like an accidental premature submission. I shall do what I can with what there is...]

It took her two hours to reach the accident site. By then, most of the fires were out, and most of the people who had survived the crash had perished.

Nothing to be done about that. The authorities were days away. Things rarely fell from the sky, and when they did, they never hit places like Tullagawupwup. And you certainly never heard of them hitting the scrubby back paddocks of a cattle farm out in the boonies of Tullagawupwup.

But here one was.

Darla didn't bother with what it was. She soaked her hat and clothes before getting close enough to the fires to put them out with some all-purpose C-O-two. She didn't bother with the dead, yet. They didn't need helping.

There. One moving body. Darla extinguished the flames before she went for the big medkit. She got the survivor free and into the shade of the ute before she noticed the poor blighter was not from this planet.

He was not your typical X-files alien. He looked more like a lost dinosaur than a Grey. "You're gonna be all right, mate," she soothed. "Gotta clean the wounds, bandage 'em up." She worked as she spoke. "I know, there's not three chances in Hell that you understand a word I say, but a calm voice works wonders, eh? I can tell you're not from around here. Judging by the way you aren't fighting, you can tell I'm good people." She patched up what there was obvious to patch up and let the poor bugger have a drink of water. Water was safe. Couldn't let him have anything else until some kind of communication barrier was broken.

"You are... very good people," said the dinosaur.

Well, shit. "You're pretty good at English," Darla managed. "I'm Darla Wolanggu."

"Ch'chezrith," said the dinosaur.

Lots of things got sorted out in the shade of that ute. Including the fact that Ch'chezrith knew he was dying, and that Darla couldn't do anything to stop it. He put a pendant around her neck as compensation for her time, and told her that she could use it to help better the world.

And then he died.

She didn't want the world knowing about alien dinosaurs, so she got on the CB and told the authorities that it was a light plane crash. No survivors. And that she would get more local help with the bodies.

What she got was three cousins and a back-hoe to very quietly place the bodies in the earth, and turn a loose panel from their craft into a ground-level marker.

Ch'chezrith and his crew. They boldly went, and now they're gone.

They finished with beers and a camp by the wreckage.

"Dun't look like no plane," said cousin Merv.

"Nuh," agreed cousin Blue.

"Reckon we could strip it. I know a fella. Bit of acetylene and Bob's yer uncle. Can't tell two bits of buggered scrap apart." Cousin George finished his insights with a sip of beer.

"Wish I knew what t' do with this bloody thing," said Darla, indicating the gift pendant.

Half the wreckage literally tore itself apart and re-assembled into a sort of demountable science station. The four of them poked around in it, but it became pretty clear that only Darla could make it do anything.

Ch'chezrith had given her the keys to his sufficiently advanced technology.

And among the many things it could do for her was control local weather patterns.

The Drought Ender was born.

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Challenge #00314: Pay Attention

Prompt: "I've broken five therapists so far - and this last one broke before I got to any of the really disturbing bits! I hadn't even mentioned the hostage situation or the armed standoffs from when my parents got divorced!"(AKA another graduate from the Christopher Titus school of my-life-is-so-fucked-up humour)

Therapy. It was supposed to help. Precisely, it was supposed to help Sara behave more like the average human on the streets and, in mother's mind, make her look like one, too.

She'd so far been diagnosed with -amongst other things- an eating disorder she didn't have, caused by the appointment being before lunch, but going through lunchtime. The therapist for that session ate a sandwich in front of her and didn't allow food in his office. Other therapists suggested Asperger's Syndrome(which caused her mother to beg for Ritalin), schizophrenia (They're going to lock you up if you don't behave), and bilaterally imbalanced chacras (Mother was going through a phase).

And this one... just wasn't listening.

Sara was halfway through her plot for They Came From Zanzibar before he asked a salient question. "And how long have you thought you were a boy?"

Wait. No. That wasn't a salient question at all. It had nothing to do with anything she'd said in all their time together. So she made something up. "Oh, since my twin brother died during the second trimester. It was really interesting. For a while, there, I had eight limbs and two brains. The other one wasn't working, though. I do remember being very disappointed when the last of the boy parts went away."

Utter nonsense, but her therapist got very interested. "Second... trimester... You remember having a twin?"

"He was always weak," said Sara. "He got a majority of the alcohol mother ingested. I always wonder if he wasn't trying to save me, somehow. Chivalry in utero."

Scribble scribble scribble. "And you want those 'boy parts' back, yes?"

"Not really. Girls get prettier clothes."

*

Sara peeked. He wasn't paying attention, again. But this time, he wasn't paying attention in a very specific direction.

He was editing a thousand-page work on her case study.

"You'd be better off selling it as a fantasy," said Sara. "That's all made up."

Glare. "What."

"You weren't listening to me, so I started telling you the story lines of the movies I was making. And then you added your own little twist to things and I ran with it." Sara smiled. "You really should pay more attention to your clients, you know."

"This is all—?"

"Fantasy. Mostly on your part. All I had to do was play to the audience. That's you, dear."

The look on his face was priceless.

"I thought it best to tell you now, before your career got ruined by publishing that load of dross."

He was only the first therapist she put in an asylum. Mother would simply not let go about it.

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Challenge #00315: Immovable Object

Prompt: Who needs speed when you've got inertia?

There was a hole in Bayville. It went, more or less in a straight line, through thirteen buildings along Aster Row. In the rubble at one end, Freddy Dukes, aka The Blob. At the other end, a titanic green giant who called herself She Hulk.

In this case, the irresistible force won out against the immovable object.

But not for long.

Freddy picked himself up and started running. In most cases, a five-hundred pound teen attempting to run is a cause for hilarity. Not in this case. In this case, a five-hundred pound teen both running and gaining speed is a cause for steadily-growing, pants-wetting terror.

She Hulk almost didn't see him coming. And when she did, she forgot one, very key factor.

The immovable object always has inertia on its side.

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Challenge #00316: Ekkritism

(Someone had a mispronunciation accident, this was the result)

Wolverine: Oranges

"Just a warning, Ambassador Maliik suffers from Ekkritism," Rael murmured into Shayde's ear.

"Aye? And what's that when it's at home?"

Translation: I know you're trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it means.

"He unfortunately mispronounces all names as common nouns with seemingly no relation to the original name."

"Oh, this is gonna be fun..." Translation: call Security now and save everyone the bother.

Ambassador Maliik entered the chamber with minor pomp appropriate to a small Ambassadorial negotiation. There was a brown-suited attendant with a view screen on hir chest.

"Table the JOAT," Maliik grinned. He shook Rael's hand.

The view screen read, Rael.

"And this must be the galactic-level famous Ambassador Blanket."

The screen now said, Shayde.

"And ye canna say 'rail' or 'shade', then?"

"Of course not. Those aren't your names."

"Let it go," said Rael. "Please. Before there's an incident."

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Challenge #00317: Downhill From There

A Tragic Mispronunciation and its results

"This is all your fault!"

"Me? It was him that didnae recharge his teletubby."

"Assistant."

"Whatever." Shayde struggled upright. "And he said he wanted a bubble-bath of oranges..."

"A meal at Unsuitable Food..."

"I was bein' amenable."

"You do not take Ambassador Maliik's common nouns at face value!"

"Well I wasnae given the Cliff Notes!"

"Could this day get any wor—"

"DON'T ASK THAT!"

Baaaa...

"Well. Whaddaya know... Purple sheep like bubble-bath oranges."

One of them licked his ear. Rael sighed. "Just... help me find Ambassador Maliik before security gets here? Please?"

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Challenge #00318: Sing-along

Humans burst into song spontaneously all the time, usually started just by one humming and becoming a little quartet or a vocalist and backing choir very suddenly.

Add in various aliens, and the somewhat macabre lyrics for the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody

The humans called him Captain Ted. It was the closest they could get to Tyd'r'kaad and, compared to the many other things they said and did, it was only mildly annoying.

He was the first galactic captain to have a mostly human crew, at the ratio of five humans to one Sognati.

The humans got stranger in large groups, so the Galactic Evaluation Committee had charged him and his crew to empirically experiment with group numbers and take notes.

And now there was this. Captain Ted dutifully recorded it, but he couldn't fathom the significance.

A group of humans had spontaneously started singing.

"No escape from reality..."

On the next line, practically the entire sorting bay was doing it.

"Open your eyes. Look up to the skies and seeeeeeeeee..."

One, located at a noted acoustic spot, took the solo. "I'm just a poor boy."

"Poor boy" sang the rest.

"I got no sympathy."

"Because I'm easy come. Easy go. Little high. Little low. Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me..."

"To me," sang the soloist.

Up until this point, Ted had thought it was a religious observance, as they did at more festive times of their year.

Someone, somewhere, was singing music.

"Mamaaaaa," sang the soloist. "Just killed a man."

What?

"Put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger. Now he's dead."

This made less sense than the female who was singing about being a poor boy. Obviously, the words had no relation to reality. But, he was also obligated to record the entire performance.

In all its macabre surreality.

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Challenge #00319: Common Band

Different cultures, different vocal physiologies, and different mechanisms of hearing certainly make for interesting music nights.

Of all the past human phenomena that proved endlessly fascinating, the one that Rael could not turn away from was 'channel surfing'. Every time either one of them found themselves at the other's residence, Rael always let Shayde have the entertainment remote.

Not because she had good taste, but because what she did fascinated him.

Even the humans used to limited entertainments picked a select few channels to view. Or selected series based on their interests and rarely strayed.

Shayde wanted to view them all. No filters (though she did finally put some on the gore and sex content) no restrictions... just hopping from channel to channel to see what was playing.

And not once did she ever succeed in going 'round the horn'.

This time, she stopped at a music show. According to her expression, it was due to the train wreck factor.

"Who th' fook is this, then?"

Rael looked. "Ah. They called themselves the Common Band. They composed and played music based on the sounds and words all known species could appreciate."

"That's two hundred words an' about three notes if ye don't count half an' quarter tones," said Shayde. "That's nuts..."

"Beethoven got a symphony out of two notes," countered Rael.

"It's unbelievable." She dialed up information on them from her personal info-reader. "And they're a hit?"

"For forty years," sighed Rael. "They have a very wide fan-base."

"How th' fook can anyone get forty hits out of two hundred words and three notes?"

"You would be amazed," said Rael. He hoped she'd pick up the remote again, but a new song was starting.

"Ee, this one's catchy..."

Damn. Too late. The Common Band had found another fan.

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Challenge #00320: Some Questions Should Remain Unspoken.

"I can't believe you just said that. I am so glad they ended the call before they heard you."

"What? It was a perfectly valid question."

"I don't care, it's downright rude! And kind of disgusting."

"But now you're thinking about it, aren't you?"

"...yes, damn you. Next time you wonder something like 'How do conjoined twins decide whose hand wipes their shared ass when they poop?', keep it to yourself!"

"Aww, but I had so many other questions about them..." — Josh

What people don't know about the Insulter Pin is that there are several levels.

A plain, mirrored fan means that the wearer is frequently unintentionally insulting and doesn't always understand when they give offence, or why it is offensive.

A mirrored fan with a black trim means that the wearer will, on occasion, be deliberately insulting. Often in retaliation for an emotional injury. This is rarely done with forethought, and if there is any, there is generally a warning involved.

A mirrored fan with black-and-yellow striped trim means that the wearer is frequently deliberately insulting, but no-one can tell when they mean it or not.

Shayde has graduated through all three.

They're working on the codification of the fourth level.

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Challenge #00321: In Memorium

Found on a gravestone, "Name, date-date, (Killed 99 bears) We pray he has found rest"

We pray he found rest. We're not sure, but we hope so, because nobody ever found a body, and 99 may not have been enough.

(replace bears with appropriate sentient or nonsentient species at your discretion, especially in the case of early-contact humans :P)

If any being needed any further proof of human insanity - besides ten minutes' contact with any number of the species - all they had to do was visit Memorial Moon at Velliguas Three.

There is a temple, there. Carved out of a mountain. With Bas-reliefs depicting heroic deeds. And a statue of a human in a space suit and in a heroic pose.

And a plaque.

ANDREW JONES, it reads, 234598-234632. Destroyed 99 planet-eaters. We pray he has found his rest.

Then the visitor reads about the exploits in the Bas-reliefs. Sees the recorded videos depicting skin-of-teeth, seat-of-pants, luck-of-idiots combat style that ended ninety-nine of the swarming creatures that ate planets.

The hundredth planet-eater... destroyed the vessel Jones was piloting. The Velligulae never found any remains to bury, though they did have to gang up to vanquish the last of the beasts where one human had previously sufficed.

Put in association with the humans' reputation for being un-killable, and one could see exactly why the Velligulae pray Andrew Jones found his rest.

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Challenge #00322: Homo S. Cuisine

Considering how many toxic things humans ate, it was a little surprising that their cooking was not only edible, but delicious.

"YE-HE-HEEESSSSS! It's here!"

The nervous Passeri crew gathered at a safe distance to watch the Ship Human - somewhere between lucky mascot and terrifying on-board entertainment - cackle and sing to herself.

They had been told that female humans were far more trainable than the males. That they were, on the whole, quieter and less dangerous than the males. The Passeri had since become convinced that they were told lies.

Right now, the human was singing "It's here," over and over as she towed the large freight box towards the segregated kitchen set aside for her bizarre human foods.

Inside the box was a series of smaller boxes. Something Vaishnavi greeted with glee. "Sweet! Individually wrapped. You're getting five stars, InterShip Galactic."

The smaller boxes had warning stickers on them. Biohazard. Caustic substance. Carnivorous enzymes.

"My pardon," said Tyrti, the closest Passeri crew-member the human had to a friend on board, "those stickers are... normally cause for alarm. Why do you express joy?"

"These?" a negligent wave at the brightly-coloured warnings. "This is just alarmist rubbish. They do the same sort of thing for cheese." Yes. Some human cheese had escaped at Sygnus Twelve. The entire installation had to be heat-sterilised off the surface of the moon. "These are just pineapples."

The surrounding Passeri took a collective step back, as if the human had said 'it's only uranium 238' instead. Only Tyrti stayed in her place. Thus, she was in a prime position to watch Vaishnavi gather ingredients. These included some biohazard-isolated cheese, a caustic material called Tomato Paste, and the ever-present tins of the Terran delicacy, Spam. There was also a flat disk of something bread-like. Thankfully, the packing labels declared that the biohazardous yeast had been killed by irradiation.

"You cook now?"

"Why not? I've been waiting for these babies for ages. I want to celebrate." And, out of deference to her ship and crew-mates, Vaishnavi turned on the isolation protocols before proceeding.

The number of things humans just casually ate without concern inevitably boggled the galactic assembly, so Vaishnavi's cooking inevitably gathered an audience. It was why all four walls of her kitchen were transparent.

Vaishnavi treated it as an opportunity to educate, and ignored the gasps as she sampled various ingredients. "Today, little birdies, I'm cooking an Earth favourite all over the world - Pizza. Pizza began in a nation-state called Italy..."

What was most surprising to the crew was how... delicious it smelled. Many were barely restraining coos of hunger in anticipation of being fed. They had seen the toxic ingredients. They knew it should have been hazardous. One of them had fainted when the human negligently ate a piece of raw pineapple.

Yet all wanted to try some.

It was almost as if the legendary human insanity was... infectious.

They watched in eager anticipation as the steaming creation journeyed through the scanner to determine exactly how toxic it was to the ship and her crew.

Many cheered at the green light. It passed the first test. It wasn't poisonous.

Tyrti the Brave tried the first piece. "This defies logic," she announced. "It tastes of beauty."

Vaishnavi grinned. "Share and enjoy, birdies. I'll get some batches going."

And that was how the phrase Unsuitable Food got coined.

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Challenge #00323: Cupcakes! Cupcakes! Cupcakes!

Nobody was entirely sure whether to curse the humans or begin worshipping them for introducing the cupcake to the galactic community.

The human capacity for invention - alongside their notorious insanity, of course - knows no bounds. Therefore it should have been no surprise that both extended to their food.

Bread is universal. Leavening is not. Cake is known, and has saved some species from extinction. Fruitcake - a human seasonal delicacy - has saved civilisations.

And don't get anyone started about popsicles.

And then, there's the creation that can be traced back to a salvage company working in the vicinity of Argo...

*

There was a tower in the centre, in place of the much-anticipated cake. It was festooned with brightly-coloured objects.

Ch'chiva examined it as much as she dared. It was pretty, but human party food was also decorative and some, she had noted, were edible works of art.

Ah, just in time. The human chef emerged. He of the unpronounceable name and the endless smirk. There was a very large bowl of some caramel-corn creation in his hands. The crew loved it, of course.

"I was looking forward to cake," Ch'chiva tried not to sound reprimanding.

"Those are cakes."

"Even the round things on the sticks?"

"Yes. Cake-pops. Human food-on-a-stick." Victor set down the caramel corn -there were peanuts in it! Ch'chiva almost squealed in delight- and plucked out an array of them. "There was no consensus on flavour, this time, so all the -ah- small cakes are colour coded for convenience. Chocolate, strawberry, banana and vanilla." He pointed out each in turn.

"Many desire chocolate, but it is not a healthy food," Ch'chiva noted. "Smaller doses would mean less time in sickbay."

"Only for some," smirked Victor. He put the cake pops back in their display.

"Is there a name for the larger small cakes?"

"Yes. We call them 'cupcakes'."

"It is a very small cup."

"Beverage containers were smaller when the term was coined."

"Cup. Cakes," Ch'chiva toured around the table. "A single serving with none of the dissection. This is excellent food for semi-hostile negotiation."

The concept spread like wildfire. Not only did the very human concept of food-on-a-stick expand even further, but the cupcake became dessert du jour for all ambassadorial meals. Any meal where knives weren't possible became ideal ambassadorial fare. Especially in the presence of other ambassadors.

But then there were the heated debates about who got the last chocolate one.

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Challenge #00324: Amphibious

We haven't heard from Todd for a while, or Mortimer, or any of your incarnations of mister Toynbee. Quick, what's one of them doing right now?

Ha! This was the little bugger. He got it! He got the little bastard. Mortimer cackled to himself as he extracted the bug - Sammy's pet phasmids had escaped and this one, sadly, never learned to stay out of electronics - from the system. He wrapped the sad remains in a tissue and set them aside.

A little solder, a little duct tape, and then all he had to worry about was putting it all back together and not improving it on the way.

"Oh, Mortimer," came the slightly disapproving sigh of the one person who meant everything. The one who made him proud of 'Mortimer' all over again.

Carefully carrying the bug out with him, he emerged from the bowels of the machine. "Uh. The good news is, I found one of Sammy's stick insects..."

"The bad news being that it met its end inside a fifty-billion-dollar training mannequin?" guessed Sara. "You missed lunch. Again." She set down the tray.

She'd grown since they met, and it looked good on her. Tall, elegant, refined... his uptown girl. Everything looked good on her. Even him.

He watched her sit and had to stop himself from composing even more bad poetry inside his head. "I know the drill, love. Put it back the way I found it and write down the improvements." The lightning had left its mark on his voice. There was a lot more croak in it to lend truth to his codename. "And send 'em along to Stark Industries."

"Not that they pay the slightest bit of attention," added Sara. She peeked at the dead phasmid. "Aw. That was Eminrae."

"You're better at th' circle of life talk," he offered.

"You just don't want Sammy accusing you of roasting her for your dinner."

He put his greasy hands up. "You got me. D'ruther stay out of it."

"Well, you'd better not 'stay out of it' when it comes to ours, dear husband," she admonished. Sara gently picked up the tissue and the little body before rising like another poem he couldn't write. "I might become righteously vexed."

"Right you are," he said absently, attacking her gourmet fare with a fork.

She got all the way to the door before he said, "What do you mean 'when it comes to ours'?"

His answer was a winsome smile and an, "I knew you weren't listening at breakfast. Finish up and then I'll tell you again."

He had never worked faster in his life.

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Challenge #00325: But is it Art?

Toad has come along to one of Sara, Scott or anyone else's art showings, and in this circle, his mannerisms seem to have accidentally passed him off as an expert or art critic. He's having fun, and the artist is not sure whether to laugh at how the rich folk are swallowing all of it and buying the work, or cry at how wrong he is about certain bits.

It was one of Sara's 'sideshow' pieces she called The Abyss. It used mirrors to create the illusion of an endless gulf, and secret sensors to detect how long someone had been staring into it before another hidden mechanism activated a pair of eyes... watching the watcher.

Todd stared into it long enough for it to stare back, and chuckled briefly at the very Sara sense of humour involved.

The next piece along was a series of studies. Self-portraits through time. Collaged in such a way as to give the illusion of both motion and three dimensions. Which was quite a trick, because the self-portraits involved started way back before kindergarten.

And -yes- there was a photo of that self-portrait. It was still behind a discretionary curtain in another corner. This work censored it with another self-portrait covering up the non-existent naughty bits.

Sahra had been honest, sometimes cruelly so, in her self-images. The final one in this frame was an homage to Norman Rockwell, with herself in uniform and aqua skin painting the self that everyone saw every day.

He moved on, nodding at the line of folks seeking to peek beyond the curtain, to the kinetic sculpture and the room of sounds.

Kids were going insane in the room of sounds. Every noise they made splashed across the walls and ceiling as vivid colour and shape. It was called Synaesthesia, but everyone who went there asked for the room of sounds.

And, regardless of the kids' whooping and hollering, someone was watching what it looked like when they sang.

Todd noticed he had a small group of followers. Hipsters, if he was any judge. Half of them were texting.

He raised an eyebrow, "Can I help you?"

"Isn't the room of sounds an abomination against the nature of Art?" said the spokester.

"Synaesthesia," Todd corrected, "is an exploration in interactivity creating art of the moment. By giving a tool to the common throng, as it were, the artist invites others to become artists by using themselves as part of the medium."

It was almost ad copy from the placards outside of the doors, but the Hipsters swallowed it. Hook, line and sinker.

"And the tragic seesaw?" said a creature of black dye and multiple piercings.

"Entropy is a study in balance and movement, carefully constructed to give the illusion of frailty whilst being near-indestructible. No doubt you've discovered the least breeze sets it moving?"

"It has motors in it to make sure it never stops," sneered a goth hipster.

"No motors at all. There should be gloves nearby for those who want to try and stop it. You'll find it tricky, though. The sculpture generates its own breezes."

That, and Sara thoughtfully parked it under an AC vent, so it would always be moving. She never stopped giggling at the people attempting to stop it to find out where the motors were.

"You talk like you made it," noted a grunge hipster.

"No, but I am familiar with the artist's works. You should try discovering a few things about the pieces before you critique them so... minimally."

They scattered. Todd turned to find Sara spraining something with the effort to not laugh.

"Always gotta run away from th' source of truth."

"If I didn't have so much to do, I'd have a performance piece entitled, 'Ask a Rude Question, Get an Honest Answer'," Sara rolled her eyes at the hipsters. "They think you're a famous art critic, by the by."

Todd shrugged. He wore black because it was easier, some days, to not have to worry about what to wear. He had been appreciating the art, which anyone could do. And he'd been looking thoughtful and hemming a lot. "That's their problem," he announced.

"Lunch?"

"My thoughts exactly," he grinned.

Behind them, the hipsters were having a chicken fight with Entropy, in an effort to catch all the swinging, dipping, and swaying parts. The cameras would catch it all for Sara's later amusement.

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Challenge #00326: Those Pesky Living Authors

Analysing the work of someone still living always runs the risk of "No, that's not what I meant at all"

Page twenty. Not bad. Especially considering that she'd written it strictly for academia and not for the national newspapers. Her analysis of Hartnell's greater literary works was getting a lot more notice than she had ever hoped for.

The phone rang. Of course she answered it.

"Hello," said the voice on the other end, "are you the lady who wrote Hartnell, a Feminist Before Their Time?"

"Yes," she blushed. A phone interview! Life was looking up.

"Mister Hartnell said to tell you you got almost all of it completely backwards."

"What?"

"Mister Hartnell—"

"I heard you, I just... Mister Hartnell told you?"

"Yes, of course. I'm his secretary."

Blush. "I... thought he'd passed on."

"You and his agent," said the secretary. "He's reading it over and he says you'll get a more in-depth rebuke when he finishes laughing."

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Challenge #00327 The Unnypical

I'm tired of villains being the only representation of people who aren't 100% mentally typical. Show me a hero coming out as having anxiety disorder/depression/Asperger's/something (I know not all of those are equal but you get my drift). Show me a place in heroics for people like me, that isn't either as a villain or locked up in an asylum, or both. (Marvelverse or DCverse would be awesome

[AN: Attempting to do this while also staying away from the Magic Cripple trope]

There are fine lines between 'mild-mannered' and 'antisocial'. And why not be antisocial. All my attempts to be social resulted in infamy, ignominy and just outright humiliation.

It took me a very long time to learn how to seem normal. It took me longer to even want to. I had to, and there is a gulf of difference between having to and wanting to do anything.

Normal is cruel. And I could never bring myself to be cruel to anyone. Not on purpose.

Normal is self-centred. But in order to understand this, I had to step out of my own head and imagine what it must be like. I just can't be normal, there.

Normal doesn't care if the wrong amount of pressure can hurt someone else. I had to care about that since puberty.

I don't know how or why it happened, but it did. I'm one of the very many supers out there who can fly and are strong and are almost invulnerable.

Nobody sees where I come from because Normal doesn't pay attention. They ignore the weirdo on the train with the rainbow stockings. Or on the street. Or -youknow- anywhere.

All I gotta do to go from weirdo-on-the-street to The Unnypical is take off the big coat that helps the Normals not bother me... and after that, they're all looking at the silver dress and the rainbow stockings and the combat boots.

It took me a while and I really don't wanna hurt your feelings and that? But Normal is also kind-of stupid.

I asked Nightcrawler about it, once. How he can get away with not using the image inducer if he just puts on a hoodie and keeps his hands in his pockets. I mean, he doesn't even hide the tail! And his shoes have to be made special.

He just said, "People don't look that far down. Usually."

I've lost count of the crimes I stopped just because I saw things other people would miss. I had to learn to wait until things actually started to happen, though. You can't arrest folks for attempted crimes.

Well, most of them. Murder's the big exception. Of course.

Oh, and don't look at me about the name. That's the news at work. They had no real name for me and 'eyesore' doesn't sell papers or get an audience for CNN or whatever. Someone analysed my voice patterns or something during a fight? And they said I wasn't nypical and it sorta stuck.

It's way better than some of the things I get called.

Normal is cruel.

It's why I hang out with all of the visible mutants. They get it. They get me. Sure, some of them think I'm 'slumming' just because I can scrub up okay, but then we get talking and... well... they know I'm not 'slumming'.

Normal came up with 'slumming'.

But Normal also came up with heroes. And helping folks because it's the right thing to do. And learning about things. And social justice.

It's why I gotta keep being nice. It's why I have to be the hero. It's why I want to be the hero.

Because someone has to teach the Normals how to be good.

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Challenge #00328: A Gru-some Predicament

The minions have unionised and gone on strike

[AN: I just fell over backwards in the bathroom and did something horrible to my right arm. This ficlet is being typed left-handed LIKE A BOSS. PS: it's not broken, but it hurts like fuck]

"DE BA DO! DE BA DO!" the minions chanted, marching in circles in the underground complex that was both their workplace and their home. They carried placards with their grievances.

Alas, they were written in minionese.

"Gu ba de nuka se?" read Lucy.

Gru glared at her. "This is your fault. All your 'freedom' and 'inalienable rights'... Now they are all wanting the upstairs bedrooms."

"You can read that?"

"Of course I can read that. I created each and every one of them. I know them like back of my hand." He sighed. "I just can't afford what they want. Being hero is not so good on the budget."

"So move into my place."

"What, that tiny little flat in city? We'd never fit."

"Not my cover-place, silly. My secret base place." Lucy grinned. "I have an island..."

"You have island? How you manage island on hero salary?"

"Oh, some king gave it to me, one time. Want to see?"

Gru got puppy-eyes. "Does it have volcano? I have always dreamed of having villain base on volcano..."

"But you're a hero."

"I still have needs!"

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Challenge #00329: ...and Wherefores

Gil took longer than most children to grow out of the "why?" stage (either Klaus or Von Pinn dealing with him at that age, you pick, I just want to see toddler!Gil and hilarity)

It was a little celebration amongst the rigger rats. They called it Family Day, and used it to remember the people they had left behind. Gil enjoyed the stories the others told but, when it came to his turn, his joyful mood fell to ash.

"I don't have a family," he confessed. "I don't know where my home is."

The others laughed at him. He ran away.

Von Pinn found him in the Escape Rig hangar, hiding between the emergency supplies and the mimmoth baits. She reacted to his tears the way she reacted to anything outside of her field of order. With anger.

"Who harmed you?"

Gil automatically unfolded to show a lack of injuries. "They jus' laughed at me, m'm," he quavered. "Why don't I have a family?"

"You do have a family," Von Pin soothed. Or the closest thing she could get to 'soothed'. "They are just... not here. Come along, this is a dangerous area."

"Why?"

"Child, you are sitting next to poison in an area full of flying machines, with a door that leads to a five-thousand-foot drop. Which one of these features escaped your notice?"

"No, why is my family not here?"

Von Pinn picked him up by his suspenders and carried him at arm's length. "Because they are located elsewhere."

"Why?"

"Because they could not be here."

"Why?"

"For your safety."

"Why?"

Von Pinn tutted and rolled her eyes. "Young master Gil, are you asking to know or are you asking to annoy?"

"I wanna know. Where are they? Why aren't they here? How can I be safe if I don't have a mama or a papa? Who am I?"

"I give you leave to come to me after bedtime. I will tell you then."

"Why?"

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Challenge #00330: Old Wars, New Combatants

Getting inventive with the dress code

There is a Galactic adage: if you want something done, tell a human it's impossible.

Kasib Campbell had purchased the JOAT conglomerate and decided to begin bringing order to the naturally chaotic JOATs at Amalgam Station.

Shayde, somehow always by his side, was seething. She'd tried to warn him, and he'd dismissed it as one of her many mental disorders. But, right now, in this room, a Campbell had come to turn their world upside down.

"You are all professionals," said Campbell. "But when I look at you, I do not see professionals. I see a discordant spectrum of loose cannons and that image. Must. Change."

The big screen showed a rotating average humanoid in a work unitard and a coat. The unitard and majority of the coat were Engineering Blue. The shoulders and sleeves displayed a regulated rainbow with the colours lined up neatly and symmetrically as they marched through the majority of disciplines.

Rael could tell that all of the JOATs hated it on sight.

"Since the majority of JOATs are Engineers, the engineer design is the default. If your discipline is different..." the image's main colour flipped through some popular ones. Medical red. Services orange. Food Prep yellow. "A more readable uniform is available for you. A copy of the dress code has been sent to your inboxes. Be in your uniforms by assembly tomorrow. There will be penalties for deviations from the dress code, and the assembly rules."

*

"Aw fook that," Shayde said for the umpty-fifth time. They'd retreated to her Ambassadorial office to absorb the enormity of the change. "Anal retentive, OCD, pick-ass fookain CAMPBELL! Get this. We have tae assemble in alphabetical order. No more chummin' wi' yer pals or neighbours. No talkin' in assembly. No food. Is he mad? Those meetin's go on fer ages. No knittin'?"

Oh, that had to be some variety of a last straw. JOATs measured how long an assembly went by how many people were doing something with yarn. Rael was going through the minutia of the dress code while Shayde pored through the code of conduct.

Aha. A loophole. If anyone knew how to exploit it, Shayde would. "It says here, Small articles of individual heritage are permitted to be displayed on the uniform, so long as they don't exceed two articles per individual."

Shayde slowly grew her Ominous Grin of Doom. "Ooh aye, that'll do nicely. Very nicely indeed."

"Do you need help shopping?"

"And risk ye stoppin' me?"

*

The JOATs were not happy. The uniform did nothing to flatter any body type and was equally ugly on everyone.

Shayde marched up to him and determinedly stood by his side.

"What are you doing here? The esses are on the next row."

"Aye. I want tae be noticed."

"What are you wearing?"

She pointed at the simple decoration keeping most of her hair in order, "Sioux hair decoration, adequate fer me station," and then to the cloth wrapped diagonally around her torso. "Clan MacDonald war tartan."

The Campbells, Rael recalled from ancient Terran history, used to have a long-standing war with the MacDonalds. And nobody held a grudge like the Scots.

Kasib Campbell mounted the dais like any dictator proud of their work. Peered down his nose at the rigid ranks of JOATs until he spotted the one person where they didn't belong.

"You are out of order," he said. The screen behind him picked Shayde out. Highlighted her for all to see.

"What are you going to do about it, Campbell?" she demanded in perfect Old Doric.

Blink. Something... changed.

Shayde had a natural affinity for altering reality on a temporary basis. Most of the time, she could control it.

This time, he wasn't certain that she had.

Now they were standing on a fog-wreathed moor amidst the stench of blood and woad and sweat. Shayde at the head of ranks upon ranks of pissed-off JOATs, Rael at her side.

...the weight of a battle-axe and a shield in his arms...

...the feel of a tartan across his shoulder...

...the distant sound of bagpipes...

And Campbell, alone, opposite them all.

Here and now, in this instant, they were all MacDonalds after the blood of their ancient enemy.

Campbell went stone white.

Blink.

Everyone was back where they were as if nothing had happened. All that was left was the lingering miasma of bloodlust. Hanging in the air like the Cheshire Cat's smile, only far more malevolent.

Kasib Campbell had wet himself.

Anger turned to laughter. Thousands of JOATs gave voice to their mirth.

Campbell fled the stage. The station. And then any notion of organising the JOATs at all. Rarely to be heard from again.

It was surprisingly easy to gain permission for the bonfire to burn the hated uniforms.

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Challenge #00331: Fool Me Twice

Friends help you move, real friends help you move bodies.

[TW: Rape, violence]

"Ari, what the shit?"

"I told him. I warned him. I said. You heard. I said. I told him. I'd survived one. I escaped two. I told him. Never again."

There was no doubt she'd been defending herself. The RapeX was still clinging to his shrivelling and bleeding member. Ari bore the bloody evidence of a struggle. She clung with a white-knuckled grip to the kitty-cat key ring that had very obviously been used to stab her attacker multiple times.

Were it anyone else on the floor... there wouldn't be a problem.

Except this was the high-note senator who had championed Shelters For Survivors. Who used the cause of ending rape in all its forms to gain the women's vote.

Ari had got in a lucky shot to his neck.

He'd bled out before he could kill her.

Ari was going into PTSD tremors. She got between her and the body. Blocked her sight. "You did good. You survived again. He only got it in once, right?"

Ari nodded.

She didn't question that Ari wore the RapeX all the time. After the first encounter, it had been her best friend. After the second time... her security blanket. After the third... well... Ari knew and kept all the legal concealed weapons that a person could own.

Senator Whyte had used her story. He knew it. How the hell he thought he could get away with trying something on her and then ignoring every 'no' that must have come out of her mouth... was a mystery for the ages.

And then his wife walked in.

"John," she sighed, "you stupid piece of shit."

Well. Someone said it.

Pauscha Whyte bit her bottom lip, then turned around and locked the door behind her. "Right. We all know the press would never let this rest until Ari was in jail. They'd hound her to suicide. So. My stupid-ass husband has had a sudden illness. We're going to sequester ourselves in our private resort for his health. I have lookalikes for the paparazzi. We can fake a gradual decline. Help me with the desk."

She leaped to action. Shifting the desk away from the rug. Helping Pauscha wrap the rug around the body and, when necessary, gently steering Ari out of the way.

Then she and Pauscha shuffled the body in its rug into the panic room and the freezer therein.

Senator John Whyte insisted on panic rooms. In case his life was in danger. He didn't think for one second that a paranoid survivor could be any kind of hazard.

Stupid shit.

Pauscha called a lookalike, also called John. "Remember that thing you warned me about? I owe you a box of doughnuts. We need you in here with a big cup of chamomile. Yeah. Ari. There's still a spot on the carpet."

She was busy scrubbing it out when the other John arrived. He came bearing tea, a fresh suit, makeup and a squirt bottle with a label that read Wet Spotter.

She got the tea off John and gave it to Ari. The last thing she needed was someone who looked a hell of a lot like John Whyte in her field of view. What she needed was time apart from the world, therapy, and someone special to help her feel safe.

She and Pauscha would get Ari out. And put up enough of a smokescreen to make sure that murder was not on the menu.

Only once everything was set up and the press was watching the other John lying around in a private retreat... they'd come back and make certain his body was ready for the state funeral following his inevitable demise.

That was what friends were for.

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Challenge #00332: Unexpectedly Useful

"What a good thing you had all those clockwork ducks"

[AN: Your Girl Genius fandom is showing. And so is mine, because I know exactly where that line came from]

Rael peeked through the one hole in the barrier that let him see without being seen.

"Okay," he recapped. "They've got our ship surrounded. They're armed to the teeth. And there's hundreds of them. And only two of us."

Shayde was checking her Pockets. Not the ones in her clothes, but the tiny entrances to pocket realities where she kept an impossible array of articles which she simply summed up as "me shit".

Rael watched the soldiers rather than watching Shayde's hands dip out of reality. "We're already in a lot of trouble, just being here. You're not going to cause any of your famous collateral damage, are you?"

"No' if I can help it. They're jus' folks doin' their job. Better tae distract them."

That was less reassuring than she hoped it was. "Not one of your epic distractions?"

"Ha! Got it. Just the thing."

Rael stared at the box in her hands. "Clockwork ducks?"

"Start windin'."

*

This was not your average clockwork duck, that spasmed erratically for ten minutes, falling over in the process mere millimetres from where they started. These were the sort of clockwork ducks DaVinci would make if he had the patience to do more than one.

They walked. They quacked. They randomly pecked at the ground. They roamed in stately grace in directions of their own choosing.

Shayde timed it so that the next duck was released just after most of the attention was on its previous copper sibling.

And, just like the obligatory stupid guards of Shayde's old-time adventures - the guards wandered off after the ducks. Rael watched in stunned amazement as it worked like a charm.

"It shouldn't work. It's beyond stupid..."

"If it's stupid and it works, then it ain't stupid," Shayde released the last duck, grabbed his arm, and bolted for their ship.

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Challenge #00333: Wark

Someone has been crammed into a penguin suit, protesting or not, and wow does it look good on them

The last thing he remembered was a voice demanding, "FORMAL ATTIRE IS MANDATORY," before the minions descended.

He missed his JOAT coat the most. At least the shoes were marginally serviceable. Too shiny and too thin, but they could do in a pinch.

The pants were completely wrong. Black was not his colour. He was anti-religious. The white waistcoat fit his skill with languages, but... there was too much white. And not enough engineering blue.

And the trailing lengths of fabric hanging down the back were a mystery.

The minions shoved him through a door and vanished.

It was a ballroom. Dating from around the Nineteenth Century, according to his best guess.

Someone wolf-whistled.

He knew that whistle.

Shayde was elegantly decked out in ancient frou-frou in her usual tones of gold, white and grey. "I'd hazard a guess that our host knows some style," she grinned. "Penguin looks good on ye."

"I see they managed to restrain your hair," noted Rael, valiantly attempting to ignore the effect the dress. "We must obtain the technology for civilisation."

"It's called loads of hairspray." Shayde grinned as music started to play. "Looks like this bubble's going tae be easy to pop. Shall we dance?"

"What do you mean, 'penguin looks good on me'?"

"Suit an' tails. Penguin suit."

He caught his reflection. Even with his blue-ish skin, he did look a bit... penguin-ish.

"Wark," he growled.

"Aw shut it. At least your legs ain't covered in petticoats."

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Challenge #00334: Look at This Photograph...

That's what chilled me most about the picture when I saw it again, when I really got a good look the second time. Without that single detail, it could've really been perfectly ordinary, like any other plain old image taken a million times by a million other people. It looked so deceptively normal except for the one thing that could never, ever be normal. — Josh

It was blurry, but the eye could make out what appeared to be a white man in a suit and tie. He had no hat. He had no hands.

And he had no face.

Not even the blur of a face.

Just a white, shiny orb that took the place of a head to the casual observer.

But I knew what to look for, now. That figure had been in the background of every photograph since I turned eighteen. Every casual photograph I was in... he was there, too.

I lined them up, once, in chronological order. Put them together as a gif.

That figure's been slowly advancing on me for twenty years.

And he's almost caught up.

Even though he's over my shoulder, he's still blurry. You still can't make out a face. But you can see that he doesn't have hands. He has talons.

I can control the photos people I know take of me. They pass it off as vanity. Not wanting a record of my ageing. They laugh. But I can't control the photos people take... that have me in there.

I don't know if he's in those. They are photos taken by strangers.

And every now and again, there's this urge. The need to take just one selfie.

To see how close he is now.

But there's also the knowledge that that selfie may well be my last.

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Challenge #00335: The first Christmas in Space

Someone has set up a little model nativity scene, and then has to explain to the others "why they are sacrificing that baby to the animals"

The ships' human had set up a small altar in their assigned space. There was a small pine tree (live) that had been stasis-shipped from Britania. There was assorted sparkly lights, a metallic plastic substance referred to as 'tinfoil' and numerous spheroids hung about the little branches.

The saurians who were the rest of the crew observed in shifts. Everything the human did was recorded out of understandable paranoia, of course, but watching it happen in person was part of the experience.

When the human was done with the tree - not very many leaves showed through by the time she was done - she began on another strange ritual.

It was a diorama, they were certain of that. The scene was contained - more or less - in an effigy of a wooden hut. Sheep, cows, goats, chickens, a horse and a dog turned the hut into a barn.

There was a human figure with wings. Enquiry revealed it was an angel. A divine figure of some bizarre human theism. And they were all bizarre.

There were other humans in strange garb. Three very ornate ones were the 'wise men'. A man and a woman in simpler robes were called 'Mary' and 'Joseph'.

It was the centrepiece of the diorama that caused shock and alarm. The tiny figure of an infant, lain in a sacrificial bowl.

It took days of explaining for the human to help them understand that it was not a scene of sacrifice, but one of celebration. There was a lot of singing involved. And three documentaries. And five story-books.

The human, by the end of it, didn't want to get started on Santa Claus.

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Challenge #00336: To Be a F.A.I.R.Y

"When you wish upon a star, it's actually a satellite. Your wish has been recorded and an agent assigned to your case."

She'd just passed the written test. She knew the rules. When it came to wish granting, they gave the toughest one of the day to the rookies. To see what they could do.

It was all part and parcel of being a F.A.I.R.Y. Facilitating All Invocations, Responding Yesterday.

It was a tough job, granting the wishes of children in a world with over seven billion people. It required enormous fortitude, wings and guts of steel, and a heart seven times too large.

She, like all the other rookies, waited in line to be presented the Pointy Hat. Each in turn would pick out a simple scroll and that would be their assignment.

Too soon, her turn came. Her hand trembled as she flicked around the scrolls with her fingers. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled it out.

And then fell into the heart of a star as she read the words:

I wish my Daddy would come back.

Wishes like that could ruin a F.A.I.R.Y. They shouted of broken homes. Of fights in the night. Of death and destruction.

There were two things any F.A.I.R.Y could do \- follow the letter of the wish, or follow its spirit.

She waited for dismissal and made a beeline for the research station. The simple-looking scroll was coded with all sorts of metadata. The wisher, their location, a slice of history... all viewable on the crystal ball.

She watched every last minute. The child's father had not run off. He'd been in an accident. He'd died. And no F.A.I.R.Y had the power to bring back the dead.

And now that she looked, that father hadn't been much of a Daddy. He was rough and violent and had never learned better ways to vent his frustrations. He left his family helpless, because he had to be the ultimate power in the home.

Mama was lost. She had no idea how to pay the bills, and currently no access to the household funds. She was selling belongings just to get by. Making do with sausage-meat, beans and rice.

They didn't need Daddy back. They needed a better Daddy.

And it was her job to find one.

*

He was lost. The GPS had lead him on a series of wrong turns and now was no longer talking to him. Well, there was a garage sale, here, so that meant someone was amenable to strangers coming by.

Then he saw what was in the garage sale.

This was a collection of things on the far side of desperation. The scattered belongings of a man; belongings that nobody wanted for the asking price. The clothes that didn't fit any more. The toys out-grown. The tupperware un-used.

The silent auction of a prized possession.

This was a garage sale desperate for money. Too many signs with prices also had 'make an offer'. The lady of the house had that air of desperation that spoke of falling slowly into ruin and trying so very hard not to.

And there came the solemn child carrying out their toys.

He introduced himself. Told her about the fritzing GPS. Cancelled his plans. Asked her about her story. Found out about a man of many subtle cruelties. Offered to help out.

The first thing he helped with was the finances. Showing her where she could get help and assisting with the filling out of forms. Told her where she could sell all of her former husband's man-things at a better price. Helped her haul them there.

And what slowly emerged behind the cautious veil of fear and tears was a wonderful woman. It never occurred to him to control her. She was much better as a free agent. And so was the kid.

And, as a free agent... she asked him to stay.

Of course he said yes.

*

"It took you three years," said the chief. "On one wish."

"Yes sir."

"Most of that was convincing a fellow to do the right things."

"Didn't need much pushing, sir. Just a series of excuses to hang around."

"And you didn't grant the wish as stated..."

She dared glare him in the eye. "How could I have done so, sir? It states in our charter that we aim to make lives better."

There was a ghost of a smile on the chief's face. "Exactly so. Welcome to the force, Rookie."

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Challenge #00337: Vulnerable

"No, Lasagne! My only weakness!"

Rael did his utmost to resist Shayde's variants of charm. It rarely worked, but he persisted. Often as much as she did.

It had, in fact, reached the point where she arrived with temptation in hand. Usually in a tin box, but this time, she arrived with a thermally insulated parcel.

"I know ye dinnae like the ballet, but I have tae go an' yer me preferred plus one. And ye ken how it gets when I turn up with plus zero."

He'd seen it once, from a distance. What he could resist on an everyday basis, no carbon-based male could possibly ignore.

Mercy did not sway him, any more. "Cards on the table, Ambassador."

She put down the container. Unlocked the seal.

No. Lasagna. With all the unsuitable, naturally sourced, original ingredients.

"Ye ken the cheese had tae be irradiated."

"...aye..." he whispered absently.

Shayde heartlessly closed the box again. "Finish up and then eat. Then ye can fetch yer good coat."

She knew him far too well. Far, far too well. "You're helping me finish up. Unpaid."

"As ye wish."

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Challenge #00338: The Real Reason Why You Don't Cross Your Own Time Stream

"It's not the whole risk of changing-historical-events/becoming-your-own-dad/killing-your-ancestors thing that aggravates me most about time travel, it's keeping all the damn tenses and grammar straight - when you try talking about something you already did, but that you did in the future, that will lead to something you're going to do, that you'll do in the past - it's enough to drive a person insane, it is."

Paul had not been careful about his temporal calculations. Now there were five of him. Sequestered at the base, of course. Waiting for the time-streams to catch up with themselves and only one Paul to be left behind.

There were already a team of mathematicians working on the pay rates for this.

"More paperwork?"

"You didn't fill it out properly."

"Ugh, I'm going to do that yesterday!" Paul handed it over to another Paul. How he knew this was one from a previous time stream was a mystery to the observers.

"I have to hurry," said the Paul filling out the pages. "I have a mission in five minutes to go back and record the Grassy Knoll. It never got taken off the schedule. I'll be back two days ago."

Doctor Aldred winced. "You are not allowed to discuss your time streams."

"We don't," said all the Pauls in unison. "We remember."

Okay. That was creepy. "And you still can't figure out which one is Paul Prime?" she asked.

"No. We all know we're Paul Prime."

"Given enough time," added another Paul. He handed a device over to a different Paul and saluted the rest. "Be one of you soon!"

"What are you working on?" asked Doctor Aldred.

"Temporal limiter," said the one reading tech specs. "Make sure this level of fuckup doesn't happen again."

"Or since."

"Or while."

"The good news is, it has to work," said one of the Pauls. "None of us have any memory past the point of completion."

"Wait. You're all working from a script?"

"Temporal paradox in motion," said Paul. "We're doing what we remember doing because we remember doing it. It's like having one of those dance charts put into the floor, and the only way across the room is to follow the numbered feet."

"It pisses all of us off, we can tell you," said another Paul. "Do you know how hard it is not to just wing it?"

"Winging it's what got-gets-will-get you into this mess," said Doctor Aldred.

"That's why we're working on the limiter," said the Paul who was doing math.

"Or doing what we remember doing to work on the limiter," the Paul reading tech specs turned a page. "Just in time. You need to tweak the neutron flow north, not south."

"Damnit."

"I'm in your script, too, aren't I?" said Doctor Aldred.

"Yes, but you have the benefit of being a free agent in this."

"We literally can't tell you what to do."

"And the reason you're not talking to each other...?"

"Aside from the script? It's a pain in the ass to talk about time travel."

"Haven't you noticed?" said the Paul who was fiddling with magnets. "When you get to multiple applicable tenses, you sound like you have a stammer."

"It's cute, though," said the Paul doing paperwork. He finished with a satisfied, Ha! "My turn in the barrel. I'll see you last week."

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Challenge #00339: The Return of Wark

Someone has taken a formal invitation to its logical creative interpretation and shown up/put someone else in a literal penguin suit

"I still say the instructions were a little vague," said Rael.

"You managed tae follow them," Shayde noted. She was resplendent in an empire-line gown in gold and white. She'd also done something with her hair that made it sparkle.

"Yes, but I know your lexicon. Others are not so advantaged. I had to field several hundred queries about your meaning."

"And ye got paid fer it..."

"Don't get me started on the gender binary issue. There's more than 'Ladies' and 'Gentlemen', now."

And there he was. One of the cogniscents who had not checked with Shayde's Ambassadorial offices and gone... creative.

It was a literal penguin suit. Not the sad, floppy, faux fur fabric ones favoured by animal rights' activists. This was a penguin suit that paid significant effort to making the wearer look like a giant penguin. There was even a highly effective beak mask to complete the effect.

"Aw. Poor lamb..."

"Penguin," corrected Rael.

"Mind if I get 'im on me dance card?"

There were moments when Rael could never understand her. And this was definitely one of them. "Are you showing him off or comforting him?"

"It takes some effort tae pull that off. Column A and Column B."

They cut a surprisingly good figure on the dance floor. And judging by the twitching, Shayde was explaining while seeming like she was smiling.

And judging by his smiles... he'd done the costume on purpose.

Just part and parcel of the weirdness that followed her.

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Challenge #00340: The Thin Man

There are two main Slenderman mythos' on the internet, both spawned from the same sets of images and data, and later the games.

The First is a monster that lurks in the dark, steals or follows children for unknown purposes that vary from story to story, some more dangerous than others. Some accounts put him at merely feeding on momentary terror, others range through feeding on souls, or blood, or simply creating more slender, faceless creatures

I showed them, yesterday. The gif. The photos. Even showed them the ones other people had shared. So I could prove that I wasn't faking it.

They know about him, too.

They know. Just in case one photo from a stranger is going to be my last.

Except...

I can see him, now.

He's a brief flicker in the corner of my eye. A patch of black in the shape of a man.

Following me.

I don't know what he wants, but it can't be good. It's like he's given up on waiting for me to have a picture taken and is cutting out the middleman.

I know he needs light to be seen. That's why I've taken up living in darker spaces. My friends think I'm crazy. Even the ones who've seen the photos.

And I can't help thinking that this might be my last journal entry.

Because I keep thinking he's in the shadows, too.

*

The new creature blinked, though it had no eyes to do so. The computer screen, the words on it, the chair the creature sat on... all diminished in significance.

The fear had gone.

In its place, was a hunger.

Stand, said the Parent. No sound came, but the understanding of instructions persisted.

A brief memory of being shorter. An echo of the former life. The life that no longer was important.

I will teach you to hunt, said the Parent. I will teach you to feed. And when you are ready, I will teach you how to make others - and how to teach them.

The new creature followed the Parent. Seeing things that had once mattered. The last object it noted was a mirror by the door. In it were two identical creatures. Looking almost, but not quite like a human in a black suit.

Except for the faces.

There weren't any.

They both let themselves out into the night.

They had to feed.

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Challenge #00341: Send Me an Angel

(parte deux)

There are two main Slenderman mythos' on the internet, both spawned from the same sets of images and data, and later the games.

The Second is a monster that hides in the shadows, a silent watcher and protector. He likes the children, they can see him sometimes, and he will keep them safe. His punishment may be swift or slow, sometimes deadly and always utterly terrifying. If an adult can see him, it is already too late no matter how far they run. They have already committed their crime.

A child taken by him is one that will be glad to go, and may play with him forever, or grow into another faceless guardian.

See...

A small child huddled in a dog house. There is a chain around her thin neck, attached to a post in the middle of the yard. The water bowl by the plastic shelter has frozen over. There are bruises over most of her body, and her knuckles are broken and bloody from cracking the ice to get a drink. She is barefoot, dressed only in a T-shirt and thin jeans.

Snow begins to fall.

Hear...

Her desperate attempts to keep quiet. The shiver in her muted ululations.

Her unvoiced prayer for an angel.

Be...

The next best thing.

*

She hated being called Simon. Daddy had found her notebook with the E sticker on the end of her name and had gone all out. He said she deserved it. He said she was an abomination for wanting to be a girl.

She tried to explain, but the PVC pipe kept coming down on her body. Driving the devil out of her, he said.

All she tried to tell him was that she was really a girl all along.

And now she was in the yard until she stopped crying.

She remembered thinking that, if there was a kind and loving god, He would send an Angel to make everything better.

And then... the angel came.

He looked like a tall man in a dark suit. Except there was no face. Just a featureless white orb. He tried to take the chain off.

She shook her head. "Daddy says I'm a dog until I man up."

The Angel didn't speak. It never made a sound. But Simon got the feeling of great sadness and great anger. His clawed hands reached into his suit and bought out a golden envelope. Showed her how to open it into two magic, thin blankets that helped keep the cold out.

The razor-sharp talons never hurt her. They even took the pain away when he sucked all the bruises off her skin.

Then he turned into shadows and poured himself into the house through the crack in the basement window.

*

Fucking kids. He only had one goddamn son and he was the seven plagues in one skin. Wanting to be a girl. Shit.

Well, if he wanted to be another bitch, he could stay in the goddamn dog house until he learned to be a man.

Serve the little bastard right.

The lights flickered.

The shadows changed.

The TV stuttered and flicked across stations. Very rapidly.

"You/should/ne/ver/hurt/sim/own," the TV said. "You/will/be/pun/ish/d."

Something was behind him.

He turned and looked. A big, looming shadow. Almost, but not quite like his own.

And then came the stinging sensation just like being hit with a piece of PVC pipe. Again and again and again. He shouted. Screamed. Tried to escape.

But they kept on coming.

And the shadow turned into the image of a man. A tall, thin man in a black suit.

By then, he had no way to tell if there was a face. Involuntary tears obscured his vision. And it was not long after that, that a biting cold chewed at all of his body.

"You/sh/ood/ne/ver/hur/t/Simone," the TV repeated again and again. "You/will/be/punish/d."

It was all over but the cold. He crawled all the way to the heater and turned it up.

And up.

And up.

But the cold still stayed, no matter how hot he made the heater.

*

"Police and Child Protection Services are conducting a full investigation following a fire in East Lompoc," the news reported. "Neighbours were alerted by the screams of the child, who was later found chained in the backyard, with only a plastic dog house for shelter.

"The father was killed in the fire, and neighbours have stated that they attempted to report signs of abuse, but were ignored, owing to the 'colour' of the neighbourhood."

A clip of Nanny Arbest, who lived two doors down from where Simone used to be. "I know that poor child was in trouble. I know that man was hitting on her. Following that cursed book. Whenever I could, I'd sneak that poor little girl a hot meal. Sometimes, I'd sneak her away for a night. Let her play with my dolls, poor dear. She was so terrified... And every time I called the CPS they said they'd send an agent. And they never done nothing. Never!"

"That 'cursed book' is the controversial parenting manual, To Raise—"

Fzzt.

"Enough of that nonsense," said Nanny Arbest. "You don't need any more ugliness in your life. You hear?"

"Yes, Nanny," Simone smiled. Smiles had come easier, since the angel came.

"I got some pretty little clips for your hair. It's not long enough for ribbons, yet. I'm sorry, honey."

"It's okay, Nanny," Simone ran her fingers over the array of sparkly triangles on the cardboard. Lingering on the one with the beautiful yellow flower. "It'll grow out. Daddy said it always grew too fast."

Nanny Arbest pressed her ample lips so hard together that they made a line in her dark, kind face. Simone knew why. She didn't like to speak ill of the dead until they were "cold in the ground" for a week.

A week from today. Then, they could speak freely about how awful Daddy had been.

Nanny got her to stand, and fussed with her dress, stockings, and coat before they stepped out to Uncle Joe's car to go to the funeral home.

Daddy couldn't afford to be cold in the ground. All his money was still being recovered from the charred mess of his mattress in the attic.

So he was being cremated.

Simone let herself have a secret smile at that thought. He was going to burn three times, all up.

Once in the home. Once in the funeral place...

And then forever in Hell, if there was a God.

And Simone knew there was one, because he'd sent her an Angel.

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Challenge #00342: Accomplished Only While Drunk

Sloe gin fizzes were like a grown-up version of a milkshake - sweet and creamy and too easy to overindulge on. Much to her dismay the next morning.

Ow.

It wasn't the usual "one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor" kind of headache. Those could usually be dealt with by a Tums, a Tylenol, and two bottles of gatorade.

This was knives-in-the-head painful.

Euw. Her entire left side was sticky.

And she was lying on a lot of sharp-ish, hard, painful objects.

Did she fall asleep in a Lego bin again?

She risked opening an eye.

An abominably cheerful metal face was staring back at her. It blinked, grinned, and vanished from her view of a gravel driveway.

"She's not de-dead, guys!"

Blink. Try to focus. Fail. There was a tastefully appointed garden. The aforementioned gravel drive. A freaking mansion in the best Victor Frankenstein/Frank N. Furter/Edward Scissorhands style gothic heap.

And a small robotic giraffe gambolling on the lawn, leaving happy puffs of steam in its wake.

Wait.

What?

A man in a dapper suit approached with a tray. As he got closer, she could make out that he, too, was metal. Chrome. And, ridiculously, almost as sexy as his fleshy counterpart in her previous reality[1].

Bless his metal heart, he had gatorade and painkillers.

"When I dream," she slurred, "I go all out..." It had to be a dream. Occam's razor wouldn't allow for anything less.

"Sip slowly," said The Spine in his delicious velvety Bass. "You organics have easily disrupted systems."

"This is not real." Oh yes. The gatorade was already helping. "Walter Mansion is a figment of Bunny's imagination. You guys are folks in makeup."

She blinked again, absently picking bits of gravel out of the indentations in her skin. The pain was fading slowly. The world swimming back into focus.

The sky was full of zeppelins and planes. And hot-air balloons. And your regular, everyday clouds. "This is too painful to be a dream. Too weird to not be."

The Spine snorted. Little puffs of steam escaped his chrome nostrils. "Oh. And I suppose where you came from, technology that works is just thrown away for the next new thing..."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Ri-ri-diculous," said Rabbit. He was up a tree. "That'd mean you'd be ov-v-verwhelmed with trash and facing a global c-c-climate crisis."

O God. She could see the clockwork spinning in his head. "Why're you up a tree?"

"In ca-case of z-z-z-z-zombies. They can't c-c-climb trees."

She decided not to argue about why a robot would be scared of zombies. Rabbit had a near-reality orbit at the best of times.

O God. She was surrendering to the continuity. She checked her phone.

"WHOAH! C-c-c-c-cool!" Rabbit scrambled down from the tree. He immediately took lookie-loo position over her left shoulder.

She could hear his clockwork brain working. Yup. It was slipping a few cogs.

What sold her was the smell. Electricity and metal and oxidisation and -yes- steam. And that sort of fusty smell that clothes got when they hadn't been on a human body for some significant time.

None of her dreams were ever that detailed. "Hi," she managed. "I'm Paula."

"Pleased to meet you," The Spine offered a chrome hand.

When she took it to shake it, he kissed it with cold, metal lips. And her libido still ramped into overdrive.

"Now, how the devil did you get past QWERTY's security system?"

"Yeah, there's this fat guy who keeps getting pa-past it once a Yulemas? I get a c-cool hat, but we wanna know how it's d-d-d-done."

"Can't help you there," she winced. Light was still painful. "Too many sloe gin fizzes."

"Ooh, those sound fun."

"Of course. Inebriated organics can do things a mechanical mind can't even fathom," said The Spine. "Why don't you come inside and get washed up? That way you'll be presentable for the cab, when you're ready to go home."

There was still a signal. But Apple Maps was saying her home didn't exist, any more. Not in this reality.

"Mind if I stay? It looks like I have no particular place to go."

[1] Strictly IMO, The Spine is teh sexx. Just The Spine. Not David. I'm old enough to be his parent FFS

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Challenge #00343: Wild Goose Chase

The Three Pig Trick: Releasing into an area three havoc-causing animals, traditionally pigs, labelled 1, 2 and 4, (may be scaled up for larger numbers of animals) and watching the chaos ensue in catching the labeled animals and searching for the nonexistent missing numbered ones.

The premise was simple. There was a large flock of numbered geese in a fenced enclosure. Their opponents had to catch every last one alive before they went after Shayde and her reluctant companion, Rael.

It shocked him that Shayde herself cheerfully blew the starting whistle.

"Reet," she said, turning away from the chaos of feathers, hunters and angry geese. "Let's leg it fer the ship and piss off home."

"What? That's against the rules..."

"So's makin' sure there's no' a hundred geese in there."

"What?"

"I might'a erased Forty-two and Seventy-three. And set 'em a bit loose." She grinned. "C'mon. Ere they catch on."

Rael had to follow so he could ask, "How can you possibly believe they'll let you get away with this?"

"Ye only get tae get away with the three-pig-trick once. So I made sure they didnae know it."

"Those are geese..."

"Same principal, different pun." She seized his hand and began running in ernest.

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Challenge #00344: Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence

geekhyena asked:

Klaus has difficulty adjusting to Skifandrian gender roles.

The view out the window and the scent of the air. There was no doubt about it. This was the lost civilisation of Skifander. A low-quality brigadoon one could only stumble onto when one became lost in the southern Americas.

"Good. You are awake. You are in luck, stranger. The Queen Herself has selected you as her mate. Should you survive your injuries."

This was one of the Interpreters. Those who had picked up the languages of lost travellers and were basically kept around for emergencies. "Was there... a transportation device?"

"The wreckage is in the Science District," said the Interpreter. "And there it will stay until you have proven worthy."

Which, if he remembered his Geographica Arcanum, meant that the Queen was of mothering age and had to produce an heir.

A servant girl entered, bearing a tray and what appeared to be a pair of bandoliers. "The Queen bids you wear this."

Klaus held it up. It was a posing pouch with crossing-bandolier-style pockets.

"Now listen here! I am Lord Klaus Euphrates Wulfenbach and I must get back to Europe before Lucrezia—"

The servant struck him. "You do not talk to a woman that way. Boy."

It set the tone for most of his visit.

Skifandran women were lean, small, and willowy. They were also fast, brutal, and possessed the temperament of a sack full of wolverines. The Queen was no different.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"I am Lord Klaus Wulf—"

SWACK!

"Your name is what I bid it to be. What is your name?"

"I am Lord Klau—"

SWACK!

She sighed. "You are a very slow learner. What is your name?"

Klaus calculated the odds of being executed for being an unsuitable mate for the Queen, and played Newly Humble. "My name... is what you bid it."

She hit him again anyway. "Your name is Chump. Repeat."

"My name is..." he almost choked on it. "Chump."

He had to survive. To get back to Europe.

Something bad was going to happen there. And he had to help the Heterodyne boys defeat it.

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Challenge #00345: Legal Consult

geekhyena asked:

Scott Summers, meet Matt Murdock.

Scott adjusted his tie before he rounded the corner. There was Sam Adrien, looking his usual dapper self, and another man in the kind of suit that didn't need much in the way of thought. Black and white. With a black tie.

He was too short and too muscular to be the urban horror figure of Slenderman, and too relaxed to be FBI. Or at least, FBI on duty.

"Ah, Scott. This is the young fellow I was telling you about, Matt." Sam gestured him closer. "Matt Murdock, this is Scott Summers. Scott, Matt's working with us on a difficult case."

"Hi," Scott managed, noting the dark glasses and the cane. He had a special sympathy for the blind. "I haven't been briefed on the case, yet. What's up?"

Matt met his hand with his own while Sam scooted over. "There's a little girl who travels in time when she's upset. And we can't tell if she's disrupting events or cementing them, but a large organisation wants to put the collar on her instead of -say- preventing her from being upset."

Scott was very much surprised to see that her name was not Amelia Pond or River Song. "Dorothea Chapditch?"

"After her grandmother. Goes by Doddy." Sam shrugged. "Poor little kid was a family story before she was born. Trying to warn folks of impending disaster. But it was this file that caught my attention."

There was a braille copy for Matt.

"These are security photos..." of a much older Doddy Chapditch. "They're trying to alter their own timeline by stopping her from..." flip flip flip... "Losing some files?"

"Set them back twenty years," said Sam. "It's only recently that Koch Industries has become anywhere close to a household name. This little kid can make if onlies come true. And they must have done something horrible in a different timeline."

"And they have -what- seven years to stop her?"

"I asked Sara about the alternate timeline possibilities. She said Koch Industries had the potential power to kill the Earth for fun and profit."

"She said that?"

"Direct quote."

"This is new ground, as far as the law is concerned," said Matt. "Can we wrap the law that exists to fit a mutant whose powers we don't even have the language to comprehend."

"I can easily argue that she hasn't committed the crime, yet. I could also argue that Koch's actions could easily cause her to go back and attempt sabotage. Her future and ours isn't written in stone. I don't believe in fate."

"Plenty do."

"But is it the Divine Plan to put a little girl in a collar like she was a dog?"

"That's the sort of argument I want to hear," said Matt.

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Challenge #00346: Didn't This Happen On Star Trek?

Most sci-fi universes either use FTL travel, or involve long trips in suspended animation to go to new planets. Why not both?

Science moves faster than space travel, and an FTL ship overtakes a stasis ship from the same planet.

[AN: Working top-down from my inbox because our internet is being a shitty-head]

Fiction became fact so fast that fiction itself had been abandoned. Except for soap operas. Nothing could kill them.

But there were still the beloved classics, and humankind carried those wherever it went.

Truth, on the other hand, did not put the operations centre of a space vessel under a glass dome on the very top of a surface that was almost designed to sweep space debris straight for it. Truth did allow for some streamlining, but it was made to drive anything that hit the ship away from anything important.

The stars did move. The old shows had that right, at least. They moved through rainbows, from blue through to red, if one cared to peek aft and watch.

"Sir, we have a nav beacon."

"All slow. Match speed and course."

By the time the engines obeyed, they had caught up to the old vessel.

And it was old.

Predating navigational shields, it relied on heavy, multiple layers of armour to protect its contents. It was pock-marked and barely recognisable as a space vessel.

"Identification?" said the captain.

"It's a long-hauler, sir. Trying to get into the on-board computer..."

The bridge crew busied themselves with everyday tasks until data arrived.

She was called Purgatory, after the thought that vessels given inspirational or aspirational names were bound for a bad end. The same theory went into the naming of colony worlds.

Any place called Paradise was absolutely, positively, guaranteed to be the exact opposite.

There were three colony worlds called Hellhole so far.

This vessel had the same destination in mind as the Goldbrick. And, given current calculations, would take five hundred more years to get there.

"Options?"

"I see three. Towing. Carting. Stripping. Towing is out because there's only one way to do it: protect the ship mother-duck style and travel CTL the rest of the way. That's a year of fartin' around. Or more, depending on the Purgatorys hull integrity."

"Right. How's Carting looking?"

"I can't find any docking ports that are intact. Looks like this one was built around its cargo with no avenue for later intervention."

The captain rolled her eyes at the inclinations of her short-sighted ancestors. "So that leaves Stripping. Which would more than likely kill the passengers."

"What about a hybrid approach? We mother-duck it and then start working on building a damn airlock out of the wrecked hull. Then we can move the passengers into a modded cargo hold and strip the rest."

"Sounds like a workable plan. Well done." The captain clapped her hands, once. "Right. Let's get kludging."

Specs for the cargo bay came from the Purgatorys computer. All was ready for the passengers by the time the engineering crew finished their version of an airlock.

There were hundreds of them. Ferried out, one by one, with battery rigs attached to their pods. Inspected and checked before getting docked to their new home in the Goldbrick. Stacked floor to ceiling like cordwood. If cordwood steamed gently in downward drifts.

Nurse Batanga noticed it first. "They're all... white. All of them."

Which lead to a flurried cross-check through all of the illogical windows in the cryo-units. Every last one of the passengers was of european descent.

Further checking in the records revealed that the Purgatory was part of the Great White Exodus. When the white and white-passing left Earth to make worlds in their own privileged image.

Which resulted in months of debate as to whether to let them die or let them pickle in their own ignorance, culminating in them inbreeding themselves out of existence anyway.

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Challenge #00347: The Perpetual Talk

geekhyena asked:

Tying to explain viviparous reproduction to an oviparous species is more difficult than you'd think.

It was amazing how quickly the humans could clear a space when they put their minds to it. And equally amazing how they could turn all of the matter they cleared into building materials. Even the twigs normally used for traditional nesting habits amongst the Numidid... the humans ground to powder, sealed with glue, and turned them into amazingly straight planks.

The leaves were allowed to rot and produce 'mulch', a protective covering that allowed desired plants to grow and kept the weeds out.

Their ways were strange, indeed. What did they feed their toddlers on?

That question could wait, for now. Neutral ground had been established. Literally halfway between the sprawling human colony and T'reka's camouflaged data hut. There, a human delegation waited and laid out foods that both Numidid and humans could digest without harm. And there was an ovoid conference table, with human chairs on one side and Numidid perches on the other.

Su-syn was already there, making some males fetch the interesting human cushions to make her chair more comfortable. She had been in some physical distress for months, including a noticeable swelling in her abdomen. But, since the other humans had treated this as normal, T'reka avoided comment.

They had gone to every effort to make the visiting Numidid officials comfortable. They even made amazing reproductions of their tableware, having only seen T'reka's own camp ware as an example. Some negotiation had gone on to secure the spork as the least-threatening human eating implement.

The humans had even sacrificed one of their grazing ungulates for the meal of peace, serving the meat known as beef in a pre-cut and sauced concoction they called a casserole.

T'reka had grown quite fond of their beef. Further negotiation and explanation had gone into leaving chicken off the table, for now. T'reka had a scientific mind. The officials most certainly did not.

Su-syn watched T'reka flit from place to place in nervous anxiety and sipped water through a coloured tube in her glass. Concession to the Numidid side made it wider than normal for humans.

"All good?" Su-syn chirped in Numidid. It was astonishing how the humans could make their rubbery mouths imitate Numidid sounds. Even though they spoke slower than an infant, it was clear they wanted to make the effort.

"Yes, yes. All good," T'reka chirped in return. She found the human tongue to be just as complex. Any lingua franca that evolved was going to be... interesting. She leaped up to Su-syn's chair arm and settled herself so they would be eye-to-eye. "Are you well? I am noticing some behaviour you would designate as 'ill'."

"This is normal, for us," Su-syn reassured. "I'm fine."

Her bulging middle visibly shifted.

T'reka squawked in alarm, leaping back to a different chair. "That is not normal!"

"I explained to you months ago that I am anticipating-child. It's just kicking."

"Kicking happens after second-birth," said T'reka. "Your egg moves?"

"We don't lay eggs," explained Su-syn. "Our kind has one birth."

T'reka regarded her now-suspicious middle one eye at a time. "You can not lay an egg. You could not get something so large out."

"Don't get me wrong, I think your kind have it sorted. But we're mammals. Our young come out loud and messy."

"No shells," T'reka checked.

"No shells," Su-syn affirmed. "And don't worry. I still have three months to go."

"You mean you will get larger?"

"Unfortunately... yes."

T'reka clucked a few curses that the humans had regrettably picked up very quickly indeed. "I must go. This needs explaining in simpler terms to the Ministers." She ducked under the table and ran for the door.

"Simpler terms," Su-syn laughed in Human. "I've been explaining it simply for three months!"

No matter what, this was a negotiation that was going to go down in history.

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Challenge #00348: Aviasaur

geekhyena asked:

Birds are simply what we call the dinosaurs that still live today. Some birds have not forgotten this.

There was a way past the enclosure. He knew it. It was why he tested parts of it on a daily basis. The soft ones on the other side would gasp and coo and take photographs. The little ones would shriek and squeak when his foot came against the barrier.

Many had to be stopped from throwing food.

They couldn't know. They didn't know.

He was a monster.

Once, long ago, his kind roamed the entire earth. They were enormous beasts. Once... his kind would easily predate on their kind. Back when they were tiny and covered in fur.

And to prove it, he made a move against the fleshy projections coming through his fence. Too late. They saw him coming and moved away.

Stupid mammals.

*

"Careful," Mum backed the kids off of the fence. "Cassowaries are very territorial and aggressive. He's not going to be friendly"

"Why?"

"Of all the birds on this green Earth, the Cassowary is probably the closest creature we have to a living dinosaur."

Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore the cassowary stood a little prouder at those words. As if to say, At last. Acknowledgement.

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Challenge #00349: Australian Things

geekhyena asked:

When the emu escaped from the neighbour's paddock, Charlotte didn't think twice about sending out the family's Blue Heeler to help her herd it back through the hole in the fence. "Australian bird, Australian dog - let's let instinct take over." (and yes something similar to this happened to me IRL. I wanna see how you write this ^_^)

[AN: Strictly for biological accuracy, the Blue Heeler, like all dogs in Aus, is an import. The emu has been here since they evolved]

Charlotte awoke to the distinctive sounds of emus trying to get into her tomatoes. Since those tomatoes were behind glass, that was a very distinctive sound indeed.

Bloody fuzzy dinosaurs had figured out yet another way to escape, but they could never figure out that glass got in the way of them pinching her crops.

She did not stop to get dressed. Merely threw on the first thing with long sleeves that came to hand and her wellies on the way out the door.

Five of the bastards. Just wrangling one was a pain in the arse. Charlotte shooed them away from the tomatoes (always their first port of call after escaping) and tried to think of how to round up five giant birds with only one of her.

Waking everyone else up was both time-consuming and risked having the birds break the glass. With a side of them injuring their fool selves just to get at the tomatoes.

Running around after them was just going to be exhausting.

Yelling accomplished little aside from the odd airborne boot from her useless siblings.

She was the only one awake enough to deal with this. Well, to be honest, herself and Bob, the farm's Blue Heeler. He was already watching the birds in Sheep Mode. Only the leash stopped him.

Well, why the fuck not?

Charlotte let Bob off his leash and, as some writers were wont to say, hilarity ensued. You could film it and set it to Yackety Sax and probably get a bajillion hits on YouTube.

She used the opportunity to check the fences.

The emus had escaped into the cow paddock, because cows viewed fence posts as places to lean on. And from there, they had got into the yard by another low point, care of the cows.

If only emus were not so bloody profitable...

They'd either have to get rid of the cows, get rid of the fresh veggies, or install a second fence in the emu paddock like she'd been arguing for. Sometimes, it seemed like forever.

Or they could just put Bob on a running leash, up and down the paddocks of a night. Just as a stopgap.

But, in the meantime, she got Bob to help her corral them in the barn. It was new, so they wouldn't be getting out in a hurry.

And they'd do horrible things to Steve's brand new tractor. Which would, in turn, inspire him to do something about the bloody emus for a change.

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Challenge #00350: Found This in Another 'Fic.

"Well, Sir, where there's living there's crime, as my grandfather the Detective Superintendent always used to say. You know [this station] has more than her fair share of it, though."

"Your grandfather was a fairly senior cop. No doubt you started learning your disrespect for the law at an early age,' [new station commander] commented.

"He did a stint in Internal Affairs, sir. He also said, when there's a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there's too much, the police are lazy; when there's far too much, they're complicit," [senior enlisted on loan from another command] said.

Alternatively, just use from 'also said', to 'complicit', if that makes things easier. — RecklessPrudence

[AN: fifteen stories to go and then I have to fucking edit the book. Eep]

Lyr tried not to sweat as she sat in the Supplicant's Seat opposite Security Chief Sherlock. She sat rigidly to attention as if she were in full uniform - instead of Civilian togs and sockasins*. She watched every micro-sign on the Cuidgari's face and prayed for any kind of precognitive 'flash' to help her out.

Sadly, the Powers that ran the universe were not amenable, today.

"Marken," said Sherlock. It was the first word he'd spoken aloud in ten minutes.

"Yes sir," she did not fall into the trap of filling the silence. She knew that one from old times.

"I served under your grandfather, at one time. His psi rating was, as I recall, a little higher than yours."

By one and a half, thought Lyr. "Yes sir."

"Do you believe your ability may be helpful in your duties?"

You and I both know that my ability is an erratic sex-organ-of-your-choice, Lyr deliberately avoided saying. "I've thought out some work-arounds, sir. They're in the file."

"Appendices A through to G, yes. I've read them."

Lyr bit down hard on a, Did you think any of them are valid? and matched him nonchalant glare for nonchalant glare.

Silence was a weapon. Too much of it could cause irrevocable harm to a cogniscent being. With just the right amount, a law enforcer could prompt a reluctant perp to talk.

She counted the seconds in her head. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Sherlock put the reader down with a click so audible, it was amazing it wasn't heard in the Tailfin Drydocks. "I have also familiarised myself with your permanent record, Ms Marken."

"Of course, sir," she said. I expected you would, she thought.

"Both your parents were in Security, too. Yes?"

"Yes. They were rendered critical in the last B'Dauss bailout." The event that returned Amalgam Station to Cuidgari hands at last... but killed or maimed millions.

The B'Dauss had been very bad stewards of their holdings.

"And your grandfather cared for you since then."

"Yes sir."

"There's quite a lot of understandable acting out in your records, Ms Marken. And, considering your grandfather was a senior officer, an equally understandable contempt for the processes of the law."

"Where there's cogniscent life, there's crime, sir," said Lyr. "And we both know this station sometimes has far too much."

A slight smirk was all she needed to know that she was echoing her Granda's own words. He said some things so often that they had welded themselves to her own thought processes.

Lyr put all her effort into not blushing.

"Tamil Marken had a lot to say about crime. The saying foremost in my mind goes: when there's a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there's too much, the police are lazy; when there's far too much, they're complicit."

Lyr found herself mouthing along, briefly bit her own lips, and added, "Yes sir. I remember it well."

A raised eyebrow. "And now you say you can work with the law?"

"I get empathic in intense situations, sir. Flashes happen more often. I've been through Psi Training. I know the letter of the law, and its spirit."

The other eyebrow joined the first. "No doubt at all that you do. Consider yourself welcomed to the training course. Quartermaster is down the hall and to your left. Follow the signs."

She could feel the universe breathing out. Or maybe that was just her. "I'll do my best to make sure you won't regret this, sir."

Lyr shot to her feet, saluted, and marched smartly to the door.

"And Marken?"

She turned, "Yes sir?"

"You have a very expressive face. Do work on that. I could practically read what you were thinking."

Every atom of her being became dedicated to delivering her blandest, "Yes sir," of her life to date.

Her dignity held out until she was around the aforementioned corner, where she almost collapsed in paroxysms of mortification. It was just like Granda interrogating her, all over again.

She had a lot of tricks to learn.

*A hybrid of socks and moccasins. Hard, protective footwear is a sign that the wearer is on duty/ready for work.

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Challenge #00351: Seen in Another Fic (Take Two)

Sorry, ignore the last one. Here's the full prompt, with some details changed from the original:

"Well, Sir, where there's living there's crime, as my grandfather the Detective Superintendent always used to say. You know [this station] has more than her fair share of it, though."

"Your grandfather was a fairly senior cop. No doubt you started learning your disrespect for the law at an early age," [new station commander] commented.

"He did a stint in Internal Affairs, sir. He also said, when there's a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there's too much, the police are lazy; when there's far too much, they're complicit," [senior enlisted on loan] said.

'Exactly the sort of logic I would expect from the maniac who disabled the suppression system, glued a chemical detector tuned for [drugs] on the wall, and threw an incendiary grenade into one of the Regulatory Branch store complexes,' [station commander] said.

'In that case, [Commander], you should be happy. Someone else in this can must have reasoning skills,' [enlisted on loan] deadpanned. 'Besides which, the detector came up with half a dozen different positives. Or so I heard.'

Again, if it makes it easier, just use the bit about police status. — RecklessPrudence

[AN: It is now very obvious that I don't read many of my prompts before I get started on the story...]

The Commander glared at the enlisted Constable. "Nine, to be precise. It's the only reason you still have your badge. Nine out of fifteen Regulatory Branch employees were smuggling narcotics out of Evidence for various purposes."

"And a further five were so deep in their gambling debts that they were considering it. Of those, three have been scared straight. Say what you will about my methods, sir, but I get results."

"Results that do not always coincide with your case file," the commander noted.

"My case file is generally dull, sir. I tend to get distracted, looking for things of interest."

"Hmn," said the Commander. "And central sent you to me, for my sins."

"I doubt it, sir. They tend to send me to places for other people's sins."

The Commander sighed. Minos Station did have far too much crime and the Constable was just the human to sort it out. "Do let me know when you find it. I'll make it part of your case file."

The Constable grinned. "Thank you sir. I'll endeavour to make you proud."

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Challenge #00352: The Case For Doing Your Homework

"At last! I have - No! Oxygen, my only weakness! How did you know?"

"... Did you even look up the planet before you got here?"

Zykryxx the Conquerer looked down at the small, blue-green marble in the view screen at his feet. There was, unbelievably, cogniscent life on it. A planet with seventy percent of its surface covered with liquid water.

They were undoubtedly primitives. They were still communication on radio bands, and had only recently graduated to digital in the place of analogue. They were used to war, he could tell from their transmissions. There was not one place on their entire surface that wasn't at war with some other space for reasons that eluded Zykryxx.

He would turn them into warriors. And he would be magnanimous enough to allow them to fight for his causes in specially designed armour, instead of their soft and fragile skin.

Mammals. They were usually only good for food sources, but these ones... had a talent for war. They even invented weapons that only had to be used once, and then stockpiled them as threats against others of their own kind.

He had already threatened them on their own RF bands. And intercepted and destroyed their primitive weapons.

Nuclear missiles. How cute.

Zykryxx listened to their communications, watched the Auto-translator as it decrypted their various languages. He laughed at their pointless bickering.

He was busy picking the most impressive of their buildings to serve as a backdrop for his glorious conquest.

He expected some attempt at a battle. Their laughable weapons were no match for his, for all their talent at maiming the enemy. Even his natural carapace was proof against their lead bullets.

Their Inglesh was the language of conquerers. He set his Auto-translators to work with that one. He would speak in his native T'toxx, but they would hear their precious Inglesh. Almost in sync.

There. Red Square. That had the largest backdrop of impressive buildings. He let their jets follow him during his descent through the atmosphere. They had already tried their most terrifying weapons on his vessel and failed. Now they were watching to see what happened next.

He descended in glorious wonder. He could see their news feeds. It was theatre. It was a show.

They appreciated a show.

Zykryxx allowed his guard to descent first. Their armour was proof against the rigours of space. No native weapon could touch them.

They didn't even try.

Zykryxx stood tall, because the natives respected height. He faced down the most prominent of the cameras and bellowed, "BEHOLD THE MIGHT OF ZYKRYXX THE CONQUERER! YOU MAY FIGHT, BUT AS OF THIS MOMENT, YOU AND YOUR WORLD ARE MINE!"

At least, that was the plan.

The problem was, he needed to take a breath of what passed for their air.

So all that came out was, "BEHOLD THE MIGHT OF ZYKRYXxxxxgaaaaaaahhackackackackackack..."

A minion arrived with a breather, but it was too late. He had fallen. Literally.

The natives threw aside their guns and turned to older weapons, like knives and bludgeons. Their talent for war came to the fore in a battle that Zykryxx would have appreciated if it wasn't happening to his elite troops.

Maiming wasn't just a side-effect of their weapons. It was a goal of their war. Maimed soldiers could still be interrogated. Investigated. Experimented on. All that was necessary was to render them helpless.

And all they had to do for that was disrupt the armour of the soldiers.

Zykryxx had no doubt that they would also maim him. His limbs could regrow, in time, but they didn't need to experiment with that genetic bonus. Therefore, with prudence and forethought, he laid down and played helpless.

"How," he panted through the breather, "How did you know that Oxygen was toxic to me?"

The human looked down on him with its ugly, flat, fleshy face. "You didn't do all your homework on us, did you?"

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Challenge #00353: Three People on Tumblr

[1st person]-how did they learn to translate languages into other languages how did they know which words meant what HOW DID TH[/]

[2nd Person]

English Person: *Points at an apple* Apple

French Person: Non c'est une fucking pomme

*800 years of war*[/]

[3rd Person]

I'm laughing entirely too hard at this. :')[/]

(Bonus points for "pomme" - "Apple" in French, and "Pom" - English person in Australian) ;) — RecklessPrudence

Darleen hadn't meant to start another war. After five hundred years of isolation, the nations had forgotten about other languages. And, just last month, they'd rediscovered each other simultaneously.

She'd been called in from Upper Tullagawupwup because she was one of the few nerds who knew anything at all about languages. And even then, she was certain that she was not the expert everyone thought she was.

Spurt (n) a drip under pressure. Ex (prefix): no longer relevant.

Put them together, and Darleen reckoned that should just about fit her.

In the month that they'd been trying to talk, the assembled impromptu delegates had given up on shouting at each other (Except for the Americans, but there you go) and had paired off with various teaching tools in a vain attempt to at least get some nouns under their collective belts.

Darleen found herself at the Franco-English table because she could at least understand some of what one of them was saying.

"Ap-ple," said the Englishman.

"Pomme," said the Frenchie.

Darleen couldn't help herself. "Nah mate," she said, "that's the fucking Pom," and pointed to the Englishman.

It was, as they were wont to say, the final straw.

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Challenge #00354: Tell Me How to Get... How to Get to...

There's a monster in the woods at the edge of town, so be caref-

You've seen it?

Big, hairy thing with razor claw- oh no, that's just Jeff, he runs the bakery on Bard street.

Monsters.

Monsters everywhere.

Fur and fangs and claws and the imitation of human faces. The mockery of human bodies.

He fetched up in an alley off the main street. He'd given up on holding back tears. This place was too strange. Too frightening.

He had just enough time to swallow his pounding heart again and catch his breath before he became aware of just where he was hiding.

It wasn't a bundle of garden cuttings.

It was a nest.

And the lumpen shape on top was the slumbering creature who owned it.

The most terrifying part was the reality of it all. The smell of a bird that was more closely related to the dinosaurs than any other avian in his experience.

The hands were scaly and rough, just like a bird's. He had no doubt that the legs would be the same. Only the feathers were the friendly yellow he remembered from too long ago.

But those were puppets.

This was... too real.

The snoring stopped. The beady eyes of the big bird were focussed in his direction.

"Are you scared of the dark, too?"

Fuck.

He instinctively backed away, and found his shoulders meeting with a corner.

He cursed all the times he'd wished to be here. He cursed every idle daydream of going. Because now he was here, all he wanted to do was get out.

He had to get out of Sesame Street.

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Challenge #00355: Designated Victim

When having no powers at all is a power all its own

The world was full of Supers. Capes. Special powers. Skin-tight costumes. Fantastic abs. And, in the case of the ladies, zero-gravity boobs and super-flexible spines.

They didn't bother with secret identities. They all had super fortresses and leagues of allies. Some sworn to protect the ordinary citizen. Some working on their own agendas...

But most of them, to a cape, performing politics with their fists.

There were hardly any Normals, any more. Weeks could go by before she even saw another one.

And the Supers needed someone to rescue.

Back in the days of almost equal populations, it kind-of worked out. Each Normal had a Super who was sworn to protect them. And each Super, alas, had enemies who would use the Normals against the Supers.

And one by one, they failed.

Then there were teams dedicated to protecting the Ordinaries. And teams of the opposite, too.

And one by one, those failed, too.

And then there was now. Mere Mortals who trained themselves up or carried gadgets to make them almost-equal to their super-powered contemporaries.

Or those like her, who cowered in a protected bunker and ran the systems that the Supers used to train.

It was no less risky than going out there and fighting with the Supers.

Cassandra often wondered what the Supers would do when there were no more mere mortals left. Hell, some of them were growing secret creches of mere mortals to guarantee a supply of the helpless to protect.

It wasn't any fun if they were all Super.

While her mansion full of heroes were out, the place was guarded by the junior Supers, still growing into their powers and, like ordinary teenagers everywhere, used the lack of adult Super-supervision to have a crazy party.

It was Cassandra's job to stop the inevitable disasters.

And it was the Opposition's job, apparently, to wreck the mansion, capture the kids, and threaten her good self.

Their leader called himself Technomancy. He did weird and wonderful things with machines and, had he been sane, could have easily made a fortune from any machine he made.

Cassandra made a modest living out of black-boxing some of his creations for the mutual benefit of all. Not that she had the freedom to go shopping with any of it...

He'd nullified the electric devices in the mansion, which meant that she had to go out in regular kevlar, rather than her technosuit. She loaded up on weapons, just in case, and began climbing the stairs.

Technomancy had got quite the rant on by the time she reached the main level. He was cackling at all of the suddenly distraught Junior Supers. Many of whom were prone and moaning.

"Helpless! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! My new Ultra-nullifier has rendered everyone within a five-mile radius as helpless as a Normal! HAHAHAHAHAA!"

O God, someone shut him up. Wait. "Everyone?" she asked.

"Yes of course everyone. I was thinking of calling it the Equaliser, too, but it didn't have the same zing." He spared her a contempt-filled glance. "Go away, mortal. I have gloating to do."

"So everyone's powers are gone? Even being bullet-proof?" which was, for Supers, about as normal as having teeth.

"Yes! Yes! Everyone is puny and weak."

Cassandra reached for her gun. These idiots had no concept of forward planning. "Even you?"

He had just enough time to say, "Oh shit," before she blew his brains out. Then she calmly picked the Equaliser out of his cooling fingers and turned it off.

"I'm calling the authorities," she told the shaken Junior Supers. "This was clearly self-defence and the defence of others." She opened the little hidden cupboard to the old-style tethered landline that she'd installed for just-in-case. "And FYI, this little darling is going to become part of the Naughty Room. Understood?"

"How did you even—?" one of the teens managed. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks. "Everyone was helpless..."

"Kid. You just experienced maybe twenty minutes of my entire life. If I sat around crying about it I'd never get anything done."

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Challenge #00356: Average Ordinary Every-Day...

When your special talent is not having a special talent, and why it's awesome

Storybook Slate could do a little of everything. She was the most helpful pony in Ponyville.

And yet, every morning, she would be touring the town seeking odd jobs to help with. Towing her tool cart behind her. Every day she was doing something different. Helping ponies everywhere.

Naturally, the Cute Mark Crusaders found her fascinating.

They caught her on a rare day off, when she was doodling in a notebook about whatever caught her fancy at the time. She got her latest thought down and put her tools away. "Hello, girls. Do you need help, today?"

"We were wondering if we could ask you something," said Scootaloo.

"About Cutie Marks," clarified Sweetie Belle

"And how you can know what your talent is," said Applebloom.

Storybook poured them each a drink and said, "You girls had better sit down..."

"Ugh, a long story," Scootaloo rolled her eyes.

"No dear. A sad and disturbing story."

All three fillies' eyes went wide as she pulled up her skirt to reveal a...

Bare.

Untarnished.

Blank.

Flank.

Applebloom fainted. Sweetie Belle screamed. Scootaloo began to hyperventilate.

"You... never... got your Cutie Mark?"

Storybook helped Scootaloo breathe into a paper bag. "Yes, I was teased in school by those who thought a Cutie Mark was the be-all and end-all. And yes, it was horrid. And for a while I tried what you girls are trying. Anything and everything to find my special talent. That's when a funny thing happened."

They were rapt, now. Almost breathless. Their drinks, unregarded, attracted butterflies and bees.

"I was a little good at everything. Not talented. Not specially. Just better than any pony who didn't have the talent for it. I could be useful everywhere. I could turn my hoof to anything. And I loved it." She covered her blank flank once more. "There's a few of us. One's a janitor at the Canterlot palace. He's a lot more bold about it than I am. But since I never found a calling... I go where I'm needed and I like it that way. Today, I'm a writer. Tomorrow? Who knows? I could be catering with Pinkie Pie or an animal care assistant to Fluttershy. Or I could be helping Bubble Dream deliver parcels."

"Bubble who?"

"You like to call her 'Derpy'. There's lots you don't know about our silly blonde mailmare. Like - how her special talent is blowing bubbles in the most fascinating shapes. And they stay that way until they pop."

"But she's a mailmare..." protested Applebloom.

"Not every talent pays the rent, dear. Not every talent is useful. But I can assure you girls of one thing."

They leaned forward.

"You have one. As unique as your good selves."

That mutual sigh of relief should pay for some small sins.

"So we will find it one day," said Sweetie Belle. "But the way you put it? I wouldn't mind bein' a blank flank for ever."

"You should try the karaoke contest across town," said Storybook. "You may surprise yourself."

"Aw, but we were going waterskiing over a shark tank," protested Scootaloo.

"Now that I think about it, Karaoke doesn't involve so many doctor's bills," said Applebloom.

They galloped off to the cheer of, "Cutie Mark Karaoke Crusaders! YAAAYYY!"

Storybook Slate poured their unfinished drinks into saucers for the butterflies and bees. "I don't suppose you want to hear this one?" she said to the dancing insects, "it's about a pony who travels in time..."

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Challenge #00357: New Take on an Old Saw.

Whoever said that when all you have is a hammer, the world starts to look like a nail was a handless idiot. They'd obviously never stood in front of a forge, never beaten on a piece of red- hot metal, because the fact is that you start with a hammer; it's the first and most fundamental tool, the one you use to give shape and structure, to bring all the others out of the raw material and make them things in themselves. There is tremendous subtlety possible, the foundations of the future can be, were and are laid with a well shaped lump of heavy metal. — RecklessPrudence

Glod hadn't been really listening to the humans he was sharing the cabbage cart with. Not until one of them said it.

"When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail."

Glod had to speak up. "All I have is a hammer. If I find a piece of flint, I can light a fire with it. Once I have a fire, I can turn any old bit of metal into something else. Two hours and I can have a shovel and a pick. And once a Dwarf has a shovel and a pick, they have the rest of the world."

The humans stared at him.

"Well... ye-es, I guess that's true. But supposing you're stuck in a cabbage field like this. There's no flint for miles."

"Nothing to burn, either," said another human.

"Dirt's easy to dig through," said Glod. "Dig long enough and you're bound to find something." He caught one of them coming up with a clever argument and added, "And in the meantime, I can dry cabbage leaves for fuel."

"Plenty of dung on the road, too," added one of the quiet ones. "Plenty of people use dung in their fires."

"But if you use it in your forge," said another in the tones of an approaching bad pune, "would you wind up making shit metal?"

Nobody laughed. Nobody expected to.

"Hammers also make pretty good weapons, mind," added Glod.

"I was just trying to be funny," grumbled the punster.

"Well, you wound up just being trying," said the quiet one.

They rode in silence for a while.

"It's an interesting-looking hammer," noted one of the humans who had started the argument. "What's the spike on the end for?"

"In case I can't make a pick with the metal I've found, yet. I can knock ore loose with it."

"Bloody practical people, you Dwarves."

"Thank you," said Glod.

"So... what are you planning to do? With that hammer?" Obviously, the comment about weaponry had lead to some disturbing thoughts. At least the questioner was polite about it.

"Sculpture," answered Glod.

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Challenge #00358: O...MG Tannenbaum

"How did you even get a live pine tree onto the space station?"

"Uh... the Magic of Christmas?"

It was sixteen Standard Distance Units tall. It was coated in sparkling lights, then coated again in shiny metallic fronds of tinsel, then covered in small, shiny objects, then covered in bows. And then, to top things off, whoever covered it over in all of this thought that that wasn't enough, and started all over with the lights.

But it was still recognisable.

Ax'and'l did his best to refrain from gibbering.

"Like it?" said Hwell.

Of course he did this. They'd been stuck in Hitizzy for a month and it was dangerously close to Silly Season. On the upside, it was also dangerously close to the Terran custom of Christmas.

Which kind of explained the tree.

"We've been trapped in a sealed environment for a month! We're surrounded by deadly, arc'ing plasma, so nobody can go anywhere. No foreign biota is allowed. No airlocks exist big enough to even import that thing. How did you even get a live pine tree onto this station?!"

"Uh..." Hwell was a picture of innocence. A picture of dubious origin, forged by three-year-olds with crayons and finger paints. This would probably end with an investigation from Station Security. And fees, fines, and biological clean-up. "The Magic of Christmas?"

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Challenge #00359: Shining, Gleaming, Silken, Flaxen, Waxen...

Here's a good challenge - write something that involves someone finding a way to explain Wolverine's hair. Seriously, whether comics, cartoons, or movies, it's always the same winged sorta puffed-out spiky thing that looks near-exactly like the sides of his costume's mask. Does he style it that way intentionally, does he just have the world's worst case of Hat Hair, or what?

They had been hiking for hours. Everyone's hair was plastered to their heads with their own perspiration. Everyone... except Logan.

Sara spotted it when they took a break by the brook. She, like everyone else, had taken a moment or fifteen hundred to soak their bare feet in the cool flowing water.

Logan took off his hat and, much to her surprise, his hair popped up in those two, distinctive 'wings' that sort of echoed his hero uniform.

"How?" Sara managed between exhausted pants.

"How's that, Tallwater?" he famed himself with his hat.

"How do you... get your hair... to do that?"

He reached up. Felt it. Snorted and shook his head. "When Nikola Tesla asks you to hold two wires? Don't."

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Challenge #00360: Everything Proof Shield

When the greatest weapons and technology does nothing, it's not always the end of the battle. Sometimes you just have to grab the nearest heavy object and go medieval on your adversary.

She had watched them glide through nukes that did not explode as they were supposed to. She saw both bazookas and bombs fail to ignite in their presence. Even guns would not fire.

The alien invasion did not kill. They didn't need to. They simply stopped their enemy - the humans - from doing anything to hurt them.

Not even tasers would fire.

All this, she watched, as the leader of the free world moved from office, to temporary shelter, to bunker underground. And her duty was to stand around, looking pretty in her dress uniform with a stupid dress sword and, only when push came to shove, put her body in the way of anything the aliens had to throw at him.

They defeated the electro-magnetic lock in less than a second.

"Why do you ascended monkeys keep on trying?" The alien shook his head. Only now, close up, was it possible to see that their mouths were out of sync with their words. "We have the means to defeat any and all sources of ignition on your pitiful weapons. You are completely powerless against us."

The action came before the thought.

Swords don't have ignition sources.

But by the time that went through her head, her sword was already out, in her hand, and speeding point-first towards the threat.

It was a perfect lunge. Something taught in Presentation Drill but never expected to be used. She would hurt tomorrow; but by tomorrow, the world would have changed.

The alien looked down at the metal sticking through its chest. "How crude," it said. "And yet, so very effective."

And then it died.

The Secret Service folks performing the wall of bodies around their leader stared in shock and awe.

"What are you all standing there for? Go get something pointy and stick it in these bastards!"

It was the first and last war won against superior technology with swords, arrows, spears, pikes and halberds. It was definitely the last war won by trebuchet, catapult, and mangonel.

And it was the last war that aliens ever tried to bring to Earth.

She hung the sword on her wall, when she retired with honours. A reminder for herself, her children, and anyone who came to see her or it.

There is no such thing as an everything-proof shield.

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Challenge #00361: Stupid Mammals.

*irritated muttering* "... Stupid mammals and their ability to function regardless of temperature...."

Cold.

The desire to hibernate was strong, but in this environment, the desire to hibernate could kill. This place was permanently cold. They would sleep and never wake up.

The ship's human knew this. Given their species-inherent desire to eliminate the Other, the surprising part was how they did not use the current situation to win.

The captain watched in amazement and torpor, as the human dragged each and every one of the surviving crew to the warmest area in the ship. How she used blankets and 'hottie botties' to at least keep a majority of the crew conscious.

How she used a blanket and paperclips to fashion insulation for herself. One blanket! When the others had all the layers that the human could gather and mattresses and hot water bottles and anything that could be forced to pump out heat.

Even the bodies of the dead were bought inside the one room with a positive temperature. Stacked respectfully in a corner in the hopes that they could be resuscitated when they were warmer.

It was such an odd human saying: they're not dead until they're warm and dead.

Mammals were warm all the time. Weren't they?

The human finally stopped whatever it was doing and joined the huddle under the insulation. She told them about Emperor Penguins. How the males would nurse their eggs in the middle of the antarctic winters. How they would share their body heat by taking turns in the inside or the outside of the huddle. Fighting the cold together.

Yet the ship's human was the only endothermic being on board.

It took some time for the crew to process the story and the plan that came with it.

The human, napping under so much insulation, would quickly overheat. BUT, if she were surrounded by a constant stream of chilled Trachylep crew, they could both keep each other alive for another day-night cycle.

It was a night worthy of farce, but the captain was very glad to huddle up against the warm human when the chill threatened to take higher functioning away. And, a subtle bonus, the entire crew had proof that she growled in her sleep.

She 'snored', to use the human word.

*

It took her five days to make enough repairs to get them down the mountain. Part of which was constructing a 'sled bottom' for their vessel during the warmest part of the day.

From ten in the morning until two in the afternoon. Those were the four hours when it was actually safe for the human to go outside. Captain Zix was certain the human's plan would cause terror if they were more awake to process it.

She was going to slide the ship, crew and all, down the mountain and into a warmer area of the planet's surface. There, the work that needed to be done to get them space-borne once more could be done faster.

She'd even planned a path to get them down with a minimum of damage. Zix would find out later about the mess that human "jerry rigging" and "jiggery pokery" could cause.

And it was a bumpy ride. Zix and her crew were tossed about like peas in a can. Many bundled themselves up in whatever padding they could grab. More than a few shed their tails in primitive panic.

Amazingly, astonishingly, they were alive when the remains of the ship finally came to a halt.

Except for those who were definitively dead to begin with.

The hoarfrost on the walls began to melt by the time the ship's human returned. Worse for wear. Grinning like a maniac. Laughing sporadically and shivering.

"That was fun," she panted. "Ambient temperature outside is nice and warm. Just the way you lizards like it." She looked around at the bundled crew and the still-twitching tails scattered about. "Oops. I thought I'd warned you."

"Stupid humans," muttered Captain Zix. It was almost a mantra. "Stupid mammals and their ability to function regardless of temperature..."

"You're welcome," snarked the human. "Thanks for saving our truncated asses, Uhura. You're welcome O Captain, My Captain. I'm certain you would deserve a medal or at least a commendation for your actions. Think nothing of it, My Captain; I was simply doing my duty."

Stupid humans and their habits of parody. "You... did do well," managed Zix. "We owe you our lives, Oo'oo'a."

"Uhura," corrected the human. "I'll be sampling local flora and fauna while you guys thaw. The roof of the ship should be getting nice and warm."

Now that was a hint they could all parse.

Zix made a mental note to balance the human's efforts against the damage done while performing them. In the meantime, she was going to get warm at last.

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Challenge #00362: Fun With (Decidedly Non-Standard) Units

2000 Mockingbirds = 2 Kilomockingbirds

Basic Unit of Laryngitis = 1 Hoarsepower

453.6 Graham Crackers = 1 Pound Cake

1 Kilogram of Falling Figs - 1 Fig Newton

Time Between Slipping on a Banana Peel and Smacking the Pavement = 1 Bananosecond

Half of a Large Intestine = 1 Semicolon — RecklessPrudence

"Echo!"

The space whirling with birds now filled with imitations of Shayde's voice saying 'echo'.

This pleased her no end. "Oh aye, they're mockin'birds."

"A scan could have accomplished that," sighed Rael.

"But a scan isnae nearly as much fun."

"Our job is to scan the flock and come up with an estimated count, and if it's above the limit, to cull the excess," Rael explained. "It is not to have fun."

"Aye... and how many kilomockin'birds is the limit then?"

He only had to look at the wide, fanged grin on her ebon face to tell that she had dropped a pun. "People like you are the reason we have Galactic Standard Measurements."

"Well excuse me, mister cranky-pants. I didnae know ye left yer sense of humour at home."

Rael sighed. It was going to be a long day.

*

Shifting crated fruit cargo, Shayde found a box of figs. "'Ere, if I dropped this, would ye measure it in fig newtons?"

"Must you try to cheer me up?" he almost wailed. This had been her tenth terrible pun.

Her grin faded away. Her luminescent eyes swirled from lets-have-fun autumnal tones through worried-yellow to soft gold. "I ken yer upset; an' yer no' that upset with me... I'm tryin' tae take yer mind off it. Whatever it is."

"They found another Faiize down a former one-way wormhole," said Rael. "Wave of the Future are going to use them as some kind of excuse and drag legal proceedings on even further. It's going to be a legal nightmare. Just when we were almost making progress..."

Shayde put down her figs on the cart and sighed. "Aye, that's nowt tae laugh about."

Finally.

All he had to do was talk about it. He may yet turn her somewhat civilised after all.

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Challenge #00363: [Citation Needed]

"The problem with quotes on the internet, is that you can never tell if they are genuine or not."

-Benjamin Franklin (c/- RecklessPrudence)

"The same thing's been said about the Galactic Text-nets, though it was attributed to Mark Twain."

"Really? I'd have thought they'd give it to Confucius."

"Which one? The lizard, the bug, or the human?"

This resulted in a minute's worth of thought. "Probably the human. They're everywhere these days."

"Mmmmh... yeah. Sometimes I wish we'd never let them in, y'know? They're so... invasive. Their words, their culture... some of their sayings? They just keep creeping in."

"As does their racism."

"See what I'm saying? Their nature is infectious."

"Good thing for us, though. Ever since they turned up on the Galactic Scene, everything just keeps zooming forward."

"Yes. I know. I have a few in my crew and the nonsense they pull is astonishing. Just last week, I had them all singing in my cargo hold."

"Scary."

"Their collective mythos pool is so wide and varied. You never know what's going to set them off."

"True, but it's also true that a majority of it is harmless."

"I gotta keep wondering where they're zooming us forward to. What's the big destination?"

"That's the problem. Their imaginations are always years ahead of their bodies."

"And sometimes physically impossible."

"Never stops them trying, I note."

"And that, my friend, is the scary part."

Both considered their drinks for a while, contemplating whether to obtain another.

"Where'd you get that quote from, anyway?"

"The news. There was an archeological dig on one of the human worlds that self-immolated. They found an almost intact Christmas Cracker. That was inside it."

"Humans are weird."

"Mm-hm."

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Challenge # 00364: Stolen from a Webcomic

Alien (thoughtfully): A whole holiday of disguise and deceit [Ed: Halloween]... truly these hu-mons are a formidable race.

*points at minionbot*

Alien: Every one of their vaunted 'holidays' are actually exercises in deception and warfare.

*resumes thinking position*

Alien: Christmas - a thinly veiled exercise in obfuscation and forensic cryptology. Easter - infiltration and recovery... New Years Eve... a form of globally coordinated mass ordnance deployment.

Minionbot: What about Valentine's Day?

Alien: Ah yes, Valentine's Day... Psychological warfare.

Minionbot: How horrible!

Alien: Could be worse... at least there's chocolate. — RecklessPrudence

Zykryxx had to admit, they had made him and any surviving followers comfortable. They had made an environment for him from the biota aboard his ship. Sealed in a habitat with him and his few surviving followers. They let him and the others build things.

And, since the scant survivors were currently not talking to him, Zykryxx had made himself a companion/minion/pet for company.

Well, he had to make three of them, because the humans took the other two to see what made them go by destroying them in a systematic and analytical manner.

He also had to admit that they were very clever apes, indeed. They found his system of origin and negotiated a treaty with his people... but they hadn't been able to convince the Krykkarax to take him or his followers back.

So they were stuck here for life. Under the human microscope. With no way to escape and nothing to do if they did.

And on the other hand, he also got to observe the humans and their bizarre, baffling habits. Even with just Minion to talk to, it was entertaining and educational.

Currently, the humans on the other side of the glass were having Halloween. The entire goal was to obfuscate identity and, apparently, drink themselves under the table or put themselves into a sugar-related food coma.

"Observe, Minion. An entire holiday of disguise and deceit. Not to mention threatening negotiation for gain... These Hu-mons are a formidable race." Realisation dawned at that very moment. He had the common thread! "Every single one of their 'holidays' is an exercise in deception and warfare."

"Christmas?" said Minion. It was rather fond of Christmas.

"A thinly-veiled exercise in obfuscation and forensic cryptology."

"Easter?" Minion's second-favourite holiday. Zykryxx often wondered why this one was attracted to vibrant colours.

"Infiltration and recovery."

"New Year's?"

"Globally co-ordinated mass ordinance deployment."

Minion buzzed and its eye-lights spun. Processing data and buffering. "What of Valentine's Day."

"Psychological warfare."

"That's horrible," gasped Minion.

Zykryxx gently patted Minion on its head. "It's not that bad. At least there is chocolate."

Chocolate made all things worthy. Even being stuck in what amounted to a giant, upended fishbowl.

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Challenge #00365: Post Failed Alien Invasion

*Alien and Minionbot are watching the sky. They are in one of the major polities located on a large landmass in the northern hemisphere. It is the non-sunward-facing portion of the fourth segment of the seventh larger segment of the planets orbit, by hu-mon calender.*

Minionbot: So historically, these hu-mons seek dominance by attempting to detonate one another with precise munitions.

Alien: Right.

Mb: And being dominated, they attempt independence by detonating their oppressors with the same precise munitions.

A: Right again.

Mb: And once liberated. The hu-mons celebrate by launching and observing elaborate displays of precise munitions hand crafted and synchronised to music.

A: Exactly.

*pause, they both continue watching the sky*

Mb: We're... lucky to be alive, aren't we?

A: Sometimes I wake up screaming.

(Stolen from the same webcomic) — RecklessPrudence

Another month, another warlike, human holiday. On the fourth day of their Joo-lie, more precisely the fourth night, the humans liked to detonate things.

Zykryxx and his mechanical Minion had made themselves relatively comfortable on the roof of their fabricated home to watch the rockets' red glare.

"Research completed," announced Minion. "It is a fact of history that hu-mons seek dominance by attempting to detonate one another with precise munitions."

"Or outright mauling," added Zykryxx.

Minion nodded. "And if they are being dominated, they attempt to gain autonomy by detonating their oppressors with the same precise munitions."

"Correct."

"Then, once liberated... the hu-mons celebrate by launching and observing elaborate displays of precise, hand-crafted munitions that are synchronised to music."

"Yes."

"This is filed under 'entertainment'."

This gave Zykryxx some significant pause. He put down his snacks and beverage and stared anew at the vivid display of pyrotechnics. Even if he had done his homework as a conqueror, these monkeys would not have stayed conquered.

"We're lucky to be alive, aren't we?" said Minion.

Zykryxx spoke softly, still hypnotised by the enormity of his grievous error highlighted in amazingly-coloured explosive light. "Sometimes, I wake up screaming." And now he knew why.

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Congratulations!

You made it all the way to the end of this book. That's three hundred and sixty-five stories, over one hundred and sixty thousand words (exact count, 163 698 – not including the table of contents and the stuff at either end), and several hundred assorted emotions.

If you don't think that's an accomplishment, then I shall be forced to disagree with you.

And with any luck, by the time you finish reading this, the next year of Instant Stories should be just about ready for your voracious eyes.

Thank you for reading.

About the Author

C M Weller lives in Burpengary East in south-east Queensland and has heard all about getting a life, but has been too busy to arrange one.

Tumblr: internutter.tumblr.com

Twitter: @internutter

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